you. But I—I think we need her story. Something is wrong in that house. I felt it. Here.” I tapped my abdomen with my fist.
“Maybe so, but I’m about wore out with all this talkin’,” he said. “I got things to do.” His tight jaw and curt tone told me he was shutting down.
Tom saw this, too, because he stood abruptly. “We understand, don’t we, Jilly?”
“Certainly.” I reached across and placed my hand over Ed’s. “I’m sorry if I upset you.” The contented Ed I knew had disappeared before my eyes. This sadness and anger I’d stirred up made me feel guilty, but I couldn’t help but be curious, too. What had happened between Ed and Ritaestelle? Bad breakup? Unrequited love?
Ed withdrew his hand. “Who says I’m upset?” He gathered our tea glasses and carried them to the small sink.
“Come on,” Tom whispered through his teeth. He nodded toward the door.
“Guess we should go,” I said.
Tom and I walked toward the kitchen entrance. Ed was rinsing the glasses in the sink and didn’t turn as we were walking out. But he did say, “You want to avoid Nancy, I say go in disguise. That hall closet’s full of stuff that could make you look like a different person.”
“Okay,” I said tentatively.
Tom held my elbow and led me out the kitchen door and toward the closet, whispering, “Let’s do what he says.”
He opened the closet door, and several shoe boxes fell from the top shelf, spilling their contents at our feet. Obviously Karen’s touch was missing here.
I knelt and gathered up costume jewelry and fancy hair ornaments. Since Tom is over six feet tall, he made room on the shelf for the boxes.
I whispered, “Do I honestly have to play dress-up to talk to the people in that town?” I glanced up at the mustysmelling dresses and suits crammed in the closet.
“We’ll take a few things to humor Ed, okay?” Tom said softly. “I’ve never seen him this bothered by anything, but apparently he not only has shoe boxes and trunks. He has a Pandora’s box, too.”
“You’re right.” I pulled out a cotton print dress hiding between two wool jackets. “How’s this?” I held it up in front of me.
But Tom had started digging around in a plastic container on the closet floor. He whipped out a blond wig. “Or this?”
“It’s July, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll end up with blisters on my scalp from the heat if I wear that.”
“I’m sure Chief Shelton will remember your hair . . . your face.” He ran a finger along my jawline. “Hard not to notice you.” He held the wig out.
I took it and held it to my nose. “Smells like a combination of my grandmother’s Jean Naté and talcum powder.” I sighed. “That’s what I get for being a redhead. People remember the hair. We’ll take the dress and the wig—but only to make Ed happy. A dye job might be easier than wearing this.” I shook the wig, expecting a baby powder cloud to appear around the thing.
Tom fixed several strands of hair behind my ear. “Don’t you dare think about changing anything.” He pulled me to him and kissed me.
The wig—or Tom—had won.
After Tom dropped me off at home with my not-so-fancy dress and my ugly wig, three very interested cats followed on my heels as I took these prize items to my bedroom. Maybe if I left the fake hair within reach of prying paws, I’d have a good excuse to stick to sunglasses as my only disguise. I couldn’t wear a wig that resembled something that looked like it had been run over by a lawnmower. That was what this fake hair would look like if my three felines had their way with it.
I went to the master bathroom and set the wig down. I tried to pull my too-short hair away from my face. I was hoping I could hide my hair under a giant sun hat. But a big hat on a stranger in a small town like Woodcrest was almost as memorable as red hair. And after several tries with bobby pins and clips, I couldn’t make my hair obey anyway.
Tomorrow, Tom and I planned to visit Woodcrest and at least one of those “fancy-schmancy” cafés Ed had mentioned. I needed to see if I could tolerate this silly disguise.
But Syrah had jumped up on the marble vanity, and before I could stop him, he swiped the blond tresses down to his awaiting partners in crime, Merlot and Chablis. This wig was apparently the best thing I’d brought home in a long time.
I snatched up my future disguise and shook a finger at the cats. “You’ll get your chance, but not right now, friends.”
I stretched the wig onto my head and stared at myself in horror. I looked way too much like Lydia Monk, the deputy county coroner who is obsessed with Tom. And who definitely had it in for me now that she knew Tom and I were getting close. I ripped the wig off and shook my head at an attempt to restore my layered haircut. But I was still resigned to wearing it tomorrow. I tucked it away on the top shelf of my closet. I had just closed the door, much to the chagrin of my three amigos, when I heard the doorbell.
My kitties didn’t follow me as I hurried to answer the door. The challenge of a closed closet door and what lay behind was far too important to be spoiled by a human visit.
Once I got to the foyer, I checked the peephole and saw Shawn’s face. Despite the distortion, I could tell he was unhappy. I took a deep breath. Even though I wanted another chance to talk to Miss Longworth, I felt as if I had to tell him about my failure, and now was as good a time as any.
When I opened the door, I was surprised to see he wasn’t alone. He came bearing a pet carrier. And from the wails emanating from that crate, I knew it held a cat.
After he came inside, he set the carrier down in the foyer and, hands on hips, said, “You gotta help me with this . . . this . . .
I knelt and peeked through the crate’s door. He’d brought Isis. I offered, “Hi, sweetie,” and her reply was a wide-mouthed hiss.
I stood. “Sure. What can I do?”
“She can go back home, right? Your plan worked and you talked with the Longworth woman?”
“Um . . . why don’t we go into the living room and chat? You look like you could use some sweet tea.” Before he could protest—because Shawn likes to protest about anything—I started walking through the foyer. “Just leave her where she is. She’ll be fine.”
“But I don’t have time—”
I turned and gestured for him to follow me. “Yes, you do. You look like you could use a break. Besides, we need to talk.”
He reluctantly followed, saying, “I don’t like the sound of this.”
Once we were settled in the living room with our tea—me on John’s old leather recliner and Shawn on the sofa—I explained yet again what had happened today.
When I finished, Shawn closed his eyes and pressed two freckled fingers and a thumb on his forehead and massaged the area between his sun-bleached eyebrows. We’re both redheads, but he’d retained far more freckles than I, and his hair was almost the color of persimmons.
He said, “You’ve done enough.”
“No,” I said, so forcefully I surprised myself. “I don’t want to give up. Not yet.”
Shawn pointed in the direction of the foyer. “That is the most spoiled, arrogant cat I’ve ever had the displeasure to encounter. She won’t eat regular cat kibble, she hisses and swats at everyone who tries to get near her and she’s . . . she’s . . . too full of herself. You should see her walk around my kennel like she owns the place. I’ve had her for a week, and she’s wearing on my nerves.”
I didn’t speak for several seconds. “Shawn, are you feeling okay? Because I have never heard you talk that way about an animal before.” Shawn was often impatient with humans, but never with the animals he rescued and cared for.
He looked at his scuffed-up tennis shoes. “Allison said the same thing. I can’t keep her around anymore—the cat, not Allison. She just gets under my skin. And we can’t let her roam around the sanctuary anymore. She nearly
