“I saw in the report how you tried to keep David alive.”
Lena’s face went white, her eyes unfocused. “I’ve never seen so much blood before. It was everywhere, but he was still breathing. I had to do something.” This time she let her emotions go, and tears flowed.
“It’ll be okay.” Tilly’s words were as lame as they sounded. She cast a sidelong glance at the guard. She wanted desperately to take Lena’s hand to comfort her, but she’d have to make do with words.
“No, it won’t. My life”—Lena motioned around the visiting room—“none of this will be okay.”
“For what it’s worth, and I’ll say it again, I know you didn’t kill either one of them.”
“Thank you.” Lena’s breath shuddered. “Do you know when they will hold services? No one’s told me anything. Obviously, I won’t be there, but it would be nice to know.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Good. Maybe I can at least say a prayer for him. I haven’t done much of that until I came here. Now it’s all I do.”
The rest of Tilly’s time with Lena was spent asking about recipes Lena planned to develop, the new show with Jordan, and keeping the conversation on the light side. Lena gave her one last look of desperation before Tilly left. There was nothing more of comfort she could give her colleague, and it weighed on her. She wanted to talk to Jordan, but she knew he’d done as she’d asked and put up a wall. Professionals only.
The bus and cab rides home made her screw up her courage and call him. He didn’t pick up. She tried again, with the same result.
“Be that way,” she mumbled and texted him.
Just met Lena. May have more to discuss about the murders.
Less than a minute later, he replied: Tell Hank.
Anger heated her cheeks. Her ears burned. So, he’s going to be this way about it. She’d told him it was over, but this wasn’t being civil. He was being a jerk—and she missed him so much she could hardly stand it. That didn’t mean she had to let him treat her like she didn’t exist. K. Hank and I can talk over dinner. “There. Chew on that.”
She called Hank with every intention of having dinner with him. They’d talk murder and, hopefully, Hank would tell her how Jordan was really doing.
“Tapper here.”
“Hi. This is Tilly.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m returnin’ from a visit with Lena. I wondered if you’d like to have dinner. There’s some things goin’ around in my mind that I wanted to talk over.”
“Umm, maybe you should call Jordan.”
“I tried that. He’s not takin’ my calls and texted me to talk to you. I’ll do it over dinner. I’d invite you to my place, but it’s chock-full of people right now. How about I & I?”
“That’s Jordan’s restaurant.”
“I know.” It was childish, but she wanted to do this on Jordan’s turf. It was like Ruby said: heap coals on thy enemy’s head. He’d told her to talk to Hank. Well, she’d do it right in under his nose. “Don’t worry. He may not be there tonight.”
“It’s Wednesday. You know he’ll be supervising the staff.”
“How do I know he’ll be there? We don’t talk. For all I know, Jordan might be on a book tour or somethin’.”
“Til-ly.” He drew her name out on a long sigh. “Don’t play games. He’s trying to handle the breakup, and this won’t help.”
“I need to see him. Just to make sure he’s all right.” It was truth-telling time. “I still love the big jerk.”
“Why did you end it if you still love him?” His terse question caught her off guard.
“He lied—”
“Oh, come on. People do shit like that all the time. You’re terrified of yourself, not him.”
A knot of fear settled in her chest. Hank was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer. “Do you want to have dinner and talk about Lena, or not?”
He mumbled what she hoped was luck or duck under his breath. “Okay. Okay. Tonight at seven. I’ll make the reservation.”
“See you there.”
Hank hung up just as the cab pulled in front of her apartment building. She couldn’t escape fast enough to hit the shower. There was no time to answer Ruby or Sarah’s questions. Her clothes fell to the floor like a trail of bread crumbs in her rush to get rid of the lingering miasma of the prison. No matter how hot she ran the water, or scrubbed until her skin felt raw, she didn’t feel clean.
Lena had to live under those unrelenting conditions all the time. She’d lost everything and everyone. Tilly wondered how she’d react in the same situation. The shower stung and tears fell. It took a lot of soul searching for her to realize she’d come close to creating her own prison of fear. That’s when she decided to take Jordan, warts and all. Now she had to figure out how to get him back.
She stepped out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around her and ran her fingers through her damp hair. It was too much trouble to get out the blow dryer and hair products. Tonight it would be au naturel. A dinner at I & I didn’t require going all out, because it was Hank, but just on the off chance she saw Jordan, she decided to wear her little black dress. A quick look in her closet showed a lack of shoes to go with the dress. Sneakers or flats wouldn’t do. It had to be the black sling backs that took no mercy on her feet. The last time she’d worn them was the night she and Jordan found Juliette. She’d given them to Sarah but came to the conclusion that it was time to be an Indian giver.
“Sarah,” she called from her bedroom. “Do you have those black shoes I gave you?”
“What?” Her daughter’s strident rejoinder was filled with teenage frustration at being interrupted. She was probably listening to her favorite pop groups with her earbuds or texting a friend back home.
“Where are my black heels?” Tilly needed the shoes if she wanted to make a statement. One that said she was ready to slip into the restaurant’s janitor closet with him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Oh, for sweet baby Jesus’s sake, here.” Ruby came into the bedroom with the straps of the heels hooked over her fingers. She took one look at Tilly and whistled between her false teeth. “You finally comin’ to your senses and gettin’ back together with Jordan?” Her smile was filled with approval.
Tilly didn’t want to jinx anything by answering her question. “I’m havin’ dinner with Hank. We’ve got some things to discuss about the case.” She took the shoes from her and sat on the edge of the bed to slip them on. A flex of her toes told her they didn’t hurt now, but in an hour she’d wish she’d worn a pair of flats instead. With any luck she’d spend most of the time sitting in a cab or a chair at the restaurant.
Ruby’s black eyes narrowed in speculation. “Is Jordan joinin’ you?”
“I don’t think so. He’s the one who told me to talk to Hank.” Tilly stood and smoothed the lines of her little black dress over her hips and pulled the shoulders down a bit to show off some skin. She picked a small diamond pendant from her jewelry box and fastened it around her neck. “No. It’s just the two of us. We’re goin’ to I & I.”
A militant expression settled on Ruby’s dried-apple face. “Now that’s just plain mean.” She marched over and jerked the material of the dress back over Tilly’s shoulders. “You’re toyin’ with that poor boy, pure and simple.” Speculation turned into suspicion. “Maybe not so pure and simple.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Don’t you dare go into his place lookin’ like you could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.”
“I’m not goin’ there to make him feel jealous.” Ruby’s gimlet stare bored into her guilty conscience. “I admit, there’s a little of that, but I’ve already heard the talk from Hank.” She sighed and sank back onto the bed. “Oh, Ruby.”
The older woman sat next to her and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “What is it, honey?” She pulled her closer. “Tell Ruby what’s goin’ on inside that pretty head of yours.”
Tilly pressed her index fi
nger under her eyes to stop the tears from welling over. “I’ve made the worst decision of my life. I want Jordan.”
“But—”
“I know. I know. I’m the one who told him to leave.” She blinked and wiped away the errant mascara that tried to streak. “Oh, lordy, I’m going to look like an evil clown.”
“Napoleon once said women had two weapons—cosmetics and tears.” Ruby jerked her into a quick hug. “It’s just too bad we can’t use them at the same time.”
“Napoleon? You’re quotin’ Napoleon?” It surprised Tilly to hear the French emperor’s words coming from her foster mother.
“Hey! I saw it somewhere, and it stuck.” Ruby shrugged. “Maybe it was on one of those paper place mats I used to use at my diner. Doesn’t matter. It’s true.”
Tilly gave a little hiccuping laugh and dabbed away the last of the mascara with her finger. “How do I get him back?”
Ruby stood. She motioned Tilly to do the same. She reached up and pulled the black knit dress past Tilly’s shoulders again. “That oughta do it.”
“I thought you said wearin’ the dress like this was slutty.” Tilly readjusted the shoulders a bit and gave one last look in the full-length mirror. Not too bad for a single mom. In fact, I look smokin’, I only hope Jordan is there and this doesn’t go to waste.
“Bait. Gotta use good bait.” Ruby surveyed her handiwork and jerked two tissues from the box on the nightstand. “You still have a little bit of mascara under your right eye.”
Tilly took care of the black smudge. A little foundation and a new layer of true black on her lashes did the trick. “I realized somethin’ in the shower.”
Her foster mother stood beside her. “What’s that?”
“I’ve been throwin’ away happiness by the handfuls. I let the past haunt me until I couldn’t think straight. Seein’ Lena in prison brought that into perspective. I took everything and everyone for granted. Not anymore.”
“Good for you. Now, go get ’em.”
Tilly picked up a black paisley shawl and threw it on with a flourish. “I intend to. Oh, I do intend to.”
…
Jordan’s hand itched to reach for his phone. He barked out orders to his staff, but barely heard the “Yes, chef!” being called back in acknowledgment.
The restaurant was booked for a large dinner party, along with the regular mix of customers. Wednesday nights had always been the worst once people found out he supervised the kitchen on a regular basis. Everyone waited for an occasional chance to hobnob when he visited the front of the house. Right now, he was stuck on the back line, directing traffic.
Normally he was obsessively picky about the service—nothing went out that didn’t look 100 percent. Tonight he didn’t give a rat’s ass if the Irish colcannon—his father’s favorite potatoes and cabbage dish—was topped with whipped cream instead of butter. He ran his thumb over the surface of his phone, willing Tilly to call. Waiting for something, anything, to happen was killing him.
“Chef! Spaghetti al pomodoro e basilico!” A plate was shoved into his hand for inspection. He stared down at it, not registering what he held.
“Chef!”
“Yes. It looks good.” Jordan slid it through the elegant pass-through dividing the kitchen from the front of the restaurant. The customers enjoyed watching the chefs hard at work preparing their meals. It was entertainment in every sense of the word. If he didn’t pay attention to what went on in the kitchen, the back line would turn into a clown car act.
The heat and noise of the kitchen put him on edge. His twitchy nerves ramped up the instant the front door opened.
Tilly and Hank walked through.
Jordan’s mouth grew dry; his heartbeat sped up. What is she doing with Hank?
He turned away for a second to control all the racing thoughts in his head. What game was she playing, or had Hank decided to step into the gap and take the prize? A deep breath, permeated with basil, onions, and tomato sauce, helped to relieve the muscles tensing behind his neck. He turned with a fake smile on his face, determined to act as if her being there with his friend was an everyday occurrence. It lasted as long as it took for Tilly to drop her shawl and reveal an expanse of creamy shoulders.
He knew every inch of that white skin, how it reacted to the touch of his lips. He could almost taste the sweet spot at the curve of her neck and breathe in the spicy peach scent that was all Tilly.
His first impulse was to march over to their table and pull her dress over her shoulders. He’d throw the shawl around her, babushka style, for good measure.
“Rodney!”
“Yes, Chef.” His sous chef came at a fast walk between the bustling lines of cooks. Jordan would be lost without him. He ran a tight kitchen during the rest of the week.
“I need to check the front of the house. Do a little glad-handing.”
Rodney nodded, and his eyes swept over the different stations for problems. “I got your six.” The military had trained Rodney well, and Jordan left his kitchen in good hands.
He went through the archway that led from the kitchen to a private dining area. He started to head for the main dining room, but Tilly’s familiar laughter stopped him dead. She should be crying or pining—whatever women in Tennessee did when their love life took a dusty ride down the gravel road of despair. Instead, she wound an errant curl around her finger and smiled.
Her hair!
It wasn’t in her normal cute flippy curls. Tonight it looked soft and inviting. Hank would get the old spatula treatment if he so much as touched one little strand. Jordan knew how much damage a well-wielded spatula could do. He’d broken a sauce during his study in Paris, and his instructor came at him like one of the Furies. His focus had been on Juliette instead of hollandaise. No, he’d watch and wait before going ape-shit crazy on Hank.
Tilly leaned in closer to hear whatever Hank said. Jordan groaned. His friend was getting a good view of her cleavage. He had to do something to distract Hank from ogling the top of her breasts.
“Psst!” He motioned Ernst, his sommelier, to come closer.
“May I help you, sir?” The man’s bald head and pale skin gave him a Gollum-like appearance. He might look creepy, but he was the best sommelier in the business.
“Yes. Go to table seven and give them a complimentary bottle of wine.”
“Any in particular?” His tone bordered on condescending and bored.
“The Moët & Chandon Brut Champagne Cuvée Dom Pérignon 2003.”
Ernst blanched. His bottom lip trembled. “The 2003?”
He might have well asked his employee to slit his wrists. The man loved his cellar and watched it with an eagle eye. Jordan wouldn’t be surprised to find Ernst crouched in a corner, stroking the 2003 and crooning, “My precious.”
“Detective Tapper is partial to beer, sir.” That was Ernst’s not so subtle way of saying Hank wouldn’t be able to taste the difference between the champagne and a boxed wine.
He had a point. No need to waste a good wine on people who couldn’t appreciate it, or deserve it.
“Send over a Diet Coke and a Guinness—with my compliments.”
Ernst’s color returned, and his breathing evened out. “Very well, sir.”
It occurred to Jordan that Tilly might be trying to make him jealous. She still loved him, in spite of her paranoid fear of commitment. It was crappy to use Hank that way, unless he didn’t care.
Is it my imagination or is Hank eyeing her with the same anticipation as he would a medium-rare steak?
It would be better to stay where he could spy on them. If things looked too dicey, he’d have one of his staff run interference. He glanced around and decided Germaine, the waiter who scraped crumbs from the table, was in for a busy night.
…
Disappointment welled in Tilly’s chest. She’d be damned if she’d let it show. Jordan wasn’t here to see her in man-eating mode, as Ruby had called it, before reminding her that she hadn’t gussied up for
Hank. Now she felt silly in her black dress and heels. She might as well have worn a gunnysack. She smiled and toyed with her glass of water. Hank reached for her hand.
“Don’t worry, pally. He’s here.”
“I don’t see him.” It amazed her how Hank had seen through her bravado. “I thought I hid my feelin’s pretty well.”
Hank released her hand and sat back in his chair with a grin. “You two are so in love it can blind a person. What’s wrong with you?’
“Me?” She was surprised that Hank even thought there was an issue on her side. “He’s the one who—” This afternoon’s revelation in the shower shut her up. “You’re right. I’m the one who broke it off.” She laid a hand over her heart. “I truly want him back, but I’m scared.”
“Of what? Does he beat you or verbally abuse you?” He narrowed his eyes in speculation.
“No. I mean, he can get a bit mouthy, but I’m used to that. I can hold my own.”
Hank leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fingers laced. “Does he take all your money to buy beer and cigarettes?”
She shook her head and smiled. “No. He doesn’t smoke. You know that.”
Hank narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side. “Does he fart in bed?”
“No!” A sly smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe once or twice.”
“See? No problems, but I’d have a talk with him about the farts if I were you.” He toyed with his napkin. “He lies. Not big ones, but they are lies.” He rested his chin on his hands. “That was the deal breaker, wasn’t it?”
“I overreacted.” A knot of regret lodged in her chest, making it difficult to speak. “It was just a reason for runnin’ away. I’ve been hurt several times. I didn’t want him to be another bad experience. It was wrong, and I’m so sorry.”
A waiter showed up with a tray of drinks. “A Diet Coke for the lady.” He served her and turned to Hank. “And a beer for the gentleman.” She stared down at her soda and up at the waiter in question.
“Compliments of the house. My name is Steve. I’ll be your server this evening.” He handed the menus to them and walked away before she could ask him about Jordan.
Murder Love on the Menu Page 23