by Libby Howard
“That does it. No more chicken unless it’s boneless. And I’m putting soft-edge bumpers on the stairs,” I half-teased. But he was right. Taco loved being here with us, jumping on our laps for pets, or snoozing on the couch, but he was bored. And a lot of his begging for food probably came from that boredom.
“I just…I can’t stand the thought that something might happen to him,” I confessed. “I can’t stand to lose anyone else I love. It’s too soon to face that. If he were to not come home one night, and I were to find him by the side of the road…” My voice choked on the words.
“I know, Kay,” the judge said softly. “The kids would be devastated. Me too. I’ve grown pretty fond of the little fur ball.”
I gave him a wobbly smile. “The not-so-little fur ball.”
“It needs to be your call, Kay,” he said. “Personally, I would start letting him out, maybe during the day when everyone is at work and the Lars’ dog is safely inside. That’s my opinion. And when I break out into a sweat about Madison dating, you can remind me I told you to let the cat be happy and let him out of the house.”
“Okay. Maybe on Sunday an hour or so before I feed him dinner so he knows to come back.” I turned to start pulling ingredients from the cabinets. “What’s on your agenda today? Golf?”
“I golfed early.” He straddled a bar stool next to the kitchen island and watched me. “I’m hoping to pull a Taco and lick the bowl of whatever you’re getting ready to make there.”
“Icebox cake. I made a batch yesterday, but got to thinking it might not be enough, so I’m making another. It’s lick-worthy. Enough butter and sugar to put you into cardiac arrest though.”
“Just the sort of dessert I like. Is this for your after-party, or whatever it is you’re doing tonight? The thing you’re hosting for that author woman, right?”
I started opening the butter that had been softening on the counter since yesterday. “Yes, that thing.” Although I was putting this batch in two containers so I could leave one here for us to eat later. I frowned, thinking about tonight’s event. “I’ll be glad when this thing is over, frankly. I think Nancy will be glad when it’s over as well. She may resign from the committee after this one.”
He laughed. “That bad? Isn’t this the woman who writes those scandalous vampire books everyone is tittering about? She’s as drama-ridden as her novels, I’m guessing?”
“Worse.” I plopped the first stick of butter into the bowl and unwrapped the second one. “She’s not a very nice person. And she killed Barton Wells.”
Judge Beck blinked a few times. “I’m assuming that’s not a matter for police involvement even though it sounds like a homicide?”
“He’s a character in one of her books,” I explained as I unwrapped the third stick of butter. “Tell me, if you had to choose between a super-hot psychopath who you couldn’t trust and who might kill you, but who was really good in bed, and a nice, smart, loyal, dependable person who was in a wheelchair but who loved you, who would you pick?”
Judge Beck suddenly had the expression of a cornered animal. “Uh, which one am I supposed to pick?”
“The nice one, of course.” I threw the fourth stick of butter into the bowl with unnecessary violence. “Because Barton Wells doesn’t sneak in your bedroom window at night and hover over you, watching like some creepy serial killer.”
“Probably because he’s in a wheelchair and the window is six feet off the ground?” Judge Beck held up his hands at my glare. “Sorry, sorry. I’m picking the nice one before I get a spatula upside the head.”
“I get that he’s not the hero, that the sexy psychopath vampire is going to end up with the girl, but she didn’t have to go and kill him,” I argued, dumping half a bag of sugar into a glass measuring cup.
“Wait, the heroine killed this Barton guy? Because that pretty much gives you her decision right there.”
“No! Trelanie didn’t kill Barton, the ghouls did. Roman let them in and didn’t help Barton and he died. I meant Luanne Trainor killed him. She’s the author. She killed him. She could have sent him to Siberia or given him a love interest of his own or something. She didn’t have to go and kill him.”
Judge Beck rubbed his hands over his face. “This is probably going to get me banished to the garage for the night, but here goes. I’d pick the sexy psychopath, because I’m a guy and she’s super-hot and that’s hard to resist. But it wouldn’t last because the first time she snuck through my bedroom window and stared at me sleeping, or hacked my cell phone, or was mean to my kids, she’d be gone so fast her head would spin. In the long term, I’d end up with whoever I enjoyed spending time with the most, because at my age sex is only a few times a month if I’m lucky, and the rest of my time involves non-sex things like talking about what we should have for dinner, or when the SUV needs an oil change, or who’s free to take the kids to the football game Friday night. Ultimately, I want someone I can relax with, unwind with, share my life with. And if earth-shattering sex comes along with that, then sign me up.”
That was probably the rightest thing he ever could have said. He admitted to the lure of superficial attraction, but in the end knew it wouldn’t be enough, that it wouldn’t hold without all the other things that make a relationship work. I’d been attracted to Eli from day one, but in the end, it had been all the other things that held our relationship together. Actually, in the end after his accident, it had been the memories, the reminders of the other things, that held our relationship together. That and our vows. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part…
“After Eli’s accident…” I trailed off, my face suddenly hot. What was I doing? I couldn’t confess to this good-looking roommate of mine that I hadn’t had earth-shattering sex in ten years. That I hadn’t had sex at all in ten years.
His eyes softened. “Barton Wells. I’d take Barton Wells in a heartbeat. Well, the female version of Barton Wells, anyway.”
Time to lighten this conversation up a bit. “But maybe a night or two with the female version of Roman, just to cross it off your bucket list?”
“Crossing that ‘hot sex with a vampire’ item off a bucket list isn’t an opportunity anyone should pass up,” he teased.
“Maybe you’ll luck out and find a weird combo of Barton and Roman?” I asked. “I’ll have to suggest that to Luanne Trainor, because as I’ve learned this morning, she’s so open to fan suggestions about what she should do regarding her characters.”
“Ah, sarcasm. I know sarcasm when I hear it.” He grinned. “I take it that this was a topic of discussion during what should have been a relaxing brunch with a famous author?”
I set the mixer to creaming the butter and sugar then turned to the judge. “First, she brought Paula to tears by insulting the amazing gluten- and dairy-free cookies she’d been working weeks to perfect, then she went all diva up in her bedroom with her saint of an agent minutes before the brunch. Then, she blows a gasket because the attendees were having a lively debate over the Barton versus Roman issue and if Barton would possibly be resurrected in the future.”
He winced. “Sounds like she needs to develop some thicker skin.”
“Totally. She tried to turn it around by being all nice and gracious during the actual brunch, but when you’ve screamed at eleven people who paid big bucks to meet you in a private setting, it’s kinda hard to recover.”
“And that’s your attempt to sweeten them up?” He nodded at the butter and sugar mixture.
“Icebox cake sweetens everyone up.” I had no idea how old the recipe was. It had been in my family as far back as 1920—possibly even earlier. It was basically the most decadent buttercream icing ever in vanilla and chocolate, separated by layers of ladyfingers. There was nothing richer, more fattening, or more delicious in the entire universe.
“Do I get some?” Judge Beck eyed the mixer.
“Are you going to the meet-and--greet?”
He grimaced. “I seriously have to sit through hundreds of
women gushing about some fictional vampire in order to get a few bites of that?”
I wanted to string him along a bit, but I was too nice to let the poor guy suffer. “I’ll set aside a little bit for you before I put it together. I expect you to grovel at my feet later though, and maybe peel me some grapes. Icebox cake is a special thing in my family.”
“If it’s as good as you say, I’ll absolutely grovel at your feet. You can peel your own grapes, though.”
I waved a spatula at him. “Deal.”
Chapter 8
I hauled my cooler with the double batch of ice box cake through the lobby and stuck it in the office of the theater. There were refrigerators behind the bar area, but I didn’t fully trust that someone wouldn’t decide to partake early. Such was the seductive lure of icebox cake.
As I was heading out of the office I heard voices down by the dressing rooms and went to investigate, wondering if a miracle had occurred and Luanne had actually arrived to the theater early and on her own accord.
As I got closer, I realized that one of the voices was Eva, and the other was a man’s voice—not Luanne’s. I hesitated, then because I’m nosy, I crept closer. His voice was low and muffled, but he sounded stern, as if he were conveying something that was urgently important.
Eva was breathless and anxious. “I had no idea,” she told him. “I swear neither the publisher nor I knew. We’ll fix this. I promise we’ll fix this.”
“You better.” Those words of his were very clear. “If not, then the deal’s off. And if the deal’s off, my head is the one on the chopping block.”
I heard footsteps and I walked forward, rounding the corner and smiling as I passed a scowling man in a dark gray suit.
“Is Luanne here?” I asked Eva.
She blinked at me, then shook her head. “No, she’s still at the inn. Can you go get her? There’s no way she can walk in those heels and I’ve got a few quick things I need to do here first.”
“Sure. I’ll just check in on Nancy, then walk down to the inn. I’ve already arranged for Gene to give her a ride up if you didn’t.” I hesitated then reached out to pat the woman’s shoulder. “It’ll all be okay. We’ll just get through tonight, then we can all breathe easy.”
“If only,” she muttered, then she gave me a forced smile and turned to go into the dressing room.
I found Nancy up front, organizing the volunteers who would act as ushers guiding people to their seats, as well as the ticket scanners, and the two people tending the bar and refreshment area. The contracted lighting and sound people were already setting up, and Nancy assured me that she had this end of the event well in hand, so I trotted the three blocks up to the B&B to gather our guest speaker.
Paula’s husband, Gene, met me at the door of the inn, looking as if he’d aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours.
“Please tell me that woman is leaving tonight,” he begged.
“Tomorrow morning,” I told him. “Nine sharp. I promise I’ll show up promptly and haul her to the airport and out of your hair. Hang in there until then.”
“I can’t take much more of her complaints. And Paula is in tears again because that woman demanded some cauliflower bread avocado and vegan cheese sandwiches and she doesn’t have any recipes for that kind of stuff. Who the heck makes bread out of cauliflower anyway? Stuff gives you gas and tastes like an old gym sock.”
“Well, Eva sent me to collect her. Can you bring your car around to the front?” I asked.
“Will do. I’m not surprised that agent woman sent you. They had a huge fight a few hours ago and she stormed out.”
Great. Lovely. Now I would have to summon every last bit of diplomacy and deal with an angry Luanne. Well, angrier than usual, anyway. I headed up the stairs, chanting to myself that I only had to put up with her for another sixteen hours, give or take, then I could open a bottle of wine and congratulate myself for having survived the ordeal.
I knocked and entered at Luanne’s terse command to find her apparently ready to go, sitting on the edge of the bed with her purse over her shoulder and a leather briefcase in one hand. As much as I disliked her, I felt a twinge of sympathy because she looked so very despondent.
“Everything okay?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.
She jerked around in surprise at my words. “Oh! I thought you were Eva. Is she downstairs?”
“She’s at the theater.” I eyed her closely. “Are you ready? Normally we’d just walk, but I remembered what you said about your shoes yesterday, so I arranged for Gene to give us a lift and drop us off out front.”
She looked down at the sky-high cream patent-leather platform pumps on her feet and nodded. “Guess we better go then.”
“Yep. Guess we better.” She still didn’t rise from the bed, so I stood there, not sure what to do.
With a sigh, she stood then gave me a sideways smile that was the closest thing to engaging that she’d been since I met her. “Kay, ever feel like karma is catching up to you like a freight train coming down the tracks?”
No, because I tried to live my life in such a way that there wouldn’t be a bucket-load of bad karma hanging over my head. But I could hardly tell her that and not sound preachy and judgmental.
“Are you worried about the question and answer session?” I asked. “We can try to deflect any questions about Barton Wells, but since it’s impromptu, I can’t guarantee it won’t come up.”
She laughed and it sounded tinny and hollow. “That was a stupid move on my part. How the heck was I to know there was a group of fans in love with the guy? He was a sidekick. I’d intended him to die from book one. And I hate to cave to pressure and bring him back at this point. What kind of author would I be to do that? What sort of artistic integrity would I have?”
“They’re your characters, your story,” I told her. “But the problem with a long series like this, with well-written books that have characters who resonate with readers, is people develop their own fantasies, their own stories about them. They take hold of these characters and want them to go on journeys that are different from what you intended. It’s not right or wrong, it just is.” I shrugged. “But to be honest, I liked Barton a lot and am not thrilled that he got killed off.”
“If that was the only thing I’d done wrong in my career, I’d be happy.” She gathered up her purse and briefcase and took a few steps forward. “Let’s get this over with. Hopefully this guy’s car is reasonably clean and doesn’t smell like old French fries and body odor.”
And just like that, I hated her again.
We arrived just as the early birds were beginning to file through the door and needed to pause for several photo ops and book signings. I finally managed to whisk Luanne away and around to the back, showing her the dressing room that had been prepped for her, complete with a vase of flowers and a platter of fruit. Leaving her there, I roamed the backstage area, hoping to find Eva and do some sort of hand-off of responsibility. I’d gotten the woman here, now it was someone else’s turn to make sure she got onto the stage at the correct time while I helped with the arriving guests. It took me a while to locate Nancy in what had become a thick crowd of women, but finally I managed to spot her out by the entrance.
“Have you seen Eva?” I asked, shooting an apologetic glance at the woman she’d been talking with. “Luanne is in the dressing room, but I don’t trust her to get on stage in time without someone urging her along.”
“Back in the alleyway having a smoke,” Nancy told me. “And the caterers are set to bring in tables a few minutes after eight.”
“Thanks.” It would be a quick changeover. The speaking event ended at eight and we somehow needed to get everyone who hadn’t registered for the meet-and-greet out the door through the very same room where we’d be trying to set up tables of food. Maybe we could usher people out the side door into the walkway alley, although it didn’t seem that polite or feasible to shove nearly three hundred women into a narrow passageway between
two buildings like cattle through a chute.
I headed that way, and did indeed find Eva in the alleyway, her back against the neighboring building’s fire door as she smoked a cigarette. I was a bit surprised. Did anyone smoke cigarettes anymore? All the kids seemed to be vaping nowadays, and pretty much all the people my age and up had quit aside from a few holdouts.
“Hey.” She shot me a tired smile and stubbed the smoke out against the side of the fire door. “Nasty habit. I had to bum one off the sound guy. It’s been two years since I’ve needed one of these.”
“That bad?” I asked. “I would have thought you’d be used to her tantrums by now.” Although maybe it wasn’t just Luanne that had her on edge. Things had seemed pretty tense between her and that man she’d been talking with earlier.
“Luanne screwed up. Bad. I’m not sure how we’re going to fix it and the timing is…” She grimaced. “Problematic.”
Huh. Maybe that was what the earlier conversation had been about. I felt for the agent, really, I did, but we had over three hundred guests coming to hear this author speak, then a hundred staying afterward. Unless the screw up involved those two events, it had to take a definite back seat.
“Well, Luanne is in her dressing room getting ready. And if it’s any consolation, she seems unusually subdued right now. Whatever you both fought about, I think she’s sorry.”
Eva sighed and pushed away from the fire door. “Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t cut it anymore. Over ten years together and the woman’s become something of a friend to me. Well, not really a friend. More like a frenemy. But either way, as a professional client, she sucks. There are times I’d like to take a frying pan to the side of her head.”
