Rosemary's Gravy (3 page)

Miguel laughed, but Felix nodded. “Yeah, it helps me stay calm. I … well … I can have a bit of a quick temper at times,” he said with a sheepish grin.

Tell me about it,
I thought, recalling his little outburst in the kitchen yesterday morning, but I said nothing. Instead, I took a cautious sip of the carrot juice, not expecting much from a
taqueria
slash juice bar. It was surprisingly good.

“Mmm,” I said, “Nice balance.”

“Thanks,” Miguel answered.

Felix chimed in. “You may not know what high praise that is. Rosemary is my family’s private chef—a holistic chef.” He drained his juice with one long, noisy swallow and slammed the glass on the counter as if he were at a bar throwing back shots.

I shook my head.

The phrase ‘holistic chef’ sparked Miguel’s interest. “Oh yeah? Bet that’s a nice gig. Did you go to culinary school?”

“Not exactly,” I answered. I didn’t know how much of my background Amber shared with Felix, but I really didn’t feel like discussing my fall from the chemistry lab to his family’s magazine-perfect kitchen. His stepmother had known from my résumé that I’d been a research scientist, but she hadn’t been sufficiently interested to ask why I’d trade my career for a job waiting on her.

A timer sounded somewhere in the back. Miguel excused himself to go check on our food.

I turned to Felix and appraised him over my juice glass. “You said I
am
your family’s private chef. Don’t you mean I
was
?”

He furrowed his brow at me. “What do you mean by that?”

I didn’t know if he was playing dumb or if the situation really hadn’t occurred to him. I sipped my carrot juice and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, Amber hired me. I didn’t get the sense that you or your dad approved of most of her choices. I assume with Amber gone, so is my job.”

Felix shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so, Rosemary. It’s true that Amber wasn’t exactly known for her great decision-making skills, but I think everyone in the house would agree that hiring you was one of the smartest things she ever did.” He pierced me with a long, appreciative look, and my cheeks grew warm yet again.

“Oh,” I stammered, “thank you.”

He went on. “It’s not like my dad and I are going to start cooking for ourselves now, and there’s no way Alayna’s going to agree to do it. So I’m sure my dad would say the job is yours as long as you still want it.”

“I still want it,” I said. Immediately a huge wave of relief crashed over me.

“Good,” he said. A slow smile spread across his lips.

I turned my attention back to the juice and took another big drink. “This really is very good.”

“Wait until you taste his cooking.”

As if he’d been summoned by the mention of his food, Miguel returned carrying a large brown bag. The fragrant scent of fresh, hot Mexican food wafted toward me as he passed it to Felix. “You’re all set. Utensils, plates, the works.”

Felix pulled out his wallet and peeled off some twenties. “Thanks, Miguel.”

“Thank you,” I echoed, finishing my juice. I placed the empty glass next to Felix’s.

“
De nada
,” Miguel answered. He nodded toward me and added, “Rosemary, you come back and let me know what you think of my cooking, chef to chef.” He put his head down and went back to chopping tomatoes and dicing jalapeños.

I trailed Felix out into the parking lot. The midday sun was bright overhead, and the heat undulated up from the pavement in waves. I blinked and lowered my gaze to the ground.

“No sunglasses? What kind of Angeleno are you?” he teased.

“I left my place at seven in the morning. I didn’t think to grab a pair. I didn’t even take my phone. I’m not used to getting a wake up call from the cops.”

He nodded. “I bet that was really disorienting. And scary.” His voice was soft. He sounded genuinely sympathetic, and, for some reason, the hint of tenderness almost made me cry.

We reached his car but he kept walking.

“What are you doing?” I asked, standing beside the Boxster.

“You’ll see; it’s a surprise. Come on. It’s not far,” he gestured with his arm to wave me forward.

I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. I was in no mood for any more surprises. But I
was
about to faint from hunger. I started walking toward him, grumbling under my breath. He just laughed and, when I caught up with him, draped his arm around my shoulder casually. My bare arm tingled at the contact, so I grumbled a little louder to cover up my reaction.

D
espite my wheedling
, Felix steadfastly refused to give me any hints during our short walk. His surprise turned out to be an amazing apartment just a few blocks away from the taco stand. He stopped in front of an ornate, wrought-iron gate and juggled the bag while he fished out a key from his pants pocket. He unlocked the gate and led me into a lush, flowering garden. I followed him, my jaw hanging open at the sight of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of blooming plants. I wandered off the stepping stone path to trail a finger along bougainvillea, tall lavender, enormous hydrangea, and fragrant roses. I spotted a patch of sage blossoming near purple sweet pea flowers. The path circled past a stone fountain, water tinkling gently, and a butterfly garden then poured us out onto a patio where a small table and two chairs sat, shaded from the blazing sun by a khaki canvas umbrella.

Felix anticipated my question and answered it before I could ask it. “Our recording studio keeps this apartment for vocalists and musicians who travel in from out of town.”

I nodded, unable to find words to do justice to the stunning garden. “Wow,” I finally managed.

He laughed and deposited our lunch on the table. Then he frowned as he noticed the place settings and crystal pitcher of ice water, lemon slices floating on the surface.

“Did you plan this?” I asked, even though I suspected, based on his bewildered expression, that he hadn’t.

“No,” he answered slowly, wrinkling his brow. “We have a service that takes care of our visitors; they must’ve gotten confused. No one’s staying here now.” After a moment, he shrugged and started dishing out the food. He piled fresh guacamole, housemade salsa, and tender
carne asada
on our plates and set the little covered dish of tortillas in the center of the table.

The scent of flowers in bloom permeated the walled garden. Unseen birds sang in the lemon and avocado trees that lined the path. Between the food and the setting, it was as close to paradise as a girl could get within the city limits. The grim holding room in the police station seemed like it was in another country, not around the corner.

“This place is amazing,” I said as I tucked my napkin into my lap. It truly was—in some ways, it reminded me of my parents’ resort.

Felix nodded around a mouthful of shredded pork. “I always thought of this as my own little oasis. I like to come here sometimes just to get away from Amber and my dad. I used to, I mean,” he added.

At the mention of his dead stepmother, reality came rushing back, undoing all of the tranquility provided by the surroundings. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” I said lamely.

He watched me scoop some guacamole onto the chip. Then he swallowed and said, “Yeah. Obviously, she wasn’t my favorite person. But I can’t believe someone actually killed her. You know?”

“Not just killed her. Somebody killed her
and
framed me.” Saying the words aloud destroyed my appetite and I rested my fork against the side of my plate.

Felix’s eyes were full of concern. He stared hard at me across the table. “Listen, Rosemary, I promise we’ll figure this out. I don’t want you to stress about this. Okay?”

I wanted to believe him, so I nodded and pushed down the panic that was bubbling up in my chest. “How’s your dad taking it?” I asked mainly to distract myself, not out of any great concern about Pat’s mental state.

He shrugged. “Okay, I suppose. I’m not sure why he married her in the first place to be honest. They sure as hell were never in love.” He returned his attention to his taco.

“Maybe he married her to give you a stepmother?” I asked delicately. I didn’t know much about Amber and Pat’s relationship, but I could see a father wanting his son to have a maternal presence in his life.

“I hope not.” He laughed bitterly and explained, “I was almost twenty when he married her, so that ship had pretty well sailed. Plus, don’t forget, she was only three years older than me. She wasn’t some kind of substitute mom. My dad raised me on his own. I never even knew my actual mom. She split when I was a newborn. So, it was always just ‘the Patrick guys.’” He stabbed at a stray hunk of meat, spearing it with his fork. “Then all of a sudden, Amber shows up. I come home from college one weekend and there she is, prancing around the kitchen like she’s in the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.”

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Don’t be. I figured my dad was looking for a good time, and, you know, he’s entitled to it. He always told me not to count on inheriting his fortune. I figured he planned to blow it on Amber, which was fine with me—until I got to know her.”

I reached for my glass and took a long drink to avoid having to respond substantively to that.

He rolled along, undaunted by my silence. “Amber was cheating on my dad.”

My eyebrows crawled up my forehead, and, before I could stop myself, I asked, “How do you know?”

“I overheard her taunting him. He was on his way to the gym to work out and she said something along the lines of ‘keep trying; maybe if you work at it long enough you can look half as good as my lover.’”

Not to speak ill of the newly dead, but that was just the sort of cutting, caustic remark that Amber was famous for. Well, actually, Amber was famous for her all-American charm and brilliant smile. But those of us whose exposure went beyond her peppy interviews on “Entertainment Tonight” knew that her nasty wit was her predominant characteristic.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I desperately wanted to ask who she’d been sleeping with, but that was too far across the line, so I bit down on my lip and told myself to be polite.

He seemed to guess what I was thinking. “I don’t know who she was talking about—I don’t even know if she limited herself to just one. But don’t be sorry, it’s just the way she was. My dad had to know what he was getting into when he asked that witch to marry him.” His tone was bitter.

My eyes widened and it occurred to me that if he kept making comments along those lines it would put neither him nor his dad in the best light with the police. I considered pointing that out, but then it also dawned on me that, as the current primary suspect, it wouldn’t hurt me if the police decided to look a little closer at the Patrick family. A small twinge of guilt plucked at me, but self-preservation won out, and I kept my mouth clamped firmly shut.

Felix seemed to misinterpret my silent struggle with my conscience as a bout of shock or offense of some sort. He gave me a pitying look and said, “I’m sure this all sounds crazy to you. I imagine you had a totally normal childhood with the white picket fence and all that,” he remarked.

I nearly choked on my tortilla chip. If he only knew. My childhood was about as far from the typical American upbringing as a person could get outside of Hollywood, but the last thing I felt like doing was telling Felix all about my crazy family.

My family. Crap!

“My sister!” I exclaimed, standing up and nearly upending the table in my panic. “I just remembered my sister’s in town this weekend. She’s probably frantic. I left with the cops in such a hurry, I didn’t even grab my phone.”

He stood. “It’s okay, take it easy. Here, call her and let her know you’re on your way.” He handed me his phone.

I stared down at it and realized I didn’t actually know Sage’s cell phone number anymore. I’d become so dependent on my contacts list, I couldn’t have called her if I’d wanted to. I met his eyes with a helpless look. “I don’t have her number memorized.”

“Okay, hey no worries. We’ll get you home in no time.”

His put a hand on my shoulder and started guiding me toward the gate.

“What about this mess?” I asked, glancing behind me at the half-eaten meal we’d left behind.

“I’ll call the service. Come on.”

We jogged all the way back to his car.

O
n an ordinary day
—that is, one where I wasn’t freaking out about leaving my sister (and possibly two little kids) hanging and worrying about being charged for my boss’ murder—I would have spent the hair-raising car ride from the taco shop to my apartment alternating between musing about whether Felix was romantically interested in me and offering up prayers that we didn’t die in a fiery crash, as his speedometer inched closer and closer to triple digits. But, as things stood, I was glad that he drove with no regard for the law or our personal safety. I was so panicked about Sage that I had my seatbelt unbuckled and was halfway out of my seat by the time he squealed to a stop in front of my building.

“Thanks!” I shouted over my shoulder, as I sprinted up the stairs. It wasn’t until I was jiggling my key in the temperamental front door lock that I processed the fact that he’d been leaning across the front seat, his eyes closed, when I leapt from the car.

He was moving in to kiss you, you idiot.

I turned and shot him a look over my shoulder, mortified by the prospect that I’d offended him without even realizing it. He didn’t look put out. Instead, if anything, he looked moderately amused. He draped his right arm over the back of the empty passenger seat, gave me a short
beep
and a broad smile, then zoomed out into traffic.

I shoved thoughts of Felix out of my mind and raced up to the fourth floor, taking the stairs two at a time. I pushed open the heavy fire door and burst into the hallway, panting. I’d planned to sprint down the hall to my apartment and grab my phone to call Sage, but when I saw the crowd assembled in front of my door I drew up short.

A frazzled-looking Sage, two small, tanned, and tow-headed beauties with enormous blue eyes, and Detective Drummond all stared at me.

“Rosemary,” Sage practically shouted, “where have you
been?!
” She loped down the hall and half-tackled, half-hugged me.

I squeezed her back, tightly, and inhaled the gingery scent of whatever shampoo she was using on her bouncy, copper-colored hair. “Sage, you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” I whispered.

She pulled back and gripped my arms, piercing me with a look. “I heard some of it. Amber Patrick’s been murdered?” she said in a hushed voice.

“Yeah, and Captain America over there thinks I did it,” I whispered, cutting my eyes toward Detective Drummond, who appeared to be deeply engaged in a rousing game of paddy cake with Skylar, while Dylan looked on, rapt.

Sage shook her head. “Detective Drummond? No, I don’t think he does. He seems like a good guy. But his boss …” she trailed off and started gnawing on a ragged cuticle with her teeth.

I slapped her hand lightly and pulled her finger out of her mouth. “Stop that.”

Detective Drummond raised his head and met my gaze. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

I could feel Sage eying me curiously. I took a deep breath and exhaled then said, “Felix Patrick isn’t my boyfriend.”

The police officer raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Someone ought to let him know.”

“Felix?” Sage murmured beside me. “Have you been holding out on me?”

I huffed. “No,” I said out of the side of my mouth. Then I turned my attention back to LAPD’s finest. “He’s a friend. Or maybe he’s just a concerned citizen who objects to the way your department seems to be hell-bent on railroading me. Anyway, what are you doing here? Were you hoping to break in and execute an illegal, warrantless search while I wasn’t home?” My voice sounded stiff and angry even to me.

Great, Rosemary, make him think you have a bad temper. That’ll help your situation.

Beside me, Sage sort of muttered under her breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but I got the impression that she also may have thought my jab was ill-advised.

I ignored the anger flashing in Detective Drummond’s eyes and walked over to crouch in front of the kids. “You must be Dylan,” I said to the boy.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a shy voice.

“And I’m Skylar!” his sister piped up.

“Hi, Skylar.” I looked from one round little face to the other. “My name’s Rosemary. I’m Sage’s big sister.”

“We know,” Skylar informed me seriously.

“Are you a bad guy?” Dylan wanted to know.

I glared at Detective Drummond as if to say ‘see what you’ve done?’ He matched my gaze with a calm, impassive look. I was surprised to note that his brown eyes were flecked with gold. What he said next was even more surprising.

He took Dylan’s hands in his own and said, “Now listen up. This is important. In this country, no one is bad guy until a judge and a jury say so. Understand? And your nanny’s sister, I don’t think a judge and jury will ever say she’s a bad guy. I think she might just be mixed up in something she doesn’t quite understand.”

Dylan nodded solemnly.

Skylar considered this information then turned to Detective Drummond and asked, “So are you here to help her?”

“If she’ll let me,” he told her.

Sage had come over to stand beside me. She arched her brow and gave me a look that suggested she believed him. I bet she’d feel somewhat less charitably toward the good officer if he’d dragged
her
out of bed and down to the police station for a fun morning of being treated like a criminal. But I held my tongue. And, if I’m being honest, the solemn, serious way he addressed the kids’ worries melted my heart just the teensiest bit.

I stood and motioned for Detective Drummond to do the same. He gave the kids one final reassuring smile and then rose to his feet.

“If that’s true, I guess I should apologize for my crack about the warrantless search,” I said in a magnanimous tone.

He nodded.

I smiled.
Good; I’m glad that’s out of the way,
I thought.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Go ahead?” I echoed.

“Go ahead and apologize,” he told me, catching me in the same behavior I’d called Felix on less than twenty-four hours earlier. Detective Drummond pursed his lips and tried to hide his amusement.

I didn’t bother to hide mine. I threw back my head and laughed then said, “Well played. Let me clarify. I’m sorry for the crack about the illegal search. And I would really appreciate some help.”

His lips curved into a genuine smile. “Good. Take care of your visitors and then we’ll talk.”

I
t took
me what seemed like forever to convince Sage to leave—she was worried about me, afraid to leave me alone. Finally, I promised to meet her and the kids at the Santa Monica Pier and to keep my phone charged and handy then shoved her and the two blonde cuties out of the building. I hustled Detective Drummond into my apartment and headed for the kitchen.

“I need some tea,” I told him as I plugged in the electric kettle. “You interested?”

“You have loose tea and milk?” he asked in return.

“No milk,” I said, recalling the sad state of my fridge. “Why?”

“I can make a mean chai.”

I shot him a disbelieving look over my shoulder.

“What?” he said.

“You don’t look like the chai type.”

“Chai’s a type?”

“Whatever. You just strike me as more of a black coffee kind of guy,” I said.

He let that go. Instead he said, “Sure, I’d love some tea. So, Sage is your older sister?”

I dug around in the cabinet and found the little wooden chest of fancy teas I’d liberated from the kitchen at my parent’s resort. As I placed the selection of teas on the wobbly IKEA table, I gave him a questioning glance. “No, I’m the oldest. Why?”

“She seems very maternal, the way she was clucking over you. I figured she was used to taking care of you.” He shrugged and flipped through the tea packets, settling on a hot pepper/mint/green tea combination.

I plucked a vanilla chamomile packet out of the pile and tore it open. “No. I’m the oldest. Sage is in the middle. And our baby sister is Thyme.” I waited for the stupid joke, but it never came. I blinked. Sage had once informed me that she’d spent three months keeping count: upon hearing our names, eighty-seven percent of men and seventy-two percent of women responded with a lame crack. What she expected me to do with this information, I’d never known, but I figured that’s just the way accountants’ brains work.

“Huh. Well your younger sister sure is concerned about you,” he observed.

The kettle beeped to let me know the water was hot. I sort of missed the whistle of a stovetop kettle, but convenience trumps nostalgia. I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet overhead and plunked them down on the counter. “Of course she is. You’re trying to pin a murder on me.” I turned to face him.

He held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Listen. What I said to those kids is true. I don’t think you killed Amber Patrick. But I
do
think you know more than you’re letting on about her death. And, yes, someone’s gone through a fair amount of trouble to make it look like you killed her. So, what we need to figure out together is who and why.”

I clamped my lips together and crossed my arms.

He took in my defensive posture for a moment and then shrugged. “It’s your move, Rosemary. Detective Sullivan’s in a hurry to clear this and get the freaking paparazzi out of her hair. If I don’t give her another viable suspect, she’ll do exactly that and move on with her life.”

I sighed but softened my stance—literally and figuratively. “What exactly do you want to know?” I sighed as I poured the hot water into the mugs and passed him one so he could steep his teabag.

I watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as Detective Drummond dumped a metric buttload of sugar from the sugar bowl on the table into his mug. “Who else knew about her food allergies? And had access to the kitchen? And had a reason to want to kill her?” he asked, shoveling still more sugar into his tea.

I was still staring at the sugar bowl. The thought of drinking the mess in his mug made my teeth ache.

“Rosemary?” he prompted.

I shook my head. “Sorry. I got distracted there watching you fixing your tea.” I dragged my eyes away from the sugar bomb in his hands.

He reddened. “I’m a southern boy. I do like a sweet tea,” he admitted.

“You don’t say? But I don’t hear an accent.”

“I’ve been out here for a long time, since right after high school. It only kicks back in when I’m back home. Anyway—means, motive, opportunity? Any thoughts?”

I stirred my tea and thought about his questions. “Well, everybody knew about her nut allergy.”

“How?”

I lowered myself into the chair across from him. My kitchen table was so tiny that our knees touched underneath. He discreetly scooted his chair back—and banged directly into the oven. “Tight quarters,” I said with an apologetic smile before answering his question. “Amber made it a point to educate everyone who came into the house as to her food allergies, sensitivities, and preferences.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘everyone’?”

“I mean she wanted to make sure that nobody introduced any products that contained nuts or wheat, among other verboten items, into her environment in any capacity. That included her massage therapist, her hairstylist, the maid, and, of course, me. Not only did she not want to eat any nuts, she didn’t want to touch anything that had been remotely near a nut.”

“Was her allergy that severe?” he asked.

I entertained the thought of making the obvious joke that she was nuts but decided not to pick that low-hanging fruit. “I honestly don’t know. It could’ve been. Or she could have simply been being overly dramatic about it because she was overly dramatic about pretty much everything.” Subtlety hadn’t been Amber’s forte.

“It sounds like you didn’t like your boss very much,” he remarked.

Despite the fact that his tone was nonjudgmental, even gentle, I stiffened. “She was a hard person to like,” I finally said, cringing at how defensive I sounded.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She was mean to the people who worked for her, dismissive of the people who she worked with, difficult toward the people who she worked for, and generally only turned on her pleasant persona when the cameras were rolling and she was being paid to be charming.”

“Why didn’t you quit?”

No way was I getting into
that
whole mess with the LAPD. “I need the money,” I said in a flat voice that left no doubt the topic was off-limits.

He raised an eyebrow but moved on without prodding. “So would you say she had a lot of enemies?”

“I don’t know about
enemies
, but there certainly were a lot of people who had their differences with her.”

“What about her relationship with her husband?” he pressed, taking a great, big gulp of his tea.

“What about it?” I stalled as I considered how to answer the question in a way that was at least fair to Pat, who apparently was going to continuing employing me.

He leaned forward with interest and our knees bumped again. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

I waved off the apology and said slowly, “I heard she was openly carrying on an affair, so I wouldn’t rate it as a great relationship.”

“Did they fight a lot?” he asked.

I thought he’d be more interested in the affair, but he was the law enforcement expert—maybe it’s never the lover. “Like I said, she was generally nasty. She fought with Pat, sure, but she fought with everyone.”

“Does that include your
friend
Felix?”

I ignored the sarcastic emphasis on Felix’s name and answered the question honestly. “Yes. I don’t think Felix got along any better with Amber than did the rest of us.”

“Hmm. Okay, back to the bit about the boyfriend —”

“I told you he’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped, cutting him off.

He reached for his tea and gave me a lazy smile. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I wasn’t asking about your boyfriend, I was asking about Amber’s boyfriend.”

I took a drink of my own tea to cover my embarrassed discomfort. I was about to confess that all I knew about Amber’s purported affair had come from Felix when the image of the swarthy Italian playboy next door popped into my head. “Well it’s an open secret that Amber’s cheating on Pat, apparently. And last night, when I was leaving to get in my car to go home, one of the neighbors was lurking around the house. He scared me half to death.”