“That’s kind of her. I’m glad you have a good friend you can count on.”
“It’s not like I can count on Jeanie. Sometimes I don’t think that girl has any sense of family at all.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t know how to express what she’s feeling.”
Rowena nodded. “That’s always been the case. Would you like to sit in the living room . . . or in the kitchen?”
Caprice couldn’t help but remember Drew’s body lying in the living room right next to the sofa. She took another quick look around but didn’t think she’d learn anything from sitting in there.
“The kitchen would be great. My family did their best talking in the kitchen.”
“Preparing meals?” Rowena asked.
“Exactly. When we were chopping or dicing or mixing, we’d reveal things we wouldn’t share otherwise. Maybe that’s why Mom liked to see us cook.”
When Caprice stepped into the kitchen, she realized it looked like a throwback to the fifties. The maple cupboards were worn from years of being open and shut. The floor had been tiled in beige and white, and the counters were covered with green Formica. She did notice that an old stove and refrigerator must have been replaced with stainless steel ones. Had that been Drew’s doing? A red teapot sat on one of the stove’s burners.
Caprice offered, “Would you like me to make us cups of tea?”
Rowena sank into one of the kitchen chairs and pulled herself in at the round oak table. “That would be lovely. I miss Drew not being around here and doing . . .” Her voice broke. She composed herself. “Things like that.”
Caprice patted Rowena’s arm. “I’ll make us that tea.” After she filled the kettle with water, she said, “I guess Drew cooked for you.”
“Yes, he did. He found his vocation with cooking. In recent years I didn’t worry about him as much as I did before.”
“Did he come up with lots of original recipes?”
“No, not really. He was always finding recipes on his computer. When he started out with something new, especially for his business, he didn’t usually test the recipe here, but rather over at his friend’s house.”
“Bronson’s.”
“Yes, Bronson’s. Drew described that kitchen of his to me. It didn’t surprise me. Bronson’s family has always been wealthy. Now he’s rich too, and he enjoys nice things. It was so nice of him to let Drew use his kitchen for his business. Drew told me he couldn’t have rented a place any better.”
“You know, I was at the expo on Sunday. Nikki and Drew were trying to convince the wedding crowd to hire them for their receptions.”
“Drew cooked for me, but he didn’t tell me much about his business. But that sounds like a good place to drum it up.”
“He called his chocolate walnut cake a groom’s cake. At a wedding, there’s often a traditional cake, considered the bride’s cake that is served to the guests. But often now, a couple chooses a cake called the groom’s cake.”
“Really? How odd. No more just white cake. I guess that’s supposed to give everybody a choice.” She was quiet a few moments, then asked, “Did Drew’s cake have maple-flavored frosting?”
“Yes, it did.”
Rowena looked away from Caprice into the living room toward the tall Tiffany floor lamp by the armchair. Caprice remembered the piece of paper she’d seen peeking out from its base. Had Rowena hidden her recipes in there and Drew had known that? Could someone have murdered him for the recipes?
“That certainly does sound like my cake,” Rowena said in a soft voice. “I’ve been making chocolate walnut cake with maple icing since I was about ten. It was my father’s favorite recipe, and my mom made it often. Drew enjoyed eating it. I don’t remember him ever asking me about it, like what spices I put in it, what kind of maple syrup I might use for the icing.”
“It’s possible that Drew’s palate was so well honed he could replicate your recipe just by tasting it.”
Rowena shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was never good at that kind of thing. I used to make these glazed carrots and he couldn’t even tell I had ginger in them. No, either that recipe wasn’t mine or . . .” Rowena just trailed off.
Or Drew had somehow stolen the recipe and not given his grandmother credit for it.
“In which cupboard might I find the teabags?” Caprice asked.
“Top cupboard, on the right, next to the sink. Take your pick. There’s some of that herbal stuff that Drew liked.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I like the plain green tea with just a little bit of sugar.”
Caprice chose the green tea too, found two cups and saucers in the cupboard, and brought them over to the table. “Your china is beautiful.” The teacups were painted with tiny roses, as were the saucers. The cream china looked like fine porcelain.
“They were my mother’s too,” Rowena explained. “Using them brings back so many memories. Drew had his morning coffee mugs, but I always prefer to use these.”
“My Nana has a collection of teacups we use whenever we have tea together.”
“Your Nana and I came from a time when there was pride in everything that was made, from china to the towels we used, to the beautiful linens for the table. Wash-and-wear is important now. People toss away anything damaged and buy new. Not the way I was taught, and probably not you either.”
“No, that wasn’t the way I was taught.” She took a seat across from Rowena. “Maybe that’s why I enjoy vintage clothing and antique jewelry and antiques themselves.” She looked toward the living room. “Your Tiffany lamp is absolutely beautiful. And those colors in the table lampshade—Is there any word on the base?”
“No one knows what happened to it. It was here that day before I left for the performance. The police think the murderer used it to hit Drew and then ran off with it.”
Because it was valuable? Or because he knew he had to get rid of it? And exactly how much value would it have without the shade?
Caprice added sugar to her tea and stirred. Rowena did the same. They both took tentative sips.
“There’s something about a cup of tea that’s comforting, don’t you think?” Rowena asked.
“I agree.”
“Kiki and I finished Celia’s biscotti. They were delicious.”
“I try to bake them too, but mine aren’t as good as hers. Next time I visit, I’ll bring you some of mine and you can compare.”
“I’d like that,” Rowena assured her. “I have a feeling I’m going to be lonely here all by myself. A visit now and then would be nice.”
“I could bring Nana too, and we could have a real tea party.”
A smile played on Rowena’s lips. “That would be wonderful.” She sighed. “I should probably pack everything up and move to a retirement center. But I like having memories around me. I want to stay here as long as I can.”
“Nana felt the same way for a long time, but then she realized she could be happy living near my mom and dad as long as she had some of her memories around her.”
“I have to have cataract surgery soon or I won’t be able to see what’s around me. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Jeanie says she’ll take me and bring me home, and I suppose I’ll have to depend on her.”
“Maybe if you depend on Jeanie, she’ll open up to you more.”
“I can always hope.” Rowena reached out and patted Caprice’s hand. “You’re a nice young woman. I’ve heard about you, you know. At church. At the beauty parlor. You’ve helped the police solve a few murders.”
“I never intended to do that,” Caprice admitted. “It just sort of happened.”
“Are you going to try to figure out who killed Drew?”
“How would you feel about that?”
“Those detectives were awfully grumpy and gruff. If they’re like that with everyone, they won’t learn anything. Now you, on the other hand . . . You can get people to talk to you. I imagine that’s what solves a murder.”
There was merit in what Rowena said. Maybe that’s why she had solved four murders.
“Can you try to find Drew’s murderer?” Rowena asked.
It wasn’t just for Nikki’s sake anymore. It was for Rowena’s too. Caprice didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, I can.”
Chapter Ten
Caprice didn’t think she’d slept much the past two nights. The conversation she’d had with Grant weighed heavily on her since he’d left her yard. Both of her cats had stayed close again through the night as if they’d known she needed some kind of furry comfort. While Lady snored beside her in her bed on the floor, Caprice thought of all the things she should have said to Grant. But she didn’t know if any of them would have made a difference, because his mind had been made up.
The phone on her bedside table rang at seven a.m. and she was grateful for the noise. When she picked it up, she saw her mom was calling.
“Is everything okay?” Caprice asked automatically. Ever since the scare with Nana not so long ago, she worried.
“That depends,” her mom answered. “Can you help out at the soup kitchen today? Nana and I are signed up, but two of the volunteers have come down with something and we’re shorthanded for a Friday.”
“How long do you need me?”
“We’re almost through with breakfast, so we’d need your help preparing for lunch and then through service.”
“Okay. I’ll call Nikki. If she’s planning menus or just making calls today, maybe she can watch Lady. I’ll text you back in a minute.”
A little over an hour later, Caprice entered Everybody’s Kitchen, a community effort staffed by several different churches that provided volunteers. Caprice had helped out here on occasion but wasn’t a regular like Nana and her mom—when her mom wasn’t teaching . . . or babysitting Benny. The directorship of this facility was a paid position. The kitchen manager received a monthly stipend. She didn’t know who was filling that spot now. It seemed to change every few months.
The soup kitchen was located in a renovated older building that had once housed a chain grocery store. Part of the edifice was dedicated to the Kismet Food Pantry, which took any and all donations, as long as the foodstuffs weren’t expired. The pantry doled out food to needy families on a weekly basis, rationing according to donations.
Caprice almost never wore her hair in a ponytail. However, she did so today so she could confine it in a hairnet while she helped make and serve lunch. She detected the scent of broiling meat as she approached the kitchen. Today was burger and red-skinned potato day. It was a popular lunch, and Caprice knew the dining area would be full. After the burgers were broiled, they were kept warm in a spicy sauce. No chafing dishes here, just steam trays, and they hoped enough food to last through the luncheon line.
She spotted her mom. She was scraping carrots while Nana halved potatoes.
“What can I do to help?” Caprice asked.
A volunteer was setting up trays that would be placed at the head of the cafeteria line. Another pulled dishes from the dishwasher. A third wrapped silverware in napkins.
With a knife in one hand and a potato in the other, Nana came over to Caprice and gave her a hug. “Good to see you, honey.”
“Do you want me to help you with the potatoes?”
“I think it will take your mom longer to scrape the carrots. Better help her.”
“Who’s in charge of the kitchen?” Caprice asked, looking around, seeing that everyone was doing their job and doing it effectively.
“Mario Ruiz is here this month. He made up the menus and is overseeing the cooking.”
Caprice watched a woman take a tray of burgers from the broiler. “No one’s overseeing now.”
“He went into the pantry. There was some confusion about a delivery.”
Caprice realized where she’d heard Mario’s name. When Jeanie had mentioned him, Caprice couldn’t quite remember where she’d come across his name before. But now she knew. She’d heard it in conjunction with the soup kitchen. Her mom or Nana had probably told her he was involved, but she hadn’t paid much attention.
Fifteen minutes later, Mario appeared. He seemed to be everywhere at once. He was short and thin with black curly hair, a long nose, and a wide smile as he supervised everyone. Caprice wanted to talk to him, but that would have to wait until after lunch was served. In the meantime, she finished helping her mom with the carrots and then found Nana wasn’t finished slicing the potatoes.
Caprice slipped over beside her.
“My hands aren’t as agile as they once were,” Nana complained.
“I’ll help.”
“I noticed you working with your mom,” Nana said. “You weren’t as talkative as usual.”
No, she was too busy thinking about Grant. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Anything you want to unload?”
Caprice shook her head. “This isn’t the place.”
“Any place is the place. What’s going on, teso-rina mia?”
My little treasure. Her Nana called her that when she felt deeply about something. So Caprice had to tell her what was wrong.
“It’s Grant. He’s going to be talking to his ex-wife.”
Nana gave her a long look. “And you don’t think he should.”
“I’m not sure what he should or shouldn’t do. I just know that marriage creates deep bonds. They had a child together. And whether they know it or not, the trauma of that child dying brings them together in a way that will always connect them. What if they decide they should try to get back together?”
“Then you need to know it now,” Nana said practically.
That shocked Caprice. She hadn’t really thought about the situation like that, but it certainly was true.
“How do you feel about Grant?” Nana asked.
Without hesitation, Caprice said, “I love him.”
“Then you have to trust what you feel for him, and you have to trust what he feels for you.”
“But I don’t know for sure what he feels.”
“Do you trust him to make the right decision, no matter what that is?”
Wasn’t that a wise question? “Do you mean, do I think he’s a good moral man who will do the best thing he knows how to do? Yes, I do.”
Nana shrugged. “Then there you have it.”
“So I have to let him walk away if he decides he wants to renew his marriage?”
“You can’t deny what’s already happened. You can’t erase it, though you might have to try if you ever want to marry Grant in the church.”
She’d never thought about that either. To marry Grant in the church, he’d have to obtain an annulment. She didn’t agree with that, because he certainly had had a marriage, and there would have to be grounds. But it was the only way she and Grant could ever be married in the Catholic Church.
“Do you believe in the annulments, Nana?”
“I believe that you and Grant are going to have to do what’s right for you. You might decide to elope to Las Vegas.”
“If we ever get that far.”
Nana put her arm around Caprice and gave her a squeeze. “Trust, honey. Trust.”
But who should she trust? Herself? Grant? Fate? A higher power? Maybe she should start praying again instead of slipping affirmations into her silent butler. The thing was, she had to decide what to pray for. Probably just wisdom to know what to do next.
Caprice thought about what Nana had said all throughout lunch as she ladled out carrots and potatoes, as she made sure everyone who passed through the line had a bun as well as a burger. She noticed the diversity in the faces that went before her—black and brown, white and yellow. Large eyes, small eyes, big mouths, small mouths, long noses, short noses, glasses. All people just trying to make their way. She kept her eye on Mario too, so she could find him when she wanted him.
Finally after the last person had been served and she’d helped with some of the cleanup, Caprice saw Mario in the dining area wiping off a table with a cloth.
She approached him and asked, “Mr. Ruiz?”
“Mario,” he said with a grin before he even saw who she was. Then he turned, and his smile became broader. “You’re Mrs. De Luca’s granddaughter.”
“I am.” She extended her hand. “Caprice De Luca.”
“And I’m just Mario. Mr. Ruiz is my father, and my grandfather.”
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” He looked puzzled. “Do you want to talk about the food we serve . . . something that can make it better?”
“No. Actually I want to talk about Drew Pierson.”
At that, Mario’s eyes widened, and he ran a hand through his tumbled curls. “What about Drew?” Mario asked, his eyes a bit narrowed now.
“My sister and I found him.”
The wary expression left Mario’s face for a moment. “I’m so sorry.” He motioned to a little office where she spotted a computer and some bookshelves. “Maybe we should go in there where we have privacy.”
She went to the office with him and stepped inside.
He closed the door. “What did you want to ask me?”
“I heard that you worked with Drew.”
“Yes, we worked together in Washington, D.C. We were both sous chefs at the same hotel. But then the hotel was bought by a different corporation and we were let go.”
“Did you come back to Kismet, expecting to work together again?”
Mario went to the desk and propped on the corner. “I’m not sure what we expected. We put in our résumés everywhere we could. If we applied somewhere and they needed more than one person, one of us recommended the other. I thought we were a team of sorts. At least in getting new jobs. But then I found the one in York. Drew drifted a bit until he decided to open his own catering business. If it weren’t for helping out his grandmother, I think he would have gone back to D.C. and found work there again. But he was pretty insistent on staying here. He got tired of the short-order cook type jobs he was getting rather than the more prestigious ones.”
“And what about you?”
“Me? I’m satisfied with what I’ve got. I respect the owner of the bistro I’m working for, and we serve good food. Would I rather be cooking in a French restaurant in New York City? Possibly. But I’m giving this a try.”
Silence of the Lamps Page 12