Oh hell. Did I seem too eager?

One could only hope that crimson went well with gray eyes and blonde hair-and that single plastic surgeons were not astute enough to notice.

I decided to head over to The Market and pick up something for lunch. Being a place the locals frequented, I decided to join them since the other day the food was wonderful. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to sit around and “eavesdrop” on the locals.

I had a feeling that Newport was a close-knit community-if you had the bucks to be included. Thus, the eavesdropping.

Goldie had decided to go back to his room and “study” the brochure. I had to laugh, thinking he didn’t want to miss out a second on the pampering. The meals they had fixed him here were not only gourmet, but nutritious and exactly what the doctor had ordered.

A butterfly darted inside my stomach-and not from hunger.

I pushed the idea of Dr. Forsyth into the back of my mind as I headed out the front door. Ian wasn’t at his desk so I had to literally force my feet toward the door instead of toward his desk and valuable computer. This was going to be one of my more difficult cases, as far as trying to snoop around eagle-eyed Ian, I concluded, walking toward Bellevue Avenue. The good news was, it didn’t seem dangerous-to me anyway. Poor Mr. Baines might think differently.

However, working by myself and having to do real nursing for my friend was proving more difficult. I pulled my shoulders straighter, turned onto Bellevue and hastened my pace.

I would succeed at this case.

And hopefully not die trying since every case I’d had so far ended up with me in some kind of hot water.

Had to laugh inside my head at that thought. If I didn’t, I knew I might change my mind about the danger element. I concluded that staying at the lodge was more of a threat-from a ghost.

And…Jagger.

I nodded to a few women walking toward me. Of course, they’d given me odd looks since I had laughed out loud. Oh well, no one knew me around here.

Once I passed the Tennis Hall of Fame, I got to the end of the block and took a right onto Memorial Boulevard. The day had turned rather warm for the late spring, so I slowed my pace and in a few minutes noted the sign for The Market. Before I could turn into the driveway, a black Lexus limousine pulled up to the curb. The thing was so long it had to be the stretch version. I’d learned plenty about “real” cars from my uncle Walt, but limos were another story.

For some reason, I paused to see who stepped out. Mentally I chastised myself for being so “touristy.” I usually didn’t get enamored of money or celebrity, yet I bent down and started tying and untying and retying my shoe just to waste time so I could watch.

When I heard the car door close, I looked up in time to see Babette LaPierre and Daphne Baines walk into The Market.

Damn!

Now what? I wondered. They could be involved in the very fraud I’d come to investigate, and here I’d walked a good twenty minutes, was hungry enough to not even watch my carbs, and had to get back to do my jobs in a decent amount of time. I’d passed other small restaurants on Bellevue, but I was dying for the clam chowder from here, and besides, being waited on would take a lot longer.

Oh, well. I stood, made sure the last thing I’d done was to retie my shoes, and then walked into the store. Neither woman was in sight at first and there was a line near the deli counter. Good. I walked over and got in place, noting the fantastic looking guy in what had to be a black Armani suit in front of me. Of course, I only noticed him to make sure the clerk knew I was next to get waited on.

Yikes. The guy looked like someone who had stepped out of GQ.

Tall, past the six-foot mark. Light hair with greenish eyes that spoke to you (I ignored my mother’s old teaching of don’t talk to strangers) and a build that said daily gym membership.

I nodded and smiled at him while I ran my gaze around the store. I couldn’t see past the cash registers too well, but neither woman was near the produce. No great surprise. I couldn’t imagine Babette or Daphne doing any grocery shopping.

When I leaned over to see the section of tables as best I could since there were shelves blocking the way, I bumped into the man. “Oh, excuse me.”

He smiled. “Hey, baby, don’t sweat it.”

My jaw dropped, but lately I’d gotten used to this phenomenon, so I quickly shut my mouth. Sometimes eye candy should not open their mouths.

It really was amazing and, yes, probably biased on my part to be surprised that someone who looked like this guy would talk like that. Sounded more blue collar than Jeff Foxworthy. Not that there was anything wrong with being blue collar. My dad, uncle, and one of my brothers all fit into that classification. But what didn’t jibe, to me anyway, was the contrast of this guy’s looks, including clothes, and the way he talked.

“Next?” the Irish clerk asked.

“That’d be me, Red,” the guy said. He turned toward me and gave me a big smile. “Hope you’re not too hungry, babe, this could get complicated and take a while.” With that he laughed as if he’d told some hysterical, more than likely sexual joke.

I swore I’d never judge a book by its cover again.

Mr. Contradiction wasn’t kidding. The other clerk was busy doing a phone order, so I had to stand there and listen to the order, of tomatoes on the wrap, but no skin. Roast beef rare, but not too. Nothing with peanuts, but a dab of Beluga caviar and five black oil-cured olives on the side. Five, he repeated.

I rolled my eyes and Mr. C went on and on and my stomach growled at him louder than a pit bull eyeing the rare beef.

When he was done, he took his order and turned toward the table section. I ignored his comment of “Later” as I eased up to the counter and ordered my clam chowder. That was all the time I could waste here, but I knew it would fill me up until dinner.

When the Irish girl, who I’d learned was named Sheila, handed me the take-out container, I thanked her, got my plastic spoon, bag of oyster crackers and a napkin. I turned toward the window to see Mr. C sitting with Daphne and Babette.

Oh…my…God. Was he “man-made” like the two of them?

After gawking at Mr. C and the two plastic surgery addicts, I decided I better get a table before my chowder got cold. Since I’d been so preoccupied with the threesome, I noticed several customers had just about filled up the small section of tables. The area wasn’t large by any means, so now I was stuck.

There was, however, an empty chair to the back of Babette and one table over. Only one young girl sat at the table for four and she was reading the morning newspaper.

In this job I had to learn to be assertive and not worry about what anyone thought about me, so I made my way over to the seat saying “Excuse me” several times as I bumped into diners in the close quarters.

“Hi. Is this seat taken?” I asked.

The girl looked up at me, looked around the room and said, “Uh hah.” With that she went back to reading.

Perfect. At least I wouldn’t have to make empty conversation with her-and instead be able to eavesdrop my heart out. Now thankful that the place was crowded, that my chowder smelled heavenly, and that neither Babette or Daphne paid me any mind, I sat down, lifted the container lid off, ripped the plastic off my spoon and took a spoonful. It really was heavenly. Again the butter swam atop the liquid. I should have probably skimmed it off, but what the heck. I told myself this job was like a vacation. Who wouldn’t think that about swanky Newport?

“Just the tip of my nose,” I heard Babette say.

My forehead wrinkled. Surely that wasn’t dining conversation-except maybe for poor BDD sufferers. I wanted to swing around and shout that her nose was perfect and no one could improve on perfect, but I had to fill my mouth with a huge spoonful of clam chowder instead.