“TMI, Lyle,” I say, pulling Blake with me out the door. Once we’re outside, I complain, “You know, if Lyle hadn’t gotten sick, we would’ve had a complete visual timeline of everything that occurred last night, except for the actual murder itself. Why can’t things fall easily into place, just once?”
He puts his arm around my waist and gives me a squeeze. “It wouldn’t be nearly as fun to figure out that way.”
“Fun? Did you just say this is fun?”
He merely smiles at me and steers me toward his car.
“You are sick in the head, Blake Morgan. So where’s the next stop on our adventure?”
“The ice cream shop next to the Chronicle office to meet McCool. You said she was stalking the server in the photo last night. Plus she assured me she has ‘exactly the information we need to catch the killer,’ which she couldn’t for some reason divulge over the phone.”
“In other words, Bethany wants to hang out?”
“Pretty much.”
We make the short drive to the town square, park in the Liberty Chronicle lot, and walk next door to the ice cream shop, Revolutionary Sweets. The businesses in the town of Liberty are urged by the town council to have patriotic names, but I think this one’s stretching it a bit. To me, it sounds more futuristic than patriotic, especially because the interior of the shop is modern and sleek.
Bethany is already seated at a table, presumably trying to entice the guy at the table next to her by licking her ice cream cone in a very suggestive way. In reality, it’s just gross. Bethany is not a pretty girl.
When she sees us, she abandons her one-sided foreplay and waves us over. “Hey guys! Last night was the… Best. Party. Ever!”
“Well, it’s nice someone thinks so,” Blake grumbles, sitting down at the table.
I sit as well, scooting close to Bethany so we can speak quietly. “Blake said you have some good info for us.”
“I do!” she squeals much too loudly. I put a finger to my lips to quiet her down. She goes on, whispering, “You remember Bret Howell, my soon-to-be-boyfriend?”
I nod. Blake gives me a questioning look, and I wink at him, hoping he’ll get the hint to just go with it.
He does. He asks her, “Is he one of the catering staff from last night?”
“Yes,” she replies dreamily. “I didn’t get his number, though. Lizzie, did you manage to get it for me like you said you would?”
Blake throws me an amused smile.
“Um, no, sorry. All hell broke loose before I had a chance to speak to the caterer for you,” I reply.
“Oh.” Her lip juts out in a pout, but then a second later her face lights up. “But Blake said you’re going to the catering company today to talk to the staff, right?”
“Right.”
She grabs my arm and hangs on. “Take me with you!”
Blake shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“Please?” she whines. “I’ve always wanted to go on one of your detective missions with you guys.”
Blake and I share an apprehensive look, but at Bethany’s incessant pleading, I cave. “Okay, but you have to help. You’re not just along for the ride. Deal?”
She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes until I can’t breathe. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” After releasing me from her vise grip, she’s all business. “What’s our game plan? Do we need to do a good cop/bad cop thing to get the caterers to talk?”
“No, we are going to be professional and courteous,” Blake says firmly. “I think we should divide and conquer. When I talked to the owner earlier, she said much of the same staff will be working this afternoon getting things ready for another party tonight.”
Bethany claps her hands together. “Oh, this is so exciting!”
“Hey, what was the big news you had for us that you couldn’t talk about over the phone?” I ask.
Her buggy eyes widen, and she whispers, “At the party, the mayor got angry with Bret because he refused to bring him a drink.”
Blake and I both wait for her to reveal the earth-shattering news, but it doesn’t come. She only stares back at us, waiting for a response.
“Is that it?” Blake asks.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “Isn’t that unusual?”
“Not really,” I reply.
Blake is running out of patience, fast. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thankfully, Blake’s Porsche has no back seat, so Bethany has to drive to the catering place separately. She tried to get us to ride with her, but Blake wouldn’t hear of it. Mia Santana, the owner of Mia’s Catering, meets us at the door.
After we shake hands and introduce ourselves, Blake gets right to the point. “Mia, as I told you over the phone, this is a major news story which my colleagues and I are covering for the Liberty Chronicle. Your employees can remain anonymous about what they tell us, but if we happen to put things together and break this case, they may have to give their statements to the police.”
Mia shrugs. “I don’t see a problem with that.” She looks thoughtfully at Blake. “Hey, now that I think about it, didn’t I hear you got arrested last night for the murder? And now you’re investigating it? Seems to me like it could be a conflict of interest.”
Blake Morgan has the innate ability to charm the pants off nearly anyone, especially women, if he decides to do so. He chuckles and nonchalantly waves off Mia’s comment. “That was nothing more than a misunderstanding. The LPD jumped the gun before they had any real evidence. I think they were distraught over the victim being the mayor. They’re under a lot of pressure to close this case fast. Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge now, and I don’t hold any ill feelings toward the police. They were only trying to do their jobs,” he says smoothly.
That’s all total bullshit, because Blake has never been the forgiving and forgetting kind.
Mia totally buys it, though. She nods, saying, “It’s a shame you were wrongfully accused. I wouldn’t want to have to be the one to figure this mess out.” She gestures out into the room, where workers are bustling around cooking and packing up dishes and glassware in crates. “You’re welcome to speak to my staff, as long as you keep it short. We’ve got a party later tonight we’re preparing for.”
“We appreciate all your help, Mia,” says Blake, giving her his best sexy smile and taking her hand to shake it again.
Mia, even though she’s probably old enough to be his mother, blushes. Bethany nudges me, evidently noticing it, too, but I don’t respond.
Taking further advantage of the situation, Blake continues to hold onto Mia’s hand, covering it with his other hand and leaning toward her. He lowers his voice. “I want to tell you, Mia, that I’ve never had such fantastic food. I’m actually happy the party broke up early, because all the leftovers are sitting in my refrigerator at home.”
Mia is beaming. “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart. I can’t imagine anyone would accuse you of murder. You go and talk to my staff. If you need anything, you just ask.”
Classic Blake Morgan. One moment, suspected murderer; the next, wrongfully accused hero. If only we could all be so charming.
Once Mia is out of earshot, he says to Bethany and me, “We need to question everyone in here about when the mayor left the house, if they saw anyone go outside, and if they saw anyone going into my study. Got it?” We nod. “Lizzie, you take the guys. McCool and I will divide up the ladies.”
“What?” Bethany whines. “I came here to get a chance to talk to Bret.”
I know what Blake is doing. Bethany will spend all of her time trying to flirt with the guys and grossing them out instead of doing her job. “Bethany, let me get the business out of the way with Bret. Then once you’re finished with your interviews, you can go over and use your time with him to talk about yourself. Won’t that be better?”
Her eyes bug out. “Yes! Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Blake hides a smile. “That’
s three people for each of us, so our interviews here shouldn’t take long. I’ll also speak to Mia again.”
We split up. I choose the sternest and oldest-looking of the three men in the room, figuring I’ll get him out of the way first. He is hard at work, frowning at the fluffy, white mixture he’s whisking in an enormous bowl.
“Hi, there,” I begin tentatively, hoping he isn’t one of those angry chefs like on TV. “I’m Lizzie Hart from the Liberty Chronicle. My colleagues and I are doing some research on a story, and I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment. What’s your name?”
He flicks his eyes up at me, but just as quickly turns his attention back to his work. He doesn’t respond.
“Um…Mia said it was…you know, okay for us to come around and speak with everyone…” I have none of Blake’s charm skills. Short of flashing the guy some cleavage, I doubt I’ll get him to give me any attention at all.
“I’ve got work to do,” he replies gruffly, setting his bowl aside and striding across the room to the wall of refrigerators.
I trail behind him, wishing I’d worn a button-down shirt I could use to my advantage instead of this demure sweater. “I know you’re busy, but I only need a moment of your time. The food at the party you catered last night was truly out of this world, by the way.”
He stops, his hand halfway into one of the refrigerators. “You liked my food?”
My food? Aren’t there like ten other people working here? Whatever. I’m going with it. “Yes, everything was amazing.” I remember the white fluff he was whisking, most likely some sort of meringue, and notice the carton of whipping cream in his hand. Pastry chef. “Especially the desserts. Tell me, did you make the croquembouche? It was…” I place my hand on his arm and sigh. “Masterful.”
He straightens up to his full height and smiles. “Yes, ma’am. That was my creation. It was unfortunate I had to rework the top of it, but that young man enjoyed it so much, I was more flattered than angry.” He peers at me thoughtfully. “You were there…” His eyes grow wide. “Oh, it was your party! I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll be happy to talk with you. Please, tell me what you want to know. I’m Roger Oakley, by the way.”
It’s not lost on me that being the future Mrs. Blake Morgan has its perks, like the respect Lizzie Hart rarely gets.
“Thanks, Roger. Were you in the kitchen the entire night?”
“Mostly. I took a few dishes out to the buffet table, but for the most part I was in the kitchen.”
“Did you by any chance notice the mayor talking with anyone or leaving the house when you were out of the kitchen?”
“No, ma’am. I get pretty focused when I’m working.”
No shit. “And I don’t suppose you saw anyone going into the study, the room to the right of the front door?”
He stops for a moment to think. “Yes, when I went to use the restroom, I noticed a young woman coming out of the study. She was…” He whistles. “She looked like one of those supermodels. And she seemed very angry.”
The only young women at the party were my friends. None of them had seemed particularly angry, and although they’re beautiful ladies, none of my girlfriends (or I) would be labeled supermodels.
“Could you describe her?”
Roger shrugs. “Tall, rail-thin, dark hair, big lips.”
Son of a bitch. Aubrey. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And when did you see her?”
“Not long before the police came in and shut the party down.”
“What?” I cry. All heads in the room swivel toward me, but thankfully everyone just as quickly goes back to what they were doing. “Sorry, Roger. That’s all the questions I have for now. Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”
“My pleasure. And please tell your friends about your catering experience. We’d love more business like yours.”
My head reeling from what I’d learned, I go on to the next guy and give my perfunctory spiel, ending with, “Did you notice the mayor arguing with anyone or leaving the house?
He gives me a blank look. Total stoner, this one.
“Do you know who the mayor is—I mean, was?”
“Nope.”
I sigh. “Big guy. Old. Might remind you of Colonel Sanders.”
He shakes his head. “I got nothing.”
“Okay, did you see anyone going into the study, the room to the right of the front door?”
“Front door?”
“Seriously? You don’t remember where the front door was from the party you catered last night?”
“Some uptight old lady was big about ‘the help’ not barging in and out the front door. We had to use the back door near the kitchen.” The “uptight old lady” was no doubt Blake’s mother. No one else would call them “the help” to their faces.
I ask, “But were you serving people in the living room? You can see the front door from there.”
He shrugs. “I was kind of in a zone.”
Yeah, a drug-induced one. “And what’s your name?”
“Drew. But my buddies call me Blaze.”
Called that one. “Okay, Blaze, thanks for your time.”
My last stop is with Bret Howell, Bethany’s crush du jour. When I approach him and say, “Bret,” he jumps practically out of his skin.
He looks at me and sighs audibly. “I thought you were that crazy girl,” he whispers, nodding to where Bethany has some poor girl literally backed into a corner, talking her ear off.
I grimace. Maybe bringing Bethany wasn’t such a good idea. I just didn’t want to have to hear her bitch all next week at work about not getting to come with us. “No, but I know she’s planning on trying to speak with you. I’d have a fake phone number ready to give her unless you want to be stalked for the next month.”
“Thanks for the heads up, and thanks for saving me from her last night. What brings you here?”
“We’re writing an article for the Chronicle about the murder last night and want to get first-hand information from the staff. You mingled with the crowd, so we were hoping maybe you’d seen or heard something.”
He chuckles. “All I heard was your friend yakking in my ear.”
“Right. She can be a little much sometimes. How about the mayor? Did you have any interactions with him?”
“Yeah, he was tanked, and I think I was the only one stupid enough to try to cut him off. Evidently you don’t cut off the mayor, a fact he made very clear to me. I tried to avoid him the rest of the night.”
“When did this happen?”
“Early. A little before you and I met. The guy either showed up to the party already drunk or slammed a bunch of shots the minute he walked in the door.”
I nod. “What about later? Did you see him or anyone else go outside, maybe out by the pool?”
“I saw you go outside.”
“Besides me.”
Bret shakes his head. “No.”
“How about the study, the room by the front door? Did you see anyone coming or going from that room?”
“No, sorry. I feel like I’m not helping you much.”
I smile. “It’s okay. Thanks for talking with me.”
I go outside, hoping to clear my head. So not only did Aubrey (and Luke, I assume) not leave when I told them to, but she was also poking around in Blake’s office, maybe even disposing of a murder weapon, perhaps? Blake will never go for my theory, but I’m more than ready to nail her stuck-up ass to the wall. I only hope he and Bethany can glean more info than I did.
Blake comes outside a few moments later looking much more encouraged than I feel. “Did you make any headway?”
I shake my head. “Not really.” At least not any he was going to like.
“I think I got a decent lead. One of the servers supposedly twisted his ankle and ended up going home early. Mia said she fell for it last night but then saw him out jogging this morning, so she started wondering if he’d lied about the injury.”
“Leaving
the party early is kind of a red flag, if you ask me. Has she said anything to the police about it?”
“No, I convinced her to wait until we had a chance to talk with him. He’s scheduled to work the party they’re catering tonight, so I thought we might drop by.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Drop by a party we’re not invited to? I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘crash.’ ”
He chuckles and looks at his watch. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. But if we can’t pry McCool away from her guy, we’re not going to have time to crash a party tonight. We’ve got a lot more stops to make.”
“I’ll get her.”
I go back inside the building and scan the room for Bethany. She’s following poor Bret around like a puppy dog. He’s rushing back and forth from the prep table to the stove. It looks like he’s got a couple of large sauté pans going, and they’re filled with vegetables. Bethany is talking a mile a minute and gesturing wildly with her hands. She grabs Bret’s right arm, the one he’s currently using to flip the veggies in one of the pans, and yanks hard. He curses loudly as the contents of the pan fly up in the air, coming back down to land on the gas cooktop. With a whoosh, the burner flames up, causing a small stovetop fire. Bethany panics and grabs the first thing she can get her hands on, a large bowl filled with some kind of sauce. She tosses the liquid toward the waning flame, but in true Bethany fashion instead manages to splatter nearly all of the red sauce onto Bret’s shirt. Now Bret’s pissed and dripping wet.
He finally explodes, “Just get out!”
Bethany’s chin begins to quiver. She murmurs, “I’m sorry,” and apologetically hands him the bowl, shuffling my way with her head down.
A year ago, I would have been on the floor laughing at her misfortune. Today, I put my arm around her and steer her outside, consoling her and telling her it was a freak accident that could have happened to anyone.
“Well, what did you find out?” demands Blake.
Bethany is still sniffling a little, so I jump in. “I found out a whole lot of nothing, except that your brother and his date didn’t leave the party when I thought they did. Aubrey was seen coming out of your study right about the same time we were finding the mayor’s body. That’s certainly a coincidence.”
My Funny Valentine Page 5
