By our closing time of six o’clock, I was exhausted. And I was smiling.
I loved being an entrepreneur, especially since I was successful.
Plus, it was Friday, and I’d have a shift at the clinic as a vet tech tomorrow.
Life was good—as long as I didn’t think too much about the latest murder and how, after all, it was going to affect me.
I said goodbye and gave heartfelt thanks to my assistants, who’d worked till the day’s bitter end. No, sweet end, thanks to the Icing half of the stores. Leaving Biscuit in the Barkery for a few minutes, I slipped into my office in the back part of the kitchen to do a final quick tally for the day and close down my computer.
My phone rang and I pulled it from my pocket. It was Neal.
“Hi, Carrie,” he said. “I need to ask you a favor.”
Uh-oh. And this was before I’d had a chance to tell him my decision about snooping around Wanda’s murder. “What’s that?”
“Can you come to the resort for dinner? Les Ethman wants to talk to you again—although he asked me not to tell you that, but to tell you I really wanted you to come visit tonight. He’ll even pay for our dinner.”
“But he doesn’t want you to tell me that? Why not?”
“You’ll have to chat with him to find out.”
Hmmm. My curiosity wasn’t just humming now; it was on overdrive. Les had already given me his two cents worth about my looking into Wanda’s murder—more than once. What did he want now?
“The thing is,” I said, still sitting at my desk, staring at the dog biscuit that was the wallpaper for my computer, “I’m supposed to have dinner with Reed tonight to talk about—well, you can guess.”
“Yes, I can guess, and I can also guess that you’re—never mind. Tell you what. I’ll let Les know and tell him you’re only coming if I can arrange dinner for Reed, too. You’re supposed to think I’m paying, so the deal, before you get here, will be that we’ll all have to order frugally.”
“But as soon as I ‘realize’ that it’s Les who’s treating, I can eat anything I want.” It wasn’t a question, and I felt the smile that erupted on my face.
“You got it.”
“Then so do you. I’ll let Reed know what’s going on, although we’ll both be discreet for you.”
“I knew there was a reason I love you, sis.” Neal said that a lot, especially when the topic of how much rent he was—or wasn’t—paying came up.
“See you soon,” I said. After I hung up with him, I pressed the button on my phone to call Reed.
He answered right away, so I figured his shift had ended for the evening—as it should, since we were supposed to get together in half an hour.
“Hi, Carrie. Are you still coming to my place for dinner tonight?” he asked. “If so, I’m stopping someplace special to bring home our meal.”
“No,” I told him. “I’ve got to go to Knobcone Resort. Neal needs me there because Les Ethman wants to talk to me. But you’re invited for dinner, too. I assume you’ll come pick Biscuit and me up? And—well, we have other things to discuss, too.”
Something in my voice at that last comment might have suggested what it was I wanted to talk to him about. I figured we would have some kind of potentially heated discussion, whether in the car or at the resort or afterward, about my decision to snoop more into the murder—and despite Reed’s acknowledgment that I could do what I wanted.
“I have a feeling I need to stop in the bar to get fortified before we eat,” he said.
“Me, too,” I agreed.
I’d visited the Knobcone Heights Resort a lot since moving to town, especially after Neal joined me and landed a job there.
I wondered, as Biscuit and I waited on the sidewalk in front of my shops for Reed to pick us up, if I should start staying far away from the place. The times I seemed to visit most were when murders were committed.
“Hi, Carrie,” said a familiar voice. I turned and saw one of our most loyal customers, Cecelia—Cece—Young approaching from down the street. She was an older lady, a sixth grade teacher at our local elementary school, and a great fan of Icing on the Cake. “Is Icing still open?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Both shops are closed. I’m just waiting here for a ride.”
She looked disappointed. “Oh, I was hoping to bring home some scones.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Come in to buy some when we open at seven tomorrow and I’ll give you a half dozen extra.”
“Really? That’ll be great! I wanted to bring some in to school for an early teachers’ meeting. Everyone will be thrilled.”
Me, too, I thought—as long as she told the group where the scones had come from.
As soon as she said goodbye I spotted Reed’s car slowing down in front of the shops. “Here we go,” I told Biscuit, and we piled into the passenger seat of his black luxury sedan.
Reed had on a gray shirt that complemented both the color of the car and his dark, wavy hair. He looked over at us, his smile not really looking happy. What was he thinking? Was he disappointed I wasn’t coming to his place?
But dinner at the resort didn’t mean I wouldn’t end up at his home for a nightcap later—assuming we were still speaking to one another at that point.
“Hope you don’t mind that I didn’t open your door like a gentleman, Carrie,” he said, “but I didn’t want it to look like I was parking here at this hour. I saw a couple of cop cars prowling around, maybe staking out your shops. Do they know they have to compete with you in solving that murder?”
“No,” I said, startled. “And how do you know that?”
He started the car again, his smile looking more real. “I’ve come to know you, Carrie. I also figured, since you wanted to talk tonight even before we’d decided to go to the resort, that you’re going to lay the reality in front of me that you’re going to do whatever you damn well please, even though I’ve kind of already agreed. Right?”
My laugh was more of a snort. “You could phrase it differently. And maybe I won’t tell you anything. The Joes told me not to talk to anyone unless I want to. Maybe I’ll just clam up altogether rather than talk to you about the murder, or whether I give a damn about it, or whether I intend to try to figure it out.”
“Which you are, aren’t you?” His tone was neutral, but I knew that this man—who in some situations was my boss, in other situations my friend, and more—still had his own opinion about what I should or shouldn’t do, and believed his way was in my best interests.
“If I tell you no, you won’t believe me. And if I tell you yes, you’ll be unhappy that I’m not obeying your orders.”
“Phrasing it that way tells me a lot, too. I never gave you orders, just requests. And expressions of concern.”
We had just pulled up to the gate to the resort’s parking lot. I hadn’t asked Neal if he was validating our parking ticket again—or if Les was paying for that, too. I vowed to try to ensure that we paid little, if anything.
First, though, as Reed pulled in and found an empty spot, I tried to finalize that conversation, for now, at least. “I’ve heard what you said, Reed, and I always appreciate your concern for me. A lot. And it’s not like I’m going out and seeking out murders because of the fun I have trying to solve the crimes. But as odd as it is—”
“Murders are seeking you out. And yes, it is odd. But just remember I’m here for you and have your back—as long as I know what you’re doing and where you’re doing it. Just be careful, Carrie.” With that, he turned off the engine and looked at me for a long moment before he leaned toward me.
Our kiss lasted a nice, hot, sexy while before I reluctantly backed away.
“I’ve got to find Neal and have him make sure Les ‘accidentally’ runs into us,” I said.
Fourteen
Unsurprisingly, Neal was at the reception desk. “Oh, good
, you’re here,” he said. He turned the desk over to one of his colleagues, who was as professionally dressed as he was, and walked to where I stood at the edge of the lobby with Reed and Biscuit. “So, Reed,” he began, “I really want us to get a drink at the bar, but Carrie’s going to order her dinner in the restaurant. And I need a little dog time with my Bug. Got it?”
He looked at me, and I interpreted what he was doing: keeping Reed—and Biscuit—occupied while Les got an opportunity to talk to me alone. And not just at the edge of the patio for a few minutes this time. Les had said he would call me, and he hadn’t. Why was he doing all this so sneakily?
Well, hopefully he would explain. And for now, at least for my brother’s sake and the sake of his relationship with the family that owned this place, I’d play along.
I felt lonesome heading through the arched doorway into the restaurant alone, though. I looked around the semi-crowded place and decided on a table in the rear corner, one without too many people around so Les and I could talk—assuming he did as Neal indicated and joined me.
My server wasn’t Gwen today, although I saw her waiting on some customers near the door to the patio. I was unfamiliar with the guy who appeared and just asked for a glass of wine to start with—a zinfandel this time. “I’ll probably go out on the patio when the rest of my party comes, since one of them’s a dog,” I told him. “But till they join me, I’ll enjoy a drink.”
I hadn’t yet gotten my wine, though, when I saw Les, dressed in athletic pants and a hoodie, nearly walk past me. He stopped a few steps away and turned back, as if it was a big surprise to see me there. “Hi, Carrie. Are you alone? May I join you?”
“Of course, Les.” I really wished I understood what this was about. Why was he putting on this act, assuming either that I didn’t know about his plan for the evening or that I was willing to play along?
He sat down in a chair beside me, and I figured we’d be able to hear one another better that way than if he faced me. The room wasn’t extremely crowded or noisy, but he probably didn’t want us to have to shout about whatever he wanted to talk about.
The server brought my wine then, placing it on the white tablecloth before me, and Les ordered a gin and tonic. “I assume you’ve got people joining you for dinner, so I won’t order a meal,” he said.
“That’s right.” And then I grew completely silent, waiting for him to begin.
When I’d seen Les the night before, he’d looked like the elder of his family that he was. Now, he appeared even older, with more lines in his aging face and an added sag to his Ethman eyes.
“All right, Carrie,” he said softly. “I’m not sure what Neal told you, but I appreciate your cooperation.”
“You know we’re friends, Les,” I told him. “I don’t know why we’re playing games, though. I’ll do what I can do to help you—if I can?” I was making no promises, especially since I didn’t know what he wanted. Whatever it was had probably been on his mind at least since we’d chatted so briefly on the patio, probably longer.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” he said.
His gin and tonic was placed before him then, and he became all gracious to our server—one of the royal Ethmans thanking a subject. But Les was usually more down-to-earth than the rest of his family. He took a long, drawn-out gulp and I wondered if he thought he’d feel more comfortable talking to me if he had a buzz on. Or maybe this was just another way to delay it.
“Okay, Carrie,” he said softly. “Let me just lay this out—although if you tell anyone what I say, I’ll deny it.” He narrowed his eyes, then used them to scan me up and down. “You’re not recording anything, are you?”
I laughed in disbelief. “Of course not. What, are you going to tell me you’re the murderer? Or that you want me to go kill someone?”
“Not exactly.”
That answer both intrigued and worried me. I leaned even closer to him. “Then tell me exactly what’s going on, Les. Please.”
“Okay. Now’s the time.” He was the one to lean closer, then. “Carrie, my family asked me to talk with you again, since you and I are friends. The thing is—well, my brother and sister-in-law in particular are concerned that … ” He hesitated, as if it was painful to continue. “That this time, Harris really is the killer.” He winced, again indicating pain.
“Why is that?” I asked gently. “What motive would he have for killing Wanda Addler?”
“I can’t tell you that. No, I won’t tell you that. But the thing you need to know is, he didn’t do it—even though he doesn’t have a good alibi for that night. He was alone, so no one can vouch that he didn’t go after her.”
“The family didn’t seem to worry so much about Harris when Myra was killed,” I said. And I had been all but accused of that murder, despite the fact that Harris, as Myra’s husband, was surely more of a viable suspect than I was.
“No, but not only did Harris not kill his wife, he had good reason not to. He was the Ethman, with the money and all, even though Myra had the smarts and ambition. She used his money to buy him the Pet Emporium, and she helped ensure he knew how to run it. He felt, for the first time I gather, that he was successful at business and fit well into our family.”
I took a sip of my wine as I pondered this. I’d also kind of gotten that impression at the time, even though Harris had been on my list when I tried to find out what really happened in Myra’s death.
“But Harris had a motive to kill Wanda,” I said, again hoping Les would change his mind and tell me what it was.
“Yes. But he didn’t do it, no matter what you may find during your investigation. And—well, that was one reason I hoped initially that you’d stay out of it this time, even though I figured you wouldn’t. And if I thought it would do any good, I’d pay you to plant evidence against Jack Loroco. I think he did it anyway. I really don’t think it was Billi, even though I know she had reason to be angry with Wanda.”
“Wait a minute, Les. Let’s go back to you paying me to plant evidence. Surely you know I’d never—”
“Yes, I know. It was just a thought … ”
“A bad one.” I realized that I’d already finished my wine. I waved our server back over and gestured to let him know I wanted another one.
I needed another one. This conversation should not have been happening, yet there we were in public, being seen together.
What if the cops had some idea what it was about? What if, after this meeting with Les, they found evidence against Jack that Jack said must have been planted?
What if—?
It couldn’t have been Les, could it? Was this all a ploy to make me dig deeper into Harris and the possibility of him killing Wanda, so that Les wouldn’t get caught?
Les bent over then, placing his head in his hands. I could barely hear him when he began talking. “Oh, lord, Carrie. This is all so wrong. I love my family and its status in this town. I love my position on City Council. I didn’t want any of this to happen, especially the deaths that have occurred recently. All three of them. What are we going to do?”
He was on the City Council, and I was just a concerned citizen. But I did think it was time for me to give him the best advice I could. “I’m not sure, Les,” I told him. “But you’re in charge, or at least our mayor and City Council are in charge. My suggestion is that you have a discussion with Chief Loretta about what the police think, how they believe any future situations like these can be avoided. Plus, I think we’ll all be happier if the detectives on the case actually determine what happened this time—and who did it.” Even if the murderer was Harris—or you. But I didn’t say that.
Les straightened and looked me in the eye. “You’re right, Carrie. We need the truth here—and I genuinely don’t think Harris is to blame. We also need better ways of preventing murders in the future, and that might mean creation of a special task force to figure out why these killin
gs happened and how others can be avoided. You’re one smart shopkeeper.” His smile this time almost appeared genuine, despite the ongoing sadness in his eyes. “Anyway, thank you for putting up with me—and Neal may have told you that your dinner tonight is on me, as is his and Reed’s, since I saw the two of them heading for the bar together. Biscuit, too.”
He rose, and so did I. I wasn’t surprised when he stepped nearer and gave me a hug.
We’d hugged before, now and then. He felt frail this time.
I only hoped, no matter who solved this crime and who the killer was, that Les would be okay.
Of course, that still assumed that he wasn’t the most recent murderer …
After Les left the restaurant, I approached our server, who assured me our drinks had been taken care of. “I’m going to get my friends together, and we’ll eat on the patio since my dog is with them,” I said.
“Great. I’m serving an area out there tonight as well, so maybe I’ll be able to wait on you again.”
“Sounds good. What’s your name?” I glanced down at the nametag pinned to the pocket of his white shirt. “Stu,” I said at the same time he did. “Good to meet you, and thanks.”
With that, I started toward the arched doorway so I could head into the bar and get the rest of my gang together for the evening. As I neared it, though, I was startled to see Jack Loroco in a dark corner of the restaurant. What really startled me, though, was the person he was with: Dinah Greeley. My assistant Dinah.
They looked deeply engaged in a conversation, heads bent toward one another.
I knew Dinah had met Jack at the shops, probably last spring, since he’d started coming to town to attempt to woo recipes from me at that point.
But how well did they know one another? And what were they talking about here?
Dinah loved to write, so my initial speculation was that she was talking to Jack, maybe interviewing him, so she could get his side of the story and incorporate it, perhaps fictionalized, into a book.
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