Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding Read online

  As he caresses her shoulder, Rosemary catches my eye and jerks her head toward the kitchen. I follow her back inside, leaving Roman and Dave to make small talk with the walking dead and her fiancé.

  Chapter 7

  Rosemary

  I pull Sage into the kitchen and close the door to the loggia behind her.

  “What’s the big emergency?”

  “We have to do something.”

  She looks at me blankly.

  “To help Thyme,” I elaborate. “So she can get married.”

  “It’s ludicrous that she’s been declared dead, for sure—but what do you have in mind? How can we possibly fix this?”

  She’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize the question isn’t rhetorical. I don’t have an answer. I just know we need to do something. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not having the answer. It’s either one of my greatest strengths or one of my biggest weaknesses. Possibly both.

  I rack my brain, searching for an answer. She folds her arms over her chest and watches me. It’s hard to think when someone’s staring at you.

  My face flames under her scrutiny. I can’t believe I’m blushing. To top it off, the heat rising off my skin makes me wish we were having this conversation on a snowy mountaintop, rather than in the sweltering Mojave desert.

  Inspiration smacks me in the sweaty noggin.

  “We have to go there.”

  “Go where?”

  “Snow City. We need to go to Arizona and poke around. Somebody died there. It just wasn’t Thyme.”

  She scrunches up her nose but says nothing.

  “What?” I prod her.

  “It’s not a bad idea, but . . . if this is all because someone transposed a number in a social security number or something, showing up in the town where the woman died isn’t going to change anything. If that’s what happened, Thyme simply needs to file some paperwork with the SSA to get it corrected.”

  She eyeballs me as if she’s daring me to argue.

  I don’t. Instead I counter, “Once an accountant, always an accountant.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  I exhale slowly. “It means maybe you’re right. Maybe all Thyme needs to do is complete Form Whatever in triplicate, get it notarized, submit it, and wait three months. But even if that’s true, it’s not helpful right now. We can’t let her sit around, suck down margaritas, and mope. She thought she was going to get married tomorrow. If that’s not going to happen, we should keep her busy to keep her mind off it.”

  I watch Sage’s posture soften as she considers what I’m saying.

  Finally, she nods. “I guess you’re right. If nothing else, a road trip will be a distraction. But, man, I kind of like this house. It’s a shame to leave a great place with a pool right on the outskirts of Las Vegas to go traipsing off to Icetown, Arizona or wherever.”

  “Snow City,” I correct her automatically.

  She blinks, then her eyes go wide. She tears out of the kitchen and races up the staircase to the second floor.

  Roman turns his head and gives me a ‘what’s she up to?’ look through the glass wall, and I shrug. I don’t have the faintest idea.

  I hear her banging around in the bedroom she and Roman claimed as theirs. A hot minute later, she’s back. She jogs down the stairs carrying tall stacks of rubber-banded mail in both hands.

  “Come on,” she pants at me as she zips through the kitchen on her way back outside.

  My curiosity piqued, I follow her.

  She dumps the piles of mail on the glass-topped table and starts riffling through the envelopes with both hands.

  “What are you looking for?” Dave asks, strolling over from the pool with his margarita in hand to watch her frantic search.

  “Thyme’s doorman had a bunch of her mail delivered to my place yesterday. Apparently, her box has filled up while she’s been on the road with Victor.”

  Victor nods. “I’m surprised she got so much. Usually, neither of us gets any regular mail. Everything comes electronically.”

  Sage twists around to look at him. “This is maybe a tenth of what Doolittle forwarded to me. You wouldn’t believe all the magazines and catalogs Thyme gets.”

  Thyme, who’s been staring off into space, jolts to attention. “What? No, I don’t get junk mail. I had my name taken off all those lists years ago. Do you know how wasteful those mailers are? Not just the paper used, but also the energy consumed in printing them and delivering them. He must’ve given you someone else’s mail.”

  “No, it was definitely yours. All sorts of stuff that you wouldn’t ordinarily be interested in, but the mailers had your name on them. I specifically checked.”

  I ping-pong my head back and forth between the two of them like I’m watching a tennis match.

  Thyme frowns. “Like what sort of stuff?”

  Sage gnaws on her lip as she tries to remember. “Um, fancy French cookware, a bunch of essential oils and natural cleaning products—”

  “Well, that second one doesn’t sound totally out of character. The first one, yeah—assuming Thyme is still using her oven as sweater storage.”

  “She is,” Victor assures me.

  I shake my head.

  Sage continues as if we haven’t interrupted, “—boutique baby clothes, custom-made purses, makeup.”

  Thyme’s expression is blank. “I don’t know why I would’ve gotten that stuff. Did you pitch it?”

  “Yeah, the advertisements and all the credit card offers went straight into the recycling bin. But I did keep anything that looked like real mail, and there’s a lot of that, too—clearly.”

  She falls silent.

  Thyme returns her attention to her drink.

  We all watch Sage continue to paw through the small mound of mail like a manic squirrel desperately seeking a nut.

  “Yeah!” she shouts in triumph, waving around a business-size envelope.

  “What is it?” I crane my head to get a better view of the utterly normal-looking piece of mail.

  “It’s a letter from a dentist’s office addressed to Thyme.”

  To say this announcement is anticlimactic doesn’t do justice to our collective groans and crestfallen expressions.

  “Dr. Rubin’s office? It’s probably a reminder that I’m due for a cleaning.”

  “No!” Sage practically shouts, gesticulating wildly. “It’s from Dr. Alexis Pridemore in Snow City, Arizona.”

  Thyme lunges for the envelope and rips it open. I hold my breath while she scans the letter inside.

  “Well?” Victor demands.

  She raises her head. “Dr. Pridemore wanted to let me know my new dentures are ready to be fitted.”

  Chapter 8

  Thyme

  We’re all piled into Rosemary’s catering truck, barreling along the highway toward the Arizona border. Rosemary’s driving and, somehow, Sage scored the shotgun seat.

  Dave, Victor, Roman, Mona Lisa, and I are wedged shoulder to shoulder to tail to shoulder along the wall opposite the small prep sink and dorm fridge, which appear to be securely affixed to the side of the truck. I hope so, at least.

  Beside me, the dog has her snout lowered to the bottom of her dog bed and her paws crossed over her eyes. She swishes her tail hard against my thigh, and I get the impression she wants me to know she’s put out at having to share her space with four loud, clumsy humans.

  At least you’ve got a nice soft bed, I think, as I shift on my sit bones in a fruitless effort to find a more comfortable position.

  I give up and elbow Dave. “How did Sage manage to claim the passenger seat?”

  He gives me a wry smile. “Age-old tradition. She shouted ‘shotgun’ as she ran from the house to the driveway.”

  Sage looks in the rearview mirror and raises her hand in a triumphant fist pump. I roll my eyes but can’t stop myself from giggling.

  “Are you feeling the effects of two margaritas in the space of ten minutes?” Victor asks in a low, con
cerned voice.

  “No,” I assure him. “Feeling the effects of being on this mission with my sisters and my three favorite guys.”

  Mona Lisa huffs.

  “And the world’s best doggo,” I add.

  A slow smile spreads across Victor’s face. It starts at his full lips, but it doesn’t stop there. His cheeks curve upward, and his eyelids relax. For the first time since we found out I’m, you know, dead, his expression is fully relaxed. I realize this mess has been bothering him almost as much as it’s been stressing me out. I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze.

  He raises my hand to his lips and brushes the back of it with a soft kiss.

  Roman makes a gagging sound. “Get a room, already.”

  I shoot him a caustic look, and he dissolves into peals of laughter. “Kidding,” he gasps.

  The silly mood inside the van is infectious. Part of it—maybe most of it—is the relief of having something tangible we can do to try to prove that I’m not a dead, denture-wearing woman from Snow City, Arizona. And, as Dave the detective quickly pointed out, dental records will go a long way to showing that the dead woman, whoever she is, isn’t me. So, I’m giving this trip a high likelihood of success.

  The other reason for our group goofiness is that we’re on a mission. We’ve done this sort of thing before. After all, Rosemary, Sage, and I did all fall in love with these men after investigating crimes with them. And, on two occasions, we’ve all teamed up to solve a mystery.

  I gasp.

  “What?” The playfulness vanishes from Victor’s eyes in an instant, replaced by a wary alertness.

  Dave and Roman both also turn their heads at the sound of my sharp intake of breath.

  Oops.

  “Sorry, guys, I didn’t mean to startle you. It just hit me that the whole reason I wanted to elope was to avoid the part of the wedding preparations where the six of us are trying to solve a mystery. Best-laid plans, I guess.”

  Victor relaxes, and the others laugh softly.

  Dave leans forward. “Thyme, I think you’re going to have to come to grips with the indelible fact that you and your sisters have a genetic predisposition to hijinks, for lack of a better word.”

  Roman nods in eager agreement. “I mean, it’s clearly hereditary. Look at your parents.”

  It’s hard to refute his point seeing as how both my parents currently reside in federal prisons. At least my sisters and I generally stay on the right side of the law during our escapades. I mean, more or less. At least, when it’s practical to do so.

  I’m about to point out this helpful fact, but Sage takes a different tack. She whips her head around, her red curls bouncing as she turns to face her husband, jabbing her finger in the air.

  “One, I heard that. And, two, you’re one to talk, what with your meddling mom, sneaky aunt, and criminal stepsister.”

  Zing.

  Sage smiles warmly to soften the sting, but she’s got a point. She may have gone off on a literal ghost chase before her wedding, but it was all Roman’s family’s doing. Roman’s sheepish grin suggests that he doesn’t disagree.

  The fact that Sage can place her chaotic wedding at the feet of the Lyman family is in stark contrast to what happened at Rosemary and Dave’s wedding. Their wedding drama was one hundred percent caused by our side of the family—specifically Mom and Dad, who at that point in time were fugitives from the law, and the sleazy, mobbed-up loan shark they got mixed up with.

  But this time, neither the Callais family nor, thank heavens, the Field family is responsible for the federal government deciding that I’m a dead woman . . . at least, not as far as I know. I narrow my eyes and study my fellow travelers as if I might uncover a mistake one of them made. Nah, nobody in this crowded catering van’s to blame.

  The question remains: who is?

  Mona Lisa raises her head and gives me an indecipherable look. I guess she doesn’t know either. But with any luck, a quick trip to Snow City will answer all my questions—and maybe, just maybe, by this time tomorrow, Victor and I will be standing in front of an officiant.

  I close my eyes and lean into his side, and he drapes his arm around me as the van bounces along the highway.

  The trip from Cerro Vista to the center of Snow City takes ninety minutes, exactly. Rosemary pulls the van into a public parking lot, and we tumble out of the back, stretching and yawning—and, in one case, peeing on a bush.

  “Good girl,” Rosemary says to the dog as she exits the van and feeds a handful of quarters into the meter.

  “Now what?” Sage wants to know.

  Rosemary points at a squat white building across the street. “Thyme’s dentist’s office is in there. She should go see what she can find out from Doctor Pridemore while we check out the town.”

  “That’s fair,” I say. I hardly need an entourage of five plus one canine to talk to a dentist. “Do you want to come with me?” I direct the question to Victor.

  He’s busy looking around. When he turns toward me, a faint frown creases his mouth. “Sure, if you’re looking for company.”

  I am, or at least I was. But now I’m more interested in what’s caught his attention. “Is something wrong?”

  “Don’t you notice what’s missing?”

  I scan the parking lot. “A sign that says we can pay for parking through an app?”

  “It’s the people,” Dave pipes up. “Where are all the people?”

  “Bingo,” Victor says.

  We all turn our heads from side to side in unison. We look like a pack of cats tracking a mouse—or a laser toy. Victor and Dave are right. The town square is strangely deserted.

  “Maybe they’re all at work and school?” Sage offers.

  “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” Rosemary points out. “Shouldn’t someone be out grabbing lunch or running errands?”

  I study the row of glass-fronted buildings that sit on the other side of a small alley running behind the parking lot. None of them appear to be businesses. At least none of them have any signage that suggests retail activity happens within them.

  “There must be a mall on the outskirts of town.”

  “A mall? What, is it 1986 here? The people of Snow City probably do their shopping like the rest of America—online, one-click, free delivery or in-store pickup, which they’ll swing by and take care of on their way home from work,” I tell them.

  My sisters shrug wordlessly at one another: this is older sibling code for yeah, she’s right, but we’ll never admit it.

  That’s okay, though. I know what the gesture means as well as they do, and I file away my silent victory with a small smile.

  Roman rubs his hands over his forearms as if he’s warding off a chill. “Still. It’s creepy. Not a single car has passed by while we’ve been standing here . . . on Main Street, no less.”

  Victor nods his agreement. “Maybe this is one of those Western ghost towns people talk about.”

  “There are ghost towns around here?” Sage looks over her shoulder.

  I resist the urge to shout ‘Boo!,’ but barely.

  “They’re not haunted, just abandoned. You know, deserted mining towns and stuff.” Rosemary gives her a look of disbelief.

  Sage grimaces, and I instantly feel about an inch tall. After all, she did go through a period right before her wedding when someone tried to make her believe she was cursed by an angry spirit. Apparently, she isn’t entirely over the experience yet.

  Rosemary also catches Sage’s reaction and nudges her shoulder. “Come on, while Thyme subjects herself to the dentist, let’s see if we can find a candy shop or an ice cream parlor in this town.”

  “Oh—or a bakery,” Dave chimes in. “I could go for a donut.”

  I consider making a donut-loving cop joke, but I’m not one to go after the low-hanging fruit. Instead, I shake my head. “Listen to you. You all should be seeing the dentist, not me. You’re going to give yourself cavities as you eat through this town’s supply of sugary tr
eats.”

  My sisters groan.

  “Where should we meet back up with you?” Victor wants to know.

  Rosemary scans both sides of the street, then points to a small park dotted with cacti, boulders, and benches. “We won’t roam too far. After we ruin our teeth, we’ll be in that park playing with Mona Lisa.”

  At the sound of her name, Mona Lisa barks approvingly.

  I turn to Victor. “You ready?”

  “Let’s do this.”

  We walk toward the building that houses the dental office.

  “Good luck,” Sage calls after us.

  I acknowledge her with a wave over my shoulder, then I slip my hand inside Victor’s.

  He gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’ve got this.”

  He sounds so confident. That makes one of us.

  Chapter 9

  Sage

  We watch Thyme and Victor stroll across the parking lot. Once they disappear into the lobby of the white building, I turn to Rosemary.

  “We’re not really getting sweets, right?”

  She gives me a long, cool look. “No. I thought we might try to find a wedding gift from the four of us—just in case a miracle happens and they can go forward with the ceremony tomorrow.”

  “That’s great! I had the same idea,” I chirp.

  “Did you?” Her tone is as chilly as her expression.

  “Yeah, I did. What’s your deal, anyway?” I shoot back.

  Over her shoulder, I see Dave and Roman exchanging panicked looks. Dave bobs his head. “I think Mona Lisa needs to do her business. Come on, Roman, let’s stretch our legs.”

  Rosemary twists around to face them. Her husband gives her a warm smile. “After you and your sister sort out the, uh, gift, come over to the park.”

  He starts walking before she can object, and Roman throws me a sheepish shrug and trots off after him.

  Cowards.

  Rosemary turns back to me. “My deal is that I know you too well, Sage. I know what you’re really up to.”