The Inn(31)

There was tension in the kitchen. We both worked on our separate chopping blocks, waiting for it to melt away.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO





HE WAITED UNTIL she was in that golden haze, tipsy but not taken, swaying to the music and smiling at boys who wouldn’t know what to do with her even if they got her in their grasp. And yes, it was only boys who surrounded her, some of them frat douchebags who couldn’t carry on a conversation with her without looking down her top or letting their eyes rove over other girls, others local dropouts hunting for easy prey they could take to the woods behind the house. Cline, resting his arms on the second-floor banister, watched her come up the stairs, a confident smile on his face.

Self-assurance. She’d probably never seen it before. She was drawn to his stylish clothes, his superior gaze, the expensive wine in his hand. He could see her recognizing him from that afternoon, when he’d been surrounded by men he owned and commanded. She probably wondered if this guy was the king of the castle. Of course he was.

“Nice place,” she said, trying to be casual. “What’s the party for?”

He shrugged and walked over to her. “When a man’s successful, he ought to celebrate it every now and then.”

He could tell that his words tickled something inside her, stroked her in that exact right spot, piqued her interest. Success wasn’t something that rolled around here in waves. She was looking for it, the key to the door that led out of her small-town world, the path to the kinds of things she saw in movies. Big houses, lavish parties, trips to New York, yachts. Dreamland on the horizon. Cline had her pegged. She was probably washing dishes in a café around here somewhere, scraping fried food off plates for minimum wage. Cleaning toilets. Daddy was absent—one of the crab wranglers who left and returned in the dark—and she’d promised herself a long time ago she wouldn’t end up with someone like him. Cline watched the pink lights dancing in her eyes.

“You want a little tour?” he asked, sliding his hand down her arm and curling his fingers around hers. He saw goose bumps rise on her neck.

“Sure.”

“We’ll start with the VIP room.” He smiled.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE





THE SMELL OF the food and the sound of the music brought people into the kitchen. Nothing I’d ever cooked before had smelled this good, but Susan had helped, and she had the chef’s wisdom. She knew the onion went into the pot before the carrots and the meat needed to be browned before the wine was added.

Nick came into the kitchen and lifted pot lids and smelled and stirred things and raised his eyebrows at the sight of me drinking wine and cooking and bopping around the little space with a woman who was not my wife. I ignored him.

Soon Effie was there tapping her wrist, demanding to know when this glorious-looking feast would be ready, and I shooed the two of them, which left room for Doc Simeon to come wandering in. He was carrying his ivory-handled walking stick and had a book under his arm that was so thick, it threatened to capsize the guy like a small, fat tugboat. I tilted my head to look at the title. The Science of Flight in Apoidea, whatever that was.

“I’ve been meaning to come up and talk to you,” I told him as he watched Susan spreading garlic butter on thick slices of bread.

“Yes, I see you’ve hired a professional chef.” He went to the pot of meat sauce and scooped out a taste for himself. “Will this mean a rent increase?”

“It’s just lasagna.” Susan rolled her eyes. “Everybody’s acting like Nigella Lawson is in the house.”

“Have you tasted this guy’s oatmeal?” Doc pointed his walking stick at me. “How on earth does one miscalculate the preparation of oatmeal?”

“My culinary miscalculations aside,” I said, “I want to send Nick your way.”

“Ah, yes.” The doctor nodded. “I’ve heard about his night-time adventures. Bill, I spent fifty years as a general practitioner. That’s half a century, you know. The temptation was always there to branch out, to follow my proclivities into other, more prestigious rooms. The operating room. The psychiatrist’s consultation room. But you know, I was never happier than when I had a small office and it was just the patient, his sore throat, and me.”

“I think you might be underselling yourself, Doc,” I said.

The doctor turned to go and then turned back. He beckoned me to the small alcove off the kitchen and stood there, apparently debating with himself about something. In the closeness of the space I realized, not for the first time, how small he was.

“Look.” He hung his walking cane over his arm and fiddled with the book. “I know what’s going on with you and this … this local drug-lord character. I think you should consider backing off.”

“Backing off?” I stood straighter.

“I’ve dealt with addicts in my time,” he said. “I remember when heroin hit. People walked around looking like skeletons, like zombies, their teeth and hair falling out. You’d think that when a person woke up in the morning and saw a living corpse reflected in the bathroom mirror, that would be enough to make him stop. But these people can’t stop. There’s no rationality to it. The body starts to need it to function.”

“I’ve seen that sort of thing too.” I shrugged. “I was a street cop for nearly twenty years. I’ve seen my fair share of junkies.”