Marked Down for Murder (Good Buy Girls) (3 page)

“Just don’t let your guard down around Summer or her mother again,” Ginger said as she pulled on her coat and headed to the door with a wave. “See ya, kids.”

Maggie took the bag from the counter and led the way over to a sitting area in the corner of her shop. It sported a glass coffee table and several mismatched chairs, all of which were available for purchase. When she had opened her secondhand store, Maggie had decided that one way to update its look was to make everything in it for sale, causing her furniture to turn over as often as her clothes, which kept the store fresh.

Maggie and Sam sat down on the love seat that was currently in residence, and Maggie unloaded the bag. Salads, bread and two cardboard containers with individual servings of lasagna were unpacked, and suddenly Blair and Summer’s visit seemed ridiculous. This was the magic of comfort food, and Mrs. Bellini made the best in town.

“So do you think I should be concerned about Summer and her mother popping in for a visit?” Maggie asked.

“Nah.” Sam dropped a kiss on her head and then leaned back to look at her with affection. “We’re rock solid. What harm could they possibly do to us?”

It did not take long for Sam’s optimistic outlook to
take a sharp turn south.

“How many times have you been called to Summer’s shop over the past three days?” Maggie asked. She and Sam were fixing dinner in her kitchen while Marshall Dillon roamed around the house.

Maggie was glad to have Sam and Marshall there. Things had been awfully quiet since Laura had gone back to college, an event which had been followed shortly after by Sandy, Jake and Josh—her niece, her niece’s husband and their son—moving into their own house.

They lived around the corner from Maggie’s now, and she had dibs on babysitting Josh, but still, her house felt like an empty shell with no squeals from the three-year-old to break the quiet. She hadn’t stepped on a toy in weeks, and there were no cracker crumbs on the furniture. It just seemed wrong, and she didn’t like it. Of course, Sam now spent most of his evenings with her, and a lot of his nights, too, so maybe it had all worked out for the best.

“Five times. First they swore there was a burglar breaking in; next they were sure Mrs. Shoemaker was shoplifting.” He paused while Maggie sputtered.

“But that’s outrageous!”

“Agreed,” he said. “Then they were concerned that someone was hiding in the dressing room. It was a stray cat.”

“Summer probably caught it and put it in there just so she could call you,” Maggie said sourly.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he said.

“I am not jealous,” Maggie corrected him. “Just appalled that your time is being wasted by those conniving idiots.”

Sam opened the oven and used a pot holder to take out the pan of freshly baked corn bread. “I do feel like they have me on speed dial.”

“Have you sent other officers over?” Maggie asked. She lifted the lid to her Crock-Pot and checked on the pulled pork. She had put in the leftovers from a roast they had made a few nights before and let it cook all day in her favorite sauce. It looked amazing.

“Yes, but Blair insists she will only talk to me. Honestly, it’s embarrassing,” he said. He sighed, then he turned to frown at Maggie. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No.” She clamped her lips together to keep from chuckling out loud. A snort came out of her nose instead.

“You are!” he accused.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. She gave in and laughed out loud. “It’s just that it’s all so crazy. Blair really thinks that if she keeps throwing Summer at you, you will eventually crack and give in.”

“I suppose I would laugh, too,” Sam said, “if it wasn’t happening to me.”

“Maybe you need to find a bigger fish for Blair to cast her net at,” Maggie said.

“Like who?” Sam asked. “Seriously, I’ll take anyone.”

“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “St. Stanley is not exactly hip-deep in available males. Obviously, Tyler Fawkes has been kicked to the curb.”

“I really thought after the Madison ball that he and Summer were a thing,” Sam said.

“So did I,” Maggie said. “But then Mama Blair showed up.”

“Tyler’s not good enough?” Sam asked.

“Apparently not,” Maggie said.

“Well, I’ve had plenty of time to observe the wacky family dynamic that is Blair Cassidy and Summer Phillips,” Sam said.

“What have you learned?” Maggie asked.

“Well, aside from the fact that Blair’s been married five times and Summer four—that’s nine husbands between them—I think that Blair genuinely cares for her daughter and wants her to be happy.”

“Which she assumes would be with you,” Maggie said.

Marshall Dillon strolled into the kitchen and sat in the middle of the floor. He blinked at them and let loose a yowl that was most definitely a complaint.

Maggie glanced down at the feline and smiled. “I swear the M on his forehead is wrinkling into a frown.”

“Yep, that’s his hungry face,” Sam said. He crouched down on the floor, and Marshall Dillon stood on his back legs and put his front paws on Sam’s knee. Then they gently bumped foreheads. As always, Maggie found this male bonding ridiculously charming.

“Well, I told him he has tuna from me for eternity after saving my life a few months ago,” Maggie said. She leaned over and scratched Marshall Dillon’s chin just the way he liked it.

“From me, too,” Sam said. “I really would deputize him for saving my girl. Heck, I’d make him my sole heir if I could.”

Maggie smiled. “I think you just need to feed the poor boy before he expires.”

Sam stood, scooping Marshall Dillon up with him. Together they filled the food dish Maggie kept at her house for the cat. Sam watched his boy for a moment until he was satisfied that Marshall Dillon was happy with his dinner. It occurred to Maggie that Sam would have made a really great father.

She shook her head. While she was curious about why Sam had never married or had a family, it felt as if it was too soon in their relationship to ask such a personal question. She was sure Sam would tell her in time.

She dished the pulled pork into a serving bowl while Sam cut up the corn bread. Maggie took the salad she had made earlier in the day out of the refrigerator and together they set the small table in the kitchen.

Sam poured them each a glass of beer and Maggie took the seat across from his. They both dished their food, and when they were done, Sam held up his glass for a toast.

“To many more evenings just like this with you,” he said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Maggie said.

She tapped his glass with hers. She knew what he meant. It seemed as if she had been single for a very long time. And then, her high school boyfriend Sam had strolled back into town and taken the job of sheriff.

Their high school breakup had been the stuff of legends. The misunderstanding engineered by Summer Phillips was one of many reasons that Maggie felt nothing but the purest strain of loathing for the woman.

But Maggie refused to let Summer and her shenanigans taint this second chance that she and Sam had. They had spent more than twenty years apart, and while Maggie would never ever regret her marriage to Charlie Gerber and the birth of her daughter, Laura, she couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened to her and Sam if they hadn’t broken up all those years ago.

Then again, she had to acknowledge that if her seventeen-year-old self had been truly sure of Sam, she never would have fallen for Summer’s stunt. So maybe she and Sam were just destined to meet when they were older and wiser. She certainly hoped that was the cosmic plan, at any rate.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“The past,” she said.

Sam gave her a rueful glance. “And here I thought you might be pondering the meaning of all those one-word notes and roses you’ve been receiving.”

“The ones you deny you’ve been sending?” Maggie asked. She dipped a bit of her corn bread into the sauce-slathered pork and popped it into her mouth.

“I refuse to say anything on the grounds I might incriminate myself,” he said. As if to emphasize his point, he tucked into his meal with gusto.

“So, you have no idea what ‘Maggie, will you please be my . . .’ might end with?”

“Is that what the notes say?” he asked. He raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that could be anything.”

“Really?” Maggie asked. “Given that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, I sort of figured the answer was obvious.”

Sam frowned. “Maybe it’s going to spell out ‘be my pal,’ or ‘be my cleaning woman,’ or ‘be my’—”

He didn’t get to finish, as Maggie threw her napkin at him and nailed him right in the forehead.

He grinned as he tossed the napkin back to her. “I’m just saying there are a myriad of possibilities.”

“Uh-huh,” Maggie said.

“But now that you mention it, tomorrow
is
Valentine’s Day, and since we are officially a couple, I’m thinking we should do it up big to make up for all of the ones we’ve missed.”

His blue eyes were so earnest, Maggie felt her throat get tight. She and Sam had been at odds for such a long time, it completely charmed her to have him so invested in their new relationship.

“Well, I don’t know,” she teased. “I think I have to wait and see what my final note says. I mean, I wouldn’t want to commit to something and then have to cancel because the single most romantic gesture of my life ends in the phrase ‘cleaning woman.’”

“‘Single most romantic gesture,’ huh?” he asked. He looked pretty pleased with himself.

“Hmm, so far,” Maggie said. “But I fear it might take a nasty turn on me.”

Sam laughed and then nodded. “I can appreciate your concern. Now, I’m not saying I know anything about these notes, and I can’t confirm or deny what the last one might say, but I’m pretty sure you can risk dinner with me.”

In that moment, Maggie felt as if she would risk everything for Sam Collins. Her heart, her mind, her soul. The realization stunned her. She hadn’t thought falling in love in her forties could surpass the crazy first love of her youth, but it had. Somehow, she had fallen even harder for the big lunk the second time around.

“That sounds really nice,” she said, hoping her voice did not betray the crazy happy dance her heart was doing in her chest.

“Excellent,” he said. He looked equal parts relieved and eager. “I’ll pick you up at the shop at five?”

It meant closing a bit early, but Maggie didn’t really anticipate a great rush in the shop on the biggest date night of the year.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “I promise.”

Sam looked at her from beneath his lashes. She had a feeling she knew what he was thinking.

Twenty-four years ago, the night before he was to leave for college, she had stood him up. They were supposed to meet in their usual spot on the town green, but after she had been tricked into thinking he was shagging Summer on the side, well, she’d been absolutely devastated, and ditched him.

Sam had shown up at her house an hour later, looking for her. Maggie refused to come out of the house. She refused to talk to him on the phone. She sent back the letters he wrote to her from college. By Halloween, Sam had stopped trying to contact her.

She wondered if it had been as bad for him as it had been for her. And what made it even worse is that he’d had no idea about the nasty trick Summer had played. It had taken Sam returning to St. Stanley for her to finally find out the truth. Frustration at her own gullibility, anger at Summer for the stunt she pulled, and guilt for how badly she’d treated Sam swamped her.

“After you left for school, I cried for a week straight,” she said.

Sam reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “I will deny it if you ever tell anyone, but there were tears on my side, too.”

Maggie gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you and told you what happened. It is probably the only major regret I have in my life to date.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “We were young and stupid. I should have insisted that you tell me what happened, but I was too proud.”

“And I was too stubborn,” Maggie said.

“Let’s never make those mistakes again,” Sam said. He lifted Maggie’s hand to his lips as if to seal the pact.

“I promise,” Maggie said. “And I will be waiting for you tomorrow no matter what.”

Or so she thought.

“I’m sorry. Why are you here again?” Maggie asked.

Blair Cassidy stood in the middle of Maggie’s shop. It was mid-afternoon and there had been a lull in customers. Maggie figured it was because most people had a hot date to get ready for that night.

The Good Buy Girls had been in earlier to give Maggie a consult on the outfit she should wear tonight. After rejecting a pale blue ingenue sort of dress with a Peter Pan collar and a poofy skirt, and passing on a red velvet dress low in the front with a slit up to—well, it was very high—they had all agreed that black and slinky was the way to go.

The dress in question was hanging in the storeroom waiting for her to put it on before Sam arrived. It was a curve-hugger with a flirty skirt and, paired with some gravity-defying heels, Maggie was pretty sure Sam would approve.

“I’m just checking out your selection of furniture,” Blair said. She ran her hand over the back of the velvet love seat, which Maggie had picked up at a garage sale from the Fitzpatricks, who had sold off everything in order to move to their retirement home on the Carolina shore.

It was a vintage piece, and she knew that even Blair Cassidy could appreciate the carved wooden frame and delicate shape. She could tell Blair could find no fault with it, because she said nothing, as opposed to insulting her.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” Maggie asked. She really wasn’t interested, but she was attempting to be polite. It was a strain, but she was sure she would earn good karma points if she could just remain pleasant.

“Well, Summer doesn’t carry furniture,” Blair said. “Her interest is more in
high end
fashion, but I have this friend who is looking to consign some vintage fifties kitchen items.”

Maggie decided to ignore the jab that her fashion sense was less than Summer’s when, the last time she checked, Summer seemed to acquire her clothing from Playboy Bunny castoffs. Still, fifties kitchenware would be fabulous to display in the shop.

“What kind of items?” Maggie asked. She tried to make her tone one of bored semi-interest. She failed. The sane part of her brain was demanding to know why was she talking to this woman who she knew very well didn’t like her and had designs on her man for her own daughter. Maggie tuned out the voice of reason as Blair listed the items.

“Franciscan Starburst, a complete set,” Blair said. “A dining set of four aqua chairs and a matching Formica table, in mint condition; a vintage copper canister set; you know, stuff like that.”

Maggie had to check her chin for drool. She simply loved fifties-style everything. She supposed it was reflected in her shop by the amount of items she carried that definitely bespoke the postwar heyday of the twentieth century.

“When would they need someone to consign the items for them?” Maggie asked. Again, she was striving to sound mildly interested. She could tell by the evil sparkle in Blair’s eyes that she failed.

“Oh, right away,” Blair said. “They’re hoping to move as soon as possible.”

“Who is it? Maybe I know them,” Maggie said. “I have lived in St. Stanley all my life. There really isn’t anyone I don’t know at least in passing.”

“No, you don’t know them,” Blair said. “They’re not . . . Well, quite frankly, they’re not your kind. They are in a different social circle than you.”

“Meaning?” Maggie asked. She could feel her temper flare at the implied insult.

“They’re just not very outgoing,” Blair said. “That’s all. They’re introverts and don’t go out much. Why? Whatever did you think I meant?”

She turned away from Maggie and studied herself in a nearby mirror. She smoothed her eyebrows with her index finger. Although gravity had started to show along her jawline, Blair still looked amazing for a woman who was several years into her AARP membership.

Maggie stared at her. Why was Blair really here? She had to be working an angle. There was no way that she cared about Maggie or Maggie’s store, and she certainly would not feel obligated to help Maggie in any way.

“My friends are desperate. I told them I might know of someone who would be willing to take their things for them,” Blair said. She said it as if it pained her to be sharing this information with Maggie.

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn’t sure what Blair was playing at, but she definitely didn’t trust her.

“If you’re thinking of me and my shop, I’d have to see the items before I could say whether I could carry them or not,” Maggie said. She fully expected Blair to be pulling a scam by unloading her friends’ junk on her.

“Of course,” Blair said. “Since my friends are in a hurry, we could go now and you could see the items.”

Maggie glanced around the shop. There was no one here, but she didn’t like to close up on the off chance that a customer came by and thought she was flighty and unreliable.

Then again, vintage fifties stuff was hot, and it could be a huge score.

Blair was checking her phone. “Yes, my friend texts she’ll only be available for the next hour.”

Maggie sighed. She was very unhappy about this. The thought of being stuck in a car with Blair was almost a deal breaker, but she had a couple of hours until her date and she really wasn’t in a position to pass up something that had the potential to be a big seller. She could just picture the window display she could create with the items.

“All right,” she said. “Wait here . . . please.”

Maggie went into the small office that was at the back of the shop, adjacent to her storeroom. She grabbed her purse from her desk drawer and took her coat off of the coatrack. She found Blair looking at the display case where she kept vintage jewelry.

“See anything you like?” Maggie asked.

Blair looked at her in alarm, as if she were horrified that Maggie might think she was interested. It was true that most of Maggie’s pieces were of the old-lady costume variety, but that did not mean they were of little value.

Maggie was always careful to look for signs of quality in costume jewelry, such as pronged settings, substantial weight, smooth plating and sparkling stones. Certain manufacturers were an instant buy as well. She always scooped up pieces by Eisenberg or Schiaparelli. In fact, she had recently sold a Schiaparelli brooch for two hundred dollars.

Blair wrinkled her nose at the case and Maggie figured she was allergic to anything that was not platinum and loaded with diamonds. Whatever.

“I’ll drive,” Maggie said. She wasn’t sure why she was so insistent, but if she did score some things for the shop, she’d need her station wagon to haul them. Also, being in the driver’s seat would make her feel as if she had control of the situation.

Blair nodded and walked out of the shop. Maggie turned the
CLOSED
sign on the door and locked it behind her. As she led the way to her car, she couldn’t help feeling as if she was making a very bad mistake.

“Which way do I go?” Maggie asked.

Blair pulled her coat closely around her as if trying to shield herself from being contaminated by anything in Maggie’s car. Maggie blew out a breath and waited for Blair to buckle herself in. Yes, there were some papers on the floor, and a few candy wrappers, as well as a couple of empty soda cans. Maggie had meant to pick these things up, but she’d forgotten.

“You want to go left on Main Street and all the way through town until you get to Route Twenty,” Blair said.

“They live way out on Route Twenty?”

“Thereabouts,” Blair said.

Maggie frowned. She had the feeling that Blair wasn’t telling her something. She didn’t know what, and she didn’t have a good feeling about it.

The sky was gray and overcast. There was a definite chill in the air, so she cranked up the heater in her car. The center of town was quiet—again, because most people had something better to do tonight and weren’t being dragged out into the cold just for a bargain.

She thought about her dress hanging in the storeroom and sighed. She considered her date with Sam, and she wondered if she was doing the right thing.

“If I remember right, my friend has quite a collection of Art Deco cut glassware from the nineteen twenties,” Blair said. “That might be popular in your quaint little shop.”

Art Deco glassware? Fine, she would go. How could she not? She would check it out. If it was junk, she would make her excuses and leave. She had to assume that Blair was doing this because it suited her to help her friends, and she probably wanted Maggie to focus on furniture and home goods in her shop so Summer could have more of the local clothing market. Fine. Whatever.

“Does Summer know you’re helping me?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, yes,” Blair said. “She was quite enthusiastic about it.”

Maggie gave her a sidelong look. They were leaving the center of town and were just a few miles from Route Twenty.

An alarm bell was going off in her head.

“Enthusiastic?” she asked. There was no way Summer would be happy for her unless it involved something painful for Maggie.

“Oh, yes,” Blair said. “How did she put it? That’s right, She said, ‘I really hope Maggie drowns under all of that lame stuff.’”

“Well, that sounds like the Summer I know and love,” Maggie said.

“Doesn’t it though?” Blair asked. She sounded proud. “Her shop is really splendid. Have you been in to see it?”

“No,” Maggie said.

“Really?” Blair asked. “Aren’t you even curious?”

“No.”

“Well, I suppose it is best to live in ignorance when you’re not quite on the same level as someone else. That way your tender feelings won’t get hurt.”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, here’s our street,” Blair said as gestured out the window.

Maggie slowed down and cut the wheel. Still, she was going a bit too fast, and the car bounced into the turn. Blair steadied herself by reaching out and grabbing the dashboard and gave Maggie a chastising look.

“You really should drive more carefully,” she said. “But, of course, with your fiery temperament . . .”

“My fiery temperament?” Maggie sputtered. She almost pulled over the car, but another car was behind her, pushing her along. “Your daughter is a mean, twisted psychopath, and you say that I have a fiery temperament?”

Blair just looked at her with one eyebrow raised in haughty disdain, as if Maggie were doing nothing but proving her point.

Maggie forced deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth as she tried to calm down. She was not going to bicker with Blair about her daughter. Of course Blair was on Summer’s side. She was her mother, and judging by her string of ex-husbands and penchant for tight clothing, Summer was the acorn who had not rolled far from the oak.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I guess we shouldn’t be talking about Summer, since we have such differing opinions of her personality and such.”

That was the closest thing to an olive branch Maggie could offer. Unfortunately, she should have suspected that Blair would do exactly what Summer would have done—smack Maggie upside the head with it.

“You’re right,” Blair said. “I know it must be very hard for you to know that Sam has pined for Summer all these years and that you’re just a sad substitute, but honestly, don’t you think it’s time you cut him loose so he could have the woman he truly belongs with?”

“What?” Maggie turned and stared at Blair hard before turning back to the road. “Are you kidding me?”

They were cruising along a sparsely populated stretch of road. The trees arched over them, their bare limbs reminding Maggie of skeletons reaching up from the grave as if trying to catch her and drag her down. She could have told them not to bother, since she seemed to have a specter of death sitting beside her.

Blair gave her a sympathetic shake of the head. “I know it’s hard, but you need to accept the inevitable. You’ve already had your family. It’s time you let Sam have his with a woman who hasn’t already been there and done that.”

Maggie blew out a breath, trying to contain her temper.

“Sam is not now nor was he ever in love with Summer. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be blunt, but honestly, both you and Summer need to stop chasing him. He’s just not interested and, as for him wanting a family, well, that’s just . . .” Maggie’s voice trailed off as she lost her words. She really didn’t know what to say about that.

Blair turned halfway in her seat and gave Maggie a look that was full of pity. “Really? He’s not? Then why is his squad car parked next to Summer’s in front of that—oh dear, is that a motel?”

Maggie turned her head to look. Yes, that was Sam’s car, and she recognized Summer’s beside it. Instinct took over, and before she could think it through, she turned the wheel into the parking lot and stomped on the brakes, stopping her car right before it smashed into Sam’s.