Irish Stewed (21 page)

Marvin—the man I would always remember as the one who ordered the only lentil quinoa salad I’d ever sold at the Terminal—answered. “The best. He should be on TV!”

“Yeah!” We couldn’t see Denice on the video, but she was standing close enough to Dustin so we could hear her loud and clear. “Imagine him on the big screen. You know, one of those flat-screen TVs like they hang on the wall, forty-two inches wide.”

“Forty-eight inches,” Ronnie called out. “I’d look way better on a screen that was forty-eight inches wide.”

“Forty-eight inches.” Marvin chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

There was more background chatter after that, more small talk between Kim and Dustin and—thank goodness—more compliments for the Irish stew. Watching it all was a bit like watching paint dry.

Then I brought over complimentary slices of chocolate pie, and there was Kim giving me an intense look from across the table. “The story of the Lance of Justice’s murder has local Emmy written all over it,” she crooned. “You know I can’t give away the details. They’re just too delicious.”

“Then, you do know something?” I asked.

Denice came over to collect the dishes just as Kim said,
“Not only do I know something, but I have a line on who killed the Lance of Justice, and why.”

“That’s it, Declan!” I grabbed on to his arm with both hands, so excited I could barely sit still. “Kim did know who killed Jack Lancer. And you know what? I think that now I do, too.”

N
obody knows how to throw a party like I know how to throw a party.

I should. For six years, I’d made sure that Meghan Cohan was the toast of Hollywood. I knew the food and I cooked it like a wizard, and I knew the party planners who could work their own special magic and make sure Meghan’s Pacific Palisades mansion looked even more spectacular than usual.

Meghan wanted an Arabian Nights theme?

We pulled it off, complete with tents on the lawn, an oasis around the pool, and a variety of foods that would make a sultan swoon.

Meghan was in the mood for something more medieval?

Believe me, I wasn’t thrilled about planning a menu that included turkey legs guests would eat without silverware, but I endured and even got a chance to watch jousting on the back lawn.

What I had planned for the Terminal, needless to say, was a little less epic scale and a little more down-to-earth.

A party after the restaurant closed on Wednesday.

And staff, neighbors, and some customers were invited.

“You’re sure about this?” It was almost time for our guests to arrive and Declan looked over the restaurant and nodded his approval. In honor of our Irish specials, we’d gone all out with the “old sod” theme: there were green streamers hanging between the ceilings fans, a rainbow made out of multicolored balloons over the front entrance, and even green cloth napkins on every table. The band was here, too—more for backup than music—and I’d invited a couple special guests who were going to stay put in the kitchen until I told them it was time to come out.

“I’m sure.” I scraped my palms against the skirt of the taupe, cream, and black colorblock sheath dress I was wearing. “I think.”

“Well, the Terminal looks wonderful!” He was trying to cheer me, trying to calm me, and for that, I was grateful. “You know, you might think about turning this into an Irish pub.”

“Sophie would have my head! And, speaking of Sophie . . .” We saw a van pull up to the front door and I hurried that way to help Sophie out of it.

“Well, isn’t this just . . .” She looked around at the decorations and spent a moment listening to Seamus tune up his fiddle to help pass the time, and when she looked my way, she blinked as if she’d been asleep for a hundred years and she wasn’t quite sure where she’d woken up. “We’re an Irish restaurant now?”

I put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “We’ve got a few Irish specials on the menu. The decorations . . . well, most of the decorations are just for tonight.”

“Just for the party.”

It wasn’t a question, so theoretically, I wasn’t required to answer. Instead, I helped Sophie over to a chair I knew would be at the center of the action. The Terminal was her restaurant—her life—and I owed her a ringside seat.

“Our guests will be here in a minute,” I told her and Elvis, the man who’d brought her over to the Terminal—the one with the luxurious mustache.

“What are we celebrating?” he wanted to know.

I knew someone was bound to ask, and I was all set with an answer. “Sophie’s recovery, for one thing,” I told him. “And the chance we’ve had this last week to get to know our neighbors better. They’re all here. Look.” I glanced toward the door just as Carrie from the art gallery and Bill and Myra and Barb from Caf-Fiends and John and Mike from the bookstore showed up. They were followed by Kitty and Pat Sheedy, who’d brought Owen along—even though the kid looked as though he would have liked to be anywhere else—and a minute later by Inez, who apologized for running late again and then paled when she realized Sophie was there and heard her, and by Denice, whom I’d told to bring her son, Ronnie, along. George stepped out of the kitchen.

Denice looked up at the bouquet of shamrock-shaped Mylar balloons that floated overhead. “You worked hard once we left today! The place looks amazing.”

“It’s the least I could do.” I sat Denice and her son next to a table with Kitty and Pat. “I wanted to thank everyone for helping me feel so at home this past week.”

“Did you? Feel at home?” Sophie clapped her hands to her heart. I swear, the woman could cry at the drop of a hat. A fat tear streaked down her cheek. “I’m so happy you’re settling in. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Elvis?” The man with the
mustache—who did not look like an Elvis to me—nodded. “It’s so nice to know you’re going to call Hubbard home.”

I had never said this, but I wasn’t about to argue. Not right then. Our next batch of guests arrived—Stan and Dale and Phil and Ruben took their usual table. Marvin, he of the lentil quinoa salad, started for his usual spot across the room, but Declan deftly ushered him to a table closer at hand and he sat down, looking mighty confused about what was going on and what he was doing there.

Once everyone was settled, I stepped to the center of the room. “Welcome. I have a feeling some of you might be wondering what’s going on here tonight. Like I just told Sophie, we’re here to celebrate her recovery!” There was a round of applause. “And her continued rest and relaxation,” I added because I saw the way she was checking out the stack of menus that had been left on a nearby table, and I had the distinct feeling she was going to pop up and go get a damp cloth so she could wipe off the plastic-coated pages.

“We’ve got Irish food for dinner and Irish music after.” I lied like a pro to put our guests at ease, and gestured toward the band. There was another smattering of applause, the loudest from Kitty and Pat, but then, Dan and Martin were their sons. “But first . . .” Hey, I’d learned a thing or two in Hollywood. I drew out the drama by pausing for a moment or two. “First, I think it’s important that we talk about murder.”

This time, the applause was replaced by a murmur of voices and a shuffle of feet. Ronnie grumbled a word he shouldn’t have used in front of Sophie. Marvin still looked confused and our four regulars sat up in their chairs, eager to hear more.

“You want to serve something while you’re talking about
all this?” Denice asked me, and took a step toward the kitchen. “I can get fried pickles.”

Fried pickles were one of our most popular appetizers, but they could wait. By the time we were done, I wasn’t sure anyone would have much of an appetite. “I’d like you here,” I told Denice. “And I’d like you all to see something.”

That was Declan’s signal. He started up the video. I’m no whiz when it comes to technology, but he’d figured out a way to project the video onto the wall, and together we all watched Kim’s secret tape and saw ourselves, bigger than life, up there on our makeshift screen.

We watched Kim Kline get settled, and we watched Denice race into the restaurant. We heard Kim call Denice by name.

Just as we’d discussed, Declan paused the tape right there.

“Weird, isn’t it?” I asked no one in particular, but I looked at Denice. “She knew your name.”

Denice’s nose twitched. “Of course she did. We all wear name tags, don’t we?”

“You weren’t wearing one. You hadn’t put it on yet that day,” I reminded her, and every single person in the room looked up at the picture on the wall and saw that it was true.

Denice shrugged. “Then, she knew me because she’d been here before. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” I told her, “is that Kim had never been here before. Isn’t that right, Sophie?”

“Never.” Sophie was sure of this. “At least not until she showed up here the night of the murder to interview us. I’d remember a big star like that coming into the restaurant.”

“And I’d remember it if Kim ever interviewed you about the murder, Denice,” I added, “but she didn’t. I should know.
I watched the tapes of her reporting of the case a hundred times over the last few days.”

“So?” Denice was a wiry woman and when she twitched, she reminded me of a fidgety little mouse. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It really doesn’t,” I conceded. “Not on its own. Except there’s more on this tape.”

“And I don’t see why I have to sit here and watch any of it!” Marvin popped out of his seat. “You’re wasting my time.”

“I’ll try to make it quick,” I promised him, and he sat right back down again. Believe me, I didn’t have any illusions (or delusions) about my ability to convince him; I’d stationed Brian and Seamus at the front door, and Marvin knew there wasn’t a chance they were going to let him leave.

“Here’s what really put me on the right track,” I said, and motioned to Declan. He restarted the video and we heard Denice’s conversation with Marvin and Ronnie about the big-screen TV. Then we heard Kim tell Denice that she knew who killed Jack Lancer.

“Don’t prove nothing.” Ronnie folded his hands over his chest, sat back in his chair, and stuck his legs out in front of him. “Bunch of bull, and none of it, it don’t mean nothing.”

“It wouldn’t,” I told him. “If I didn’t have this.”

Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, I reached to the table behind me for the receipt I’d left there.

“Lentil quinoa salad,” I said, looking at Marvin. “You’re the only one who’s ever ordered it. Here’s the receipt.”

He raised his chin. “So?”

“So I was thinking about that day, and it’s a shame Kim wasn’t here secretly taping me then, because then we’d have video that shows how very much you wanted to make sure
Denice took the money for your lunch. But it wasn’t the money you were worried about, was it, Marvin?”

His eyes narrowed and he sat up when I produced a second piece of paper. This one was tucked into a police department plastic evidence bag.

“You didn’t care if Denice got the tip you left for her,” I told Marvin. “What you really cared about was this piece of paper, the one you slipped under the receipt. To me . . .” I didn’t need to see it again, but remember, I was being all about drama. I gave the piece of paper a careful look. “It doesn’t look like much to me. A square drawn on a piece of paper. A few tick marks on one end of it. A list of numbers on the side.” Not that they could see it very well from where they all sat, but I showed the bag and its contents around. “Fortunately, the police are a whole lot better at figuring out this kind of thing than I am.”

Oh, I said the magic word, all right, and at the very mention of the police, Marvin jumped out of his chair again.

Not to worry, that was the exact moment Gus Oberlin stepped out of the kitchen.

Marvin ran his tongue across his lips. “That don’t prove nothing,” he said.

“It wouldn’t. If there wasn’t a burglary ring operating in town. That’s why you were so desperate to get this piece of paper back, isn’t it”—I swung my gaze over the crowd—“Ronnie?”

The kid went as white as a sheet. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You must, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone through the trash here at the restaurant to find this piece of paper. And when you didn’t, you thought I might have taken it home. That’s why you were trying to break in. You were right, you know. I found it in with a bunch of receipts I was
going to enter into Sophie’s computer at home. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t get around to it, otherwise I would have seen this piece of paper then.”

“Somebody broke into the house?” Sophie fanned her face with one hand.

“Tried to break in,” I repeated. “And no worries, the locks have been changed and you’re getting a security system installed next week. Not that you’ll need it now. The cops have this piece of paper, so Marvin and Ronnie, they won’t have to try and get it back again.”

Kitty Sheedy shifted left and right in her seat for a better look. “What is it?” she asked. “Why is it so important?”

“You want to tell them, Ronnie?” Since he clamped his lips shut, I had to. “It’s a map of the Tollifer Electronics Warehouse over on the other side of town. And the security codes Marvin managed to get from one of the employees there.”

“Don’t bother to try and deny it.” Detective Oberlin stepped forward. “We talked to a guy, Marvin. He admitted that he sold you the codes. You and Ronnie here were going to use them to break into the warehouse, and I’m guessing you were all set to do it this week when the new shipment of some big video game system arrives. Something all the kids have been talking about.”

“You can’t prove I had anything to do with it,” Ronnie snapped. “Maybe he”—he stabbed a finger in Marvin’s direction—“maybe he had that there map, but you can’t prove I had anything to do with—”

“With the burglary ring?” I gave Ronnie a long look. “Maybe you weren’t watching the video like we were, Ronnie. Or maybe you just thought no one would notice. Declan . . .” I looked his way and he knew exactly what I wanted. He queued the tape and played the scene.

“Imagine him on the big screen.” On-screen, we watched Kim eat her Irish stew, but we heard Denice’s voice in the background and we knew she was talking about Ronnie. “You know, one of those flat-screen TVs like they hang on the wall, forty-two inches wide.”

“Forty-eight inches,” Ronnie called out. “I’d look way better on a screen that was forty-eight inches wide.”

“Forty-eight inches.” Marvin chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Declan put the video on pause.

“You were putting in your order, Marvin. For a TV. Detective Oberlin here tells me there was a forty-eight-inch flat-screen taken from a home just the night before.”

“There are plenty of TVs in the world.” Marvin waved away my words. “That don’t prove a thing.”

“Your fingerprints on this map do.” Gus took the evidence bag out of my hands. “Put that together with the guy over at Tollifer’s who gave you the security codes and we’ve got you, Marvin.”

Marvin swallowed so hard, I heard him gulp. “But not for murder. Nobody ever said anything about murder.”

“Kim did,” I reminded him, and once again, we played the tape. When it was over, I said, “You saw it right there and then. Kim says she knows who murdered Jack Lancer. And she didn’t say it for my sake, did she? She wanted the murderer to know she was onto him. So, was it you, Marvin?” I asked, then swung the other way. “Or was it you, Ronnie?”

Color shot into Ronnie’s face. It was an ugly shade of maroon. He jumped to his feet. “No way you’re going to pin that murder on me,” he said. “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. No way I’m going down for something I didn’t do. It was her. My mom!”