Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery)

by Arlington, Lucy

  “Jude!” I cut in. “Those writers have put a lot of themselves into their stories. They deserve some respect.”

  “You know what I mean,” he protested. “You come across queries like that all the time—acceptable writing but not outstanding.” He tapped the file folder. “They’re decent stories, and better than the majority, but comparable in writing and quality. Bentley and I gave these two equivalent ratings, so you can decide on the second and third placements for them.” He pulled a printed document from the folder and handed it to me. “However, for first place we have a clear winner. It’s a story about a chef in a bistro. The author hooks you in right away with a description of an osso buco that the chef is preparing. The opening paragraph makes your mouth water. But the plot becomes more and more intricate as the author weaves in tension, humor, and suspense. The chef is not who he seems.” He took a sip of coffee. “But I don’t want to give anything away. I need you to read this story without any spoilers.”

  I leafed through the pages of the typed document, feeling the rush of anticipation. “Do you think this author has the potential for more than winning a few cookbooks?” I asked. “Do you think he or she might be a prospective client for other works?”

  Jude beamed. “Better than that. The spellbinding voice in the story is remarkably similar to that of Marlette’s novel.” He grabbed my wrist. “Lila, I think we’ve found our ghost writer for the Alexandria Society sequel.”

  Pulling my hand away from his, I smiled. “Do you really think so? It would be fantastic if this person could solve that problem for us. We haven’t had much luck with the project, not that we’ve been spending a lot of time on it.”

  “There have been a few distractions,” he said sardonically.

  “But writing a short story is very different from writing a novel. Not everyone has the stamina to produce a work of that length. I suppose we could coach them if they need it.” I envisioned meeting with the author. “Can you imagine how excited this person will be if we tell them that they have not only won the short story contest, but that we’re considering offering them a chance at a major book deal?” The thrill I always experienced about a prospective client coursed through me, and I suddenly wanted to be at my desk. “The contestant list is in my office, so I’ll find out who the author is and we’ll proceed from there.”

  “Sounds good,” said Jude as he picked up his coffee “Oh, by the way, Doug Corby left Inspiration Valley right after the signing, so we need to cancel his hotel room and his seat for the banquet. He said there was too much drama with the murder and the presence of so many chefs in one place.”

  “Just as well,” I remarked. “The fewer fireworks the better.”

  “I’m with you there. See you upstairs.” Jude pushed back his chair and left the coffee shop.

  “Back to work for you two?” asked Makayla, who had tactfully occupied herself while Jude and I discussed business. She gathered the trash from the table.

  I nodded and stood. “I need to go upstairs and read a story about a chef who is not who he seems. Be sure to let me know what you find out at Secret Garden,” I said, handing her the origami butterfly. Our fingers touched and an unsettling thought entered my mind. What if Makayla’s poetic admirer was not who he seemed? What if, instead of a love-struck admirer, he was something far less romantic? Something darker? Something to be feared?

  Chapter 9

  I NEVER MADE IT UPSTAIRS. WHEN I OPENED THE DOOR leading from Espresso Yourself to the lobby of our building, I nearly collided with Ryan Patrick.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking so forlorn that I immediately assured him the fault was mine.

  He managed a smile of gratitude and I stepped backward, all thoughts of the short stories waiting for my perusal forgotten. I couldn’t leave Ryan here alone. He was wounded and confused and needed a dose of kindness.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked him, indicating the menu board. “You might feel better with a warm cup of comfort. I’ll sit with you if you’d like.”

  “That would be really nice,” he said. “What do you recommend?”

  “I’ll let Makayla make that decision,” I said. “She always knows exactly what her customers need.”

  Ryan made himself comfortable at the café table at the far side of the room. Nestled between a pair of bookcases stuffed with Makayla’s lending library and walls covered by watercolor paintings of the seaside, the table was a small corner of heaven.

  “I thought you were dashing upstairs to send some aspiring writer to cloud nine,” Makayla said when I appeared at the counter. She told a customer who’d come in from the street entrance that his order would be up in a moment and then gestured for me to follow her to the other end of the counter where the espresso machine sat.

  I subtly pointed at Ryan. “He needs special treatment.”

  I held out a ten-dollar bill but Makayla waved it away. “If I can do anything to ease his heartache, I will. I’ll fix him a shot of compassion mixed with some froth of hope. Just give me a second to serve Mr. Littleman.”

  By the time Makayla came to our table carrying a mug of café Americano, a tall glass of ice water garnished with a cheerful lemon wedge, and a warm strawberry cream scone, Ryan had sent a text to his children inviting them to join him at Espresso Yourself.

  I sat with him as he sipped his coffee and took small bites of his scone, noting his mechanical movements and how he seemed to take no pleasure in his food. Finally, he put his fork down and sighed mournfully. “Everything’s delicious,” he assured me. “I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I sympathized.

  “I can’t believe I’ve been such a fool.” His expression morphed from sorrow to anger. “She’s been cheating on me right under my nose. Sneaking out for her so-called walks every night. All this time. Her and Bryce. Bryce.” He spoke the name of his wife’s lover as if it were a foul and dirty thing. “What he knows about cooking could fit in a thimble. What a vain, arrogant, shallow . . .” He trailed off and then let loose a bitter laugh. “What am I saying? He and Klara are perfect for each other!”

  I laid a hand over his, covering his trembling fingers with my own. “It’s her loss. I haven’t known you long, but I can tell that you’re a fine man.”

  “I used to believe that, too,” he said ruefully. “But I guess I wasn’t good enough for Klara. She probably thought she’d settled for less right from the start. And yet, what would she be without me? She’s forgetting who put her on that pedestal from which she likes to stand and look down upon the rest of humanity.”

  Having no idea what he meant by that statement, I searched for words of comfort. Luckily, I was saved from having to speak by the arrival of Ryan’s kids. Carter and Carrie immediately spotted their dad and rushed over to him.

  “I’m so sorry, Dad.” Carrie’s eyes were swimming with unshed tears. “I should never have told you the way I did. It was totally selfish of me. It’s just that I was so mad, but I shouldn’t have blurted it out in front of everyone. Do you forgive me?”

  Ryan slid his hand out from under mine and opened his arms for his daughter. They embraced and he whispered, “There’s nothing to forgive, sweetheart. There is no good way to tell me that kind of news. In fact, I’m glad Ms. Wilkins was nearby when you did. She’s been kind enough to sit here and listen to me gripe and groan about my situation.”

  “Thank you,” Carter said to me. He was clearly the politer twin. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Wilkins? I’m going to grab vanilla lattes for me and my sister.”

  “I’ve already had my daily supply of caffeine. Go ahead and take my seat.” I stood up, but Ryan seized my hand before I could move away.

  “Don’t go. Carter can pull up an extra chair.” His eyes pleaded with me. “Really. I could use a woman’s advice.”

  Giving him a reassuring smile, I settled back into my chair again. What choice did I have? If I could help Ryan Patrick in any way, I would, regardl
ess of the fact that Jude was undoubtedly waiting for me in my office at this very moment, drumming his fingers on my desk and glancing impatiently at his watch.

  Carter and Carrie exchanged a quick, meaningful look and walked to the counter to place their order with Makayla.

  “I don’t want to lose her,” Ryan murmured sotto voce when they had gone. “Bryce can’t have her, and after all we’ve achieved together, I won’t let him. What should I do?”

  This was the last thing I’d expected him to say. Did he truly love Klara that much? Did he want to work on their marriage or was the idea of giving her freedom to be with her lover too much for him to stomach?

  A moment ago, he’d been angry and sour. Now he was desperate and determined. I wondered about him being so mercurial that he could move from bitterness to blind loyalty toward his cheating wife in the space of a few heartbeats. “Are you still in love with her?” I asked. “Even now? Knowing what you know?”

  Staring down at the table, he rubbed his temples and sighed wearily. “God help me, but she’s all I have. Bryce can’t take her away from me.” He lowered his hands and balled them into tight fists. “He won’t, I tell you.”

  Carrie and Carter returned to the table and Ryan did his best to put on a brave face. By this time, I was more than ready to leave, but just when I was mulling over how to make a graceful exit, Leslie Sterling and Charlene Jacques entered the coffee shop, chattering and laughing until they spied Ryan.

  Instantly, they fell silent. They both gave him awkward, little waves before focusing their attention on the menu board.

  “Why don’t you catch a flight back to New York, Dad?” Carter asked. “You don’t need to stay here for the whole weekend.”

  “Exactly,” Carrie said, instantly warming to her brother’s idea. “Go home and pack up the tramp’s things. Toss them onto the sidewalk and have the locks changed.”

  Ryan shook his head. “Klara and I are partners. Beyond being husband and wife, we’re also business partners. Things are more complicated than you realize.”

  Carter shot a sidelong glance at Carrie. “Tell him,” she prompted.

  “Dad,” Carter began. His voice quavered and I could see that he was nervous. “I think Klara’s been deceiving you in more than one way.”

  “Oh?” was all Ryan could manage.

  “Remember how you gave us a copy of your safety deposit key? Just in case something happened to you?” Carter said.

  Ryan nodded, obviously befuddled.

  “Well, I know you didn’t expect us to use it if it wasn’t an emergency, but I lost my birth certificate and I couldn’t apply for a passport without it, so I went to the bank and opened up the box.”

  Ryan’s mouth hung open in surprise. “Why were you applying for a passport?”

  Carter squirmed in his chair. “A bunch of my buddies are going on a dive trip to Mexico next month and I wanted to go, too. It’s super cheap and I knew I could get my passport order rushed, so I went to your bank. I didn’t think I needed to tell you about it. Well, until . . . um . . .”

  “Until he got worried enough to talk to me,” Carrie continued. “We know you’ve always kept cash in your safety deposit box. You told us last summer that you’ve been stockpiling money away—that after the bottom fell out of the market a few years ago, you only trusted cash and certified bonds and wouldn’t invest in stocks ever again.”

  Ryan’s face was unreadable. “That’s true.”

  Leaning closer to his father, Carter said, “How much of it did you keep in the safety deposit box, Dad?”

  Rubbing his chin, Ryan hesitated. I couldn’t blame him. After all, I didn’t discuss my finances with Trey. What I did with my money was no one’s business. All my son had to do was study hard and graduate in four years from the college I worked so hard to pay for. I was available to him if he needed financial advice, but he’d never asked what my portfolio looked like and I’d find it odd if he did.

  “Dad, you need to tell us,” Carrie urged.

  “All of it,” Ryan finally mumbled.

  “It’s gone,” Carter croaked. “There was no money in there.”

  “What?” Ryan was aghast. “There was over a hundred thousand dollars in there!”

  Stunned, I looked from one face to another. Carrie’s eyes, which had been wide with shock, suddenly narrowed and she uttered a low, hissing growl. She sounded like a tomcat backed into a corner. “Ask her where the money went.”

  Klara breezed into Espresso Yourself as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Bryce St. John and Maurice Bruneau were right on her heels.

  “How did we all end up at the same place?” Bryce declared to the room at large. His glance passed right over Ryan as if he didn’t even exist.

  Klara, on the other hand, gave her husband a dazzling smile and wriggled her fingers in greeting before joining Leslie and Charlene at the counter. I didn’t know whose behavior angered me more, Bryce’s or Klara’s, but I didn’t have time to reflect on the question because Annie was half dragging a reluctant Dennis Chapman through the door. Her purse was slipping off her shoulder, and because it was partially unzipped, I feared it would fall and spill its contents all over the floor, so I jumped up to grab it for her.

  The moment she felt my hand on her bag, she whirled around, startled by my touch. “Oh! Thanks.” She took the bag from me, smiled, and turned outside to Dennis. “You have to apologize,” she said in a gentle, coaxing tone. “She’ll ruin you if you don’t.”

  “She already has,” Dennis protested sullenly.

  Annie propped the door open with her hip and tried to wave Dennis through. “You don’t know that for sure. You need to confront her in person.”

  Dennis folded his arms across his chest and refused to budge. “Why? She’ll just lie. She lies to everyone. Look at her marriage! A total sham. Your salary raise? Never materialized. And the excellent references she promised me? The worst lie of them all. She dissed me instead. Why do you always defend her? She treats you like crap, Annie. I’ll come in there if you agree to quit. Then you and I can go back to New York and start searching the classifieds for a decent job.”

  “She’ll blackball us,” Annie said pointedly. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford to be out of work. I’m living paycheck to paycheck.”

  That last comment got to Dennis. “Damn it,” he muttered and stepped into the café.

  If I’d had any sense, I would have brushed right past him and left the potential powder keg that was my best friend’s coffee shop. Two things stopped me. First, I felt responsible for this assembly. My agency had invited these chefs and their associates to Inspiration Valley, and I had to do what I could to broker truces, no matter how temporary, and to keep our schedule moving forward. Second, I couldn’t leave Makayla alone with Dennis, Ryan, Klara, or Carrie. There was a high probability one of them could explode without warning. I’d seen the result of uncontrollable rage before and didn’t want to chance having violence erupt in Espresso Yourself.

  Another thought struck me. Klara and Maurice were both here. Obviously, the Dunston police had released them, which meant the chefs were innocent of killing Joel. Either that, or one of them was guilty but Sean and his team hadn’t been able to exact a confession or gather enough evidence to take the murderer into custody. I glanced at them. Klara looked completely at ease and Maurice, who was pouring sugar into his coffee at the condiment bar, seemed to be enjoying having Leslie and Charlene hang on his every word as he described his interrogation. Catching a few phrases, I couldn’t help but scowl. Maurice was dramatizing what I was sure had been a very calm and civil interview. Sean insisted on courtesy and respect at all times, especially during interviews.

  “Annie!” Klara shouted over Maurice’s monologue. “Where on earth have you been? There’s too much foam on my latte and it’s not strong enough for my tastes. Order me another one, please. And Bryce would like an iced chai tea.”

  Nodding, Annie hurried to see to Klar
a’s needs while Dennis circled around behind Klara and slid into a chair near the tall counter Makayla had dubbed the “Fixin’ Station.” He poured himself a glass of water from the tall pitcher and stood to the side to give Carrie room to add a sprinkle of nutmeg to her drink. Maurice and Leslie were there, too, and it seemed like half of Makayla’s customers were sharing two square feet of floor space.

  Maurice wound up his tale and made to add a splash of milk to his black coffee. Giving the stainless steel jug a shake, he frowned and said, “There’s no more.”

  I crossed the room and took the jug from him. Makayla was too busy at the espresso machine to deal with this task and I knew my way around her walk-in refrigerator. Grabbing the depleted jugs of half-and-half, I asked everyone to be patient while I refilled the containers. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryan get to his feet, his gaze fixed on Bryce. Praying that he wouldn’t do anything stupid, I hurried toward the back of the café. Makayla gave me a grateful smile as I passed by.

  When I came back, people were packed in a tight cluster around the fixing station. The moment I put the jugs down, hands grabbed at them from several different directions. Sugar packets went flying, the cinnamon shaker was knocked into the trashcan, and a coffee cup was overturned. Hot, brown liquid seeped across the countertop and over the edge, pooling onto the floor.

  Simultaneously, everyone around the counter jumped back. Agitated comments ricocheted around the fixing station, intensifying the confusion.

  “Oh, you clumsy—”

  “Look out, that’s hot!”

  “Watch it!”

  I hurried to the sink to grab a towel and returned almost immediately. By then, Annie was crouched on the floor, mopping the spill with wads of napkins, while the others hovered close by. Sponging up the mess on the counter, I wiped around three cups filled with steaming beverages and no lids. The names of their owners were written on the sides: Klara, Bryce, and Carrie.