by Meg Benjamin
The tightness in his chest relaxed as Darcy let out a whoop. Joe stepped forward, taking his award from Craven, only to be jumped by Clem, who threw her arms around his neck. “Nice going, Chef,” she whispered before letting him go.
“You too.” He turned and shook Lee’s hand, then glanced across the room. Fairley was looking at the three of them with a gaze like a laser beam. Joe gave him a bland smile but resisted flipping him the bird. That would come later.
“Now for the best overall meal.” Craven cleared his throat, glancing at the three chefs standing beside him.
“The overall winner of this year’s Wine and Food Festival Culinary Competition is…”
Joe’s shoulders were back to tense again. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
“…Chef Joe LeBlanc and the Rose.”
Darcy’s war whoop echoed through the room along with enthusiastic applause from the crowd. MG threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek. Clem hugged him again, making it even more difficult to reach Craven and the somewhat larger Plexiglas award.
“Say a few words, Chef?” Craven nodded toward the mike.
Joe nodded quickly, trying to force his suddenly fogged brain to come up with something coherent. “The Rose is a group effort. We’re here because of the best staff I’ve ever worked with. In particular, my sous chef, Darcy Cunningham.”
He beckoned Darcy beside him, then handed her the award. “I couldn’t have done it without her. Thanks y’all.”
He allowed himself one quick glance across the room. Fairley’s face was the color of bad cherry soda.
Darcy held the award up, grinning as the crowd applauded lustily. “Are you going to pound that asshole?” she said through her smile.
“Soon as the room clears out,” he replied, keeping his own grin firmly in place.
The audience began moving on, heading for the wine samples being sold back at the city park.
“Nice going, Chef.” Contreras extended a hand again. “If Craven isn’t just blowing smoke and they do this again next year, we’ll take you then.”
“You’re on.” Joe grinned as Clem pounded him on the shoulder.
“If it couldn’t be me, I’m glad it was you. Have to admit—that quail was elemental.”
“And your green tomatoes rocked the house.” Joe handed the entrée award to MG. “Hang onto this, will you, darlin’? Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’ve got business to attend to.”
“Joe…” MG began uneasily.
Clem narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t do it here, if I were you. They might take these back.” She nodded toward the awards.
“Might be worth it.” He began working his way across the room, carefully not looking back to where MG was standing. Fairley was locked in what appeared to be a spirited conversation with Tolly Berenger, the owner of the Silver Spur. Berenger didn’t look happy. Neither did Fairley.
Joe had just moved past a couple of gray-haired tourists when a voice came from behind him. “Todd Fairley?”
Fairley turned, scowling. “What?”
Nando Avrogado stepped up next to Fairley. He was in uniform, complete with buff-colored Stetson that made him at least eight inches taller than the Beav. His partner, the baby-faced kid with blond hair who’d arrested Dietz, was equally imposing. “Are you Todd Fairley?” Nando repeated.
Fairley’s scowl deepened. “Yeah. So what?”
Nando gave him a faint smile that should have chilled him to the bone. “Mr. Fairley, you need to come with us. Some things have come up we need you to clarify.”
“Things? What things?” Fairley snarled. For a man who specialized in dirty tricks, he seemed to have lost his sense of self-preservation.
“Last night we arrested Kevin Dietz on burglary charges for breaking into Coffee Delight on Main Street,” baby-face said with a bland smile. “He’s implicated you in an earlier burglary at the Rose. We need you to answer some questions.”
“Dietz? I never… You can’t believe Dietz. He’s a criminal.” Fairley’s face changed from cherry red to faint pink in an instant. He glanced back and forth between the two cops incredulously.
“Yes, sir, and from what he says, so are you. Now if you’ll come quietly with Officer Delaney here, we won’t need to use handcuffs.”
Fairley’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His gaze jerked to the side suddenly and his face went back to cherry red. “You,” he growled at Joe. “You did this.”
Joe shook his head, grinning as he folded his arms across his chest. “No, sir. I came over here to pound you into the ground. But this is so much better.” He felt a hand on his arm and looked down to see MG staring wide-eyed at Fairley.
“You need to come along with me, sir,” Delaney said sharply. “Now.”
Fairley glanced back at him. Then his mouth snapped shut. Delaney took hold of his arm, pulling him briskly toward the door.
Nando stood next to Joe, watching his second-in-command march Fairley away. “Delaney’s getting real good at that. Must be from tossing drunks out of the Dew Drop Inn.”
Joe shrugged. “If you need anything else on Fairley, we got an extern who says he told the SOB what we were serving in the contest. Before the fois gras burglary, that is.”
Nando nodded. “Might help. Although I’m betting Fairley will turn on Dietz and then we’ll get one of those good old-fashioned pissing matches.”
Joe frowned. “Did Dietz really break into Deirdre’s shop?”
“He did.” Nando’s smile turned predatory. “Unfortunately for him, Chico was still around waiting for the beer garden to clear out. Dietz is lucky to be alive.”
“And that makes my day complete.” He extended his hand to Nando. “See you around, Officer.”
Nando shook his hand quickly. “Count on it, Chef.”
“Sheeit.”
Joe turned as Nando walked away from him. Tolly Berenger stood watching the doorway where his chef had just disappeared. “Goddamn,” he added.
“Guess you’re down a chef.”
Berenger shook his head. He looked like he wanted to spit. “Guess I am.”
Joe tried to make himself say he was sorry, but he couldn’t do it. “Too bad.”
“Ah well, I would’ve fired the sumbitch anyway.” Tolly shrugged. “Did you see that monstrosity he served up for them judges? Hell, if I wanted them to have Frito pie, I’d send them some Hormel. Be cheaper anyway. And did you see what that Yankee did with that chili?”
“Fairley’s from Dallas.”
Tolly waved an impatient hand. “Whatever. He put tomatoes in that chili. Bad enough to add beans, and black beans at that, not pintos. But then he goes and puts tomatoes in. No wonder the sumbitch lost. Hell, I’m surprised they didn’t lynch him. Don’t suppose you’re in the market for a new job?” He gave Joe a canny look.
Joe shook his head. “No, sir. I’m happy where I am.”
“Figures.” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll go see if that gal’s satisfied at the Faro. Figure I can match anything Tom Ames is payin’ her.” He wandered off, shaking his head.
Joe watched him go. Clem was going to really enjoy this, he figured. I’m happy where I am. He blew out a breath. Yeah, he really was.
He looked down at MG, still standing beside him looking slightly dazed. “If I take you to the Faro, is there any chance you’ll sing?”
She glanced up at him, her lips moving into a faint smile. “It’s always possible, Chef.”
“Then let’s go. We got all kinds of things to celebrate.” He slung his arm around her shoulders, heading for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MG worked brunch the next day along with Joe and Darcy, although she didn’t exactly need to. Apparently, Ezra had spent the afternoon chopping every vegetable and piece of fruit in the kitchen. As penance went, MG thought it would do.
All three of them were a little woozy after yesterday. The celebration had bubbled around them at the Faro, and she’d found herself watching J
oe a little more carefully than usual. She shouldn’t have worried. He had two beers and a plate of Clem’s enchiladas. Apparently, when he said he stayed sober, he meant it.
Still the party had gone on until long after midnight. She’d sung a few sets and then been invited to sing along with one of the headliners. Some promises had been made about asking for her as an opening act, but she wasn’t ready to count on that yet.
Joe had given Placido a field promotion to line cook, and now he was frying bacon on the grill while Darcy warmed the pans of creamed dried beef and strata. Joe himself carved roast beef and ham just as if he wasn’t the award-winning executive chef. They might have had a few more customers than usual, but it was hard to tell. Sunday brunch wasn’t exactly a typical meal.
MG had her cell phone turned on, but she kept checking it all the same. At nine, she called the hospital desk one more time, only to be told that there was no change in her aunt’s condition.
Around ten fifteen, the phone buzzed and she saw the hospital number when she dug it out of her pocket. “Yes?” she said as she moved outside into the yard.
“This is Dr. Constantine,” a woman’s voice replied. “Is this MG Carmody?”
MG felt cold spread all the way to her toes. “Yes. That is, I’m MG Carmody.”
“Your aunt regained consciousness this morning. She’s been able to talk to her lawyer. I thought you’d want to know.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” MG blurted. “She’s getting better?”
The doctor paused for a moment. “She’s better than she was,” she said carefully. “But she’s still very seriously ill. And any conversation tires her.”
“Right. Of course.” MG bit her lip. “Did she…does she want me to come back?”
“She hasn’t asked for you.”
Of course she hasn’t. Get a grip.
“Can I see her?”
“That depends on her condition. Check back with the hospital this afternoon.”
Which seemed to take care of everything. She’d been checking the hospital for two days, and she hadn’t gotten in yet. “Thank you, Doctor.”
She pushed the phone back into her pocket again, sighing. Of course, nothing had changed. Not with her aunt’s condition and not with their relationship.
Joe drove her back to the farm after they’d finished working the meal. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
She shrugged. “Maybe later. I don’t know if they’d let me see her—she’s in the ICU. I don’t know if she wants to see me either. The doctor didn’t think she did.”
He put his arms around her, pulling her close. “It’s okay, MG. You gave it a shot. Your grandpa would be proud of you.”
She leaned against his chest for a moment, letting the warmth of his skin seep into the cold in her bones, then pushed away. “Let’s go check Robespierre. I want to see his tail in daylight.”
The rooster actually looked better at night, she decided. In sunshine, the full extent of his pathetic excuse for a tail was only too evident. “Should we take him in to see the vet? I hear Doc Toleffson is really good.”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know what a vet could do for him. There’s no wound or anything. Just missing feathers.”
Robespierre strutted across the chicken yard, regarding the two of them imperiously from the other side of the fence. She had the feeling if they opened the gate, he’d probably attack just on general principles. Whatever they might think of his missing tail, he apparently didn’t share their opinion.
On the other side of the yard, Hen Nine was shepherding two chicks as if they constituted a flock. One of the other hens had managed to hatch out five chicks, but Hen Nine ignored her. After all, there was something to be said for being first to produce anything.
They’d started collecting the eggs again after removing the ones that hadn’t hatched out already. She’d even considered investing in an incubator.
Of course, that assumed she’d have a farm on which to raise chickens. Right now the odds on that happening were pretty slim. Hospitalized or not, Aunt Nedda would want her money. And at the moment, she didn’t have the money to give her.
She blew out a breath. Like Joe said, she’d given it a shot. Even if it hadn’t worked in the end.
She took the day’s eggs into the kitchen, brushing off the occasional clump of dirt before sliding the basket into the cooler.
“There’s a car in the driveway,” Joe commented as he pulled off his boots in the doorway.
MG stepped into the living room, peering through the front window. A black BMW had pulled in beside Joe’s pickup. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.
The man who climbed out of the car might as well have had scary official written across his chest. He wore a dark blue suit that probably cost as much as the farm, along with black wingtips. His thick blond hair was impeccably cut. The way he looked, plus the fact that he was carrying a file of papers that looked appallingly formal, confirmed her assumption that nothing good could come of this. She reached back for Joe’s hand, then raised her head. If they were going to evict her because of her grandfather’s missed payment, at least she’d go with as much dignity as she could muster.
“MG Carmody?” the scary official asked politely.
She nodded. “That’s me.”
He paused, then gave her a faint smile. “I’m sorry, but could I see some identification? Just so that no one can ask questions later?”
MG blew out a breath and stepped back inside the house to grab her purse. Joe folded his arms across his chest, drawing himself up to Super Chef size. “Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Scary official’s smile was unwavering. “My name is Grayson Temple.” He turned toward MG again. “I’m your great-aunt’s lawyer.”
MG closed her eyes briefly. So they were going to foreclose even before Great-Aunt Nedda went home from the hospital. Assuming she ever did. “Here’s my driver’s license. As you can see, I really am MG Carmody.”
Temple nodded. “I just needed official confirmation. I spoke to your great-aunt this morning.”
MG sighed. “The doctor mentioned that. I thought she couldn’t have visitors.”
“She asked for me specifically. Apparently, she insisted.”
Right. At least it sounded like Aunt Nedda was returning to her usual self. “What did she want?”
“She told me to give you this. She was quite insistent that I do it too.”
Temple handed her the very official-looking set of papers. She took it with a sinking heart, scanning the first page. Then she stopped, staring. “What is this?”
Temple’s smile became more pronounced. “I believe it’s the mortgage on this farm. That’s what it’s supposed to be, anyway. You should look particularly at the last page.”
MG flipped the papers over until she reached the end. At the bottom of the sheet were the words Paid in full with her great aunt’s shaky signature, along with two other signatures she didn’t recognize and a notary stamp.
She glanced back at Temple, shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Your great-aunt is forgiving the balance of your loan. She wanted to make sure it was understood that you didn’t owe her anything more. Fortunately, the hospital had a notary public available since she insisted the signature be notarized. The other signatures are from the hospital staff who served as witnesses.”
The papers rattled in her hands. For a moment she was afraid her knees might give way. Then she felt Joe’s arm around her waist, holding her steady.
“Is Ms. Carmody any better today?” he asked.
Temple shrugged. “As I understand it, her condition is still very serious. And taking care of this loan took a great deal of her energy. On the other hand, I think signing off on the mortgage made her rest more easily.” He shrugged again. “Of course, I may be prone to sentimentalism myself.”
MG blinked. She’d never heard a more unlikely statement. “So I don’t ow
e her anything anymore?”
“You don’t owe her any money. That’s been taken care of.” He took a small leather case from his jacket pocket, handing her a card. “If you have any other questions, you can call me. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.” He started to turn toward his car again.
“Thank you,” MG blurted. “And thanks for looking after Great-Aunt Nedda. I’ll try to see her later today.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Temple said gently. “Seeing her, that is. The sooner the better, in fact.”
“Right.” She nodded. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Joe opened two bottles of premium ale. It seemed like the least he could do under the circumstances. MG still looked like she was in shock, so he treated her carefully, sitting her down on one of the lawn chairs in the back yard before he handed her the bottle.
Her Great-Aunt Nedda was sleeping when they’d gotten to the hospital earlier in the afternoon. The nurse had let MG sit next to the bed for a few minutes, holding her hand, before she’d been shooed away again. Apparently, the chances of her aunt waking again that day were slim. He wasn’t sure how good the chances were that she’d wake up again some other day. On the other hand, she looked like a tough old bird. Sort of like Robespierre. He wouldn’t count her out.
“She gave me the farm.” MG sounded slightly dazed.
“Looks like it.” He kept quiet about all the other things that went along with that fact—that her Aunt Nedda should have forgiven the debt when her brother was alive, that she shouldn’t have used the note to torment her grand-niece. He figured MG knew all that, or she’d remember it in time.
She stared up at him. “I’m not sure what to do about all this. It hasn’t really sunk in yet.”
“Right now, you do just what you’ve been doing, I’d say. No reason to change because of this.” He knelt down beside her chair, placing his bottle on the ground at his feet.
“So I’m a chicken farmer, I guess. And a singer. And a cook’s assistant.” She blew out a breath. “All of that.”
He shook his head. “At the moment you’re a chicken farmer and a cook’s assistant. You may or may not be those things a year from now. But you’ll always be a singer.” He stroked his fingers along the line of her cheekbone. “And someday, you won’t be anything else.”
