“I take it she saw you go racing out yesterday?”
His face was grim. “She did.”
“It was romantic, Parker.”
“It was nerve-racking, Lilah. But I’m glad that I sped over here like a madman and finally told you what I’ve wanted to tell you for what seems like years.”
“You’re poetic,” I said.
“And you’re sexy.”
“Wait until you see my photos. Wade positioned me in a number of alluring ways.”
Parker scowled. “I don’t like the idea that this guy was posing you like some doll.”
“Oh, Parker. It’s funny when you get jealous. Wade didn’t notice me at all, except as a subject. I think—he might be in love with someone. I’m just not sure if it’s with Cash or this mysterious Amber. He seemed protective of both of them. Did you find out about her?”
“No, because I didn’t talk to Cash yesterday. That’s on the docket for today.” He bent down to kiss my ear. “I have to go, and I’m going to try not to think of you, because otherwise I won’t be able to do my job.”
“I understand,” I said solemnly, and Parker grinned, then blew me a kiss before he disappeared out my back door.
I got up and shifted into gear. I showered and dressed in record time; I returned to the kitchen, pulled out the stew I’d made the night before, and measured out a second set of ingredients to use during the taping. I separated them into their various dishes and containers, then stowed all of the samples and the finished Crock-Pot into a large cardboard box.
Kissing Mick on top of his soft brown head, I promised I’d see him soon. He nodded gently, still half asleep. I moved briskly out to my car and drove to the Chicago studio where Angelo’s show was taped. I’d become familiar with the drive and the overall routine, so it was quick work to drive into the lot, show my pass to the attendant, and then march my box inside the old brick building and to the elevator. Soon enough I was standing before Angelo, unpacking my box and listening to his chiding about my lateness.
“And you look too tired. This is not good for television. Tabitha! Can you do something with the shadows under the eyes—so?” He pointed at my face, and Tabitha came rushing out with her obligatory clipboard, which she set aside to study my face.
“Oh my. Hmm. Okay, let’s go to the makeup room.”
Angelo held up a finger. “Wait, though. Look at this, Lilah!” He pushed a newspaper toward me, open to the Metro section, and there was a large picture of Angelo and me—the one that a woman had taken outside the bookstore.
“Newspapers print pictures from their readers now?” I asked.
Angelo shrugged. “Why not? It is a good picture. They make reporters of people on the street. It saves them money. If they paid her at all, it was probably pennies.” It was a great picture: Angelo’s easy smile, his casual arm around me, my hair looking surprisingly good, and my eyes creased with near-laughter. We looked almost in love. “Look at the caption!” Angelo said.
Beneath the photo it said, Cooking with Angelo is the most popular food show on Chicago cable, and networks are taking notice. Angelo Cardelini is pictured here in his hometown of Pine Haven, along with Lilah Drake, a popular guest on his show.
“Oh my,” I said.
“This is the best publicity for us. For me and you both,” he assured me. “Also I need to speak with you about a promotional opportunity. A chance to meet with people in the food industry and to sell our show and our talents.”
“Okay. When is this?”
“It takes place in Las Vegas in May. We should go out there for the weekend. I’ll buy you a lovely dinner, and then it will be all business.”
I stared at him. “I can’t go away with you!”
“Not in that way, no. This would be business.”
“Jay would hate it either way! I can’t do that, Angelo.”
He shrugged. “So we bring Jay. Make this happen, Lilah. You’ve always wanted a career. Here it is.”
“But I never asked to be on TV.”
“Still. There will be people of all sorts there. Restaurateurs, caterers, writers, producers. Power people.”
I rubbed my eyes. “I can’t think about this right now.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes at Tabitha. “She’s all yours. We’ll talk about this later, Lilah.”
It was strange to have this new routine with Angelo and Tabitha. When I had dreamed of a career in food preparation, I had not envisioned myself on television, and yet fate had led me here. It was Angelo’s show, but I sometimes got letters and e-mails from “fans” who liked me on the show or who tried my recipes and enjoyed them.
Tabitha was sponging away at my face, tsking at me. “Are you working on any plays right now?” I asked.
She sighed. “I just finished a show in the burbs. A friend of mine is trying to get me a job at the Goodman. That would be amazing. I’m waiting to hear back.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks. Okay, that looks a little better, but your eyes are kind of red. You have to make sure to get enough sleep before a show, Lilah.”
“Right.”
She shook her head and pointed me back toward Angelo. I set out my ingredients, and he told me when to join him at the table. Then I went into the wings, and Angelo did his usual movie star turn, greeting the audience and reading letters from viewers. I had trouble concentrating on this because I was experiencing flashbacks from the previous night, some of which had me grinning to myself and some of which made my face grow unexpectedly hot.
I heard Angelo introducing me, and I walked out to the applause of the studio audience.
“Good morning, Lilah! What have you cooked up for us today?”
“Angelo, this is an easy Irish one-pot stew that you can make in a jiffy, but your family will think you slaved all day over a hot stove. It’s delessius. Delicious, I mean.”
“Wonderful! While you set out your ingredients, we’ll hear this word from our sponsor.”
The camera light went off. Still grinning at his audience, but with a quick flick to turn off his mike, Angelo said, “You look terrible, and you can barely speak your lines. What kept you from your sleep?”
I turned off my mike, as well. “None of your business,” I said, smiling at the crowd, too.
“I can guess, I suppose. The policeman? This new man in your life?”
“Like I said, Angelo. None of your business.”
He ignored this and turned toward me. “I have no problem with this. He seems like a good man.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Lilah. It does not become you.”
“Angelo, you need to join this century. I don’t need to worry about what becomes me.”
“Is he good to you? This cop?”
“Yes. He is very good.”
“All right, then. Will you please try to get some sleep on the night before tapings? This is important, Lilah. The producers will be unhappy if you look like death, and I don’t want to lose you from my Friday segment.”
He seemed to be in earnest. “I’ll do what I can, Angelo.”
He sniffed. “There was a time that I was responsible for your sleepless nights.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but Tabitha came running up to us, her face horrified and perspiring. “Why are your mikes off?” She bent over each of us in turn, fiddling with our equipment and turning the sound back on. She gave us a last suspicious glance before she hurried off and the cameraman pointed at Angelo, then held up five, four, three, two, one.
“We are back with the lovely Lilah Drake, who is prepared to make us some delicious stew. Is there anyone in the audience who would be willing to taste test this delightful concoction?”
A roar came from the audience, which was made up of mostly women but did contain a few men. Angel
o waved grandly, then said, “Lilah, how do we begin?”
• • •
WHEN I GOT home with my box full of empty containers, my brother’s car sat in the driveway. I lugged my box to the door and struggled with the key, then said, “Cam?”
“I’m in here petting your dog.”
“Don’t you teach today?”
“I had a morning class, and I have another at four. That’s actually why I’m here.”
“To teach me Italian?” I said lightly, setting my box on the table and turning on the faucet to fill my sink.
“No, to ask what your boyfriend is up to.”
I flicked off the faucet and turned to face him. He sat on one of my kitchen stools, and Mick leaned against his leg, enjoying the head massage that Cam was giving him. As always Cam looked effortlessly handsome in his casual white button-down shirt and black jeans. His chestnut hair looked like it needed a trim.
“Jay? What do you mean?”
He lifted Mick’s ears into the alert position. “He appeared in the door of my morning class, along with some woman. She looked Italian herself.”
“That’s Grimaldi.”
“Okay. So they showed up in my class—actually interrupted it. I was afraid something had happened to you.” He let Mick’s ears fall again, and Mick leaned against him a little more.
“I’m sorry they scared you. What did Jay want?”
“He wanted one of my students. Pulled her right out of class, scaring her half to death. She’s just a little freshman.”
“What’s her name?”
“Amber Warfield. Any idea what this might be about?”
“Amber. Wow, he moves fast.”
“Meaning what?”
“Jay’s investigating a murder. I know I told you about it—the guy who lived next door to Ellie?”
“So? This girl couldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Well, apparently she’s a friend of Cantwell’s son. It’s all a little bit confusing. . . .”
“You’re telling me she’s actually a suspect?”
“I’m not privy to police information, but I know that her name came up as a result of some conversations, so naturally they have to talk to her.”
“Naturally. And they have to pull a kid out of class in front of her friends—”
“Oh, I get it. You’re just looking for a reason to criticize Jay.”
Cam’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but someone pounded on my door. “Hang on,” I said. I followed Mick’s wagging tail to my front entrance, where a delivery person stood silhouetted against the glass. I could see the telltale clipboard in his hands.
I opened the door and faced a young man wearing a cap that said Flower Fields. They were one of the more upscale florists in Pine Haven. “Hello,” I said.
“Lilla Drake?”
“Lilah, yes.”
“Sign here, please. Someone likes you a lot.” I signed, and he lifted the arrangement from its spot on the porch next to him. Only then did I see how huge it was. My face grew hot with surprise and pleasure.
“Oh—thank you. These look lovely.”
He nodded and jogged back to his car. I carried my unwieldy burden to the kitchen, where I plunked it down on the counter and began stripping away the paper with all the enthusiasm of a three-year-old on Christmas.
My brother looked nervous. “What’s the occasion? I know it’s not your birthday. That’s this summer.”
“No occasion,” I said, ripping away the last of the paper to reveal a sheaf of red and pink roses; their scent was intoxicating. I found the card tucked into the greenery and pulled it out with careful fingers. I read it and avoided eye contact with my brother.
“Why are you blushing? Your face is as red as a tomato! This is something romantic, isn’t it? Are those from Jay?”
“You’re just full of questions,” I murmured. “God, these smell good.”
“Wait a minute. A man doesn’t send what looks like hundreds of roses unless he’s in trouble or—oh God. Are those sex flowers? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“You’re one to talk. I am pretty sure that when I visit your apartment you guys you have either just finished or are just about to start. Or both.”
Cam grinned briefly. “It’s a good life,” he said.
“Yeah. So lay off. I happen to love Jay Parker.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really! Does he know that?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t keep the smugness out of my voice. I found my purse and dug around for my phone. “Ah, there it is!” I started snapping photos of the flowers from different angles.
“What’s that all about?” Cam said.
“I need to show them to Jenny. And Mom. And a few more people.”
Cam stood up. “Okay. I guess I’m glad that Parker is showing the appropriate appreciation of your charms. This is far preferable to you mooning around for him and singing sad show tunes from the 1950s.”
“There are happy show tunes, too,” I said brightly. The song in my head, at present, was not a show tune, but “A Groovy Kind of Love”—the Phil Collins version.
Cam strolled over and sniffed a rose. “Can I bring one to Serafina?”
I was tempted to say no, but Serafina was always ridiculously generous to me. I selected a gorgeous red bloom and slid it out of the vase. “Just one. The rest are all mine.”
My brother sent me a wry smile, kissed me on the cheek, and made his way to the door, escorted by my footman, Mick. “I’ll see you Sunday, lovebird,” he called over his shoulder. “Tell Jay to bring some wine.”
Moments later Mick came trotting back, and I told him that I would soon be headed back to bed for an indulgent nap.
He nodded; Mick believed in the power of naps.
I scratched his head, looking at my flowers, and confessed that I had never been given anything so beautiful—not the hand-carved Italian wood recipe holder that Angelo had given me early in our relationship, or the sapphire blue hand-fired Le Creuset stoneware baker that my parents had given me for Christmas, or even the lovely earrings Jay had given me before he left for New York—no gift had made me feel the level of joy that this giant vase of flowers brought me.
Perhaps it was because of what he had written on the card.
For Lilah, my love. You are more beautiful than any rose.
CHAPTER TEN
Parker picked me up that evening at around six. I gave Mick a kiss and told him to be good; then I grabbed the caramel apple pie I had made for Jenny’s dinner party and ran out through the chilly twilight to the car. I had worn a standard little black dress with some black tights and a delicate yellow scarf. I thought it looked nice, and that Parker might find it alluring.
I practically dove into his car and leaned over to cover his face with kisses. “You are the sweetest man in the world!” I said. At first Parker seemed rather stiff, but I was relentless, and he eventually turned toward me and kissed me back. I pulled away eventually and smoothed his hair, since I had just rumpled it significantly. “Thank you so much for those amazing flowers,” I said. “I’ve never gotten anything so wonderful in my life. You are the most perfect boyfriend—what’s wrong?” I asked.
Jay was already backing down the long driveway, his eyes on the rearview mirror. “Nothing. Long day,” he said.
I didn’t believe this for a second. I knew Jay Parker, and he was stewing about something. “Okay, that’s not the reason. You should probably tell me before we get to Jenny’s,” I said, buckling myself in.
We were on Dickens Street now, but Jay immediately pulled the car up next to a parking meter and slid the gearshift into park. “All right, Lilah.”
I watched him, my mouth hanging open, while he leaned into the backseat and dug around in a bag on the floor of the car. Then he pulled
out a newspaper, folded down at the Metro section. “Oh,” I said. The car’s interior was dim, but I knew exactly what he was holding.
“I wonder if you’ve seen this.” He held up the picture of Angelo and me—the same picture Angelo had showed me earlier in the day. In Jay’s hands the picture looked ten times worse. I felt almost guilty looking at it, as though Angelo and I were truly having an affair.
“Yes, Angelo showed it to me. He’s very excited about it because of publicity. That’s all it is, Jay. This was taken right on Dickens, right outside his restaurant.”
“And you and he just happened to be strolling there?”
“No! I was in my car, and I saw him, and I jumped out to ask him about New York—what you told me about the show playing there. And then this woman walked up who was a fan of Angelo’s, and she asked for a picture. I guess she sent it in to the paper. It all happened in about two minutes—what’s the big deal, Jay? After what we said yesterday, after last night, why is this even an issue? You know Angelo is in my past.”
He looked out the windshield, then down at the photograph. My own smiling face seemed to mock me from the folded paper. Jay picked up the paper and flicked it into the backseat. “I know you told me that.”
My face felt stiff with surprise. “What is going on? Is this—are you telling me you don’t believe me?” He said nothing. “Oh God. I know what this is. This goes back to the darn chili thing, doesn’t it? You said you could move on from the lie I told, but you can’t. Because you’re Jay, and you’re never going to trust me.” I scowled at him.
He finally met my gaze with his amazing blue eyes, and his expression was half remorseful and half defiant.
I snapped my mouth shut and turned away from him, toward the window. “Fine. Just drive to Jenny’s. Hopefully you can pretend you like me enough at her house. You can go back to hating me afterward.”
“I don’t hate you.” He started the car and began driving again.
“No. You just confronted me the moment I got into the car, even though I greeted you with love and kisses and gratitude.”
“Lilah. You always make me sound terrible.”
Pudding Up With Murder Page 12
