“Between the mayor and his twice-daily updates along with the new red tape the suits have to adhere to, it’s giving me a headache. And it looks bad to my staff that I’ve been taken off the case.” He holds a palm out to take Cooper’s leash, so I hand it over. As usual, my dog falls right in line.
“I think out of everyone in town, your staff understands the most that we don’t have the same resources that they have in San Francisco. This is a complicated murder case including a banned substance that has been transported over state lines. No one will think less of you.”
Dylan nods but remains silent.
I want to cheer him up, and he loves trivia, so I say, “I learned something interesting today about why Samuel Clemens picked Mark Twain for his pen name.”
Dylan glances my way. “Because Mark Twain is what they used to call out on the boats on the Mississippi to indicate they had twelve feet of water?”
“Right.” He never was fun to play trivia with. He’s tough to beat. And I hate to lose. “I was being easy on you, though, seeing how you’ve had a bad day. How about this—who’s sold more books, Agatha Christie or J. K. Rowling?”
Dylan thinks for a moment before he says, “My first thought was J. K. because those Harry Potter books sold like wildfire, but then Agatha Christie’s books have been around a lot longer. Agatha Christie.”
Really? I thought I’d get him on that one for sure. I just read that statistic in my trade pubs. Yesterday. “You’re right. It’s estimated that Christie has sold four billion to Rowling’s five hundred million. How about this one? Who is the most annoying person to play trivia with?”
Dylan laughs “You. Because you’re a sore loser.”
“Nope. You. Because you’re so smug when you’re right.”
Dylan is still grinning as we walk up my front steps and I unlock the door. He says, “There’s no one else I love more to beat at trivia than you. May I look around before I leave you to your date?”
I’m ignoring the date part. “Yes, please. However, technically, you didn’t beat me because I knew the answers to all the questions too.” I send him my own version of a smug smile and then drop the plans in the hallway before I unhook Cooper’s leash. My prancing dog knows it’s his dinnertime, so we head down the hall to the kitchen to feed him.
I open the pantry and grab his bag of food from the floor. When I stand up, my gut tells me something is wrong, so I study the pantry closer. My spices are mixed up. Call me a little OCD, but I always alphabetize them. And three are out of order. I quickly fix them and chalk it up to my recent distractions before I see some of my cans, which I also alphabetize, are wrong too. Maybe having Dylan on my couch will be a good thing after all. I haven’t slept much since the murder.
Shaking my head, I close the pantry and pour out Cooper’s food. While he digs in with the same enthusiasm as Dylan eats, I grab Coop’s other bowl and fill it with water at the kitchen sink. As I wait for the bowl to fill, I notice the plant that sits in the windowsill is backward. I always place the decorative daisy on the clay vase toward me because daisies remind me of my mom.
A big hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump a foot into the air as I lunge for the knife block. I’m not going down without a fight.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” Dylan’s voice in my ear calms my racing heart.
“Oh. It’s just you.” I let go of the knife I was about to pull from the wood and turn around. “Some of my things are out of place. I don’t know if it’s because I’m overtired and I’ve been careless, or if someone has been in here.” I quickly show him the cans and spices I rearranged.
Dylan’s forehead scrunches with concern. “Nothing’s ever out of place in one of your kitchens.” He heads for the back door and examines it. Then he jogs to the front and does the same. After he’s tested all the downstairs windows, he says, “No signs of forced entry. Does anyone else have a key?”
“No. Ed left me three sets just as I asked him to. I have all three.”
Dylan rubs a set of knuckles against his five-o’clock shadow as he considers. “Let’s look around some more. Don’t touch anything that’s out of order this time, please.”
Dylan reaches into the back pocket of his uniform pants and produces a pair of latex gloves. “Let’s start with your precious pots and pans always neatly nestled so properly.”
“Hey. Chaos in the kitchen spills over into the food prepared there. Neatness brings order and peace with a side of Zen.”
“Okay, Gandhi. Whatever you say.” Dylan opens the cabinet next to the stove. “My food tastes just fine no matter how my pans are stacked.”
“Says the guy who can burn water.” All my pots and pans are stacked nice and neat. Just as I left them. “These all look perfect.”
Dylan shakes his head, and then we repeat this process with all the cabinets until we’ve checked the whole kitchen. Everything else looks fine.
Drawing in a deep breath, I say, “Maybe it’s just sleeplessness and stress. Thanks for looking around for me, or I’d be freaking out right now.”
Dylan is chewing his lower lip and nodding at the same time. “I’ll be back with some gear about eight.”
“What kind of gear?” I’m picturing all sorts of tactical gear like he used in the army.
“Cameras mostly. And my pj’s, of course.” He forces a smile. “Does this gig come with breakfast?”
A knock sounds on the front door. “We’ll see. Gage is here. Be nice and I might be persuaded to make you an omelet in the morning.” I poke Dylan’s big shoulders to get him moving down the hallway.
“Deal.” He pulls up short in front of the mirror in the entrance, gently moves me in front of him, and lays his chin on my shoulder. Into our reflection, he says, “I have a trivia question for you before I go. How big does the human eye get when it looks at something pleasing?” Dylan smiles his biggest smile. The one that makes his eyes twinkle with blue mischief.
Luckily, I know this answer. “The pupil dilates as much as forty-five percent.”
He squints. “Yours appear to be at thirty-five percent. Looks like I still have a chance.”
“Very funny.” I lightly jab my elbow into his rock-hard gut. “Go away, please.”
Dylan is still chuckling at his clever self as he opens the door.
Gage, his arms filled with groceries, blinks for a second and then says, “Dylan. Nice to see you. Didn’t realize you were joining us for dinner.”
“I’m not. But we’ve had a change in plans, so you’re off-duty after dinner. I’ll be back later. Enjoy your meal.” He turns back to me and winks before he saunters down the steps, but then stops. “By the way, I’ve checked the handwriting on the golf ball too. It doesn’t match with any of the suspects. So stop already.”
“You could’ve told me that earlier when I was in your office.”
He grins. “I forgot. Bringing me lunch and being nice to me threw me off my game. And reminded me how much I miss you.” He jogs down the rest of the steps and heads for his house.
I sigh inwardly. It could be a long few days living under the same roof as persistent Dylan.
Gage forces a smile, showing off that cute dimple. “Tenacious, isn’t he? I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to pair some wine with our meal tonight? And brought a lovely vintage of rawhide for Cooper.”
I laugh. “Not at all. Thank you. Come in.” Wow. He even remembered Cooper. I need to dim the smile that’s stretching across my face, though. Gotta keep those priorities straight if I’m going to get my restaurant up and running before my uncle finds out. Men have no part of my master plan. This year. Maybe next year, I’ll give dating a go again.
I step aside to let Gage in. He bends down and pets Cooper and then gives him a rawhide that my dog races away with as though I’m going to take it away. Actually, I’m thrilled, because it’ll probably keep his nosy little furry body busy the whole time I cook and out from under my feet. As per usual. “Thanks again, Gage.”
/> “Couldn’t pick up groceries and forget Coop. Right?” His sumptuous cologne tickles my nose and puts my hormones on notice. Or maybe it’s the dimple and that eye-catching face of his.
“Cooper wouldn’t let you forget it if you forgot him. He thinks everyone comes to see him, not me. Come on back to the kitchen.” I need to ignore my traitorous body. He’s just an attractive guy here to have dinner. That’s all.
I glance at my eyes in the mirror as we pass.
My pupils look the same size as when I looked at Dylan.
Not good. Not good at all!
Chapter 12
While my dog happily chews on his rawhide in the corner of the kitchen, I unpack the groceries Gage brought for us. I didn’t want to ask him to pick up expensive steaks or lobster when he’s paying, but he’s a foodie, so I chose a menu that’s delicious without breaking the bank. “Wow. This all looks fabulous, Gage. Thank you.”
“I’m excited to see what we end up with.” He pops two bottles of white into the wine fridge and then takes a seat at the large island to watch.
I ask, “Want an Aperol Spritz while the wine cools?”
“What’s in it?”
“It’s slightly bitter with a touch of orange and a light tang of herbs. The prosecco gives it sparkle. And it’s pretty and red.”
“Sold.”
I make mine half as strong as the recipe in my head calls for as I pour the liquor over ice, stir, and add a few splashes of soda water before I top them off with orange slices. “Cheers. Thanks for coming.”
Gage taps his glass against mine and then takes a drink. His eyebrows spike before he sets his glass down. “This is my new favorite drink.”
“Mine too.” I get busy cleaning the mussels and then drop them in a bowl of water to soak for twenty minutes before I steam them.
Gage takes another sip. “What are all the things I brought going to end up being tonight?”
“To start, we have a kale salad with apples and currants topped with a warm pancetta vinaigrette. Then for our main, we have steamed mussels in white wine broth, with a hunk of that crusty baguette on the side to soak up the luscious broth. For dessert, I got up this morning and made a Nutella semifreddo that we’ll top with crushed hazelnuts and whipped cream.”
Gage’s brows form a V. “What’s a semifreddo again?”
“Basically, a frozen mousse made with sugar, eggs, and whipped cream. I cheat by adding more Nutella than the recipe calls for, because you can never go wrong with a little extra Nutella, right?”
Gage lifts his glass. “Cheers to that.” After a long drink, he asks, “Does this mysterious change in plans Dylan referred to earlier have to do with the rumor I heard today about you finding some rare, expensive art at your store?”
I raise my eyes to meet Gage’s as I cut the pancetta. “Did my mom ever mention hiding something for me?” I don’t know if I can tell Gage the truth or not. Dylan and I are the only ones who are supposed to know about our plans to catch the thief.
“No. I do know your mom and the Admiral had something up their sleeves before your mom passed.”
Quickly changing the subject, I say, “Speaking of that, my uncle mentioned a Twain book today.” I dice apples for the salad while recounting my uncle’s story. “If I did find that book, would the trust own it as my uncle said?”
Gage steals a slice of apple off my board and pops it into his mouth. “So we’re skipping the art question?”
I stop mincing shallots for the wine sauce and lay my knife down as I take another long drink. My mind races for what I can say. Finally, I give up and go with the truth. “Dylan said not to talk about it. With the ongoing investigation at my store and all.”
“Hmmm.” Gage smiles. “Interesting how the art just came up today when you were supposed to have found the paintings right after your mom died. And how you never mentioned it to me. But back to your question. It depends.”
I’m so flustered by circumventing the truth that I’ve forgotten what my original question was. “Depends?” I toss the pancetta for our salad dressing into a hot pan and then get busy washing the kale.
“We could argue that your grandfather never put the book into the trust for a reason. Your uncle said his father saw the book, so it seems to me your grandfather wanted to respect your great-great-grandmother’s wishes for passing down the book to the youngest female.”
“I like that.” I throw shallots into my pan and then wipe my hands on my towel. “What about if I found something else of value? Is my uncle correct that it wouldn’t belong to me personally?”
“Maybe. It’d all depend on what it was. Any other rare books, besides the Twain, because they discussed it before your grandfather died, would belong to the bookstore and therefore the trust. Now, assuming it was something like that art you apparently found, that would depend on a lot of factors. Is this why you offered to cook dinner for me tonight? To pick my brain?”
“No! Not at all. Sorry. Let’s change the subject. What brought you to Sunset Cove?” I remove the pan from the heat and whisk in some olive oil, dark mustard, and red wine vinegar.
“My aunt. You know her. Betty Franklin? My mom’s sister. We used to visit her often.”
I pour the dressing over the salad and then slide a bowl in front of Gage. “Yes, I was sent to the principal a time or two in high school. Your aunt is tough but fair.” I cover my kale, apples, and currants with the rest of the dressing and slide my bowl next to Gage’s.
“She said to say hi. She just got back from a long river cruise in Europe.”
“That must be why I haven’t run into her yet.” I quickly smash the garlic and mince it up to add with the wine to steam the mussels. After I pop on the lid, I sit beside Gage. “So you fell in love with our little town on your visits here?”
He waits for me to take the first bite of my salad and then picks up his fork. I love a man with manners.
Gage says, “Who can resist the cliffs, the ocean, and the tight-knit community here?” He takes a bite, and his eyebrows hop up again. “This is fantastic too. And it’s just a salad.”
“Thanks.” There are pros and cons to growing up in a place where everyone knows your business. It’s refreshing to hear his differing point of view. “Did you try city living first?”
“Yes. LA. Hated it. Like you, I had a job with ridiculous hours. Constantly tried to convince myself it’d all pay off in the end.”
I nod as I swallow. “I figure if I have to work that hard, then why not for myself? I’ve got the experience under my belt now, and the scars to prove it, so I’m ready.” I lift my sleeve and show Gage what years of splattering oil and hot pans carelessly trotted down the line in a tight, busy downtown kitchen leave on a working chef’s skin.
He takes my arm and winces. “Geez. I guess the next time I get a paper cut, I’ll have to suck it up.” He gently runs his fingers over my scars.
It makes my spine tingle.
“Papercuts hurt too.” Before he sees my goose bumps, I pull my arm away and grab our wine from the fridge. He’s picked a Chardonnay that will pair perfectly with our mussels. “Nice choice.”
“Confession? I had to ask which one would go best with mussels at the liquor store.”
His honesty warms my heart. Most guys would lie to make themselves seem an expert. “Tell me you’ve actually ever stopped and asked for directions when lost, and I’ll be a goner.” I smile as I grab two glasses and pour.
The cute half smile on Gage’s face when I hand him his glass makes me realize what I just said. “Wait. Sorry. That was a joke. I didn’t mean …”
He holds up a hand. “I get it—no problem. Let’s toast to your sticking around. And maybe after your restaurant is open, I’ll get lost and ask for some directions.”
I’m an idiot, but power through my embarrassment. “To sticking around.” I tap my glass against his and sample the wine. Rich buttery goodness slides down my throat. Perfect.
To cover up my aw
kwardness, I check on the mussels. Then I throw the bread into the oven to warm it and grab big bowls.
“Oh. I meant to tell you something.” Gage cuts through the thick silence hanging in the air. “People on the town council have been stopping me on the street asking for hints for who the new mysterious celebrity restaurant owner is.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Celebrity?”
“They added that part. Not me. You know how people are around here. It’s like a game of telephone that starts with a small fact and then ends an urban legend.”
“True. I can only imagine how disappointed they’ll be when they find out it’s just little ole me.”
Gage picks up his wine. “They’ll get over it once they’ve tasted your food.”
“Hopefully.” I dish out our mussels with broth and set the bowls down. Then I add an empty bowl for the shells. I grab the bread that’s smelling yeasty and warm and sit again. “Because council members are asking, does that mean my chances of getting approved are good? Or are people afraid a rich celebrity restaurant might bring in too big a crowd a smaller restaurant can’t handle? Please. Dig in.”
Gage nods and then dips his spoon into the broth. “Serve them this, and they’ll do anything you ask. Wow.” Gage picks up the little fork and frowns at a mussel. Like he’s not sure of the polite way to eat them.
I grab a mussel shell with my fingers, use the little fork to dig out the meat, then I toss the empty shell in the bowl in front of us.
Gage follows my lead and then tosses his empty shell into the bowl along with mine. “It means they’re interested and not unhappy about the restaurant, so far. The vote won’t happen until next month at their meeting. In the meantime, I think we can move forward with the construction plans if you want to risk it. They could still say no.”
“I’ll think about it. Now, enough business. Tell me all about you. Any sibs?”
Gage shakes his head. “My father left right after I was born. He was a trust fund baby and decided he’d like to pursue his love of mountain climbing and bird-watching rather than be with us. My mother waited for him to get bored and come home, but he never did, so my parents divorced. My mom still lives in LA with her second husband, who is a temperamental screenwriter. He required utter silence in our house at all times. They never had kids because they’d make too much noise, as I did.”
Plotting for Murder (Cozy Mystery Bookshop Series Book 1) Page 14