by Linda Reilly
20
Talia sat in her car for a long time, attempting to process everything. Too much was happening. Too much all at once.
Her heart ached like the devil when she thought about Arthur. No wonder Ryan had been incommunicado. Bad enough to learn that his mom had filed for divorce, but he’d had to deal with that in the midst of an important client meeting in Dallas.
In spite of everything, she’d felt a huge wave of relief sweep over her after Ryan’s call. Their bond was stronger than ever. He’d actually used the L word! In a way she felt guilty for her sudden spurt of joy, but she couldn’t help it.
Starting her engine, she glanced down the street toward the next block. On the opposite side of Main, the tired-looking sign for Summers Realty sparked a memory. Harry had said something yesterday that had stuck in her brain. Unfortunately, she still couldn’t remember what it was. A nagging voice told her it was important, that she had to figure it out.
Maybe if she had another chat with him, it would pry the memory loose from her head. The problem was, how could she avoid another run-in with Sandra? Was there a way she could get Harry alone?
She sighed. Not really. Besides, it was only eight forty. The realty office probably didn’t open until ten, like most other businesses on Main Street.
Talia was trying to concoct an excuse to talk to Harry alone later in the day when a car swerved up to the curb in front of Summers Realty. It was the same car she’d seen yesterday—the one that belonged to Sandra. Sandra didn’t get out right away, though. It looked like she might be checking her phone for messages. Finally, Sandra pushed her door open and swung her legs out. She got out of the car, unlocked the door to the realty office, and strutted inside.
No chance to get Harry alone now, unless she called him. She’d think about doing that later, when there was a lull at Fry Me.
Dark clouds were gathering low in the sky. Talia grabbed her portable umbrella from the backseat and stuck it next to her purse so she wouldn’t forget it. She’d been caught in a storm once before without an umbrella and had gotten drenched racing to the town lot, where her car was parked. Not something she wanted to repeat.
She inched forward into the traffic and had to stop for the next light. All at once she realized that she was idling right next to Summers Realty. This time she got a closer look at Sandra’s car. Something about it bothered her. What?
Oh dear God, what was the matter with her? Sandra drove a Grand Marquis. A Mercury Grand Marquis. She felt like an idiot. She should have made the connection yesterday.
A horn behind her honked, and she jerked her car forward. She couldn’t find a place where she could pull over to call Detective Prescott. By the time she zoomed into the town lot, her whole body was trembling. She called the detective, but her call went straight to voice mail. Drat!
She’d have to rely on texting again and hope Prescott would read it soon.
Did you know Sandra Summers drives a Mercury Grand Marquis? Call me. We need to talk.
There. It was done. That was all she needed to say. And she hadn’t been investigating or poking her nose into other people’s business when she discovered it. She’d simply been driving to work. Let Detective Patti Prescott find a problem with that, she thought defensively.
One thing bothered Talia. Sandra Summers, as repulsive as she was, had never made it onto her suspect list. Was the Mercury Grand Marquis connection a mere coincidence? A lot of people still drove Mercury models. As for the Wesley/Dylan meeting, she’d have to tell Prescott what she’d witnessed. And she hadn’t been spying on them, not really. She’d only been peeking into the restaurant while she was waiting to cross the street.
By the time she reached Fry Me, she was desperate for coffee. She slung her belongings into her assigned locker and immediately fired up the coffeemaker. Martha usually came in early and would welcome a cup. Although, Talia reasoned, the poor woman hadn’t been her snarky, witty, wonderful self since Lucas was attacked. Talia missed the old Martha. She wanted the original model back, not the sullen shadow of her friend that had been lurking among them since Monday.
After slugging back a few mouthfuls of coffee with cream, Talia lugged a huge sack of potatoes out of the walk-in refrigerator. She plunked it on the floor next to the newly enlarged worktable. She hoped Molly wouldn’t mind peeling again. Or was this the day Molly was going to put up her ballot box and let the customers decide which style “chips” they preferred? If so, then she wouldn’t have to peel potatoes today.
Talia was chopping green cabbage for the coleslaw when Martha trudged in. It seemed almost impossible, but she looked even worse today than she had the day before. The gray bags under her eyes hung like gunnysacks, and if she’d run a comb through her hair this morning, she’d missed at least three cowlicks.
“Morning,” she mumbled, trudging over to her locker.
“Good morning, Martha.” That was all Talia dared to say, at least for now.
Martha opened the door to her locker and lobbed her purse toward the back, scowling when it landed sideways and half the contents tumbled out. She kicked the locker closed with her shoe, then tossed her oversized umbrella in a corner.
Without a word, Talia poured her a mug of coffee. Martha took it from her and plopped it on the small table. “Too hot,” she growled out, and then grabbed a blue apron off the shelf.
They worked in uncompanionable silence for a while, Martha punctuating every movement with a huff or a moan. At the point when Talia thought she’d scream, Molly came in, bless her. Talia wanted to hug her just for showing up.
Or not.
Molly didn’t make it as far as the kitchen before bursting into uncontrollable sobs. She bent over at the waist, crying her heart out, while Talia patted her back helplessly. “Molly, what’s wrong? What is it?” she kept saying, but Molly continued to cry.
Talia let her cry—for an hour, it seemed—before grasping the girl’s shoulders and steering her over to the kitchen table. She shoved a box of tissues at her. “Now tell me what’s wrong, Molly. It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“It is,” Molly blubbered, pulling her iPad out of her satchel. “L-l-last night I got another friend request from that Wesley Thurman creep. And I—and I . . .”
Martha’s ears perked, and she came over and sat down. “You friended him, didn’t you?” she said.
Molly nodded. She wiped her arm over her swollen eyes and then swept her finger over the iPad. “I knew I could unfriend him in a second if he got weird or anything. But I wanted to find out more about him, why he keeps hanging around here. Crystal wouldn’t be in jail if it wasn’t for him!”
Talia knew she wasn’t technically in jail, but she wanted Molly to continue without any interruption.
“Look,” Molly said, sniffling. “Here’s his Facebook page. Look at the picture on the lower left.” She turned it so Talia and Martha could see.
They both looked at the page. Martha saw it right away, and then Talia did. They looked at each other in mute shock, then back at the iPad.
“It says ‘Me and my gorgeous baby sister, Prissy, at the county fair, 2004.’” Molly flitted through more images. “There’s more of her, everywhere. Everywhere!” Molly shrieked. She flitted through more images, but Talia didn’t need to see any more. She squeezed her fingers over her eyes.
“Oh . . . Molly,” Talia said softly, her heart sinking. “I don’t really know what to say. Have . . . have you talked to your mom about it?”
Molly swallowed, and her eyes filled again. “No.” She looked pleadingly at Talia, then at Martha. “I want you guys with me when I confront her, okay? She’ll try to lie. I know she will. But I’m not going to let her get away with it.”
Talia rubbed her hands together. She looked at Martha for help, but Martha still appeared shell-shocked. “Molly, I really don’t think that’s the right approach. Think about it, okay? This is very personal, very private.” She slipped one arm around Molly’s shoulders. “It should
stay between you and your mom.”
“No.” Molly slammed the iPad back into her satchel. “You guys are, like, two of my best friends. If you’re both here, she’ll have to tell the truth.”
Martha sagged in her chair. She looked worn-out, beaten.
“Molly,” Talia said gingerly, “did it ever occur to you that it might be a coincidence?”
“Oh, Talia, are you kidding me!”
Talia threw up her arms. She didn’t know what to say. Not for a moment did she believe that the woman in the photo was not Molly’s aunt. In 2004, when the pic was taken, the woman was about the same age Molly was now.
She was also her mirror image. A doppelgänger, for lack of a better word. They were as identical as any two people could be.
They could not deny it.
Molly Feldon was Wesley Thurman’s daughter.
21
A sudden crack of thunder outside made Talia jump. “Wow, that was a loud one,” she said, to no one in particular.
And no one in particular answered.
Martha had gone into silent mode, as if her internal remote was set on Mute. Molly went about the task of peeling potatoes, slicing them with a vengeance that left more potato than peel in the mound of skins that was piling up. Anyone gazing in on the trio would have thought they were getting a sneak peek at some warped silent movie, Talia thought wryly.
The eatery wasn’t due to open for another half hour. Talia was tempted to turn the CLOSED sign to OPEN, just to attract some early diners. She’d been, in fact, toying with the notion of opening the eatery earlier in the day and offering some deep-fried breakfast delights. It was an idea that had been percolating slowly in her mind, but so far she hadn’t taken it seriously. She already worked six days a week—six long days at that. How could she extend her dining hours even further?
Another crack of thunder sizzled the sky. Talia felt her heart nearly leap out of her chest. This time Martha flinched. “Bad omen,” she muttered.
Ignoring Martha’s dire warning, Talia scooted around the edge of the counter and into the dining area. She opened the door and peered outside. Large drops fell diagonally from the sky, pelting the cobblestone, sending rivulets of water streaming toward the street. The storm was starting earlier than the weather people had predicted.
She started to close the door when she saw a lone figure, encased in a green raincoat, entering the Fork and Dish across the way.
Audrey.
She watched Audrey jiggle the key and step inside and then close the door behind her. It was only a matter of time now. A confrontation was coming—a showdown between Audrey and her daughter. Talia dreaded it, and yet she knew it might be the best thing for both of them.
Unless it tore them apart.
Audrey had to know that Wesley Thurman was Molly’s real father. Talia had noticed the resemblance in their profiles that day at the festival, but she hadn’t put two and two together until Molly showed them that Facebook page.
Right now Molly was calm, like the eye of a hurricane. In spite of that, Talia had the feeling that she was building to an emotional explosion.
Talia stood there in the open doorway, mesmerized by the pounding rain. Her mind turned things over. Nothing made sense anymore.
Sandra Summers drove a Mercury.
Dylan drove a Merkur.
Dylan and Wesley were in cahoots over something.
Norma’s cabinets were nearly empty.
And Molly had uncovered the secret Audrey had kept all these years—who her father was.
Audrey had wanted her to believe Brad Feldon was her father, but she had to know the truth would come out eventually. She’d probably tried to put it out of her mind, praying it would never happen. Hoping she could keep the truth forever hidden.
A fork of lightning crackled in the sky, followed by a low rumble. A figure suddenly emerged from the bath shop—Sage & Seaweed—a familiar salmon-colored bag hanging from her arm. The figure was decked out in a stunning designer raincoat and a frilly waterproof fedora. Her shoes, which looked expensive, were getting soaked, but she didn’t seem to care. An umbrella the size of a tent snapped to life over the woman’s head. She marched purposefully toward Talia. Before Talia could step back, the woman grabbed her arm and pulled her out onto the cobblestone.
“Wait a minute,” Talia demanded, wresting her arm away. “What are you doing? We’ll get soaked.”
Jodie Ferringer gave her a look that would have stopped a moose in its tracks. “We won’t get soaked under my umbrella,” she hissed, clamping on to Talia’s wrist. “I want to know why you were asking questions about me. Kasey at the jeweler’s told me about you and your spying. What’s your gig, anyway, lady? What are you up to?”
“Spying?” Talia swallowed back a tiny lump of fear. Kasey must have gotten her name from her credit card, when she paid for her mom’s birthday gift. “I’m . . . I’m not even sure what you’re talking about.” Another step in that down escalator to a hot place.
“Yeah, right,” Jodie said. “Try again. And this time I want the truth. I know it was you who called me yesterday. I recognized your voice. How did you get my private number, anyway?”
Talia ignored the question. And while her head was staying relatively dry, she could feel the canvas of her Keds getting saturated. “All right, look,” Talia confessed. “I was only trying to figure out why you and Norma Ferguson were so close. You didn’t have a thing in common. Not that I could see anyway.”
Jodie’s face flushed an unattractive shade of mottled red. She let go of Talia’s arm. “That is none of your business. Norma was my friend, my dear friend, and she was a huge supporter of my husband. Who, by the way, is going to be your next representative.” Jodie lifted her pert nose in the air.
“Really? Even though his opponent is heavily favored?”
Jodie’s lips turned up into a smug smile. “You’re obviously one of those fools who believe the polls. If I were you, I’d welcome the chance to host my husband’s campaign strategy meeting. For your information, he could have picked any number of fine local restaurants for his meeting. He wanted to have it here”—she glowered over at Fry Me as if it were an opium den—“because he enjoys helping the little people.”
“The little people,” Talia repeated, feeling her teeth clench.
“If I were you,” Jodie plowed on, “I would call Bruce and tell him that you changed your mind, that you would be more than pleased to open on a Sunday for him and his loyal staff.”
“You know, Jodie,” Talia said, with a smile as genuine as Jodie’s cleavage, “I might just do that. I mean, why shouldn’t I make a little extra money on a Sunday? I could use some extra cash. Maybe I’ve been way too stubborn about the whole thing. I’ll give him a call later today.” Or when the equator freezes over.
As Talia predicted, Jodie’s phony smile instantly evaporated. Her plan to bully Talia had backfired. Talia really hated fibbing like that again, but that time Jodie had pushed the wrong button.
Jodie took a stuttering step backward. “Um, well . . . good,” she said. “I’ll tell him to expect your call.”
Somewhere on the other side of the plaza, the click of a lock nicked into place. Audrey Feldon had just closed up the Fork and Dish and was running toward them. Rain poured off her hooded raincoat as she clomped along over the cobblestones.
Jodie pasted on another faux smile. “Audrey, what are you doing out in this monsoon?” Her fake laugh tinkled across the plaza.
“I saw you talking to Talia,” Audrey said, pulling her collar closer to her neck. “I wanted to let you know that your slow cooker came in on Monday. With everything that was going on, I never had a chance to call you.”
Jodie slid her gaze over to Talia, then back at Audrey. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she gushed. “Can I stop by later to pick it up? Later this week, I mean. It’s too soggy out today.”
“Sure,” Audrey said.
Jodie touched Talia’s arm as if they were old pals
. “So good to see you again, Talia. Toodles!” She rushed off into the rain, in the direction of the main drag, leaving Talia to get thoroughly drenched.
Talia looped her arm through Audrey’s and propelled her toward Fry Me. “Is she one of your customers?”
Audrey nodded. “One of our best, actually. Truth be told, I can’t stand the woman, but I’m not going to turn down business. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff she buys from us. What a spendthrift.”
So Kasey with a K was right. Jodie loved to cook. And she loved to spend.
They scuttled inside the restaurant, dripping water everywhere. “Um, may I ask what you two were doing, standing out in the rain like that?” Audrey said.
Talia waved off the question. “Oh, we happened to run into each other and she got chatty. You know how it is.” She cringed at the falsehood—she knew it made no sense whatsoever.
Audrey gave her a bewildered look. “I didn’t realize you knew her.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I assume Molly is here,” she said, wiping her shoes on the blue welcome mat. She tugged off her sodden raincoat and hung it on one of the metal hooks near the door.
Talia felt a herd of cattle trample through her stomach. “I, um, Molly is . . .”
“I’m here,” Molly nearly spat at her mother. She shot out from the hidden part of the kitchen, holding her iPad out to the side. “You look like a drowned rat, Mother. How very fitting.”
Audrey snapped her head toward her daughter. “What did you say to me?”
“I said you look like a rat”—Molly’s eyes flared with anger—“which is exactly what you are.”
Audrey looked at Talia, who felt like melting—Wicked Witch style—into the floor. “Do you know what this is about?”
“Audrey, sit,” Talia said, pulling out one of the dining room chairs for her.
“You’d better have a darn good reason,” Audrey flung at her daughter, “for speaking to me that way.”
Molly came over and plopped the iPad down on the table. “How’s this for a reason, Mother? This is Wesley Thurman’s Facebook page.”