Grounds for Murder (6 page)

I took the pen away from her. ‘I thought about cable, of course – Food Network, Discovery, Travel Channel. But wouldn’t they need even more time?’

‘Not my station.’ She grinned at me, and even her Irish eyes were smiling. ‘Bet you didn’t know I’m also doing on-air now.’

On-air? Kate McNamara was not going to be the on-air talent for my show, not as long as I . . .

‘Wait a second. Are you talking about the local cable access station? What do you do there? The school lunch menu?’

Kate looked hurt. ‘For all three schools. Kindergarten through grade twelve. And I do school closings during the winter.’

‘Tempting as it might be to tap into your audience, Kate, I had something bigger in mind. Maybe―’

‘Listen to me, Maggy.’ She got in my face. ‘You need me. You are three days away from the competition. The best you can hope for now is a demo tape you can show to all those networks you’re fantasizing about, in hopes of putting together something for next year.’

Local cable access. A tad deflating, but Kate was just reinforcing what I’d said to Sarah earlier. I’d hoped, though, for a little more than a kid with a camcorder. ‘How―’

Kate’s conversation mirrored her interview technique: she never let the subject get a word in edgewise. ‘I have access to an editing suite, cameras, operators, editors.’

‘High school students?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Don’t be silly. College. Brookhills Community College actually runs the station. These young people know more about technology by osmosis than we’ll ever be able to learn.’

True. I swear Eric emerged from my womb, text-messaging: ‘Brace urself mom im comin outJ’

‘So what do you think?’ Kate pressed.

What did I think? I thought I was selling my soul to the she-devil. But fact was, it was pretty much a buyers’ market these days.

‘On one condition,’ I said, holding up a finger. ‘If this actually makes money at some point, we split seventy–thirty. I’m the seventy. Oh, and I’m also the on-air talent.’

Kate hadn’t flinched at the 70–30, but her eyes narrowed at the last. ‘You? What kind of experience do you have?’

‘I was the voice of First National.’

Kate snorted. ‘The bank’s video newsletter? Please.’

‘It sure as hell trumps “chop suey on steamed rice and a carton of fresh Wisconsin milk”.’

‘Which just illustrates how little you know,’ Kate said, sounding petulant. ‘The milk comes in bags these days.’

I didn’t even want to think about that particular sacrilege. ‘I also was interviewed on-camera tons of times.’

‘Being interviewed and interviewing someone are two different things.’

A light bulb went on. I knew Kate wouldn’t back down without getting something in return. Maybe this was a bone I could afford to throw her.

‘True,’ I said and then paused like I was mulling over what she’d said. ‘How about this? You’re in control of the technical aspects and direction, and I’m in charge of the event itself. You’re the reporter, I’m the event spokesman.’

‘Just like old times,’ Kate said, a flicker in her eyes.

That flicker ignited a memory. Geez, how could I have forgotten? Kate had interviewed me once, filling in for an ill reporter. A severe thunderstorm had descended on a fireworks show I was managing. I’d had to cancel the show and send a quarter of a million sodden spectators running for cover.

No one had been hurt, but Kate – who apparently saw this as her ticket to stardom – had seized the opportunity, trying to get me to admit I’d done something wrong. Neglected to throw a virgin into a volcano or something. I was having none of it and pointed out, during the live interview, that I’d been in consultation with her station’s own meteorologist and had acted on his advice.

Kate had turned beet red, stumbling over her ‘This is Katherine McNamara, reporting for TVR TV’ in her haste to sign off.

I figured I’d simply done my job in the face of a green, overly aggressive reporter. To my knowledge, Kate had not been ‘Katherine McNamara reporting’ anywhere ever again, and I can’t say it had bothered me. In fact, I’d completely forgotten it. But now, as Kate’s smile grew Cheshire Cat-size, I wondered if payback really was a bitch.

Happily, the hoard of teen smoothie drinkers never showed up, so Caron and I were able to walk out the door at the stroke of six. I pulled out my cellphone on the way to the car and punched a ‘1’ – speed dial for Pavlik. The sheriff didn’t know he was at the top of my contact list, and I sure wasn’t about to tell him.

‘Pavlik.’

Short, sweet. Two things Pavlik wasn’t.

I cleared my throat. ‘This is Maggy.’

‘Maggy?’

Had it been so long he didn’t remember me? I was about to give him my last name and spell it, when he added, ‘Your number came up “private” on Caller ID. I almost didn’t answer.’

‘I had it blocked,’ I said, not bothering to explain why. Pavlik knew my history.

‘So, how are you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

‘Me, too.’

Pavlik laughed, and I felt myself turn red.

‘I meant I was thinking about you,’ I said hastily.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘So what have you been thinking about me?’ He paused, then softly: ‘And, I hope, us.’

Oooh, this was going better than I’d dared hope. ‘I know this is short notice, but any chance you’re free to come over for dinner tonight? Caron opens tomorrow morning, so I can stay up late like a big girl.’

‘Me, too. Though in my case, of course, like a big boy.’ I could practically hear the dirty grin form on his face.

‘Seven thirty?’ That would give me time to stop at Schultz’s Market, get home, feed Frank, shower and get dinner started.

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring the wine. Red?’

I planned on making fish, but both of us preferred red wine and far be it from me to be a slave to convention. At least to this particular convention. Java Ho might prove to be a whole different thing.

‘Yes, please, but probably a lighter one. I’m making fish.’

‘Red it is.’ And he rang off.

As I pulled into Schultz’s Market, I saw Amy’s Ford Escape Hybrid parked in the corner of the lot. The reason I noticed the vehicle in the first place was that I was toying with the idea of replacing my old minivan with one. The reason I knew it was Amy’s was that she was still sitting in it.

Caron would no doubt want me to take advantage of the opportunity, so I grudgingly maneuvered my van into a nearby spot. Caron and I might be partners, but sometimes I felt like I was working with – or for – my mom.

Which reminded me: I’d forgotten to ask Caron for her recipe for tilapia. She had made it one night when she and Bernie had me over for dinner. Since she said it was easy, I thought I’d cook it for Pavlik tonight. I dug through my purse for the cellphone and punched in Caron’s home number. The call went right to voicemail. Damn. I threw the phone back into the abyss, hoping tilapia came with an instruction manual.

But first, Amy.

I turned to look at her silhouette in the Escape. Caron had already approached the barista and been turned down. What did she expect me to do? Win Amy over by the sheer force of my sparkling personality?

Boy, were we ever in trouble.

Levering myself out of the van, I slammed the door hard behind me and trudged toward the Escape. I was about ten yards away when I realized Amy was on the phone.

Perfect, I thought. I could acknowledge her and head into the store with a clear conscience and an assuaged partner. I was still about five yards out and ready with my ‘don’t-want-to-disturb-you’ finger-wiggle, when I realized Amy was in tears. Not a little sniffling, but full-bore, snot-flying, cellphone-clogging sobbing.

Veering off, I made for the market door, wondering if Amy’s predicament had anything to do with HotWired. LaRoche certainly had seemed to be nursing a grudge earlier. While I didn’t think Janalee would let him fire Amy . . .

I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that as I entered the ‘In’ side of the automatic doors at Schultz’s, I almost missed Antonio The Milkman coming through the ‘Out’. Not wanting to be kicked in the butt by our respective doors, I used my finger-wiggle on him and got a chin salute in return as he continued a phone conversation on his cellphone. Alexander Graham Bell had a lot to answer for.

Once inside the store, I ignored both the red wine on my right and the extra-dark chocolate on my left and made for the seafood counter. Health-food shopping would have to wait.

As bad luck would have it, Jacque Oui, fishmonger to the stars – or what passed for stars in Brookhills – was manning the counter. I almost kept going, but, steeled by thoughts of Pavlik’s gratitude at my cooking and the ways he might repay me, I pressed on.

‘Hello, Jacque. I need some tilapia.’

When he just stared at me, I added, ‘I think. I mean, I thought . . . maybe . . .?’

‘You thought.’

The poor man had given up trying to get me to cook years ago, and since then we had settled into an uneasy truce. I had agreed to smile sheepishly as I passed his counter on the way to the TiVo-dinners and he had agreed to sneer audibly in response.

I cleared my throat. ‘No, actually I know I need tilapia.’

Jacque eyed me cautiously. Afraid to trust his ears, no doubt.

‘I’m going to cook,’ I squeaked out.

‘You don’t know how to cook.’

True. ‘So you’ll teach me,’ I said, trying to channel a little Hepburn hutzpah. Katharine, not Audrey.

‘Then you do not want tilapia.’ He slid open the glass door of his refrigerated case majestically. ‘Today, we will choose halibut.’

‘We will?’

‘We will. Even you will not ruin halibut. How many?’ His hand hovered over the fish.

‘Umm . . .’

An eye roll. ‘How many people do you have?’

‘Two.’

‘One would be a female, I take it.’ He eyed me and picked out a medium-sized fillet. ‘And the other?’

‘Male.’

Jacque pulled out a hunk of fish that could have fed the multitudes, providing it was combined with a loaf or two.

‘Big enough, you think?’ I asked.

‘A man needs his strength, no?’ Jacque weighed the halibut and then slipped it with the other piece into a plastic bag.

‘I sincerely hope so,’ I said under my breath.

‘Please?’ Jacque was spooning shaved ice into a second clear plastic bag.

‘Nothing. What are you doing?’

‘Putting the fish on ice.’ He slipped the plastic bag containing the halibut into the ice-filled bag and then twist-tied that one closed, too, before holding it out to me. ‘So that the halibut will stay fresh. Like you.’

Cute. But by this time I was feeling far from fresh. I took the bag gingerly. ‘How do I cook it?’

‘Simple. Season lightly – salt, pepper, lemon, perhaps – and broil ten to fifteen minutes until the fish flakes with a fork. No more. You understand?’

He was already halfway down the counter, smiling at a woman in tennis togs and matching tennis bracelet. Bet Brookhills Barbie ordered fish more than once a decade.

‘Got it. Thanks,’ I said, waving at his back.

As I walked toward the check-out, I eyed the plump plastic bag that I was dangling by the twist-tie. ‘Sort of like bringing home a goldfish,’ I muttered.

‘Only filleted.’

I looked up and saw Amy in the next line. If I had any doubt that the barista was ecology-conscious, the mascara streaks on her face would have dispelled it. Organic make-up wasn’t waterproof. Be-streaked or not, though, Amy had pasted a smile on her face and gone shopping. Me, I head for the clothing store when I want a pick-me-up. Kitchen tools apparently floated Amy’s boat.

I grinned at her. ‘Maybe if I had kept the goldfish on ice, it would have lasted longer than a day.’

‘I know,’ she said, with a shake of her rainbow-colored hair. ‘One day Goldie is in the fishbowl. The next, the toilet bowl.’

‘Poor Goldie,’ I intoned solemnly. ‘Pet store might as well have saved time and sent them home in blue water.’

She laughed and began unloading utensils on to the belt. ‘I’m in a rush, but it was good to see you.’

‘Same here.’ I handed my halibut to the cashier. ‘Have a good night.’

The tears resurfaced in Amy’s eyes. ‘Thanks. I plan to do my best.’

Chapter Seven

When Pavlik arrived, I had planned to be showered and dressed, looking totally at ease and casually chic, like I entertained handsome men seven nights a week. I had also planned to have a big ol’ glass of wine in my totally at-ease, casually-chic hand.

Instead, I had a big ol’ dog on my chest.

To my mind, Frank is my son’s sheepdog – a furry lodger that Eric would reclaim the moment he graduated from college.

In Frank’s mind, he is my hairy best friend. Sad thing is, Frank is probably more right than I am.

Sheriff Jake Pavlik stands about six feet tall and has dark curly hair and gray eyes that veer from a brooding black when he is angry to nearly blue when he is amused.

He was amused now. ‘I take it you were away too long?’

Flat on my back and buried under 110 pounds of sheepdog and slobber, I didn’t bother to protest that I’d been just twenty minutes late. Or that I’d had a dog door installed so Frank could let himself out whenever he needed to.

‘Will you get him off me?’ I pleaded as Frank tried to lick me on the mouth. I turned my head frantically back and forth to keep him off target. ‘Yuck, yuck, yuck . . . help!!!’

‘Puppies lick their mother’s lips as a form of attachment. He’s just saying “Hi, Mom”.’

‘I am not this hairball’s mother.’ I put up my hands and managed to catch both sides of Frank’s collar and push his head up. A string of drool was dangling three inches above my nose. ‘And he’s two years old, for God’s sake. Will you please grab him, dammit?’

‘Shame, shame. You kiss your mother with that mouth?’ Pavlik was laughing so hard that I thought he was going to fall down. He tugged lightly on Frank’s collar and pulled him off. ‘Sit, boy.’

Damned if the dog didn’t sit. I did, too, brushing myself off. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Authority.’ Pavlik flashed his badge. ‘I ooze it.’

‘If I wasn’t covered in dog slime,’ I said, standing up and wiping at my face, ‘that might make me hot.’