Plateful of Murder (6 page)

I shut my eyes. The woman had the worst timing. “Fine. What’s up?” I could picture her, covered with flour, her hairnet fighting to keep her curly hair from breaking sanitary rules.

“Need some help again. Your father was supposed to come in at four, but he’s complaining about his lumbago.”

Interrupting this case to serve pastries wasn’t a great idea, but I hated shirking my responsibilities to the family my decision came quickly. “Okay, be there right away, but somebody’s coming with me.”

“A boyfriend? Is he Italian?” She was probably already pulling out the recipe for my wedding cake.

“No, on both counts.”

“It’s not that hoodlum you’re protecting.”

“No again. A friend.” I wove a story. “We’ve been talking and it turns out, he likes to cook and would love to talk to you about pastries.” I held my breath, waiting for either Michael or my aunt to protest.

Michael lifted his head and listened to my end of the conversation.

“Okay, bring him along.” She sighed. “Are you sure there’s nothing between you two?”

“No. Not possible.”
At least not now.

“He thinks he’s too good for you?”

“No, that’s not it.” Before she could ask more questions, I ended her inquiry with, “See you soon.”

Next up was convincing Michael it was good therapy. “We’re going to my Aunt Lena’s bakery. She’s like you, loves to bake. It’ll get your mind off Constance for a bit.” I could hear Gino scolding me, “Never, never introduce a client to your family.” He was probably turning over on his beach blanket about now.

As soon as we pulled around the back of
Cannoli’s,
my sensible inner voice niggled at me that maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. I ignored it. Out loud, I assured a reluctant Michael, “You’ll like my Aunt Lena. Besides being a wonderful baker, she’s got such a good heart.”

My aunt stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, feet spread apart as if ready for battle. She looked more like someone who’d eat your heart. It was obvious she didn’t intend to make it comfortable for me and Michael, my non-Italian, non-boyfriend.

After I made the introductions, Aunt Lena sized Michael up with her dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “So, how long have you known my niece?”

Michael opened his mouth to respond, but I was faster. “For a while now.” I grabbed two of the white aprons hanging from a hook, wrapped myself in one, and handed him the other. “I’ll work the counter after bussing the tables. Michael, will you help?”

Without skipping a beat, he looked from me to Aunt Lena. “Is that okay with you, Mrs. Antonucci?”

She squinted at both of us and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Are you sure—”

Before she could finish her thought, I exclaimed, “Oh, our first evening customer is here. Let’s go, Michael.” I grabbed his hand and yanked him through the door into the eating section.

With a steady supply of customers, I didn’t have time to club myself for bringing Michael here. But I did have time to rationalize that he did need cheering up and as far as I knew, nothing says, “Happy Times” like a chocolate éclair, or a cannoli, crisp and bulging with creamy ricotta.

About thirty minutes later, Aunt Lena, displaying a look of determination I imagine reporters wear when they’re scooping a story, crooked her finger at Michael. His eyes pleaded with me, but I was in the middle of dealing with a customer who expected me to recite the virtues of a custard cake slice over a chocolate-dipped cream puff.

My throat constricted as Michael headed toward the swinging door and my aunt. The customer finally made her choice. Before she could change her mind, I plated the pastry and quickly slid the dish to her. The dollar bills stuck to my clammy hands and made it difficult to release the change. The tinkle of the coins she dropped in the tip jar echoed in my ears as I dashed into the kitchen, scared of what I’d find.

I skidded to a stop. Michael and Aunt Lena were hunched over a piece of paper, lost in deep, hushed conversation.
What now?
She was probably demanding he sign a contract agreeing to date me. I hustled over to break it up.

“Right here, it says to use walnuts.” My aunt poked the paper with her chubby finger.

“I know, but if you try it with—” He spotted me and smiled. “We were discussing the best way to make her Midnight Tunnel cake.”

Aunt Lena put her hands on her hips. “Your Michael thinks he knows a thing or two about baking.”

I balked at her calling him mine but didn’t correct her. “He does make good pancakes.” My tongue should’ve slapped my lips for saying that.

Aunt Lena’s eyes opened so wide I thought her eyeballs would pop out. “As in, he made you
breakfast
?”

I knew where her mind was and started to protest, but Michael cut me short. “Claire dropped by while I was making pancakes and I invited her to join me.”

My aunt’s eyes returned to normal size as they shifted from Michael to me. She threw up her hands. “It’s not my business, but your mother would’ve wanted me to ask.”

I didn’t want to give my aunt an opening to probe further so simply said, “I better get back.” Good thing, too, since three sugar-fix-seeking customers were waiting for me.

I muttered to myself while ringing up the bill for the three women. “Not what she thinks.”

One of the ladies, her hand out for her change, asked, “Pardon?”

“Nothing. Really.” I had to get a grip.

There was a lull in customer traffic and I took the opportunity to stare at the door that swung into the kitchen. Michael still hadn’t returned to the dining room, and no talking sounds could be heard through the door. I turned, poised to put a stop to whatever my aunt was hatching. But my phone rang. It was Detective Corrigan. I wrinkled my nose and wondered if he smelled anything suspicious, like frozen lima beans.

“This is Claire. Hello, Detective Corrigan.” My apron strings suddenly seemed like a noose around my neck.

Corrigan’s voice boomed. “Miss DeNardo.”

I held the phone away from my ear, worried he might bust my eardrum. “What can I do for you?” I tried to keep my tone light, but it’s tough to sound pleasant while harboring a secret that could land Michael, and maybe even me, in jail.

“Heard you visited Eagleton.
Again.
Why?”

Two teenagers came in, chattering. I nodded to them, and then turned away. This was more important. Plus, I didn’t want Corrigan to know Michael’s hardboiled private detective also worked for her aunt behind a pastry counter. “Isn’t he still a suspect?”

“That’s not an answer.”

One of the girls tapped on the glass counter. “Excuse me, ma’am. We want to order.”

I held up my index finger and mouthed, “Give me a minute.”

I pictured Corrigan arresting me while I doled out chocolate cupcakes. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “Look, I was in the neighborhood and stopped by. Eagleton agreed to see me, and we talked. That’s all there was to it.”

“Talked? About what? Couldn’t have been the weather.”

“No.” I paused to think. “He told me he had nothing to say. He just kept repeating that he was innocent. Then he had me escorted out.” Although it sounded pretty lame, it was the truth.

“That’s it? You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why? Are you going to arrest him?”

Corrigan probably had a scowl on his face. “We can’t hold anyone without some solid evidence.” He waited, like he was giving me an opening to confess to something.

Like most people, I hate silences and usually blurt out stupid, revealing things just to fill them. But I couldn’t afford to do that this time, so my lips remained glued.

It worked. He talked first. “I’m going to repeat this once more. If you learn anything, you get in touch with me. Is that clear?”

So far, the only thing I’d learned was that Eagleton was an utter sleaze, Michael liked to cook, and he hid evidence in his freezer. But telling Corrigan all that would just anger him more, if that was possible, so I kept my response brief. “Crystal clear.” I hung up and turned back to my teen customers.

Another fifteen minutes passed and my worry about what Aunt Lena might be putting Michael through grew, so I retreated to the kitchen before another customer appeared at the counter. Tiptoeing in, I spotted them leaning over the counter, side-by-side, elbows deep in flour and cocoa. They both appeared so happy. Before they noticed me, I sneaked back out. However much it thrilled me to see my aunt and Michael enjoying themselves, my brain kept reminding me Michael was a client.

He shouldn’t be here with Aunt Lena and me. It was reckless and stupid to bring him along, not to mention shortsighted. It wouldn’t pay for anyone in my family to develop a relationship with him, including me. I should have gotten that tattooed on my forearm.

A steady flow of customers kept me busy the rest of the evening. After the last one departed, Aunt Lena marched out of the kitchen, her face glowing with triumph. She carried a luscious-looking cake, crowned with fresh cherries, chocolate dripping down its sides. She carefully placed it on the glass counter and beamed. She tilted her chin toward Michael, who idled beside her. “This is Michael’s creation. Can you believe this guy?”

He blushed. “I just helped.”

I smiled, in spite of my worries about mixing business and family. “It looks delicious.”

Aunt Lena glared at me like I’d said something outrageous. “Are you kidding me? It’s a masterpiece. And we’re all going to have some.”

My fear of getting bigger hips forced me to say, “Just a forkful for me.”

My aunt snorted and cut a healthy piece for each of us. It was heaven on a plate.

After we’d each devoured our piece and Michael excused himself to wash up, my aunt confided, “I like your friend, Claire. He’s kind of cute without those glasses, and the man sure knows his way around food. That’s never a bad thing.”

Out of the corner of my mouth I said, “Forget it. It’ll never happen.”

She put her fluttering hand to her chest, a full-figured Italian Scarlett O’Hara. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

When Michael returned from washing his hands, I hurried the goodbyes and got him out of
Cannoli’s
before my aunt promised him my hand in marriage. It hadn’t been a good idea to bring Michael there, trusting him that much. Bad enough I liked him more than was practical. Even worse, I knew Aunt Lena now considered him a potential family member.

As we drove back to my office, Michael must have picked up on my signals. He cleared his throat and staring straight ahead, asked, “Is something wrong?”

His concern amplified my guilty feelings. I didn’t want the poor guy to feel bad. He’d been great in an awkward situation. “Of course not, everything’s fine. No problem here. Really, I mean it.” Even to me, my words sounded tight as the strings on a cello. So much for assuring him.

But it must have. In a lighter tone, he said, “I really liked your aunt.”

“She liked you too.” I changed the subject. “Look, I’ve got some work to do. I’ll drop you off.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he agreed.

Alone again, I dug up everything available on John Luther, heir to Triton Pharmaceuticals. His life had two themes. Privilege and wealth. Best schools, married to a beautiful socialite since his college days. Two handsome boys, both gainfully employed. No scandals. A big fat zero, which is how, at that time, I felt.

Sometimes it crosses my mind that a client could think I’m incompetent, but this time it worried me almost to the point of losing my appetite. Not only did Michael deserve the best; he had to believe he was receiving it too. I couldn’t do this alone. So I chewed on a torn cuticle and weighed the pros and cons of asking Ed for his help. Inability to pay him weighed in quite heavily. Unless he let me pay him using a deferred payment plan. He’d joked about it, but he might agree to do it after all. I rubbed my forehead. If not, there were always my feminine wiles. In other words, I didn’t have a chance.

T
he next morning, pulling into Triton’s parking lot, my chest felt like someone was standing on it, making it hard to breathe. I scanned the area but didn’t see Ed, which added dismay to my anxiety. A rah-rah talk on my lips, I opened my car door and swung my legs out. A wolf whistle loud enough to pierce my eardrum made me jerk my head to see where it came from.

Ed had sneaked up by my car’s back bumper.
So much for my powers of observation.
A smile blew across his face. “Figured you’d be back. Just not this soon.”

My eyebrows knit as I thought hard, but no witty comeback flashed through my mind. “Yeah, well. I’m giving you a second chance.”

He squinted. “Second chance?”

“To do the right thing.”

He crossed his arms and the tattoo of a woman on his forearm danced. “You mean tell you everything I know, plus maybe do some snooping, for nothing.” He shook his head and gave me a crooked grin. “Gotta admit, you got some cojones, but nothing worth anything is free.”

“Okay.” I rubbed my knuckles hard, like my grandfather did when he was thinking. “How about I employ you,” adding quickly, “for this case only.”

Ed shaded his eyes from the sun. “For how much?”

“Five dollars per bit of information?”

He didn’t have to say anything. His expression told me, “Kiss off.” Loud and clear.

I sighed. Bargaining with money I didn’t have scared me. Good thing debtors’ prisons didn’t exist anymore. “How about ten?”

He laughed. “That a joke?”

I held my purse closer to my body, like he’d swipe it from me. “No. It’s what I can afford.”

He stuck a toothpick in his mouth. The man must have been personally responsible for destroying a forest. “Twenty, and it’s a deal. In fact, I have something for you already. Something I didn’t tell you yesterday.”

I wanted the information, but couldn’t imagine how to pay for it. “$17.95.”

He shook his head and rolled his toothpick to the other corner of his mouth. “This ain’t an auction. Twenty.”

I took the deal before he walked away. I wrinkled my nose, knowing ramen noodles were in my dining future. “Okay. Tell me what you know.”