Sarah grasped for another argument. “Surely, knowing RahRah has been with me for three years, a court would decide possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Nine-tenths is a myth in most areas of law. Definitely so here. Since 2007, Alabama has allowed pet owners to create trusts to benefit their beloved pets. Mrs. Blair created such a trust and named Bill the trustee, giving him control of five hundred thousand dollars and the house she left for RahRah’s care after her death. As trustee, Bill had the right to speak on behalf of RahRah and choose who cared for him. If he now believed Jane to be a better caretaker, nothing prohibited him from giving her the care of RahRah until RahRah’s death, as well as naming her the beneficiary of any remainder of the trust.”
“None of this makes any sense. If that was the case, why give me RahRah?” She bit her lip and shifted her gaze to the floor, holding back the tears that blurred her vision. “Jane was in the picture before we split. I just didn’t know it then.”
Sarah raised her head and met Harlan’s gaze. “Can’t you think of something legal to tell Peter so I can keep RahRah? I don’t care about getting anything from the trust.”
Harlan stared at the pages and shook his head. “Sarah, I’m going to research every angle to argue on your behalf, but if these papers are what they purport to be and the trust holds up in court, you need to consider the worst scenario. In the meantime, Jane demanded you surrender possession of RahRah immediately, but Peter stalled her.”
“For how long?”
“Until Sunday.”
Chapter Fourteen
Back at her desk, Sarah thought being fired by Harlan might have been less gut-wrenching than being told Peter had only bought her until Sunday to surrender RahRah. She didn’t understand it. Until RahRah came into her life, she was a dog person. If asked, she always blamed it on a big cat jumping out of the shadows at her when she was a child, but RahRah had changed her feelings about cats. RahRah wasn’t necessarily a warm and fuzzy kitten or cat, but he had a presence that ruled the roost. The roost would be much lonelier without him.
Even though assured she had RahRah until at least Sunday, Sarah was apprehensive every time someone opened the office door. Because so many client appointments were rescheduled when he was at the jail with Sarah and Emily, the door seemed to be in constant use. In fact, the office was so busy neither Harlan nor Sarah stopped for lunch.
Harlan walked the last client of the day to the door. “What are you still doing here?”
“Same as you.” Sarah was returning one of Harlan’s many paper files into a black metal filing cabinet. “Working.”
“Well, get thee from this dungeon.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Sarah said with a straight face and a mock curtsey. She was relieved things on the surface were lighter between Harlan and her, but it didn’t minimize their earlier discussion.
“Are you going over to the Civic Center for dinner?”
“Planning on it. You?” She was relieved when he responded it would be later because he still had things to finish up. Not having to watch for him over her shoulder would make it easier to snoop around the Civic Center. Still, she forced herself to offer, “If you need me to stay . . .”
“Don’t even think about it. By now, I’m sure Emily would love seeing your friendly face. Get out of here, but do me a favor, please. Make sure the front door is locked.” He walked back into his office.
Sarah didn’t have to be told twice. She powered down her computer, cleared and locked her desk, and grabbed her purse.
“See you Monday.” She was gone before he could reply.
Chapter Fifteen
Emily had predicted Friday evening would be slow, but the Food Expo was a zoo.
One of three women seated at a long table outside the main exhibition hall collected Sarah’s ten dollar entry fee and handed her a plastic bag filled with different-colored poker chips. “Now dear, make sure you hold on to those chips. They’re how you pay for everything you want to eat or drink. White chips for wine, blue for coffee, tea, or soda, and yellow to buy food. Lose them and you either go hungry or have to buy more.”
Sarah examined the bag. Besides the ones the woman had mentioned, it contained about a dozen red ones. “What are the red chips for?”
“Voting for things you really like. Each exhibitor has a glass fishbowl for folks to leave red chips in. The vendor who gets the most during the weekend will be declared the winner of this year’s Food Expo.”
The woman beside her leaned over. “Make sure you look around at all the booths before you decide which ones you want to bless with a red chip and don’t forget to save one for tomorrow for the best recipe demonstrator.”
Assuring her she would choose carefully, Sarah went through the double doors into the exhibition hall. She wasn’t sure which way to turn first in the crowded room so she simply walked up and down the aisles between the rows of booths. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to how the product, arts and crafts, food, or drink booths were interspersed. She made note of the fact that from fried green tomatoes to whole fish piled on ice, all different types of food were on display.
Dropping a white chip into an oversize brandy snifter, Sarah accepted a pinot grigio–filled plastic cup from an earnest server who didn’t look old enough to drink. She sipped it as she checked out the back room. A curtain partitioned off the work space, exhibitor food table, ovens, and refrigerator area from additional exhibitor booths.
Sarah returned to the main exhibition hall and headed toward the Southwind booth. Today, most of the open space in front of the three-stall booth was filled with patron tables and plastic chairs. Since yesterday, a small raised platform stage had been erected on the far end of the aisle. Southwind was in a perfect position. People watching something on the stage had to pass in front of the booth, as did anyone who sat down to eat or rest.
It certainly appeared that everything in both rooms was going well. Hopefully, Bill’s death wasn’t from foul play and yesterday’s cut cord was an isolated incident.
Her wineglass still half full, Sarah took a seat at a table across from the Southwind booth to watch her sister in action and, perchance, do a little sleuthing.
Emily had a nice crowd in front of her section of the booth. Mechanically, but with a smile pasted on her face, she alternately popped in or took out casseroles and pies from the microwave and oven. With equally machinelike precision, she cut and placed small servings in the plastic cups that lined her table. From the number of red chips Sarah could see in Emily’s bowl, she knew Emily must have used up the serving cups she and Grace set out yesterday.
The other two Southwind stations apparently were getting far less traffic or hadn’t been able to convince voters to drop their red chips as successfully as Emily had. Unless she’d emptied it, the bowl in front of Jane’s area had half as many chips as Emily’s. Sarah smiled at her observation but frowned when her gaze moved to Jane. She quickly shifted her attention back to listening to her sister interact with the crowd rather than risk a confrontation with Jane. Sarah wasn’t sure she could control herself if they exchanged words. Hopefully, Harlan would figure out a way to resolve everything so RahRah could stay with her.
Emily’s nonstop patter was quite impressive. Without missing a beat while restocking cups, forks, or food, she smiled, maintained eye contact, and engaged the people standing in line in front of her station by flitting from topic to topic.
After listening to Emily for about twenty minutes, Sarah realized she was merely repeating variations of the same remarks over and over. She described the dish she was serving, gave cooking tips, and personalized her remarks to bring the ever-changing crowd in on the joke with her. Once people laughed and ate, they invariably dropped one or all of their precious red chips in her basket.
In the few minutes Sarah watched, Emily managed to charm a group dressed in cowboy gear who roared about how many helpings of rhubarb crisp it would take to fill a portly gentleman’s te
n-gallon hat and equally big belly, as well as a church book club who hung on to Emily’s cooking tips.
The crowd was waiting for Emily to serve them a spinach pie hot out of the oven when people from the back asked folks to move aside, allowing a girl barely as tall as the serving table to reach the front of the line. While Emily and the shifted line of folks watched, the pigtailed girl, clutching her teddy bear, carefully dropped her food chip in the basket and then ran back to her mother with her claimed taste of spinach pie. A moment later, she squeezed through the crowd again and put a red chip in Emily’s basket.
Sarah envied Emily. She could never entertain a crowd like Emily was doing. When talents were given out, Sarah hadn’t been in line for the gifts of gab and grace that made Emily a perfect cheerleader and now an engaging chef and food entertainer. She grimaced. If Harlan hadn’t gotten Emily away from Peter in time to be part of the Expo today, Sarah would probably have had this crowd laughing, too, but it would have been at how inept she was in the kitchen.
“Are you finished?” Sarah looked up at the uniformed waiter who posed the question. He nodded toward her empty wineglass. Rather than answer, she stared at the seemingly familiar tattoos on his fingers and then shifted her gaze back to his face.
“You’re Richard, aren’t you? We met yesterday.”
“Yes, that’s right. May I take your glass?”
She handed it to him.
He thanked her and started to walk away when she called him back.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Sarah, please. Ma’am is my mother.”
He laughed. “Mi . . . Sarah, did you want something else? Perhaps one of Jane’s flavored expressos or scones?”
“No, but yes, I was wondering why you’re clearing instead of cooking?”
A frown crossed his face, but he converted it to a partial smile. “Good question. Chef Marcus rented extra space for Southwind’s booth and divided it into three distinct sections. He’s letting each of his cooks take turns showcasing throughout the weekend. Jane has the space on the left, Emily and Grace are in the middle, and Jacob and I are sharing the far side. When we’re not cooking, we’re making sure the exhibitor food and drinks are stocked and these tables are bussed. Grace and I had the opening few hours in the booth and, as you can see, Emily and Jacob are being featured now. We’ve got it worked out so we each have a few prime hours.”
“Isn’t Jane sharing?”
Richard grimaced in Jane’s direction before rearranging his features into an unreadable mask. “No, Mr. Blair decided she didn’t have to share her booth space.”
Of course he did. Sarah rolled her eyes. “That’s a shame. I’m sure we all would have enjoyed more time to taste your food. Do you have a personal specialty?”
“Comfort food. I don’t cook again until late tomorrow, but if you come around then, I promise you some of the best chicken and waffles you’ve ever eaten.”
“I’ll make sure to stop by when you’re working in the booth.” Sarah remembered her promise to Emily and slipped back into her investigative mode. “I gather Jane insisted Chef Marcus honor Mr. Blair’s wishes?”
Richard smiled and dipped his head once. “Speak of the devil, I better get back to work.” He raised the decibel level of his voice. “If there is anything else I can get you, please let me know.”
He briskly walked away. Distracted by Richard’s abrupt departure, Sarah jumped out of her skin when she realized Chef Marcus, wearing flat yellow plastic clogs, a white Southwind jacket, and balloon chef pants, loomed above her.
“May I join you?” He pointed at the extra folding chair at her table.
“Of course.” She moved her purse from the chair. Even seated, she had to look up at him. “Your Southwind food certainly seems to be a big hit.”
“Thanks to your sister. I am very fortunate to have a chef of her talent working for me.” He gestured toward Emily. “You should be very proud of her.”
“Oh, I am. I’ve known for a long time what a marvelous chef she is. But, I guess you must think Jane is an even better cook because you aren’t having her share her portion of the booth with anyone.”
Marcus frowned. “Jane is good, but after Emily wins Sunday’s contest, all of Wheaton will know how lucky they are to have her back in town.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Sarah teased. “It sounds to me like there will be many excellent chefs, including Jane, competing.”
“None stand a chance against Emily.”
Sarah shuddered, chilled by Chef Marcus’s words. It was a feeling her grandmother described as “Someone just walked over my grave.”
She bent forward, her voice no more than a whisper. “I hope you’re not telling me the competition is rigged. That wouldn’t be fair to the other competitors or to Emily.”
He seemed to try to relax the contracture of his dark brows. They were thick and almost startling against his alabaster features. “Of course not.” He threw her words back at her as he scrambled to his feet. “Rigged? To think that is to besmirch both my honor and your sister’s talent. I have confidence in her. Obviously, you don’t!”
Turning on his heel, he walked straight toward Emily’s portion of the Southwind booth. Sarah sat dumbfounded. She wondered if she needed to use her hand to close her mouth while she made a mental note to discuss his short fuse with Emily.
Ignoring Jane, waving from the far side of the table separating her work space from Emily’s, he pushed his way to the front of the diners standing in line for Emily’s food. Chef Marcus picked up one of the sample cups on her table and held it above his head. Looking back, he stared at Sarah. “Chef Emily’s food is marvelous, isn’t it?”
A murmur from members of the crowd showed their agreement. “Probably the best food here or anywhere in Wheaton.”
Even from where she sat, Sarah saw Emily blush. Chef Marcus ignored both the way Emily stepped back from him and the glaring daggers Sarah thought were jumping from Jane’s eyes. There might be trouble in paradise the way it was going because, by now, Chef Marcus had managed to get the attention of many of the nearby exhibitors and Expo visitors. “I want to take this moment to introduce you to Southwind’s newest and youngest sous chef, Emily Johnson.”
Sous chef? Sarah’s lips spread into a grin—thrilled that Emily had just received the promotion she wanted. She heard an intake of breath coupled with an “Oh, no!” The exclamation was so loud it took Sarah a few seconds to realize the same words had been uttered by both Emily and someone else in the booth. Sarah wasn’t sure which of Emily’s coworkers was so verbally dismayed by this development.
Chef Marcus grabbed Emily’s hand and raised it in the air as if she had just won a prizefight. People waiting in line applauded.
Sarah heard a loud “woohoo” she realized came from Jacob. Although still at his station, he had stopped cooking long enough to let out a whistle and a cheer. At the other end of the Southwind booth, Richard stood silently by a sullen Jane. Seeing the diverse reactions of the Southwind cooks, Sarah wondered where Grace was and how she would react to Chef Marcus’s surprise announcement. Not knowing the answer, she tucked the question into the recesses of her mind as she rose to join the crowd congratulating Emily.
Chapter Sixteen
When the crowd dissipated, Chef Marcus suggested Emily go home and celebrate or simply relax from her two late nights at the police station, but Emily refused. Basking in Chef Marcus’s surprise announcement, she insisted she would remain until the Food Expo closed for the night. Sarah couldn’t blame her. Chef Marcus’s naming of her as his new sous chef gave Emily a short-lived mystique that Emily already was capitalizing on in terms of collecting red chips.
To Sarah’s delight, it appeared that Emily’s thoughts of them playing detective at the Expo seemed driven from her mind after being named Southwind’s sous chef. Not wanting to remind Emily, Sarah tasted her sister’s spinach pie and dutifully dropped all her red chips, but one, into her sister’s basket.
She offered to get Emily something to eat, but Emily declined, noting if she got hungry, she could nibble on one of her spinach pies or rhubarb casseroles or snack from a plate of brownies Jane had placed in the back of the booth in case any of the staff needed a sugar boost. “Brownies are one of the few things she makes that are delicious.”
Down to one wine chip, Sarah was debating whether to use it or go home to RahRah when Emily, without missing a beat in serving customers, whispered, “Don’t worry about hanging around here tonight. Go home and try to piece things together about what really happened to Bill before the newspaper comes out.”
“Sure.” Sarah understood. Normally, both Emily and she complained that the decision to make their local paper available only three days a week made it a sham of a paper, but this time, having an extra twenty-four hours until the Sunday paper was published could work in their favor. It gave Sarah tonight and tomorrow to get to the bottom of things while Emily worked on making a good impression that hopefully wouldn’t be dinged too badly if the Sunday headline read: “Local Sous Chef Allegedly Poisons Former Brother-in-Law.”
Moving away from her sister’s booth, Sarah used her last wine chip and found another seat. She tried to observe what people were doing while she considered what she knew:
1) Bill Blair was dead—and while it was shocking, a lot of people didn’t necessarily believe it was a bad thing.
2) Bill apparently died from an allergic reaction after eating Emily’s rhubarb crisp casserole—or something not yet determined.
3) The police believed Emily made the rhubarb crisp that Bill ate. Peter hadn’t said it outright yet, but Grace and Emily both brought up the idea it was Emily’s rhubarb crisp.
4) Emily and Sarah knew Bill would never eat Emily’s rhubarb crisp because he hated rhubarb and, more importantly, he knew she used nuts in her recipe.
5) On Wednesday night, Bill called Emily to come to the Civic Center because there was a major problem that couldn’t wait until morning. According to Emily, he didn’t say what the problem was.
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