This statement caused more laughter. Still smiling, I collected my things, waved at Vicky, and left the office. However, my smile vanished the moment I saw my scooter. It seemed to have shrunk, its two tires spread out sideways like deflated balloons. Upon closer inspection, it became clear to me that they hadn’t gone flat on their own. Someone had slashed them.
Touching the edge of one of the jagged gashes, I wondered who’d be crazy enough to vandalize my scooter in broad daylight.
“It could have been a writer who can’t handle rejection,” I murmured angrily and took out my phone to report the incident to the police.
• • •
HOURS LATER, I was still fuming over the assault on my scooter. Though I filed a report with the police substation in town, I was told there was little they could do as no one had witnessed the vandalism. I knew their hands were tied. I had no evidence with which to accuse an individual of the crime and the cops weren’t about to dust my scooter for fingerprints, seeing as they couldn’t spare the time or resources on the loss of two tires. Still, I hated that nothing was being done to find the culprit, whom I strongly suspected was Zoe Bright, the writer who’d given me the necklace with the crystal pendant.
During dinner, Trey helped to take my mind off my troubles by describing his visit to Jay.
“He was sort of embarrassed that I’d discovered his secret,” recounted Trey as he speared a piece of red pepper from his salad. “He was blushing practically the whole time I was there.”
“I hope you were tactful about it,” I said, cutting off a piece of grilled pork chop. “Jay’s a sensitive guy.”
“I was, Mom. He thought it was kind of cool that I was looking out for Makayla. And he completely understood that his game shouldn’t go on much longer. He said he would soon reveal himself to her, but didn’t want to share any details in case I gave his plan away.”
I smiled at my son. “Well, I think Jay is a perfect match for Makayla. But why does he use poetry written by others to express his feelings for her, and why anonymously?”
“He said he was afraid that if he just asked her out she’d turn him down. Since she’s a fan of literature, he decided that poetry was the best way to tell her how he felt because poets describe their love so much better than he could. He said that true word crafters express so much emotion in few words.”
I nodded, remembering Jay’s comment when I asked about the poetry book on his desk. “He conveyed a similar thought to me.”
“And then he told me that he knows how much Makayla loves a good mystery. I think he was basing this on her book collection at the café. Anyway, he figured that leaving poems in the tip jar would increasingly pique her curiosity, so that by the time he was ready to reveal himself, she would be dying to meet him and it wouldn’t matter to her how shy or nerdy he was.” Trey put his hands up. “His words, not mine. I told him he wasn’t nerdy at all. Anyway, he did tell me that she’d discover who he was within the week. So it’s all good. I’ll butt out now and leave them to it.” He took his dishes to the sink and headed for the door. “I’m going to my room, okay? I told Iris I’d Skype with her tonight.”
That night, my sleep was plagued with dreams involving violent images of knives sinking into tires, ovens disgorging orange and yellow flames, and Klara’s anguished face. I awoke groggily to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, courtesy of Trey. By the time I was dressed and downstairs, he had left for Espresso Yourself, having propped a note against the coffeepot that read, “From your personal barista. See you later. T.”
I walked to work with a light step, marveling at how my once rebellious and surly teenager had turned into a fine young man right before my eyes. I was incredibly proud of him and loved having him around the house again.
When I reached my office building, I was surprised to see a throng of reporters with cameramen in tow assembled outside again. I quickened my pace, fearing that something terrible had happened at Espresso Yourself or at Novel Idea.
“What’s going on?” I asked the closest journalist.
“The police are going to have to charge Dennis Chapman with murder today or let him go,” she replied in a bored monotone. “They can’t keep holding him. We want to get sound bites from the other people who were in the café when Klara Patrick died to accompany our footage from the Dunston police station.” Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. “Hey, weren’t you—”
I dashed away before she could finish her sentence.
The morning at work passed quickly. I buried myself in an assortment of tasks, trying not to think about my mother leading Bryce, Charlene, Leslie, Carter, Maurice, and Carrie up an isolated trail on Red Fox Mountain. When Flora knocked on my door at a few minutes before twelve, I was surprised that it was already so late.
“Are you ready for our lunch, dear?” asked Flora as I grabbed my bag. “We’re fortunate that we’ve got the easy task of entertaining Ryan Patrick and Annie Schmidt,” she added. “Of all the out-of-town guests, they seem to be the least theatrical.”
“I agree,” I said, holding open the door at the bottom of the steps. “I’m sure Ryan is still emotional about his wife and that can make him a bit unpredictable, but otherwise he’s easygoing. And Annie is sweet. I feel most comfortable around them as well.”
“I feel sorry that Jude and your mother are stuck on the mountain with the others. I’ve been worrying about them all morning.”
I nodded my head emphatically. “Me, too. But remember, they’re not alone. Now, let’s enjoy a pleasant meal alfresco.”
Catcher in the Rye was in the midst of its usual lunchtime bustle. Ryan and Annie were already seated on the patio, and Ryan waved us over.
“We saved you a spot,” said Annie as she removed her purse from the chair beside her. “But we haven’t ordered yet.”
Flora pulled her wallet out of her bag. “That’s good, because we’re treating you.” While Flora discussed the sandwich selections, I caught sight of Sean sitting at a table inside. He nodded at me and I shot him a quick smile before turning back to the conversation.
“So let me see if I have this right,” said Flora. “A Pavarotti for Ryan—”
“That’s with the Genoa salami, right?” Ryan interrupted.
“Yes. And Annie, you’re having the Hamlet—ham and Havarti on rye, correct?” At Annie’s nod, she asked, “Lila, what are you in the mood for?”
“I’m not sure yet, so I’ll just come in with you.”
“Nonsense, dear. I can manage to get four sandwiches. You stay here with our guests.” She directed a meaningful look in my direction.
“All right. Let me see. I’ll have . . .” I stared at the menu board posted beside the entrance even though I came here so often that I practically had it memorized. “A Van Gogh.”
“Oh, that sounds good,” said Annie, reading from the menu. “Turkey, sliced Brie, and apples with honey mustard on a French baguette. I think I’ll change my order. Is that okay, Flora?”
“Of course,” replied Flora as she headed inside.
“Say hi to Big Ed for me,” I called after her and took a seat. “I guess you guys must be eager to leave Inspiration Valley and go back home.”
Ryan nodded. “Definitely. This place is full of bad memories now. Sorry. I know it’s where you live and work, but I hate it here,” he added. “I need to get my life in order after . . . after what happened this weekend.”
“I understand,” I commiserated.
“And I really have to get home to Paddy, my kitten,” said Annie. “My neighbor is looking after him, but I know he’s missing me.”
“You have a kitten?” Thankful to have a pleasant topic to discuss, I asked, “How old is he?”
“Six months. He’s the sweetest calico.” She showed me her cell phone. “Here’s a picture of him tangled up in my laundry. Isn’t he cute?”
I chuckled over the photo of a brown, white, and ginger cat in a basket, entwined with socks and T-shirts. “He’s adorable.”
Ryan pulled his hand back and placed it on his lap. “I’m more of a dog person myself. But Klara never wanted a pet. Couldn’t deal with the mess. Carter and Carrie begged for a puppy when they were younger, but Klara always said no.”
“She did like to have things her way,” said Annie, adjusting her glasses. “Maybe you can get a dog now.”
He directed a pointed stare in her direction. “That’s certainly not on my radar. Klara’s barely—”
“Here we are!” Flora burst into the conversation like the sun breaking through a cloud. She placed a tray containing paper-wrapped sandwiches and four cans of sparkling fruit juice on the table.
“Great,” I said, distributing the food. “I’m starving.” As I bit into my baguette, the fusion of flavors from the salty turkey, the creamy Brie, and the sweet apple filled my mouth. The others tucked into their sandwiches. “Flora, Annie has the cutest picture of her kitten. You should see it.”
“I just adore kittens,” Flora said, taking the phone Annie handed her. She giggled as she looked at the photo. “Oh my, how precious. It’s been a long time since my Skimbleshanks and Fiddle were that small. They’re both seventeen years old this month, and although they mostly sleep now, they still like getting into mischief every now and then.”
“Those are interesting names,” Annie said. “How did you come up with them?”
“From one of my favorite books of poems, dear, by T. S. Eliot: Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. We kept Skimbleshanks’s name as it was, but shortened Firefrorefiddle to just Fiddle, because our tongues kept getting tied up in those f’s and r’s.”
“Wasn’t the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Cats based on that book?” Ryan asked.
“That’s right,” I said. “I loved the songs from that show. Do you think your cats resemble any of the felines onstage, Flora?”
Flora shook her head and smiled. “I remember when they were smaller than your kitten, Annie. We found them under our porch when they were just four weeks old.” She took a sip of her drink. “Skimbleshanks and Fiddle have since grown into fat happy adults. We think of them like our children.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” I said, remembering having dinner at Flora’s house and seeing how she and her husband doted on them. “They are very pampered.” I popped the last bit of sandwich into my mouth.
A digital rendition of “Hedwig’s Theme” intruded on our conversation. Flora pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “Excuse me,” she said as she turned away from the table and spoke into it.
Ryan crinkled up his sandwich wrapper and downed the rest of his beverage. “That was delicious. Thank you. It was nice to get out of the hotel and have an innocuous conversation with someone who isn’t a chef.”
Flora finished her call. “I’m sorry to have to leave so abruptly, but I need to return to the office right away. A client of mine is rather anxious about something and wants to speak with me.” She wrapped up the remainder of her sandwich. “I’ll take this along. Bye for now!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried away.
“I should get back to the hotel and see if Carter and Carrie have returned from their hike yet.” Ryan got to his feet.
Annie finished the last of her food. “I’ll go with you.” A look of desperation crossed her face. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows.
“You two go ahead. I’ll clean up,” I said, gathering the refuse from our meal.
Annie turned to me. “Thanks, Ms. Wilkins. It was nice to chat with you. Please thank Ms. Meriweather for treating us to lunch.”
They headed away and impulsively, I decided to follow, wondering what Annie wanted to tell Ryan. Normally, it wouldn’t be any of my business, but with a murderer loose in Inspiration Valley, I didn’t know what useful information I might glean from eavesdropping. As I tossed the trash into the can, I glanced briefly through the window where I’d seen Sean, but he was no longer there.
Staying several yards behind Annie and Ryan, I pretended to stroll unhurriedly back to the office, all the while keeping a focused eye on the pair as they approached the park in the town center. They walked with their heads down, Annie leaning slightly toward Ryan. I scurried closer in order to hear what they were saying, but stopped when Ryan abruptly halted.
“What?” he exclaimed, clearly astonished. “Is it really you? How can that be?”
Annie grabbed his hand and pulled him toward a bench on the corner of the sidewalk. Trying not to appear obvious, I hastened to Ginny Callaway’s metalsmith shop directly behind them and looked in the display window.
Annie was midsentence when I was finally able to tune in to their conversation. I feigned interest in the array of sculptures and jewelry, but was in actuality observing their reflections in the glass. “. . . the job to be near you.” Annie clung tightly to Ryan’s hand. Taking off her glasses, she gazed directly into Ryan’s eyes. Yearning and adoration radiated from her whole being. “Do you remember me now?” she asked, her voice a plea.
He yanked his hand away. “No, I don’t. I told you, I barely noticed you then.”
Her shoulders slumped, but then she straightened and moved closer to him so that their knees touched.
“Ryan, I love you. I’ve always loved you. Can’t you see that?”
He pushed her away and stood. “Annie, I can’t do this. I don’t want to hear this. Klara is only just—”
“But in time, Ryan,” she implored, her eyes large and pleading. “Once everything is settled, you and I can be together.”
“No, we can’t. I don’t love you. I never will. I’m sorry.” He turned and strode quickly away. Annie watched him disappear around the corner, and then collapsed back on the bench. Her chin fell to her chest.
Saddened to see such heartbreak, I rounded the bench and sat beside her. “Are you okay, Annie?”
“Oh, Ms. Wilkins . . .” She exhaled loudly as she wiped her eyes. “The only man I have ever loved just rejected me. Now I have no one.”
“Annie, he is unworthy of you. You are such a special person. You’ll find someone who deserves you more.”
She glared at me, her eyes flashing anger. “How can you say that? You don’t know me. And you don’t know Ryan. He is the only one for me.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said, taken aback by her rapid transformation from heartache to outrage. Abruptly, an unwelcome thought crossed my mind. Was it possible that Annie murdered Klara to get her out of the way?
She frowned. “You have no idea how much he means to me. Ryan’s a wonderful man.” Her eyes shining with tears, she said, “I just need to be alone now, okay?” Pushing herself off the bench, she trudged in the direction of the hotel.
I stared after her. It was impossible to believe that Annie was a murderer. And what reason would she have to kill Joel? I shook my head. Her passion and love for Ryan brought forth her anger with me. I’d been insensitive to suggest she put aside her love for Ryan so swiftly. A line from Elle Newmark’s novel The Book of Unholy Mischief came to mind: “Unrequited love does not die; it’s only beaten down to a secret place where it hides, curled and wounded.” Annie’s hurt was still so fresh. She needed time to heal.
I would call her later to apologize, and invite her to my house this evening. I imagined us sitting together on the porch swing, sipping glasses of sweet tea, admiring the vibrant hanging fuchsias, and chatting about her kitten. Perhaps I could play a small part in healing the fractured heart of a sweet soul.
Chapter 15
BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO MY OFFICE, THE DAY HAD grown quite warm. The breeze was no longer refreshing, but carried hints of summer on its breath. I thought of my neglected garden and of all the plans I’d had to transform it into the image of a Monet painting. The last time I’d visited the Secret Garden the head horticulturist had said, “Work hard
in the spring and you’ll enjoy the fruit of your labors all summer,” but I’d barely gotten my hands dirty.
I was so caught up in visions of weeds threatening to overtake my herbs and crabgrass spreading through my perennial beds that I nearly walked right past the entrance to Espresso Yourself without noticing that something unusual was going on inside.
Luckily, I heard the sound of music coming from within and paused. It didn’t sound like the bubbly jazz Makayla typically played during the afternoon. The notes were too loud and came from a violin. Curious, I stepped into Espresso Yourself and gaped in surprise. For there, standing on top of a table, was a violinist. The young woman was attired in formal concert dress. Her long black skirt swished against the tabletop as she swayed in time to the music.
The patrons looked as stunned as I felt. No one moved. The entire place was like a scene from Madame Tussauds wax museum. Trey stood behind the counter, his fingers resting on the cash register keys, and Makayla was positioned near the espresso machine, a stainless steel pitcher of steamed milk held aloft in her right hand.
As the musician continued to play, I recognized the haunting melody of the song. It was “Somewhere in Time,” from the movie starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour. No wonder everyone was spellbound. It was a beautiful and moving piece.
When the violinist finished, everyone in the room applauded. She gave a little bow and allowed a man to help her down. She then took a red rose from her violin case, walked over to Makayla and presented her with the flower.
“Thank you,” Makayla said. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed. “An impromptu concert! That was lovely.”
Wordlessly, the young woman gestured toward the door leading to the street. Makayla hesitated and the violinist repeated the motion, waiting patiently until Makayla came out from behind the counter and cautiously stepped outside. A matronly woman winked at her before raising a flute to her lips. She began to play “Unchained Melody” while Makayla smiled in delight. Further down the sidewalk, a man leaning against a streetlamp took up the song on his clarinet. The flutist lowered her instrument and handed Makayla a red rose. Like the violinist, she said nothing, but pointed at her colleague, indicating that Makayla should walk toward him.
Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery) Page 21