Delaney set a plate of stuffed mushrooms on the buffet table then looked into the eyes of her childhood adversary, Helen Schnupp. Growing up, Helen had been a thorn in Delaney’s side, a rock in her shoe, and a colossal pain in the ass. Every time Delaney had turned around, Helen had been there, usually one step ahead. Helen had been prettier, faster in track, and better in basketball. In the second grade Helen had unseated her for first place in the county spelling bee. In the eighth grade Helen had beaten her out for head cheerleader, and in the eleventh she’d been caught at the drive-in with Delaney’s boyfriend, Tommy Markham, riding the bologna pony in the back of the Markham family station wagon. A girl didn’t forget a thing like that, and Delaney took silent pleasure in Helen’s split ends and over processed highlights.
“Helen Schnupp,” she said, hating to admit to herself that except for the hair, her old nemesis was still pretty.
“It’s Markham now.” Helen grabbed a croissant and stuffed it with sliced ham. “Tommy and I have been happily married for seven years.”
Delaney forced a smile. “Isn’t that just great?” She told herself she didn’t give a damn about either one of them, but she’d always entertained the fantasy of a Bonnie and Clyde style ending for Helen and Tommy. The fact that she still harbored such animosity didn’t bother her as much as she thought it probably should. Maybe it was time for that psychotherapy she’d been putting off.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
Helen gave her a look filled with pity. “Your mother tells me you live in Scottsdale.”
Delaney fought an urge to shove Helen’s croissant up her nose. “I live in Phoenix.”
“Oh?” Helen reached for a mushroom and scooted down the line. “I must not have heard her right.”
Delaney doubted there was anything wrong with Helen’s hearing. Her hair was another matter, however, and if Delaney hadn’t already planned to leave in a few days, and if she were a nicer person, she might have offered to snip some of the damage. She might have even slapped a protein pack on Helen’s frizzy hair and wrapped her whole head in cellophane. But she wasn’t that nice.
Her gaze scanned the dining room filled with people until she located her mother. Surrounded by friends, every blond hair in perfect order, her makeup flawless, Gwen Shaw looked like a queen holding court. Gwen had always been the Grace Kelly of Truly, Idaho. She even resembled her somewhat. At forty-four, she could pass for thirty-nine and, as she was fond of saying, looked much too young to have a daughter who was twenty-nine.
Anywhere else, a fifteen-year age difference between mother and daughter might have raised more than a few brows, but in small-town Idaho, it wasn’t uncommon for high school sweethearts to marry the day after graduation, sometimes because the bride was about to go into labor. No one thought anything of teenage pregnancy, unless of course the teen wasn’t married.
Everyone in Truly believed the mayor’s young wife had been widowed shortly after she’d married Delaney’s biological father, but it was all a lie. At fifteen, Gwen had been involved with a married man, and when he’d found out she was pregnant, he dumped her and she left town.
“I see you came back. I thought you might be dead.”
Delaney’s attention was drawn to Old Mrs. Van Damme hunched over an aluminum walker and teetering toward a deviled egg, her white hair plastered with finger waves just as Delaney remembered. She couldn’t recall the woman’s first name. She didn’t know if she’d ever heard it used. Everyone had always referred to her as Old Mrs. Van Damme. The woman was so ancient now, her back bowed with age and osteoporosis, she was turning into a human fossil.
“Can I help you get something to eat?” Delaney offered, standing a little straighter while counting back to the last time she’d had a glass of milk, or at the very least a calcium-enriched Tums.
Mrs. Van Damme snagged an egg, then handed Delaney her plate. “Some of that and that,” she directed, pointing to several different dishes.
“Would you like salad?”
“Makes me gassy,” Mrs. Van Damme whispered, then pointed at a bowl of ambrosia. “That looks good, and some of those chicken wings, too. They’re hot, but I brought my Pepto.”
For such a frail little thing, Old Mrs. Van Damme ate like a lumberjack. “Are you related to Jean-Claude?” Delaney joked, attempting to interject a little levity in the otherwise somber occasion.
“Who?”
“Jean-Claude Van Damme, the kickboxer.”
“No, I don’t know any Jean-Claude, but maybe they got one living in Emmett. Those Emmett Van Dammes are always in trouble, always kicking up about something or another. Last year Teddy-my late brother’s middle grandchild-got arrested for stealing that big Smokey the Bear they had standing in front of the forest service building. Why’d he want something like that, anyway?”
“Maybe because his name is Teddy.”
“Huh?”
Delaney frowned. “Never mind.” She shouldn’t have tried. She’d forgotten that her sense of humor wasn’t appreciated in redneck towns where men tended to use their shirt pockets for ashtrays. She sat Mrs. Van Damme at a table near the buffet, then she headed for the bar.
She’d often thought the whole after-the-funeral ritual of gathering to eat like hogs and get drunk was a bit odd, but she supposed it existed to give the family comfort. Delaney didn’t feel comforted in the least. She felt on display, but she’d always felt that way living in Truly. She’d grown up as the daughter of the mayor and his very beautiful wife. Delaney had always fallen a little short somehow. She’d never been outgoing or boisterous like Henry, and she’d never been beautiful like Gwen.
She walked into the parlor where Henry’s cronies from the Moose Lodge were holding down the bar and reeking of Johnnie Walker. They paid her little attention as she poured herself a glass of wine and stepped out of the low heels her mother had insisted she borrow.
Even though Delaney knew that she was sometimes compulsive, she really had only one addiction. She was a shoe-aholic. She thought Imelda Marcos got a bad rap. Delaney loved shoes. All shoes. Except little pumps with stubby heels. Too boring. Her tastes leaned toward stilettoes, funky boots, or Hercules sandals. Her clothes weren’t exactly conventional, either. For the last few years she’d worked at Valentina, an upscale salon where customers paid a hundred dollars to get their hair cut and expected to see their stylist in trendsetting clothes. For their money, Delaney’s customers wanted to see short vinyl skirts, leather pants, or sheer blouses with black bras. Not exactly proper funeral attire for the stepdaughter of a man who’d ruled the small town for many years.
Delaney was just about to exit the room when the conversation stopped her.
“Don says he looked like a charcoal briquette by the time they got him out.”
“Hellva way to die.”
The men shook their collective heads and drank their scotch. Delaney knew the fire had occurred in a shed Henry had built across town. According to Gwen, he’d taken a recent interest in breeding Appaloosas, but he hadn’t cared for the smell of manure near his house.
“Henry loved those horses,” said a Moose in a cowboy-cut leisure suit. “I heard tell a spark caught the barn on fire, too. There wasn’t much left of those Appaloosas, just some femur bones and a hoof or two.”
“Do you think it was arson?”
Delaney rolled her eyes.
“The investigators from Boise don’t really think so, but it hasn’t been ruled out.”
There was a pause in the conversation before someone said, “I doubt the fire was intentional. Who would do that to Henry?”
“Maybe Allegrezza.”
“Nick?”
“He hated Henry.”
“So did a lotta people, if the truth be told. Burning a man and his horses is a helluva lotta hate. I don’t know if Allegrezza hated Henry that much.”
“Henry was plenty ticked about those condos Nick is buildin‘ out on Crescent Bay, and the two of them almost
