The Women of Bayberry Cove. Cynthia Thomason

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СКАЧАТЬ of Wesley Fletcher.

      BY TWO O’CLOCK that afternoon, Louise had showered, applied makeup and slipped into a coral shirt-waist dress with what she considered a respectable hemline. On impulse, as she went down the back staircase from her apartment, she popped open the top two buttons and spread the yoke of the dress just enough to distract Wesley from the questions she intended to ask.

      He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tan knit shirt that fit his military-sculpted chest as if it had been molded to him at the factory. He leaned on the hood of an immaculate dark green Jeep.

      “Nice car,” she said, figuring a compliment to his vehicle would go a long way with a guy like Wes.

      He opened the passenger door, and she slid onto a spotless tan leather bucket seat. “It gets me where I need to go,” he said.

      He bolted to the other side, got in and started the engine. With one wrist draped over the steering wheel, he turned to her and asked, “You sure about this? You really want to see the candle factory?”

      She swiveled toward him so her knees were mere inches from his thigh, and stared at the handsome, rugged face that had invaded her thoughts for the last few hours. “I’ve been thinking about this excursion all day.” That was the truth. “I can’t wait to see how candles are made.” That was a lie. “I hope you can take me behind the scenes—you know, introduce me to the movers and shakers at the factory.”

      He laughed. “I’m afraid the only moving and shaking you’ll see is when Justin Beauclaire walks across his office to the bar and shakes the martini pitcher.” He pulled out of the lot and headed down an alley. “But whatever your pleasure…”

      The factory was located a couple of miles outside of town on a two-lane county road that curved past the Brew and Bowl Alley, a few blue-collar businesses and three trailer parks. Louise recognized the name of the mechanics garage where Miranda Lopez’s husband, Pedro, worked, as well as the Lazy Day Mobile Home community where the family lived.

      Louise knew she might see the women she’d talked to the night before at the Kettle. They’d all agreed that if they encountered each other at the factory, they would pretend to be strangers. Their association would be public soon enough, but for now, Louise was concerned with getting information, and her guise of being a tourist interested in candles was the best way of doing that.

      Wesley parked near the double doors of the two-story colonial offices. This part of the building resembled a modest but gracious Southern mansion. The rest of the business, the production area extending behind the offices, was a long, single-story metal building with windows along the roofline.

      Wes and Louise entered a lobby furnished in Wedgwood-blue wing chairs, Queen Anne tables and peaceful pastoral prints. And of course, candles. A half-dozen mahogany shelves displayed the products, which came in many shapes and sizes. The receptionist, a middle-aged lady, gushed over Wesley while Louise scanned the racks, picking up samples. One fact was abundantly clear. This company didn’t miss a holiday sales opportunity or the chance to permeate the world with all sorts of intoxicating smells, from light floral to exotic spice.

      After answering questions about where he’d been, how long he’d been home, and thanking the receptionist for expounding on what a handsome young man he’d become, Wes waved for Louise to follow him through a door that led from the lobby. “I called ahead,” he told her. “Justin Beauclaire, the CEO of the company, is expecting us.”

      Louise walked beside him down a short hallway to an elevator. This was exactly what she’d hoped for. She whistled in appreciation. “Wow, are we getting a tour from the president?”

      “Looks like it.”

      “I’m impressed with your contacts, Wesley.”

      “Don’t be. This is a small town. Justin and my dad go way back.”

      They exited the elevator on the second floor and were met by a portly, balding man. He shook Wes’s hand and introduced himself to Louise as Justin Beauclaire. While he openly admired his visitor, Louise gave him her sweetest smile, slipped her hand into her shoulder bag and discreetly turned on her tape recorder.

      BACK ON THE MAIN FLOOR, Justin Beauclaire took his guests past offices on either side of a long hallway. They ended at a metal door. “Through here lies the pulse and energy of the factory,” Justin said. “This is where tons of paraffin is turned into the beauties I hope you saw on display in the lobby.”

      “I did indeed,” Louise responded. “I was truly amazed by the number and variety of candles produced here.”

      “We’re trying new designs all the time,” Justin said. “We have a research department entirely devoted to market analysis, product testing and nationwide sales.” He opened the door and held it for Louise and Wes to precede him. “Ordinarily I don’t allow any visitors into this part of the business,” he explained. “Insurance issues, you understand.”

      She stopped just inside the warehouse and waited for Justin to close the door.

      “’Course, I don’t mind breaking the rules for old Wes, here,” he said. “Even if I do remember wiping his nose a few times when he was just a little sprout.”

      Wes, clearly embarrassed, forced a snicker.

      “We have a lot of expensive and sensitive machinery in here,” Justin added. “Plus nearly every employee inside this building is working with wax in one form or another. In the beginning stages of candle production, wax can be tricky to handle. We melt ours to one hundred eighty degrees.” He gave Louise a sly grin. “Can’t have any novices poking their pretty noses, or fingers, into a vat of hot wax, now can we?”

      Louise tsked in sympathy. “Certainly not. I promise to stay safely away from any bubbling cauldrons.” She studied the huge metal tanks across the warehouse. Suspended above each were large circular racks, each holding dozens of taper candles of varying thicknesses. “Has anyone ever gotten badly burned?” she asked.

      Justin waved off the question. “No. The wax isn’t hot enough to cause blisters. Just smarts a little if it gets on the skin. Besides, we have all the required safety measures in place.” He frowned. “Got no choice in the matter. We have government inspectors from OSHA breathin’ down our necks every time we turn around.” He clarified in case she didn’t understand. “That’s the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.”

      Louise nodded. “I see.” She gestured toward one of the wheel racks that had just begun lowering its candles into a vat. “What’s happening there?” she asked.

      “That’s one of our dipping wheels,” Justin explained. “We have six of them operating sixteen hours a day. Each candle is dipped fifty times and cooled in between each lowering.”

      Louise remembered that Bessie referred to herself as a dipper. She’d worked in that position for fifteen years. As if to validate that thought, the older woman walked out from behind a wheel and glanced at the trio of onlookers. Louise gave her a hint of a smile. A hairpin held between her teeth, Bessie nodded at her behind a pretense of rewinding her long gray mane into a knot at the crown of her head.

      Justin next took them to where wax was molded into various shapes. Several women poured the thick substance from large tubes into metal forms, reminiscent of cake decorating on a grand scale. When Justin had explained the procedure, Louise asked how many people the candle company employed.

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