Matchmaking by Moonlight. Teresa Hill

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      “You went to Eleanor’s, I suppose?” Wyatt asked. “I told you, she can be a little—”

      “Strange?” Ashe said.

      “Sometimes.”

      “Your in-laws are even stranger,” Ashe insisted.

      “They’re an interesting group of women. But they’re not like … dangerous or anything. I mean, they’re all eighty-something—”

      “Eighty-something?”

      “Yeah. They lie about their ages, all of them. I guess women never really stop. But there are no mental competency issues—”

      “What about the one prancing around in the backyard naked?”

      Wyatt stopped cold. “Eleanor was dancing naked on the back lawn?”

      “No. Not her.”

      “Kathleen? Gladdy? There’s a naked octogenarian at Eleanor’s estate?” Wyatt winced.

      “No. She wasn’t old. She was young. Twenty-something.”

      “And naked? Really? Naked-naked?”

      “She was wearing a wedding veil. A long, sheer wedding veil, but other than that, yeah, she was naked.”

      “Eleanor let someone have a naked wedding at her estate?” Wyatt laughed out loud.

      “No. Not a wedding. Just a woman in a wedding veil, a guy with lights and a woman with a camera,” Ashe explained.

      “What in the world were they up to?”

      “I have no idea,” Ashe said.

      Wyatt sighed. “See, when I told you those women were … different? This is the kind of thing I meant.”

      “Random naked women dancing on the lawn?” Ashe was starting to think Wyatt was as puzzled and surprised as he’d been at what had happened. Either that or Wyatt was a better actor than Ashe realized.

      “Have you actually had any mental competency testing done on these women?” Ashe ventured.

      “No. They’re fine, they’re the best of friends, just as happy as can be together. And when you have relatives who are eighty-something, you want them to be happy. When they’re happy, Jane’s happy, and when Jane’s happy, I’m happy. We just try to … you know, go along with whatever they want.” Wyatt shook his head. “What do they want now? Eleanor said something about classes. I assumed it was something to do with weddings.”

      “Divorce,” Ashe told him. “The classes are about divorce.”

      “What does that have to do with naked brides?”

      “I don’t know. They’re your relatives. I thought it was some weird setup for a joke. I was sure of it. And now I’m supposed to meet again with Lilah, the one doing the classes, to let her explain everything to me.”

      Wyatt nodded. “She’s a distant cousin of Eleanor’s. She grew up here. We actually went to the same private school in first or second grade, Eleanor says, but I’m not sure if I remember her. Her parents moved to Florida ages ago. I don’t think she’s been back in town long.”

      “She was the one taking the photos.”

      “Oh,” Wyatt said, then shrugged. “What’s she like these days?”

      “Eleanor claimed she’s working on her PhD in psychology, but I have trouble believing that. And she looks like the love child of two hippies from a commune in the ‘70s, transported to the present time.”

      “Oh. I hope she’s not … you know, up to something.”

      “Up to something?”

      “I mean, Lilah just popped up out of nowhere, and next thing I know, Eleanor invited her to move in. I haven’t had a chance to check her out myself yet. Neither has Eleanor’s godson, Tate. We have to be careful. The ladies don’t like it when they think we’re checking up on them.”

      “So?”

      Wyatt shrugged easily. “If you could just talk to Lilah, figure out what she’s trying to do, I’d really appreciate it. I know Tate would, too.”

      Ashe groaned.

      “Hey, you have no idea what I’m dealing with here trying to look after these women,” Wyatt complained. “They’re manipulative, stubborn as can be, determined to maintain their independence at any price. And it’s not like you can twist their arms until they talk. They’re little old ladies.”

      “I’m so happy to hear you’re not abusing your elderly relatives,” Ashe quipped.

      “Remember, this is good for you, too. Eleanor could be a tremendous help when it comes time for your election. That woman knows everyone in this town, and she knows how to raise money. You’ll need money, and I know you’re going to hate asking people for it.”

      Ashe groaned. He dreaded the thought of campaigning to keep his job. It was one of the quirks in Maryland’s judicial system. Judges were appointed by the governor to an initial term, but to keep their seat on the bench, they had to stand for election. He didn’t even want to think about the hassles involved in that. He just wanted to do his job. It was demanding enough all on its own.

      Wyatt was right. Eleanor Barrington Holmes was a force to be reckoned with in the community, and he knew she’d helped raise funds for a number of candidates in the past. She could be a tremendous help to him, if she hadn’t grown too eccentric of late.

      “Come on. Lunch with a woman,” Wyatt said. “How hard is that?”

      Ashe gave in. “All right. I’ll talk to her one more time.”

      That was how he ended up, on a break from court one day, meeting Lilah Ryan at a little restaurant called Malone’s around the corner from the courthouse. He knew almost everyone in the place. They came from the courthouse, because the place was so close, the service was fast and the food wasn’t bad.

      It was filled with men and women in conservative dark suits, briefcases on the floor beside them, yellow legal pads in front of them as they talked and jotted down notes, cell phones at the ready. Courthouse people. Lawyers and secretaries. A few clients here and there—he could pick them out by the worried looks on their faces. Most people got a little freaked out when they had to go to court.

      And there in the midst of all those somber-colored suits was a single blaze of color. Lilah in a soft, silky, flame-colored sleeveless top and a billowy skirt shot through with the same color and lots of others, red to orange to bright yellow. She had sandals on her feet. Her toes were painted the same color as her top, Ashe noted.

      Every man in the place was watching her, he realized. Heads kept turning away from legal briefs and legal pads, colleagues and clients, toward her and back again. Clearly, Ashe should have picked another spot for lunch.

      Lilah looked up, spotted Ashe, then lifted a hand with flame-colored fingernails and waved. About a half-dozen multi-colored bracelets jangled on her wrist.

      He could feel the heads turn from her over to him, see the double takes.

      Judge Ashford and the hippie lady?

      He made his way to her, stopping along the way to acknowledge friends and colleagues who greeted him with slight smiles, respectful nods of their heads and things like, “Afternoon, Judge.”

      People respected him here.

      He liked that.

      He planned to keep it that way.

      Ashe got to Lilah’s table. She stood and held out her hand, bracelets jangling, and he shook it briefly, waited for her to sit, then sat himself.

      “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you would, but Eleanor insisted