“Oh, I’ll win him over eventually. Speaking of winning someone over, you said you thought Mrs. Martoni was sweet on him?”
“He and Mrs. Martoni talked all the time, but Gramps never saw it. Everyone else did, but not him. He was interested in only one thing.”
I let my hand rest in my chin and asked, “What was that?”
“I really think he believed Mrs. Martoni, aka Madam Zoltar, could get in touch with my grandmother on the other side.”
I fought a healthy dose of skepticism again, forcing my eyes not to roll and give away my stance on mediums. Poor Chester.
“Did she try?”
Forrest bobbed his head. “She did, and it brought a comfort to him I can’t explain, but I have to admit I was grateful to her. He never told me what actually happened when she tried to contact Gram, but he came back a different man. Still cranky as all get out, but more at peace, I guess would be the word. I can’t really explain it. Either way, they were friends. She came in all the time for coffee and they’d shoot the breeze. He’d bring her a muffin from time to time.”
My heart ached for Chester Sherwood and his lost love. Sometimes grief made you reach out in the oddest of ways, but it sounded as though his friendship with Madam Z comforted him.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how long has your grandmother been gone?”
Forrest’s smile was fond, but far away. “Two years now. Miss her a lot.”
“Then I’m glad your grandfather had Madam Zoltar for a friend.”
Forrest shook off his reverie and turned to me as he prepared to rise, his eyes sparkling even in the gloom of the day. “So how long are you in town, Stevie?”
“Oh, I’m back for good.” That was the first time I’d acknowledged Paris was never going to be my home again. Which had to be a healthy sign I’d accepted my fate and was moving on—at least for now.
“That’s good to know. Would you grab dinner with me sometime?”
Win groaned in my ear, but I blushed from head to toe. “I’d love to. But I have to run for now. It was great seeing you, Forrest.”
Pushing his chair out, he tilted his well-groomed head toward the counter. “Cup of coffee for the road? My treat.”
My hand went to the knot in my scarf. “I’d love one.”
“I’d love one,” Win repeated, mimicking me. I pictured him rolling his head on his neck and flipping his pretend hair. “Let’s get on with this for bloody sake, Stevie.”
But I flapped him away as I sauntered to the counter on a cloud. Forrest Sherwood had asked me out. Take that, Sandy McNally.
Just as I was hovering on my cloud and bemusing how shocked Sandy would be to find Forrest had asked out the town rebel in black instead of the prettiest high school cheerleader, the door to the coffee shop bounced open, a gust of sharp wind blowing in through the door.
Sandwich filled the store with his sheer bulk. His cheeks were their usual beet red, his shortly cropped hair springing from his scalp. “There you are, Stevie! Been all over town lookin’ for you. I thought you were stayin’ out at the hotel by the cliffs?”
Accepting my coffee from Forrest with a smile, I turned to say, “I was, but my plans changed.”
“Don’t you check your phone?”
“What’s going on, Sandwi—” I paused and looked around the shop, just beginning to fill with the lunch crowd. I remembered his words from yesterday and caught myself. “Um, I mean, Lyn. What’s up?”
He huffed his way toward me, leaving wet size-twelve footprints on the shiny wood flooring. “You’re gonna have to come with me.”
“Now what did I do?”
He leaned in, keeping his voice low, his eyes rounded with pleading. “Don’t make a scene, Stevie, please. Just come with me.”
I moved my finger like a metronome. “Aw, heck no. No can do, old friend. The last time I went with you, I spent an hour swearing on my favorite knock-off Coach bag that I didn’t know anything about what happened to Madam Zoltar. And look where it’s gotten me? Right back here with you in my face. My answers haven’t changed since yesterday. There’s absolutely nothing else I can tell you other than I found Madam Zoltar exactly the way you did, and I had nothing to do with how she died. In fact, how did she die, Sandwich? The local paper called it murder. Is that the verdict? Am I the ‘suspect’ the paper mentioned?”
At that point, my words began to bleed into each other, which only served to frustrate Sandwich. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow.
“The preliminary reports say she was strangled.” Then he blanched. “I’m not supposed to tell you this! Stop talking so fast.”
I gasped. “She was strangled? But what about the hole in her foot?” Instantly, I regretted my reaction, wanting nothing more than to stuff my fist in my big mouth as the lunch crowd turned to stare at me.