The words were no doubt meant to be praise, but there was an underlying subtext to the woman’s tone that suggested something else to me: Resentment? Anger? I idly wondered why. Admins in this day and age were no longer considered “gofers”—surely she shouldn’t have minded Lola’s taking over what appeared to me to be a menial task.
After all, it would leave her with lots of free time for other activities.
I leaned forward and put what I hoped was a pleasant smile on my face. “Naturally, I understand your trepidation. After all, Hot Bread under my ownership is a different entity—although not that much different, I hope. I pride myself on keeping the shop pretty much the same as when my mother ran it—with a few improvements along the way, of course. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Cruz doesn’t have many specialty sandwich shops. I pride myself on standing out in a town where fast food and chain stands are a dime a dozen.”
Patti smoothed a stray hair out of her eye and nodded. “Quite true. Hot Bread is no ordinary delicatessen.”
I bristled inwardly as she lingered over the word delicatessen. I forced myself to say casually, “You’ve been to the shop?”
Was I imagining it, or had her face suddenly paled beneath her rose blush? “Oh, no—sorry to say, I haven’t. But—” She reached inside the file folder, held up the last incarnation of our catering menu. “I’ve looked this over enough to know how unique your store is.” She laid the menu down on the table, her fingers toying with the paper’s edge. “I know for a fact the meatloaf sandwich—the Sly Stallone—is a special favorite of Mr. Grainger’s.”
“That’s nice to hear. It’s praise like his that sets us apart from the competition.”
“I must be honest with you, Ms. Charles. I’m not sure if Mr. Grainger has made a decision yet as to exactly who will be catering our next event.” She glanced at the paper before her. “That would be our Memorial Day barbecue.”
“Maybe I can give you some help with that.” I opened my tote bag and pulled out the pink copies I’d found in my mother’s things. “Apparently my mother and Lola had an informal agreement concerning the Memorial Day barbecue and the company picnic.” I held out the slips to her. “As you can see, Mrs. Grainger gave Hot Bread the catering contract to these two events. Now I can understand the trepidation—you want assurance you’ll be receiving the same quality of food. I can also understand your wanting to price out other caterers, but I’d be willing to bet they won’t hold a candle to us.”
The full lips twitched. “You sound very confident.”
“I am. I’d be more than happy to send up samples of some of our new offerings for Mr. Grainger—and anyone else—to taste test.”
Patti Cummings stared blankly at the receipts. “Yes, well,” she said at last. “The quality of your food was never in question. As with anything else in this economy, it all boils down to the right price.”
“Understandable,” I agreed. “I also have to take into consideration the rising prices of supplies, but I’m sure if you comparison shop, you’ll find my prices to be more than reasonable.” I paused, then added, “Not to mention the fact Mrs. Grainger did commit to us in good faith.”
“Yes, but there are unusual circumstances. When your mother and Mrs. Grainger made those commitments, I’m quite certain neither of them had any idea—” She broke off abruptly and looked away.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “You can say it. Neither of them had any idea they’d be dead.”
“Yes.” The word came out almost strangled, as if she’d been holding her breath. “Mrs. Grainger never discussed the catering with anyone here, so we had no idea commitments this far ahead had been made. It puts us in rather an awkward position.”
I frowned. “Awkward? How so?”
“While I can definitely say the Memorial Day event is still up in the air, we did sign a contract with Kennedy Park to have their facility cater the picnic event just yesterday.”
Genuine disappointment arrowed through me, and my shoulders slumped ever so slightly as I leaned back against the soft leather cushions. “I see.”
“It was a package deal,” she went on in a rush. “If we used their catering facility, we got a twenty percent discount per head—that adds up, and in these uncertain times where every penny counts—”
I didn’t feel up to another lecture on the state of our economy, and held up my hand. “No need to go into it. I am a businesswoman, Ms. Cummings. I understand fully.”
“I’m sure, however, Mr. Grainger will want to be fair,” she said quickly. “I’m sure we’ll honor the contract for the Memorial Day event. Then, depending on how that goes, we can see what other events, if any, we can throw your way. Please understand this is nothing personal. But with Mrs. Grainger out of the picture, whoever takes over event planning will no doubt have definite ideas on how they want to handle it—which may or may not include your shop.” She tossed me a bright, but phony, smile. “But not to worry. We intend to afford you the same opportunity as any other catering facility. However, I’m sure the fact the late Mrs. Grainger liked your wares enough to offer exclusivity will go a long way—provided, of course, the wares are better than or equal to what was served in the past.”
I nodded stiffly. “Of course. I don’t imagine there’s any chance I could speak to Mr. Grainger directly?”
Her eyes widened and her tone was colder than a block of ice. “I’m afraid Mr. Grainger wouldn’t get personally involved with something of this nature. However, until a new catering manager is named, he’s put me in charge. As such, you have my assurance Hot Bread will cater our Memorial Day event.”
I let out a whoosh of air. “Well—that’s something anyway. Thanks.” She started to rise, but I reached out, grazed her wrist with my fingertips. “Tell me—how is Mr. Grainger doing, really? I know his wife’s accident must have been quite a shock.”
“Yes it was, to everyone. He’s much more adjusted now. In the first weeks afterward he was a wreck.”
“I’m sure. But he had his friends and co-workers to help him through that trying time. I’m sure you were a great comfort to him.”
Her eyes narrowed and her chin jutted forward. “Of course, I did—I still do—what I can.”
I’ll bet you do. “Of course,” I murmured sympathetically. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for him, although the police ruling Mrs. Grainger’s death an accident so quickly must have been a relief.”
Her lips compressed into a thin line. “The detective in charge saw no need to waste time and money on an open-and-shut accident.”
“Of course, of course. I was surprised, though, how few news stories there were on the incident—considering Mr. Grainger’s stature in the community, and all. I’m sure the public was interested in the details.”
She wiggled around a bit in her seat. “There weren’t that many details to share.”
“I guess not. I understand everyone on the yacht was asleep by the time it happened—” I pursed my lips in a little O of surprise. “Golly—you were there, too, weren’t you?”
Her blue eyes flashed, and then her face arranged itself in an expression of benign composure. “Yes. A small group of us were away for the weekend.”
“Celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary.”
“That and—” She hesitated, then said, “We were working on a business deal as well. Actually, we’re still working on it. Our original meeting had to be postponed because of—well, because of what happened.”
“Oh, wow.” I scooted to the edge of my chair. “Bummer.”
“Yes, well, things happen. It’s another reason we didn’t want too much attention. The police and press were very cooperative regarding our need for discretion.”
“How kind of them,” I murmured. “I must say, though, the manner of Mrs. Grainger’s death came as quite a surprise to me.”
She looked
up sharply. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mrs. Grainger often expressed her fear of the ocean to my mother. It just seemed odd to me that she would have taken a dinghy out on what she feared the most, and so late at night.”
She’d been tapping the folder in front of her—at my words, the fingers stopped mid-motion, held poised above the folder. Her smile faded for just an instant, and her eyes darkened. “You seem unusually interested in Mrs. Grainger’s accident, Ms. Charles,” she snapped. “It’s not my policy to indulge in gossip, and particularly not gossip that concerns the head of this company.”
I bristled a bit at her defensive tone, but decided a healthy measure of crow would take me further. “I am sorry,” I said. “I guess old habits die hard.”
The eyes narrowed. “Old habits?”
“Yes—I used to be a crime reporter in Chicago, and—”
I heard a quick intake of breath and slid a glance at Patti. Beneath her carefully applied Moonglow Pink blusher, her skin had gone chalk white.
Something I’d said had definitely seemed to upset her. Now all I had to do was figure out just what that something was.
FOURTEEN
I had to hand it to her—Patti recovered quickly. One second she looked as if she were going to barf her breakfast all over the expensive shag carpeting, and the next the brilliant smile was back in place, eyes crinkling as she offered me a nervous laugh.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you had Chicago roots. I—ah—I lived there for a few years. Couldn’t wait to relocate out here. Those winters are brutal!”
I nodded in agreement. “That they are.”
The smile got a bit wider. “I much prefer balmy sunshine and eighty degrees to twelve-plus inches of snow on a daily basis.” Her nail beat a swift tattoo against the folder. “You were a crime reporter, you said? That’s an unusual profession for a woman, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” Obviously Patti had never heard of Anne Rule or Aphrodite Jones. “Well, I won’t kid you. It was no walk in the park.” I made the sign of the cross. “It’s amazing what one can get used to, if you put your mind to it. I fought for that column because I wanted to show my editor a woman could do just as well on that particular topic as a man, and I succeeded.”
“I bet. What made you decide to leave Chicago—to give up reporting?”
“My mother passed away, as you know, and I thought coming home and taking over the family business would be what she’d have wanted me to do. Still, there are days when I miss the stress, the danger. There was a part of me that hated to say good-bye.” I fixed Patti with a stare. “Probably the same part of me that just has to keep pecking at unsolved mysteries. I’m sorry if my questions upset you.”
“Oh, you didn’t upset me,” she said, but her assurance came a tad too quickly for real sincerity. “Sadly, Mrs. Grainger had many personal demons, but she worked hard to overcome them. As for her being in the dinghy—well, that’s supposition. None of us really know what happened that night. I’m afraid that will always be a mystery.” She paused and then added, “An unsolved mystery.”
“Perhaps, since the one person who can supply the answers is dead.”
Patti slid the menu all the way back into the folder and then turned it on its side. She pushed the papers into the folder, picked it up, tapped it against the table. “Well, thank you for stopping by. I’m so glad we had the opportunity to meet.”
“Me, too.” As she started to rise, I settled back farther in my chair. “You know, it might be a good idea for me to sign a formal contract to finalize our catering agreement.” I gave a short laugh. “Mrs. Grainger and my mother might have liked the hearty handshake method, but both you and I know it’s not the most practical way to do business.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. I’ll have one drawn up immediately and messengered to the store for your signature.”
“If it won’t take long, I don’t mind waiting.”
She glanced at her watch, tapping the toe of one foot impatiently. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I appreciate it.” I waited until she’d gathered up all her papers and started for the door, and then I added, “Perhaps it was the alcohol.”
She turned, her hand on the doorknob, and stared at me. “I’m sorry?”
“The alcohol. According to the reports, everyone was ‘feeling good.’ People can do very strange things under the influence of alcohol, so if Mrs. Grainger had been drinking heavily . . .”
Was I imagining it, or had little beads of perspiration started to break out across her forehead? “I wouldn’t know,” she said coolly. “I really wasn’t paying any particular attention to how much anyone else was drinking.”
“I’m sorry. It’s those reporter genes again. Like I said, I just can’t help but wonder . . .” I scratched at my temple absently. “She could have gotten the bruises from hitting her body against either the boat or the dinghy when she fell in, but I’ve got to admit—unless I were dead drunk or unconscious, if I suddenly found myself splashing around in water that I’d always regarded as my worst enemy, I’d have screamed my brains out.”
Patti’s eyes narrowed and her lips settled into a taut line. “Did you really come here to inquire about Hot Bread’s catering contracts, Ms. Charles? Or is there something else other than business motivating this visit?” She took a step back into the room and folded her arms across her chest. “I can’t answer you as to why Mrs. Grainger didn’t cry out. For all I know, she might have. I was asleep. As for bruises on her body—I wasn’t aware of any. Then again, I only saw her body in the casket at her memorial. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think we’re done here.” Her finger tapped against the file folder. “This might take a while, so there’s no need for you to wait. I’ll see the contracts are sent to you. I wouldn’t want you to waste any more time here than necessary.”
I followed her out of the conference room. As we started to turn toward the foyer, a dark-haired girl with tortoise-rimmed glasses hurried up to Patti. “Ms. Cummings, Mr. Baker needs you in Conference Room C right away. They’re doing a call to China and he needs your notes on the Glass project.”
“Thank you, Kristi, I forgot about that.” She handed the folder over to the girl. “Have Ilena draw up the standard catering contract for our Memorial Day event for Ms. Charles’s signature, and have someone messenger it over to Hot Bread this afternoon.” She glanced over at me with a thin smile. “I’m sorry. Duty calls.” She started to leave, then abruptly turned back. “Nice meeting you,” she said in a tone that implied she’d have rather walked barefoot over hot coals.
“Interesting meeting you,” I murmured. I watched her as she hurried off in the opposite direction. Her springy step indicated she was more than a little relieved to be rid of me.
Kristi tapped my arm and smiled. “I know Ms. Cummings said to messenger the contract, but it’s a standard one and shouldn’t take longer than a half hour to prepare. You’re welcome to wait, if you wish.”
I shook my head. “Messenger is fine. I’ll expect them later this afternoon. Besides, I have the feeling Ms. Cummings would prefer it if I didn’t wait. I think I upset her, asking some questions about the day Mrs. Grainger died.”
“Ah.” Kristi’s eyes widened behind the massive frames. “Yeah, I can understand that. Mrs. Grainger’s death is sort of a taboo subject around here. If you ask me, Mr. Grainger is still in mourning. But”—she leaned forward and lowered her voice—“it wouldn’t surprise any of us if, when he’s ready to pick up the pieces of his life, Ms. Cummings is right there. I mean, she’s always all over him. Like glue.”
Well, now. This was more like it. “Really? So you’d say Ms. Cummings has more than just a business interest in Mr. Grainger?”
“I’d say, and so would everyone in this building, right down to the janitor.” Her giggle sounded more like a nervous gasp. “I reall
y shouldn’t gossip. Ms. Cummings has always treated me with respect. But sometimes she can be a bit overbearing to the secretaries—it’s like she’s already assumed the role of lady of the manor.” She pressed her face closer to mine and said in a stage whisper, “Mr. Grainger’s got eyes. He’s a man, after all. He ogled Patti plenty before the accident, but he’d never have cheated on Mrs. Grainger when she was alive. Not only did he love her, but it was her money that helped him start up this company. He’d never have risked losing either of the two things he loved most in the world.”
“Do you think Mrs. Grainger knew how Patti felt about her husband?”
“Well, I don’t see how she didn’t know. Everyone else did. But trust me, Mr. Grainger had no interest in Patti—not back then. Now is a different story.” She let out an expressive sigh. “They’re always together. It’s like they’re joined at the hip, or something.”
“I see,” I said thoughtfully. “Tell me, Kristi—did you ever hear any rumors about Mrs. Grainger having an affair? With one of the men here?”
Kristi shook her head. “God, where did you hear something like that? Oh, never mind, I can guess.” She waved her hand in a circle, and the corners of her mouth turned down in a derisive smile. “I couldn’t swear to it—I mean there were some social functions where they did look to be pretty tight—but Mrs. Grainger was too classy for Marshall, and deep down he knew it. If Mrs. Grainger had any interest in him at all, it was only a ploy to make her husband sweat a bit. I’d bet my whole year’s salary she’d never actually have done anything with him.”
“It seems as if Mr. Connor was taking some chance, then. You’d think he’d have been afraid of rumors like that getting back to Mr. Grainger.”
“Marshall doesn’t always think with the right part of his anatomy,” chuckled Kristi. “But he’s real good at what he does—Mr. Grainger would probably overlook anything short of murder to keep him.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 13