Leave It to Cleavage by Wendy Wax Page B

at the puzzle of Miranda Smith and the absent Tom, and he knew his brain wasn’t alone. Clara Bartlett’s column had accomplished its mission: Folks were busy wondering and whispering, and a whole lot of eyes were trained on the Ballantyne family pew.
    When it was time for the final hymn, Blake stood with the rest of the crowd, clapped a hand around his daughter’s shoulders, and added his voice to a robust rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” A few minutes later Andie had made herself scarce, and he and his grandfather stood out in the cold, shaking Reverend Simmons’s hand.
    “Great sermon, Reverend,” Gus Summers said, as if he’d actually stayed awake to listen to it.
    “Thank you, Gus. Blake.” The pastor smiled and moved on to greet the rest of his flock.
    Blake and Gus lingered on the lawn, making conversation as the crowd thinned out. Out of the corner of his eye Blake kept track of Miranda Smith, watching her move through the thinning crowd in her grandmother’s wake. They made an arresting picture, the smaller white-haired woman with the tall dark-haired one behind her, both of them with their chins tilted at the same proud angle. With a nod to his grandfather he moved to intercept them. Gus fell into step beside him, smoothing a hand over his tie as they walked.
    “Augustus.” Cynthia Richard’s voice rang out bright and clear as they approached. “You’re looking well.”
    Blake watched his grandfather preen under the woman’s regard and saw him steal a quick glance his way to see if he’d noticed.
    “You’re holdin’ up pretty well yourself,” Gus replied.
    “Why . . . thank you,” Miranda’s grandmother said. “I baked brownies last night and thought you all might like some. I’ve got them in the car.”
    “Thank you, ma’am.” Blake smiled at the older woman, then at Miranda, who looked like she’d prefer to be almost anywhere but there. He peered over her shoulder and then pretended to visually search her handbag. “What, no food? And here I thought we were walking around with signs on our backs that read, ‘Feed Me.’”
    Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Chief,” she said coolly. “My grandmother taught me not to feed wild animals. It can make them dependent and unable to fend for themselves.” She paused. “And it’s dangerous to let them associate you with food.”
    Gus guffawed and Miranda smiled with mock regret. “Did you forget to put nuts away for the winter?”
    Blake laughed as Miranda Smith’s green eyes lightened and he couldn’t help wondering what kinds of things she was hiding behind them. Was it something as simple as marital discord? Or something more complex, as his anonymous caller had suggested? The questions, like the woman, intrigued him.
    “I imagine we’ll survive,” Blake replied. “And I’m glad you don’t feel guilty about not feeding the . . . animals.” He leaned closer to Miranda and caught himself wondering why Tom Smith would go off and leave this woman alone for any length of time. He lowered his voice. “If there’s anything you
do
feel guilty about at any time, you be sure and let me know.”
    “You bet, Chief.” Her tone said
NOT
. “You’ll definitely be the first.”
    He held her gaze, once again trying to plumb her depths. He’d been fascinated by puzzles since childhood; that fascination was one of the things that had ultimately drawn him into police work. He prided himself on not giving up until he found and fit all the available pieces together.
    Miranda Smith’s puzzle presented all kinds of interesting possibilities. He looked into her eyes once again and smiled. He could hardly wait to get started.
     
    Up on the church playground, Andie Summers wiped at a grass stain on her navy wool blazer, then leaned back against the sturdy trunk of the old oak to stare up through the naked branches.
    She was so focused on the winter sky above her that the tap on her shoulder almost sent her hurtling out of