by Linda Reilly
There stood Audrey Feldon, a frightened look on her face. In her hands she clutched a slip of paper. Pale green, just like the one Talia had—
Oh dear God—the note. The one she’d scooped up off the grass right before the softball game was going to start. The one written on a Steeltop Foods sticky note, its bold message reading:
WE NEED TO TALK.
She’d tucked it into the pocket of her linen slacks and forgotten all about it. Now she realized she should have given it to the police. It might have meant nothing, but then . . . it might have meant everything.
Talia thought back to when she’d last done wash. It was Saturday, she remembered. The linen slacks she’d worn on Sunday should still be in her hamper.
With gentle hands she moved Bo aside, set her phone down, and hopped off the sofa. Within seconds she located the wrinkled linen slacks stuffed at the bottom of her laundry hamper.
She shoved her hand into the right-hand pocket. A sigh of sheer relief escaped her lips. She clamped her fingers around the note and carefully withdrew it. Though a bit rumpled, it was still intact. With Norma dead and Lucas injured, the message WE NEED TO TALK sounded more ominous than ever.
Next dilemma: should she call Prescott or text her? Considering everything the detective had on her plate, she opted for a text.
First, the note. She padded into the kitchen, found a clean plastic sandwich bag, and sealed the note securely inside. She attached it to the fridge with a Fry Me a Sliver magnet, then went back to the living room to grab her phone.
She located the detective’s contact info and texted. Have physical info that might be important. Call me when you can. Any more news on L? So glad he’s going to be okay. Any chance Crystal’s been released?
Almost instantly, she got a return message. L still critical and unresponsive. I’ll stop by early AM.
Talia choked out a cry. Lucas was critical? Unresponsive?
A wave of nausea gripped her. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Poor Lucas—he must have taken a turn for the worse. If only she could see him, talk to his folks . . .
Wait a minute. Prescott’s text said still critical and unresponsive. What did that mean?
Talia shook her head. Pretty soon her brain cells were going to explode through her ears. Had she only imagined that Prescott had told her Lucas was recovering? Or had it been some wacky dream spawned by her own anxiety?
Her thoughts drifted to poor Crystal. Had the police held her? Was she languishing in a jail cell for a crime she hadn’t committed? How did everything turn so bad, so fast?
She located the remote and flicked on the television. Maybe she could find a mindless sitcom to drag her thoughts away from Lucas. She clicked her way through the lineup, groaning at nearly every program she landed on. Eventually she settled for an old movie—a comedy with John Candy.
But even John Candy, funny as he was, failed to quell the negative thoughts racing around in her mind. Shortly after eleven, she turned off the television. Ryan still hadn’t called, which was definitely not like him. He’d never promised to call and then not followed through. And he always texted her a row of pink hearts before he shut off his light at night. But so far, nothing.
She’d eaten little since earlier in the afternoon, but even now she didn’t feel hungry. Too tired to wash her hair, she showered quickly and headed for bed. Bo curled up next to her pillow, her purring muted. The cat always knew when Talia was troubled.
She needed a good night’s rest if she was going to accomplish anything tomorrow. It was time to step up the action, in spite of Detective Prescott’s warning. She’d already come up with a game plan.
Now all she had to do was put her plan into play.
10
The persistent ringing of the doorbell woke Talia out of a sound sleep.
“What on God’s green earth . . . ?” she muttered, forcing her eyes open to throw a baleful look at her bedside clock.
5:42 a.m. Could that be right?
The doorbell rang again, followed by a forceful knocking.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” she snapped at whoever it was. She slipped her arm out from under Bo’s furry one, slung on her summer robe, and stuck her feet into flip-flops.
“Open the door, Talia,” a voice commanded from the front porch.
Talia made a face. She recognized the voice. Those dulcet tones came from none other than Detective Patti Prescott.
Talia tied her robe and turned the lock. Almost instantly the door flew open.
“Uh . . . yeah, come on in,” she mumbled, closing the door.
Prescott, wearing a pale blue cotton shirt and lightweight navy trousers, plunked her hands on her slender hips. Her nutmeg-colored eyes blazed with fury as they searched the room. “Is anyone else here?”
Talia frowned. “Only my cat. Why?”
“What part of ‘don’t utter a word’ do you not understand?”
Talia scrubbed her eyes open with her fingers. “Wha—what are you talking about?”
Prescott whipped her cell out of her pocket. “Does this sound familiar: ‘Any more news on L? So glad he’s going to be okay’?”
Talia gawked at her. “That’s what you’re mad about? I only sent the text to you. It was completely private!”
“Nothing is completely private, Talia. What if one of my nosy coworkers, or even my mother, had been looking over my shoulder when I read it? Do you realize you could have cost me my job? Or Lucas his life?”
“I—”
“Even worse, what if your boyfriend, or Martha, or anyone picked up your phone and read your texts?”
Talia ran a hand through her hair, which by now had to be standing on end. “Look, Detective. My boyfriend, as you call him, is out of town on business. And no one I know would read my texts,” she added meekly.
Prescott moved toward her. “Oh, they wouldn’t? How do you know that? Are you one hundred percent—”
“Okay, okay! I messed up. I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think—”
“That’s just it,” Prescott said soberly. “You didn’t think. That sad part is, I trusted you. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
Talia felt her shoulders slump. She really had screwed up. But if Prescott had warned her in the first place about not texting, she never would have done it. “So . . . Lucas is okay, then?” Her voice came out in a mousy squeak.
Prescott replied with a stiff nod. “What is it you have to show me?”
Relieved about Lucas, Talia beckoned the detective to follow her into the kitchen. “Want some coffee? I can make a pot in no time.”
Prescott shook her head. “Just show me this so-called physical info you supposedly have. Or was that just an excuse to text me?”
Talia glared at her. The detective was seriously beginning to tick her off.
“It’s right here.” Talia pulled the plastic bag off the fridge and handed it to her. She gave Prescott the background story, including the fact that it might be the same note Audrey had picked up off the ground on Sunday.
“I suppose your prints are all over it,” Prescott said. This time a slight twinkle shone in her eyes.
“I suppose they are, since I didn’t think it meant anything when I first picked it up.”
Prescott examined the note. “For future reference,” she said, “this should have been put into a paper bag, preferably a glassine bag. Although I wouldn’t expect you to have one of those on hand.”
Talia risked a tiny smile. “Who knew?” she said, with a lift of her shoulders.
“I did,” Prescott said. “That’s why I’m the one wearing the badge.” She turned, and with a few strides was in the living room. Her face softened when she saw the little calico gazing up at her with wary gold eyes. She bent and spoke soothingly to the cat, offering her fingers for Bo to sniff. “Sorry if I scared you, little one. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”
Bo purred and pushed her head into the detective’s hand. Talia couldn’t help smiling at th
e scene. It really was pretty adorable. She followed Prescott to the door with tiny, flip-floppy steps. “Um, any word on Crystal?”
Prescott’s expression was unreadable. She dipped her chin at the television. “I suggest you turn on the six o’clock news.”
• • •
Talia watched in mute horror as the perky reporter, every blond hair sprayed into place, chirped into a mic. She was standing in front of the Wrensdale Police Station, her exquisitely made-up face looking appropriately somber.
“According to Sergeant Liam O’Donnell of the Massachusetts State Police,” the reporter said, “Crystal Galardi, the forty-four-year-old co-owner of the Fork and Dish, was arrested yesterday afternoon at her store in the Wrensdale Arcade. After an exhaustive search, the murder weapon—a wooden rolling pin—was found in the Dumpster behind the shop. Galardi denies knowing anything about the weapon, or the murder, despite the fact that preliminary lab tests turned up her prints on the handle. Galardi is also being charged with the attack on twenty-year-old Lucas Bartolini, who remains in the hospital in grave condition.”
Stunned, Talia shook her head. No way was Crystal the killer. It just wasn’t possible. And never in a zillion years would she have harmed Lucas.
What made far more sense was that the rolling pin had been purchased at Crystal’s shop. Naturally her prints would have been on it—she’d probably handled it when she stocked the shelves, or when she sold it to the buyer. She hoped the police were checking into that.
Talia shuddered as the reporter droned on. Crystal was scheduled to appear in court in approximately three hours. What a nightmare for the poor woman, and for her elderly mom. Talia prayed Crystal had a good attorney.
“That stupid contest is to blame,” Talia mumbled to Bo, who was making yowly protests about her breakfast not having been served yet. “Now I wish neither of us had entered.”
Bo looked up at her and licked her whiskers in response.
“I know,” Talia said, unable to resist a smile. “You can’t think on an empty stomach, can you? Come on, let’s go into the kitchen and get you some turkey and giblets. As for me, I’m going to enjoy a hearty breakfast at the Wrensdale Diner.”
11
Talia slid onto a stool at the counter, inhaling the enticing aroma of fried eggs, pancakes, and cinnamon muffins. Breakfast was one of her favorite meals, despite the fact that she rarely had time to indulge in a leisurely one. Most of the time she gulped down cereal on the run, anxious to get to the eatery to start cooking for the day.
A fresh-faced girl with teal-streaked hair and eyes to match set a cream-colored mug down in front of her. “Coffee?” the girl said, holding the steaming pot aloft.
“You bet,” Talia said, with the brightest smile she could muster.
The girl filled the mug with the fragrant java. Talia reached for the ceramic bowl that held a pile of nondairy creamer packets. “What’s good today?”
The girl grinned at her. “Well, everything here is, like, delicious. But this morning the cook made some cinnamon chip muffins that are to die for.”
Talia suppressed a shiver at the word die. “Ah, that must be Dylan, right? I’ve heard so much about his luscious baked goods.”
“Yeah, he’s a legend around here. At least in his own mind.” She winked at Talia. “He entered a baking contest this past weekend, but he didn’t win. I don’t think it set too well with him. He thought he was a shoo-in. Like nobody else in the world can bake except him, ya know? Just because he invented a few good recipes, he thinks planet Earth revolves around him.” She made a rotating motion with one finger and then leaned in closer to Talia. “I mean, the guy lives with his mother, right? He’s not exactly a catch, if you see where I’m going.” She grinned, pleased with her revelation of this delectable tidbit of gossip.
Ignoring the barb about Dylan, Talia snapped her fingers as if she’d just recalled the contest herself. “Hey, that’s right. Wasn’t he one of the finalists in the Steeltop Foods contest?”
The girl nodded. “Yup. That’s the one. Then some poor old lady got offed after it was over. In fact, it was the winner who got murdered.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “So awful, right? But you prob’ly saw that on the news.”
Talia nodded sagely. “Were you there, at the festival?”
“Nah. That type of thing bores me to tears. I went to a friend’s barbecue on Onota Lake that day. Her folks have a lakefront cottage there. They had some cool fireworks! The kind you’re not supposed to have, ya know?” She gave Talia an exaggerated wink.
Yes, the kind that blows off fingers.
Talia smiled, and after a momentary pause said, “Did Dylan know her, by any chance? I mean, did he know the murdered woman?”
Still gripping the coffeepot, the girl gazed at the wall with a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think so. At least he said he didn’t. Truthfully, I don’t totally trust him, though. He’s not exactly Mr. Congeniality.”
“I know the type,” Talia said, nodding again.
The girl glanced toward the other end of the counter. A portly, balding fellow in a stained apron was giving her the evil eye.
“Hey, maybe you better order,” the server whispered. “My boss is giving me that look, you know?” She crossed her eyes playfully.
Talia grinned. “Oh, sure. I’ll have a cinnamon chip muffin with two scrambled eggs. And, um, is Dylan in the kitchen, by any chance?”
The girl scribbled Talia’s order on a lined pad. “Yeah, sure. He’s back there. You want to see him?”
“Actually, I do. I have something to ask him. If he has a free minute, that is. It’s about his muffins,” she added quickly. No point in arousing any unnecessary suspicions. Besides, she had a twinkling of an idea she wanted to pursue, and muffins were definitely involved.
The girl winked at her again and then scurried off through the swinging metal door almost directly behind her.
A few minutes later, Dylan McPhee, his curly mud brown hair tucked into a matching hairnet, pushed through the same door. He glanced around, and then his gaze landed on Talia. Scowling, he looked around briefly before walking over to her. “You the chick that wanted to see me?”
Friendly fellow. “Yes, I’m Talia Marby. And I am the person who wanted to see you.”
“I know you,” he said. His thin lip curled. “You were one of the other losers.”
“Yeah, well . . . that’s true, but it’s not why I’m here.” Boy, what a surly dude. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? Privately, that is.”
He shook his head. “If it’s about the murder, I don’t have anything more to say. I told the cops everything I know.”
“I’m sure you did, but—”
Talia’s server chose that moment to return with her eggs and muffin. The girl set them down in front of her and then went off to wait on two men in army green work clothes who’d just seated themselves at the counter.
Dylan’s thin chest puffed slightly. “You ordered one of the muffins, I see. It’s a new recipe I’m experimenting with.”
“It smells heavenly,” Talia said, taking in a long breath. “I can’t wait to taste it. Anyway, I’d still like to have a brief chat with you, if you have a free minute or two. I promise, I’m not trying to pry. I only want to clarify a few things. I also have a culinary question to run by you.”
Her last statement, she hoped, would be an enticement.
Dylan studied her for a moment. “Meet me in the parking lot out back at seven thirty. That’s when I take a cigarette break. And don’t worry,” he added brusquely. “It’s an electronic cigarette. You won’t smell anything.”
With that, he slammed through the swinging door back into the kitchen.
Talia resisted the urge to pump her first. She cut the muffin in half and slathered it with butter. Combined with the fluffy, perfectly cooked eggs, it was the best breakfast she’d had in ages.
After she gobbled it all down, paid the bill, and left her server a hefty tip, she gra
bbed her purse and headed in the direction of the rear entrance. She’d parked her Fiat in the back lot anyway, so it was a good place to meet up with Dylan.
Outside, grayish clouds had begun to gather. A thunderstorm was headed for the Berkshires, according to the morning newscast. So far the summer had been a dry one. A good, soaking rain would be a welcome change.
Dylan, sans hairnet, was already waiting for her. Leaning against a boxy-looking blue car that looked old enough to be a classic, he puffed on a black cylindrical device. The object looked more like a fountain pen than a cigarette. Talia couldn’t help staring when he blew out a puff of something that looked like steam but had an odd, nondescript scent.
He looked amused at her confusion. “It’s called vaping,” he said, an edge to his voice. “No obnoxious smell to bother the whiny nonsmokers.”
Talia suppressed a snarky retort. It was whiny not to want cigarette smoke blown in your face?
“Oh, well, then,” she offered tactfully. “I learned something new today. By the way, your muffin was fabulous.” She gave him a generous smile. “You must have a secret ingredient.”
“Matter of fact I do,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Since you’re a cook yourself, you probably figured out what it is.”
“Uh-uh. I’m more of a fry cook than a baker. Speaking of which, I wondered what your opinion was of deep-frying muffins. Mini ones, that is. Not the regular size.”
Dylan nodded. For the first time, his dark eyes looked animated. “I’ve seen it done. For starters, you need a good funnel cake recipe to make the batter.” He pointed the fingers holding the e-cigarette at her. “Don’t refrigerate it, though. Changes the whole texture. Plus, your batter’ll thicken too much. You want it thin enough to coat the muffin. ’Course, you deep-fry all the time, so you probably know all that stuff.”
“Thanks, Dylan. That actually helps me. I’ve been hesitant to try it, but now I think I’ll give it a whirl!”