Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding Page 11

  “So, you didn’t have to pay for the starter kit. Did you send it back?”

  “Twice. And I had to pay shipping, which wasn’t cheap. Both times, they refused delivery and sent it back to me COD. So I guess I paid shipping four times. Finally, I decided to just keep the blasted leggings and file a fraud complaint with the state attorney general.”

  “What about Naomi?”

  “Right, so by this point, I’d stopped teaching at the studio for unrelated reasons. I suspected she was behind it, but I couldn’t prove it, you know?”

  I nod. “Sure. But it’s the most logical explanation.”

  “Yeah. Then I get a call from the studio. They discovered that someone had hacked into their internal database and ‘harvested’ some of the instructors’ personnel files, including mine.”

  “Naomi.”

  “I thought so, too. They told me it was possible. In a weird twist, her file was deleted entirely, as if she’d never worked there. And she just … vanished.”

  She falls silent, and I try to piece this story about Naomi together with everything we’ve learned from Dora. It doesn’t fit together cleanly, but it can’t be a coincidence.

  Footsteps sound in the hallway. I turn to see Rosemary standing in the doorway. “Are either of you hungry? I made pasta. It’s the best I can do with the food on hand.”

  My stomach rumbles an affirmative answer, and my sisters laugh.

  Thyme’s laughter is short-lived, though. “I don’t have much of an appetite, but I suppose we should eat while we can. It’s only a matter of time before that demented dentist shows up. In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already.”

  Just then, Dora appears over Rosemary’s shoulder. The muscles in her neck are tensed, and her eyes stand out against her pale skin.

  “Um, the guys asked me to let you know it looks like we have company. Sheriff Fellman and Doctor Pridemore just pulled up in front of the house.”

  I flash a look at Thyme. She’s slightly green.

  “Thyme?”

  “Give me a second.” She rests the backs of her hands on her knees, presses her thumbs and forefingers together, and then closes her eyes.

  The rest of us stand stock still and watch her meditate. I hope she’s asking the Universe for answers because we need all the help we can get at the moment.

  Dora’s words, that the townspeople will protect their queen to the death, ring in my ears. I sincerely hope our new friend is prone to melodrama.

  Chapter 20

  Rosemary

  The announcement that the dentist has arrived with law enforcement in tow is obviously troubling. But—and, believe me, I know how this sounds—I’m feeling growly because I want to feed everyone, and now the pasta’s going to get cold while we deal with Dr. Pridemore and the sheriff. Again, I realize how that sounds. Still, I eye the large pot of pasta as I hurry through the kitchen behind my sisters and Dora.

  I can’t help it. I show my love through cooking delicious, nutritious meals for my family. Dave always jokes that I have the soul of either a Jewish mother or an Italian grandma. But I know better. The need to nourish, to feed, cuts across gender, ethnic, and generational lines. And now these snowflakers, or whatever they are, are going to screw everything up.

  Unless … an idea begins to take shape.

  We huddle around the window and peer out at the car parked behind Fake Thyme’s Lexus. The dentist is ranting, making rapid-fire motions with both hands.

  “At least she’s lost the gun,” Victor observes.

  The sheriff’s expression is flat, almost bored.

  “Dora, tell me what you know about Sheriff Fellman,” Dave says without ever taking his eyes off the window.

  “Um, not much. He got caught up in Cured Cravings and—”

  “Wait, what’s that?”

  “Oh, an MLM that sells cured meats, you know, like, bacon and beef jerky.”

  “The town sheriff has a garage full of bacon?” Roman asks in disbelief.

  “Well, yeah.”

  My idea begins to jell, turning into something solid.

  “Was he LE in his former life?” Dave brings the conversation back from its meaty detour.

  “LE?”

  “Law enforcement.”

  “Oh, yeah. He worked on the campus police force at some university. I don’t know where, of course. But he’s a real police officer. And even he couldn’t get away from his company any other way.”

  “Hmm. So Doctor Pridemore was a dentist? What did she sell?” Victor asks. “You’d think a dentist would be too busy to have a side hustle.”

  “Okay, so she actually didn’t sell anything. Her story is really sad,” Dora says in a hushed tone.

  “Can you give us the short version?” Thyme asks. “Presumably those two aren’t going to sit there all afternoon.”

  “Sure. Here are the highlights, or, I guess, the lowlights: She was married to an artist. Her wife stayed home and took care of things on the domestic front while Dr. Pridemore earned the money. But her wife—I don’t know her first name, sorry—wanted to contribute, so she started making and selling custom jewelry on commission. Apparently, her work was really special. She did these beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces. And, eventually, a company called Natural Gems copied every single one of them for their line.”

  I’m a hard person to shock. I live and work in Hollywood, after all. But even I gasp. “That’s horrid.”

  “It gets worse,” Dora assures me.

  “Oh, no, really?”

  “Yeah. So, Dr. and Mrs. Pridemore sued Natural Gems. It should have been an open-and-shut case. They had dated pictures of works in progress, sketches, all sorts of customer testimonials and paperwork that showed that Natural Gems came out with their knockoffs after she created the pieces.”

  “But they lost,” Sage guesses.

  “Not only did they lose, but Natural Gems countersued and won. Doctor Pridemore appealed, and the case went on forever. I’m sure it cost a fortune. And then, Mrs. Pridemore got sick. Cancer. They dropped the appeal to focus on her treatment, but the cancer had metastasized. She died, and Natural Gems collected its judgment. Then it requested a, um, some kind of order that would have meant all Mrs. Pridemore’s pieces had to be turned over and destroyed.”

  “They sought specific performance, most likely,” Victor interjects in a low voice.

  “Please tell me Dr. Pridemore didn’t give up the jewelry,” Thyme says, choking on her tears.

  “No, she went on the run, and ended up here. She doesn’t have any inventory of her own to sell, but she’s one of us just the same.”

  “And she displays everyone else’s stuff in her office, right? That’s what that case in the waiting room is for, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Dora confirms.

  We all fall silent and stare out the window at the sheriff and the tragic figure of the dentist. Quickly, before anyone can react, let alone object, I yank open the door and run outside toward the sheriff’s car.

  I can hear Dave calling my name as he flies down the sidewalk behind me, but I keep running until I reach the car. I raise my fist and tap on the passenger-side window. Alexis Pridemore gestures for the sheriff to lower the glass, and he does.

  “May I help you?”

  “Doctor Pridemore, my name is Rosemary Field, Thyme’s sister. The real Thyme’s sister. The guy stalking down the path, red-faced, is my long-suffering husband, Homicide Detective Dave Drummond. We’d like to invite you and Sheriff Fellman to join us for an early dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta.” I smile brightly.

  The dentist narrows her eyes and considers my face. The sheriff leans over and inclines his head toward the house. “Who all’s in there? Looks like a fair crowd of silhouettes at the window.”

  Dave joins me beside the car and shoots me a dark look that I pretend not to see. He greets the car’s occupants with a nod. “Well, Sheriff, that’d be Thyme and Victor, whom the good dentist here already met, and Rosem
ary and Thyme’s middle sister Sage and her husband Roman. We’re also joined by a young lady named Dora, who let herself into the garage.”

  “It sounds like a regular dinner party,” the sheriff muses.

  “It will be if you stop by your house and pick up some pancetta for my sauce,” I promise him.

  He laughs and slaps his thigh, almost giddy. “What’d you say, doc? Will you be okay with these folks for a few minutes while I swing by my place?”

  She looks like she’s swallowed a lemon, but she nods. “Fine. But hurry.” She pushes her door open without waiting for me to move. I jump back to avoid getting nailed in the stomach.

  “Alexis?” Sheriff Fellman calls, leaning half out the window. “Your weapon, please.”

  He holds out his hand. She glares at him, and then she reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and removes a small handgun. She slaps it into his hand, and he tips his hat.

  “Much obliged. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  He zooms away from the curb, and Dave and I escort the dentist into the house.

  As we reach the front door, Dave whispers, “Are you sure about this?”

  I pretend to misunderstand the question. “Of course. I’m a professional caterer, remember? Shame on me if I can’t stretch a pot of sauce and a mound of pasta to serve two additional guests.”

  His nostrils flare, and I know he knows I’m playing dumb on purpose. I reach over and give him a peck on the side of his mouth. “I have a plan,” I whisper.

  He plants a kiss right on my eyebrow. “That’s what I’m worried about, Ro,” he whispers back.

  I have no response to this. How could I? It’s so utterly justified.

  So I smile cryptically and usher my baby sister’s captor into the house.

  Chapter 21

  Thyme

  I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about the fact that Rosemary has invited Dr. Pridemore and Sheriff Fellman to dinner. I guess I don’t feel any particular way about the sheriff. I don’t know him from Adam, and, crucially, he’s never held me at gunpoint.

  But Alexis Pridemore is a different story, and, despite the tearjerker of a story that Dora shared, I stiffen when she walks through the front door. Victor, in contrast, is the quintessential gracious host. I chalk it up to his experience interviewing reluctant or downright hostile subjects. I don’t know any other way to account for it.

  I mean, he ushers her to a seat, offers her a drink, and lends her his USB cord and brick to charge her cell phone. As a reminder, in case you forgot, this woman was shooting at us less than an hour ago. But, that’s Victor. Big-hearted, expansive, and constitutionally incapable of holding a grudge.

  I wish I could be so forgiving. I truly do. But I know myself. So, instead, I try to avoid the woman by volunteering to help Rosemary in the kitchen. Now, you might think there’s not really much to do in the kitchen to prep for a pasta dinner. To you, I say, it’s obvious your oldest sister isn’t a chef.

  Sage wisely gives the kitchen wide berth, choosing instead to polish the silver and set the dining room table. But Dora and I are Rosemary’s staff, and Dora’s getting an education. Right now, Rosemary has her warming the plates in the dishwasher because there’s no other option and one simply can’t serve eighty-nine-cent drugstore brand dried pasta on a cold plate.

  Quelle horreur!

  I’d give her some words of encouragement, but I’m pretty busy. See, I’m currently occupied softening butter over a candle. Yes, a candle. The toaster oven is occupied, and Fake Thyme doesn’t own a microwave. I focus on the flame and the sunny yellow brick of butter and let all my thoughts seep out of me and drain away, like pasta water through the holes of a colander. I figure it’s like a silent meditation retreat, only free.

  “How’s my bread?” Rosemary barks, doing a fair impression of a drill sergeant, and I’m forced to amend ‘silent meditation retreat’ to ‘boot camp.’

  But still, they have personal growth and discipline in common … right?

  As I contemplate the life choices that have led me to warming a stick of butter over an open flame, Victor’s laughter carries in from the living room. I peek around the corner to see Dr. Pridemore trying to teach Mona Lisa to roll over.

  I drag my attention back to the kitchen and, through the toaster oven’s window, eyeball the quick-rising baguette Rosemary somehow created out of the meager contents of the Fake Thyme’s pantry.

  “It’s just starting to turn golden brown.”

  “Thanks. Please keep an eye on it so it doesn’t burn.”

  “Sure.”

  There’s a knock at the front door, followed by male voices raised in greeting. The sheriff has arrived. Doctor Pridemore glides into the kitchen with a plastic container in her hands.

  “Here’s the pancetta you wanted,” she tells Rosemary.

  “Great. Please put it on the counter somewhere.”

  She looks around for a clear spot, but Rosemary’s cooking style involves using every square inch of space, not to mention all the bowls and pans in the kitchen. I move the bowl in which she’d mixed the bread dough from the counter to the sink.

  “Here’s a space,” I say.

  “Thanks.” She sets the container down in the spot I created. Then she takes a few steps, hesitates, and turns back to me. “Just so you know, it wasn’t anything personal—back at my office, I mean. I’m just … we’re all just … trying to protect the town and each other.”

  Intellectually, I get it. I do. But I don’t feel ready to let her off the hook.

  Then her necklace catches my eye. In her office, I’d taken it for a mass-produced piece, the kind I’d seen at countless in-home jewelry parties. But now, I really look at it. It’s clearly not an inexpensive trinket. Striated shades of red and pink run through the highly polished, variously sized stones.

  I gesture toward her neck. “That’s really pretty. Did your wife make it?”

  She blinks, surprised, but recovers quickly. “Thanks. She did.”

  “What’s the stone?”

  “Tourmaline. It was Kimber’s favorite. She always loved pink.” Absently, she turns the matching bracelet on her left wrist, rubbing her fingers over the stones.

  “Dora told us about what happened. I’m so sorry for all of it—your loss, of course, but also the theft and the fact that you had to deal with so much ugliness while you were grieving.”

  She swallows and furrows her brow. For a moment, I think she might cry, but she doesn’t. “Thank you.”

  “We’re not trying to make trouble for you—for any of you. But I need to get my life back.”

  Aside from marrying Victor, how am I supposed to take care of my banking or book a flight on an airline or do anything if the government believes I’m dead?

  A constant stream of anxiety-producing worries about the minutiae of daily life swirls around in my mind. I keep pushing the noise to the side, trying to ignore it, but it’s building. Soon, though, it’ll be deafening, too loud to ignore. Great, now I think I might cry.

  She’s studying my face. “I understand. What I can’t quite figure out is how the Snow Queen screwed up so badly. The fresh identities are supposed to come from deceased records. Yet, here you are.”

  “Here I am,” I agree.

  While we’re talking, Rosemary heats the pancetta. I can’t tell whether she’s listening to our conversation, but I do have to give her credit: talking to Alexis Pridemore against the domestic backdrop of food preparation is easier than I thought it would be.

  I turn to smile at my wise eldest sister just as the toaster oven chimes to signal that the bread is ready. Rosemary switches off the burner with a flourish and announces that dinner is served.

  Dinner is a loud and boisterous event. We cram ourselves around the imposter’s oval table, elbow to elbow, and pass the dishes family style. Dora, who knows where pretty much everything is in the house, unearths a bottle of red wine from the depths of the dining room cupboard.

  As she
uncorks it, I examine the label—‘Book Club Bordeaux, for delving in between the pages. Pairs well with smoldering romance, sweeping epics, and lush magical realism.’ There’s a funky illustration of an open book with a circular stain across the page—a deep purple ring left by a wine glass. It’s hip, and edgy, and, well, young.

  “Hmm,” I mutter as Roman pours the wine and passes the glasses around the table.

  “Hmm, what?” Sage asks.

  “I was wondering—how old was, you know, the other Thyme?”

  Dora and Dr. Pridemore both turn toward the sheriff. “Keith would know,” the dentist explains.

  “She was in her late twenties or thereabouts. Maybe early thirties,” he answers around a mouthful of spaghetti.

  “What?” I sputter, narrowly avoiding a spit take with my Bordeaux.

  Victor thumps me on the back.

  “Thanks.”

  Everyone’s staring at me. I take a small, careful sip of water and explain, “I envisioned her as older. I guess because of the dentures? And the fact that she’s dead.”

  I mean, I can’t be the only one. Can I?

  A glance around the table confirms that my sisters look confused, as well. Beside me, Victor nods in agreement.

  Doctor Pridemore chuckles and swirls her wine across in her glass. “I see. No, Thyme—er, the other Thyme—had broken several teeth playing ice hockey. Her eventual plan was to get dental implants. The dentures were only supposed to be temporary until we could make the implants and schedule the surgery.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ice hockey?” Rosemary echoes. “Does the town have a team? Or a rink?”

  “Oh, no,” Dora explains. “Although she was trying to drum up interest. She used to drive to some ice center in Las Vegas to skate. When she could, she’d join the pick-up games that sprang up there.”

  “How did she die?” Dave asks.

  “Car accident. It was early morning, and there was dense fog. She either lost control or couldn’t see or both—she slammed into a concrete bridge pillar at high speed. The car burst into flames.” Sheriff Fellman delivers this explanation in the flat monotone of a law enforcement officer struggling to remain detached.