by Kylie Logan
I had. In fact, I’d spent most of my life lying, trying to convince foster family after foster family that I was that ideal kid, the one they’d be crazy not to adopt.
“I get it,” I admitted, and I don’t think it was my imagination; some of the heaviness lifted from Sophie’s expression. “But that doesn’t mean—”
My words dissolved in a little whoop of surprise when the door next to the fridge popped open.
Sophie laughed. “Oh, that’s just my little Muffin,” she said.” She leaned back in her chair. “Here, kitty. Here, sweet Muffin.” When no cat appeared, she looked back my way. “I always leave the basement door open just a tad so she can come and go when she pleases. She must have run down when she heard us come in, and now she was coming up to see me. She didn’t recognize your voice, though, and she’s a little shy. I’m sure that’s why she took off again. Don’t worry. Once you’re here awhile and she gets to know you better . . . Oh. Well.” Sophie’s nose twitched and her expression fell. “Never mind. Maybe you’ll have a chance to see her before you leave in the morning. She’s a darling little thing.”
Sophie popped out of her chair and went into the living room. She was back in a flash, holding a framed photograph that she handed to me.
The picture showed a short-haired cat that was either black with white markings or white with black markings. Her face was half-and-half, divided almost exactly down the middle. One front leg was white and that foot was black. The other front leg was just the opposite.
“She’s a sweetheart,” Sophie said. “So gentle and well behaved. I hope you get to see her because you’ll love her, just like I do. Of course . . .” When I put the photograph on the table, I saw that Sophie had her head cocked to one side and her mouth screwed up. “Now that you won’t be here, I’ll need to find someone to stop in and feed my dear little Muffin. But don’t you worry about that!” She reached across the table to pat my arm. “Mr. Butcher down the street might be able to. Except on Wednesdays and Sundays, of course, when he’s so busy at his church. Or Joanie Carlyle. She lives that way.” She waved toward the backyard. “She might be able to come in the mornings, but I don’t know about the evenings. And I would like Muffin checked on at least twice a day. That’s the least we can do, don’t you think, for the animals we love?”
Since I’d never had a pet, I couldn’t say, but rather than be suckered in by the way Sophie’s eyes twinkled in a way that told me she was trying to guilt me into staying, I decided to change the subject.
“Do you know that Owen guy?” I asked her.
It took her a moment. “You mean the murderer?”
“Declan told me Owen is his cousin. But his Uncle Pat and Aunt Kitty’s last name is Sheedy and Owen’s is Quilligan.”
“Declan has a lot of cousins.”
“And you’ve never met this one?”
Thinking, Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t think so. I would remember his red hair. Maybe he’s just passing through.”
“To steal your copper?”
“That’s what the police said, isn’t it?”
It was, but something about the scenario just didn’t track with me. I considered it for a moment before I said, “I guess I can understand the part about stealing the copper, but why would this Owen character kill Jack Lancer?”
Sophie sniffled. “I guess we’ll never know. Poor Jack.”
“But what was he doing there?”
“Stealing my pipes, apparently.”
“Not him.” It was the same question that had been niggling at my brain all night. “This Lance of Justice guy. What was he doing in the Terminal tonight? The restaurant was closed.”
Sophie took a minute to think this over, her fingers tap, tap, tapping on the wooden table. “The Lance has been coming in pretty regularly,” she finally said. “Over the last few . . .” She thought some more. “I’d say it’s been about three weeks. He’s been coming in just about every day for three weeks.”
“But never before that?”
“Oh no. I’d remember that. Jack Lancer is . . . that is, he was . . . he was a big TV star. Me and Denice and Inez—Denice and Inez, they’re my waitresses—we were just as pleased as punch when Jack showed up the first time. Imagine, having someone like him eating our pie and drinking our coffee! Then he came in the next day and the next and the one after that. I’ll tell you what, he created quite a sensation with the regulars. Even had his picture taken with the boys. You know, Stan and Dale and Phil and Ruben, the guys who have lunch at table three every day. That Jack Lancer, he was just the nicest man. And now—”
I saw her tear up and knew if I didn’t distract her fast, it would be too late. “How do you suppose he got in? Through that outside back door with the smashed window? And why was he there in the first place?”
Sophie snuffled. “Jack? Tonight?” Though this seemed like a critical piece of the puzzle to me, she had apparently not thought about it before. I could understand; Sophie was dealing with the shock and the surprise. She was intimately connected with the restaurant and since she’d met Jack Lancer and seen him on TV, there was a link there, too. One I did not share. To me, Jack Lancer’s death was an interesting puzzler and thinking about it gave me something to do other than worry about where I was headed in the morning when I left Hubbard.
“Well, maybe . . .” Sophie considered my question. “Maybe the Lance of Justice and Owen, maybe they came in together. You know, to take the copper.”
Though I had my opinions about how well-off TV reporters working out of stations in Youngstown, Ohio, were, I couldn’t imagine one who would stoop to stealing copper to make ends meet. “Besides,” I said as if Sophie were in on my thoughts, “if Jack and Owen were in it together, why would Owen kill Jack?”
Sophie laughed through her tears. “You’re just as curious as Nina always said you were!” Her smile settled. “She was very fond of you, you know.”
I did, and I still felt guilty that three years earlier, I was in Morocco with Meghan when I heard about Nina’s death and I didn’t have the time to get back to California for the funeral.
I shook away the thought just in time to see Sophie’s face fold into a mask of worry. “I hope people don’t think that the Lance died because he was eating in the restaurant.” Her voice rose and the words tumbled out and she came out of her chair. “I never thought of that! What if people think the food is bad. Or the place is dirty. Or—”
“All the details will be on the news,” I assured her. “They’re not going to leave out the part about how the restaurant was closed at the time. That’s part of what makes the Lance’s death a real mystery.”
“Yes, of course. Of course, you’re right.” Sophie settled back down. “That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? I mean, if people thought we did something at the Terminal to kill the Lance of Justice. My goodness!” She fanned her face with one hand. “That would be the most horrible thing. Of course, that might be the least of my worries. I mean, what with the time I’ll be spending in the hospital, then the weeks in rehab. And the new coffee place down the street, of course, with their fancy drinks and their fancy sandwiches.”
Caf-Fiends.
I rolled my eyes at the very thought.
“By the time I get back to work . . .” Sophie’s sigh was monumental. “There probably won’t be any work to get back to.”
Really?
I bit my tongue, and while I was at it, I stretched a kink out of my back.
“Take another cookie. It will make you feel better,” Sophie offered, and when I declined, she popped out of her chair. “Of course, you’re tired! You drove a long way today.”
I had.
For nothing.
The thought made me feel more exhausted than ever. I went out to the car for my overnight bag and came back in to find Sophie at the bottom of the stairway in the living room.
“Your room is up here,” she said. “And there’s a half bath, too. You know, so you can have some priv
acy. My bedroom is downstairs.”
Limping, she led the way up the stairs and into a room that wasn’t as much orange as advertised as it was cantaloupe. There were white café curtains on the windows and an old-fashioned white chenille bedspread on the double bed.
“You can hang your clothes in here.” Sophie opened the door of a closet that smelled like mothballs. “Unless you don’t even want to bother. I mean, if you’ll be leaving in the morning, anyway. I need to be at the hospital at six and it’s in Youngstown. We’re going to have to leave early, I’m afraid.”
“Not a problem.” I plunked my suitcase on the bed. “I’m used to getting up early. Meghan always wanted her vegetable juice before she did her morning run.”
“Meghan Cohan!” Sophie’s eyes sparkled. “She’s so beautiful and so talented.”
And so unkind.
I shook the thought away. It might have been easier to keep it there if Sophie didn’t ask, “What’s she really like?”
“Like you said.” How’s that for vague? “Meghan is a beautiful woman. And she’s plenty talented. She stars in movies. She directs them. She’s got her line of clothing and yoga products, her perfume, her jewelry line.”
“And she promised you a cooking show of your own.”
I’d been looking out the window, but when I heard the sudden metal in her voice, I spun Sophie’s way.
She clutched her hands at her waist. “I read all about it. In the tabloids. You were supposed to have your own cooking show. Then that Meghan”—Sophie narrowed her eyes—“she pulled the rug out from under you. Just like that. The articles, they didn’t say why.”
“It’s complicated.” Truth be told, it wasn’t. See, Meghan’s sixteen-year-old son had a nasty drug habit. And the media got hold of the story.
Though it wasn’t true, Meghan blamed me for the leak, and once that happened . . .
Well, let’s just say that if there’s no fury like a woman scorned, there’s no holy hell like a megastar can create when she feels she’s been done wrong.
That cooking show, the planned cookbook, and my job went up in a puff of smoke as big and as ugly as the ash plume rising over a wildfire. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Meghan made sure I got blackballed and stayed blackballed with her powerful friends who could afford personal chefs and in every restaurant worthy of my talents.
Which explained Hubbard, Ohio.
And Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks.
And didn’t change my mind one little bit about leaving in the morning.
The thought firmly in mind, I took my cosmetic case over to the dresser. There was a photo there in a frame studded with gaudy “jewels” in shades of purple, red, and turquoise.
My stomach clenched. My jaw tightened. I recognized the frame and the picture in it, and I didn’t dare touch it.
Sophie had no such qualms. She grabbed the picture and turned it toward the light so I could get a better look.
“You and Nina.” Sophie leaned over my shoulder and pointed at the woman whose crazy, curly hair was barely contained by the red bandanna she wore along with the apron from Cal’s Diner. She was standing in front of the grill and I swear, even all these years later, I could smell the aroma of the onions she grilled to perfection and the burgers she piled them on. Before I met Nina, food was nothing more to me than a way to keep my body fueled. Nina had changed all that. She taught me to appreciate good food. She taught me to discipline myself enough to take my time and savor every minute I spent in front of the stove.
“You must have been about fifteen then,” Sophie said, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Fourteen,” I corrected her, because I knew for sure that the photo was taken just a week or two after I’d gone to live with Nina, the first time I visited her at work. I’d just come from a placement where my foster parents were more interested in collecting money from the California Department of Social Services than they were in me. I could see the smudges of gray under my eyes, the results of the sleepless nights I spent listening to Bob and Marie argue. My hair was chopped and uneven, an act of defiance I thought would show them that I was my own person. Bob and Marie never noticed.
I looked really close and just as I suspected, I could see that my fingernails were broken down to the quick, the result of me spending a frantic weekend figuring out how to pick the lock on my bedroom door when they went on a jaunt to Vegas and figured I’d be “safer” if I stayed put.
I coughed away the sudden tightness in my throat.
Too bad I bothered, because the ache started all over again when Sophie pressed the picture into my hands. “She wanted you to have this. Nina told me. You know, right before she died. She said when I saw you next—”
“Thanks.” Without another look, I grabbed the photo and tucked it into my suitcase.
“So . . .” Sophie backed toward the door. “Good night, then. I hope you’re comfortable tonight.”
She didn’t wait around long enough for me to tell her I was sure I would be. Sophie left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
I sat down on the bed and though I tried, I couldn’t resist dragging that photograph of me and Nina out of my suitcase.
I’d never cried when I heard Nina was sick or even when she died.
I didn’t cry now.
What I did was get up and put the picture back where I’d found it.
I guess that was the moment I realized I’d really done it. I’d changed my mind.
I was staying.
Chapter 5
It was only until Sophie got back on her feet.
I told her that when I drove the twenty minutes from Hubbard to the hospital in Youngstown the next morning, and when I did, I refused to take my eyes off the road so I could pretend I didn’t notice the way she twinkled like a beauty queen when she heard the news.
Just to make things perfectly clear, I mentioned it again while we sat in a bland and boring hospital waiting room with Monet posters on the wall, fake flower arrangements on the tables, and a variety of magazines to read, all of them at least three months old.
I would be sure to tell her again—just in case there was any way she could forget—that evening, once the Terminal was closed for the day and I could get back to the hospital and see how she was doing.
I would manage the Terminal only until Sophie was feeling better. I would stick around only until she was fully recovered and up and well.
Then I was outta there.
It didn’t hurt to remind myself, either, and I did just that when I parked my car in the side lot near where the cops had found Owen Quilligan hiding behind the Dumpster, and went around to the front of the building.
Declan Fury was at the front door waiting for me.
“Good morning!”
I dug the key out of my Prada bag. “Aren’t you Irish gift shop types supposed to say Top of the mornin’ to ye or something like that?”
His smile was as bright as the sun just skimming the roof of the boarded-up factory on the other side of the railroad tracks. “Sorry to disappoint you. My family came from Ireland something like a hundred and fifty years ago. We left our Lucky Charms accents back there.”
I pushed open the door, but I didn’t step inside. “What can I do for you, Mr. Fury?”
“It’s Declan, and a cup of coffee would be nice. You do know how to make a decent cup of coffee, don’t you?”
Truth be told, I make a stellar cup of coffee. Rather than mention it, I gave him my most sparkling smile. “I thought you were a tea drinker. Brewed in quaint little shamrock-decorated pots, of course, and served in charming mugs.”
“That’s only when I’m across the street and you know . . .” He gave me a wink and leaned a little closer. Just like it had the night before, the scent of bay rum enveloped me. That had to be the reason I felt a little light-headed, right? “I’ve got an espresso machine in the back room of the shop. If you’re ever needing something a little stronger than tea, you can always stop in.
I also happen to stock a nice variety of beer in the minifridge. Maybe some night after the restaurant is closed . . .”
Since he didn’t finish the thought and I didn’t want to think what that maybe might imply, I felt perfectly justified in not answering.
I stepped into the building and Declan followed me. “You’re in a good mood for a man whose cousin was arrested for murder last night,” I told him.
“Owen didn’t do it,” he said.
“Then who did?”
“Last night, you suggested that it might have been me.”
“It was just a theory.”
“And not a very good one.” He closed the door behind us and we stood side by side in the waiting area.
“I can take a look around the restaurant if you like,” Declan suggested.
“Just like you wanted to look around last night.”
“Which doesn’t make me a murder suspect.”
“But it does make you look awfully suspicious.”
He shot me a sidelong glance. “Truth?”
I wasn’t sure this was the time or the place so I hesitated, and when I did, he took it to mean I wanted to hear more.
“I figured the kid might be in trouble,” he said. “Owen, that is. He’s from South Carolina, here to visit Kitty and Pat and the rest of the family.”
“And you just naturally assumed that while he was in town, he’d be stealing the copper pipes from local establishments?”
“Owen is something of a hell-raiser. Always has been.”
“And you wanted to keep him out of trouble.”
“Keeping Owen out of trouble isn’t always possible, but I wanted to try.”
“And now he’s been arrested for murder.”
Declan muttered a word I couldn’t hear but I could pretty well imagine. “Owen is a stupid kid and he was doing a stupid thing. There’s no denying that. But the police don’t have anything to connect him to the murder.”
“Maybe he’s too smart for that.”
Declan chuckled. “You haven’t met Owen.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Even without any solid evidence, they’re going to try like hell to get a conviction,” he grumbled. “Gus Oberlin will see to it. Gus likes things wrapped up nice and quick. He sees one theory of a case and runs with it, even when he’s running in the wrong direction.”
