I gathered the frying pan, sesame seed oil, teriyaki sauce, and a pound of sliced chicken breasts. Then I grabbed two cloves of garlic, fresh ginger root, a can of sliced water chestnuts, an onion, and a pint of baby bella mushrooms. A bag of baby carrots, a head of broccoli, and a small bag of fresh green beans joined the rest of the ingredients, and I was ready to get cooking. I added a couple of teaspoons of oil to the pan, peeled and pressed the garlic, and added it in, too. Next, I grated some ginger then peeled and sliced the onion and slid it in the pan, then turned on the burner. When the onions had softened a bit, I stirred in the chicken and took an appreciative sniff of the yummy smells.
When the chicken had browned, I added the mushrooms, water chestnuts, and vegetables and cooked them until they were soft but not mushy. Then I sprinkled some teriyaki sauce over the dish and declared it ready to eat. As I pulled a plate out of the cupboard, I thought of the family dinners I’d had growing up and how different they were from the more recent years when I’d lived alone. It was more fun to cook for family or friends, but I liked good food, and there was nothing like a home-cooked meal, in my opinion.
The sound of my ringing doorbell caused me to lose the grip on the plate. Fortunately, it was about a half inch from the countertop and didn’t have far to fall. I had been way too jumpy since I’d found poor Molly dead in the bathroom, and I hoped I’d get over it before too long. If the police would just get to the bottom of her murder, that would be a great help to my emotional state.
I rushed to the living room window and pulled back the curtain to see who was at my door. Of all the bad luck; it was Clinton Lonsbury. Probably there to chew me out for something I may or may not have done.
He knocked on the door, obviously impatient that it took me more than thirty seconds to let him in. “Camryn, it’s Clint.”
I unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Yes?”
“Do you mind if I come in?” When I didn’t object right off the bat, he stepped in and turned his head toward the kitchen. “What is that?”
I whipped around to see what he was referring to. “What?”
“Food. It smells good enough to eat.”
“Oh, well, I hope so.”
“Am I interrupting your supper?”
“Not yet. I was just about to sit down.”
He nodded. “I’ll take off, then. I just stopped by to apologize for being short with you.” Which time was he talking about? He was “short” with me all the time. “You were trying to be helpful when you said Mrs. Ryland and Mrs. Andersohn should be separated, and I took it the wrong way.”
“Oh, okay.” Somehow his apology broke down my defenses, or maybe it was that I didn’t want to be alone what with the wind howling outside. Or maybe it was because I hadn’t cooked for anyone else for a while. Whatever the reason, I said, “Have you had supper?”
His eyebrows rose. “Why, no, I haven’t had a chance.”
“If you like chicken and vegetable stir fry, you’re welcome to join me. When I cook, it always ends up being enough to feed at least six people.”
He actually smiled then slipped out of his jacket and laid it on the couch on his way to the kitchen. It was there he discovered something about me he may not have believed, had he not seen it with his own eyes. I was a very messy cook. Very, very messy. But as Mom had told me many times over the years, “Cami, now I’m not saying this to hurt your feelings, but when you cook or bake, no one makes that much of a mess.” Then she’d smile and finish, “Or can clean up better than you can.” My claim to fame. Little-known fame. In all the years I’d been on my own, very few people had seen my kitchen in its meltdown state.
Clint set one foot in the kitchen and stopped cold. “You must have one good therapy session planned.”
The man was insufferable. I’d let it slip that I found cleaning therapeutic, and he had found several occasions to rub it my face after that. “Yes, that’s the sole reason I cook.”
He looked at me long enough to make me blush then turned his attention to the pan on the stove. Clint walked over and inhaled like he was taking his last breath on earth. When he turned and gave me a big, genuine smile of appreciation, my color deepened, and something inside of me melted a bit. For that one moment in time, I let myself admire what a hunk he was when he allowed a happy expression to crack through his normal granite exterior.
“Can I do anything to help?” Clint asked. He was sincere, and I immediately forgave him for the therapy crack.
Of course his question meant that I should answer him. It should have been simple enough, but the state of my kitchen distracted me. I had never had a guest for dinner with utensils and food scraps scattered around, filling the counter spaces. I wouldn’t be able to relax surrounded by the mess while we ate. “Um, do you ever drink beer?”
He smiled again. “I have been known to do that on occasion.”
I felt more melting deep inside of me. “How about, like, now?”
His eyebrows went up and down once. “That sounds good.”
I opened the refrigerator door. I had bought a Minnesota brewers’ sampler pack with three different beers. Actually, two kinds of beer and a pale ale. I pulled out the pack and set it on the counter. “Any preference?”
Clint stepped closer and lifted one of the pale ales from the case. “One of my favorites.”
I found a bottle opener in a drawer and handed it to him. “If you could take your drink into the living room, maybe catch the news on TV for a few minutes, I’ll finish up in here.”
The way he frowned at me seemed to say, Are you serious?
“Please,” I said.
He cracked the top off his bottle, nodded, then went into the next room. I heard voices on the television a minute later. I drove into a frenzied cleanup, discarding onion and garlic peels and all the other waste I had created. Then I loaded the dishwasher with all the food preparation supplies and wiped down the stove and counter. The small dining room was off the kitchen. I had never had a meal there but kept a tablecloth on the table, just in case. I added a plate to the one I had taken out before Clint arrived, grabbed utensils and napkins, and set the table. Then I scooped the stir fry into a large bowl, added a serving spoon, and put it and the bottle of teriyaki sauce on the table.
I went to the doorway of the kitchen to call Clint to the table. He was sitting on the edge of the couch watching a nature show. “All set,” I said, and he clicked off the television with the remote he was holding. He stood up, grabbed his drink from the coffee table, and came into the kitchen.
“How did you do that so fast? I don’t think I took three sips of beer.”
I shrugged. “I learned early on that the faster I got done with my chores, the sooner I got to play.”
“Just what kind of play are you proposing here?” He raised his eyebrows.
In retrospect, I realized I had set myself up for that one, but it was too late to take back my words. “Or go shopping, or meet my friends, or eat. Like now. And we should, before the food gets cold.”
“We should. Where would you like me to sit?”
I pointed at the table. “Either place. Would you like another drink?”
Clint shook his head. “I’m still nursing this one.”
I got a pale ale for myself then sat across from Clint. I’d set the food on the table in between the place settings and now pushed the bowl closer to him. “Help yourself. I would have made rice to go with it if I’d known you were coming.”
“Thanks, this looks hearty enough without rice. I don’t do much cooking myself.” He dished a generous portion onto his plate.
“We had a home-cooked meal every night growing up. I notice the difference in how I feel eating good food versus junk food.”
Clint stabbed a piece of chicken and popped it in his mouth. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “That’s what I’m talking abo
ut.”
The corners of my lips lifted as I dished stir fry onto my own plate. We held off on talking while we ate, and thankfully, it was more difficult to argue about things when our mouths were full.
After Clint had polished off a second helping, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”
Really? “Thank you. I have ice cream, if you’re still hungry.”
“I’m stuffed, but thanks, anyway.”
“I’m glad you stopped by and stayed for dinner. I was feeling kind of jumpy when I got home.”
He studied my face. “Jumpy?”
“With everything that has happened the last couple of days, it’s almost too much to process. And after I told my parents about Emmy, my dad said what if Emmy turns out to be a serial killer with other victims nobody knows about.”
Clint frowned. “In any case, it’s something we can look into; track where she’s lived and if there have been any suspicious deaths in the area.”
That made me feel even worse for Emmy, whether she deserved it or not. If she had hurt others, she needed to pay for her crimes. Maybe I was naïve. And I had been fooled by people before, but I wasn’t convinced Emmy had killed either her husband or Molly Dalton.
“Have you told Irene Ryland why Emmy is in jail?” I asked.
Clint shook his head. “Mark and I talked about it and felt it was best to wait until after they make their court appearances, see what happens there. We felt she has enough to deal with for now. We did inform Will Dalton, however.”
“And what did he say?”
“Not much, just, ‘Good, I had my suspicions about her.’”
“I’m surprised Will Dalton even knows Emmy.”
“It’s a small town.”
“But what about Emmy would make him suspicious in the first place?”
“I asked him what he’d meant, what gave him ‘suspicions,’ and he said it was more of a gut feeling, no real reason. So when I told him what her real name was, it convinced him he was probably right about his gut feelings.”
“Or he’s just trying to act like a know-it-all.”
“That’s a possibility, too.” Clint got out of his chair and picked up his plate. “I’ll get these washed up,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. I have a dishwasher.”
Clint carried his plate to the kitchen, and I followed with my own. He glanced down at his watch. “If you’re sure, then, I’ll get out of your hair.”
It was close to nine o’clock, much later than my usual dinner hour. Clint went into the living room, picked up his coat from the couch, slipped it on, and then turned to me. I was surprised when he stuck his right hand out, like he wanted to shake mine. “Thanks again.”
Not knowing what else to do, I shook his hand. His grip was firm, and his hand was warm and comforting. That surprised me a little. Not the firm and warm part; it was the comforting part that threw me off. “You’re welcome.”
“And there’s something I wanted to give you, if it’s all right.” He dropped his hand, and I wondered what in the world he might have stuffed in his pocket for me that I may or may not want to accept. But he didn’t reach into his pocket; his hands came toward me instead. One slipped around my waist and settled in the middle of my back. The other lifted my chin, and his mouth closed over mine for a brief kiss. The whole thing lasted a nanosecond, but my heart rate seemed to soar into triple digits, like I had just run a fast sprint.
Clint’s lips were still near mine when he whispered, “Good night, Camryn.” Then he slipped out the door. I was momentarily tempted to go after him to beg him to come back for one more kiss. And then I remembered who he was and who I was, and that rushing after him would be a bad idea indeed.
I considered calling Pinky and Erin to tell them about the crazy evening: how Clint had stopped over, how we’d had dinner together, and then how he’d kissed me out of the blue—the very last thing in the world I’d expected. I had to admit we’d shared a fairly pleasant meal together, but that was mostly because we hadn’t talked much.
Clint took his eating very seriously, and it seemed it was the only thing he could concentrate on at the time. That had cut down substantially on our propensity to disagree. Then he kissed me. He must have been overcome with gratitude for the home-cooked meal to do that. But what if he tried to do it again sometime? How in the world would I handle that? Golly.
I went into the dining room and started cleaning up the rest of our meal. As distracting as Clint’s visit had turned out to be, there were critical things going on in our small community. All the things Molly’s mother had been part of umpteen years ago had come to light and landed her in jail. Then Emmy Anders—or Andersohn—was arrested for Molly’s murder because the police found cyanide in her garage. Mind-boggling events. Would either of the women sleep a wink tonight?
The only thing our friend Archie Newberry had complained about when he was in jail, before he went to the treatment center, was the hard, thin mattress on the metal bed. “These old shoulders of mine kinda like a softer place to rest on.”
Archie. Pinky and I had agreed to keep him in the dark about the latest happenings for as long as possible. He didn’t watch television, so we felt fairly sure he wouldn’t hear about it. When he was further along in his psychological healing and could handle the news better, we’d decide on the best way to tell him.
I put the leftover stir fry in a plastic container and snapped on the lid. After I’d put it in the refrigerator, I heard a light scraping, like a tapping noise, near the dining room window. My first thought was that it was a woodpecker. But it was late, and the ones that wintered over, that didn’t migrate south for the winter, would be in their shelters for the night. I turned off the dining area light, went over to the window, and opened the blind. There was enough light from the streetlamp to make out the offender—a large branch had broken off, and the wind was pushing it against the house and window. If the wind pushed much harder, the branch might break the window.
I did not want to go out in the frosty, windy night, but I had no choice. I slipped into a quilted jacket and boots then went out the front door to the south side of the house. I ignored the moving, reaching branches that had given me a fright earlier and resolutely marched to the broken one. It was six or seven feet long, and the base of it had a diameter that would be the right size for firewood. I got ahold of the heavy end and tugged until it moved then kept going until it was far enough away from the house.
I started back inside but almost fainted on the spot when a white ghostlike object floated by. I was frozen in my tracks and thanking God out loud that it hadn’t come toward me. When my irrational terror settled down, and I could see better, I recognized it was a tall kitchen garbage bag that had taken on a ghostly appearance in the buffeting wind. I stood there for another second, chiding myself for being such a big baby. Ghosts didn’t look like the cartoony white-sheet version, anyway. They looked like the people they had been, but different. Like Molly had been in my dream. That thought sent me rushing into the house.
Maybe I was officially cracking up. Perhaps the stress of getting ousted from my position in Washington had finally caught up with me. That got me thinking about Senator Ramona Zimmer, who was about to be ousted herself. She had actually accused me of costing her the election. She was really grasping at straws, but it was possible that wild notion had warped her brain. Enough to have me killed? If that was the case, her plans had gone awry when either she or Peter or the mystery man who was looking for me poisoned the wrong girl. Oh my.
I started shaking my hands the way Pinky did when she felt nervous. The results on the letter Ramona had delivered were not back from the crime lab, and I was getting impatient. If the letter contained poison, that should prove to the police that the Zimmers were the ones who had killed Molly. Unless . . . Emmy had kill
ed Molly after all. And her death gave the Zimmers the idea to poison another girl—namely me—in Curio Finds to make it look like a serial killer was on the loose.
I had caught Ramona completely off guard when I came in and found her at my counter. She may have thought I’d trustingly open the envelope, inhale the contents, and die before I could tell anyone what had happened.
Then one more thought hit me. What if that man who was in the store asking about the woman who fit my description was not working for the Zimmers after all? What if he was asking for Molly because of some other connection they had? And who was that strange guy Ramona brought to her house when Peter wasn’t home? The man had looked like he would be staying awhile.
My head hurt from all the bad thoughts circling around in my brain. I needed to do something calming, but what? It was too dark to go for a walk, even if I bundled up against the cold and armed myself with a canister of Mace. Plus, if the Zimmers had it in for me, the Mace might not be enough to ward them off. I grudgingly admitted Clint was right. I needed to take a self-defense class. After all, the same kinds of things, good and bad, happened in small towns, rural areas, and big cities.
Clint. It was the strangest thing, but thinking about him and the way his lips caressed mine for that brief moment gave me a sense of reassurance. Yes, we butted heads on a regular basis, and we had virtually nothing in common. Not to mention that the way he slurped his coffee drove me bananas. But there was a part of me, way deep down inside, that liked and respected him.
When my phone rang and I saw it was the man of the hour calling, I debated whether I should answer it or not. But it might be important. “Hello, Clint.”
The Iced Princess Page 15