Читать книгу Private Affairs - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 11

“GOOD MORNING, PENELOPE.”

Penelope looked up from where she was fiddling with the espresso machine and found the sheriff standing in the open doorway, his hat in his hands.

“Hey, Barnaby,” she said.

She closed the appliance door and pressed the button for brew, pretending everything was as they’d left it last night at the door to her grandmother’s house.

Only it wasn’t, was it? Everything had changed.

She cleared her throat and wiped down the counter although she’d already cleaned it.

“Everything all right?”

She glanced up to find Barnaby standing on the other side of the counter, a concerned expression on his handsome face.

She tried for a smile. “Everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”

“That Palmer DeVoe character hasn’t been giving you any trouble?”

She nearly laughed. Instead, she cleared her throat again. “No. Of course, not.”

But he was, wasn’t he? The instant Palmer DeVoe had driven back into town her life had been in utter chaos. Because she’d known at some point that their paths would cross. And all those old emotions would surface.

Only she’d had no idea they would burn so hot. So strong.

“The usual?” she asked.

Barnaby nodded. “Do you have any of those blueberry muffins your grandmother makes?”

“Of course. One or two?”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking some back to the station. So you’d better make it an even dozen.”

Penelope filled the travel cup he produced with vanilla roast coffee and then constructed a carton. “You know, you don’t have to keep doing this, Barnaby.”

“Doing what?”

“Coming by here every morning in order to throw some business my way.”

His grin was quick and bright.

“I mean, I appreciate it, but I’m okay until things start turning around here.”

“You think my morning visits are for charity purposes?”

She squinted at him. “Aren’t they?”

“And if I told you I come by to see you because my day goes better if I do?”

She put the muffins inside the box. “Then you don’t have to pay anything for that.”

He accepted his cup and the box. “And if I happen to like the coffee and the muffins?”

She leaned against the counter. “Then I’d say I hope to see you back here tomorrow.”

His chuckle was full and genuine. And she responded in kind.

Barnaby Jones was a great guy. He’d been a couple of years ahead of her in school. She’d known him not only because he’d been the star basketball player, but because he’d been half of an infamous couple: Barnaby and Barbara. One didn’t say one name without saying the other.

As was the case with most high school sweethearts, when they graduated, the two had married.

As was not the case with most high school sweethearts, after ten childless years, they divorced … and Barbie entered into a lesbian relationship with the local librarian, both of them living in an apartment over the diner across the street.

Of course, the town still buzzed with gossip every time one or the other of the former couple was spotted. “That poor Barnaby” was usually said about him. And “that Barbie woman” was usually said about her.

Penelope knew them both. And understood that there was no bad blood between them. They even got together for dinner once a month at the pub or diner, acting like old friends. Which was probably what they had been, even before they got married.

Penelope had asked Barbara once why she’d married Barnaby if she’d known she was gay. Her answer had been that there hadn’t been any other options. Until the librarian had moved to town, that is.

Now, Penelope smoothed her hair back and smiled. “It’s going to be another hot one, isn’t it?”

“You can say that again. The chief is already complaining about the fuel patrols are wasting by leaving the air conditioner in the cars running.” He looked toward the front door. “You want me to close that for you on the way out?”

She shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She took a deep breath. “It gets hot so seldom that I just want to enjoy it.”

“It never gets this hot.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

The radio handset hooked to his pocket gave off static. “Barnaby, you there?”

“Sorry, official business calls,” he said, giving Penelope an apologetic look. He turned slightly away and pressed the button to talk. “Sheriff here. What is it?”

“You coming back with those muffins anytime soon?”

Penelope laughed. “Real important business.”

After telling Dispatch that he’d return shortly, he turned back toward her. “Call you tonight at home?”

She immediately averted her gaze. “Sure.”

If he hesitated, he didn’t share the reason. He merely told her to have a nice day, and suggested she not leave the door open too long in case the old air conditioner she had was unable to cool the room, and then left.

She sighed, watching as he got into his patrol car parked outside and pulled away, giving her a small wave.

What in the hell was she going to do?

PALMER STOOD WATCHING the construction foreman drive off in the same direction as the previous truck, holding his breath briefly to keep from inhaling the dust he left in his wake. He hadn’t known John Nelson well, but he was familiar with his family. Their fathers had worked at the mill together and sometimes the two families would have barbeques with other mill workers’ families. He’d been happy to award him the foreman contract when a line fifty men deep had appeared outside the trailer door that first day. And they’d both put their heads together to put the rest of the forty-nine to work by month’s end.

So what in the hell had happened?

He stared at an unfamiliar car that had been parked on the other side of Nelson’s truck, blocking it from view until now. An upscale, late model that few in the small, blue-collar town would be able to afford.

Palmer turned toward the trailer and pulled open the door, not stopped until he stood staring at the man taking complete liberty behind his desk inside.

None other than Manolis Philippidis himself.

“No work here,” the older Greek said without looking up.

Palmer grimaced and rubbed his chin. “That’s funny, because I thought I was the one hired to say that.”

Manolis looked up. “Palmer!” He rose to his feet and edged around the desk to give him one of those halfhandshake, half-hug deals that Palmer found annoyingly noncommittal. Go one way or the other, was his take.

“What brings you to Earnest?” he asked, stepping back.