“If so,” I said, “he’s the laziest, most pampered slave in history.”
He parked in front of the house where I’d left my car. Lana, Kari’s mother, had parked behind me. Her car was red too, only it was a brand-new Lexus, not a preowned Mazda. But then, she’d divorced Dom after his income had soared and they’d produced two children. The confirmed nonreproducer I’d divorced didn’t have a pot to you-know-what in—mainly because he was using it to cook up batches of bean soup and vegetarian chili so he could turn one little Janey’s Place café into a certifiable health-food juggernaut.
Dom started to get out of the car. I stopped him with a hand on his arm. I sighed. “I wasn’t going to do this.”
He settled back in his seat. And waited.
“I was going to let it go,” I said, “but it’s been two months and I just can’t. I just…” I made him meet my eyes. “Why did you get re-engaged so quickly to Bonnie? You wanted to marry me again, Dom. I told you I needed time. That’s all I asked for, a little time to think it through. You agreed, but then you didn’t wait. You didn’t even do me the courtesy of telling me yourself. I learned about it when I saw that ring back on her finger.”
He gave a weary sigh. “That was… the wrong way to handle it.”
It was my turn to wait. My resentment had been brewing for two long months, and I had no desire to make this easy for him.
“Bonnie wanted us to get back together,” he said.
“I know that. So?” As far as I was concerned, Bonnie Hernandez’s desires had zip to do with Dom and me, although I could see how he might have viewed it differently back in July. On the one hand, here’s this beautiful, smart, not to mention young police detective who wants to renew their engagement, who’s saying their breakup was a mistake and she’s ready for their happily ever after. On the other hand, there’s the woman he divorced seventeen years ago, a divorce he now claims was a mistake, and she’s dragging her heels and asking him to wait for her answer.
“You didn’t know what you wanted,” he said. “You couldn’t seem to make up your mind.”
I controlled my temper with an effort. “I asked for a few weeks to think about it. You said no problem. Seven days later she’s wearing your ring again.”
He stared through the windshield for a while, looking at nothing, then turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, Janey. You deserved better.”
Tears scalded my eyes. I looked away. He took my hand. I let him.
Finally I said, “I… I was trying to get used to the idea. Of you and me together again. We were so young when we divorced. But still… so much history.”
“I know.” He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles.
“I’m not like you,” I said. “I don’t need a partner all the time. I can live on my own.”
“You’ve done it for a long time,” he said.
“I’ve had relationships.”
“None that have lasted. I was so sure— Well, it’s too late for all that.”
“So sure of what?” I asked. “That you and I needed to be together again?”
He nodded unhappily. His espresso-dark gaze pinned me. “Could it have worked, do you think? Us?”
I was determined not to let one tear fall. I swiped at my eyes. “I think maybe it could have.”
He didn’t move. I watched his chest rise and fall, slowly. “I blew it, didn’t I.” It wasn’t a question.
“This is… You’re right, this is pointless.”
“I didn’t say that.” He reached over and stroked my cheek.
“You said it’s too late, and it is.”
He hesitated. “Bonnie and I haven’t set a date yet.”
“For the wedding? So?”
“So…” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“I hope you’re not thinking your engagement isn’t official or something just because you haven’t set a date. Trust me, to Bonnie it’s official.” I thought of her perusing those wedding books.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “if it’s not right, I’m not going through with it.”
“When do you plan to decide whether it’s right or not?”
He studied my face for long moments. His features softened even as his eyes grew darker still. Like I said, the man can read my mind. He leaned toward me, slowly, his familiar masculine scent making me weak.
Turning away from his kiss took every scrap of mental fortitude I possessed. It had been seventeen years since I’d felt Dom’s mouth slide over mine, since I’d felt his arms tighten around me, his hands caress me, yet the memory was as mercilessly vivid as his daughter’s tearful hug less than an hour before.
“No, Dom.” He belonged to Bonnie. If and when he ended it with her—for good this time—a kiss would be possible between us. A kiss and more.
He sat back. He didn’t ask why. He knew. He knew me, knew my sense of honor wouldn’t permit it, no matter how much I wanted it. For that matter, Dom was no cheater. This almost-kiss was a testament to how conflicted he was, how strongly he felt about me.
He opened the car door, turning back briefly to say, “I’m serious about Victor, Janey. Send him to a hotel. You don’t know a damn thing about the guy.”
12
Shaken and Stirred
“I’M MIRANDA DANIELS and this is Ramrod News, where the truth comes to live free.”
“The truth or something,” Sophie muttered as she handed me an ice-cold bottle of beer.
Sophie Halperin, a plump, gregarious bundle of energy in her mid-fifties, was the mayor of Crystal Harbor. She was also one of my closest friends. We’d been through a lot together. We were in her homey, old-fashioned den, about to enjoy, if that word could be said to apply, Monday evening’s episode of Ramrod News. The lofty catchphrase notwithstanding, I always thought of the sensationalist talk show as the place where the truth came to stumble, wheeze, and die an ignoble death.
Victor accepted a beer from his hostess. “Why do I suspect I’ll need something stronger before this thing is over?”
Sophie jerked her thumb toward the fully stocked wet bar behind us. “Help yourself.” She bestowed brisk scritches on Sexy Beast, who lay curled on my lap. I sat next to Victor on a massive leather sofa, which was adorned with colorful crocheted afghans and needlepoint pillows, the handiwork of Sophie’s mother, long in her grave.
And okay, so no one in that room was what you’d call a devoted Ramrod News fan, but this particular episode was required viewing for everyone in town. Hence our little three-humans-and-a-dog viewing party. Before leaving for the day, Sophie’s housekeeper, Maria, had whipped up a giant bowl of her locally famous guacamole, along with homemade tortilla chips. I put up with SB’s barely audible whining and soulful, gooey-eyed looks while I heaped guac and chips onto my plate, then informed him in the familiar singsong tone, “Not for puppy.” It didn’t take Kreskin to predict the spectacular results if I let the little guy fill up on this particular delicacy. He settled back down with a resigned snort.
“All right,” Sophie grumbled as she settled in an overstuffed leather armchair and reached for a chip, “let’s get this over with.”
Miranda Daniels was nattering on in her usual bellicose way about the murder case that had transfixed not only the good citizens of little Crystal Harbor, New York, but the nation as well, thanks to the celebrity status of the victim. “Today marks two weeks since beloved chef and TV personality Pierre ‘Swing’ Dewatre was savagely butchered in the kitchen of his own restaurant,” she announced, over silent video snippets of Swing doing a cooking demonstration on a morning news show and escorting a beautiful star at a movie premier.
“The Crystal Harbor Police Department has finally made an arrest. It took them long enough!” she went on, as more video filled the wide TV screen: Tucker Nearing and Romulus Tooley, surrounded by funeral picketers, yelling in each other’s faces. “That’s the suspect on the right of your screen. His name’s Tucker Nearing and he’s a junior at Crysta
l Harbor High School, and get this, the cops found blood-soaked sneakers in his closet—the very sneakers that tracked Swing’s blood all over the ghastly murder scene!” This was accompanied by a shot of the exterior of Dewatre garlanded with yellow crime-scene tape.
I cringed inwardly. I’d suggested to Victor that he skip the show, but he refused to be kept in the dark about anything related to his brother’s murder. I turned to Sophie, who for many years had worked as a paralegal in Sten Jakobsen’s law firm. “Can they give out Tucker’s name like that?” I asked. “And show his face? The kid’s a minor.”
“He’s been charged as an adult,” she said, “and that’s when most news organizations take the gloves off. You’re expecting a lot from the jackals at Ramrod if you think they’d hold back.”
Close-up of Miranda’s overly made-up face, her mean little smile. “Wait, it gets better. They found the kid’s fingerprints—his fingerprints!—on the murder weapon. An open-and-shut case, right? Well, not everyone agrees. Of course, Tucker has an excuse, big surprise. He says he just happened to stroll into the restaurant, which was closed at the time, and found Swing lying in a pool of his own blood, and then he tried to save him—yeah, that’s right, save him—by pulling out the knife.” Miranda let her exaggerated smirk say what she thought of that bizarre scenario. “Good luck with that one, Tucker. Let’s see what our panel has to say.”
The camera zoomed out to reveal four other individuals sitting in the studio with Miranda, two on either side of her at a curved rectangular table crafted of some kind of thick, frosted glass with artfully jagged edges, by all appearances salvaged from the explosion of Planet Krypton. The Ramrod News studio is located in midtown Manhattan, just a hop, skip, and hour and a half from Crystal Harbor, making it a relatively simple task to assemble a panel of “knowledgeable” locals eager to spew their opinions on the subject of whodunit.
Sophie took one look at the show’s guests and, even though she’d known what to expect, moaned, “Oy.” She took a healthy slug of beer.
Miranda gestured to her right. “He’s the spokesman for The Society for Endangered Animal Rights and had many dealings with Swing in that capacity. Romulus Tooley, welcome back to the show.”
Tooley offered a lazy wave. His graying blond hair had been buzzed down to a crew cut, a style decision that might have had something to do with the fact that he’d singed the heck out of it during his failed attempt to incinerate Dewatre.
Miranda indicated the woman sitting to his right. “She’s Swing’s former business partner, Lenore Romano, and… a chef? Is that right, Lenore? You’re a chef?”
Lee’s bloodless smile froze in place. The woman who aspired to be a household name said, “It’s Leonora and yes, I’m a chef.”
“Well, that’s great. And you’ve written a cookbook.” Miranda reached under the table, displayed the book for about half a second, blurted, “Lenore’s Kitchen, filled with delicious recipes,” and moved on to the guest on her left. “We’re happy to welcome Chloe Sleeper, Swing’s agent, back to the show.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” Chloe said. “I’m glad to be back.”
I happened to know that in fact Chloe had resisted a return to the Ramrod News studio. Her first appearance had apparently been more than enough for one lifetime, but Miranda had turned on the charm and managed to convince her that her input was crucial.
Miranda nodded toward the guest sitting to Chloe’s left. “She’s Nina Wallace, a close friend of Swing’s and a lifelong resident of Crystal Harbor—the current mayor, in fact.”
Sophie and I jerked upright in unison. “What?”
“Well, not quite yet,” Nina tittered. “The election isn’t until March, but I’m confident I can unseat the current mayor.” An upraised eyebrow hinted that the current mayor was not someone who merited reelection.
I won’t repeat Sophie’s next words. Suffice it to say Victor probably learned some interesting new Anglo Saxon vocabulary along with a couple of choice New York Yiddishisms.
I said, “Since when is Nina a close friend of Swing’s? Did they even know each other?”
“In passing maybe.” Sophie slumped back in her chair, scowling darkly at the screen. Sexy Beast, sensing a pack member in need—a member of his extended pack, anyway—hopped off my lap and onto hers. Absently she stroked him, and the unconditional doggie love appeared to do the trick. She began to visibly relax.
Nina looked adorable as always, elegant and stylish in a designer maternity dress, her dark hair cut short and feathery around her face.
“Well, good luck in the election, Ms. Almost Mayor!” Miranda said. “Sounds like they could use some fresh blood running the show there in Crystal Harbor.” She turned to Tooley. “So what do you think, Romulus? Did Tucker do it?”
“He sure did,” Tooley said.
I hollered at the TV, “Or here’s a wild thought, just thinking outside the box here, Rom, maybe you did it.”
“Tucker is a hero,” Tooley continued, “a young man driven by passion for what he believes in. The animals. SEAR.”
“You’ve got the passion part right,” Miranda said, “but it had nothing to do with endangered animals. It was about sex. Swing was messing around with Tucker’s girlfriend.”
I leaned forward and yelled, “No, he wasn’t!” Victor reached around my shoulder and pulled me back. And left his arm there. Which made me kind of, you know, forget what I’d been yelling about.
Chloe flinched at the reference to her fiancé getting frisky with a local teen. For her sake, I was glad no one in that studio knew of her engagement to Swing, which she’d kept strictly private.
Miranda was on a roll. “It’s the same reason the girl’s dad beat the tar out of Swing a couple of days before the murder. Although I have to say, if both your boyfriend and your dad have to work so hard to defend your honor, maybe there’s just not that much there to defend, you know what I mean?”
Will you be shocked if I tell you that Sophie had a few ripe words for that?
Victor shook his head. “The woman is shameless. Why do so many people watch this show?”
I shrugged. “Because the woman is shameless.”
Sophie tossed her hand at the screen. “Tooley’s full of it. Tucker, a passionate supporter of SEAR? They just showed video of the kid giving him hell.”
Miranda must have heard her. “I was there when you guys picketed Swing’s funeral reception, Romulus. I heard Tucker call you a shameless, publicity-hogging terrorist. And if he is the killer, he tried to blame it on you guys, remember? It was written right there on the floor!” She mimed writing in midair. “S-E-A-R!”
“Which only proves,” Tooley said, “that he identifies with our organization in his heart even if he doesn’t feel free to acknowledge it publicly.”
“This nonsense is getting old,” Victor groaned, “about Pierre and the animals. When will it stop?”
“Sooner than you might think,” I said, with a mysterious little smile. “Stay tuned.” I’d already informed Victor and Sophie that Lee Romano had instigated the rumor out of spite.
“Getting back to Tucker’s girlfriend,” Miranda said, “at first the cops thought that her dad, Dominic Faso, killed Swing. And why? Only because he did what any concerned father would do when his daughter’s being taken advantage of by an older man who should know better. Rearrange his face.”
Victor muttered something in French.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “we all loved Swing. But maybe that was part of the problem. He was like a kid in a candy shop.” She mimed choosing from an assortment. “I’ll have the blonde, the redhead, and oh, how about that juicy-looking brunette?”
I could hardly bear to look at Chloe, who managed to school her features but could do nothing about the angry flush scalding her face.
“We invited Mr. Faso on this panel, but he declined.” Miranda said this in a way that implied ulterior motives. So what did that make Dom, then? A red-blooded Ame
rican father who’d taken manly action to protect his unworthy hussy of a daughter, or a murder suspect with something to hide? She couldn’t have it both ways. Or maybe she could. This was Miranda Daniels, after all, and Ramrod News. The network powers that be weren’t about to quibble over a few mixed messages as long as the ratings remained in the stratosphere.
“Show of hands,” I said. “How many of us here declined to be part of this farce?”
We all raised our hands. Yep, all three of us had received phone calls, first from a producer, then from Miranda herself, urging us to appear on the show and weigh in on the case. They even offered to send a car.
“What’s that, SB?” I said, and watched his little head snap up at the sound of his name. Or rather, his nickname. My dog’s smart, he answers to both. “No call from the network for you?”
Which was kind of unfair considering SB had in fact been the first to detect the presence of a corpse at the restaurant. Ramrod News thought that distinction belonged to me, which is why they’d wanted me on the panel.
Miranda said, “So, Romulus. You’re out on bail, right?”
The change of subject appeared to catch him off guard. “So?”
“So you mind telling us what you were arrested for?”
I shouted, “Yeah, tell us, Rom, tell us all about it!” Victor’s arm was still around my shoulders and he pulled me a little closer. I tried to think of what else I could yell at the TV.
“It was an act of defiance,” Tooley said, “a political act on behalf of all of Swing’s nonhuman victims, all those endangered animals he butchered and cooked over the years.”
Sophie poked at an incisor. “’Scuse me, that darn gorilla meat always gets stuck between my teeth.”
Onscreen, Tooley’s self-righteous face was replaced with shaky amateur video, obviously taken by a bystander, showing him shrieking and writhing on the street outside Dewatre in a frantic effort to extinguish his flaming hair and jacket. And there, right on schedule, was Cheyenne O’Rourke abusing the heck out of him with those mile-high platform sneakers.
Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3) Page 16
