by Rickie Blair
“Oh. I guess I am.”
Darn it. I had been so overwhelmed by the day’s events that I’d agreed to a second date with perennial ladies’ man and determined heartbreaker Ryker Fields.
As Fritz walked off, I wondered if my expression gave me away when I claimed not to have heard from my aunt. I had faith in Gideon, but I wished I knew exactly where he was.
But first, I had a more immediate goal: Find something to wear to the village’s most hotly anticipated event of the summer.
Chapter Eight
That evening at Rose Cottage, I stood in my underwear, facing the tiny closet in my aunt’s bedroom and contemplating the outfit I’d purchased that afternoon. It was sleek, black, and probably sexy. Although my recollection of what constituted sexy was a little dim.
I pulled the slinky dress from its hanger and tossed it onto Aunt Adeline’s four-poster bed while recalling my conversation with Fritz. It seemed strange he should be so interested in me. It almost felt a little creepy. I bit my lip, making a mental note not to share that observation with Emy. She would be horrified. Fritz wasn’t exactly her friend, but she admired him.
I was searching my aunt’s closet for a shawl when my cell phone rang. The screen read, Patty Ferris.
Darn. I had completely forgotten to call her back. I grabbed the phone. “Hi. I was just about to call you.”
Patty had been my lifeline while I was holed up in my high-rise apartment in Vancouver. In the beginning, she saw me as one of her charity projects. I didn’t mind. It always brightened my day when she waltzed through my door, blonde ponytail swinging, holding aloft a plate of her baked goods. They were usually inedible, but I never told her that.
“Verity, it’s me.”
“I know—call display, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said dejectedly.
I’d meant it as a joke, but Patty was surprisingly subdued. The sounds of a soccer game—or “football” as her husband Clark called it—came from their big-screen TV. Clark never missed a match of his beloved Leeds United.
“Are you baking, Patty?”
“Not at the moment.”
Patty was rarely this reluctant to talk—even while working out a new recipe, she kept the phone on speaker and maintained a nonstop commentary. She loved to share her creations with me. The last email she sent me included instructions for her Pickled Beets ’n Raisins Layer Cake. I had deleted it with a shudder.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure why she bothered. If it didn’t come in a box with “Betty Crocker” on the front, I wouldn’t be making it.
Still, I comforted myself with the knowledge that the world was full of bakers. And they needed non-bakers, like myself, to appreciate their work. So, my lack of skill in the kitchen was really a public service.
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back before this. How’s the sale going?”
“Great,” she said, her voice immediately more perky. I could almost see her ponytail bounce as she talked. “You’ll be thrilled with the total. The last buyer is picking up your bedroom set tomorrow.”
That sparked a twinge. Matthew and I bought that set at IKEA—after searching for the exit so long we laughed and said they’d find our bodies propped up against the Billy bookcases.
It was a joke. I never thought I’d actually be a widow three years later.
Coming so soon after my mother’s death—my father, living in Australia with wife number three, was no help—Matthew’s illness was too much. For two years after his death, I retreated to our apartment, living among a growing army of dust bunnies and stacks of self-help books. I might still be there, except for a fateful phone call about my missing aunt that brought me to Leafy Hollow and a new life.
I missed Patty though.
Maybe that was why I hadn’t signed my sublet agreement. I glanced at the bedroom bureau, where the torn edge of an envelope revealed the document inside.
“…and the kitchen cupboards are empty now. That just leaves…”
I put the phone on speaker and resumed the scrutiny of my aunt’s closet. “Patty, you’ve saved me a huge headache. The landscaping business is good right now. I don’t need the money from the furniture. Why don’t you and Clark use it for a weekend away? Banff, maybe?”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well,” she said. “We have been thinking about a vacation.”
“There you go then. It’s perfect.”
A roar in the background signaled a goal. “Was that Leeds?” I asked.
“Sadly, no,” she answered. Clark groaned. The noise died down, so I figured Patty had taken her phone into the bedroom.
“It doesn’t look like they’ll make the playoffs,” she said.
“Clark won’t be happy.”
“No, but it means we can go away without me having to sabotage the hotel’s cable.”
We both giggled. “Good one,” I said.
“You get the Sports Network at Rose Cottage, right?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Any plans to add it?”
Suspecting one of Patty’s veiled ploys to discover if I was dating again, I fended off a potential “time to move on” pep talk. “No one here watches sports much,” I said.
That was an understatement—the General and I lived alone in Rose Cottage. Although I watched the occasional hockey or basketball game, he had eyes only for Animal Planet. “If I want to see a game, I can go next door. I have a key to Gideon’s place, and he has a huge wall-screen TV that gets everything. Even NASA, I think.” I recalled the satellite surveillance footage I’d noticed once when I dropped by to check the fridge for mold. It might have been the science fiction channel.
“Gotta go,” Patty said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
She hung up without waiting for my reply. I looked at the phone with misgivings. Surely Patty wasn’t… With a sigh, I tossed it onto the ottoman and rummaged in the closet for an evening bag. Within minutes, I found a feathered cross-body, a kiss-lock beaded tube purse, and an embroidered baguette clutch. My aunt’s social life was clearly more interesting than mine.
I had insisted on meeting Ryker at the restaurant, hoping that would make it seem less like a date. Anonymous was hopping by the time I made my entrance.
Each linen-covered table was occupied, and a hopeful lineup of uninvited guests had formed outside. Indoors, a sheet of water trailed over the restaurant’s back wall and gurgled into a channel at the base. Small overhead spotlights glinted off the mahogany chairs and silver fixtures.
Emy hustled over when she saw me at the door. “You look fabulous.” She paused for a complete assessment of my outfit, forcing me to twirl uneasily. “Where did you get that dress?”
“Is it okay?” I whispered, acutely aware the black spandex was both short and rather tight. I brandished the pink shawl I’d thrown over it. “I found this in my aunt’s cupboard. It’s vintage, I think.”
“It’s gorgeous,” squealed Emy, fingering the embroidered silk. She leaned in to whisper, “Ryker’s already here.”
We swiveled our heads to a table near the back where Ryker’s blond head towered over the diners seated nearby. He wore a navy jacket over a shirt open at the neck. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist as he extended his arm over the back of the empty chair beside him and flashed his eyebrows at me.
“Lorne and I are over here,” Emy said, inclining her head at a table nearer the front, where Lorne was talking to a waiter. She placed her hand on my arm with a worried look. “Let me know what you think about the desserts.”
“They’re terrific. You have nothing to worry about.”
Lorne and I had been willing guinea pigs for Emy’s creations. Her rum baba with cardamom-scented Chantilly cream and violet-petal garnish was exquisite.
She leaned in. “You always say that. Just try to hear what people say about them.”
I patted her arm reassuringly. “I will.”
Emy returned to her seat.
I walked to Ryker’s table, aware I hadn’t worn heels this high in a long time. Any second now, my ankle might… Oops. I stumbled, thrusting out a hand for balance.
My palm flattened across the stomach of a well-upholstered man at a table to my left. He gave a brief “Oof” and drew back, looking alarmed.
“Sorry,” I said with a wince.
Ryker was grinning when I reached our table. “Long trip?” He stood and pulled out a chair for me. “I would have asked for a table nearer the door if I’d known it was a problem.”
I whacked his arm with my aunt’s baguette clutch before sitting down. “Very funny.”
He sat and reached across the table for my hand with an appreciative glance at my dress. “You should wear shorts on the job. With those legs, you’d attract a lot more clients.”
I pulled my hand away and tugged at the hem of my dress. “Stop flirting. This is not a date.”
He pulled his hand back with a smirk and flipped open the leather-bound wine list. “Right. I forgot. You’re… how did you put it? Investigating.” He flexed his eyebrows again before calling over the nearest server and pointing to an entry. “We’ll have this one, please, Theresa. But only if you recommend it.”
I craned my neck to check the price. “Too expensive. Get the house wine.”
Ryker ignored me, focusing on the waitress.
Theresa didn’t even notice me. I could have tripped flat on my face and taken out her entire section and she wouldn’t have seen a thing.
“Excellent choice. One of my favorites.” Giggling, she took the wine list from Ryker.
“Great.” He tossed her a seductive grin. “One bottle, to start.”
“I’ll be back with your menu,” she said breathily, clutching the wine list to her bosom. Ryker watched her walk away with rapt attention before returning his gaze to me. I rolled my eyes at him.
I didn’t care about the wine, but I was curious about the food. Fritz had hired a celebrated chef, so the dishes at Anonymous should be excellent. Most chefs rose at dawn to visit farmers’ markets and fishmongers, organize menus, and prep dishes. And their day wasn’t over until the last diner left and the kitchen was spotless again. But running a restaurant entailed long hours for the owner, too. One of Patty’s friends in Vancouver was married to a restaurateur. I’d often heard her moaning about his work day while we shared a pot of tea over Patty’s coffee table. I wondered how Fritz was coping.
Waiters bustled in and out with laden trays. Theresa returned to place a single parchment page in front of each of us.
Tasting Menu
Anonymous
Grand Opening
The seven courses included potato and sea urchin, foie gras with sunchokes, and… I couldn’t read the rest, because my eyes were mesmerized by the price. “We’re splitting this,” I whispered, tilting my head and pointing at the menu.
Ryker smiled. “No, we’re not.”
“This is not a date,” I insisted, leaning in.
Just then, the kitchen door swung open to admit a waiter with another laden tray. Behind him, two figures sat at a table even tinier than the ones in the dining room. Leafy Hollow councilor and lawyer Wilf Mullins had snagged a seat at the chef’s table—naturally. Trust Wilf to wangle the most coveted spot. I wondered if he’d brought his upholstered booster seat. At four feet tall, he needed a little help.
Opposite him, the impeccably groomed and blond-haired Nellie Quintero, the village’s favorite realtor and Wilf’s BFF, lifted a bite of course number four—steelhead trout with crème fraîche and sorrel—to her lips. The door swung shut, and I lost sight of them. But not before seeing Fritz lean over their table to whisper in Nellie’s ear—and her friendly smile in response.
I swept my gaze around the main dining room. Sue Unger sat at a table for two against the far wall. Her lipstick was a near-psychedelic red. It was her only concession to fashion, since the rest of her outfit consisted of khaki pants, heavy sandals, and a black cotton shirt open at the neck. As she studied the tasting menu, I studied her. Fritz wasn’t the kind of businessman who left anything to chance. He must have offered Sue a free meal so she wouldn’t cause trouble at his opening. My hunch was confirmed when Fritz swept past to deposit a glass of bubbly by her elbow.
“With my compliments,” he said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Sue looked up and smiled. I wondered what she thought of the Irish linen.
Fritz knew how to work a crowd. At this rate, Anonymous would be an enormous success. Smirking, I returned my attention to the tasting menu.
“Have you heard what Sue’s been up to?” I asked.
Ryker pushed his menu to one side and leaned over the table. “Who?”
“Sue Unger. The woman with the whistle?”
He glanced at Sue with a flicker of interest, then looked away. “I ignore people like that. Rupert did her time. Everybody else should move on.” He ran a finger down the menu. “Looks good,” he said with a smile, changing the subject.
I knew about Ryker’s brushes with the law when he was a teenager. That could be why he objected to the persecution of former cons. But he’d also warned me some Leafy Hollow residents were more dangerous than they seemed. Could he have been talking about Marjorie Rupert?
“That’s quite a shiner. How did you get it?” Ryker indicated my eye, which was now partially open, giving me the rakish appearance of a perpetual half-wink. “Not that it looks bad or anything,” he hastily added.
“That’s okay, I know what it looks like.” A rueful grin puckered my lips while I gingerly tapped my swollen brow. I had considered covering it with makeup, but it only would have made things worse. Besides the fact that I didn’t have any makeup that would do the job.
“It happened up on the Peak, when I was checking the spot where the police think Lucy Carmichael fell.”
“Think? Do they have doubts?”
“No, but I do.”
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “Tumbling off the Pine Hill Peak lookout in broad daylight? It’s a bit unusual.”
Theresa returned with our first course—hearts of palm with pineapple pear. Before we could lift our forks, Fritz swept up with two glasses of champagne.
“On the house,” he said, placing them on our table with an unctuous smile. Although he spoke to both of us, he looked only at me. “I hope you’ll grace Anonymous with your presence many times in the future.”
Fritz disappeared into the kitchen. As the door closed behind him, I smiled at Wilf’s cackle. Our ebullient councilor never missed the opportunity for a good belly laugh.
We were only two courses in when Sue made her presence felt.
“Hey.” She waved at the server. “More champagne here, please.” Sue looked as if she’d had plenty already, but the server hurried over.
The waitress bent over her table and spoke in a murmur.
Sue responded with a scowl. “I don’t have to pay for it. I’m an invited guest. The champagne is on the house.”
Shamelessly, I leaned in to listen.
“That’s only the first glass,” the server said. “And you’ve already had three. I have to charge you for the next one.”
“Absolutely not,” Sue insisted, her voice rising. “Does Fritz know about this?” She twisted in her chair to face the kitchen, sweeping her arm around. Her hand caught the lip of her water glass. It crashed to the floor, soaking the tablecloth and the server.
“Fritz!” Sue called, unconcerned about the now-dripping Irish linen.
I snickered at Ryker, who snickered back.
“Ms. Unger,” a calm—and familiar—voice broke in. “Is there a problem?”
I jerked my head around. Jeff was standing by Sue’s table. I gave Ryker a questioning glance. He tilted his head toward a table on the other side of the room where a woman sat opposite an empty chair. Her gray-streaked black hair was swept back into an elegant chignon and her black eyes watched Jeff with unmis
takable pride. I did a double take. Jeff Katsuro had brought his mother to Anonymous’s grand opening.
Within minutes, Jeff calmed Sue, the server mopped up the spilled water and broken glass, and the hum of conversation resumed.
Jeff returned to his seat without ever looking at me. At least, I assumed so. When he walked by, I had my head down, studiously examining my ballotine of quail with bacon-infused polenta.
“He’s not really into that hot nurse, you know,” Ryker said, flipping his spoon between his fingers with a smile.
“It’s no concern of mine,” I muttered, crushing the quail under my fork until the bones splintered. “I’m not interested.”
I looked up to see Ryker grinning. “Noo,” he said, nodding at the carnage on my plate. “Of course you’re not.”
Chapter Nine
From her third-floor window across the street, Marjorie Rupert watched the last of the evening’s diners stumble out of Anonymous, laughing under the street lamps, to mingle on the sidewalk.
A tall, muscular man with blond hair caught her eye. He resembled Ian—her late husband, the love of her life, gone forever. With a sigh, Marjorie brushed the lace curtain aside for a closer look. Her eyes narrowed when a slim woman in a black dress—far too short for any decent woman to wear—walked out behind him.
Ian turned and threw an arm around the young woman’s shoulder.
No, not Ian. Marjorie shook her head. This was someone else. Ian was gone.
As they walked away, along the sidewalk, the woman reached up to brush his arm away. He took a step back, held up both hands, and grinned in mock apology. She playfully tapped his arm with her purse, and they resumed their stroll.
Marjorie recognized the young woman. She had been at the protest that morning. On this very street, arguing with the marchers. They called her Verity. And then something else: You like to study killers, don’t you?
Feeling a chill, Marjorie pulled the window sash shut and let the curtain fall. She stood there, watching through the lace.
Waiters dressed in white and black tromped wearily out the door, bowties trailing limply from the men’s necks. The kitchen staff followed. One man stopped on the threshold, cupping his hand to light a cigarette, before moving off.