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“No, no.” Andrea giggled, wiping at her eyes. “Jane’s mama would never put something that Jane gave her as a gift in a public area of the house. Someone might see it!”
“Skeptical Nola is skeptical.” Jane snickered. She was very good at reading human facial expressions. “Trust me, I couldn’t have put it in a safer place.”
* * *
When we arrived at Jane’s parents’ perfect little brick house, a woman with a pert brown bob practically ran out the front door to greet us. I was introduced to Sherry Jameson and immediately smothered with hugs, which were only half as intrusive as the hugs Dick had showered on me when I attempted to leave the shop. Andrea threatened to “tranq-dart” him when he insisted that he would come with us, that he didn’t want to let me out of his sight just yet.
I thought she was kidding right until the moment Jane’s handsome husband, Gabriel, showed up at the shop and asked why Andrea had wanted their tranq gun. Personally, I was curious as to why Jane and Gabriel had their own tranq gun.
Mrs. Jameson was so pleased to meet a young person she could feed that she sat me down at the table and heated up a plateful of chicken pot pie. Mr. Jameson, a quiet, academic sort of man, sequestered himself against the counter, by the stove, and shared commiserating glances with his daughter. There was something off about the way he was standing. He seemed a bit pale, as if he wasn’t at his full strength.
“Is your father all right?” I whispered.
“He’s had that same pinched expression on his face ever since he retired. He spends a lot of time at home.” Jane sent a significant look at her mother.
“Come on, now, Nola, take a great big bite!” Mrs. Jameson chirped, sliding the plate in front me with near-maniacal glee.
“I actually had a really large lunch, Mrs. Jameson, and I don’t know if I’m hungry enough to eat again—”
“Oh, shush, you need some meat on your bones,” Mrs. Jameson said, nudging the plate toward me.
If you can hear me right now, Jane, I am going to smack you later, I thought while glaring at her. And despite a clear expression of discomfort on her face, she was still smirking. She could hear me.
Stop smiling like that, or I’ll do the Emergency Broadcast System beep again.
Jane’s lips twitched, but she said nothing. Still, it was very convenient having a mind-reader around. It was far more efficient than text-messaging.
“Would you like some sweet tea, Nola?”
I sighed in relief. “I’d love a good cup of tea, Mrs. Jameson, thank you.”
Mrs. Jameson fairly flitted to the refrigerator, pulled out a tall pitcher of brownish liquid, and poured a tall glass over ice. I tamped down the small flare of disappointment. I’d forgotten that hot tea wasn’t exactly the beverage of choice in Kentucky. It was no problem, really. My dad had enjoyed the odd iced tea now and then, so I accepted it graciously when Mrs. Jameson handed me the glass. I took a long sip, and a sickeningly sweet, near-syrup concoction flooded my mouth, making me choke and sputter.
Mrs. Jameson fussed and cooed, patting me on the back while I coughed.
“What is this?” I wheezed.
“Ah!” Jane said, pouring me a glass of water. “I forgot to warn you about sweet tea. It’s basically liquid cotton candy, equal parts sugar and tea. You’ll get used to it.”
I shook my head, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Mrs. Jameson fretted. “From now on, you should probably stick with unsweet.”
“I think I’ll stick with coffee,” I muttered.
My attention was drawn to Mr. Jameson, whose shoulders seemed hunched while he stirred a pan of sauce on the stove. I could sense a painful red buzzing somewhere in the vicinity of his head. A nagging, throbbing ache. It was almost powerful enough to distract me from the burgeoning tooth decay in my own mouth.
Can we ask your mother about the candle before she feeds me something that causes violent hives or vomiting? I thought to Jane.
Jane cleared her throat and seemed to compose the question carefully in her head before speaking. “Mama, do you remember the candle I gave you for Mother’s Day? It was a white candle with pretty symbols carved into the wax? Do you know where it is?”
Jane’s mother blanched but managed to cover it quickly. She chuckled, waving in an offhand manner. “Oh, well, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. Why don’t you give me a few days to look around, and I’ll call you when I find it?”
“Actually, Mrs. Jameson, it’s really important for us to find it straightaway,” I said. “Would you mind if we looked for it?”
“Oh, honey, I can’t imagine where it is,” she protested.
“Mama, it’s important.”
