“Why?” She blurted, finally finding her voice as the strongest wave of panic yet set in. The residual moisture from her shower was handy cover for the fact that she’d begun to sweat.
“Ma’am, we get quite a few calls from city folk when they find themselves in a pickle. Word has it, you’re staying a while. You should be prepared for the conditions. Thunderstorm season isn’t over yet. Winter’ll come quick on its heels. If no one’s checked your emergency supplies or shown you how to use the generator, someone should.”
“I don’t know…” Shea hedged, her hand reaching once again to clutch the top of her robe together. It was beginning to get awkward, him outside but obviously eager to come in.
“I’d rather get you settled now than have to come up and assist,” he pushed. “Making sure you don’t get into trouble in the first place is the best use of department resources.”
Deputy Brody didn't say it unkindly, but the implication was clear: city folk were dumber than a bag of rocks.
“I mean, I’m not even dressed…”
She looked down at herself for effect and was buoyed when he had the decency to look chagrined.
“…and once I got dressed, I was planning to head into town. I need to be back by noon for a phone call,” she lied. “Look. I appreciate the offer, but now just isn’t a good time. But my friend who owns the house is visiting soon. I’ll have him show me everything I need. I promise.”
The deputy looked reticent to agree and it took a long moment for him to respond. He took one last look into the house behind her, before looking back at her face. “Don’t wait too long,” he warned, then tipped his hat and issued a reluctant, “Have a good afternoon.”
Shea waited a respectable amount of time before she closed the front door, then made it all the way back into the master bedroom before collapsing against the wall. She’d been too sloppy about the money. So sloppy that, if he’d done said walk-through, she’d have been in deep shit. He’d have asked her for identification. Even if she’d given her birth certificate, legitimizing that she was, indeed, Shea Summers, name change and marriage records would lead him right to Elle West.
Throwing her robe off for how badly she was sweating and catching her breath from what was clearly a panic attack, Shea calmed, then cooled, then walked to the room that held the incriminating evidence.
I can’t just let it sit here like this, Shea thought for the umpteenth time as she walked into the bedroom next to the master. Piles of neatly packed bricks had accompanied her from New York. They’d been stored in more than thirty designer overnight bags hewn from a stylish canvas, transported in a U-Haul instead of an armored car.
Shea hadn’t asked any questions. When Tasha Harris hatched a plan to get you out of a bad marriage, you used her people and did what she said. Tasha was a top-notch divorce lawyer, known within circles of upper-crust women for extricating unhappy wives from marriages with controlling men. It wasn’t unheard-of for people to protect their money in anticipation of a divorce. Tasha assured Shea that proving extenuating circumstances was something she’d done before. It might seem risky in the short term, but it would all come out in the wash.
The room reminded Shea of a staging space she’d once seen for celebrity gift bags they’d given out at the TriBeCa Film Festival. Except, instead of being filled with the hottest new tech gadgets and beauty products, the bags were filled with cash. There was something satisfying about seeing it like this. Maybe that was why she had never hidden it. Even though it paled in comparison to the money she’d married into, three-quarters-of-a-million dollars was more than she’d ever dreamed of earning as a food writer.
Still, the sheer volume of legal tender was becoming a problem. That kind of money was compact if you kept it in large bills. But paying for everything in hundreds would be too suspicious in a small town. She’d had a quarter of it broken up into smaller denominations and those small bills made up three-quarters of the bags. She’d stay off of the radar by paying for everything for the next year in ones, fives, tens and twenties.
Credit cards were out of the question. Keenan was no stranger to private investigators. Leaving a digital trail would lead him right to her. He wasn’t dangerous—just manipulative and convinced of the idea that she didn’t really want a divorce, and a master of using information to get the upper hand.
Maybe I’ll put it in storage bins, she thought to herself, wondering where she might find the closest Container Store. She could at least find something that looked decorative and blended in. She put the thought aside for now and opted to grab some bills. Moving the bags would take half a day and she needed sustenance first. She’d drop the cash in her purse, get dressed, then head down to Delilah’s.
5
The Absentee
Dev
“Anything good?” Betty Cheevers wanted to know as she breezed through the automatic door, moving quickly for a fifty-something who spent her career on her feet. As usual, she arrived seven minutes before the official start of her shift, heavy purse over her shoulder and knitting bag in her hand.
Every other day of the week that she worked, she started her shift at two. Fridays were the exception. Dev’s weekly meeting with Sapling’s Economic Development Council—the EDC—meant he had to be up the hill by noon. He’d spent the morning reworking the third version of his economic revival plan.
“Jessie Wakefield’s expecting,” Dev reported. She’d been through that morning. “Bought out every bag of ginger chews and lemon candy in the store.”
Betty stepped up onto the platform behind the desk and stowed her purse in a drawer, leaving the knitting bag on the counter. Afternoons were busier than mornings—especially before the weekend rush—but there would still be plenty of time for her yarn.
“She and Butch had been trying for a while,” Betty reported with her oft-used, knowing voice. “She out of her first trimester?”
“Didn’t ask.” Dev was already packing up his laptop and clearing the desk so that Betty could sit. She stopped long enough to plant her hand on her hip and pin him with a teasingly reproachful look.
“I keep telling you—when people tell you things, you gotta get all the details. You’re not nearly curious enough for your own good.”
Dev just hummed in response, though not in agreement, as he continued to pack up his things. Betty had been “getting all the details” from people for more than twenty-five years.
“I’ll be up the hill at Laura’s,” he announced instead of gratifying her chastisement with an answer. Loose lips notwithstanding, Betty was a good cashier and he needed her.
She’d been one of the original cashiers at Zachary’s and had been forced into early retirement when the former grocery had closed. When she’d found out that Dev was opening a new one, she’d shown up to ask for a job. She knew everything about running a grocery store, had been a quick study on his higher-tech registers and inventory system, and she’d been the perfect person to train the part-timers who worked the other shifts.
“Call me if you need anything,” he instructed, shouldering the gray backpack that held his laptop and nutritional essentials: alkaline water, kale chips, and supplements for the rest of the day. Dev imagined what album he might put on as he climbed into his old pickup—the one he kept in Colorado and had owned since he was a teen. He was thirty seconds into Superstition when the first moment’s peace he’d had all day was ruined by the special alert on his phone.