Out of the Dying Pan

by Linda Reilly

  Talia vaguely recalled Kelsey mentioning a boyfriend. Wasn’t she planning to offer him and his dad the fish and chips gift certificate?

  “Anyway, his folks are super conservative. I mean, they never even utter a curse word. If they find out about what happened in Maine—even though the charges were dropped—they’ll never accept me into the family!”

  “Kelsey, the only one who has to accept you is Josh.”

  “I know. I get that.” She lifted her shoulders in a world-weary shrug. “I just don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with them, you know? They’re super sweet people and I want them to like me.”

  Talia thought back to the day she first met her ex-boyfriend’s mother. She and Chet had been dating for about six months, and he felt it was time for her to meet “the maternal half.” Cynthia Matthews Sholes met them at an upscale bistro in the Back Bay section of Boston, not far from the townhouse on Commonwealth Avenue she shared with hubby number three. Thin as a pencil with silvery blond hair, the milky skin on her face smooth as rubber, she tottered in on a pair of royal blue Manolos that had her teetering like a tall building in a stiff wind. Talia saw Chet cringe, and she realized instantly that his mom had a drinking problem. Throughout the meal Chet barely spoke, leaving Talia to weave small talk through Cynthia’s nonstop stream of chatter. By the time they’d finished eating, Talia felt terribly sad for the woman. Despite her wealth, Cynthia’s privileged life clearly held little joy. After that they rarely saw her, for which Talia had been secretly grateful.

  Kelsey rose from her chair. “Thanks for inviting me over, Talia. This was a treat for me.” She lifted the handle of her macramé tote off the back of her chair, and one end slipped. A brick-sized rectangle of some brown confection wrapped in cellophane tumbled onto the floor. Kelsey made a face. “Oh, God, I forgot I had that thing. The chef at the Wiltshire Inn gave out mini-fruitcakes to all the waitstaff yesterday. Ugh. I hate fruitcake.” She picked it up and stuffed it back inside her bag.

  Talia laughed. “Most people do, I think, but I’ve actually tasted some pretty good ones.” A thought crossed her mind. “Kelsey, I was going to try deep-frying a few chunks of the pound cake after you left. If you’re game and you don’t mind donating to the cause, would you like to stay a bit longer to help me deep fry some of your fruitcake? In fact, we can try it with both cakes and see which one we like better.”

  Kelsey grinned. “That would be fun. But I already know which one I’ll like better.” She dug the fruitcake out of her tote again. “Can I help?”

  “You sure can.” Talia smiled and moved her wooden cutting board from the counter to the kitchen table. “Why don’t you cut some chunks of cake from both loaves while I make the batter. Make each one about an inch and a half long.” She gave Kelsey a sharp knife and set her to work.

  Talia pulled her small deep fryer from one of the lower cabinets, plugged it in, and filled it with fresh canola oil. While it heated, she whipped together a sweet batter of eggs, milk, sugar, and flour, adding a hefty dose of baking powder and a touch of vanilla. Ever since her takeover of the fish and chips shop, she’d been trying to come up with the perfect recipe for a basic sweet batter, one that could be modified to suit whatever delectable tidbits she happened to be frying.

  Hmmm.

  She opened her fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Without measuring, she poured a tiny splat of the juice into the batter and whisked it in.

  Talia glanced over at Kelsey, who was cutting chunks of fruitcake with surgical precision. “That’s probably enough,” she said kindly, noting the mountain of cake chunks piled on the cutting board. “We can start with those.”

  Kelsey moved the cutting board to the counter next to the batter bowl. “What next?”

  Talia scrubbed her hands at the sink and dried them on a paper towel. “Let’s start with two of each,” she said, swirling a piece of lemon cake and then a piece of the fruitcake into the batter. She set them in the wire basket and lowered them into the fryer. The mouthwatering scent of hot oil and sweet batter filled every nook of the kitchen.

  Kelsey closed her eyes and drew in a lungful of air. “That smells awesome,” she said.

  When the two fried cakes were the perfect shade of gold, Talia lifted the basket and drained them, then set them on a clean paper towel. From one of her nana’s ancient Tupperware containers, she removed a shaker of confectioner’s sugar and sprinkled it over the cakes.

  Kelsey looked quizzically at her. “Why do you keep it in there?”

  “To discourage the wrong kind of visitors,” Talia said meaningfully. “You know …” She made a crawling motion with her fingers on the counter.

  Kelsey grinned. “Ants.”

  Talia transferred the fried cakes to one of her pink-flowered dessert plates and gave Kelsey a fork. “Okay, time for the official test.”

  Looking appropriately serious, Kelsey bit into the first one—the lemon cake. “Oh. My. Lord,” she said. “This is to die for.” She halted mid-chew and grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that,” she mumbled.

  Talia smiled at her and lowered two more cake chunks into the fryer. “Don’t fret over it. It’s only an expression.”

  After a deep breath, Kelsey moved on to the fruitcake. “Here goes.” After two bites she stared at Talia. “Wow. That’s not half bad. It’s almost like the batter lightened the cake instead of making it heavier.”

  Talia prepared the next two fried cakes and slid them onto a plate. She sampled the fruitcake first. The first flavor that tickled her taste buds was that of the dried cherries. Simultaneously sweet and tart, they complemented the hint of orange in the batter. “Kelsey, this is definitely one of the better fruitcakes I’ve had.”

  “The chef called it a British fruitcake. He told us that in some recipes they soak the fruits in rum, but he uses brandy.”

  After the second bite of the fruity concoction, Talia was hooked. The blend of brandy-laced fruits and nuts encased in golden fried batter was sheer perfection.

  By the time they were through, Talia felt stuffed. It occurred to her that the cakes had served as her supper. She’d had nothing to eat since midafternoon when she fried a slice of haddock for herself and topped it with a scoop of tangy coleslaw.

  “I have to go,” Kelsey said, looking almost wistful. She scrubbed her fingers with a napkin. “Josh and I are planning to see a late movie.”

  Kelsey insisted that Talia keep what was left of the fruitcake, and Talia grabbed the keys to her Fiat so she could drive Kelsey to her car. Kelsey lifted Bo in her arms and planted a kiss on the little calico’s whiskers.

  Talia knew she was pushing her luck, but with Ria dead and the killer still running free, she had to know. “Kelsey, there’s one thing you still haven’t told me. What was the secret Ria shared with you?”

  Kelsey lowered Bo to the floor and let the cat slip out of her grasp. “She said that when she was a kid, she witnessed a murder. And that the killer never got caught.”

  12

  Talia was surprised the next morning to receive a text from her mom. She was slipping on a pair of pantyhose—something she rarely wore—when the telltale ding of her cell phone alerted her. She dropped onto the bed and grabbed her phone, giggling when she saw the message.

  Surprise. the Js are coming sunday and staying for a weeek/ knew you would wnt 2 no.

  “Yay!” Talia cried to Bo, who was gazing at her from her favorite perch on the night table. “Aunt Jennie and Aunt Josie will be here into two days!”

  If the cat was startled by the news, she didn’t let on. Instead she licked a paw and scrubbed it over her whiskers, no doubt in preparation for their visit.

  Talia’s twin aunts, Jennie and Josie Domenica, had moved to Malibu twelve years earlier, after starting up their own greeting card company—Sunday Swizzle. Never married, they had always lived together, dubbing themselves “confirmed bachelorettes.”

  Josie, the creative half of the team, had distingu
ished herself in the greeting card world by embedding a well-disguised swizzle stick into every one of her designs. Often it was so cleverly hidden that it took several minutes and a magnifying glass to find it.

  Aunt Jennie, on the other hand, would be hard-pressed to draw a straight line with a ruler. Quiet and somewhat reclusive, she ran the business end of the company. Her nose for numbers and savvy marketing skills had catapulted Sunday Swizzle into one of the top-rated businesses in the state of California.

  Talia cranked out a return message to her mom, who she knew despised texting.

  Why R U texting?

  The Js always do it I have 2 show them Im no slouch

  Talia giggled again and hit the speed dial for her mom’s cell. “When does their plane get in to Bradley? I can’t wait to see them!”

  Natalie Marby laughed. “I know. Me, too. I had no idea they were planning a visit. They won’t land until around five o’clock, but don’t worry about picking them up. They’ve already arranged for a car rental.”

  Buoyed by the news of her aunts’ impending visit, Talia finished tugging her pantyhose up to her waist. Glory be to heaven, had the things always felt so uncomfortable? She couldn’t fathom how she’d worn them all those years when she worked as a commercial property manager and later as a commercial broker.

  Now for something to wear. One by one, she fished through the hangers in her closet, eventually landing on a charcoal gray pencil skirt. Her tunic-style black sweater with the belted waist would go nicely with it. For the memorial service she wanted to look appropriately somber. She chose a dove gray scarf made from the softest Indian cotton to complete the ensemble.

  After sticking her feet into her plain black plumps, she kissed Bo, swiped a bit of gloss over her lips, and then grabbed the brown shopping bag that held her “work” clothes.

  Bea Lambert, the queen of punctuality, was waiting at the door of Fry Me a Sliver at precisely nine o’clock. She was wearing a screaming red sweatshirt adorned with appliquéd snowmen, and her green eyes sparkled when she spied Talia striding across the cobblestone plaza toward the eatery.

  “Oooh, it is so good to see you, Bea,” Talia squealed, encasing her old friend in a big squashy hug.

  Bea planted a noisy kiss on Talia’s cheek. “I’ve missed you, too, luvvy, more than you know. And I can’t believe you have to go through this again! Finding that poor girl the way you did.” She gave a forceful shake of her dyed black curls. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you ended up solving this bloomin’ murder, too, like you did the last one. Heaven knows you can’t trust the coppers to do it!”

  Talia laughed. Poor Bea had had her fill of police when they wrongly accused her of murdering Phil Turnbull a few months earlier. She slipped her arm around Bea’s shoulder. “Come on, you. Let’s go inside and get the coffeepot cranking.”

  Inside the eatery, Bea made a beeline for the “loo,” as she called it. Talia stuck her brown bag beneath the counter and put the coffee on. Two minutes later, Bea motored into the kitchen and poured herself a cup. In spite of having been born and raised in the UK, Bea loathed tea, and had always chosen coffee in its place, even at “teatime.”

  “Ah, I’ve missed these mornings with you, luvvy,” Bea said, her eyes growing moist.

  Talia missed Bea, as well, more than she wanted to admit. “I’ve missed you too, Bea. I swear, sometimes when I unlock the door in the morning I still expect to see you standing there at the work table, shredding cabbages and carrots for the coleslaw.”

  Bea gave her a wistful smile. Talia gulped back the half cup she’d poured for herself, rinsed the mug, and stuck it in the dishwasher. She toyed with the idea of warning Bea about Martha’s moods. What was that expression? Forewarned is forearmed?

  No, Bea didn’t need any such warning. She was a kind soul who loved everyone. By the time the lunch hour rolled around, Bea and Martha would probably be fast friends.

  *

  Dozier and Bay was the name of Wrensdale’s sole funeral home. Over the years, jokes about the “doze” in Dozier had made the rounds. The final doze. Doze in peace.

  Talia was running early, which earned her a prime parking space near the portico that graced the entrance to the two-story white building. She parked her Fiat next to a cream-colored Lexus that looked as if it had just been driven out of the showroom. In a far corner of the lot was a dark gray sedan that looked suspiciously like an unmarked cop car. Talia would swear she spied a solitary figure sitting in the driver’s seat, but from her vantage point she couldn’t make out any features.

  A gleaming black hearse was parked directly in front of the portico. Talia’s stomach clenched at the sight. Barely eight months ago she’d entered this same building for Nana’s wake. Fueled that day solely by three cups of coffee, she’d been gripped by nausea the moment she entered the room where Nana’s casket was on display. She remembered having to run to the restroom with a bad case of dry heaves.

  Talia stepped inside the foyer, her black pumps noiseless on the plush carpeting. A thin, elderly gent with lush white hair and a pair of matching eyebrows greeted her soberly. Dressed in formal black with the exception of his crisp white shirt, he touched her elbow gently. “Are you here for Miss Butterforth?” he murmured.

  Talia nodded and he extended a hand to his left, instructing her to follow the mauve runner to the Rose Garden Room at the end of the hallway. She followed his directions, pausing when she reached the entrance to the viewing room.

  Several rows of padded chairs had been set up facing the casket. A few were already occupied by mourners. Talia wondered briefly if any of them were undercover state police officers.

  She signed the guest book and then moved toward the mahogany coffin, which, to her relief, was closed. At one end, a massive arrangement of dozens of white roses perched on a table. A huge spray of pink snapdragons nestled in a sea of white mums was draped over the casket. In the center was a bright pink bow, the words BELOVED DAUGHTER printed on the ribbon. A plain wooden crucifix hung on the papered wall directly behind the casket.

  Talia felt her throat fill, and she swallowed hard. Lifting her hem slightly, she knelt before the coffin. She murmured a silent prayer for Ria’s soul. When she was through, she crossed herself and added, Please find her killer. She didn’t deserve this.

  Along the far wall, beneath a serene painting of an English garden, was a tufted Victorian sofa the color of tea roses. A skinny woman with frizzy blond hair was seated in one corner, her scrawny fingers clasped around a wad of spent tissues. Talia recognized her from Sunday’s fund-raiser—Ria’s mom. The woman looked up at Talia with a shell-shocked expression, then dabbed at her puffy eyes. “Do I know you?” she said in a raspy voice.

  “I’m Talia Marby, Mrs. Butterforth. I was a classmate of Ria’s many years ago. I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  “I remember your name,” she said with a slow nod. “You’re the girl who took the rabbit from my Ria.” Her eyes welled up and she mashed the tissue against them.

  Talia stifled a groan. The rabbit again?

  The woman sniffled. “You can call me Anita,” she said, forcing a weak smile. “I never held a grudge about that, by the way. Ria shouldn’t have took that dumb rabbit. It didn’t belong to her in the first place.”

  Talia couldn’t believe she was dissing her own child, but then she chided herself for her unkind thoughts. The poor woman had lost her daughter in a brutal way, and was probably in denial.

  A man appeared suddenly at Talia’s elbow, so close that his arm brushed hers. His citrusy aftershave failed miserably at masking the scent of unwashed clothes. Wearing a black ski jacket that curved snugly over his jiggling middle, he fixed Talia with a piercing look. “You doin’ okay, Anita?”

  With a polite smile, Talia stepped to one side to allow him a wide berth.

  Anita reached for his hand and nodded. “Yeah, but you come sit here with me, okay, Ralphie? I don’t like sitting here by my lonesome. Look at all these people
coming in. I gotta talk to them, and I don’t even know most of them!”

  The man dropped onto the sofa with the grace of a fatted goose. “I’m here for you, honey. Don’t worry.” He patted her knee lightly.

  “Mrs. Butterf—I mean, Anita,” Talia said. “When it’s convenient for you, would it be okay if I dropped by your home for a few minutes? Maybe this evening sometime?”

  Anita looked at Ralphie and shrugged. “I guess so. You coming over, Ralphie?”

  Ralphie averted his gaze. “Yeah, but not until later. Friday’s bingo night, remember? I gotta take Ma over to the church hall. I’ll be over after that, okay?”

  Anita pushed her lower lip into a pout and looked up at Talia. “You might as well come over, then.”

  Oh, yay. She was first runner-up to Ralphie.

  Anita rattled off the address, saving Talia the embarrassment of having to pretend she didn’t know it. The last thing she wanted was for Anita to glean that she’d already been snooping around her duplex unit.

  Talia glanced at her watch. It was five to ten. She headed toward the last row of chairs, hoping to spy someone she knew. Was Kelsey planning to attend? She’d forgotten to ask her.

  “Good morning, Talia.” The voice, soft and refined, came from behind and slightly to the left. Talia turned to see Will Claiborne. Impeccably dressed in a suit of black worsted wool, he looked at her with an expression so glum that it tore at her heart. His eyes were red and swollen, and his lower lip trembled faintly.

  Instinctively, Talia reached up to hug him. “Good morning, Will. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”

  He nodded, his emerald eyes filling with tears. “Thank you. Did you notice all the lovely flowers I ordered?” He glanced over at the explosion of white roses resting at the head of the coffin.

  “Yes, and they’re beautiful,” Talia said. Much as she tried, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from drifting to his tie tack. Carved from solid jade, it was a facsimile of the two-headed snake that graced his new ring. “The spray from Ria’s mom is quite lovely, as well,” she added, clearing her throat.