Feta Attraction (10 page)

“Did you look next door?”

“I thought Spiro had come back, but there was nobody there.” She was braver than I would have given her credit for.

Not feeling especially brave myself, I nonetheless said I would go and investigate.

“Take Russ with you!” she insisted.

“Sophie, we've never allowed any of the staff to go upstairs, and I don't think we should start now,” I said. “I'll be fine.” I hoped. She gave me her hand to help her to her feet and then followed me.

“I will stand at the bottom of the stairs, and you must call out if you need me.”

“I will.”

NINE

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked down the hallway to Spiro's room. I pushed open the door a crack, then all the way. It was undisturbed, the same as the last time I'd been in here. Moving to the center of the room, I listened for a couple of minutes, but didn't hear anything other than the noise of the restaurant downstairs. I tried to open my mind and relax to see whether I could “sense” any presences or anything, but no luck. I didn't think that would work, but was willing to give it a shot. The bathroom and closet were clear.

I continued around counterclockwise to Cal's bedroom, which had been unused for a few months now, then on to mine, neither of which produced anything but silence. No noise, no creepy feelings. I leaned over the banister and waved down at Sophie, who was still standing at the bottom of the spiral. I tried to smile reassuringly. “Be down in just a minute,” I said.

I opened Sophie's door and stepped in. She'd done the walls in a busy yellow rose print, and I always felt a little dizzy when I came in here. The repeat of the pattern gave the weird optical illusion that the roses were vibrating. The double bed was covered in a pale yellow Martha Washington spread, its fuzzy, embossed, monochrome pattern just asking to be stroked, its fringy bottom brushing the polished wood floor. No shams or throw pillows, just the spread pulled up over the two pillows and tucked underneath to create a neat roll. A perfect bouquet of a half dozen yellow roses and lacy white baby's breath sat in a crystal vase on the night table. She sent Russ down to the Bay Flower Shoppe a couple of times a week for fresh blooms, counting the change when he returned and requiring him to produce a receipt each time.

Unable to help myself, I peeked in her night table drawer. A pair of reading glasses, a small packet of tissues, the remote control, an unopened chocolate bar. A thick paperback bodice-ripper romance novel to which she would never, ever admit reading. Unfortunately, it was written in Greek, which I did not read well at all, so I couldn't discern the exact type of smut she was indulging in. But there was no mistaking those heaving female breasts and tight male riding britches. She must have had it mailed in a plain brown wrapper, because this book certainly could not be obtained anywhere in the North Country, probably no closer than New York City, a six-hour drive to the south. More likely she got it from her cousin who lived a mile or so up Route 12 during the summer. Marina ran the diner a few doors down and returned to Greece for the winter too.

Feeling guilty for snooping, I replaced the book and closed the drawer. I lay down on the bed facing the television on the opposite wall, draping my feet over the side so as not to muss the spread too much. I hated bed making. I closed my eyes and listened. Nothing. I got up and smoothed out the indentation my butt had made, then walked over to the wall adjoining Spiro's room. I put my ear up to it. Moved to a different spot. Again, nothing. I rapped on the wall in a few spots, not sure what that would accomplish, but people always did that in movies when they were investigating things. The raps produced consistent sounds no matter where I made them. I looked around the closet and then the bathroom, tidy and immaculate, not even a water spot marring the shiny chrome fixtures. It had always been clear from whom Spiro had inherited his neatness gene.

I closed the door behind me and hurried downstairs. Good thing I hadn't been sucked into another dimension or attacked by something supernatural, because Sophie had left her post and was overseeing the seating of a party of twelve or thirteen in the front dining room. They would be seen through the window from the sidewalk and would give the appearance of a full restaurant, always good for business. Since the Sailor's Rest was shut down and the ghost hunters had been here, we'd had some lucrative days.

Sophie caught my eye and directed Lucy, one of our servers, to take over. She hustled over to me, no trace of her pseudo limp slowing her progress, and gave me a questioning look.

“I couldn't find anything, Sophie. Do you think you might have dozed off and dreamt the noises?”

“No,” she insisted. “I no dream this.”

“Why don't you call Marina and sleep there again tonight? She'll be good company for you.”

“I don't want you to stay here by yourself.”

I remembered Keith's invitation to come over for a drink and decided on the spur of the moment to accept it. “Maybe I'll go over to stay with Liza at the spa.” It wasn't quite a lie, right? I didn't promise anything.

“All right. I go to Marina's.”

“Want me to go and pack you an overnight bag?”

“You come upstairs with me while I do it.”

“Sure.”

*   *   *

A couple of hours later I trundled her and her suitcase—she'd insisted on bringing the full-sized, hard-sided, baby blue monstrosity, even though she only needed a nightie, a change of clothes, and a toothbrush—into the Lincoln and gave Russ strict instructions to deliver her to Marina and then come straight back, no detours along the way. He'd be gone for a minimum of a half hour, and since we'd had a steady stream of customers all evening, there'd be a huge backup of dirty dishes when he returned. If it got too bad I could pull one of the busboys in, but they always hated that. Before she left, Sophie made me promise to keep all the cash transactions separate, giving me a wink.

I ducked back into my office, flipped open my cell phone, and dialed Keith. He answered on the second ring.

I took a deep breath. “I decided to take you up on that offer for a drink tonight.” We were friends, right? Friends could have a drink together.

“Wonderful!” He sounded genuinely happy.

“I'm going to shut down around nine thirty, so I should be able to come by around ten fifteen or so.”

“Do you want me to come and pick you up? I'm not sure I like the idea of you being out by yourself with everything that's going on in town.”

“No!” That would be the last thing I needed getting back to Sophie. Even though I'd shown some backbone with her earlier, I still planned to be discreet. “It's only a few blocks. I'll walk.”

“Okay,” he answered, “but call me before you leave. If you're not here five minutes after you call, I'm coming out to look for you.”

To tell the truth I wasn't all that crazy about walking over there alone, with a murderer on the loose, but I felt better about it now.

“Talk to you later.”

“Bye.” I rang off.

*   *   *

I called eighty-six at nine fifteen. The last diners cleared out after lingering too long over their coffees. I oversaw the kitchen and dining room cleanup, shut down the front lights, tallied up the night's receipts (saving one of the cash payments for Sophie to satisfy her lust for the cold, hard green stuff), and hustled the staff out the kitchen door in record time.

I headed upstairs and jumped in the shower. I soaped away the clinging aroma of the Chicken Marengo and shampooed, rinsed, and stepped out. I toweled and combed my hair, giving it a blast with the hair dryer. Makeup? I rarely wore more than some pink-tinted lip gloss, a swipe of sand-colored eye shadow, and some mascara if I had time. I wanted to look like I'd put a little casual effort into my appearance, but not too much so I didn't seem overeager, so I just applied the usual. My hand was shaking and I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand and had to put some makeup remover on a cotton swab to fix the mess.

At some point during the evening, I'd made a decision, though I couldn't have said when it happened.

If my husband could have a boyfriend, so could I. I wasn't sure whether this qualified as a date, but it was as close as I'd come in ages. It was time for me to move on, and there were a lot worse ways to start off a relationship with a gorgeous guy than as friends.

What to wear? I pulled item after item out of the closet and tossed each onto the bed, finally settling on a slim-fitting, coral V-necked T-shirt, jeans, and a three-quarter-sleeve navy blue cardigan. I put on a matching set of earrings, necklace, and bracelet, all handmade of multicolor, multitextured beads by a jewelry artisan in Clayton, the next town downriver. I smoothed my hair, again wishing I'd made time to get my foil highlights done this week, but it was too late for that. I took a deep breath. There was still time to back out. But I didn't. I dialed Keith's number and left the Bonaparte House.

The night was lit with a cadre of streetlights. The full moon shined bright, illuminating crowds of people in the street, and many more in each of the bar windows I passed. “Hey, baby,” a schnockered Canadian with a Gretsky-era hairdo slurred at me from the doorway of Fat Max's. “C'mon in, I'll buy you a drink.” I smiled and nodded but kept going. “Come back if you change your mind,” he called after me. “You're hot.”

Somebody thought I was hot! I was just a teensy bit pleased.

I turned up Caroline Street and walked the block to Keith's boat shop, looking behind me only once or twice. He lived above the shop, which was built over the water so he could work on the boats without pulling them into dry dock. I paused at the street-side door, then summoned enough nerve to ring the bell under the “Morgan Boat Works” sign. He was at the door too quickly to have come downstairs in the seconds since I had buzzed him. Had he been waiting on the stairs for me?

“I am so glad to see you,” he said, flashing me a big, radiant smile. He took my hand and led me up the stairs. “Come in, sit down. What would you like? I've got booze or coffee. Whatever you're in the mood for.” He gave me a pointed look.

That was a loaded question. I considered. “If it's not too much trouble, I think a decaf with a shot of Bailey's would be great.”

“Coming right up.” He went to the small galley kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a tray containing two drinks in fancy tall glass cups with handles. He sat down beside me on the ugly but comfortable green plaid couch, close enough that I could feel the heat of his leg through his Levi's but he was not quite touching me. He'd sprayed a tower of whipped cream into each coffee, then drizzled some chocolate syrup over them. A plate of Pepperidge Farm Orange Milanos sat next to the cups. Orange Milanos are a particular weakness of mine.

“Thanks. This is delicious.”

“Oh, you know I slaved over these for hours.” He took a bite of one of the buttery cookies. “So, how are things going? Any word from Spiro yet?”

“No. You haven't heard anything around town, have you?”

“Nothing other than what Inky is saying.”

“What do you know about Inky?”

“Well, I know he's not my type.”

He flashed that grin at me. It was beautiful, but I squirmed in my seat, just a little. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. Maybe I wasn't ready for this.

Keith took a sip of his drink. “He seems like a decent guy, harmless, talkative. I've never heard anything bad about him, and he's a pretty good tattoo artist.”

“How many examples of his work have you seen up close?” I flirted, then was sorry I'd said it. I was so bad at this.

“I see one every day in the shower. Want to give me your opinion of Inky's talent?”

I sucked in some whipped cream from the top of my drink and collected myself. “Uh, maybe later,” I said lamely. I was not good at cheating on my gay husband, I realized.

Keith settled back into the couch.

I changed the subject. “What about that Coast Guard guy? Did you find out who he is?”

“I talked to some people I know over at the station.” His face darkened. “They say he's on a temporary assignment, but they can't or won't tell me any more than that.”

“But he's here to investigate Big Dom's murder?”

“He was here a couple of weeks before Big Dom died.”

I took a moment to digest this. “You don't think . . . he killed him, do you?” I had a sinking feeling in my gut. A murderer had been in my office. He'd taken Spiro's cell phone. There had to be a connection, and it couldn't be good.