He chuckled. “No, not a hot plate. But I was known around the dorm for my expertise with the George Forman grill.”
We were both laughing.
“We better get goin. I need to carve out some time to interview Miller.” I grabbed my camera. “And get some pictures before everyone gets there.”
Ever the gentleman, Javier opened the door to his truck for me. It was a little high, climbing up on the rail with heels. But I made it up okay. Then Javier hopped into his seat with ease. Tall guys and trucks.
“You know,” Javi said, “I could fix your door for you.”
“What's wrong with my door?” I asked.
“It, uh, it makes a loud, uh, noise. You know, just when it opens and closes.”
I wasn't offended. My creaky old door was an acquired taste.
“I think my door gives the house character,” I told him. “At first, I wanted to change it too. But now, like everything else with the house, it feels like home.”
Javi smiled. “You’re silly. And if you ever happen to change your mind, you have my number.”
“Weirdly, it’s already stored there as Javi’s door repair service.”
“Handyman,” Javi said. “I’m a jack of all trades. It’s not just doors. It’s everything. That’s half the reason my mom and sisters blow my phone up all the time. I’m in Atlanta every month fixing something.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He nodded. “It’s been this way since I was fourteen... When my dad passed.”
I was confused. Taken aback. He’d never mentioned his dad before.
“I, uh, I didn’t know.”
Javi made a face. “It’s part of why this case has been trouble for me. Hit and run. Drunk driver.”
“He wasn't running, was he?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “He was in another car, on his way home from work like any other day. Drunk driving at rush hour. I’ll never get it.”
“I’m so sorry.” I didn’t have anything else to say.
“So, if I’ve been off. Well, that’s part of the reason why.”
I didn’t press for the other reason.
“Noted,” I said. “How is the case going?”
“Following a couple of leads,” he said. “We’ve all been through the ringer on this. Long hours and such. I think Hank’s been living off coffee and donuts.”
“Donuts, really?” If I’d been drinking milk, it would’ve shot from my nose. “I thought that was like an urban legend.”
“I don’t think you know what urban legend means. I think sometimes cops fit the stereotype. And it’s a stereotype for a reason.”
“Right,” I said, smiling. “Stereotype. What’s an urban legend?”
“I think they’re a little more sinister and fantastic.”
“Got it. Where do you guys get the donuts? From Donuts, We Baked—the cake ones are really good. But I understand if you guys like the glazed from Great Things Doughnuts.”
Javi grimaced. “We get those trays from BF’s Curb Market, actually.”
I shook my head. “You can’t be serious. They don’t even have their own bakery. Those donuts are at least a day old when you buy them—if not more.”
“That’s why I don’t eat them.” Javi patted his flat stomach.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve been working on these quiches for the blog. If y’all are hard up for breakfast food, I can bring a few over.”
“You’d do that, really? I think that would be a great way for you to get on Hank’s good side.”
“Sounds like a plan!”
The truck hit the gravel lot outside of the old railroad station turned restaurant, The Southern Depot. Like a lot of old buildings in Lanai, the restaurant’s exterior oozed Southern charm. I hoped the food had gotten better since the last time I’d done a review—because the one thing those dishes were lacking in was Southern charm.
The door was locked when Javi tried it. “We are a bit early,” he said. “The class doesn't start for a half hour.”
“I did email to tell Miller we’d be here,” I said in my defense. “Or I’d be here. Maybe you need to wait outside. After all, this is official Lanai Gazette business.”
He chuckled at my lame police joke.
“Sorry about that.” Miller opened the door wide for us to come in. “I was finishing up a little prep ahead of class time. Give me a second with my sous chef, Tim, and we can get started.”
“Do you mind if I take a few photos while you’re doing that?” I asked.
“Not at all. I look a lot better in candid photos. Something happens to my face when I have to smile for a camera. It was one of the things Jessica hated about me the most. Our wedding photos, well, they’re a mixed bag.”
My heart, my stomach, everything sank at the mention of Jessica. The air was extinguished from my lungs.
Sensing something was off, Javi stepped in. “It’s good seein’ ya, Miller.” He reached his hand out for hardy shake. “How's it going? It’s been too long.”
“Goin good,” he said. “Sorry we’ve been slammed the last few times you’ve been in. I wanted to come out and say hi.”
This was interesting. Javi and Miller, friends? I hadn't even considered that a possibility. Both of them being such nice guys, it made sense.
I snapped a few photos as Miller gave instructions to his young sous chef.
“If it’s all right with you, Allie,” he said, “we can do the interview over at the bar. Care for a drink?”
“I'm fine,” I said.
“I'll take the local brew.” Javi pointed to the tap.
Miller poured a beer for each of them.
“Oh, and don't mind me,” Javi said. “This is official Lanai Gazette business. I’m lucky to be allowed inside.”
We chatted, and I jotted down some notes. Then Miller led us to the kitchen area. A chill went down my spine. The last time I’d been here was one of the scariest moments of my life. Miller was resilient. He had to be. I wouldn’t have been able to work in this kitchen every day, not after losing so much here.
“I want you to know,” I told him, “today, we start fresh. That two forks review has haunted me for a while now.”
“You and me both,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been itching to have you back. There’ve been a lot of changes around here. What do you think, Javi? Is the food still two forks?”
“I only use the one fork,” Javi chided. “Unless, of course, I get the salad.”
We all three laughed.
I put my notebook away and accepted a glass of red wine the next time Miller offered. Couples began to file inside for the class. And suddenly, it wasn’t Allie the blogger—the journalist. It was Allie on a date with Javi. Or at least, that’s what it felt like—a date.
TO: Foodie Allison
FROM: Hope Rodgers
SUBJECT: Cooking Class
Allie,
First off, I wanted to say it was nice to meet you tonight. I’m sad to say I was kind of expecting you to come off differently. A word that rhymes with witchy. And you were anything but.
Still, I want you to be on your best behavior with your review. Miller did an excellent job. I learned so much, even if you didn’t. I could tell you were as comfortable in the kitchen as he was! Again, I was impressed. But that’s not to say, you should bash him for not pronouncing things correctly. I’m sorry if he isn’t French. I think “mise en place” is more fun to say as “maze in place” anyway.
- Hope R.
14
Again, the weather decided not to cooperate with my plans. Rain. And I was supposed to take four quiches to the police station. This wasn’t going to be fun.
I found an old box to put them inside and raced to the car. The umbrella protected us from the drizzle. But my feet were soaked. I’d misjudged a puddle.
My right foot squeaked with each step on the laminate floor of the station. I could almost feel my frizzy hair get worse as
it dried out. I probably looked more like a wet dog come inside from the rain. At least I hoped I looked as cute—there, of course, is a huge difference between wet rat and wet dog.
The bespectacled secretary typed frantically on her keyboard before noticing I was there. She came across as the sweetest old lady, similar to Grandmother and Miss Jeanie in a lot of ways. But being the gate keeper to the police station came with its own set of stipulations. She was not going to just let me in unannounced.
“Morning.” I set the quiches down on the counter. “I'm here to see Detective Portillo.”
“Is he expecting you?” She eyed the box and the four pie dishes covered with tin foil inside it. “You know they're all busy back there. I don’t want to waste his time.”
“He’s expecting me. Sort of. I didn’t tell him when I’d get here. That’s my fault,” I said, acknowledging my mistake.
“Oh, I think I’d let that go if you gave me some of whatever you’ve got here. It smells delicious. You’re the Foodie Files girl, right?”
“I am.”
“You know about half the officers here read it? Including Detective Dreamy. Did I say Dreamy? You know what I meant.”
“I do.” I smiled. “Can you scrounge up a plate and a fork? I probably should’ve brought some with me.”
“Oh, no need. That’s what we’ve got a break room for,” she said. Then she plundered in her desk, scrounging up a paper plate and a real fork. Always prepared. I couldn't blame her. If I ever had another office job, I’d have everything I needed to eat at a moment’s notice, as well. Always prepared for food—that’s the way I liked to live my life. It was basically my motto.
“You wouldn't happen to have a knife down there, would you?” I asked.
“Possibly.” She ducked back under. Moments later, she appeared victoriously.
“That'll do.”
I cut each quiche into eighths and handed her back the knife, allowing her to choose her own slice.
“I'm not sure I can eat this much. But I sure can try.”
She allowed me back without any further comment—her mouth being full and all that.
For someone with a clean record, I’d been inside the Lanai Police Station a fair amount. I knew how to get where I was going. But I don’t think I’d ever feel comfortable inside the building. I was halfway to Javi’s office when he popped his head outside.
“Hank, you got a minute?” He looked frazzled, much unlike the Javi of the day before—when I’d seen his cooking skills. Honestly, I was impressed. His eyes found mine, and he smiled that winning smile of his.
“Well, hello, Miss Treadwell. Is that food for the whole office?”
“It is,” I said. Javi grabbed the box from my possession.
“Guys, food. And not leftovers either. This is the real deal, made fresh. First come, first serve.”
“Let me go get a few plates and forks,” he said to me. He returned with a bunch of each.
“So, what do we have here?” he asked.
“Two of each recipe I worked on this past week,” I said.
“Are you trying to butter me up?” Hank asked, lumbering up to take his own slice. “I feel like you might be.”
But it wasn’t Hank I needed to butter up. While cooking class had been a success, I hadn’t been quite as successful in asking Javi to attend Melanie’s wedding with me. Today, I wanted to rectify that.
“Why would she need to butter you up?” Javi asked.
“Because,” Hank said, “I’m your partner. If she wants you, she has to go through me.”
I was glad Javi was facing Hank because I blushed from my cheeks to my ears.
“I don’t think that’s exactly how it works,” Javi chided.
I watched anxiously as each fork sank into quiche. I hoped they were as good as the two I’d had myself. Hank gobbled his up in only a few bites. Javi eased each bite into his mouth. There were crumbs stuck to the sides of his luscious lips.
I blushed at the very thought of them.
“Very good.” Hank went in for another slice.
“It really is good,” Javi said. “Even better than what we made yesterday. And that was delicious.”
“I don’t know about that.” Miller had constructed a solid meal. And together, we’d cooked it to perfection.
“You want to take a slice?” Javi offered. “You can eat in my office. I’ve got to finish up some paperwork, and I could use the company.”
“Didn’t you need to talk to Hank about something?” I asked.
He nodded. “I do. But it can wait. Come on.”
Javi’s office was as tidy as I remembered. Today, I noticed the framed photo on his desk. It was of him and three women. He was wrong. His sisters might favor him a little, but they were both uniquely beautiful in their own way. The twenty-something on his left was tall and slender. The woman to his right couldn’t be over my height. Javi’s mother was somewhere in-between.
“Those chicks you were talking about,” he said, smiling. My knees buckled at the sight of that smile. I fell into the seat across from his desk. Then I took a bite of quiche. He was right—I’d done good.
“Hank must really enjoy it.” Javi closed the door. “I think that’s slice number three.”
“I’d like to get into his good graces,” I admitted.
“You know Hank—he's a tough nut to crack. Plus, he thinks you're a little too nosy.”
I scrunched my nose. I wasn't perfect. I knew that. “Am I?”
Javi sighed. “Sometimes, I agree. Like with Calista Martin.”
I noticed a few loose sheets of paper on his desk. They were the only things there besides the picture frame and his computer. On the first sheet, there was a smudge of green. Beneath that sheet was another with what looked to be a list of some sort.
“And now,” Javi said, shoving the papers into a manila envelope.
“What is that?” I asked.
He clicked his tongue. It took him ages to decide what to tell me. “Forensics,” Javi said slowly. “That’s the paint color of the vehicle. There was a deer crossing sign hidden in the bushes behind Coach Martin. They must’ve run it over about the same time.”
“If only deer used those signs,” I joked.
“I know, right?” Javi laughed.
“What about the list—the one under the paint color?”
Javi smiled. “You are perceptive. That’s a list of vehicles that use that coat of paint. It’s not much to go on. I really hope the coach remembers the model of vehicle. Even if we narrowed it down to a truck per se, it’d do us a lot of good.
“And if you saw the sheet under that, which I don’t you think you did. But if you did, you’d see that Calista Martin did hit a deer. Lab results of the blood on her minivan confirm it wasn't human blood.”
“That’s good news,” I said. Green—I knew a green vehicle. “Is a Jeep Wrangler on that list?”
“Might be. Why?”
“That run-in at the theater parking lot the other day.”
Javi nodded. “Look at me,” Javi said authoritatively. “I don't think you're crazy. Most of the time, I trust your instincts. But I need you to be safe and careful. Don’t do anything silly.”
“Silly, how?”
Javi shrugged. “Like search every neighborhood for a green Jeep.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
Javi rocked back in his chair, pleased to at least hear me say those words.
“Can I ask you a question?” The words blurted out of my mouth. I hadn’t planned for them to.
“About the case?” he asked.
“No. Not about the case.”
The handsome man sitting across from me perked up. “I’m all ears,” he said.
“I know we’ve been doing this friend thing for a bit—”
“Yeah—”
“And I know it’s pretty casual. You even went with me to a work function yesterday—”
“Yeah—”
“And you c
an totally say no if you want to. I’ll understand. This is a big ask—a huge ask. I shouldn’t expect a friend to—”
“Just ask ,then,” Javi said.
“I need a date to my cousin Melanie’s wedding. Maybe need isn’t the right word. I’d like a date.”
“And I’d love to say yes.”
“But?”
“No buts,” Javi said. “I’d love to go. I took my suit to the cleaners the second you started talking about it a few weeks ago. I was actually hoping you’d ask.”
“You were?”
Javi smiled. “I was.” He tapped to unlock the monitor of his computer. “I, uh, I better get to this paperwork.”
“Oh,” I said, “one more question.”
Javi narrowed his eyes playfully. “This one’s about the case, isn’t it?”
I shrugged guiltily. “Sorry. I was just wondering about the fights—the ones at the Martin’s house. I heard they had the police called on them.”
Javi laughed through his nose. “That’s true. They did. Once. Their neighbor called about a ruckus.”
“And?”
“It was the Superbowl. It turns out Calista is a big Patriots fan and Coach Martin was supporting the Rams. They had a little spat. Nothing to write home about.”
“Oh,” I said, gutted. And that’s why I should never jump to conclusions.
“Thanks for the food,” Javi said.
“You're welcome. Talk to you later.”
When I made it to the front, I was happy to see that the rain had let up. The sun beamed brightly between the clouds. A quick stop at The Java Hutt was all I’d need to get the blog and my piece on cooking class finished. Nothing was going to stop me. Nothing except a green Jeep Wrangler.
15
The Jeep sped down Main, then it turned onto Broad. I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t have time to put my macchiato down in the cup holder. I drove one handed with its contents sloshing about, foam escaping from the lid.
I couldn’t just let it get away. I knew that much. It felt like a very bad car chase. No movie would include one so bad as this. I rolled through every stop sign. But I didn’t dare go more than ten over the speed limit. I wasn’t nearly a good enough driver for something like that.
The Bitter Bite of Betrayal Page 7
