Fed Up (13 page)

“Actually, a detective showed up while the health department guy was here. He made me run through every detail of the day. Nice guy, but I had to repeat the same answers three times while I was trying to work. He may call you, too, and I assume he’ll talk to everyone else who was there.”

“Josh, did the detective tell you . . . Josh, what killed Francie was digitalis. It’s a heart medicine. She was poisoned. Leo called me, and he told me. So, I hope they’d want to talk to everyone there. Do you know if they have the video footage? I was thinking there might be some useful evidence on there.”

“The cops do have it. They made sure I knew they had it, and they reminded me I better be telling the truth, since they had a detailed record of the day.”

So much for getting my hands on the video. I changed the subject. “Is everything going all right at Simmer? Gavin seemed to be in a bit of mood last night.”

“Yeah, just the usual bs around here. It’s all good.”

“Seriously? Because it seems like things have been pretty rough for you there. I know Gavin has been riding you pretty hard about food and labor costs, and you’re still working such long days—” I started.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about this, but trust me. Everything’s going to work out.”

“If you say so,” I said with some doubt. “Hey, it was good to see Digger the other day. Except for the circumstances, I mean. How’s he been doing?” I asked.

“Good. Same old grind at his restaurant, too, but I think he’s doing great.”

“Oh, good. I guess I thought he looked a little off the other day,” I hinted. “Even before everyone got sick. Kind of pale.”

“Pale? Well, you know us chefs. No one gives us a day off to go relax in a hot tub or lie in the sun.”

“I just thought maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Maybe a virus.” I cleared my throat. “Or a heart problem.”

“What are you talking about? Digger doesn’t have a heart problem, you kook.” I recognized the sound of a pan hitting the professional-sized gas range in Simmer’s kitchen.

“Oh, good. Is there anyone in his family with a heart condition? Maybe he should be careful about—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Josh started laughing. Meanwhile, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand, smearing dark brown goop all over my eyelid. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but Digger is the same as ever, and I don’t know the slightest thing about his family. Is this about this poison? The heart medicine? Whatever you’re doing, you’re not being subtle. So, what’s going on?”

“Um, nothing. Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“Chloe? Spit it out.”

“Then tell me what’s going on at Simmer,” I countered.

“Fine.” He laughed again. “We’ll call it a draw.”

“Agreed.”

“Give Inga a kiss for me, and tell her I said good luck at the groomer’s.”

I shut down the computer, gathered my client files, and got Inga into her carrier. On the way to my car, I repeatedly assured Inga that everything she was about to endure was for her own good. Once we got to the Fancy Feline, the owner, Glenda, confirmed what I’d been telling Inga; Glenda was as horrified as I was about the state of Inga’s coat. “What monster did this to you, sweetheart?” Glenda asked as she gently examined the little cat. But Glenda had goods news: she thought that she’d be able to shave off the mats rather than Inga’s entire coat.

I apologized to Glenda for the blood and urine that remained on Inga. I’d done my best to get the mess out, but I’d wanted to avoid hurting or frightening her; I was playing good cop, and Glenda was stuck playing bad cop. When Inga was back in her carrier, I poked a finger through the grated door and wiggled it at her. She looked pathetic and scrawny.

“I promise I’ll come back for you. I promise.” I wiped tears from my eyes as I left the shop.

TO avoid feeling overwhelmed by my sympathy for Inga, I spent the ten-minute drive to my parents’ house cursing the clumsiness of my efforts at detection. As social work’s answer to Nancy Drew, I was a flop. The official investigators, however, weren’t exactly a success, at least so far, and they’d presumably known the autopsy results longer than I had. Furthermore, they weren’t motivated the way I was: I was the one who’d seen Francie suffer the effects of the poison, and I was the one who couldn’t get that image out of my head. So, instead of scaring Adrianna about her baby’s health and instead of asking Josh ridiculous questions about Digger’s cardiac status, I needed to cool down and apply my powers of rational thought. For example, Josh had said that the person from the department of health had asked about herbs. Was there some reason to suppose that the digitalis had been added to the herbs that Josh had used? Or was there some other connection between digitalis and herbs? I’d scanned only a few of the Web pages that my Google search had produced. I’d return to the task when I got home. In the meantime, I decided, I’d do my best to avoid discussing Francie’s murder with my parents. Their house was going to be my safe harbor. My happy place.

My parents’ white Spanish stucco house did look happy—or at least improbable and whimsical, belonging as it did in Santa Barbara, California, rather than where it actually was, in Newton, Massachusetts. I let myself in the front door and found my mother and a young man huddled over the dining room table. My mother, Bethany Carter, was decked out in virtually every piece of hideous jewelry she owned, and she owned a lot. I could never reconcile my mother’s good horticultural taste with her astoundingly awful taste in almost everything else. Despite the vile adornments, my mother was a pretty woman, and not the tiniest wrinkle had appeared on her face, so I had high hopes for aging well. She’d recently cut her hair into a wash-and-wear style that fell in soft waves around her face and had colored it a chestnut brown to erase the four gray hairs that had dared to grow on her head.

Hearing me enter, she popped her head up. “Chloe, come meet Emilio. Emilio, this is my daughter, Chloe.”

Whoa. Happy place, indeed! Emilio was hot. Not just good-looking or handsome but downright hot: sexy, rippling biceps, broad chest, dark skin, and a strikingly gorgeous face. Think Mario López meets John Stamos. All coherent thoughts flew out of my brain, and I stood there thunder-struck and mute as I fought off the mental video I’d inadvertently created of a tan, sweaty, half-naked Emilio playing beach volleyball to the
Top Gun
soundtrack.

Miraculously, my knees did not buckle out from under me as I stepped forward to shake Emilio’s hand. “Hi, I’m Chloe,” I said breathlessly. “Oh, my mother already said that. It’s nice to meet me. You! I mean you! I already know me. Myself. I know myself, of course. Ha-ha!” I laughed idiotically. “Should we talk about rain barrels?”

When Emilio the God smiled, dimples appeared. As if this guy needed any more alluring physical traits! “It’s really nice to meet you, Chloe.” Although my mother had told me that Emilio was Colombian, he sounded totally American. If he’d had a Spanish accent, I’d have been totally gaga. “I heard you’ve drummed up a lot of business this summer,” he continued. “I’m ready to get going on this with you.”

“Yes, I’m ready to get going on you, too.”
Oops
. “On the projects!” I said quickly. “I’m ready to get going on the rain barrels!” One hot guy, and I fell to pieces.
Get it together, Chloe!
I already had a good-looking boyfriend. But there was no denying that Emilio was more than drool-worthy.

Okay, I just wouldn’t look at him.

“So,” I started as I sat down next to Emilio and across from my mother, “Anna Roberts is our first client. She’s going to have three rain barrels installed, and she’d like them to be enclosed in a rounded rock wall to match the existing rock walls she has in her yard.” I handed Emilio the photos I’d taken of the house and grounds. I relied heavily on my digital camera for these projects, because my drawing skills were limited to stick figures, and sloppy ones at that. “Do you think you can come up with some sort of top to go with this? Maybe a wooden one that would coordinate with her deck? And something environmentally friendly, of course.”

Emilio nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. I could do bamboo, for instance. That’s a great wood to use because it’s an easily renewable natural resource. There are also really beautiful materials made from recycled plastics that I could use. I can show Mrs. Roberts a few options and let her decide.”

“Perfect.”

My mother went into the kitchen to get us some lemonade, and I pulled out the next client’s specifications. “So, Emilio, my mother told me that your family owns a large nursery and garden center nearby. My parents do business there. You came back to Boston after college?”

Emilio flashed his dimples. “That’s right. One of my interests at Princeton was environmental studies, and after I graduated, I spent a year working with my family at their business. I did a lot of work on their property, finding ways to save energy and turn their business green. We actually won a local award from the Small Business Association.” More dimples. “Then I spent a few years interning with an architect in Boston and learning about green design. It’s amazing what can be done now with eco-friendly design. It used to be that anything made from recycled products was . . . something you wouldn’t want to look at. But not anymore. So I wanted to bring some of what I’d learned back to my family’s business and keep them on the cutting edge. The problem is still the initial investment costs, though. The people who can afford to install things like wind turbines and solar panels aren’t the people who need four-dollar electric bills.”

Handsome and politically conscious to boot. I could be in trouble.

I nodded in agreement. “You’re right. We really need to get energy-efficient structures into low-cost housing areas. We need to get costs in the reach of the middle class. I think over time we’ll see the costs come down, but for now it’s the wealthy who are benefiting from these kinds of resources.”

My mother returned with tall glasses of iced lemonade. As she set a glass down in front of me, I noticed a hint of makeup on her usually bare face. Ah! Apparently my mother wasn’t immune to Emilio’s looks, either—hence her overzealous display of jewelry today, too. I was feeling a bit guilty for admiring Emilio, but knowing that my happily married mother wasn’t resistant to his charms made me feel better. There was nothing wrong with looking, right?

Look but don’t touch! Look but don’t touch!
I repeated in my head.

“Chloe, did you know Emilio’s family is from Colombia? He’s been a great translator for me. My Spanish is quite rusty. Last month I asked Fernando and Matias to dig an ocean in the Marberrys’ backyard.”

Emilio waved away my mother’s compliment. “Glad to help, Mrs. Carter. Listen, I hate to rush us here, but I just moved into my new apartment. I’m right by the Hynes T stop, near Newbury Street and Mass. Ave. It’s a cool location, even if the apartment is pretty small. Anyhow, I’ve got loads of work to get done there, and I’m hoping to finish unpacking today so I can start building tomorrow. Can we run through the other projects?” An apologetic Emilio looked hopefully at us.

“No problem,” I said. “There are four more, and they are all pretty straightforward.”

Fifteen minutes later, when we’d run through the last of the clients, Emilio left to finish his unpacking. “It was nice to finally meet the carpenter you’ve been talking about. He seems nice,” I said casually to Mom.

“Yes, and isn’t he positively gorgeous?” my mother said exuberantly.

“Mom!”

“Well, he is. There’s no denying it. No harm in admiring, is there?” She took a sip of lemonade and skimmed over the schedule for constructing the rain barrels. “I guess he and his girlfriend just broke up, and he moved out of the apartment they shared. I’m sure it won’t be long until he finds someone else, though.”

“Probably not,” I agreed.

“Are you and Josh doing all right?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” I said quickly. “Why would you even ask that?” I glared at her.

“Just checking. Emilio is a great catch, that’s all. Don’t misunderstand me, Chloe. I adore Josh, and I think you two have a wonderful relationship. It’s just that I know how much he works, and I imagine that must take a toll on you. It’s hard enough for couples who’ve been together for years, but you two have only been dating for a year. His schedule must present some challenges.” Mom rose from her seat and picked up our glasses. “And that damn restaurant world is not the most conducive place for cultivating a romance, right? Josh is under tremendous stress a lot of the time, and I just hope you’re not getting shortchanged in the relationship.”

“I’m not. Everything is okay, Mom. I’m used to his schedule, and we always manage to find time for each other.” At least we
tried
to find time for each other.

“Oh, did I tell you that Emilio and a couple of his cousins are going to help out at the wedding? They’re going to carry out food, serve drinks, that sort of thing. I thought we’d need a few extra sets of hands, especially people who aren’t in the wedding and aren’t guests. Maybe Emilio can help Josh with the food, too.”