Jude glanced in my direction and nodded. “I think we can find some time to put our heads together,” he said, winking at me.
“Definitely,” I concurred. This project excited me, and I was eager to focus my attention on book-related tasks, having had my fill of crime fighting.
“I have one final announcement to make before we indulge in our repast,” said Bentley, perching her glasses on her nose and peering at a sheet of paper. “I am thrilled to announce that the construction of the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts is on schedule and it will open in the spring with a huge celebratory event featuring books and food.” She looked up with a smile. “Two things none of us can live without. Famous chefs will prepare items from their cookbooks in front of an audience, and any big-name authors who feature food in their works will be invited. That’s where we come in. Would anyone be willing to volunteer in coordinating this extraordinary event with the Arts Center staff?”
I pictured myself standing beside Rachael Ray, helping her prepare Moroccan spiced lamb with a pistachio and mint couscous, and before I realized what I was doing, I had raised my hand.
“Lila? You have time for this?” At my nod, Bentley quipped, “As long as you’ve given up your unpaid position with the Dunston Police Department, you’ve got the job.”
The rest of the agents burst out laughing and made their way over to the platter of sandwiches. I held back and watched, savoring this moment. These were my coworkers, my friends. I had my dream job, my son was on a good path, and our world was safe once again. Life was good.
I helped myself to a Moriarty panini, smiling a little as I took a bite of tender roast beef and potent horseradish. This was as close as I wanted to come to a shady character ever again.
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AFTER A LONG DAY OF CONTRACT NEGOTIATIONS, PHONE calls to authors and editors, and a meeting with my fellow literary agents, the last thing I expected was to come home to find my kitchen on fire.
I knew something was wrong the moment I opened the front door. The acrid smell of burning meat assaulted my nostrils and clouds of gray smoke plumed from the kitchen into the hall. I heard a man bark out a string of colorful expletives seconds before the downstairs smoke alarm blared.
Dropping my purse and briefcase on the floor, I rushed into the kitchen and took in the chaotic scene.
High flames were rising from a frying pan on the stove top, police officer Sean Griffiths was holding a burning dish towel, and a shower of sparks was spreading over the apron he wore. I quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the pantry, and though I’d never used one of the devices before, I let my instincts guide my hands. Yanking out the metal pin, I aimed the funnel-shaped nozzle and covered my boyfriend, countertops, and stove with a layer of white foam.
“Are you okay?” I shouted to Sean over the shriek of the alarm.
He looked down at the smoldering towel in his hands and nodded. “I think so!”
Now that the flames had been doused I had a chance to really look around my kitchen.
The table had been set for a romantic dinner for two. I glanced from the lit candles, folded linen napkins, and the vase stuffed with bright pink roses, to the handsome man wearing my apron. It was embroidered with the text All Great Chefs Drink While They Cook. Apparently, he had taken the motto to heart. Not only was there an open bottle of red wine on the table, but a cognac bottle had capsized on the counter next to the stove and had emptied its contents onto the cabinets and floor.
I set the extinguisher gently on the table and picked up the bottle of wine positioned next to the roses. Eschewing a glass, I raised the bottle to my lips and took several long swallows. In light of the mayhem in my kitchen, I figured that my less-than-impeccable table manners could be excused just this once.
“I’m so sorry, Lila!” Sean yelled over the alarm and moved to the sink. He dropped the dish towel in the basin, turned the water on, and began to scrub his hands.
I took another swallow, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and opened the back door. Smoke immediately rushed outside. I darted around the first floor of my little cottage, cracking windows and turning on ceiling fans.
Mercifully, the alarm ceased its deafening ringing as I made my way back into the kitchen.
Sean had dumped the dish towel into the garbage can and was now stuffing my ruined apron in there as well.