Claire covered her mouth with one hand. Her eyes widened until her lashes brushed her brow bone. If she laughed, she was in trouble.
“Sorry, I can’t do that. Maybe you can schedule appointments instead of making them stand in a line, or give them yoga mats and put them in child’s pose while they wait or something. Listen, I have to go, but remember I’m a licensed therapist. Call me if anyone becomes emotionally distraught.”
I disconnected and handed Claire her phone. I narrowed my eyes. “Traitor.”
She made a sad face. “I want them to like me.”
“What about me? Don’t you want me to like you?”
“Yes. Forgive me?”
I shrugged.
Claire ran one hand over her middle. “I’m hungry. I thought Adrian promised to buy us lunch.”
A line of food trucks dotted the street as we rounded the corner. Crowds dithered in front of each truck, examining the signs and menu boards. The Watchers’ logo graced everyone’s ensemble.
I’d promised to stay out of Fargas’s investigation, but something bothered me about our talk. Claire stopped walking at the first menu board. The truck was shaped like a big hotdog. She moved on.
We stopped at a truck with a giant fork painted on it and my mouth popped open. “If the lights were off and the tape was too dark to see clearly, then how did the murderer manage to shoot and kill two people with any accuracy?”
Claire frowned. “How long were you holding that in?”
I pursed my lips.
“We don’t know if it was done with accuracy,” she said.
True. “Okay, but we know it was dark. Was the killer sitting in there a long time, letting his eyes adjust? And if so, why didn’t Rick and Anna see the killer sitting there?” I scanned the crowd. “Look at all those night vision goggles. I bet half the island has them.”
A police siren barked behind me, and I squeaked. The door slammed and Fargas hopped onto the curb beside us. “Hello, ladies.” He took off his hat and shook our hands. “This looks like my lucky day. Would you like to go with me to the memorial tonight?”
I scoffed. “The what?”
“Jesse Short is filming a special episode to honor Rick and Anna tonight. I’ll be working, but I know how you love the show and I thought you might want to join me.”
I blinked. Clearly he was only inviting one of us to this atrocity.
“Maybe you’ll let me buy you dinner afterward.”
I opened my mouth to ask about the gunshot wounds and to list the multitude of reasons a television memorial was in bad taste, but Claire’s expression stopped me short. She dropped her gaze like a proper southern belle and smiled at his shoes. “Sure. You can pick me up at Patience’s place.”
Fargas tipped his head in agreement and returned to his cruiser. “See you tonight.”
With his brake lights out of sight, Claire stomped her feet a few times before sobering up. The dorky grin fell from her lips.
“Too late,” I said. “I witnessed that, you know. I’m standing right here.”
She ignored me. “I’ll see what I can find out about the accuracy of the gunshots.”
“Seriously. What is going on with you two?”
“I like him. That’s all I’m saying right now.” She turned her back on me and marched down the street toward my apartment, swinging her hips.
“How much do you like him and does that mean what I think it means?” The only man to hold Claire’s attention since I met her was Louis Vuitton. If she admitted to liking him, there was more to the story.
“A lady never tells.”
My smile stretched wider until both cheeks hurt. I matched her pace. “Oh, yes you do. You always tell.”
“I told you I needed to talk. I think I’m going crazy. I’m obsessing over him, what I look like, everything I say...I hate it. I’m not this giggly school girl, so why am I having so much fun?”
“I think you’re in love.”
She paled. “I’m going to need a minute to process that accusation.”
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get lunch and meet you upstairs.”
Claire hustled down the street to my apartment, and I got in line at the food truck with the big fork on it. Claire and Fargas. The idea baffled. I lifted my chin and peered into the sky. It didn’t look like I’d fallen through a looking glass, but anything was possible.
A boisterous laugh echoed over the conversations around me. Adrian lazed against the side of another truck, tucking unruly curls behind his ear and showing his dimple off to a woman with a press badge. I focused my attention on the menu board. The Fork in the Road truck had salads of every variety. I played with my phone and avoided eye contact with Adrian until it was my turn.
“What can I get ya?” A woman in glasses and a ponytail smiled at me from across the shiny metal counter.
“I’ll take two of your Mango Mama salads. Dressing on the side.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Strawberry smoothies.”
She tossed a load of fresh veggies on the chopping board beside her and went to work, creating a beautiful multi-colored salad. Adrian touched the reporter’s badge with his fingertips. I texted him.
Get a haircut—Patience.
The woman’s hands stilled over the veggies. “I follow The Watchers everywhere. Are you a fan?”
“No. I’m a local.” I angled my back to Adrian and focused on the woman.
She wiped her hands on a towel and scooped strawberries into a blender. “I’m Marie. This is my truck. We follow The Watchers around America. They finally noticed us last spring and made Fork in the Road their official food truck.” She pointed to a framed napkin with messy handwriting that read Official Food Truck.
“Nice.”
She smiled. “I think I get the tracking impulse honestly. My folks followed the Grateful Dead for decades. I grew up on the road. The Dead aren’t traveling anymore, so I thought I should follow The Watchers. I’ve been bringing fresh greens to host towns around the country for four years now. It’s hard on us when the show leaves the country, though.” She rubbed the counter with one palm, as if maybe the truck was the other party included in “we.”
I was slightly concerned by her use of the phrase “tracking impulse.”
My smile waned. “I don’t know much about the show.”
“Oh? You should watch. I’m addicted. Can I be addicted to a television show?”
“Um. I don’t know. Is it the show or the travel that compels you? Lots of people prefer moving to staying in one place. It sounds like this is your lifestyle, one you learned growing up. Are you happy?”
She beamed. “Yes.”
“Then go for it. Too many people are unhappy.” My smile strengthened. “Official food truck sounds like a big deal to me.”
“Oh, it is.” She leaned over the counter. “HollywoodWatcher.com featured us.” She lidded the smoothies and salads. “Here you go. It’s on the house, Miss Price.”
My hands stopped midreach. “No. You don’t have to do that. What do I owe you, really?” I leaned back for a better look at the menu board and prices.
She pushed the food closer to the edge. “I insist.”
I loaded my arms with salads and dressing cups. I curled my fingers around the smoothies. “Did I tell you my name?”
“Nope.” Marie wiggled her fingers. I followed her gaze to a group of women behind me. Maple Shuster waved back. “I told you. HollywoodWatcher.com featured us. Fork in the Road. And you, too. You’re very photogenic.”
“Thank you.” I made a mental note to find out what the heck the Hollywood Watcher website said about me.
“Sure. Hey, if you need anything, just ask. I know everything about The Watchers.”
; Mrs. Davis joined Maple and her friends on the sidewalk. I ducked past the line at the next truck. How could I get home without Adrian’s mom seeing me?
Maple’s voice rose into the air. “She was there a minute ago.”
I cut in front of a family debating the merits of waffle cones over sundae cups.
“What’s your scoop?” A man with a caterpillar mustache and white apron leaned on his elbows over the counter.
I checked for signs of Mrs. Davis. “I’m not sure.”
“We’ve got fifteen flavors on board, twenty-five toppings and seven syrups. You like nuts?”
My head snapped around. “What?”
“Nuts. We’ve got almonds, peanuts, pistachios and macadamias.”
“Oh. No. I don’t like nuts.” Did I? Where was Mrs. Davis? I bent my knees to appear smaller.
“You like brownies?”
Mrs. Davis was gone. I peered between arms in the crowd. My legs burned from the semi-squat position.
Mustache leaned farther across the counter, speaking louder each time he addressed me. “Banana splits?”
I needed a new hiding place. “I’ll take two ice cream cookie sandwiches.”
“What?” he hollered. “You’re going to have to speak up from way down there. I’m deaf in my left ear.”
Oh no. I couldn’t speak up. Sweat formed across my hairline. If I walked away now, I’d look like a crazy person. I lifted two fingers on one hand and pointed to the picture of ice cream pressed between two chocolate chip cookies. Salads, dressing cups and smoothies threatened to leap from my grip.
He nodded and slid the display case door open to retrieve the cookies.
I restacked my packages to make room for desserts. Mustache rang up the order.
Adrian’s six-foot-two body popped up beside me. “Did you hear Karen and Beau eloped? They ran off and got married on a cruise. What a cheap way to earn votes. I bet he thinks he’ll look like the more stable candidate if he’s married. He’s angling for the family-man votes. Shameless.”
“What?” I nearly dropped my lunch load. “Karen would never agree to that.” My childhood nemesis never missed a chance to be adored. She once threw a puppy into the marsh so she could “rescue” him, then reported on her heroism all day at school. That was fifth grade, but still. Totally Karen. “I expected the wedding of the century from her. I thought she’d hire paparazzi to follow her all weekend and requisition the entire island.” This was not the world I knew.
Adrian’s mom called his name and my tummy lurched.
Jeez. “Why do you have to be so tall?” I slid a ten-dollar bill across the counter to the ice cream man and turned to beg Adrian to hide me from his mother.
“There you are.” Mrs. Davis hugged Adrian’s waist and looked me over. “Did you have a chance to speak with Patience about this exciting new business opportunity yet?”
Adrian shot me an apologetic look. “I forgot about it. I’m sorry. Things are crazy right now, Mom.” He kissed her head.
She patted his cheek. They looked at me.
I shrank under the weight of their stares. “Hi, Mrs. Davis. I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat, but I bought Claire lunch and it’s getting wilted and our ice cream’s melting. I have to get going, but I’ll talk to you later.” The inflection in my voice made the whole excuse sound as if I wanted permission.
She glared at Adrian. I darted away before she turned her frustration on me.
“Watch it!” Water splashed over my chin and shirt. Karen Holsten stood before me, wiping water from her dress.
“I am so sorry.” I bent to retrieve her spilled bottle, but my hands and arms were loaded to capacity.
Karen swiped the bottle off the ground and groaned. Without calling me any names, or making jokes at my expense, she left. I stood, dumbfounded. Maybe marriage was good for her. More likely she was on her best behavior in public with the election closing in. I jostled the containers in my arms and started up my steps. Well, Adrian might have lost the family-man vote, but I was happy. After ten long years, Karen’s usual infant-sized waist looked more like mine. Mental note: do not take a cruise anytime soon.
Chapter Ten
Claire’s head popped up when I opened the door to my apartment. “What did you buy? I showered, dressed and painted my toes already.”
I juggled the food bags, wresting the key from my lock. “That was a nightmare.” I stumbled to the little island separating my kitchen and living room. My arms tingled from the release of their burdens. “It’s a minefield out there.”
“Well, it looks like you were victorious.” She wobbled stiff-legged on her heels. Toe dividers protected the fresh polish. “Wow. What is all this?”
“Salads and smoothies.” I divided the packages among us. “I didn’t mean to get ice cream. I was hiding from Mrs. Davis.”
Claire stuffed a straw into her smoothie and took a seat at the island. “How’d that go?”
“She found me.” I put my salad in the fridge and opened an ice cream cookie sandwich. “I left Adrian with her. He needs to get me out of that mess. I’m not going to be the face of her new business. If I tell her no, she’ll hate me.”
“It’s not as if she likes you now.”
“I know, but she’s warming up, and I don’t want to ruin it.” I bit into the ice cream. “Which really isn’t fair since she’s asking me to do something unreasonable. She shouldn’t get to be mad if I don’t want to do it. Adrian better fix this. I’m not dressing like a slutty Miss Chincoteague for anyone.”
She tipped her cup and nodded. “Agreed.”
Adrian’s silhouette ghosted up the steps outside my window.
“Speak of the devil.”
I opened the door and he strode inside looking like a champion.
“Who has today’s scoop?”
Claire sucked on her straw. I ate my dessert. No one answered.
Adrian huffed. “Me. The answer is me. Thanks to a reporter who liked my hair.” He shot me a smug look.
I chomped off another bite of ice cream cookie sandwich and powered through a brain freeze.
Claire pulled the straw from her lips. “Are you going to tell us what you learned, or is this a guessing game?”
Adrian took the seat beside Claire and grabbed the second ice cream off my counter. “Is this yours?”
Claire shook her head. “No. I got a smoothie with my salad.”
“Is it yours?” he asked me.
I teetered.
“Patience,” Claire scolded. “You need to do the marathon with me. All this junk food is going to catch up with you. You won’t look twenty-five forever.”
“Aww. You think I look twenty-five? I love you so much.”
Claire smiled. “Back at you, which is why you need to do the marathon with me.”
I looked at my body and shoved the last bite of ice cream cookie between my lips. “Uh-uh.”
Adrian unwrapped my spare treat and waved it in the air. “My new reporter friend says our sheriff has contacted the FBI about this case. I also learned Elisa French made a statement on her blog this morning about her innocence. She did a photo collage of pictures with her and Anna Copeland. She included a letter of eternal love for her fallen BFF and then mentioned the special memorial episode tonight at nine Eastern Standard Time.”
Elisa was a piece of work. Nothing like gaining notoriety by capitalizing on her friendship with a murder victim. Her blog posting was almost as tasteless as the show airing a special to cover the memorial service. Of course, something interesting did come from the memorial. “Fargas is picking Claire up tonight.”
Adrian reared back on his seat. “Really? Do tell.”
Claire opened her salad and drizzled dressing over the top. “It’s not a date. He’s workin
g. I’m spectating. If I wind up on camera as an extra, what can I do?”
I guffawed. “I’m going to pretend not to see the wicked gleam in your eye.”
“Sometimes I miss the spotlight.” She turned shame-faced to her salad.
My jaw dropped. Claire never referenced her stint as a Disney princess and she complained whenever I brought it up.
Adrian looked at Claire. “Fargas asked you to go with him, and he’s picking you up. That’s a date.” He pushed the ice cream cookie into his mouth.
Her smile twisted. “No wonder you couldn’t keep Becky the EMT for long. Driving me to a memorial service where he’s working is not a date. He’s a nice guy who knows how much I love the show. We’re getting to know each other. It’s not a date.”
Adrian made a childish face. “Becky will be back. I’m an acquired taste. Fargas wants a bite of a Georgia peach, if you ask me.”
Claire balled a napkin in her fist and threw it at his nose. “Oh my goodness. No one asked you.”
“Right.” I glared at Adrian as I peeled the wrapper off and jammed my straw through the lid on my smoothie.
Fargas could keep his murder case. I had my own mystery to solve, and its name was what-are-your-intentions-with-my-best-friend, sheriff?
* * *
I slipped my fingers between curtain panels and spied on Claire and Fargas. He opened the passenger door for her and closed it when she swung her black patent leather pumps inside. He smoothed his shirt and hair on his way to the driver’s side door. She’d spent an hour on her makeup after Adrian left, complete with smoky eyes and lip plumping gloss, but she insisted it wasn’t about Fargas. Looked like a date to me.
I walked around the quiet room, squeezing shag carpet between my toes. I’d originally planned to move into a nicer place as soon as possible, but I’d grown too fond of the worn-out orange carpet and dark seventies paneling to leave. People told me I was brave for living in the old haunted building, but the only ghost at my place was the ghost of boyfriend past. Back in high school, Adrian had worked at an art studio downstairs. He discovered an interior staircase leading from the studio to the space I now called home. In true prankster fashion, he’d staged ghost sightings and convinced the locals the place was haunted. Dumb, but I couldn’t complain. Fast forward a decade and no one wanted to live here, so rent was in my price range. Unfortunately, Adrian still haunted the place.
Murder in Real Time Page 10