by E J Kindred
“Mo, it’s beautiful. It’s a work of art. Please don’t tell me it’s carrot cake, because I’m already drooling.”
“Sorry, hon, it’s carrot cake, complete with pineapple bits and walnuts,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “All three layers.” She replaced the dome. “Want to hear the sad part?”
I raised an eyebrow. “What could possibly be sad about carrot cake?”
“She wants it cut into squares two inches on a side.”
“What—”
“Yep, she wants my lovely round cake cut into squares too small for the layers to stand up. Heaven forfend that we cut it into wedges like normal people.”
“Forfend? What’s with you and the ten-dollar words lately, huh?” I gave her a playful push with my shoulder.
She laughed and nudged me back. “I have a vocabulary and I’m not afraid to use it. Know what? I’m going to make like I didn’t remember and cut it the right way.” She gave me sly look. “Oops.”
I laughed. “Oops is right.” I glanced at the clock. “Better get going before the crowd gets back.”
The rest of the day flew by. I cleaned the dining room to ready it for dinner. Lupe had gotten the table linens washed and ironed and ready to go. She and I worked our way through all of the guest rooms, making beds and cleaning bathrooms. We had enough time for a snack before it was time to set the table for dinner.
For the last night of the gathering, Mo prepared a festive holiday dinner with an enormous rib roast that filled the house with enticing aromas. She accompanied it with side dishes from different parts of the world, including Yorkshire pudding, rice pilaf, and curried vegetables smelling of ginger and turmeric.
“An unconventional dinner,” she said. “For an unconventional family.”
I resumed my duties in the dining room, offering coffee and iced tea, and refilling water glasses, while Doctor Wentworth opened wine from his cellar. We’d made room on the sideboard for Mo’s cake, which rested under its dome, eliciting inquiries about what delights were to come.
Elise was playing the lady of the manor again, almost simpering at some moments, and yet I’d occasionally see her eyes narrow as if she were displeased. Almost everyone seemed to have a good time, and food disappeared at a satisfying rate. At one point, Doctor Wentworth called Mo into the dining room for a round of compliments that made her blush to the roots of her red hair.
One of those present who hadn’t entered into the spirit of the evening was Eric, the younger son of Carl the Third. I’d noticed before that he seemed to keep to himself a lot of the time. He didn’t say much to the other people at the table. On the other hand, it was clear the young man enjoyed his food. Unlike his father and brother, he had blond hair, and in what appeared to be an act of deliberate nonconformity, he wore it long with the front part combed forward over his eyes, almost to his nose. When I spoke to him, he was distant, but he met my eyes through his fringe of hair. I had the impression he was a kind young man.
When I went to the sideboard to start the coffee maker, Eric approached me.
“Annie?” He was tentative, almost shy. Up close, I realized he’d tinted part of his hair a pale blue. I wondered what Carl the Third had said to him about it. Eric’s dad didn’t strike me as the diplomatic type.
“Hi Eric. What can I get for you?”
He blushed. “Nothing.” He leaned toward me slightly, as if he wanted a co-conspirator, and he whispered, “What’s under there?” He indicated the silver cloche that occupied the center of the sideboard.
I went with it.
“Cake,” I whispered back. “Carrot cake with luscious cream cheese frosting. And if I know Mo’s baking, it’ll be amazing.”
Even through his hair, I saw good humor in his eyes. I took a chance.
“You aren’t having a good time, are you?”
His sadness reappeared and his shoulders sagged.
“Because it seems as if you’d rather be somewhere else.” I hope I hadn’t overstepped. The sadness in his eyes made me want to protect him.
“More like anywhere else,” he said in a low tone. “She doesn’t like me.”
I didn’t have to ask who “she” was. I’d seen Elise throw more than one withering glance in Eric’s direction.
“I’m sorry.” I wanted to say more, but Doctor Wentworth called my name.
“Annie, while you’re over there, will you grab me a clean napkin, please? I’ve made a mess of this one.” He held it up as proof.
“Sure.” I turned back to Eric and kept my voice low. “Tell you what, if you want to escape, go see Mo. I’m sure she’ll fix you a dessert plate that you can take up to your room.”
The relief on his face couldn’t have been more obvious. “But what about Dad?”
“You go on. If your father complains, I’ll sic your grandfather on him. Take this.” I handed him one of the ice buckets. “It’ll give you an excuse to leave.”
He flashed a grateful smile and headed in the direction of the kitchen.
“Where are you going, Eric?” Carl the Third hadn’t paid any attention to his son until then. When Eric ignored his father and kept walking, he turned to me. “Where’s he going?”
I handed a fresh napkin to the doctor. “He saw I was busy and offered to refill the ice bucket for me. Such a thoughtful young man.”
Doc Wentworth caught my eye and gave me an almost imperceptible nod.
The rest of the dinner was pleasant, with the guests complimenting Mo’s cooking and Elise’s holiday decorations. When they were ready for dessert, Mo came in to cut the cake and served it with the cinnamon ice cream she’d made. She put a generous wedge of cake onto the first plate.
“Mo,” Elise said. “Are you sure that’s right?”
Mo turned to her with a look of perfect innocence. “Yes, ma’am,” she said and resumed cutting. I made myself busy with the coffee so I could hide the amusement on my face.
Elise raised her hand and opened her mouth as if to object but must have thought better of it. Her pleasant expression, which had seemed pasted on anyway, became fixed.
Mo finished cutting the cake and scooping ice cream. I delivered the plates to the guests and listened to their compliments as they ate. Elise seemed to enjoy the two bites she took of her dessert. Everyone else cleaned their plates, and a couple of the teenagers asked for another piece. Nobody commented on Eric’s absence.
After everyone had eaten their fill, Lupe and I cleared the table and readied the dining room for the next meal. As I carried the leftover cake to the kitchen, I passed the doctor’s home office. The door was open a couple of inches, and the lights were on. I started to knock, to see if he wanted anything from the kitchen when I heard Elise’s angry voice.
“—little fag isn’t welcome in my home.”
Shocked at what I’d heard, I stepped to one side of the door where I couldn’t be seen.
“Elise, please.” The doctor’s voice was tense. “We’ve had this conversation before. He’s my grandson, and he’s welcome here any time he wants to visit.”
“Not in my house, he’s not.” Each word was accompanied by a thud, as if she were pounding her fist on the desk. “I won’t have that little pervert in my home.”
“Now listen here.” The doc’s voice grated with barely controlled rage. “This is also my home.” He spoke with deliberate spaces between his words. “You do not get to dictate who is welcome here. Nor do you have any right to malign my grandson. He’s gay. That’s all. He’s a kind, intelligent young man who happens to be gay. He is not a pervert. Don’t you dare ever say that again in my presence. And if you ever say it within Eric’s hearing or to anyone else in the family, I’ll have your bags packed before you take another breath.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Jesus, Elise, grow the fuck up. I don’t care what you say, my grandson is welcome in my home at any time, and you will make him feel welcome. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
Elise gave a frustrated shriek
. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you bastard. Don’t think I don’t know you’re already planning to get rid of me. Everyone in town says so.”
“I think you’re the one planning to go. I know what you’ve been up to. His wife knows, too.”
“She doesn’t know fuck all about anything, and neither do you. I’m not going anywhere. As far as I’m concerned, you’re stuck with me until you’re dead. As old as you are, I’m sure it won’t be long until I don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”
The sound of angry footsteps brought me back to awareness. I fled down the hall to the kitchen.
Mo took one look at me and did a double-take. “You okay?” She took the cake plate from me. I’d almost forgotten I held it.
“No, I don’t think so.” I tried to clear Elise’s hostile words from my ears. “I heard Doc and Number Four arguing when I went by his office.”
“About Eric.” Mo made it a statement, not a question.
Surprised, I perched on a nearby stool. “How’d you know that?”
“They have the same argument about him every single time he’s here. Turns out our little Elise is a raging homophobe.” She handed me a glass of ice water.
“That’s no joke.” I took a sip and looked at Mo’s spiky hair and multiple earrings and androgynous clothing. “But . . .” I waved vaguely in her direction.
Mo laughed. “I know. I’m about as obvious as can be, short of carrying a neon sign saying ‘dyke here.’ I don’t think she’d know about Eric if the doc hadn’t told her. She’s got a hateful side, but she’s also clueless. We could hold our own Pride parade in the driveway, and I don’t think she’d get it.”
For a moment, I enjoyed the mental image of Mo, Eric, and me swathed in rainbow flags, marching around the Wentworths’ property.
“Did he come down to see you?”
“Yeah. I fixed him a plate, and he took it up to his room. Poor kid. He must be counting the days until he can escape to college. His dad isn’t much better than Elise in the tolerance department. I think Eric comes to these shindigs only to please his mother. And he does love his grandpa. They get along great.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure the doc saw me give him a reason to escape the party, and I think he was relieved. I need to get home,” I said, sliding off the stool onto my weary feet. “I’m so glad to have a few days away from here.”
Mo handed me an insulated bag. “Here’s some dinner. And a little gift.” She gave me a quick hug and I headed out to my car.
Late the next morning, I stopped by the diner on my way to Portland. As usual, Freddy was behind the counter, greeting customers from the open kitchen. She waved when I came through the door.
“Hey, Freddy, got a sec?”
She scanned the flattop where half a dozen burgers sizzled. She flipped a couple of them and rested her spatula on a nearby plate.
“What’s up, hon?”
I handed her the foil-wrapped parcel. “A little present.”
She gave me a suspicious look and unwrapped it carefully, revealing a generous wedge of Mo’s carrot cake. She inhaled the aromas of cinnamon and ginger and gave a sigh of contentment.
“I love it already.” She got a fork from under the counter and took a bite, careful to include a dollop of the cream cheese frosting. Her eyes closed for a long moment until she swallowed. “Did you make it?”
“No way. A boxed cake mix is beyond my abilities most days.”
“Says she who wants my pastrami recipe.” She took another bite. “Damn, this is good. Who’s the baking genius behind this beautiful cake?”
“A friend of mine. She doesn’t know I’m doing this, but since you told me the bakery’s out of commission—”
“And out a customer, if this is typical of your friend’s talents.”
“—I thought I’d see if you’d like to talk with her.”
“As if you’d have to ask,” she said through another mouthful of cake.
I promised to pass the word along and headed for my car.
The drive to Portland usually put me into a meditative state, but not this time. The passing scenery of dense forest and serene farmland failed to ease my mind. I’d been dreading this day ever since Patrick told me that the new detective on Nicky’s case asked to talk with me. Meeting with police officers was not my idea of a good time, even if Patrick would be there.
The closer I got to town, the more stressed I felt.
I pulled into the parking lot at Patrick’s office building and backed into a spot near the exit. I might not have been able to avoid this meeting, but nothing would keep me from leaving as quickly as possible afterward.
When I passed the reception desk, the young woman seated there said, “They’re waiting for you.” I gave her a half-hearted wave. She and I had seen too much of each other of late.
The hallway to the conference room got longer every time I was there. In truth, I passed only three offices on one side and floor-to-ceiling windows on the other, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that disaster loomed on the other side of the tall oak door at the far end of the passage.
Patrick emerged from the conference room and let the heavy door close behind him. He met me halfway.
“Now, remember what I told you,” he said in a near-whisper, as we walked together toward the conference room. “Beth is one of the good ones. She’s doing us a huge favor meeting here instead of asking us to go to the precinct, so behave yourself. She can’t say so officially, but I think she believes you’re innocent.”
I took a deep breath to calm myself. “I don’t get it, Patrick. Haven’t I told the police all about this before? Why do I have to do it again?” My voice was quavering, and a tear ran down my face.
He handed me a tissue. Of course, he had tissues with him. He knew me too well.
“She’s new to the case, Annie. She’s being thorough, doing interviews, and examining the evidence herself instead of relying on what others have done. She also has a lot more experience as a detective than the others we’ve talked with.”
“But—”
“I know what you’re going to say. Yes, you have to tell it again. And I’m sorry about that, I really am. But give her a chance, please.”
He opened the door for me and followed me into the room. “Be nice,” he whispered, and I gave him a glare.
Wilson and Wyatt’s meeting room looked like any law firm conference room in any movie ever made. Their long oak conference table appeared solid enough to withstand a tsunami. It was surrounded by black leather chairs with tall backs and padded arms. Bookshelves and cabinets lined two walls, with the third occupied by a credenza holding a coffee maker and cups. The fourth wall was a continuation of the expansive windows I’d passed in the hall.
The detective had taken a chair at one side of the table near the far end. When we entered, she was turned away from the door, reaching into a briefcase sitting on the floor alongside her chair. She straightened and put a short stack of file folders on the table alongside a pad of paper and a cup of coffee.
When she saw us, she stood and moved toward us, right hand extended. Patrick made the introductions.
“You want any coffee, Annie?” he asked.
“I’ll get it.” I picked up a cup and went through the motions of filling it with hot coffee and adding a dollop of creamer. I didn’t want coffee. I needed a distraction, a few moments to recover my balance.
Not only did I have to recount, for what felt like the millionth time, the most devastating events of my life, but I had to do it for a woman who could easily look at home on any movie set in the world. Why couldn’t this superstar homicide detective in Portland have been a sixty-year-old overweight man with a five o’clock shadow and a nicotine habit? No, I had to look at platinum blond hair pulled back into a business-like ponytail and chocolate brown eyes set into a heart-shaped face on a woman whose smooth muscles were visible through the silk blouse she wore. Patrick was clearly overdue for a lesson in karma for not warn
ing me.
I inhaled deeply to calm myself and took a seat across from her at the table. Patrick sat to my right. I favored him with another glare. He gazed back at me serenely.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you want to know, Detective? I’m sure you know from your stack of files that I’ve been over this several times already.”
“I’m sure you have.” She picked up a pen. “First, please call me Beth. We might be spending a lot of time together, and I try to avoid feeling as if my name is ‘detective.’” She assumed a professional tone. “I know how difficult this must be for you, but—”
“I doubt that.” My tone was harsher than I’d intended. Patrick put a calming hand on my arm.
She looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I misspoke. What I’m trying to say is, though it’s hard for you to go over this again, it’s important for me to hear it fresh. I was assigned to your case only last week, so I’ve barely had time to read these files, much less analyze their contents.” She tapped them with her pen. “Maybe the easiest way to start is for you to tell me what happened.”
I took a drink of the coffee I hadn’t wanted, grateful now to have it so I could collect my thoughts.
I told her about Dad’s bicycle shop, how he’d started with a shack of a building and turned it into a thriving business. “I worked there summers during college, and after I graduated, I helped out now and then.”
“Pretty busy place?”
“Sometimes. And after it’d been open for a while and word got around, it turned into a gathering place. Dad sponsored organized rides once or twice a year, and local riding groups used the shop as their meeting spot. The neighborhood kids would bring their bikes in, and he’d show them how to air up their tires and do minor repairs for free.”
I thought again of Joe peering through the window at the battered red bike and the joy on his face when Dad gave it to him. Beth brought me back to reality.
