“It’s no use, there’s no cell tower around here,” a kind-faced woman with bright blue eyes and apple cheeks said to Josie.
Josie felt like a foreigner abroad upon spotting an American compatriot. “You already tried?”
The woman smiled and took a similar phone out of her purse. “I’ve been trying since ten miles outside of Charlotte.”
“Well.” Josie put the phone away. “I guess I can do without it for a few days. Somehow.” She’d just use her card and fill out an expense report when she got back. She set her heavy bags down and held out her hand. “Josie Ross.”
The woman took it and smiled. “Dolores Singer. But you can call me Buffy.” She must have taken a lot of flack for her nickname in the past because before Josie could respond, she held up a hand and said, “Yes, seriously. To my great misfortune, I was a fan of Family Affair as a child and my father started calling me Buffy. Before I knew what hit me, it stuck. He meant well.”
“I loved that show.” Josie laughed, remembering that she even had a Mrs. Beasley doll once. “So, I’m guessing from your accent that you’re not from these parts.”
“Nope. Cleveland. How about you?”
“Manhattan. It feels like another planet.”
“I know what you mean,” Buffy agreed. “I like it. It’s so laid-back here. Very relaxing.”
Josie thought that forced relaxation was anything but relaxing, but she didn’t say it. “So, are you here for the chili cook-off? Representing Ohio with some Cincinnati-style chili, perhaps?”
Buffy shook her head. “Actually, I came to meet Beatrice Beaujold. She’s the one who wrote the manluring cookbook. I owe her a huge debt of gratitude.”
“You do? Why?”
“It’s thanks to her that I’m engaged to be married.”
“Really?” Josie asked, ever a sucker for romance, as long as it wasn’t close enough to break her heart.
“Because of her recipes?”
“I think so.” Buffy blushed. “He actually fell to his knees two bites into her sweet potato pudding at a Memorial Day picnic.” She shrugged. “All I can think is that it had something to do with the recipe because I sure didn’t see it coming.”
Josie was extremely skeptical, but she knew it was her job to foster this idea, not to discourage it. Rather than lie, she just remained silent.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I guess crazier things have happened.”
Josie smiled. “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but I need to go to my room to use the phone.”
“The rooms here don’t have phones.”
“What?”
“No phones in the rooms.”
Josie closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “So I’m guessing fax machines are out of the question.”
“Afraid so.” Buffy gave an understanding smile.
“It’s a little bit of a time warp, but I think it adds to the peaceful atmosphere.”
Josie sighed. This was not making her feel peaceful.
“Try the little hall just inside the front door,” Buffy suggested. “I think I saw a pay phone there.”
Josie thanked her and carried her things back into the hallway Buffy had described and set her heavy suitcase down. Sure enough, there was a pay phone, but it was about a hundred years old and the reception crackled like lightning before she even pressed zero for the operator. She fidgeted with the wire, trying to find a position in which the line was quiet enough to make a call, but it didn’t work.
Exasperated, she muttered an oath about tiny backward towns and put the phone down. God willing, there would be a working phone in her room. She’d go on up and make her call quickly so she didn’t miss Beatrice’s arrival. Satisfied with her plan, she went to pick up her suitcase.
It was gone.
How on earth had someone taken her suitcase? She had not been more than three feet away from it, and there was no one else around. How could someone have slipped in, taken the case and run off with it without her hearing a thing, all in the span of about a minute and a half?
She looked around, thinking someone must have moved it for some reason. It was no place obvious. She ran upstairs to check Beatrice’s room and her own, where she left the rest of her things. When she came back downstairs, she asked the girl at the check-in desk if someone who worked there had taken it to a back room, but she was only met with a blank stare and a contention that “We don’t have a back room for suitcases.”
“Is there a manager on duty?” Josie asked the girl, trying valiantly to keep her voice courteous even though she wanted to scream at the girl to wake up.
“There’s the owner. I guess you’d call her a manager.”
“Good,” Josie said, trying to take control of the situation. She thought of the check for Beatrice. The letter from her editor. “Would you please ask her to come speak with me?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Maybe she can help me get this sorted out.”
“Okay.” Smile. Nod.
Every muscle in Josie’s body tensed. “Could you do it now?”
“Oh. Okay.” She disappeared into a room behind the desk, and Josie took another look around the lobby. She covered the whole thing, everywhere she’d been. It was nowhere. She was about to go outside and check the wide wraparound front porch, when she was interrupted by a gentle Southern voice, like that of a character in Gone With the Wind.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ross?”
She turned to see a woman standing at the counter who looked like she was playing a Southern dame in a movie, her fingertips touching the forearm of one of the most shockingly handsome men Josie had ever seen.
“Ms. Ross, I’m Myrtle Fairfield and this is Dan Duvall,” the woman said, in that quiet, sweet voice steel magnolias tended to have. “He’s with the police. I understand you’ve had a little problem with your suitcase. Mr. Duvall is here to help.”
She wouldn’t have pegged him as a policeman. He looked more like a movie star. He was tall, with wavy dark hair and clear eyes the blue of a summer sky. Faint lines fanned out from the corners, giving him the pleasant expression of a man who smiled a lot.
“Thanks for your concern, Officer,” Josie said, all too aware that she hadn’t had the chance to go to her room and freshen up since the two-hour flight and three-hour drive here this morning. Alarm bells went off in her head, giving her the foolish impulse to primp and make herself more presentable for this Adonis, even as she realized that she shouldn’t care what he thought of her personally. She wasn’t only irritated by her reaction to him, she was surprised by it. It had been ages since she’d felt that stir in her chest, but this kind of guy—one so gorgeous you just knew he had a stable of women to choose from—was not the kind of guy she wanted to start thinking romantic thoughts about.
He smiled, showing even white teeth and a dent that could almost be called a dimple. “Call me Dan,” he said. “Please.”
She swallowed. Hard. “All right, Dan.”
He took a step closer to her. He smelled good. Like Ivory soap and clean clothes. Somehow Josie found that reassuring.
“So your bag was stolen,” he said. “Were