A Bitter Feast(92)

Booth interrupted her. “What about Saturday night, Mrs. Dunning? Can you account for your movements then?”

She frowned at him. “Why should I?”

“Because we’re looking into the circumstances of Jack Doyle’s death.”

“What?” Roz gaped at him in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. “What has that to do with me? I didn’t even know the man.”

“You must have had drinks at the pub.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I knew him. And he certainly wasn’t my type.”

“Then you won’t mind telling us what you were doing on Saturday night.”

“I do mind, actually,” she snapped, folding her arms. “I will tell you that it had nothing whatsoever to do with that bartender, and that’s all I’m going to say.”

It was almost a challenge. If Booth had been prepared to take it, he was interrupted by a phone call. He excused himself, and when he returned a few moments later, he thanked Roz for her time.

“Don’t worry, Detective Inspector,” she said, with a tight little smile. “I’m not planning to abscond to South America. Although”—she directed this at Melody—“I was planning to resign from your lady mother’s employ, so you needn’t worry your little head about my corrupt morals.”

Before Melody could respond, Booth motioned them all outside.

“That was forensics,” Booth said. “They’ve managed to unlock O’Reilly’s mobile.”

December 2007

Viv had managed to hold her tongue through the remainder of service, but as soon as the door closed behind the last of the staff, she turned on Fergus. “How could you? How could you do that to Ibby? Danny was his friend.”

Fergus didn’t raise his eyes from the griddle he was scrubbing. “How could I do what?”

“For God’s sake, Fergus. How could you be so bloody callous?” Viv found she was shaking with exhaustion and outrage. Not only had she had to cover Ibby’s station, the tension in the kitchen and in front of house had made the rest of the evening a nightmare. She was surprised they’d made it all the way through service without a disaster—although she couldn’t imagine worse than what had already happened.

“What did you expect me to do?” asked Fergus, finally glancing up at her, his expression cold. “Close down the kitchen and hold a prayer service? Danny was a fecking bomb waiting to go off and Ibby was the only one who couldn’t see it.”

“If you knew he was using last night, why didn’t you do something?” Viv had given up any pretense of working and stood with her fists clenched as tightly as Ibby’s had been.

For a few weeks after the Michelin star, she’d thought things might go back to the way they’d been in the summer between her and Fergus. But the attention and the notoriety had been siren songs to him, and soon there were more nights spent partying and fewer and fewer with her. The last few weeks she had barely seen him outside the kitchen.

“What is it you think I should have done? Sent him home to his mam?”

His mockery made her even more furious. “You are such a shit, Fergus. You should have done what any friend would do—looked after him. We’re more than friends here, we’re family. You know that. You have a responsibility.” She took a gulping breath and tried to bring her voice down from a shriek. “And not only were you cruel to Ibby, you’ve left us a cook short and I can’t manage—” The nausea hit her suddenly, twisting her gut without warning. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she ran for the staff toilet and vomited nothing but bile. The sickness had been so persistent the last few days that she hadn’t been able to keep anything down. She’d managed to wipe her mouth, flush, and take a shaky seat on the toilet lid when Fergus appeared in the doorway, looming over her.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Viv? You’ve been heaving your guts up for days, so you can’t blame that on me.”

She started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. “I can blame it on you, Fergus. At least partly. I’m pregnant.”

If Viv had ever wanted to see him gobsmacked, she had her wish. He gaped at her. “But . . . you . . . you can’t be.”

“What we’ve been doing, Fergus, is generally how babies are made.” Even though she knew it wasn’t the least bit funny, she was still stifling giggles, so light-headed she might have been drunk.

“You were on the pill,” he protested.

“Yeah, well, when I went to Evesham, I didn’t take any of my things, remember? And after that, I didn’t see much point continuing.”

He backed up a step, as if it might be catching. “Of all the bloody stupid things to do, Viv—”

“I thought my mum was dying.” She stood, all the urge to laugh gone. “And I wasn’t exactly planning to sleep with you again, or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

His face had gone the color of clotted cream, the dimples marking his cheeks like tiny craters. “Well, you can’t have it,” he said. “You’ll have to get rid of it.”

“What?” She stared at him. “What are you talking about? This is your child, too, Fergus!”

“It’s my fecking restaurant! I can’t have a pregnant cook in my kitchen. And you—how exactly do you plan to be a chef with a bloody baby to take care of?” He’d made baby sound like a dirty word. “Don’t be daft. You get this taken care of and then we’ll—”