by J. L. Wilson
“Spoil sport.” Rob popped the cheese in his mouth. “So why is Marianne busy?”
“Richard said he wants to give a memorial speech at the town centennial or whatever it’s called. I’m sure Marianne and Lee are busy rearranging schedules.”
“Memorial speech?” Rob glanced to his left. “Do you want them on the chairs?”
“For PJ.” I followed his gaze, seeing the kittens tussling with each other on the chair next to his. “And no, they shouldn’t be on the chairs.”
Rob lifted Cayenne off the chair and set him on the floor. Then he straightened, staring at me. “Wait a minute. Richard? Richard Fitz is in town? What about PJ?”
I gaped at him. “Didn’t you know? PJ’s dead. And yes, Richard is here. I saw him earlier, at the Acorn. He and PJ were there, having a drink.”
Rob stared at me, his eyes bulging. “What?”
“PJ died tonight. He was at the pub. He died in the parking lot, not four hours ago. Didn’t anyone call you? Richard said he’d get in touch with you.”
Rob pushed back his chair so fast it almost toppled. “When did you talk to Richard? Did you talk to him lately?”
“I went to the police station to make a statement. He came in while I was there. Good Lord, Rob, didn’t you know about it?”
“I left my cell phone at the cabin and I haven’t gone back there today.” He made a beeline for my front door, almost treading on Café in his hurry. “Where is Richard staying?”
I hurried after him, scooping up both kittens while I went. “I have no idea. Lee said he saw Richard at PJ’s house, so maybe he’s staying there.”
I was talking to my door. Rob was outside and moving fast down my sidewalk, heading for his truck. I set the kittens on the couch and went to the front window to watch him back the pickup out of my drive and take off so fast he left rubber marks on the pavement.
“If snot were brains, he couldn’t blow his nose.” I went back to the kitchen. “What kind of idiot is the manager of a big operation and he doesn’t carry his cell phone?”
An idiot like Rob. I remembered Richard’s offhand comment about Rob needing a helping hand. Whose story was true? Did Richard consider Rob a brother? Maybe Richard didn’t feel he had any brothers. Given how he acted about PJ, it was probably true.
I tidied up my meal scraps and busied myself with kitten chores for the next hour, verifying they understood the litter box arrangements and food location and next introducing them to the basement. While they explored the various nooks and crannies of the main exercise area, I made sure the laundry room door was securely closed and the door to the unfinished storage area in the back of the basement. Satisfied they couldn’t get into trouble, I went back upstairs and plunked on the couch with the bottle of wine.
My scrapbook sat on the coffee table where I left it that morning. I dragged it onto my lap and started flipping pages, sipping wine. Here was a picture of Will as a child, dressed up for Halloween in his Superman outfit. Here was a picture of my brother, holding Will on his shoulder. There was a picture of Maw-Maw, my father’s mother, who ran a bait shop. I leafed through all the old photos and examined the other bits of memory tucked into the book, all the report cards, birthday cards, a dance program, a golf scorecard.
I dropped the scrapbook back on the table and leaned back, letting darkness settle around me. The kittens rejoined me, curling up on the couch while I stared through my front window, memories populating my living room.
No matter what Alan said, Will’s death was a waste. He was a happy, committed, intense young man with an unwavering sense of right and wrong. Despite the cruelties he witnessed in the course of his work as an activist, he maintained a loving and kind nature. There was no reason on earth to end a life like his. There was no reason for him to die. And whoever killed him deserved whatever was dished at them.
I finished the bottle of wine and considered opening another, but I was too tired to get up and move. In the end, I curled up on the couch, two kittens tucked in beside me. Just when I was falling asleep, my landline phone rang.
I fumbled it off the end table and put the receiver to my ear. “It’s your dime.”
“I’m sorry Patrick’s whore hurt you,” a slurred voice said.
I propped myself up on an elbow. “Say what?”
“Sheriff Knott said you were hurt when that woman fainted. You should have let her hit the ground and take the fall. It’s the least she deserves.”
I screwed up my face, trying to remember where I heard this voice before. “Isabel?”
“I was married to him for twenty-five years. I was a child when I married him. I was only nineteen years old.” A loud belch punctuated this pronouncement. “Pardon me. He knocked me up within weeks and I was chained to that son of a bitch ever since.” Brief, loud, laughter made me pull the phone from my ear. “Son of a bitch. That is so apt. Have you ever met Eleanor? Oh, yes, he was a son of a bitch.”
“Uh, Isabel, I’m not sure you want to be talking to me. You probably need to get some sleep.” I managed to blink the exhaustion from my eyes to focus on the clock in the kitchen. “It’s two in the morning. You’ve had a shock. You need sleep.”
“The shock is he actually did it. I guess I should feel flattered, but let’s face it, I didn’t expect him to do it. The last time we slept together was years ago. I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him while he whored around. I never thought he’d take me seriously and use a condom.”
I shook my head, as much to shake sense into it as shake her words out. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Isabel. I think you need to get some sleep.”
“Thank you for the advice, Miss Frye. I’ll make sure Isabel takes it.”
I dropped the phone at the sound of a snobby male voice. When I finally found the receiver again, wedged into the cushions of the couch, no one was on the line. I pressed the off button and replaced it in the charging base.
Richard Fitz was apparently keeping an eye on his sister-in-law. I only hoped it was what she wanted. I fell asleep, visions of a princess trapped in a tower dancing in my head.
Chapter 11
At some point during the night I meandered to the bedroom, peeled off my clothing, and dropped onto my bed. I was vaguely aware of two kittens leaping ahead of me to capture their spots before I got there, but luckily they moved before I flopped down.
I slept in the next day, not waking until almost seven in the morning, which was late for me. The sound of rain wakened me. I rolled out of bed and went to the living room, where I checked the indoor/outdoor thermometer. It was only sixty degrees outside. With a happy sigh I turned off the air conditioning and opened the window, letting in a summer perfume of wet grass, damp earth and freshness.
I made a pot of coffee and sat in the living room, working my way through the Sunday paper. The kittens romped with the discarded flyers on the floor, hiding underneath and pouncing on each other, racing away only to come back and pounce again. By the time I finished reading, most of the newspaper was scattered all over the house.
I cleaned up after the pounce-fest and headed for the bathroom. I paused on my way to the shower to examine myself in the full-length mirror. What I saw was disheartening, to say the least. A line of bruises covered most of my right hip and the side of my right leg. My right elbow was a livid yellow mixed with dark blue, scabbed over where I scraped it on the pavement. I winced when I tried to move it. I didn’t notice the stiffness last night, but I definitely didn’t have full range of motion. My right knee was puffy, and a hand-sized bruise was vivid on the outer side of it. I tried kneeling but gave up when pain zinged into my leg.
My face was the real shocker, though. My black eye was faded to a nauseous yellow and when I removed the bandage covering the sutures, I revealed the harsh red color, the small butterfly closures obviously keeping my cheek together.
“Not the sort of thing you want to see when you’re sitting at a bar, having a nice, relaxing drink.” I would need to
keep the wound and the scrapes on the side of my forehead covered. They were definitely not appetizing.
I showered, grimacing when warm water touched my various boo-boos. It felt good, though, to wash yesterday’s remnants of ugliness off me. A good shower can make any day feel like a fresh start, I decided, even one which started with bruises and scrapes. However, given the tender condition of my bruises, I decided on loose clothing for the day. So I tugged on a pair of old sweatpants and a large T-shirt which was washed so often it was shapeless.
I was on my second cup of coffee when Alan’s gray Acura pulled into my driveway. Today he wore crisp denims and a pristine white shirt with rolled up sleeves, which contrasted with his tanned arms and face. He held a paper grocery sack in one hand which he kept under his umbrella while he hurried up the front walk.
“Leave the umbrella on the porch to drip,” I said, pulling open the door.
He set it next to my lawn chair on the tiny porch. “How are you doing today?” He came in and handed me the grocery sack. “Your face looks like it hurts. Does it?”
I opened the bag. “What’s this?”
“A get-well sack of feel-good food and fun. Poppy seed cake, a bit of crème fraîche, and a movie I watched I think you’ll love. It’s called The Fall and it’s about a guy who takes a bad fall and what happens in the hospital.”
I walked to the kitchen. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll empathize with the main character.” I pulled out the paper plate and sniffed appreciatively at the spicy aroma. “I love your poppy seed cake.”
“Guaranteed to cure whatever ails you.” Alan turned cautiously. “Where are the little terrors?”
“The last I saw them, they were attacking the dust bunnies under my bed. Coffee?” I gestured to the pot on the counter.
“No, thanks. I drank my quota for today.” He sat at the kitchen table while I got plates and cutlery. We each served ourselves a slice of cake and I added a healthy dollop of crème fraîche to mine. We ate in silence for a moment, savoring the marvelous flavors.
I sighed, breaking the spell. “There’s something to be said for having a chef for a good friend.”
Alan laughed. “I have to admit, it’s rather nice having a bartender for a good friend, too. Are you doing okay, despite all your wounds?”
“You mean about Will?”
Alan nodded. “I talked with Owen. He said it was a positive identification.”
I drew a fork-tined design in the leftover crumbs on my plate. “Am I okay? No, I’m not. I’m mad as hell somebody killed him. But I’m also worried. What if somebody comes after me?”
“Did you discuss it with Owen?”
“Not really. We were interrupted by Richard Fitz, who stopped by to inform Owen he expected the Sheriff’s office to manage the investigation into PJ’s death.”
Alan blew out an exasperated, “Asshole. The Fitz family has had their way for more decades than I’ve been alive. I shouldn’t be surprised Richard is still trying to run the show even though he hasn’t lived here for years.”
“He’s running his sister-in-law, too.” I explained about Isabel’s phone call the night before. “Do you think I should call her and check up on her? You don’t think Richard would be, well, holding her hostage or anything?”
“She has five children.” Alan pointed out. “They can protect her.”
“Yeah, but they’re kids. Well, most of them are. Three is only, what, twenty-six or so? The others are college kids. They can’t stand up to Richard.”
Alan pointed his fork at me. “And there’s no reason you should stand up to him, either. You don’t owe Isabel Fitz anything.”
“I suppose.” I was still doubtful, though. True, I didn’t owe her anything, but I remembered the wistful tone in her voice when we talked about careers. “Did you know she wants to be chef?”
“What?”
I nodded. “She trained as a chef. Maybe you should give her a job.”
“I doubt if she’ll be hard up for money.”
“She will be if the Fitz company gets sued and they lose. Lee Knight told me a lawsuit was filed. The government has recalled millions of eggs. That can’t be good for business.”
“I’m sure Richard Fitz has it covered. Ah, there they are.”
I peeked under the table to see Cayenne and Café sniffing at Alan’s loafered feet. “They’re getting quite a workout in the nose department,” I commented. “Rob Huntington was here last night and Cayenne gave him a good sniff.”
“Rob? What did he want?”
I pushed my plate to one side. “A shoulder to cry on. He and Marianne are getting divorced. Rob blames Guy for all his misfortunes, although to give him credit, he accepted a lot of the blame himself.”
“Rob blames Guy for what misfortune? The problems at the factory?” Alan’s lips twisted in disgust. “He can’t blame Guy for it. It’s his own damn fault.”
“According to Rob, it’s PJ’s fault.”
“What?” Alan shook his head. “Well, PJ is dead, so that’s convenient. There’s nobody to contradict him.”
“Rob claims Guy gave him bad investing advice so he lost all his money. Oh, and Lee Knight told me Rob was selling the cabin. He sold it to Guy.”
“What?” Alan’s mouth sagged open in shock. “What the hell does Guy want with Rob’s cabin?”
“He’ll probably tear it down and build a McMansion. It’s a nice location for it, up there on the bluff. Richard said he would have some kind of memorial talk for PJ at the town picnic. I told him not to bother.” I hurried on when Alan started to grin. “Not everybody loved PJ. Why ruin a perfectly good town picnic with a talk about him? Is there any word on what killed him?”
“No.” Alan sighed. “I contacted Marianne like you suggested and I gave her a statement. I’ll be curious to see if it shows up in the paper.”
“I’m sure it’s not going to affect us much,” I tried to reassure him.
“I hope not. So Owen didn’t think you needed police protection?”
“We didn’t discuss it.”
“You should have. What if somebody finds you’re related to Will? They might come after you.”
“So what?” I’d mulled this over in the back of my brain all morning. “Just because I’m related to Will, it doesn’t mean he would give me anything incriminating. And what kind of thing would be worth killing someone for? I mean, let’s face it, that’s a murder charge. What would warrant somebody taking a chance on a murder charge?”
“You’re right. I never thought of it that way. What could he have possibly found which would cause someone to commit murder? Murder is serious.”
“No shit.” I ran my fork around the plate, dredging up the last lingering bits of cake and topping. “I’ve thought it over and I can’t see any reason anybody would do it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Alan stood and took his plate to the sink. “I want to get to the restaurant early today. I’m trying a new recipe with the radishes John Smalley brought me.” He turned and smiled impishly at me. “I think John was disappointed when he came to the Parlor yesterday for brunch and you weren’t there.”
“Why would I be there?” I asked, flustered.
Alan shrugged. “I don’t know. John came in and wondered when you’d be in to open the Pub. I think he wanted to talk to you about something.”
“He never said anything to me about it.” I tried to sound nonchalant but I was bubbling with curiosity on the inside. John Smalley? Wanting to talk to me? “Probably nothing special.”
“You never know.” Alan disentangled himself from small kitten paws attempting to play with the tassels on his shoes. “That might be quite a match-up. John’s the biggest guy I know and you’re the smallest woman I know.”
I walked with him to the door. “Well, you know what they say. Everybody’s the same height when they’re horizontal.”
He laughed. “I’ll have to remember that when you and John embark on your love affair.”
&
nbsp; “Ain’t gonna happen,” I warned him.
“Right.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You know, if Isabel wants something to do, I could use another hand in the kitchen. I’d like time from cooking to work on the menu, try new recipes, and consider some redecorating.”
“We redecorated in the Parlor five years ago!” I protested.
“Five years.” Alan waved a hand. “So passé. I might give her a call after all the fuss dies down. With PJ gone, she may want something to occupy her time.”
“With PJ gone, she may want to sit back and count her blessings.”
“Cynic.” Alan bent to air-kiss my cheek.
“Realist.”
“Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“I will.” I watched him grab his umbrella and hurry to his car. Redecorating? We spent a bundle redoing the Parlor. I’d have to keep a rein on him if Isabel did come to work for us.
The thought occupied me for one more (tiny) slice of poppy seed cake. For some reason, I could easily imagine Isabel Fitz in a chef’s coat, directing operations in Alan’s kitchen. They would complement each other very well.
I went to the bedroom to gather my laundry. As if pulled from my thoughts, the phone rang. It was Richard Fitz.
“Isabel was not herself last night,” he said after a curt, hello. “I hope you don’t take anything she said seriously.”
“I barely remember what she said.” I was bent over the upended laundry basket, sorting clothes into Good Light, Bad Light, Good Dark, Bad Dark, my usual method of laundering. “I’m sure she’s in shock. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“If there is, I’ll be sure to tell you.”
“If there is, I hope she’ll tell me,” I retorted. “When did God die and you get appointed in Her place?”
“Is that a joke?”
“No, it’s a legitimate question.” I straightened, holding my gold Acorn shirt which I wore the night Rob and Guy fought. It used to be a Good Light but now due to bloodstains it was a Bad Light, relegated to use on days when I was doing dirty work. “If Isabel wants me to help her, I hope she’ll call me. She doesn’t need you to run interference for her.”