To Catch A Wife. Lee Mckenzie
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want to disappoint her clientele. They were devoted, and had increased her business by posting amazing online reviews and telling family and friends about her B & B.
“Emily?” Annie’s question hauled her thoughts back to the present.
“Hm? Sorry. Daydreaming.”
“I said you look nice today,” Annie said. “Is that a new top you’re wearing?”
“Oh, yes, it is.”
“The color really suits you.”
“Thanks. I thought I’d try something other than my usual black and beige.” Truthfully, she’d chosen the deep marigold patterned top more for its style than its color. The soft gathers falling from the U-shaped yoke added some flare to the hemline and enough fullness to disguise the fact she was no longer as skinny as her jeans.
Annie studied her seriously but, in typical Annie fashion, kept her thoughts to herself.
Something CJ seldom did. “I told you something’s weird. You’re quieter than usual, avoiding caffeine, jazzing up your wardrobe. What’s up with you?”
Emily glared at her little sister. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.” That’s what she desperately hoped for anyway.
“So, Em. What have you been working on these days?” Annie asked, switching subjects as though she had somehow gleaned what was up with Emily and was intentionally trying to distract CJ.
“Oh, this and that.” She sipped her coffee. “The mayor has called a special session of the town council on Monday afternoon—says he has some big announcement—so I’ll be covering that.”
“A big announcement? In Riverton?” CJ’s tone was tinged with derision. “Don’t tell me the mayor’s finally decided to fix that rusty old stop sign at Main and Second, the one old man Thompson ran into when his truck skidded on a patch of ice last winter.”
“I certainly hope not. They’ll have to raise our taxes if they do that.” Annie chuckled at her own joke. “I’m betting someone has an overdue library book.”
“No, I’ve got it,” CJ said. “Another garden gnome has gone missing.”
Emily laughed at their lame attempts at humor, knowing her sisters loved their hometown every bit as much as she did. “Come on, you two. Riverton’s not that sleepy. Besides, my sources tell me the mayor’s going to announce that Chief Fenwick is retiring from the Riverton Police Department at the end of the month, and he’s looking for a replacement.”
CJ wasn’t buying it. “Yes, Riverton is that sleepy. And excuse me, but...you have sources?”
“I do.”
“Let me guess. Becky Wilson?”
Becky, who ran the only beauty salon in town, was an avid participant in and a regular contributor to Riverton’s rumor mill.
“No, it wasn’t Becky,” Emily said. “She never gossips about anything interesting. Fred told me when we had lunch yesterday. Mayor Bartlett was in for a haircut that morning and happened to let something slip.”
Annie smoothed a hand over her short blond bob. “Maybe I should get Fred to cut my hair. Everyone jokes about the beauty parlor being a hub for gossip, but I never hear anything worthwhile at the Clip ’n’ Curl. Did the mayor say who he’s planning to appoint?”
“No.” Emily sighed. “Just that he’s casting a wide net.” She liked to think she’d make an ace investigative journalist but in fact spent far more time writing obituaries and reporting on town council meetings. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him and wheedle it out of him. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“With...?” Annie’s scrutiny once again had her on edge.
“Oh, you know. Work, writing my blog, stuff like that.” Emily slid off her stool and loaded her mug and plate into the dishwasher. CJ stood, too, and crossed the big kitchen to open the French doors and let Chester outside. The old retriever ambled across the plank porch and onto the sprawling back lawn.
Emily gave her older sister a hug. “Thanks. This has been great.”
“We do this every Saturday.”
“I know, but I really needed some sister time this morning. And a muffin.” She had eaten two.
“Want to tell me what has you so out of sorts?”
“Nothing,” she said, lowering her voice even though her nosy younger sister was out of earshot. “And I’m not ‘out of sorts.’ I’m fine.”
Annie held her by the shoulders and gave her a long look. “I know you, Em. And I know you’ll tell me in good time. Promise me you’ll call if you need to talk?”
She appreciated her big sister’s restraint. “I promise. You’re the best, you know that? Will you give Dad and Isaac my love? Tell them I’ll be around for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Of course.”
Emily heard her phone ringing from inside her bag, which she had left on the bench by the doors to the veranda.
“I’ll grab it for you.” CJ reached for Emily’s tan leather satchel.
“Sure, thanks.” Oh. No. Oh, no! “I mean, never mind. Just leave it. It’s not important.”
But CJ had the bag open and was staring at the contents. “What on earth?” she gasped, and pulled out a box. “A pregnancy test. What’s this for? I mean, I know what it’s for, but who is it for?”
And then both sisters skewered her with their attention.
“Emily?” they chorused.
Her face burned. “I might not be. I mean, it’s just a precaution. You know, to be sure. One way or the other.” Busted, Emily babbled like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, a D-minus science test buried at the bottom of her school bag and one foot out the window at midnight on her way to meet friends. Guilty, on multiple counts.
“There’s a ‘one way or the other’ chance you’re having a baby? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.” The disappointment in Annie’s voice was reflected in her eyes. “Why haven’t you said something before now?”
“Because if I’m not...” She placed her hands on her belly. “If I’m not, then no one needed to know there was a chance I might be.” She ignored Annie’s reference to seeing someone because it was mortifying to admit she wasn’t. She shot an accusatory look at CJ instead. “And no one would know if it hadn’t been for a snooping little sister.”
“Hey! I was not snooping. I was looking for your phone. I thought I was helping. How’d I know I was going to find—” she brandished the box “—this. But if you are, that means...holy moly, Em. If you’re going to be a mother, then who’s the father?”
“He...” Nowhere near ready to admit the truth, Emily did something she was sure to regret. She lied. “It’s Fred.”
Her sisters gaped at her for a full five seconds, and then they both burst out laughing.
THE JANGLE OF his cell phone made Jack Evans hastily sweep his desk, shoving aside papers and lifting files to check beneath them till his phone slid out from inside one of the folders—the Scarlett Daniels homicide. She was the third victim of Chicago’s most recent serial killer, the South Side Slayer, as the media had dubbed him. Scarlett’s murder was arguably the grizzliest of his three victims.
“Evans here,” he said, managing for once to answer his cell before the call went to voice mail.
“Jack, Brett Watters. I found the daughter of your murder victim.”