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I glanced at the clock glowing from my stove. It was just after eight. “No. But what will you say?”
She chewed at her lip for a moment. “I guess I could say I’m having trouble assessing the painting and was wondering if she could give me some more information.”
I nodded, beginning to hand it back when I noticed a corner of white paper sticking out from beneath the backing of the frame. I pulled at it and a little more came out, indicating there was a larger piece of something within.
“What is that?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Hold on.” I set the painting on the table and stood up and went to the kitchen to retrieve a butter knife and one with a sharper edge. I returned and used the tools to gently pry off the inner wooden piece. It appeared that the back of the frame had been constructed by hand and was well secured, but when I exerted a little pressure, the middle section came loose. I picked it up and set it aside and Rory gasped when it revealed a note folded inside.
She picked it up and I saw that her hand was shaking very slightly. “It’s a page of my mom’s diary,” she said. “I recognize the paper.”
“Open it.”
She did, unfolding it carefully and then laying it on top of the opened back of the picture. We both leaned forward in tandem and began reading the entry in the same recognizable loopy print that I now knew belonged to Rory’s mother.
The men who founded the club where I work gather every Tuesday and Thursday night. It was made quite clear to us servers that we were never, ever, to discuss the things we might overhear when performing our duties. They even made us sign a contract.
Last week I was asked to take over for one of the other girls who was out sick, and I guess I did a decent job, because I was requested to serve the group of five men again. It’s not like the job is that hard, so I can’t imagine they specifically asked for me because I put forth such a bang-up effort delivering their port and clipping their cigars. No, I think one of them has a crush on me. Is that the right word for when an older, much-more powerful man tracks you with his eyes and goes out of his way to use your name constantly? I don’t know because he makes me feel both flattered and just a bit scared. Not that he’s not attractive. He definitely is. And he’s the picture of decorum. But I almost get this feeling that it doesn’t matter whether I find him attractive and respectful or not. That man is someone used to getting what he wants regardless of any other details.
Or maybe I’m giving myself too much credit and imagining his interest when he’s really just being polite. It’s hard to know because the men of Mud Gulch don’t leave anything to the imagination. If they’re interested, they let you know plain as day and you can take it or leave it but you sure know what you’re dealing with. These men, though, they’re all smoky looks, and slight pinky grazes over your knuckle as you’re taking their glass from their hand. Like, what do you want, dude? Or did your finger just have a tiny muscle spasm? How these rich women ever get laid is a mystery to me because their men are downright confusing as hell.
They’re also pretty boring. Considering the non-disclosure agreement, I was looking forward to overhearing all sorts of shocking secrets about where the bodies of their enemies are buried, but nope. All the bigwigs talk about are business contracts and tax laws. Like, just cut out all the paperwork and ridiculously expensive club fees and send an email like the rest of the world.
Anyway, I have started going out after work with a couple of the other servers and it’s nice to have a few friends who I can vent with about the clientele (within reason, of course, I’m not about to get sued for breach of contract). They’re all locals and so they’ve also let me in on some Pelion and Calliope gossip, and showed me the best places to eat, where I can find a private slip of shore, and so on.
Tomorrow I’m going over to Lys’s house for dinner. That should be interesting. Anyway, gotta go. It’s almost seven thirty and I have to be at work to serve the Mysterious Five. I’d better start practicing my removed, stoic look now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gage
“Mrs. Ramsbottom, thank you so much for calling me back,” Rory said, her gaze shooting to me as she put the phone on speaker and held it in front of her.
I moved in close to hear what the woman was saying, Rory’s shower-fresh scent washing over me and making me want to lean closer. I resisted, even though every instinct was compelling me to plant my nose in the side of her neck and inhale a bigger breath of her.
Not brotherly, Buchanan. Not in the least.
No, and neither was the buzz of arousal I felt in the region of my groin.
Even if the initials M.S. had given me at least a breath of hope that I wasn’t in fact deeply sexually attracted to my sister.
I turned my head so I wouldn’t be tempted to break down the way she smelled like I did when eating something delicious, my brain automatically separating out the rosemary and the white wine as I rolled the flavors around on my tongue…
“You’re welcome, Ms. Castle,” Mrs. Ramsbottom said, the old woman’s pompous tone snapping me from my thoughts. “Did you find something interesting about the art?”
Rory had called the Ramsbottom Estate the night before and been told that Mrs. Ramsbottom was out at an event and the woman was finally calling back now. It was good timing, however, as I’d just arrived at Faith’s house a few minutes before as Rory and I had made plans to go to breakfast and strategize. After she’d returned from her dog walking duties, of course, which apparently both consisted of walking her new local fur friends, and FaceTiming with the brood.
“Well, I’m not sure if I’ve discovered something or not,” Rory answered. “I’d like a little more information on one of the pieces you gave me. It was the smallest of the four, a painting of what looks to be Pelion Lake.”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Ramsbottom said with a small sigh. “I know the one you’re talking about. I almost didn’t include it as it was something my old housekeeper left behind. An insufferable twat who couldn’t manage to follow the most simple of instructions, including leaving a forwarding address.”
Rory blinked, her gaze meeting mine once more. “Oh, I see. So it wasn’t done by someone in your family?”
“Absolutely not. We Ramsbottoms don’t waste our time coloring pictures of lakes and grass and whatnot.”
Coloring.
Whatnot.
