One Taste Too Many

by Debra H. Goldstein

  Sarah made a face but picked up another egg.

  Emily turned a chair from the table so she could sit astride it and watch Sarah work.

  “Why did Bill ask you to meet him so late? Why not Chef Marcus?”

  Emily got up and turned her back toward Sarah as she filled a measuring cup with water from the sink.

  “Em?”

  “Southwind has the Civic Center contract, but Chef Marcus made me the liaison between the restaurant and the Civic Center. Tonight, when Bill phoned and told me there was a problem at the Civic Center, it was my job to respond.”

  Emily put the measuring cup near Sarah’s bowl of eggs. She looked down and ran her finger around the cup’s rim. She finally raised her eyes to meet Sarah’s gaze. “Like I told Harlan at the police station, Chef Marcus ran into financial difficulties and Bill bailed him out in exchange for a partnership interest. He also pulled the strings for Southwind to receive the Civic Center’s catering contract.”

  Sarah stopped, letting the white drip from the egg she’d just cracked. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me? Did it slip your mind?” She dropped the egg in her hand into the trash and wiped her hand on her jeans.

  “I didn’t know Bill was involved with Southwind when I first came back.” Emily poured a drop of water from the measuring cup into the bowl with the eggs. “By the way, always add a dash of water. The steam of the water will rise when it cooks, making the eggs light and airy.”

  Sarah stared at her twin. She could feel steam rising somewhere besides the frying pan. “You may not have known when you took the job, but you obviously found out a while ago.”

  Emily didn’t say or do anything to deny Sarah’s accusation.

  “Once you knew, how could you work at a restaurant funded by Bill? I thought, after my divorce, your loyalty was to me.”

  “It was and still is. Honestly, by the time I knew, it didn’t seem important.” She busied herself pouring the egg mixture into the pan, adding cheese and finishing their omelet. Dividing the finished omelet in two, Emily placed the portions on two plates. “Salt and pepper to your taste.”

  As Emily swallowed a forkful of her omelet, Sarah put her plate back on the counter. Not important? How could Emily act so casually when Sarah felt so betrayed? “I still don’t understand why you never told me.”

  “For just this reason. I didn’t want to upset you. Plus, I was afraid if you knew Chef Marcus sold Bill a piece of the action to pay off his debts and they planned to move Southwind from the shopping center into one of the old houses on Main Street, you’d ask me to quit. By that point, I loved Southwind and didn’t want to leave.”

  A tear slipped down Emily’s cheek. “Honestly, if I’d known Bill was part of the operation when I was offered the job, I wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole.”

  Emily pointed at Sarah’s plate. “Your eggs are going to get cold.”

  Sarah picked up her fork and swallowed a forkful of omelet. She understood her sister’s motivation, but something bothered her. She thought for a minute and then realized it was the repeated use of the word honestly. If someone told you his actions were honest, her father taught her, you could bet something wasn’t on the up-and-up.

  Chapter Five

  Barely four hours later, RahRah rolled onto his side on the blanket next to Sarah. Sometime during the few hours she’d slept, he’d jumped onto the double bed and pressed himself between Sarah and a still softly snoring Emily. He licked a paw. His fifteen pounds felt good to Sarah, offsetting the chill that had settled between the twins.

  Their disagreement replayed itself in Sarah’s mind. She was guilty of harping on Bill’s involvement with Southwind. Because it had been so late and there was no way to get away from each other in the apartment’s cramped space, they’d called a silent truce and gone to bed. Emily’s breathing quickly became a steady in-and-out rhythm, while Sarah slept fitfully. She woke at one point from a dream in which she was running down a hall carrying her tan cat, with Jane chasing behind them wielding a meat cleaver.

  Sarah shuddered. “I won’t let that wicked Jane get you.” She reached for RahRah, who picked that moment to strut over her legs to a place on the bed, just beyond her reach, where the early-morning sunshine came through a crack in the closed curtains.

  Before Sarah could lie back on her pillows again, her phone rang. She grabbed it from her nightstand charger. The number flashing on the screen was unfamiliar, but because it was local, she pushed the green button. “Hello,” she said, her voice hushed.

  “Morning, Sarah. Peter here. How are you?”

  “Fine. And you?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Emily’s not up yet, but she’ll be in your office with Harlan around ten.”

  This time, she gave him an opportunity to talk. Instead, he coughed or cleared his throat. She wasn’t sure which.

  “It isn’t Emily I’m calling about. It’s you. I need you to come to the station this morning, too.”

  “Why? I don’t have anything to add to your investigation. Besides, with Harlan being with Emily, I need to stay in the office manning the phone and reception desk.”

  Whether it was hearing her name or the rising tone of Sarah’s voice, Emily opened her eyes. She tucked the blanket more tightly around her but said nothing.

  “Sarah, a few things have come up. I think it would be better if we could discuss them in person.”

  “But—”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you’d come in after Emily gives her statement.”

  Sarah didn’t answer.

  “Please. You’ve got a situation we need to address about your cat.”

  “RahRah?” She looked across the bed, where RahRah preened himself in the sunlight. “My cat is a police matter?”

  “Seems there’s a question whether she’s your cat.”

  “Him. RahRah’s a boy.”

  Next to her, Emily propped herself up on one elbow.

  Sarah motioned her to keep quiet. “Peter, exactly what are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here. Tell you what, if you’d be more comfortable having Harlan with you, why don’t you either have him turn on his answering machine for an hour or get someone else to cover his office?” He hung up.

  She stared at the disconnected phone for a moment before throwing it on the bed.

  Chapter Six

  “I don’t know what you’re implying. RahRah belongs to me. I don’t see how Jane could have gotten any kind of court order to take my cat without me being present.”

  “She hasn’t, yet,” Peter said.

  Sarah jumped up from one of Peter’s two guest chairs. Her elbow knocked against a two-shelf plastic organizer filled with file folders on the corner of Peter’s desk. He grabbed for it, losing only one folder.

  “Harlan”—Sarah ignored Peter and the fallen file, and turned to the man seated in the second guest chair—“tell Peter how ludicrous this is.”

  “It’s ludicrous.” Harlan didn’t bother to raise his head from where he was busy scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

  Relieved that Harlan had stayed after Emily gave her statement, Sarah couldn’t believe how Peter seemed to be linking Bill, Jane, and RahRah together. It was insane. Maybe Harlan could resolve all of this quickly.

  His only quid pro quo demand for staying had been that Emily cover the office phones until Sarah returned. To Sarah’s surprise, considering Emily’s past fretting about how much time being at the police station was taking from her duties at the Expo and Southwind, Emily agreed to his request immediately. The way things were going, Sarah was grateful to her sister, too.

  Sarah placed her hands on the edge of Peter’s desk and bent toward where he waited, now leaning back, fingers pressed together tent-style.

  “Peter,” she said, glaring at his upturned face. “RahRah has been with me since Bill’s mother died. In fact, he’s the only thing Bill and I didn’t fight over during our divorce.”

/>   Peter didn’t move. “Why do you think that was?”

  “Because he hated RahRah.” She sat down again. Her charcoal gaze met Peter’s. “That’s not quite true. Bill was allergic to so many things. Nuts, mold, ragweed, and cats, to name a few. If he got near a cat or cat hair, his eyes teared and he got stuffed up like he had a bad cold.”

  Harlan stopped writing. He rested the back of his pen just over his left ear. “If Bill was so allergic to cats, why did the two of you let Bill’s mother keep RahRah when she moved to Wheaton?”

  “They came as a pair. During Hurricane Katrina, Mother Blair literally plucked RahRah from the water when she was evacuated from her house to Baton Rouge. She lost everything else to New Orleans’s swirling floodwaters, so she was adamant she wasn’t ever going to abandon her adopted, scrawny fur ball, Katrina the Kat.”

  “Katrina? I thought the cat’s name is RahRah,” Peter said.

  Sarah relaxed her tightened lips into a smile. “Mother Blair christened the kitten Katrina the Kat before she realized she was a he. Being in the South, she didn’t think shortening his name to KK would be politically correct, so she decided to butcher the word rah-rah into a name because he was so enthusiastic.”

  Harlan pulled the pen from his ear. “I still don’t understand why you let her keep RahRah when she moved in with you if Bill was so allergic to him.”

  Sarah laughed. “You didn’t know Mother Blair when she had a bee in her bonnet. Besides, technically, Mother Blair and RahRah never moved in with us.”

  “But I thought she lived with Bill and you after she was evacuated,” Peter said.

  “No. She originally was evacuated to a shelter and then an apartment in Baton Rouge. She lived there for almost a year before Bill found the house on Main Street with its separate carriage house. He thought it would be a good investment and provide a great way for his mother to live closer to us without interfering with our privacy.”

  Sarah grimaced and shook her head. “I was eighteen, married two months, and so madly in love with my husband, I never thought to question his plan. Within a few weeks, we moved into our respective homes, with RahRah having free run of Mother Blair’s place.”

  “Sounds like Bill thought everything out,” Harlan said.

  “He always did.”

  “Wasn’t it a little unusual for you to stay in contact with your mother-in-law after your divorce?” Peter asked.

  “Probably,” Sarah said. “But Mother Blair was a very special woman. From day one, she treated me like a daughter. She was diagnosed with cancer right about the time Bill left me. Bill and I may not have worked out, but that didn’t seem like a good reason for me to abandon his mother and RahRah. She died before the business side of our divorce was finalized.”

  Quickly wiping her hand under her eye to prevent a tear from escaping, Sarah averted her face from Peter.

  He tapped his hand on his desk. “When Mrs. Blair died, what happened to RahRah?”

  Sarah turned her head back in his direction. “I don’t know what Bill did with RahRah for the few days after her death. At the end of Mother Blair’s funeral, Bill took me aside and told me because of his allergies, he couldn’t keep RahRah, but he was sure his mother would want me, instead of a stranger, to take care of him.”

  “You agreed?” Peter said.

  “Of course. I’ve volunteered at the animal shelter for years. I know what happens to cats without a place to go. Besides, I love RahRah.” She stared at Peter and Harlan. “You may only think of him as a cat, but he has a definite personality. I jumped at the chance to keep him from losing Mother Blair and me at the same time.”

  Peter said nothing. He opened a folder and picked up the single sheet in it. Slowly he scanned it. Sarah tried to read the paper from upside down but couldn’t see the words. To distract herself from the silence filling the room, she concentrated on the rest of Peter’s office.

  Behind him was a wooden credenza. A picture of a younger Peter and two boys sat on it. The older child was a miniature version of Peter. Other than the one picture, the credenza was bare. She looked around the office for other family snapshots or children’s drawings, but there were none. She wondered about his family. His campaign ads included a wife.

  Two locking metal filing cabinets flanked the credenza. The guest chairs, his pressed-wood desk, a computer, and a phone were the rest of his formal decor. File folders and white-lined mini legal pads, many with writing scrawled on them, were spread across his desk. They were the only things that appeared out of place in his office, but she felt certain Peter knew the exact location of each piece of paper or file.

  Peter closed the folder without showing Sarah or Harlan the piece of paper. He rose, came around his desk, and perched on its edge in front of Sarah. Rather than immediately speaking, he ran his thumb up and down one of his belt loops before anchoring his hand in it. “Did Bill or Mrs. Blair’s estate provide you with a stipend to care for RahRah?”

  Sarah glanced from Peter to Harlan, who studied his legal pad but didn’t stop her from answering. “Peter, if Harlan hadn’t given me a job as his receptionist, I couldn’t afford my apartment or keep RahRah in cat food. Bill gave me RahRah, but he fought me over our other assets.”

  Sarah couldn’t hold back the tears this time. She reached into her pocket for a nonexistent tissue. Before she could dry her eyes with the back of her hand, Harlan pressed his soft white handkerchief into her hand. She took it gratefully.

  Delicately she wiped her eyes and blew her nose into the monogrammed hankie. Uncertain of the proper protocol for returning a used handkerchief, she slipped it into her pocket until she could launder it.

  “Did Mrs. Blair ever give you or did you perhaps take some jewelry before or after your divorce?”

  “Peter,” Harlan said, “what are you getting at?”

  “I’m just trying to find out if Sarah has any of Mrs. Blair’s jewelry.”

  Harlan raised a hand to signal Sarah not to say anything. “Are you trying to find a particular piece?”

  “A diamond-and-pearl bracelet.”

  “Peter Mueller, the only piece of jewelry I have from Mother Blair is this bracelet.” She held up her arm to show a slim gold bracelet. “She gave me this when Bill and I got engaged. The one I think you’re talking about belonged to her mother. She let me wear it as something borrowed on our wedding day. On our first anniversary, she gave it to me in the hope I would have a daughter who would eventually wear it to her own wedding.”

  “So you do have it?” Peter said.

  Sarah shook her head. “No. I insisted on giving it back to her when Bill and I separated.”

  Harlan leaned forward in his chair. “And she took it back from you?”

  “Finally,” Sarah said. “She wanted me to keep it because she still felt like I was a daughter, but, under the circumstances, I couldn’t keep one of her favorite pieces. I wanted her to have it back in case Bill ever had a daughter.”

  “Do you know where it is today?”

  “I have no idea, but as her only child, Bill must have inherited all of her jewelry, so I assume it’s with the rest of her things, unless he gave it to one of his bimbos. Have you checked with Jane?”

  “She’s the one accusing you of having it.”

  “And you believe her? Harlan, can we do something about all these lies she’s telling about me?”

  He twisted his mouth somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Peter, is that all you have to ask Sarah?”

  “One more question,” Peter said.

  Sarah trembled, but she didn’t know if it was from anger or indignation. She tightly grasped the sides of her chair, hoping to keep her emotions in check but her cheeks heated. “I already told you, I never lived or even stayed in the carriage house. It was Bill’s mother’s home until her death. I don’t know what Bill did with RahRah for the few days before the funeral, but Bill brought him to me shortly after the service and other than this one bracelet, I have no jewelry t
hat belonged to Mother Blair.”

  Harlan interrupted her. “Bill and Sarah didn’t end their marriage on the best of terms, but I think it’s pretty well known in the business community the carriage house sat empty for a long time because Bill hoped his property would be part of the new entertainment district the economic council is promoting.”

  “I knew several houses on that block have been converted to multifamily usage and there has been talk of making some of the big houses restaurants or hotels, but I didn’t realize Bill’s property was one being considered.” Peter rubbed his hand against the stubble on his cheek. “Harlan, did you ever do any work on the Downtown District for Bill?”

  “No. When I was on the Economic Development Council, the idea of an entertainment district, or Downtown District, hadn’t been developed yet. He did ask me, as a council member, what owners in that area could and couldn’t do with their property from a zoning perspective.”

  “In that case, having served on committees and councils with him and answering economic development questions, don’t you have a conflict of interest representing Emily and Sarah?”

  “I don’t think so. I never answered anything for him personally and once I resigned from the council, which predated any entertainment district discussions or any dealings with his properties, he never engaged my services privately or for the council. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re still looking into the details,” Peter said, drumming his fingers on the folder on his desk, “but it appears Mrs. Blair actually owned the property and houses and that when she died, she only bequeathed Bill the house Sarah shared with him.”

  “She owned the property?” Sarah asked.

  “Apparently, Bill didn’t have the money to buy the two houses but his mother did. That’s why he brought her to Wheaton from Baton Rouge.”

  “I had no idea,” Sarah said. “Bill took care of everything financial.”

  “Well, it seems while she put up the money for the property purchase and bequeathed all rights in the big house to Bill, Mrs. Blair left an animal trust that explicitly provided for RahRah to receive full-time care in the carriage house during her, I mean his, lifetime. His caretaker is authorized to receive a stipend.”