English Christmas carol.
He probably had sung right beside her dad the Christmas before. She hadn’t come home for Christmas last year. She would have if she’d known that Christmas was to be her father’s last one. It was a regret she knew she’d have for the rest of her life.
Still, as Charli watched Neil sing with the rest of the choir, she was glad of the interruption that had prevented her from spilling the beans about the money. What on earth had made her think telling Neil about the money was a good idea? What could he do about it? And he owned and edited the newspaper. Would he feel compelled to report her discovery before she had a chance to figure things out?
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. That amount of money couldn’t mean anything good.
* * *
T HE NEXT MORNING , Charli awoke gritty-eyed and groggy. Thoughts of the money and Neil had chased themselves around in her head until the small hours of the morning. When she faced herself in the mirror, seeing the bags under her eyes, she knew something had to give.
She called Marvela at the office and told her she’d be a half hour late coming in. “I’ve got a stop I need to make first,” she told her.
That stop was at Floyd Lewis’s house. Floyd had been her dad’s CPA for years. Charli hadn’t seen a professional listing in the yellow pages for his office, so she’d rung his house and he’d told her he’d retired three years before, but to drop in at home.
When she pulled up to Floyd’s house, she saw a Corolla parked at the curb—a Corolla that looked suspiciously like Neil Bailey’s. Her heart went into overdrive as two emotions battled for primacy—a little jolt of joy at seeing Neil again, and frustration that she wouldn’t have a chance to talk to Floyd alone.
Maybe it’s not Neil. There have got to be a dozen cars in Brevis that look like his. She soldiered on, up the steep little hill of grass between the curb and the sidewalk. Good thing she’d ditched her heels in favor of flats today.
But, no, it was Neil. There he was, struggling to get out of his car one-handed, diving back in for a camera he slung around his neck and the skinny reporter’s notebook he jammed into his back pocket.
“Fancy running into you. I figured you’d be neck-deep in office hours, or at the hospital,” Neil said by way of greeting. “I see you’re sporting another one of those scarves. Your mom’s handiwork?”
Charli’s hand went to her scarf du jour, a frilly confection of aqua and black. “Yeah. Should I put in an order for you? She’s about to bury me in yarn.”
“I’m kind of a hot-natured guy—hardly ever wear a coat if I can get out of it. Maybe you should ask her to knit you a throw or something—that would take longer, right?”
She chuckled. “You might have an idea there.” Twining the scarf’s end around her fingers, she said, “You visiting Floyd?”
“Yeah. So...you here to see the chicks, too?”
“What?” Did he mean chicken chicks, or...
“The baby chickens. Floyd is raising chickens in his backyard, and he wanted me to do a story on it. He called me and said he had about a dozen hatchlings.”
“Oh.” Charli groaned. “What a lovely way to raise a good case of salmonella.”
Neil came to full alert. “Really? That’d be a good counterpoint to balance the article. Can I quote you on that?”
“No!” she said firmly. “It’s just that I treated a whole family who had an outbreak of salmonella after the mom had decided eggs from the supermarket were nasty.”
“Wow. How do you get it?”
“The salmonella? From the chickens. Wait. This is not on the record. I don’t want to come across as the new-in-town know-it-all doctor who’s out to be a spoilsport. So before I say anything, I repeat—this is off—”
“Got it. Background only, so I’ll know what to look up on Google.”
“Chickens can carry salmonella, and people can get it from handling the birds or
He probably had sung right beside her dad the Christmas before. She hadn’t come home for Christmas last year. She would have if she’d known that Christmas was to be her father’s last one. It was a regret she knew she’d have for the rest of her life.
Still, as Charli watched Neil sing with the rest of the choir, she was glad of the interruption that had prevented her from spilling the beans about the money. What on earth had made her think telling Neil about the money was a good idea? What could he do about it? And he owned and edited the newspaper. Would he feel compelled to report her discovery before she had a chance to figure things out?
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. That amount of money couldn’t mean anything good.
* * *
T HE NEXT MORNING , Charli awoke gritty-eyed and groggy. Thoughts of the money and Neil had chased themselves around in her head until the small hours of the morning. When she faced herself in the mirror, seeing the bags under her eyes, she knew something had to give.
She called Marvela at the office and told her she’d be a half hour late coming in. “I’ve got a stop I need to make first,” she told her.
That stop was at Floyd Lewis’s house. Floyd had been her dad’s CPA for years. Charli hadn’t seen a professional listing in the yellow pages for his office, so she’d rung his house and he’d told her he’d retired three years before, but to drop in at home.
When she pulled up to Floyd’s house, she saw a Corolla parked at the curb—a Corolla that looked suspiciously like Neil Bailey’s. Her heart went into overdrive as two emotions battled for primacy—a little jolt of joy at seeing Neil again, and frustration that she wouldn’t have a chance to talk to Floyd alone.
Maybe it’s not Neil. There have got to be a dozen cars in Brevis that look like his. She soldiered on, up the steep little hill of grass between the curb and the sidewalk. Good thing she’d ditched her heels in favor of flats today.
But, no, it was Neil. There he was, struggling to get out of his car one-handed, diving back in for a camera he slung around his neck and the skinny reporter’s notebook he jammed into his back pocket.
“Fancy running into you. I figured you’d be neck-deep in office hours, or at the hospital,” Neil said by way of greeting. “I see you’re sporting another one of those scarves. Your mom’s handiwork?”
Charli’s hand went to her scarf du jour, a frilly confection of aqua and black. “Yeah. Should I put in an order for you? She’s about to bury me in yarn.”
“I’m kind of a hot-natured guy—hardly ever wear a coat if I can get out of it. Maybe you should ask her to knit you a throw or something—that would take longer, right?”
She chuckled. “You might have an idea there.” Twining the scarf’s end around her fingers, she said, “You visiting Floyd?”
“Yeah. So...you here to see the chicks, too?”
“What?” Did he mean chicken chicks, or...
“The baby chickens. Floyd is raising chickens in his backyard, and he wanted me to do a story on it. He called me and said he had about a dozen hatchlings.”
“Oh.” Charli groaned. “What a lovely way to raise a good case of salmonella.”
Neil came to full alert. “Really? That’d be a good counterpoint to balance the article. Can I quote you on that?”
“No!” she said firmly. “It’s just that I treated a whole family who had an outbreak of salmonella after the mom had decided eggs from the supermarket were nasty.”
“Wow. How do you get it?”
“The salmonella? From the chickens. Wait. This is not on the record. I don’t want to come across as the new-in-town know-it-all doctor who’s out to be a spoilsport. So before I say anything, I repeat—this is off—”
“Got it. Background only, so I’ll know what to look up on Google.”
“Chickens can carry salmonella, and people can get it from handling the birds or
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