the same address.
“Yes. And you’re Mr. Barnes. We’ve met before.”
He blushed, a color that was incompatible with his orange freckles. “How’s that?”
“At my interview, remember?”
“Ah, yes!”
His relief was pitifully evident. But this cat had only begun to play with her mouse.
“Mrs. Barnes?” I pushed past him and all but dragged his wife into the house. “I’m Abigail Wiggins Timberlake. It’s so nice to meet you.”
That she regarded me suspiciously was understandable. I am, after all, not unpleasant to look at, and she was undoubtedly aware of her husband’s reputation.
Red looked around the room. “Miss Lilah here yet?”
I laughed appropriately. “Heavens no, you’re only the second board member to arrive.”
I had yet to let go of Marsha’s arm, and with only minimal tugging I steered her to the table. Red was right on our heels, probably the first time he’d stuck so close to his wife.
“What a terrible thing, Miss Troyan’s death,” I said, shaking my head. “Did you know her well, Mrs. Barnes?”
“Of course she didn’t know her,” Red growled.
“But I did know her,” Marsha Barnes said.
Red and I stared in surprise. “How?” he asked.
“She came to one of our Newcomers Club meetings.”
I was confused, and said so. I knew there was a group called Newcomers in town, but surely Marsha Barnes didn’t belong to it. She was as local as the trees on Mama’s lawn.
“But I’m originally from Lancaster,” Marsha protested. “I moved here only eighteen years ago, the year I met Red. As long as you renew your membership, they don’t care how long you’ve lived here.”
Now I understood why Marsha was in the Newcomers Club. Lancaster, South Carolina (not Pennsylvania!), is the next county over. It is also the name of the county seat. But for we South Carolinians—who are, by and large, a very sentimental lot—twenty miles may as well be two hundred. Any farther than that and one is, ipso facto, from out of state, in which case one would be inclined to join the Foreigners Club instead.
“Did you know her well?” I asked, trying not to lose track of my agenda.
She shook her head. “She seemed nice enough, but she only came once or twice. I remember her becausewe have a birthday drawing each month and she won the centerpiece. She was sitting next to me, but Judy Farewell was on my other side and we kinda got carried away talking about miniatures. But I could tell June was really moved, because she actually started to cry.”
“Women,” Red snorted.
I patted Marsha, who seemed pretty choked up herself. “Do you know if she made any friends?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I invited her to come to church with me, but she wasn’t a Baptist.”
“What was she?” Trust me, this is a perfectly acceptable question south of the Line.
“A Buddhist, I think. Like I said, we didn’t talk much.”
“No damned way,” Red snarled. “She was as white as grits.”
I was beginning to like the mousy, mysterious women who had come hurtling through the plate glass window of my shop. She obviously had been plucky, moving to a new state by herself. And intriguing, appearing out of nowhere as she did, covered in grime. Of course she was exotic, since Buddhists don’t grow on trees in Rock Hill. And then there was the thing with the Ming. If only I had waited on her out of turn.
The doorbell rang again, and I shoved the Barneses toward the dining room.
“The food is in there. Eat as much as you can and make my mama a happy woman.”
Marsha smiled, and I sensed that she was grateful to be here. The poor woman was clearly in need of social acceptance, if not friends. When I got all my ducks in a row, I’d give her a call. Maybe even sooner—before she came hurtling through my window as well.
Red must have sent his wife on ahead. Just as Ireached for the door, he grabbed my elbow. His grip was much harder than necessary.
“Why the nice
“Yes. And you’re Mr. Barnes. We’ve met before.”
He blushed, a color that was incompatible with his orange freckles. “How’s that?”
“At my interview, remember?”
“Ah, yes!”
His relief was pitifully evident. But this cat had only begun to play with her mouse.
“Mrs. Barnes?” I pushed past him and all but dragged his wife into the house. “I’m Abigail Wiggins Timberlake. It’s so nice to meet you.”
That she regarded me suspiciously was understandable. I am, after all, not unpleasant to look at, and she was undoubtedly aware of her husband’s reputation.
Red looked around the room. “Miss Lilah here yet?”
I laughed appropriately. “Heavens no, you’re only the second board member to arrive.”
I had yet to let go of Marsha’s arm, and with only minimal tugging I steered her to the table. Red was right on our heels, probably the first time he’d stuck so close to his wife.
“What a terrible thing, Miss Troyan’s death,” I said, shaking my head. “Did you know her well, Mrs. Barnes?”
“Of course she didn’t know her,” Red growled.
“But I did know her,” Marsha Barnes said.
Red and I stared in surprise. “How?” he asked.
“She came to one of our Newcomers Club meetings.”
I was confused, and said so. I knew there was a group called Newcomers in town, but surely Marsha Barnes didn’t belong to it. She was as local as the trees on Mama’s lawn.
“But I’m originally from Lancaster,” Marsha protested. “I moved here only eighteen years ago, the year I met Red. As long as you renew your membership, they don’t care how long you’ve lived here.”
Now I understood why Marsha was in the Newcomers Club. Lancaster, South Carolina (not Pennsylvania!), is the next county over. It is also the name of the county seat. But for we South Carolinians—who are, by and large, a very sentimental lot—twenty miles may as well be two hundred. Any farther than that and one is, ipso facto, from out of state, in which case one would be inclined to join the Foreigners Club instead.
“Did you know her well?” I asked, trying not to lose track of my agenda.
She shook her head. “She seemed nice enough, but she only came once or twice. I remember her becausewe have a birthday drawing each month and she won the centerpiece. She was sitting next to me, but Judy Farewell was on my other side and we kinda got carried away talking about miniatures. But I could tell June was really moved, because she actually started to cry.”
“Women,” Red snorted.
I patted Marsha, who seemed pretty choked up herself. “Do you know if she made any friends?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I invited her to come to church with me, but she wasn’t a Baptist.”
“What was she?” Trust me, this is a perfectly acceptable question south of the Line.
“A Buddhist, I think. Like I said, we didn’t talk much.”
“No damned way,” Red snarled. “She was as white as grits.”
I was beginning to like the mousy, mysterious women who had come hurtling through the plate glass window of my shop. She obviously had been plucky, moving to a new state by herself. And intriguing, appearing out of nowhere as she did, covered in grime. Of course she was exotic, since Buddhists don’t grow on trees in Rock Hill. And then there was the thing with the Ming. If only I had waited on her out of turn.
The doorbell rang again, and I shoved the Barneses toward the dining room.
“The food is in there. Eat as much as you can and make my mama a happy woman.”
Marsha smiled, and I sensed that she was grateful to be here. The poor woman was clearly in need of social acceptance, if not friends. When I got all my ducks in a row, I’d give her a call. Maybe even sooner—before she came hurtling through my window as well.
Red must have sent his wife on ahead. Just as Ireached for the door, he grabbed my elbow. His grip was much harder than necessary.
“Why the nice
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