I’m late.”
He tapped his notebook against the rail and studied me. “Yes,” he finally said. “But I want to talk to Gilbert Goodsen before you do. Understood?”
I agreed and took off for the Mini parked on the sidewalk near the street. Matty was waiting for me at the Big House, Gilbert may have killed his wife, I’m the worst egg hunter in the state, Ransom thinks I’m a moron, and poor Jaime Goodsen was dead. And it was barely even lunchtime.
ELEVEN
(Day #3: Sunday Lunch)
After borrowing a handful of plastic garbage bags from Lola Carmichael in the Landings office, I covered the inside front half of the Mini and raced down Cabana Boulevard toward the Big House with the top down. I checked my watch. Nearly one p.m. An hour after I was supposed to meet Matty for lunch. I dialed him up, but it went straight to voicemail.
I flew through the Oyster Cove Plantation gate, down the road, and around the driveway, skidding to a stop in front of the wide steps to the front door. Matty’s 1960s convertible Land Cruiser was parked in the side lot. He’d waited for me.
“Good God, woman, what have you done?” Carla said to me as I ran into the foyer. She studied my face, which had to be pale white and grimacing. “Do you need medical attention?” She started patting me, checking for injuries and sanity.
“Hand-sanitizer and Matty. In that order.”
She pulled a miniature plastic jug from her apron pocket. I’d like to think she kept it there because she’s also germ-conscious, but I know she kept it for what she dubbed “Elliott Emergencies.” “Matty’s on the back porch finishing lunch.”
“He started without me?” I slathered hand-sani from my fingertips to my elbows, then added a layer to my face for good measure.
“Chicken, he finished without you. Don’t you have a cell phone? I couldn’t let the boy starve. He’s on his lunch break. Lord knows what in the world you’ve been up to.”
“I can’t explain now, but it’s a shocker.”
“Well, it hasn’t exactly been a Zen garden over here. Busy and I kicked Jane out of my kitchen and she’s due to break down the door any minute.”
I thanked her for the sani and scooted through the solarium and out the back door.
The Big House sits on over thirty-five rolling acres covered with magnolias, pines, crape myrtles and palm trees. A sparkling lap pool stretched across the patio, framed by chaise lounges and umbrella’d dining tables, one of which hosted Matty Gannon and Jane Walcott Hatting. Eating lunch. Together.
Laughing.
I took a deep, calming breath. The kind they teach you in yoga class. But instead of feeling calm, I breathed in a whole lot of stink and gagged in the most unladylike manner. Maybe Matty wouldn’t notice the stench.
“Jesus, Elliott, you smell like the gutter,” Jane said. She literally pinched her nose with one hand while she spoke, waving me away with the other. “What have you done now?”
Nearly the same thing Carla asked, but it sounded so rude coming from Jane. I straightened my back. “I hear wonderful things coming from the kitchen. These surprises are really going to knock your socks off, Jane. I’ve never heard such genius ideas.”
She jumped to her feet. “They told you ?”
I smiled and shrugged vaguely.
Matty placed his napkin next to his plate, then joined us on the other side of the table. “Jane, I should let you get back. I appreciate you joining me for lunch.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Matty. I’ll see you at the Tea, then?”
“See you then.” He nodded to Jane and she walked away.
“I’m so so sorry, Matty. I got held up and called, but you didn’t answer. And you had to eat lunch with Jane, I’m so sorry about that, too.”
He took a small step back. “You okay, Elli? Looks like you’ve been swimming in a tub of chum.”
“Something like that,” I said and tried not to cringe at the word chum. “Someone vandalized Gilbert Goodsen’s boat and I accidentally
He tapped his notebook against the rail and studied me. “Yes,” he finally said. “But I want to talk to Gilbert Goodsen before you do. Understood?”
I agreed and took off for the Mini parked on the sidewalk near the street. Matty was waiting for me at the Big House, Gilbert may have killed his wife, I’m the worst egg hunter in the state, Ransom thinks I’m a moron, and poor Jaime Goodsen was dead. And it was barely even lunchtime.
ELEVEN
(Day #3: Sunday Lunch)
After borrowing a handful of plastic garbage bags from Lola Carmichael in the Landings office, I covered the inside front half of the Mini and raced down Cabana Boulevard toward the Big House with the top down. I checked my watch. Nearly one p.m. An hour after I was supposed to meet Matty for lunch. I dialed him up, but it went straight to voicemail.
I flew through the Oyster Cove Plantation gate, down the road, and around the driveway, skidding to a stop in front of the wide steps to the front door. Matty’s 1960s convertible Land Cruiser was parked in the side lot. He’d waited for me.
“Good God, woman, what have you done?” Carla said to me as I ran into the foyer. She studied my face, which had to be pale white and grimacing. “Do you need medical attention?” She started patting me, checking for injuries and sanity.
“Hand-sanitizer and Matty. In that order.”
She pulled a miniature plastic jug from her apron pocket. I’d like to think she kept it there because she’s also germ-conscious, but I know she kept it for what she dubbed “Elliott Emergencies.” “Matty’s on the back porch finishing lunch.”
“He started without me?” I slathered hand-sani from my fingertips to my elbows, then added a layer to my face for good measure.
“Chicken, he finished without you. Don’t you have a cell phone? I couldn’t let the boy starve. He’s on his lunch break. Lord knows what in the world you’ve been up to.”
“I can’t explain now, but it’s a shocker.”
“Well, it hasn’t exactly been a Zen garden over here. Busy and I kicked Jane out of my kitchen and she’s due to break down the door any minute.”
I thanked her for the sani and scooted through the solarium and out the back door.
The Big House sits on over thirty-five rolling acres covered with magnolias, pines, crape myrtles and palm trees. A sparkling lap pool stretched across the patio, framed by chaise lounges and umbrella’d dining tables, one of which hosted Matty Gannon and Jane Walcott Hatting. Eating lunch. Together.
Laughing.
I took a deep, calming breath. The kind they teach you in yoga class. But instead of feeling calm, I breathed in a whole lot of stink and gagged in the most unladylike manner. Maybe Matty wouldn’t notice the stench.
“Jesus, Elliott, you smell like the gutter,” Jane said. She literally pinched her nose with one hand while she spoke, waving me away with the other. “What have you done now?”
Nearly the same thing Carla asked, but it sounded so rude coming from Jane. I straightened my back. “I hear wonderful things coming from the kitchen. These surprises are really going to knock your socks off, Jane. I’ve never heard such genius ideas.”
She jumped to her feet. “They told you ?”
I smiled and shrugged vaguely.
Matty placed his napkin next to his plate, then joined us on the other side of the table. “Jane, I should let you get back. I appreciate you joining me for lunch.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Matty. I’ll see you at the Tea, then?”
“See you then.” He nodded to Jane and she walked away.
“I’m so so sorry, Matty. I got held up and called, but you didn’t answer. And you had to eat lunch with Jane, I’m so sorry about that, too.”
He took a small step back. “You okay, Elli? Looks like you’ve been swimming in a tub of chum.”
“Something like that,” I said and tried not to cringe at the word chum. “Someone vandalized Gilbert Goodsen’s boat and I accidentally
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