Rosemary's Gravy

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Yesterday morning, I was talking to Felix and I referred to Amber as his mother. He got pretty mad, and I corrected myself to say she was his stepmother … and … he kind of stomped off. Later, he apologized but then he called her a whore.” I finished speaking and lowered my eyes, feeling more horrible by the minute about the fact that I was probably putting Felix in the same terrible spot I was in.

  Detective Drummond was silent for so long that I couldn’t stand it and started to yammer again. “I mean, I don’t think he killed her or anything. I just thought I should make sure you heard it from me. He didn’t like her, but then again—”

  “I know,” he interrupted, “no one liked her.”

  “It’s true.” I protested. I was worried he thought I was making excuses for Felix now. This dealing with the police business was nerve racking.

  He looked at me closely, “it may be true, but that’s not going to help you. If I report back that everyone who ever met Amber would have a motive to kill her, Detective Sullivan’s just going to double down on the suspect we’ve already identified as also having means and opportunity. That would be you.”

  I stared into my tea, wishing that I could read my future in the leaves. Finally, I raised my head and met his unblinking eyes. “I honestly don’t know what to say. I want your help but I don’t think I have any better information. If I were you, I’d start with Antonio Santos.”

  He locked eyes with me, and I could see the worry clouding his expression.

  Great. If he’s worried, I should be in a full-on panic.

  He cleared his throat and stood up, slipping back into his formal police officer voice. “Thank you for talking with me, ma’am.”

  We’re back to ma’am? It’s even worse than I thought.

  I walked him to the door. Before I opened it, I said, “Thank you for believing me. I didn’t kill her.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “I know.” A heavy silence followed. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was—unless he figured out who did, it wasn’t going to matter whether he believed me or not. I’d be charged with murder. He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with my dark thoughts.

  7

  “I’m really sorry about all this,” I said to Sage.

  We were sitting on a bench in the hippodrome, watching Skylar and Dylan spin by on the old-fashioned carousel in giddy circles. Even over the music, I could hear them shrieking with laughter.

  “What are you sorry about? Being framed for murder? I agree, it’s really poor hostess form to get hauled to the clink when your sister’s visiting from the other side of the country.” Sage rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t be a brat. I’m sorry that you didn’t get to meet Amber. Sorry that I can’t hang out with you more. And very sorry that you got stuck in the hallway with Detective Crankypants.”

  She shook her head at me, making her coppery curls bob and dance against her bare shoulders. “Dave? He wasn’t cranky. He’s a good guy.”

  “Dave? Who the—wait, Detective Drummond? He told you to call him Dave?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? I’m not the one he’s investigating for killing her boss.”

  “Point taken.”

  We sat in silence for a few rotations of the painted horses. Then she said, “So where were you anyway? Dave—Detective Drummond, I mean—said, uh, Felix picked you up at the station?”

  I flushed. “He did. It was … weird. He came down and harangued the detective in charge until she sprung me. And then he took me to lunch.”

  “Like a date?”

  Was it a date? I had no flipping idea. It had sort of felt like one. But who put the moves on his stepmother’s suspected killer? And it had seemed like he was going to kiss me there at the end.

  “Not exactly,” I finally said.

  Sage looked unconvinced. “Hmm. Well, I guess it’s good he got you out. He obviously doesn’t think you killed Amber.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t. But I’m not sure he’d care if I had killed her. He kind of hated her.”

  She paused to wave at the kids as they circled past. Then she asked the money question. “Did he hate her enough to kill her?”

  “No. I don’t think so. He said she was having an affair, though. I think I ran into her boyfriend last night outside the house.”

  Interest sparked in her eyes. Uh-oh. I recognized that expression. Thyme and I called it her Lucille Ball look.

  “Hey —”

  “Whatever screwball idea you’re about to propose, the answer is ‘no,’” I interrupted her in my best oldest sister voice.

  “Rude. You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “I bet I can guess. It involves some sort of dangerous, madcap behavior.”

  “You’re so wrong.”

  “Really?” I doubted it.

  “All I was going to say was we should follow him,” she said.

  “We? As in me, you, and two little kids? And him? As in … the guy Amber was cheating on her husband with? The guy who might have killed her? Yeah, you’re right. That’s not irresponsible and risky—not at all.”

  She pouted for a second. Then she sighed. “I guess you’re right. I can’t trail the guy. I have responsibilities.” She cut her eyes meaningfully toward the merry-go-round. As if on cue, the music died and the ride slowed to a stop. She stood.

  “You aren’t really suggesting that I should try to keep tabs on a professional race car driver, are you? Do you plan to pay my speeding tickets?”

  She glanced at me. “He’s a race car driver?”

  “Antonio Santos.”

  “Wow. You’re so glamorous. You know him, too?”

  “Not exactly,” I assured her.

  “Huh. Well, since you’re possibly the most cautious driver I’ve ever met, you’re not the best candidate for this mission anyway. Maybe you should leave it to Detective Dave.”

  Skylar and Dylan came racing toward us, still laughing.

  “Can we get an ice cream, Sage? Please?” Dylan asked.

  “Sure. Ice cream cones for everyone. And then we’ll hit the aquarium. Rosemary says it’s really cool.” She grinned as the kids jumped with excitement.

  “Are you coming, too?” Skylar asked me.

  “I wish I could,” I told her. “But I have an errand to run.” I gave Sage a tight hug. “Do you have dinner plans?”

  “We’re eating with their parents tonight. Are you free tomorrow?” she said, still clinging to my neck.

  For all our sisterly sniping, I was beyond glad that Sage was here. Especially with everything that was happening.

  “All day,” I said. “Unless I end up getting arrested.”

  Her green eyes darkened for a moment. “Don’t even joke about it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I exchanged fist bumps with the kids and stood near the edge of the walkway, waving until Sage, Skylar, and Dylan joined the line at the ice cream stand. As I walked back to my car I mused that if I did want to trail Antonio, I’d needed help from someone who drove like an absolute lunatic. As luck would have it, I knew just the perfect candidate for the job.

  * * *

  I cornered Felix in the library off the foyer and shared my plan. He started out nodding along when I told him about Detective Drummond running down additional suspects, but when I reached the part where the two of us would park behind the tall cypress trees lining Antonio Santos’ driveway, his eyes widened and he sort of shrank back against the wall. “You’re joking, right?” he asked in a hopeful tone.

  “No, I’m serious. Listen. I think Amber’s affair was with Antonio. He showed up after the party. I saw him when I was leaving.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

  I repeated the same explanation I’d given Detective Drummond and added, “I remember thinking he was meeting Alayna.”

  Felix roared with laughter. “Alayna? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  I cocked my head. Alayna
was tall and lithe, with glossy black hair and warm brown eyes. She was serious and quiet, but I generally figured that was because she worked full-time for the Patricks and spent her evenings taking night classes at UCLA. She was probably tired.

  “Why not? Because she’s the help?” Maybe this apple wasn’t as far from his rotten, old tree as I’d thought.

  “Hey, no, it’s not like that. She’s just … some kind of radical feminist man-hater.”

  “Alayna?”

  He nodded, wide-eyed. “Trust me.”

  That didn’t square with what little I knew about Alayna, but this entire conversation was a distraction from my mission.

  “Whatever. Anyway, in light of what you said at lunch, I think Amber and Antonio may have been hot and heavy, which means he’s an excellent candidate for her murder.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? So maybe he’s going to go out and dispose of evidence or … something. We could catch him doing something incriminating. So go get your sporty little car and let’s do this thing,” I said in my peppiest voice.

  “No offense, but I think you’ve seen too many movies.”

  I was gearing up to persuade him when the doorbell chimes rang, echoing through the eerily silent mansion. He swiveled his head toward the front door but made no movement to answer it. Through the French doors, I saw Alayna scurry through the hallway toward the door. She pulled open the door and engaged in a brief conversation with a man in a suit. I couldn’t make out his face from the study, but I knew that voice: Detective Drummond was back. The man was like a bad rash.

  “Come in. I’ll go get Mr. Patrick,” I heard her say.

  She ushered the police officer inside and headed up the stairs to find Pat. Detective Drummond wiped his feet on the pristine white doormat (seriously, who uses a white doormat?) and clasped his hands together behind his back. He looked ill at ease and out of place in the vast, marble entryway. I knew exactly how he felt; I’d spent the first month or so of my employment tiptoeing around the house as if it were a museum.

  I turned my attention back to Felix, but his eyes were still pinned on Detective Drummond, who stood shifting his weight from side to side just inside the door. Felix’s hopeful expression gave me pause. He dashed past me and out into the hallway. I trailed behind him to see what he was up to.

  “Detective,” he called as he crossed the expansive space, “you have impeccable timing.”

  Detective Drummond turned toward Felix quickly, evidently startled by his loud, cheery greeting. “Mr. Patrick,” he said stiffly. Then his eyes drifted over Felix’s shoulder and locked on mine. He gave me a little smirk. “And, if it isn’t Ms. Field. Aren’t you supposed to be at the Santa Monica Pier with your sister?”

  “I just came from there, actually. I wanted to talk to Fel—Mr. Patrick—about something.” To my eternal aggravation, I felt my face grow warm and I knew I was blushing. And, of course, Detective Drummond would interpret that as some kind of confirmation of a romance between Felix and me. My next thought was to wonder why I cared what Detective Drummond believed, and that irritated me even further.

  Meanwhile, both men were staring at me with twin looks of bemusement. So, like a complete loser, I chose that moment to trip over my own feet and go flying across the hallway. Just as I was thinking Alayna must have waxed the floors because I was picking up speed, a pair of strong hands caught me and stopped my fall. I looked up into my rescuer’s face. Alayna’s eyes met mine; I could see her trying to hold back her laughter.

  “Uh, thanks,” I managed as I righted myself. She’d come down the stairs at the exact right time.

  “No problem,” she said before turning to Detective Drummond. “Mr. Patrick is indisposed. Could you come back tomorrow around lunchtime? He’s quite busy with … making Mrs. Amber’s arrangements.”

  Translation: he’s working his way through a bottle of Hendrick’s and is far too sloppy to be seen at the moment.

  Detective Drummond’s knitted brow and pursed lips indicated that he shared my skepticism. “He understands this is a murder investigation and every hour that passes makes it exponentially less likely that we’ll find the killer? His failure to cooperate could mean his wife’s murderer goes free.”

  Alayna was unmoved. “I’ll give him the message, detective.” She paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the railing, and glanced over her shoulder, letting her eyes rest on me. Then she said, “Although I don’t see why you have to do any heavy lifting to find the person who made that gravy.”

  She started up the staircase and was gone before I caught her meaning.

  “Hey,” I sputtered uselessly. “That’s not fair.”

  I wheeled around to face Detective Drummond, as my heart pounded in my chest. Did Alayna really think I killed Amber? Did everyone think so? Visions of orange prison jumpsuits and blue-inked tats swam in my head.

  The police officer gave me a sympathetic smile and said, “She’s right, you know. Detective Sullivan is itching to charge you. She’s given me one day to find her a better suspect. But if your boss isn’t in the mood to answer questions, there’s a limit to how much I can do.”

  My throat was a dry as the Mojave, and my legs swayed, threatening to give out. Felix reached over and grabbed my elbow to steady me.

  He appealed to Detective Drummond. “This is crazy. Rosemary didn’t kill my stepmother. Can I answer your questions instead of my dad?”

  I focused on continuing to breathe. Detective Drummond shook his head. “We’ll give it a shot, but they’re fairly intimate in nature.”

  “Just ask him. He knew about Amber’s affair. Maybe he can help,” I urged.

  “Right,” Felix said eagerly. “Amber was sleeping with someone. Rosemary thinks it might be our neighbor. You should talk to—”

  “I already did. Antonio Santos and Mrs. Patrick were not having an affair.”

  The bubble of hope that had begun to rise in my chest as Felix spoke popped instantly. “You talked to him? He denied it?” I asked.

  “No. I didn’t have to. Clay Carlson showed up at the station this afternoon, distraught and demanding to know what we were doing to find the person who killed his girlfriend.”

  Clay Carlson? Amber was screwing her costar? How … cliche. I sneaked a glance at Felix out of the corner of my eye. His mouth was twisted into a wry grin.

  “That sounds about right,” he said. “Amber lacked imagination. An affair with her leading man would be right up her alley.”

  Another tiny hope bubble formed. “Okay, so maybe he killed her,” I said with way too much enthusiasm.

  Detective Buzzkill shook his head. “He’s got an alibi. He was being interviewed live on the air on WKSTR’s radio show about the new movie. He left the party with the film’s publicist at eleven o’clock and the interview ran from twelve thirty to one.”

  “He did an interview in the middle of the night?” I said in disbelief.

  “It happened. I listened to the recording,” the police officer shrugged.

  “Awfully convenient,” I muttered.

  “That’s how alibis work, Rosemary. They conveniently make it impossible for the suspect to have committed the crime. Besides, the man was very clearly torn apart by her death.”

  “He’s an actor,” Felix observed.

  “True, but he should win an Oscar for this performance if it was an act. Mr. Carlson seems to be unique among Amber’s circle in that he actually liked the woman. He may even have loved her.”

  The notion that someone could genuinely love Amber Patrick was too weird for me to wrap my mind around. Judging from the pained look on Felix’s face, he felt the same way.

  Finally, Felix said, “I guess anything’s possible. But, look around, detective. Do you see all the fruit baskets and arrangements of flowers that we haven’t received? There are people quietly rejoicing all over town that the wicked witch is dead.”

  “So I’ve heard. But, as I explained to Ms. Field, that fact do
esn’t really help her.”

  “Well, maybe Amber was sleeping with Carlson and Santos. Maybe Santos found out,” Felix ventured.

  “Mr. Carlson showed us some text messages. It appears he and Mrs. Patrick were very serious about their relationship. She was planning to divorce your father so she could take her relationship with Mr. Carlson public. I don’t think she was stepping out on him.”

  I couldn’t speak. I tried to push back the wave of terror and panic that was washing over me. If Pat wasn’t going to cooperate and give the cops some decent leads, I was going to end up in jail.

  After a long moment, Detective Drummond cleared his throat. “I’m doing everything I can. I’m going to head over to the lab and light a fire under the forensic scientists—see if I can find out anything from the reports. Mr. Patrick, if you want to help Ms. Field, I suggest you talk to your father. If Amber was planning to leave him for Clay Carlson, he’s a viable suspect. However, I’m not sure how you feel about implicating your father to save your friend.” He set his mouth in a grim line and let himself out.

  I locked eyes with Felix. His eyes mirrored back the fear I felt.

  “You don’t think my dad killed her. Do you?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Pat was the one who’d told me about the menu change. So he knew I’d be making gravy and had had all day to sneak some nuts into it. He also knew that his wife was cheating on him. And he was the one who found Amber’s body. Means, motive, and opportunity. Check, check, check. Add in the fact that he had a mean streak and … well, yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. But, could I really say that to Pat’s son? Even if I was secretly hoping his dad was a murderer because that ugly fact would save my hide?

  “Umm …”

  Pain etched itself across Felix’s taut face. “Really?”

  “I don’t know,” I said miserably. “Do you think it’s completely impossible?”

  “Of course!” he shot back instantly.

  I was about to apologize, when his father came storming down the stairs.