Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels (31 page)

Mr. Buchman—Kirby’s butler—was sitting on the edge of my bed, as planned. He was looking grim but willing, which was about what I had expected.

“I sure do appreciate you doing this,” I said, peeling off my coat and handing it to him. He was already wearing black pants and a black shirt, the same as me.

“I don’t know how I let that young man talk me into these things,” he said, sighing.

I pointed toward the chair at my dressing table and waited as he stood, stepped over to it, and sat.

“Kirby says you’re a very, very good sport.”

“Would I be here if I weren’t?”

He handed me the brown wig he had brought with him, a remnant of Grace Collins’ struggle with cancer. According to Kirby, she’d had several wigs, one of which was just about the color and length of my hair.

I worked with Mr. Buchman, smoothing his own hair down with bobby pins, pulling on the wig, and then styling it in the familiar chignon I always wore. It was a lot harder to do to someone else than it was to myself, and it took several tries before I got it right.

As I worked, I told him a little about Shayna and her plight so he would understand what was at stake here—and that the favor he was doing wasn’t just for Kirby, but for a poor girl who had been unjustly accused of murder.

He seemed appropriately impressed, so much so that by the time I was done, he actually smiled.

“In broad daylight,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror, “about the only person who might mistake me for you is my poor mother, who has cataracts so bad she can barely make out the side of a house.”

“That’s why we’re lucky this isn’t broad daylight,” I replied, grinning.

Truly, the man was a sight. He had my hair, but underneath was the unmistakable face of an older man, complete with silver sideburns and full jowls. My only hope was that the bright red coat would be the clincher—and that whoever was following me didn’t have binoculars.

“I think we’re ready,” I said.

He stood and put on the coat.

“The window is still unlocked,” he said. “Oh, and the little dog seems perfectly happy back at the house.”

I nodded, handed the man my keys, and wished him luck.

“You understand that you must stay on the main roads at all times,” I told him. “Though I don’t think this fellow is going to do anything, I don’t want you in any danger whatsoever.”

“Kirby wrote out my directions,” he said. “I’m going over the Bay Bridge and then down to Alexandria, buy a box of donuts at Krispy Kreme, and then drive all the way back here.”

“Do you have a cell phone with you?”

“Check.”

“Keep your speed down,” I said. “You want to stretch this out as long as possible. ‘Operation Decoy,’ you know.”

“I understand. Good luck to the two of you as well.”

We shook hands and then he turned off the bedroom light, leaving me in darkness. I watched from the doorway as he stepped down the hall, grabbed my purse from the counter, and walked out the door, whistling the same tune I had whistled when I came in. Heart pounding, I listened as he locked the door. A few moments later, he started the car and drove away.

All was silent. I checked my watch and decided to wait ten minutes before I, too, headed out.

In the meantime, I crept to the window and peeked out, not surprised to see the familiar Pontiac pass by, driving off down the road in the same direction Mr. Buchman had just driven. So far, so good.

Back in the dark bedroom, I stripped down and then pulled on my “dry suit”—a scuba getup that would be a bit warmer than my
wet suit. It was snug but not uncomfortable. I added rubber socks, and then I pulled the outfit I had been wearing back on. Two more layers of warm clothes completed my outfit, which I topped off with a black cap and my black vinyl jacket.

I sat on the bed and dialed Harriet’s cell phone, feeling guilty for disturbing her on the way to her dancing competition. But I needed some answers, and I hadn’t had a chance to check in with her before now.

“Hello!” she yelled into the phone. There were loud voices and music and lots of background noise. “Hold on!”

I heard her telling everyone to be quiet. The music was turned down, and she came back on the line.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a more normal tone. “This is Harriet. Can I help you?”

“It’s Callie.”

“Callie! Can you believe the noise these women can make in a car? My goodness, a person can’t hear themselves think!”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “You must be on your way to Chincoteague.”

“Yep. Just crossed into your county now. My land, I don’t know how you drive over that Bay Bridge all the time. It’s so high! I swear, it would scare the stuffing out of a roasted turkey. I had to close my eyes.”

“I hope you weren’t the one driving!”

She laughed.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t do anything
quite
that stupid.”

I glanced at my watch, aware I had to keep things moving.

“I was wondering if you were able to find anything for me,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied. “A whole lot.”

“Can you talk right now?”

“I can do better than that,” she said. “The girls want to stop in Cambridge for dinner. Why don’t you come and meet us there?”

We figured out the timing, and I thought it might work. She named the place they were going, and I said I would see her there. We hung up, and then I stood and took a deep breath.

It was time to go. I slipped two pairs of hand warmers into my pockets, tucked some power bars and a bottle of water into my backpack, and checked to make sure that I had my binoculars, night-vision goggles, hood, scuba mask, and my portable air tank.

Finally, I went to the window, slid it open silently, and climbed from the bedroom out onto the deck. I listened to the stillness, thinking again how awful it was to have had my peaceful home invaded by an intruder this afternoon. Always my sanctuary, the house felt a little less perfect now, a little less mine.

I slid the window shut, turned, and climbed over the rail to the ground below. I hit the grass with a gentle thud and took off across the lawn, keeping to the trees, listening for any other activity. I didn’t hear or see anything suspicious, and finally I reached the dock. As expected, the little motorboat was waiting there for me—the same boat that Mr. Buchman had used to get here.

I climbed in and pushed off, grateful that the sky was clear so the moon could shine through. I didn’t like rowing at night, and it was particularly tough in such an unwieldy craft. But I was afraid of the noise the motor would make, so I hooked the two oars in the oarlocks, turned around, and rowed the whole way, hoping there were no hidden obstacles floating in my path.

It took only about 15 minutes to get to Kirby’s, and he was there waiting for me at his dock. He, too, was dressed all in black, though I had a feeling his jacket was not off the rack, as mine was. I enjoyed wearing designer clothes, too, a luxury I had grown to appreciate in connection with my job. When I went out on business for the foundation, Tom expected me to dress as an upper-level executive; he even provided me with a generous clothing allowance so I could do so. But on my own time, for an all-night surveillance that might get kind of dirty, I was more comfortable in something that wasn’t nearly as expensive.

“You made it!” Kirby cried, eyes bright with excitement. I smiled at him, but as I climbed from the boat and handed him the rope, I knew we needed to have a little talk. Investigating could be fun, especially on a night like tonight, but level heads were what we needed now, not uncontainable enthusiasm.

I watched as Kirby stepped onto the grass and pulled the boat along the shoreline toward a little shed that was nearly hidden in the trees. As he secured it there, I took off my hat and let down my chignon. The bobby pins were pinching my scalp. But before I could pin it back again, higher this time, Kirby whispered to me across the lawn.

“Wait!” he said.

He jogged over to me and, much to my surprise, came to a stop right in front of me.

“Don’t do a thing,” he said. He looked at me with a startling intensity, and it took a minute for me to understand what was going on.

“Pocahontas,” he whispered. “I knew it. With your hair down, you could be Pocahontas.”

“Kirby, don’t—”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “Why do you try to hide it?”

His eyes locked onto mine, and for some reason I met his gaze with my own. It had been an odd couple of days, but something about this man attracted me at a very basic level.

Slowly, he reached up and ran his hands through my hair. It felt good. It felt better than good. Bravely, I went with the moment and closed my eyes.

“Callie,” he whispered, leaning into me.

To my surprise he didn’t try to kiss me. Instead, he brushed his lips against my cheek, my ear, my hair. Then he pulled me into an embrace, holding me tightly against him.

“I know you don’t feel the same, but I’m so crazy about you,” he whispered.

I held onto him, realizing I didn’t really know how I felt about him. Yes, he was handsome and charming and imminently likeable.

But he was no Bryan.

“We have to go,” I said brusquely, regretting it even as I said it. He released me and stepped away, and suddenly I felt mean and selfish and stupid. Kirby was in the here and now. Bryan was not—and never, ever would be again.

“Kirby.”

There must’ve been something in my voice, some note that gave him hope, because he looked at me, expression open, for what I would say next.

“I’m sorry I keep pushing you away,” I said. “I like you, too.”

At first, surprise widened his eyes. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he placed his hands on each side of my face, leaned forward, and touched his lips to mine.

It wasn’t an urgent kiss. It wasn’t an earth-shattering kiss. But then he came back a second time, his lips pressing into mine and then lingering sweetly, and I felt something in me awaken, some memory of being held and being loved and being treasured this way. I closed my eyes and kissed him back and tried not to let thoughts of Bryan fill my head.

Finally, the kiss ended and he stayed very close, his forehead touching mine, his fingers gently teasing at my hair. He exhaled slowly, his breath sweet and warm against my skin.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you out on your canoe,” he said.

“Baggage,” I whispered. “Please remember that I come with a lot of baggage.”

“I have no expectations,” he said.

“And I make no promises,” I replied.

That established, we finally stepped apart. He comfortably took my hand, and together we went to his car. There was still much to do on this night. I could only hope that what had just happened wouldn’t be a distraction—especially one that might put us in danger.

Thirty-Four

I heard the women before I saw them. They were in the side room of a roadside café, and as Kirby and I came through the door, the chortle of Harriet’s laughter filled my ears.

“We’re meeting someone,” I said to the waitress at the hostess booth. Then we headed for the side room and wove our way among tables toward the group of five ladies who sat in the back corner.

“Callie!” Harriet cried, waving at me. She stood up, and I realized she was dressed in a costume. A white cowboy hat with silver trim was perched high atop her head of orange curls, and the outfit she wore was a white, turquoise, and silver vision of a cowgirl, complete with fringe. “You girls remember Callie, don’t you?”

The other four women, all similarly dressed, smiled and nodded and extended their hellos. I had met them at a line dancing contest in the spring, when their group had made it into the finals and Harriet had insisted I come along for good luck.

“Don’t you look fancy,” I said, gesturing toward their elaborate outfits. “Are you performing tonight?”

“Naw, these are just our traveling clothes,” Harriet replied, grinning.

I introduced Kirby all around, and then Harriet took my arm and suggested we take a table in the main part of the restaurant.

“I won’t be long, girls,” she sang out as we walked away.

This time, we let the waitress seat us. We ended up in a booth two down from the door. Kirby and I sat on one side and Harriet slid in across from us. Except for the three of us, this part of the restaurant was nearly empty. Kirby and I ordered coffee for there and burgers to go. Harriet just got coffee, saying she had already ordered food at the other table.

“I didn’t realize you’d have someone with you, Callie,” Harriet said, grinning at Kirby. “How’d she manage to rope you into this?”

“Kirby’s been helping me with my investigation,” I answered for him. “He’s a neighbor.”

“Well, goodness,” Harriet replied. “If I’d a known they grew ’em like that out on your river, Callie, I’d a moved there myself years ago.”

Kirby gave Harriet one of his prize-winning smiles.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” he replied. “Otherwise, all the other girls in town would never have had a chance.”

The two of them giggled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this flirt fest,” I said, “but we’ve got important business to take care of here.”