Free Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) by Gretchen Archer Page A

soon enough. When I met the Jennings, in fact. (Right?) I was already seated in a dark corner and on my second glass of Calm Down Chardonnay when the waiter led Missy and Redmond Jennings to the table. They were ten minutes late to dinner, but had already arrived on my phone. I had four photos of them huddled up with Cassidy Banking. These were the people Fantasy suggested we take a look at. (Check. I’m looking.) And that trumped the chocolate milk panic. Not that there won’t be hell to pay on the fur coat business.
    “Please,” I said over salads. “Tell me about yourselves.”
    “Red has a little farm? Right?” Missy flagged down the waiter and asked for more Ranch dressing. “And I’m a dancer? I have a dance studio?” Jazz hands.
    “Lovely.” I smiled. “What do you grow, Red?” Other than hair on your chest.
    “Trees,” he finally spoke. “Christmas trees.”
    I had no idea there was that much money in Christmas trees.
    Quinn was their only child. Missy willingly volunteered between bites of a well-done petite filet that her son was a slip-up after a high school football game, which I knew first-hand was just part and parcel of an Alabama heritage. “That game went into overtime? Right? And next thing we knew? A bundle of baby boy?” Jazz hands. They traveled often, mostly to Vegas until the Montecito closed, so boarding school was the right place for their son. “Can’t leave them home alone? Right? And we still act like teenagers? Right, Red?” Red winked at his wife. “There’s nothing for Quinn to do in Alabama but get in trouble? Right?”
    According to his school records, Quinn had found plenty of trouble in New Hampshire, and according to the school’s annual report, Missy and Red Jennings weren’t too offended, because they were Diamond Donors. Their hefty donations fell in line right behind Quinn’s misconducts.
    At the end of my second dinner on what should have been my wedding night, I thanked them again for giving Thomas a ride, wished them luck with the Strike It Rich Sweepstakes, and as we stepped out of the restaurant, I casually asked them if they’d bumped into any old Montecito friends who’d transferred to the Bellissimo.
    “No.” The first word out of her mouth without a question mark. “We don’t know a soul who works here.”

SIX

      
    My family checked out of the Bellissimo at seven Sunday morning, stopped by our place for coffee, a light breakfast I did not cook (croissants from Dunkin Donuts and fresh frozen fruit from Dole), and to say goodbye to Bradley’s mother. Anne Cole’s car was gassed up and her packed bags were loaded. If it were up to me, it would’ve been running with the driver door open. We wished the whole lot of them happy trails and safe travels at 8:30. We locked the door behind them and agreed the dishes could wait.

SEVEN

      
    The biggest difference between Bellissimo Ballet Barre and every other workout since the beginning of workouts was you do this barefoot and the instructor has a foreign accent. Otherwise, it’s every yoga move you’ve ever seen plus seven thousands squats, all assumed from a standing position, hanging on to a waist-high bar for dear life, and at a mirror. The music is nice, if you can hear it over the British woman yelling, “Extend! Lift! Point!” She also said things like, “Relevé plié! Parallel plié pulse!” and “Embrace your inner ballerina!”
    Watching Baylor embrace his inner ballerina was well worth being here at six on a Monday morning. I doubt Baylor would ever, ever, ever let Little Sanders talk him into anything else. Ever.
    He was way overdressed in running tights and a long-sleeved microfiber shirt, and as a result, he was sweating like a boy pig. He was the only male in the small, hot room with fourteen small, hot cocktail waitresses, the British instructor, Hashtag Elspeth, Fantasy, and me. Fantasy rose above it all. At almost six feet, she was a head taller than the other waitresses,