No sooner do his lips twitch than Camila Ryder zips up with the pretty redhead dutifully by her side once again.
It’s showtime, Bizzy! “Hello, Jasper.” Camila gives an open-mouthed smile up at her ex-fiancé. “Guess who’s here for the book club tonight? I believe you once referred to her as the one that got away? It’s Hadley Culpepper!”
My mouth falls open as Jasper and Hadley exchange dumbfounded stares.
“The one who got away?” I meant for it to come out playful, almost teasing, but it came out with just as much shock as I’m currently feeling.
“Hadley?” Jasper’s arms glide off of me as he takes a step in her direction.
“Jasper Wilder.” A smile cinches on the redhead’s face. And to think I let this one go all because I was afraid. “Come here, you handsome beast.” She wraps her arms around him and they exchange a rather spirited embrace.
You handsome beast? Fish muses. Why do I get the feeling this woman is trouble?
I make a face in their direction.
As much as I hate to admit it, Fish just might be right.
Camila chortles to herself as she joins the happy couple.
Murder is afoot tonight.
And I might just be the one to do it.
Chapter 2
I’m sorry, Bizzy, Jasper says as he glances my way. Do you mind if I take a minute?
I wave him off as if to say, Take all the time you need. With the one that got away, no less. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose at the woman when that last thought flies through my mind, but Jasper is already too immersed in their conversation to notice.
Of course, my husband knows I can read minds.
And speaking of another person who’s well aware of my telepathic prowling abilities, Georgie Conner, an eighty-something woman with long, gray, scraggly hair (think electrocuted by way of a socket), and sparkling blue eyes barrels this way with my mother on her heels. Georgie has a penchant for wearing nothing but comfy kaftans. The kaftan in question tonight is lavender, and it just so happens to bring out the mischief in Georgie’s eyes. Georgie is a diehard hippie who happens to be an artist who specializes in mosaics.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite two old broads,” I say a touch too loud as I force a smile. A part of me is hoping Jasper’s old flame will see that I’m not threatened in the least by her redheaded, pouty-lipped, hourglass-figured presence.
I’m not, am I?
Regardless, the two old broads sentiment wasn’t a putdown for two of my favorite women. Mom and Georgie happen to own a shop down on Main Street that sells everything from quilts to mosaics with the same zany moniker, Two Old Broads. My sister thought of the name, and to everyone’s surprise, the general public loves it.
“You won’t believe it, Bizzy,” Georgie says as she wags the book of the hour at me.
“You liked the book?” I ask.
“Eh.” She shrugs.
Mom balks her way. “What do you mean, eh? The book was really good. It was a killer read.” She chuckles my way. Mom is petite with dainty features, wears her hair feathered back circa 1980-something, and her wardrobe more or less pays homage to that very same totally rad era as well, as evidenced by tonight’s floral popped collar blouse and tapered jeans.
Georgie growls as she takes Fish from me. Georgie just so happens to be one of the brave and the few who are in on my telesensual secret—that’s the proper name for my gift. Telesensual falls under the umbrella of transmundane, a broad spectrum of powers of which there are many.
“I didn’t think much of the book.” Georgie smacks Fish on the forehead with a kiss. “There was no action in it.”
“No action?” Mom balks. “What about the big chase scene at the end with all the guns and the flying bullets?”
Georgie waves her off. “I meant action in the bedroom.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “It’s a cozy mystery, Georgie. They’re not exactly known for their torrid love scenes.”
“Why not?” Georgie is quick to question the lust levels of an entire genre of mysteries.
“I don’t know,” Mom shrills with just as much fervor. “Maybe the people who write them hate sex.”
Georgie chokes on her next breath. “Hate sex? How do they think they got here?”
“All right, ladies.” I give a loose smile at the handful of heads that have turned our way. “Let’s keep it G. This is a family show tonight, despite the wine.”
“You’ve got wine?” Mom’s eyes spring wide open at the prospect of vino. “This just gets better and better.” She giggles, and I inch back a notch.
“Did you just giggle?” I ask.
Fish yowls, Ree Baker does not giggle. Perhaps she’s already hit the vino?
Perhaps so.
Georgie smacks my mother on the arm. “Go on, Toots, and spill the French beans or I’ll be forced to do it myself.”
“What French beans?” My antennae go up without hesitation.
“Fine.” Mom is back to glowering at the ceiling a moment. “I met a man.” She shrugs. “You and your siblings are forever after me to get out there and meet someone, and so I’ve taken your advice.”
I choose to momentarily overlook the fact I’ve never said such a thing.
“Where did you meet this person? Please tell me it’s not some stalker you picked up from that YouTube show you’re running?” For the last few weeks, Georgie and my mother have been hosting a half hour show out of their shop as a way to drum up some business. They’re just showcasing new products more or less, and telling odd jokes—and I do mean odd—and they’ve done a recipe or two. They don’t have an explosive audience, but they think they do. And they’re convinced it’s boosted business by twenty percent—whatever that means.
Mom shakes her head. “No, he’s not a stalker. He’s a businessman. His name is Romero. He’s from Wichita, but he’s currently in Paris scouting a European
