“Do you have an attorney?” I said.
“Allison is taking care of that. She’ll have someone here with the hypnotist.”
“What time Monday?”
“Eight A.M.,” Dad said.
“Neither of you sound worried.”
Mom reached through the bars and patted my knee. “We’re not, sweetheart. We have faith in the truth; we have faith in those like you and Allison who care for us. It’s obvious how fond Sam is of you . . . and Allison, of course, so we know we have a lot of people in our court, so to speak.”
“Plus, there’s the hypnotist,” Dad said.
“Yes, there’s the hypnotist,” Mom agreed.
“Sounds like everything is going . . . better than planned, hoped?” I said.
“We’re lucky, Becca,” Dad said. “We’re in our hometown, around friends and family, and the police are feeding us well and letting us stay together for now. If this had happened someplace else, it would be a different story. We’re remaining positive.”
I didn’t want to spoil their outlooks, but since no one else was around, I thought it might be a good time to ask a question that had been on my mind. I crossed my ankles and folded my hands on my lap. “Mom,” I began but then hesitated.
“Becca, what is it?” she asked.
“Well, you were pretty angry at Joan, right?”
“Yes. I thought she was unprofessional and rude and being those things to one of my girls doesn’t sit right with me.”
“I get that and I appreciate it.” I smiled. “Her restaurant, Bistro, has been around a long time. Did you ever eat there? I expect your lawyer will want to know if you knew Joan and if you had any reason to dislike her before yesterday.”
“Oh.” Mom looked at Dad, who stopped chewing the donut, seemed to think a second, and then shrugged.
“If someone would have asked me before yesterday, I would have said that while I’ve eaten at Bistro, I’d never seen Joan Ashworth before in my life.”
I nodded, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. I was pleased that they were taking things so well. I was concerned they weren’t preparing themselves for possible bad outcomes, though. But who was I to rain on the glass-half-full parade? Allison was close by. Her organizational abilities and professional savvy would keep us all on track and put us back in line if that’s what we needed.
“Now, can I interest you in a game?” Mom said, her eyes lit with the spirit of competition. She beat everyone at cards no matter what the game.
“One quick one.”
As Mom beat Dad and me at Crazy Eights, we discussed some of their adventures on the road, including one where Dad accidentally fell off a cliff in Arizona, resulting in a broken ankle that had healed better than expected. They told me about one of their favorite new stops: Broken Rope, Missouri. It’s an Old West tourist town that is full of history and interesting characters. They’d also recently decided that they really liked riding roller coasters, so much so that they might make riding as many of them as possible the goal on their next trip across country. There was no indication that they thought for a second that there might not be any more trips. Their positive attitude was contagious.
By the time I told them good-bye, I couldn’t help but think everything was really going to be okay.
I drove to Smithfield fairly often. It was a small town like Monson, but it had some things we didn’t, like the most talented old truck mechanic on the planet and Mamma Maria, who worked at the Smithfield Farmers’ Market making her mmm-amazing cream pies.
And of course, there was Bistro, although that wasn’t one of my regular destinations. As I’d remembered when the restaurant association visited the market, I’d gone to Bistro about four years earlier. It was with ex-husband number two and we must have been celebrating some sort of special occasion, perhaps an anniversary. The fact that I couldn’t remember the details and that my second ex was involved probably meant it was a less-than-wonderful experience. That also probably accounted for the fact that I hadn’t been back since.
This trip to Bistro was full of status updates. I’d met up with Ian and he filled me in on his day and I filled him in on mine, letting him know about the vandalism in Bo’s stall. He was more concerned about that than I thought he would be.
“It’s one of those slippery slope things, Becca,” he said. “Bailey’s hasn’t ever had any real vandalism. Once it starts, I worry where it will go.”
“Allison’s putting in security cameras,” I said.
“Good plan.”
I didn’t know how Ian kept track of where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do. That day, he’d done two installs and spent some time working at his new farm. He’d helped George move some boxes that were cluttering up one of the rooms in his old French Tudor–style house. Also, he’d made sure Hobbit got plenty of attention. And, he never seemed stressed. He probably didn’t have time to go out to dinner, but I was glad he’d joined me.
Silently, I hoped he didn’t sense that something odd had happened between me and Sam. I wasn’t even sure what there was to “sense,” but I felt guilty enough about it that I was afraid he’d pick up on something. Fortunately, he seemed no different than his usual wonderful self.
As he steered into the parking area, I realized Bistro hadn’t changed much. The outside still reminded me of a short-walled warehouse store, and the parking lot reminded me of a casino’s lot: graveled, big, and packed, though there were more trucks in this lot than at any casino I’d visited.
A long sidewalk extended from the front door all the way to the parking lot. It was covered by a green and white awning. The awning and the sidewalk, both neat and well cared for, made it look like there should be a podium with valet service nearby, but there wasn’t one four years ago and there wasn’t one this night either.
You could wear whatever you wanted to wear to Bistro, but most people put on something a step up from what they wore when they did yard or farm work and a step down from something they might wear to a formal occasion. I wore tan slacks and a short-sleeved rose-colored shirt that hadn’t been stained with fruit or jam or preserves, or none that was easily noticeable, at least. Ian wore khakis and a button-down shirt. His dressier clothes had become a part of his wardrobe since he’d purchased his land and had some dealings with the bank regarding business loans.
“I’ll let you off by the door and find a place to park,” Ian said as he looked around at the crowded lot. “This can’t all be because Joan was killed, can it? Very morbid.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t mind the walk. I think it’s a pretty popular place. Some of it might be because of Joan’s death, but maybe not all of it.”
We parked and hiked around trucks and cars to the front door. The inside of the restaurant was huge, almost cavernous. The lighting was low, and somehow, even in the big space and with all the people, it didn’t seem like the noise level was going to be a problem.
I hadn’t had time to think about it much, but I had wondered at least briefly why Betsy had stopped by Bailey’s that morning. Had she taken the half-hour trip to Monson just so she could cause a scene? Had she been in Monson for some other reason and taken the opportunity to stop by the market and accuse me of killing her boss? I wasn’t sure, but I suddenly had the opportunity to ask.
She was standing at the large maître d’ podium. A young man stood next to her; they were distracted by something they were studying on the podium, so she didn’t see me at first. They both wore short-sleeved three-button red knit shirts that had “Bistro” embroidered over their hearts in bold white letters.
Seeing her made me rethink why I’d wanted to come to Bistro. I didn’t know what to do, so I moved behind Ian and held his arm. Fortunately, there was a big group in the waiting area, so we didn’t stand out.
“What’s up?” Ian asked.
“That’s Betsy, the one I was telling you about, Joan’s assistant.” She was the same version I’d seen that morning: put together and made up, with no glasses.
“Oh.”
“It’s weird that we’re here. She’s going to think something’s up.”
Ian looked at me a long moment and then said, “So? What does it matter what she thinks?”
“She might kick us out.”
“We’ll cause a scene. We’ll make it a good one.”
I thought about it a second and realized he was right. Besides, she had the nerve to approach me and cause a scene at my place of business. I had every right to do the same, I rationalized.
“Let’s go,” I said.
A beat before we reached the desk, though, Betsy walked away from it. Her pace was quick and purposeful and in the other direction. Ian and I shared a victorious smile.
“Can I help you?” the friendly man said.
“Yes, we have reservations,” I jumped in before Ian said anything. I’d forgotten to tell him about our alternate personas.
“Name, please?”
“Pitt. Brian and Angel.”
The man didn’t bat an eye but grabbed two menus, handed them to another woman with a Bistro shirt, and said, “Table twelve.” He turned back to us and said, “Welcome. Have a lovely dinner.”
Ian raised an eyebrow in my direction, but we’d been together long enough that he knew when to go along for the ride.
“How’s this?” the girl said as she stopped at a booth.
“Great,” I said.
As we sat, I caught her eye. “I’m sorry about Joan.”
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you. Yes, it’s been quite the shock.” It was rehearsed and not sincere at all, but that probably didn’t mean anything. The girl was young and might not have ever even met the restaurant owner.
“Did you know her well . . . ?” I asked as I peered at her name tag. “Leslie.”
“She was a great boss.” Leslie wasn’t going to win any Academy Awards.
“I see.”
“Your server will be Shaun. He’ll be with you in a moment.” Leslie hurried away from any further questions.
“Pitt?” Ian said quietly, once she was out of earshot.
“Silly, huh? There was no need for aliases, but I didn’t want anyone to know we were coming. Truthfully, I don’t think anyone will care that we’re eating at Bistro. No one is paying a bit of attention.”
“Hi, folks, my name’s Shaun. Can I get you some drinks?” Shaun was tall, skinny, and energetic.
We ordered iced teas and then pasta dishes. Before long, we had a small loaf of sourdough bread and very fresh salads in front of us.
“Shaun, can I ask you a question?” I said as he refilled the iced tea glasses.
“Of course.”
“How involved was Joan, the owner? In the restaurant, I mean.”
Shaun blinked and then said, “Joan was a wonderful boss.”
Clearly, there’d been a meeting. They all sounded alike.
“Yeah, I’m sure, but really, how
involved
was she. Was she here all the time?”
“She was wonderful.” Shaun smiled and then turned to walk away. A small splatter of iced tea plopped on the table.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I muttered.
Ian laughed. “Bec, did you think they were going to tell you she was horrible? She was murdered. No one wants to be heard saying anything bad about her. Plus, she did pay their salaries. It isn’t wise to bad-mouth your boss, murdered or not. I know you’re here to find out something you don’t already know, but maybe we should just enjoy dinner. Maybe you’ll learn something, maybe not. Relax.”
I smiled. He was right. I was too anxious, too needy. I wanted my mother cleared and though subtle generally wasn’t my game, I was being even more boisterous than normal. I took a deep breath.
Besides, I had learned a little something. Just being there made me better understand why they were open for business. The restaurant was an entity unto itself. It was big, popular, and busy. It had taken on a life of its own, separate from Joan’s life. Her death was a tragedy, and I was sure people were mourning, but they weren’t showing it here. Perhaps Joan wasn’t a hands-on boss. I set my sights to finding out that one fact while I enjoyed dinner and Ian’s company.
At the end of the exhale, I looked up to see Betsy headed in our direction, her legs scissorlike and swift.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“What?”
“Here she comes.”
I turned my head away from her, hoping she didn’t see me but pretty sure she had.
She walked past, her destination somewhere behind me.
“Did she see us?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Ian said. “I was ready to charm her with some sweet talk and everything.”
“I bet.”
“I wonder where that door leads,” Ian said as he leaned and peered down the aisle.
“I don’t think it goes to the kitchen. Maybe the office or some staff locker room?” I said as I turned and did the same.
Suddenly, it was as though a bell dinged in my head. I looked at him and smiled conspiratorially.
“Becca, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking of all the information that’s in that office, if it is an office.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I doubt it’s worth the risk of getting caught and then perhaps arrested. Think about it—not good timing.”
“You’re probably right, but what if I didn’t get caught? I tend not to get caught.”
I was grateful that Ian was the kind of boyfriend who didn’t demand that I shape up and quit sneaking into places I shouldn’t sneak into. That was probably a good part of the reason we were still together. Demands didn’t work for either of us.
“Is it worth it, though?” Ian said.
I thought a long minute and shrugged. “We’ll see if she comes back out.”
Ian nodded unwillingly.
As we ate, we discussed lavender. Before the end of the summer, Ian would have his land prepped to plant the lavender for next year’s crop. But before then, he was hoping to have some sort of combination workspace and partial living space built. He wasn’t planning on moving completely yet, but he wanted to be able to sleep, shower, and fix food without having to travel back to his apartment or my house. It had been some time since we’d gone over the details, and I was interested to hear if anything had changed.