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“What are you doing here?” The faintest trace of Brooklyn colored her speech.
“We’re enjoying a little lunch. How about you?”
“I have a bad hip, in case you haven’t noticed. Were you planning to ask me to sit?”
Her imperious manner amused Blue. “Sure.”
Riley’s panicky expression suggested she didn’t want the woman anywhere near her, so Blue slid over to make a place on her side of the booth. But the woman shooed Riley aside with her fingers. “Move over.” She placed a big straw purse on the table and lowered herself slowly into the booth. Riley plastered her body against her backpack, sliding as far away as she could.
The waitress appeared with silverware and a glass of iced tea. “Your regular’s coming right up.”
The woman ignored her to concentrate on Blue. “When I asked what you were doing here, I was talking about in this town.”
“We’re visiting,” Blue replied.
“Where are you from?”
“Well, I’m basically a citizen of the world. Riley’s from Nashville.” She tilted her head. “We’ve introduced ourselves, but you have us at a disadvantage.”
“Everyone knows who I am,” the woman replied querulously.
“We don’t.” Although Blue had a strong suspicion.
“I’m Nita Garrison, of course. I own this town.”
“That’s great. I’ve been wanting to ask somebody about that.”
The waitress popped up with a plate holding a scoop of cottage cheese and a quartered canned pear resting on shredded iceberg lettuce. “Here you go, Miz Garrison.” Her syrupy voice belied the dislike in her eyes. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“A twenty-year-old body,” the old woman snapped.
“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress hurried off.
Mrs. Garrison inspected her fork, then poked at the canned pear as if she were looking for a worm hiding under it.
“Exactly how does anybody own a town?” Blue asked.
“I inherited it from my husband. You’re very odd-looking.”
“I’ll take that as a complimen
t.”
“Do you dance?”
“Whenever I get the chance.”
“I used to be an excellent dancer. I taught at the Arthur Murray Studio in Manhattan during the fifties. I met Mr. Murray once. He had a television show, but you wouldn’t remember.” Her haughty manner suggested it was Blue’s stupidity at fault rather than her age.
“No, ma’am,” Blue replied. “So…when you inherited this town from your husband, would that be the whole town?”
“All the parts of it that count.” She plunged her fork into the cottage cheese. “You’re staying with that stupid football player, aren’t you? The one who bought the Callaway farm.”
“He’s not stupid!” Riley exclaimed. “He’s the best quarterback in the United States.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Mrs. Garrison snapped. “You’re very rude.”
Riley wilted, and Nita Garrison’s high-handedness no longer amused Blue. “Riley has very nice manners. And she’s right. Dean has his faults, but stupidity isn’t one of them.”
