Rosana squinted at the page Val gave her. “I’ll study this in more detail later.” She turned toward her assistant. “Did you finish making the changes I suggested?”
“I was just working on that when you rang for me,” Madison said in a saccharine tone that matched Rosana’s. “I’ll get back to it if you’ll excuse me.” She whirled around, her long braid swinging behind her, and walked stiffly away.
The young woman did a good job of hiding any resentment she felt at being summoned by a bell and reminded to do her work. If Val ended up cooking for the Ushers, she wouldn’t respond to tinkling or even clanging bells. Rosana would have to find another way to get her attention.
She conducted Val to the foyer. “Thank you so much for coming. I’ll go over the menus and prices and let you know about the catering.”
Before Val climbed into the car, she looked back at the house. A gloomy place, inside and out. She suspected the greatest peril Granddad faced by going back there was falling into depression. She couldn’t rule out other dangers if he found proof that Rick Usher was dead. Though a conspiracy to cover up a man’s death struck Val as farfetched, she knew the Usher household was involved in an elaborate deceit. Rosana had hired Granddad to impersonate her husband, and Clancy had facilitated that ruse. Despite her mistrust of Rosana, Val was tempted to cook at the Usher house. If she lost the café contract, she could use the extra money to tide her over while she looked for another job.
* * *
After relieving Bethany in the café at eleven, Val got a head start on making lunches. She had just set out the vegetables to chop for salads when a tall sixtyish woman approached the eating bar. Irene Pritchard rarely visited the café she’d hoped to manage, at least not since Val beat her out for the café contract last year.
Val pasted on a smile. “Hi, Irene. I haven’t seen you lately.” And haven’t missed you a bit.
Irene’s stiff-lipped attempt at a smile suggested pain rather than pleasure. “Good morning, Val.” She unbuttoned her charcoal wool coat, an outer layer of dark gray over an ash gray sweater and slacks. Her clothes matched the dreary weather, the color of her rigidly waved hair, and her grim personality.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Irene slid onto a stool at the eating bar. “Decaf coffee, if it’s fresh.” Her tone suggested it wasn’t.
Val eyed the coffee in the decaf pot on the warmer. She’d brewed it half an hour ago. It probably wouldn’t meet this customer’s exacting standards. On a previous visit here, Irene had scorned tea made from bags instead of leaves. She had prepared a proper brew in the tea shop she’d run until it went bankrupt.
Val dumped out the old coffee and made a fresh pot. “Something to eat?” She would have offered anyone else the scones she’d made this morning, but Irene might expect clotted cream to go with them. “A muffin or yogurt parfait?”
Irene shook her head. “Thank you. Your grandfather said you were looking for someone to work here part-time. I wanted to let you know I’m available.”
Val was too stunned to speak. She couldn’t believe Granddad would have told Irene to apply for a café job, not after she’d spread rumors last summer that his dinner guest had succumbed to food poisoning. Maybe she’d heard about the café assistant job through the Bayport grapevine.
A middle-aged man hustled into the café and slapped some bills on the granite counter. “Black coffee and a blueberry muffin to go, please.”
“Excuse me, Irene,” Val said.
Filling the man’s order gave her a chance to collect her thoughts. Amazing that the proud Irene had come here looking for a job. She must have money problems. Val was tempted to hire her and say nothing about the rumored closing of the café. Irene’s food-handling experience meant she could start immediately with minimal training, leaving Val free to help her grandfather with The Codger’s Cookbook and the impersonation mess.
But Val’s conscience wouldn’t let her exploit anyone, not even a woman she disliked.
She set a mug with Irene’s decaf on the eating bar. “I was looking for an assistant, but I found out a few days ago that the club has other plans for this space when my contract ends in March.” Val read skepticism in Irene’s narrowed eyes. They had a history of not believing each other. Irene probably assumed Val was making up an excuse not to hire her.
Irene reached for the creamer. “That means the club’s losing money on the café.” Behind Irene’s toneless voice and deadpan face lurked an accusation of failure.
Val’s teeth clenched. She picked up a knife and hacked at a celery stalk. “Profits from the café have grown steadily.”
“Profits would have grown more if you kept the café open longer instead of closing at two o’clock. Of course, you’d have to either stay on your feet for twelve hours a day or hire an assistant manager.”
Val coughed to cover up a laugh. Five minutes ago, Irene had inquired about part-time work. Now she was lobbying to be assistant manager. Maybe she could talk her way into that role in a clothing shop. “The club expects to generate more revenue per square foot by turning this alcove into a sportswear boutique.”
“That’s crazy. Who’s going to drive out here to buy clothes? There’s nothing but corn fields all around this building. No stores. No foot traffic. You’ve got the same problem with a café here.” Irene sipped her coffee. “Does your contract restrict you to serving food to club members in this building?”
Val couldn’t remember any such wording. The contract dealt mainly with financial arrangements. “No, but practically speaking, the people who come here to exercise are my only customers.”
“You need to expand your limited base to make more money. If the customers don’t come to you, take the food to them. Your location works in your favor. You’re situated between Bayport and Treadwell. You can deliver lunches to businesses in both places.”
True, but to do it, Val would need a delivery person. Someone like Irene’s son, Jeremy, who used to deliver food from the diner in town. So that’s why the proud woman had come here. Val had to give her former rival credit. Irene had concocted a responsible position for herself at the café and a job for her son.
Val looked up from chopping celery. “Not a bad idea, Irene, but it takes time to publicize a delivery service. With only six weeks to go before the contract—”
“Where’s the harm in giving it a try? If you come up with a flyer about the café’s delivery service, Jeremy can drop it off at the businesses in both towns tomorrow.”
Val liked Jeremy. The young man, now in his twenties, had struggled in school, but worked hard at any task that suited his skills. “He doesn’t have a job?”
“He works as a busboy at the crab house for dinner, but he has plenty of time during the day. I’m ready to start work too.”
Val went back to chopping celery, feeling as if she’d climbed on a runaway roller coaster. How could she put the brakes on Irene’s scheme? “Give me time to think about it.”
“Of course. I’m sure you’ll see it as a win-win proposition. I’ll stay here through the lunch hour and get a feel for how you do things.”
The woman’s persistence grated on Val.
For the next hour Irene sat at the eating bar and made none of the negative comments she’d made on previous visits to the café. A step in the right direction, but not enough to convince Val to hire her on the spot. Before she made a decision about Irene’s proposal, she had to find out if replacing the Cool Down Café with a clothing boutique was anything except a rumor. She’d stop by the manager’s office and ask him about his plans after she closed the café for the day.
At two o’clock, she hurriedly cleaned the surfaces in the café and went into the enclosed area behind the work counter to store the day’s leftovers. The walk-in pantry with a refrigerator was so small that she never pulled the door shut when she was in it because of her mild claustrophobia. She’d just put away the last of the leftovers when she heard voices in the café.
With the door cracked open, she could make out what a man and a woman were saying, though she couldn’t see them. She recognized the man’s voice as the club manager’s.
“Will this give you enough room?” he said.
“You’ll have to rip out that food prep counter and the bar. That would give me more floor space for the clothes, though not as much as I’d like.” The woman spoke fast in a voice that carried. “You’ll need to add a low checkout counter by the entrance and a fitting room. What’s behind that door?”
The only visible door was the one hiding Val from view. Should she pop out or wait to be discovered?
“Shelves and cabinets for supplies, and a refrigerator,” the manager said.
“The fridge has got to go to make room for spare stock. People can use the club’s locker rooms to try on clothes. I assume I can put racks of clothes in the reception area to entice buyers in here.”
Val couldn’t catch any more of their conversation as their voices faded. No need to visit the manager in his office. What she’d overheard confirmed the rumors about the café’s future. She caught a glimpse of a pony-tailed blonde talking to the manager in the reception area.
On the way out of the café, Val turned to look back at the granite eating bar, the wrought-iron bistro tables, and the table in the corner with its cushioned settee. The Cool Down Café had been her second home for nearly a year. Here she’d created delicious, healthy breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for the club members. She’d made new friends among the women who played on the club’s tennis team and the other café regulars. And she’d earned enough to help Granddad keep the house he never wanted to leave.
Nothing short of a minor miracle could save the café, and the only miracle on the horizon required an alliance with Irene. If her strategy for increasing the café’s profits succeeded and the club renewed the café contract, Irene would make sure the manager knew who’d initiated the changes that led to more revenue. Val risked ending up jobless or the assistant to her former rival. She sighed.
She might as well hedge her bets, hire Irene, and start looking for a new job in whatever free time she could find. She would call Irene later. Now she had to cross off the items on her to-do list. First stop, the Bayport Police Department.
Even if Chief Yardley wouldn’t share any information with her, she would tell him that Emmett might have impersonated Rick Usher. The police could then investigate if posing as a famous author had anything to do with the actor’s death. The trick would be to tell the chief about Emmett’s possible connection to the Ushers without revealing Granddad’s connection to them.
Chapter 7
Val took a familiar spot in the police chief’s office, on the metal visitor’s chair. Earl Yardley, a barrel-chested man in his late fifties, sat on the other side of a desk littered with folders and papers.
He slid the papers to the side and leaned back in his padded desk chair. “Your granddaddy doing okay?” At her nod, he continued, “You don’t make social calls here. What’s on your mind?”
“Can you tell me anything about the death of Emmett Flint? I was at the outlet mall Saturday afternoon when he keeled over.”
The chief reached for a memo pad and pen. “What time was it when you saw him in the mall?”
“It must have been around three. I was with Bethany O’Shay. We’d been to a women’s clothing store and were heading to another one when we saw him. He was walking between two rows of parked cars, moving erratically like someone who’d drunk too much. Suddenly, he disappeared. I thought he’d fallen. Bethany and I ran toward him.”
Chief Yardley jotted on the pad. “And you recognized him?”
“I didn’t know who he was until Gunnar told me an actor in his theater group had just died. I’d seen Emmett Flint in the group’s last production, but he looked quite a bit older on Saturday than he did on the stage.”
“What did Gunnar tell you about him?”
“That he had a talent for making enemies. He had trouble getting along with his neighbor, his ex-wife, and some members of the theater group.”
Chief Yardley twirled his pen. “Why didn’t Gunnar get along with him?”
Val heard a change in his voice that made her wary. “I only know they disliked each other.” She chewed her lip. “Is there something else I should know?”
The chief said nothing at first. Then he put his pen down and pushed the memo pad away. “Let’s say a man died under suspicious circumstances, and I had the same type of relationship with him as Gunnar had with Flint. You know what I’d do? Talk to a lawyer.”
Val’s ears buzzed, as if the blood in her head had turned into a raging stream. “Gunnar’s a suspect?”
“If that shocks you—and it looks like it does—he hasn’t told you everything about his dealings with Emmett Flint.”
Chief Yardley’s words echoed in Val’s head and chilled her to the core. This wasn’t the first time Gunnar had been less than forthright with her. “Are you going to tell me about their dealings, Chief?”
He folded his hands, creating a steeple with his index fingers. “Ask Gunnar.”
But would Gunnar tell her? He’d passed up a chance to do that on Saturday night. “Chief, you know he’s not the kind of person who’d kill anyone.”
“I didn’t say he was. It won’t hurt anything but his wallet to talk to a lawyer.”
“Do you have the autopsy results yet?” The state crime lab in Baltimore, where autopsies were conducted, often had a backlog. A delayed autopsy would give Gunnar more time to find a lawyer.
“We lucked out and got preliminary results faster than usual. Normally, we wouldn’t release those findings, but we’re getting pressure to make an announcement. Emmett Flint’s sister is a real publicity hound, an actress. She went on local TV, questioning the competence of the emergency medical services, the hospital, and the police.”
“On what basis?”
“The EMTs got his heart going, but his blood pressure kept sinking. His sister didn’t believe it. She said he had high blood pressure and took medicine to lower it.”
Val could tell the chief wasn’t going to give her the autopsy results until the public announcement, but he might correct her assumptions. “He could have taken too much of his medicine.”
“Death from an overdose of meds can be an accident, suicide, or murder. Often older folks accidentally overdose. They confuse the dosage of different drugs or forget they’ve already taken the prescribed amount and take more. With a younger person who doesn’t have memory problems, suicide is more likely.”
“Suicide would bother his sister.”
“Right. She suggested that someone with access to those types of meds slipped them into her brother’s food or drink.” The chief shifted the papers back to the center of his desk.
Val read the paper shuffling as a sign that he wanted to return to work. She’d just as soon leave and talk to Gunnar, but she had information about Emmett Flint that the police probably wouldn’t hear from anyone else. “In the mall parking lot, Bethany said Emmett Flint reminded her of someone, but she didn’t know who. She’s a great fan of a best-selling author who lives on the Eastern Shore, Rick Usher.”
“I’ve heard of him. And?”
“Yesterday, when I saw a photo of him, I realized that Emmett Flint resembled him, but only after Emmett made himself look older with gray hair and lines in his face. And he had on the same type of clothes and glasses that Rick Usher wears in his publicity photos.”
“I saw the clothes the victim wore. Ordinary winter clothes.” The chief glanced at the papers on his desk.
They obviously interested him more than a possible similarity between the dead actor and the famous author. Val was tempted to tell him she’d overheard that a man had impersonated Rick Usher, but she had no proof that Emmett had been the impersonator. Even the fact that Granddad had been hired to impersonate Usher would prove nothing about Emmett Flint. As she knew from her previous experience with the chief, he wo
uld ignore her theories unless the facts supported them. On her next visit here, she’d come better armed with facts.
Before she left, though, she wanted to know whether her nemesis would be assigned to the case. “One more question, Chief. Is the sheriff’s department involved in the investigation into Emmett’s death?”
“If that’s another way of asking if Deputy Holtzman will be on the case, the answer is yes. The case crosses jurisdictions. The county sheriff, the state police, and our department are all working on it.”
She groaned inwardly and stood up. “I won’t keep you from your work any longer, Chief. Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
“Give my regards to your granddaddy.”
She hurried from the building to the parking area. Once inside her Saturn, she whipped out her phone and called Gunnar. She reached his voice mail and left a message, suggesting they meet in town for dinner.
Next she scrolled through her contacts to find Judith’s number and called it. When the book club hostess answered, Val identified herself and said, “I wanted to thank you for the chance to make dinner for your book club. I’d like to send everyone in the club the recipe for the onion soup. Could you give me their names and contact information?”
“What a nice idea! We always communicate by e-mail. Send me the recipe and I’ll forward it to them.”
Not what Val wanted. Moving on to plan B, she would get what information she could about Simone, but in a way that wouldn’t make her interest in the woman too obvious. “Thank you. While I was in the kitchen last night, I couldn’t help overhearing the book discussion. Which of the women was talking about the scenes in the Rue Cler market and the descriptions of the food there?”
“That was Mary Ellen. She’s quite a cook herself. The dinner she made for our last meeting was fantastic, almost as good as yours.”
“Thanks for the compliment. What was the name of the woman who knew Rick Usher’s books inside out? I figured she must be a librarian.”
The Tell-Tale Tarte Page 6
