I ached for the woman, but we’d never been close, and I hated to intrude on the intimacy of her pain. Instead, while Alice wandered off to find her classmates and teachers, I searched out Cal McCormack.
I found him inside the nave of the church. His arrow-straight posture, the hands braced at the small of his back, betrayed his military background as he stood a solitary vigil over the coffin of his nephew.
The lid of the polished oak coffin was closed, covered by a spray of crimson and yellow roses. On a nearby crimson-draped table, a hinged picture frame held two photos: one of a smiling young man, with Cal’s angular jaw and Marla’s burnished hair, in graduation regalia, the other of the same boy, much younger, wearing a crimson jersey with a gold “44” on his chest and hoisting a bat on his shoulder. A mortarboard and academic hood—black velvet edged with gold—were displayed on the table, along with a baseball bat and glove, and a sash covered with Boy Scout merit badges.
Cal’s gaze stayed fixed on the coffin as I approached, but I knew he knew I was there.
I walked right up to him and rested my hand on his arm. I felt the heat and hardness of his biceps beneath the summer-weight wool of his suit coat, felt his muscle tense and then gentle beneath my touch. I just wanted him to know I was there.
“How are you doing, Cal?”
“How do you think I’m doing?” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’ve never felt so useless in my life. My sister’s dying out there, and I can’t even tell her how her son spent his last hours on this earth.”
I frowned. “What do you mean? Bryan was helping get ready for the Honor’s Day events, running off the programs for the awards and research presentations.”
He shook his head once, a tight, frustrated gesture. “The original was in the copier, but there weren’t any copies.”
I did a little mental math. “But if that other graduate student, Reggie, saw him heading to make the copies at ten forty-five, what was he doing during that last forty-five minutes?”
That got Cal’s full attention. He turned to face me and glared down his nose at me. “Dammit, Tally. How the holy heck do you know all that? Are you meddling in police business again?”
He was talking, of course, about my amateur investigation into the murder of my ex-husband’s new fancy-pants girlfriend. A murder for which I was dang near arrested.
I had to crane my neck to look him square in the eye, but I managed it. “First, I wasn’t meddling last year—I was trying to save my own bacon, thank you very much. Second, I don’t have anything to do with the investigation into Bryan’s murder.”
“Really,” Cal scoffed.
“Really. It’s just Alice knows everyone involved, and we were talking about the murder. That’s all. Talking, not meddling.”
“Were you talking about it with Emily Clowper?”
I winced. “She has been coming by the A-la-mode,” I admitted.
“Stay away from that woman, Tally. She’s trouble, I promise you.”
“I’m not inviting her over for girl talk,” I said. “She’s Alice’s teacher. And Finn’s friend.”
“Finn? What, are you two going steady again? Or is he paired up with that Clowper woman?”
I flinched at the acid in his voice.
He sighed and shook his head, shaking off his anger the way a hound shakes off rainwater.
“Look, I know he was your high school crush. I get it. But we’re not kids anymore, Tally. We have to take responsibility for our actions, be held accountable.” He lifted his chin a notch. “If that woman had anything to do with Bryan’s death, I will hold her accountable. And you and Finn and Alice better stay the hell out of my way.”
The funeral went about like you’d expect.
Cal delivered a typically restrained eulogy with heart-breaking dignity. When he mentioned his sister, Marla, and how she’d never be a grandma, one girl—head buried in her arms so that only her blond ponytail showed above the painfully childish pink-and-purple scrunchy that fastened it—sobbed so loudly the service paused for her to collect herself.
George Gunderson, one of Bryan’s advisers, whom I recognized from the group of black-frocked scholars on the day Bryan died, offered a tepid endorsement of Bryan’s scholarship and his dedicated service to the university. Marla collapsed in her husband, Steve’s, arms twice. And a parade of fresh-scrubbed young people stood up to say good-bye to their friend, mentioning concerts and baseball games and trips to Austin and New Orleans and Cancún.
I didn’t even know the boy, but I was weeping by the time it was over. We all spilled from the gloom of the church into the gray of the overcast late-spring day like accident victims, dazed and directionless.
Thankfully, I caught sight of Deena Silver and made a beeline toward her, taking her hand like a lifeline.
Deena Silver owned the Silver Spoon, Dalliance’s most popular catering company. We’d worked together on my ex-husband’s company picnic the autumn before, and we’d ended up good friends.
In a plain vanilla world, Deena was cherries jubilee: colorful, flamboyant, sweet, and fiery. The day of Bryan’s funeral, she wore her lacquered auburn curls pinned high on her crown, and, in honor of the somber occasion, a modest cocoa jersey duster covered her pumpkin-and-saffron print ankle-length dress.
“I can’t believe my Crystal is burying yet another classmate,” Deena clucked. A frown tugged at her lush caramel-tinted lips, as she studied her daughter, Crystal Tompkins, across the crowd. Crystal stood beneath a live oak, wrapped in the arms of a slightly pudgy, baby-faced young man with a blond crew cut and round, wire-rimmed glasses. “It’s been less than a year since Brittanie Brinkman’s murder, and now this.”
“Were Crystal and Bryan close?” I asked.
Deena shook her head. “No. Bryan was a couple years older than Crystal, a year ahead of Jason.” I guessed that Jason was the scholarly blond boy, Crystal’s fiancé and a law student at Texas Tech. “But they were all on the debate team together at Dalliance High. Bryan was the team captain the year they won the state championship.”
“He must have been brilliant.”
“Meh,” Deena replied, waggling her hand in a sort of “wishy-washy” gesture.
“Come on,” I insisted. “Leading little Dalliance High School to the state championship in debate, working on a Ph.D. . . . he had to have something going on upstairs.”
“He was smart enough,” Deena conceded, “but he never struck me as brilliant. Maybe it was just because he worked so hard to act smart that I assumed he wasn’t. He talked a big game about going to an Ivy League school and writing the great American novel, then selling the story to Hollywood. But he never seemed to find his way out of Dalliance. Crystal said he could have done whatever he wanted, but that he enjoyed being the big fish in a small pond. But I figured he was all sizzle, no steak. Know what I mean?”
I certainly did. In my experience, the people who talked the biggest game were rarely the real players.
“Speaking of steak,” Deena continued, “I know this isn’t the most appropriate time, but I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Crystal’s been having fits over the groom’s cake. She and Jason have been to a dozen weddings this year, and each bride has outdone the last with a creative twist on the groom’s cake. One had a cake shaped like a beer cooler, complete with real beer cans and sugar ice cubes.”
“Wow.”
“I know. I saw the pictures, and I was quite impressed. But this has really put a lot of pressure on Crystal to surprise Jason with something different, something clever and new. And that’s where you come in.”
“Whoa,” I said. “I don’t bake. I mean, I bake for my family, but I don’t do fancy cakes and stuff.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Deena said. “Actual cake isn’t necessary anymore. Crystal says she’s seen so-called groom’s cakes made of cheesecake, pancakes, and the last wedding they went to actually had a groom’s steak . . . a huge slab of beef that the
bride presented to her new husband grill-side.”
“Really?”
Deena smiled. “Pretty clever, huh? So we were wondering if you could blend up a ‘groom’s shake.’ A signature concoction just for Jason.”
Intriguing.
“We’re having the wedding at the ranch.” Deena’s husband, Tom Silver, bred quarter horses on a thriving ranch, the Silver Jack. “We were planning to serve cocktails between the wedding and the reception, while the wedding party is doing pictures. But now we’re thinking of serving the groom’s shakes then, maybe even in champagne flutes. What do you think?”
I didn’t really relish the idea of taking on another commitment for the summer, but Deena had proven a good friend, and it was about time I paid her back for her support.
“I think we can work something out,” I said. “Have Crystal give me a call, and she can tell me all about Jason. That way I can pull together a flavor that is both tasty and meaningful.”
Deena and I were culinary kin. We both understood the deep emotional connection people have with food, how it can do more than satisfy our physical hunger. She nodded and gave me a discreet high five.
At that moment, Alice approached us, an awkward young man in a rumpled navy suit trailing behind her. I guessed that if he stood up straight he’d be a good head taller than Alice, maybe six one. A shock of ginger curls haloed a long face with soft, expressive features. The straight slash of his eyebrows and rectangular tortoiseshell glasses framed heavy-lidded blue eyes.
“Hey, Miz Silver,” Alice said. “Aunt Tally, this is Reggie Hawking. He’ll be teaching that class I was telling you about.”
Ah. So this was the boy who had captured Alice’s fancy. I didn’t see the appeal, personally, but I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl with a brain the size of Dallas.
Reggie thrust his hand out to shake, but his eyes skittered about, as though he needed something to hold his attention. And we weren’t it.
“Alice has told us all about you, Reggie. It’s good to finally meet you,” I said.
“Me too,” he replied, leaving me to wonder whether he was happy to make his own acquaintance or whether he suffered from a polite form of Tourette’s syndrome.
“Alice, honey,” I said, “are you ready to get going? I should really get back to the store to give your mama a break.”
“Sure. Let me just go give my regrets to Professor Gunderson.”
She dashed off, leaving Reggie with me and Deena.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I said.
“What?” Reggie shrugged, jerking like a marionette on a string. “You mean Bryan? We were colleagues.”
Colleagues. Apparently distinct from friends.
Deena and I exchanged a glance, and I saw a smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.
Perhaps he simply didn’t care what we thought of him, but Reggie didn’t let Deena’s amusement or my shock slow him down. “Lately, I hardly even saw him.”
“I thought you shared an office?” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, but he hasn’t been around much this semester. Since the whole blowout with Dr. Clowper, his status in the program has been a little uncertain. The university assigned him to work in the research office with Dr. Gunderson.”
“The one who gave the eulogy?” Deena asked.
“Yep.”
“I thought he was in your department, an English professor.”
“He is. But he’s also the Vice President for Research Support. They administer all the external funding the faculty and departments receive. The grants, you know.”
I could practically feel my eyes glazing over. Where the heck was Alice?
“Sounds interesting,” Deena deadpanned.
Reggie shrugged again. “Not really. It’s just counting someone else’s money, like being a banker. I mean, there’s hardly any grant money for the humanities. All the big money’s in the natural sciences and information technology.”
“Hmmmm,” I murmured. That explained why Emily was worried about getting a grant to fund her trip to the East Coast. But, honestly, I found it tough to muster up a lot of interest in the finer points of academic politics. I searched the crowd for Alice.
I caught a glimpse of her standing with a group of somber adults, her penny-bright hair like a flame in their midst. Dr. Gunderson stood next to a tiny woman with snow-white hair and softly rounded features. Another man stood next to Gunderson, much shorter but with an athletic vitality to his trim form. He nodded earnestly over something Alice said, his narrow bald head tipped down to better hear her. At his side, a woman with a black pantsuit and a bored look on her face stifled a yawn.
“I don’t know why Bryan wanted to work over there,” Reggie continued, oblivious to our disinterest.
“Money?” Deena suggested. “You know, the promise of a paycheck at the end of the month?”
“I guess. But if you’re motivated by money, getting a Ph.D. in English isn’t the way to go.”
“No?”
“No way. Academic jobs don’t pay well, especially in the humanities.”
Deena pulled a face. “I got the impression that Bryan planned to use his academic career to pay the bills until he got a big movie deal.”
Reggie’s lip curled in disgust. “Really? That’s depressing. Well, there’s nothing glamorous or high-paying about the work Bryan was doing in the grants office, and the few times I did see him this term, he seemed pretty excited about his work with Gunderson. Wouldn’t shut up about it. There was something other than money that lit his fire.”
“Maybe he was just putting on a brave face,” I suggested. “You know, making lemons into lemonade.”
Blessedly, Alice popped back into view at that moment.
“All set, Aunt Tally. We can go.”
A sigh of relief escaped before I could check myself.
Deena chuckled softly. “It was good to see you, Alice. We’ll have to have another girls’ day out before my Crystal turns into an old married woman.”
Alice blushed and glanced at Reggie, but he was busy digging in his pockets for something.
“See you on Monday, Reggie,” she said, a thread of girlish hope in her voice.
“Yep,” he responded. “Later.” He walked away, listing to one side as he continued to pat himself down.
“What did you think of Reggie?” Alice asked as we made our way through the crowded parking lot.
“Alice, baby,” I said as I unlocked the passenger door of my big ol’ GMC van, “I’ve got my fingers crossed that you’ve got better taste in men than your mama and me.”
After meeting Reggie, though, I was afraid poor Alice had inherited the family curse: a penchant for males who didn’t make good mates.
chapter 6
Monday morning, Alice and Bree decided to spend some quality mother-daughter time opening the A-la-mode. More precisely, Bree wanted a chance to pry into her daughter’s romantic interest in Reggie Hawking and Alice didn’t get a say in the matter.
Either way, it meant I got to enjoy a few moments of peace at the house. Alice, Bree, and I all live in a crumbling Arts and Crafts bungalow in Dalliance’s historic district, just a few blocks from the downtown courthouse square. The house is technically mine, a huge chunk of my divorce settlement from my husband of seventeen years, Wayne Jones. But Alice and Bree are family; they make it a home.
That day, I decided to savor the downtime before my hellishly busy summer got into full swing. I camped on the living room sofa, snuggled beneath a patchwork quilt Grandma Peachy made me when I was five, and watched an ’80s romantic comedy on cable. My adolescent orange tabby, Sherbet, perched on the couch cushion behind me, purring loudly and occasionally chewing on my hair.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when the doorbell rang. Sherbet simply yawned and stretched out a paw.
“Who’s that, Sherbet?” I slid out from under the quilt, grateful that I’d bothered to change from pajamas into sweats, and shuffled my sock-clad fe
et across the hardwood to the front door. I peeked out the side-light window.
Finn Harper stood on my doorstep, dark hair and white oxford both deliciously rumpled, a foil-covered pan in his hands. He spotted me, smiled his crooked smile, and gave me a little wave.
I grabbed Sherbet off the couch and draped him over my shoulder, so he wouldn’t bolt, and then pulled open the wide wooden door. “Finn.”
“Morning, Tally.” He held up the pan. “I brought banana cake. With cream cheese frosting.”
Finn’s a wiz in the kitchen, at least when it comes to baked goods. I kid you not—he looks like a movie star and bakes like a pastry chef.
I snatched the pan out of his hands and stood aside so he could come in. With Sherbet over my shoulder, I led the way to the kitchen. “Watch out for the crap on the floor,” I warned.
“Are you folks moving?” Finn asked.
“Ha ha ha. No, Grandma Peachy finally gave up the farm and moved into one of those assisted-living places, so we’ve just inherited another houseful of stuff.” I pointed to a heap of plastic shopping bags mounded against the kitchen island. “Like thirty-five years of unfinished craft projects. And we’re working like a million hours a week, so none of us has had the energy to start sorting and pitching.”
“Ah. Is Peachy okay? Did something happen?”
Finn had moved home the year before after his widowed mother had her second stroke. As her only surviving child, he had shouldered the responsibility for her care. She’d been in a holding pattern for nearly a year, not getting worse, but not really improving. I knew it bothered him more than he let on.
“No,” I assured him. “Peachy’s healthy as a horse and ornery as a fried toad. She just got tired of feeding the animals and rattling around in that house by herself. At the home, she’s got people she can torment.”
Finn laughed.
I dropped Sherbet next to his kibble, washed my hands, poured us mugs of still-warm coffee, and sliced the banana cake. The cake had a dense, moist crumb, yellow flecked with black, and the scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg made my mouth water. Technically, it was a little early in the day for cake. But it would have been rude not to have a slice, right?
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