Out of the Frying Pan
Page 5
“What’s that?” Jamie asked, but he was looking past me, and his face changed to something like relief, which I didn’t understand when I saw the reason.
A woman walking up from the parking lot. She wore dark blue Wrangler jeans, a red plaid shirt, and a straw cowboy hat over shoulder-length black hair. She staggered up to us in shiny red cowboy boots that were so new the toes didn’t have a single scuff or wine splotch on them. She put her hand on Jamie’s arm and kissed his cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “My flight was late, then the cab was late picking me up, and traffic out here was horrid.”
I waited for Jamie to explain this cupcake, but he was smiling at her, his left dimple making a rare showing. “It’s the Cats and Bats,” he said. “I just arrived myself.”
“The what?” she asked. Her manner of enunciating each letter would scrape a linguist’s nerves.
“Austin Cat Fancier’s show,” I said. “They let the bats fly around to keep the cats entertained.”
Jamie chastised me with his eyes, then explained, “It’s a cat show that also benefits bat conservation.”
“All that gridlock for flying rodents?”
She didn’t have an accent so much as an affectation, like she attended an exclusive East Coast women’s college that handed out master’s degrees in the Fine Art of Pretension.
I extended my hand. “I’m Poppy Markham. And you are?”
She blinked a couple of times as if the question were too hard, then said, “What is all over your face?”
“I’ve been making out with a cactus,” I said.
She winced, then shook my fingertips. “Mindy Cotton.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” I said, still waiting for Jamie to explain her. Had he acquired her while on tour in Minnesota or some other state where they think all Texas females dress like Pam Ewing on Dallas?
“Mindy produces the Foodie’s Taste show,” Jamie said with a disgusting amount of pride. “She’s been working on a special project for the magazine and decided to film a Foodie’s Taste of Austin.”
“And you’re the foodie?” I said.
“Where is the ladies’ room?” Mindy asked. “I would love to fresh-en up.”
I pointed at a hive of women. “Down the walkway, then make a right. It’s behind the washing shed.” She thanked me then walked toward the group, swinging a blingy silver purse. Jeez. Like Pam Ewing ever carried one of those.
“When did you become a Southern belle?” Jamie asked. “‘Charmed, I’m sure.’”
“It’s called being polite,” I said. “How long will Miss Cotton be camping in our fair city?”
“The show films for a week, so she’ll stay through next weekend.”
“Where’s her film crew?” I asked. “Or are her new red boots her secret super power to doing it all?”
Jamie smiled and shook his head at my jealousy. “They’re arriving tomorrow. I invited her to meet me out here so I could introduce her around and we can make a game plan for filming.”
“Are you going to take her to Markham’s?” I asked.
“Take who to Markham’s?” Drew said, coming up behind us.
Jamie gave me an angry, wounded look, then said, “Cooper.”
“Sherwood,” Drew replied.
Except for their six-one height, physically, Jamie is completely different from Drew. Jamie has coppery brown eyes, high cheekbones, smooth pale skin, and a muscular, but slender build. I’d had reservations about dating such a beautiful man, and they quickly sprang to life in Technicolor detail. The amount of aggressive female attention Jamie attracts, even when he’s with me, would test the patience of a blind woman with dementia.
Drew has a solid physique, black hair that he keeps military short with regular trips to a barber, and a strong, honest face. He’s the type of man who grows more attractive as you get to know him. I don’t have to worry that random girls will keep pen manufacturers in business writing down their phone numbers on cocktail napkins.
“Mindy Cotton,” I said, answering Drew’s question. “She’s the producer of A Foodie’s Taste. They’re filming in Austin.”
“That’s one of my favorite shows,” Drew said to me. “Markham’s would be honored.”
Jamie didn’t respond, and I knew he hadn’t decided if helping my family’s restaurant would be worth helping Drew, too.
“Is there any wine left?” I asked Drew.
He nodded. “I’ve had a glass of Opus One waiting for you at the table for twenty minutes.”
A full glass? How did he manage that? Opus One was one of the wines Randy poured only a taste of. “Will it wait a few more minutes?” I asked.
“I’ll check,” he said, gallantly releasing me from the Pythagorean theorem I was caught up in.
After Drew left, Jamie said, “I hear you two have been having fun in my absence.”
Apparently, I wasn’t his only eyes and ears in Austin. “We’ve been hanging out.”
“Well, I’m here now, so you can stop.”
It was unlike Jamie to be so decisively bold, and it rather startled me. “I’m not sure I want to,” I said.
Jamie took my hand. “I’m sure enough for both of us. I came back as soon as I heard about you two.”
I felt flattered by that grand romantic gesture, except, “Why did you bring along Mindy Cotillion?”
“I didn’t bring her,” he said. “When I told her I wasn’t going to Europe, she asked if she could come down and film the show.”
“Is that all she wants?” I asked. “Because she kissed you hello.”
“That’s how she is. It’s nothing.”
“Like your fling was nothing?”
Jamie exhaled hard, then appeared to reconsider what I assumed would be another dismissal of that night that broke my trust and all but ruined our relationship. He drew me to him and kissed my hair. “I can’t undo that night, so all we can do is move forward.” He held me at arm’s length and looked into my eyes. “I love you, Poppycakes, and I miss you in my life.”
“I know, but let’s not do this tonight, okay?” I said. “I’m here with Drew.”
Jamie nodded in a way that meant he didn’t like what he heard, then left for the Field.
I returned to the privacy of the storage pantry to call Mitch and tell him about Dana, but before I redialed my father’s number, Randy Dove blew in.
“Inspector Poppy,” he said, sounding more sober than I thought he should after a couple of hours of pity-party wine drinking. He looked behind me at the shelves. “I need a wrench,” he said. “Loose wheel on my cooler.”
I moved aside, but stayed close. The storage pantry was the only buffered zone that let me see faces—most importantly those of Drew, Jamie, Mindy, Nina, and Ursula—and have a quiet phone conversation, and I didn’t want to lose it.
He looked at me, then leaned away. “Are the measles making a comeback?”
“I hope not,” I said, and meant it. A city-wide outbreak would bring the health department to its knees. “Are you feeling better?”
“I’m dandy. Dandy Randy Dove.” He laughed. “But I hear Dana’s not doing so good.”
I didn’t want to assume what he had heard, so I threw out some bait. “Well, she wasn’t too happy after you sent that bottle—correction, sent Colin Harris to deliver that bottle—of champagne. It really upset her.”
“Good,” Randy said. “She deserves it after trying to ruin me and firing Colin.”
“Fired? I thought Colin—” Randy tilted his head as if waiting for me to either praise Colin or diss Dana. “—will make a fine sales rep.”
“No, he won’t. But that’s not why I hired him.” Randy picked up a pair of needle-nose pliers from their nail on the wall. “These’ll do,” he said, then left.
Dana’s cooks had told me Colin quit, but Randy though
t Colin had been fired? One of them had bad information, but had it come from Dana or from Colin? Colin could have quit but told Randy that Dana fired him. For what reason though? To get a job with him? And Dana could have fired Colin, but told everyone he quit. That made more sense. If Colin was beloved among their employees, she would look like The Donald for firing him. And if Colin was that upset with her, he couldn’t have exacted a more perfect revenge than to go to work for her arch-enemy.
Jamie needed to know about this new twist. I flipped open my phone to call him, hit Send, then immediately hit End when Mike Glass stepped into the storage pantry.
“Sorry,” he said. “I figured this was a quiet place to make a phone call.” His bulk made the room seem smaller. “I see you had the same idea. We both had the same idea.” He peered at my mouth. “Is that a bee sting? I’m allergic to those.”
“It’s a non-communicable strain of buccal measles,” I said, then before he figured out I had made that up, I said, “Sorry y’all lost the election. You did a good job as vice president.”
“We were counting on another year,” Mike said. “Who did you vote for? Because everyone I’ve talked to said they voted for Randy. Did you vote for Randy?”
“I didn’t have a chance to vote this year.”
Well, I did have a chance. Several chances, in fact. The election had been elevated to The Topic the week before, and I’d had the best intentions of getting my ballot in the mail, but other things captured my time—a stakeout at a butcher shop reportedly selling pig eyeballs to Santería practitioners, and making an in-person protest of the ludicrously high tax value of my house with the county appraisal district. I would have marked my X for Dana.
“Randy’s going to ask Perry for a recount,” Mike said, “and I think that’s a good idea. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
“Checks and balances is always a good idea,” I said. Mike hadn’t mentioned Dana, but I wanted her name to come up. Dana’s win meant his loss in this election, too, which was another story I could hand to Jamie. “Did you hear about Dana?” I asked.
“That she tried to make Randy choke? I think that’s a terrible thing to do. Don’t you think that’s terrible? I saved him. Did you see I saved him?”
“You’re a hero, Mike.” I decided that Mike Glass was too dumb to be the subject of an article on Jamie’s website. “The parking lot might be a good place to make your phone call,” I suggested.
After he left, I pressed Redial, then had to hit End when Perry came around the corner. “Whatcha doing?” he asked.
“Trying to make a phone call,” I said. “It was either here or the chicken coop.”
He frowned and pointed to my mouth. “Is that contagious?”
“No,” I said. “Am I in your way?”
“Nah. Just making the rounds. Tomorrow’s a pickup day, and I don’t want my interns dealing with a sink full of vomit like they did last year after the dinner.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea to tell that to a health inspector?” I said.
“Tell what to a health inspector?” He winked. “Going to put the chickens to bed.”
I stepped out of the shed to see who else was on their way to interrupt me and saw Megan coming from the office. I thought she would continue on to the party, but she came into the washing shed with her face down, so she didn’t see me.
“Hi, Megan,” I said.
She reared back and brought her hand to her heart. “What are you doing out here?” Her tone was scolding, and she caught herself. “You should be enjoying the party,” she said more gently.
“I’m taking a breather,” I said.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked in her concerned-mom voice.
“I’m a little hungry, but yeah, I’m okay.”
“No, your face is blotchy.”
“It’s a sunburn, I think.”
I thought she would mention that I hadn’t had a sunburn a couple of hours ago, but she said, “Thank you for helping tonight.”
“Happy to do it,” I said. “Do you know if Dana is okay?”
“We haven’t heard,” she said, “but I should call and find out.”
“Mom!” I heard someone call as she walked toward the office. I looked out and saw Brandon hurrying through the archway. “Mom!”
I waited for him to pass before I dialed Jamie again. On the first ring, however, Cory loped into the washing shed, so I closed my phone. Pretty soon, Jamie was going to come and investigate me and all of my hangups.
“Hey, Core. I haven’t seen you all night.”
“I … uh … what are you doing back here?”
“Trying to make a phone call,” I said. “You’d think the party had been relocated the way people keep popping in.”
“Like who?” he asked.
“Everyone in your family for starters.”
“Were they looking for me?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “Was that you I heard arguing in here with your dad while dinner was being served?”
He shook his head. “I made up a couple more boxes, then Uncle Ian called me to help him with the fence. Probably Brandon.” He examined the shelves behind me.
I moved aside. “Did you want something from here?”
“I thought I left my phone on the shelf. Have you heard it ring?”
“No, but I can call it for you.”
He looked at the archway and saw Bjorn intent on one of us. “I think I left it in the office,” Cory said.
Bjorn had been smiling like a bounty hunter, but his face hardened when the youngest Vaughn escaped to the office. Bjorn stopped when he saw me. “That kid,” he said. “Impossible to pin down.”
“What do you need him for?”
“What do you care?”
Well, that just got him this: “Does it have anything to do with you quitting the farm to work for Dana White?”
Bjorn rolled his eyes. “I told you—” He stopped and grimaced at my mouth. “That’s disgusting.”
“Bjorn!” Kevin called, stepping out of the kitchen.
“Oh, great,” Bjorn said, then hurried toward the Field.
I didn’t want to talk to Kevi either, so I slipped into the storage pantry and waited for him to pass, except he didn’t, and I found myself being asked, yet again, “What are you doing here?”
“Wondering if humans can get hoof-and-mouth disease,” I said. “You?”
“I was … never mind.”
He about-faced and huffed off, and I followed a couple of steps behind him, curious to see whether Kevin snared Bjorn or Bjorn snared Cory, but my eyes landed on Drew walking toward me, and, more specifically, the full glass of wine in his hand.
“Is that for me?” I asked.
“Yes, but first tell me what’s wrong.”
I covered my mouth. “It’s nothing.”
He pulled me to him. “No, it’s in your eyes. Did Sherwood upset you?”
“I’m worried about Mitch. Nina said he isn’t coming because he doesn’t like to drive in the dark,” I said into his warm chest. “Do you know anything about that?” Before Drew answered, my phone vibrated in my hand and I checked it behind his back. Jamie. I withdrew from his embrace and said, “I have to take this.”
“I found out where Dana is,” Jamie said when I answered. “I’m coming out of the Field.”
I looked at the archway. “I see you.”
“Meet me in the parking lot.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, but he had hung up.
I watched Jamie stride down the plywood, his eyes as serious as a runway model’s, oblivious to the hopeful smiles and sighs of the female Friends on their return trip from the bathroom. Drew watched him, too, a heavy strain on his face. He offered the glass of wine to me, but before I took it, Jamie seized my hand.
When we reached the first row of cars, Jamie stopped and faced me. “It’s not good,” he said.
“You were so rude back there!” I said, wiggling the fingers he had crushed. “Is Dana at St. David’s?”
“Poppy—”
“Can she have visitors? I have tomorrow off and—”
“Poppy!”
“Pipe down. I’m right here.”
“Dana’s at the morgue.”
Eight
Jamie let me sit quietly for a moment to process that idea, but it didn’t make sense. “No. She’s alive,” I said. “I kept her alive.”
“I talked to a dispatcher I know. Dana died on the way to the hospital.”
“What else did they say? Was it foul play?”
He rolled his eyes. “Not every dead person is taken out by foul play.”
“Why all the grouch?”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Dana was a friend.”
I touched his arm. “To a lot of us.”
“They’re going to do an autopsy,” Jamie said, “but it was probably another heart attack.”
“She was fine earlier,” I said. “Better than fine. Radiant.”
Jamie shrugged. “This was an emotional night for her—winning the Friends election, arguing with Bjorn and Dove. It makes sense.”
A reasonable explanation, but I couldn’t quite accept it. Running a kitchen is a high-stress endeavor. Chefs toggle between high and low emotions every day, sometimes minute-to-minute, and Dana had been through much worse. Plus, there were the strange welts on my face and knees that came from Dana and had yet to be explained.
“Are you okay?” Jamie asked.
“I’m thinking about Mitch,” I said. “He’s known Dana and Herb a long time.”
“Isn’t he here?” Jamie said.