Daughter of Ashes

THIRTEEN

‘And we meet, with champagne and a chicken, at last.’

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, ‘The Lover: A Ballad,’ 1748

Two weeks after the accident, with Rusty lying comatose in the hospital, it seemed odd to be pawing through my closet, worrying about what to wear to his mother’s fancy garden party. Neither Paul nor I were in a party mood.

‘I can’t believe she’s going ahead with it,’ I commented to my husband as I slid plastic hangers along the rod from one side of the closet to the other.

‘They aren’t allowing Rusty any visitors, Hannah, so I don’t see what more you can do.’

‘True,’ I mumbled into the sleeve of a ragged terrycloth bathrobe. ‘I’m definitely going to petition Naddie Bromley to bump Kendall Barfield off in her next crime novel.’

‘Therapeutic, no doubt,’ Paul chuckled.

‘Ah ha!’ I’d finally located the turquoise sundress I’d bought in Hawaii at a shop called Tropical Tantrums. I swirled it out of the closet like a matador’s cape and held it in front of me. ‘What do you think of this?’

‘Reminds me of a certain night on the beach at Kauai,’ Paul said, drawing me close, crushing the dress, still on its hanger, between us. ‘You were barefoot then, too, as I recall.’

I kissed him quickly, then shoved him playfully away. ‘Shoes. Where are the matching shoes?’ I fell to my knees and scrabbled around on the floor of the closet looking for the pair of turquoise beaded sandals the saleswoman at Tropical Tantrums had also talked me into.

Paul patted my butt affectionately. ‘You’ll be the belle of the ball.’

‘Hardly, dah’link, but you will,’ I said, moving my butt out of range and struggling to my feet, holding the shoes. ‘Why don’t you wear the barong tagalog Daddy brought you from the Philippines?’ I suggested, referring to the sheer white formal shirt that had been hand-loomed from pineapple fibers, then embroidered from mandarin collar to hem with delicate folk patterns. ‘With your tan…’ I fanned my face rapidly with my hand, then reached for a Hawaiian shirt he’d bought but never worn. ‘On second thought, wear this. In a barong you’d be too dangerous.’

Paul eyed the shirt – bright red with white hibiscus – critically. ‘Jeesh, Hannah, I’ll look like Magnum P.I. in this getup.’

I gave him a look. ‘And your point is?’

‘OK, OK. I can tell when I’m outnumbered.’ He tossed the shirt on the bed, then headed for the bathroom. ‘How is Rusty doing? Any word on his condition?’

‘Dwight tells me he’s still in the ICU, being kept in a medically-induced coma.’ I eased behind Paul – who was standing at the sink, waiting for the water to run hot so he could shave – and fumbled through my ditty bag, looking for my tweezers. Tweezers and magnifying mirror in hand, I sat down on the toilet seat lid and went to work on my eyebrows. ‘Rusty’s got a depressed skull fracture,’ I said, addressing my reflection. ‘The CT showed a temporal hematoma, so they had to go in and drain that. Now they’re watching for signs of infection and waiting for the swelling in his brain to go down.’

Paul slathered his face with shaving cream. ‘Too soon to tell is what you’re saying.’

I lay the tweezers down, watched my husband draw the razor slowly along his cheek. ‘I ran into Doc Greeley when I stopped by the hospital yesterday, and those were his words exactly.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘And all I could think of was please Lord, not another one.’

Because of our long association with the Navy, we knew several young officers who were suffering the long-term effects of traumatic brain injury: personality changes, inability to concentrate, slurred speech, confusion. Medical advances in the treatment of wounded warriors had improved the outcome for many victims of TBI, but the road to recovery could be rocky and long. ‘Rusty really needs our prayers,’ I said.

Paul held a washcloth under the hot water tap, wrung it out and used it to wipe the remaining shaving cream off his neck and ears. ‘Are the police any closer to tracking down the hit-and-run driver?’ he asked as he draped the washcloth over the edge of the sink to dry.

‘Not that I’ve heard.’ More or less satisfied with the state of my eyebrows, I tucked the tweezers and mirror away. ‘Every day since it happened, I’ve been replaying the scene in my head. The speeding car, the deliberate swerve…’

‘The driver might not have done it on purpose,’ Paul pointed out. ‘Maybe he was changing the radio station.’

‘Or texting,’ I added, although that was strictly against Maryland law, not that anyone was paying attention, from what I could observe. ‘Still,’ I said after a pause, ‘the farmer saw it all in his rearview mirror. I made quote marks in the air, “Asshole swerved sudden-like, run him off the road on purpose.” I tend to agree.’

‘Why would anyone want to hurt Rusty?’ Paul wondered aloud.

‘I’ve asked myself the same question. And when I asked Dwight, he was just as puzzled.’

‘Does Rusty have a girlfriend?’ Paul asked.

I remembered the brief text message I’d seen on Rusty’s phone back at the accident scene. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘A girl named Laurie wanted to meet him at the movies.’

‘The car you described seemed like a young man’s car to me,’ Paul said. ‘A rival for Laurie’s affections, perhaps?’

‘Seems a bit extreme in this day and age,’ I said. ‘Running someone’s motorcycle off the road. Cyber-bullying is more the style.’

I cast my mind back to the day of the accident. It had been Grand Central Station around Our Song that day. Workmen coming and going, reporters, cameramen, politicians, even the Fedex guy. Was it just bad luck that Rusty wasn’t wearing his helmet when he set out for town that day, or was that exactly what one of our visitors had intended? I shivered.

Paul noticed, and welcomed me into his arms.

Kendall’s estate, Tulip Point, was about two miles downstream from Our Song, situated on the point where Chiconnesick Creek met the Chesapeake Bay. Paul was still tinkering with the outboard engine on the runabout – it lay in a hundred pieces on the floor of the garage – so we had to drive the long way around, by land.

At a mailbox festooned with red, white and blue balloons, we turned right and proceeded down a paved avenue lined with ancient tulip poplars, their interlocking branches forming a covered archway over our heads. The alley stretched from the main road all the way down to a breathtaking mansion that dominated the point, surrounded by numerous outbuildings. The house bore the clear imprint of an architect’s hand. Five hexagonal pods sprawled over a tastefully landscaped hill, each pod connected to the next by a glass-enclosed passageway. To the left, several tiki-huts on the far side of a decorative iron fence indicated the presence of a swimming pool.

As for the outbuildings, I lost count. Just outside the main gate, a row of six, single-story cottages were arranged in a semi-circle – housing, I presumed, for the field hands and staff it must take to maintain the place. There was a stable for the horses and a barn for the decorator cows presently chewing their cuds in a disinterested way, considering us with soulful, liquid eyes from behind a white rail fence. ‘Do you suppose they were hired for the occasion?’ I asked my husband as we drove slowly by. ‘From Acme Rent-a-Cow?’

Paul laughed. ‘Or Cows-R-Us.’

One hundred yards further on, we were directed to park in a vacant field by a teenage boy wearing an orange vest, waving Day-Glo wands like a ground controller at BWI airport. We parked where instructed, locked the car, then followed several other party guests through an enormous, wrought-iron gate adorned with cattails and herons. A control box had been installed on the pillar to the left, but for today, at least, the electrically controlled gates stood wide open. Just inside, another teen, a girl this time, muttered ‘Ives, Ives, Ives,’ as she pawed through the name tags spread out on the table in front of her. There must have been a hundred of them, arranged in alphabetical order. Perhaps the A-B-C’s were a challenge for her.

‘Here we are,’ I said, helpfully touching my tag, which sat on the table immediately below the pair of nametags intended for Dwight and Grace Heberling.

‘Ah ha!’ the teen said, handing ours over. ‘Paul and Hannah. Welcome!’

‘I doubt they’ll be coming today,’ I said, indicating the Heberlings’ nametags.

The girl’s face clouded. ‘Isn’t it just awful?’

We agreed that it was.

‘Well,’ she chirped, ‘if they come they come, if they don’t they don’t.’

I clipped my tag to the strap of my sundress. ‘There!’ I said, patting the plastic holder. ‘We’re official.’

Paul and I stood by the table for several moments, looking around, scanning the guests for somebody – anybody – we knew, while the sweet smell of mesquite and barbecued ribs drew us inexorably forward. A jazz combo – sax, trumpet, bass guitar and drums – played on a raised platform in the formal garden which had been decorated for the occasion with Chinese lanterns.

I inclined my head toward Paul. ‘There’s our hostess. I recognize her from her pictures.’

‘Damn!’ Paul muttered under his breath. ‘Has the woman been Photoshopped?’

Kendall, perfect in every conceivable way, stood next to one of two long buffet tables where uniformed staff were fussing with Sterno tins and chafing dishes. As blustery as it was that day, even the wind didn’t dare mess with her impeccably styled platinum hair. She wore a white, ankle-length linen skirt and a white crochet sweater. A silk scarf was looped casually around her neck – Hermes, if I wasn’t mistaken – festooned with interlocking Escher-esque horse heads in gray and black. The ends flapped cheerfully in the breeze as she issued instructions to her staff.

‘I’ll have to be nice to her, I suppose. Fran tells me that Kendall is donating the office space we need to process the documents from the courthouse basement, plus two computers and a telephone.’

Paul, who had been eyeing the buffet tables hungrily, turned to me. ‘That’s generous of her. Why?’

I shrugged. ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea. Maybe it’s a tax write off? I can’t imagine Kendall doing anything out of the pure goodness of her heart.’

‘Where is it? The office space, I mean.’

‘In town. Directly over the old drug store.’

Paul leaned close. ‘Maybe she has a tenant she needs to evict.’

Suddenly he whistled, long and low.

My head spun around. ‘If that wolf whistle is for Kendall Barfield, Professor Ives, you’re a dead man.’

Paul chuckled, then pointed. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s a classic Cris Craft sedan cruiser, Hannah. What a beauty!’

I followed the line of his arm all the way down to the far end of the dock where a large cabin cruiser was tied. Even I, who knew precious little about boats and was usually invited on board simply to serve as ballast, was impressed with the vessel’s gleaming white hull, the mirror-like varnish on the exposed woodwork. The vessel’s name, Liquid Asset, was painted in fancy gold script on the transom. Standing watch at the head of the gangplank was a young server dressed in nautical attire. Clearly, the cruiser was meant to be part of the picnic venue because another, smaller bar had been set up in its cockpit.

Paul nudged me with his elbow. ‘Let’s go check it out.’

‘No, you go, sweetheart. I just spotted Caitlyn. While you drool all over the boat I’ll have a nice chat with her.’

I watched Paul stride off, long-limbed and lean, appreciating the view. Then I headed for the bar where Caitlyn waited in line, dressed in a sundress splashed with bright red poppies.

‘Hi, Caitlyn,’ I said, coming up behind her. ‘Love the dress.’

Caitlyn turned, smiled and grabbed my hand. ‘I’m so glad you came, Hannah.’ She squeezed my hand to punctuate the ‘so,’ then dropped it to adjust one of the straps that had slid off her shoulder. ‘Glad you like the dress. What do you think of the manicure?’ She extended her hand and waggled her fingers in my direction. Each nail had been lacquered with a red, white and blue American flag.

‘Oooh, patriotic!’ I gushed.

Caitlyn beamed, basking in my approval. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘Seems like a nice day for white wine.’

‘Coming up. Chardonnay, Sauvignon blanc, Riesling, Pinot Grigio or Viognier?’

‘An embarrassment of riches.’ I chuckled, considered the choices then asked for a Viognier, gently correcting her French. ‘Vee-on-yay. The “g” is silent.’

‘Everything is silent in French,’ she said with a good-natured grin. ‘Take hors d’oeuvres, for example. Crazy language. That’s why I took Spanish. Actually comes in handy these days, what with all the migrant workers.’

‘Speaking of hors d’oeuvres,’ I said, collecting my wine, ‘it looks like the appetizer table has just opened up.’

‘What are we waiting for, then?’ Caitlyn led the way, wobbling a bit on a pair of red high-heeled sandals that poked holes in Kendall’s perfectly groomed lawn.

We grazed along the table’s length. I piled my plate high with brie on crusty bread, a couple of crab balls, a generous portion of steamed shrimp and – just to show I was being health-conscious – a small stack of cut up vegetables.

‘Where’s your husband?’ Caitlyn wondered, using her fingers to pick up a giant olive stuffed with garlic and pop it into her mouth.

I waved a carrot stick, dangerously dripping ranch dressing. ‘Down at the dock, checking out the Cris Craft.’

Caitlyn gazed over my shoulder and frowned. ‘That’s not all he’s checking out.’

Curious, I turned. After a moment I spotted Paul’s red flowered shirt. He stood in the cockpit of the cruiser, talking to Kendall Barfield. As I watched, Kendall reached out and laid a hand on my husband’s arm. ‘I’m counting to five,’ I said, skewering a shrimp with a toothpick and dragging it through the cocktail sauce. ‘And if she hasn’t taken her hand off my husband by then, I’m going to lob this in her ultra-white direction.’

‘Ooooh,’ Caitlyn said. ‘Can I watch?’

Silently, I glared. One, two, three…

Fortunately for Kendall, by the time I got to four, Paul had slipped out of her grasp. He turned and said something to the bartender, who twisted the caps off a couple of long-necked beers and passed them over. Paul gave one of the beers to Kendall, they clinked the bottles together then each took a sip.

‘What the hell are they toasting to?’ Caitlyn wondered aloud.

‘I was wondering the same thing.’ Silently fuming, I watched as Kendall continued to monopolize my husband. I silently cheered when a guy wearing blue Bermuda shorts and a saffron polo shirt joined their little circle. Kendall graced him with an imperial nod, then completely ignored the newcomer until he shrugged and wandered away. ‘I’m sure Paul will tell me all about it when we get home.’

‘He better,’ Caitlyn muttered into her wine. ‘Bitch.’

I laughed. ‘Paul’s a big boy, Caitlyn. He can handle it,’ I assured her with absolute confidence. I should know. Nearly a decade ago, Paul had been totally impervious to an attempt by a female midshipman to seduce him in a case that had nevertheless severely tested our marriage.

‘I almost bought that scarf,’ Caitlyn said wistfully as a man I recognized as Councilman Jack Ames drifted into Kendall’s charmed circle. ‘It was a limited edition.’ She drained her wine glass and set it down on a nearby tray where it wobbled unsteadily, then fell over. ‘They had it in the window at Lulu’s.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ I asked. ‘Buy it, I mean.’

‘Kendall grabbed it first.’

Juggling my plate in one hand and my wine glass in the other was getting to be a challenge. I nodded toward one of the tall circular tables that had been set up around the yard, each wrapped in a white tablecloth, its ends gathered and secured against the wind around the pedestal with red, white and blue ribbon. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Sure,’ Caitlyn said. Then, ‘Wait a minute. There’s somebody I’d like you to meet – Mindy Silver. She runs Silver Farms, one of the few independent chicken farmers left in the county.’

I turned. ‘Where?’

‘The blonde, standing at one of the tables near the bar. Wearing the red-and-white striped top.’

‘Ah,’ I said, spotting the woman immediately. ‘She kinda looks like a farmer.’ Medium height and solid, Mindy Silver was built straight up and down, like a tree. Her skin was deeply tanned and her dark blonde hair hung loose, just touching her shoulders. From the ragged way her bangs marched across her forehead, I guessed she had trimmed them herself.

The combo had just wrapped up a sixties set with a rousing cover of the Beach Boys classic, ‘Good Vibrations,’ when Caitlyn dragged me over and introduced me to Mindy. Then she waggled her fingers, said, ‘Toodle-oo,’ and tottered off.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, feeling slightly abandoned.

‘Likewise.’

‘Gorgeous day for a picnic, isn’t it?’

‘Yup.’

I decided to fall back on my stock of inoffensive ice-breakers. ‘So, Mindy, do you work outside the home?’

‘I raise chickens.’

‘On a large scale?’

‘Depends on your point of view, I suppose.’

‘Ah, so I guess you have to deal with one of the local chicken processors?’

‘Used to.’

‘And you don’t anymore?’

‘Life’s short.’

Apparently, the only way I was going to pry a conversation out of Mindy Silver was with a crowbar. I was thinking about wandering off to get a refill for my wine when she surprised me by saying, ‘Have you heard of Clifton Farms?’

‘You bet,’ I told her. ‘When the grandkids were visiting, I bought a family-sized package of their drumsticks at Acme. Still have some thighs in the freezer, although my husband is much more of a breast man, if you know what I mean.’ When she didn’t comment, I added, ‘So you raise chickens for Clifton Farms?’

‘Once upon a time.’

Although I was curious about Mindy’s apparently troubled relationship with Clifton Farms, I sensed that she didn’t want to go there – at least not yet – so I took a different tack. ‘I prefer organic chicken, raised without hormones or antibiotics. For health reasons, I’m careful about the meat I buy,’ I told her. ‘In the case of chickens, they pump them up with hormones, and what for? So they get big…?’

‘Breasts!’ she said, finishing the sentence for me. ‘We are what we eat. End of story. Folks who believe that hormones don’t move down the food chain and into our bodies probably also believe that aliens built the pyramids.’

I laughed. ‘As a breast cancer survivor, I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Girls getting their periods at seven or eight!’ Mindy screwed up her lips with distaste. ‘There’s gotta be a connection. I’ve heard about you, you know,’ Mindy said a moment later, tipping her beer bottle in my direction.

‘All good, I hope,’ I said, setting my wine glass down on the table so I could concentrate on the food still heaped on my plate.

Mindy grinned, exposing impeccably white but slightly crooked teeth. ‘Mostly. You’re the gal who witnessed Rusty Heberling getting run off the road, aren’t you?’

I admitted that I was.

Mindy frowned darkly and shook her head. ‘So, he’s in a coma, and his mother’s having a freaking party. Disgusting.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘she’s not the one sitting twenty-four seven at his bedside, that’s for sure. That would be his stepmother, Grace.’

‘Grace.’ Mindy delivered the name on a sigh. ‘The most selfless person I know. When she’s not organizing a fundraiser for the church she’s volunteering at the county animal shelter.’

‘So, tell me about your chicken farm,’ I said, eager to direct the conversation away from poor Rusty. ‘Frankly, it sounds like a lot of work.’

‘True. Bought the place through Kendall, fourteen, fifteen years ago. Don’t know why she keeps inviting me to her shindigs, but once a customer, always a customer, I suppose.

‘Speaking of which,’ Mindy continued, ‘where’s our hostess? I’ve drunk two of her beers, already – good stuff, too – but I haven’t seen her yet.’

Since Paul had extricated himself from the woman’s clutches, I’d kept my eye on Kendall. ‘She’s over there,’ I informed Mindy. ‘Uh, talking to the saxophone player.’

I wouldn’t have described what I was observing as ‘talking.’ From the stiffness of her back and the way her hands were flailing about, Kendall was giving the poor musician a piece of her mind. The sax player opened his mouth to say something, but judging by the speed by which it snapped shut she must have silenced him with a death ray.

‘Maybe she got dumped at the prom while that song was playing,’ Mindy mused, taking a pull from the bottle. ‘Poor sax.’

‘Now if I were holding that sax…’ I paused, realizing it might be the Viognier talking. ‘Sorry. With my luck, Kendall’s probably your best friend.’

‘Oh, I can’t stand her, nobody can… well, almost nobody.’ Mindy seized the last morsel of meat on a spicy barbequed rib with her teeth, pulled it off, looked around, chewing thoughtfully, then tossed the bone over her shoulder and into the boxwood. She licked her fingers appreciatively. ‘I’m just here for the freebies.’

‘Flat-screen TVs, I heard.’

‘Last year, yeah. Year before that it was weekends for two at Dover Downs.’ She snorted. ‘Some freebie that was. Doug blew four hundred dollars on the slots. Thank you so much for that.’

I laughed, as I was probably meant to. ‘You’re good friends with Caitlyn, I gather?’

‘BFFs.’ Mindy crossed her fingers. ‘Like that. Wish I had bought the farm from her rather than Kendall over there, but Caitlyn wasn’t in the biz back then.’ Mindy leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Kendall’s not happy with my mouth.’

Mouth?

‘Neither is Mr Chicken à la King over there.’

I must have looked puzzled. Mindy had begun gnawing on another rib and used it now as a pointer, aiming it at the buffet table. ‘Over there, the guy in the blue seersucker suit?’

‘The one picking through the fried chicken with the tongs?’

‘Yeah. That’s Clifton Ames. Owns Clifton Farms. It’s the third largest chicken processing plant in the state. Biggest in the county. That’s probably his chicken.’ She guffawed. ‘A little late to do quality control, old man.’

‘I’ve seen his billboards.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Clifton Ames to Please,’ I said, drawing quote marks in the air. ‘Puh-leeze!’

‘Groan-worthy, for sure, Hannah, but less likely to be lost in translation if the company ever decides to go global. Hace falta un tipo duro para hacer un pollo tierno, you know.’

‘Help,’ I said, tapping my chest with a thumb. ‘French major.’

‘Ah, well. You know Frank Perdue, the “it takes a tough man to make a tender chicken” guy?’

I nodded. The poultry cases of grocery stores world-wide were filled with shrink-wrapped packages of tender Perdue chicken parts. Perdue, up in Hurlock, Maryland, would have to be Clifton Farms’ biggest competitor.

‘Well, I hear tell that the slogan got terribly mangled when it appeared on billboards all over Mexico. Roughly translated, it said, “It takes a hard man to make a chicken aroused.”’

I inhaled wine, coughed, then laughed so hard the wine spilled over the rim of my glass and dribbled down my hand.

Mindy laughed, too, whether at my dilemma or her own humorous anecdote, it was hard to say. ‘As I said earlier, I used to be a contract farmer for Clifton Farms, twelve years, but no more.’

‘Why not?’ I asked once I’d caught my breath.

‘It’s a bum business,’ she said. ‘A chicken house costs around a quarter of a million to build and we were realizing only about nine thousand dollars a year from it.’

Chicken houses peppered Maryland’s eastern shore – long, narrow structures built like miniature airplane hangars. ‘I’m not much of a businesswoman,’ I said, ‘but that doesn’t sound like a good return on investment to me.’

‘It isn’t, unless you’re in it for the long haul. Believe it or not there are over seven hundred contract chicken farmers in Maryland, but I’m no longer one of ’em.

‘Do you realize,’ she continued as she snagged two glasses of sangria from a passing server and handed one to me, ‘contract chicken farmers don’t own anything. The newly hatched chicks are delivered, you feed ’em what they send you – you’re not even allowed to know what’s in the fricking feed – and seven weeks later, the chicken catchers come and haul ’em away. You own nothing… well, except for the dead ones.’

‘So how does a chicken farmer make money?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘You get paid by the weight gain of the flock.’ She drained her glass of sangria in one long gulp and set the empty glass down on the pedestal table. ‘But it wasn’t just the money, Hannah. I honestly care about the chickens! When my contract came up for renewal, and I balked, Clifton Ames visited me personally. He wanted me to make a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of “improvements” to my chicken houses.’ She drew quote marks in the air with her fingers. ‘“Improvements,” my foot. He wanted me to entirely enclose them.’ She paused, then rocked back on her heels. ‘Can you imagine?’ She waved a server over and snagged another sangria. ‘So I told him to pound sand. My chickens live the way a normal chicken lives, running around outside, scratching in the dirt and eating bugs and grass.’

‘So they die happy?’

‘Hah! No, they live a long, happy life, for a chicken. I sell eggs. I turned out to be a big disappointment to Clifton Ames,’ she added. ‘Thought he’d put me out of business, force me to sell out like so many other farmers in the county did. But I called the bastard’s bluff,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to eggs, poached, scrambled or fried.’

As Mindy Silver talked, I’d been following Clifton Ames as he wandered away from the buffet table to the bar and down the dock, shaking hands with partygoers all along the way. In his light blue seersucker suit, white shirt and white shoes, and wearing a white fedora over his snow-white hair, he was easy to track as he wound his way among his more colorfully attired friends and acquaintances.

‘He’s limping a little,’ I observed. ‘Looks kind of frail.’

‘Hah! Don’t let that fool you. He may be in his seventies but, trust me, nobody… nobody in this county messes with Big Chicken. Ooops,’ she continued, ducking her head. ‘Look out. He’s coming our way.’

In spite of his doddering gait, Clifton Ames closed the distance between us in four seconds flat. He extended his hand. ‘I have it on good authority that you are Hannah Ives.’

‘Guilty.’ I gave him my hand but instead of shaking it he raised it to his lips and planted a damp kiss on the back of it. I suppressed a shudder. He acknowledged Mindy with a nod. ‘Welcome to Tilghman County, Mrs Ives. I look forward to meeting your husband.’

‘He’s down at the dock admiring Liquid Asset,’ I said.

Ames turned his head to look. Something about the man seemed familiar and I realized with a jolt that his profile resembled that of the politician, Jack Ames. Father and son?

‘Ah.’ Ames’s white, flyaway eyebrows did a little dance. ‘Much to admire in that. Did you come here by boat?’ he asked, indicating the raft-ups of Whalers, Bayliners and other small craft including a couple of jet skis that bobbed along the dock next to Liquid Asset like baby ducklings.

‘No, the engine is on the fritz,’ I explained with a rueful grin. ‘Maybe next time.’

‘There you are!’ a familiar voice chirped. Caitlyn was back. She looped her arm through mine. ‘I found your husband. He sent me off to look for you. He says he’s hungry, and would you be kind enough to join him for dinner.’

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I said, feeling guilty for abandoning Mindy with Clifton Ames, although based on our conversation, I was confident she could handle it. ‘Mindy, Mr Ames, it’s been fun talking to you.’

‘Good luck, Caitlyn,’ Mindy called after us as Caitlyn led me away through the crowd.

Caitlyn glanced back at her friend. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’

‘Good luck with what?’ I wanted to know, matching my steps with hers.

Caitlyn leaned her head closer to mine. ‘Kendall’s about to make some announcements. Stick around and see who’ll be going to Cancun this year.’

I stopped short. ‘You?’

Caitlyn grinned and thumbed her chest. ‘Top agent! And don’t you forget it!’