by Patti Larsen
She set her cup aside, gray eyes hurting for me, for Mom. While I almost reopened the question about her sudden trip to the capital. Rose. Did I have to worry about Daisy, too?
Instead, she stood, hugged me. Got her coat and quietly left. I stared glumly into my tea cup as Daisy said good night, leaving me to ponder murder, my parents and the always frustrating Crew Turner. Who, it seemed, wouldn’t be coming to visit tomorrow night. Not unless he was planning to arrest me. Right now? That might be the best option I had open to anything resembling a date with him. Some people liked handcuffs, right?
Bummed out but too tired to let it own me, I retreated to my apartment where I contemplated the white card with the block letters spelling Siobhan Doyle’s name well into the night.
***
Chapter Sixteen
I exited Alicia’s office, shaking Jared’s hand before accepting the parting squeeze his girlfriend offered me.
“Thanks, guys,” I said, pausing to slip on my coat as the morning rush of guests passed through the lobby of the Lodge. “Progress looks amazing on the annex.”
Alicia beamed at me, hands clasped together under her chin while Jared’s lopsided smile reminded me of how young they both were. Not that I didn’t trust them. I did, implicitly. But they still had that shiny surface to them despite the less than savory dealings Jared’s father, Pete, had dragged them into. Dealing with the elder Wilkins’s fraud could have left his son bitter and angry. I think Alicia was exactly who he needed at his side. Even she had her history with Jared’s father, served her time as his old assistant before he died. And her still missing brother, the young drug dealer, Pitch, had to weigh on her heart. But such hardships hadn’t touched the two of them further than to scrape a bit off the surface. I was grateful they retained their cheerful optimism.
Gave me hope mine might show up some day and take up residence again.
“You didn’t have to come all the way up here for this meeting,” Alicia said, guiding me out into the lobby. “We could have come to Petunia’s.”
Jared winked at me, glanced at the entry to the dining room. “I don’t think this meeting was really on Fee’s mind,” he said.
Her eyes flew wide and she grinned. “You’re terrible,” she breathed at me. “You’re going to give poor Crew a heart attack one of these days.”
Nice to know from their expressions they didn’t judge me for snooping. And yes, they were right. I could have had them come to Petunia’s for a coffee and a chat there. But this was the perfect excuse to get my butt near the set again, a long night of thinking and grumbling to myself over the mystery ending in a change of venue for our get together.
“Someone has to solve crimes around here,” Jared said, lighthearted enough I knew he was teasing, but with the kind of focus that told me he also believed what he said. “Go get ‘em, Fee.” He nodded toward the staff hallway leading past the bathrooms. “I hear the back entry might be open.”
I beamed a smile at him before hurrying/not hurrying toward the washroom sign, slipping past the gathering of skiers heading out for the day, dodging the baleful stare cast my way by my cousin, Robert. Crew made a huge mistake leaving him on guard at the main doors to the set, so easily distracted by pretty girls in ski suits that when he turned his head to smirk, thick 70’s mustache twitching, beer gut a bit less prominent as he straightened up when a pair of blondes walked by, I was able to slip into the back hall without him seeing me go, grinning to myself.
Idiot. I’d get him fired one of these days. That would teach him for a) taking a job he knew I couldn’t have, b) making comments about my weight and c) being alive in general. Not to mention his delight in calling me that most hated of nicknames, Fanny.
Evil firing scheme unfolding in my head, I nodded to a group of employees heading out of the staff area and waited until they passed the towering fake plants by the bathrooms before trying the side door to the dining room. Jared hadn’t misled me, the handle turning easily. I slipped inside, closing it behind me after a quick peek to be sure no one would see me enter.
Voices echoed toward me from the main set, carrying over the fake walls that made up the sound stage. I drifted toward the green room, not sure exactly what I was looking for now that I was here. I almost ran right into Dale who caught me with both hands, startled, before tugging me sideways and out of sight behind a backdrop just as two women’s voices, loud all of a sudden, broke out next to us.
“You can’t just pack up now.” Olivia’s best political tone grated on me at the best of times, but knowing how much this dumb show had hurt my mother? Not to mention a murder. Yes, Mom came first. She needed to let them just wrap up and get lost. I found myself not really caring who killed Ron Williams as Clara spoke.
“We’re not,” the showrunner sounded like she spoke between clenched teeth. “I just got word from the studio. We have to finish taping. We’ve invested too much time and money into this little side project of yours to quit now.”
“Let me assure you,” Olivia said, rather too gushy for my liking, “there will be no further hiccups—”
“And let me assure you,” Clara cut her off, “old friends or not,” and that sounded questionable, “owe you one or not, Olivia Walker, make no mistake I have my own career to consider way ahead of your little town.” I heard the mayor splutter but Clara was faster. “We are going to get this show done fast and furious so we can move the hell on before something else happens.” The sound of footsteps echoed, voices fading while the pair strode off. I turned to Dale who looked nervous.
“They have to be kidding.” I shook my head at him. “Is this not a disaster waiting to happen?”
He shrugged. “From what I know, the studio likes the controversy, figures it will increase views, at least for this episode.” He looked tired, running a hand over his face. “Honestly, I think it’s a mistake. They’re going to have Patrice sit in as the third judge. But I think the show is on its way out, no matter what Clara wants.” Dale’s lips twisted into a frustrated grimace. “And long overdue. Everyone knows it.”
“What about Ron’s cookbook launch?” I kept my voice down as more footsteps walked past us, grateful Dale was at least willing to talk to me.
The young assistant’s expression turned from nervous to bitter. “Whatever,” he said. “The man can’t cook to save his soul, let alone write a book about it. Hardly a newsflash, either.” He cocked his head to one side, nodded. I was close enough to him I heard the voice on the other end of his headphones even through the heavy foam. “Listen, I have to go. Our new third just arrived and I have to prep her.”
I caught his hand before he could stride off. “Who?”
He leaned around the backdrop hiding us and pointed and I quickly peeked out, not really as surprised as I could have been to find Joyce Young, beaming a smile, escorted by Clara toward the main stage.
The man she had an affair with—and probably dumped her from her reaction to his death—dies and she’s suddenly back on the show? Motive for murder anyone?
“Wait, does that mean Mom’s segment won’t air?” Relief washed through me when Dale nodded.
“They’re calling this a tribute show now, using the past champion, runner up and current leader as the contestants.” He shrugged. “That’s show business.”
“Did you know Janet cheats?” I prodded him while Dale hesitated, eyes meeting mine full of regret.
“I should have checked your mother’s set more carefully,” he said. “It’s common knowledge, at least at the crew level.” He grimaced like he wished it were otherwise while regretting not doing something about it sooner. “I figured she’d go after Molly, Fee.” Which meant he checked that set, not Mom’s. “I’m so sorry.”
Not his fault. Not if Clara knew.
“I really have to go.” Dale pointed to a shadowy corner across the back of the set. “I should kick you out, but I’m over this job.” He laughed softly. “Just stay out of sight. And trouble. And cheer for Molly,
won’t you?” Dale waved and left me there while I exhaled the comforting feeling that Mom wouldn’t be mocked on a national level, at least.
Now to get through to her she wasn’t a failure.
The corner he showed me turned out to be an even better vantage point than the one I’d occupied only yesterday. Wow, was it really yesterday? I had a clear view between the placement of a fake wall and the back of the set into the sound stage and all three kitchens.
Though it really wasn’t a good idea—I could get caught at any second—I spent the next several hours on aching feet, watching Molly bake her way to success. She really was impressive, I had to admit it, better than the other two women, hands down, and better than Mom, though I only allowed that thought for a moment.
When the timers went off, the clock ticked down, each round a half hour allotment that Clara ruthlessly enforced, Molly came out the clear winner. No more multiple takes or endless banter. The showrunner was all business today. I could only imagine she wanted this done and the set and crew out. Likely they’d be filming any extras they needed when they returned to their regular location. For now, in crisp thirty minute rounds of confectionary deliciousness, the three women battled with sugar, flour and the kind of dizzying creative talent I could only dream of.
Round one was Molly’s the instant she heated her meringue with a layer of colored sugar that tinted the tips a deep red when fired with her hand torch. Round two she won with a fluffy incarnation of chocolate and peaches, towering sugar spun over the surface in a maze of sparkling sweet lines that looked like a spider’s web. I barely remembered what the other two baked. Who was I kidding? I don’t recall at all. Molly’s work was just head and shoulders above and beyond and I found myself rooting for her despite knowing, positive when even Vivian tasted the final effort—a pie of berries and caramel and some kind of mystery spice I’d never heard of—and smiled her delight at the result.
I was surprised to find Joyce was announced second, though from the look on her face she wasn’t happy about her placement.
But Janet’s reaction to coming in third? Epically disastrous, especially when all three judges criticized all of her creations on taste and, in the case of her final bake, the hardness of the end result, if not design. I’d never seen a full-grown woman throw an actual hissy fit before, though she did fall short of literally throwing her offerings at the judges.
Barely.
“This stupid show was rigged!” She spit those words right into the camera, as if she hadn’t skewed things in her own favor all along. She turned on Joyce, lunging for her. “You sabotaged me, you witch!”
“Like you never did to me, you lying cheat!” The runner up wasn’t backing down from her rival in the least. Janet didn’t make it to claw at Joyce’s eyes, though she looked like that was her ideal endgame. Was she just trying to ruin the take, perhaps? Didn’t seem to matter to Clara. Instead she called, “Cut!” just before Dale leaped in and grabbed Janet, holding her back. Someone’s voice echoed with, “That’s a wrap!” I realized at the same instant Janet seemed to the show was, for now, over.
Then, as if by magic, the crew began to move, striking the set while last year’s star shrieked her fury at no one in particular. I was suddenly exposed, the wall in front of me folding in half and then in two as two crew moved with efficient precision, the kitchens already disappearing when more hands appeared to undo what had been done to the Lodge’s dining room.
Janet’s anger faded to haphazard spluttering, her face so red I was sure she’d pop a vein. Everyone ignored her, including Dale who stepped off when it was apparent Janet wasn’t going to attack anyone further. Molly hugged Joyce, Olivia and Vivian going to her to shake her hand and, I could only guess, congratulate her. I caught Dale beaming a smile at me, both thumbs up and I waved back, delighted he was happy for the girl he clearly cared about. Caught sight of Crew, his blue eyes fixed on me when he called out at the top of his voice, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention.
“While congratulations are in order,” he nodded to Molly whose excitement faded as he went on, “this set,” his vocal volume dropped while everyone turned to face him, “and everyone and everything in it,” he turned to address Clara who glared at him, “are staying where they are.”
“I have a show to finish,” she said.
“And I have a murder to solve,” he said. “Guess which one takes precedence?”
***
Chapter Seventeen
I slipped out the back while Crew was distracted, not really wanting to talk to him right now anyway. He had things handled and there wasn’t much else for me to do at this point. Instead, I went home, trying to be happy for Molly and figure out how to tell Mom she didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing the episode without hurting her feelings her segment wasn’t going to be used after all.
It was a catch-22, wasn’t it? The indignity of being torn to shreds by a dead guy, to go through all that prep and hard work only to have her bit of the show axed. I didn’t know how to feel about it so I was pretty sure Mom wouldn’t either.
Which, of course, meant one thing. I had to talk to Daisy first. Surely she’d know what to do about it. As I drove down the mountain, I had to laugh at myself and my reaction the night before to Mom’s attachment to Daisy, how she told her everything, it seemed, even things she didn’t tell me. Because wasn’t I about to do exactly the same thing? And did that mean Dad used her for a sounding board, too?
Daisy Bruce, the Fleming Whisperer. Poor dear.
I parked in the driveway, taking a moment to slip over to the annex to check on the progress Jared mentioned at our meeting earlier. Yes, I was paying attention and it had been a good chance to touch base with him and Alicia on the project. While I might have been distracted, my livelihood was pretty important to me, too.
I checked on the new flooring they’d brought in, approved it and the multi-colored layering of the hardwood—loved it, actually—grinning to myself about the excellent taste Alicia had compared to anything I would have found (while wondering about the price tag and deciding to stress over the money I was spending later). That job done, I circled the fence between the two yards and headed past the Carriage House toward the pond and the kitchen door.
Head down, mind on other things, I wasn’t expecting the sound of voices. As soon as I heard talking I ducked sideways into the bushes, then wondered what kind of person’s instinctual reaction to hearing people talking was to eavesdrop even as the man’s Irish accent registered.
I was suddenly grateful for my suspicious nature, thanks. Trouble was, I couldn’t hear clearly, just caught the mumbling sound of his voice, the high-pitched answer from who sounded like Bonnie Williams. I snuck a peek, caught sight of a hulking suit and, just past the giant bully boy, Malcolm Murray’s face.
I was right about Bonnie. She huffed something at him I didn’t catch before pushing past him and hurrying to the kitchen door, through it and into the house. Maybe I should have felt more cautious about approaching the gathering of alleged criminals in my back yard, but anger piqued and I was in no mood for any kind of criminal anything at my doorstep.
Malcolm spotted me as I stomped toward him, his two boys flanking him in their dark suits, black leather gloves, sunglasses. The normally charming and rakishly handsome, if older, gray haired Irish mob boss’s typical friendliness was nowhere to be seen. If anything, he was colder than the January morning, colder than he’d been at the Lodge when I’d seen him yesterday.
Didn’t stop me from confronting him, though the icy look in his green eyes reminded me I wasn’t dealing with a friend here. He was a criminal and would more than likely cut my throat and leave me dead in a ditch if it served him.
Sobering thought.
“Can I help you with something, Malcolm?” There was a time I was afraid of him, not so long ago, in fact. Sitting in the back of his car while he handed me a card with a woman’s name on it. I’d thought then he’d meant me harm, and he’d bee
n smiling and even kind. Funny, facing him down with his inner wolf showing? Made him less scary. Go figure.
“If it were your business, I’d have said so.”
Did he really just think he could get away with that in my place? I closed the distance between us so fast his boys didn’t get a chance to respond. And from the flicker of grudging respect and the faintest smile that pulled on Malcolm’s lips as I jabbed him in the chest with one finger, I’d impressed him. He waved off his bullies while I spoke, and I have no doubt if he hadn’t I’d be dead.
“You do your business in your house,” I said. “And keep it out of mine. Or you’re no longer welcome at Petunia’s.”
His grin appeared, no kindness in it. “Understood.” He looked down at my finger, still pressed against him. I took the hint and knew my luck was at the limit, backing off ever so slightly, just enough he got the message I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me. “I’m just here to collect on a debt owed an associate. No intent to disrespect you, Fiona, lass.”
“Like I said,” I snapped. “Your business happens in your house. Not mine.” Wait a second. “Is that why you were at the Lodge yesterday? To collect on a debt? Whose?”
His eyes tightened around the edges, but he answered smoothly enough. “Ron Williams owes a colleague some money. With his death, that debt is passed on to his lovely wife.” He barked a laugh while his boys echoed him. “She’s a charming piece of work.”
Tell me about it. And yet, it felt impossibly unlikely someone like Ron Williams was borrowing money from someone Malcolm Murry might know. Unless.
“Did he have a gambling problem?” I’d dealt with that before, though more locally, when the young couple who took over the flower shop had a run-in with Malcolm. Simon Jacob had lost his wife Terri over his habit, though she kept the shop. Smart girl, bought all my flowers from her.