By the end of the second week, she’d already considered a number of ways to murder him.
Chapter Three
Rose of Tralee interrupted Nunie weaving a lattice crust for a third apple pie. She paused in middle of the intricate pattern and glanced at her cell phone where it sat on the charger atop a treadle sewing machine that served as a desk for her computer. Normally she would have jumped to answer the personalized ring tone for Hank and Genny Pierpont, then remembered neither of her friends were in any position to call her to chat, or invite her over for tea and biscuits.
That left one alternative. T’was Himself. God must have been havin’ one of her bad hair days when that one entered the world. While Nunie dusted off the fingers of one hand before reaching for the phone, she remembered to force an element of pleasantry into her tone. “Ye rang, yer Highness?”
“Hey, uh, Doyle. You busy?”
Glancing around the kitchen, one wall lined with dressmaker mannequins holding a month’s worth of witch costumes, the far counter covered with giant pumpkins in various stages of carvature, the center island filled with bowls of sweetened apple slices and spiced pumpkin puree ready for pouring into pie shells.
“Busy? Me kitchen is arseways from Sunday for I’ve been sittin’ around, waitin’ fer ye to hand down yer next dictum about Caper Madness.”
After a moment, one which she sincerely hoped included a great deal of teeth gnashing, he spoke. “Would you translate the last of that into English?”
She had no control over the peal of laughter that erupted from her chest. The man had pouted and postured from sunrise to the moment the moon rose over the Saint Lawrence River every day for the past two weeks. She kept her tongue still—no easy feat—only because Hank, then AnneMarie, had asked her to work with this man who as a baseline acted the maggot.
Only for the good of Caper Madness did she mind her manners. Do me proud, her friend Hank had asked. Pay no attention to his rough edges, Annie had advised. Ah God, that was difficult at the best of times.
Nesting the phone between her ear and shoulder, she slammed the rolling pin on the slate counter, wishing to Saint Agatha it was Nick Forrester’s stubborn head instead of recalcitrant pie dough.
“Didn’t mean to make you laugh.”
“If ye could see this kitchen, ye wouldn’t ask after my degree of busy-ness, sur. How may I help you on this foin day?”
“Got any fresh coffee? I’m all out.”
She took pride in her special brew but damned if she’d share it with a man who was beginning to drive her crazy. One look from those ocean blue eyes created a melting sensation in long unused parts on her body. “I might be after offerin’ ye a cup.”
“Great. I’ll be right over with a few ideas.”
She let the phone drop, catching it back handed before she replaced it on the charger. A ‘few ideas’ could run the gamut from more stringent judging of costumes for the Terminal Ball scheduled for the end of the month, to the choices of films scheduled for showing at the weekly film festival.
Oddly, he’d yet to make a comment about the Witchy Poos. In itself this pleased her. The drill team was her idea from conception to delivery of the goods. Yesterday they performed to the Bee Gees and Stayin’ Alive. He’d not been in the crowd. She knew this for fact because—to her everlasting dismay—she’d checked. She wondered how the man felt about disco fever.
****
He paused in the doorway of her kitchen to survey territory filled with two disparate sources of enticement. Between the heady aroma of fresh brewed coffee, mixed with spices and fruit, his taste buds soared into overdrive. His sister claimed he was a dessert snob while he countered it was basic picky-ness for the sweets he put into his system. He specialized in pies, having learned his lessons at the hands of a master—Genny Pierpont. The ability to make a decent pie ensured a woman lifelong friendship.
Sadly, Nick had few female friends in his life.
Background music came courtesy of U-2’s Joshua Tree while he considered the second source of enticement. The plain butcher’s apron was nothing special, but when combined with a ratty tank top and skin hugging denim jeans with wear spots it might have come off the pages of a fashion magazine. The few tendrils that escaped the knot of hair at the crown of her head curled lazily at her neck. A lone bead of sweat trailed down the side of her face from temple to chin and a smudge of flour graced one cheek.
His mouth dried to dust—and that was before she pulled on oven mitts then bent to remove a tray of pies from the bottom of the double oven and stretched the seat of the jeans in all the right places.
The reaction slammed into him like a punch to the gut. Nothing new; he’d first experienced it when he saw her walking toward the pier in front of Hank’s house. It continued to occur every time he was in her presence. He couldn’t explain it, and that worried him.
He didn’t hate it as much as he should. And that bothered him a great deal.
Perhaps it was because earlier in the week, while sitting at Hank’s bedside, News at Noon came on the TV. Having no interest in happenings in the Syracuse area, he sat back to watch his uncle sleep—but perked up when the Crozier College case topped the list of news items. It seemed the defendant, now serving twenty to life in a maximum security cage, had filed an appeal, citing inadequate representation. Facts from the investigation, a few of which came as a surprise to him, were included in the report. Disgusted, mainly because the guy was guilty as hell, Nick ended up doing something totally out of character. After leaving the hospital, he drove to the offices of the daily newspaper and paid a visit to the morgue. There, he learned several things he’d not known before, the most important of which told him he owed Annunciata Doyle an amends of major league proportions.
The kitchen was as odd a place as any to make an apology, and he found it to be as intriguing as its owner. With walls constructed from barn wood and the only source of natural light coming from a narrow set of windows over the farmer’s sink, the room should have been forbidding. Instead, furnished with pieces likely picked up at estate sales or an architectural salvage yard, it felt bright, inviting, and fun.
“Going into the bakery business?” he asked her as she pounded pie crust with significant menace.
She looked up, rolling pin in hand. “Ah, no. I’m after helping out the folks at Mel’s Diner. Too many complaints about the quality of free desserts. Coffee?”
“Please.”
She jerked a thumb in the direction of a near counter where a fancy gourmet coffee maker bubbled, emitting gut stirring aromas. Salivation time again. One sniff forced a moan from his lips. “Christ, Nunie, you’re a jewel.”
He did not say that.
Please God, I hope I didn’t say that.
With a small smile she returned to the pie crust. “You’ll find a mug in the postman’s box.”
“Excuse me?”
Using an elbow, she pointed toward a floor to ceiling rack that looked like a pile of boxes fused together with spit and glue. Stenciled numbers at the bottom edge of each open slot told him why she’d called it the postman’s box. Instead of mail, the slots held an assortment of glasses, mugs and bowls in primary colors. Vases, some glass, others tin or pottery, filled other boxes. A few held amber glass canisters that Aunt Genny called Depression Glass.
Nunie reached up to take something from a wrought iron pot rack suspended over the slate-topped island. As she brought her hand down, two of the copper bottom pots clanged in musical harmony. “Yer welcome to sit at the table, Nick. I’m almost finished.”
From the floor above came the sounds of running footsteps and childish giggles, immediately followed by adult admonishments to hush. Nunie straightened from slipping another tray of pies into the upper oven. “I have company for a few days,” she explained. “Tourist friends of MaryJane Monroe from Mel's Diner.”
“No room at the local inn?” he asked, glancing toward the ceiling when the running resumed.
“A
ye. She asked that I take them in. It’s only for a day or two.”
He took a seat on a church pew that faced an ancient picnic table and was forced to duck to avoid being clocked by a Tiffany style lamp hanging over the surface. In the center of the table rested a Lazy Susan holding pitchers of cream and sugar, a few mismatched cloth napkins and salt and pepper shakers.
If she wanted, the woman could open her own antique shop. “I like this room,” he said as he dressed his coffee to his liking.
After placing a slice of steaming apple pie in front of him, she sat in the pew opposite him, taking time to yank on the knob at the bottom of the Tiffany globe and slide it toward the ceiling. “Hope you didn’t take a bonking on this thing. I don’t often have visitors in the kitchen, so I forget to raise the light. Is there something specific you’d like to discuss, Nick?”
He couldn’t muster the courage to raise the topic of Crozier College. Recalling her request that he be nicer to Capers, he stalled. “I didn’t come over to discuss Madness. The truth is Lola McAfee is annoying the crap out of me. I’d appreciate any feedback you might offer.”
She smiled, a secret look this time, like she was hiding something. “How does she annoy you?”
The thought of it made his teeth gnash. “Daily drive-bys at the house; when she does corner me it’s after a deep fall into the perfume bottle. I understand why you want me to be more... approachable, Nunie, but I swear the next time she rubs her chest against my arm, it’ll be hard not to tell her that her method of flirting went out with Frankie and Annette movies.”
“Our Lola is having difficulty accepting the changes that accompany the natural aging process. Plus, you’re the new kid in town, Nick. Fresh meat, so ta speak.”
“Then she can shop for her protein source somewhere else. I’m not interested.”
He liked the sound of her giggle. Soft, feminine. “In her or any woman, might I be askin’?”
The alarms that usually sounded with such a personal question failed to go off. “I like my women to dress their age and go easy on the cologne.”
“Our Miz McAfee uses perfume to cover the amount of tipping she partakes in. After a gargle or two, she’d get up on a stiff breeze.”
Either she had to start speaking English or he needed to pack a Gaelic dictionary in his back pocket. “Beg pardon?”
“The woman is easily excited, sexually, especially after a drink or three.”
“And here I thought it was my charm and personality.”
“Anything with measurable testosterone levels works for Miz McAfee. In your case, havin’ yer own teeth is a bonus.”
The first bite of warm apples and spices incited a groan that came all the way from his toes. “This is the best damned pie ever, and that’s saying something because Aunt Genny spoiled me for any other.”
The look she gave him warmed his heart. There it was again. That warm gush that washed over him each time she glanced his way. Dammit. He had to stop it—and would. As soon as he finished the pie.
“This is yer aunt’s recipe. I followed it to the plan.”
“That mean you made it the same way she did?”
“Aye. May I ask if you’ve ever married or had children?”
It had to come sometime, he supposed, so answered with the truth which invariably put women off. “In my almost sixty years of living, I’ve managed to escape the trappings of marriage as well as the everlasting torture of parenthood. How about you? Hank told me they call you the Black Mamba. Why is that?”
As she sat back in the pew, a frown crossed her amazingly unlined face. From his question, or the clatter of footsteps pounding down the staircase that ended with a slam of the front door, he didn’t know. “If I’m out of line,” he said, “tell me to mind my own.”
Nunie’s back went bullet straight. “It’s not that. And I’d prefer ye hear it from me instead of local gossips.” She took a deep breath, the kind one took before taking that first jump into a cold lake. “In my lifetime, I’ve buried three husbands and one fiancé.”
He took a gulp of coffee. “Guess that would do it. But no kids?”
“Sadly none of the marriages lasted long enough to make a babe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The first went to Vietnam two weeks after the wedding. He came home in a body bag.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I. His name was John Michael Murray, a nice young man who would have become an excellent attorney had he lived long enough. The second died while we were on our honeymoon to Greece.” She shuddered. “Went out for Baklava and was hit by a bus. Never have I tasted that dessert—then or since.”
“The third?”
Her response was short, to the point. “Ah yes, Doctor Doyle. Died during a medical mission to West Africa. Ebola, doncha know.”
He squelched the urge to smile but felt it would earn him any points, particularly when it came time to grovel. “You sure can pick them, Doyle.”
“I count it as one of my many talents. Before you ask, the fourth—and blessedly the last—died from whooping cough. A few weeks before the wedding, he announced he wanted to climb Mount McKinley one last time before he married. I said, go for it. He died for the effort.” She rose from the table. “Would you be after more pie or coffee?”
He pushed the mug in her direction. “The pie was fabulous, but one slice at a time is enough for my waistline, thanks. If you could warm up the coffee, that’d be great.”
She kept her back to him for a long time while preparing the mug. When she finally spoke her voice was soft, but firm. “While we’re getting on so well, perhaps we should deal with the elephant in the room.”
She returned to the table, placed the mug of coffee in front of him with great care. It was okay. He’d needed time to plan how he’d word the apology. “Crozier College, you mean.”
“Aye. Others, beyond the ten young men who accused the athletic trainer of sexual abuse, were equally victimized in that debacle.”
He toyed with the edge of the Lazy Susan. “It is now my opinion that mistakes were made on all sides,” he said, thinking of his friend, Sam Vickerson, who’d had his faults but certainly didn’t deserve to die.
She sat opposite him, passed him the cream pitcher and sugar bowl. “I have been over the case in my mind more times than I can count. If I had it to do over again, would I have gone to the media?”
She raised a hand to stave off any comment. “Likely not, but after months of inaction by the police and the college vilifying the victims in the press, the assistant district attorney couldn’t drop the case fast enough. Skiving bollix if there ever was one,” she muttered with more negative emotion than he’d seen her display since they’d begun working together. “I reached my limit and went to the press.”
“May I say something?”
She nodded. “Of carse. I’m sorry. You are a guest in my home and I—”
“Don’t. Your job… I don’t…know how anyone can do what you did, hear the horror stories for all those years and not go off the edge. The other day—something came on the television news; it made me think. I went to the newspaper, read the morgue articles. A motion has been filed for a new trial citing inadequate defense. To support the motion, the guy’s attorney is offering a lot of information that never came to light during the trial.”
She looked at him straight on in a clear and forthright gaze. “It sounds like you know about the sports boosters and high stakes gamblers attempting to buy the victims’ silence in order to ensure the future of Crozier football.”
“Oh sure. Between the annual bowl bids and several national championships, football was big business. Other sports, too, but pigskin mania paid the bills and then some.” He toyed with the salt and pepper shakers for a few more minutes, then let the rest of it out. “I didn’t know it then, but my best friend had a serious gambling problem. I mean, I knew he liked to play the slots at the local Native run casinos and went to the track as often as
possible. It wasn’t until recently I learned he was heavy into the bookies who ran sports bets. Dragging his ass on the Crozier allegations was one way to ease the vig with the spine breakers. After it all came out, he lost his rank and position in the department. Then his wife left him and took the kids. At the end, he killed himself.”
She reached across the table to cover his hands with hers. “I am so very sorry.”
After all this time he still couldn’t believe how skewed his thinking had been. Not only about Nunie, but the entire situation. “How could I have been so blind? So stupid?”
“When we love someone, we often will go to any lengths to overlook the little things. The trainer succeeded for a very long time because the boys he targeted lacked strong personal support on top of suffering serious emotional problems.”
“The perfect victims,” he said. “Don’t think, don’t talk, don’t feel. And don’t tell anyone because no one will ever believe you—until Annunciata Doyle came down the pike and took up the banner.”
She shook her head, rubbed at the back of her neck with flour stained fingers. “The first who reported to Crime Victims said I was only one who believed him—and that included his priest, mother, and teachers.”
“Don’t leave the police, DA’s office, and Crozier officials off that list,” he finished.
“Yes,” she conceded. “I went to the lead investigator, then his captain, finally to the chief himself with my concerns. When they claimed there wasn’t sufficient evidence to mount a case, I went to the ADA assigned to the sex crimes unit. Still no luck. Crozier staff refused to talk. So I went to the press. You know the rest.”
“How did you end up in Cape Brendan?”
She didn’t look at him straight on but spoke clearly, succinctly as she rubbed the edge of her thumb over an irregular edge on the surface of the table. “The board of directors at Crime Victim Services chose not to renew my contract.”
Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two Page 9
