Cookin' the Books

by Amy Patricia Meade

  ‘You are saying Doctor Roger Livermore was “mortally wounded”?’ Jules clarified.

  ‘Yes.’ The mayor’s face flushed slightly. ‘I’m not sure if the police have issued a statement yet, so I may be out of line here, but the good doctor passed away this afternoon.’

  A series of gasps and cries rang out from the audience, and the few reporters standing behind Jules and Mary Jo began shouting questions, but it was Jules who maintained control of the debriefing. ‘What are your plans for replacing Lavinia Broderick as executive director of the library?’

  ‘I have no plans. The library board is in charge of selecting all executive staff. I have absolutely no say in the process.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t act when Mrs Broderick destroyed hundreds of books at the Hobson Glen Library?’ Jules challenged, to the audible satisfaction of several members of the audience.

  ‘I not sure I like the tone of that question,’ Whitley reprimanded, ‘but yes. It was the library board’s duty to deal with the problem and they voted against terminating Mrs Broderick.’

  ‘But that vote was overturned and you were called in to mediate, weren’t you?’ Jules continued to press.

  ‘A member of the board consulted me about the problem, yes, but I upheld the board’s decision to retain Mrs Broderick as executive director. There was no—’

  Jules didn’t give him time to finish his next statement. ‘No, you didn’t. I have it on good authority that your original choice was to fire Mrs Broderick. You only reversed that decision within the past few days. Why the sudden change of mind?’

  ‘As I already stated in my announcement, my fact-finding commission found no wrongdoing on the part of Mrs Broderick.’

  ‘No wrongdoing? She destroyed hundreds of books. Was Mrs Broderick blackmailing you? Is that why you changed your mind? You were seen having a heated conversation with the deceased just before she died.’

  Another round of gasps sprang from the audience.

  ‘I refuse to even acknowledge such ridiculous claims,’ an indignant Jarrod Whitley seethed. Still, his face registered far more surprise and guilt than anger. ‘I have always been completely honest and forthright in all my dealings with Mrs Broderick and the members of the library board. No more questions. This interview is over.’

  The same security guard who had granted Jules and Mary Jo admittance reappeared to escort them out of the fenced-in area of the skate park. Mary Jo hovered a finger over the iPad’s record button to pause filming, but when a second security guard appeared and grabbed her firmly by the wrist, she thought the better of it.

  The way Jules was still carrying on, footage of their eviction might become useful at a later date.

  ‘Don’t force us out, Mayor. The people of Hobson Glen deserve the truth!’ Jules shouted while the first security guard guided him out of the barricaded area and into the public area of the park.

  He and Mary Jo walked in silence back to Mary Jo’s SUV.

  ‘Well, that’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back,’ Jules exhaled as he climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘What do you mean? You were terrific.’ Mary Jo was seated behind the steering wheel, fiddling with the iPad.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I’d do more to break the case open.’

  ‘You kept him on the run, Jules. That was the face of a guilty man if I ever saw one, and you didn’t let him go. You were relentless. A true investigative journalist in action.’

  ‘Really? I thought I could have been tougher.’

  Mary Jo put her iPad aside for a moment and looked Jules straight in the eye. ‘If you’d been any tougher, we’d be in jail right now.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jules moped. ‘Still, I thought I’d get us farther along.’

  ‘Yes, because Woodward and Bernstein broke the news of Watergate by shouting at Nixon across a town park.’ She rolled her eyes and picked up the iPad.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Jules chuckled. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m re-watching part of Whitley’s speech.’

  ‘Looking to cure your insomnia?’ he quipped.

  ‘This would certainly do it,’ Mary Jo agreed. ‘I could barely keep my eyes open. But, no, I’m looking for something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, remember when Cordelia Ballantyne showed up? I want to see if and how Mayor Whitley reacted to her presence.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Why?’

  ‘Because what was Cordelia doing there? Tish described the woman as being nearly prostrate with grief this afternoon.’

  ‘Prostate? Cordelia’s a woman,’ Jules was obtuse. ‘Women don’t have prostates.’

  ‘Prostrate,’ Mary Jo placed special emphasis on the second letter ‘r.’ ‘Exhausted. Drained. Too tired to speak. You should try it some time.’

  ‘And deny you my dazzling wit? Never.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, don’t you think it’s strange that she was there? And slinking around and hiding behind other people, to boot.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Jules grunted in agreement. ‘Given that Doctor Livermore died this afternoon, it’s even stranger that she’d be out and about and alone.’

  ‘Cordelia may not have known the doctor died,’ Mary Jo allowed. ‘We only just found out. But yes, even without that, it’s difficult to believe she’d be at a skate park dedication, of all things. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’ Jules prompted.

  ‘Hold on. If I recall correctly, when we spotted Cordelia, Whitley was nattering on about needing a volunteer seamstress to patch the Santa suit before the end of the year.’ She rewound the footage of the speech to the spot in question and then pressed the play button on the iPad video player.

  In the clip selected, the mayor was expounding upon the need for new lights for the park display and younger volunteers to help hang the decorations since the park caretaker, Mr Luft, needed hip replacement surgery in the autumn. From there, he embarked upon the subject of the poor state of Santa’s trousers.

  ‘There,’ Mary Jo called out and stopped the video. ‘Look at his face. That’s clearly a grimace.’

  ‘I see it,’ Jules acknowledged. ‘But we have no idea what or who he’s looking at.’

  ‘He’s looking out above the seated audience and toward the back of the enclosure.’

  ‘Agreed, but he could be focused on someone standing there making a funny face or looking at their phone instead of listening to him. There could be a hundred explanations for that grimace.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe not. Let’s find out.’ Mary Jo replaced the iPad in her bag, which she put on the back seat before stepping out of the car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Jules asked as he got out of the car and shut the door.

  ‘To see if my suspicions are correct. You have your phone?’

  ‘Of course. Why?’

  ‘Because if my hunch is right, we’ll need to capture something in a photo or a video, and my iPad isn’t exactly designed for discretion.’

  Giving the skate park a wide birth while at once keeping it well within view, Mary Jo led Jules to a copse of trees just behind the nearby baseball field. From their hidden location they watched as the opening ceremony attendees were served flutes of champagne and trays of canapés.

  ‘Hors d’oeuvres? This is the gig Tish should have gotten,’ Jules angrily declared. ‘Who arranged the catering for this thing? They’re going to hear from me.’

  ‘There will come a day when we can concentrate on getting Tish catering jobs. This is not that day. Now, focus, will you?’ Mary Jo chastised.

  ‘I’ll try, but it would help if I knew precisely what I was supposed to be focusing on.’

  ‘Mayor Whitley,’ came Mary Jo’s immediate answer. ‘And, if my intuition is accurate, Cordelia Ballantyne.’

  ‘What? Cordelia? But why—’

  ‘Listen for a minute, will you? Cordelia Ballantyne is grieving over her mother, her marriage is
on the rocks, and her daughter is away from home.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘On top of that, she gets news that Doctor Livermore has been shot. And maybe, just maybe, she also learns that he’s died from his wounds.’

  ‘I’m with you so far.’

  ‘Despite all of this, she leaves Wisteria Knolls and comes down here. Given her emotional state, one would think that Cordelia would search out someone who might console her.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Jules allowed.

  ‘But who would that person be? According to you, her husband was in a motel with Roberta Dutton.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’s out of there by now.’

  ‘Granted, but I doubt he’d check out and rush home to his wife’s waiting arms. Not after the argument Tish said they had.’

  ‘Tish also said that Cordelia has no friends in town, apart from her mother.’

  Mary Jo nodded. ‘So if she was here to meet someone, who could it be? Who else was guaranteed to be here this evening? And who suddenly decided not to fire Cordelia’s mother?’

  ‘Mayor Whitley.’ Jules’s mouth opened wide. ‘You don’t think …’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. But if Cordelia came here to see the mayor, now would be about the right time for him to duck out of the party. The day’s cooling off, kids are skating, everyone’s had a glass of fizz or two. Few people would notice if Whitley went off for a few minutes on his own.’

  ‘Are we sure he’s even still there? Maybe my questions scared him off?’

  ‘You definitely had him on the ropes, honey, but if he wants skatepark sponsors to drop more money on his re-election campaign or Santa’s trousers, he has to hang around for at least a little while. I also happened to notice that the Lincoln he drives around in is still parked in the lot,’ Mary Jo explained.

  ‘Well, I hope he hurries up,’ Jules complained.

  ‘I know. We have a bunch of sandwiches to make.’

  ‘Not just that, but I seem to be kneeling on a patch of thistle. Ow.’

  Just as Mary Jo leaned over to examine the ground beneath Jules’s knees, she heard a pair of shoes crunching along the gravel path a few yards away. She looked up to see Jarrod Whitley approaching from the left.

  ‘It’s the mayor,’ Jules stated in a frantic whisper.

  ‘Yes, I know. Shh!’ Mary Jo and Jules huddled together and watched silently through layers of foliage as Whitley walked past them and farther down the path toward the baseball field.

  ‘Get your phone out,’ Mary Jo prompted, noticing a female figure approaching on the path from the right.

  Jules did as instructed and they moved behind a second nearby bush so as to get a better shot of the pair as they united.

  Mary Jo’s hunch had paid off. The woman was, indeed, Cordelia Ballantyne. She rushed forward and embraced Jarrod Whitley with the ferocity of a woman who hadn’t seen her lover in months.

  ‘Are you filming?’ Mary Jo tapped on Jules’s arm.

  ‘Yes. Shh!’ Jules replied with an impatient nod of the head.

  After their embrace, Cordelia and Jarrod exchanged a passionate kiss.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, Cordelia,’ Whitley reminded her. ‘We’re taking a huge risk.’

  ‘I know, Jarrod, but I just had to see you. What with Mother and now Doctor Livermore dying, I couldn’t bear to be alone. I’m just so scared.’ Cordelia burst into tears.

  ‘I know, but if we’re seen together, my wife and your husband would—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care what John thinks anymore. I know he’s just waiting to get a divorce. I want you. You make me happy.’ Cordelia reached up and stroked Whitley’s cheek in a loving fashion.

  Whitley responded by taking her hand in his and removing it. ‘Cordelia, we can’t be seen like this. Not with my re-election right around the corner. You knew the rules going into this.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I had no idea at the time that all this was going to happen.’ She broke down again.

  ‘Look, I know you’re going through a rough patch right now’ – Jarrod’s voice was gentle, yet firm – ‘but there are just two and a half months left until election day. I can’t blow it now. If anyone were to discover we were seeing each other, it could all be over for me.’

  ‘Well, then, what are you suggesting? We can’t just stop now, can we? Not now. Not after—’

  ‘No. No, I’m not suggesting that. I’m just saying that maybe we should take a little break.’

  ‘A break?’ Cordelia’s voice rose sharply. Even from Mary Jo and Jules’s vantage point, it was evident the woman was trembling.

  ‘Just a short one. Just until this election business is over.’

  ‘Election day? You want to stay apart until election day? That’s … that’s crazy.’

  ‘Calm down, Cordelia.’ Whitley placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’ll still be available by text and email should you need someone to talk to.’

  Cordelia stopped crying. Without a sound, she reached up and forcibly removed Whitley’s hands from her shoulders. ‘Text? Email? How very big of you. My God, Jarrod. How could you be so insensitive? And how could I have been so stupid? Goodbye.’

  ‘Um, goodbye for now, right?’

  ‘I meant what I said,’ Cordelia shouted. She marched back along the path from whence she came.

  Jarrod Whitley threw his hands in the air and retraced his steps as well.

  When the pair were gone from view, Mary Jo nudged Jules. ‘Did you get it all?’

  ‘Every incriminating, heartbreaking word.’

  ‘Whitley was pretty harsh, wasn’t he?’ Mary Jo commiserated as she stood up and stretched.

  ‘Positively frigid. He’d better hope that Santa suit doesn’t get repaired because all he’s gonna see in his stocking this Christmas is coal.’ Jules rose to his feet and returned the phone to his back pants pocket.

  ‘He’ll see worse than that if he winds up in prison,’ Mary Jo mused.

  ‘You think he may have murdered Binnie Broderick?’

  Mary Jo shrugged. ‘She obviously found out about his affair with Cordelia.’

  ‘And used it to preserve her job,’ Jules added. ‘Question is whether Whitley trusted Binnie to keep silent.’

  ‘God only knows.’ She shook her head. ‘But we’d better head back to the café. We have a flock of sandwiches to assemble.’

  ‘Yeah, and I could really use a drink.’

  EIGHTEEN

  IT’S NOT A DATE, Tish insisted in the all-caps text message she sent Jules from the parking lot of the Hobson Grille. As much as she loved Jules and his outrageous sense of humor, there were times when the man could take a joke too far.

  Having heeded Jules’s and Mary Jo’s fashion advice by ditching the Capri pants and tee in favor of a cream-and-red rose-printed dress with a coordinating red shrug sweater, Tish teetered into the restaurant in a pair of cream ankle-strap stiletto sandals that she hadn’t worn in over a year. She prayed she didn’t embarrass herself by falling head first into someone’s dinner.

  The door opened into the bar part of the restaurant where a young woman in a pale-blue Hobson Grille logo polo shirt and black shorts greeted Tish upon entering. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m meeting Schuyler Thompson here tonight. Tall man, blond hair, fortyish.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know Mr Thompson. He’s in the dining room, third booth by the window.’ She gestured to the door at the back of the bar with a smile.

  ‘Thanks.’ Tish followed the route the hostess indicated. From the doorway, she spied Schuyler in the booth in question, looking as attractive as ever in a pinstriped azure button-down shirt, linen blazer, and, in keeping with the casual weekend vibe, a pair of blue jeans. On the table before him rested a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of pink roses.

  At the sight of the flowers, Tish retreated back into the bar and texted Jules. OK. Maybe it is a date.

  Fearful Jules would press her for details, Tish switched her phone off
and placed it in the bottom of her red Coach handbag before drawing a deep breath and proceeding into the dining room.

  As she drew near, Schuyler smiled and gallantly rose to his feet. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. These are for you.’ He presented the bouquet.

  ‘Oh, thank you. They’re lovely.’ Tish tried to conceal her discomfort, but Schuyler saw through her plastered-on smile.

  ‘I hope you don’t think me presumptuous. I was actually going to bring you some vegetables from my garden, seeing as you’re a cook, but I was afraid a bag of squash might send the wrong message.’

  Tish’s discomfort melted into genuine laughter. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Optics aside, a bag of squash would have made a great pairing for the five pounds of rib roast left in my refrigerator.’ She sat across from Schuyler, on the side of the booth nearest the bar-room door.

  ‘Five pounds? Note to self: next time bring potatoes,’ Schuyler teased and returned to his spot opposite Tish. ‘I hope the restaurant is OK for you. It’s not the best around, but it’s decent. And it’s open Sundays.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s perfectly fine. That rib roast I told you about? Aside from a half gallon of skim milk and superstore-sized sacks of flour and baking powder, that’s all the food I have in my kitchen.’

  ‘Well, we’d best get you a menu, then.’ He passed her a brown faux-leather folder stamped with the Hobson Grille logo. ‘I also goofed a little bit. I forgot there’s no bar service to the dining room on Sunday. If you want a drink, I need to buy it at the bar and bring it out.’

  Tish narrowed her eyes. ‘Blue laws?’

  ‘No, underage wait staff on Sundays. The eighteen and overs put in extra hours on Fridays and Saturdays.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tish chuckled.

  ‘So,’ Schuyler clumsily segued, ‘I have to admit I had an ulterior motive for inviting you to dinner tonight. I mean, apart from giving you a break from cooking.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’ Tish smiled.