Grilling the Subject (17 page)

“Jerk.”

“No, he's not.”

“You don't walk out when the conversation gets dicey.”

“You did. Permanently.”

David grumbled and dumped two lumps of sugar into his cup. He hated sugar in his tea.

“Bailey's boyfriend, Tito—” I hesitated. “You remember Bailey.”

“How could I forget her? A spitfire.”

“Tito said men need a cooling-off period.”

“He's right. Remember that book we read? We'd been married three years. What was the name of it?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, right.
Men Are from Mars; Women Are
from Venus.
By that therapist. He said you have to keep the rubber band taut between a man and a woman. The woman has to give a man space.”

He was referring to the passage where the therapist suggests that a man, typically, retreats into his cave. A woman, thinking she has done something wrong, sneaks into the cave. She wants to see if he's all right and whether she can
fix
the situation. The therapist suggests that a relationship needs good, healthy tension, and that the woman, in order to maintain that positive tension, needs to stay outside the cave so the man will come back out. The message was pretty basic, but I got the point.

“I'm not sure I can do that,” I said.

“Sure you can. You're a master of it!” David leaned forward and winked at me. “Trust me, I know. You're doing it now, and I want you so badly I can taste it.”

W
hat could I
say? At that moment, it was clear to me that I didn't feel the same way. Yes, I cared for David, but I also pitied him, and I didn't trust him, and I would never love him the way I had before. Ever.

When we returned to the cottage, the tension between us was thick. I kept my distance, allowing him to clean up first and settle onto the couch. He complained of a headache and a stomachache. I asked if he wanted some medicine. He didn't respond. Poor Tigger seemed torn between the two of us. Having found his calling as a therapy cat, he seemed concerned about David, as if staying by his side would keep David healthy. Ultimately, however, Tigger chose snuggling with me on my bed, and I felt an odd sense of satisfaction.

The next morning, even though I had slept fitfully, I awoke energized and ready to attack the day. I skipped my morning exercise, put on a pink-striped shirt and white jeans, and checked on David. He was sleeping, his breathing shallow, his eyes puffy, as though he had wept during the
night. Tigger leaped onto the couch and tucked into David. Quietly I tickled his chin and praised him for being such a good, sweet boy.

Next, I cut up some fruit and left a bowl of it and a sliced bagel on the kitchen table for David with a note:

Tea and honey are in the cupboard. Call me when you wake. ~J

And then, before heading to the shop, I followed an impulse and drove to The Pier. Rhett hadn't returned my call. He hadn't texted me. When I arrived home last night, I didn't feel it was appropriate to call and wake him. Now, I wanted to see him in person. To apologize. To let him know I had made my decision. I was going to start divorce proceedings. David would have to comply.

Unfortunately, Rhett wasn't at Bait and Switch. The sporty saleswoman said Rhett had called in late last night. He went out of town for the weekend.

I left heartbroken. Had he gone away to decide how he felt about me, to find the words to end
us
, whatever
us
was? By choosing to allow David to stay under my roof, had I made it impossible for Rhett to reach out to me? I called his cell phone; the call went instantly to voice mail.

In a funk, I slogged to Mum's the Word Diner. I needed comfort food and a strong cup of coffee before I could face the rest of the day. Luckily for me, I had beaten the Saturday morning crowd. I slipped onto a stool at the counter, perused the menu, and selected a zesty western omelet packed with ham, cheese, and red pepper flakes.

“'Morning, Jenna.” Ronald Gump was sitting two spots to my right, eating alone. A fedora sat on the seat beside him. His cane hung over the back of the stool.

“I apologize, sir,” I said. “I didn't see you there.”

“I'm pretty invisible.”

“I'm . . . sorry for your loss.” What else could I say?

He nodded thanks. He didn't look as pale as he had the last time I'd seen him—his skin was ruddier—yet he seemed dog-tired. He took a bite of what looked like a ham and egg sandwich. Some sort of orange-colored sauce dribbled down Ronald's chin and onto his checkered shirt. He chuckled softly and muttered, “Slob.”

“I think the Wild West week is making slobs of us all,” I said, giving him an excuse. “I can't imagine how people kept clean back in the day, what with beans and gravy, and well . . .”

My unconvincing argument elicited a tepid smile. Using a napkin, he blotted the stain, then pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. The move made me flash on his testimony. Could he have seen well enough with those bifocals to determine who was fleeing from the fire?

“Sir, I apologize for asking, but you told the police you saw my father running—”

“I did!”

“Are you sure it was him? I mean, was it possible you saw someone else, maybe someone about the same size as my father? What if the culprit”—I didn't want to be crude and say
murderer
—“was a woman? Maybe Ava Judge. Do you know what her alibi was? Or what about D'Ann Davis? She loves the color red. I'll bet she owns a plaid jacket. Or how about Shane Maverick? Do you think there's any reason he might have wanted to hurt Sylvia? I heard a barbecue sauce bottle top was found at the crime scene. Did Sylvia serve Shane's steak sauce recently on the property?”

Ronald leveled me with a cold stare. “Young lady”—he tossed his napkin on the counter—“I thought you wanted to chat, not investigate. Let me grieve in peace.”

“Yes, of course. I only—”

“Don't say another word.” He threw a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, snatched his cane and hat, clipped a sunglasses cover on his bifocals, and hobbled out of the diner.

I blew out an exasperated breath. What had I been
thinking? How could I have been so heartless? That wasn't
me
. But with my father in jeopardy and David back in my life—

“Jenna?” Rosie sashayed up to me, her brown-toned skin gleaming with perspiration. A glazed purple flower adorned her uniform. Purple sequined hair clips glistened in her hair. “What happened?”

“I scared off Dean Gump.”

Rosie clucked her tongue. “Don't worry, sugar. He'll be back. He loves his barbecue, and he loves his onion rings, too. Ronald runs rings around Rosie.” She leaned forward, bracing her palms on the counter. “By the by, do you know what he revealed a few seconds ago? Not that I'm spreading rumors or anything.”

“Of course not.” I leaned forward, eager to learn a secret.

“His wife received a text that morning to meet on the bluff.”

“From whom?”

“It was anonymous, and get this, the text didn't come through on Sylvia's regular phone. It was on a what-do-you-call-it phone, the kind you can toss away.”

“A burner?”

“That's it!” Rosie stabbed the counter. “Now why didn't I see that mentioned in the newspaper?”

“I'd bet the police would like to keep that quiet.” I put my finger to my lips.

“Oh, of course. Shh
.
” She mimicked my warning. “Do you want my two cents? Ronald looks—”

“Better. Stronger.”

“Yes, of course, but that's because of the makeup. He shouldn't wear it, in my opinion. It makes him appear older, don't you think?”

“He's wearing makeup?”

“On his cheeks.” She tapped three fingers on hers. “Didn't you notice? Rouge!”

Aha! That was why Ronald had appeared ruddier to me.

“I think he's trying to fool the community that he's on
the mend,” Rosie went on, “but he can't put one past me. No, sir. He's exhausted. Look at him.” She fanned her hand and stared out the front window.

I followed her gaze. Ronald hadn't traveled very far from the diner after being upset with me. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning on his cane, chatting with a lady in denim.

“He's lost without Sylvia,” Rosie continued, “and without her to inspire him, he's feeling quite
off
. I heard he's going to retire.”

“I heard that, too.”

“I hope to heaven it's not true. My daughter is a student at the junior college, and she simply adores him. She says he's always on his toes; he knows everyone's business. Why, the other day when she ran into him on campus, he knew her name right off the bat, and he knew her grade point average down to a decimal point.” Rosie spanked the counter. “Can you imagine a sharp man like that quitting? No, sir.”

I glanced at him again, and something started to eat at me. The woman in denim batted her eyelashes. Ronald smiled. Was he flirting or was he faking interest? With the clip-on sunglasses, it was impossible to see if his eyes were smiling.

A wild thought flew into my mind. Rosie said Ronald was lost without Sylvia, and the mayor had said something similar when we chatted at the pole-bending event, yet I recalled how horridly Sylvia had treated Ronald at the movie theater the other night. Had she pushed him too far? Did he kill his wife so he could move on?

No, I cautioned myself. I was grasping at straws. I had so many suspects and no clue why Sylvia was killed. The
why
mattered. In order to clear my father, I had to figure out the killer's motive.

*   *   *

My aunt had
arranged for Fisherman's Village to sponsor a special day for families during the Wild West Extravaganza
week. True, independent contractors like the rope trick lady had held their events in the parking lot throughout the week, but Saturday was our special day. Aunt Vera had hired a group to bring in a petting zoo and a small train. Each was set up within a fenced perimeter. She had also hired valet parking attendants to shuttle attendees back and forth to a lot farther up Buena Vista Boulevard so no one would be inconvenienced.

By the time I arrived at the shop, the fun was already in high gear.

“This is the cleanest petting zoo I've ever seen,” I heard one mother exclaim.

“Almost on par with Disneyland,” another said. “I swear, those animals don't poop.”

Inside the fenced area toddler children, with their hands stretched in front of them, cautiously approached groomed goats. No food was allowed. That was what made the goats, you know,
poop
.

The choo-choo train, which was painted with an adorable assortment of horses, tooted with a loud neigh. Every time it did, children applauded and begged for more.

Aunt Vera met me in the lot looking regal in a burgundy caftan. “Isn't this a hit?”

“Absolutely.”

“That Shane Maverick is a magician. He suggested it.”

Speaking of Shane, I caught sight of his betrothed, Emily Hawthorne, and a towheaded five-year-old boy I knew to be her nephew. They were standing near Beaders of Paradise, waiting in a long line to board the train. Emily looked sweet in her typically Brontë-esque fashion. The boy seemed entranced by the train. He was resting his hands and chin on the perimeter fence. Emily saw me and motioned for me to join her.

“Coming?” My aunt hitched her head toward the front door. Her turban bobbled. “We have a wealth of customers.”

“In a sec. I'd like to say hello to Emily.”

“Don't be long. There are a few clients waiting for me to tell their fortunes.” My aunt hated to make anyone wait.

As I approached Emily, butterflies took up residence in my stomach. What could she tell me about Shane? Did he kill Sylvia to keep his affair with her a secret?

“'Morning.” I smiled. “How's that baby doing?”

“Kicking to get out,” Emily said in her dainty, girlish voice. “I think he wants to be a soccer player like his uncles.”

“You said you have four brothers.”

“That's right but only one nephew. My sisters-in-law, according to my mother, have to get the ball rolling. She wants at least ten grandchildren, two per family. It's funny, really. When I was growing up, all my mother did was carp about the fact that she'd had too many children.” Emily chuckled and stroked her nephew's neck again. “Jenna, is it true?”

“Is what true, about your mother?”

“No, silly.” Emily offered an amused grin. “Are you investigating Sylvia's murder?”

I sputtered. “Investigating?”

“Your father stands accused.”

“He's innocent.”

“He hasn't been arrested?”

“No, he—” A prick of panic shot through me. Had my father been arrested? Surely my aunt would have said something. If only Cinnamon would return my calls.

“Have you considered Ava Judge a suspect?” Emily asked. “She was terribly jealous of Sylvia.”

“Really? Why?”

Emily bobbed her pretty head. “Ava and Shane were involved at one time, but then he set his sights on Sylvia.”

Smack me as the sucker. Emily knew about Shane's affairs? And Ava was pre-Sylvia? I had reversed that order.

Emily laughed. “Don't look so stunned. I'm not as stupid as I appear.”

“I never thought you were stupid.”

“Naïve, then. Looks can be deceiving.” She winked. “Need I remind you, I've got four brothers? I had to play the delicate little flower to get heard around my house. My mother said I was wily.” She batted the air. “Anyway, here's how it went down with Ava. She met Shane and, like every woman who has met him, fell hard.”

I hadn't.

“She became super jealous when she realized he had the hots for Sylvia.”

“How can I ask this tactfully? Were you in the picture yet?”

“Shane and I dated, pre-Ava, but we broke it off because he was always in and out of town, and I wanted something steadier.”

Wow! Emily was way more worldly-wise than Shane or I knew.

“So he started up with Ava,” Emily said. “She was obsessed with him. She gave him all sorts of gifts. But two weeks into their fling, he hooked up with Sylvia. That woman could make men act like lapdogs.”

Honestly? I couldn't fathom that. Sylvia was not your typical femme fatale.