Gone with the Wool (11 page)

They said something after that, but it was drowned out by the conversation going on behind me. I wondered what his parents had up their sleeves.

Sammy came barreling through the line. He grabbed my arm and prepared to move around the librarian. She started to block him, but Sammy's parents turned and saw us.

“There you two are,” Estelle said. The librarian made a disgruntled noise and then let us pass.

We found a table in the corner and spent a few minutes settling in with our drinks and making small talk about Vista Del Mar. Poor Sammy kept looking around nervously, probably afraid someone who knew about his magic show was going to suddenly appear and say something.

And then they got down to it. “It looks like the two of you are having lots of fun here playing house,” Bernard said. “But Sammy you need to come back to Chicago so you can
pick up your career again before it is too late and you lose your spot in the practice.”

I was listening and watching the dynamics of the room at the same time. I saw Lieutenant Borgnine use his badge to push through the line and come inside. The bulldog-shaped man squinted his eyes as he looked from table to table. I tried to will myself invisible, but it didn't work, and his gaze rested on me.

Estelle was talking to me about the advantages available for Sammy in Chicago. “You wouldn't want to be responsible for holding him back, would—” Just then the lieutenant reached the table and interrupted her.

He ignored everyone but me. “I know what you're doing, helping that boyfriend of yours. He's off the case and so are you.”

I'm not sure what upset Sammy's mother more, being cut off or what Lieutenant Borgnine had said. Sammy leaned back in his chair as his eyes went skyward in hopelessness. Bernard scowled at his son.

I took the chicken's way out. “Thanks for the drinks and suggestions, but I have to get to the restaurant to do my baking,” I said, quickly pushing back my chair. As I walked toward the door, I glanced back and saw that both the elder Glickners were leaning close to their son and seemed to be lecturing. I knew the topic was me.

I took a few minutes to refresh myself as I drove to downtown Cadbury and parked the yellow Mini Cooper in front of the Blue Door. There were more people on the street than was usual for this time. Butterfly Week or not, all the stores except for the drugstore were closed, and the restaurants that had been persuaded to stay open all week during their usual extended weekend hours were in the process of closing.

The Blue Door's waitstaff had finished clearing up and was setting up for the next day. Tag was by the front, taking care of the last diner's check. My eye immediately went to the spot where my desserts were displayed. I had such a reputation that people often ordered their dessert to be set aside even before they ordered their dinner, so they'd be sure to get it. The usual sign that read
DESSERTS BY CASEY
was missing, and there was a half of one of the cakes left.

Tag saw me looking. “See what happens when we don't put your name on them,” he said. “Lucinda made me promise not to tell you'd baked them, either. I was just told to say that we were trying something new if anyone asked.” As an afterthought he added, “You probably should bake one less cake.”

I wasn't happy with the suggestion, but I didn't say anything. Obviously, Lucinda hadn't told him why I didn't want my name associated with the desserts. His manner made me think that either he hadn't heard any rumors about my muffins being suspicious or he'd ignored them.

He seemed even more fidgety than usual and kept looking out the window. I went to take my supplies into the kitchen. The waitstaff had just finished up and were heading out the door. I took my supplies back to the kitchen and saw the chef slinging his backpack on his shoulder. “It's all yours,” he said. The words were friendly enough, but his tone sounded begrudging. There was always this awkward switch-over, since we both seemed rather territorial about the cooking space.

As I was putting the muffin supplies out of the way, Tag stuck his head in. He seemed nervous and preoccupied. “I'm not leaving quite yet. Just go on about your baking and don't pay any attention to me,” he said. He was acting so strange I wondered if I should try to contact Lucinda, but then I remembered she'd told me that he seemed worried about something and was being secretive.

Since it was obvious I had a lot less baking to do, instead of beginning to set out the ingredients for the cakes I was going to bake, I hung by the door to the dining room to see what was going to happen.

I heard a soft knock on the glass door and then Tag's voice talking to someone. I waited to see if the person would come
inside, but instead Tag went out onto the porch that ran along the side of the converted house. There was another door in the kitchen that led to the same porch, but it was solid wood. I opened it a crack and looked out into the darkness. A little light came off the street lamps along Grand Street, but it only illuminated the area enough for me to see Tag was talking to another man. They were keeping their voices low, and I couldn't make out any words, although I could pick up a little of their body language.

They weren't adversarial—if anything the other man seemed apologetic. Their conversation ended abruptly, and the other man turned to go. As he got to the stairs, the light illuminated him, though I only saw him from the back. He didn't seem familiar to me. All I could see of his clothing was a jacket that seemed like a Windbreaker, and when the streetlight hit his footwear, I saw that he was wearing boots. The shine on them made me think they were rubber.

Tag never looked in my direction, and I slipped the door shut as he went back inside. I made up an excuse to come into the main part of the restaurant. He was standing looking out the window as if he wasn't seeing what was there at all. He muttered something to himself that sounded like “Thank you.”

I cleared my throat to announce my presence. “Everything okay?” I asked.

It took him an extra moment to react. “Why are you asking?” he said, seeming nervous again. He straightened a few knives the waitstaff had left slightly off-kilter and then, without waiting for me to answer, said he was going home.

When he'd gone, I went back to the kitchen, wondering what I should say to Lucinda about Tag's behavior. I really didn't want to be in the middle of something, and yet she
was such a good friend to me, I felt an obligation to tell her what I'd seen.

I turned on some soft jazz and tried to set a better mood for my baking. I had decided on a basic chocolate layer cake and sweet potato muffins. I was taking out the baking chocolate when I heard a knock at the door.

I peered into the darkness of the front porch to check who my visitor was before unlocking the door. Dane bobbed his head closer to the glass pane and smiled.

I opened the door and invited him in. “I couldn't talk before,” he said. “I was on duty, and there were too many ears around.”

He was definitely not on duty now. His faded blue jeans hugged his body, and he wore a thick hoodie on top. With all the karate and running, his body was in perfect shape and always seemed to be full of potential energy. He had an angular face with a stubborn jaw.

He sniffed the air. “You're getting a late start,” he said. “There's usually something baking by now.”

So far I hadn't told him anything about my worries, and I debated whether to bring it up now. It seemed like he had enough on his plate with his sister. Dane followed me into the kitchen, took off the hoodie and offered to help. He saw the baking chocolate on the counter. “Do you need this chopped?” he asked.

It didn't really need to be. But it would melt faster and more evenly if the chocolate was in smaller pieces. I handed him a chopping blade, and he set to work.

“So, Chloe isn't giving up on being a princess,” I said. Dane stopped what he was doing and turned to me with a confused shake of his head.

“I don't get it. Chloe has never wanted to be part of anything around Cadbury until this. Of all the things to choose. She's my sister, but I don't think she has a chance to become Butterfly Queen, even with Rosalie Hardcastle gone.”

“I'm sorry I really don't have anything to report on her killer yet,” I said. I certainly didn't want to tell him that everyone I'd talked to seemed sure that Chloe was the killer. “You probably know more than I do.”

“Yes, nobody is supposed to tell me anything, but I'm just so lovable they can't help themselves,” he teased. “I know that the cause of death was the stabbing and her body has been released. Because of all the hoopla around here all week, I heard the town council talked her husband into waiting for the wake and funeral. They won't happen until the monarchs have all been welcomed and the queen crowned.”

“What about the knife?” I asked.

“This is actually a good place to ask about it,” he said. He looked around the kitchen and started opening drawers.

“If you're looking for the chef's knives, he takes them with him. I don't know if it's because the chef is worried I might use them and do something bad or he isn't sure if he's coming back and wants to be certain he has his belongings.” I pulled out a drawer. “This is what's here for me to use.”

Dane looked through the drawer and pulled out a paring knife. “It was something like this, and it had a label that said
Vista Del Mar Kitchen
on it.” He handed it to me, and I looked it over.

Before I could ask who had access to the resort's kitchen, Dane was already telling me that the butterfly group had ordered special food. “They had a cheese plate, and there was a knife with it. It seems most likely that's where it came from.
So, anybody who helped themselves to a hunk of cheese could have taken the knife as well.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“There were a lot of different fingerprints all over the handle. But somebody finally got the bright idea that you hold a knife differently to cut cheese than to stab someone.”

“For someone who's off the case, you seem to know an awful lot,” I said.

“It's all my charm,” he teased. “I just wink and everyone falls at my feet, except you. Anyway, they found some smudged prints, but it doesn't matter, because Chloe, in her own confused style sense, had gloves on.”

I remembered her outfit, and it did seem odd that she'd chosen to cover her hands when she'd left so much of the rest of herself exposed.

“Lieutenant Borgnine caught up with me earlier. He seemed to know that I was helping you.” I put down the knife. “And he told me back off.”

“I wonder how he found out?” Dane said. He put his hands up in innocence. “It couldn't have been anything I said. It's probably just his cop instinct, which this time happens to be right.”

“It was really awkward, too. I was sitting with Sammy and his parents in the café, and he talked about my boyfriend, and it was obvious he didn't mean Sammy.”

Dane leaned against the counter, and a cloud passed over his expression. “Have you found out why they're here?”

“They want Sammy to go back to Chicago. His mother was starting to work on me. They didn't say it exactly, but I think they're willing to do whatever it takes.”

Dane grew thoughtful. “You mean like getting you to go back with him, probably with a ring on your finger?”

“Something like that, but remember, they think he's here because of me, that we're a couple. I wish he'd just tell them about the magic and let them explode and leave.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Dane said, seeming relieved.

I let out a heavy sigh, and Dane studied my face. All the stuff he'd gone through with his family and then all the work he'd done with the local kids had made him very perceptive to people. Without me saying a word, he knew there was something else wrong.

He took my hand and led me to the small sunporch, where the tables sat all ready for the next day. He pulled out a chair and urged me to sit, and then he took a chair for himself. “Okay, let it all go. Whatever it is, I'm sure I've heard worse.”

I hung my head. “It's about my baking.” I told him about Rosalie's comment about the corn muffins. “She was trying to get the heat off her chili and put it on me.”

He started to say I should let it go, but I interrupted him. “I'm not upset about that. I'm worried that now people will think—are thinking—there's something wrong with my desserts and muffins.” He scoffed at the idea, but I continued. “It's real. Sales are down. Everybody but Maggie called up and asked me to halve their order. Even here.” I made a vague gesture toward the front of the restaurant, where the dessert counter was. “I had them take my name off the carrot cake. Tag seems to think we're doing some kind of test.”

“Just relax,” Dane said, putting his hand on mine. “Everyone will forget about the football game in a few weeks. It turns out it wasn't just local pride. I heard there was some illegal betting going on, and some people were angry that they lost.” He shook his head at the absurdness of it. “They even bet on what day the first butterflies would actually arrive.”

“You think they're betting on who gets to be Butterfly Queen?” I was joking, but only halfway. What if that was true?

“If they are, Chloe is definitely the long shot.” He got up and took me back in the kitchen. “Lieutenant Borgnine gave me the early morning shift downtown, and I probably should be home sleeping, but I'm not leaving you stuck like this. Chop-chop. Time to get back to work,” he said with a wave toward the empty bowl on the table. “Go cream that butter and add the sugar. We've got goodies to make.”