Chapter Seven

I hid all night, right through Sunday, and by the time I roused myself from an unhappy, sleepy stupor on Monday, I felt no better.

The phone rang a few times before I finally switched my cellphone off and unplugged the land line. When I wasn't in bed feeling sorry for myself, I drifted aimlessly around my apartment, watched TV without seeing what was on screen, and flicked through books without comprehending the words. Usually, when I had free time, I liked to try a new recipe, or tinker with an old one, but I couldn't even muster up the energy to do more than throw a frozen meal in the microwave and barely taste it.

At some time on Sunday, the police officer finally disappeared from outside Belle Rose. I wasn't sure if that were good news or not but it was definitely a relief that he was finally gone.

Looking out the window, I saw the paper girl riding her mountain bike, tossing newspapers onto the sidewalks in front of businesses and the double doors leading to apartments like mine. With a lack of anything else to do — Monday being my day off and the restaurant always being closed that day — I trudged downstairs, pulled open the door, grabbed the newspaper and slammed the door shut again. Unfolding it, I stomped upstairs, stopping dead in my tracks when I reached the landing.

The headline blared POISON ROSE in very large type. I scanned the article, my jaw trembling with nausea and anger. There was a large photo of the restaurant, the new sign visible above the policeman stationed outside. His head was turned away from the camera but there was a small inset photo of me, looking more than a little pleased with myself. I recognized it as the one from the Belle Rose website where they must have lifted it.

The reporter had most of the information correct. Edwin Jones was dining as an anonymous food critic and someone supplied the reporter with the details of his order although it only cited "an unnamed source." Then it promptly descended into a lurid tale, embellished with eyewitness reports of how Edwin "clutched his throat" and "gasped for his last breath" while someone shouted "Poison!"

A thump at the door made me jump. I hesitated at first, then ignored it, turning away. The thumping continued before my name was called, sparking a memory of more than a year ago when a reporter barged into my building and thumped on my door for an hour while I hid in the bathroom with my hands over my ears. Only this time, the voice sounded familiar. "Ally, it's Jack! I know you're in there because I just saw you get the paper," called the voice.

I thought about hiding again but realized I couldn't hide forever. Plus, Jack had already seen me and I was his boss and it just wasn't professional to hide from one’s employees. Besides, came a stray thought, I liked Jack. I trusted him.

Hurrying downstairs, I opened the door, taking a surreptitious glance around before beckoning him inside. "Why haven't you answered your phone?" he asked, staring down at me as we pressed together in the small vestibule. He was wearing his running clothes and holding a grocery bag in one hand. "I've sent you a half dozen messages and left two voicemails. I was getting worried about you."

"I turned it off."

"Why?"

I raised my eyebrows then held up the paper. "Have you seen today's paper?"

"Ah, yeah." He peered at me and I blinked, wondering what was wrong with me that could make him watch me with such visible concern. "Get in the shower," he said, pointing upstairs. "Now! Then get dressed. I'm going to make you breakfast. No more wallowing in self-pity."

I glanced down at his running clothes. Mud streaked one sock and his legs looked damp. "Don't you need a shower?" I asked.

He sucked in a breath. "Not right now," he said finally, looking up at the ceiling as the room seemed to close in around us. He glanced down again, placing one hand on my shoulder. He gave me a little twist and propelled me towards the stairs. "I'm going to guess you haven't eaten properly all weekend and I intend to make you a healthy breakfast. You need fuel to fight back like a true warrior."

"Fight back?" I asked weakly. Then I remembered the police station and what Jack must have overheard and my legs nearly buckled. Instead of letting him see me falter, I forced my wobbly legs to carry me into the bathroom. Like an automaton, I turned on the water and stepped under it, reaching for shampoo and shower gel before scrubbing myself until I felt impossibly fresh. As the water sluiced over me, my mood began to lift. Jack was right, I had to fight back. I knew as soon as Edwin Jones died that my past was about to be discovered. Yet, I reminded myself, I was innocent back then, and innocent now.

I couldn't let someone take away everything I'd struggled so hard to build.

I turned off the water and reached for a towel, already starting to formulate a plan before Detective Logan called me into the station again. I knew I hadn't caused Edwin's death but Detective Logan didn't know that. If it wasn't some kind of horrible accident — and I couldn't see how it could be — then it had to be malicious intent. Someone wanted him dead. I had to find another viable suspect for the police to interrogate.

By the time I dried my hair and slipped into my bedroom to dress in skinny jeans and a light blue, polo sweater, I was feeling my old, resilient self again. Plus, the smell of bacon in the air titillated my stomach and appetite. I stepped into the kitchen, waiting in the doorway for a moment to watch Jack move around my kitchen in his running clothes, a dish towel casually thrown over his shoulder. It was like he belonged in my home and specifically, in my kitchen, which was funny. When I was in his home, I felt just as comfortable as he seemed to be in mine. I brushed away that thought and glanced at the breakfast bar where he'd placed flatware, a small jug of maple syrup, and a little posy of flowers, still inside their pink tissue and cellophane wrapper.

He scooped pancakes from the griddle and divided them between the plates, turning to take them to the breakfast bar. "You look better," he said, smiling. "Very pretty... um... pretty sweater."

"I feel better too. Did I look that awful?"

"You looked like you had the flu for a week."

I grimaced. "That bad?"

"That bad," he nodded before indicating the plates were ready. I sat down on a tall stool, which I pulled out from under the high, narrow table. It was wedged against the shortest wall and Jack sat next to me, pushing a stack of pancakes and perfectly crisped bacon towards me. The scent of sugar permeated the air and my stomach gave another grumble. When I reached for the maple syrup, our fingers grazed awkwardly, and we had a mini finger dance over who earned the luxury of pouring first.

For a few minutes, we ate in silence; then I said, "Thank you."

Jack looked up. "What for?"

I waved my knife over the table. "For all this, and for pulling me out of my funk."

"I was getting worried about you. I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but you know I overheard some of what was said in Detective Logan's office; and I know you were embarrassed."

"You're right, I prefer not to talk about it."

"Okay." He chewed for a moment, then continued, "For what it's worth, I don't think there's a snowball’s chance in hell that you killed that man, not even accidentally."

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"I've worked with you nearly every day for the past five months. I've gotten a pretty good idea of what kind of person you are, and you're definitely not a killer."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You don't have any motive, for one."

"However, everyone in town except me knew Edwin Jones gave most of the restaurants he critiqued awful reviews."

"They're quite funny despite their awfulness, actually."

"Apparently, I was the only person who didn't know that."

"You wouldn't have asked the paper to send a food critic, if you had known. Plus, why kill the reviewer before he can write a review? For all you knew, he could have been fully prepared to write a stellar review for Belle Rose. If you only wanted revenge, wouldn't you wait to do it after a bad review? And even then, if he had written a bad review, I seriously doubt he would have come back to the restaurant just to give you the perfect opportunity to bump him off!"

"Is that what you told Detective Logan when you were there?" I wondered.

Jack shook his head. "No, I didn't sign my statement so he called me in to add my signature."

"Oh."

"I don't think Detective Logan thinks you did it either."

"That's not how I felt when he asked me to explain what happened before."

"He did give you the opportunity to explain," Jack pointed out. "He didn't have to do that. A lesser cop could have used that as the perfect reason to arrest you."

"But the cases were..."

"Similar," cut in Jack. "I know."

I paled. I'd been reluctantly preparing to give Jack my explanation and rehash the awful events. I never expected him to already know what happened. "You know?"

He fixed my eyes with his, unwavering and calm. "I knew before I accepted the job. I can type names into search engines just as well as anyone else," he said.

"Oh." It never crossed my mind that anyone would search for information on me. Especially since I wasn't offering a glamorous job in an amazing locale. Not that Calendar wasn't beautiful, especially in the summer months, when the whole town seemed to burst into bloom; or during the winter, when the snow-capped mountains formed a picture-perfect backdrop. It just wasn't anything like Los Angeles, or New York, or Seattle.

"I didn't think you did it then and I still don't think you did it," he continued. "If I did, I wouldn't still be here."

"I don't know if one vote of confidence matters if everyone else thinks I did it."

"You don't know that they think."

"What about the newspaper? What about everyone at my mom's book club?"

"Those Nordic noir readers?"

I laughed. "You noticed?"

"Sure, and I didn’t fail to notice they all had their own opinions about who was more likely to murder Edwin Jones than you."

Tension began to drain from me. "He did seem to have a lot of enemies."

"Have you read any of his reviews yet?"

I shook my head. "No."

"You should. I read a bunch last night. You need to be more careful the next time you invite a food critic to review your restaurant. We could make a targeted publicity strategy."

I thought about the "Poison Rose" headline and the Calendar Times circulation, which covered not only the town but the entire county. "There might not be a Belle Rose anymore after that article."

"Did you have that same defeatist attitude after you left New York?"

"That’s why I came home… to lick my wounds."

"And you picked yourself up and started again," added Jack. "No time for licking anything."

I paused from licking my fork when I realized he was watching me. I dropped my fork onto my empty plate. "What do you suggest I do?" I asked.

"Start by learning everything you can about Edwin."

"How do I do that? I want to talk to his friend, Sally O'Hara, but I don't have any other leads. People might think it's weird if I start asking strangers about him."

"Start with his reviews... Alice?" Jack lifted the empty plate from in front of me and carried mine and his to the sink. He turned on the water and briskly scrubbed the plates, placing them on the drain rack before putting away all the other things he'd used. I spun on the stool, watching him as he washed everything and put it away neatly. I kept wondering why he was being so charming and nice. During cooking, he casually discarded his running jacket and gloves. I couldn’t help noticing how his t-shirt stuck to him in some places, offering an awesome outline of a male body that worked out regularly.

"Nope. Still not my name. Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked, the words spilling out without any filter.

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. "Because you're my boss."

My stomach dropped. "Oh."

"And because I like you," he added. He looked away and this time, for some inexplicable reason, my spirits soared.

 

~

 

After Jack left to "run off this breakfast,” leaving behind a clean kitchen, I picked up the posy of flowers and took them over to my desk under the window. Seeing their prettiness added a little joy to the room. I opened my laptop and made a coffee while I waited for it to power up.

Setting my full mug on the mat next to the laptop, I got comfortable, poising my fingers over the keys. I took a deep breath and typed Edwin Jones reviews. The search didn't return any actual reviews but it did offer a few food-based articles that he'd written for the Times over the years as well as several articles he penned for other publications. Edwin seemed knowledgeable about his material, if not a little snooty about the ingredients, favoring hard-to-find items and store-cupboard staples that were incongruous to general cooking. He'd also written about various food-related trips, bridging travel and eating, but that wasn't what I was looking for.

Opening up the Calendar Times navigational menu, I found the reviews.

Instead of Edwin's name on the byline, "Our Times Mystery Reviewer" was listed as the author. I could see why people probably jumped to the conclusion that the two food writers were one and the same. It was the most logical leap. Besides, it was also possible people would recognize where Edwin had most recently eaten and put that together with his next review. Perhaps some even noticed the similarities in his prose.

I scrolled through the dates, noting that the column was a monthly feature. The most recent review from the Mystery Reviewer was the new lunch menu at the Mountain View Restaurant and Gardens. I knew the place well. It was built like an Austrian chalet with a steeply pitched roof, broad veranda, and lots of wooden beams. It was a cozy spot, popular with families and couples of all ages. It also had an outstanding view of the mountains, hence, its name. My parents were fond of the restaurant and had taken my sister and me to dine there many times over the years.

Edwin clearly hadn't enjoyed his meal there. He called the winter stew "tasteless slop," the home-baked bread "chewy and unsatisfying," and he curtly denounced his dining companion’s burger and triple-cooked fries as a "disaster." The desserts were "dull and unimaginative" and the wine list "prosaic." By the final paragraph, in which Edwin mused how the Mountain View even managed to remain open, I was giggling. Jack was right. The review was both terrible and funny, yet so serious, I got the impression Edwin never intended the latter.

I couldn't agree with a word he'd written. I never once ate a bad meal in all the times I'd dined there. The food was home-cooked, delicious, and filling and the prices were very reasonable. Sophie and I dined there just after the new year and I enjoyed a delicious Spanish wine with my meal while my pregnant sister had to settle for homemade iced tea.

I clicked the back button and moved onto the next review, this one for a Christmas dinner. Again, the review was scathing, the author asking how a simple, tried-and-tested meal could be so “dry and unappetizing.”

I sipped my coffee while I read though the past two years of appalling reviews, each as derisive as the last. I wondered why I never thought to check the quality of his reviews before I invited the Times’ reviewer to dine at my restaurant. Merciless as they were, I figured I could argue to Detective Logan that from the quality of the past reviews, of course, I would have expected a bad one too. Why would I kill the man if I knew what to expect? Anything positive would have been entirely out of the reviewer's realm.

A subsequent search for "peanut poisoning" returned dozens of pages. I read a couple and printed them out to read later, setting them to one side.

By the time I closed my laptop lid, I wasn't sure what to make of Edwin Jones. His writing style was fine, in fact, it was excellent, but his attitude was appalling. I wondered why anyone would invite him to dine at their restaurant at all. Then, I remembered something one of my mom's friends had said: sometimes they booked the latest reviewed restaurant just because of the awful review.

I thought back to the night when Sophie and I dined at Mountain View. It must have been a few days after the review was published because it seemed plenty busy. He obviously hadn't managed to kill off their thriving business.

Feeling a little better that any argued motive for my killing him was non-existent, I switched on my phones again. There were messages from both of my parents, and one from my sister asking if I was okay. There were Jack's messages and two missed calls from Detective Logan. I called him back and got him right away.

"The restaurant is all cleared," he said.

"That's great!"

"I meant, we're done processing it as a crime scene, so you can open it up again," said Detective Logan. "I didn't mean it was cleared exactly."

"Oh."

"It'll take a while to get the results back from the samples we sent to the lab."

"Of course. Thank you anyway," I said, and hung up.

Last of all, I switched on the restaurant's phone, somewhat surprised to find a number of messages waiting. I listened to the first, then the second and third. Unlike the other restaurants, where Edwin's scornful visit had paid off substantially, my messages were all cancellations.