Dead Perfect
“Afternoon, Miss Black,” Hewitt said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Forgive the inconvenience,” Hewitt said. “We were hoping to get an interview.”
Shannah glanced at Overstreet, then back at Hewitt. “Don’t tell me you’re a reporter, too.”
Hewitt nodded.
“And you came here together? Why? Do you work for the same paper?”
“No,” Hewitt said smoothly. “We’re more like friendly rivals and since we both wanted a story, we thought we’d save some money and rent a car together. Talking to the two of us will save you time, you know?”
“Who is it, dear?” Verna asked, coming up behind Shannah.
“Reporters, Mom. They want to do an interview with me.”
“Oh, that’s very nice, I’m sure, but wouldn’t they rather talk to…”
“I’ll take care of this, Mom. Would you make us some coffee, please?”
“Of course.” With a little huff of annoyance at being summarily dismissed, Verna disappeared into the house.
“So,” Hewitt said, “what do you say? We won’t take up too much of your time.”
Shannah considered for a minute. Would they think it was odd if she said no? If she were really an author, wouldn’t she welcome any publicity she could get? Darn Ronan, where was he when she needed him?
“I guess I have time to answer a few questions,” she decided.
Hewitt smiled. “Good.”
“Let’s sit out here,” Shannah said, “on the porch.”
“Whatever you say.”
She sat on the swing and Hewitt and Overstreet pulled up two chairs and sat facing her.
Overstreet withdrew a small spiral notebook and the stub of a pencil from his shirt pocket.
“How’s the tour been going?”
“Very well, I think,” Shannah replied. “The store managers have all seemed pleased with the sales and the turnout.”
“Will you be returning home soon?” Hewitt asked.
“Yes, I think so. Why didn’t you tell me you were a reporter?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think that was why I was interested in you.”
“Oh.”
“Now that you know,” he said with a wink, “I’m still interested.”
“Knock it off,” Overstreet said irritably. “We’re not here to get you a date.”
Hewitt shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Overstreet scowled at him, then looked back at Shannah. “How long have you known your publicist?”
“Not long, why?”
“Readers are interested in that kind of thing,” Overstreet said.
“Has he gone back to California?” Hewitt asked.
“No.” Feeling oddly uncomfortable, she looked from one man to the other.
Eyes narrowed, Overstreet slid a glance at the house and then he leaned forward, reminding her of a wolf on the scent of blood. “Is he here?”
“No, he…uh, went into the city on business.”
“So,” Hewitt said, “will you be doing any more signings or interviews while you’re here?”
“No, I won’t.” She frowned at Overstreet. “How did you two find me?”
Hewitt and Overstreet exchanged glances.
“We’ve been following you,” Hewitt admitted with a sheepish grin. “Hoping for a scoop.”
Shannah was trying to think of a suitable reply when her mother stepped out onto the porch.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Hewitt said. Rising, he took the tray from Verna’s hands and placed it on the table between the two chairs. “Will you join us?”
“Thank you.” Verna poured coffee for the two men, a cup for Shannah, and one for herself, then she sat down on the swing next to Shannah. “So, you’re reporters?”
“Yes, ma’am. Your daughter’s a remarkable author. You must be very proud of her.”
Verna glanced uncertainly at Shannah.
“Of course she is,” Shannah said quickly. “You know how mothers are.”
“Of course,” Hewitt said, smiling at Verna. “So, what do you think of your daughter’s books?”
“I…uh, well, naturally, I think they’re wonderful,” Verna said, warming to the subject. “But Shannah doesn’t really…”
“Mom, could I have a refill?”
“What? Oh, of course, dear.”
“I’m sorry your publicist isn’t here,” Hewitt said. “I was hoping to ask him a few questions.”
“What publicist?” Verna asked.
“The man traveling with your daughter,” Overstreet said.
“Oh, you mean Ronan,” Verna said, laughing. “He’s not…”
“Mom, maybe Mr. Hewitt and Mr. Overstreet would like some of that cake you made last night.”
“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Verna smiled at the two men. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Rising, she hurried into the house.
“Excuse me,” Shannah said, “I’ll be right back.”
She found her mother in the kitchen pulling dishes out of the cupboard. “Mom, they don’t know that I’m not Eva Black. It’s a secret.”
“It is?”
“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”
“I don’t think so, dear,” Verna exclaimed. “I hope I didn’t say anything out of line.”
“No.” Shannah smiled. “Let me take the cake out and get rid of them.”
“All right, dear. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.”
“I don’t think any harm was done.”
Taking the two plates, Shannah returned to the front porch.
“Here you go. My mom’s a great cook.”
She handed each of the men a plate, then resumed her seat on the swing.
“Any other questions?”
“How long have you had a publicist?” Overstreet asked.
“Not long.”
“Does a good job, does he?” Hewitt asked.
“Yes, he does.”
Hewitt grunted softly. “I notice he only accompanies you at night.”
“He likes to play the role of bodyguard, too,” Shannah said coolly. “He doesn’t think I should travel alone after dark.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Overstreet said. “Will he be here tonight?”