I tried to lean back more but didn’t want to be obvious. Thank goodness there was a table full of jock boys between us. I guessed they were from Salve Regina, and they were eating half the deli in one swallow. Luckily they weren’t rowdy though. I could still hear Babette and sometimes Daphne talking.

A few times she sounded a bit tearful, and I had to remind myself that although she was out to lunch with supposed friends, her husband died yesterday.

Allegedly murdered. Yikes.

One might assume she’d be home mourning-or at least dressed in darker clothes.

But nope. Daphne wore a shocking pink set of slacks with a pink (exact shade) and white striped long-sleeve top. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, which made her facial features (yes, perfect ones) stand out. Not to mention what it did for the gazillion carat diamond stud earrings that she wore. Wow.

Accidentally I made a slurping sound that drew the girl at the table’s attention. “Oops. Sorry.”

At first she looked annoyed, then she looked more-amused.

I took that as a sign to speak to her. “Sorry again. I’m just so hungry and need to finish fairly soon.”

“Where you nursing?”

I was ready to ask how she knew I was a nurse then realized I had on my pink scrubs. “Oh, I don’t work around here. I’m only temporarily at Highcliff Manor doing private duty nursing. Only one patient.”

“And a rich bitch I’m sure.” I noticed her knuckles whiten as she held the newspaper tighter.

Hm. Interesting. “Actually a male and a sweetheart. I’m Pauline.” I held out my hand.

She hesitated then released her life grip on the paper and shook, very weakly. “Lydia.”

Hm, again. Why the hesitation?

“Nice to meet you. This place is amazing for its food. Isn’t it? So, what is your favorite dish here?” I’d read a long time ago, to entice someone into a conversation, not to ask only questions that could be answered with a yes or no. Before she could answer, I noticed her look past me and frown.

“The beef tenderloin,” she said in a matter-of-fact way.

I tried to sweep my hair back with my hand to use the gesture to turn a bit. All I could see was Mr. C, glaring at Lydia. What the heck? I had to act fast and wondered what Jagger would do in my position. Since I could never second-guess a Jagger-action, I said, “You know him?”

She looked back at me. “Do you?”

“Oh. No. I merely stood behind him in line. Took so long I thought I’d pass out from low blood sugar.”

“Blood sugar?” She released the paper and let it fall to the table.

I had to remind myself that Lydia was a kid. Geez, that made me sound so old. But she couldn’t be more than seventeen or so. Technically I could be her mom. Yikes. “Low blood sugar from being so hungry.”

“Oh. That doesn’t surprise me.”

I felt my forehead wrinkle again. Had she assumed I’d have low blood sugar? Did she even know what that was? What the heck was she talking about? I had learned from Jagger to get my facts straight, so I asked, “Excuse me? I’m not following, Lydia.” I set down my spoon and remembered that I had forgotten to get a free cup of water. No way was I going to get up now, in case Lydia might open up again or leave.

She motioned with her head toward the threesome. “Him. Devin. Doesn’t surprise me that he’d push his way in front and take forever to order. Jerk. Selfish jerk.”

Very interesting indeed!

Seems that not only did Lydia know Mr. C, but she also wasn’t too fond of him. “Selfish jerk. Wow. That’s a pretty heavy accusation.”

She looked at me. “It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact.”

My heart started to race as it so often did when I was about to learn some tidbit of info for my case. I knew the feeling and this sure was it. One darling Lydia was about to spill her guts about the guy I suspected had made the rounds on the O.R. tables.

Suddenly I wondered if my buddy Ian had snooped in on any of Devin’s cases. Had he frequented Highcliff Manor too? That was the more important question. This was getting very interesting because if Devin suffered BDD too, how was he paying for his surgery? Rich wife? Family inheritance?

I looked up at Lydia. “Fact?”

“The asshole is married to my aunt.” She started to rip edges of the newspaper off and leave them in little piles on the table.

Rich wife.

I caught a few shreds of paper as they fluttered in the air before Lydia got thrown out for littering and said, “Wow. Your aunt must be pretty young.” With that I sipped my clam chowder so as not to appear too eager to learn more.

In the reflection of the window, I noticed good old Devin get up and walk toward the cash registers. Daphne and Babette followed. Damn, no more eavesdropping. Well, at least I had Lydia to grill for info. I just had that gut feeling that she was going to be helpful to my case.

“What’s your last name, Lydia?” Suddenly I felt like a weirdo asking the kid personal questions.

She looked at me. “Chandler.”

As in Olivia Wheaton-Chandler?

Lydia suddenly got up.

My spoon flew from the chowder, splashing white liquid onto the pile of newspaper pieces and Lydia’s probably very expensive jeans. I’d heard that name before and not in a very good tone either. What was the connection?

I grabbed a napkin and wiped at the denim. “Oh, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

She pushed my hand away. “It’s all right, Pauline. Not sure what you’re so wired about, but maybe you should ease up on the caffeine.” She laughed and walked toward the bakery section.

Good. Maybe she wasn’t leaving after all.

I scraped the rest of the fabulous liquid from my container and decided I really needed some water. Seemed safe enough to get up now that the threesome had left. No one else in this place knew me-or at least I hoped they didn’t.

I poured myself a cup of ice water that the store owners smartly left on the sideboard with lemons and more plasticware. I stabbed at two lemon wedges, plopped them into my water and added a pocketful of Splenda. Instant, and ashamedly I admitted, free lemonade. It wasn’t that I was destitute, but Fabio didn’t pay my expenses yet so I had to make sure I didn’t spend more than I was earning on each case.

Money, the root of all evil.

If only I had a sixth of the amount as some of these folks, I could afford my own place instead of living with my two dear friends. Speaking of Goldie, I had to get back to see him soon.

Lydia ordered a cup of English Breakfast tea to go with the chocolate chip cookie she’d bought. Good, that meant a longer time to “chat.”

I walked near her and ordered the same tea but no cookie. Too much time to spend on guilt to run off the calories when I should be working. So I paid for my tea, put skim milk in it with two packets of Splenda, and went back to “our” table.

Darling Lydia had already sat down and was eating her cookie. She didn’t look as if she wanted me to sit at another table, thank goodness. There were plenty empty now, but I pulled the chair out with my foot and sat, without giving her the option. I noticed she didn’t have milk in her tea.

“Is your aunt-”

“The one and freaking only Olivia Wheaton-Chandler.”

Yikes! The “money lady.”

“That would make Devin your stepuncle.” Going right to the heart of matters seemed the less painful route-and it did look as if it pained Lydia to answer.

A darkness filled her brown eyes-much darker and dangerous looking than anyone her age should have. Wow.

“Look, the jerk is not my step anything. I don’t give a shit what the rules are. He married my aunt Olivia for her dough. Plain and simple. He is not family and is way too freaking young for her. Ick.” She shoved a large piece of cookie into her mouth.

I felt badly that our conversation was probably prohibiting her from enjoying the delicious calories, but cookies aside, I had to find out as much as I could since plastic surgery was involved-and this town was so tiny.