“You found a dress, didn’t you?”
Dee nodded. “Trimmed all over with rickrack, which I bet is the first time anyone’s used that word in this century.”
“Good. I got a shirt from the mercantile, which scored points with Verity.” Jeff rose to standing, with much difficulty. “I bet when we’re ‘in costume,’ like you showbiz people say, we’ll find our square-dance-loving characters.”
* * *
Jeff’s assumption proved right. The next night, once Dee slipped into her late grandmother’s dress—a becoming shade of sage green, with a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt that twirled out when Dee spun around in front of the mirror—she found herself looking forward to the dance. She loved how the green of the dress complemented her hazel eyes and the nipped waist accentuated her small waist, while the skirt and petticoats hid the hips and bottom where she carried about ten extra pounds.
She arrived at the hoedown on the arm of Jeff, who looked dashing in his black Western shirt, black jeans, and purple bolotie. The energy in the barn was infectious and Dee found herself bobbing along with the bluegrass tunes being sawed out by the fiddler, banjo player, and guitarist, who comprised the event’s small square dance band. “This is like that old TV show Hee Haw,” Dee said. “And I mean that as a compliment. I’ve seen clips of it and everyone looks like they’re having such a good time.”
The folksy space was lit by strands of incandescent string lights, which bathed the festivities in a warm light. One side of the barn featured a lineup of wooden tables laden with donated dishes prepared by the locals. Beverages, including a giant punch bowl, sat on tables lining the opposite wall. The dance floor took up most of the center space, with tables for dining clustered at the barn’s far end.
“Well, hey there, you two!”
The mystery of this cheery greeting coming from Dee’s archenemy, Verity Gillespie, was instantly solved by the flirty smile the shopkeeper bestowed on Jeff.
“Ooh,” she fawned. “Didn’t I tell you that shirt was made for you?”
“You did,” Jeff said, puffing out his chest.
Dee managed to squelch an eye roll. “You look very pretty,” Dee said to Verity, going with the moment. “I love your nails. And your dress.”
“Thank you.” Verity twirled. Her bright orange dress, trimmed in lace and gold rickrack, splayed out, revealing layers of color-coordinated petticoats. Then she held out her hand to give Dee a closer look at her nails, which were a blinding orange with miniature gold rickrack painted on each tip. “It’s like the kids say, ‘Go big or go home.’ ”
“Well, you sure went big,” Dee said.
“Um-hmm.” Verity’s vague response sent the message she wasn’t sure this was a compliment. She hooked her arm around Jeff’s free arm. “You mind if I steal your business partner? I made my famous cowboy casserole and I want to make sure he gets a serving before it’s all gone.”
“Go for it.” Dee gestured for the two to take off, and Verity escorted an annoyingly willing Jeff to the buffet.
Dee scanned the crowd. The dance hadn’t begun, so most partygoers were several people deep at the food and beverage tables. She saw Elmira and Raul, who waved to her. She returned the wave with a smile, then eyeballed a cluster of familiar faces hovering near the punch bowl. Restauranteur Liza, trainer Shawn, contractor Brian, and real estate agent Jonas were deep in conversation. Each wore a different expression, none pleasant.
Jonas happened to glance toward Dee. The look of concern he’d worn a second earlier disappeared, replaced by a smile. Dee doubted it was sincere, but didn’t care. She grabbed it as an invitation to join them, whether they liked it or not. And judging by Shawn’s glower when she waved and started toward them, at least one of the four did not.
On her way over, she passed Marisa. The agent’s assistant, who was typing on a tablet, had apparently not received the dress code memo. No square dance clothing kitsch for her; she was attired in funereal black from head to toe.
“Hi, Marisa,” Dee said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m here for Callan,” she said without looking up, per usual. “He wants to move from agenting to producing and asked me to check this out to see if we can turn it into something. I’m thinking maybe a horror film.”
Dee heard a half giggle/half cackle and turned to see Verity ratcheting up the flirting with Jeff by twirling so hard she exposed her lace square dance panties. “I think you might be onto something,” she said to Marisa.
Dee arrived at the punch bowl to find only Liza still there. The women exchanged greetings and sincere compliments on their outfits. Liza looked stunning in an aqua dress that was as simple as a square dance dress could be.
“Do you want some punch?” she offered. “It’s alcohol-free, but there’s a big selection of booze under the table if you want to spike it.”
Dee laughed. “I’ll pass on spiking it, but I’ll take a cup.”
“You got it.”
Liza dipped the ladle into the bowl and filled a cup. The crowd around the beverage table grew larger. Someone jostled her and the liquid in the cup sloshed over the edge. “Darn. I overfilled it. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. You can’t have too much punch.”
As Dee took the cup from Liza, she felt herself crowded in on both sides and almost lost her grip on it. “Maybe we should move away from here.”
“Good idea. They’re about to start the dancing anyway.” Dee and Liza left the beverage area and stood at the edge of the dance floor. The caller had positioned himself on the stage. Dee’s good mood took a hit when she saw the caller was none other than Chief District Ranger Tom O’Bryant. He wore a Western shirt in two shades of brown, with pearled snaps holding on for dear life against his potbelly. His jeans were held up by a belt featuring a giant buckle shaped like a steer’s head, and a ten-gallon hat sat atop his round head.
“Can I get a yeeha?” he roared into the mic.
“Yeeha!” the crowd roared back.
Dee joined in the fun, but the thick air in the barn was beginning to get to her. She felt clammy and slightly woozy. “You sure that punch wasn’t spiked?” she asked Liza.
“Positive,” the restauranteur responded. “Verity would issue a lifetime ban on me if I disobeyed the rules.”
The band struck up a lively tune and O’Bryant called the dancers to the floor. Jonas Jones appeared at Dee’s side. “You up for dancing?”
“Sure,” Dee said, making a halfhearted attempt to convince herself she was saying yes because it offered an opportunity for one-on-one time with a suspect, and not because the real estate agent was ridiculously handsome.
Jonas glanced Jeff’s way. “I’m not gonna get in trouble with your boyfriend, am I?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dee said. “He’s basically my brother from another mother. And props to you for extracting that info from me, even if the approach was a little clunky.”
Jonas threw back his head and laughed, then took Dee’s hand and led her onto the dance floor. They joined three other couples, one of whom was Verity and Jeff. Dee shot him a look that said, You’re having too much fun to actually be investigating, but he ignored her.
The fiddler launched into a peppy tune and the other musicians joined in. “Dancers, honor your partner,” Ranger O’Bryant called. Jonas bowed to Dee, who responded with a curtsy, which she assumed was the old-fashioned move on the woman’s part. “Now, honor your corner,” O’Bryant instructed.
