After a couple of awkward moments between Derek and me, Guy thankfully directs attention his way with a question to the table. I use the diversion to sneak upstairs to the master bathroom and pop two ibuprofen. I sit for a few minutes on the edge of the bathtub, trying to recharge.
Returning downstairs, I cross paths with Nick Emerling in the front hallway, coming, I assume, from the powder room by the kitchen. Was he aware of Kim’s little game-playing tonight? I think she managed to do most of it out of his earshot, but surely he must have her number by now.
“Terrific evening,” he says. He looks, I realize, like he could be a local TV news anchor, with his thick brown hair shellacked into place. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to chat with you more.”
“Same here,” I say. “So we’ll just have to do it again.”
“Next time, our treat, okay?”
Dessert is served moments after Nick and I return to our seats. It’s crème br?lée, with a hint of mango. After the meal tonight, it’s easy to understand why Pure Kitchen is successful. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be eager to ever use them again.
Over coffee, there’s brief talk of the upcoming racing season. Saratoga is home of the legendary thoroughbred race course.
“Speaking of large beasts,” Barb says, “we have a black Lab who needs to be walked. I’m afraid we have to say good night.”
This acts as a cue for the other guests to take their leave. People rise from the table and then cluster for a few moments in the entrance hall, saying good-bye and complimenting Guy and me on the evening. From the dining room comes the sound of dessert dishes being cleared from the table.
Once all the guests have departed, Guy embraces me in a hug.
“I thought that went brilliantly. And you were fantastic, Bryn. Thank you so much for this.”
“I felt it went well, too. And I enjoyed talking to Derek. He’s an interesting guy.”
“I thought it would be nice for you to have someone to chat with besides the donors. Though the wives seemed nice enough. Maybe they’d even be fun to get together with one-on-one at some point?
“Sure.” I don’t say that connecting with Kim again would be about as much fun as bone surgery without anesthesia. Why spoil the mood?
A clanging sound echoes from the kitchen.
“We should tip them,” Guy says.
“All three of them?” I ask. He can’t be serious if he’s talking about a bonus for Eve.
“No, no, just the waiters. The chef has left already anyway. Let me run upstairs and see what’s in my wallet.”
“I’ve got twenties down here in my office. Why don’t I just grab a few of those?”
Guy nods, and leaving him in the front hall, I hurry back to my office. I’d stuffed the cash in my desk drawer after stopping by the ATM earlier.
But when I slide the drawer open, I see to my shock that the money’s gone. I open the drawer a little wider just to be sure, but the eight twenties are definitely missing. And there’s an object in their place, something I wouldn’t have ever stuck in this drawer—a box of kitchen matches. Goose bumps shoot up on the back of my neck.
I lift the box from the drawer. The front is red and blue and gold, with a brazen banner across the front that reads “Strike Anywhere.” It’s not a familiar box, not one I’ve noticed in the house before. What in the world is it doing here?
On instinct, I give the box a shake. Things jiggle inside, but oddly they feel lighter than matches. Taking a breath, I slide open the drawer of the box.
Inside are at least a hundred kitchen matches, but they’ve all been burned down so that each tip, as well as the stick, is black and crispy. They look like rows and rows of tiny, charred bodies.
And wafting from the box is the awful, bitter scent of smoke.
Chapter 5
I drop the box on the desk, scattering many of the matches. Suddenly my body feels hot and my face is flushed. The smell intensifies until my nostrils are overwhelmed with the acrid smell of burning rubber. Something’s on fire.
I spin around and search the room with my eyes. There’s no smoke and no sign of fire. It’s just in my mind, I realize. I grab the edge of the desk for support and take two deep breaths. And then two more.
From my position I have a view across the hall into the kitchen. The older of the two waiters, Conrad, is zipping up his black hoodie, and the younger guy’s perusing a message on his phone, his lips pursed in confusion. One of them, I realize, has taken the cash and left the burnt matches in its place. To mess with my head.
Or maybe Eve herself has done it.
I grab another breath, cross the hall, and step into the kitchen. The younger guy keeps reading, but Conrad glances up. I want to respond to the theft and the matches, but I don’t see how I can make an accusation without knowing who the guilty party is. But maybe he’ll give himself away.
“Good night,” I say coolly, though my pulse is still racing.