The Gamble
Page 52
I looked from Mindy to the ceiling and silently said, Thank you.
Then I got out the cheese and chicken.
* * * * *
I was standing at the stove, stirring the chopped veggies in olive oil in the skillet when the lights of a vehicle flashed on the walls. I turned from the range and looked to the drive.
The Cherokee. Max was home.
I felt a pleasant shiver slide up my spine and looked to the waning light of a setting sun.
An hour ago, Becca had shown up with my shopping and the news that Max had given the green light for Mindy to go back down the mountain. We talked for awhile, me ascertaining two things. One, Becca was still angry at Damon for “being such a dick” and two, she was “next in line” to get a facial.
They left and I checked my e-mail. No e-mail from Niles so I sent him one asking if he was all right.
Then I sorted my shopping, clipping off the tags, putting things away then I grabbed the cream and sugar bowl I’d found in town. They were handmade, fantastic pottery by a local artisan, larger than normal creamers and sugar bowls, unusual squat shapes with equally unusual twisting handles and they were glazed cream at the top and inside, terra cotta at the bottom. Perfect. I bought them for Max’s kitchen. A gift, a stupid one but my small way of saying “thanks for taking care of me when I was sick”. He didn’t need a creamer and sugar bowl, probably would never use them, but they sure would look good in his kitchen.
Therefore I took them to his kitchen, cleaned them, dried them and filled them, leaving the small milk jug in the fridge and putting the sugar bowl by the coffeepot.
Then I sat at the dining room table and wrote a couple of postcards to friends that I’d also bought the day before.
Then I started dinner.
What I did not do, but should have done, was sort out my messed up head.
The casserole dish had the cubed salmon, king prawns and quartered hardboiled eggs in the bottom, the mashed potatoes (flavored with a hint of English mustard), sitting in a bowl with a dish towel over it, were ready to go on top. The ingredients for the cheesy, mustardy, creamy sauce were by the range, ready to go in when the veggies finished cooking.
I heard the door open and I pulled in a silent breath. Then I looked over my shoulder.
“Hey babe,” Max called, shrugging off his canvas jacket and heading my way.
“Hi,” I replied and turned back to the veggies, stirring unnecessarily.
I heard the whispering sound of his jacket being hooked on a chair, I felt him get close, my hair was swept off my shoulder then I felt his lips at my neck.
This time that shiver went from my neck back down spine.
“Smells good,” he murmured when his head came up.
“Fish pie.”
“Mm.”
God, he could “mm” great in that gravelly way of his.
“Sorry I been gone so long,” he went on.
I picked up the cream and poured it into the veggies while asking, “Mindy’s apartment sorted?”
“Couldn’t find Damon. Did find out that the landlord has storage units at the complex, I got his shit out, put it in a unit and the landlord changed the locks on Mindy’s place.”
I didn’t like the idea of Mindy staying by herself, even with changed locks, so I turned to him and noted, “That doesn’t sound exactly sorted.”
“Yeah, but Mindy’s stayin’ at Becca’s for awhile, least until we know Damon’s permanently out of the picture and after I stopped by Bitsy’s I went to the Station, talked to Mick and Jeff and they’ll be keepin’ an eye on things. Not to mention, Becca’s talked with the totality of her neighbors and told them to keep an eye out for Damon and raise the alarm the minute he’s spotted.”
“That sounds more sorted,” I muttered, he smiled and I turned back to the skillet, swirling the cream with the veg.
Then I felt his fingertips trailing across the skin of my exposed back, sweeping my hair along with it.
The shiver came back, this time with goose bumps. I turned back to him.
Before I could speak, his eyes went from my shoulders to mine and he whispered, “Like this sweater, honey.”
Shyness hit me, sudden and nearly paralyzing. “Um…” I forced out, “thanks.”
He grinned then moved away asking, “You wanna beer?”
I turned back to the food and told myself to get it together but I told Max, “I’m going to have wine.”
“I’ll get it.”
I stirred the cream one more time, saw it begin to bubble and then turned off the stove, moving the skillet off the burner and I added in the rest of the ingredients for the sauce. Stirring it, I went to the casserole dish.
“You got three bottles of wine, which one you want?” he asked, his head in the fridge.
“The Pinot Grigio.”
“Gotcha,” he said and I heard the noise of a bottle sliding off a refrigerator shelf.
“How’s Bitsy?” I asked, still stirring, waiting for all the cheese to melt.
“Pissed, scared, in shock,” he answered, I heard him moving around then I heard kitchen noises then I saw a wineglass hit the counter beside the dish and Max was at my side with a bottle and bottle opener.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Will be, it’ll take awhile. She isn’t cooperating, won’t talk to the police.”
I looked at him, surprised. “She won’t?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“She’s pissed, scared, in shock,” he repeated and I guessed if my husband was murdered by a contract killer while I was on holiday in Arizona and he was in bed with the town ice queen, I might not feel cooperative either.
“Is that why they need you?”
He looked at me and pulled the cork out of the wine. “Yeah.”
“I don’t understand,” I told him, because I didn’t.
“We’re close,” he said then said no more and I decided not to ask about Max being close to Bitsy, the wife of the dead man who sounded like his arch enemy.
It was strange, very strange, but I was presently dealing with another strange and not unpleasant feeling of moving around Max’s kitchen with Max like we’d done it every night for the last ten years. I didn’t have it in me to interrogate him about his relationship with the unknown Bitsy.
Instead I enquired, “Is she going to talk to the police now?”
“I’m takin’ her in tomorrow.”
I nodded then poured the sauce over the salmon and prawns before informing him, “Your sister came by.”
Then I got out the cheese and chicken.
* * * * *
I was standing at the stove, stirring the chopped veggies in olive oil in the skillet when the lights of a vehicle flashed on the walls. I turned from the range and looked to the drive.
The Cherokee. Max was home.
I felt a pleasant shiver slide up my spine and looked to the waning light of a setting sun.
An hour ago, Becca had shown up with my shopping and the news that Max had given the green light for Mindy to go back down the mountain. We talked for awhile, me ascertaining two things. One, Becca was still angry at Damon for “being such a dick” and two, she was “next in line” to get a facial.
They left and I checked my e-mail. No e-mail from Niles so I sent him one asking if he was all right.
Then I sorted my shopping, clipping off the tags, putting things away then I grabbed the cream and sugar bowl I’d found in town. They were handmade, fantastic pottery by a local artisan, larger than normal creamers and sugar bowls, unusual squat shapes with equally unusual twisting handles and they were glazed cream at the top and inside, terra cotta at the bottom. Perfect. I bought them for Max’s kitchen. A gift, a stupid one but my small way of saying “thanks for taking care of me when I was sick”. He didn’t need a creamer and sugar bowl, probably would never use them, but they sure would look good in his kitchen.
Therefore I took them to his kitchen, cleaned them, dried them and filled them, leaving the small milk jug in the fridge and putting the sugar bowl by the coffeepot.
Then I sat at the dining room table and wrote a couple of postcards to friends that I’d also bought the day before.
Then I started dinner.
What I did not do, but should have done, was sort out my messed up head.
The casserole dish had the cubed salmon, king prawns and quartered hardboiled eggs in the bottom, the mashed potatoes (flavored with a hint of English mustard), sitting in a bowl with a dish towel over it, were ready to go on top. The ingredients for the cheesy, mustardy, creamy sauce were by the range, ready to go in when the veggies finished cooking.
I heard the door open and I pulled in a silent breath. Then I looked over my shoulder.
“Hey babe,” Max called, shrugging off his canvas jacket and heading my way.
“Hi,” I replied and turned back to the veggies, stirring unnecessarily.
I heard the whispering sound of his jacket being hooked on a chair, I felt him get close, my hair was swept off my shoulder then I felt his lips at my neck.
This time that shiver went from my neck back down spine.
“Smells good,” he murmured when his head came up.
“Fish pie.”
“Mm.”
God, he could “mm” great in that gravelly way of his.
“Sorry I been gone so long,” he went on.
I picked up the cream and poured it into the veggies while asking, “Mindy’s apartment sorted?”
“Couldn’t find Damon. Did find out that the landlord has storage units at the complex, I got his shit out, put it in a unit and the landlord changed the locks on Mindy’s place.”
I didn’t like the idea of Mindy staying by herself, even with changed locks, so I turned to him and noted, “That doesn’t sound exactly sorted.”
“Yeah, but Mindy’s stayin’ at Becca’s for awhile, least until we know Damon’s permanently out of the picture and after I stopped by Bitsy’s I went to the Station, talked to Mick and Jeff and they’ll be keepin’ an eye on things. Not to mention, Becca’s talked with the totality of her neighbors and told them to keep an eye out for Damon and raise the alarm the minute he’s spotted.”
“That sounds more sorted,” I muttered, he smiled and I turned back to the skillet, swirling the cream with the veg.
Then I felt his fingertips trailing across the skin of my exposed back, sweeping my hair along with it.
The shiver came back, this time with goose bumps. I turned back to him.
Before I could speak, his eyes went from my shoulders to mine and he whispered, “Like this sweater, honey.”
Shyness hit me, sudden and nearly paralyzing. “Um…” I forced out, “thanks.”
He grinned then moved away asking, “You wanna beer?”
I turned back to the food and told myself to get it together but I told Max, “I’m going to have wine.”
“I’ll get it.”
I stirred the cream one more time, saw it begin to bubble and then turned off the stove, moving the skillet off the burner and I added in the rest of the ingredients for the sauce. Stirring it, I went to the casserole dish.
“You got three bottles of wine, which one you want?” he asked, his head in the fridge.
“The Pinot Grigio.”
“Gotcha,” he said and I heard the noise of a bottle sliding off a refrigerator shelf.
“How’s Bitsy?” I asked, still stirring, waiting for all the cheese to melt.
“Pissed, scared, in shock,” he answered, I heard him moving around then I heard kitchen noises then I saw a wineglass hit the counter beside the dish and Max was at my side with a bottle and bottle opener.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Will be, it’ll take awhile. She isn’t cooperating, won’t talk to the police.”
I looked at him, surprised. “She won’t?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“She’s pissed, scared, in shock,” he repeated and I guessed if my husband was murdered by a contract killer while I was on holiday in Arizona and he was in bed with the town ice queen, I might not feel cooperative either.
“Is that why they need you?”
He looked at me and pulled the cork out of the wine. “Yeah.”
“I don’t understand,” I told him, because I didn’t.
“We’re close,” he said then said no more and I decided not to ask about Max being close to Bitsy, the wife of the dead man who sounded like his arch enemy.
It was strange, very strange, but I was presently dealing with another strange and not unpleasant feeling of moving around Max’s kitchen with Max like we’d done it every night for the last ten years. I didn’t have it in me to interrogate him about his relationship with the unknown Bitsy.
Instead I enquired, “Is she going to talk to the police now?”
“I’m takin’ her in tomorrow.”
I nodded then poured the sauce over the salmon and prawns before informing him, “Your sister came by.”
