Dead In Red (12 page)

“You dig too deep and whoever killed Walt
Kaplan is going to come after you.”

“It won’t go that far. I won’t let it.”

“Yeah, like you have any control over other
people and how they react.” He snatched up his glass, slopped
scotch on the deck. “Why don’t you just let the police handle
it?”

“Because they arrested the wrong
person.”

“Just because you have some kind of insight
doesn’t mean you have all the answers.”

“I never claimed to. Look, why are you so
angry?”

“Because, goddamnit, I don’t want to lose
you.” He forked a steak with unnecessary force and flipped it. It
sizzled as it hit the grill. “The thing is, you like all this
intrigue. You revel in it.”

“I do not. Tom asked me to look into Walt’s
death. The insight kicked in and now I’m trapped. It’ll keep
happening—”

“Until it stops,“ he finished.

“Yeah.”

He turned the steaks again. They weren’t
ever going to cook at this rate. “Will you be able to eat dinner?”
It sounded like an accusation.

“No. I can’t be around those women with what
they’re feeling.”

“Maggie will be disappointed.”

“For months she wouldn’t give me the time of
day. Now suddenly I’m a hot commodity.”

Richard eyed me, his anger dissolving as his
mustache quirked upward. “In more ways than one, apparently.”

I glared at him, but that jibe was what was
needed to soothe his ire.

“Please ask Brenda to back off. I can’t take
being double-teamed. If anything’s going to happen between Maggie
and me, it has to develop naturally.”

He nodded, poking at the steaks once more.
“Sure you can’t make an effort to sit through dinner?”

I closed my eyes to assess how I felt:
marginal. “No. Will you make my apologies?”

“Yeah. You going up to the apartment for a
while?”

“No. Think I’ll hit the rack.” I had
somewhere to be in the middle of the night, and I wanted to feel,
if not rested, at least better than marginal.

* * *

I wrapped
my
arms tighter around my chest and winced. Thirty-two hours down and
my ribs still hurt, and though I was cold, at way-too-much a gallon
I didn’t want to waste gas by running the engine for the heater.
Besides, cold I stayed awake; warm, I’d probably fall asleep. I
hadn’t wanted to miss Dana Watkins, so I’d been parked a short
distance from the mill since three a.m., cursing myself for not
stopping for coffee first. And why hadn’t I worn a heavier
jacket?

Headlights broke the darkness and a car
pulled up in front of the mill’s front door. Seconds later, a
figure exited the car. I yanked open my car door and made to
follow. “Dana Watkins?”

The person at the door turned. A
flashlight’s beam caught me straight in the eyes. “Hey.” I held an
arm up to block the light.

“I’ve got a gun,” the woman warned, “And I’m
not afraid to use it.”

I tried to peek around my fingers. “I hope
you’ve got a permit.”

“A permit?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t want to be shot
illegally.”

The light dipped. “Are you that Resnick
guy?” She sounded annoyed.

“Would you rather I be a robber?”

No answer.

“Look, I only want to ask you a few
questions.”

“Cyn told me not to talk to you.”

“It’s a free country—you can talk to anybody
you want.” I still couldn’t see behind the ice white light.

“Let’s see some ID, buddy.”

I reached behind me.

“Ah-ah-ah!” she warned.

“It’s in my pocket.” I turned my back to her
and slowly retrieved my wallet, took out my driver’s license, and
handed it to her.

She scrutinized the photo and winced. “Oh!
Bad hair day.”

“I wasn’t at my best,” I admitted. My head
had been partially shaved at the hospital after I was mugged. The
picture was taken three weeks later.

She kept looking at the photo and back at
me. “Well, I guess it looks a little like you.” She handed it back
and I put it away.

“Come on in,” she said and turned for the
door.

I had to blink until I could make out her
silhouette on the little porch. I stumbled up the stairs. She had
keys, not a gun, in her other hand, and used the flashlight to find
the keyhole. “Cyn said you’d probably ambush me when I left work. I
wasn’t expecting anyone to be here now.”

“I didn’t want to run into Cyn. She doesn’t
seem to like me.”

Dana reached inside and flipped a light
switch. “And why should I?”

“I’m a nice person.” She stepped inside, and
rounded on me. “Once you get to know me.”

“Uh-huh.”

I shrugged. She did an about face and
crossed the overly bright café and made for the espresso machine.
Maybe I’d get offered a cup. “Gotta get this thing going first
thing,” she said. “That way it builds a good head of steam so I can
have one before I leave.”

That would be hours away. Scratch one free
espresso.

She breezed through white swinging doors and
flicked on the lights. I followed her into the kitchen where she
tossed her purse on a counter to the left. Her next stop was the
professional coffeemaker on the back wall. “Want some?”

“You bet. This is a bit earlier than I
usually get up.”

She dumped beans into a grinder before
retrieving water from the triple sink’s faucet, and filled the
reservoir. With the coffee brewing, she fired up the ovens before
heading for the industrial sized fridge, where she extracted trays
of what looked like bread dough, croissants, and cinnamon rolls.
Next she scrubbed her hands like a surgeon before donning gloves to
work with the food. She worked with such efficiency that I was
mesmerized.

“You’ve been here almost five minutes and
haven’t asked one question. You a bakery spy or something, trying
to steal my pastry secrets?”

I laughed. “Sorry. I don’t even like the
stuff, but it’s fascinating to watch.” I cleared my throat. “I
assume you never saw the dead guy.”

She shook her head. “Only after Ted called
the police. I suppose he was there when I came in early that
morning.” She shuddered. “But like I told the cops, I didn’t see
anything or anybody. No familiar cars—no strange ones either.
Coffee’s ready. Pour me a large black and get whatever you want out
of the fridge. Sugar’s on the counter if you need it.”

“Would Cyn approve?”

“Course not. Why do you think I invited you
in?”

A smile creased my lips. I might just get
some good gossip out of Dana.

I poured the steaming coffee and doctored
mine before setting hers on the counter beside her. She grabbed it
with flour-dusted fingers and took a huge gulp. I wondered about
the state of her esophagus as I sipped mine more carefully.

“I take it you and Cyn don’t get along all
that well.”

“That’s not true,” she said, spreading apple
filling over the bottom of a dough-filled pan. “We just don’t see
eye to eye on certain aspects of the business. Like her staying out
of my kitchen. She hired me to bake, but she thinks she’s got to
have her sticky fingers in everything.”

“So delegation isn’t her specialty?”

“Control freak might be a more accurate
term. My first day here I churned out half a dozen strudels, three
dozen scones, two dozen cinnamon buns, and a couple dozen
doughnuts. Since then she’s expected that on a daily basis—and then
some. Don’t get me started about the biscotti fiasco back in
March.”

I smiled as she obviously wanted me to. “Ted
Hanson said Cyn’s already making a profit on the café.”

Dana shook her head. “Nah, it’s the outside
orders that put us in the black. But people first try our pastries
as customers in the café, then make special orders. We’re a little
too successful for a three-person operation. I’ve been trying to
get Cyn to hire me help, but she’s resisting. Gene helps out now in
the afternoons. He’s the one who got all this dough ready for me.
He comes in around eight and gets the café set up, too. Restocking
bags, taking phone orders, and polishing the display cases. We
should be paying someone for that, too.”

“How does Cyn get so much work out of
Gene?”

“He’s her nephew. I think she promised him a
percentage of the profits. He works too hard for just a straight
salary.”

So, nepotism was alive and well at the Old
Red Mill. “His name Taggert?”

“No, Higgins. I think he’s her younger
sister’s kid.”

“You and Cyn aren’t related, are you?”

Dana looked up from her work, her eyes
ablaze. “Hell no!”

“The two of you ever socialize?”

“Cyn rub elbows with the hired help?
Please.” She gulped more coffee.

“So you wouldn’t know if she ever lets her
hair down.”

“Cyn? I can’t imagine. Then again, I
sometimes think she’s a frustrated actress.”

“How so?”

Dana folded the dough over the filling,
sealed the ends and cut steam holes, then went to work on another.
“Those costumes she wears. She’s been a cowgirl for weeks now. I
guess she wore that stuff out West, but it looks kind of silly here
in Williamsville, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I dunno. They do call this the Niagara
Frontier.”

Dana laughed, from deep down in her belly.
“No wonder Cyn hates you. You’ve got a sense of humor.”

I’d rarely been accused of that. “What other
kinds of costumes does she wear?”

“Accessories mostly. Shawls, lots of
rhinestones, big earrings. And she usually manages to carry it
off.”

“Think she’d ever stoop to red-sequined
stiletto heels?”

Dana looked thoughtful. “Maybe.” Then she
giggled.

“What?”

“I’m trying to imagine her in heels,
pasties and a G-string.
That
would be too funny.”

Dana finished with the strudel, popped them
in the oven, and began working on the cinnamon buns.

“Tell me more about Gene,” I said.

“I get the feeling he’s the son Cyn never
had. He worked for her in Santa Fe, too.”

“Did he want to come back east?”

She shrugged. “I guess. He’s here. I really
don’t know much about him. Our conversations usually revolve around
orders and supplies. He seems nice enough. Very protective of
Cyn.”

I remembered him scoping out the street the
afternoon before. “So I noticed. What do you know about Cyn’s place
up in Holiday Valley?”

Dana frowned. “I didn’t know she had one.
She never talks to me about personal stuff—like, ‘How was your
weekend, Dana?’ It’s more, ‘Can you come in early tomorrow to fill
the Henderson order?’” This last she whined.

“Why do you stay?”

Dana laughed. “Because I love it. I love the
work; I love the place—and I don’t mind working with Gene. I only
have to put up with Cyn for half an hour every day before I’m outta
here. If I get some help, I could be happy working here for years.”
She smiled at me and I hoped I gave her one of equal wattage. But
as I looked around the spotless kitchen, the racks of product and
the shining equipment, I knew the place would soon be closed and
Dana would be baking elsewhere.

That at least cheered me. Dana would go on,
find work somewhere else and be happy doing it.

The future didn’t look so bright for Cyn and
Gene. I only wished my insight gave me more hints as to what that
would be.

* * *

I made
it home
before six a.m. Brenda and Richard were still in bed and I figured
there was no reason to even let them know I’d been out. I crashed
for a few more hours sleep and found my way back to the kitchen and
the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee at a little after ten.

No one was in sight, but a flower
arrangement bright with pink carnations and white daisies sat on
the kitchen table. I stopped cold. Had I missed Brenda’s birthday?
No—that was in the fall. A glance at the wall calendar told me
nothing had been penciled in on this day. So was there an occasion
I wasn’t aware of, or had the flowers arrived from one of Brenda’s
cross-country friends in advance of the wedding? Maybe the corsage
florist they’d visited days before was desperate for business and
. . .

I abandoned the thought, grabbed a mug from
the cabinet and poured myself some coffee. Footsteps echoed in the
hall—too heavy for Brenda—and Richard entered the kitchen.

“Finally up, I see.”

I blew on my coffee to cool it. “I gotta be
at the bar by eleven.”

He nodded and parked his ass against the
counter. “Your car got moved since last evening.”

Gee, and I thought he wouldn’t notice. “Uh,
yeah.”

Richard crossed his arms over his chest,
waiting.

“I got up way too early. Figured I’d go out
for a cup of coffee.”

“We didn’t run out.”

“Uh, yeah. But I guess I felt kind of
restless.”

“Uh-huh.

“Yeah.” I sipped my coffee and then changed
the subject, hoisting my cup toward the flowers on the table.
“Pretty. They make Brenda happy?”

“Well, they might’ve—if they’d been for her.
It’s your name on the card.”

I almost spewed my coffee. “My name?”

Richard nodded toward the vase. “Check it
out.”

I crossed the kitchen in four steps, set my
mug down on the table with a thunk, and tore open the envelope.

Sorry to overwhelm you last night. Let’s try
again . . . this time on your timetable. Maggie.

I blew out a long breath.

“From anyone we know?” Richard asked with
mock innocence.

“Yeah.” I handed him the card. He
scrutinized it before passing it back.

“No one’s ever sent
me
flowers.”

“It’s a first for me, too.”

“What’re you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Say ‘thank you’ like my Mama
done taught me. Then, I don’t know.”