Free 2 Double Dip by Gretchen Archer Page A

smiling gratuitously, scratching things that didn’t itch, and shuffling our feet. Our four escorts kept their distance, but escorted nonetheless. We checked out their surveillance and exchanged a look agreeing that they had as much, if not more, spying going on than at the Bellissimo. Granny finally emerged, smelling like a hooker.
    “THEY’VE GOT EVERYTHING IN THERE, DAVIS. LINEN TEA TOWELS, DIPPITY-DO, AND WIND SONG.”
    “What’s dippity-do?” Fantasy took a giant step back.
    “She means hair spray,” I said.
    “What’s wind song?” Fantasy fanned her face.
    “PERFUME.”
    Fantasy sneezed.
    “I feel like shopping,” I said.
    “Let’s do it.” Fantasy shot off.
    We bypassed the book section that featured the church’s two bestselling authors: Marion Beecher and God. We zipped through Casual Apparel, men’s on our right, ladies’ left, with Granny between us, and stopped near the front of the store to look around. I spotted security linebackers out of the corners of both eyes. So Help Me God’s Emporium had case after case of fine jewelry, gold, silver, and platinum pen sets, engraved this and that, and crystal everything: praying hands, miniatures of the main sanctuary, and busts of the Reverend Beecher. I turned to a different gray-suited salesgirl. “Are there photographs of the pastor?”
    “Oh, absolutely!”
    “Is there anything that tells the history of the church?” Fantasy asked.
    “Oh, absolutely!”
    We followed her, turned a corner, and found ourselves in a shrine to the Reverend. His likeness was on T-shirts, coffee mugs, and oven mitts.
    The salesgirl checked us out. “Cash or charge?”
    “Cash.” Fantasy and I said it together.
    The girl wrapped and bagged our purchase, explained the no-refund-no-return policy, and sprinkled some blessings on us. We could not get Granny in the back seat fast enough. We couldn’t get out of the parking lot fast enough, and we couldn’t get out of town fast enough. We didn’t lose our black-sedan tail until we were safely on I-85 on our way back to Pine Apple to drop off Granny and pick up Fantasy’s small child before heading home to Biloxi.
    We pulled over at an IHOP to unwrap our gift.
    We found what we were looking for on page 277. A small photograph.  In it, Marion Beecher sat on a throne. Bold script cut through his middle: Pastor Beecher. Below it: God Bless. Crossed hands rested on his left shoulder. Attached to the hands, standing, was a perfectly preserved, stylishly dressed middle-aged woman. The wife. On the hem of her skirt in dainty cursive: Praise Him, Helen. On the other side of the reverend were two adults. The feminine handwriting across both their middles read In His Name, The Maffinis, Peyton & LeeRoy. Except it wasn’t the Maffinis, Peyton & LeeRoy. It was Peyton Reynolds, Bianca’s AWOL personal assistant, and Matthew Thatcher, our own Mr. Microphone.
    We stared at it for the longest.

    *     *     *

    The traffic through Montgomery had doubled.
    “It’s not too hard to connect these people to each other.” I used my fingers to tick off a list. “Matthew Thatcher was a preacher before he worked at the Bellissimo, he was married to Peyton, who is a preacher’s daughter, and he’s related to the little old lady who loves slot tournaments. I guess our job,” I scratched my head, “is to figure out what they’re up to at the Bellissimo.”
    Fantasy sneezed three times in a row.
    “GASUNDHEIT.”
    Fantasy pulled up the hem of her shirt and was dabbing her eyes with it.
    “Are you crying about this?” I asked.
    “No, Davis.” Her eyes were red, swollen, and pouring. “That perfume of Granny’s is killing me.” We drove the rest of the way with most of the fourteen car windows down. The polluted air felt good.
    “Are you okay back there, Granny?” Her blue hair was airborne.
    “IT’S PONDS COLD CREAM,” she said. “I SWEAR BY IT.”

EIGHT

    I spent my first night in our new condo alone. It was a