sandwich cookies by the door. She certainly dressed the part of PTA president. The beige linen shift and sandals with a heel gave her an air of authority. We all sat staring at each other for a moment and finally Nanci asked if there was a purpose to our visit. Dinah and I’d had no chance to discuss our strategy. I was hoping to somehow naturally bring up the wandering real estate agent. I was winging it and remembered her fuss about the Donahue house being registered as a location. “Dinah wanted to know if you’re still collecting signatures for your petition.”
Nanci’s sharp expression grew a little vague. “Signature’s for what?” I reminded her about her previous concern and a look of recognition came over her face.
“It’s not an issue anymore. Once they shoot the one scene in the yard, the house won’t be used again. Dan took it off the list.”
“I guess you know him pretty well,” I said, pointing at the case of Orioles cookies. Nanci suddenly got that deer-in-the-headlights look. “Ah, it’s a donation for the first bake sale of the season.”
“Bake sale? Whatever happened to homemade baked items?” I said remembering all the platters of chocolate chip cookie bars I had made for the bake sales when my sons went to Wilbur Elementary.
Nanci flicked something off one of her nails and leveled her gaze at me. “Nobody bakes anymore, or cooks, either. I know I certainly don’t have time.” She seemed to be getting impatient with us and I was afraid she was going to show us the door, but we were saved by the bell. Her cell phone rang. As soon as she answered, she made an apology and went into the other room.
“This is our chance to look around,” I whispered to Dinah. We began to check the various surfaces in the living room. There was a stack of mail on a stand by the door. I went through it quickly, thinking the pad could have gotten mixed in with it. “Dinah, look at this,” I said in a loud whisper. I held up an advertisement that pictured some fancy guns with the headline “Life Is Too Short for an Ugly Gun.”
Dinah’s eyes got wide when she read it, but then she took me over to the wall and pointed out a photo of Nanci and a man, both holding rifles and smiling. There was some kind of certificate below it for skeet shooting.
Both of us noticed the cream-colored crocheted wrap sitting on the edge of the sofa.
“Sorry, for the interruption,” Nanci said as she came back in the room. Dinah and I dropped back into our chairs with a thud. “Was there anything else?” Nanci asked. I noticed that she didn’t sit down, a definite sign she was looking to end our visit.
“Dinah was just saying that here she lives barely a half block from you and doesn’t know anything about you.” I smiled innocently. “So, are you married, divorced or what?”
“I’m married, but you probably haven’t seen my husband,” she said directing her comment at Dinah.” He’s the sales manager for a manufacturer up in Chatsworth and he’s on the road most of the time.”
“What do they manufacture?” Dinah said. I knew she was trying to keep the conversation going until I brought up the real estate agent.
“This and that,” she said. She stared directly at us. “What is it exactly that you’re here for?”
I picked up the wrap. “Do you crochet? We’re always looking for more Hookers,” I said.
It took a moment for it to compute. “You mean your crochet group that meets at the bookstore.” She punctuated it with a laugh as if it was an absurd idea. “I certainly have no time for handicrafts. I bought that from Kelly.”
“Then you were familiar with her online business,” I said. Nanci answered with an impatient sigh.
“No. She just showed me what she was selling. I just bought a few things—most of it was too expensive for me. She made a point that she used only very expensive yarn and made one-of-a-kind items.” Nanci picked up the wrap and showed us how there were beads spaced through it and the yarn, though the same color, changed texture. There was a moment of silence and I saw Nanci glance toward the door. Any second she was going to push us out.
I struggled for a topic that would grab her interest and buy me some more time. “It’s about Autumn,” I said. At the