She agreed and we made plans to meet for lunch at Catcher in the Rye. I bid the rest of the ladies good-bye and scurried off to run other errands. I still needed to stop by the catering division of our local grocery store, How Green Was My Valley, and discuss menu ideas, plus get home in time to find something special in my closet to wear for my dinner date with Sean.
Before ducking back through the trellis, I glanced wistfully at the charming patio area. I could just envision Sean and me exchanging our vows under the sweet-smelling wisteria, followed by an extravagant lawn party. It would be just like a garden party in one of my favorite books, The Great Gatsby: linens flowing in the breeze, dainty teacups, and women in cloche hats and men in derbies. I, of course, would wear something reminiscent of one of Daisy Buchanan’s flapper-style gowns, along with a wide-brim hat and a simple bouquet. A quote from the book jumped into my mind: “In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.” Yes, I thought, a lawn party would be a perfect way to celebrate our vows.
Chapter 5
The rest of my errands took longer than expected—probably because I had my mind full of things like Duesenbergs, gauntlet gloves, and parasols instead of table settings, menus, and serving plates. It was difficult to concentrate on a garden-themed dinner extravaganza for Damian and a hundred of his closest admirers while also envisioning my own gala and ever-so-tasteful wedding details. I’d have to review my notes and follow up with the caterer later to be sure I hadn’t mixed my Gatsby flapper fringe into Damian’s recipe for angel hair–nested shrimp.
At the moment though, I needed to focus on getting ready for dinner with Sean. I hastily shuffled through my closet, trying to find the perfect outfit. I’d been so busy, I hadn’t been able to figure out what I was going to wear tonight. I chastised myself for not having one of those little black dresses that women are always talking about. The type of cover-all-occasions dress that could be dressed up or down depending on the event. I so wanted everything to be perfect for tonight, but all I could find was business wear, and Voltaire’s was an evening-wear type of establishment. For all the changes my life had seen in the last year—new job, new house, new love in my life—my closet had seen little of the effects. I’d never been a fashion maven even as a young girl, and my job with the Dunston Herald for twenty years as a Features writers hadn’t required much. Just clean and presentable pantsuits or modestly knee-skimming skirts with easy-to-iron blouses in solid and subdued hues. I always felt a writer should kind of blend into the woodwork a bit, make the interviewee feel like the centerpiece. I guess that attitude had flowed into my being a literary agent as well. The authors—and their plethora of fascinating characters—were the stars of the show. I was just their humble servant. And judging from what I saw in my closet, a bit too humble. Didn’t I ever go out? Ever get dressed to look beyond presentable? Sean, with his detective’s simple suit attire, probably hadn’t noticed I rather mirrored him in my plainclothes approach to dressing. Well, this evening deserved something much better!
Finally, in the back of the closet, I uncovered a deep blue wraparound dress that I’d forgotten about. It was an ultrafine wool, very soft to the touch, the kind of material that sashayed as I walked. The deep V-neck was edged with just a hint of matching lace. Very classy—and sexy—I assured myself. Paired with strappy sandals and the right jewelry, it’d be perfect. Next, I worked my shoulder-length, nut-brown hair into a glamorous twist, letting a few loose tendrils curl around my neckline, and added a little extra eyeliner for what I hoped was a sensuous evening look.
I stepped back and studied my reflection. All I needed now were some accessories. I took a pair of pearl earrings out of my jewelry box and had started putting them in my ears when I recalled they were a gift from my ex-husband, Bill. A throwback to our happier times when he actually gave me gifts. That was before he decided to roll that year’s Ms. Tobacco Leaf up tight in our bedroom sheets. I shuddered and quickly removed the pearls, reaching for another pair of earrings. No reason to chance jinxing this new chapter in my life with past relics. I sighed. I was starting to think like my mother.
I heard the front door open. “Mom. You in here?” Trey called out from the other room.
“Don’t go anywhere, Trey,” I yelled. “I’m going to need a ride from you.”
I could hear him knocking around the kitchen while I touched up the dress and finished getting ready. Ten minutes later, I strutted out of my bedroom and found Trey nestled in the family room recliner, eating a sandwich. My grocery budget was twice as high since he’d been home on summer break from UNC Wilmington.
“Mom! You look awesome!”
I held out my arms and twirled, striking a little pose. “You think so?” I asked, trying to milk the compliment.
“Yeah. Why so dressed up?”
“I have a special dinner tonight with Sean.”
My son’s face lit up. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. Tonight is the big night. Sean is finally going to pop the question!
Trey had been good about keeping Sean’s confidence the last couple of months, but I knew he was anticipating the engagement almost as much as I was. I’d never let on that I’d overheard Sean ask Trey’s blessing on the proposal he’d planned. Now we both beamed and I could only hope my grin didn’t give away the reason for my excitement. “Sure, hold on. I’ll grab my keys.” He disappeared and returned a minute later, keys dangling from his hand. “Why isn’t Sean picking you up?”
I stole one last glance in the hall mirror and fixed an unruly strand of hair. “Apparently, he could only get reservations for six. He’s going to drive straight over from work. I told him I’d meet him there.” I patted his shoulder on the way out the door. “Thanks for the ride, Trey. You’re saving me from showing up with helmet hair.” As much as I loved my Vespa, there were distinct times it wasn’t appropriate.
He flashed a grin, which faded the moment we stepped out the door. “When are these people going to finish digging in our yard?” he asked, his gaze fixing on the official vehicles parked in front of our house. Various teams of investigators had been excavating in our backyard ever since our gruesome discovery. The entire circumference was taped off with yellow crime scene tape.
I let out an exasperated sigh and opened the door of his vehicle. “Not soon enough, that’s for sure,” I answered, moving a pile of junk and settling into the front passenger seat. Trey had scraped together enough money from working at Espresso Yourself to buy a used Honda. The thing was nearly as old as he was, but still ran relatively well. Better, anyway, than the car I didn’t have. I thought back to what Ruthie Watson had said about the dead body depreciating my home’s value and glanced back over my torn-up yard. There was no way I could apply for a refinance with my yard looking like a construction site. Guess it was going to be another long winter without a car.
Our resident skeleton monopolized our conversation on the way to Voltaire’s. Apparently, word was out in the village and Trey had spent his workday fielding questions from curious coffee drinkers. “A lot of people wanted to know if it was another murder,” Trey said, keeping his eyes on the road as we turned onto High Street and worked our way past Jay’s bookstore, the Constant Reader. I could almost imagine him inside at his counter, putting the final touches on his manuscript, in between waiting on customers. Jay’s sequel to The Alexandria Society was in the editing phase of publication and would be released right after the first of the year.
I turned my focus back to Trey. “Another murder? Why would they jump to that conclusion?”
“You have to admit, Mom, you’ve been sort of a magnet for murder since we moved here.”
“A murder magnet! Honestly, I don’t know where you come up with these things. Right up here,” I said, pointing to the turnoff. Great. Now the townspeople were beginning to think I’d brought some sort of curse over the Valley. “What did you tell them?”
He shrugged. “Not m
uch. Just that the cops are still looking into it.”
“There could be any number of reasons why that skull was in our yard, Trey. We don’t even know how old it is. It could be from some ancient tribe that roamed the area hundreds of years ago.” I was glad to see we were pulling into the lot at Voltaire’s. This conversation was putting a damper on my mood.
“Cool, like a prehistoric man or something.”
“Exactly,” I said, opening the door and hopping out onto the pavement. I turned back and leaned into the car. “Be careful driving. Sean will give me a lift home.”
He nodded, a little grin tugging at his lips. “Have fun, Mom.” I stared at him for a second. An unexpected emotion welled inside me. All these years it had been just Trey and I. Now we were getting ready to welcome another man to our family and I had Trey’s unconditional support. All of a sudden he looked much older to me than his nineteen years. I fought back the tears threatening at the edges of my eyes. When had my son grown to be such an honorable man?
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetie. Absolutely nothing.”
*
IT TOOK MY eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting inside Voltaire’s. I was hoping Sean would be waiting for me, but the maître d’ met me inside the entrance instead. He addressed me with a somewhat put-on French accent. Actually, I knew the accent wasn’t sincere; I recognized him as a former employee of the James Joyce Pub, not a European transplant. “Monsieur Griffiths sends his apologies. He’s running a little behind schedule, but will be joining you soon.” He guided me to our table, pulled out my chair, and placed my napkin in my lap. “He’s preordered the wine. I’ll have the sommelier bring it to your table at once.”
I suppressed a giggle and fingered the crisp linen napkin on my lap. Any urges I had to feel annoyed at Sean for being late were subdued by the romantic ambience and outstanding service. The last time I’d been here was for a Taste of the Town event our agency sponsored to garner publicity for our cookbook authors. Dominic, the owner of Voltaire’s, had generously allowed our agency to use the restaurant for a cooking demonstration after a murderous explosion killed one of our guest chefs and devastated the kitchen at the Marlette Robbins Center for Arts.
At the time, Voltaire’s spacious interior was arranged with the tables facing the bar where our celebrity chefs demonstrated their talents. Tonight, the room was arranged to take advantage of the view. Voltaire’s was located in the hills on the edge of town, allowing for a beautiful vista. My eyes scanned the sweeping view of Inspiration Valley to where it rolled away in a series of greenish blue ridges and then eventually rose again to the more rugged, hazy mountainsides on the other side of the Valley. I was touched that Sean had arranged, and probably paid dearly, for the best table in the restaurant.
“Lila?” A voice came from behind.
I turned, surprised to see my coworker. “Franklin! What are you doing here?”
He turned to the man standing next to him. “This is Damian’s first night in town. I thought I’d show him what our valley has to offer in fine dining.”
“Well, you’ve definitely chosen a good restaurant. I’m just waiting for Sean. He seems to be running late.”
Franklin made a quick introduction. “Damian York, this is Lila Wilkins, one of our agency’s most highly regarded agents.”
I could feel my cheeks brighten with pleasure from Franklin’s compliment. I stood and held out my hand. Damian provided a charming smile to go along with his firm handshake. This guy was much cuter in person than on television. Not just cute, but devastatingly handsome: dark hair, strong chin, and what looked like an even stronger body, judging by the filled-out width of his precisely tailored suit jacket.
“You’ll be seeing a lot more of Ms. Wilkins,” Franklin continued. “She’s helping coordinate the dinner and signing.”
Damian dipped his chin. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Me, too, I thought, then checked my reaction. What was wrong with me, all googly-eyed over some celebrity? I was meeting my future fiancé in just a few minutes. “Actually, I’m glad I’ve run into you, Mr. York,” I stated, willing my mind back to business. “I met with the ladies of the local garden club this afternoon. I’m afraid they’ve pegged you as this year’s judge for the Van Gogh Garden Award.”
“The van Gogh award,” he echoed, a hint of amusement showing in his dark eyes.
Franklin spoke up. “It’s an annual award for the best garden on the garden walk. The ladies in town take it quite seriously.”
Damian shrugged. “Sure. I’d be glad to help in any way I can.”
The impatient maître d’ cleared his throat, obviously disgruntled about being waylaid on his way to show the men to their table.
Franklin straightened his shoulders and motioned for Damian to walk ahead of him. “Looks like our table is waiting. We’ll discuss all the details Monday morning, Lila. Enjoy your dinner.”
I watched them move to the back of the room and then resettled in my chair. A server walked by. The pleasing scent of garlic and the sweet tang of lamb cooked in wine drifted from his sizzling tray and caused my stomach to grumble. Outside, the sun was starting to set over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the Valley and causing the shadows to stretch and thin out. Much like Sean’s tardiness was stretching and wearing my patience thin. I took another sip of my wine and glanced at my cell phone. What was going on? He was already thirty minutes late.
I dialed his number, glancing over my shoulder to where the wine waiter was on standby, bottle in hand. I motioned for a refill. Finally, Sean picked up on the other end. “Where are you?” I found myself nearly hissing into the phone before realizing it was his voicemail, not his actual voice. Irritated, I disconnected without leaving a message.
My waiter must have sensed my mounting anger, or perhaps he could hear my stomach growling, because he appeared at my side bearing a basket that smelled like a French boulangerie. I’d just popped a piece of buttery roll in my mouth when my phone buzzed. I swallowed hard and pounced on it.
“Hello,” I whispered.
It was Sean. “I’m sorry, Lila. I’m tied up at work.”
I paused a moment, gathering my composure. “I understand.” I used my best ever-so-understanding-almost-fiancée-of-a-hardworking-cop voice. “So when will you get away?” I asked sweetly. When my question was answered by silence, my ever-so-understanding tone slipped away like a tossed bridal bouquet through the hands of a predestined old maid. I shook my head, but the image of a flowerless old maid stayed with me. “You mean you’re not going to make it?” The question came out louder than I intended. I drew curious stares from every direction.
“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry. We’ve made a major breakthrough …”
I blocked out his words, shutting my eyes and attempting to stay calm.
“I’ve already talked to the restaurant and paid the bill,” he was still explaining. “You can order anything you want.”
“By myself?”
There was a long pause on the other end. I was so disappointed. I didn’t know what to add, so I simply said good-bye and quickly disconnected. So much for me becoming the ever-so-understanding fiancée of a hardworking cop this evening. Maybe this was a wake-up call for me. I picked up my almost empty wineglass, tossed back the dregs, and held my hand over the rim as the sommelier approached again. “No thank you,” I said, suddenly feeling conspicuous as the only loner in a room full of couples.
Unsure of what to do, I took another roll, letting my eyes roam the nearby tables. Next to me was a gray-haired couple, eyes locked in a comfortable gaze that can only be developed over years of devotion. A few tables over was a young married couple, looking a little uncomfortable in this fancy setting, or perhaps worried about the kids they’d left at home with the babysitter. And, if I bent my neck, I could just barely see to the back of the room where Franklin was seated with Damian York, his wide shoulders swaying a
s they carried on an animated discussion.
My head snapped back at the sound of the waiter. “I’ve been informed that your guest will not be accompanying you this evening. Do you wish to order?” In other words, either order or leave so I can get a full-meal-eating customer seated at this table. It was Saturday night, after all, and a line of waiting patrons filled the restaurant’s vestibule.
I could feel the eyes of the other patrons boring into my back. My cheeks burned hot as I realized even the waiter’s attitude toward me had shifted. Was that pity or curiosity I saw in his eyes? Perhaps he pitied this poor woman who certainly must have some sort of flaw that her date chose work over enjoying a four-star dinner in her company, or maybe he was just curious to see if I’d stay behind, order the most expensive meal on the menu, and stick it to the louse who abandoned me. While the second option sounded appealing, I ultimately decided that anything I ate would sit on my stomach like a rock. So, I answered with a soft, “No thank you,” placed my folded napkin next to my plate, rose from the table with as much dignity as I could muster, and headed for the exit with my chin high.
I’d gone as far as the front vestibule before it hit me that I didn’t have a ride. I ducked back into the restaurant and asked the maître d’ to phone a cab. Then I returned to the vestibule to wait. And wait. Forty-five minutes later I was still waiting.
“What are you still doing here, Lila?” Franklin asked. He and Damian must have finished their dinner.
“I’m afraid Sean couldn’t make it. I’m waiting on a cab.”
Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4) Page 5
