by Anne McAneny
Macy and Chloe stayed silent, both surprised at the lecture when everything had been so lighthearted a moment earlier. Then Macy put an arm around her mother’s tiny waist and pulled her in close. “Doesn’t mean you get to go back on your promise, though. I’m still allowed to date when I turn fifteen, right? Millionaires or no.”
Mrs. LeGrange put an arm around Macy. She sniffed and blinked before answering. “Of course, but I sure don’t recommend it.” She turned to Chloe. “Did your parents make you wait before dating, Chloe?”
Chloe scratched her head and hoped it was only the sun’s heat burning up her cheeks. “Uh, no, ma’am. They never really said. Can’t say it’s mattered much either way.”
Macy waved away her mother’s question. “Chloe’s got bigger concerns than boys. She stays real busy studying and writing for the school paper, ain’t that right, Chloe?”
“That’s true,” Chloe said, averting her eyes. She climbed onto her bike, scraping her calf against the pedal but ignoring the pain. “I’d better head home before this butter melts.”
“Tell your mom and dad hello for me now,” Mrs. LeGrange said.
“I sure will,” Chloe said, seeming in a rush to get away. “See you at school next week, Macy.”
They watched her pedal off. “That girl’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Mrs. LeGrange said. “She’ll get out of this town, just like you, baby.”
“She wants to be a reporter for a big city paper.”
“How about you? Where do you want to end up?”
Macy looked off into space. “Can’t say as I know yet, but I sure wouldn’t mind staying here, close to you.”
Mrs. LeGrange’s expression grew panicked. She leaned down and grabbed Macy by both arms, probably harder than she meant to. “No, sweetie. You’re going places, you hear me? You’ve got to set your sights well beyond Beulah.”
“All I meant was—”
“Beyond South Carolina. Heck, maybe beyond the United States, because it’ll be over my dead body that I’ll have you living and dying here in Beulah. Over my dead body.”
Macy winced and felt her heart contract. “Don’t talk about dying and such, Momma. I don’t like thinking about that stuff.”
Mrs. LeGrange blinked rapidly again, trying to smile, hoping the moment would pass. Then she stood and patted down her hair. “Let’s go get us some eggs and cream.”
They joined hands and entered the store, ready to take on Boyd.
Chapter 27
The next morning, I startled awake to my alarm and seriously considered cancelling my interview with Adeline DeVore, by far the sexiest of the Lucky Four lottery winners. No way could I tolerate her patronization this morning. But then I remembered something. If she’d been a regular at Boyd’s back in the day, maybe she knew of a link between Boyd and Hoop. If anyone knew dirty little secrets in Beulah, it was DeVore the Whore; heck, she’d been one herself more often than not.
I forced myself from bed and dug out my old coffee maker because tramping over to Grinder Minder every day was out of the question.
An hour and a half later, caffeinated but not enthused, I found myself knocking on a seemingly impenetrable mahogany door, the sound barely piercing the wood. The crest on the door matched the marquee on the outside of the six-story building: two sexually suggestive green leaves sprouting up and out to form the letter V of DeVore Cosmetics, with caramel-colored swirls above and below the name. The V screamed vagina so loudly that it could have scored the cover of Maxim.
Adeline DeVore’s long-nosed assistant looked at me with minimal tolerance, the same attitude she’d conveyed when I entered the office wearing no mascara.
“I said she was ready for you?” the assistant whined. “That means you don’t have to knock?”
I shot a withering glance at the fashionista-wannabe, tempted to respond in the same grating Valley Girl tone, but instead, I pushed down on the door handle, shoved, and let the door hang open a few inches. The assistant looked panicked. She waved her black-lacquered nails for me to go in, go in, both hands flapping desperately, as if the worst thing in the world was to keep Adeline DeVore waiting for three more seconds.
What she didn’t realize was that Adeline DeVore needed me more than I needed her. DeVore Cosmetics had suffered a slow drip of bad publicity lately, leading to suspicions of a mole within the company. Rumors that DeVore cleansing oils weren’t as pure as advertised, and their creams not as naturally sourced as claimed, hadn’t yet affected share prices, but DeVore Cosmetics needed to plug the leak soon, before it became a deluge.
I stepped into the office and slammed the door.
Adeline DeVore, 44, but highly-maintained, sat behind a smudge-free glass table, her long legs crossed beneath—something they’d rarely been as she’d risen to prominence, at least according to Beulah lore. Supposedly, the only reason she’d been in Boyd’s General to buy the winning lottery ticket was because she and Richie Quail had stopped in for a post-coital cruller.
“Good morning, Ms. DeVore,” I said, ignoring the floor-to-ceiling, triple-pane windows that offered a stunning view of the Nuckatawny River. A tiny condo with such a view would easily run north of a million dollars here in New Beulah. I couldn’t imagine how much lipstick had been sold to afford this building.
“It’s Chloe, right?” she said in a voice that could hold its own as an emcee of a burlesque show or as a keynote speaker at a shareholder meeting.
“Yes,” I said, crossing the room. “Chloe Keyes. You used to be a customer of my father’s.”
“Who was your dad?”
“Eddie Keyes, Beulah’s Best Butcher. Moved to Florida a few years ago.”
“Eddie,” she said with a smile. “Used to give me the thickest steaks. Said I needed the calories.”
She rose up on five-inch, acrylic heels from an already considerable height, and we shook hands. Pouty lips anchored her angular, flawless face, and she pursed them while making a show of studying me through tiny, diamond-encrusted glasses.
“You’re pretty,” she said. “Great skin. Dramatic bones. Do you use my products?”
“I’m afraid I don’t use enough of anyone’s products, but I have tried your foundation.”
It was true. My mother had scored a sample bag as a luncheon prize and had immediately regifted it to me. Convinced that Adeline DeVore had hit on my dad, my mom wouldn’t wear anything created by that DeVore hussy.
Adeline smiled, showing choppers I didn’t recall from twelve years ago. “You wrote that article last year,” she said. “About the new bridge between Back Beulah and New Beulah.” She lowered herself back into her seat. “Who knew a story about a bridge could be so dark?”
“Everyone, I hope, by the time they read the last paragraph.” I smiled and took a seat.
“Makes me wonder how you’ll spin this lottery story,” she said.
“To tell you the truth, it’s more than a lottery story. I’m after the essence of the Lucky Four, as well as the effects of that week on the winners and on Beulah.”
“Oh, that week. Not a great time, was it?”
I pulled out my phone, tapped it to tape recorder mode, and laid it on her desk. She reached out, stroked the screen, and deactivated the recorder. Clearly not her first time dealing with the press.
“I have a bone to pick with your type first,” she said, arching a brow that looked like the elegant wing of a tern in flight.
I wondered what my type was. Plain? Possessed of morals? I waited for her to go on, but she looked at me expectantly.
“The article?” she finally said in a tone reminiscent of her assistant’s. “In the personal section of your paper this morning? I don’t know why your editor would run it and then send you here expecting cooperation.”
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me unaware.” Sadly, I barely read my own paper.
She grabbed a copy of The Herald from the black slate credenza behind her, whirled back, and slid it to me. The article proved to be
nothing but a full-color, close-up photo of her exiting the office of Dr. Smithson, a local dermatologist. In the photo, she sported a tiny bandage on her forehead and a series of red bumps above her brow line. The headline read: Injections for Natural Make-Up Queen?
I stared at the photo longer than necessary in order to avoid doing the predictable—gawking at the accused forehead eighteen inches from my face.
“We just introduced an all-natural, plant-based wrinkle serum sourced from the Hottentot Sugarbush in Africa. And now this?”
“I see,” I said lamely. “Maybe the national papers won’t pick it up.”
“You’re owned by a national paper. Besides, it already hit the internet. My people spun it by claiming migraines, but I need you to find out who took this picture.”
“It’s not credited?” I said, glancing again at the photo.
“It’s a pseudonym, and there’s no record of payment, according to your editor.” She tapped the photo with a hard nail. “Dr. Smithson lets me park in the back, before office hours, in a spot reserved for his nurse. It’s very private. So who took this picture? I need a name.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“But you’ll let me know.” It was an order, not a question.
“Absolutely,” I lied, jotting what looked like a reminder but was actually a note to pick up protein bars; I’d been running low. Given the things I needed to look into in this town, Adeline DeVore’s Botox stalker was not high on my list of priorities.
“I appreciate it. Now, let’s talk lottery.” She swiped my phone again, restarting the recorder.
“I’d like to start with a mundane question,” I said. “How did the four of you come to buy the ticket together?” I already had Mrs. Elbee’s version of the story but wanted a different perspective.
“It all started with Grace Elbee, bless her heart.” She shook her head. “I just heard about what happened to her. So sad.”
We did the sentimental exchange thing for a minute, but I decided to keep the homicide ruling to myself.
“Grace was at Boyd’s picking up a few things,” Adeline said, “and she’d forgotten her wallet. Boyd Junior wouldn’t give her a break, but Grace was not leaving without that lottery ticket. She rambled on about how she was in there all the time and how Boyd’s daddy used to spot her money if she was short.”
“Boyd still wouldn’t budge?”
“No. Just stared at her with those dead shark eyes of his. Seemed extra ornery that day but probably because the sheriff was in line behind Mrs. Elbee and Boyd didn’t want to get into trouble. Of course, I don’t think Strike Ryker could have cared less what they did. Had bags under his eyes big enough to hold Mrs. Elbee’s entire order. He just wanted to pay for his things and get out.”
“That was the year Jacqueline Ryker was finishing her cancer treatments.”
“It sure was. So after a minute, the sheriff tapped Mrs. Elbee on the shoulder and said he’d lend her the money if they could just move things along. But that was all Richie Quail needed to hear—”
“Richie Quail—you were there with him, right?” I asked innocently.
Adeline shot me a scowl. “No. Contrary to rumor, your headline will not be DeVore the Whore Admits Shagging Quail the Whale.”
My eyes bugged out. Apparently, there was more to Adeline DeVore than I’d realized.
“I was there by myself,” she said. “Stopped in pretty often, actually.”
“My mistake. So, what was it Richie Quail did when the sheriff offered to pay for Mrs. Elbee’s ticket?”
“He stomped right over—a big bear claw in his hand—and smacked his palm down on the counter. Declared he was feeling right auspicious that day.” She leaned forward. “Keep this off the record, but I thought he meant suspicious. Thought he was accusing the sheriff and Mrs. Elbee of being in cahoots, but turns out, it means lucky.”
Adeline threw her head back and laughed, and I had to admit, everything about the woman surprised me. From her self-deprecation to the warm, throaty chuckle escaping her lips, to her general openness. It was a wonder my father had limited himself to offering her only thick slabs of meat.
“Richie wanted in on the action,” she continued. “Said he’d pay for Mrs. Elbee’s ticket if she’d go fifty-fifty on the winnings.”
“Why did he involve himself?”
“That man could never stand to be one-upped. Just the idea of someone else pitching in on a ticket was like a slot machine showing two cherries and dangling the promise of a third. He couldn’t resist.”
“How did you end up in the mix?”
“Well, Grace Elbee turned down Richie’s offer. She said the sheriff’s money would do just fine. But Richie was adamant. I think he knew Mrs. Elbee didn’t care for him much, so he made the deal less exclusive. He hollered out for everyone in the store to gather ’round, but the sheriff and I were it. Richie convinced us all to buy the ticket together and split the pie. I tell you, that man could sell a fur coat to a polar bear.”
“How did you all pick the numbers?”
Adeline went blank, and then shrugged. “You know, I don’t remember. I think Grace had already selected them.”
Time to steer the conversation to my advantage. “So you went to Boyd’s often?”
“Too often.”
Her short answer was filled with seedy promise. I tilted my head and nudged her with silence.
“Off the record,” she said as if we were sisters swapping secrets, “I was alone in that store too often. This will sound vain, but back then, men used to undress me with their eyes all the time. But not Boyd Junior. He always made me feel like I was interrupting something more important.”
The shared confidence made me feel ill. It did not bode well for a young boy held captive in his basement.
“A few days before the whole ticket episode, I was the first customer in the store and Boyd had to practically drag himself up from that basement. He looked like bloody hell.”
“Literally? Was there blood?”
“No, he just looked . . . battered. I asked him if everything was alright, and he mumbled something about unloading crates. I let it go, but now, with this drug-dealing story coming out”—she shrugged—“pretty obvious what was going on.”
I cocked my head. “What was going on?”
“A transaction gone bad, no doubt. You remember Avis Whitaker? The man who hit the little girl on the bike?”
“Yes.” I swallowed.
“Well, when I was checking out that day, Avis Whitaker suddenly straggled up to the front of the store.”
“Avis Whitaker?” I repeated. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Did he come from the back of the store or the basement?”
“I don’t know. Appeared out of nowhere and tramped on by. He and Boyd shot each other dirty looks. Let’s just say it was a look I did not like being in the middle of. The whole thing stank to high heaven.”
To me, it stank of a place due south of heaven. If Boyd Junior and Avis Whitaker were on the outs over some drug deal gone bad, that would’ve provided Boyd a motive to kidnap Hoop—as collateral—to make Avis square up on a deal. Adeline DeVore had just opened a big can of worms, and the worms were slithering over the rim and squirming around the floor. I didn’t like it.
“That poor girl,” Adeline was saying. “You know, I bet Avis Whitaker was on drugs or something when he hit her. It just wasn’t right, was it?”
“No, definitely not.”
Adeline looked off into the distance, toward the river. “One minute, you’re riding your bike, the wind whipping through your hair, and the next, you’re flying through the air and . . .”
Adeline looked like she might tear up. She couldn’t finish her thought, and I didn’t blame her. What were the possible endings to her sentence? Not one of them could convey the impact of death visiting too soon and too permanently.
Hoop had once confided something to me about his father; I de
cided to share it with Adeline. “Avis Whitaker used to drive that road on purpose when he’d been drinking because hardly anyone used it. Thought he was being smart, lowering his risk of hurting anyone.”
“It’s a terrible, curvy road. I don’t go on it anymore.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “You know, DeVore Cosmetics gives seven percent of its profits to charity. I made it part of our mission from day one. Five percent to underprivileged, undereducated girls, and two percent to organizations like MADD, SADD, and AA. All because of what happened that week.”
It was moving to know that the powerful Adeline DeVore thought about Macy LeGrange up here in a spectacular office that seemed to deny the more banal reality below. But I wondered if Macy would appreciate being associated with underprivileged or undereducated girls. In her view, she’d had it all.
“Ms. DeVore, how would you describe—”
“Miss DeVore!” the assistant’s voice screamed through the intercom. A red light started flashing on Adeline’s phone. “Miss DeVore, oh my God! They stormed past me!”
Before either of us could react to the frantic screech, the doors of the office burst open and three dark-suited men rushed into the office. “Adeline DeVore,” said the first man. “I’m with the FBI and you’re under arrest.” As she rose and simultaneously reached for a black panic button beneath her glass desk, the burliest of the three men rushed behind her and cuffed her slim wrists. Although it surely wasn’t the first time Adeline DeVore had donned handcuffs, it had to be the first time it wasn’t voluntary.
“Plenty of time to panic later,” said the burly agent, eyeing the futile panic button.
I met Adeline’s eyes as she was manhandled behind her desk. It was like watching a person shatter in slow motion. If she had pulled a Dorian Gray and turned into a wrinkled wreck of an old woman, the sight couldn’t have been more pitiful. She moved her lips several times as if to speak, but nothing came out. She looked confused yet resigned, like she knew this day would come but had no idea it would be so ugly. Worst of all, she was failing to do the one thing everyone would have expected of her—scream out in defense.