I shifted in my chair and chewed my lip. No one had mentioned anything about Oscar Belmonte. Although maybe I shouldn’t mention anything, either, not until I had something solid—or at least something more than just a feeling. Besides, he hadn’t been around to overhear that detail of Lynn’s murder plot. Hopefully I’d learn something more over lunch at Machiavelli’s. Maybe Bentley’s idea was a good one after all. If we all just kept our eyes and ears open, certainly we’d find out something beneficial to the case.
For the next twenty minutes, I listened as the conversation continued back and forth until everyone had voiced their opinions. As expected, Vicky and Franklin were eager to help in any way possible. Zach seemed ambivalent while Jude professed his reluctance to get involved in police business. And Flora, while usually the first to lend a helping hand, was dead set against any sort of involvement. Too dangerous, she maintained. Not that I could disagree with her—I’d found out the hard way in times past that stepping into police business could be deadly. In the end, however, we all agreed to do what Bentley asked—keep our eyes and ears open and report back with any new findings. After all, it couldn’t hurt to stay alert for the possibilities.
The rest of the meeting was spent finalizing details for the afternoon’s Booked for a Wedding events. Today’s scheduled highlight was a cake display and tasting. Apparently Ms. Lambert and the Southern Belles Bridal people were able to secure over twenty local and statewide bakers to participate in today’s showing. Of course, one of the bakers who had hoped his cake would make an impression on soon-to-be-brides instead had an impression of a dead man’s face smushed into his buttercream creation. I couldn’t help but wonder how that bit of news had been broken to, and taken by, the shopkeeper.
“Cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good.”
“What?” Franklin asked as several heads turned to me.
“Oh, sorry. I was just recalling a verse—”
“From one of Lucy Montgomery’s Anne books, isn’t it?” Flora interrupted, her eyes alight at the familiarity of the quote from the famous children’s book author.
“Yes, actually.” I nodded. “Anne of Green Gables.”
Bentley stared at me over the top of her glasses. “Well, thank you for that tidbit of literary history, Lila; now let’s get back to the present, shall we?”
I nodded and quickly informed them that everything was set for Lynn’s reading from her debut, Wed ’til Dead, later today. Bentley gave a curt nod and proceeded to her final orders for our troupe. I sat back with a sigh; well, at least I hoped, with everything going on, Lynn would still be up to the task. I made a note to meet with her for a practice run prior to her big event. One destroyed cake could be replaced, but the confidence of a new author could be tough enough to shore up, even without all the additional trauma surrounding this event.
After the meeting, I spent the next couple of hours at my desk, reading the proposals that had piled up in my inbox. With the added events of the week and only working half days in the office, I knew I’d fall behind on this task, but I hated to make expectant authors wait. I could just imagine them checking their inboxes, hoping to hear back from me. I let out a long sigh and nestled in for some solid reading.
*
A LITTLE BEFORE eleven thirty, I made my way out to the back lot, where Mama picked me up for our lunch at Machiavelli’s. She was unusually quiet on the way to the restaurant. Probably all the activity and her new responsibility as the Babylonian Fortune-Teller wearing her down. I certainly hoped this wasn’t going to be too much for her.
“Looks like we’ve beat the lunch crowd,” I commented as we scooted into the corner booth at Machiavelli’s. I rubbed my hand across the red and white checkered tablecloth and then fingered the layers of colored wax dripping down the side of an old Italian wine bottle being used as a candle holder. I looked over at my mother. “Are you okay, Mama?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
I eyed her from across the table and shrugged. “You seem quiet. You needed to discuss something with me?”
“I did?”
This was turning out to be a strange conversation. “That’s what you said this morning when you dropped me off at work. That there was something you wanted to tell me at lunch.”
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” She glanced around, nervously it seemed, before leaning across the table. Just as she began, the waitress arrived with the menus and a pitcher of ice water. “Hi, Althea. How are you today?” she asked, filling our glasses.
“Uh . . . fine, Anna. This is my daughter, Lila. Lila, Anna Maria.”
Anna’s eyes lit up. “Your daughter! Then you must be Trey’s mother.” She placed the pitcher on the table and swiped her hand across her apron before holding it out to me. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! I’m Anna Maria Belmonte.”
I took her hand, immediately recognizing her last name and finding it hard to believe that such a cute, young girl could be related in any way to the big buffoon I’d met the day before. “So you must know Trey from school?” I asked, wondering if Trey and this girl had been classmates.