Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (145 page)

Ty let out a chuckle.

We sat there and talked about our days. I thought about holding back on what I’d learned about Charlie Modine but then remembered the troubles we had early on in our relationship because either I was keeping too much from Ty or he couldn’t handle the little I told him. We had been down that road in the past and had both promised not to go there again. The truth was hard to hear sometimes, but secrets were harder.

I told him about my Google search and the suicide.

“His story just keeps getting sadder, huh?” he said. “Poor bastard.”

“Yeah. I wonder if he feels guilty about it. Killing himself, I mean. He told me it was a heart attack.”

Ty looked at the flames and nodded.

“And now that I’m putting it together, he’s always covered,” I said. “Coat buttoned up high, scarf around his neck. Maybe he’s hiding it from me.”

“Or it was just the way he dressed when he was alive,” Ty said. “Manhattan and all that. Or maybe he’s just cold.”

“He does seem to complain about how cold he is all the time. Which is kind of weird. They usually don’t seem to feel those things.”

“Everyone has their limits.” Ty got up and threw another log in the fire. “Why should ghosts be any different? Hey, you think Modine is right? That the killer is really here in town?”

“I don’t know. If it is him, there’s still a huge canyon between knowing that and proving he did it. That’s the part I’m struggling with. At some point I’ll need something to take to the police. I have to find a piece of solid evidence. Something that was overlooked, something that links him to her death. But right now all that feels very far away.”

“You think it’s like he says, that it was more than a hit-and-run?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s hard to tell.”

Ty shook his head.

“What?”

“Be careful, that’s all,” he said. “If you assume this guy’s a killer, you have to assume that he’d stop at nothing to keep his secret. I don’t like the idea of you going after him, Abby.”

“I’m not going
after
him.”

“You know what I mean. If he got away with murder, you have to figure he’s pretty smart.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“Just promise me you’ll take me with you. Or David or that guy from school.”

“I promise. Oh, man. David would be thrilled.”

“Great. Just remind him this here is real life.”

“I will, but I’m not sure he knows what that means.”

He leaned forward, lost in thought or something dark. His face glowed in the flames and the wind howled around the outside of the house.

“I knew someone once who did that,” he said finally, his voice low. “It happened about a year before I came out here. Her name was Julie. She married a friend of mine. And they seemed really happy, you know. But seven months after the wedding, out of the blue, she killed herself. No one saw it coming. It’s been years and Russell’s still not the same. I don’t think he’ll ever be the same.”

I reached over and held his hand.

“I’m so sorry, Ty,” I said, the words feeling small.

He kept looking at the fire.

“I still think about her sometimes, you know, before I drift off. I watch you sleep, watch you breathe, and I think how lucky I am. But it scares me a little. Sometimes it scares me a lot. I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ah, hell. I’m sorry for being such a downer. You know a lot more about all that than I do. Death and dealing with it. After all this time, I know you still miss him.”

“I do,” I said. “But it helps being able to see him once in a while. And it helps that you understand. It makes me love you even more. If that’s possible.”

We didn’t talk too much about Jesse, but the few times we did Ty was always gentle. But there was also a current beneath it, beneath us.

“I love you,” he said slowly, just above a whisper, his words blending in with the crackling and hissing of the fire.

I took his hand and pulled him into me. I wasn’t sure, but as I was kissing him there, I thought I felt a tear run down his cheek.

CHAPTER 22

“Have one of these,” Miguel said, sliding a plastic container across the table. “Just a little something I threw together before leaving the house this morning.”

I put one in my mouth, the subtle tartness of the cream giving way to an intense burst of brininess as it hit my tongue.

“Oh, man,” I said, shaking my head. “What are these?”

“Marionberry blini with
crème fraîche
and caviar. Have another.”

I reached for one but then stopped. I heard David’s voice.

“Thanks, no, I need to be light on my feet in there,” I said, pointing in the direction of the lecture hall. “Otherwise I would. Believe me.”

Miguel smiled.

“It makes me jealous of her,” I said.

“Of who?”

“Your future wife. I mean, she’s gonna eat like a royal.”

His fleshy cheeks turned dark as he looked away.

I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands before heading to class.

Lecture days were a pain. It never took too long for the stress to reach the boiling point as Dubois called on one student after another. On the surface it might appear that she was checking for understanding, but the reality was that she was on the hunt for a victim. Someone she could dangle over the bubbling pot of culinary ignorance before finally dropping their carcass inside.

And it was never just one question. It was an interrogation that sooner or later always ended the same way. In death.

So far Miguel was the only one who had managed to get out alive.

I was pretty sure no one enjoyed it, but for me it was different. It was torture. I heard once that most people would rather die than speak in public, and having experienced both I couldn’t really disagree with the majority. It didn’t matter that I knew all the students and had worked with them since September. When I was called on to speak, they all turned into a faceless, heartless blob of judgment.

My brain clogged up and stopped working. I came off as a slacker, as someone who hadn’t bothered doing the assigned reading, even though I had. Most of the time, I even knew the answer, but my nervousness stifled it and it slipped back far inside my head often resulting in a disappointing look of pity or disdain from the instructor.

I wanted to think I was getting better at it, but I knew I wasn’t.

I took my seat just a few seconds before she stepped to the front and scanned the room, noting the names of the absent on her clipboard.

“
Bonjour
,” she said.

And then we were off. I strapped in and held on tight. She started by talking about the origin of sauces and how they began to spread in France in 1691. She described it as a “culinary revolution” that took the country by storm.

“And then, in the nineteenth century, Antonin Careme furthered French classical cooking, developing the ‘Grande Cuisine,’ or the high art of French cooking, perfecting and classifying four of the five mother sauces of which you are learning about,” she said, pacing back and forth. “And for those of you who have the passion for watching cooking shows on your televisions, keep in mind that
Monsieur
Careme is considered one of the first celebrity chefs, well-known throughout France.”

She stopped and looked out at the class. She found Miguel, who actually seemed happy that he was on her radar.

“So then,
Monsieur
Berasategui, who was it that added the fifth and final mother sauce?”

“Auguste Escoffier,” Miguel said. “In the twentieth century, he added the hollandaise and its derivatives covering classic emulsions.”

She continued to question him on the proper cooking temperatures of fowl, and then on the different small sauces that could be made with a
velouté
.

“
Oui
. And what is the base for the
velouté
?”

“The base is a white stock, classically veal, although fish stock can be used, and the thickening agent is a
roux
, although a
liaison
can be used.”

“And the difference between a
roux
and
liaison
?”

“A
roux
is a mixture of fat and flour cooked together. A liaison is a mixture of egg yolks and cream.”

And then it was my turn.

“
Mademoiselle
Craig,” she said. “What can you share with the class in regards to your reading last evening?”

The pounding began in my chest and then reached my ears. I could feel my brain being whisked like eggs at an all-night diner. I took an uneven breath and some words came out of my mouth.

“Uh, Ferdinand Point’s signature dishes seemed good.”

“
Oui
, and can you give an example?”

Her heels clicked loudly on the tile floor.

“
Foie Gras en Brioche
,” I said.

She didn’t need to tell me I was right. I just wished she would stop before my head split open in some sort of crazy Day of the Dead grin.

“And so, what else can you share about
Monsieur
Point?”

“Well, it’s a quote. He said that success is the sum of a lot of small things done correctly.”

“Hmmm, and why did this strike you as important?”

“Because to become good at something, you have to perfect the little steps. You have to show up every day and practice the basics. You have to master them, the small things, before you can achieve great results.”

I wasn’t thinking about cooking when I read the quote in the textbook. It reminded me of soccer, and that’s why it stuck in my head so easily. Because it was true. Success was based on mastering the basics. A shot can be broken down to its parts. Planting the non-shooting foot properly, pointing it in the direction you want the ball to go. Keeping your weight balanced and not leaning back as you followed through. These things in and of themselves were simple and easy to do. And they were the key to success, but so many players skipped these fundamentals.

“
Très bon, Mademoiselle
,” Dubois said and nodded.

I was pretty sure my feet were still a few inches off the ground when I heard Miguel’s voice in the parking lot later.

“Don’t forget to practice. That test is just around the corner.”

“It’s on my list but not tonight. I’m working.”

“How about tomorrow night then? I could drop by and help show you some of my techniques.”

I didn’t know what to say and the comment just hung in the air awkwardly.

“I mean…” he said, laughing nervously.

“Another time. You could come over for dinner some night. I’d love you to meet Ty.”

“Yeah, okay, bye.”

He rushed off to his car.

I guessed I had been too busy or distracted or tired to give it much thought, or maybe I just didn’t want to deal with it right now. But I had noticed a change lately, the light waves of energy dancing above Miguel’s head sometimes when he looked at me.

I would have to talk to him, but not tonight.

I smiled all the way to Back Street.

CHAPTER 23

On my drive into work I was struck by a thought.

What if Charlie Modine hadn’t killed himself after all? What if it had just been made to look that way?

If you believed his crazy story that there was a plot to kill Sarah Modine, which I wasn’t quite ready to at this point, it wouldn’t be too much more of a stretch to think that Charlie had been taken out as well. He had, after all, just put his theory out in the press. And then he died. The Church might have been trying to tie up any loose ends. It would have been very easy for the police to believe that a grief-stricken Charlie Modine had committed suicide. There probably wasn’t much of an investigation.

The light had changed to green but I sat there, wondering whether Sarah Modine’s killer had also murdered Charlie.

The blast of a car horn snapped me out of it a moment later.

But if this scenario was true, why hadn’t Charlie Modine just come out and said that he had been killed, too? Why did he hold fast to his heart attack story?

The questions just kept piling up.

***

I found David behind the machines, pouting.

“I’ve completely lost my mojo,” he said, his face a wilted rose. “Just a few short months ago I was a star. Now look at me. I make coffee drinks for a living, and for shits and giggles, I fly down to L.A. for auditions only to be told I’m too alternative. Too alternative! What does that even mean?”

“It’s their loss, David,” I said. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

“Shame on you, Abby Craig!”

“No, it’s just that I know bigger and better things are coming your way. You know, how they say one door closes and another opens. You’re gonna be the poster boy for that saying. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You’ll see.”

He stared at me with large eyes.

“Do you see something in my future, Abby Craig? You know, in that voodoo-that-you-do way?”

“David, you know I don’t see those sorts of things. Not most of the time anyway. It’s just a real strong feeling I get from you. Something big’s just around the corner.”

“If you say so,” he said. “But come on! What do these Hollywood people want? I would have made a great Philip ‘The Chicken Man’ Testa.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll always be the Chicken Man to me. Now let’s crack some eggs.”

“You are beyond dope, Abby Craig.”

We got down to work.

“Say, what are you doing tonight?” he said after the crowd thinned out.

“I have reading and a test to study for. And a sauce to practice if I have time.”

“Boy, getting sauced seems like just what the doctor ordered.”

“You’ve got to get yourself a new doctor.”

“Nonsense. Pain is never seen again when Dr. Goose is on the loose.”

I smiled and shook my head.

“Okay, but let’s go to the gym before we hit the sauce,” he said. “I need to work off some of this disappointment I’m feeling and you need to keep a good thing going.”