honey, and all things eucalyptus, from candles and soap to shelf liners and lotion. I felt as if I’d stepped into a mini Mall of America.
“Listen to me, Marion, this will be the best decision you ever make. Trust me. It was too bad about Nora, but I believe things happen for a reason. Maybe Fate intended that you be the face of Infinity Inc., not Nora Acres.”
I looked over my shoulder to find Diana Squires directly in Nana’s face. Rolling my eyes at her persistence, I grabbed a jar of the famed Ligurian honey and marched over to them.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation, but Mom would love this.” I handed the jar to Nana. “I think you should buy it for her. And look, there’s no line at the cash register at the moment, so this is a good time to check out.”
Nana flashed me a grateful smile. “If there’s no waitin’, maybe I oughta buy two.” She shuffled off.
Diana crossed her arms, displeasure in her eyes. “You obviously don’t have your grandmother’s best interests at heart. Why are you holding her back? What are you afraid of? That she might start looking better than you?”
“Oh, please.” I whipped out the sympathy card. “While I have you here, can I get you to sign this?”
She scribbled her name and handed it back. “I hope you realize you’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Gift horses can have a lot of nasty side effects.”
“Infinity manufactures the safest products in today’s market. Ask anyone.”
“I could ask Nora Acres, but unfortunately, she’s no longer with us.”
Diana blinked erratically, as if her eyelids were collapsing beneath the weight of her liner. “Are you implying that an Infinity product may have been responsible for Nora’s death? Heath refused to let her sample any of our product! Who knows, maybe if he’d loosened up a little, she’d still be alive. When a woman is as old as she was, I think it’s criminally negligent to deny her treatment that could reverse the aging process.”
“She was only fifty-seven.”
Diana’s bottom lip sagged open, either from shock or an excess of gloss. “Get out of here. I’m fifty-seven. She was decades older than I am. Her face. Her hands.”
“Fifty-seven.”
“Holy shit, she must have led one hell of a hard life.”
“But a pretty quick death. You were there when it happened. Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Other than her dropping her glass and passing out? What is this? A roundabout way of asking me if I slipped her a deadly dose of face powder?”
I heard the click of a camera shutter. “Nice profile shot,” said Guy, as he checked his display screen.
“I told you to stop taking my picture!” Diana shouted. “What part of ‘Don’t take my picture’ can’t you understand?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Erase it.” She grabbed his camera. He slapped her hand.
“Get your paws off my equipment.”
“Erase it!”
He punched a button. “There. It’s gone.”
“Good. And so help me, if you ever try taking my picture again, I’ll smash your freaking camera and have you arrested. You got that? Now stay away from me.”
She stormed out of the shop. I raised my eyebrows. “Do you suppose this means she’ll be a no-show for the group photo at the end of the trip?”
Guy laughed good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t have kept the profile shot anyway. Her face came out blurry. All her shots have come out blurry. She has an annoying habit of moving just when I press the shutter. I’ve had to erase all the shots I’ve taken of her, not that I’d give her the satisfaction of telling her. It’s way too much fun ticking her off.”
“That is such a guy thing. Why do men enjoy ticking women off so much?”
“We don’t do it to all women, just the ones who overreact. Must be a control thing. You’re so levelheaded, I bet no man has ever succeeded in ticking you off.”
I smiled stiffly, thinking that two were getting dangerously close. I held my hand out for Guy’s camera. “Would you like your picture taken against a backdrop of authentic Aussie bush products?”
He twitched his mouth indecisively. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Emily. The world-famous photographer is even less photogenic than Diana Squires. Honest. In most of our family portraits I end up looking like roadkill in a mock turtleneck.”
“I bet my Dick takes a worse picture than you,” Helen Teig claimed as she browsed nearby. “You should see his passport photo. DICK! GET OVER HERE!” She cupped her