Sixteen
The Pantry is renowned for its farm-to-table dishes served family style and for its prime location on the west end of Pearl Street, and tonight they’re packed. The restaurant balances comfort and class, with chalkboards listing daily specials, rustic wooden tables, and vases full of white hydrangeas. It makes me wonder how much of the ambience is thanks to Reid, and what he envisions for his new restaurant.
I’m the first to arrive. The hostess seems to be expecting me. She eyes me curiously as if to say her, really?, which leads me to believe she must be one of Reid’s many admirers. Flipping her cascading hair over one shoulder, she informs me in a snooty tone that it will be a few minutes before my table is ready.
I drift away from the icy hostess and make myself comfortable at the bar. It’s all marble, wrought iron, and sparkling glass. Given the posh backdrop, I order an old-fashioned, figuring I could do with a dose of liquid courage for the impending dinner.
“Parker,” a familiar silky voice says behind me. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I swivel on the barstool to find Moira and Carrick. They’re one of those couples who look like they belong together—their perfectly tailored attire, smart footwear, and impeccable hair a study in matched elegance.
Classy broad that I am, I sputter and spit out an ice cube. “Are you two here for dinner?”
“Oh yes,” Moira says. She’s changed out of her mourning clothes, having figuratively and literally let her hair down. “This is one of our favorite restaurants.”
Carrick gives me a forced smile that looks like it causes physical pain. Granted, the last time I saw him he caught me eavesdropping, so I guess it makes sense.
“Do you know the owner?” I ask, bobbing my foot.
“Not well, I’m afraid. We bumped into him recently at that quaint little French bistro in Arvada—” Moira breaks off and turns to Carrick. “What is it called, again?”
“Bistro Paradis,” Carrick answers in a heavy French accent. “It’s—uh—off the beaten path, as you say.”
“That’s right,” Moira continues, almost as an afterthought. “He was with Gaskel, now that I think of it. I remember we feared Gaskel would ruin the establishment with a poor review.”
This tidbit etches itself into my mind. I know Brennan and Gaskel were friends, but Gaskel made it a point to eat alone when he reviewed restaurants.
“We needn’t have worried, though,” Moira says. “Gaskel never blogged about it.”
This only mildly satisfies my curiosity.
Mostly to gauge their reaction, I ask, “Any word on the investigation? Like Moira said earlier, we’re in this together now.”
Carrick’s lip twitches, threatening to unravel his polite façade. His answer is curt: “No.”
“You’ll be the first to hear when we have news,” Moira adds cordially.
Carrick casts about for a distraction and, gesturing toward where Brennan reigns over the hostess stand like the conductor of an orchestra, says, “There is the owner now. I must go beg a table for us. Excuse me.”
Moira slides onto the barstool next to me. She fiddles with the strap of her purse and then the frills of her blouse sleeves, more nervous than I’ve ever seen her.
“So you’re not going to let him go, after all?” I ask with one eyebrow raised, referencing our earlier conversation.
“Hopefully things will turn out as well as your merlot.”
I click my tongue and decide to see what other information I can needle out of her. “I overheard your fight when I visited your winery.”
“Ah, yes,” she says. “Carrick told me.”
Her candor leaves me feeling vulnerable and embarrassed, an unpalatable combo. I dip my chin, uncertain how to respond.
At my prolonged silence, she continues, “You certainly haven’t seen us at our best.”
I recall Moira throwing cherry wine in Carrick’s face at my opening, how Sage said they’d continued to bicker, and the vulnerability Liam captured on film. Then I remember Carrick’s words from their winery: We need to keep the promise we made to each other.
“What does Carrick want you to follow through on?”
She opens and closes her mouth, no doubt considering telling me to mind my own beeswax. After another moment, much to my surprise, she answers, “We promised we would stay true to each other and our joint passion for winemaking. Which has proved to be easier said than done.”
Whether that’s the truth or a convenient fiction, I don’t know.
I flash her what I hope comes across as an understanding smile. “We all go through rough patches.”
She relaxes, leaning back on her stool. “Did you know Carrick was the one who came up with the Bend It Red?”
I shake my head. “It’s an exceptional wine.”
“He’s really quite brilliant. He has a keen understanding of how the flavors of grapes evolve during aging.” Her gaze softens as it lands on Carrick, who is currently schmoozing with Brennan. “I attribute it to his having grown up in the Loire Valley.”
I can picture a younger Carrick—all dimples and dark hair—playing make-believe in a French vineyard. “That’s a handy skill in our trade.”
“Indeed,” she says.
“What did Carrick mean when he said you have a soft spot for strays?”
“You really did hear everything, didn’t you?” She tuts and I flush all the way to the tips of my ears. She continues, “It’s my fatal flaw. I can’t help but . . . well, help, I suppose.”
I rest my forearm on the bar. “Is Carrick a so-called stray?”
“Suffice it to say, he alienated those close to him due to some . . . decisions he made in his youth.” She purses her lips. “But that’s his story to tell. Not mine.”
Or is there another reason she isn’t divulging his past? She’s certainly been forthcoming about everything else.
I try to ease the tension, channeling my best girl-talk voice. “How did you two meet?”
Crinkles form around her eyes as the memory takes hold. “I was studying wine at the Institute for American Universities in Aix-en-Provence and Carrick was a server at a small bistro in town. I went there every night for a week; each time we would talk deeper into the night. I told him about my family’s winery and the legacy I hoped to build, and he shared the depth of his wine knowledge. We haven’t been apart since.” She pauses, fiddling once again. “We’re going back to where we first met and fell in love: Provence.”
“When are you going?”
“At the end of the summer. We’re going to spend the fall harvest traveling to vineyards in Burgundy, the Loire Valley, and along the Rhône.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, cupping my chin with my hand, the utter romance of the trip taking my breath away. “What about Murphy’s Bend?”
“It will be here when we get back. There are more important things than the bottom line.” Although she camouflages it well, I can tell this decision has taken a toll on her.
Small businesses can’t afford to simply close their doors for a month. I wonder how they’ll manage it—if they will.
Carrick returns, rests his hands gently on his wife’s shoulders, and, with incredible tenderness, brushes her long wavy hair to one side. Her maroon highlights appear a deep burgundy in the dim lighting.
“I hear you two crazy kids are planning a trip,” I say.
“Yes, we have much to discuss,” he answers, bowing his head. “Our table is ready. Enjoy your meal, Parker.”
“We’ll see you at your party,” Moira says. “We’ll be the ones loudly gushing over your wines.” She gives me an encouraging smile and, with that, they take their leave.
It hurts how badly I want to trust Moira.
There have been a handful of people who have seen more in me than I have myself. Sage, my constant cheerleader and coconspirator; my college adviser, an intimidating woman who growled at me for three years before revealing that she believed in me; and my aunt, who encouraged me when I doubted myself the most.
Maybe someday I could add Moira to that list. When I’m absolutely sure she and her husband weren’t involved in either of the murders, of course. It is a rather conspicuous time to be planning a trip overseas.
Toasted flatbread slathered with hummus and slow-roasted garlic. Grilled jumbo shrimp marinated in mango chutney. Thinly sliced flank steak drizzled with chile verde. An Italian spin on ratatouille with basil, sun-dried tomatoes, and a balsamic glaze.
In short, Reid outdoes himself.
Sage, Jason, and I sit at a four-top in the back of The Pantry with a view of the open kitchen. The sounds of sizzling meats and chopping vegetables serenade us. The best part, though, is the unobstructed view of Reid with his coppery hair and chef’s coat rolled up his forearms. His impulsive nature and constant need for movement are assets in the kitchen, honed into a resolute focus that gives him such a commanding presence I’m struck with awe.
And I’m not the only one. I feel the heat of Reid’s gaze as he takes in my new lily dress with its plunging neckline and curve-hugging design. My insides go as gooey as the burrata recently delivered to our table. This dress was worth every penny.
Sage faux-fans herself. “Did something happen between you two?” Her nerd is out in full force tonight with her dragon-claw necklace and lightsaber chopsticks pinning her hair into a messy bun. But she’s wearing a pale gray suit, which tells me she came straight from work.
“A lady never kisses and tells,” I say. “Besides, we’re here to celebrate you two.”
I raise my glass in a toast. “Congratulations,” I say as we clink. “I couldn’t be happier.” Neither Sage nor Jason seems to notice my clipped tone.
I take a sip of my Mount Sanitas White, one of the wines I carefully packed for this evening. It may seem odd that I brought my own libations, but this way I can make sure the food will pair well with my wine for the VIP party. Not that I doubt Reid; I simply refuse to leave anything to chance.
Once prompted, Sage shares her dream wedding ideas with Jason nodding encouragingly at her side. Even though she’s only been engaged for a few hours, Sage already knows what she wants. Small and tasteful at the Rocky Mountain National Park in Estes, wearing a gauzy dress à la Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings (naturally). She proudly displays her engagement ring as she spouts details. Gone is the uncertainty of yesterday; she’s the quintessentially blissful bride-to-be.
However, she’s my best friend, and I see the fissures. Subtle things like the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes and how she nervously picks at her fingernails.
Jason, on the other hand, seems all too pleased with himself. He dotes on Sage, hanging on her every word and topping off her wineglass when it’s only half-empty. He even contributes a few words to the conversation, namely his sole desire for their wedding: that he and his groomsmen wear flip-flops.
I search his face for signs of fatigue, nerves, anything that might suggest he was at my parents’ house last night. He gives nothing away.
A long shadow falls over our table and a deep, accented voice asks, “How is everything this evening?”
I spin around to find Brennan Fourie towering over us. He’s in jeans, a black T-shirt, and fashionable leather shoes that reek of money.
“Wonderful, thank you,” I answer.
He rests his hands nonchalantly on the back of our spare seat, nodding at Sage, Jason, and me in turn. “It’s Parker, yeah?”
“That’s right.” I’m honored he remembers my name. “How long are you in town?”
“Until I wrap up some unfinished business.” He has a refined yet somewhat aloof expression on his face. “I’m in need of a new chef.”
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do,” he says with a sharp look. “Besides, it’s business, not personal.”
After the last few days, I’m not sure how business can be anything but personal, especially when you’ve sunk your entire livelihood into it like I have. I don’t say this, though.
“I’ll keep an ear—er—taste bud out.” I switch gears. “I chatted with Vera at Gaskel’s memorial. She’s an interesting woman.”
He blanches and then guffaws. “‘Interesting’ isn’t quite how I would describe her.”
“Good point,” I say, swirling my glass of wine. “Do you think she had anything to do with Gaskel’s death?”
“There are do-ers and there are talkers.” He nods at a table of patrons sitting down and says through a smooth smile, “Vera strikes me as a talker, someone who bitches about her problems but does nothing to correct them.”
As if offing her brother would have fixed her problems. “Her daughter inherited Gaskel’s estate.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Small change.”
Maybe to someone like him. I take a dainty sip of wine. “Have you thought of anyone else who might have had it in for Gaskel?”
“Unfortunately, no,” he says sadly, his curly hair falling over his forehead. “If you’ll excuse me, I should make the rounds.”
As he turns to another table, he pauses and looks back, his movements fluid and confident. “Oh, and, Parker.”
“Hmm?” I peer up at him.
“I’ll be at your VIP party tomorrow night. It would be an honor.”
After Brennan leaves us, we nibble our way through each dish and I lose myself in the flavors. Savory and bold, but not so much that they’ll overpower my wines. They’ll complement them, in different ways than I ever expected.
“Ohmygod, this is amazing,” Sage says. She shovels another generous portion of ratatouille onto her plate. “You’re serving this at your party tomorrow night?”
I nod, sipping the Pearl Street Pinot meant to pair with that dish.
“What’s this party everyone keeps talking about?” Jason asks, genuinely curious.
Getting engaged seems to have made him more agreeable. Unless there’s another reason for his improved attitude, like getting away with murder.
“The VIP party at Vino Valentine.” I cross one leg over the other and steal another glance at Reid. “It’s the place to be.”
Jason freezes mid-chew, swallowing his food with a gulp of Ralphie’s Riesling. “Isn’t it too soon to have another party?”
“My business can’t really stand to wait any longer. So . . .” I trail off, letting him fill in the blanks. Hopefully he’s up to the task.
He shrugs and spears another shrimp with his fork. “I hope it works out how you want.”
His statement sends a jolt of nerves through my body. Still, he’s making an effort and I can do the same. “Look at that, there’s something else we agree on.”
“What else did you agree on,” Sage asks, looking first to Jason and then to me.
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “Your happiness.”
Her eyes grow glassy with tears. She dabs her lips with her napkin and excuses herself to use the restroom, leaving Jason and me alone.
I cock my head to the side and consider him without blinking, as if challenging him to a staring contest. “Are you originally from Golden?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re marrying my best friend.” I lean forward, casting a shadow over the white linen tablecloth. “I want to get to know you.” And to see if you have any connection to Jolly’s Diner.
“Yeah,” he answers.
I twitch my lips. Apparently, I’m going to have to drive this conversation, which is fine by me. “Pro tip for the next time you surprise Sage: She hates cheesecake.”
He just shrugs. “She said yes, didn’t she? She must not hate it as much as you think.”
I hope my future fiancé will at least bother to learn my favorite dessert. Luckily for whoever ends up in that esteemed position, my preferences are simple: anything with chocolate.
I continue prodding Jason. “Did you hear about Max?”
“What about him?” he asks with an aggrieved sigh.
“He’s dead.”
Jason blinks stupidly and runs a hand through his mousy hair. Shock, sadness, and denial flash across his face in turn. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts feverishly texting. From his reaction, I gather this is the first he’s hearing of Max’s demise, which means he wasn’t the one who killed him. And he probably wasn’t at my parents’ house last night.
If I’m being honest, most of my suspicion surrounding Jason has stemmed from my dislike of him. It’s time I let it go.
Reid appears at my side. I smell the sugary morsels before I spot the platter of truffles in his outstretched hand.
So. Many. Truffles.
Dark chocolate and milk chocolate, rolled in coconut and crystallized ginger, stuffed with raspberry jam and bitter espresso.
I pick one out at random and take a bite, closing my eyes so I can fully appreciate the sweetness. “My compliments to the chef.”
Reid chuckles, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Which wine will be paired with dessert?”
Truth be told, I forgot all about my wine. Belatedly, I pour myself a splash and answer, “The Campy Cab.” I swish the liquid around in my mouth, noticing how the fruitiness comes to the foreground of my taste buds. “Perfect.”
He meets my gaze, green eyes flashing, and in that moment, I forget about the murder investigation, my failing business, and how worried I am about my family and friends.
Then Liam arrives and all hell breaks loose.
On seeing my brother, Jason leaps to his feet, so abruptly he tips his chair over, and takes a swing at him. I might be imagining it, but I even think I hear him growl.
Liam nimbly dodges, skirting out of reach. He’s dressed to the nines, in slacks and a collared shirt usually reserved for holidays.
“Square your feet,” Liam says, demonstrating the stance for Jason. “It’ll help you land more punches.”
Leave it to Liam to respond to an attempted assault with a taunt.
“Jason,” Sage hisses, recently returned from the ladies’ room. Her face turns as crimson as her hair. “What the hell are you doing?”
“That was for Max,” Jason says, glowering at Liam.
Guess I know who Jason was texting earlier. My brother is apparently still being blamed for Max’s death. Fortunately, not by the authorities. Again.
My muscles tense, at the ready to join the fray. That’s when I realize the hubbub of the restaurant has fallen silent. My table has officially become the evening’s entertainment. I glance around the sea of faces, faintly recognizing Moira and Carrick at a private booth in the corner, both of whom have their hands braced on their table, at the ready to intervene. Subtly, I shake my head.
Reid side-eyes me as he sets the platter of truffles in the middle of the table, obviously experienced at defusing tension. “Now, now, there’s plenty of dessert for everyone.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Liam waggles his fingers over the tempting truffles and, after popping one into his mouth, claims the empty chair between Jason and me. A bold move that makes me want to smack him upside the head. He doesn’t need to be provoking this Frisbro.
Before Jason can react, I gesture for Sage to sit down. She gets the hint and urges Jason back into his seat, too, rubbing his forearm soothingly.
A quiet chatter starts up around us as diners at neighboring tables return to their meals. I exhale in relief. The storm seems to have passed. For now.
Liam licks his fingers one at a time, a carefree grin sliding into place. He focuses entirely on Sage as he says, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Sage beams while Jason broods.
Pots and pans tumble to the floor in the kitchen, causing a loud clamor. “I should get back,” Reid says with a wince. He claps Jason on the shoulder as he walks by. “If you try that again, you’re outta here.”
Jason shrugs him off, sullenly staring at the table, his too-close-together eyes drooping.
I take pity on him. “I’m sorry about Max.” I top off his glass of Ralphie’s Riesling as a peace offering. “But Liam didn’t do it.”
Jason snorts. “Like I trust you.”
“Jason,” Sage snaps, her demeanor distinctly lawyerly.
I’ve often wondered what would happen if Jason and I were pitted against each other. Who would Sage side with? Now that the opportunity is here, I’d rather not put my friend in that position.
I cut in, explaining how the real killer framed my brother in order to steal his photographs. Jason doesn’t seem entirely convinced—the strategic nuances likely beyond his mental capabilities—but at least he isn’t shooting metaphorical daggers at Liam anymore.
“That’s too bad about your photos,” Sage says to Liam, still rubbing Jason’s arm. “I would have liked to see them.”
Liam waves her off. “No biggie. One print survived, and I’m gonna enter it into a local contest; the theme is Colors of Colorado.”
“Really?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Might as well. It’ll be a while before I’ll have anything new to showcase.” His good humor falters. “Cameras are expensive.”
Sage gives Liam a look I recognize, having given Liam similar looks in the past, that of a supportive sister. Even if Jason weren’t in the picture, he has a long way to go to woo Sage.
I bring the subject back to the investigation, focusing intently on Jason. “Who told you Liam was involved?”
Jason shifts under my stare. “Guys who know.”
“Okay, I’m going to assume you’re referring to that houseful of trolls on Grant Street.” When he doesn’t deny it, I continue, “Text them and find out why they accused my brother. This is important.”
Jason gives an elongated sigh as if his phone weighed twenty pounds. He grumbles as he texts, “Knew I should’ve stayed in and watched the game.”
Sage rolls her eyes and I can practically see steam pouring from Liam’s ears. As for me, I finish my cab to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
A few seconds later, Jason’s phone buzzes with a response. “Max’s girlfriend.”
Wow, that’s not what I expected. I furrow my eyebrows and drum my fingers on the table. “Did they mention her name?”
He sighs again as he texts. With all his sighing, he’d better be careful not to hyperventilate. “They don’t know.”
“What do you mean they don’t know?” I ask.
“They never found out, haven’t seen her since.”
I hold my head in my hands, massaging my temples. This is all so confusing. “Was Max at Frisbros practice last night?”
“Yeah,” Jason grunts.
I pepper him with more questions. “Do you know where he was going afterward? If he left with anyone?”
“Probably something to do with the Shakespeare thing. He’s been busy with it for weeks.”
Liam absently plucks another truffle from the platter. “You weren’t at my parents’ house last night, were you?”
“No.” Jason’s voice is full of acid. He scrunches his face and wipes at his nose with a fist. “Screw this, I’m outta here.” He storms out of the restaurant without another word.
“Real nice, guys,” Sage says, grabbing her purse.
I snap, unable to keep my opinion to myself anymore. “Hey, in case you didn’t notice, your fiancé is a complete ass, and he just accused Liam of murder.” All my anger at Jason bubbles to the surface. “He remembered you didn’t like cheesecake, and that was still how he chose to propose. He’s a jerk to you and to your friends.” My voice cracks as I point at her. “I know you’ve been with him forever, but you deserve better.”
“Is that so?” she asks sarcastically.
“Damn straight. I think you’re scared to be alone, to take the time to figure out what will make you happy.” I continue, on a roll now, “It’s the same with The Manual and your career.”
Sage throws a withering glare at Liam, who, to his credit, doesn’t shrink away. “Do you have an opinion?”
Liam lifts his chin and looks her straight in the eye. “I came here tonight to make sure Jason wasn’t involved in a murder. Because I wasn’t sure.” He tosses his napkin on the table. “That’s what a great guy he is.”
Sage’s jaw drops and she utters something like, “Unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable that you have friends who care about you and want to protect you?” I ask.
“Work a little harder on protecting yourself and leave me out of your drama.” Sage shoulders her purse and strides after her fiancé.
Waves of emotion course through my body, sadness and a touch of relief. Words, once spoken, can never be taken back. I’m glad for it; I was getting sick of pretending, anyway. But a part of me wonders if our friendship can recover from this.