Cunning Attractions

by Christy Barritt

  A chill spread through me. But not as big of a chill as the one that had spread through Emma Jean when she died.

  I chewed on Detective Adams’s words as I left.

  My mind continued to review that diatribe from Bill on his show. I hadn’t thought a lot about it at the time because I was used to Bill bad-mouthing his ex. It was part of his banter. But . . . were his icy references a coincidence?

  Maybe.

  His word choice couldn’t have been more unfortunate.

  What was the name of that restaurant where Emma Jean worked again?

  The Crispy Biscuit.

  I knew where I needed to head next.

  Thankfully, the eatery was only about ten minutes away, located in downtown Norfolk. As I drove, I turned on the radio, tuning into Bill’s show to see if I’d missed any important updates.

  “Philip Munich is the devil,” Bill said, his voice deep and gravely. It was his radio voice because he didn’t always sound like that. He did, however, always sound this convicted. “If you elect him this November, you will be devil followers and worshippers. Is that what you want to be?”

  Ouch. That was a little harsh. And inciting.

  “Besides that, I’m telling you, the Philip Munich you’ve been seeing on TV isn’t the real Philip Munich. He’s a robot for his political party, manufactured by people who want something from him in order to help secure his win.

  A political robot? Bill’s conspiracy theories were more and more interesting in this volatile election season.

  “The real Philip Munich’s background is obscure, at best. He has an amazing lack of personal history. I’m telling you—the control he has over the information that he’s had released is unprecedented. And it means he’s hiding something.”

  I turned it off. That was about all I could listen to. Politics really weren’t my thing, especially as of late. This whole election had become so volatile.

  I parked in a nearby garage and made my way toward The Crispy Biscuit. It was only 4:30, so I should beat the dinner rush. That was the good news—if the place was even open again, which I highly doubted.

  Since there was no crime scene tape outside, I moved ahead with my plan and pushed the front door open. The place used to be a bank, from what I’d heard. I paused in the entryway and marveled at how much of the original building had been preserved.

  Where the teller counter used to be was now a bar. There were actually two tables in the former safe area. The old partitioned offices to the left now formed interesting alcoves for intimate dinners.

  I also marveled because everything looked like it was continuing on as scheduled.

  Which I found odd.

  This place was a crime scene. It should be shut down still.

  “How many?” a perky blonde asked me.

  “Just one. But I’m not here to eat. I was hoping to talk to someone about Emma Jean Lewis.”

  Her gaze suddenly lost its spark. She glanced around, as if to make sure no one had heard me. “What about her?”

  “Is there someone I can speak with?”

  She lowered her voice, which came out in a quiet bark. “We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s bad PR!”

  “I can really give you some bad PR if you’d like.” I lowered my voice to make my point. “I’m talking quietly right now.”

  She let out a steamy sigh and then turned around to look at the other patrons, who were nestled at quaint tables eating their food. “Wait there.”

  A moment later, she returned with a man in tow. He looked just as uncomfortable as the hostess seemed to feel. He had an artsy look with his well-gelled hair, tight jeans, and bow tie. He was probably in his early thirties, and his scowl made him look agitated.

  “Let’s go back to my office,” he snarled.

  He didn’t wait for me to follow him—luckily one of my talents was not letting people get away. I could stick to people like glue. Or flypaper.

  I followed him out the backdoor, across an alley, and into another building.

  My senses went on alert. What was going on here?

  He paused just inside the door, as if sensing my first question. “There was no room in the old bank building for the kitchen or offices, so this is where the food is prepared.”

  “That’s why it didn’t come out that the murder had occurred here. This building is actually at a different address so no one in the media picked up on it.” I looked beyond him and saw the industrial kitchen.

  He scowled. “Not yet. Give it time.”

  I extended my hand. “Gabby St. Cla—Thomas. Gabby Thomas.”

  He hesitated before accepting my handshake. “Greg Borski.”

  Something in the distance caught my eye. Yellow crime scene tape over the walk-in freezer. Bingo!

  Then another thought hit me. “You say your food is fresh, never frozen, but you have a . . .” I used my best game show hostess hands, “a freezer.”

  Hypocrite!

  He narrowed his eyes. “I ask for your discretion. No restaurant can operate without a freezer.”

  I made sure my gaze clearly showed my challenge of his assertion. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!” His words came out fast and loud. He seemed to notice how he sounded and relaxed his shoulders.

  As another blonde walked past—this one appeared to be a cook—Borski actually smiled and nodded.

  His expression went sour again as he looked back at me. “Listen, it’s complicated. There are certain fruits and vegetables that are seasonal. There are some things it’s easier to make a day before . . .”

  That was interesting and all. I was sure a firing squad of food critics and foodies might demand his head on a platter—fresh, never frozen, of course. But I had bigger, sushi-grade fish to fry.

  “That’s not what I’m here about.”

  He leaned toward me, his nostrils flaring. “How’d you find out we’re connected with the incident?”

  “I’m an investigator. Finding out things is what I do. It’s just a matter of time before other people learn the truth also.”

  He muttered something not-so-nice sounding beneath his breath. “I’ve worked too hard to have this ruin me.”

  A lot of people were saying that lately. Wasn’t anyone thinking about poor Emma Jean and how this had ruined her life? Or the life of her son?

  I wasn’t above saying insensitive things, but people needed to keep the main thing the main thing.

  “Who found Emma Jean?” I started.

  “My sous chef, Julian. We don’t use the freezer often. Best I can tell, Sunday was the last time we went in there—until Emma Jean was found.”

  I glanced back at the freezer. There appeared to be a lock on the front of it. I wasn’t sure if that was normal or not, but I needed to do some research. “Is your sous chef here today?”

  He shook his head. “No, his car is in the shop, so I told him to take the day off. We’re not that busy anyway.”

  I leaned against the stainless steel counter behind me and made a mental note to try and talk to this Julian guy sometime. For now, I had to take this a little deeper. “Can you tell me what Emma Jean was like here at work?”

  “She made things as difficult as humanly possible for everyone she encountered. Is that what you want to hear?” His hands flew in the air before landing on his hips.

  How do you really feel? I kept my sarcasm silent . . . for now.

  “Only if it’s the truth,” I finally said.

  “Oh, it’s the truth all right.”

  “How so?” I asked instead.

  “She was our bookkeeper, but she acted like she ran the place. She was always telling me how I should spend my money, where I should cut back, what I was doing wrong. Like she knew anything about running a restaurant. You’d think that working for three years at McDonald’s in high school made her an expert.”

  “I see. That had to be frustrating.” Frustrating
enough to kill over? “Was there anyone here that she didn’t see eye to eye with?”

  “Everyone. She didn’t see eye to eye with anyone here.”

  Well, that narrowed it down.

  Before I could ask more questions, he stopped another employee—also a blonde—and spouted something about reminding all of the wait staff to stay quiet about what had happened.

  As he talked to her, I glanced down at his desk. I spotted a hotel key card for Motel Luxury as well as several pink notes on his desk calendar. Messages for Borski to return a call. The name Patton Patrick was there, along with a phone number. I quickly memorized it before Borski turned back to me.

  “You were saying?” he said.

  “Was there anyone in particular Emma Jean didn’t see eye to eye with?”

  He let out a sigh. “Well, the sous chef threatened to chop off her fingers if she told him how to do his job. The hostess told her on more than one occasion that there were no seats available for her here. She even threatened to give Emma Jean’s desk to a customer just to keep her away. One of the waitresses was caught spitting in her food.”

  “Wow. You weren’t kidding. Why’d you even keep her here?”

  He let out another sigh and leaned closer. “Between you and me?”

  “Between you and me.”

  “I didn’t have time to hire anyone else. I was putting up with her until I could replace her.”

  “This place keeps you busy, huh?”

  “Ever worked in a restaurant?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s exhausting. Tiring. Relentless. You don’t do it unless you love it. I’ve poured my life savings into this. I go in the hole more months than not. I pay my employees before I pay myself.”

  “It almost sounds like there’s more stress than there is joy here.”

  “You can say that again! But when you’ve put everything into something, you can’t afford for it to fail. That’s where I’m at.” He seemed to realize what he said and froze. “Don’t read too much into that.”

  I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Emma Jean wasn’t standing in the way of this place succeeding or failing.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t believe me?” His cheeks reddened.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know how it sounds.”

  “Who do you think did it, then?”

  “I have no idea. But I hope the police figure it out and soon!”

  I did too. But until then, I had my first potential suspect, someone with motive . . . and most likely opportunity and means.

  Chapter Four

  I headed back home after my visit to The Crispy Biscuit. Since I was running late, I grabbed some Chinese food from My Dung. Yes, that was really the name of the restaurant. Someone should have really checked with an American on the cultural images those words provoked before finalizing that doozy of a name.

  As I climbed out of my car at our apartment complex, I paused. The hairs on my neck rose.

  That was never a good sign.

  Slowly, I swiveled my head, looking for a glimpse of what had caused the reaction. The sun had just set, which meant twilight surrounded me. Darkness could mask too much. Could make people become shadows. Could play tricks on your eyes.

  I was well aware of that fact.

  I didn’t see anyone suspicious. I didn’t see anyone at all, for that matter.

  I glanced across the street to the coffeehouse. Could someone be sitting inside, staring at me from one of the windows there? Or maybe a neighboring apartment building? In one of the parking lots?

  I couldn’t be sure. But I didn’t like how my spine clenched.

  Instead of standing out here like a lame duck during open season, I scrambled inside the apartment building. I ran up the stairs, immediately headed to the apartment on the right. Then I remembered that was no longer my apartment. I mean, it was officially still in my name. But now Riley’s place was my place.

  Carefully balancing the food in my arms and one of the rice containers in my mouth, I unlocked the door and shoved it open with my hip.

  “Hey there!” Riley rushed over. “Let me help you.”

  I drank in the sight of him. He was tall, lean, and all muscle. He had dark hair and incredible blue eyes. He was the most beautiful man I knew—both inside and out.

  “Thank you.” I wasn’t going to complain if he wanted to assist.

  As he grabbed one of the bags, he leaned over the food and kissed my forehead. “Glad you’re home.”

  “That’s crazy because I’m glad you’re home too.”

  I couldn’t wait to fill him in.

  I began pulling out the food from the paper bags. “I’ve got a pu-pu platter from My Dung with your name on it!”

  “If you never say that again, it will be too soon.” He let out a rumbling chuckle as he pulled out some plates and sat across from me. His warm eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. The look filled my heart with warmth and my stomach with butterflies. “How are you?”

  “Wait until you hear about my day.” I sat at the mission-style dining room table, anxious to divulge what I’d learned.

  As we ate, I rehashed everything that happened. Riley was my sounding board. He approached problems from a different perspective than I did—when he wasn’t fighting with me about investigating things that could put me in danger. I had to say that in the brief twenty-seven days we’d been married, he’d been surprisingly willing to help me out. I suppose he figured, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

  “So maybe all of these years Bill hasn’t been exaggerating.” Riley paused with his chopsticks in midair.

  “I know. Who would have thought? His ex-wife truly might have been the awful person he always talked about.”

  He leaned back in the sturdy wood chair. “So what are you going to do next?”

  I slowly chewed a piece of broccoli. “I’m not 100 percent sure. I’d like to talk to her other ex-husband and see what he says, but the fact that this murder happened at the restaurant makes me think there’s some connection there.”

  Borski had said they didn’t use the freezer every day, and I thought he was telling the truth. But I could be wrong. Because, after all, I had been wrong that an always-fresh, never-frozen restaurant had a freezer at all. Who could say what else I was incorrect about?

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  I leaned forward and kissed him again. His support meant the world to me. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “Always.”

  Riley was right, I mused the next morning. I was going to figure things out. I just needed a plan.

  But first I needed coffee to start my day off.

  Which was exactly what I was drinking at the moment.

  With Riley.

  My husband.

  I let out a mental sigh.

  It was just an ordinary day in the Thomas household. Riley and I were seated at the table, sipping our java. Outside, someone was having a very loud conversation with someone else. A car gunned it down the street. A neighbor’s dog barked.

  It was funny how I’d never noticed just how noisy it was here before. But the past couple of weeks, I had observed that the neighborhood appeared to be getting louder and louder. Maybe even more crowded. Or maybe it had always been this way, but I hadn’t paid attention until Riley pointed it out.

  “You know, I make enough that we could move,” Riley said. “We could get our own place. Nothing big or fancy or overwhelming to our paychecks.”

  “Could it have a picket fence?” I took another sip of my coffee.

  He grinned. “If that’s what you want.”

  “And a cute tree with a little swing tied to the branches?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “White shingles, blue shutters, a fireplace, and an open floor plan?”

  “If you can find it, it’s yours.”

  As
my tongue-in-cheek suggestions faded, my smile slipped. Riley knew my feelings on the matter. He knew how hard it was for me to let go and accept change.

  In truth, it boiled down to the fact that I couldn’t stomach the idea of moving away from Sierra and Reef. Even Bill downstairs had become a fixture in my life. And Mrs. Mystery upstairs always added some comic relief.

  Besides, having my own place seemed so adult. Was I really ready to go adult all the way? Maybe I should ease into it. I now had a steady job. I was married.

  The house could come later.

  “We should stay here a while longer,” I finally said.

  He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  I was glad he wasn’t pressuring me because I’d overheard his mom—she talked very loudly on the phone—asking him why he wasn’t getting a nicer place. His folks were well-to-do and wanted only the best for their son.

  Riley stood and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run. Remember—I’m going to the gym after work. Stop by if you get bored.”

  Because I got bored so easily. But I did like to watch Riley in all of his physical prowess. Since he was my husband now, there was no shame in that thought. None. At. All.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He kissed me goodbye, and I wanted to pinch myself. I still couldn’t believe we were married. I felt like the luckiest girl alive.

  I took three more sips of coffee before standing. I had to prepare for another training session I had at the beginning of next week. But, before I did that, I called my friend Chad. Chad was Sierra’s husband and my former business partner.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  I heard hammering in the background and figured he was already on a job site. “I need a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you get a call about cleaning Emma Jean Lewis’s crime scene at The Crispy Biscuit, I want to help.”

  “Gabby . . .”

  I feigned innocence. “What? I need to see it.”

  “You want me to pay you to snoop?”

  I frowned, realizing the dichotomy. “If you don’t need my help, then I’ll volunteer. Does that make you feel better?”