He reached for the cherry picks, eyes glinting, and I interrupted with a quick, “Jenks!”

Ivy exhaled, sounding tired, and Jenks glanced from one of us to the other. “What?” he said, then reddened. Wincing, he looked up at Becky. “Hey, um, I’m married,” he said, and I heard someone swear from the bar. It wasn’t the trucker, thank God. “Maybe,” he said, pushing them reluctantly to her, “you should return them to the ladies with my, uh, regrets.”

“Well, shoot,” Becky said, smiling. “You just keep them. I told them a hunk like you would be already hooked, landed, filleted, and cooked.” Her smile widened. “And eaten.”

Ivy exhaled, and Nick didn’t seem to know whether to be proud or embarrassed for his species. Jenks shook his head, probably thinking of Matalina as he pushed them away.

“Did you say you had pie?” Ivy asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Becky smoothly took up the drinks, pixy swords and all. “I have butterscotch or apple. I’ll bring out a wedge of apple, seeing as you’re allergic to butterscotch.”

Ivy blinked but her smile never faltered. “Thank you.” She pushed her untouched hamburger at her, and the woman obligingly took both it and my plate. “Put a scoop of ice cream on it?” she asked. “And coffee. Everyone want coffee?” She looked inquiringly at us, smiling in a way that made me decidedly nervous, especially after that “I can get us a body” remark, and I nodded. Coffee? Why not?

“Sugar and cream,” Jenks added faintly, and Becky sashayed away, loudly proclaiming to the three women at the bar that she had known it all along.

Ivy watched her go, then looked at me with a questioning scrutiny. I suddenly realized Becky must have talked to Terri from the grocery store. Feeling another one of my stellar, embarrassing moments coming on, I hunched forward and took another sip, hiding behind the glass. No wonder the entire bar was being nice to us. They thought I was a nympho who liked doing it with three people and pudding.

“Why am I allergic to butterscotch?” Ivy asked slowly.

My face flamed, and Jenks stammered, “Ah, Rachel and I are lovers with a thing for foursomes and pudding. Apparently she thinks you and Nick are Alexia and Tom. You’re allergic to butterscotch, and crap for brains likes pistachio.”

“Stop calling me that,” Nick muttered.

Ivy let her breath out. Her eyebrows were arched, and she looked bemused. “Okay…”

I set my drink down. “Can we get back to how we’re going to kill Nick? And what’s this about a dead body? You’d better start talking quick, Ivy, ’cause I’m not going to play hide-and-seek with a dead guy in my trunk. I did that in college, and I’m not going to do it again.”

A smile quirked Ivy’s mouth. “Really?” she asked, and I flushed.

“Well, he wasn’t dead,” I muttered. “But they told me he was. Scared the crap out of me when he kissed my ear when I tried to lug him into—” I stopped when I felt Becky at my elbow, a tray of coffee and pie in her hand.