by Lorena May
Grace steps out, retrieves her bag from the trunk, and waves good-bye to her sister as Chloe pulls out of the parking lot. I’ll take it, Chloe. You owe me. I know what you did.
Chapter 16
~ Grace
She’s feeling good – a little reckless, but under control. Hopefully! The small hit she’s taken should get her through. Grace giggles and takes one last look in the mirror. Long beige tee-shirt layered under a woven, mustard-colored top, ripped jeans and high leather boots. . . I look like a movie star. Practicing her walk, head high, she prances gracefully around the room, gazing at her reflection. I’m Chloe, the restaurateur. She’s ready.
Stepping into the hallway, hearing the sounds of laughter and chatter, Grace stops a moment to take a breath. Her heart pounds, but her feet march unwaveringly past the group in the lobby. She continues on with a shaky little smile and a wave, breezing through the doorway, down the steps and up the sidewalk to the Kinnear Centre. A crisp mountain chill has descended this evening, and she wraps her arms around herself, shivering. What am I doing? she wonders, but she marches valiantly into the center, toward the gathering. Stopping at the door, she looks in. There’s a large ‘Welcome’ sign on a table covered in white linen where three older ladies sit smiling at attendees who are slowly streaming into the large reception area.
“Hello.” A white haired woman with smiling eyes and a face creased with laugh-lines, greets Grace as she approaches the table. “Your name?”
Grace doesn’t hesitate. She’s practiced many times. “Chloe Williams.”
The woman thumbs through the folders in front of her. “Good to see you, Chloe.” She opens the folder. “This is your schedule for the weekend, name tag, a couple of drink coupons and your meal ticket. Just swipe it when you enter the dining room. You don’t want to lose that.” She winks. “The buffets are to die for.”
“I remember!” Grace quips. “One of the reasons I keep coming back!” Chloe has prepped her. She’s been coming to this conference the past five years. Some people may recognize her. I act delighted to see them again, she prompts herself.
Grace glances at the woman’s name-tag. “Good to see you too, Sue.” Now I get a drink and mingle. Her heart is racing. This is not a familiar situation. These are not ‘her’ people. She braces herself. I’m Chloe. Living the life I deserve. Grace marches to the bar and orders a glass of pinot noir.
Turning to look at the crowd she falters. They stand in small groups. Everyone seems to know someone. She doesn’t know who she’s supposedly met before. And they’re not her usual crowd. Grace draws herself up and walks casually, Chloe-style, toward a chair on the edge of the room, willing herself to appear nonchalant.
People-watching is a fascinating sport, especially with such an exotic group. They chit-chat in clusters, large and small. A perky looking blonde has the attention of the party nearest her. Animated, pony-tail bobbing, she relays a story that has everyone chuckling. A cluster of chortling middle-aged men surrounds a bellowing blow-hard with a deep tan and Hawaiian shirt open at the neck, his gold chains glistening.
Remembering her promise to Chloe, Grace positions her phone to snap a selfie with the crowd behind her, posting it to Facebook, ‘Having a blast catching up with old friends!” she adds.
“Chloe!” A tall, immaculate woman in a black jacket and pencil skirt approaches. “I thought it was you! Good to see you.”
Grace takes a quick breath and smiles radiantly, glancing at the name tag. Thank God for those! She keeps her voice calm and pleasant; Chloe style. “Caroline, it’s good to see you too.”
Caroline slips into the chair beside Grace. “So, how’s it going? You still own all those Ritz’s?”
Grace nods. “We do. How is your business doing?” I hope to hell she has one.
“Great!” Caroline is bursting with excitement. We’ve bought a new restaurant in Calgary, and are renovating the Edmonton locations, integrating plant-based options . . . Grace nods and smiles. Ha! This isn’t so hard.
Eventually Caroline spies someone across the room. “It’s been wonderful catching up, Chloe. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow in some sessions?”
Bobbing her head as Caroline rushes toward her new target, Grace opens her folder and scans her schedule. Chloe’s signed her up for a full day.
Friday night:
7:00 – 10:00 pm – Opening night reception
Saturday:
7:00 – 9:00 - Breakfast
9:30 – 10:30 – Mental Health in the Workplace
10:45 – 11:45 – How to Curate an Interesting and Diverse Wine List
Grace giggles to herself. La de da!
12:00 – 1:30 – Lunch
1:45 – 2:45 – Happy Staff, Happy Guests
3:00 – 4:00 – Why Buying Canadian is More Important Than Ever
4:15 – 5:15 – Preventative Measures Regarding Violence and Harassment in the Workplace.
5:30 – 7:30 – Dinner
8:00 – 11:00 – Social
Sunday:
7:00 – 9:00 Breakfast
9:30 – 10:30 – Food is Medicine; Capitalizing on Health Food Movements
20:45 – 11:45 – Diversify to Thrive: Exploring New Profit Avenues
12:00 – 2:00 - Lunch
Grace swallows the last of her wine, and stands. Should she sneak off to her room where she can let loose, or enjoy the soft chatter and laughter around her? No one seems to notice that she doesn’t fit in. As she brushes past them, folks smile. Some murmur, “Hello, Chloe.” She smiles in response and carries on toward the bar.
There sits Sue, the welcoming woman from the registration table, nursing a drink. “Kinda nice to just sit back and watch people chinwag,” she says, imparting a warm smile on Grace.
Grace hands the bar-tender her drink ticket, and he slides her a glass of wine. She feels immediately comfortable with this woman. Nodding, blushing a little, she says, “It is. I’m not very good at that.”
The corners of Sue’s eyes crinkle. “Me either,” she says. “I come for the food.” She chuckles. “And the mountains. A good excuse to get away.”
Grace gazes out the massive windows. The sun’s setting behind the craggy peaks, streaks of gold and orange and purple. “It’s so beautiful!”
“It is. A wonderful reprieve from the daily grind.” Sue spins her chair to face the outdoors. In silence they both take in the beauty of it.
“You run a restaurant?” Grace asks, finally.
“A small one. Sort of a Mom and Pop kind of place. Only it’s just Mom.” Her chuckle is soft and deep. “You?”
Grace nods. She doesn’t want to lie to this woman. “There’s a lot to learn here,” she says.
“New knowledge, new ideas and then you mix them with your own, let them jell awhile and the recipe turns out pretty well.”
Grace tilts her head, puzzled.
Sue laughs. “When I first starting coming I’d rush home excited, wanting to try everything. I’d take on too much and flub it all up! Then I realized I needed to trust my own experience, my own strengths, my own customers and integrate a few new ideas with what I already did.” Her eyes sparkle. “Make sense?”
Grace’s mouth twitches. “Yes!”
“I’m seriously considering skipping out on tomorrow’s morning sessions and letting Mother Nature work its wonders,” Sue says, her eyes flickering with fun. “Want to join me?”
Can she see beneath my façade? Does she think I need ‘work’? “I’d love to,” Grace says.
AT 7:00 AM SUE IS WAITING inside the restaurant doors when Grace arrives. The clatter of dishes, rows of steaming trays, smells of bacon and herbs and something else – Grace can’t tell – greet them as they wander around tables, finding a spot for two by the window. The view is breath-taking. Sue chomps happily on her food; sausages, omelette, French toast with lots of butter and syrup, grapefruit in a small dish. Grace picks at hers, wishing she had the capacity to enjoy it as Sue obviously does.
; Sue watches her beneath a furrowed brow.
“I can’t eat much in the morning.”
“As you can see I enjoy my food a little too much,” Sue laughs, spreading her arms to display a well-fed body.
Soon they are out in the crisp morning air, following a path that winds away from the buildings of the Centre toward the bush. Mountains loom ahead, layers of rock in shades of grey. Grace stands still a moment, marveling. She’s on a mountain!
Tall grasses tickle and scratch at her ankles as they tramp at a quick pace, deep into forest. The sun is rising, golden, flickering through the leaves and she hears the rush of a stream below. She stops, now and then, to touch and smell plants dotting the ground.
“That’s a silver birch!” Sue points. “Fireweed! Brown-eyed Susan, Potentilla! Wild rose. You knew that one, right?” Sue says as Grace falls on her knees to take in the wonder of it all. There are bluebells and asters and lacy white yarrow. It’s a wondrous new world, and she’s overcome with awe and reverence. Lacing her fingers behind her head, she stares into the cloudless blue sky. Tears of joy spring to her eyes, and she chokes out a little prayer. The first she’s said in years. “God, it’s so beautiful. Let me live in your world.” She is barely aware of Sue, sitting cross-legged on the grass, a soft expression on her face.
I must show Chloe. Pulling the phone from her pocket, she positions her camera to frame her face with wild-flowers. Click. A photo to post on Facebook. A memory she wants to keep.
Chapter 17
~ Chloe
The pathway to the cabin is graveled, lined with towering trees. It’s dark and the headlights shine on the windows. They glitter back like two enormous, staring eyes
Chloe grips Steve’s hand as he gears down, the sound of his tires, grating on the gravel. “I’m glad we came,” she says, smiling up at him. “I think we need this.”
He looks at her and smiles. “We do. We need to forget all about work and just enjoy each other.” His kiss is warm and tender.
He pops the trunk, and together they pull out the cooler, carrying it across the uneven yard to the cabin door. Setting it down, he opens the door and they enter their get-away home. Tartan blankets hang over solid leather-covered furniture. A stone fireplace beckons. Steve carries the cooler into the kitchen while Chloe treads back to the car to gather their bags. Overnight-bags with only casual, comfortable clothes, tooth-brushes and essentials. It will truly be a weekend away.
It’s dark now. After a trip from Edmonton to Banff and back to Rockydale for Chloe, and a full day’s work trying to balance accounts for Steve, the day has passed.
Steve builds a fire. In no time the warmth and crackling sound fills the cabin. Chloe watches his broad back, finely chiseled face, his capable hands as she pulls from the cooler steaks, salad, just needing to be dressed, potatoes, already covered in foil, and garlic bread. “Here,” she says, handing the meat, potatoes and bread to her husband, “You start the barbecue and I’ll throw the greens together. I’m starving! I’ll pour the wine.”
They dine on rare filet, new potatoes, sour cream and chives, fresh kale salad, and buttery garlic bread, sipping their drinks, staring deeply into each other’s eyes. Steve sighs with pleasure. “You were so right. Whatever happens with the business, it’s okay. We have each other.”
Chloe leans her head on Steve’s shoulder as they move to the old, over-stuffed couch. She reaches to stroke his jaw; strong, defined. Looking down at her, he sets his drink on the table and lifts her chin to gaze into her face with worshipping eyes.
“How did I get so lucky?” he murmurs, caressing her cheek.
She laughs, a low, throaty laugh, and kneads his brawny shoulder. He brushes the hair from her face, looking deeply into her eyes. When he bends to kiss her, taking her glass from her hand, her breath catches. Her flesh tingles. The heat of his mouth finds hers, and she trembles with anticipation. Trailing soft-lipped kisses along her throat, he caresses her body with expert fingers. She aches with need. “Let’s go to bed,” she whispers.
Later, as he lies softly snoring, she strokes his hair and kisses his clean-shaven cheek.
Chapter 18
~Darby
Sergeant Darby Greer clenches her jaw as she hunches over her computer writing up the latest case. A Ponzi scheme; fraud. The asshole will get two years minus time for good behavior after destroying the lives of hundreds of innocent investors. White collar crime. What a fucking farce.
A rap on the door is followed by Jill’s head poking through the opening. “Darb, a woman is on the line. Frantic. She says there’s been a murder.”
Darby picks up her phone. “Hello. Sergeant Greer speaking . . .”
“My boss has been shot!”
“Did you call 9-1-1?” Darby asks.
“No! He’s definitely dead,” the woman shrieks.
“Where are you?”
“The Ritz – staff room!”
“We’ll be there right away.”
The woman hangs up. Darby buzzes Brandon, her new partner. If only it were Mel. But her old cohort has retired and is living the life of Riley in Panama.
Brandon picks up right away. “Hey, Boss.”
“A woman’s just called - a murder at the Ritz. That fancy restaurant the end of Main Street. We need to go now.”
“Yes, Ma’am!” She can picture the arrogant smirk on his face. What is it about him that makes her feel like such a tight ass?
She strides from her office, down the hall, past Reception. “Sounds like a murder at the Ritz, Jill,” Darby calls out to her co-worker who appears to be busily scanning a file on her computer. . “Call CSI. We’re on our way.”
Jill looks up. “Will do.” Sergeant Jill Becker is Ms Efficient. Crime Scene Investigators will probably be there before Darby and Brandon arrive.
Darby throws on her helmet, jumps on her bike, revs the motor and glances at Brandon who has followed on her heels. Roaring through the streets of Rockydale on their bikes, they race, zipping down hilly streets, past sleepy-looking houses and closed shops to the edge of town. She wins, and jumps from her bike, struggling to conceal the triumph she feels over this small victory.
It’s early, and the Ritz is devoid of people. The smells coming from the kitchen make Darby’s mouth water. Linen-covered tables with fresh flowers, sparkling china and crystal are scattered throughout a large dining room with a vaulted cedar ceiling and full-length windows that look out onto a burgeoning garden and green vines covering a quaint, stone wall.
The two officers make their way to the back of the restaurant where a door hangs open. They hear a kind of snuffling sound. Darby and Brandon stop to slip on shoe-covers and gloves.
The staff-room is airy and bright; pine floors, a streamlined beige couch flanked by a glass coffee table and little else. Darby sniffs. Lemon with an undercurrent of something foul. A metallic, chemical smell. A large red purse lies open on the sofa; the only item out of place. On the granite counter sits a Keurig coffee-maker and a microwave. Darby frowns as she eyes her surroundings. Something is off. There is no sign of human activity. No sign there ever has been. She thinks of their own staff-room back at the precinct where discarded newspapers, magazines and coffee cups are strewn on the table and in the sink. Beside her, Darby hears Brandon release a little rush of air, his eyes focused on the corner of the room. There, like a gaping wound, they see a daybed, rumpled and covered in blood.
A well-built, youngish man is sprawled across it, his upper body propped on a cushion, hands clasped behind his neck, almost tauntingly. His body language says, “Come and get me.” Someone has. Much to his surprise. Wide and startlingly blue, his eyes register staggering alarm. A hole in his white golf-shirt is circled with blood. It looks like an angle shot from a few feet above. The sheet beneath him is blood-soaked. Yes, this man is definitely dead. Darby looks into his face. Strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, slightly tanned skin with just a touch of stubble. Handsome, even in death.
Beside him on t
he floor a distraught blonde woman kneels, her head in her hands. She turns a bloated, tear-stained face toward Darby and Brandon as they approach. “I came into work and found him here,” she says.
Darby squats by her, touching her shoulder. “Let’s go sit down.” She puts her arm around the woman’s waist. The blonde rises, staggers and follows on wobbly legs, plunking onto the couch. “Is he lying exactly as you found him?” Darby asks.
She nods, fresh sobs erupting from her throat.
Brandon is on his cell phone calling for officers to patrol the area looking for anyone who may have seen something. Now, he scans the floor with a flash-light, takes pictures, writes notes, bends to inspect the body, being careful not to touch it. Like spectres, three Crime Scene Investigators, covered from head to toe in white, drift in.
Darby focuses on the woman beside her. She is fiftyish, shapely and attractive, despite her running make-up and frazzled appearance. Dressed in a tight, low-cut red dress, spike heels and flashy gold jewelry she looks out of place in her present state. Almost grotesque. With shaking hands, she reaches into the purse that lays beside her, fumbles with a package of duMaurier cigarettes and manages to light one, her ruby lips drawing deeply.
“Not supposed to smoke in here, but the boss can’t see.” She laughs a bitter, hiccupping laugh.
“You found him laying the way he is now?” Darby asks again, gently.
The woman nods.
“I’m Darby Greer from the RCMP, and you are . . .?”
“Mona.” Her voice is husky. “Mona Lambert. I came into work at six and found him there.” With obvious effort she composes herself and looks directly at Darby.
“Did you see anyone else when you arrived?”
“Only the pastry cook. I popped my head into the kitchen.”
“Tell me step-by-step what you did and what you saw as you arrived,” Darby says.
“I got to work about 6:00 am. We open for brunch at 7:00. Only, Hannah, the pastry cook’s, car was in the lot. Nothing looked any different.”