She bent to her computer screen and immersed herself in the labor … for fifteen minutes. Until her stomach growled so loudly she wanted to tell it to hush up—or feed it. Without the incentive of annoying Nauplius, self-denial wasn’t nearly as much fun.
Another fifteen minutes, and she began to realize socializing might not be all bad. She didn’t like it, but she knew how. Phoebe truly was a fabulous cook; the breakfasts Merida had grabbed in passing proved that. Maybe just this once …
She shut her laptop. What to do with it? She didn’t want to take it upstairs and put it into the safe. Not with Susie watching. Opening the mirrored doors on the old-fashioned cupboard, she slid it into the bottom drawer underneath a stack of ironed tablecloths. She shut the drawer, shut the cupboard and looked around to make sure she was unobserved. She opened the door into the entry, heard the clatter of silverware, shut the door. No use locking it. Not with Susie inside. She had to assume no one was going to bother with a stack of tablecloths.
She tiptoed toward the open door of the parlor, toward the murmur of voices and the clatter of silverware. She peeked around the corner …
The sideboard sported a fabulous buffet. An arrangement of charcuterie, cheeses and breads was laid out on an olive wood platter. Candles flickered beneath a chafing dish. Champagne rested on ice in silver buckets. The smells tantalized and enticed.
A quick sweep of the guests relieved her mind. She saw a young couple, possibly honeymooners, snuggling on the old-fashioned love seat. Four men in various degrees of casual touristy garb stood around the mantel, eating off crystal plates and watching a soccer game on someone’s computer tablet.
She saw no sign of the rotund Dawkins Cipre and his skinny scholar of a wife.
Still, so many people … so many explanations about her own inability to speak. So many difficult social niceties …
The thing that overcame Merida’s last scrap of reluctance was Phoebe, sitting forlorn in the corner by the sideboard. The vibrant woman had prepared this lovely repast, yet she had been unable to coerce her guests into visiting.
Very well. Merida would visit.
Stepping in, she walked over to Phoebe and touched her hand, and when Phoebe looked up, she smiled and gestured at the buffet.
At once Phoebe came to her feet. “Merida, I’m so glad you joined us. We are having such a convivial time! This week the country I’m honoring is France. Everything is prepared with butter and cheese. I hope you’re not worried about your cholesterol!” She laughed merrily.
Merida smiled and patted her fingers to her lips like someone using a napkin.
“Of course not. You’re young and thin. You can eat anything.” Phoebe led her to the buffet. “Let me take you on a tour. We have salade ni?oise—the tuna is fresh off the boat! I prepared a simple quiche—eggs and chèvre in a pastry shell with bacon and spinach. I have a bowl of sour cream as a side. It’s not traditional, but I think that tang improves the dish, n’est-ce pas?”
Merida nodded, but noted in a panic that at the mantel, male heads swiveled. She looked away.
“Make sure you try some of my cassoulet au canard. When I was in college in France, I learned from the best.” Phoebe didn’t seem to trust that Merida would properly serve herself, for she took a plate and dished up generous portions. “Here I have pommes frites. French fries, of course, but does it get any better than deep-fried potatoes?”
Merida glanced back at the men. Damn! One of them was Officer Sean Weston, the patrolman at the roadblock who had so clumsily made a pass at her. No, no, no. She did not want to do this.
She started to back away.
Phoebe handed her the plate and silverware wrapped in a linen napkin, tore off a crusty chunk of baguette. “Look at the desserts I’ve prepared. Napoleons, cream puffs, éclairs with homemade custard and, the pièce de résistance—crème br?lée.” She clicked her miniature blowtorch. “I’m ready to caramelize the sugar whenever you’re ready. I won’t judge if you eat dessert first. Think of all the women on the Titanic who worried about their waistlines!”
Phoebe made a powerful argument for self-indulgence.
And Merida had lingered too long.
Officer Sean Weston stood beside her. “I was hoping to see you here tonight. How are you?”
Merida ate a bite of the glorious, garlicky cassoulet and realized this was worth whatever price she had to pay. She nodded at Sean, seated herself in a hard-cushioned antique chair, and went to work on the quiche. And the sour cream. As she ate, she liked Phoebe more and more.
Sean dragged up a chair and sat, elbows on his knees, leaning close. “I’m afraid I made you mad yesterday. Listen, I adore the sheriff. She’s smart and she’s tough. She let me guard her last night, so you know she trusts me.”
Phoebe said, “Officer Weston, Merida needs a glass of champagne!”
He looked startled, leaped to his feet and said, “Yes, ma’am!” and dove for the crystal flutes.
In a distressed voice, Phoebe murmured, “He wanted to come to dinner, I was afraid no one would be here to enjoy all this food, I said yes, I didn’t discover until afterward he was interested in pursuing you. I’m sorry, Miss Falcon.”
Merida patted her hand.
“Thank you, Merida. You are such a wonderful woman. I knew it! A kindred spirit.”
Then Phoebe, the traitor, faded away, leaving Sean hovering with a glass of champagne.
Merida took it with a nod of thanks.
Sean seated himself again. “Merida, do you know why I guarded the sheriff last night?”
Why no. She didn’t.
“Yesterday someone broke into her apartment. She moved to her friend’s house—Rainbow, who was shot when Sheriff Kwinault was shot—and the sheriff slept there. I protected her.”
Merida moved to sign language, trusting that she would be comprehended. “Who broke into her apartment?”
Sean got it. “We don’t know. We think it’s John Terrance, the drug dealer we’re pursuing. But … no fingerprints.”
Merida had spent the last year looking over her shoulder, fearing to see the paparazzi on her trail, or Nauplius Brassard’s children or some specter of her past … it had never occurred to her someone else could be in danger. That her friend Kateri Kwinault could also be looking over her shoulder. Maybe Dawkins and Elsa Cipre were not as bad as she feared. Maybe she needed to think about someone else for a change.
She glanced toward the other men by the mantel. One stood intently watching her and Sean. Intently, coolly, menacingly.
No. No. This wasn’t possible.
Benedict Howard. In the flesh.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The meeting with Kateri had gone so well.
The meeting with the Cipres had been so unfortunate.
This meeting with Benedict was so disastrous.
Maybe that was why Merida lost her temper. Lost her temper in a way she hadn’t since college.
She flew at Benedict. Standing toe to toe, with emphatic gestures she signed, “What are you doing here? Why are you here?”