The color drains from Chef Roswell’s face and before I can stop him, he’s leaning over the trash, throwing up, and effectively contaminating the kitchen where evidence of a murder may well now hide. If there is anything I dislike outside large quantities of blood, it’s large quantiles of barf. I decide right then, he’s a hot man, in a hot man’s body, with a wuss, not a killer, buried inside. He’d never stomach butchering and draining a pig. He’s not our guy, but he’s also been targeted. The question is, why?
He grabs a paper towel and wipes his mouth. I gag a little, I can’t help it. “I only met her once, but she was a sweet lady,” he says. “I can’t believe she’s dead. How did she die?”
“Die?” I ask. “You mean, how was she murdered?” Andrew enters the room and I glance over at him. “Do you have officers on the scene?”
“I do,” he confirms.
“Can Chef Roswell sit in a vehicle while I search the kitchen? Preferably with the window down since he just lost his lunch in the trashcan.”
“Wonderful,” Andrew mutters, motioning to the chef. “This way.”
“I need to finish your dinner,” the chef argues. “I’ll clean up and get it done.” His gaze falls to me. “You hired me for a great meal.”
“We can’t eat the food, chef,” Andrew states. “Not this time.”
“I don’t understand,” he argues. “Do you think we tried to poison you?”
I give him a deadpan stare. He swallows hard. “Mary, mother of Jesus.”
Now that he finally gets the point, I step to the bar where I’d been sitting, grab a notecard, scribble down my number and slide it in front of the chef. “I’ll need you to come to the station for questioning. Text me at noon tomorrow on the dot. If you don’t, we’ll hunt you down. I’ll hunt you down. It’s not ever a fun reunion when I hunt someone down. And now, you may go.” I flick Andrew a look. “If Police Chief Love agrees.”
The chef pales all over. “Police Chief Love?”
“Yes,” Andrew confirms. “Police Chief Love. And I’d like you to go to the station and get fingerprinted.”
Chef Roswell inhales and nods, removing his apron. “Whatever is needed.”
A timer goes off and he forgets all else, tossing the apron on a barstool and grabbing a potholder before rushing to the stove. A few moments later, he places a dish of mac ‘n’ cheese, bubbling with delicious cheese, on top of the stove. Oh, how painful killing this meal is to my growling stomach.
“It’s not poisoned,” he assures me. “No one touched it but me and my reputation is exceptional. And my mac ‘n’ cheese is the best on planet Earth.”
The man might know how to tempt a woman, even more so than Kane, outside that moment where he used the trashcan for a belly dumpster.
And yeah. It’s probably safe to eat the food, despite said dumpster location. However, using “probably” as a judgment call is about as stupid as assuming you know what you can’t validate. “Considering Emma Wells’ condition when I saw her last night,” I say trying, “I’ll pass.”
“Oh,” he says flatly. “I see. I ah, I see.”
I doubt it, I think. The man has thrown up in a trashcan, turned ten shades of white several times, and he’s still offering me food. Andrew motions to Chef Roswell to get moving and fortunately, he moves in Andrew’s direction. I walk to the hallway, grab my field bag, slide it across my chest, and glove up.
Once I’m back inside the kitchen, I walk straight to the refrigerator, open the door, and look for a jar of blood. There isn’t one. Of course not. That would make one of the people visiting our house tonight more obviously involved. It just never ends up that easy for me. I start walking the area, bagging samples of food, our salt and pepper shakers, and other random items, as I decide everything edible needs to go. I’m not sure how Emma died, but she was in the kitchen, water was in her hand, and that means she ate something that killed her, or she took medication.
Not poison my ass, Ms. DD Fashion Model.
Emma Wells was poisoned. And logically, the fake Naomi Wells was here to poison us as well. Except—no. I love logic as much as anyone, but what is logical to me is only logical because of my limited view of a picture not yet drawn. I’ve already said that the killer doesn’t want me dead, at least not yet. That’s my instinct. I’m sticking with it.
He or she–my gut says “he” despite Naomi’s presence tonight—he tested me tonight to find out how easily I could be manipulated, and how easily he could get close to me. And maybe Kane.
That means he used Naomi. She’s his weakness. She could talk. We need to find her.
And tonight’s events drive home the idea that the killer wants me to play a game with him.
Obviously, he has no idea that I’m not somebody you want to play with. In fact, I’m the one who no one will even play monopoly with. Apparently, I’m intolerable. I like to win. I hate to lose. That hasn’t changed. He won’t like how I play.
For now, I make my way to the bathroom, bag our Advil and Excedrin, and hand over all the samples I’ve take to one of Andrew’s men. Andrew is nowhere to be found. I re-enter the kitchen to make sure I didn’t miss anything. That’s when Kane appears at the side of the bar, where I’d been working earlier, and motions for me to join him in the other room. I yank off my gloves, toss them, and follow him to the living room. We end up in the living room by the tree, which had been our effort to be normal. We are obviously not normal and can’t even pretend otherwise.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that mac ‘n’ cheese looks fantastic. I might have to kill that bitch Naomi or whatever her real name is, when I find her for denying me my favorite food.”
“Unless she saved us.”
“Hmm. I don’t know how I feel about that statement, but not very on target.” My cellphone rings and I drag it from my pocket to eye the caller ID. “It’s Chief Houston,” I say before answering without the pretense of niceties. I’m not a unicorn or a nun. “Well?”
“Naomi Wells is alive and well. We scared the shit out of her.”