Margot Dalton - The Newcomer

“You don’t find our laird Douglas Evans just a tiny bit attractive?” Terry followed her to a booth near the window.

“Not a bit,” Maggie lied, sliding onto the vinyl seat. “But even if I did, I’d have to ignore those feelings,” she added.

“You would?” Terry smiled at a waitress in a checked apron who arrived to hand them a couple of gingham-patterned menus. “Why?”

“Because feelings like that would complicate the job I’ve come here to do.”

“Mags, you have no intention of doing that job. Unlike our Natasha, you’re not entirely crazy.” His eyes sparkled. “Just a wee bit smitten,” he said in a mock brogue.

Maggie ignored her brother’s teasing and frowned at the menu. “Do you suppose they have something like a salad? It seems this is all meat and potatoes.”

“You’d better get used to some dietary changes if you want to make any friends here,” Terry said mildly. “Look at this place, Maggie. It’s terrific.”

She glanced around at the restaurant, which could have been lifted directly from a fifties movie. But the effect wasn’t cutesy and artificial like similar establishments in Los Angeles. The Longhorn had a look of authenticity, as if thousands of people had sat in these booths over the years, ordered from the same menus, studied their reflections in the polished chrome napkin holders and played selections on the individual jukeboxes above each table.

“Isn’t it great?” Terry said.

“Yes,” she said. “The place has a wonderful ambience. And,” she added with sudden inexplicable sadness, “I’m afraid it soon could belong to Natasha Dunne, along with everything else in this town.”

Terry gave her a quick glance but didn’t respond. They ordered mushroom burgers and home fries, and Maggie ate the rich food with guilty pleasure.

“Oh, this is so good.” she sighed, wiping a trickle of mayonnaise from her chin.

“Welcome to the real world.” Terry grinned, saluting her with a forkful of coleslaw. “Maybe this new assignment of yours is going to be a valuable experience for you, kiddo.”

“In what way?”

His face was suddenly grave. “I’m hoping by the time you’re done, this town will own you, instead of the other way around.”

“Terry, what do you mean?” Maggie asked, genuinely puzzled.

But he refused to elaborate. Half an hour later, he paused outside the restaurant with his hands deep in his pockets.

“You can find your way back to the hotel, can’t you?” He glanced at her. “It’s only a couple of blocks away, and I want to go for a walk.”

“Where?” she asked.

He turned, looking a little evasive. “Just down there by the river,” he said, then headed off into a darkness lit in ghostly fashion by street lamps circled with frost.

Maggie watched her younger brother, troubled by conflicting emotions.

Her research file had stated that Rose Murdoch and her two daughters lived down by the river…

But Terry was an adult, and his personal life was none of her business.

Maggie turned up her jacket collar against the chill and wandered back toward the hotel, pausing briefly outside Wall’s Drugstore, which appeared to be open for business.

A fat, swarthy man worked behind the counter, and a slim blond woman stood nearby. Muffled in a long coat and damask scarf, she leaned wearily against a tall cowboy in a sheepskin coat and Stetson. The woman held some toiletries, which she placed on the counter.

When the customer stepped back and her coat swung open, Maggie realized the woman was pregnant. The man at her side, a smiling, handsome fellow with curly auburn hair, hugged his wife and whispered something to her, with a look of tenderness that made Maggie feel lonely and excluded.

The couple gathered up their purchases and left. As they passed by and the two women glanced at each other, Maggie was stunned by the tall blonde’s effortless grace and style. This woman could have been the president of some major corporation in the city, or even one of Natasha’s glamorous friends.

Not exactly the kind of woman Maggie had expected to find here in Crystal Creek, shopping with a cowboy in the local drugstore…

“That’s Jim and Lucia Whitley,” the druggist said cozily, following her gaze. “They just got married at Christmastime. And not a minute too soon,” he added with a leer, “judging by the looks of her. Lucia’s got a bun in the oven.”

Maggie felt a sharp distaste for this overweight man with his narrow eyes and shiny red face. But he was clearly disposed to talk, and she needed information, so she forced herself to smile casually.

“Mrs. Whitley is a very lovely woman,” she said, examining a rack of grocery and food items that stood near the front desk.

“She’s the principal of the middle school, and her husband is one of the teachers on staff,” her informant said, as if this was a bit of juicy gossip.

Maggie glanced around at the drugstore, which looked and smelled like some vanished bit of childhood. She breathed in the scent of polished wooden floors, soap and lemon oil, dust and perfume and warmth. The place itself seemed ageless and comforting, even though its proprietor made her uneasy.

She found a couple of cans of ruinously expensive cat food and took them to the counter, rummaging in her bag. “So that woman’s the school principal,” she said, still thinking about the graceful blonde in the scarf. “I’d really like to meet her sometime.”

“Well, you better hurry, then, because Lucia won’t be around long,” he said with a wink. “The school’s probably shutting down.”

“Really?” Maggie offered a bill and stood looking at the man. “Why?”

He shrugged his fat shoulders and rang up the purchase. “Taxes are too high. Folks know we can’t afford that school anymore, and they want it closed. We’re voting on it next month.”

“Where will the students go?”

“On a bus,” the druggist said carelessly, “to the middle school over in the next town.”

“Is this common knowledge in town?” Maggie asked. “About the school closure?”

“Oh, sure. Everybody’s talking about it.” He leaned across the counter with a confiding look. “But me…well, I got kind of an inside track on things, you might say.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, because my wife is the chair of the school board.”

Maggie searched her memory, trying again to recall the careful notes she’d made.

Gloria Wall, she remembered. Chair of the Crystal Creek School Board, and wife of…

“So you would be Ralph Wall?” she asked with a polite smile.

“That’s right, I sure would.” The druggist gave her a gratified smile and squared his shoulders a little. “And your name is…?”

“Margaret Embree. I’m here in town for a while on business.”

“Movie business?” he suggested with an avid expression.

“I beg your pardon?” Maggie said, startled.

“We’ve all seen that big Mercedes you drive around in, with the California plates. Folks reckon you’re planning to shoot a movie here in Crystal Creek, the same way they did over in Wimberley last year, and make us all into big stars.”

Maggie considered his words, and decided that for the moment this was as good a cover as any.

“So would you like to be a movie star, Mr. Wall?” she asked.

“If it pays good enough.” His grin faded. He began to arrange the bright rows of gum and chocolate bars under the glass counter. “God knows, we could use some money around here.”

“How would you feel,” Maggie asked carefully, “if somebody who was making a movie in town should want to buy your drugstore?”

His close-set eyes sharpened with interest. “Why would he need to buy my store?”