by Kylie Logan
Sophie took a glug, coughed, sniffled, took another drink. “I know I’m being silly.” She wiped her eyes. “I just can’t help myself. I love the Terminal. You know that, Laurel. This place is my life.”
I pulled up a chair and sat knee to knee with her. “There’s nothing silly about how you feel about the Terminal, and nothing’s going to change that. Or the Terminal, either.”
“Well, I don’t know. What if . . .” The waterworks started all over again, and I waited—not very patiently, I’ll admit—for her to get it out of her system. When she finally did, she took another drink, blinked back tears, and handed me the newspaper that had been clenched in her hand.
I had to smooth it out to see the main story on the front page, and when I did—
“Oh!” Feeling as if I’d been sucker punched, I plumped back in my chair and stared, my mouth open and my heart beating double time, at the picture on the front page of the tabloid.
The big picture in the center of the page.
The one in living color.
The one that showed the door of the freezer where I’d found Meghan’s body and had a bold, blaring headline printed over it.
Death Trap!
It took me exactly two seconds to recover and in that time, my surprise morphed into total and complete outrage.
By way of showing Sophie exactly what I thought of the photograph and the sentiment, I wadded up the tabloid and tossed it in the trash can.
“It’s not your fault,” I told her. “Not what happened to Meghan and not how people are trying to profit from it and sensationalize it.”
She sniffed. “I know. It’s not anyone’s fault. Not anyone but the horrible person who killed Meghan. But if people see that picture . . . if they think the Terminal is shady or, worse, if they think it’s dangerous, it’s going to hurt our business. What if it . . .” Her face paled, her breath caught. “What if we’re forced to close?”
“That’s not going to happen.” I was so sure of it, my words rang with confidence. “I won’t let it happen, and there’s no reason for it to happen. That picture doesn’t mean anything. Neither does that stupid headline. It’s just some smarmy reporter’s attempt at selling more papers. Nobody believes the Terminal is a death trap, and if they do . . .” The very thought made my blood boil. “Well, they’re wrong, aren’t they? All they have to do is ask the people who’ve been coming here for years. The people who bring their kids and their grandkids here. And if I see any more of this nonsense in the media, I’m going to sic Declan on them. Let’s see how they like hearing from our attorney!”
A watery smile brightened Sophie’s expression. She patted my hand. “You have a good heart.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of you. And besides—”
A thought struck and my words dissolved.
“What is it?” Sophie asked.
I retrieved the newspaper from the garbage and smoothed it out on my lap so I could poke one finger into the center of the photograph. “How did they get in the kitchen to take pictures?” I asked, but I didn’t give Sophie a chance to answer. Before she could, I’d already popped out of my chair, bumped out of the office door, and made a beeline through the restaurant, waving Inez and Dolly into the kitchen.
When the kitchen door swung shut behind them, I waved the offending tabloid like a flag.
“We’ve got to be more careful,” I told them, and George, too, since he was standing over at the grill cooking the day’s special, grilled Italian sausage with peppers and onions. “I don’t want reporters peeking into the window in the kitchen door and I sure don’t want them coming into the kitchen. I don’t care what kind of questions they ask or what excuses they give you. I don’t care what they say they want to see or what they’re trying to find out. One of them could slip and get hurt in here, and then we’d be in real trouble and our insurance rates would skyrocket. Besides, they have no business in here. Dolly!”
When I called her name, Dolly flinched.
“Get some paper out of that drawer over there.” I pointed. “And tape it to the inside of the window on the kitchen door. No way I’m going to give them an opportunity to take any more photographs.”
Dolly scuttled by and got to work, and watching her tape the paper in place, Inez shook her head. “It’s going to be harder,” she said. “You know, to see who’s coming and going. To know if we’re going to bump into anyone.”
“Well, then, we’re all just going to have to take it slow and be more careful.” I said this nice and loud so that both Dolly over by the door and George at the sizzling grill could hear me. “I don’t want to sacrifice safety, that’s for sure, but I’m not going to take the chance of providing those jackals with more fodder for the tabloids.”
Dolly scurried away from the door and when she passed by, I took the tape dispenser from her hands. “That’s it, folks. Thanks! I just want you all to remember to be careful and to keep your mouths shut. We can’t take the chance of damaging the reputation of the Terminal. That hurts business and more importantly, it hurts Sophie.”
Inez and Dolly both went back into the dining room. George flipped the sausages.
“What?” I asked him.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “What what? I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“Thinking and saying are two different things.” He grabbed a roll and split it, loaded it with sausage, peppers, and onions, and handed it to me. “You don’t eat enough.”
I eat plenty. But that didn’t stop me from wolfing down the sausage. It was browned just right, and the peppers and onions were perfection, and I told George so.
I was actually thinking about asking for seconds—and digging just a little deeper so I could understand that cagey look he gave me as I finished up our impromptu staff meeting—when the kitchen door swung open.
Inez poked her head in. “Just so you know, there’s one of those nosy reporters out here now,” she told me. “She’s asking all kinds of questions about Meghan and about you, too. And she wants to know if any of us have seen that What’s-His-Name, that race car driver.”
That’s all I needed to hear; I marched out into the dining room. With a tip of her head, Inez indicated a blonde seated alone near the back windows, and I grabbed a pitcher of water and strolled to her table.
The woman was young and pretty, or I should say her lips were well shaped and she had a perfect nose. Not too long. Not too short. Turned up just a tad at the very tip.
I can’t really say much for the rest of her face because she was wearing big sunglasses with yellow frames.
I filled her glass. “We appreciate your business,” I said, and I meant it. “But I don’t appreciate you pestering the staff. We’re not answering questions. Not from you or any other reporters.”
“I didn’t . . .” The woman swallowed whatever else she might have said and curled her hands on the table in front of her. “It’s only natural to be curious,” she said, her voice low and with the slight trace of an accent that might have been British. “I asked only about Benito Gallo.”
“And there’s not a thing we can tell you about him.”
“He’s been here?”
I slanted her a look. “Like I said, there’s not a thing we can tell you.”
Her lips were plump and red and she stuck out her lower lip in a perfect pout. “It’s just a simple question.”
“Today’s special is Italian sausage,” I told her. “I’ll send Inez over to take your order.”
Believe me, I’ve worked in the service industry for enough years to know to be gracious, but I committed the cardinal sin—I turned around and walked away just as she was going to say something, then signaled to Inez.
“The nerve of some people.” Declan had just escorted another
group of diners to their table and I met him just as we both stepped into the waiting area. There was no one around, but I made sure to keep my voice low.
He glanced over to where Inez stood, order pad in hand, at the table where the blonde was seated. “Hey, if they didn’t have nerve, they wouldn’t be reporters. It’s their job to try and wheedle information out of people.”
“And it’s our job not to give it.” I told Declan about my meeting with the staff in the kitchen. “We can’t get sucked into the drama. It’s bad enough what happened to Meghan here. I don’t want to compound it by becoming part of the story.”
Declan made a face. “It’s already too late for that.”
“I know, but—”
“No. What I mean is, it’s really too late for that.”
It was my turn to make a face.
And his turn to explain.
“I just took a call.” He tipped his head in the direction of the phone behind the counter. “From Bartholomew Presky.”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I could be excused for not placing it right away. What with striking out on our visit to Dulcie Thoroughgood and coming back to the Terminal to find Sophie upset about the tabloid story, it was no wonder my head was a little fuzzy.
“He’s Meghan’s attorney,” Declan explained.
Of course. Though I’d never had any interaction with Bart Presky, I’d seen him come and go at Meghan’s a number of times. He was a man nearing retirement age with a shock of silvery hair, a wardrobe of expensive suits, a Rolls and a driver, and a reputation for building impenetrable brick walls around his clients, their finances, and their business dealings. In other words, when it came to Hollywood attorneys he was number one at the top of the list of every mover and shaker.
“Why would Bart call here?” I asked Declan.
“Because he’s coming.”
“Here? Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I figured you wouldn’t want me to turn down the business, so I agreed to let him rent out the Terminal for this evening.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because, don’t ask me how, but he knows that everyone who was close to Meghan is somewhere close by. He’s called Corrine and Ben Gallo and Wilma and Spencer, and he wants you to be here, too.”
I hated to repeat myself, but . . .
“Because?”
“Because . . .” Declan looped his arm through mine. “He’s going to show up here at seven tonight to read Meghan’s will.”
* * *
• • •
WE MADE SURE our patrons and all the paparazzi and the legitimate reporters who’d been hanging around all day were gone by six, took in the Italian flag that had been hanging from the pole out front, put out our CLOSED sign, and waited for our guests to arrive.
Since we knew there was bound to be a feeding frenzy if the media caught wind of what was scheduled to happen at the Terminal that night, we had our guests park behind the Irish store, then Declan ferried them over in his car, parked behind the Terminal, and we let them in the back door that led into the kitchen.
Wilma and Spencer were the first to arrive. They were followed by Ben Gallo, who said nothing more to his son than a brief hello, then plunked down in a chair and checked his text messages. Corrine burst through the door just as the clock was about to hit seven.
“The others are in the dining room,” I told her, and I don’t think it was my imagination that she wasn’t listening. Corrine’s face was a thundercloud. Her cheeks flamed, her eyes were squinched, her breaths came hard and fast.
“Problem?” I asked when she stomped by.
Corrine didn’t answer.
“Don’t look at me!” When she pounded through the door and into the dining room, Declan grabbed one of the chocolate and almond biscotti I was just putting out on a serving plate along with cannoli stuffed with creamy ricotta filling, and anise-flavored pizzelles. He chomped through the biscotti and crumbs sprinkled down on his green sweater. “She was acting like that when she got over to the Irish store. I didn’t do a thing to offend her.”
“Somebody sure did.” I glanced over to where the kitchen door still swung back and forth thanks to the hefty push Corrine had given it, then handed Declan the platter of cookies and he took it over to a nearby counter. Because one of her kids was sick, Inez couldn’t stick around for the evening, but that wasn’t a problem. Dolly had volunteered to help serve coffee and cookies, and she and George were getting everything organized on serving trays.
“Give us fifteen minutes,” I told Dolly. “By then, everyone should be settled and you can bring the cookies in.”
I took a deep breath and, with Declan at my side, walked into the dining room.
It had been a challenge to engineer this meeting so that prying reporters couldn’t peek in or eavesdrop, but between me and Sophie, we had managed. We’d cleaned out the room upstairs that we used to store extra paper products and clean linens, and I scrambled by the tall piles of boxes of linens we’d ferried down to the waiting area and (not coincidentally) put in front of the windows so that no one could get a look inside.
Which didn’t mean someone couldn’t try to take a peek outside.
We found Corrine wedged between a pile of boxes that contained takeaway containers and another, taller stack of boxes where we kept the white tablecloths we used only for very special occasions. She had her nose pressed to the front window.
“Not a good idea.” I put a hand on her shoulder and she jumped. “You know what Bart told you when he called you,” I reminded her. “He told all of us. He’d like to keep this meeting as hush-hush as he can. Otherwise, the media is going to be a nuisance. It’s better if no one sees you and knows you’re here.”
She turned away from the window, but she didn’t say a thing. Her eyes narrowed, she merely joined our other guests where they waited in the dining room.
“Sorry for the secrecy,” I told them all. “But like I just reminded Corrine, Bart has asked us all to be careful and quiet about this meeting. If you’ll follow me . . .” I waved toward the waiting area and beyond it to the stairway that led up to the second floor. “We’ve got a room set up and we’ll be sure to have privacy upstairs.”
I will admit, it was not the most conducive of settings, not for the reading of the will of one of the most high-powered women in the country. But Sophie and I had applied more than a little elbow grease that afternoon, and the storage room was clean. We’d topped the table in the center of the room with one of our special-occasion cloths and put a bouquet of fresh flowers in the center of it, lit a candle on a sideboard on the far side of the room, and turned down the light on the overhead ceiling fan so that it was bright enough to allow Bart to be able to read and dim enough to be soothing and lend just the right atmosphere to the somber gathering.
Bonus—there were no windows in the room so no chance of being spied on by reporters.
“This is madness.” Ben’s top lip curled. “This is where we will talk about dear Meghan?”
“Dear!” Corrine nudged her way around him and faced him from the other side of the table. “Since when is she your dear Meghan?” she asked him. “You haven’t had a nice thing to say about her in fifteen years.”
Wilma cleared her throat and stood next to Corrine. “You’re forgetting that Spencer is here,” she said, even though I think we were all pretty sure that Corrine wasn’t forgetting that for one moment. “Why don’t we all take a seat and relax for a moment so we’re ready when Mr. Presky arrives.”
Wilma led the way, hesitating only for one moment when Spencer chose the seat not next to hers, but next to his father’s.
Ben checked his text messages.
Corrine sucked on her bottom lip.
Spencer tried for a conversation with his father and when that didn’t work, he sat back and pulled the brim of hi
s baseball cap over his eyes.
Wilma gave me a small smile. “Can I help in any way?” she asked.
“We’ve got everything under control.”
“Somebody want to explain why we’re participating in this ridiculous charade?” Ben plunked his phone on the table and clutched his hands together on top of it. “This is crazy.”
“This is the way Meghan wanted it.”
The voice came from the hallway and belonged to Bart Presky, who, with a nod, thanked Declan for showing him the way, walked into the room, and closed the door behind him.
“I’m simply following the instructions Meghan left for me,” he informed us all.
“She wanted us to meet in some dumpy restaurant?”
I shot Ben a look.
He didn’t apologize.
“She wanted . . .” Bart set his crocodile attaché on the table and slipped out of his Burberry trench coat. When he saw there was no place to hang it, he draped it over the back of the metal chair in front of him and sat down.
“Meghan was very specific,” he said, glancing all around. “She left instructions that if anything were ever to happen to her, she wanted all of you to be present at the reading of her will. I admit, I was surprised it was so easy to get you all together. Especially since Meghan insisted the reading be done as soon after her death as possible. Since we’re all present and some of us are paying attention . . .” He shot Spencer a look that the kid couldn’t possibly have seen since his hat was over his eyes.
Ben whipped the hat off and tossed it aside and Spencer sat up and took us all in with a glare that reminded me of the way his mother had once looked at me when she thought the tomato bisque I served (which, just for the record, was perfection itself) didn’t have enough basil in it.
“As I was saying . . .” Bart cleared his throat. “We can get started if—”
Dolly timed her entrance to the minute. She showed up with the cookies, put the platter on the table, then went back out in the hallway for the coffee tray I had no doubt George had brought up for her. She poured, passed cups, and left, and Wilma took a few cookies and put them on a plate for Spencer. Ben took a pizzelle.