Killer Cousins (17 page)

I returned to the kitchen. I made more phone calls, checking out customers to assure their satisfaction.

Unhappy tones came from Benton Hadley, one of the owners of the new hotel chain called Just Like Home. “I don’t especially care for the ad your office came up with. We want to start a new advertising campaign soon, and now I’m not sure your company is the one we’ll want to do business with.”

“I apologize. Please give us a chance to create something you’ll love,” I said. “I can get back to you soon with that.”

He agreed to a brief wait. I thanked him and punched in the number for my office in Austin. Brianna Thompson, my latest hire with tiny thighs, ran that office.

“Brianna, did you know Just Like Home doesn’t care for their latest ad?”

“Someone from their office told me it was nice. He didn’t say they didn’t like it.”

“Send a copy to my e-addy now, okay? I’ll take a look.”

“I’ll send it right over, Mrs. Gun—Cealie.”

She shot me the attachment, which I opened on my laptop.

My first impression: a neat look to the page, good colors—blues and greens that blended well and soothed, as a person would want a stay at a Just Like Home hotel to achieve. A touch of brown added an earthy tone, also a nice feeling, and the slenderest splotches of red added interest. I liked the colors. The ad showed the first of the company’s hotels nestled on a hillside with attractive nearby trees. Good eye appeal.

I checked out the wording.
From your house to ours. A stay with us is just like being at home.

It wasn’t too many words, and they were spread into precise spots on the page. We wanted our ads to catch the eye at a glance, to attract it like a piece of art. This was our art, our singular, individual artistic creation. The piece I was inspecting looked good. Enough empty spaces to look peaceful, like the part of a canvas not painted. To me, it looked nice. But the ad had to satisfy our client.

Motion through the open blinds on the back door snagged my attention. Someone was in the backyard.

A pinch of fright skittered down my back. No one was trying to break into the house. But back there was where a person had died.

I grabbed my cell phone and yanked up the bug spray. If a threatening person was out back, I’d run out the front of the house, calling police as I ran. But in case anyone came at me before I could get away, I could zap his face and make a dash.

Creeping to the door, I peeked through the blinds.

Two men. I’d seen them before. They wore sheriff’s department uniforms. They were taking down their yellow tape.

I stepped out to the porch. “Good morning,” I said.

“‘Morning, We’re only removing this,” the older one said. The young one pulled the last section of yellow tape away from the fence and went off through the gate.

“What has your office learned about Pierce Trottier’s death?” I asked.

“We should have something to give you soon.”

“His death probably wasn’t from natural causes, right?”

“Probably not. But we’re making sure.”

“Let us know as soon as you have something definite, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am, we will. Do you have a lot of bugs?”

“Huh?” I noticed I held the bug spray. I squirted it around in the air. “You sure need to work hard to keep them away.”

“We’re finished here. You might want to lock this gate after we go out. And it drags. It’s probably a good idea to get it fixed.” He walked out and tugged the gate to make it close.

I went into the yard, carefully walking outside the area where the dead man had lain. To lock the gate, I needed to lift it to get the locking mechanism even with the part on the fence that locked it. I tried lifting the gate. Much too heavy. I shoved against the locking mechanism but couldn’t get the gate high enough.

This gate needed to be locked. I felt uncomfortable with it the way it was. Anyone could get into Stevie’s yard. The police. A man coming here to die. A killer?

I shivered and scooted away from the spot where Pierce Trottier had died. Before going on the porch, I stared at it. Anyone who stood back here could see inside Stevie’s kitchen.

I walked around her backyard. The grass was long, the bushes and trees many. The side of the house near my bedroom held neither. But something had made a sound outside there a couple of nights ago. I inspected the grass near my window. Tiny yellow flowers grew there. Nothing else of interest. The wooden fence for the backyard started a couple of feet behind my window. A scrap of paper lay near it.

I grabbed the paper. Bubblegum wrap. Blueberry flavor.

I stared at April’s house. A common wooden fence separated her yard from Stevie’s. April chewed bubble gum. The way she and her child zipped back and forth from there to here, she could have easily dropped the wrapper. The paper could have landed here today. But the bubble she’d blown was pink. Blueberry flavor probably meant the gum from this wrapper was blue.

The gum wrapper reminded me of something that goes in the mouth. It was almost one p.m. Time for lunch. I went inside and tossed the gum wrapper in the trash.

From the table, my laptop stared at me. Ugh. I wanted to go off and find food. But I’d told Benton Hadley I would get back to him soon. Soon would be now.

I jotted my ideas, sent them off to my manager Brianna, and got her on the phone. “Check your E-mail now, and if you agree, get the concept off to Benton Hadley, please.” With work done, I grabbed my purse and took off.

I wanted to talk to more people from The Quitters Group, but wanted food first. I needed to avoid Gil, who might be at his restaurant, so I couldn’t eat there. He was tempting. It seemed as I grew older I became worse at handling temptation.

Driving east I spied a couple of restaurants. Both tiny with not many cars. Lots of cars meant good food. I gave in to my urges, turned around, and drove to Cajun Delights.

As I approached, I thought I’d gotten my directions wrong and was reaching a different restaurant. This one looked like all of Gil’s places—tall gray cypress in front and slinging lower toward the rear. Tin roof. Hot-pepper-red words
Cajun Delights
on a muted green background. But no cars in the large parking lot.

Passing by, I glanced back. A silver truck was near the fence in back.

Something was amiss. It was Monday—they should be open, and many people should be eating.

I returned to Gil’s restaurant. Probably the day manager would be there. I’d ask her if anything happened.

I trotted to the front door. Locked. I rapped beside the door’s stained-glass insert, knocking as hard as I could.

An image became visible through the glass. A person approached, a person larger than Babs Jacobs.

The lock clicked, and the door opened.

I steadied my legs.

Gil’s smile widened. “What a nice visitor.”

Chapter 15

I started to walk in but noticed all the lights were off. I was standing close to Gil, a deadly place if I wanted to avoid an intimate encounter. Private parts of my body came to life.

I swallowed. Looked at Gil. Backed outside.

He kept the door open. “Aren’t you coming in?” he asked, tone husky.

Mine would get husky, too, the longer I stayed near him.

“Uh, I wanted to eat. But you’re closed.”

Gil glanced at his empty restaurant like he was considering what I said.

Jealousy ran a little streak down my backbone. Suppose he wasn’t alone? He might have a woman in his office or any place else in this large, dark building.

“You want food. This is the place. Come on in.” He opened the door wider.

“But no cooks. Look, no people,” I said. Maybe he was just arriving and hadn’t noticed. But Gil did notice things. Many things.

He kept holding the door wide open. I had to walk in. He glanced down at me. “Had your hair fixed differently, didn’t you?”

I patted the top of my hairdo. “Do you like it?”

“I like anything you decide to do, Cealie.”

My, what a sweet man. I hoped he didn’t notice my mustache. He led the way toward the restaurant’s rear. Faint lights were on, mostly small wall lanterns. “You didn’t have a silver truck,” I said.

“The other one leaked oil. I didn’t want to turn on all the lights,” he said, “because we’re closed today. I didn’t want to attract customers.”

“You’re really closed on a Monday?”

“I guess you didn’t see the sign. One of our large fryers caught fire last night.”

“You had a fire?” I envisioned Gil trapped in a roaring fire. An instinct struck to protect him.

A motherly instinct?

No-o-o, my increasingly horny instincts told me.

I stepped away. This man didn’t need protecting right now. He loomed a foot taller than me, his shoulders extra wide through his knit shirt. His eyes extra dark. His lips extra sensual.

“It was only a small fire,” those lips said, “and they put it out right away. Someone will fix the problem later this afternoon. But we’re closed until then, since we have so many customers during the days of our grand opening. Many of them want their seafood fried.”

“Mmm, crispy and hot,” I said, then noticed him staring at my lips. The invisible magnet tugged. I took a deep breath. “So you need to get it fixed, and I need to go somewhere and eat. I’m starving.”

“I have something for you.”

“I wanted seafood.”

“I know.” He looked me in the eye. “There’s gumbo in small packs in the freezer. I’ll heat some for you.”

How could I resist?

He led me to the kitchen, a vast space with stainless steel appliances and the tempting aroma of fried seafood, tainted by the slightest burnt odor. Gil turned on lights in one section of the kitchen. Everything looked new and sparkly. There were vats for frying and burners and ovens and refrigerators and a microwave. Gil went into the walk-in freezer and came back with a small package. He placed its contents in a bowl and heated it in the microwave. “I’ll see what else I can find for you.”

While he went off, I sniffed the air. I looked around, disappointed not to see any empty sacks. On second thought, maybe the sacks didn’t come into the kitchen.

“You’re checking for boiled crayfish, aren’t you?” Gil asked, coming near.

I nodded and smiled for real. Beyond him, I spied stacks of the large plastic trays used for serving boiled seafood.

“This restaurant is getting crabs now, fairly large ones. But I’m afraid we don’t have any crayfish yet. I checked.”

“You do know me.” I smelled the well-seasoned mixture of seafood gumbo in the bowl he set in front of me on the long stainless steel counter. As in his other restaurants, this was where cooks would set orders for waiters to pick up.

Gil pulled a stool close to my food. “Enjoy. I’ve already had lunch.” He walked off and returned with a tall glass of milk. He set it beside my bowl, then got me a chunk of French bread and a dish of potato salad.

Yum. The gumbo was brown and thick from the roux. It held a little rice and lots of shrimp and crabmeat. I ate three crab claws, sliding the flaky meat off with my teeth.

“That food really turns you on.” Gil stood near with a smile. “Finish that, and I’ll get you some more.”

I grinned at him. Dug into my bowl. Savored the textures and tastes. I bit a piece of bread. Some bites of potato salad, especially good with a pinch of onion. I spooned a small oyster out of my gumbo.

“The Cajun aphrodisiac,” Gil said, his grin wicked.

“It’s a good thing you’re only part Cajun,” I said, and then ate more of this food for the gods. “And it’s a good thing you can’t have this.”

“Not with shrimp in it, but I could eat lots of oysters.” He was allergic to shrimp but not oysters.

Gil moved closer while the food in my bowls emptied. I noticed him. Noticed the darkness beyond our space.

“That was terrific,” I said.

“Ready for dessert?” He stood near, no dishes in his hands.

He placed those warm hands on me. Gil wrapped his arms around me. “I missed you.” He kissed my lips. Pulled his lips away. “I really miss you when you’re not around.” He kissed me longer. Drew his mouth away. “You’re so important to me, Cealie.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” I said, immediately annoyed with my lame response. This man was terribly important to me.

But I didn’t want him to be.

He shifted even closer. Gil pressed his firm chest against mine. His steel-gray eyes held my gaze. My traitorous body reacted to his.

This man wanted me. And I wanted him.

No, I don’t.
I slid off the stool on the opposite side from him. I wanted my freedom. I needed more strength to keep away from him. I called up my mantra—
I am woman! I can do anything! Alone.

If I gave in to Gil’s urges and mine now, I’d be back where I was some time in the past. I’d want to be with him all the time. Depending on him.

That last part would be the problem. My self-worth couldn’t depend on having a man near me again.

I gazed at Gil. He watched me from the opposite side of the backless barstool. He was tempting, definitely.

My body told me,
Get him. Jump his bones. Do it now!

And he would love that. So would I.

But then…

I shifted my eyes. I needed to call up an image of Gil wearing a crown and sitting on a throne, knowing exactly what he wanted and having all of it set before him.

And then me, the broken half of a cou
ple. Once Freddy died, I no longer knew what I wanted from life except to be with him, and that choice was gone.

So then, who was I?

That’s exactly what I had finally begun to find out. Rediscovering Cealie needed to come first. I wanted romance with Gil. But that would mean I had to give away the freedom to be a complete person, the newfound sense of being an individual who didn’t
need
anyone to feel whole.

His sexual draw pulled my body.

I placed my hand on the barstool. I wanted to shove it to the floor and grab the man. Then he and I might go down to the floor, too. No, not in this kitchen. We’d kiss and fondle all the way to his office, which must hold a comfy sofa.