Say Yes to the Death (16 page)

Chapter 21

I
heard the voices coming from the kitchen as soon as I let myself in. There was music, too, and it sounded very much like Frank Sinatra singing, “I've Got You Under My Skin.” As I pulled my key from the lock and shut the door, I realized I was bopping to the beat, my shoulders swaying.

It had been a long time since I'd heard these walls filled with song. The house felt alive again, like it had a real beating heart. My dad used to play music all the time when I was growing up. I still remember the old LPs he reverently placed on the turntable of his RCA stereo with the big-­ass speakers. He loved the Rat Pack, Elvis, and Nat King Cole, and he'd introduced me to Maria Callas, Luciano Pavarotti, and Beverly Sills before I even understood what opera was. “It's as though the words alone aren't enough. There's so much raw emotion,” he had told me, “that they have to be sung.”

He was every bit a man's man. He liked skeet shooting—­but not hunting anything with a beating heart, thank God—­and he loved sports, especially golf and Malone's passion, hockey. But my father wasn't afraid to admit he loved the arts, too. I think he was the reason I'd fallen in love with drawing and painting and sculpture back in school. And books—­how he adored books! It was no wonder I'd been such a daddy's girl. I had always found him to be the more sensitive of my parents, and I went to him more often than to my mother when I had a problem.

How I wished he were here now, I thought, and I felt myself choke up.

If only I could run to him and have him enfold me in his arms. It didn't matter how much time had passed. I still missed him like crazy.

I wondered how I was going to get married without him walking me down the aisle. There was no one who could fill my dad's shoes, not even my soon-­to-­be stepfather, Stephen, as nice as he was. That was another reason I was dragging my heels over actual wedding plans. I was no more certain of what to do about my Big Day than I was about how to find Olivia's killer and clear Millie's name.

What would Daddy have advised me to do? Would he tell me it was best if I stayed out of the mess entirely? Would he suggest that I sit back and let the police—­and Malone—­do their jobs? Would he have insisted I twiddle my thumbs while I waited to be called as the prosecution's star witness?

No, I thought, letting out a slow breath. I was sure that my father wouldn't choose any of the above. He would tell me what he always had: to follow my heart. Maybe it got me into trouble sometimes. Maybe it even made me act like a brainless fool. But I didn't care. I had to do what I felt was right.

I cleared the lump from my throat and called out, “Hello, hello!”

Not surprisingly, no one answered.

Clearly, more was going on in the kitchen than just the music. There was the warm, inviting scent of something baking in the oven, and I knew my mother couldn't possibly be responsible. Was Millie playing chef?

As the final notes of “Under My Skin” trailed off and Frank began to croon “Strangers in the Night,” I followed his voice and the tantalizing smell. Halfway there, I heard a throaty burst of laughter.

Was that my mother?

Was she
drunk
?

As soon as I'd passed the butler's pantry and entered the kitchen, I hesitated, my eyes doing a double take. For an instant I thought Sandy Beck had returned early from her visit with her sister and was dancing around the room in oven mitts while Cissy sat on a stool at the granite island, singing out loud and tapping the toe of her pump against the foot rail. She waved a glass of wine in the air, and I saw the bottle nearby. It looked like she'd broken out her favorite Château Margaux Bordeaux.

I very nearly blurted out,
Sandy, you're home!
Then I blinked and realized it was Millie dressed in a pair of jeans and one of Sandy's classic sweater sets. She had her white hair brushed away from her face and held back by a plaid headband. Her eyes looked bright behind her owlish glasses. And she was singing as loudly—­and as off-­key—­as my mother while she opened the double oven doors to check on whatever scrumptious-­smelling recipe she was cooking.

After closing the oven doors, Millie did a quick spin as if twirled by some imaginary partner, and my mother chortled merrily.

My hand went to my mouth
,
and I stifled my own laughter.

What a pair! You would have thought the two of them were long lost friends. And maybe in a way they were. They had known each other as long as I'd been alive, yet they'd never really mixed or mingled. I couldn't help but think it was a good thing they'd been brought together like this. My mother could use more down-­to-­earth friends like Millie and Sandy. She had enough superficial society pals to field several ball clubs.

For a moment I just hung back and watched them, loving the sight of Millie and my mother so relaxed. It was wonderful that Millie had taken up Cissy's offer to stay over, since apparently Stephen wouldn't return until the next afternoon. That Millie didn't want to be alone was understandable. I'm not sure I'd want to go home to an empty house that had been rifled through by the cops, especially after having spent the morning at the police station being treated like a criminal. That kind of thing tended to shake a person up.

I waited until Sinatra's voice trailed off again before I made a point of stomping through the doorway into the kitchen and saying, “Hey! It looks like a party's going on. What have I missed?”

“Andrea!” Mother drawled, swiveling on the stool and nearly missing the granite when she set down her wineglass. “I didn't hear you come in!”

“Oh, Andy, you're here! Wonderful!” Millie chimed in. She plucked off an oven mitt and reached for the CD player that Sandy had installed beneath the cabinetry. Poor Frankie got cut off in the midst of crooning about the summer wind that came blowin' in off the sea. “I'm making beef Wellington,” she told me, her face aglow, “and I've got glazed carrots and green beans almondine in the oven as well. There's plenty for four.” She glanced around me. “Where's Mr. Malone?”

“He couldn't make it,” I said. Millie looked crestfallen. “But don't stop dancing on his account. I'll take him home some leftovers,” I promised, setting my bag on the floor and slipping onto the empty stool beside Mother. “Wow, beef Wellington. And I thought pastry chefs only knew how to make pastry.”

Millie's smile returned, although it seemed to stutter. “My granny was a fabulous cook,” she explained, “a disciple of Julia Child more or less. She taught me everything she knew about cooking and baking, and I fell in love with both.”

“What a coincidence,” I said, leaning over to nudge Cissy with an elbow, “my mother taught me everything she knows about cooking and baking.”

“And Andrea's grandmother taught
me
everything she knew, which is a whole lot of nothing,” Mother said and guffawed, waving her arms in front of her like a referee after a bad field goal. She narrowly missed knocking over her wineglass. “I can't even boil water to save my life.”

“I used to cook for Henry every night until I got too busy with the cake shop,” Millie went on, and the hesitant smile vanished. “I actually thought of opening a restaurant back then, one that had its own bakery. Then when Henry passed away, I had no one to cook for. We never had children. It used to eat at me a little but now I'm glad. I wouldn't want them to see what's happening now because of that damned Olivia . . .”

Her voice trailed off, her chin quivering. It made me want to cry.

“Oh, Millie, I'm sorry for you . . . for Henry . . . I'm sorry for everything,” I said, and I would have jumped down from my stool to go hug her if my mother hadn't slid off hers and headed Millie's way.

“Now, now,” Cissy cooed and draped an arm around Millie's shoulders. “Don't let's get maudlin,” she said. “Things are always darkest before dawn,
n'est-­ce pas
? It will work out, you'll see. The police will find the bad guy, just like they always do on
Law & Order,
and you'll be free to come over and teach Andy a thing or two about how to use an oven so Mr. Malone won't die of starvation.”

“You're very sweet,” Millie said, and her smile reappeared. But this time it was melancholic.

“Seriously, Millie, that would rock,” I chimed in, trying to keep the mood upbeat. “It'd be a chance to see you more often besides. You were part of my growing-­up, you know. Some of my best memories are of your cakes.”

“Oh, Andy, that's so dear of you to say.” Millie sighed, and I saw a tiny spark ignited in her eyes.

“Please, feel free to come by and take over my kitchen now and then, Millicent. It would be one way to get my darling daughter here more often. I hardly see her as it is,” Cissy opined and pouted at me.

I felt a sudden stab of guilt, because it was true that I didn't get to Mother's house much these days. I was always so busy with my work and with painting and hanging out with Malone. I needed to make more of an effort, I told myself. Cissy wasn't getting any younger, and neither was I. Soon Stephen would be my stepfather and, one of these years, I'd have rug rats crawling around my ankles. Life was changing so quickly, and I wasn't doing a very good job at keeping up. I didn't want to get to a place in my life where I was looking back, like Millie, and counting my regrets.

“If you give me cooking lessons,” I said, “I could offer my Web design services. Anytime you want a site update, just call.”

“I may very well take you up on that, Andy,” Millie said, “maybe once we're caught up at the shop. The crew's doing the best they can without me, but I need to get back to work without this noose hanging over my head.”

“Malone will have you back to work in no time,” I said, avoiding her eyes. I slipped off my seat to wander over to the ovens. Turning on the light inside, I took a peek at the bubbling carrots with glaze and the green beans almondine. They were a nice distraction. “Everything looks amazing,” I told her, and that was no lie.

Millie blew out a breath. “Truly, I appreciate what you're trying to do, the both of you, but I'm so afraid that I'll be—­” She hesitated. “—­that Mr. Malone won't be able to—­” She couldn't go on. She put her head in her hands and gently shook it.

“There
,
there, sweetheart, it's okay,” Cissy said. “I'd be frightened, too, but you have to believe in your own innocence, or no one else will believe you.”

I watched the pair of them hugging each other, and that darned lump in my throat returned with a vengeance. My mother was surprising me a lot these days.

Millie took a deep breath and lifted her chin. “I want to believe in myself and in Mr. Malone, but it's scary,” she admitted and shivered. “I have a bad feeling this might be the last beef Wellington I'll ever make.” She stopped talking, and Mother squeezed her shoulders.

“Mother's right,” I said. “You can't think like that. You will make beef Wellington again, and you will bake more cakes. Don't let Olivia take that away from you.” If I sounded angry, I was. I was furious at Olivia, not only for the misery she'd inflicted on my younger life, but for making Millie's life miserable even after death. “What's going on is totally crappy, yes, but it's not the end.”

“On the contrary,” my mother jumped in, “it's the beginning, Millicent, of an even stronger you. It's a lot like losing the love of your life and feeling a piece of yourself die as well, or being diagnosed with an illness that seems like a death sentence until you realize that it's not. It's just a dreadful curveball that fate has thrown at you. You're being forced to trudge through the muck, and it's painful. But you will survive. You survived losing Henry, didn't you? And I'll bet at the time you thought you never would.”

“Yes,” Millie whispered. “I did.”

“There, you see,” my mother said, “all things are possible.”

“Oh, Cissy, you're right.” Millie lifted up her glasses to brush tears from her cheeks. “I have to trudge through the muck,” she repeated, nodding to herself. “I will get through this. I have no choice.”

“Of course
,
you will,” Mother told her. “I have faith in you, Millicent.”

I stood there, looking at my mother and blinking, utterly dumbfounded.

The force of her comments—­the compassion she'd shown Millie—­surprised me far more than Millie's beef Wellington. What the heck was happening to her? She was turning into a fully empathetic being, sensitive to the plight of others and downright huggable.

The timers began to ping on the double ovens, and Millie suddenly forgot her woes. She sprang into action, pulling on oven mitts and withdrawing meat and vegetables from the racks. The steamy goodness of the food pervaded the kitchen, and I almost forgot that there was anything going on worth worrying about. My stomach growled. I hadn't done enough eating today, and I was suffering the consequences.

“Andrea, could you set the table?” my mother was saying, but I couldn't move for a minute or two as I watched Millie begin to carve the beef, the knife slicing through it like butter. Juice from the pink center of the meat dripped as she filled a silver serving dish with plump pieces. The sight unsettled me, and I pressed my eyes shut, hoping that would ward off the thought of finding Millie standing over Olivia with the bloody cake knife.

“Andrea.” Cissy pinched my arm.

“Ouch,” I said and opened my eyes wide. I rubbed my skin where she'd left a mark.

“Sorry, pumpkin, but it looked like you were sleepin' on your feet. Can you grab some silverware,” she said, unapologetic. “I'll get the napkins from the linen closet.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I told her, “right away.”