Irish Stewed (5 page)

Though I had my opinions about how well-off TV reporters working out of stations in Youngstown, Ohio, were, I couldn’t imagine one who would stoop to stealing copper to make ends meet. “Besides,” I said as if Sophie were in on my thoughts, “if Jack and Owen were in it together, why would Owen kill Jack?”

Sophie laughed through her tears. “You’re just as curious
as Nina always said you were!” Her smile settled. “She was very fond of you, you know.”

I did, and I still felt guilty that three years earlier, I was in Morocco with Meghan when I heard about Nina’s death and I didn’t have the time to get back to California for the funeral.

I shook away the thought just in time to see Sophie’s face fold into a mask of worry. “I hope people don’t think that the Lance died because he was eating in the restaurant.” Her voice rose and the words tumbled out and she came out of her chair. “I never thought of that! What if people think the food is bad. Or the place is dirty. Or—”

“All the details will be on the news,” I assured her. “They’re not going to leave out the part about how the restaurant was closed at the time. That’s part of what makes the Lance’s death a real mystery.”

“Yes, of course. Of course, you’re right.” Sophie settled back down. “That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? I mean, if people thought we did something at the Terminal to kill the Lance of Justice. My goodness!” She fanned her face with one hand. “That would be the most horrible thing. Of course, that might be the least of my worries. I mean, what with the time I’ll be spending in the hospital, then the weeks in rehab. And the new coffee place down the street, of course, with their fancy drinks and their fancy sandwiches.”

Caf-Fiends.

I rolled my eyes at the very thought.

“By the time I get back to work . . .” Sophie’s sigh was monumental. “There probably won’t be any work to get back to.”

Really?

I bit my tongue, and while I was at it, I stretched a kink out of my back.

“Take another cookie. It will make you feel better,” Sophie offered, and when I declined, she popped out of her chair. “Of course, you’re tired! You drove a long way today.”

I had.

For nothing.

The thought made me feel more exhausted than ever. I went out to the car for my overnight bag and came back in to find Sophie at the bottom of the stairway in the living room.

“Your room is up here,” she said. “And there’s a half bath, too. You know, so you can have some privacy. My bedroom is downstairs.”

Limping, she led the way up the stairs and into a room that wasn’t as much orange as advertised as it was cantaloupe. There were white café curtains on the windows and an old-fashioned white chenille bedspread on the double bed.

“You can hang your clothes in here.” Sophie opened the door of a closet that smelled like mothballs. “Unless you don’t even want to bother. I mean, if you’ll be leaving in the morning, anyway. I need to be at the hospital at six and it’s in Youngstown. We’re going to have to leave early, I’m afraid.”

“Not a problem.” I plunked my suitcase on the bed. “I’m used to getting up early. Meghan always wanted her vegetable juice before she did her morning run.”

“Meghan Cohan!” Sophie’s eyes sparkled. “She’s so beautiful and so talented.”

And so unkind.

I shook the thought away. It might have been easier to keep it there if Sophie didn’t ask, “What’s she really like?”

“Like you said.” How’s that for vague? “Meghan is a beautiful woman. And she’s plenty talented. She stars in
movies. She directs them. She’s got her line of clothing and yoga products, her perfume, her jewelry line.”

“And she promised you a cooking show of your own.”

I’d been looking out the window, but when I heard the sudden metal in her voice, I spun Sophie’s way.

She clutched her hands at her waist. “I read all about it. In the tabloids. You were supposed to have your own cooking show. Then that Meghan”—Sophie narrowed her eyes—“she pulled the rug out from under you. Just like that. The articles, they didn’t say why.”

“It’s complicated.” Truth be told, it wasn’t. See, Meghan’s sixteen-year-old son had a nasty drug habit. And the media got hold of the story.

Though it wasn’t true, Meghan blamed me for the leak, and once that happened . . .

Well, let’s just say that if there’s no fury like a woman scorned, there’s no holy hell like a megastar can create when she feels she’s been done wrong.

That cooking show, the planned cookbook, and my job went up in a puff of smoke as big and as ugly as the ash plume rising over a wildfire. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Meghan made sure I got blackballed and stayed blackballed with her powerful friends who could afford personal chefs and in every restaurant worthy of my talents.

Which explained Hubbard, Ohio.

And Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks.

And didn’t change my mind one little bit about leaving in the morning.

The thought firmly in mind, I took my cosmetic case over to the dresser. There was a photo there in a frame studded with gaudy “jewels” in shades of purple, red, and turquoise.

My stomach clenched. My jaw tightened. I recognized the frame and the picture in it, and I didn’t dare touch it.

Sophie had no such qualms. She grabbed the picture and turned it toward the light so I could get a better look.

“You and Nina.” Sophie leaned over my shoulder and pointed at the woman whose crazy, curly hair was barely contained by the red bandanna she wore along with the apron from Cal’s Diner. She was standing in front of the grill and I swear, even all these years later, I could smell the aroma of the onions she grilled to perfection and the burgers she piled them on. Before I met Nina, food was nothing more to me than a way to keep my body fueled. Nina had changed all that. She taught me to appreciate good food. She taught me to discipline myself enough to take my time and savor every minute I spent in front of the stove.

“You must have been about fifteen then,” Sophie said, shaking me out of my thoughts.

“Fourteen,” I corrected her, because I knew for sure that the photo was taken just a week or two after I’d gone to live with Nina, the first time I visited her at work. I’d just come from a placement where my foster parents were more interested in collecting money from the California Department of Social Services than they were in me. I could see the smudges of gray under my eyes, the results of the sleepless nights I spent listening to Bob and Marie argue. My hair was chopped and uneven, an act of defiance I thought would show them that I was my own person. Bob and Marie never noticed.

I looked really close and just as I suspected, I could see that my fingernails were broken down to the quick, the result of me spending a frantic weekend figuring out how to pick the lock on my bedroom door when they went on a jaunt to Vegas and figured I’d be “safer” if I stayed put.

I coughed away the sudden tightness in my throat.

Too bad I bothered, because the ache started all over
again when Sophie pressed the picture into my hands. “She wanted you to have this. Nina told me. You know, right before she died. She said when I saw you next—”

“Thanks.” Without another look, I grabbed the photo and tucked it into my suitcase.

“So . . .” Sophie backed toward the door. “Good night, then. I hope you’re comfortable tonight.”

She didn’t wait around long enough for me to tell her I was sure I would be. Sophie left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

I sat down on the bed and though I tried, I couldn’t resist dragging that photograph of me and Nina out of my suitcase.

I’d never cried when I heard Nina was sick or even when she died.

I didn’t cry now.

What I did was get up and put the picture back where I’d found it.

I guess that was the moment I realized I’d really done it. I’d changed my mind.

I was staying.

I
t was only until Sophie got back on her feet.

I told her that when I drove the twenty minutes from Hubbard to the hospital in Youngstown the next morning, and when I did, I refused to take my eyes off the road so I could pretend I didn’t notice the way she twinkled like a beauty queen when she heard the news.

Just to make things perfectly clear, I mentioned it again while we sat in a bland and boring hospital waiting room with Monet posters on the wall, fake flower arrangements on the tables, and a variety of magazines to read, all of them at least three months old.

I would be sure to tell her again—just in case there was any way she could forget—that evening, once the Terminal was closed for the day and I could get back to the hospital and see how she was doing.

I would manage the Terminal only until Sophie was
feeling better. I would stick around only until she was fully recovered and up and well.

Then I was outta there.

It didn’t hurt to remind myself, either, and I did just that when I parked my car in the side lot near where the cops had found Owen Quilligan hiding behind the Dumpster, and went around to the front of the building.

Declan Fury was at the front door waiting for me.

“Good morning!”

I dug the key out of my Prada bag. “Aren’t you Irish gift shop types supposed to say
Top of the mornin’ to ye
or something like that?”

His smile was as bright as the sun just skimming the roof of the boarded-up factory on the other side of the railroad tracks. “Sorry to disappoint you. My family came from Ireland something like a hundred and fifty years ago. We left our Lucky Charms accents back there.”

I pushed open the door, but I didn’t step inside. “What can I do for you, Mr. Fury?”

“It’s Declan, and a cup of coffee would be nice. You do know how to make a decent cup of coffee, don’t you?”

Truth be told, I make a stellar cup of coffee. Rather than mention it, I gave him my most sparkling smile. “I thought you were a tea drinker. Brewed in quaint little shamrock-decorated pots, of course, and served in charming mugs.”

“That’s only when I’m across the street and you know . . .” He gave me a wink and leaned a little closer. Just like it had the night before, the scent of bay rum enveloped me. That had to be the reason I felt a little light-headed, right? “I’ve got an espresso machine in the back room of the shop. If you’re ever needing something a little stronger than tea, you can always stop in. I also happen to stock a nice variety of
beer in the minifridge. Maybe some night after the restaurant is closed . . .”

Since he didn’t finish the thought and I didn’t want to think what that
maybe
might imply, I felt perfectly justified in not answering.

I stepped into the building and Declan followed me. “You’re in a good mood for a man whose cousin was arrested for murder last night,” I told him.

“Owen didn’t do it,” he said.

“Then who did?”

“Last night, you suggested that it might have been me.”

“It was just a theory.”

“And not a very good one.” He closed the door behind us and we stood side by side in the waiting area.

“I can take a look around the restaurant if you like,” Declan suggested.

“Just like you wanted to look around last night.”

“Which doesn’t make me a murder suspect.”

“But it does make you look awfully suspicious.”

He shot me a sidelong glance. “Truth?”

I wasn’t sure this was the time or the place so I hesitated, and when I did, he took it to mean I wanted to hear more.

“I figured the kid might be in trouble,” he said. “Owen, that is. He’s from South Carolina, here to visit Kitty and Pat and the rest of the family.”

“And you just naturally assumed that while he was in town, he’d be stealing the copper pipes from local establishments?”

“Owen is something of a hell-raiser. Always has been.”

“And you wanted to keep him out of trouble.”

“Keeping Owen out of trouble isn’t always possible, but I wanted to try.”

“And now he’s been arrested for murder.”

Declan muttered a word I couldn’t hear but I could pretty well imagine. “Owen is a stupid kid and he was doing a stupid thing. There’s no denying that. But the police don’t have anything to connect him to the murder.”

“Maybe he’s too smart for that.”

Declan chuckled. “You haven’t met Owen.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Even without any solid evidence, they’re going to try like hell to get a conviction,” he grumbled. “Gus Oberlin will see to it. Gus likes things wrapped up nice and quick. He sees one theory of a case and runs with it, even when he’s running in the wrong direction.”

I strolled over to the rolltop desk. “And you think that’s what he’s going to do this time.”

“Absolutely. Gus is going to steamroll his way through this case. I just need to make sure that when he does, he doesn’t flatten Owen in the process. You’ll see I’m right. Owen might be a goofball, but he’s not a killer.”

I wanted to believe him. Not because I had any opinion—good or bad—about Owen Quilligan. As Declan said, I didn’t know the kid. Still, I didn’t like the thought of a young guy like Owen spending the rest of his life in prison. I didn’t like the thought of Jack Lancer being dead, either. Or of finding bodies in restaurants. Dead instead of diners. Not a pretty thought.

I twitched it away and I’d already started through the doorway that led into the restaurant when Declan stopped me, his hand on my arm. “Don’t you want me to go in there before you?” he asked.

I laughed. “What do you think’s going to happen, the Lance of Justice’s ghost is going to get me? Or do you think I’m one of those women who will dissolve into tears just looking at the place where the awful deed happened?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re not?”

“I don’t have the time. And I don’t have the disposition. So if you’re waiting for tears, you’re going to wait a long, long while. It doesn’t bother me to think that Jack Lancer died here. I didn’t know him. And I have no real connection with the Terminal, either, so it’s not like I think the murder has somehow affected the ambience.” I didn’t mean to sigh. Honest. But when I glanced around, I couldn’t help myself. “Let’s face it, there’s not much ambience around here to begin with.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His lips pursed, Declan looked around, too. “It’s a throwback to another era and a time when Hubbard was hopping. You know, before the factories closed and the companies packed up and headed to warmer climates. The place is charming.”

“Are you looking at what I’m looking at?” Of course he was, and of course he wasn’t going to admit that he saw past the lacy facade to the tiredness beneath. And even if he was, I wasn’t going to stand there and listen. I walked through the lace-curtained doorway and into the restaurant.

Just like the night before, there were no lights on in there, but this morning with the sun streaming through the windows that looked out at the railroad tracks, Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks was washed with golden light.

Sure, in a better, more perfect world (or maybe in a Hallmark Channel movie), the sunlight would have accented the Terminal’s hominess, softening the rough edges of the place and gilding everything from the yellowed lace over the windows to the grainy black-and-white photographs of trains and railroad workers that hung on the walls. It would have made the dust motes that floated in the air into sparkling fairy dust.

In reality, all the light did was accent the gouges in the
old floorboards, the smudges on the old wooden tables, and the fact that the windows needed washing. Badly.

“I can hang around until George shows up.” Until he spoke up, I hadn’t realized Declan had come to stand right behind me. Which was a funny thing, really, because anytime he was anywhere within five feet of me, I could feel the air heat between us as if tiny sparks of electricity crossed from him to me on invisible wires. “George, he’s your cook,” he added when I didn’t respond to his offer. “Denice and Inez are—”

“The waitresses. I know.” I spun away from the window. Too bad. Had I stood there a moment longer, I might have seen the freight train coming.

It rolled by not twenty feet from where I stood, and, startled, I gasped.

“People love it.” Declan raised his voice to be heard over the rush of the train. “A lot of them come here just to see the trains.”

Through the wall of windows at the back of the Terminal, I watched car after car streak past, fast enough to send a buzz of vibration through the old floorboards and just slow enough for me to see the brightly colored gang tags that had been painted on the sides of one car after another.

“Denice and Inez usually get here . . .” Declan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “They’ll be here by seven. Denice is usually first through the door.”

I turned from the windows and the train smoothly streaking by and headed for the kitchen. “And you’re usually up and going this early, too?”

He scrubbed a hand across the dusting of whiskers on his chin. “Actually, I haven’t been home. Been dealing with the cops. And Owen, of course. Kid’s got a head as hard as a coconut.”

I pushed open the swinging door that led into the kitchen.
“I can’t imagine there was anything for you to eat at the police station.”

“There’s a vending machine and, hey, I’m used to Fritos at three in the morning.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Spend a lot of time in police stations, do you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

The kitchen was small, but thankfully tidy, and there was a coffeemaker on the stainless steel counter between an oven and a deep fryer. First things first: I got the coffee going, then checked out the walk-in cooler at the far end of the room. “How do you like your eggs?” I called out to Declan.

“Over easy, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

I got the grill started and found a loaf of bread and popped a couple slices into the toaster.

“You’re not a vegan?” he asked, watching me crack the eggs. “Organics only? I expected more from a California girl than fried eggs and white toast.”

“I’m used to cooking whatever my employer wanted to eat.”

“So what do Hollywood stars eat?”

I grabbed a spatula and flipped the eggs. “Meghan’s taste in foods depended on her moods. And on what just happened to be the latest food fad. So yeah, we went through a vegan phase, and we went all organic for a while, too. Superfoods, gluten free, Indian. You name it, I’ve cooked it.”

“So you’ll fit right in here.” Declan grabbed a menu from a nearby stack and flipped it open. “Burgers and fries. Fried bologna. Swiss steak. Rice pudding. I happen to love Sophie’s rice pudding, by the way, so if there’s ever any left over, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands.” He slapped the menu closed and returned it to the pile so he could take a plate from me with three perfectly cooked eggs on it, and
when he did, he breathed in deep and whispered a few words I couldn’t hear under his breath. “Thank you,” he added.

“No problem.” I dished up the eggs I’d scrambled on the other side of the grill for myself and leaned back against the counter to eat. “So why did you come back here this morning?” I asked him.

He’d just taken a bite of toast and he chewed and swallowed before he answered. “You don’t believe in being neighborly?”

Okay, I take it back. That really wasn’t an answer.

I polished off a couple more bites of eggs. “You want to have a look around.”

“There could be something the cops missed.”

“Something that will prove Owen didn’t do it.”

He sopped up egg yolk with a piece of toast. “He didn’t. And so if you’d just let me look things over . . .”

I finished my eggs, then took his plate and mine, and set them in the sink. “Be my guest,” I told him. “While you’re at it, maybe you’ll be able to figure out what Jack Lancer was doing here last night.”

“It is kind of freaky, isn’t it?” I poured coffee and, mug in hand, Declan led the way out of the kitchen. Together, we stepped into the restaurant and walked over to the table where I’d found the Lance of Justice’s body less than twelve hours earlier.

According to the phone call Sophie had gotten from Gus Oberlin before she went in for her surgery, the cops had stayed at the restaurant until the wee hours of the morning, checking every nook and cranny, dusting for prints, and generally leaving the basement, the back door, and the area around where Jack Lancer had spent his final moments a mess. They were done with the crime scene phase of the
investigation, Gus told her. There wasn’t much left to do except get a confession out of Owen and move on.

I set my coffee on a nearby table so I could prop my fists on my hips and look at the trails of fingerprinting dust some careless technician had left on the floor, the tables, and the nearby chairs. “We’ll need to clean.”

Declan wasn’t listening. With a look, he asked which table Jack was sitting at, and when I pointed, he cocked his head and did a slow circumnavigation of the table. “Facedown or faceup?” he asked me.

It didn’t take long for me to catch on to what he was talking about. Some things—like corpses—are hard to forget. “Facedown. On the table. On his arm.” I put my forearm to my forehead to demonstrate.

“Blood?”

“Not much.” I didn’t add
thank goodness
because then Declan would think I really was one of those women who dissolve into tears, when actually I was thinking more blood would have meant getting a professional cleaning crew in there. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene the way I’d discovered it the night before. “The blood had trickled down the back of his neck,” I said, demonstrating the path with one finger against my own neck. “It soaked into his shirt collar.”

Declan steepled his fingers and tapped his top lip, his gaze moving from the table to the nearby windows that looked out at the street and the Irish store.

“Not the smartest place to kill somebody,” he said.

“Because someone could have seen something.” I nodded. “You were in your store. Did you notice anything?”