No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7

by Barton, Sara M.

  The only artwork in the room hung opposite the bed. It was a large, unframed canvas of bluefin tuna breaking the surface of the ocean, no doubt chasing a school of bluefish.

  Looking around, I took in all the details, from the undressed windows to the unadorned wood floors. The room felt undone, as if Mac couldn’t quite decide what to do with it.

  “Here’s the master bathroom,” he said, guiding me into the large room. The first thing that leapt out at me was the shower. The walls were done in a handsome mix of sandstone tiles. A shower tower, with knobs and handles, took up one wall. There was no shower curtain, only a half-wall, leaving the room feeling expansive. I stepped forward and peered into the space, thinking how like Mac it was. For a fleeting moment, I imagined myself with him in that shower, touching him, feeling him touch me. The idea shocked me and I quickly cast it aside, hoping to will the thought from my mind with effort.

  There was a large soaking tub tucked into a simple wood-paneled base by the oval window, offering a glorious view of the bay. A white concrete trough sink with two sets of wall faucets sat atop another plain antique dresser, this time done in a warm golden finish. Here, too, the painted walls were starkly white.

  “Do you like it?” Mac spoke only inches from my ear, catching me off guard. I hadn’t realized he was so close.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to recover my equilibrium. “It’s very nice.”

  “But?” Those brown eyes were smiling at me.

  “It feels like it needs some color, some warmth, some personality. The design itself is lovely. The lines are clean and it has a nice style to it. It’s just lacking….”

  “A woman’s touch?” Mac gave me a grin. “I’m hoping to rectify that when I come back from Bahrain. By then, I will have closed the deal.”

  “What deal?” I inquired. Mac didn’t normally discuss business with me. In fact, he hadn’t even told me what he did for KLPG Financial. I turned to him, expectantly.

  “I’m getting married.”

  Chapter Four —

  Don’t ask me why, but my heart fell to my feet. Whoever he built this master bedroom suite for, she was obviously loved. It was as if he was holding back his own strong personality to let her add her own. A pang of jealousy went through me as I tried to picture the exotic beauty who would someday call this home.

  “And now for the best of what the house has to offer— the first floor.” He led me down the staircase and into the vestibule. From there, we started in the large dining room, with its white wainscoting and salmon-colored walls. Clearly his mother had the upper hand in the decorating decisions here. Mae’s sparkling crystal chandelier lent an elegant touch to the space, with just enough bling to pick up the light streaming through the large windows.

  “You’ll recognize Mae’s dining room furniture. She insisted we use it in here and I didn’t have the heart to buck her on it,” Mac confessed. I looked at the Scottish antique oak banquet table that had been in the Ferguson family for generations, with its carved pedestal legs, and the dining chairs, now upholstered in a cheerful print. On the long wall stood the oak breakfront, imposing and yet befitting such a large room.

  “It looks like it belongs in here,” I told him.

  “You think so?” Mac looked pleased. “I like it, too.”

  “Beautiful windows,” I noted. The large bow window had diamond panes in the top sashes.

  We stopped at a small, but attractive powder room on our way down the wide hall and peeked in. There was a Victorian oak washstand with a blue-and-white porcelain bowl sitting on top. The antique bronze faucet was mounted on the wall and a matching towel ring was fixed to the wall.

  “Charming,” I told Mac.

  “Mae and I have been scouring the antique shops for the last six months, to find just the right pieces to transform.”

  “She must have enjoyed herself tremendously,” I smiled.

  “When Adelaide died, it knocked the wind out of her sails. This house gave her something positive to focus on. Close your eyes,” Mac commanded as we were about to pass a doorway. He took me by the arm. “I’m saving the kitchen for last.”

  He escorted me to end of the hallway.

  “Okay, you can open them.”

  The long living room was sun-filled, with three sets french doors opening onto a wrap-around brick patio. I noticed Mae’s floral sofa, with its overstuffed pillows, now flanked by a leather club chair and a pair of upholstered arm chairs upholstered in blue damask. A large oak buffet stood against a wall, with a large flat screen TV sitting on top. Colorful drapes on heavy bronze rods stood at attention beside the french doors. It was a comfortable space, warm and inviting, casual enough, and yet still elegant. Mac grinned as he watched me take in all of the details of the room, with its glorious view of the bay from three sides.

  “There’s more,” he told me.

  “There is?”

  “Now comes the room I hope will convince you to take on the role of caregiver for Mae. When you look at it, think of your cookbooks and the possibilities.” Mac took my hand in his and led me into the kitchen. Ivory cabinets, gently antiqued, framed a limestone backsplash. White quartz counters, delicately flecked with soft tones of beiges and golds, provided lots of work space. The commercial appliances looked like they had just stepped out of fine restaurant. I caught my breath, imagining the photo shoot potential. There were copper pots galore, some hanging from the pot rack, others atop the cabinets. A built-in period hutch revealed brightly colored dishes behind the leaded glass doors. It was the perfect kitchen for a cookbook author, and for a moment, I almost wondered if Mac had deliberately built it with me in mind. But that thought passed quickly. After all, why should I think Mac had any interest in me at all? He had just told me he planned to marry. We hadn’t seen each other much over the years, and certainly we had never been romantically entangled. Maybe his foreign love interest was a gourmet chef. Maybe Mac was using me as a guinea pig, to make the house more to her liking. I busied myself opening drawers and cupboards, taking a closer look at all the kitchen offered.

  The large farmhouse sink would fit just about any pot. The six-burner stove was a dream come true. And the commercial refrigerator? It offered plenty of storage for prepared foods in between camera shots. My mind raced ahead, planning the different photos for the next volume. I could even picture using the patio as a backdrop for a meal.

  “I’ll do it!” With enthusiasm I never expected to feel, I blurted out a commitment to Mac. “I’ll look out for Mae.”

  “Perfect.” A warm smile crossed his face, reminding me of the boy I had known so long ago. “I’m so glad, Kimmy. Mae will be thrilled.”

  I wandered down the hall to the vestibule as Mac made sure the house was locked up and the alarm was activated. The house had a strange hold on me. There was something about it that spoke to my soul. It was as if I was meant to be here. Suddenly, I realized something shocking. My condo in Tuscan Gardens was ordinary, just walls and paint, and as much as I loved it, it could never match this place. There was love in every corner of this house, and even now I was reluctant to leave it. I could see myself here with Mae, but even more stunning, I could see myself here with Mac. I banished that thought even as it came to me. He was building a life with another woman. It was not to be.

  “The alarm code is zero-five-one-two,” said Mac, as he punched in the numbers on the touch pad by the door. “I’ll write it down for you when you move in.”

  “May the twelfth?” I suddenly realized there would be no problem in remembering. “That’s my birthday!”

  “Is it?” Mac smiled at me. “How convenient.”

  Was it a sign from the heavens, or just a coincidence? A little stirring of hope slipped past my defenses as we walked to the car.

  “When would you like to move in?” Mac asked me, on the drive back to my mother’s house.

  “I have to arrange to get my furniture out of storage. I might be able to ask my tenants to help get it on a moving
van. Give me a couple of days, Mac.”

  He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but hesitated. I saw his jaw tighten briefly, and then go slack. He seemed to force himself to change the subject.

  “Tell me honestly what you like about the house,” his eyes on the road ahead of him.

  “Besides the kitchen? Everything.” It was true. I was already in love with the house. My only regret was that some other woman was going to eventually take it as her own.

  “Let’s try it a different way,” Mac decided. “What are the negatives?”

  That wasn’t easy, given all the wonderful features of the property. I had to really push it to come up with something.

  “Well, it’s not on the ocean, but it’s on the bay. That’s almost as good. Maybe the biggest drawback is that it’s not within walking distance of shops.”

  “Actually, it is. If you go down Acorn and take a left on Scarborough, you’ll get to Main Street. There’s a fishmonger, a bakery, and a small family-run market that’s pricey, but good.”

  “Nice,” I grinned. I smiled, pleased that I was going to have a great kitchen for cooking and recipe-testing. I was feeling confident that this was a good decision on my part, at least as far as the cookbooks were concerned.

  “There’s a local farmer’s market in Jolly Bay on Tuesdays and Saturdays by the village green. You can get just about everything, including artisan cheeses, eggs, organic fruits and vegetables, and a lot of the farms bake their own pies. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m looking forward to spending some time with Mae. I do really miss my mother,” I admitted.

  “You two will have a nice time together,” Mac said. “Your mom was Mae’s chum for so long, she’s been at loose ends without Adelaide.”

  “Me, too.” I looked down at my hands. “I’m glad you asked me to do this, Mac. It gives me a chance to get back into life. I was just planning to move back to Belle Haven and take up where I left off. But this is a chance for a new start. It’s a wonderful house.”

  “That’s great,” Mac nodded. “I’ve put a lot of money into this place as an investment for my future. I needed a woman’s opinion on whether or not it was worthy.”

  “This is all about an investment?” I raised an eyebrow in Mac’s direction and he chuckled. “Why didn’t you just ask Mae?”

  “She’s my biggest fan. She never gives me an unbiased opinion. I was counting on you to be straight with me. You don’t have any direct interest in the outcome.”

  “Oh,” I said. For a moment, I found myself feeling very disappointed that Mac just wanted a woman’s opinion. I actually wanted him to want mine.

  As soon as that thought popped into my head, I stopped myself. What was wrong with me lately? Was I just coming out of mothballs, after the long years of taking care of Adelaide, and I was using old, reliable Mac as my romantic safety net for a harmless flirtation? If he was planning to get married again and just wanted to make sure it was good enough to offer his future bride, I was probably just a sounding board for him. Why was I feeling so many confusing new emotions about an old friend?

  We spent the rest of the drive engaged in light-hearted banter. By the time Mac dropped me off at the gate of Adelaide’s little ranch, it was almost three.

  “I have to go make some arrangements for my trip, and then I promised Mae I would drive up and spend the night at Aunt Fiona’s,” he told me. He promised to call me in the next day or two to firm up the plans.

  Once inside the house, I got to work on my end of things. I dialed my tenants’ land line, intending to leave a message. Instead, Jim picked up.

  “I have a huge favor to ask,” I told him. “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

  “Fire away. I’m all ears,” Jim responded jovially. I explained what I needed and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed.

  “I’ll pay you for your time,” I offered.

  “I’m home for an unpaid work furlough, due to state budget cuts. It will give me something useful to do,” he decided. “I’ve already cleaned this place twice. Wait a minute. Does this mean you’re not moving back?”

  “That’s the other part of what I have to ask you. Would you be interested in staying in the condo for another year?”

  “Honey, you’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” I wondered.

  “We’ve already seen six different places and none of them felt like home. We loved Tuscan Gardens,” he sighed. “Wait till I tell Barry. He’s going to flip!”

  I promised to make arrangements to get Jim the necessary paperwork and keys, clear it with the storage company, and update the rental agreement.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he crowed cheerfully. “There is a God! You have no idea what a relief this is! We were actually planning to call you if we didn’t find a place by the weekend.”

  With that settled, I sent off a long email to my publisher, telling him about Bonnie Oaks and outlining three ideas for new cookbooks. One was a seafood theme. I wanted to research local favorites and reinvent them to save money and calories, adding lots of photos of Jenkins Beach, Jolly Bay, and the area coastline. The second was a volume on summer cooking and entertaining al fresco, with make-ahead and quick meals using fresh ingredients from the farmer’s market. I had plans for that patio as a backdrop. The third volume was all about cooking for two, with easy-to-make, time-friendly meals using fresh ingredients and only one or two pots. The collection of colorful dishware would lend itself to setting an attractive table. Mae would be my recipe tester.

  At six-thirty, I put on a pot of water for pasta, opened a can of chopped clams in juice, and got busy making my quick version of an old favorite. I sautéed sweet onions and garlic until they were tender, and then I poured clam juice into the pan, along with a splash of extra virgin olive oil, a small pat of butter, and a good dollop of white wine. While the sauce was simmering and the linguini was cooking, I toasted some baguette rounds. I tore off a couple of basil leaves from my potted plant on the window sill and chopped them before adding them into my pan. As I waited for my linguini with clam sauce to be ready, I ate a salad at the kitchen counter, while I watched the evening news on Adelaide’s 9” under-the-counter TV. Already I was imagining myself in the Bonnie Oaks kitchen, with its wall-mounted flat screen model.

  The aroma of garlic and onions infusing their flavors with the other ingredients in my sauté pan was stimulating my senses. I was eagerly anticipating that first bite when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let curiosity get the better of me and picked up.

  “It’s me,” Tom said. “I really need to see you.”

  Chapter Five —

  “Need is such a strong word,” I replied. “And I thought I made it clear earlier that I really am not interested.”

  “Just give me a chance,” he said, his voice low, almost humble. Not an easy task for a man like the ever-confident Tom to achieve.

  “I’ve moved on. You should, too.”

  “I want to make amends for hurting you,” he insisted.

  “It’s really not necessary,” was my reply. By now, it was time to add my pasta to the sauce and let the last few minutes of cooking absorb all those great flavors. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Just half an hour of your time,” he called out, as I was pulling the phone away from my ear. I pushed the “end” button and got back to what mattered most, my linguini with white clam sauce.

  Despite the delay of Tom’s call, everything was delicious, and I sat there enjoying the experience. I even decided to pour myself a glass of pino grigiot. When the last remnants of the sauce were mopped up by the baguette rounds, I flipped the channel to “Jeopardy” while I cleaned up the kitchen.

  As the final question popped up on the screen, the doorbell rang. I looked through to the living room and saw Tom’s rental car sitting in the driveway. Apparently, he assumed “no” meant I was playing hard to get. It looked like he was g
oing to keep trying until he understood I really wasn’t interested.

  I crossed the short distance to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. I really didn’t want to let Tom into the house. There was no guarantee I’d be able to get him out. I felt uncomfortable having him there, looking around at my new life and trying to figure out an angle that would enable him to gain entry through the slightest of cracks. He had always been an opportunist, playing all the cards he had to win. I was annoyed at the current intrusion, physical and emotional. It was so Tom-like, persistent, demanding, and even arrogant. He greeted me with great expectation, fully utilizing that boyish charm, so I cut him off in mid-sentence.

  “As I’ve already explained, Tom, I’m not interested,” I insisted. I wanted him to know there was no wavering on my part, no weakness of the knees or the heart. The bridge had been burned and it would not be rebuilt. “Please don’t come back here.”

  “You can’t mean that, Kimmy. You’re just still angry with me for my selfish behavior.”

  “No,” I disagreed. “The anger is long gone. It’s over. So is our relationship. We don’t have any connection anymore. Let’s just say our final farewells, before this turns ugly.”

  “If I make you that angry, you must still have feelings for me,” he smiled. He took a step closer. I moved to the right as he tried to brush up against me.

  “You’re making me angry because you’re not listening,” I warned him. “I’m telling you I don’t want you in my life.”

  “And I’m trying to tell you that I made a huge mistake. I never should have let you go. You were one of the best things that ever happened to me.” Now he was pleading with me, trying to find a button to push that would get him what he wanted.

  “You know what?” I looked him right in the eye. “I don’t think our relationship ever really was all that terrific. I think you got what you wanted out of it, a romantic tryst that gave you the freedom to come and go as you please while you were going through your divorce. You weren’t looking for a healthy meal. You were looking for dessert. I was the cake with the icing, and when my mother was sick and needed me, you found a bread pudding that looked tastier. It was never about loving me. It was about your own pleasure.”