Dial M for Mousse

by Laura Bradford

  When it became apparent Lovey wasn’t going to return, Winnie slammed the door and followed the cat across the parking lot and over to the picnic table with the best view of Silver Lake. Claiming a spot across from the belligerent animal, she looked down at her cell phone, squared her shoulders, and scrolled through her contacts until she reached Jay’s number.

  On one hand she knew she shouldn’t call. Jay knew she wanted to talk and he had said he’d call back again when he had more time. Yet even with the nearly twenty-four hours that had passed since he’d made that unrealized pledge, she couldn’t get around the fact that she simply needed to hear his voice.

  Pressing the Call icon next to his name, she brought the phone to her ear and counted along with the rings—one, two, three, four, five . . .

  The sixth and final ring faded away as his voice—the one she’d wanted to hear more than any other at that moment—filled the line.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Jay Morgan. I’m unable to get to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  She closed her eyes and waited for the inner calm she’d come to equate with the sound of his voice, but it didn’t happen. Instead, all it did was stir up the same questions that had been lapping at the edges of her day.

  Why wasn’t he calling back?

  Why was the trip that had been billed as time for Caroline to spend with her mom becoming time for Jay to spend with his ex?

  Movement out of the corner of her eye snapped her attention off the phone and her mental woolgathering and redirected it toward the man seated on the edge of the embankment, skipping rocks across the surface of the lake, one after the other. She watched for a moment only to get her attention rerouted back to the phone via a single beep.

  For a moment, she considered calling back and actually leaving a message this time, but in the end she let it go. Jay knew how to reach her when he was ready.

  “If he’s ready . . .”

  The sensation of being watched brought her attention back to the man on the edge of the lake—a man no longer skipping rocks but, rather, looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

  “Don’t mind me,” she called. “I live with an antisocial cat.”

  Lovey jumped down from the picnic bench and meandered her way across the pebbled ground toward the man. As she approached, he reached out, prompting the tabby to run the rest of the way. Two seconds later, she was on his lap, curled up.

  Amusement pushed his eyebrows upward just before he brought his hands to the base of his neck in theatrical surprise.

  Hiking her leg over the bench, Winnie brought her feet onto the other side and stood. “Trust me, the cat you see at this moment, is not the cat I live with.”

  The man pulled his head back to inspect Lovey and then shrugged, a slight smile playing across his lips.

  Winnie closed the gap between the picnic table and the man only to stop as she got close enough to see his face. “Wait! I think I know you. You’re one of the artists staying out at the retreat place, aren’t you?”

  Stilling his hand atop Lovey’s back, he looked up at Winnie, his charcoal-colored eyes wide.

  He pointed at Winnie and then rubbed his stomach as his smile widened to full capacity.

  And then she knew. He was George Watkins, the mime. The one who’d been heading toward the main retreat building from his cabin as she and Renee were approaching with his rescue dessert. The one who’d captured Renee’s attention for his patience with her son.

  She stuck out her hand and watched it disappear inside his own. “I’m Winnie. Winnie Johnson.” When he released her hand, she used it to gesture toward his lap. “And this is Lovey.”

  Lifting his hand to his forehead, he saluted the feline. When Lovey purred in response, he smiled again.

  “She sure seems to like you.”

  He nodded and then pointed to the parking lot and Winnie’s Emergency Dessert Squad.

  “Yes, that’s mine.”

  A second tummy rub was followed by a nod and a contented eye roll.

  “So you enjoyed your dessert?”

  The enthusiasm behind his nod warmed her from the inside out. “I’m glad. When Sally Dearfield called and . . .” She held on to the rest of her sentence for a moment as she noted the change in George’s demeanor at the mere mention of the now-deceased woman. His eyes clouded over, his hands tightened into fists, and the smile he’d been so free with to that point, faltered.

  When he became aware of her focus, however, his reaction changed to one of interest. She took that as her key to continue. “Anyway, when Sally asked me to tailor my desserts to your assorted crafts, I had to call in the troops for a little assistance.”

  His eyebrows quirked with a question.

  “I can come up with a dessert for any occasion. But finding just the right name sometimes requires a brainstorming session with my friends. And I have to tell you, this particular session was punctuated with a whole lot of laughter.” She redirected her attention toward the lake and the handful of small rowboats and kayaks that dotted its surface both near and far. “It’s not every day I get to bake for a poet, a magician, a puppeteer, a comedian, and a mime.”

  When he showed no response, she bent down, picked up one of the rocks from his pile, and turned it over in her hands. “You met a member of my brainstorming crew here a few evenings ago. She was here with her son and you taught him how to skip rocks.”

  The smile was back along with what appeared to be a pleasant memory based on the slow nod of his head.

  “I take it you grew up around water?” she asked.

  He nodded, grabbed hold of a nearby stick, and drew what appeared to be a crude drawing of the United States in the dirt beside his leg. When he was done, he pointed his stick along the eastern border.

  “You grew up in Maryland?”

  He moved the stick up a little.

  “Delaware?”

  He moved it a tad north.

  “New Jersey.”

  He smiled.

  “I’ve never been.” She let her eyes drift across the lake once again, the early evening sun shimmering across its surface like millions of sparkly diamonds. “So are your kids all master rock skippers, too?”

  He lifted his left finger into the air and pointed at his empty ring finger.

  “You’re not married.”

  He shook his head.

  “Ever married?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “Renee will be thrilled to hear . . .” The sentence she hadn’t meant to utter aloud faded into the late-evening air.

  Uh-oh.

  “That I ran into you!” She peeked at the man to gauge his reaction and then mentally patted herself on the back for her quick-thinking save. “Though, you’ve seen her again since you skipped rocks with her son.”

  His left eyebrow quirked.

  Winnie took a breath and then plowed ahead, watching for any noticeable reaction to her words. “You may not have noticed, given what was going on at that exact moment, but she was right there next to me when we walked into that meeting room yesterday morning—when you were all standing around Sally Dearfield’s body.”

  Something about the shift to his body propelled Lovey off his lap and next to Winnie’s feet. Before she could truly process the man’s response though, he frowned and pointed at the corner of his eye to suggest a tear.

  Intrigued, she took a gamble and asked the first question that came to mind. “Did you know Sally? I mean, before you checked in to the retreat this weekend?”

  He hesitated briefly before rising to his feet and tapping the face of his wristwatch.

  “You have to go?” Winnie surmised.

  A quick nod confirmed her guess as did his move toward the walking trail that would take him ar
ound the lake and, eventually, back to his cabin on the retreat center’s grounds.

  “Wait!”

  He turned, his eyes hooded.

  She floundered around for something, anything, to say while simultaneously closing the gap he’d created. “Do you . . . do you have a business card?”

  He cocked his head a hairbreadth.

  “A friend of mine is . . . um . . . thinking about hiring some entertainment for a party she has coming up. And . . . uh . . . maybe if you’re still in town, she could hire you.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .

  Seconds accumulated as he stood there, his gaze moving between Winnie and the lake. Finally, he reached into his back pocket for his billfold and handed her a card.

  “Th-thanks. I’ll be sure she gets it.”

  With barely more than a shrug of acknowledgement, he shoved the billfold back into his pocket and stepped onto the path he was hell-bent on taking.

  “It—it was nice, um, interacting with you,” she called out in a desperate attempt to keep him there longer. But it was no use. He merely offered her the same salute he’d given Lovey and continued down the path, his back growing smaller and smaller before he finally disappeared into the grove of trees surrounding the east side of the lake. Still, when she spoke, she modulated her voice on the outside chance he could somehow still hear her. “He’s hiding something, Lovey, I just know it.”

  A subtle thump against her calf yanked her focus down to the ground and the tabby staring up at her with large golden eyes. “What? You think I’m wrong?”

  Lovey cast what could best be described as a pointed look toward the area in which George had been sitting and then stared up at Winnie once again, waiting.

  “What? What are you trying to tell me that I’m not . . .” Reality ushered in a laugh she hadn’t realized she’d needed until that very moment. Savoring the sudden lightness in her chest, she snapped her fingers in the direction of the parking lot and the waiting Dessert Squad. “Okay, okay, Your Highness, you earned back your tuna. Now let’s get out of here and go get it, shall we?”

  Chapter 10

  Looking back, baking had always been her go-to therapy. Measuring ingredients, experimenting with flavors, and eliciting moans of pleasure from all who ate her creations had gotten her through some of the more trying stages in life.

  She’d baked her first chocolate soufflé the day she realized she was the only one in her new school who hadn’t been invited to Cindy Farcus’s birthday party.

  She’d made her first crème brûlée the day she was told by a local baking competition she was too young to enter.

  And she’d inadvertently created her first Dessert Squad menu item (Don’t-Be-Blue Berry Pie) five months earlier while working through the horrors of finding her neighbor’s body within hours of closing her bakery for the very last time.

  So it wasn’t really a surprise that after a long day at work and an even longer evening spent staring at her phone in the unrealized hope Jay’s name would suddenly appear on the screen, she was wrist-deep in flour, determined to make the kind of chocolate chip cookie capable of curing the world of all its problems.

  Shifting her focus to the assorted chips she’d arranged across the counter, she tried to calculate the winning percentage between semisweet and milk chocolate, but every time she thought she had it, the sound of Lovey licking herself set her back to square one.

  “Any chance you could lick a little quieter?” Winnie asked.

  Lovey retracted her tongue, stared at Winnie for a few seconds, and then jumped off the windowsill bed to resume her bath next to Winnie’s feet.

  Winnie was mid–eye roll when the stench hit. “Good grief, Lovey, what is that—that smell?”

  Again, Lovey retracted her tongue, taking the offending stench with it.

  “I mean it—what is that . . .” The question died off as her gaze moved from Lovey, to the empty tuna can on the counter, to Lovey’s licked-clean bowl, and, finally, back to Lovey. “That stench! It’s you!”

  Hisss . . .

  Completing her eye roll, she added the combination of chips to the mixing bowl and powered on the electric mixer, her nose willing the smell of butter, eggs, and flour to gain the upper hand over Lovey’s tuna breath. When the dough was at the desired consistency, she traded the mixer for her favorite scooper, rounded up two dozen perfectly sized balls onto each of two waiting pans, and popped them into the preheated oven.

  Eleven minutes later, she pulled out the pans and stared down at the cookies she suddenly had no interest in eating alone. But considering the time (nearly eleven o’clock) and the snoring coming through the vent in her floor, her self-made therapy session was officially over.

  “So much for curing the ills of mankind.” Winnie gathered up the dirty bowls and spoons and headed over to the sink, only to stop, midstep, as her gaze wandered out the window and over to Bridget’s house and its lit living room window.

  Dropping the items into the sink, she bypassed the dish detergent and, instead, reached into the cabinet for the plate given to her by Bridget and Mr. Nelson as a just-because gift the previous month. Etched with a whimsical pattern of fairy dust around the edges, her favorite part of the squeal-inducing surprise had been the sentiment spelled out across the plate’s center: Magical Tastes Make Magical Moments. The second she’d unwrapped it, it had become her favorite possession. The fact that she’d been given it by people she loved so deeply simply made it all the more special.

  With the plate piled high, Winnie crossed to the door and stopped, glancing back at Lovey as she did. “Are you coming, Your Highness?”

  Lovey responded by leading Winnie down the steps, through the front door, across the porch, down the steps, and around the side yard to Bridget’s back door. Winnie knocked once, twice, and then stopped as she saw Bridget’s face appear beside a parted curtain panel.

  Winnie lifted the cookie plate into the air and smiled as Bridget opened the back door. “Oh, you are a dear, Winifred. You heard my telepathic message, didn’t you?”

  “T-telepathic message?”

  “The third toe on my left foot started aching about ten minutes ago. I tried to ignore it until it became so bad it blurred my vision.” Bridget wiggled a finger greeting at Lovey and then stepped back to allow Winnie and Lovey access to her kitchen.

  Winnie waited for Lovey to enter and then stepped into her friend’s kitchen and closed the door. “And now?”

  “I’ll soldier through the pain, dear. It’s what I do.” Bridget released a dramatic sigh and then limped (favoring her right foot, mind you) her way through the kitchen and into the living room, looking back over her shoulder every few steps to highlight her pain with a wince. “It is reassuring to know that you’re so in tune with my health you’d check on me despite the late hour.”

  Winnie started to point out she’d merely seen the woman’s light on and wanted companionship, but opted, in the end, to keep that nugget of information to herself. Instead, she turned her attention to the cat now circling Bridget’s feet. “How come no one ever warned me about the lingering effects of tuna fish on a cat’s breath?”

  Slowly, Bridget lowered herself onto the chair at her computer desk and patted the brown and white tabby onto her lap. “Is your new momma finally trying to make friends with you, Lovey?”

  “It’s never been a question of trying, Bridget. I’ve tried. Countless times. Bribery doesn’t work in that regard. Trust me on this.” Winnie sank onto the rocking chair closest to her friend and gazed down at the cookie-topped plate.

  “Then why the tuna?” Bridget asked.

  “Because she earned it.”

  Nuzzling her nose to Lovey’s, Bridget made a few soft clucking sounds and then turned her focus on Winnie. “I thought she was already using her litter box . . .”

  “She was, she is, and she better
never stop.” She held the plate of cookies into the gap between their chairs and basked in the responding crackle of excitement that lit her friend’s otherwise tired eyes. “No, I gave her tuna as a reward. For buying me that extra time with the poet this morning, and then with the mime earlier this evening.”

  Bridget pulled her hand back, mid–cookie reach. “You spoke with the mime, dear?”

  “As much as anyone can speak with someone who communicates with his eyebrows and his hands, yes. I saw him out at the lake and Lovey decided he looked like someone she wanted to get to know.”

  “And?”

  “Thanks to her, I found out he’s not married, doesn’t have kids, and he hails from New Jersey.”

  “How did you find out he was from New Jersey if he doesn’t talk?”

  “It’s amazing what one can draw with little more than a stick and a dried patch of dirt.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. All conversation, for lack of a better word, ceased the moment I asked if he’d known Sally Dearfield prior to his arrival at the retreat. The second I asked that question, he started tapping on his watch and pretending he had somewhere really important to go.”

  Bridget plucked her cookie off the plate, took a quick bite, and swiveled back around to face her computer. “Hmmm . . . I haven’t gotten to him yet, but maybe he went to Charlton School of the Arts, too.”

  “Charlton School of the Arts?” she echoed.

  “Yes. It’s a secondary school for students with a gift in the arts—performing, visual, or written.” Bridget’s fingers tapped the keyboard with ease and then retired to her lap (and Lovey) as a website devoted to the school flashed up on her screen. “So far, I can say with certainty, that the poet and the comedian both attended the school during the same time frame, although they only had one overlapping year. I was just getting to the magician when you knocked.”

  Winnie shifted the plate onto the end table to her left and scooted the rocking chair closer to Bridget and the computer. “So, at the very least, we know that two of them knew each other before the retreat started. Now, if we can only figure out if they knew Sally, somehow.”