Chapter 13
BY THE TIME I WALKED INTO MY HOUSE, LADEN WITH groceries and a bottle of wine, I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was kick off my shoes, turn on the radio in the kitchen, and get the lasagna in the oven so I could indulge in a really hot bubble bath. Just as I dumped the bags on the kitchen counter and wiggled my feet out of my heels, I heard the front door open and Sean called my name.
“In here!” I yelled, putting a jug of milk in the fridge and a quart of lemon gelato in the freezer.
I’d just closed the freezer door when Sean’s arms slid around my waist. “Hi, honey,” he murmured into my neck. I’d seen him outside the wine shop less than two hours ago, but it felt like forever since we’d been alone together.
Swiveling around, I kissed him briefly and then we held each other for a long moment. His body felt strong and solid beneath my hands. “What a day,” I whispered tiredly.
“It’s not over for me, I’m afraid.” Sean stepped back and eyed the groceries on the counter. “I have time for a quick meal and that’s all. Can I help you make supper?”
Smiling, I said, “The last time I let you loose in this room, you started a fire, remember?” Reaching into a cabinet, I pulled out a large pot and handed it to him. “This won’t be fast-food quick, but I can have you refueled in a little over an hour if we work together. You’re in charge of cooking the lasagna noodles. Fill this with water, add a tablespoon of salt and a splash of oil, and then bring to a boil. Add the noodles and cook for ten minutes. Got it?”
Sean clicked his heels together and saluted me. In return, I swatted him with the dishtowel.
“Hey, that’s assaulting an officer!” Trey shouted from the doorway. “I’ll be your witness, Sean.”
Grinning, I tried to flick the towel at my son but he was too swift. He danced out of the way every time, taunting me with silly faces and jibes. Soon, I was laughing too hard to attempt any more attacks. The second I lowered the dishcloth, Trey grabbed me in a bear hug and squeezed me until I cried, “I surrender!”
Releasing me, Trey opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. “I’m starving. Espresso Yourself was insane from the second I got there until Makayla told me I was done for the day. It feels like lunch was a million years ago.”
“If you pitch in, supper will be ready all the faster,” I said and pointed at a plastic bag of field greens. “Grab stuff to fix a salad. Anything you want.”
“You got it.” Trey gathered the field greens, a tomato, a cucumber, and a red onion and carried the vegetables to the sink to be washed.
Sean and Trey fell into an easy conversation about the day while I prepared the white sauce for the lasagna. Gently nudging Sean to one side of the stove, I placed a saucepan on the back burner and brought four cups of milk to a simmer. In a different pan, I melted butter, humming along to a song on the radio as I added flour, the warm milk, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. While I was whisking the mixture until it turned thick and creamy, Trey asked Sean if he’d made any progress with the two murder investigations.
“I can’t tell you much,” Sean said. “We’ve brought Dennis Chapman in for questioning, and he’s been very open and forthcoming thus far. It’s clear that he bore a grudge against Mrs. Patrick, but we still need to gather evidence to prove that he’s our man.”
Trey paused in the middle of chopping an onion and gave Sean an inquisitive look. “Couldn’t he just be playing you? Acting all up-front about hating Klara so that you believe him when he says he didn’t act on his hatred?” He turned back to the cutting board.
Sean nodded and poked the noodles with a fork. They rippled and roiled in the bubbling water like flags in a strong wind. “Most people experience intense dislike for another human being at one point in their lives. But few channel those feelings into acts of violence. Whether Dennis is capable of pre-meditated murder is what I need to discover when I return to the station tonight.”
“How will you do that?” Trey asked with genuine fascination. “Get past his defenses? And his lies? How can you tell what’s the truth and what’s a load of crap?”
“Strangely enough, silence is my best weapon. That, and common courtesy. If I question someone in a respectful manner and then sit back and watch, wait, and listen, the person I’m talking with will often fill the quiet with an answer. It’s not always the one I’m looking for, but every answer brings me closer to the truth. And if I begin with questions I already know the answers to, it’s easier for me to determine if and when a suspect starts lying.” He glanced at his watch. “The process can take hours. All night sometimes. And it’s grueling. For both the interrogator and the person being questioned. That’s why I need one of your mom’s hearty meals. She’ll fortify me for the night to come.”
I smiled at the compliment and asked Trey to pass me the cutting board. He scooped his cucumbers into a large bowl and handed it to me. Working rapidly, I sliced portobello mushroom caps and then sautéed them in a mixture of butter and olive oil.
Sean drained the lasagna noodles and asked Trey what it was like to work with Makayla.
“If I didn’t already have a girlfriend, I’d probably have a huge crush on her,” Trey admitted. “She’s a great boss and is positive and patient all the time. She’s totally awesome.”
I spread some of the white sauce on the bottom of a baking dish and then arranged a layer of noodles on top. I repeated this step, adding mushrooms and grated Parmesan with every other layer, and topped the whole thing off with a generous sprinkling of cheese. After popping the lasagna into the oven, I set the timer and began to unwrap a loaf of fresh Italian bread. “While that’s cooking, I’ll prep the garlic bread. Would someone please pour me a glass of wine?”
“I’ll do it,” Trey offered. As he battled with the corkscrew, he told Sean how Makayla had shown him the bits of poetry left by her secret admirer. Sean listened with interest, rubbing his chin as Trey shared his theory that Makayla’s mystery man was smart, shy, and didn’t see himself as a good-looking guy.
The last statement piqued my curiosity. “What makes you say that?”
“He thinks Makayla’s out of his league. You can tell because he won’t talk to her in person. Or if he does, he just orders his coffee or chats about the weather or whatever. He hasn’t asked her out because he’s too insecure,” Trey explained, handing me a glass of wine. He then offered Sean one, but Sean shook his head and reminded Trey that he would be returning to the station right after supper. Trey shrugged and kept the glass for himself, giving me a sly smile as he took a large sip. “This is good stuff,” he said and took a bigger swallow.
“No refills for you, young man,” I warned. “If it were up to me, you’d still drink milk with every meal.”
Trey rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I think Makayla’s guy isn’t intimidated by her love of books. My guess is that he’s into books, too. And he’s creative. Did you see that cool origami thing he made?” I nodded and Trey continued. “But he doesn’t believe she’ll want to date him, so he’s trying to make her fall in love with him using the words of these poets instead of his own. The thing is, that’s not going to work. Sooner or later, he needs to use his voice.”
“An astute hypothesis,” Sean said. He’d begun to set the table while Trey was talking and now sat down at one end, rubbing his chin in thought. “And have the clues been escalating?”
Trey carried the salad bowl to the table and also took a seat. “Yeah, Makayla said he’s leaving them more frequently. Do you think he’s working up his courage to reveal himself?”
“Maybe.” Sean looked at me. “Has Makayla shown the poems to many people?”
I crushed a garlic clove with the back of a spoon and scooped the pieces into a small bowl. “No. She’s been pretty private about them. I’m surprised she told Trey. On one level, she wants to discover this guy’s identity, but I also think there’s a part of her that doesn’t want the mystery man aspect to come to an end.”
“She told me because she wanted a man’s take on the whole thing.” Trey squared his shoulders and thrust out his chest. “And this manly man thinks her masked poet is basically a good guy. He over-tips, makes Makayla happy, and hasn’t been creepy or weird. Still, I sense that she’s getting a little frustrated. I need to catch this guy in the act and pull him aside and tell him to go for it. Ask the lady out.”
Waving the serrated knife I’d just used to slice the loaf of crusty Italian bread, I scowled. “Unless he’s married. Then you’d better convince him to buy his coffee elsewhere.”
Trey popped a tomato slice in his mouth and nodded. “Don’t worry, Mom. If there’s anything about this guy that I don’t like, I’ll tell him not to go near Makayla again.”
“Good.” Satisfied that my son was looking after my best friend, I put the bread in the oven to toast and joined my men at the table. The wine, conversation, and scent of cooking food had eased all the kinks from my shoulders and I felt relaxed and content. Twenty minutes later, I took the lasagna and the garlic bread out of the oven and served them to Sean and Trey. While we ate, the guys talked about Dunston’s Triple-A baseball team and I thought about how the three of us had prepared tonight’s meal together. Like a well-written novel, we’d blended the ingredients until they created something worthwhile. Something rich and colorful and memorable.
“You’re miles away,” Sean said, putting his hand over mine.
I smiled at him tenderly. “I was thinking of how we worked together in the kitchen tonight. It was smooth and natural and made me feel really happy.” I turned to Trey, including him in my smile. “From there, my thoughts drifted to the celebrity chefs and I began to wonder if they were all still amazed by how it feels to move in synch around a kitchen with the steam rising and water running and the knife blade hitting the cutting board. The sizzle of a hot frying pan, the rush of heat from an open oven, people spinning around each other like dancers.” I paused and suddenly thought of the young man waiting for Sean at the police station. “That’s the life Dennis wants. It’s his dream. Klara denied him his chance. By holding him back and tying him to her, she fostered that hatred inside of him.”
Sean nodded, but I could see from his closed expression that he didn’t want to discuss the case anymore, especially in front of Trey. “Anyway, I can see why they’re so passionate about the profession, and tonight I think we were as good as any of them,” I said with a breeziness I didn’t feel. By speaking Klara’s name after we’d already set the subject of the investigation aside, I’d involuntarily invited a ghost into the room.
Hoping to restore the atmosphere of tranquility and relaxation, I stood and cleared the plates off the table. “There’s lemon gelato for dessert. Who has room?”
Sean got to his feet and carried the lasagna dish to the counter. “Not me.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for supper, Lila. It was exactly what I needed, but I’ve got to go.”
I wanted to throw my arms around him, to whisper that I believed in him and had faith that he’d discover the murderer’s identity soon. I wanted to kiss him with abandon, to let my body convey how much he meant to me. Sometimes words just aren’t enough. But he was already saying goodnight to Trey and moving toward the front door. I followed him and before he could step into the darkness, I grabbed his hand.
Usually, this is when a quote from a famous writer would surface in my mind, but now I couldn’t think of a single one, so I looked him in the eyes and said, “If there is one thing I’m certain of in this world, it’s you. No matter how scary and upsetting things become in this town, I know that you’re here for me. For all of us. That you’re going back to work and that you’ll keep going back until we’re safe again. Thank you, Sean. Thank you for giving me certainty when so many things about life in the last few days have felt as insubstantial as quicksand.”
He pulled me to him and kissed me deeply. I could feel the love and gratitude in his embrace. Then he broke away abruptly, smiling, and caressed my cheek with his palm. “If I can come back tonight, I will. That is, if it’s okay with you. I’m sure you’ll be asleep.”
“I’d prefer to wake with you next to me than alone,” I whispered. “I’ll let Trey know that you have your own key and might come in at any time. I don’t want him down here at three in the morning wielding a baseball bat.”
After one final kiss, Sean jogged down the steps, down the path, and out to his car. I stood on the porch, happy and hopeful, and watched his taillights cut thorough the dark night like a pair of bright red stars.
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INEXPLICABLY, I SLEPT solidly that night and greeted Monday with fresh intentions for a productive week. Waving good-bye to Trey as he headed out into the fresh early morning air, I tightened the belt on my dressing gown. Although the sun was up, the grass was still damp with dew, causing his footsteps to leave imprints in the lawn. I marveled at his maturity. He’d been the first to rise. He set the coffeepot on and before I was even dressed he was out the door to help Makayla open her café.
“Your son has grown into a wonderful young man,” Sean said behind me. He wore his uniform and his hair was still damp from the shower.
“I was just thinking the same thing. Do you have time for breakfast before you go?” I touched his arm.
“Maybe some toast,” he said. “And coffee. It smelled so good when I stepped out of the shower.”
“You smell good, too.” I kissed his smoothly shaved cheek.
While Sean slathered black currant preserves on his bread, I spread peanut butter on mine. I bit into the crunchy rye toast. “So how did the interview with Dennis go?” I asked tentatively, hesitant about disturbing our cozy ambience. Sean hadn’t come to my house until late yesterday evening and we were both too tired to discuss it then. “That is, if you want to tell me.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “That guy is very volatile, and he’s angry with a lot of people. I’m not convinced that he’s the murderer, but he certainly has the personality for violence. And the motive. He told me that he has dreamt many times about killing Klara, and that he’d like to shake the hand of the person who did it. But no matter how we pushed him, he would not admit to having done the deed.” Sean shook his head.
“So you believe Dennis had a motive to kill Klara, but do you think he could be responsible for Joel’s death, too?”
He nodded. “Dennis bore a grudge against him as well. Just like he blamed Ms. Patrick for costing him that job, he also held Mr. Lang responsible. Apparently, their connection goes back to a food competition. Something to do with fish and fruit fusion, and Dennis beat out Mr. Lang. According to Dennis, his win humiliated the Asian fusion chef, and because of that, Mr. Lang would not write him a letter of recommendation. You should have heard him rant, Lila.” Sean squared his shoulders and clenched his fists. Mimicking Dennis’s voice, he bellowed, “‘I told him he could have the damn trophy if he just wrote the damn letter. It’s as if those snobby-assed chefs forget how they started.’”
I recoiled at the intensity with which Sean shouted while marveling over his impersonation of Dennis. “You sound just like him. I can easily imagine him yelling that at you. His interview must have been rough.” Despite Sean’s freshly showered appearance, his eyes were rimmed with dark smudges.
“It was. Dennis Chapman is not a pleasant man. And from what we’ve learned about Mr. Lang, Dennis’s account of his pettiness seemed a bit out of character. Later, when I went through my notes, I discovered that the fish and fruit competition occurred just around the time that Mr. Lang and Mr. Bruneau parted ways, so I imagine that Mr. Lang was emotionally fragile then. Dennis Chapman’s demands and abrasive personality would understandably be too much for him to deal with in that period of his life.”
“And of course, Dennis would take the snub very personally.”
“Yes,” Sean said as he stood and picked up his cap. “And he’s very bitter about it all. He viewed that potential job as his ticket to success and he blames Ms. Patrick and Mr. Lang for his not getting it. His motives for killing both chefs are not to be ignored, but we can’t yet prove that he’s responsible for either of the murders. Still, we’re holding him for the time being.”
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ESPRESSO YOURSELF WAS bustling. All the tables were filled and a line of customers waited to give their orders. As I took my place at the end, I waved at Trey, who was busy restocking and wiping the fixing bar.
“I am so thankful for that boy of yours,” Makayla said when she handed me my latte. “He was such a lifesaver during that madhouse Sunday and since I’ve got a to-do list longer than a rat snake, I went ahead and hired him for the rest of spring break. He’s a damned fine worker.”
Although Trey didn’t respond, it was obvious that he’d heard her comment because his cheeks flushed and he broke into a grin as he scrubbed a pastry tray.
I, too, was smiling as I opened the door to Novel Idea. I began to hum “Walking on Sunshine,” but pulled up short when I saw a girl sitting halfway up the steps leading to the lobby. It was odd to see someone there and I had a quick flash of memory about Marlette Robbins visiting the office day after day, desperate to have someone read his query letter. Did this girl feel unwelcome, too? Before I could ask if I could help her, she stood and spoke.
“Ms. Wilkins, I’ve been waiting for you.” At her full height, she was taller than me, and very thin. Her hair was cropped close to her head. Pale blue jeans encased her long legs like skin and she wore a bright green batik-printed blouse. A silver wire with various stones and crystals hung around her neck, and a large red felted bag hung from her right shoulder.
“Do I know you?” I asked. She had called me by name so somehow she must be acquainted with me, but her face wasn’t familiar.
“We’ve never met, but I see you around town all the time. On your Vespa. In the shops. At the festival this weekend.” Her reply unsettled me. So did the fact that she was blocking my way. I frowned and was about to respond when she continued. “And you would certainly know me through my writing. I’m Zoe Bright. I sent you a query about my novel, The Crystal Color Wheel Witch.”
I wracked my brains, sifting through the titles mentioned in queries that I could recall. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember at the moment. I receive dozens of queries every day. Did you get a response?”
Her eyes darkened. “Just a form letter rejecting me. You didn’t even send it yourself! After I gave you a gift and all.” She fingered the stones around her neck. “I see that you don’t have the necklace on. That crystal pendant is meant to enhance your well-being and you should wear it all the time.”
My uneasiness increased as I recalled finding the gift bag hanging from the handlebars of my Vespa along with the query letter. Her approach seemed creepy then; amid this confrontation it was even more unsettling. Inadvertently, my hand went to my neck, where her necklace would be if I had been inclined to wear it. “It is inappropriate to send a gift with a query,” I said assertively. “The words should speak for themselves.” I tried to soften my tone. “And a rejection letter does not mean that there is no hope for your manuscript. Only that you need to go back and work on it. Improve it before you resubmit it.”
“But it’s already good!” Her eyebrows knit together in anger. “I’m sure if you’d worn the energizing amethyst when you read my synopsis, you wouldn’t have put it in the rejection pile for your secretary to reply to.” She reached into her bag.
I tried to pass her. “Excuse me, Zoe. I need to go upstairs. I’d be happy to read your next query if you send it in the appropriate way, through email or post.” Instead of stepping aside, she thrust a wad of papers at me.
“Please, take it now. Read my query again. And the manuscript. Give my novel a chance. It’s good.” Her eyes flashed hope. And desperation. “I didn’t mean to offend you before.”
I stared at her. “This is not the way we do things. You are making me uncomfortable. Go home and work on your query. Don’t bring your submission in person, but send it to me via the process outlined on our agency’s website. If you do that, I promise to consider your query.”
She pressed her lips together. “Fine.” Shoving the papers back into her bag, she stomped down the steps. I stared after her until she was gone, slamming the door behind her. This was not a great start to my workday.
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THE DAY DID improve, however. I managed to catch up on the pile of queries in my inbox and I offered representation to an author whose joy burst through the phone. At the staff lunch meeting, Franklin reported with relief that the chefs remaining in Inspiration Valley had resigned themselves to staying in town for the time being. Both Bentley and Franklin had been contacted by several enterprising editors probing the idea of one of the chefs penning a tell-all about the weekend. Vicky indicated that she had been fielding calls about the murders all morning from the media, and that the number of email queries in her inbox was double the usual amount. I was thankful that Vicky was around to screen calls and queries; otherwise I would be the one having to cope with the increased interest in our agency. But it felt good to be back on track, doing the work that I loved. My morning encounter with Zoe Bright faded into memory.
I was in the midst of compiling a list of points to negotiate for a publishing contract when there was a knock on my door.
“Mom? Sorry to bother you.” Trey approached my desk, his face alight with excitement.
“You’re no bother, Trey. I like it when you drop by my office.” Noticing that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, I said, “You look as if you have something to tell me.”
He grinned. “I know who Makayla’s secret admirer is.” He held out a five-dollar bill. “This is what he left today.”
I barely glanced at Lincoln’s face before noticing the handwritten lines in small script around the edge. “‘Happiness held is the seed; happiness shared is the flower,’” I read aloud. I looked up at Trey. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize it.”
“The author is unknown, but often the quote’s attributed to John Harrigan.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Naw. I looked it up on Google. Read what’s on the other side.”
I turned the bill over. Written across the top of the Lincoln Memorial was, “Makayla, I wish to share my happiness with you.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s the most personal of all his messages. Do you think he’s ready to reveal himself?”
“He’s definitely getting closer. I saw him during the midmorning rush. Makayla was busy filling an order of two mocha hazelnut macchiatos so she wasn’t paying too much attention at the front. I was in the book corner rearranging the shelves, but keeping an eye on her tip jar. Her admirer had already gotten his coffee, had been to the fixing station, and kept staring at Makayla. When he thought no one was looking he stuck the bill in the jar and hurried out to the street. I rushed right over to the counter and fished it out and voilà!” He pointed at the bill in my hand.
“So who is it?”
He laughed, deliberately stretching out his story. “Guess.”
“I don’t know, Trey. Just tell me.”
“There’s a clue in the message, if you think hard.” He grabbed the bill from my hands and read, “‘I wish to share my happiness with you.’ Who recently received some awesome news?”
Puzzled, I shrugged. The only person who came to mind was my excited joyous author to whom I’d offered representation this morning, and she was female and lived in Virginia. Then I remembered Jay Coleman, on the verge of a potential author’s career. “Jay Coleman?” I asked. “Was it Jay?”
“Mom! You are a detective.” He sat down. “Yes, it was Jay.”
“Really?” I was thrilled beyond measure. No other name could have made me happier. I loved the idea of Makayla being matched up with sweet, gentle Jay. “Does he know that you know?”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, but he will soon. I’m going to the bookstore to encourage him to reveal himself to Makayla.” He scratched his head. “I’m just not sure if I should tell her who her secret admirer is before or after I go see him. What do you think?”
I pondered. Although Makayla wanted to know the identity of her poet, she also enjoyed the game that Jay had set in motion. And Jay, while shy and insecure about approaching Makayla openly, seemed to have a plan. It would be a shame to spoil that. “Don’t say a word to anyone. Let Jay reveal himself in his own way.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” He stood. “But I’m going to strongly encourage him to do it sooner rather than later.”
“Just be gentle with him. People in love can be unpredictable!” I called as Trey headed out on his mission.
Unwittingly, my thoughts turned to Ryan and Klara Patrick. Their relationship had seemed so straightforward, but Klara had fallen in love with Bryce, and they’d been exposed here, in Inspiration Valley. Unexpectedly, all three of them were connected by a tangle of secrets and passion. “Yes,” I said to the stack of papers on my desk. “Love has a tendency to make people more than a little crazy.”