by Kylie Logan
“And you don’t mind?”
“The gossip?” He took a long drink of tea and when he was done, he wiped the condensation from the side of his glass with one finger. “They already gossip about me.”
It was true and we both knew it.
“And they gossip about you,” he added.
Maybe this shouldn’t have been news. After all, I was from out of town, from Hollywood, no less. Still, it seemed strange that people would actually waste brain cells on a nobody chef who’d breezed into town pretty much out of nowhere and spent her days at an old train station that always had and always would smell like fried baloney and onions, no matter how many quiches she baked.
I gave my shoulders a shake. “I can’t possibly imagine what they say. Or why they care.”
He leaned his forearms against the table. They were nice forearms, muscular and as well shaped as the rest of him, forearms that just the day before had wrapped me in an embrace that was unexpected, but no less wonderful because of it. Maybe it was the crazy-making aftereffects of that hug and the kiss that went along with it that clouded my judgment and made my head spin. Maybe I was just looking for comfort after our crash-and-burn visit with Aurore Brisson.
Whatever the reason, I leaned forward, too, my posture a mirror of his. “What do they say about me back in Hubbard?” I asked him.
He slid a hand across the table and covered mine with his. “That you’re smart. That you’re pretty. That if you’d loosen up a little, you might even be fun!”
When I flinched and made to move my hand away, he laughed and refused to let go. Instead, he massaged my palm with his thumb. “Just kidding!”
I realized it was one of the things I liked about him. Kidding and joking and the kind of friendly banter that left me smiling and challenged me intellectually . . . growing up, things like that weren’t part of my world and though they still didn’t easily fit—like a jacket that was too narrow in the shoulders—I thought I might like to try to see if I could get used to it.
Just as the thought settled inside me and left a wonderful, warm feeling in its wake, my phone rang. I recognized Fletcher Croft’s number and excused myself to go stand near the windows with the view from the hotel’s sixth floor.
“Croft,” he said, ever the small talker. “The senator has some time on Monday. In New York. Can you be there?”
I’d been so lost in the sweet daydreams that enveloped me back at the table, it took a moment for me to come back to reality. It was long enough for Croft to think he had to repeat himself.
“I said Monday. This coming Monday. Are you there, Ms. Inwood?”
I glanced over my shoulder toward where Declan sat, relaxed and at peace with the world. His dark hair gleamed in the light of the chandelier and I didn’t have to get any closer to know his eyes sparkled, too. It was the first I really thought about it, but I realized that they always did when we were together.
“Ms. Inwood?”
I was jolted out of my thoughts. “I’m here. Of course I’m here. It’s good to hear from you, Mr. Croft.”
Chitchat was not his forte. “Monday,” he said, and my cheeks got hot when I realized it wasn’t for the first time. “Can you be in New York on Monday?”
I took one more look over my shoulder at Declan and told myself that the ice in the pit of my stomach was the result of drinking my tea too quickly. I mean, it had to be, right? What else could it have been?
“Of course I can be there,” I told Fletcher Croft. “I can get there anytime you like. I’m looking forward to finally meeting the senator in person.”
“She won’t be in the city until two,” he told me. “But we’ll want you here earlier so you can get lunch started.”
This wasn’t a surprise. No one in their right mind would hire a personal chef without vetting the chef first, and there was nothing like a meal to take care of that.
“Allergies?” I asked him, and he assured me there were none.
“Food preferences?” was my next question.
I wasn’t surprised that he sounded as if he was reading from a list. “The senator has a penchant for blue crab. Fresh only, of course. She hates spinach. And—don’t breathe a word of this to anyone because our polling tells us many of her constituents are young and vegetarian—there’s nothing she likes better than a thick steak cooked rare.”
I’d made a mental note of it all even before Croft said, “I’ll need to approve the menu ahead of time. You can email it to me by Saturday.”
I was already two steps ahead of him.
Blue crab cocktail was exactly what the senator would expect, exactly what any other chef might chose as an appetizer.
I’d go with Maryland crab soup instead. A nice, steaming bowl would be perfect on an autumn afternoon. I’d follow it with pepper-crusted filet mignon and add a nice green salad—minus any spinach, of course. And to top it all off? I remembered how one Thanksgiving, I’d served Meghan and her guests sweet potato meringue pie and how they’d raved about my recipe.
“You’ll have the menu by then,” I assured Croft.
“And we’ll have a driver meet you at LaGuardia. Just let me know your flight information.”
He didn’t say good-bye, but I guess he didn’t need to. Our business was concluded.
There was a spring in my step when I neared the table.
At least until Declan looked over, a shadow of concern on his face. He glanced at the phone in my hand. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?”
Why did I feel as if I had to cover for what had been a perfectly innocent conversation? An innocent conversation that was none of Declan’s business to begin with.
“No, nothing’s wrong.” I tucked the phone in my pocket. “Not a thing.”
“Great.” When our waiter came into view, Declan waved him over and paid the bill. “Then let’s get back to Hubbard. It’s Thursday. What’s the special over at the Terminal tonight?”
“Potée champenoise. It’s a fancy name for stew.”
“Like Irish stew?”
“Not exactly,” I told him. “It’s got sausage, bacon, cabbage, and potatoes in it along with bouquet garni and carrots. A nice, hot meal for a cool autumn evening.”
My own words echoed back at me exactly what I’d thought when I decided to make crab soup for the senator. A steaming bowl of soup on an autumn afternoon.
I twitched the thought away.
“Cold?” Declan slipped an arm around my shoulders and I had the perfect excuse for sloughing him off; I needed to put on my jacket.
“So this French stew, it sounds good, but I’m thinking . . .” We were out in the hallway, and he pressed the button to call the elevator and stepped back when it arrived, so I could step inside first. “I’m thinking it’s burger night over at the Dew Drop Inn. What do you say?”
What I wanted to say was that it sounded like a date.
And that a woman who was interviewing with Senator Katherine Stone on Monday couldn’t afford a date with a man who could easily make her forget that she had plans for her life—plans away from Hubbard.
“Actually, that was Sophie who just called me,” I said, refusing to meet his eyes in case he’d see through the lie. “Misti isn’t feeling well and we’re down a waitress tonight. I’ll have to pass on the burgers and get over to the Terminal so I can help out.”
“Sure. Okay.”
I should have known he’d be sensible about it.
It was one of the reasons I felt so lousy all the way back to Hubbard.
• • •
THE TERMINAL IS not usually open late on Thursday but since we’d been closed on Wednesday for Rocky’s memorial service, we made an exception that night. By the time I got back to the Terminal, the evening was in full swing and—hurrah!—the dinner crowd couldn’t get enough potée champenoise. The only thing that would h
ave made our French stew even more of a culinary success would be if Inez and Misti could get their pronunciation right.
“Potty champ-enaise.” On a short break and gulping down a cup of coffee, Misti tried again and honestly, after correcting her a dozen times already that evening, I didn’t much care any longer. We’d sell just as much stew either way, and it wasn’t like any of our customers knew the right pronunciation anyway.
Not like Senator Katherine Stone no doubt would.
The thought snuck up and blindsided me, partly because I wasn’t even thinking about the senator.
Mostly because I’d never considered myself a snob.
I was just taking a tray of freshly baked baguettes out of the oven and I bobbled and recovered, juggling the tray and plopping it on the countertop.
Me, a snob?
I glanced over at Misti, still enjoying her coffee.
I took a covert look at Sophie, who was plating an order for table eleven, and another at George, who I noticed, just happened to be studying me as if he could read the thoughts that tromped through my head.
Not possible, I reminded myself.
Just like I reminded myself that I had nothing to feel guilty about.
“Oooh, those look delicious!” Sophie rushed by, and I couldn’t help but notice that when she did, she was limping.
“I’ll take those.” She had a dish of stew in each hand and I grabbed them and bumped out the door before she could protest. I set the stew down in front of our patrons on either side of the Eiffel Tower frosted votive holder where the light of a battery-operated tea candle winked against the gold and silver Eiffel Tower confetti we’d dusted over the table. “Bon appétit!” I told them, and took a moment to head into the office to catch my breath.
And wonder why just thinking about my interview with the senator on Monday left me feeling as if I were doing something underhanded.
Which I wasn’t.
I plopped down in the chair in front of Sophie’s desk and grumbled about it for a while. I was going to New York on Monday; I’d already purchased my plane ticket and made up some song-and-dance story for Sophie about how I had a doctor’s appointment and was it all right if I took Monday off.
Of course she’d said yes.
Of course she hadn’t questioned me.
Of course she took my story at face value because that’s what good people do.
People who don’t lie to the people who trust them.
I told my conscience to shut up and just to make sure it did, I grabbed a pad and pen and made a list of the things I’d need to take to New York with me. No doubt, the senator would have a fully stocked kitchen, so I didn’t worry about the basics like knives and bowls and such. I did check online to make sure I could get really fresh blue crabs delivered to the senator’s penthouse apartment along with those filets I planned to grill for her and the greens I’d need for my salad. I would be landing before eight in the morning so I knew I’d have time to grab really good olive oil for the dressing and everything I’d need for the sweet potato meringue pie.
I was going to New York, after all, and as I knew from the times I’d visited the city with Meghan, New York was at the center of the culinary world. I could find everything I needed just minutes from the senator’s home, and if I was willing to pay enough—and I was if it meant impressing the senator—I could find it fresh.
What I couldn’t find . . .
I thought through the ingredients I’d need and decided there was only one place I could find herbs that were good enough and fresh enough for my bouquet garni—Pacifique.
That taken care of, I spent a few minutes looking over the bank statements we’d found in our search of Rocky’s home, searching for any clue as to where I might find the safe deposit box. As it turned out, Rocky did business with three different banks, one for her savings account, one for her checking account, and—
“Voilà!”
I read through the last bank statement and congratulated myself.
There was a charge on it for “other services.”
Pretty darned pleased with myself, I made up my mind. Since Sophie was Rocky’s executrix, I’d take her to the bank in Cortland to check out the safe deposit box and make some excuse about how because I knew we’d be busy at the Terminal both Saturday and Sunday, I needed to stop at the farm and get herbs as long as we were close by.
Herbs for the senator.
A peek into the safe deposit box for the sake of my investigation.
In the great scheme of things, it was all falling into place perfectly.
At least until I walked back out into the restaurant.
That’s when I saw Declan near the front door and realized he must have just walked in—and caught sight of Misti, who I’d told him earlier had to leave because she wasn’t feeling well.
In too deep to get out too easily, I closed in on him, a smile on my face.
“What’s up?” I asked him.
Over my left shoulder, he watched Misti exchange small talk with a group of regulars, and whatever her patrons said, she threw back her head and laughed.
“I thought we had to skip the Dew Drop tonight because Misti wasn’t feeling well.”
I guess I could have at least tried to make up some sort of lie that would explain away why I’d backed out of our date, but before I could, Misti zipped by and Declan stopped her.
“Sorry it took us so long to get back here from Cleveland,” he said, and was met with a blank expression from her. “Laurel said you weren’t feeling well, that you had to get home.”
Like Sophie, Misti is pretty aboveboard. “Well, if I’m not feeling well, no one’s told me!” she said, and she zoomed over the kitchen to pick up an order.
Before Declan could say a thing, I slipped behind the front counter and took care of the customer who was waiting to pay his bill. I gave him his change, thanked him for coming, and once he was out the front door, I shrugged. I didn’t need to look at Declan to know he was watching me carefully. I could feel his eyes watching my every move.
“I guess I got the message wrong,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess I did, too.” And he headed out the door.
Chapter 15
Sophie was up for the adventure.
The next morning, we got George set up for the breakfast crowd, reminded Inez that the cash register keys sometimes stick and that she had to be patient with them, and started out for Cortland.
“So . . .” Sophie settled herself in the passenger seat and sat back. I thought she was all set to enjoy the ride. I should have known she had other things on her mind. Sophie usually does. “Declan didn’t hang around very long last night.”
“Really?” I shot her as much of a look as I was able to considering I was driving. “We’re on our way to Cortland to try to get to the bottom of the mystery of Rocky’s safe deposit box and all you can think about is Declan?”
“If you were smart, maybe you’d think about him a little more, too.” When it comes to having boundaries, Sophie doesn’t often know she has a limit, but even she realized she may have gone too far. “That’s not what I meant,” she insisted, patting the seat between us for emphasis. “I know you’re a smart, independent woman and believe me, I don’t buy into the old myth that every woman has to have a man in her life in order to be happy. I just meant . . .” Her sigh rippled the air inside my car. “He looked upset when he walked out of the Terminal last night.”
He did.
He was.
And it was my fault.
I set my shoulders and refused to think about it, just like I’d refused to think about it all during the night when sleep refused to come and the uncomfortable prick of guilt tapped at my brain and soured my stomach.
“I’m not in charge of Declan’s feelings,” I reminded Sophie and myself.
I was driving, so I didn’t look her way, but somehow, I knew she was smiling. “He’d like you to be.”
I sighed. “So he keeps telling me.”
“There are plenty of women who would jump at the chance.”
“Maybe I’m not one of them.”
“Maybe I don’t get it.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she should. After all, I’d made it clear from the start that Hubbard was not and never would be home. No place would be. Not for me. Instead, I shook off the thought. “I hope whatever’s in the safe deposit box helps us figure out what happened to Rocky,” I said.
Sophie gave up with a grunt. “I bet it’s things Rocky treasured and didn’t want to take the chance of misplacing. You know, her birth certificate, her passport. Old pictures, maybe.”
Honestly, I was hoping for something a whole lot more interesting if not incendiary. Something that would lead to a killer.
We found out soon enough when we arrived at the bank in Cortland that had charged Rocky a fee for “other services.” Sophie produced Rocky’s death certificate (not without a sniffle) and the proper paperwork that proved she was the executrix of Rocky’s estate, and a young man who barely looked old enough to be out of school led us into a small room off the main bank lobby. Three of the room’s walls were lined with niches and in each of those, there was a safe deposit box.
There was a single table in the middle of the room, and the young man carried Rocky’s metal safe deposit box over, inserted what he called his guard key, and waited for Sophie to use hers. Once the lock clicked open, he told us he’d be outside if we needed anything, backed out of the room, and closed the door behind him.
Sophie scrubbed her palms over the legs of her black pants and tried her best to chase away the nervous strain that crackled in the air. “So . . . Rocky was a flower child back in the day, you know. What if it’s a box full of pot?”
I doubted it.
Sophie ran her tongue over her lips and gave the box a careful look before she glanced up at me. “Are we ready?”
More antsy than ready, but I bit my tongue and didn’t mention it. For me, this was just another piece of the puzzle, and I hoped it would provide us something that would help bring Rocky’s murderer to justice. For Sophie, it was a glimpse into her friend’s private life. I could tell from the way she stared at the safe deposit box and blinked nervously that she was not at all comfortable with it.
