7th Heaven
Chapter One
It looked like a band of carnies had descended on Cedar Hills overnight. Colorful tents and awnings shaded food-laden tables and makeshift game booths along the water's edge of the usually quiet lakefront park. A country western band was already in full swing on stage and though just past noon, people of all ages were dancing. The beer garden was packed, Frisbees and kites filled the perfectly blue summer sky, and as I stood gawking at the scene I realized nearly everyone in town, and a good many outsiders as well, were in attendance.
"Purdy good for the first one, huh?" Tommy Green said, his elfin features scrunched as he scanned the crowd for likely dance partners. "You wanna brewski? I'm buyin'."
"No, thanks, Tommy. I'm supposed to keep my palate cleansed until the contest. Speaking of which, there they are."
I pointed toward a purple banner announcing the First Annual Rainbow Lake Clam Chowder Cook-Off and headed toward it. Tommy kept in step, bouncing along beside me on the balls of his feet. As usual, he was dressed in Levi overalls with no shirt beneath, and a blue Mariners cap turned backwards. He only stood about five-feet-four, and his muscled arms bore burn scars from a boating accident. What made him irresistible to women was beyond me. Maybe it was the perpetual grin he wore or the way his eyes crinkled with mischief. Whatever it was, by the time we reached the Clam Chowder Cook-Off tables, he'd attracted a whole bevy of giggling teenagers who were begging him to come play on their football team.
"Aw, now girls. I can't go playing tackle football with you all. You might hurt me." He winked at the girls, then added, " 'Sides, I'm supposed to protect Miz James here from bribery and other such tomfoolery. She's one of the oh-ficial judges of the cookin' contest, and I'm supposed to keep her honest."
I rolled my eyes at this exaggeration and watched as the girls trailed away.
"Thank you, Tommy. I feel much safer now."
He grinned. "No problem, Cass. It's true, you know. People could bribe you. If one of these fancy chef types wins this thing, his restaurant will get wrote up in that Coast Magazine and then his business will start boomin'."
What he said was true, which was why so many of the good restaurants up and down the coast had entered the contest. It was also why, as judges, we were not allowed to know whose chowder we were tasting until after we'd picked the winners. We had one hour to decide, between twelve and one o'clock. Then the chowders were up for grabs to the general public. The winners would be announced at four.
The other six judges had already arrived and were working their way down the roped-off tables. Bystanders stood among the chefs just outside the ropes, watching the judges' expressions expectantly. The pots of chowder were numbered and judges kept notes on scorecards. Three of the judges were well-known chefs who had chosen not to enter the contest, two were local dignitaries, the other a lucky citizen like me who just loved good food. I was pretty sure that the only reason I had been selected was because everyone in town knew I was a glutton. No matter. I was both pleased and honored to participate. Besides, I was starving. I'd limited myself to a few pieces of toast and a small glass of orange juice that morning, and the aromas emanating from the steaming pots were almost more than I could bear.
I signed in, donned my judge's pin and strode confidently toward the first entry, my scorecard tucked into a back pocket. I ladled a bit of chowder into one of the tasting cups and just as I raised the spoon to my lips, I scanned the crowd watching me. Sure enough, one pair of eyes seemed more intent on me than the others. So much for anonymity. Entry number one no doubt belonged to Mike Tally, owner and chef of The Crab Pot in Florence, a favorite restaurant of mine. I looked away, embarrassed that I'd just broken the contest rules and tried diligently to concentrate on the chowder itself. Creamy and smooth, with generous chunks of clam that to my liking were a bit too chewy. I made a note on my scorecard and moved to the next entry.
Despite myself, I couldn't help glancing at the onlookers. There amid the chefs and cooks were many of my friends and acquaintances watching with interest. But when I saw the beaming blue eyes of Sheriff Tom Booker practically brimming over, trying to get my attention, I knew that his wife, Rosie, who stood beside him and refused to look in my direction, was contestant number two. Damn! This wasn't working at all. I was cheating and I didn't want to! I loved Rosie. She was not only a good friend, but a great cook. Her chili rellenos were the best I'd ever had. But what if I hated her chowder? What if I didn't? What if it was the best of the lot? Would people think I'd cheated because the Bookers were my friends?
Resolutely I looked away, nibbled on a cracker to neutralize my palate, then dipped into Rosie's chowder. It was marvelous. The clams were not as plentiful as in the first entry, but they were sweet and tender. Specks of yellow dotted the surface and melted in my mouth, and I savored the rich, buttery flavors that held, to my surprise, a hint of tarragon. This was not traditional chowder, and Rosie, if anything, was traditional. I resisted the urge to peek up at her, willing myself to concentrate on another taste. Delicious. It was all I could do to stop myself from ladling a whole bowlful and settling down for lunch. Instead, I made notes on my scorecard, kept a neutral face, refusing to look up at the crowd again, and moved on to the next steaming pot.
By the time I'd tasted all sixteen chowders, I could no longer remember what the first one had tasted like. Many of the judges had moved back through the line, tasting their favorites a second time and I did the same. I'd narrowed it down to three chowders. As other judges turned in their final selection, I went back and forth, tasting the three chowders again.
"Come on, Cassidy. You're just trying to get a free lunch!" someone shouted. I looked up at the sound of Tommy Green's voice and did a double take when I saw who was standing beside him. To my dismay, I felt myself blush. Erica Trinidad, as striking as ever, was smiling back at me.
"Just pick one!" someone else shouted, getting into the mood. "We're starving!"
I realized that I was the last judge to finish and was holding up lunch for the rest of them. I searched the crowd until I found Rosie, watching me serenely. Booker, who still stood beside her, had a funny look on his face, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Erica Trinidad.
Oh, what the hell, I thought. If they told me I could only have one bowl of soup to eat for the rest of the day and I had to pick one, I'd pick Rosie's. So just do it! I smiled back at Rosie, wrote my selection and pushed it through the little opening inside the ballot box. The whole crowd cheered and someone moved the ropes away. I barely had time to escape before they rushed the tables.
"Now I'll take that beer, Tommy," I said, glancing at Erica.
"I'll be right back," he said, trotting away.
"You took your time," Erica said, appraising me with eyes even bluer than I remembered. I did a quick mental check of my appearance, glad that I was wearing the blue shirt that Martha always said matched my eyes. But why should I care? I ran my hand through my short blonde hair, idly wondering if it looked as windswept from the boat ride over as it felt. One thing about living in a house only accessible by boat — no matter how good I might have looked when I left, by the time I docked, my hair was in disarray. But from the look in Erica's eyes, I could tell that she liked what she saw, and I felt myself beginning to blush.
Refusing to acknowledge my discomfort, I returned her gaze, boldly assessing the changes in her since we'd last met. Erica's dark hair was cut in layers, framing high cheekbones and a wide mouth. She wore a white sleeveless cotton blouse that showed off finely toned biceps and a dark, California tan. The top two buttons were left undone, revealing a glimpse of cleavage. Subtle but unnerving. She looked more like a successful lawyer than a romance writer, I thought. But her books were known worldwide,
and recently she'd begun working on screenplays as well.
Keep your cool, Cassidy, I warned myself. So, naturally, I came out with something completely inane. "It was much more difficult than I thought. I guess I'm not cut out for this judge stuff."
"Oh, I don't know. We've both had our moments of being judgmental."
Just like that. After not seeing each other for more than a year, without so much as a good-bye the last time she'd left, she came out with a zinger like that.
"Yeah, I guess we have." If it was a fight she wanted, I wasn't going to rise to the bait. I just wanted to relax and enjoy the afternoon. Besides, she was right. We'd both had our moments. "You been in town long?"
"A week or so. I came to get some writing done. And to think. It's impossible to think in L.A. I couldn't resist coming today, though. Looks like the whole town is here."
"You still making movies with your director friend?" I kept my voice light and neutral. Or I tried to. A little anger might have seeped out.
Erica laughed. "No. That flopped a long time ago. The movie, I mean. The director friend lasted a few months longer. How about you? Still seeing the shrink?"
Despite myself, I flinched. Maggie and I were no longer seeing each other, but it wasn't something I necessarily wanted Erica Trinidad to know. Besides, this time, Erica had nothing to do with the problems between Maggie and me. This time, it had been Maggie's ex-lover who had come between us. That the lover died more than a year ago, didn't really matter. She was there just the same, driving a wedge between us. And the further apart we grew, the more we were able to see that we each had other unresolved issues, feelings for people in our past that prevented us from completely committing to each other.
"Not at the moment," I said evenly, keeping any emotion out of my voice. There was no need for Erica Trinidad to know the details of my love life.
"Hope you like micro-brews!" Tommy said, handing us each a plastic cup brimming with amber ale. Erica and I tipped our cups in mock salute, then drank thirstily. My palm felt sweaty against the cold plastic and I wondered why, after all this time, she could still have this effect on me. I'd gotten over her years ago. I certainly wasn't interested in revisiting old mistakes.
"Thought you'd never decide!" Booker said, sneaking up behind me and pounding me on the back. "Hope you chose well!"
"Hi, Tom. You remember Erica Trinidad."
Booker rolled his eyes at me and extended a hand to Erica. " 'Course I remember her. You think I've gone senile? Old maybe, but I still got my marbles. How are you, Erica? Last I heard you were making movies. Though they sure had you on the wrong end of the camera. California must agree with you. You're as brown as a bear."
This was Booker's way of reminding me, in case I'd forgotten, that Erica had left me for the movie director. This wasn't lost on Erica, either, but she smiled graciously.
"And honey still drips from those lips, Sheriff. Good to see you again." They shook warmly, but with a mutual wariness I could sense. They had always liked each other, but with reservation.
"You want a beer, Sheriff?" Tommy asked. "I'm buyin'."
"What'd you do? Win the lottery?" I teased. Tommy was a generous, good-natured guy, but he wasn't known for saving money and was more apt to borrow a buck than lend one. He smiled at me mysteriously, like maybe he had won the lottery, and crossed his muscled arms, making the burn marks stand out in the sun.
"Why aren't you dancin' with the girls?" Booker asked him.
"I been bodyguardin' Cassidy, 'case someone tries to bribe her."
Booker threw back his head and laughed, making his white moustache twitch. It must have tickled his nose, because he smoothed it down with both hands, still chuckling. In his late sixties, he was ruggedly handsome with laugh lines at the corners of his blue eyes and a weathered, tanned face that could have belonged to the Marlboro Man. The black cowboy hat he wore completed the image.
"What's so funny?" Tommy demanded. "It could happen."
"I know, I know. Thought about trying it myself, that's all. Some of these fancy-schmancy Chef-Boy-R-Dees would just have a conniption fit if one of these little old Cedar Hills gals beat them out and won the thing."
"Like Rosie," I said.
"Yeah, like Rosie," he agreed.
"If you'll excuse me," Erica said. "Nature calls."
"I'll walk you over," Tommy said. "Gotta go myself."
Booker and I watched them walk toward the rest-rooms, Erica with her long-legged, confident stride, Tommy bouncing along beside her.
"I think Tommy's smitten," I said.
"Wouldn't be the only one." He paused, making I sure I didn't miss his meaning. "Surprised to see her?" he asked.
I looked at him sideways. "As a matter of fact, I am. Why?"
"Saw the look on your face, that's all. Seen that look before, as I recall. Said to myself, 'Oh boy, here we go.' "
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Cassidy, your face is an open book and you're as predictable as a dog chasing a bone. You're smart about most things, but when it comes to that woman, you're plumb dumb."
"I am not!" I knew I sounded about eight years old, but I couldn't help it.
"Mark my words. Erica Trinidad is trouble. She can't help herself. God gives someone that much beauty and talent, they're bound to make trouble. Just happens, that's all. No fault of hers. No fault of yours. Just hate to see it happen all over again, that's all."
"Well, you needn't worry yourself on my account. That was a long time ago, Tom. A lot has happened since then. Things have changed." I took another drink of my beer. I'm not sure who I was trying to convince more, him or me. I changed the subject. "Anyway, your face isn't exactly a closed book, you know. You think I couldn't tell which soup was Rosie's? Damn, you might as well have shouted it out."
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, Tom. You were practically beaming at me. But don't worry. I would have picked it anyway. It really was the best. That tarragon was a brilliant addition."
"Tarragon?" His puzzlement was genuine.
"Rosie didn't use tarragon?"
"In clam chowder? You're kidding, right? Rosie?"
I felt my cheeks start to flush. "Then why on earth were you trying so hard to get my attention when I tasted the second entry?"
"Because, you idiot, I'd just seen Erica Trinidad and thought you'd be tickled to see her. Just because I said she was trouble, doesn't mean I don't like her. You never looked up again so I gave up. You thought Rosie would put tarragon in her chowder? Don't tell me you picked that one!"
Before he could finish, a panicked call for help shattered the light banter around us. We looked toward the restrooms and my stomach plummeted. Even from a distance I could see the terror etched on Erica Trinidad's face. Her voice cut through me like an arrow. "Somebody's just killed Tommy!"
Chapter Two
I beat Booker there by about two strides. Others had rushed forward, and a crowd stood gawking as Erica performed CPR, pressing her lips to Tommy's, willing his lifeless form to breathe. Booker crouched down and pressed his fingers to Tommy's throat.
"I think there's a pulse." He turned and yelled, "Who's got a cell phone? Call nine-one-one. You! Run to the stage and call for Harry Manchester. Or any doctor. Move aside, Erica. Let me take over." He nudged her aside and pressed his ear to Tommy's chest. "Come on, kiddo. Hang in there," he mumbled to Tommy, who looked, as far as I could tell, already gone. I felt my throat clamp and willed myself not to burst out sobbing. I watched as Booker gently lifted Tommy's head and heard a collective gasp from behind me. The back of Tommy's head was matted with blood, a three-inch gash open and pulsing.
"Jesus!" Booker muttered. "Gimme something. A towel. A T-shirt!"
Someone pushed forward, pulling off his yellow tennis shirt in one swift movement as he kneeled beside Tommy. His bare back gleamed in the sunlight. "Will he make it, Sheriff?"
Booker looked up, his eyes pained. "Don't know, Professor. He's breathing. Thanks.
" He grabbed the shirt and pressed it tenderly to Tommy's head.
"Here come the medics!" someone shouted.
"Outa my way! I'm a doctor!" Harry Manchester roared, pushing his way through the crowd. In the distance, a siren sounded. The ambulance was on its way. Erica looked shaken and moved toward me as the space around Tommy closed in with those who could help him more than we could. The bare-chested professor backed away too, noticing as if for the first time the blood on his hands.
"You okay?" I whispered to Erica. Her face was pale and I was afraid she'd faint.
She made a movement with her head, not quite a nod, but an attempt at one. "He said something." Her voice was almost inaudible.
"Tommy? Said something to you?"
"Shh. Not here." She looked around anxiously, her earlier confidence replaced by vulnerability and fear. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to take her in my arms.
By now the sound of the sirens was deafening.
Booker's new deputy, Newt Hancock, pushed us all back to make room, and we had to watch from a distance as Tommy was lifted onto a gurney and rolled into the back of the white ambulance. Booker climbed in after him, and they roared off toward Highway One. The closest hospital was in Reedsport, fifteen miles North of Cedar Hills. I only hoped the ambulance would make it on time.
"You the one that found him?"
Erica and I wheeled around and faced Newt Hancock. He was in his early thirties, I guessed, with dark lazy eyes, black glossy hair combed straight back, a stylish goatee and a silky moustache which he stroked as he spoke.
"Yes," Erica said.
"I'll need to take a statement just as soon as we finish cordoning off the area," Hancock said. "You wanna come sit down? You look a little shook." His voice was soothing. Slow and easy.
"We need to get to the hospital and check on Tommy," I said.
"It's Cassandra, right?" His eyes narrowed, long lashes nearly hiding his pupils.
"Cassidy."
"Right. Cassidy, you can go on ahead if you want, but I'll need to talk to this young lady now. Sheriff said to get her statement and that's what I intend to do."
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