“Hmm, whoever owned these books definitely wanted to be Nancy Drew,” I said out loud, smiling as I set the volumes on top of one another. Finally, in the box was the last book, and that made my grin bigger. These had definitely been owned by a female, and I envisioned a young French girl reading these American and British crime books, dreaming of becoming the next Miss Marple or Trixie Belden. I myself had gone through such a phase as a child, imagining clues everywhere and mysteries in every shadow. I had driven my poor cousin Ronda nuts when we had stayed with Auntie Kay one summer, imagining every bottle cap to be a clue and seeing burglars dangling in trees （just Spanish moss and an active imagination）。
Ronda grew up to be a mental health counselor. I had no doubt driven her to it.
I studied the book in my hand—The Gumshoe Gal’s Guide to Becoming a Private Eye.
The cover was 1950s blue, and the woman on the front wore a flared crinoline dress and stood pressed against a cracked door. The “private eye” clutched a small handgun nestled in the pleats of her skirt; in her other hand was a martini glass. Kid you not. She also wore towering stilettos, totally negating being an actual gumshoe. But who knew? Maybe she had gummed her soles to allow her to sneak around. Her hair was short and sassy, her lips vampire red, and her neckline plunging. She looked like a hot gumshoe gal, and I wondered how my own hair might look short and curly, a sort of Marilyn Monroe throwback.
I took the stacked books and put them into a crate. Probably not salable, but they might be useful for display. I tucked the book in my hand under my arm and rose, carrying a box filled with porcelain dogs. My phone buzzed in my back pocket, so I set the box down and checked the message.
Scott.
Going to dinner with Jeff R. at the club. He needs some marriage counseling. Told him I would listen and pray with him. Be home late.
I stared at the text, my mouth opening and closing, because I knew that this was probably a load of horse dung. Ten to one said Scott wasn’t doing any kind of praying . . . except praying he didn’t get caught. So many nights he’d sent texts like this and I hadn’t had a clue. I had sent him back things like, So proud of you for helping your friends, or perhaps, Love your heart. See you tonight.
Staring daggers at the phone, I kicked over an old lamp, breaking it and not even caring because it was ugly, anyway. For good measure, I stomped the shade three times, growling like a wolverine backed into a corner. If wolverines could even back into corners. I wasn’t sure. I was from Louisiana and had never actually seen one. But at any rate, I was super pissed.
“Screw you, screw you, screw you!” I shouted with each additional stomp because the shade hadn’t been completely flattened.
Now it was.
I clicked on the response button and typed, Ok. You’re a good friend.
“And a total ass,” I added aloud.
After I sent the text, I texted Patrick Vitt and told him to head to the tennis pro’s house of lust this evening if he wanted to get the back end of his fee sooner than later. I may have scowled when I typed “back end,” thinking about that uncomfortable-looking foxtail. Then I picked up the box and what was left of my pride, stepped over the destroyed lamp, and walked back into the store.
Ruby stood behind the register, wearing a blouse I had tossed into something she called the Bin of Requirement. Had no clue why she called it that, but the silk looked amazing on her even if there was what looked to be a stain on the cuff. She took me in, giving a slight lift of her brows as she did. Next to her was a good-looking younger guy who looked vaguely familiar.
“What are you doing here? Thought you had class,” I asked, setting the box on the glass counter next to the register.
“I skipped today, and we were on our way to get a drink when I remembered that I had left something I needed here,” Ruby said, digging around in her bag, obviously looking for something. I looked at the gumshoe guide in my hand, thinking that chick had nothing on me.
“Oh.” I eyed the good-looking guy beside her. He wore expensive trousers, a Peter Millar polo shirt, and suede chukkas that he hadn’t bought at Sears. If Sears were still open and all. A pair of sporty sunglasses hung around his tanned neck. Overgrown frat boy, just like Scott. Normally, I would like a guy who looked like this one. Today I didn’t.
“Hey, Mrs. Crosby. I’m Ty Walker. I think you know my father. He banks with your husband.” The kid reached out a hand; his smile reminded me of a self-satisfied sloth. Not that he looked slow and cuddly, just well aware of his powers of adorability. And smirky.