by Tamara Leigh
“Things may have been bad when you and your mom tore out of town,” Bart continues, “but some of us learned from our mistakes and are trying to live godly lives.”
Had I anything in my mouth, it would be all over him.
“That’s right—godly.” Bart responds to the disbelief I feel hanging from my face like a sign swinging by its last nail. “I am a changed man—”
A loud scrape is followed by a rumble at my back, and Axel calls out a warning. I leap forward and whip around to see the last of a dozen books hit the floor amid a cloud of dust. Only a few remain on the uppermost shelf, and one appears ready to throw itself overboard. But something is there that doesn’t belong in any library. “What’s that?”
My cousin drops his jaw. “Wow, what is that?”
“Night-vision goggles,” Axel says dryly.
Bart jerks his head around. “You think?”
“I know.”
So do I, though I’ve only seen them in spy movies. I scale the ladder and retrieve the binocular-eyed object from the dusty shelf. “Axel’s right.”
“Interesting,” Bart murmurs.
I descend and cross to where he, Axel, and Errol stand in the library’s arched doorway.
I expect Bart to reach for the goggles—they had to cost a small fortune—but he merely smiles. “Wouldn’t you love to know why our reclusive uncle keeps such a high-tech piece of equipment lying around?”
“Perhaps in the event the power is shut off?” Axel says.
I exchange a knowing look with him, the depth of which surprises me given our brief acquaintance.
“Let me tell you, they would have come in handy tonight. I could barely see a hand in front of my face.” Bart lifts one and wiggles his fingers.
It’s halfway convincing. So either he’s innocent, or Bart is good at what he does, meaning he may have crossed the line between habitual lying and pathological lying.
Something slaps my hand, wetting it from fingertips to palm. “Ugh!” I jump back, but the dog reaches again with his slimy tongue.
“Errol, sit.” Axel commands.
Errol lowers his rump as I wipe the drool on my once-favorite pants. Disgusting!
“I’ll see you around.” Bart starts down the hallway.
“A changed man, hmm?” Axel murmurs as we hear the front door open.
I don’t know why I feel the need to defend my cousin, but I say, “He may not have known about the goggles.”
Axel opens his mouth and then closes it, as if realizing it isn’t his place to argue.
With a growl, Errol lunges into the hallway.
“Hey!” Bart halts a few feet from where the dog stands between him and us. “It’s just me.”
“Down!” Axel says.
The dog whips his head around, and—I declare!—he looks frustrated.
Axel shrugs. “I’d let you, boy but Ms. Wick appears to be fond of her cousin.”
I am not!
“I was thinkin’”—Bart glances at the goggles—“Uncle Obe would probably want me to have those.”
I do a double take. “Oh?”
“For animal watching, a new interest of mine.”
“And you need night vision for that?”
“For the ones that come out at night.”
“Nocturnals.”
“Right.”
“I’m sure they would be useful, but I’m not at liberty to give away Uncle Obe’s possessions without consulting him. However, when I visit him tomorrow, I’ll ask on your behalf.”
Though his wallet has to be pinching him, Bart says, “Nah, I’ll ask him myself.” He starts to turn away. “Of course, maybe I could just borrow them for a little while.”
So he can return them to some unsuspecting merchant for a refund? “Sorry.”
He sighs. “’Night.”
The front door closes, and I peer down the hallway to be certain Axel and I are truly alone. “So the goggles are his.”
Axel extends a hand. “May I?”
I pass them to him, and our fingers touch. I did not feel that tingle. As I fold my arms over my chest, I recognize the gesture as defensive and drop them back to my sides. Exude confidence—feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms loosely held at sides.
Axel examines the eyepieces that project from beneath the headband. “Not military issue, but they’ll do the job.” He taps a small third eye. “Built-in infrared illuminator for total darkness. Relatively light so they can be worn for extended periods of time. Probably cost seven or eight hundred dollars.”
How does he know so much about them? A fan of Tom Clancy novels?
“Good for caving and”—he gives a tweaked smile—“observing nocturnal wildlife.”
I blow a breath up my face. “Okay, so my cousin used them to snoop around Uncle Obe’s home. What I want to know is why it was necessary to turn off the power.”
“If detected, he would have the advantage of night vision, unlike his pursuer. And, of course, he didn’t want to set off the alarm.”
When did Uncle Obe install an alarm? “But alarm systems have battery backup. At least mine does.” Always a comfort when I come home after a twelve-hour workday.
“Obviously, your cousin didn’t consider that. Not that it would have made a difference, just as it didn’t matter that he turned off the main power.” Axel returns the goggles to me. “The alarm system is not of the electrical sort. Errol is the alarm.”
The big lug yawns, slides his paws forward, and stretches out.
“When Artemis warned Bart and Luc to stay off the property, he told them an alarm system had been installed. What he didn’t say was that it was highly mobile and had a tendency to drool.”
I smile. “Clever.”
Axel smiles back, not only with his mouth but with those Blue eyes that act on me like a double boiler on chocolate. Not good, especially since one of these days I’m going to be engaged to Grant.
I step past him, set the goggles on a table beside a worn sofa, then survey the books that line every wall except the front, with its large-paned windows. “What do you think he was looking for in here?”
“He may not have been looking in here. Even if Errol was napping when your cousin broke in, I doubt Bart would have gotten as far as the library undetected. My guess is that Errol chased him in here, where he remained until you arrived. That would be when he tried to stash the evidence of his covert activity.”
Covert… Perhaps Uncle Obe’s gardener has a military background? I’d love to see his bare arms—strictly for confirmation. If he has served in the military he’s bound to have tattoos. Stereotypically speaking. “Do you know what he was after?”
His hesitation speaks volumes, though not in any language I understand. And when he says, “He’s your family, not mine,” it’s obvious he has no intention of translating.
I rub my forehead. While my internal clock should be on L.A. time, it seems more in line with North Carolina’s three-hour difference. “It’s late, and I’d like to settle in.”
Axel pulls my pistol from his waistband and extends it, barrel down. “I doubt you’ll need this during your stay, but if it makes you feel safe…”
I snort as I take it. “Considering my night thus far, that’s almost funny.”
“You were never in any real danger.”
“No, but in the two years since I received a permit to carry, I haven’t felt the need to point my gun at a single living thing.” I check the safety and return the pistol to my purse. “Now, I’ve pulled it twice in one night. Obviously Pickwick is a dangerous place for me.”
His mouth curves in the space between mustache and goatee. “Perhaps, but I doubt a bullet could save you from its dangers.”
Spoken like a true gleaner of Pickwick family gossip. Or not. The Pickwicks do “hang it all out there,” and I’d guess they’re still making news despite supposedly recouping some respectability.
“Of course, I’m sure a pistol makes a woman feel safer in the big
city,” Axel muses, “as it has probably made you feel safer since whatever caused you to start carrying.”
Memories of that event arise—another late night, a deserted parking garage, and the realization I was not alone that came almost too late. Almost. Thank You, Lord.
I blink and find Uncle Obe’s gardener watching me. Naturally, embarrassment calls for indignation. “You assume more than you have a right to.” As soon as the snooty words are out, I wish I could rewind. I sounded downright—
Downright. How many Southern moments will I have to suffer before I shake the Pickwick dust from my feet?
“You’re right.” Axel’s lids lift. “I am just the gardener.”
And I feel worse, even though he doesn’t look humbled. In fact, going by the turn of his mouth, he’s amused. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”
“Then you should be in bed.”
Before I can identify the double entendre in his eyes, which I’ve become accustomed to with male clients, he walks past me with Errol on his heels. “I’ll get your luggage.”
A few minutes later, he sets my bags inside the front doors. “I meant to ask how you got into the house.”
“Artemis left a key under the welcome mat.”
“He must have done that while I was in town.” He looks at Errol. “Stay.”
“You’re leaving him?”
“That’s Artemis’s plan, and I have to agree about the need for security, especially after what you walked into tonight.” He inclines his head. “Good night, Ms. Wick.”
That’s it? Just like that I’m stuck with a stinky mutt? I follow Axel onto the landing. “But there’s no need for a guard dog. I have a gun.”
“And high heels.”
Ah!
He moves outside of the light that falls through the open doorway and descends the steps. “I’m in the cottage if you need anything.”
I glare at his back, then hurry inside and position myself behind Errol. I sink my hands into his matted fur, then push, shove, and grunt, but he doesn’t budge. “You big lug!” I give one last thrust.
My feet slide out from under me, knees hit the rug, and I fall into the mutt. His ripe smell gagging me, I lurch upright only to discover I have been shed on. In addition to snags and rust stains, white and gray hair now defiles the formerly fine fabric of my designer jacket.
I point at Errol. “I am not your new best friend, so you had best give me a wide berth.” Best give me? You, Piper Wick, had best remember you are not Southern anymore.
He drops and offers up his hairy belly.
“Yeah, right.” I move around him and close the door more firmly than intended. In fact, it could be mistaken for a slam.
Pulling up the retractable handles on my luggage, I wince at my smarting palms. As I wheel past Errol, he pops up and follows me toward the staircase. I whip around. “What about ‘wide berth’ do you not understand?”
His furred eyebrows go up, but the rest of him lowers to the wood floor that is in dire need of refinishing.
“Glad we understand each other.” Now to get back on task so I can put Pickwick behind me. This time forever.
5
The breath I draw through the sheets is warm and stale, and I wish I could squeeze my ears closed as easily as my eyes. But my iPhone is trilling.
I turn my head and open an eye. My shoulder comes into focus, the lightly freckled expanse broken by the strap of the camisole I slipped on before falling into bed last night. What time is it?
As I flip onto my back to glance at my watch, my cell phone quiets. “Six thirty…” Who was calling so early? And on a Saturday? I squint into the bright room, sunshine streaming through mullioned windows. Strange. I don’t remember it being this light at six thirty—
“Oh!” I forgot to turn the time ahead to reflect the three-hour difference, meaning it’s nine thirty. I toss the covers back and cool air sweeps my limbs, tempting me to go back under. I resist and, a few moments later, flex my tingling toes amid carpet that has seen better days.
In keeping with my morning routine, I should go running, but sometimes exceptions must be made. In this case, for the greater good of Get In, Get Out.
My iPhone beeps from the dresser, alerting me to a message. Grant responding to the one I left him last night?
As I hurry forward, my attention swerves to the go-anywhere Bible I set on the corner of the dresser last night after putting an end to the fraternizing at the bottom of my purse. Since the gun was there first…
The message is from my mom, and I’m a little disappointed. Of course, Grant is a busy man. Mom says she misses me and then passes on information from the agency I hired to look into Uncle Obe’s godson. It turns out that Obadiah Smith—a.k.a. Obadiah Number Two—was honorably discharged from the army. Nothing shady so far, but the investigation is far from exhausted.
I glance up. “Think You could put a rush on this, Lord?” I wince. “I know I haven’t been spending much time with You lately, but”—I zero in on the little go-anywhere and swipe it from the dresser—“I brought a Bible.”
I open toward the back and land on the book of Luke, chapter nine. Of all the Scripture on the two pages, only the fifth verse stands out due to the stroke of my yellow highlighter. “If people do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave their town, as a testimony against them.” Which I did twelve years ago when I left Pickwick. And will do again.
I close the Bible and set it on the dresser. My little venture into God’s Word may barely register on the daily devotional scale, but it’s a start.
I turn to my luggage at the foot of the bed. My favorite outfit sits on top, and the damage is worse than it appeared last night. Not only is the fabric soiled, snagged, and furry, but there’s a tear above the jacket’s right pocket, and the belt loop on the pants tore through the pleated material. At a retail price of twelve hundred dollars, it looks like a proper burial is in order.
Grumbling, I shake out the jacket, fold it, do the same with the pants, then lay the pieces in the wastebasket beside the bedroom door. “The price of family,” I eulogize, which would be unconscionable if my credit card had born the burden. Fortunately, all the outfit cost was a trip to the showroom of a clothing designer whose reputation I helped restore following a DUI. Not only did she pay her bill in full, but she insisted that I choose a new wardrobe from her latest line. I insisted on just one outfit—a flattering two-piece that would serve me well for years. Too bad I didn’t factor in Pickwick. Or my impulse to climb the gate.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in stylish cargo pants and a vibrant scoop-necked top, I brush my teeth in front of the window that overlooks the back of the property. Unlike the mansion’s pitifully tired interior, Uncle Obe’s beloved garden is trim and bursting with the beauty of late spring. Not that it boasts the grandeur depicted in the black-and-white photos taken in the early 1900s, when construction on the mansion and the surrounding grounds was completed, but it is lovely. Axel is certainly doing his job.
I gaze at the cottage in the distance that sits among trees on a hill. Despite the turmoil that often landed Mom and me at Uncle Obe’s door, the tension eased the moment we entered the cottage.
Determinedly, I return to this day and the reason I’m here. Not as a child in need of sanctuary, but as a woman with a mission. However, food comes first, meaning I’ll have to head into town. Further meaning that a little cover is called for, as Bart has surely informed others of my arrival. I retrieve a brown, velvet-trimmed baseball cap and tuck my short red hair beneath the band.
When I descend the stairs, that dog is waiting. Tail whipping, he turns, changes direction, and turns again. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s happy to see me, but he’s probably in need of a sturdy bush.
As he bounds across the lawn to take care of his business, I slide into my rental car and toss my purse on the passenger seat. “Pickwick, here I come.”
Houston, we have a Wal-Mart.
I slow on the four-lane road that was once two-lane and consider the block-and-mortar building. For all its simplicity, it sprawls almost regally where there used to be a field and a fruit-and-vegetable stand. In the foreground are a Chick-fil-A and a Cracker Barrel restaurant, and farther down the road I pass a shiny new gas station with multiple bays and a minimart.
“Progress,” I murmur. Wide-eyed with the thrill of discovery that contrasts with pangs of familiarity—the high school (yuck), Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery (yum)—I smile. There’s a chain bookstore. A swanky hair salon and spa. A block of office suites that resemble a village. A large bank with a bubbling fountain. A boutique named Le Roco Roco. A billboard advertising a single-family home development on Pickwick Lake.
Ah, civilization. Maybe my stay won’t be so bad after all.
My stomach reminds me of its need at the next light, so I make a U-turn and lock in on Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery. As I near it, I change my mind to Cracker Barrel, where it’s less likely I’ll run into people from my past. And less likely I’ll be fed, after being told to expect a thirty-minute wait.
The good thing about a wait at Cracker Barrel is the diversion provided by its old country store. Browsing among the shelves and tables, I catch the sound of familiar voices and peer around displays to identify a grouchy old neighbor lady, a high school classmate, the lazy-eyed barber who cut my father’s hair, and the librarian who looks much as she did the last time I checked out a book.
Content to remain an outsider, not unlike when I was growing up here, I keep my distance and am relieved when “Wick, party of one” is called.
Shortly, a cup of coffee is set before me. Though I trained myself to drink it black—in the interest of projecting confidence and strength in a dog-eat-woman world—I’m tempted by the pitcher of cream left by the previous customer. This is Pickwick, and I don’t need to impress anyone here.
The splash of white tumbles into my cup and comes up creamy brown, which begs the question of sweetener. I eye the multicolored packets but resist. The less retraining I have to do when I return to L.A., the better.