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Since I’m not as prepared as Harriet, I scribble down the address on the back of a Tiny’s pizza coupon and slip it into my tote. After a couple of minutes of nothing happening, I drive back to The Bistro.
What did I just witness?
On the surface, it all looks pretty benign. Except Rusty lied about the food (which I already knew).
But why?
Who is this mysterious jogger?
And why the sneaky food handoff?
The rest of the work day goes by quickly. The Bistro stops serving food at two p.m. and luckily, Sarah has clean-up duty today because tonight is my first book club meeting and with everything that’s happened in the past week, I haven’t had time to read the book.
Confession: I don’t even have a copy of the book.
Since Betty Jean has already warned me that she can always tell when someone is fudging it, I need to take care of this situation ASAP. The last thing I want is to be kicked out of the book club on my first night.
I download J.W. Quicksilver’s newest espionage thriller onto my Kindle. Book club starts in less than five hours so I won’t have time to finish it, but I figure that if I skip right to all the big scenes (that would be the ones involving either death or sex), no one will be the wiser.
When Betty Jean first invited me to her book club, I made excuses not to join. I’m the only member who isn’t eligible for AARP, but when you’re facing death in the form of a frying pan to the head, your life flashes before you in ways you’ve never imagined. I need to work on becoming a better person. Which means trying new things.
I read for an hour straight before I get up and stretch. Betty Jean was right. This stuff is ridiculously addicting. Too many explosions and assassinations for my taste, but the sex scenes have totally managed to grab my attention. I mean, do people really do this stuff? They must, or someone wouldn’t have written it, right?
I grab my laptop and google this mysterious J.W. Quicksilver which is as about as phony a pen name as you can get. The bio on his website shows a picture of an old-fashioned typewriter instead of an author photo which means that not only is J.W. not using his real name, he doesn’t want anyone to know who he is.
Betty Jean thinks he uses a pen name because he has a top-secret government job which would explain why he knows so much about the spy business. But I think it’s because of the sex scenes. I’d bet my apple walnut cream cheese muffin recipe that J.W. is a bald, middle-aged schoolteacher living in the Bible belt with a wife and six kids.
His books have won awards and his latest, our book club selection, Assassin’s Honor, has been on the best seller list for over a month now.
I wonder what J.W. would think about blue hoodie guy? Who is he? And why does he need so much food?
I fish out the Tiny’s pizza coupon from my sweater pocket and type the address in my computer. It comes up on a list of vacation rentals and the broker for the listing is Kitty Pappas. Kitty is a total sweetheart and Whispering Bay royalty. She’s a founding member of the Bunco Babes, a local group that plays Bunco once a week. Everyone in town knows her and her husband, Steve.
I give her a call.
“Hey, Kitty, it’s Lucy McGuffin.”
“Lucy! I’ve been thinking of you!” Kitty wants to know all about my near death experience at the hands of a crazy sociopath. I can’t blame her since nothing like that has ever happened in Whispering Bay before, but I’m getting tired of telling the same story over and over. Roger Van Cleave who co-owns the Whispering Bay Gazette has been after me for an interview. I think I’ll take him up on it. That way I can just refer people to the article.
After I give Kitty enough details to satisfy her, I ask her about the property in Dolphin Isles.
“Are you looking for a place to rent? I thought you loved living over The Bistro.”
“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for a…friend.”
“I’ll be happy to give your friend the information on the house. Currently, it’s leased out, but it’s a short-term rental. Just till the end of the month.”
“Oh, really, “I say trying to sound casual. “A snowbird?”
“Hardly. The couple who rented the place are in their thirties. Honeymooners, I think. I can’t show you the house since its occupied, but if you give me your friend’s email address, I can send them pictures and any information they might need.”
“Oh, um, thanks. I don’t have her email address on me, but I’ll pass the info along.”
Yikes. After solving the mystery behind Abby Delgado’s death, I promised myself I wouldn’t lie anymore. But here I am, doing just that.
We say our goodbyes. After Kitty’s phone call I’m more confused than ever. Why on earth are Rusty and Travis getting food for a couple of honeymooners?
“Mommy is going out for a while,” I tell Paco, who’s laid out on the couch (because being The Bistro’s mascot is apparently hard work). “Be a good boy.”
