Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I filled her in.

  “He’s in love with Tina? Wow!” Bailey hooked a thumb toward the ceiling. “Hey, she’s at The Cameo. I saw her taking the stairs two at a time.”

  “She is? Let’s go up and verify what he said.” I hurried out the door. Bailey followed.

  No people stood in line at The Cameo. The next film showing wasn’t until later in the evening. The front door stood open. I led the way inside.

  The black-and-silver lobby was brightly lit. A young woman in jeans and a cropped Cameo-emblazoned T-shirt was cleaning the surfaces of the display cabinets that held retro candy, like Sugar Daddy pops and Hot Tamales. Another young woman, also in jeans and theater-logoed T-shirt, was vacuuming the black-and-white-with-concentric-circles carpet. The few tables and chairs that usually stood in the center of the foyer had been moved against the walls.

  We found Tina wiping down the specialty coffeemaker. Her hair was secured in a knot. She was wearing jeans with chic holes in them. Her cropped tee exposed about three inches of firm abdomen.

  I strolled to the counter and said, “Hi, Tina.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “What are you two doing here?”

  “We wondered if you had a minute to talk.”

  “Sure. The boss is out. What’s up?” She set the coffee grounds holder into a tub of soapy water and dried her hands on a paper towel, which she discarded.

  “It’s not our business,” I said, and it wasn’t, but curiosity is a powerful motivator, “however, I heard a rumor that you are seeing Shane Maverick.”

  Tina cut a glance at one of her coworkers. She hitched her head and moved to the far side of the lobby, close to the entrance to the ticket booth. We followed. While tightening her bun and pulling out wisps to soften the look, she said, “Why do you care? Did, like, Emily send you?”

  “Emily? No.”

  “I don’t believe you. She told that old battle-ax Pepper Pritchett to talk to me.”

  Pepper can be a nuisance and, yes, possibly a battle-ax, unless you win her over. I did a short while ago by whipping up some of her favorite homemade chocolate candies. Before that, she had been my sworn enemy.

  “I told her to mind her own beeswax,” Tina said. “I can and will date who I want, and Emily can’t change that.”

  I remembered being Tina’s age and feeling the same. Defiant. Entitled. Don’t tell me what to do.

  “Emily’s pregnant, Tina. Try to understand where she’s coming from.”

  “Like, maybe she should have been more careful.”

  Maybe Shane should have, I mused.

  “Ooh!” Tears pressed at the corners of Tina’s eyes. She flicked them away with her fingertips. “I know I should let him go. He’s got obligations, but we have this connection that’s so real.”

  Bailey said, “Are you sure? He dates a lot of women.”

  “He’s going to stop.”

  Bailey snorted. She knew from experience that he wouldn’t stop. Ever. Her history with married or betrothed men was behind her, but she had suffered.

  “He will,” Tina protested. “I’m the one he wants. He’s going to support Emily, of course. He can afford to.”

  Could he if he lost his current job? Again I wondered whether Sylvia might have threatened to tell his employers about his multiple dalliances so they would fire him. Did that enrage him?

  “He won’t be a deadbeat dad,” Tina assured us. “He won’t.”

  “He travels a lot for his current job,” I reasoned.

  “Yes, but he’ll be here primarily. With me.”

  Her energy was infectious, and truthfully, I could see her with Shane. They were close in height; they had similar features. Magazines often show how couples that have been together for a bunch of years start to look alike, as if they were meant for each other. Shane and Emily didn’t have that same appeal. On the other hand, Tina was so young. Did she have a clue what she was doing? Did Sylvia warn her niece, and did Tina lash out and silence her once and for all?

  “I told Uncle Ronald about Shane and me.”

  “Did he understand the dynamic? He has been acting a little addled lately.”

  “Uncle Ronald? No way. He’s sharper than a carving knife. Like, for sure, he’s been unsteady because he hated the idea of retiring. Sylvia put him up to that. She wanted to travel. But he has put in for reinstatement.”

  “Did your aunt know about you two?”

  “Oh, man.” Tina giggled. “Last weekend Sylvia found out, and she went at my uncle with her claws drawn.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there we were, on the patio, my uncle in his robe, a bottle of Shane’s sauce in his hand, and he started spouting Shane’s good qualities. He said Shane was energetic and bright and he said young men like him go places. He said if Shane sold his steak sauce through proper channels, you know like through gourmet stores, it could bring in megabucks.”

  “Sylvia said, ‘Big deal,’ and Uncle Ronald said, ‘It is a big deal if my niece is going to marry him.’ Well”—Tina threw her arms wide—“Sylvia blew a gasket. She said Shane would never amount to anything, and she dove for the bottle. Ronald swiped it from her, and, bloop, the cap flew off. Sauce went all over Sylvia. And then to add fuel to the fire, Uncle Ronald drank the sauce straight from the bottle. Whewie!” Tina fanned her face. “Sylvia wiped the sauce out of her hair, smacked it on Ronald’s face, and said, ‘Listen up. If I don’t get Shane, nobody does.’”

  Bailey gasped. “She didn’t.”

  “Yep.”

  “Were you shocked?” I said. “I mean, did Shane tell you that they, you know—”

  “Had an affair? Yeah, I knew. When I found out, it took everything I had not to tell my uncle, but it was over. It only lasted a week, so why hurt him like that, right?”

  I recalled Shane telling us at Bait and Switch that he’d overheard Ronald and Sylvia arguing on the porch Monday night. Ronald said something about love making the world go round. Had they been discussing Shane and Tina a second time? Did Sylvia rub it in Ronald’s face that she and Shane had hooked up? Did Ronald lose it? No, Sylvia didn’t die then. She died Wednesday morning.

  I said, “Did you tell Shane what Sylvia said?”

  “Yes but . . . No. Wait.” Tina held up her hands. “Like, that didn’t come out right. I don’t want you to think that Shane—”

  “Attacked Sylvia?”

  “Yeah! Because he wouldn’t. Besides, he was with me. Watching the sunrise.”

  That corroborated Shane’s statement. I said, “Where were you?”

  “On the beach.”

  “The sun rises over the mountains.”

  “We sat with our backs facing the water. Near the lighthouse.” With her fingertip, she crossed her heart. “The sun is beautiful as it peeks over the horizon. A hint of orange, then golden-yellow. It warms your face. It’s, like, magical.” She aimed a finger at me. “Hey, what if Emily went after Sylvia? She didn’t know about me yet. If she heard that Sylvia wanted Shane all to herself . . .”

  “Who would have told her?” I asked.

  “Maybe a neighbor who heard Sylvia yelling at my uncle?”

  Bailey shook her head. “I don’t buy Emily killing Sylvia. She purchases all-natural baby food cookbooks. She wouldn’t want her unborn child around that smoke and stress.”

  I said, “Tina, what about your uncle? He must have been mad at Sylvia.”

  “No way,” she cried. “He couldn’t. I mean, like, he’s the kindest man. Everyone at the college loves him. And haven’t you seen him lately? He’s so reliant on that cane. He took a fall a month ago that really wrecked him.”

  “He said he was in bed the morning Sylvia died, and he smelled smoke.”

  “Yeah, that surprised me. Usually he takes an early-morning constitutional. At five A.M. he�
�s on that walk. Even with his cane. Like me, he enjoys a good sunrise. But he told me he had an upset stomach that day. That wouldn’t be a surprise, living with Sylvia. She was a lousy cook.” She tittered nervously.

  The front door to the theater opened, and the owner, an arty woman with multicolored hair and a penchant for billowy smock dresses, entered.

  Quickly Tina said, “I’ve got to get back to work. I can’t afford to get docked. Shane didn’t kill Sylvia, and neither did Uncle Ronald.”

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I read the text from Nurse Noreen: Come to the clinic quick.

  Chapter 27

  “Dear heart.” Helen Harris, David’s mother, met me as I entered the clinic and threw her arms around me. She held me in a smothering embrace. She never did anything halfway. Crying, for instance. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, and bleary. And she must have been doing quite of bit of eating since I’d last seen her. She was carrying at least fifty extra pounds. “He’s resting,” she said and released me. She plucked at the hem of the perforated sleeves of her elegant black dress. No matter how her weight fluctuated, Helen always dressed tastefully. “I wish you had called me, Jenna.”

  “I’m sorry. David was going to—”

  “I only found out that he was . . . alive . . . because Noreen discovered my business card in his personal things.” Helen Harris didn’t need a business card—she had never worked a day in her life—but she handed out cards to everyone.

  “When did you arrive?” I asked.

  “An hour or two ago.”

  Nurse Noreen, her white uniform perfectly starched and her white-blonde hair tucked in place, rounded the greeting counter and joined us. “Jenna, I’m so sorry. I only learned moments ago that you are David’s wife or I would’ve—” Noreen’s face was filled with compassion. “He’s fading. Helen would like to take him home.”

  I was surprised the nurse was on a first-name basis with Helen, but then David’s mother was probably more shell-shocked than I was. She wouldn’t have allowed such informality otherwise.

  “The doctor is allowing her to do so,” Noreen continued.

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “I will provide twenty-four-hour care until he—” Helen pressed her lips together. She blinked back fresh tears. “I’m afraid by staying with you, David has impaired his chance of survival.”

  “He said he had no chance.”

  “One wonders,” Helen said. Yes, she’d meant it as a barb, suggesting it was my fault David had given up on life the first time, and now it was my fault he was dying all over again. “A boy shouldn’t be without his mother at this time.”

  A boy? I bit back a retort.

  “I’ve already talked to the authorities,” Helen went on. “They said, given the doctor’s diagnosis, David could live out the remainder of his sentence at home.”

  A door burst open and a petite frizzy-haired nurse leaned out. She beckoned. “He’s calling for you!”

  “Me?” Helen asked.

  “No, her.” She pointed at me.

  Nurse Noreen and I exchanged glances. At the same time, the front door of the clinic flew open. Rhett rushed in, hair tousled, eyes tight.

  He crossed to me, bussed my cheek, and clasped my hand. “Bailey called me. How’s David?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Helen eyed Rhett with outright loathing.

  I frowned at her, warning her to be nice. “Helen, this is Rhett Jackson.”

  “A friend,” he said, offering nothing more.

  “Whatever.” Helen barged past us and entered David’s room.

  Rhett pressed a hand to my back and nudged me in the same direction.

  The top half of David’s bed was propped up about thirty degrees. He was lying motionless, his head bolstered by a thin pillow. We entered single file, and he followed us with his gaze. His skin was pasty; his lips seemed dry, as if he had been licking them for days. A tube fed a clear liquid into his arm.

  His mother hurried to his bedside, but she didn’t touch him. Was she afraid he might break?

  David stared at Rhett, but there was no hostility in his scrutiny. “Hey, bro,” he rasped.

  Rhett nodded.

  “Take care of my girl.”

  Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. “David, don’t say that.”

  “Hon, face facts. I’m toast.” He tried to smile but failed. His mouth stretched thin; he seemed haunted.

  “Son, please,” Helen pleaded. Please what? Please don’t joke? Please don’t die?

  “Mom, what’s done is done. I—” David shut his eyes.

  “No!” Helen cried.

  David opened his eyes slowly. He let out a long sigh. “I love you, Jenna. I always will. I—” He started to cough.

  Nurse Noreen hurried to him and held out a cup with a straw.

  He pushed it away. “I’m sorry. To you. To everyone. I—” More coughing. “I. Screwed. Up. Mom, give my love . . . to Sis.” His sister was a renowned endocrinologist. David had always tried to measure up. “She should know that—” David’s face went slack. His eyelids fluttered and closed.

  “David.” His mother clutched David’s hand. “Sweetie? She should know what?” She sounded like a little girl. “Baby, talk to me.” After a long moment, she released his hand and turned to me. Tears pooled in her eyes and streamed down her face.

  I opened my arms. Helen swooped into them and wept for a long time.

  * * *

  I didn’t want to be alone that night. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that David had come back into my life and had left just as quickly. I asked Rhett to stay. Food held no appeal. Neither did liquor.

  Doors and windows secure, I slogged to bed. Rhett joined me. We lay on top of the comforter, fully dressed, and he spooned me. We didn’t talk; he let me cry. Tigger paced the cottage sniffing everywhere for David. Around midnight, he settled onto a stack of David’s clothes. When the sun rose Wednesday morning, the sad sack renewed his search, mewing every few minutes, asking what was up. How could I answer him? David was dead. Helen would hold a funeral in a few days. In the meantime, I had to put my life back in motion. My sweet cat would have to do the same.

  Rhett and I took a long morning walk, neither saying much more than that the day was going to be gorgeous and the weather was warm for the season. We drank strong coffee and ate power bars for breakfast, and then he kissed me pristinely on the cheek and left.

  I showered and dressed in a white blouse and capris—I refused to wear black—and I went to work. On the way, I rang Bailey, told her about David, and asked her to bring her cat, Hershey, to the shop. He would distract Tigger. The two cats hadn’t fared well the first week they met, but after an encounter where they joined forces against an enemy, they had become good buddies.

  While Tigger and Hershey played tag, Bailey and my aunt fawned over me, asking if I was okay, how I was feeling, and was there anything either of them could do. I asked for tea with honey—that was all I needed—and then I went to the stockroom by myself. As I disappeared, I heard Aunt Vera say, “You should call your father.”

  “Later,” I mumbled, wondering why he hadn’t called me back. Maybe Lola hadn’t told him I’d called.

  For an hour, I stoically picked through items I would use for next week’s specialty theme: Beach Reads. An umbrella, sand buckets, seashells, colorful water bottles, tubes of sunblock, and sunglasses. The mayor was inviting book clubs to organize chats all over town: in coffee shops, in the park, on the beach. Everyone was encouraged to read a book, donate to the library, and honor literacy. At the shop, we were asking chefs from Crystal Cove to read aloud from a variety of cookbooks that included wonderful stories, like The French Laundry by renowned chef Thomas Keller. The beauty of reading from a cookbook is that there can also be show-and-tell. While one person r
eads, another can hold up the glorious pictures of food within. Delicious.

  Midmorning, when the shop was at a lull and the latest satisfied customer had exited, Bailey and my aunt beckoned me to the vintage table.

  “No tarot reading,” I said.

  Aunt Vera smiled warmly. “No, dear. We wanted to take your mind off David, so we thought we’d talk about other things.” She nodded at Bailey. “I’ve made a chart.”

  “A chart?”

  “To reveal who killed Sylvia.” Aunt Vera pulled a piece of paper from behind her back. “Voilà!” She broke apart the completed foodie puzzle of crisp bacon, set the pieces in the puzzle box, and moved it aside. Dramatically, she placed the paper in the middle of the table. On it, she had written the name Sylvia in the center. Lines extended outward from Sylvia to a passel of names: Shane and Tina, D’Ann, Ava, and Dad.

  “Cross off Dad,” I said. “D’Ann, too.” After David passed away, I spoke to Nurse Noreen for a brief moment. She assured me D’Ann had been the person who helped her with her groceries and shared a cup of tea. D’Ann had removed her funky mask. Why D’Ann had neglected to mention that when questioned was beyond me. I let it slide.

  Aunt Vera X’d out the two names.

  I peered at the chart and said, “You don’t have Ronald Gump written down.”

  “Or Emily Hawthorne,” Bailey chimed.

  “Should they be on the list?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Yes.” I tapped the chart in an open space, upper right. “Their alibis are weak. Both claim to have been sleeping. By the way, Tina”—I gestured toward the ceiling—“said that was unusual for her uncle. He goes for an early-morning stroll every day. Why didn’t he go that morning?”

  “Tina thought he may have had an upset stomach from drinking more steak sauce,” Bailey said.