Seventy-three

AS Tucker wrapped his arms around his friend, I approached the pair.

Carol Lynn looked relaxed in denims, a soft blue sweater, and a quilted blue jacket. Seeing me, she smiled shyly and extended her slender hand.

“Ms. Cosi, right?”

A table was vacant, and I grabbed it while Tuck went off to bring some coffeehouse treats.

The polite young woman who sat across from me was a pale shadow of the fierce, armed-and-dangerous drama queen who’d disrupted my business and my life. But I was relieved to see the near-catatonic girl, who’d been timidly carted off to jail, was gone, too.

Face plain, sans makeup, honey blond hair tied neatly back, Carol Lynn met my curious gaze with eyes that were clear, sharp, and focused.

“I came to tell you I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” she said firmly. “I’m ashamed of the trouble I brought you.”

“No apologies necessary—”

“No, that’s not true. I had no right to disrupt your place of business. It was wrong.”

“I’m just glad to see you’re—”

“Sane?”

“No. Better. And out of jail.”

“The legal system was the easy part. Our producer hired a great lawyer, and refused to press charges against me over the stolen prop gun. There’s a plea deal in the works that involves no prison, just probation and community service.”

“That’s great,” I said. “You can start fresh.”

“I’m required to see a doctor every week. I’ve had some emotional issues in the past, and I’d more or less stopped taking my medications months before it all happened. I thought I was cured, but I guess I wasn’t. As part of the plea deal, my medications must be monitored by a psychiatrist, and I have to see a therapist, too.”

I was glad to hear Carol Lynn was getting the help she needed, and I told her so. “I’m sorry you crossed paths with such a horrible human being. Tucker talked to me about Richard Crest, what he did to you, and other women.”

“Thank you for saying that, but I’ve already forgiven him.”

“That’s very generous of you, Carol Lynn, more generous than a lot of women would be in your shoes.”

“What he did was very wrong. But I was wrong, too. Now I’m glad the nightmare is over, and he and I can go our separate ways . . .”

I realized then that Carol Lynn didn’t know, likely couldn’t know, about Crest’s murder.

“With so many people showing me how much they care,” she went on, “I truly feel blessed and loved—and very lucky things didn’t turn out worse. I have my whole life ahead of me now, and I’m seeing things much more clearly, rationally, and in proportion!” She laughed. “I’m feeling a lot stronger, too, like myself again. For the first time in a long time . . .”

I believed what she said about feeling stronger, but I feared the shock of hearing how Crest was shot dead might really shake her. As I debated how to tell her, Tuck arrived bearing frothy cappuccinos and a plate of Carol Lynn’s favorite treats—so she said, because they brought back sweet memories from childhood.

Our big Café-Style Peanut Butter Cookies, caramelized and crispy on the outside yet moist and chewy on the inside, were the very cookies Mike was pining for in London. (Our baker delivered large batches every Sunday from my “secret ingredient” recipe.)

“I’m glad you’re back, Tuck,” Carol Lynn said.

“You need the coffee that bad?”

“Yes, actually, and a few of those cookies!” She laughed. “But there’s another reason. Now I can congratulate you both!”

Tuck and I exchanged confused glances.

Carol Lynn blinked. “You guys don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know about what?”

“The excitement about your coffeehouse. I stopped by here last evening to talk to you, Clare, but I couldn’t find you in the large crowd, so I left early. Then this morning I saw the coverage. Now the whole country’s heard of the Shot Down Lounge!”