by Maddie Day
“What’s the mystery?” he asked as he sat, but at the other end of the couch, instead. He jiggled his right knee up and down like a reciprocating saw, at a rate slow for a saw, but fast for a knee.
Why was he sitting way down there? “Well, Danna . . .” Wait. Bringing up Jon’s death right now could be a painful thing for Jim. A clock ticked on the mantel.
“Danna what?” He waved a hand as if to bring me back.
I let out a breath. “She was looking for information about Erica on the Internet.”
“Trying to figure out who killed her?”
“I guess.” What the heck. Jim might already know about the corrupt police officer. “She found a news story about the police officer who was investigating your brother’s death. Well, not investigating, but the one who—”
“The one who declared it a suicide?” Jim’s mouth looked like he’d tasted spoiled tofu. “The corrupt one?”
“Exactly. This reporter was digging into the officer’s story. Danna said the article speculated your brother was murdered, that he didn’t commit suicide.”
Jim looked horrified. “Why didn’t I ever see this article?” He shuddered.
“Maybe it came out after you’d come back down here. After his funeral.”
“Does this reporter think the officer killed Jon?” His low, urgent tone matched his lowered brows.
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet. But get this. The reporter also implied Erica might have been having an affair with the officer.”
Jim stared at me. The noise from the back of the room floated into our bubble of silence, a buzz of talking punctuated by a laugh here, a clink of glass there.
“And that she killed my brother. Her husband. The only one who adored her.” His nostrils flared and his eyes were grim gems.
I nodded slowly.
“I always thought it didn’t make sense. Jon’s death. He never would have killed himself. Never.” He pushed himself to standing, then paced to the opposite side of the room and back. “Good thing I didn’t hear about this earlier. I would have killed Erica myself.”
“What did you say?” Max bellowed. He stood in the doorway with clenched fists.
Oh, crap.
“Did you just say you killed Erica?” Max took two strides into the room.
Jim held his hands up. “No, of course not. Back off, now.”
I stood, too. “We were talking about something that happened in Chicago, Max. A long time ago.” I kept my voice light. “Jim was joking.”
Max stared at Jim, but he relaxed his hands. “You don’t joke about murder, man. You just don’t.”
Chapter 18
I unloaded two cloth grocery bags full of food, including various candies for the gingerbread house, in my apartment kitchen before flipping on the radio in time for the five o’clock news. I needed to get going on dinner. But after I’d delivered the news bombshell to Jim, I couldn’t very well simply get up and leave. He’d been stunned by the allegation Erica might have killed his brother, and after Max left the room, Jim made me promise to send him the link after I got it from Danna. He’d kept a physical distance between us, though, which wasn’t like him. And come to think of it, he’d been acting a little odd even before I talked to him about the article.
At any rate, I hoped he’d be calm enough to enjoy the dinner tonight. Which we wouldn’t be having if I didn’t get busy.
I took a minute to check out the store, but all was well there. Danna and Abe had cleaned and tidied everything, and the tables were even set for tomorrow. They’d left the holiday lights on, so the place sparkled in more ways than one. Even the glass in the door—the glass in the door! Abe must have installed it. What a great guy. I hurried over to check it out. Perfect glazing, and not a fingerprint in evidence, so he’d cleaned it, too. Now I owed him double. I whacked the Total key on the antique cash register and lifted out a nicely full till. I transferred all except the starting cash for tomorrow to a zippered bank bag and carried it back to the safe in my apartment. I didn’t bother to lock the door between my apartment and the store, since nobody but me would be in the store before I opened up again in the morning. Now it was time for shrimp bisque.
After chopping and sautéing shallots, celery, and garlic in the Dutch oven, I added half a cup of brandy and let it cook down for a couple of minutes. I stirred in uncooked white rice and tomato paste, followed by a bottle of clam juice and a quart of shrimp stock I’d taken out to defrost this morning. As I waited for the pot to come to a boil, I poured the end of a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge into a glass and took a sip, then minced a red sweet pepper and threw that in the pot, too. I was itching to read the article by the investigative reporter, but that would have to wait. What if his ideas were correct? Who could follow up on them? The police usually protected their own. They probably weren’t going to investigate. And now that Erica was dead, she couldn’t be questioned or made to testify. Maybe the police officer himself killed Jon, or worked with Erica to make it happen.
I stared at the blue enamel of the Dutch oven, and at the concentric circles in the lid. Maybe the police officer came down here and killed Erica. What had I thought at the Christmas tree farm when it had seemed someone was after me? Kill once, kill twice, what’s the difference?
Steam and the busy sound of boiling brought me back to the present. I shook off thoughts of murder in Chicago as I turned down the heat under the pot. After I drew out Mom’s handmade salad bowl, featuring strips of wood in all different shades, I dumped in a bag of mixed baby greens. On top of the greens went a sliced avocado drizzled with fresh lime juice so it wouldn’t brown before the guests arrived. I’d been lucky to find a ripe avocado at the store. I halved cherry tomatoes and grapes and added them to the salad.
What else? The cake. Or the cheesecake, more precisely. I knew I didn’t have time to bake, and since the grocery store stocked Bake My Day cheesecakes anyway, I figured why not? It was the marble variety with a chocolate-cookie crust. And if Adele liked anything, she liked chocolate. But there was no way I could fit seventy-one candles on there. Instead I stuck seven around the perimeter and put two in the middle, including the all-important one to grow on.
I checked the clock. Five thirty. I was in great shape. I dashed into my bedroom to swap out the gray skirt for a pair of snug jeans, but left my black cashmere sweater on. I paused in front of the framed picture of Mom and me on a hiking trip when I was ten. She was smiling into the camera with her arm around me, and I was giggling about something. We wore our matching Sequoia National Park T-shirts picturing giant redwoods, the same giant redwoods that reached skyward behind us in the photo.
“Wish you could come to the birthday party, Mom.” My throat thickened as I reached to pick up the frame. “I wish—”
The picture frame slipped out of my hand and crashed to the floor, accompanied by the tinkling of splintering glass. Swearing, I knelt and gingerly lifted up the frame. The photograph was intact, but glass now littered the floor to the side of my dresser. I held the frame by the stand and laid it face down on the top of the dresser, sliding back the clips securing the back. When I lifted it, a folded piece of paper lay between the back and the picture.
I froze. My name was written on the paper. The handwriting was Mom’s.
Switching on the lamp next to my bed, I slowly unfolded the note in the light. I read it even more slowly. She’d written it that same summer I was ten, and she laid out the facts about my father I now knew to be true. The facts I’d discovered in October, which she’d never told me. Not once.
At the end, she wrote, I plan to tell you about Roberto when you’re ready. Maybe when you turn twenty-one, or maybe when you’re the age I was when I was so overjoyed to give birth to you. But if something happens, I know you’ll find this when the time is right. All my love, Mom.
I sank onto the bed, tears dripping onto my lap. I stared at the letter, purple ink on pink paper, Mom’s strong, sure hand letting me in on a secre
t I’d already discovered. The one secret she didn’t tell me was why. Why she’d never told me I even had a father on this earth.
Chapter 19
At the sound of my cell ringing in the kitchen, I swiped my eyes, closed the bedroom door tight to protect Birdy’s feet from the glass, and dashed into the kitchen. I could clean up the mess later. The caller ID said ABRAHAM O’NEILL.
After I said hello, Abe greeted me.
“Abe, I can’t thank you enough for installing the glass in the door for me. You went way above and beyond.” I tried to quietly sniff back my tears.
“It was no problem. Installing glass is as easy as sliding off a greased log backwards, you know.”
A laugh bubbled up in me. “I know. What wasn’t easy for me today was finding the time, so I really appreciate it.”
“It looked all right?”
“It was perfect. How did the lunch rush go?” I asked.
“Also perfect. A good steady stream of customers. Nothing broke. We didn’t burn anything. And Danna’s a hoot to work with.”
“She’s awesome and so are you. I can’t thank you enough for filling in and then also fixing my door. Are you sure I can’t pay you?”
He made a scoffing noise. “Of course not.”
“Well, your next week’s worth of meals is on the house. Totally.”
“You could let me take you to dinner sometime.” The smile in his voice was obvious.
“You’re not going to give up on dinner, are you?” I asked.
“Nope. You take care now.”
“You, too. See you around.” I disconnected. What a great guy.
Steam emerged from the Dutch oven, and it was ten before six all of a sudden. I didn’t have a second to think about Mom’s note. If I got a chance, I’d tell Adele. But the note had waited seventeen years. It could wait another day or two.
I spun into high gear. I flung a tablecloth on the kitchen table, which was all I had for a dining room. I hastily unwrapped a round of Brie and a log of goat cheese onto a wooden plate, threw crackers in a basket, and uncorked a bottle of Merlot and another bottle of chilled Chardonnay. I set them on the table along with three glasses as I heard a knock at the back door. I hurried over and unlocked the door when I saw Adele through the glass.
“Anybody home?” Adele bustled in, Samuel right behind her. “Lordy, it smells good in here,” she said after kissing my cheek.
“Mmm-hmm, it surely does.” Samuel drew me in for a one-armed hug, then brought a bunch of flowers out from behind his back.
“Thank you, Samuel.” I stuck my nose in for a sniff. “They smell so good, too.” Baby white roses mixed with red carnations and pink alstroemeria, with the obligatory baby’s breath and fern fronds also in the bunch. “And look at your tie. It matches the flowers.”
He smoothed down his silk tie, which featured an abstract design with swirls of pinks and reds. Adele pulled out a chair and sat.
“Have a seat, Samuel,” I said. “Help yourselves to wine, and to cheese and crackers while I cook. I’m afraid I’m running a little behind. Happy birthday, Adele.” I lifted my nearly empty glass toward her.
“Thank you, honey. Kinda thought you’d forgotten.” She winked at me.
Samuel sat, too. After he poured red for Adele and himself, he beckoned for my glass and filled it, too. They both raised their glasses and the three of us clinked.
“Here’s to many more years.” I smiled.
“My thoughts exactly,” Samuel said. He leaned over and planted a kiss on Adele’s lips. “I plan to share every single one of them with you.”
She covered her heart with her hand, then blew him a kiss off her fingertips.
I stirred the pot and made sure it was on the very lowest flame before covering it again.
“Who’s the other glass for?” Adele asked.
I glanced over at Adele. “Jim is going to join us, too. That’s okay, right?”
“Any beau of yours is a friend of mine,” Adele said.
I turned back to the counter, and began to finely chop fresh thyme, parsley, and chives. Yes, he was my beau. Which someone once told me translated to good looking. My good looking. He was that, for sure. But did I also want him to be my love?
* * *
By six forty Jim still hadn’t arrived. I’d pureed the bisque base and stirred in the heavy cream and herbs. The baguette was heated up and sliced, we’d set the table with napkins and Mom’s silver, and the cheese plate now held only a smear of chévre and a memory of the Brie.
“I guess I’d better call him,” I said. I’d just pressed his number when Jim flung open the door and hurried in, bringing a wave of fresh cold air into the almost overheated kitchen, his knee-length coat flapping open.
“I’m so sorry, Robbie. I got hijacked at the reception by a friend of the Berrys who wants to put his house on the market.” Jim spoke fast, like he’d had too many cups of coffee. His hair was more unruly than usual and his breath smelled of mint. “He chewed my ear off for way too long, and then insisted we go look at his house together. Glen asked me to do it as a favor to him. I kept telling the guy he should be talking to a real-estate agent, not a real-estate lawyer.” He shook his head and finally glanced around the room.
“Adele, happy birthday.” He took two steps and leaned down to give her a hug, then shook Samuel’s hand. “I apologize for being late to the party.” He turned to me and kissed my cheek. “Forgive me? I even come empty-handed. I wanted to bring wine or something, but . . .” He shook his head.
I sniffed and caught a whiff of something a little sweet. Jim didn’t usually wear aftershave or cologne, and men’s scents weren’t usually sweet, anyway. It must be something from the Berrys’ house, maybe a perfumed soap. Or perfume? A mean little thought popped up in my brain, saying maybe Jim was lying about the guy and his house. Maybe he’d been renewing his acquaintance with Octavia instead. He still hadn’t told me the details of his past with her, other than that they had dated. My girl-sense told me it was more than that. I slapped the thought down like a pesky mosquito. I’d never known Jim to lie about anything. He was a straight arrow and a kind one.
“Don’t worry,” I said with a mustered smile. “Sit down and have some wine while I cook the shrimp. I didn’t want them to overcook.” I emptied the bag of shrimp into a sauté pan and stirred as I checked the time. “They’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
Adele poured for Jim. Samuel asked him how his work was going. I let the three of them chat while I readied the dishes. Five minutes later I distributed the shrimp into four wide, shallow bowls and ladled bisque over them, adding a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of chopped chives and thyme on top. I set each bowl on a salad plate and handed them to the table one by one. “Jim, would you light the candles?” I handed him a box of matches before switching off the overhead light. I kept the lights on under the cabinets. Jim struck a match and lit the tapers on the table.
Sighing, I sank into the remaining chair. “Well, dig in.” I picked up my soup spoon.
“I’d like to say a blessing if you don’t mind, Robbie,” Samuel said.
Oops. “Please do, Samuel.” I set the utensil down and folded my hands.
“Dear God, please bless this wonderful meal our dear Robbie has made. We thank you for your abundance and your grace. Please keep us, your children, safe from harm and assist the police in finding the troubled soul who took young Erica’s life from her. May that person be well and find his path to you, Lord. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
A murmured chorus of “Amen” followed. I sure hoped the police would find that troubled soul soon, whether assisted by God or not. A murderer wandering free on the streets of town was not what any of us wanted.
I lifted my glass. “And a toast to the birthday girl. To a great year ahead, Adele, and many, many more.”
“I second the motion,” Jim said.
Samuel simply beamed at Adele with a smile capable of powering a village as we all clinked
glasses.
“I thank you all most kindly,” Adele said. “Now let’s eat.” She lifted a spoonful of the thick, creamy soup to her lips and savored it. “My, my, Robbie, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Heavy cream makes anything taste great, doesn’t it?” A birthday dinner was no place for a diet, to my way of thinking, which was why I’d also pulled out the Irish butter. I spread a thick layer of it on a slice of bread and savored the rich, creamy flavor, imagining happy, frolicking, grass-fed Irish cows.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, with only the clink of silver on china and the sounds of quiet chewing as accompaniment. I glanced at Jim. He met my gaze and then looked quickly away. Something was definitely up with him.
“You weren’t even in this apartment a year ago, Robbie,” Adele said after a sip of wine. “Just look at all you’ve accomplished.”
Samuel nodded. “You’re a real go-getter. And the best cook in the county, to boot.”
“No way,” I said, feeling a blush rise up my neck. “I simply enjoy making food that makes people happy. Now, who’s ready for seconds?”
* * *
Adele inhaled deeply before blowing out all nine candles an hour later, and we clapped to the brief smell of smoldering wicks. I handed her the box from Tiffany’s store.
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t have to get me a present, honey.”
“Just open it,” I said. I brought small plates, dessert forks, and a knife to the table.
Her face when she drew the angel out of the box made the purchase price worth every penny.
“How did you know I love these?” She held it by the string and watched the kite flyer spin, dancing in air.
“An angel told me.” I cut four generous portions of cheesecake and passed them around. “Coffee or decaf, anybody?”
“No, thank you,” Samuel said.
Adele and Jim shook their heads, too.
“A spot of whiskey? I have a nice one, made right over the border in Kentucky.”
