Chapter 26
Christina approached our table, wiping her free hand on her apron. “Robbie, I'm so glad you could make it. And so sorry if the cops spoiled your evening.” Christina's hair was tucked up into a patchwork toque made of tiny squares, each in a different brilliant color.
“Of course it didn't. Christina, this is Abe O'Neill. Abe, my friend Christina James, head chef here.”
Abe stood and extended his hand, which Christina shook. “Very nice to meet you, Christina.”
“Likewise.”
“What a surprise about Tiffany. I guess what they said means she's running a prostitution house,” I said, shaking my head.
“From the looks of her date, more likely a high-end escort service,” Abe said. “You know, entertaining visiting businessmen and such.”
“But doing more entertaining”âChristina surrounded the last word with finger quotesâ“than simply escorting them to dinner, I'd guess.”
“You'd think she'd take them out to a bigger town than South Lick. Nashville, at least, or Bloomington,” I said.
“Probably wanted to try out this fabulous new restaurant.” Christine grinned. “Hey, sit down and relax, Abe.” She glanced down at the table as Abe sat. “Looks like you ordered the best appetizer in the house. My special creation,” she added. “Have you decided what to order for your main courses?”
“Haven't had a chance,” I said. “Anything you recommend?”
We spent a few moments bent over the menus, with Christina pointing out this and that, until I settled on the chicken polenta puttanesca, and Abe selected the rabbit stew from the Specials menu.
“You'll enjoy those,” Christina said. “Now I'd better get back to the stove. Let your server know when you're ready to leave and I'll pop out to see how you liked it, if I can.”
I thanked her, and Abe nodded his agreement. I stared across the room where Tiffany had been arrested.
“I'm blown away by what happened. Did you know Tiffany at all?” I asked.
“No. I've seen her around town, of course. Often seemed to be out with one man or another. Guys who looked like they weren't hurting for money.”
“
Hmm.
Same thing someone else told me, too.” Almost exactly what Max had said about Tiffany. “I shopped at her store only a couple of days ago. She seemed so nice. She even goes contra dancing. What high-class prostitute goes contra dancing?”
“No idea. What I'm wondering is, is it legal to run a sexually oriented business in Indiana
with
a permit?”
I stared at him. “I would very much doubt it, but who knows? I hope it's only a quirk of legal wording.”
“Probably.”
“You know, Wanda was in the restaurant at lunchtime today,” I said. “She ordered a takeout lunch, but it seemed like she was really there watching Tiffany, who'd come in earlier for lunch.”
“They were probably making sure Tiffany didn't go anywhere before they were ready to arrest her. Hey, we'd better eat these fish cakes before they get cold, no?”
We tucked into the cakes, which tasted as delicious as I'd thought they would. We were halfway through when the waitress brought over a plate filled with gold puffs on a bed of mesclun. The puffs were dotted with a chunky, translucent sauce. She held two fat-stemmed glasses and a bottle of red wine, too.
I swallowed hastily. “That must be someone else's order,” I said.
“Courtesy of the chef. Curried potato puffs with apple chutney on mixed greens. And her specially bottled chef's red, a mix of Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah. She contracts with Oliver Winery to produce it.” She held the bottle in one palm, supporting it with the other so we both could examine the label.
“Wow. Please thank her for us,” I said.
I watched as the waitress carefully uncorked it and poured a half inch in my glass. I held it forward to Abe, but he gestured for me to be the taster. After I swirled the rich liquid in my mouth and swallowed, I nodded.
“Very, very nice.”
The waitress poured for both of us and walked away.
“Wow. We're going to have to roll home.” I sampled a potato puff, savoring the borderline-spicy crunchy puff, which paired perfectly with the sweet-and-sour chutney. It was exactly the right combination of flavors and textures. I kind of missed cooking gourmet dinners like I had at the Nashville Inn. But my breakfast and lunch place was worth it. Who knows, maybe I'd branch out, adding Saturday dinners after a while.
“Sure pays to know the chef, doesn't it?” Abe smiled before helping himself.
I gazed at him. Was he talking about me now?
“
Mmm
, tasty stuff,” he said after downing a puff.
I glanced over to where Tiffany had been sitting. “When I was in Tiffany's shop this week, she said she didn't have an alibi for Saturday night, that she lives alone. I know the police questioned her, because of her blowup with Erica.”
“Maybe when they were looking into where she was the night of the murder, they discovered she was with one of her clients. Is that what you're thinking?”
“Exactly. Or maybe they were already looking into her second business. At least they didn't arrest her for murder, too. I like Tiffany. I hoped she wasn't the one who killed Erica.”
“You're pretty interested in figuring out who did, aren't you?” Abe sipped his whiskey.
“Hi, I'm Robbie, and I'm a puzzle addict.” I smiled. “But yes, I am interested. Because it's a puzzle. I'm sure the detective is doing all she can.” And more. “But if I can help, well, all's good, right?”
“So you pass on information you pick up? You're not going to put yourself in danger, I hope. You really scared me, well, all of us, when you ended up with the close call last month.”
“My collarbone twinges thinking about it. So, no, no danger.” I crossed my fingers under the table, thinking of my late-afternoon meeting with Vince. How was I supposed to know the park would be deserted? “Girl Scout's honor. But speaking of Erica, you said you went to high school with her. Did you know a guy named Vincent who went to Brown County High at the same time?”
He gazed across the room and the years, finally shaking his head. “Can't say I did.”
We ate in silence for a moment. Abe glanced up from his plate and aimed those big brown eyes straight at me. “What made you change your mind about coming to dinner with me?”
Faced with honesty or evasion, I chose a little of both. “I like you. I was hungry.” I smiled. “Good enough?”
He tilted his head back and laughed again, an infectious sound that made me laugh, too. “Good enough for now.”
* * *
Abe and I turned away from the kitchen door after thanking Christina and headed toward the exit. Our check had shown charges only for our initial drinks and our entrees. We'd both been way too full to order dessert, and never got to the bottom of the bottle of wine, either. Before we reached the outer door, Paula walked in from the street, followed by Max in an open-collared shirt and a sport coat. I hoped Paula wasn't still angry with me. I'd never had a chance to clear the air with her.
I greeted them. “You know Abe O'Neill?”
“Of course,” Max said, shaking Abe's hand. “We play music together now and again.”
“Hey, Abe, Robbie,” Paula said, cradling her belly with one hand, a pink sweater stretched over it.
“What do you play, Max?” I asked. He hadn't played with the musicians at the party. Maybe he'd left before it really got going.
“Dulcimer, mostly,” Max said.
“We call the group the Hoosier Hillbillies,” Abe said with a grin.
“They're good. You should come hear them play next time, Robbie.” Paula looked me in the eyes. “Sorry about what I said the other day. I really wasn't myself.”
Whew.
“Not a problem, Paula. Don't worry about it.”
“How was your dinner?” Paula asked. “We've been looking forward to eating here since it opened.” She started to slide an arm out of her coat, and Max immediately lent a hand, slipping it off her shoulders.
“Wonderful,” I said. “Delicious. Creative. Really good. My friend Christina is the chef, and she's the best.
“Sounds perfect,” Paula said. “I'm hungry all the time these days, eating for two.”
Max gazed softly at her. “I cook whatever she wants. Happy mom, happy baby.”
“You guys missed some excitement here tonight.” Abe whistled softly.
“Yeah?” Max asked. “What happened?”
“Buck came and arrested Tiffany Porter,” I said.
“For the murder,” Max said with a satisfied look on his face. “Good.”
“What a relief,” Paula said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
I shook my head and opened my mouth.
“It's been a worry to the family for the police to take this long.” Max folded his arms over Paula's coat. “It's not good for Tiffany, of course. Although I've had my doubts about her from the very start.”
“What kind of doubts?” Paula asked, looking up at him and wrinkling her nose. “I never heard you even talk about her except that her store is next to yours.”
“No, wait.” I held up a hand. “She wasn't arrested for the murder.”
“For what, then?” Paula asked, her tone incredulous.
“For operating a sexually oriented business without a permit, is what Buck said.” Abe pursed his lips. “Basically a prostitution ring. An escort service for rich guys is what I'm thinking.”
Paula brought her hand to her mouth. “Really? Right here in South Lick?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I know how those cops operate,” Max said, blinking. “They haul her in for that, but then they also nail her on the murder charge.”
“You think so, honey?” Paula glanced at him.
“I know so. You just wait.”
Abe tilted his head. “We'll see. Have a great dinner, folks.”
“Enjoy it,” I added.
Abe and I walked out into a crisp, breezy night with the sky punctuated by thousands of twinkling stars. The wind must have blown the clouds away while we ate.
“Max seems pretty sure of his theory,” Abe said.
“He does. Funny, I wouldn't have pegged him as a dulcimer player.”
“He's quite good, actually. Our little group has fun. Haven't had a practice in a while, though. I should set one up.” He gazed at me. “Did you drive over?” When I shook my head, he went on. “Give you a lift home?”
“I'd love one, thanks.” I glanced up and down the street. Every curbside spot was taken. “What do you drive?”
“Come with me to the Kasbah.” He offered me a crooked elbow. “I mean, the parking lot.”
“Didn't realize they had one.” I slid my hand through his arm.
Why not?
I savored the feeling of his muscular arm under his jacket, the warmth of his body next to mine, and how our steps matched even though he was a good seven inches taller than me.
We walked around the corner of the building to a narrow parking lot with one row of cars butted up against the restaurant and the other against the next building over.
“Now you have to guess which vehicle I drive,” he said, gesturing wide with his free arm, his voice like a game show MC's.
“I do?”
“Absolutely,” he said, his eyes bright. I detached from his elbow and strolled down to the end and back. Among the high-riding SUVs, small sedans, and beefy pickups sat a vintage Mustang in one row and a sixties-era VW van in the other.
I faced him. “I would have said you were a truck type of guy. But I think I'm wrong. You're obviously delighted about this, so I'm sure it's not a regular car. I'm going to say the Mustang.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you're adventurous and interesting and because among all your other talents I bet you know how to restore cars. Plus, you're a guy, and you think driving a Mustang around town will attract the ladies.”
He bent over laughing, finally straightening when he was able to speak. “You were right on the money until you got to the part about attracting the ladies.”
“So I'm right?”
“Nope. Guess what? Adventurous, interesting, and good at car repair also applies to . . .” He grinned.
“The VW?”
“Yup. Camper van. Come on, I'll give you the tour.” He strode toward the van, which I now saw was beautifully restored. Its turquoise paint looked pristine, and the classic wide white V shape on the front bearing the intertwined VW logo didn't have a scratch. Abe unlocked the passenger door with a real key and slid open the wide door on the side. No remote beeping key fobs for this vehicle.
I joined him and peered in. The overhead light illuminated gleaming wood cabinets, benches upholstered in a very sixties-era polka-dotted fabric, a small Formica table, even a kitchen sink.
“How fun.” I said. “It's like one of those tiny houses everybody's talking about. Except tinier. Do you actually take it camping?”
“Of course. It's been all over.”
“What year is it, and why do you have it?” I glanced at him, loving how enchanted he was with the van.
“It's a 1965. It actually belonged to my parents, who bought it used in the seventies. Mom told me I was conceived in it, of all things. I told her that was TMI.” He grinned. “And when my folks were going to get rid of it about ten years ago, I begged them to let me keep it. It needed basically everything updated, from the engine to the curtains.”