Pop Goes the Murder

by Kristi Abbott

  “How do you do that?” I asked, amazed.

  She smiled. “You need to learn to own your space, Rebecca.”

  “Do you give lessons?”

  She laughed that deep throaty laugh. “Maybe it’ll be my retirement plan. See you tomorrow.” Then she pivoted and walked away.

  Thirteen

  Lucy was waiting for me by the steps of POPS when I arrived the next morning. “What the heck, Rebecca? Antoine is going before the judge again and I hear about it on the news?” She leaned toward me. She did not need Cynthia’s lessons in owning her space.

  I was not in the mood to be menaced by a mousey production assistant, even if she did know how to own her space. “How did you think you would be informed? I don’t think it’s my job to keep you up to date and I seriously doubt that’s high on Cynthia’s priority list, either.”

  Lucy harrumphed. “Well, it would have been nice to have a heads-up. What’s going on, anyway?”

  I unlocked the door and gestured for her to come in. “Have a seat. It’s kind of a long story.”

  When I hit the part of the story where Melanie sold the formula for Antoine’s spice mixes to Sunny Coronado, all the blood drained out of Lucy’s face. “She did what?” she asked in almost a whisper.

  Somehow the whisper was scarier than if she’d started screaming. I knew she didn’t need me to repeat what I’d said so I gave her a moment to let it sink in.

  She shook her head. “Melanie was a classic narcissist. She really thought the world owed her everything she wanted. I’ve known that practically since I started working with her, but I never thought she’d sink to these kinds of depths.”

  “What depths are those?” Dario asked as he came in. He looked from me to Lucy. “Does this have to do with Antoine’s hearing today?”

  I nodded. Lucy gave me a reproachful look. “I should have heard about it before him, Rebecca. If you are going to be Antoine’s eyes and ears . . .”

  “I am not going to be Antoine’s anything, Lucy. As soon as he’s out of prison, he’s out of Grand Lake and then out of my life,” I protested.

  “Sing it, sister,” Dario said, holding out his fist to be bumped. I obliged.

  Lucy nodded. “Good. I’m glad I know where you stand. See you this morning at the hearing?”

  I nodded.

  After she left, Dario asked, “So do I want to know what’s happening or should I wait to hear it on the news?”

  “Intrigue and prevarication on a level that I didn’t think was even possible.” I stood up and put on my apron. People were still going to need coffee and breakfast bars.

  Dario poured himself a cup of coffee and started pouring honey into a bowl. “Do tell.”

  I filled him in.

  “Was there anybody who didn’t want this chick gone?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t seem like it. I’m hoping that there are enough of them that Judge Romero drops the charges against Antoine and he can leave.” And let me get my life back on track.

  * * *

  If anything, the courtroom was even louder than it had been at Antoine’s original hearing. The buzz was higher in pitch and more frantic. Lucy, Brooke and Jason were already in the front row when I arrived. I walked in braced for invectives from the Bunnies. Instead, a weird hush came over their section of the courtroom. I heard the whisper of, “It’s her” spread across the rows. Then one of the Bunnies was thrust out into the aisle by her fellow fans. I flinched away from her. There was a metal detector before you could come into the courtroom. Surely she didn’t have a weapon, but I didn’t feel like I could be too careful.

  “We, uh, want to apologize,” she said.

  I stared at her. “Really?”

  “Yeah. We understand that you’re the one who found the information that might exonerate Antoine.”

  I nodded, not wanting to commit myself to too much with this lunatic.

  “Thank you. Maybe you’re not, you know, as bad as we thought.”

  If I’d ever been damned with faint praise, this was the moment. It was kind of like being told the dress I was wearing wasn’t nearly as unattractive as the one I’d worn the day before. Gotta take what you can get some days, though.

  “Got it,” I said. “By the way, the gifts you left for Antoine were really nice. He appreciated them. I’m not sure he’s been able to communicate that to you.”

  “Gifts?” she asked, head cocked to one side.

  “The magazines. The decks of cards. The shaving cream.” I couldn’t remember what else he had said was in the box.

  “I don’t think that was us. At least not official us,” she said.

  “Well, probably one of you going rogue, then.” I continued down the aisle, shaking my head over the vagaries of Antoine’s fans.

  Judge Romero made his entrance. It was no less regal than the last time. Again, he glared around the courtroom and warned everyone about being held in contempt. Then he banged the gavel and Cynthia and Ron Ramsey popped up like lawyer versions of jacks-in-the-box. Both started talking at once.

  Judge Romero banged his gavel again and they both stopped talking at the same time. “One of you at a time,” he said. He flipped the gavel around and pointed at Ron. “You first.”

  “Your Honor, after consulting with Sheriff Dan Cooper, we feel it would be in everyone’s best interests to dismiss the charges against Mr. Belanger without prejudice,” he said.

  Romero pointed his gavel at Cynthia. “Now you.”

  “Your Honor, the charges should be dismissed with prejudice. Monsieur Belanger deserves to have his name cleared. The district attorney’s decision to dismiss charges at all indicates how very precarious his case is and how very slipshod this investigation was to start.” Cynthia placed her hand on Antoine’s shoulder. “My client is innocent, Judge Romero. You and I know that it is an entirely different animal from not guilty. In the name of justice, please dismiss these charges with prejudice.”

  “Anything more from you?” Romero asked Ron.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Belanger has not been cleared in this case. Until the investigation is complete, he is still under suspicion and he is still the same flight risk he was at our last hearing.”

  Romero rubbed at his beard. I leaned forward, breath held. “Dismissed without prejudice.” He banged his gavel and stood.

  Antoine collapsed backward in his chair and clasped his hands in prayer position while looking at the ceiling. Cameras went wild. The Bunnies went wild. Lucy began to sob.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Antoine stood outside the Sheriff’s Department on the steps, flung his arms wide, leaned back his head and said, “Oh, freedom. There is no marzipan as sweet as you.”

  “Melodramatic much?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “No, chérie. I am not being melodramatic. My emotions are not in excess of what this means.” He straightened up and let his arms drop. “I was fighting for my very life inside those walls.”

  I walked down the stairs, not looking to see if he was following. “I’m pretty sure I was doing most of the fighting,” I muttered under my breath.

  Within seconds, I couldn’t even see Antoine through the crowd of reporters and Bunnies. I got into my car and waited. My phone beeped its text alert. “Good job.” It was from a blocked number. A blocked number like the one that had sent Dan the photo of Jason threatening Melanie. The one that had sent me the “you’re welcome” text when someone had distracted the reporters and Belanger Bunnies away from me.

  Someone was watching. That didn’t make me feel very comfortable.

  Eventually, Antoine shouldered his way through the crowd and got into the passenger seat. Sprocket growled from his spot in the backseat. I snuck him a treat and he settled.

  “Where shall we go first?” Antoine asked. “Your shop or your apartment?”

>   I froze with my keys partway to the ignition. “Neither. I’m taking you to your hotel and dropping you off there.”

  “But I need food,” he protested.

  That was true. He’d lost even more weight despite my bringing him quiche. It had to stop being my problem, though. “Then go get food.”

  He gave me a baleful look. “Where? Tell me, where in this town outside of your kitchens am I to get something edible?”

  “Antoine, this has to not be my problem. Everybody’s already pissed enough at me because of you.” I thumped the steering wheel in frustration. Sprocket stiffened and growled again.

  Antoine jerked back, clearly affronted. “Because of me? Why?”

  I held up one finger. “Dan’s mad at me for interfering in his investigation.” I held up a second finger. “Haley’s mad at me because she’s worried I’ll be too busy with you to be there for Evan when she goes into labor.” I held up a third finger. “Garrett’s pissed at me because, well, because you’re still you and he’s feeling competitive.” I held up a fourth finger. “Faith’s mad at me because she thinks you’re probably spawn of Satan and I’m not avoiding you the way a good ex-wife should.” I dropped my hand. “I could probably come up with more people who are irritated with me because of you, but I think you see my point.”

  He took my hand. “I am sorry, darling. I never meant my presence here in Grand Lake to be anything but good for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  I sighed. “I know. I know you were trying to do me a solid with the promo piece on the shop, but honestly I’m exhausted. Maybe we should can the whole thing.”

  “Never. We have already invested too much time and effort. We will do the piece. It will be amazing. But first, really, I must eat. Your shop or your apartment?” He smiled at me as if his choices were the only logical ones, as if I had already agreed, as if my resistance would be futile.

  Somehow I couldn’t figure out how to argue with him. I sighed. This was how our marriage had gone, too. Somehow he always made the most outlandish things sound totally reasonable. “The shop.”

  * * *

  More than a few people have asked me why I had to go all the way back to the Midwest after Antoine and I split up. Did I really need to run that far?

  The short answer was yes. The longer answer was definitely absolutely positively yes. Our marriage wasn’t a good one. It needed to end. But the troubles didn’t happen in the kitchen or, to go totally TMI, in the bedroom. When it had to do with our senses, taste and touch and scent, sight and sound, Antoine and I were an excellent match. Take us off the kitchen counter or the mattress, disaster struck.

  But here we were again, together in a kitchen, and all those senses took back over. The rhythm we made with each other, moving back and forth, giving each other tastes, appreciating the aroma of what the other was doing. It was like a dance and my heart provided the percussion.

  I didn’t exactly have dinner stuff in the refrigerator at the shop. I kept a few staples around for the nights I worked late and wanted to make myself dinner. It didn’t matter. There wasn’t much that Antoine liked more than throwing together a dinner from unexpected ingredients.

  It took me a minute or two after he started pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator and pantry to see where he was going. I couldn’t help myself. When I did figure it out, I laughed out loud. He was making a shakshuka, a Tunisian dish with a spicy tomato sauce and eggs. As he cooked, I caught him sneaking a few bits of cheese to Sprocket, who accepted them without growling. Damn it. The man was even charming my dog.

  I chopped the bell pepper and crumbled the feta while he sautéed the garlic and tomatoes. “I doubt anyone in Grand Lake even knows that shakshuka is something edible. They probably think it’s something you might catch if you don’t have proper vaccinations when you travel abroad.”

  He held the spoon up to my mouth for me to taste. “It’s a little mild.”

  I took a small taste. “Ohio isn’t exactly known for its spicy chiles.”

  He laughed. “No. Nor its bread. Do you have anything to use for dipping?”

  I looked in the freezer and pulled out a ciabatta. “It’s not challah, but it’ll do, I think.”

  “Indeed.” He turned the dial on the oven.

  The long oak table dominated the center of my kitchen. I did everything there. Food prep. Menu planning. Ordering supplies. Talking to friends. It took up a lot of room, which is probably why at one point while we were cooking, Antoine and I both turned in such a way that we came face-to-face. Like almost-touching face-to-face. Chests pressed against each other, gazes locked on each other, his lavender and yeast scent tickling my nose.

  It was unfortunate that that was the precise moment that Garrett decided to walk in the back door of the kitchen.

  I froze. My face flushed. My mouth went dry. I felt an awful lot like I had when I got caught breaking into the lighthouse to make out back in high school.

  But I wasn’t fifteen and I wasn’t committing a misdemeanor. I was thirty-three years old and I was cooking in my own shop kitchen with my ex-husband.

  Then I remembered how I felt when I’d watched Cynthia straightening Garrett’s tie. There was wrong and right and wrong and right. Why did being a grown-up have to be so damn complicated?

  “Antoine wanted to make dinner before he went back to his hotel,” I said, hearing exactly how lame that sounded.

  Garrett said, “I saw the light on and wanted to make sure you were okay.” His shoulders were stiff.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “I see that. Good night, then.” And he was gone.

  “Damn it.” I dropped the wooden spoon I was holding and ran out into the night after him. I caught up with him at the end of the alley. He must have wanted me to catch up. He has seriously long legs and an ability to use them. I couldn’t believe that it was the second time in a week that I actually ran. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”

  He stopped. “Look. I have no claim on you.”

  “You do, too,” I protested, starting to shiver in the cold night air.

  He shook his head. “Not really. Maybe we should take a little break while you figure things out.”

  “I already figured all of it out,” I insisted, wishing he would put his arms around me for warmth if not for reassurance.

  His jaw stayed hard and he stayed aloof. “It didn’t look like it back there.”

  My cheeks burned again, which at least heated me up a little. “I know, and I know how you must feel.”

  He snorted.

  “No. Seriously. That day that Cynthia was straightening your tie and you were smiling and . . .” I didn’t want to go on. I didn’t want to describe the combination of anger and shame that the whole scene had evoked in me.

  “That made you jealous?” He was smiling now.

  If there was ever a time for honesty, I figured it was now. “Yes. Like green-eyed slasher jealous.”

  “That’s pretty jealous.” He opened his jacket and let me step inside its warmth.

  I spoke into his chest. “I know. So I’m sorry for putting you in that position. Antoine just has this way of . . .”

  “Getting what he wants?” he asked, cutting me off.

  I nodded my head. “Yes.”

  “The problem with that is what he wants is you.” He rested his chin on the top of my head.

  “I know. He won’t get me, though. He can have my shakshuka, but not my heart.”

  Garrett chuckled. I felt the vibrations in my cheek. “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “But I think I like it anyway.”

  * * *

  When I returned to the kitchen, Antoine was sitting at the table eating the shakshuka with Sprocket sitting on his feet. Somehow, my appetite had disappeared. So had the chemistry between us, although Antoine seemed oblivious to that. “Is
everything all right?” He smiled and pushed a plate toward me.

  “Not really.” I sat down across from him.

  “May I help in some way?” he asked, sopping up some of the spicy tomato sauce with the bread.

  “You can go home.” I swirled my fork around in my plate.

  “Alas, I cannot. You heard what your Judge Romero said. I am not allowed to leave quite yet. Plus, we have to finish the segment.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes lost a little of their twinkle.

  “Forget the segment.” I dipped a piece of bread in the sauce and took a bite. Damn it. It was really good. It had a little of the sharp bright edges that characterized Antoine’s cooking and a little of the heat and sweetness of mine. It was a great combination.

  “Pah. Then all this would have been for nothing. Trust me, my production company will not allow that to happen. Too much time and money have already been invested.” He pushed back from the table, his meal only half eaten. “We will go forward and finish the segment and perhaps by the time we finish Sheriff Dan will have found sufficient evidence to arrest Sunny for the murder of my cherished Melanie.”

  “She’s still cherished? Even after she sold your spice secrets? After she stole equipment from the show? After she sexually harassed one of the crew members?” One of Antoine’s great skills was creating his own reality. He figured out what he wanted and then forced his world to conform to those wishes. Even for him, though, painting Melanie as a cherished martyr was a stretch.

  “She also kept my show and my travel schedule running smoothly for five years. That is, as you say, not nothing.” He returned to his plate and finished the last few bites of his food. “I don’t suppose you have any more cheese?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t. What I do have is an early day tomorrow. Let’s get you back to your hotel. I’ll clean this up tomorrow when I get here.”