by Kylie Logan
“We’ve got a bit of a delay,” the mayor announced. “Seems our guest of honor, that Statue of Liberty fellow you’ve all been waiting to meet, has gotten a little lost on the way over here. Let’s listen to the high school marching band . . .” He waved in their direction.
“Well, maybe more than a couple of minutes,” Declan admitted. “You want to come join us?”
“Can’t.” There was a bite in the chill October breeze, and I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my boiled wool jacket and stomped my feet to the tempo of the lively Sousa march the band played. “Rocky was supposed to meet us here and we can’t find her.”
Declan stepped up to my side. “Then I’ll help you look.”
We checked out each of the refreshment stands and the table where the ladies from St. Colman’s Church sold tickets for a quilt raffle, and when there was still no sign of Rocky, I checked out the ladies’ rooms. While I was at it, Declan hit one of the refreshments stands and when I found him again, shaking my head to let him know there was no sign of Rocky anywhere, he handed me a paper cup filled with steaming cider.
I breathed in the scent of apples and cinnamon and took a careful sip.
“It’s not like her to say she’ll be somewhere and then not show,” I said.
“From what I can tell, everything she’s done in the last twenty-four hours isn’t like her.”
“It’s not.” I wrapped both my hands around the cup, relishing the warmth when it seeped into my fingers. “The way she went after Aurore Brisson at the book signing and the fact that she left the parade without a word, as if something was biting at her heels.”
“And the way she watched the parade.”
It was a surprising statement, and when he made it, I glanced Declan’s way. He, too, had his hands around his cup and he looked down into it, as if he wanted to think about what he was going to say so he could make sure he got his story straight. “Remember when—”
His words were swallowed up by a sudden silence from the band, a shrill shriek from a microphone, and Andrew MacLain’s voice from the loudspeakers around the park.
“Sorry!” I glanced at the main stage just in time to see the Statue of Liberty expert give the crowd a wave. “Let’s get the party started here,” he yelled, and waved toward the fireworks crew.
When the first rocket screamed into the night sky, both Declan and I looked up to watch. Rocket after rocket raced into the air and burst into sparkling color over our heads.
What with the fireworks blasts and the oohs and aahs and applause from the crowd, Declan had to lean close and when he did, I smelled cinnamon on his breath. “Remember when we were watching the parade,” he said. “We were over by the Taco Bell and Sophie and Rocky were there by the street. When Aurore Brisson rode by—”
“Nothing happened,” I reminded him, only I had to do it pretty loudly what with all the noise.
Declan nodded. “Exactly. Friday evening, Rocky was ready to go toe-to-toe with that author. But Saturday afternoon when Rocky saw her—”
“Nothing happened.” I caught on to what Declan was saying and wondered why I hadn’t made note of it myself. “You’d think Rocky would have had some reaction. At the Book Nook, she was ready to snap Aurore Brisson’s head off. You’d expect her to still be angry, or embarrassed.”
“But at the parade—”
“She hardly paid any attention to Aurore Brisson at all.”
“She wasn’t watching the author when she drove by. Rocky’s eyes were on the grandstand,” Declan said, and when I thought back to everything that had happened earlier that afternoon, I realized he was right.
In between a pyrotechnic burst of golden, sparkly stars and what looked like a blooming chrysanthemum that started out pink and morphed into streams of red and green, I did my best to clear my mind and picture the grandstand at the parade.
“The politicians were up there,” I said. “And the beauty queens.”
“And the kids in their Statue of Liberty costumes.” Declan pointed back in some indeterminate direction, somewhere toward where his family was watching the show. “Caitlyn and Brendan and Jamie were part of that crew. Cute kids. You know, with all the Fury good looks.”
The comment merited nothing more than a stiff smile, so that’s exactly what I gave him. “The cuteness of your nieces and nephews aside, I can’t see that any of that would interest Rocky all that much. Besides, the only thing she talked about for the last few weeks—I mean, other than reading Aurore Brisson’s book and welcoming a fellow Frenchwoman to Hubbard—was seeing Andrew MacLain.”
“Statue of Liberty expert!” Declan’s skeptical harrumph said it all. “The guy’s a history geek, not exactly a rock star.”
“And Rocky said that history was what overwhelmed her at the parade.” I filled Declan in on the voice mail message I’d picked up earlier. “The history of the Statue of Liberty?”
He knew it was as unlikely as I did when I asked the question, so to Declan’s credit, he didn’t answer me.
We watched a few more fireworks burst in the sky above us and I made up my mind.
“I’m going to Rocky’s,” I said, already starting out. “Sophie’s over there.” I pointed across the park. “If you could just go find her and let her know—”
“Oh no.” He hooked his arm around mine before I could make my getaway. “We’ll both tell her because we’re both going to Rocky’s.”
“Really?” I did my best to untangle myself from him and I should have known from the start it was a losing cause. Like his notion of the supreme importance of family and friendship, Declan’s mind is impossible to change. “I’ve been to Rocky’s all by myself,” I said anyway. “Lots of times. I can find my way there and back.”
“She might be sick.”
“So I’ll call 911.”
“She could be hurt.”
“So I’ll call 911.”
“What if she’s drunk?”
I bit back what I was tempted to say because like it or not, he could be right. Like it or not, it would explain the crazy way Rocky had been acting.
Like it or not, I knew it was a very real possibility.
I shook my shoulders to get rid of the thought. “Then I’ll make her a pot of coffee and make sure she eats something and on my way over there, I’ll stop and pick up an ice pack in case she has a headache.”
A rocket flew overhead and burst into a blinding flash of blue that added planes and shadows to Declan’s already angular face. It was late, and his chin was dusted with dark whiskers.
“I’ll help make the coffee,” he said, and he slid his hand down my arm and wound his fingers through mine.
He was impossible. And there was no use arguing.
Not even when I saw that Ellen Fury wasn’t watching the fireworks. She had her gaze trained on her son and on the woman whose hand he was holding.
And she was smiling to beat the band.
• • •
I INSISTED ON driving because I’d been to Rocky’s to pick up herbs for the Terminal a dozen times and I knew my way, even in the dark. Besides, I suspected Declan had arrived at Harding Park on his vintage motorcycle and as tempting as it was to think of myself hitched up on the seat behind him, my arms around his waist and my face buried in the folds of his black leather jacket, it was a chilly night, and body heat aside, I didn’t relish the thought of getting cold. Or maybe I just didn’t like the idea of all the heat we were bound to generate scattering in the October night air.
It was a thirty-minute drive to her farm on a six-acre plot outside of Cortland, a city (I use the word charitably) nestled up against the not so charmingly named Mosquito Reservoir. Cortland is one of those places with one elementary school, one middle school, and one high school to its name and a gazebo in the center of town, and there was little traffic to contend with. Then again, most o
f the population from miles around was probably in Hubbard for the fireworks festivities.
Most of the population.
But not Rocky.
I guess I sighed because over in the passenger seat, Declan leaned just a little nearer. “She’s fine,” he said.
I slid him a look. “You said it earlier—she’s not acting like herself.”
“Which doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”
“Which might mean it is.”
“We’ll find out in a couple of minutes.”
I’m sure this comment was supposed to comfort me. Instead, it just made the cha-cha rhythm going on inside my rib cage beat a little faster.
At a red light, I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel and told myself to calm down, to think of something—anything—other than that Rocky might be in trouble. Lucky for me, a billboard just outside the local CVS caught my eye. On the ad for the upcoming cable premiere of Yesterday’s Passion, Meghan Cohan was front and center and looking as gorgeous as ever, but not at all medieval in a gown with a plunging neckline, her lips slick and pouty.
“You miss Hollywood.”
I’m not sure how Declan surmised that from my muttering, “I don’t miss her.” As if to prove it, I gave Meghan’s gigantic picture a cross-eyed look when the light changed to green and I drove past.
“But you do miss Hollywood.”
“I miss . . .” I stopped to let traffic go by so I could make a left-hand turn. “I miss the lifestyle.”
“Ah, the rich and famous!” Declan tipped back his head. “You said they were snobs.”
“Not all of them.” My response was instantaneous, but even before the words left my lips, I knew they weren’t true. Sure, sure, there had to be some good people, some honest people, some real people among the stratosphere of celebrities where Meghan Cohan lived and worked.
In the six years I was her personal chef, I had met precious few.
I twitched away the thought. “I miss the glamour,” I told Declan, but truth be told, I wasn’t so sure about that, either. Glamour is as glamour does, and what looks so sparkly and glorious from the outside often has a dark underbelly. “Well, I miss the kinds of wonderful, elegant meals I used to make,” I told him and myself, and knew that much was the absolute truth.
He shot a smile in my direction. “You can always invite me over for dinner.”
I could, but there was the whole matter of entanglement. His family, his friends, his town. Since the first time I’d driven past the WELCOME TO HUBBARD sign, I’d known I wasn’t going to stay. And now . . .
I gave Declan a sidelong look. Maybe it was time for him to know—
I’d been so deep in thought, I nearly missed the turnoff to Rocky’s farm. I stepped on the brakes a little too hard, smiled an apology at Declan, and turned into the long drive.
From what Sophie had said, Rocky had lived here on the little farm she called Pacifique, or Peaceful, for something like forty years. Over that time, she’d enlarged her garden again and again, experimented with new and different crops, and earned a reputation for quality produce and fair prices. What had started as a simple farmhouse had been transformed by Rocky’s imagination and skill into the kind of charming place I’d seen more than once when I rambled the French countryside with Meghan. Sophie never called it Rocky’s house or Rocky’s farm, but simply Chateau Chic and Shabby. I had to agree with her.
Stone walkways, flowers spilling from pots even at this time of the year, ivy-covered walls.
Pacifique was beguiling without being fussy or pretentious, and it lived up to its name, too, acres and acres of peace and quiet.
Well, except maybe for that night.
The closer we got to the house, the louder the music became.
“Piaf,” Declan said, and I recognized “La Vie en Rose” though I couldn’t have translated the words if my life depended on it. It was a slow and mournful song, and so full of heartbreak, the words didn’t matter.
It was also loud enough to wake the dead.
Declan and I exchanged looks.
“She could be having a party,” he suggested.
But when we wound our way up the twisting drive and got close enough to finally see the house, we could also see that there were no cars around, and though every light in the house was lit, there was no indication that there was anyone inside.
I parked my car and cut the engine.
“Maybe I should go in first,” Declan said, but I don’t think he ever expected that I’d cave. I guess that’s why he didn’t look surprised when I got out of the car and walked up to the front door at his side.
I knocked and called out, but really, with Piaf singing away about broken hearts and broken promises and broken dreams (well, to me, that’s what it sounded like she was singing about), I was pretty sure Rocky couldn’t hear me anyway.
I tried the door and it swung open.
“Rocky!” Still out on the stone stoop, I bent forward and peered into the house. There was a hallway at the center of it and off to my left, the dining room with its whitewashed china cabinet, its table with mismatched chairs on three sides and a bench on the other, its funky chandelier, and the birdcage—as empty as it always had been—that sat in the corner. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen. To my right was the room Rocky used as a study and a parlor. It was where she welcomed her friends and where she conducted business with the wise restaurateurs who came looking for her produce. The CD player and the speakers must have been in there because Piaf’s voice oozed from the room with its couch upholstered in blue and white ticking, its pots of herbs on the shelf in front of the window, and the circle of comfortable chairs—none of which matched, all of which looked fabulous together—where Rocky talked religion, politics, and farming with anyone who would listen.
“Rocky!” I tried again, and when there was still no answer, I stepped into the parlor.
That’s when my breath caught and my heart stopped and my blood ran cold.
I hadn’t consciously registered the fact that Declan walked into the room right after me, but I knew he was there. Automatically, I leaned into him, struggling to keep on my feet, and his arms went around my waist, hanging on tight.
Together, we stared at the red wing chair in the corner, at the table next to it where there was an open bottle of red wine and the one empty wineglass tipped on its side next to that bottle.
And at Rocky, who sat in the chair as if she were doing nothing more than waiting for the next friend to visit.
Except that her eyes were blank and staring at the ceiling.
Her mouth was open in a silent O of astonishment.
And her skin was ashen.
Declan and I raced forward to check for a pulse, but somewhere deep inside me, I knew it was a losing cause.
Rocky Arnaud was dead.
Chapter 4
I don’t know which of us switched off Piaf, and I really can’t say if Declan helped me into a chair or if I helped him. I only know that when the police arrived, it was deathly silent at Pacifique and we were seated on either side of Rocky, like sentinels charged with guarding her. At the first knock, I flinched and brushed tears from my cheeks. At the second, Declan got up and went to the front door.
“Fury! What are you doing here?” Apparently the cop at the door knew Declan, and if I was thinking more clearly, I would have realized that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The cops back in Hubbard certainly knew him. And didn’t like him.
Declan made it clear that the feeling was mutual.
Here, the vibes were different. Maybe it was the magic of Pacifique. Or maybe the officer who walked into the room ahead of Declan realized that there is a certain respect we all must pay in situations like the one we found ourselves in, and a certain, special kindness that needs to be shown to those who are left to handle the grief in the wake
of a visit from Death.
The cop was a man of forty, maybe, a little shorter than Declan and a bit broader. He had light eyes, honey-colored hair that was a couple of shades darker than mine, and an air of competence that I hardly registered at the time, but was grateful for later. The first thing he did was come up to where I was sitting and bend down so he could look me in the eye.
“Are you all right?” the cop asked.
I couldn’t make a sound pass the lump in my throat so I just nodded.
The cop looked over his shoulder. “The medics are right behind me. They’ll be here in a minute. If you need anything—”
“I’m fine.” I shook away the shock that stole my words. “But Rocky—” I made to get up and go to her, but the cop stopped me, one hand on my arm.
“There’s nothing you can do for Rocky,” he said. “But maybe Declan . . .” He glanced that way. “Maybe he can take you into the kitchen and you can make a pot of coffee.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want any coffee.”
The cop’s eyes shone. “You might not, but I do. It’s late, and I think I’m going to be here for a while. If you could handle that for me . . .”
He didn’t wait for me to answer; he stepped aside so I could get up, and together, Declan and I went into the kitchen.
I had always liked Rocky’s kitchen. Sure, it was small, but that didn’t mean she didn’t pack as much French pizzazz into it as she possibly could. The cupboards were whitewashed like that china cabinet in the dining room, the floor was wide oak planks, the walls were covered with the kind of kitschy, whimsical art that always made a visit to Rocky’s a treat. There was a Grateful Dead poster on one wall and okay, it wasn’t exactly French, but with its vivid blue background, red roses, and grinning skeleton, it had always made me smile. That night, thinking about Rocky staring, unseeing, at the ceiling in the parlor, I turned away from the skeleton and concentrated on a small oil painting of chickens in a farmyard and the framed photograph of Julia Child that hung next to it.
“You know where the coffee’s at?” Declan asked.
I couldn’t say for sure, but I’d been there plenty of times when Rocky insisted on making a pot of coffee for us to share so I shook myself to reality and searched for her stash of illy beans, and when I found them, I ground them and put a pot on to brew. When it was finished, I loaded a tray with a carafe, cups, sugar, and milk and took it into the parlor, where now three medics were standing around Rocky, speaking in hushed tones to the cop I’d talked to a few minutes before.