Other People's Baggage by Kendel Lynn, Gigi Pandian, Diane Vallere Page A

to rip into my mini hipster and lather on a good coat of hand-sani.
    Discreetly, of course.
    â€œNice to meet you, Gilda.” I stopped shirt shopping and lowered my voice one degree. “I had no idea most of the shops were out of business.”
    â€œOh sure. Everything’s being replaced, either with the Light of the Rock megachurch or the Broken Spoke Casino. Don’t know which project will get the green light. Though my money’s on the church, no pun intended. No chance the state’s going to allow gambling, no matter who ole Chief Fannin knows. But don’t go telling Rita that. She’s on the casino side of town.”
    â€œWhen did all this—”
    The tinkle of the entry bell interrupted me and my final words of “take place” faded into Rita’s high-pitched burst.
    â€œElliott,” Rita cried. “You’ve got to get to the ranch. Zibby called up, said the Sheriff himself is arresting Bea right as I speak. For murder. Arresting her for Austin’s murder like she’s a common criminal and not the town matron hosting the largest party this side of Dallas.” She remained in the doorway, arms splayed across the opening, one hand gripping the door, the other the frame. “Can you believe it?”
    I could not believe it. Considering Bea’s husband, Austin Carter, died of a heart attack over a month ago. I grabbed the tee my hand rested on and shoved it at Gilda. “I’ll take this one.”
    She pulled it off the hanger in one swift move. “You can change right through there, and don’t worry about paying. We’ll settle up later.”
    I ducked behind a curtain into a makeshift dressing room and threw on the tee. A red crewneck with bold blue letters spelling out “I Love Texas” with a ginormous heart around the word love.
    Rita offered to toss my stained shirt back into my room as we rushed up the sidewalk. “I’ve been best friends with Kathy Lee, that’s Bea’s daughter, since we were toddlers crawling around the big oak tree. Bea’s like a second mother to me. Please tell them I’ll be by as soon as I get someone to cover the inn.”
    She started back inside when I grabbed her arm. “Can you call me a taxi?”
    â€œOh mercy me, we don’t have taxi service. Used to have the trolley, but not since two seasons ago. I lent the truck out this morning, but you can take my scooter.” She dug the keys from her pocket and handed them to me. “It’s round the side there.”
    â€œThanks, Rita. And where am I going?”
    â€œStraight up Oak Street, round the oak tree, can’t miss it.”
    I jogged over to the far side of the gift shop and indeed, there was a vintage Vespa with chipped turquoise paint and a yellow helmet. As soon as I fastened the chin strap, I zipped down the brick road at a perky twenty-five miles an hour. The sun baked my skin so quickly, it was like riding through the Sahara on an electric camel.
    The rows of desolate shops ended about a quarter mile into my ride, replaced by wide stretches of land with small subdivisions tucked behind a tree line on both sides of the road. Tall big top tents were going up in front of each set of trees. An army of workers hammered stakes and hoisted poles as if the circus had come to town, while another group set up tables down the center of the road.
    I weaved around the obstacle course of party planners, and a minute later saw the lone oak tree. It had to be taller than a three-story department store and nearly as wide. The tree sat in the middle of a well-tended garden bursting with fragrant summer roses and leafy purple kale.
    A wide iron gate fronted a drive on the other side, the words Broken Spoke in an arch above the entrance. I followed the winding drive a quarter mile and spotted Zibby sitting on a bench near the front door of a traditional white plantation house. Magnolias and crepe myrtles shaded an