Two Bites Too Many
Page 1
TWO BITES TOO MANY
The rising decibels of the mutterings in the room indicated the natives were getting restless. Her mother had joked that nothing could start without Lance, but it wasn’t like Maybelle to keep people waiting.
Sarah checked her phone to see if she had a message from her mother.
None.
Commotion near the door used by the council members caught Sarah’s attention. Bailey, the loan officer, stood in the doorway. This time he wasn’t burdened down with a pile of papers when he scurried into the room toward the dais. If it was possible, Sarah thought his face was even paler than before. Although he went straight to Anne Hightower, who sat erectly next to Lance’s empty chair, instead of quite facing Anne, Bailey was intently scanning the audience. He froze when his gaze met Sarah’s.
“It’s Mr. Knowlton. He’s dead!”
Not sure if she’d heard right, Sarah maintained an unbroken stare with Bailey. Only when he repeated “he’s dead” and added “your mother” did she break the linkage of their gazes to push her way out of her row and the auditorium . . .
Books by DEBRA H. GOLDSTEIN
ONE TASTE TOO MANY
TWO BITES TOO MANY
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
TWO BITES TOO MANY
A Sarah Blair Mystery
Debra H. Goldstein
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
TWO BITES TOO MANY
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
RECIPES
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 Debra H. Goldstein
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1948-5
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1951-5 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1951-4 (e-book)
For my children and grandchildren
who drive me crazy and keep me sane
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Each book or story I write is different. The differences include the ideas expressed, the emotions evoked, where I write the piece, and what music I listen to while the work is in progress. What doesn’t change is my reliance and appreciation for those who help me on the journey.
My husband, Joel, encourages my writing. Consequently, he puts up with many lonely hours while I am, as he says, “labbing it.” Friends Fran and Lee God-chaux and author T. K. Thorne repeatedly drop their own activities to beta read for me. Edie Peterson did the same for proofreading. Editors Lourdes Venard and Barb Goffman squeeze me in when I don’t quite keep the schedule I should have. Both make me think of things that never crossed my mind but need to be worked in to strengthen the manuscript.
Susan Mason, George McMillan III, Meredith McMillan, Andrew Larkin, Stuart Stone, April Deal, and Jean Felts were generous with their time and knowledge to teach me about restaurants, cooking, convention bureaus, and cats. Any errors are my own.
A special thanks to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, who yanked me from the unagented pool of writers and represents me with skill, kindness, and a keen eye to what can improve my final submissions. Finally, my appreciation to John Scognamiglio, Editor-in-Chief of Kensington, who has the vision to see where the Sarah Blair mystery series and my writing career can go. When John tells me a manuscript is cleanly written, I happy dance all day.
CHAPTER ONE
“I don’t care if you own this house. You aren’t the one in charge!” Arms crossed, Sarah Blair stood in the middle of the carriage house’s living room, straining to hear her hiding cat over the car horn blaring outside. Her mother was the nonstop honker.
“RahRah, where are you? I’ve got to get going!” She listened again, but the only thing she heard was the horn—short staccato beeps this time.
A soft rustle under the claw-scratched couch caught her ear. Dropping down on one knee, she pushed her curtain of hair back and peeked under the leather sofa. Two sparkling blue eyes stared back at her. Slowly, Sarah reached for RahRah. Her Siamese cat didn’t shy away. Once she had a firm grasp, she gently eased him out from under the couch.
She cuddled RahRah’s soft body to hers as she carried him into the kitchen. “Your food and water bowls are full. I’d rather stay here with you, but Mom and I are seeing Mr. Knowlton at the bank before we go to the city council meeting.”
A toot jarred their moment together.
“She’s a little persistent with that honking, isn’t she?”
RahRah didn’t squirm, even when Sarah’s loose brown hair touched his sides as she bent to put him on the floor. “I sure wouldn’t want to be Mr. Knowlton today. Not with Mom on the warpath.”
The horn sounded again. This time, one steady blow, as if a body lay collapsed on the steering wheel. Sarah glanced toward the front of the house, then focused back on RahRah. “I don’t know why Mom insists I go instead of your Aunt Emily. After all, it’s Emily’s loan application the bank has denied.”
She could have sworn RahRah tilted his tan head in her direction before he shook his body, sauntered across the linoleum floor, and stretched out in a patch of sunshine. She wondered if he understood her reference to her twin sister, Emily.
Probably. RahRah commandeered the same spot on the kitchen floor during all her discussions with Emily and Marcus about their plans following the fire that destroyed their restaurant. Sarah wouldn’t put it past her cat
to know the details of how the two chefs wanted to convert their damaged location into an upscale pub and, in partnership with Sarah, open an upscale restaurant in the big house Sarah owned.
Satisfied RahRah would be fine while she was gone, Sarah closed the kitchen door behind her, cutting RahRah off from the rest of the house. She grabbed her purse and keys from the table by the front door and hurried outside. As she locked the door of the carriage house, she realized the honking had stopped. Instead, a harsh male voice carried on the wind. Whoever it was, she doubted anything could drown him out.
Uncertain which direction the voice was coming from, Sarah peered down the driveway, toward Main Street. Her mother’s car was parked next to the property’s big house, the driver’s door flung open. No one lay dramatically on the steering wheel. Instead, her mother stood at the edge of Sarah’s lot line with George Rogers, Sarah’s across-the-street neighbor. It was his voice she’d heard.
Neither his stance nor apparent tirade changed when Sarah approached them. Her mother glanced toward Sarah and rolled her eyes.
Sarah picked up on her mother’s cue. “What’s going on, Mr. Rogers? Did something happen?”
Mr. Rogers broke off his rant midsentence. He turned so his bow tie and pince-nez glasses faced her. “I’ll show you what’s going on.” Using the tip of his cane, he gestured toward the section of her wrought iron fence facing Main Street. “Look at what they did to your fence.”
Sarah gazed at where his cane pointed. Several of the decorated fence spikes near the driveway were askew. Someone had taken a baseball bat or other blunt object to the sharp-edged finials topping her fence rods. Although a few of the decorative pieces dangled precariously, at least four were completely severed.
“They got my fence last night, too.”
“Who?”
“Hoodlums. That’s who. The same riffraff and gangsters we’re going to have in this neighborhood all the time if your rezoning plan goes through.”
“Now, Mr. Rogers, if we get approval for my sister and her boyfriend to open an upscale restaurant in the big house, it’s only going to attract high-class patrons.”
“That’s what you think. If this neighborhood becomes an entertainment district, it means bars and lowlifes. Look at your fence and mine. Who knows how deadly their malicious mischief will be next time? As it is, I can’t find Fluffy.”
“Fluffy?”
“That little white mutt that’s been hanging around the neighborhood. For the past week, I’ve tried to get close enough to bring her into the house, but she won’t let me. The best I’ve been able to do is get her to come around like clockwork for the food and water set out on the porch.”
Mr. Rogers waved his hands again toward the fence. “Fluffy didn’t touch her food today. If these hooligans you want to overrun our street didn’t hurt her, they certainly frightened her.”
Sarah bit her tongue. Her opinion on rezoning the neighborhood was diametrically opposed to Mr. Rogers, but they’d agreed to disagree without being unpleasant to each other. Seeing how upset he was about their fences and Fluffy, she forced herself not to fire back a retort. Instead, Sarah offered her help looking for Fluffy if she was still missing when Sarah got home.
“Thanks. If I haven’t found her, I’d appreciate that.” There was no divergence of opinion between them when it came to animals and their well-being. An entertainment district was another matter, entirely.
Mr. Rogers continued to rant about the gangster element that could invade their homes and property if Main Street was rezoned. Sarah tuned him out. She reminded herself that his reluctance for change reflected more than what he was verbalizing. Keeping the neighborhood exactly as it was perpetuated the memories he and his late wife created from the time they built their home across the street, well before Sarah was born.
No matter which view Sarah or any of her other neighbors held on rezoning Main Street, they all agreed Mr. Rogers was their neighborhood watch, eccentric, and historian rolled into one. Most also acknowledged his ever-present cane and bow tie represented an era no longer in fashion.
Sarah ran her hand over one of the damaged rods. “Considering the damage, I’m surprised I didn’t hear anything last night.”
“Well, the carriage house is set back quite a distance from this fence.” Sarah’s mother bent and picked up a metal finial lying on the ground. She turned it over in her hands.
“Sarah,” Mr. Rogers said, “I called my nephew, Clifford. He’s going to come by and fix my fence. If you want, I can send him your way, too.”
Uncertain what to do, Sarah looked at her mother, who imperceptibly shook her head. Her mother slipped the finial she held into her oversized purse.
“That’s very kind of you, George, offering to have your nephew help Sarah. But after she and I finish at the bank, we’ll stop by Gus’s hardware store. He owes me one, so I’m sure he’ll tell us what we need and send someone to fix it at a discounted rate.”
Sarah swallowed hard, watching her mother bat her eyes at Mr. Rogers.
She held her laughter back until her mother and she were safely in the car. “How is it that you live in Birmingham, but you still know everyone in Wheaton and everything about them?”
“Don’t be so silly. Your dad did so much business with Birmingham and Wheaton folk, I got to know them all. You’ll be the same way by the time you get to be my age.”
“I doubt that. But tell me, what do you have on Gus?”
Her mother threw the car into reverse and looked in all directions behind her before releasing her foot from the brake. “I have nothing on Gus. He simply owes me a favor. Besides, it’s always better to use a non–family member for house repairs.”
Sarah held her next question until her mother eased out of the driveway and pulled the car from the middle of the street back into her own lane. “Even if the family member is a neighbor’s, not yours?”
“Especially. It avoids problems.”
“Good point. Mom, speaking of problems, Emily and I have been meaning to talk to you about this name business. It’s one thing to insist your friends call you Maybelle, but having your daughters use your given name is simply weird. Considering our relationship, we think Mom, Mother, or Mama is more appropriate.”
Maybelle leaned forward, checking for cars as she rolled through a four-way stop. “Nonsense. My name means lovable. When I was at the spa, my guru told me the only way to obtain the best possible positive energy in my personal zone is to simplify everything. That includes the name I go by.”
She gestured toward her open car window. “Like the birds that fly or smoke rising from a fire, using only one name opens my energy flow.”
“There’s no one more energetic than you, Mom.”
“We’re talking about my positive energy flow. Because the intensity of my flow translates into a force I use to help other people, I need you to call me by my given name, too.”
“You answered to Mom this morning.”
Maybelle glanced quickly at Sarah and then focused back at the road. “Only because George was so upset. I didn’t want him to think we were minimizing his concerns. That would negate his energy flow.”
Her petite mother maintained a tight grip on the steering wheel in the ten and two positions.
Sarah repeated the name, Maybelle, to herself. It felt as funny rolling around her brain now as it had four months ago, when her mother came home from the spa announcing everyone should address her simply as Maybelle. Considering how upset her mother was when she learned about her daughters’ involvement with murders and murderers, neither Sarah nor Emily challenged their mother’s demand. They figured it was the Maybelle fad of the week.
Surprisingly, unlike so many of the ideas that possessed her mother, it hadn’t passed. Maybe it really was something to do with positive energy, but Sarah was pretty sure it might be tied to the difficulty Maybelle was having accepting this was the year she qualified for Medicare and her twin daughters turned thirty.
/> Then again, Sarah wasn’t sure she felt too good about the upcoming big three-o, either. She questioned what she had to show for thirty years of living. Unlike Emily, Sarah’s professionally trained chef and restaurateur twin, all Sarah could claim was marriage at eighteen, divorce before twenty-eight, employment as a law firm receptionist, an active social life only if the cats and dogs at the animal shelter were included, and recently moving from an efficiency apartment to the carriage house her cat inherited.
“Mom, I mean Maybelle, wouldn’t it have made more sense to take Emily with you today? After all, she knows all the financial stuff related to Southwind’s fire-insurance settlement and its reopening as a pub. She also has a better handle on the details of the fine-dining restaurant Marcus and she want to open in the big house.”
“That’s not today’s main issue.”
“It isn’t?” Sarah wrinkled her brow. She thought this visit was generated by the bank turning down her sister’s loan request.
“No. Today’s goal is to remind Lance Knowlton of the long-standing relationship between his bank and your dearly departed father and how, as RahRah’s guardian, you’re now an important customer, too.”
Sarah thought better of pursuing this or any discussion while her mother eased her car into the one spot open in front of the bank. It was touch and go for a moment, but at least, this time, Sarah was relieved Maybelle didn’t use either the car in front or behind to determine the boundaries of her parking space. She only hoped her mother’s confrontation with Lance Knowlton would be less deadly than her driving.
CHAPTER TWO
Inside the bank, Sarah lengthened her stride to stay even with her mother’s quick pace across the lobby. Her mother was on such a mission to reach the bank president’s closed door that she barely acknowledged a wave from one of the tellers as they passed. Sarah certainly didn’t envy what the next few minutes would bring for Lance Knowlton, but she wished her mother would slow down. She preferred strolling through this bank’s lobby to the clip her mother was setting.