Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery by Shirley Damsgaard Page B

cargo door release. When I turned around, I found Harley Walters looming in front of me.
    "Jeez, Harley, you startled me."
    The baseball cap he wore low on his forehead made it difficult to see his eyes, but I watched while a slow smile spread across his face. He enjoyed catching me off guard. I thought about Darci's suspicions. Could Harley be a killer? Surely not, but his attitude was threatening.
    "Hi, Ophelia," he said, not moving an inch.
    Taking a step, I made a move to go around him, but he stopped me.
    "Does your grandmother think this peaceful demonstration's going to scare PP International?" he said and twisted his lips in a sneer.
    "Gee, Harley, why don't you ask Abby yourself?" I asked, shouldering my way passed him.
    He made a derisive sound and strode away, not toward Abby, but away from her. He might try to intimidate me, but I noticed he steered clear of Abby.
    "Harley giving you a hard time?"
    Turning my head, I saw Ned standing by the front of the van. "He's trying."
    "But knowing you, you're not going to let him," Ned said, chuckling.
    "I certainly don't intend to," I said, pulling the cargo door open.
    Ned strolled to the back of the van and stood next to me. "How was Iowa City? Did you have a good time?"
    "Yeah, it was okay. Darci probably had more fun than I did."
    Ned smiled. "You expected that, didn't you?" His smile faded. "Why didn't you call me when you got home?"
    "Gee, I'm sorry." I drew a pattern in the gravel with the toe of my shoe while I thought about how guilty I felt at that moment. "Too much stuff to do, unpack, check in with Claire at the library, go see Abby. I guess I should've."
    Ned gave me a rueful smile. "Listen, I know we're just friends." He let out a chuckle. "Now there's a phrase every man likes using."
    I looked down at the pattern I'd drawn in the gravel. "I'm sorry, Ned—"
    He put a hand on my shoulder. "Would you quit apologizing? Friendship's good. I don't have a problem with it."
    Relieved, I looked up at him and smiled. "I think friendship's good too, Ned."
    "I'm honored you trust me enough to let me be your friend." His eyes sparkled. "Not many people can say that."
    I grabbed a placard from the cargo area in the van. "Not many people want to say that. Believe it or not, some people think I'm difficult," I said, while I propped the placard on the bumper.
    "No. Not you. Really?" he said, faking surprise.
    I fisted my hand on my hip and gave him a withering look. "Ha, ha. Very funny. Here help me with these…" I paused and smiled sweetly. "Please."
    Ned laughed and removed the rest of the placards from the back of the van. "Whether you know it or not, Ophelia, your rep's slipping. You're not as hard-nosed as you once were. Ever since last fall, you've changed."
    "Oh yeah? Who says?" I asked defensively.
    He laughed again. "You don't care for change, do you?" Ned gave me a light punch in the arm. "Don't worry about it, Slugger, you're still scary. Not many people are going to mess with you."
    "Good," I replied emphatically.
    Laughing and shaking his head, Ned walked away.
    While he did, I watched him and thought about what I'd told Darci. It was too bad. Ned was a good man and we did have a lot in common. But all I felt when I saw him was warm friendship. I sighed. Oh well, with Ned here, at least Abby's group would make the front page of The Courier .
    "Ahem—"
    I looked over and saw Abby watching me watch Ned walk away.
    "Yes?"
    "I hope Ned isn't getting the wrong idea. You know he's not for you, don't you?"
    "Yeah, I know. And Ned knows it too."
    "Good," she said, picking up some of the stacked placards. "People in town have started pairing the two of you up, you know."
    "Really?"
    "Of course. You know how it is in a small town. You date someone twice and the town has you getting married."
    Marriage? No way. Someday, maybe, if I met the right man. Ha, the right man? I rolled my eyes. Who in the devil would be the right man? Who could put up with—and understand—my