Forty minutes later, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived. Emily and I went downstairs at the same time. My chance to get even.
I patted the pocket containing the bottle and suppressed my glee so it wouldn’t give me away. While she went into the kitchen, forcing me to wait outside, I would put my plan into action.
However, when she swung open the kitchen door, instead of disappearing inside, she halted. From where I was standing, I could see her profile. She was holding on to the doorframe, as if to steady herself, and swallowed hard.
“Are you okay?” I asked, not sure what I wanted her answer to be.
“Fine,” she said.
Perspiration beaded on her upper lip, and she wiped it away.
Oh great, just when I was finally going to get her back, she fell ill. “Was something you tasted poisoned?” I tried again.
She gave a sharp nod. “I’m fine, only nauseous. I was okay until I smelled all this food cooking.”
If she couldn’t bear to smell it, how was she going to taste it? A large part of me wanted to smile and suggest she try the tempura eel. Maybe I should. She’d given me every reason to. But as I watched her throat bob again, trying to keep back the rising gorge, I knew I couldn’t do it. I was a sucker that way. Blame my endlessly kindhearted mother.
Dammit. I was looking forward to seeing her hands glued to a plate.
“All right. I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I said. “But I’d like to help you. Can we start over?”
She was staring at the pots and pans of food in the kitchen as if they were a pack of zombies getting ready to swarm, putrid flesh hanging from their bones. Maybe she hadn’t heard me.
I pulled her away from the door. “You need to get out of there. Tell me what you want, and I’ll taste it for you.”
Her distrust of me warred with necessity. “Miranda can have whatever Vanessa’s having,” she bit out, then retreated from the hall.
When someone eventually came out to take my order, I requested the geranium and Meyer lemon gelato with crumble. It was an almost carnal pleasure to sample them both. Patching up the presentation was more of a chore, but I managed that too.
Emily was standing outside, where I’d escaped to the first night, drawing in lungfuls of air. She looked a bit better for it. I offered her a plate.
“Give me the other one,” she said. Her tone was a challenge. As if she genuinely thought I might have poisoned it.
It was a line even she hadn’t crossed. Probably for no reason other than the Taste Society would boot her out if she did.
I gave her the one she requested, and we climbed up the stairs, served our clients, and returned to our stations. For a moment there, I’d hoped it might be a chance for a new start between us, but she refused to meet my gaze for the next hour.
Pity. It would have been nice to have someone to share a laugh at this alien world with.
The WECS Club women stopped their posturing an hour later and departed at the same time. On the way out of the clubhouse, Emily shouldered past me and spoke in a low undertone. “Thanks. For helping me.”
I watched her black ponytail swing with each step and wondered if I might get that new start after all.
My deep sleep was broken by the sound of glass shattering and a thump. At first I thought I must be dreaming of our rescue of Nicole Watts. Then more glass shattered and I heard the sudden whoosh of flames.
Crap.
I fumbled for the lamp switch and leaped out of bed. Meow lifted her head to watch me. I raced out into the living area, slamming the door behind me when I caught sight of the flames licking the dining table and the nearby sofa.
Black, dirty smoke was already clouding the air. For a split second I was torn between grabbing Meow and fleeing or grabbing the fire extinguisher and trying to put it out.
My lack of insurance made me lunge for the extinguisher. Why the hell had I never learned to use one of these things? I squinted at the instruction pictures, feeling like an idiot, then released the pin and pointed the hose at the flames. I couldn’t believe how quickly it was spreading.
The fire alarm finally started shrieking as the smoke wafted toward the kitchen. “Very helpful,” I muttered and then regretted it when I inhaled a lungful of smoke and chemical powder from the extinguisher. Coughing and spluttering, I focused on the kitchen side of the flames, wanting to keep my pathway to the one exit clear.
Somebody pounded on the door, but since it would take me precious seconds to dart over there and open the deadbolt and chain, I ignored it. More glass shattered. I ducked and shielded my head instinctively, as if that would help me against another firebomb. Then a second stream of extinguisher powder spurted through the window. I could just make out Etta’s white hair through the darkness and smoke.
That was much more helpful.
Tense seconds later, the flames were out. I went to the door, stepping around the smoldering carcass of the dining table, and joined Etta on the gloriously less smoky stair landing.
“Thanks,” I said, then started another coughing fit.
She patted me on the back, which didn’t help but was somehow comforting all the same. “No problem, dear. You know how I hate it when you have too much excitement without me. What in the name of George Clooney happened here?”
“I don’t know. I was in bed when I heard glass smashing, and then the flames started and everything was burning. I think it might’ve been one of those Molotov cocktail thingies.” I eyed the smoke billowing out the open doorway and watched it drift up to join the smog that formed a canopy over LA. “Let me go check on Meow.”
My bedroom was relatively smoke-free, and Meow hadn’t moved from her favorite spot on my pillow. Though judging by the angle of her ears, she didn’t appreciate the shrieking smoke alarm. I opened the window to let some fresh air in and resisted the urge to pick her up. I reeked a lot worse than my room did, and she might not appreciate that any more than the smoke alarm. My phone was buzzing on my bedside table. Connor.
So now he wants to talk.
No doubt his security team had reported strange activity from my surveillance camera. I grabbed the phone but didn’t answer it. Content Meow was safe, I shut her in again, then opened all the other windows in the apartment and put the fan on in an effort to shut the damn alarm up. By the time I made it back outside, my neighbors from the whole apartment building had come out to see what the fuss was about.
Ms. Pleasant, the least pleasant person in the building, had her hair in rollers and was clutching a purple bathrobe around her like one of the other neighbors might try to rip it off. Her efforts were wasted. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to ogle her in her nightclothes.
“What’s going on here?” she asked peevishly. “Don’t you know some people need to sleep?”
The Flanagans were huddled together—Mrs. Flanagan in a sexy nightie and Mr. Flanagan in boxers and a T-shirt. Based on their proximity, they must have been in a fornicating rather than fighting phase at the moment.
Mr. Larson was standing in shorts and bare feet, a hamster cage tucked under his arm and a gun tucked into his waistband. As a former military man, he had prepared to fight or evacuate. I liked him more for the fact that he’d deemed only his hamster worth saving in the event of an evacuation.
Mr. Winkle was in plaid pajamas and empty-handed. If there’d been an emergency, his prized fighting fish would’ve had to fend for themselves. But to be fair, fish didn’t take kindly to being transported.
Only the young Koreans hadn’t bothered to come out and see what was happening. If Etta’s updates were to be believed, they might not have heard the fire alarm over their video game headsets, or they’d been too high to care.
“Uh, sorry everyone,” I called out, my voice rough from the smoke. “There was a small fire in my apartment, but it’s been put out now and you can all go back to sleep.”
Mutters. Glares. Sympathy. One by one, they shuffled inside, and a moment later Connor’s c
ar slammed to a stop on the road below. Oops. Out of the fire into the… well, something bad. I’d meant to call him back as soon as I’d gotten the alarm to shut up.
We watched Connor stride up the stairs. Etta with pure appreciation. Me with a combination of comfort and dread. I didn’t know how it was possible for someone to make me feel so safe and nervous at the same time.
He stormed across the landing, his jaw tight and eyes hard, and wrapped me in a hug.
“Now you’re going to smell as bad as me,” I told him after we’d stood entwined for a minute. Despite the disaster of the fire, his vicinity was melting away my valid concerns from the last few days and putting impractical ideas in my head.
The bedroom was hardly even damaged, my newly awakened beast pointed out. Nothing impractical about it.
“Then we’ll both need a shower,” Connor said, still pressed against me. Suddenly there was more of him pressed against me.
“The bathroom escaped the worst of the fire,” I found myself volunteering before I could think better of it.
All humor drained from his voice. “Tell me what happened.”
14
“It’s a long story, and we’re both tired,” I hedged. “Can we sleep it off and talk about it in the morning?”
Maybe Connor would react better after a few extra hours sleep and a big breakfast.
He gave me a look that suggested he knew exactly what I was up to. Then he stepped inside and surveyed the smoking wreckage that had once been my humble apartment. “Do you have renters insurance?”
I shook my head, and his jaw tightened some more.
“Why the hell not? You can get it for as little as one hundred and fifty bucks a year.”
“That’s very helpful, thanks.”
It kind of was actually. I would never have guessed renters insurance was so cheap. But when I’d moved in a mere four months ago, I hadn’t had anywhere close to one hundred fifty bucks to spare, and I didn’t appreciate being scolded right now.
If I was lucky, Oliver might have insurance. I owned almost nothing anyway.
Connor was crouching over something. “My security guys told me two masked men came and smashed the window, then threw a Molotov cocktail inside.” The grim set to his mouth promised he was going to question me extensively about that later. “You’ll need to file a police report. There’s glass from the bottle here, and I’ll prep the video footage for you as well.”
“Okay.” I hadn’t had the chance to think that far ahead, and the reminder of all the mundane practicalities to come depleted the last of my adrenaline. What I’d said to Connor was true; I was exhausted. As much emotionally as physically. Maybe it was the residual smoke making the room move around me, but I felt like I was swaying on my feet.
Connor came over to my side and steadied me. “Sorry.” The word was soft and probably hard for him to say. “We can deal with all that after you’ve had some sleep. You can stay at my place while it gets sorted out. Meow too.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about packing now. We’ll come here in the morning. But the chemicals in the extinguisher will eat through softer materials if we leave them covered in it. Is there anything worth saving?”
I glanced around, doing a quick mental inventory.
“Nope.”
“Then let’s go.”
“What about Etta and my other neighbors? What if those men come back?”
“Well, I guess I have enough rooms for everyone at my place.”
It took me longer than it should have to process the words and realize he was making a joke, trying to cheer me up.
He didn’t wait for me to catch on. “I’ll have one of my security personnel watch the building for the rest of the night.”
“Thank you,” I said again. Then I collected Meow, apologizing since I stank enough that she’d need a bath later, hugged and thanked Etta for helping me, and followed Connor to his car. I was grateful the seats were odor-resistant leather.
It was four a.m. when we arrived at Connor’s home in Beverly Hills. Meow wound herself once around my legs and then trotted off to explore. “Don’t get lost,” I called after her. “This place is friggin’ huge.” Especially for a cat who’d spent most of her life in a tiny apartment. I’d have to find her before I fell into bed and make sure she knew where her water and makeshift cat litter was. Otherwise, the lie I’d once told Mr. Black about her pooping in shoes might come true.
I turned to Connor. “I’m going to shower.”
His gaze heated. “Do you want company?”
“With your mom here? No way!”
“If that’s your only protest, remember what you just finished telling Meow: This place is friggin’ huge.”
I shook my head and entered the bathroom. “We’ll continue this debate some other time.” A moment later, I stuck my head out. “Oh, and I um, might need to use that spare set of pajamas and undies Maria bought for me.”
Connor smirked. “Coming right up.”
I climbed back into bed—this time beside Connor who was already clean and asleep—at four thirty. The shower had woken me up a little, and my mind had started fretting over bringing him up to speed on all my escapades of the last few days. That and the minor problem of having to deal with the police, landlord, repairs, and the reality that someone had set my apartment on fire. With me inside.
Every time I began drifting closer to sleep, my brain would conjure the sound of crashing glass or the sight of flames and I’d be jolted awake again. I switched on the bedside lamp, planning on waking Connor up and telling him I’d changed my mind about waiting until morning to go over everything. I wanted to see the video footage for myself.
But even in the low light, I could see that the toll his mom’s health scare and now my burning apartment had taken on him. Besides, he looked so peaceful. I left him there and sought out Meow.
She’d finished exploring, and I found her in the laundry of all places, curled up on a clean pile of washing. “Seriously? You have at least a dozen rooms of soft spots to choose from and you end up here?” Maybe she was feeling overwhelmed by the size of the place and so had chosen the smallest room she could find. It was also where I’d put her water and makeshift litter box.
I picked her up, noticing the acrid scent of smoke on her coat now that I’d washed it off myself, and carried her to bed. She magnanimously accepted her relocation and settled in between Connor and me. After that, I managed to fall asleep.
Morning sun filtered through the paned window, giving me a gorgeous view of the bare limbs of the oak trees against a clear blue sky outside. Connor was gone, and Meow was curled up on his pillow. The sight made me smile. Then I remembered why we were both here rather than at home in our humble apartment.
On the bright side. Here had espresso coffee.
Instead of finding Maria in the kitchen—whose official title was maid but whose job description was Connor’s right-hand woman—I found Connor’s mom Mae. She was an intelligent, plucky woman who’d worked as a private investigator and single-handedly raised two kids after her military husband was killed in action. Now retired, she tended her garden, excelled at crosswords, distilled her own gin, and—if Harper’s warning was to be believed—did occasional surveillance on her adult children’s new friends, bosses, or lovers.
Mae pulled me into a warm hug. We’d met each other less than a week ago, but we’d instantly hit it off.
Well, not quite instantly. The first words out of her mouth had me ready to flee the eighty-four miles back to Palms until I’d realized it was a prank. Oh, and then I’d had to ruin Christmas lunch to secretly stop her from being poisoned.
But we’d really gotten along for the time in the interim.
Lucky she was the forgiving sort.
“Connor told me about last night, you poor thing,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, thanks, I’m okay. I was about to ask you the same question.” I wasn’t the one who’
d been in hospital recently.
She patted my cheek. “One hundred and ten percent. Connor’s just fussier than an old mother hen.”
I laughed at the image she painted and hoped that his fussing would make it difficult for her to put me under surveillance. But at least if she did, my current Shade assignment looked innocuous enough from the outside.
“I guess he is,” I agreed. “Though he’d never admit it. Can I help you with those eggs? Where’s Maria?”
“No need, I have it covered. I made Connor give Maria the week off. If he’s going to force me to stay here when”—she raised her voice so Connor, who must’ve been in the dining room, could hear—“I’m perfectly fine, then the least I could do was make myself useful. But you might want to prepare your own coffee. Connor said you’re even more particular than he is.”
“I’m afraid he’s right. Can I make you one while I’m at it?”
“Sadly no. I can’t drink coffee this early in the morning anymore. Makes me jittery. Especially that espresso kind which tends to pack more of a punch than the filter. I used to live off the stuff when I was running our PI business and raising Connor and Harper. But that’s what getting old does to you.” She flipped the contents of the pan with an energy that belied her getting-old comment.
“My neighbor’s in her seventies and doesn’t consider herself old. You’ve got a way to go yet.”
She huffed. “Tell that to Connor, will you? Every year he treats me like I’m more and more breakable. It’s enough to give me a complex.”
“I think he treats everyone he cares about that way,” I muttered, thinking of the news I still hadn’t told him. Meow interrupted our conversation by trotting into the kitchen and loudly announcing it was breakfast time. “Mae, meet Meow, my housemate’s cat. She must’ve heard us talking about food.” Except I didn’t think to bring anything for her from the apartment.
Mae read my mind. “We don’t have any cat food here, but we have leftover roast lamb.”
Poison is the New Black: (Bonus story: Taste of Christmas) (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 3) Page 12
