by Linda Reilly
“Something’s up with Audrey for sure,” Martha said. “I just can’t put my finger on it.” She heaved a sigh. “Guess my brain’s getting old along with my body. Either that or I’m plain worn-out.”
“Of course you are,” Talia said. “Worrying about Lucas has us both a little cray-cray.” She grinned at Martha, hoping to elicit even a ghost of a smile.
“I know you’re trying to make me laugh, but I can’t. Not with things the way they are.” Martha pulled her blue apron over her head and tossed it in the bin for the laundry service.
Talia bit her lip. She so badly wanted to tell Martha that Lucas was out of danger. If only—
No, she had to keep her promise. She’d told Prescott she wouldn’t utter a word, and she had to remain true to it. With her fingers she made a twisting motion over her lips, as if locking them closed.
“What are you doing?” Martha said, frowning at her.
“Oh, um, nothing. I was just thinking about how secretive Audrey’s been behaving.”
“Yeah, well, you nailed that one. She didn’t like it one bit when you asked her how well she knew Thurman.” Martha pointed a finger at her. “There’s bad blood there, Talia. Mark my words.”
Talia rubbed her fingers over her eyes. “I think you’re right. But unless it has something to do with the murder, it really is none of our business.”
“At this stage,” Martha said darkly, “let’s not rule out anything. In my book they’re both suspects—Audrey and Wes Thurman. Crystal wouldn’t kill a fly if it was doing the tango on her nose.”
Talia opened the commercial fridge and shoved the container of coleslaw onto a shelf. “Someone tossed that . . . whatever the weapon was in the Dumpster behind the cooking store. The killer must’ve known the police would search there.”
“And while the cops are putting all their eggs in a basket named Crystal,” Martha said, “the real killer is out there celebrating.”
A sharp ache was beginning to work its way up Talia’s spine and into the nape of her neck. She couldn’t go on this way. She had to find time tomorrow to talk to Dylan McPhee and Harry Summers. If she could dream up a valid reason to visit each of them, it wouldn’t really be poking her nose into other people’s affairs.
She hadn’t had much of a chance to do any food shopping lately. Why not eat breakfast at the diner? If Dylan was there, which he should be, she’d ask to have a little chat with him.
As for Harry, he’d rescued her from a bad fall on Sunday. She’d never really thanked him properly, had she? No, she had not. A gift certificate to Fry Me might be the perfect way to do that.
“Talia, if you don’t mind, I wanna get going a few minutes early. Father Francese is holding a special Mass for Lucas at seven fifteen tonight.”
“Oh, Martha, that is so sweet of him. I didn’t even know about it.”
Every Friday at noon, like clockwork, Lucas delivered a fish-and-chips meal to the elderly priest at Saint Agatha’s. Talia had come to think of the pastor as one of her best customers.
“It was kind of a last-minute thing,” Martha explained. “Anyway, I want to get there early if I can. Have a few minutes alone with the Big Guy. Or Gal.” With a wry smirk, she pointed skyward.
Talia hugged Martha good-bye, thankful for a few minutes to herself. Today had been the equivalent of an emotional nightmare. No one had heard from Crystal, so it wasn’t clear if the police were holding her or not. Talia planned to text Detective Prescott as soon as she got home to see what she could find out.
Talia glanced at the wall clock in the dining area—a pottery octopus with a deep-fried goody clutched in each of its eight tentacles—and saw that it was four minutes to seven. She went to her locker, grabbed her purse, and slung it over her shoulder. After ensuring that the back door was double-locked, she headed for the front entrance. She was just turning the doorknob when someone pushed the door open forcefully. Talia took a startled jump backward.
“Oh my,” Bruce Ferringer blustered. “I’m sorry if we frightened you. Is it closing time already?” His smile was like a barracuda’s—all teeth and about as warm as the deep blue sea.
“Um, well, actually it is. We close at seven, I’m afraid.”
Next to Ferringer stood a diminutive thirtysomething woman wearing a white blouse and a pale yellow pencil skirt. Her shiny brown hair was stick straight and hung just above her thin shoulders. The woman pasted on a smile far more genuine than Ferringer’s and stuck out her hand. “Hi. I’m Stacey Russell. So glad to finally meet you. If you haven’t already guessed, I’m Bruce’s campaign manager.”
Talia accepted her handshake but then quickly recovered. “I’m sorry. Did . . . did we have an appointment?” She knew they didn’t, or at least she hoped they didn’t, but at this point she just wanted to get rid of them.
Ferringer, dressed casually in Dockers and a short-sleeved garnet-colored polo shirt, moved deftly around his companion and stepped inside the dining room. He looked all around, sizing up the place. “The AC works nicely in here, Stace. This will be absolutely perfect.”
A blade of anger poked through Talia’s polite demeanor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferringer, but we really are closed. May I ask why you’re here?”
“Talia, you really must start calling me Bruce,” he said smoothly. “And we’re the ones who should be sorry.” He looked sternly at his companion. “I thought you were going to call first.”
The woman, Stacey, flushed. “I was, but then you told me not to.” She clenched her small perfect teeth into a fake smile.
“Oh, glory yes, you’re right. I do remember that now.” Ferringer stroked his square chin and then winked at Talia. “Every man needs an efficient woman to keep him on the straight and narrow, doesn’t he, Talia?”
Talia resisted rolling her eyes at the textured ceiling.
“Anyway,” Ferringer plowed on, “you remember at the festival on Sunday you said we could chat later in the week?”
Drat. She had said that. But that was before Norma’s body was found and before—
Talia swallowed. “I do recall that, um, Bruce,” she said, trying to maintain her cool. “But that was before my employee, Lucas Bartolini, was viciously attacked and left for dead in the parking lot at the ball field. As you can well imagine, I’ve thought of little else since then.”
Ferringer closed his eyes in a pained expression. He splayed his large manicured hand over his heart. “Oh my, yes. And you’re right. I should have thought of that. How is the young man doing, by the way? Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing has changed,” Talia said. “According to the authorities, he’s in critical condition. Father Francese is even holding a special Mass for him this evening.”
Stacey clasped her hands over her lips. “So it is that bad?” she said hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.” To her credit, she looked as if she meant it.
“And now I really do have to dash,” Talia said, inching toward the door.
“To the hospital?” Ferringer asked.
“No. No one is allowed to visit Lucas. Honestly, I’m afraid I’m going to have to lock up now. I have a number of things to do at home, not to mention a hungry cat to feed.”
“We won’t keep you, then,” Stacey said. At least she had the decency to look embarrassed at the way they’d barged in at closing time.
Ferringer, meanwhile, had strolled over to the counter and was perusing one of the paper take-home menus. “This will be perfect for our luncheon,” he said, going back over to his campaign manager. He gave Stacey the menu and then looked directly at Talia. “Have you thought any more about our having it on a Sunday?”
Talia was ready to blow hot steam out of her ears. “No, I haven’t, Mr. Ferringer, because, as I already mentioned, Sunday is out of the question.”
Ferringer’s eyes hardened. “I see. You do realize, Talia, that hosting our luncheon would be very good for your future? One of my primary supporters is a semiprofessional golfer whose name, I assure you,
is quite recognizable. Think of the business he could send your way. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”
Talia plopped her handbag onto the nearest table. “Mr. Ferringer, I’m really going to have to ask you both to leave now. It is past closing time and I need to lock up.” She gave Stacey an apologetic smile. The woman seemed decent enough, even if she did associate herself with a sleaze like Ferringer.
“We’ll be in touch,” Stacey said quietly. “I’m sorry we disturbed you at a difficult time.” She slid the paper menu into her beige and blue designer handbag. The bag would have been pretty sans the GO FAR WITH FERRINGER! button attached to its leather strap.
Ferringer nodded at Talia and whipped open the door. “Thank you for your time, Talia. I will be praying for your young employee.” He snapped his fingers at his campaign manager. “Speaking of praying, we should try to catch that Mass. And make sure we get a seat up front so everyone sees us coming in.”
His last words trailed behind him as he and Stacey stepped outside onto the plaza. Relieved to be rid of them, Talia locked the door securely behind the pair. She wanted to be sure they were long gone before she went outside herself.
Something occurred to her, though. Ferringer must have wondered why Talia herself wasn’t attending the Mass. It would be a logical thing to do, if Lucas were really in bad shape.
Had she given herself away?
Actually, what was she thinking? She should be attending the Mass.
With a weary sigh, Talia stepped out onto the cobblestone plaza and locked the door behind her. Her furry calico angel would have to wait a big longer for her supper.
9
Exhausted as she felt, Talia couldn’t help beaming at her beloved Bo.
“There’s my little sweetie,” Talia cooed to the cat. “I’m late tonight, aren’t I?”
The cat was perched on the arm of the tattered tweed chair that Talia’s grandpop had always loved, and that Bo had claimed for her own the day she walked into Talia’s life. The chair now sat closer to the front door, where the cat waited patiently—or maybe not so patiently—for Talia to walk in every evening.
Meoowwww. Bo’s plaintive cry was drawn out into several beats—the sure sign of a cat who was perishing from hunger.
Talia dropped her purse onto the chair and scooped up the cat. She nuzzled Bo’s whiskers and headed for the kitchen. “Let’s see what we can find in the cabinets, shall we? Maybe some savory baked salmon or some lamb kabobs?”
All of which came from the fancy cat food cans Talia had bought at the specialty pet supplies store. For sure, the stuff was pricey. But with only one cat to feed, Talia didn’t mind the splurge. The dry kibble she left out for daytime snacking was also top quality, but Bo definitely preferred the moist food.
After Bo had been fed, Talia returned to the living room. She turned on the tower fan that blew in gentle waves toward the sofa. On most summer days, the bungalow managed to stay comfortable. After spending all day at the eatery with conditioned air blowing out of the vents, Talia was happy to have only a few fans to cool down the small house.
The church where Lucas’s Mass had been held had been dreadfully warm. A few of the older folks had looked ready to faint. Many of them had fanned themselves with paper programs left over from the past Sunday’s events. Luckily, Father Francese had wrapped things up more quickly than usual. No doubt the elderly pastor sensed that most of the attendants were there only to say a few prayers for Lucas. He might also have been on the verge of passing out himself and saw the wisdom of cutting the Mass short.
Talia had spotted Martha sitting in the front row, her head bowed. She could only see her from the back, though. She’d thought about joining her, but had the feeling Martha needed the time alone. The poor woman was suffering mightily over Lucas. If only—
No, no, no. Stop thinking that way. You can’t tell. You can’t utter a word.
Shaking away those thoughts, Talia grabbed her phone from her purse and plopped onto the sofa. The breeze from the tall fan caressed her face.
The bungalow had been her grandparents’ home for most of Talia’s formative years. Her grandpop had passed on well over a decade ago, but Nana had remained in the tiny house until she died last year. Talia still thought about her every day. She missed her nana’s comforting presence. Every so often, she’d swear Nana was standing beside her, soothing her with kind, unspoken words. On more than one occasion, the faint scent of her grandmother’s dusting powder had tickled her senses. She knew it was only her imagination working overtime, but it was soothing nonetheless.
Talia kicked off her Keds and wiggled her toes. She leaned her head back on the brocade pillow she’d picked up at one of the outlet shops. She loved having the outlet mall so close to where she lived. She wasn’t a big shopper, but when she needed something, it was practically at her fingertips.
She tried reaching Ryan on his cell, but it went directly to voice mail. She opted instead for texting him, omitting any mention of Lucas’s condition.
Almost immediately, Ryan texted her back. Sorry. Stuck in a dinner meeting. Miss you terribly. XO. Maybe chat later?
She knew the XO was supposed to mean “hug and kisses.” But with her and Ryan, the subtle message was there: I love you. The word “maybe” threw her a little. It wasn’t like Ryan to sound vague. But she knew the Dallas meeting was a biggie for his company, so he must have felt the pressure.
Talia felt a smile widen her lips. She texted back: You got it. Call me when you’re free, no matter how late. XOXO
When he didn’t text back within the next few minutes, Talia set her phone down on the sofa. A tiny mewling sound vibrated in Talia’s ear. She glanced down and saw Bo gazing up at her, the kitty’s breath reeking of fish. In the next instant, the little calico leaped onto Talia’s chest. She curled up and settled there, closing her eyes and purring in a display of sheer bliss.
Talia grinned at her little darling. She was so glad Bo had found a home with her. In fact, Bo had been with her now for nearly a year.
She’d spotted the skittish little cat prowling the neighborhood after she’d first moved into her nana’s bungalow. Later, she’d learned from one of her neighbors that the kitty had been tossed out like unwanted trash after its elderly owner had died. The woman’s son, apparently, had no use for cats. He’d abandoned the little creature on a cold autumn night, leaving her to fend for herself. Talia had named the kitty Bojangles after her nana’s favorite song, even knowing that a calico cat was almost certainly a female.
Talia picked up her cell phone again. She flipped through her e-mails until she found the link Molly had sent her—the one to the town’s website where pictures from the festival were posted. She was glad now that she’d opted for the larger-screened phone. It was so much easier to read.
She touched the link, and almost instantly myriad photos popped onto the screen. Colorful pix of the vendor booths filled the page.
Talia grinned at the photo of an eager little girl biting into a hunk of sugar-dusted fried dough. Others showed the softball field, where Rachel and Derek had given batting lessons to the kids. Those had been taken from a higher vantage point—maybe from the raised scoreboard behind center field? The scoreboard was accessed by a set of stairs, so the photographer would have been twenty or so feet above the ground, assuming that was where these were shot from.
Scads of other photos were posted, most of them taken from too far a distance to discern much of anything. She flipped through the remaining ones more quickly. Most had little content—only a jumble of random faces and scenes, as if they’d all been hired as “extras” in a movie.
One photo caught Talia’s attention. The photographer had homed in on Bruce and Jodie Ferringer standing behind their gaudily decorated table. Bruce’s expression had been captured midsnarl—he’d apparently been in the midst of a contentious convo with his wife. Not surprising, Talia thought. The only time Ferringer truly smiled—and even then it was phony—was when h
e was chatting up potential constituents.
She flipped her way through the remainder of the still shots. Nothing of interest caught her eye. Then she spotted another link—this one to a video. She tapped the link and saw that it was four minutes long. It began with a slow scan of the empty bleachers, then moved to the section of the park where the booths and tents had been set up. If she squinted, she could just make out the table at the back where she’d been seated with Ryan, Arthur, and the “Arcade Brigade.” The videographer moved slowly, and with a remarkably steady hand, capturing the happy faces of kids and adults alike.
Then the video shifted focus. The area where the temporary staging had been set up came into view. The camera panned to the right, toward the entrance to the park. Adjacent to that were the cooking stations, and beyond that was the judges’ tent.
A sudden swatch of magenta caught Talia’s eye. Jodie Ferringer, wearing her enormous floppy hat, was meandering away from the Ferringer table in the direction of the parking lot. Her huge blue cooler was draped over her arm. Talia noted the time on the video—2:11.
Hmmm, that was odd. At 2:11, the six contestants, including Talia, were hunkered in their respective stations, preparing their entries for the judges. But Jodie had stayed until after the grand prize was awarded to Norma, so she couldn’t have been leaving.
Then Talia remembered. Jodie had used the cooler to transport those obnoxious brochures. She’d forced them on anyone with a pulse, whether they wanted one or not, so she’d probably run out. No doubt she’d been heading to her car to fetch another batch.
The video was nearing the end. None of it had been very revealing. And then, all at once, Talia spotted something that made her body jerk involuntarily. Bo’s eyes shot open, and the cat gave her a worried look.
Talia stroked the cat’s head soothingly, her gaze drawn back to the video. The videographer had turned around and was strolling back toward the heart of the festivities. The next frame lasted only a few seconds, but the dark red hair, drawn into a French braid, made Talia gasp.
