Truly, Madly

by Heather Webber

  “Hi, Lola, it’s Lucy Valentine, just calling to check on you. Did you contact Adam?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  She sniffed. “I suggested we go to dinner.”

  I wanted to say, “Good for you,” but thought it might sound condescending.

  “And?”

  “He declined.”

  My head dropped. “He did? Why?”

  She cleared her throat. “He said something about my attitude.”

  Karma was a bitch.

  “I was going to call you later,” she said. “You have to talk to him. Get him to change his mind.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I said, “Why, Lola?”

  “Because. What if he is my true love? We have to at least give it a try. Plus, I don’t like that he thinks I’m a bitch. Yes, even though I am one.” She sighed.

  I couldn’t help my smile. “I’ll call him and give you a call back.”

  “Thank you,” she said grudgingly.

  I hung up and dialed the number I had for Adam. It took some doing, a lot of cajoling, and a little bit of guilt, but he finally agreed to meet Lola at Faneuil Hall for dinner the next night.

  To my surprise, I found I was having fun running interference between the two.

  Lola seemed relieved when I called her back with the news. Maybe there was hope for the pair after all.

  I met with two more clients, both women and both of whom were new to the company. I had them fill out all the forms. I was determined to find them good matches. I could do it—I just had to believe I could do it, as Raphael advised.

  Maybe matchmaking was inherently in my blood, even though I couldn’t read auras. I was coming to believe anything was possible.

  My cell phone rang. It was Michael Lafferty.

  FOURTEEN

  “Ms. Valentine? Did you find Jennifer?”

  I spun in my chair, stared at the building across the alley. “Not quite yet.” Clearing my throat, I said, “But I did find Rachel Yurio. She’s dead, Michael, and has been for years.”

  Silence stretched. “What are you talking about? Rach? What does she have to do with anything? And what do you mean you found her? If she’s been dead for years . . .”

  “Have you been listening to the news? About the body found in Great Esker?”

  “Yeah. Creeped me out. I walk Foo there all the time. You don’t mean . . . Rachel?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. And unfortunately, the police have linked me to you and you to Rachel.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that because I found Rachel you’re now a suspect in her death because you’re my client.”

  “You’re joking! I didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

  “I know.”

  “How did all this happen? How did you find her? I’m lost.”

  “I can’t explain it, Michael. I just wanted to warn you the police would probably be contacting you.”

  “Two guys, bad suits, one balding, one with glasses?”

  “They’re already there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “No. Jesus, do I need one?”

  “My advice? Get one fast. And don’t talk to the police without one.”

  “But I didn’t do anything! I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “I know. But you’re now their focus, and they’re not going to leave you alone until they hear what they want. Get the lawyer. I’ll get you out of this mess, I promise. Give me time to sort it all out.”

  I hung up, dropped my head onto my desktop. I doubted anything like this had ever happened to my father. If the papers thought it shocking that my father had an affair, they’d go ballistic if / when they heard about this. How long did I have? Not long, I figured, before my name was plastered all over the newscasts as having been the one to find Rachel Yurio’s body. It was necessary for Valentine, Inc., to go into full damage control mode. It was not good that Michael was being questioned. He had come to me to find him a mate—not send him to jail.

  Talk about bad for business.

  Don’t panic, don’t panic.

  I dialed my mother’s cell first. There was no signal whatsoever, no voice mail. I called my father’s cell next—again nothing. I knew they both had international calling, so either they didn’t have service on the island or their phones were dead.

  I had no idea what new hotel they were staying at, but I needed to get in touch with them. I was in over my head.

  When I dialed Raphael’s cell, he answered on the third ring. Pots and pans banged in the background.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Downstairs.”

  Downstairs? “At the Porcupine?”

  “Long story, Uva. I’m filling in for the head chef.”

  This was a story I had to hear.

  “I can’t talk now,” he said.

  “Real quick—do you know where my parents are staying in St. Lucia? The new place?”

  “No, Uva. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” I lied. “I’ll see you soon.”

  I hung up and dialed Sean’s cell. “I need you,” I said as he answered.

  “I like the way that sounds.”

  Desire flared, hot and heady. I tried my best to tamp it down. “Your help,” I clarified.

  “Anything you need,” he said, “I’m your man.”

  Closing my eyes, I tried not to think about us in bed. Breathe. “I, uh, need you to track down where my parents are staying in St. Lucia.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said after I gave him some basic information.

  “Call my cell. I’m leaving for the day.”

  Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that the police were more than capable of solving this crime. I knew I wasn’t guilty. And I knew Michael wasn’t, either. I had to hope that the police would find the evidence to clear both our names and bring Rachel Yurio’s killer to justice.

  But as much as I wanted to stay completely out of the investigation, I couldn’t. I’d promised Michael I’d try to find Jennifer, and it was the least I could do after what I’d done to him. But my number one goal wasn’t matching him. It was clearing his name. And if Jennifer could answer a few questions about Rachel Yurio, too, then all the better, right?

  Downstairs, I hobbled into the Porcupine. It was filling with the early lunch crowd. I was dying to hear how Raphael had ended up in Maggie’s kitchen. The pair of them hadn’t exactly gotten along yesterday.

  I glanced around for Maggie but didn’t see her. I stopped a server and asked for her.

  “Out back,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Be careful. Our head chef quit this morning. It’s chaos back there.”

  I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. I’d been warned. Six people hurried between long benches and stovetops, ovens, and fryolators, chopping, dicing, sautéing.

  No Raphael. Or Maggie.

  One of the sous chefs glanced at me. I grabbed the opportunity. “I’m looking for Raphael?”

  “Freezer.” He nodded with his chin to a doorway near the Sub-Zero refrigerator.

  I passed through the door. To my right, long plastic flaps hung over the open door to the freezer. I glanced in. Raphael and Maggie were locked in a kiss so passionate, I was surprised the goods inside weren’t melting.

  My mouth dropped open and I backed away.

  Raphael and Maggie?

  I hurried back through the door.

  “Find him?” the sous chef asked.

  I shook my head.

  His brow wrinkled. “Really?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Just when you see him, can you tell him that Lucy doesn’t need a ride?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  I left, still bewildered. Never in a million years would I have matched Maggie and Raphael—yet there was obviously something between them.

  Discouraged, I hailed
a cab.

  Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a matchmaker after all.

  Em looked up from her spot on the couch as soon as I walked into the house. She set the book she was reading on her lap and made an attempt to sit up but looked to be in too much pain. Resting her head against the sofa pillow, she rolled to face me. Her sky blue eyes were puffy, but she’d wrestled her wild hair into a lovely braid.

  “You’re looking better,” I said to her, setting my things down next to the door.

  “Funny, because I feel worse.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “Too much. Thanks for letting me stay.”

  I sat in the chair opposite her. Grendel jumped into my lap. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re always welcome here.”

  “About that . . . Could I possibly stay here for a while?”

  Grendel purred loudly. Odysseus was asleep in his cage, balled in a corner, nearly buried by pine chips. “Sure. How long are you thinking?”

  “A week. Maybe two.”

  “Em, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “All right,” I said, wishing she would. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

  “I should just grow up and go home.”

  “It would help if I knew why you’d left. . . .”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said, resting her forearm over her eyes.

  This wasn’t getting me anywhere. “Have you eaten?” I asked. “I can make an omelet.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Okay.” I was suddenly starving. I limped to the kitchen.

  “Are you limping?” Em asked.

  I gave her the same lame stubbed-toe excuse.

  “You stubbed toes on both feet?”

  Leave it to a doctor to realize both my feet were hurting.

  “They’re fine,” I said.

  She sat up. “What’s going on?”

  I pulled eggs, diced ham, and a green pepper from the fridge. An omelet was one of the few things I could make well. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Tipping my head saucily, I smiled. “Neither do I.”

  “Not fair.”

  I cracked three eggs into a bowl. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  She pulled a pillow over her face.

  A pad of butter sizzled in a small sauté pan. I added the green pepper and ham and stirred.

  I was looking forward to getting my life back to normal. No more missing boys. No more visions of dead bodies. I simply had to stop touching Sean’s hand and try my hardest to forget the images I’d seen of us in bed.

  All I needed to do before normalcy could return was clear Michael’s name. And to do that I had to figure out who had killed Rachel.

  I laughed. No problem.

  “What are you laughing at?” Em asked.

  “Nothing.”

  I whisked the eggs with more force than needed, added a bit of water, and poured the mix into the pan with the pepper and ham. As I worked the edges of the omelet, my cell phone rang.

  It was Butch.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said.

  I had one guess as to who gave him my cell number. “I’m fine. Sorry about last night.”

  “Me, too. I was actually calling about that rain check.”

  A refusal perched on the tip of my tongue. I should say, “No thanks, we’re better as friends,” blah-blah, but I’d left him hanging twice already. And besides, he might be a good diversion from Sean.

  Before I said anything, he added, “I was thinking we should double-date.”

  There was something in his tone that made me suspicious. I shook some grated cheddar cheese on top of the omelet and watched it bubble. “Oh?” I said.

  “Yeah. I thought my roommate might want to meet your friend Marisol.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes men were so transparent. It had been obvious to me last night that Butch had liked Marisol. This was his way of seeing her again. Since I had the feeling she liked him as well, butcher or not, I agreed.

  “Tonight?” he said. “Same time, same place?”

  “I’ll have to check with Marisol, but sure.” Why not? It could be fun, even if he was using me to get to Marisol. I’d need to call her and ask if she was free for dinner.

  We said our good-byes just as Em made her way to the kitchen island, pulling herself up onto a stool.

  I flipped the omelet and shimmied it from the pan to a plate, where I cut it in half. I handed a plate to Em, and grabbed a fork for my half.

  “I said I wasn’t hungry,” she said around a mouthful of omelet.

  “I know.”

  “How long have we been friends?” she asked. “Twenty-five years.”

  “We tell each other everything, right?”

  I didn’t want to answer that. “Do we?”

  She frowned, poking fork holes in the omelet. “I guess not.”

  “I think that’s okay.” I grabbed some orange juice from the fridge.

  “Is it? Aren’t friends supposed to be closer than that?”

  “I think everyone has secrets.”

  “Do you?” she asked, her blue eyes hopeful.

  “Of course. Do you?”

  “Yeah. But I wish I didn’t.”

  I wished I didn’t, too.

  She took another bite. “Did you know that I never wanted to be a doctor?”

  “What? No. You don’t?”

  “I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. But my parents thought teaching five-year-olds was beneath a Baumbach. ‘Always the best for a Baumbach,’ ” she mimicked her mother’s voice. Pain shone in her blue eyes. “I still want to be a kindergarten teacher. I’ve always envied the freedom you have, Lucy. Doing what you want, whenever you want.”

  I laughed. “I’ve always envied that you knew what you wanted. That you had goals. I felt like such a slacker next to you and Marisol.”

  Em’s mouth dropped open. “Really?”

  “It’s true. Do you really want to be a teacher?”

  “Yeah. But my parents . . .”

  “What does Joseph say?”

  “That he’ll support me no matter what.”

  Points for Joseph. “It’s not too late, Em. You can be a teacher if you want to be a teacher.”

  She rubbed a finger over the granite countertop, tracing a vein of gold. “It’s not that easy. But I swear if I have to see one more child die . . .” Her voice caught.

  I went around the counter and gave her a hug. “Listen,” I whispered. “You can do what you want, Em. You’d make an amazing teacher. Your parents will come around.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder. “I just need some time to work it out. Are you sure I can stay here? I just need a little vacation from my life for a while.”

  “For as long as you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  The phone rang as I wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “If that’s my mother, I’m not here,” Em said, sniffling. “I’m going to clean myself up.”

  As I picked up the phone, I watched her go. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Valentine? This is Preston Bailey. I have a couple of questions for you before tomorrow’s story goes to print.”

  Wonderful. I heaved a sigh. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Ms. Bailey.”

  “I think you’ll regret that decision.”

  I hung up on her, hoping I didn’t.

  FIFTEEN

  Déjà vu.

  I was once again sitting outside the Hingham Bay Club in need of alcohol.

  To say I was a nervous wreck was an understatement.

  Not because, like last night, I was due to meet Butch, but because of the five o’clock newscast I’d seen.

  Most of the coverage had to do with Max and the mysterious woman who’d found him. There had been a taped piece with Detective Lieutenant Holliday holding a co
mposite sketch of me.

  There were no two ways around it.

  I was a wanted woman.

  How long? How long did I have before someone pieced together the information? Before someone recognized my picture?

  Could I bluff my way through an interview? I certainly couldn’t explain the condition of my feet, if they asked. Did they need a warrant for that?

  Suddenly joining my parents in St. Lucia sounded like a fabulous plan.

  Ironically, there had been a small sound bite on the news about the body found in Great Esker, believed to be that of Rachel Yurio, who’d gone missing five years ago. Little did the newscasters know the two stories had one similarity—me.

  Thankfully, the media hadn’t mentioned I was the one who found Rachel Yurio. Not yet at least.

  Someone tapped at my window, and I nearly peed myself.

  “What are you doing out here?” Marisol shouted.

  I opened the car door. “Waiting for you.”

  “You could have waited inside,” she said, kissing both my cheeks.

  She looked incredibly beautiful, her short black bob shining in the moonlight. The scrap of skirt she wore showed her legs, but a high-necked top hid her ample cleavage. Stilettos finished the outfit.

  Looked to me as though she was trying to impress someone.

  Myself? I’d worn straight-legged black trousers, a black turtleneck, a thick silver chain Dovie had given me for Christmas, and black high-heeled boots that put me at just under six feet tall. And hid my feet, though the pain was just about intolerable.

  “We should go in before you freeze,” I suggested.

  “Is that a comment on the size of my skirt?”

  I laughed. “Yes.”

  “You’re just jealous,” she said.

  “That must be it,” I returned easily. “I’m glad you could make it out here tonight.”

  “You know I’m always willing to do a favor for my best friend.”

  A favor for me. Right. It had nothing to do with Butch and his likeness to Matt Damon.

  We sat at the bar and I filled her in on what was going on with Em.

  “I never thought she was one for medicine.” Marisol signaled for the bartender and we ordered. “I’m surprised she lasted this long.”

  “I thought she made a great doctor.” The TV, I noticed, was tuned to ESPN. Good. I didn’t want to see a sketch of my face flashed on the screen all night.