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But let's not judge her too harshly, y'all. Maybe she's a real gem and has a heart of gold. Or maybe she's just as cunning as a fox in a henhouse.
Who knows?
All we know is that she's got the Montgomery fortune, and we're left here with nothing but a half-eaten pecan pie and a whole lot of gossip to chew on.
I read the excerpt once more. It was from just one of the fifty gossip threads I'd uncovered about Harold and me in the last forty-eight hours.
This one, a very vivid piece, was by Ellie Mercer. I actually loved her stuff—her gossip was almost always on point, and she had a pretty interesting follower base.
Well, I could tick myself off her good books for the time being.
I had this irresistible urge to stay holed up in my bedroom for the rest of my thirties.
The reporters had already come calling this morning. But I'd made such a stir by coughing and wheezing that they pelted before catching wind of what they thought I had.
At no other time had it become more apparent that I lived in a small town. I'd grown up knowing people here fed off other people's business like it was their bread and butter.
It never did get under my skin 'til I found myself in the same dang boat.
The bell rang for the fifth time since seven a.m.
"Oh, hell no," I muttered, pulling my housecoat around me. "This can't be good."
It hadn't been good the last four times, either. People kept pooling in—folks I'd never met before I became an overnight murder mystery sensation.
My kitchen table was already loaded.
Covered casserole dishes brimmed with crispy fried chicken and creamy sweet potato casserole.
There were trays of buttery biscuits wafting the room with an inviting aroma that could make even the most fidgety soul stop in their tracks.
I'd be unable to leave my kitchen with so much deliciousness, but my stomach was already tied up this morning. I had room for nothing but anxiety.
And coffee. Lots of coffee.
Plus, the whole show of food came with, well, a steel rain of questions. This was a fancy term I learned when I read about military history.
Felt apt because the whole neighborhood was after me, like a pack of soldiers out on deployment.
I grumbled to myself as I opened the door. Mrs. Pickett stood in front of me, a look of comical worry on her face and a casserole in her hand.
Ah, well.
"Darlin', how are you? I reckoned you must be all over the place, the way the dratted reporters are hounding you? Did you eat something? I'll bet no one thought to feed you?"
No one except this darned neighborhood.I'd have to face Mama soon, but I was still ignoring all calls for now.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Pickett. You really didn't have to do this."
"Oh, nonsense." She barged into the living room, pushing me with the force of a red-alert hurricane.
"I've heard whispers on the wind that you've been getting all cozy with that old buzzard from down the way. Don't you know better than to get mixed up with a man like that? Lord have mercy, I thought you were raised better than that, but I guess these young girls these days just don't know how to keep their wits about 'em.
"Now don't you worry none, darlin'. I know you're not like those other loose ladies who think life is all about livin' fast and free.
"You're a good girl, a sweet little peach. But just for curiosity, did you have some tricks up your sleeve to keep that old man's heart a-flutterin'? Spill the beans, darlin'. What's been going on between you and Montgomery?"
She began giggling. Each peal of shrill laughter grated on my jarred nerves the way chalk grates on board. I wanted to take the casserole and empty its contents over her head.
