The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

He was back in less than that. He opened the passenger door and said, “Come with me. Got the necessary info.”

We walked hand in hand around the nearest corner, the summer sun hammering down on us, and soon arrived at an unassuming place called Fairchild’s. The shades were rolled down on the two big front windows. Guess the black-and-white awning wasn’t enough to protect customers inside from the sun’s glare. Unlike the many cafés I’d noticed on the main street that offered outdoor tables, Fairchild’s did not. The antiques store next to the restaurant had end tables and lamps and a small bookcase set outside. But the restaurant only had one of those chalkboard signs with the day’s specials near its front door.

Once we were inside, the smell of fried chicken and what?—barbecue sauce?—made my stomach growl. I liked what I saw, even if my view of the restaurant’s decor—or lack of decor—was dimmed by my sunglasses. Small tables were crammed within an arm’s length of each other, and a glass counter lined the far wall. A board above the counter listed lunch specials, sandwiches, salads and soups. Beneath the glass was an array of tantalizing cookies, pies and cakes.

We walked up to where a young girl in a Fairchild’s T-shirt and blue jean skirt was taking orders.

Tom looked at me. “Tell me what you want, and then grab us a table.”

I chose the Southern Salad and iced peach tea. Two men were just leaving near the center of the crowded room. While I waited for a teenager to bus the table, I exchanged the sunglasses for the half-lens reading glasses I sometimes use for hand quilting. I was already drawing stares. Just like in Mercy, the strangers are spotted immediately, and the Hollywoodesque sunglasses might have been part of the reason.

After I sat down, I licked my lips. The lipstick felt thick and . . . well . . . just wrong. Despite the warm day and the almost as warm restaurant, my hands were ice-cold. I was nervous and tried to conjure Kara’s amused grin when she’d seen me in the wig. Maybe that would relax me.

This is fun, Jillian. You’re playing a part. Just go with the flow.

By the time Tom arrived with our lunch, I’d already made eye contact with two patrons: a man in overalls at two o’clock right and a woman, maybe midsixties, next to our table on the left. Both these people stared at me like I’d stepped out of a spaceship.

Tom put my salad in front of me—a gigantic bowl with strips of fried chicken amid an array of romaine and spinach. Juicy hunks of fresh tomato and a scattering of corn kernels were almost hidden by a generous swirl of ranch dressing. Calorie Salad might have been a better name.

After Tom set down his pulled-pork barbecue sandwich, he said, “I forgot the silverware.” He took the tray and walked back to the counter.

The woman next to me eyed my salad. “Since you’re eating salad, I assume you’re saving room for dessert. Have the lemon icebox pie. Best you’ll ever eat.”

What I’d ordered didn’t land squarely in the salad category in my view, and Tom’s mother made the best lemon icebox pie I’d ever eaten, but I smiled kindly and said, “Thanks for the tip.”

I hadn’t even noticed the gentleman with her until he said, “Don’t mean she’ll like that pie just ’cause you do, Dolly.” He looked at me and grinned. “Chocolate cream is better.”

“Is not.” Dolly pouted and crossed her arms over her chest.

I smiled. “Guess you two eat here a lot. Been married a long time, haven’t you?”

This seemed to bring Dolly out of her mini-depression at once. “Forty years.”

“Wow,” I said.

The man reached across the table and took Dolly’s hand. “Forty years of bliss. Even if our taste in pie doesn’t match up.”

“Both pies are wonderful. That’s why you and your gentleman friend need to pick both,” the middle-aged man at two o’clock said.

I turned his way and smiled.

Dolly said, “Wayne over there should go into politics, don’t you think, Miss . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Uh-oh. Miss What? I didn’t have to be as honest as Kara did on her assignments, so I could make up something or—

“Stewart,” Tom said.

Thank goodness he’d arrived. Apparently I’m not all that quick on my feet.

He put out his hand to Dolly’s husband. “Tom Stewart. We’re looking to buy a place in a small town. City life isn’t for us, we’ve decided.” At least that last part was true.

“Then you’ve come to the right part of South Carolina. Peaceful here. And still as pretty as god made it,” he answered. “I’m Herman, by the way. And this is my Dolly.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed with this friendly town.” Tom looked at me. “Just might be what we’ve been searching for, hon.”

I cut a chicken strip in half and dabbed it in dressing. Before I took a bite of what looked and smelled delicious, I said, “We drove by this huge estate. What is that place?” I glanced at Dolly and then over at Wayne.

“The Longworth Estate,” all three of our new acquaintances said in unison.

But it was Dolly who rolled her eyes. “Sad thing when someone so upstanding falls so far.” She shook her head, looking genuinely glum—but with what? A hint of satisfaction, perhaps? She had such great facial expressions, she could have been an actress.

I chewed that glorious hunk of chicken and then said, “Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything this good.” I didn’t want to sound too interested in the town gossip. Not yet, anyway.

Wayne had pushed his empty plate away and was leaning back in his chair sipping coffee. “There’s plenty more good choices at this here establishment. The chicken-fried-steak sandwich is my favorite.” He looked over at Dolly. “Heard anything more about Ritaestelle? She get out of going to court?”

Herman said, “Woman’s sick in the head. She’s not going to no court. Chief Shelton’s her friend from way back, so she’ll fix it. No Longworth in their right mind needs to shoplift anything. Yup. Sick in the head.”

This was good information. I had to keep them talking. “Does the poor woman have money trouble? I mean, that house . . . that beautiful acreage . . .”

Herman looked at me and tapped his temple. “Sick in the head.”

Dolly looked about ready to burst. “You are too gullible, Herm. Always have been. I heard tell they found stuff from that new jewelry place in her purse. That man who owns that store where it came from needs that money. Disgraceful on Miss Ritaestelle’s part, you ask me. Klepto-whatevers don’t take precious things, and that man makes his own jewelry. Kleptos supposedly take silly items like . . . like ChapStick.” For some reason Dolly thought Tom was her ally in this assumption, because she looked at him. “Isn’t that right?”

Tom was in the middle of enjoying his sandwich but swallowed quickly and said, “You might be right about that.”

Dolly nodded, looking pleased.

Wayne said, “Sorry, Dolly, but I’m with Herman. Something ain’t right. Miss Ritaestelle’s got to be sick. Think of all she’s done for this town. Rather than saying—”

“Done right for this town in your minds, maybe.” Dolly crossed her arms again, her cheeks flushed.

Herman stood. “I think we best be on our way. Old business isn’t what potential homeowners in Woodcrest need to be hearing about. Come along, Dolly.”

Dolly’s lips were pressed together, and bright spots of color lingered high on her cheeks. She hoisted a large white vinyl purse over her arm and stood.

Wayne was staring into his coffee, and I saw a smile playing on his lips.

Herman shook Tom’s hand and nodded at me. “Nice to meet you folks.”

“Yes.” Dolly mustered a smile. “Forgive me for my earlier remarks. The Longworth family has a long history of generosity. I sounded downright mean about Ritaestelle’s difficulties. And that’s not the kind of person I am.”

She and Herman left the restaurant, and as soon as the door closed after them, Wayne leaned toward me. “Forty-two years ago Ritaestelle showed up at a local dance hall with Dolly’s boyfriend. Or so Dolly says. But she says lots of things.”

Tom said, “Women have amazing memories.”