But I didn’t want to go longer than a week, so I texted Patrick Vitt and told him to get going. I had Venmoed him the initial fee, along with Scott’s particulars. I needed that proof. It was my insurance against getting screwed in the divorce and my way of protecting Julia Kate.
Reeling with conviction, I called into Printemps and told Jade that I would be in later that day. Ruby had class on Tuesdays and only worked mornings, so Jade might appreciate an extra body in the store. Besides, it was time for me to leap back into the land of the living and go about my life. Now more than ever, I needed to focus on my daughter, my business, and protecting my assets.
But first I was going to bring my mother lunch because she had a sore throat, and that meant staying in bed, drinking whiskey, and sneaking episodes of The Real Housewives, though she would turn it to Masterpiece Theatre if she thought anyone was coming over.
Look at me being the good daughter.
After arguing with my mother over the thermostat—veritable sweat-lodge level—I finally made it to Printemps around three thirty that afternoon, after ensuring that my daughter had a ride to soccer and dropping off the cleats she’d left in her bathroom.
Printemps looked as it always had—clean, cheerful, and full of possibilities—and it gave me comfort to walk in the back door to the familiar smell of overwarmed coffee, beeswax, and old wood. As I suspected, Ruby wasn’t there and Jade had done some decent business—selling a cupboard, two serving tables, and a ceramic peacock that I had spied in an English antiques catalog. Knew someone would want the peacock. Two crates had arrived that afternoon from our buyer in France, and with nowhere to put them, Ruby had stored them in the attached garage. I needed to construct a better storage facility, perhaps one that was temperature controlled, since many of the antiques that arrived were sensitive to the Louisiana humidity.
Wanting to get the fragile items inside and on the floor, I grabbed a crowbar and went outside to unpack and start cataloging our new inventory.
After logging in a small pie safe that I knew Jenny Martindale would want for her aunt’s kitchen remodel, several sculpted bookends, a snuffbox that I was certain was worth more than it had been priced, and a mahogany Hepplewhite mirror that would look good in my own dining room, I found a packet of books. étienne had written a note.
Procured these from an estate sale in Calais. Thought as an American you might find these amusing. No charge.
étienne
I dug into the box and pulled out dusty books that bore several decades of use.
“The Case of the Negligent Nymph?” I muttered, frowning at the cover featuring a young, nude blonde clinging to a canoe. I selected another titled Revelations of a Lady Detective, and then several pulp-fiction detective magazines, which I stacked beside me as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the garage. I pulled out a few more dusty detective books and found a bundle of penny dreadfuls, including a few that looked to be from The Mysteries of London. They were in horrible shape, but I still felt a trill of excitement holding old publications that had intrigued Victorian Londoners with stories of adventure on the streets and that were part of what many believed to be the longest-running novel. The other stack within the box held books titled How to Be a Successful Detective and The Sherlock Holmes Handbook.
“Hmm, whoever owned these books definitely wanted to be Nancy Drew,” I said out loud, smiling as I set the volumes on top of one another. Finally, in the box was the last book, and that made my grin bigger. These had definitely been owned by a female, and I envisioned a young French girl reading these American and British crime books, dreaming of becoming the next Miss Marple or Trixie Belden. I myself had gone through such a phase as a child, imagining clues everywhere and mysteries in every shadow. I had driven my poor cousin Ronda nuts when we had stayed with Auntie Kay one summer, imagining every bottle cap to be a clue and seeing burglars dangling in trees (just Spanish moss and an active imagination).
Ronda grew up to be a mental health counselor. I had no doubt driven her to it.
I studied the book in my hand—The Gumshoe Gal’s Guide to Becoming a Private Eye.
The cover was 1950s blue, and the woman on the front wore a flared crinoline dress and stood pressed against a cracked door. The “private eye” clutched a small handgun nestled in the pleats of her skirt; in her other hand was a martini glass. Kid you not. She also wore towering stilettos, totally negating being an actual gumshoe. But who knew? Maybe she had gummed her soles to allow her to sneak around. Her hair was short and sassy, her lips vampire red, and her neckline plunging. She looked like a hot gumshoe gal, and I wondered how my own hair might look short and curly, a sort of Marilyn Monroe throwback.
I took the stacked books and put them into a crate. Probably not salable, but they might be useful for display. I tucked the book in my hand under my arm and rose, carrying a box filled with porcelain dogs. My phone buzzed in my back pocket, so I set the box down and checked the message.
Scott.
Going to dinner with Jeff R. at the club. He needs some marriage counseling. Told him I would listen and pray with him. Be home late.
I stared at the text, my mouth opening and closing, because I knew that this was probably a load of horse dung. Ten to one said Scott wasn’t doing any kind of praying . . . except praying he didn’t get caught. So many nights he’d sent texts like this and I hadn’t had a clue. I had sent him back things like, So proud of you for helping your friends, or perhaps, Love your heart. See you tonight.
Staring daggers at the phone, I kicked over an old lamp, breaking it and not even caring because it was ugly, anyway. For good measure, I stomped the shade three times, growling like a wolverine backed into a corner. If wolverines could even back into corners. I wasn’t sure. I was from Louisiana and had never actually seen one. But at any rate, I was super pissed.
“Screw you, screw you, screw you!” I shouted with each additional stomp because the shade hadn’t been completely flattened.
Now it was.
I clicked on the response button and typed, Ok. You’re a good friend.
“And a total ass,” I added aloud.
After I sent the text, I texted Patrick Vitt and told him to head to the tennis pro’s house of lust this evening if he wanted to get the back end of his fee sooner than later. I may have scowled when I typed “back end,” thinking about that uncomfortable-looking foxtail. Then I picked up the box and what was left of my pride, stepped over the destroyed lamp, and walked back into the store.
Ruby stood behind the register, wearing a blouse I had tossed into something she called the Bin of Requirement. Had no clue why she called it that, but the silk looked amazing on her even if there was what looked to be a stain on the cuff. She took me in, giving a slight lift of her brows as she did. Next to her was a good-looking younger guy who looked vaguely familiar.