by Susan Cox
“I won’t move from your side.”
“Okay, then.”
It was only when I got there and saw everyone making coffee and heating up croissants and taking up seats at the tables that I realized how many rescuers I had. They were all in the middle of a chatty debrief, moving from table to table and sharing bits of the story they might have missed, and I got the feeling that they were ready to do the search and rescue all over again.
I got a round of applause as we arrived, and while I was still laughing through my surprise and taking a bow, I saw Grandfather with Valentina and went over to them. Someone handed me a chocolate croissant.
Grandfather looked almost gray with weariness. “How are you feeling, my dear?”
“Surprisingly well,” I said, chewing happily on my croissant. “I probably have about twenty minutes before I fall asleep standing up, and until that happens”—I leaned over and put my arms around him—“thank you for taking such good care of me.”
He gave my back a few stiff little pats and then suddenly pulled me close into a real hug. Chairs at a nearby table magically emptied. He guided me into one of them and Valentina into another, before he and Ben took seats themselves.
“Sergei’s visit alarmed me, Theophania. At first I thought he had exposed you to danger from unknown sources, and I asked the members”—he hesitated—“my friends to keep watch to see if they saw any signs of interest in you. When Sergei was killed, and the threat was more localized, more personal, if you will, they were kind enough to continue their vigil.”
“Grandfather—it was you and Sergei at the Venus de Milo, right?” He pursed his lips and reluctantly nodded. “Do you know who he met in the pizza place across from the club?”
“At the time he said only that he was meeting the young relative of a friend to discuss—wine, I think.” He shook his head slightly. “I paid too little attention; I thought he was planning a trip to the wine country.” He snorted. “It seems fairly clear now that it was Melnik. I—”
“We are very sorry to have fallen down on the job at a critical juncture,” Valentina interrupted as he struggled. I liked her for it. “We saw you go into the coffee shop, but he took you out through the rear door. We thought you were in no danger in broad daylight. We didn’t plan for that eventuality.”
Jacob came over and took up the story, which had gathered a fascinated audience. “We thought he must have brought you to where we eventually found you. We searched through the building and even looked in the garage, but it seemed empty.”
Valentina added, “We didn’t see the special trapdoor. It was covered in boxes and the same color as the floor—ach.” She waved an irritable hand. “We should have noticed, but we did not.”
Jacob went on, “Then we searched the two empty buildings, because of course we knew he had made use of them before. Your friends Dr. and Mrs. Talbot helped us to search, and they were as tireless as one could hope.”
“Professor D’Allessio organized the Garden Gnomes—is that right? Garden Gnomes?” He looked around for confirmation, and two of the nearby Gnomes cheerfully waved mugs of coffee at him. “Yes, and they searched the gardens and the toolshed and small areas behind the buildings, and a lot of garages.”
“We were sure, you see, that you had to be somewhere close by, because he couldn’t have carried you very far without attracting notice.”
“And then Nathaniel insisted that we search everywhere again, and in particular he thought we should look for a wine cellar. When we came back to search again we were able to see that there was, indeed, a sort of trapdoor set flush into the floor. We had to get heavy tools to break our way in. And here you are!”
Father Martin showed up and, embarrassingly, led a prayer for my safe delivery. Then he told me that Matthew was awake and insisting that he had to leave the hospital before someone stole his stuff. “I’ve invited him to stay at the rectory for the time being; I can’t let him go back to that horrific squat.” I thought—but didn’t say—that Matthew would soon be able to buy a whole lot of better stuff. He was going to need a protector and some advisors, and I wondered what happened to an estate whose executor was very likely criminally insane. Matthew’s inheritance could be eroded completely by expensive legal fees. Evidently understanding some of the cause of my agitation, Ben squeezed my hand. “Huh,” as Davo would say. Matthew could be in luck; I knew a lawyer who might work pro bono.
Angela Lacerda, still wearing her lemon-colored socks, introduced me to “My fiancé, Jason.” He was incredibly good-looking in an old-fashioned, movie-star way, with dark hair, broad shoulders, a smile for everyone, and a rather doe-like expression. His arm was around her. She was wearing her engagement ring again. “Jason and I are setting up a new business.” She beamed at me as Jason smiled happily and squeezed her shoulder. “Lacerda Property Management.”
“You’ve got a great start,” I said.
“Angie’s a great businesswoman,” Jason said proudly. “Latte, Angie?” he said.
“Please hon, that would be great.” He set off toward the counter.
“OMG, he’s gorgeous,” I whispered to her
Her eyes went wide. “I know, right?” she whispered back. “Lucky I’m smart enough for us both.” And she snorted.
We both watched him go in a sort of trance. After a few seconds Ben cleared his throat. “His family is okay with—everything?” I asked her hurriedly.
She narrowed her eyes at me and flicked a glance at Ben. “Jason and I have no secrets now. We decided his family doesn’t need to know everything. And we’re moving up the wedding.” She said her goodbyes to Ben and me and followed Jason to the counter, where two girls from the neighborhood were flirting with him. He looked clueless, but she extracted him efficiently and ordered their coffee drinks in go-cups.
The impromptu party continued, but gradually people left, either to get some sleep or to get ready for work. Haruto spent an hour helping Nat behind the counter, and I could see another part-time job in the offing. Davo stopped by on his way to school and said, since I hadn’t left him a lunch, he needed a ten-dollar advance on his wages. He hugged me so hard I thought my bones would break.
No one left without giving me a hug or a kiss. Sabina and Kurt appeared. Sabina burst into tears and wouldn’t stop hugging me. Kurt mumbled something about being glad to see me safe and was eventually able to persuade Sabina that I could be safely left with Ben and my grandfather, and the two dozen other people still hanging around.
Grandfather, Valentina, and Jacob were chatting quietly—with Zane, I was astonished to see—and I assumed that the two strangers who joined them were fellow members of their exclusive little club. Zane, still wearing his skull necklace, broke off his conversation with them to raise a mug in my direction. I looked over to where Nat was making his umpteenth pot of coffee, and I gave him wide eyes and lifted eyebrows as I tipped my head in Zane’s direction. Nat winked at me, and I decided it was a conversation for another day. I went over to him. “Is that coffee fair trade, organic, and cruelty-free? And are these napkins a hundred percent post-consumer recycled, renewable—”
“Don’t joke,” he said, turning to face me with a teary laugh. “This has been the worst night of my life.” I went around the counter and walked into a hug.
“I hear it was your idea to look for a wine cellar.”
“Yeah, well, it was a dumb idea until it wasn’t.”
“You know you gave me one of my big clues to catch that miserable bastard, with how good you were at remembering everyone’s coffee orders?”
“I did? Too bad he caught you first.”
“Look, I made you a new logo.” I handed him a paper napkin on which I’d drawn a huge mosquito and printed GNAT’S JAVA HOUSE.
“Not gonna happen, English, and I told you dire consequences will ensue.”
“Can I tell Ben?”
“No!”
“I love you. Thanks for saving me. Again.”
“I love you
, too. Is Ben gonna take you home now so I can get some peace and quiet?”
Ben came over, having left us to our moment, and wordlessly stuck out his hand. Nat shook it, and that was that. Men.
When Ben and I got home, we were, as the saying goes, alone at last, and while I eventually got to sleep, it wasn’t our first thought as we walked in the door. Later, I asked him sleepily when he had to leave.
“I’m taking some vacation time,” he said.
I opened one eye. “How long?”
“A month. I’m not letting you out of my sight. We can even go away if you want. Rome? London? Sonoma?”
“Not London.”
“I thought you might say that. Or we can stay here. We’ll have time to talk, time to get to know each other without the Army or work or random police investigations.”
“It sounds … wonderful.” It did sound wonderful. I snuggled deeper under our duvet and felt myself drifting to sleep, so I almost missed Ben getting the last word.
“We can talk about London, too.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the cat burglar who stole my manuscript and who embroiled me in my very own mystery novel.
To the anonymous DNA technician who proved conclusively that burglars are burglars because they’re not smart enough to do anything else.
To Detectives Danielle Whitefield and Evelyn Gorfido.
To my editor, Kelley Ragland, who gave me the time and space to rewrite the novel from scratch.
To McGarvey Black, who read parts of the novel while it was being rebuilt, and who said encouraging things and made helpful suggestions.
To the many friends who said, often in so many words, “You can do this.”
Thank you.
ALSO BY SUSAN COX
The Man on the Washing Machine
ABOUT THE AUTHOUR
Susan Cox is a former journalist. She has also been the marketing and public relations director for a safari park, a fundraiser for nonprofit organizations, and president of the Palm Beach County (Florida) Attractions Association. She considers herself transcontinental and transatlantic, equally at home in San Francisco and Florida, and with a large and boisterous extended family in England. She frequently wears a Starfleet communicator pin, because you never know. Her first novel, The Man on the Washing Machine, won the 2014 Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Competition. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Acknowledgments
Also by Susan Cox
About the Authour
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE MAN IN THE MICROWAVE OVEN. Copyright © 2020 by Susan Cox. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration © Jon Wolf
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Cox, Susan (Susan Rosemary), author.
Title: The man in the microwave oven / Susan Cox.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2020. | Series: Theo Bogart mysteries; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2020033951 | ISBN 9781250116208 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250116215 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O927 M34 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020033951
eISBN 9781250116215
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First Edition: 2020