by Leslie Caine
“Awesome,” Cam said. He pulled into the valet parking for the one four-star restaurant—but with five-star prices—in Snowcap Village. “You’ll like this place.”
We stepped into the enclosed front porch of this regal, converted Victorian-style house. The space featured gray slate floors and paned windows above the pale green wainscot. Tasteful pine boughs and ribbons were on subtle display throughout the room. Cameron strode ahead of us and held open the inner door. The bar was overflowing, and at least a dozen people were awaiting tables in front of the maître d’s oak stand. “Are reservations required for lunch?” Audrey asked Cameron.
“It won’t be a problem,” he replied. “Wait here a moment.”
He spoke quietly to the maître d’, and moments later, a hostess in a black dress said, “This way, please.” We were whisked ahead of the long line, past the main room of diners, and toward a set of paneled pocket doors. Audrey, leading the way, hesitated as we stepped inside a private room. An instant later, we learned that our party was actually five members, not four; Wendell Barton was seated at a round, elegantly set table.
“Wendell,” Audrey said. “This is a surprise.” He smiled broadly at her and rose. They bussed each other’s cheeks, and he pulled out a chair for her next to his. I detected a hint of stiffness in her demeanor; she had to be wondering why he’d been so scarce since the party. I allowed the hostess to seat me on Wendell’s other side. Steve greeted Wendell and sat beside me. Cam wound up seated between Steve and Audrey.
“What’s this all about?” Audrey asked Wendell as soon as we were situated.
“It’s my way of apologizing to you for voting to let Chiffon go all hog-wild on the holiday display.”
“Heavens, Wendell,” she exclaimed. “An apology lunch for Sullivan and Gilbert Designs and myself was hardly necessary! All that you owe us is a simple acknowledgment that we were right and you were wrong.” She paused, but he held his tongue. “In fact, I’ve been wondering what was taking you so long to admit to your mistake. After all, you saw the results of Chiffon’s design at our housewarming party. I would think that the tawdry appearance of the inn when you look at it from the street speaks for itself.”
“It’s pretty bad,” Wendell said with a nod. “That’s why I felt a primo meal was appropriate.”
“Ah. So you admit you were wrong and we were right,” Audrey prompted.
“Yes, dear.” He rolled his eyes, but took Audrey’s chiding in good fun. “I was wrong. You were right.”
“Thank you.” Audrey patted his hand. “Now, was that so hard?”
Wendell had already ordered a couple of bottles of a truly delicious white wine; I was too distracted to catch the vintage. Truth be told, I’d entertained hopes that with Audrey’s social skills, Steve would get past his unfounded suspicions about Cameron, and the four of us could form an alliance. That was unlikely to happen now that the endlessly pompous Wendell had thrown himself into the mix. Cameron managed to draw Steve into conversation, however, and by the time we’d ordered our meals, Steve began to relax.
Wendell was being quite personable and treated Audrey like a queen. Yet, even after half a glass of wine (by my best estimation; the waiter was dangerously skillful at filling my glass unobtrusively), there was something about Wendell that grated on me.
Just when I was on the verge of admitting to myself that I was being unduly harsh to the man, he turned to Cameron and said, “Congratulations again for getting things all cleared up with the new building inspector.”
Cameron grimaced. “I didn’t have time to fill you in on the latest. The handicapped-access ramp has to be rebuilt. No big deal, but technically, the inn still hasn’t got the green light till the ramp passes its third inspection.”
“At this late date! What the hell am I paying you for if you can’t get a simple ramp inspected?!” Wendell erupted. “In all the assignments I’ve given you over the years, you’ve never been this sloppy before.”
Cameron spread his arms. “We’ve never had a building inspector get murdered on our property. I’m working with a whole new set of rules this time.”
“That was a coincidence. Bad luck. It has nothing to do with me or with Barton Enterprises. It certainly shouldn’t affect what the new building inspector says.”
“Human nature being what it is,” Audrey interjected, “knowing that someone’s been murdered has to impact the poor person assigned to complete the victim’s job.”
“Sure, but the ‘impact’ should have helped us,” Wendell retorted. “Not to be callous, but after the original inspector was killed, you’d think that the new guy would just give everything an automatic thumbs-up.”
Audrey arched an eyebrow. “It’s rather impossible not to sound callous when you make a remark like that.”
“All I’m saying is, that’s what I’d have done in his shoes. Wouldn’t you? Inspecting buildings is just a job. It’s not worth risking your life over.”
“You think the new inspector should have been in fear for his life when he told us the ramp wasn’t up to code?” Steve asked pointedly.
“Not literally, no. We’re all speaking in hypotheticals here, right? I’m sure Amy …Angie …whatever …was killed by an ex-lover or something. I’m just saying, purely hypothetically, like Audrey said before, human nature being what it is, wouldn’t you think a murder victim’s replacement wouldn’t want to follow exactly in his predecessor’s footprints?”
Audrey set down her wineglass with a thump, sloshing a small amount onto the immaculate white tablecloth. “Let’s talk about something less depressing, such as global warming.”
Cameron chuckled sarcastically and guzzled his glass of wine. Wendell glared at him, but then said, “Fine,” to Audrey. He shifted his attention to Steve. “So, Mr. Sullivan. Tell us how a macho guy like yourself wound up choosing to become an interior decorator.”
There’s no accounting for taste ran through my mind as I looked at Audrey complacently sitting beside her boor of a boyfriend. Steve, however, was well used to this line of questioning and immediately replied, “I knew it’d be a great way to meet women.” He gave my hand a squeeze and added, “And I was right.”
I wanted to kiss him, but settled for giving him a loving smile.
Wendell chuckled. “How’d you wind up in this profession, though? Seriously.”
“I started out wanting to be an artist, but interior design was something I naturally gravitated toward.”
“Why not architecture, then?” Wendell asked. “Something more masculine?” He suddenly flinched, and I was certain that Audrey had kicked him.
I felt like clocking the guy myself and searched desperately for the perfect witticism on Steve’s behalf, but my mind was unable to get past the thought that Wendell Barton was a total ass.
“Hard to say,” Steve replied evenly. “Maybe it had something to do with being the only boy in a family with five kids.”
Three waiters arrived, providing a natural—and much-needed—break in the conversation. I gave Steve’s hand a quick squeeze, and we all turned our attention to our scrumptious meals.
A minute later, however, Cameron’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the phone’s screen, announced, “I’ve got to take this,” and left the room.
“I’ll bet that’s one of his inside connections,” Wendell said as he watched Cameron slip out the door, “letting us know to watch out for Ben Orlin.”
“What do you mean?” Steve asked.
“Just thinking out loud, is all,” Wendell replied.
“Wendell,” I snapped, “Ben is a highly capable craftsman and can be trusted implicitly.”
“I wish I could agree with you, Erin. But I think he’s pulled the wool over your eyes.”
“In what way?”
“Before Cameron arrived at the inn, he did some poking around. According to his sources in City Planning, Ben Orlin was behind their taking a closer look at the front steps.”
“What?!” I cried.
>
“Evidently, he called Angie Woolf and suggested she take a look at the code for business property and check the measurements of the steps.”
“That can’t be true,” I retorted.
Wendell swirled his wine as though it were port brandy in a snifter. “In other words, you don’t think your builder has plenty of reason to drag his feet right before Christmas? Maybe contrive to get a hefty check for lots of overtime …?”
My mind raced. Was that something Ben would do? He certainly detested Wendell and probably felt no guilt over taking the man’s money. Heck, neither did I, even though, with Audrey a part owner, thirty percent of my salary was basically coming from her. Still, Ben was a hard worker, and he was such a nice guy! The Goodwin estate was such a source of honor and pride for him. And had been for his ancestors.
I eyed Wendell, disliking him more than ever, try as I might to give him a fair chance for Audrey’s sake. “You’re saying that Ben deliberately built the ramp wrong? After which he blew the whistle on himself?”
Wendell made a slight gesture with one hand. A tacit: What do you think?
A wave of frustration washed over me. I really didn’t know what to think, or who to trust.
Chapter 15
With a purposeful stride, Cameron returned to the room. He glanced at me, then at Barton. “Erin, Wendell, everybody, I’m afraid there’s trouble at the ski resort. I have to run.”
“What kind of trouble?” Wendell asked.
“Apparently, a twelve-year-old girl panicked when she got on the chairlift, jumped off, and broke her leg. The parents are screaming their heads off that the operator should have shut down the lift sooner. They’re threatening to sue Barton Enterprises for every penny you’ve got.”
“That’s the first thing everyone threatens me with after an injury,” Wendell scoffed. “It’s a ski resort. Stuff like this happens every couple of months. And it’s what I pay my ski lodge managers and my lawyers to handle.” He gestured at Cameron’s empty chair. “Sit down. There’s no need for you to interrupt your lunch.”
Cam shook his head. “This one sounds like something that could explode in our faces. I’m nipping it in the bud.”
Wendell gave him a long stare. “You’re micromanaging. Let my team at the resort handle it.”
“I’m just doing my job, Wendell.”
“But I’m your boss, and I want you to stay and enjoy your meal.” He forced a smile. “That’s an order.”
“I can’t do that. You pay me to decide when a work problem is more important than lunch. If you can’t trust me to do that, my salary is way too high.”
Wendell appeared to be grinding his teeth. He gave Audrey a little glance before returning his gaze to Cameron. “Fine. Suit yourself, then.”
I couldn’t tell if this power struggle between the two men was for Audrey’s benefit—and maybe, to a small extent on Cam’s part, for mine—or if Wendell was embarrassed to be arguing with his employee in front of us.
Cameron scanned our faces. “I apologize for having to leave. Don’t let my rushing off like this put a damper on things.” His gaze settled on me. “Take care, Erin.” He gave me a peck on the cheek, and I could feel Steve cringe as Cameron walked away.
Audrey cleared her throat and asked Wendell, “You’ll be able to give us all a ride back to the inn after lunch, won’t you?”
Wendell winced slightly at the question, and it dawned on me why he’d tried so hard to prevent Cameron from deserting us—Wendell must have had romantic plans for Audrey this afternoon. He’d probably prearranged for Cameron to give Steve and me a ride back without her.
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll make sure that you all get back …no thanks to my overly eager employee. That boy’s becoming a workaholic. You’d think he could take one little lunch off.”
“Cameron’s working hard on your behalf, Wendell,” Audrey said. “You should cut him some slack.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Wendell said. “He’s run off to put out some fire so that I don’t have to. Instead, I can enjoy this wonderful food with this wonderful company.” Wendell emptied Cameron’s wine into his own glass, which he then lifted. “Here’s a toast to many more enjoyable meals like this one, and to our great success at Snowcap Inn.”
We clinked glasses. Heaven knows I was all for achieving some success at the inn. Yet it seemed obvious to me that we still had a number of fiery hoops to leap through.
As we got out of Wendell’s BMW, Wendell told Audrey he had something he wanted to ask her, so Steve and I went in alone, using the front door, with its government-approved steps.
“That was fun,” Steve said sarcastically as he shut the door behind us. “We’ll have to hang out with Cam and Wendell more often.”
“Enough with the put-downs of Cameron, already!” I chucked my purse into the coat closet, removed my coat, and stuck it on a hanger. “He is who he is, and he’ll be out of our lives for good in another couple of weeks.”
“If we finish on time. Otherwise, God only knows how much longer we’ll be stuck here.”
“Sorry you’re having such a terrible time.”
“I didn’t mean that as a personal affront.” He removed his coat and hung it up, shutting the closet door with unnecessary force. “A woman’s been murdered. You’ve been named as a suspect, all because I talked to her for five minutes at a coffee shop. Your ex still has a thing for you. Everyone’s snapping at everyone else. Building codes are being changed by the hour. So, yeah, I’m getting anxious to finish up and get back home.”
“He doesn’t still have ‘a thing’ for me. And even if he does, it doesn’t matter because the feeling isn’t mutual.”
We glared at each other. I was getting really tired of this tension. “This isn’t a contest for my affections or my esteem, you realize. You won both a long time ago.”
“That’s not it, at all. I just think the guy is—”
Audrey entered. We both turned and looked at her. “I obviously interrupted something. My apologies.”
“No, we were just—”
“Having another stressful discussion,” she interrupted. “How are things going with the Twelve Days of Christmas design? Is there anything I can do to help with that?”
“No, but thanks,” Steve said.
“Actually, there is one thing. We were thinking about hanging ornaments that duplicate the Twelve Days in miniature on the Christmas tree. If you could maybe shop for things like pipers, ladies dancing, and so forth, on the Net, that’d be a big help.”
She smiled as she unbuttoned her coat. “That’s going to be great fun. I could buy a whole set of ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ tree decorations, I’m sure, but that would be too easy. I’ll make most of them myself, and any that I don’t feel like making, I’ll buy.”
“Wonderful! Thanks, Audrey.”
“Oh, don’t mention it.” She folded her coat over her arm. “Also, I’m sorry Wendell was acting so arrogant during lunch. He sometimes gets like that, especially when he drinks. When he and I are alone, he’s really very sweet.”
Yet why was she willing to continue to date a guy who turned into a pompous ass when he was in the company of anyone besides her? Not to mention that he was also a murder suspect! “It was good of him to pick up the tab.”
She held my gaze for a moment and said, “I’ll leave you two to have at it, and I’ll start shopping for materials for my ornaments.” She left.
Sullivan waited a few seconds, then asked, “What number of Christmas days did we get up to this morning?”
“Six.”
“Oh, good. An even number, so it’s yours.” We started to amble toward the kitchen, where we’d left the folders containing our decorating ideas. “Six what?” he asked. “I forgot the carol again. I can never remember the stupid thing, except days one to five.”
“It’s really simple from seven swans on down. Seven swans a-swimming has excellent alliteration.”
“So does six sw
ans a-swimming.”
“But it’s six geese a-laying. Think about the fact that eggs are sold in a dozen, and that a goose egg is twice the size of a chicken egg, and so laying half a dozen eggs is comparable to a chicken’s dozen.”
“I can do that. Although, technically, I only have to remember the odd numbers, since you’re designing the even ones.”
Although it was a little silly, he held open one of the barroom-style doors for me. As I walked past him I admitted, “I have a hard time remembering how many lords are leaping, pipers piping, drummers drumming, ladies dancing, or my personal design horror—maids a-milking.”
“Oh, hey. No problem, Erin. I’ll do the milkmaids. I always mentally picture them in short black dresses with white collars, their feather dusters in hand.”
“You’re thinking of French maids, Sullivan,” I replied, although I knew full well he was pulling my leg. “That’s hardly the same thing.”
“Oh, right. Too bad. French maids would have been great for one of the more masculine bedrooms.”
“Apparently so. But, remember, this song is about a woman’s gifts from her true love. Not to mention that I shudder to think what a French maid’s action verb would have been.”
“That’s obvious. ‘French maids a-cleaning.’”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Okay, fine. I take it all back. Now you’re talking about a woman’s ultimate fantasy Christmas gift.”
“Yes!” He pumped his fist. “It worked!”
“What did?”
“My devious plot to discover what you wanted me to get you for Christmas.”
“A cleaning service would have been nice, except it’s Audrey’s house, and she already has one.”
“Damn! I’ll have to stick with my Plan B, then.”
“Plan B?”
“Yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “Apropos of nothing, Audrey’s house only has the one bathtub, right?” “Right. Why?”
“No reason, really.” He hesitated, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Just …off the top of your head, would you say that your tub is big enough for seven swans to swim in?”
