Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 01 - Death by Chocolate (32 page)

True, with as much money as Rick was offering, I could buy the vacant house across the street and fix it up, thus retaining my neighbors. That was just one of the many reasons I didn’t trust the whole deal. Why would anybody offer that much more than the house was worth? I did not for one minute believe Rick’s story that his client’s grandparents had lived in the house and he wanted it for sentimental value. What a crock.

The lunch crowd began to thin, and I noticed Rick and his client still sitting at the corner table. Across the room Paula cleared the dirty dishes off the table next to them and exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with me. I repressed a sigh as I handed the last lady at the bar a to-go bag with half a dozen gluten-free chocolate chip cookies. Rick was obviously planning to wait until everybody was gone then ambush me. He didn’t like not getting his way. That’s why our divorce was still pending. He didn’t want it, and if he didn’t want something, he’d figure a way to stop that something from happening.

Several months ago he kicked Muffy out and decided he wanted me back in. By that time I’d recovered from the temporary insanity that had induced me to marry him in the first place and got a cat instead. That cat loves my house. Make that,
our
house. King Henry is a very demanding cat.

The last customer left the counter. Besides Rick and his buddy, only one other table remained occupied. An older man and a younger woman sat there, nibbling on their cookies, talking softly and laughing. Probably married, but not to each other. 

Paula took her load of dishes to the kitchen then returned to where I stood behind the cash register. After her evil ex-husband was sent to prison last fall, she quit coloring her blonde hair brown and came out of hiding, but she still wore her self-appointed uniform of long sleeves and ankle-length skirts to hide the scars he’d left.

“They didn’t order anything except desert, and Rick gave me a twenty dollar tip,” she said. “Watch your back.”

“He wants my house.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “He made you take that house so he could keep the big one!”

“Shhh. Here they come.”

“I’ll just step into the kitchen and eavesdrop.” Paula vanished into the back room.

“Lindsay, I’d like you to meet Rodney Bradford.”

The tall man with gray hair, acne-scarred skin and dark eyes wore a business suit, but he didn’t look like a business person…more like a member of the mob cleaned up for trial. He gave me a big smile and extended a large hand across the counter. “Good to meet you, Lindsay.”

I took his hand automatically. It was thick, hard and callused. He didn’t grip like a weight lifter, didn’t hang on too long, didn’t do anything wrong, but something about him creeped me out. Maybe just because he was hanging with Rick. Or maybe it was something to do with the darkness that seemed to expand out from those eyes and surround the man.

Nah, that was silly. Probably just because he was hanging with Rick. 

“Can we talk outside?” Bradford asked, his gaze shifting nervously around the restaurant, looking at the couple in the corner as if they might be spies.

“No,” I said. “The acoustics are just fine in here. Feel free to speak.”

“Lindsay.” Rick spoke my name as if it was a threat, but then he gave a big salesman smile. “Please?”

I considered the situation. Stand there and argue with a man whose ears were tuned to hear only his own words or go outside with them, then run back inside and lock the door. “Fine.” I took a fortifying sip of my current Coke, set it back on the counter and headed for the front door.

Outside I led them away from the door but still in the shade of my awning. It was a hot day. I stopped in front of the sign painted on my window, obscuring most of the word
Chocolate
with
Death By
over my head. I figured that would make a nice picture, though Bradford was probably too dense to get it, and Rick was too self-consumed.

“Rodney is interested in purchasing that little house you’re living in, the one you and I own,” Rick said, ramping up the wattage on his smile.

Jerk. Reminding me the house was still community property, that we were still legally—no, I can’t say the “m” word when it relates to Rick. Legally bound.

I smiled with the same degree of sincerity as he did. That would be…none. “You mean my home? I’m not interested in selling.”

“It would mean a whole lot to me,” Rodney said. “My grandparents used to live there. That house has got sentimental value.” He paused, blinked and seemed confused for a second. Was this guy sick? His tanned skin did look kind of pallid. He swallowed, recovered and continued. “I used to visit them when I was a boy. Some of the best memories of my life. Now they’re—” This time his pause was deliberate. Con job. I’d seen Rick do it too many times not to recognize it. “They’re in heaven, and I’d just like to be able to go to that old house, sleep in my old room, sit on the porch like we used to and remember the good times.”

I was sorry to hear the nice elderly couple Rick and I bought the house from were dead. They’d seemed healthy, looking forward to life in a retirement village, but they had been old. “The house across the street is for sale. You could buy it, get a pair of binoculars and sit on the porch every day looking at my house.”

“Lindsay!” Rick exclaimed.

Beads of sweat broke out on Rodney’s forehead. The temperatures were in the 80s, but the shade was cool. Was my refusal freaking him out that bad? “I’ve got a little money,” he said. His voice suddenly sounded kind of creaky. “I’ll pay you more than you’d get anywhere else just so I can have my dear old grandmother’s house.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not for sale. If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to leave Paula with all the cleanup.”

I took a step toward the door.

Rodney cleared his throat. “Could I have a glass of water?”

A stalling tactic. I sighed. “Sure.”

I went inside.

Paula had come back from the kitchen to stand beside the door. “Don’t sell him your house.”

“Don’t worry.” I poured a glass of iced water and went back out, planning to hand it to the man then run back inside while he was drinking.

He raised his head to look at me. His skin was really pale, and his eyes had a shiny cast to them. Maybe this was more than frustration at being thwarted. My cookies had nuts. I hoped he wasn’t allergic. Wouldn’t be good publicity for the diner.

He reached a hand toward the water, his eyes rolled up in his head, he groaned and slowly crumpled to the sidewalk.

“Did you bring a drunk man in my restaurant?” I demanded of Rick, hoping that’s what it was. I didn’t need my place to be quarantined for an outbreak of malaria or shut down because my cookies made somebody sick.

Rick sank to the ground beside the man. Paula rushed out. The couple at the corner table stood and looked through the window. I held onto the glass of water as if it was a glass of Coke and prayed for a verdict of too many beers.

“Call 911!” Rick shouted.

I set the water on the sidewalk, fumbled in my pocket for my cell phone and punched in the three ominous numbers.

Paula rose, her face pale, her expression solemn. “Lindsay, he’s dead.”

The couple exploded through the door and hauled butt out of there. They didn’t want to be seen on the ten o’clock news.

This was worse than getting sick. Heart attack? Nut allergies? Please, not poisoned chocolate again! “You don’t know that he’s dead,” I snapped. “You thought your husband was dead just because you shot him, but he was still alive.”

Rick stood. He’d lost his salesman’s smile. Damn. That did not bode well.

Someone answered my phone call. “911. What is your emergency?”

I swallowed and spoke into the phone. “I think I just killed a man. I mean…my cookies killed a man. I mean—”

“He had the brownie,” Paula interrupted.

I didn’t correct the 911 lady. Cookies or brownies, a man had just died after eating my dessert. Even if it was a good old-fashioned heart attack, death and desserts just don’t go well together.

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