The Bitter Bite of Betrayal

by Christine Zane Thomas

  I made us both a glass.

  “I really appreciate you helping out with everything today.”

  “You're welcome,” I said. “He was no trouble.”

  “Not even getting out of the car?”

  “Okay, that was trouble. But after that, he’s been no trouble.”

  “And the trash…”

  “Okay, besides those two things.”

  Javi smiled the classic Javier Portillo smile. If I wasn’t swooning before, I was now. I wanted to ask him about how Coach Martin was doing, I wanted to ask him to stay for dinner. I didn’t do either.

  “If you’re wondering,” Javi said, “Coach Martin is still in critical condition.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Was it that obvious?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “You don't play poker, do you?”

  “No, why? Isn’t it illegal in Georgia?”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Just don't start. You'll lose miserably.”

  “Thanks for the info,” I said, embarrassed by my lack of cool. “So, what does ‘critical’ mean exactly? Like in this context…”

  “Things are still in a gray area,” he said grimly. “Right now he's in a medically induced coma. He has a shattered pelvis and hip. There was some internal bleeding. Thanks to us—thanks to you—he's alive.”

  “But do the doctors think he’ll pull through?” I asked.

  “The next forty eight hours are going to be key. I’m choosing to be optimistic.”

  “I’ll do the same,” I replied.

  “I’m starving,” Javi said. His eyes glanced at my kitchen. Today it was clean and void of anything. It had been a no cooking zone. My tummy rumbled at the thought of food. “You don’t happen to know of any place with outside seating—one that allows pets?”

  “I might know one,” I answered.

  “Then I’m buying.”

  TO: Foodie Allison

  FROM: Kinsey

  SUBJECT: Cookin’ Up Something Good

  Allie,

  I just got back from dinner. We went to The Southern Depot and were pleasantly surprised. Start to finish it was perfection.

  And now your assignment for next month is decided. I know, I know. You usually like to pick. But not this time.

  Miller Hayes, the chef/owner (you know him, right?), he’s now offering a cooking class. It’s once a month on Sunday afternoons. He said it’s a couples cooking class, but you could go on your own and be fine. I reserved two seats for the next class anyway. Next Sunday afternoon. Be there or BE THERE. :)

  Our readers look forward to something positive, something to make up for those two forks you gave them last time. So you better not disappoint the Lanai faithful! Don’t worry, I know you won’t.

  xo,

  Kinsey

  5

  In Lanai, Sunday didn’t mean funday. And though a lot of businesses were closed, Sundays weren’t often a day of rest either.

  I woke up early, drank as much coffee as I could manage while prepping two quiches. Then I attended church. My whole family took a pew to ourselves—all except for Uncle Billy who sang in the choir.

  Then the whole lot of us met for Sunday dinner. Since this was my week to host, it meant things were hectic at Allie’s small cottage. Cars filled the driveway and the shoulder of Mockingbird Way.

  After church, I’d tossed the quiches in the oven, then got to work chopping up veggies for a salad.

  It wasn’t the fried chicken or the pot roast dinner my mom liked to cook, nor was it my aunt’s chicken and dumplings. The fare was on the lighter side, something I knew my cousin Melanie would appreciate. We were all watching what we ate in an attempt to look great in those upcoming wedding photos. Like marriage, those photos would last a lifetime, taking up space on Melanie and Aunt Denise’s walls for the next umpteen years.

  Grandmother wasn’t one to dawdle about watching television while someone else worked. She was in the kitchen with me while we waited for Mom to arrive with her pups in tow.

  “Need me to do anything?” she asked. “I can put ice in glasses if you want.”

  “You get yourself a glass. I’m mean. When we do things here, I make everyone get their own ice.”

  Grandmother poured a cold glass of sweet tea. Funny how though everyone was watching their intake, sweet tea didn't fall by the wayside. Its empty calories were something we all enjoyed.

  Yapping, scratching, and the frustrated bellowing of Mom struggling with the front door echoed from the porch. Nicky and Bella made things complicated. Plus, Mom wouldn’t allow me to do everything myself. I knew she’d have some side dish in her hands—something I told her not to make. More than likely, it was green beans with enough bacon fat to render a week’s worth of dieting moot.

  “It's open,” I called out.

  “Oh, good,” Mom hollered right back. Then she cursed, exasperated.

  “It’s Sunday,” I said as Mom and the two dogs slipped inside the door. The dogs went to sniffing, the smell of Brutus had them curious. My mom set the dish of green beans on the counter.

  “If you had a swear jar, I’d fill it,” she said.

  “If she had a swear jar, I’d be broke,” my cousin Dustin joked from his spot on the couch. Uncle Billy swatted the back of his head.

  The timer dinged behind me, and I dashed in to grab the quiches out of the oven.

  Mom, ever the nosey chef, scrutinized my methods. “Why do you have little pieces of tinfoil all around the crust?”

  “I have a bad habit of letting the crust get too dark. So, if I protect it, the crust is still light and flakey.”

  She nodded, satisfied with my explanation. “You should put that in your blog.”

  “Don't worry.” I picked up my camera to take a few pictures of my quiches. “I plan on it.”

  “They look gorgeous!” Mom said.

  Grandmother eyed the savory pies dubiously. “Are you sure they're done?”

  “I'm pretty sure,” I said. They looked perfect. In the lighting, they looked better than perfect.

  “I like to be more than pretty sure,” Grandmother grumbled. She placed a hand at her stomach. “I don't want food poisoning again. I went out to a buffet a few weeks ago with the ladies from Mossy Oaks. We all got sick.”

  “Would you feel better if we did the toothpick test?” I reached up into the cabinet and pulled out a box of toothpicks.

  “Much,” she said, watching as I slid a toothpick into the center of the first quiche.

  “Now, I'm certain,” I said. “They're done.”

  “You still should check the other one,” Grandmother scolded.

  “Fine. I’ll do that one too. There. Satisfied?”

  Grandmother smiled. “I am now.”

  Grandmother retreated to the living room, opting for the unoccupied recliner. The pups found her there, leaping in her unoccupied lap. There was something about Grandmother’s lap that every pup found appealing. I wondered what she’d do with Brutus around.

  Which reminded me…

  “I won't be able to make it to your house next week for Sunday supper,” I told my mother.

  “You won’t?” My mother’s interest was piqued. “Why not? Do you have a date? Is it with that detective? A little bird told me they saw you at Taco Barn with him last night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “A little bird, I’m sure. We were there all right—as friends. And maybe he’ll go to this too. I’ll have to ask him. Kinsey gave me an assignment.”

  “An assignment? What are you, Lois Lane all of a sudden? Is she actually paying you for it?”

  “The Southern Depot is starting a cooking class. And yes, Kinsey did pay for it. So, I have to go.”

  Mom gave me a look. I was never going to live down those two forks.

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I'm going to keep it upbeat and positive. I promise.”

  “It better be three forks,” Mom said. “Or four.”

  “I�
�m not even going to rate it with forks. It’s a cooking class. The food I taste will still be the food I’ve cooked. It’ll be just like the blog—”

  “Where everything gets a glowing review. You’ve never cooked a bad meal.”

  “If you’ve read it, you’d know I have.”

  “Oh, I’ve tasted a few,” she said snidely.

  Before I could get a word in edgewise, the dogs started barking. There was a knocking at the door. My mother beat me to it. In strolled Melanie alone.

  “Where's Jack?” Grandmother asked.

  Melanie's face crumpled.

  Aunt Denise looked to Uncle Billy to answer for them.

  “He's had enough wedding talk. Can’t say I blame him. Just under two weeks to go, and that’s all you women talk about.”

  “I think he said he was going golfing,” Dustin chimed in. “Wish he’d’ve invited me.” Dustin shoved his hands in his pockets. Then he beelined to the food.

  “You don’t think he’s getting cold feet, do you?” Grandmother was never subtle.

  “Nah,” Dustin murmured absentmindedly. “I tried to talk him out of it at the bachelor party but no dice. He said he loves Melanie. For the life of me, I don’t understand why.”

  He managed to narrowly avoid another swat—this one from Melanie herself.

  “You didn’t! What if he is getting cold feet?”

  Her puppy dog eyes peered at the room, needing reassuring.

  “Of course, he’s not.” I gave her a squeeze. Then I swatted Dustin for her.

  “Ow! That hurt.”

  “It hurt me too,” Dustin said, rubbing the back of his noggin.

  “It’s definitely not cold feet,” Aunt Denise continued to comfort her daughter as everyone meandered to the kitchen.

  “He's just not as detail-oriented as you,” I offered. “He's the yin to your yang.”

  Melanie calmed down a bit. She sniffled a time or two. “Thanks, Allie. That’s exactly what I needed to hear. You're the best! And that’s why I made you maid of honor.”

  That one had come as a shock to me. Melanie and I weren’t as close as I thought a maid of honor and her bride should be. But I think she knew that I came with a host of determination. I was going to see that everything got done and done right. And her other friends were all busy with their own lives now. Most of them already had kids to chase after.

  Now, it was time to get this show on the road. The ladies had a couple of projects to tackle this afternoon after lunch. This wedding wasn’t going to plan itself.

  “I'll pray,” Dustin offered to everyone’s surprise.

  “Thanks for the offer,” Uncle Billy said, “but a blessing of ‘Good bread, good meat, good God, let us eat’ is never enough for my God.”

  Uncle Billy blessed our meal. He added a special prayer for Coach Martin. Just the mention of the coach made me twitch. I knew it was coming, but I wasn't quite ready to talk about it. Yet, every eye found me.

  “So,” Aunt Denise began, “the paper made it out that you found him. Why didn’t we hear that from the horse’s mouth?”

  “Because this horse’s mouth is full.” I took a hasty bite of quiche. That wasn’t going to cut it. “We… I was just at the right place at the right time. If Javi wasn’t there, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Actually, if Javi wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have been running in that location.”

  “The handsome detective friend of yours? You two go running now?” Grandmother sounded optimistic—too optimistic, like we might be planning another wedding soon.

  “Oh, they do more than go for runs,” Mom chided.

  “I bet they do,” Dustin retorted.

  I nearly choked on my food. I threw him the dirtiest look I could get away with on a Sunday.

  “We’re just friends.” I tried changing the subject. “Does anyone know how Coach Martin is doing?”

  Aunt Denise, being a retired nurse, would have all the details.

  “He's still in a medically induced coma,” she said. “He’s stable. But he’s not awake. Not yet.”

  “I don't understand how someone could do it,” Melanie said flatly. “If I ever hit someone, I’d stop.”

  “They were probably D-R-U-N-K,” Dustin spelled it out like it was a curse word.

  “Maybe,” Uncle Billy said. “I noticed Calista drove her husband’s truck at church today.”

  I wondered what he was insinuating. Uncle Billy never commented on gossip. This observation was out of character.

  Aunt Denise glared at him.

  “What?” he asked, unsure about the hubbub.

  “I saw it too, Pops,” Dustin said. “It's a pretty sweet ride. She’s probably just tired of driving that minivan.”

  Things settled down after that. The guys weren't too pleased with the quiche and salad for lunch. But my banana pudding just might’ve redeemed it.

  The remainder of the afternoon went by quickly.

  All in all, it had been a good day—a much needed distraction from the drama that was my Saturday. But there was something still bothering me, something about our conversation. Things weren't adding up. Or maybe they were adding up, and that was the problem.

  Did Calista have something to do with her husband’s predicament?

  6

  “Allie,” Gertie called out. She set the freshly composed caramel macchiato on the counter.

  The sight of it alone was enough to brighten any Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday—all right, any day of the week is a good day for coffee.

  “Sorry, that took forever,” I whispered to my best friend, Kate McCallister.

  Kate sat perusing her phone at our usual table. She shrugged. “Tenley’s out sick or something. Gertie’s not used to running this place on her own anymore. Gosh, they better not get sick at the same time. I need the A-team operating when I come in. You ever come here at night? It’s like the B- or C-team. The owner’s kids. They half—”

  “Kate!” I scolded, knowing exactly what the next word would be. Maybe I did need a swear jar.

  She shrugged again, smiling. Her face was still buried in her phone, her thumbs tapping away at something.

  “Whatcha workin on?” I tried to play coy. But I knew exactly what she was working on—the hit and run case of Coach Seth Martin.

  “That thing you won’t tell me anything about,” she said, offhand. “I can’t believe you were there and didn’t call me. Clara scooped me. And I’m blaming you.”

  “Me? Why me? Javi told me not to tell you anything.”

  I couldn't tell if Kate was feigning the look of betrayal she wore—or if it was genuine. She liked to act like she had tough skin but deep down she was a softy.

  “You’re right. I should blame him,” she said. “Maybe he’s still harboring some feelings for Clara. And that’s why he called her first.”

  “You think?” I asked, feeling more downtrodden than Melanie had when she was thinking Jack had cold feet.

  “No, I don’t think,” Kate spat. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you. I don’t think Javi called Clara at all. She got lucky is all. She probably sits at home listening to police scanners.”

  “Sorry.” I laughed. “I really am. I'm not sure what I'm allowed to say. Maybe you can tell me what you know. Anything I confirm can go on the record—just don’t list me as your source.”

  “Girl, I never reveal a source.”

  I took a sip of coffee. Bitter at first, it got sweeter the more I drank. Come to think of it, the coffee was a lot like Kate.

  “All right. I don’t have much. Obviously, I have no clue about the culprit. So, I wanted to do a puff piece on Coach Martin.” Kate’s voice turned into a whisper, and I leaned in closer to hear. “It doesn't seem like he's the Mr. Nice Guy we’ve been portraying him to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the police have been called to his house a few times. Domestic issues with the wife. She’s never called or filed charges. But the neighbors are convinced
he’s been physically abusive. In fact, the neighbor looked quite pleased to be telling me all of this.”

  “That's terrible,” I said.

  It was terrible. No woman—no person—should be treated that way.

  “You don't look as shocked as I thought you would,” Kate noted.

  It was my turn to own up to some things.

  I grimaced. “Yeah, well, Mrs. Martin had some bruising on her neck and shoulders the day we found him.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Just a flash before she covered up.”

  “What about Detective Portillo? Did he see it?”

  I shrugged. “We haven’t talked about it. I get the feeling he doesn’t like when I interfere with his cases.”

  “I get that feeling too.” Kate chuckled. “But get this, that’s not all I’ve found. An unnamed source from the school district—I really can’t say who—has received several complaints about the coach being a little too rough with the kids. Grabbing face-masks, getting in their faces, you know how it goes.”

  “That's awful. How is he still coaching?”

  “He’s winning,” Kate said. “No one files charges against winners. It's a good ole boy system—even if he’s not a good ole boy.”

  “What if one of the players snapped? What if it wasn’t an accident?” I asked.

  “If it wasn’t,” Kate said, “that’d make fifty or more suspects.”

  “So, where do you go from here?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I know I’ve still got a puff piece to do. My bosses won’t let me run a smear campaign on a jerk in a coma. That I know for sure. Innocent until proven guilty. It’d be easier if guilt took over and whoever hit him turned themselves in. If I was looking for the suspect, I’d case every paint and body shop in a fifty mile radius. Whoever hit him had to have some damage to their car.”

  “And you’re not looking for the suspect?” That didn’t sound like the Kate McCallister I knew.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t. As of last night, no one brought a vehicle in with front fender damage. It appeared a headlight broke in the accident. I saw the forensics team gather some of it from the grass.”