Case of the Muffin Murders Page 9

  After I handed off one overenthusiastic woman to one condescending author, I sought out Jillian and together, we mingled with some of the people in the store. Over in the corner, looking just as creepy as I remembered from our first meeting, was Zora Lumen, owner of 4th Street Gallery. Ms. Lumen was still choosing to not wear girl clothes and instead, decided to wear a pin-stripe suit, complete with a bow tie. I personally thought it made her look like a gangster. A male gangster.

  Next up was one of Jillian’s close friends, Hannah Bloom, and her son, Colin. Hannah was the owner of PV’s only florist shop and was in the midst of an ugly divorce. Jillian, Taylor Adams, and myself, had all managed to get Hannah to do the right thing and leave her cheating, emotionally abusive husband. Of course, Dylan made it easy for us after he was caught in a cheap motel in Portland with a prostitute. The private investigator I had discreetly hired (per Jillian’s not-so-subtle suggestion) was able to get some very juicy pictures.

  How did Dylan respond? The jerk had the tenacity to immediately hire an expensive attorney and try to paint Hannah as the bad apple in their relationship, claiming she drove him into the arms of other women. Both Jillian and I each pitched in to help cover the cost of hiring an attorney so that Hannah and Colin would be protected. The case was still ongoing, so here’s hoping it ends well.

  We ran into Woody and his daughter, Zoe. Looks like Zoe was considering becoming a professional chef and wanted to buy every cookbook Arthur Higgins had available. It took every ounce of willpower that I had not to roll my eyes in front of her or her father. Once the teenager was out of earshot, Woody confided that his thirteen year old daughter’s career choice seemed to change on a weekly basis.

  We heard the clinking of a glass. Looks like Arthur had decided his intermission was over and he was now eager to resume. It also looked like he had set up his tables for a hands-on cooking demonstration. Sure enough, Arthur smiled politely at the crowd and asked for two volunteers. Fingers were automatically pointed at Jillian, and, by default, me. I watched Arthur’s enthusiastic smile morph into a forced one, and suddenly I was surprised to find myself striding forward, practically pulling Jillian along with me.

  The crowd applauded its approval.

  We were handed aprons and asked to take our positions behind the table. Several hot plates had been set up, and I saw several trays full of ingredients: fresh vegetables, herbs, lemons, and limes. Next to the trays were two small ice chests. Arthur flashed me a smug smile and opened the first chest. Reaching in, he pulled out a sealed plastic bag that had two uncooked chicken breasts. Using tongs, he set one on each of our trays.

  “This next dish is one of my favorites. I call it ‘tequila-lime grilled chicken’. You’ll be setting your hot plates to medium high and will be adding each ingredient in the proper order.”

  “Hey, do you sell any antacid here?” I jokingly asked Jillian. “I gotta tell you, man. I’m not a cook.”

  Jillian winked at the audience, “I’ll vouch for that.”

  The crowd erupted into laughter. Once again, I noticed the firm resolve that had appeared on Arthur Higgins’ face. This was a guy who really didn’t like me. I got the distinct impression he didn’t like anyone taking the spotlight from him, especially when this was his little show. Therefore, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and get me to do something that would make me look like a horse’s ass in front of everyone.

  Thankfully, I was proved wrong. Arthur instructed, and Jillian and I obeyed. We made a marinade, we cooked the chicken, we made side dishes, and we even learned how to make several cocktails. As I said before, I’m no cook, but even I had fun making all those dishes. The real test came, though, when we were asked to sample our work.

  “Before I do that,” I hesitantly began, as I poked at my chicken breast with my fork, “would you kindly do me a favor and make sure the chicken is cooked all the way through? I’ve heard horror stories about what can happen if you eat undercooked poultry.”

  Surprisingly, Arthur grinned and nodded. He produced a steak knife and sliced my chicken breast in half. A nice, juicy piece of meat was revealed. There were no indications it was raw anywhere. Damn, I was good. Well, I guess I should amend that and say that I follow instructions well.

  “It looks pretty good, Mr. Anderson. Care to try a bite?”

  “You first,” I grinned.

  Arthur nodded, sliced off a small piece and ate it. A smile formed and he nodded. He looked over at Jillian’s plate and smiled his appreciation. Her dishes looked even better than mine did, but to be fair, that was expected. Jillian was one hell of a cook. Me? I’m usually relegated to the custodial department after large meals.

  Arthur tried a bite of Jillian’s, and then encouraged me to do the same. While my date sliced off a piece of my chicken, I did the same to hers. As you have probably guessed, hers was better. Hell, I would expect to see a dish like that in a fancy restaurant.

  “Word on the street is that you own a winery, Mr. Anderson,” Arthur idly commented, drawing my attention back to him. “Is that correct?”

  The crowd laughed.

  “Yeah. Kinda.”

  “Is your wine any good?”

  More laughter.

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” I confessed. “I never touch the stuff. I can’t stand wine.”

  “I’ll bet I can change your mind,” Arthur challenged.

  “Challenge accepted,” I promptly responded. “I have a winemaster who has been trying to get me to like wine ever since I opened Lentari Cellars back up. I think if you were to be successful, then he’d personally thank you by giving you a free bottle or two, your choice.”

  “Challenge accepted,” Arthur said, with a smile.

  The cookbook author reached under my table and pulled out a small box. He extricated two bottles of wine. Both were incredibly familiar to me, as they should be. One was the green slender-necked bottle of Syrah that my winery made, and the other was a squat brown bottle I recognized as our Gewürztraminer offering. Sadly, I can say that I’ve tried both and that I didn’t care for either of them.

  I gave the cookbook author a smug smile and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “You really don’t care for your own wine?” Arthur asked, amazed.

  “Not one bit,” I admitted, drawing a few chuckles from the audience. “If you think I’m gonna willingly drink that stuff, then you’re out of your mind.”

  Arthur gestured to the table and then swept his hand over the ingredients, as if to say the next step should be obvious. With a start, I realized he was right. He’s obviously planning on cooking with my wine. And, he didn’t say I had to drink it. Hmmm. I was starting to get the impression I had been set up. Oh, well. Score one for him.

  Jillian and I spent close to two hours cooking up various dishes in her store. And I will also state for the record that I did end up apologizing to Arthur, who in turn, apologized to me. Turns out he’s a first-rate chef that clearly knows what he’s doing, since he ended up doing the impossible with me, which was having me cook with more than three ingredients. I ended up tasting everything I cooked, and Jillian’s as well. I didn’t do half bad. Then again, if I have someone telling me what to do, and I’m able to follow a very precise list of instructions with no room for error, then I can probably muddle my way through just about any recipe.

  “I really should be going,” I told Jillian, after the store had been cleared out and the tables taken down. “I had a great time, and that’s saying something. I have never enjoyed cooking in my entire life.”

  “I enjoyed myself, too. And I told you I’ll make a cook out of you yet. Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

  I put my arms around my new girlfriend and hugged her. It had been a long time since I embraced anyone like that. I’ll admit it. I missed the intimacy.

  “You’re welcome. Do you have to stay here or can you leave? The dogs have been cooped up inside the house for a while now and I was thinking about taking them for a w
alk.”

  “Why, that sounds lovely. I’m sure Sydney and Katherine can handle the store tonight.”

  “I know we can,” a voice said from behind us.

  We turned to see two of Jillian’s employees. Both of them, I knew, were high school seniors and both of them, I might add, were dabbing at the corner of their eyes with tissues. Jillian smiled warmly at the girls and gave them each a hug.

  “It’s about time, Ms. Cooper,” the blonde said.

  “Thank you, Katherine.”

  “Don’t you dare hurt her, Mr. Anderson,” the red-haired girl told me as she wagged her finger. By process of elimination, this had to be Sydney.

  “Not a chance, Sydney.”

  The red-headed teenager nodded, “Good. You two get out of here. We’ve got things under control here.”

  The two of us were practically pushed out of the store. I looked at Jillian and escorted her to her car.

  “Would you care to follow me to my place or shall I follow you to yours and then you can catch a ride with me back home?”

  “I do believe I’d like to run home first to freshen up, if that’s okay.”

  By the time we made it to my house, nearly four hours had elapsed since I had been home. I’ll admit it. I was worried. I have only left the dogs alone that long once, and it hadn’t ended well.

  Upon walking inside my house that fateful day, I discovered I had been left a present. Sherlock had apparently thought one of his doggie beds was the devil reincarnate, and he had decided it was up to him to dispatch the bed monster before it could do the same to him. Well, when I made it into the living room, I had been greeted by a sight that still makes me laugh every time I saw it. And, it was quite often, ‘cause I captured the carnage on my phone as soon as I had come through the door.

  Watson had been laying, Sphinx-like, on the couch, while Sherlock was stretched out on the ground. The empty carcass of the bed was laying in shreds where I had left it. Tufts of fluffy white filling were everywhere. I found it up on the chairs, scattered across the entire living room, and tracked into just about every other room on the ground floor. That little corgi had been busy.

  So, what was waiting for me this time?

  I carefully eased the door open and peered inside. I didn’t see any signs of the dogs anywhere. I briefly glanced at Jillian, who gave me a quizzical look.

  “I don’t see them anywhere.”

  “Who, the dogs? They’re probably asleep on the couch. Or maybe your bed.”

  “I’m not sure about that. The last time I left them alone this long, it hadn’t gone over well. The dogs weren’t happy and they made that simple fact known.”

  Jillian pushed by me and entered my living room.

  “Come on. We can find them. Do you have a treat bag? Back when I was a little girl, all I had to do to get my dog to come to me was rattle a treat can. I swear he could hear that thing at least a... Zachary?”

  Jillian’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “What is it?” I nervously asked.

  I leaned around Jillian and saw what had brought her up short. Sherlock and Watson were both up on the couch, nestled together. Watson was curled up, almost in a fetal position, and had her head resting on one of the throw pillows Jillian had given me. Sherlock was resting up against Watson, and had draped his head across her back.

  One would have thought that I had set them both together like than in an attempt to get them to pose for a picture. I should also point out that both were out cold. One of them was even snoring. Sherlock, I think.

  Jillian pulled out her cell and snapped a picture.

  “You have the cutest dogs in the whole world.”

  “Oh, I know it. You know it. The problem is, they know it, too. And here I thought they would be anxious to go outside for a walk.”

  There. I said it. And, I did it on purpose. Let’s see how badly they want to go outside.

  Five seconds later, both dogs were on their feet. The two corgis executed simultaneous jumps off the couch and headed straight for the door. We clipped their leashes on and headed out.

  “You’ve created quite a life for yourself here,” Jillian commented, as we left the house behind.

  We headed up the hill, where the winery was located. Thanks to the land acquisition of a few months ago, Lentari Cellars could now lay claim to 50 acres of land. No, we didn’t have all the acres planted. Yet. It’ll probably take a few years before we are able to expand the vines to that much acreage.

  Running along the east side of my property is empty land. I had made a few discreet inquiries about the vacant land, just to see if it was possible to someday expand the winery to the east. Turns out the land belonged to the county. I think I remember the city clerk telling me it was considered a wildlife refuge. It would never be for sale, and it would never be developed, which suited me just fine.

  That meant the vacant land was full of trees and grass-covered hills. The dogs and I have explored the land quite a few times now. It’s one of Sherlock and Watson’s favorite places to walk. There were even a few trails that snaked around hills, skirted around trees, and ran parallel to several small streams.

  Sherlock led me to his favorite trail, which ran up against a small stream for at least several hundred yards. The ground was covered with thick, luxurious grass, and there were clumps of dark green bushes scattered everywhere. Just over the small hill we were presently walking toward was a small mesa, which was the perfect place to have a picnic, not that I packed a picnic lunch. However, I thought this might be a great place to enjoy some quiet time.

  Jillian produced a ratty tennis ball, and all hopes of a peaceful and serene outing went right out the window. Both corgis started barking, as though they had been starved for attention and only now felt like their humans were paying them any mind. Sherlock’s front end bounced up and down, while Watson trembled with anticipation.

  Jillian threw the tennis ball a good twenty yards. Both dogs tore off after it. Noticing the distance in which she had thrown the ball, I looked over at Jillian and gave an appreciative nod.

  “Nice throw. I can honestly say that you don’t throw like a girl.”

  Jillian smiled at me and gave me a small curtsy, “Why thank you, good sir. I grew up with dogs in my family. I always loved throwing a ball for them. It was one of my favorite pastimes.”

  “If you like dogs so much, how come you don’t have one now?”

  Jillian sighed and her face took on a wistful expression.

  “If I touched on a sensitive subject,” I slowly began, “then I apologize.”

  “Michael loved dogs. He always wanted one, but he was deathly allergic to them. So, we never had one.”

  As a reminder for those that may not remember, Michael was Jillian’s husband. He passed away from cancer several years ago. Second-hand smoke. Talk about a shitty way to go.

  But, I digress. Back to Jillian. I wanted to know why she didn’t have a dog.

  “And once he passed away?” I gently asked. “You could have… uh, oh. Man your battle stations. Incoming corgis, one o’clock.”

  Jillian giggled and waited for the twin streaks of lightning to arrive. Watson arrived first, but she didn’t have the ball. She turned to watch Sherlock arrive next, only a few seconds behind her. Sherlock proudly spit the ball at Jillian’s feet and began to take several paces back. Sure enough, he began to bounce his front half once more. Watson was trembling – again – with anticipation.

  Jillian handed me the ball.

  “Here. You can throw it farther.”

  I cocked my arm and delivered a fake throw. Neither corgi budged an inch. Can you tell we’ve played this particular game before?

  “Neither one of them fell for it,” Jillian observed, amazed. “My dog always fell for the fake throw.”

  “I may have played this with them a few times before back home.”

  Jillian eyed the stock still dogs and slowly turned to give me a neutral look.

  �
�How many times? Look at them. They don’t trust you with that ball. No wonder Sherlock brought it to me and not you.”

  “Oh, it keeps them on their toes. You two want the ball? Here you go.”

  I lobbed the yellow ball far to the north. We watched it bounce a few times before it disappeared into the grass. Both corgis were practically pouncing, like gazelles, as they struggled to run through the grass and see where they were going.

  “You gotta love corgis. So, listen, I uh…”

  “Zachary, I wanted to run something by you…”

  Both of us had begun talking at the same time. As a result, neither of us heard what the other said. After a few moments of startled silence, we each laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “You first.”

  “No, I think you started first. You go.”

  “All right.” I took a deep breath and prepared to take a step I didn’t think I’d ever take with a woman. “I’ve been thinking about your request.”

  “What request?” Jillian asked, confused.

  “You said you wanted to go on a cruise, didn’t you?”

  Jillian gasped with delight and clapped her hands together.

  “Zachary Michael, are you telling me that you’re agreeing to go on a cruise? With me?”

  I shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile.

  “For you, and only for you, am I willing to consider it. So, with that said, where would you like to go? No, wait. Scratch that. I assume you’ve been on cruises before?”

  Jillian nodded.

  “To where?” I wanted to know.

  We both sank down into the soft grass and watched the dogs work their way back to us. I took the ball – which was starting to get soggy – and threw it to the west this time. Both dogs tore off after it, in hot pursuit.

  “Well, Michael and I have been on two cruises before. One was to Cancun, in Mexico.”

  “Hmm,” I said, by way of response.

  “The other was to the Bahamas.”

  I nodded, “The Caribbean. Nice. Why did you pick those places? Have you always wanted to go there?”