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Authors: J. M. Griffin

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BOOK: The Focaccia Fatality
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“Sure thing, thanks, Eric,” I answered and rushed back to reassure Seanmhair of Connor’s safety. Grateful for not having to be the bearer of bad news, I smiled at her look of relief when I shared Eric’s information. We drove home in silence.

While Sean showered, I tossed her clothes into the washing machine and rummaged through the closet for a robe and nightie she’d given me some years back that I wouldn’t have worn unless it was the last thing I owned. I yanked the duo off the hanger and left them on the toilet seat for her.

“There are some things here for you to wear,” I said.

I heard her muffled answer and scooted from the room lest she step out of the shower in the nude. Nobody wants to see their grandmother in the altogether, nobody.

A pot of tea and a few petite scones and jam awaited Sean when she left the bathroom. Her color was better, her fear gone, and a wee smile curled the corners of Sean’s lips when she noticed the goodies.

“You didn’t need to go to any trouble on my account, Melina. I’m fine, really I am.”

I waved her comment away. “Have some tea. It’s decaf, so you can have more than one cup, if you wish.” I watched her tuck into the scones and grinned. All was well.

Two scones later, Sean leaned against the back of the sofa and sipped the last of her tea. “Where shall I sleep?”

“In my bed. I’ll take the sofa. It’s important that you’re rested, because you won’t want Connor to think you’re a wreck, right?”

“I think I’ll sleep right here, on this comfy sofa,” Sean said with a smile.

I opened my mouth to argue when she said, “Not a word. I won’t put you out of your own bed. That’s final. Now give me a blanket and a pillow and go to bed.” Sean glanced at the wall clock. “You look tired and we’ll need to open the shop in a few hours.”

I huffed at her stubbornness and did what she asked. When I returned to the living room, Sean had tucked her plumpness into the corner of the sofa and snored softly. I wasn’t the only one who’d reached my limit. I left the pillow on the coffee table, draped the blanket over her, and kissed her forehead before tossing her clothing into the dryer and tiptoeing into my own room.

*    *    *

Sleep was fitful. I tossed and turned until the alarm sounded. It was going to be a trying day. I could feel it in my bones. Seanmhair’s clothes tumbled in the dryer to get the wrinkles out while I quickly showered and dressed for the day.

I’d no sooner finished drying my hair when I heard a sharp rap on the bathroom door. “Are you done in there?” I heard Sean say.

Giggling at the thought of her tapping her toes while waiting to pee, I swung the door wide. I bowed slightly and said, “Yes, ma’am. It’s all yours.”

She gave me a sweet smile and a wink as she scooted into the small bathroom, closing the door quickly behind her. So used to living alone, it hadn’t occurred to me that she’d be up and about, waiting for her turn in the bathroom. I gathered her outfit and undies and brought them to the door.

“Your clothes are on the doorknob. I’ll be downstairs,” I called through the door.

Chapter 3

I’d hardly had a moment to rest as the week flew by and I prepared the order for the Gallagher’s party. Mrs. Gallagher had called mid-week to say her guests had no allergies, which made me happy. She added breadsticks to the list and said she looked forward to seeing me.

Seanmhair had stayed at my place until hers was ready to return to. After four days or so, she’d gotten the news that she could go home. In between everything else, I’d helped her get reorganized. Smoke damage is as bad as fire itself. Smoke ruins furnishings, clothing, and all household goods need a good cleaning or complete replacement. Happily for Sean, the damage hadn’t been as severe on her floor as it had been on the ones above her.

A few trips to the shopping center, one to the mall, and Sean was ready to move back home. The building complex owners had been hard at work getting the building up to fire code and had covered most of the costs of cleaning all the apartments afflicted with smoke and fire. Sean, a believer in renter insurance, had filed a report with her insurance company. Pleased to think she was all set, I left her at the door, heaved a wicked sigh of relief, and drove away.

I’d readied the dough for the Gallagher’s shindig. Breads and rolls baked and it wasn’t long before all of it was ready for delivery. I raced upstairs and changed into my outfit, a chef’s white garb.

With a half hour to spare, I packed the baked goods into the car, stuffed the invoice into my purse, and drove toward Bridgeman Street. Weaving through the back street toward the Gallagher residence, I noticed how many area homes sported Christmas decorations. Colored lights crowned entryways, danced along wrought iron fences, and Christmas trees stood in the wide Georgian style windows of magnificent east side houses. Suddenly, I yearned for the house Seanmhair and I had lived in for the majority of my years after my parent’s unexpected deaths. Sean had raised me and we’d always set up a tree in the formal parlor, added old family folk art ornaments and lights, and I’d teeter on the highest step of the ladder to place the angel on the very top of the tree. I sighed, turned right at the traffic light, and rolled into a neighborhood of people with generations of old family money.

Why I felt increasingly dismal, I couldn’t say. I only knew that I did and couldn’t shake the feeling. I wondered if Aidan Sinclair had anything to do with it. With a mental head slap, I mumbled, “Get a grip and pay attention to what you’ve got to do. Pining over someone who doesn’t give a shit about you won’t solve a thing.”

The rear entrance of Vincent Gallagher’s stately residence lay at the far end of his driveway. Before the crowd arrived, I figured I’d unload the goods, and then park my Fiat down the street. I hustled bags and trays into the kitchen. As with many houses in the area, this kitchen had been upgraded to accommodate today’s cook. I hesitated to think Mrs. Gallagher even made toast, but one could never tell for sure.

With the car parked a block away, I hurried back to the house and set about filling trays and bundling rolls into baskets. Mrs. Gallagher showed me where to place the breads and asked if I’d hang about to refill as needed. I’d been aware that I was supposed to do so, and agreed without mentioning Vincent’s request.

Guest after guest, couple after couple, arrived. I stood near the kitchen end of the hallway to watch beautifully dressed people enter the house and idly drop their coats into the hands of a doorman who’d been hired to deal with that particular job. Lawyers, congressmen, senators, and the like arrived first, followed by those I thought were friends and relatives. When most of the guests had come in and began to wander through the enormous rooms, I moved farther back into the hallway where lighting was dim and I wasn’t quite so visible. After all, I wasn’t a guest and was happy about it. Put it down to shyness or signs of inferiority. Either way, I didn’t like to hobnob with the rich and famous.

I’d started to turn toward the kitchen when two more guests arrived. I inhaled sharply, my breath caught in my throat. A beautiful woman, draped in a white ermine fur cape and dressed in a sparkling, long black gown, entered the foyer. She laughed and coyly turned to the man behind her. He walked with a slight limp and used a cane as he progressed into the space behind her. Aidan Sinclair stood dressed in a suit that I bet cost more than my shop earned in a week. His handsome face and gorgeous smile wasn’t lost on me or the woman he was with. My heart sank, right down into my shoes. So much for
I’ll be back in the morning to ask you to marry me again
, the shithead.

Abruptly, I stomped into the kitchen, liberated a glass of wine off the tray a waiter carried, and gulped it in one clean swallow. If he’d hesitated another second, I’d have taken another. I glanced around, saw everyone staring, and laughed out loud before I said, “Good cheer to you all, let’s get this party underway.”

The crew of six worked feverishly to deliver food to the long tables set up in various locations of the house. Three of the crew then proceeded to carry trays of drinks that were greedily taken and downed by guests. Smoked salmon, finger foods, and sandwich fillings lay on every table along with pans of hot foods, next to the breads and rolls I’d made. The atmosphere was one of gaiety and laughter. For everyone but me, that is. I fumed over Sinclair and his date. The man had a real nerve sending me a card and then showing up at a party with another woman. From the edges of doorways and far corners of rooms, I kept an eye on all that went on. Occasionally, I spied the blonde beauty chatting or hugging those she knew. Sinclair often seemed across the room instead of at her side. Considering the amount of food being consumed, I assisted the staff however I could. It wasn’t my job, but I was reluctant to run into Sinclair, so I remained kitchen bound whenever possible.

One of them, Jake Henderson, came through the door and said with humor, “These people are ravenous, Melina. You need to fill these baskets again. I think they starved all day in order to eat here.”

“You’re probably right. Hand them over.” I caught them as he handed the trays to me across the counter. Rolls filled two of the small trays, and I added sliced focaccia bread before I handed them back to Jeff. “Can you put these out and check on the bread?”

He gave me an odd look and asked, “Are you avoiding somebody? You’ve hardly left the kitchen all night.”

“There’s a guy out there I’d rather not see. Please, do this for me?”

“Sure.” Jeff smiled and left me alone to feed on my growing anger.

The next time the door opened, Mrs. Gallagher strode through it. I glanced up, my hands full of sliced bread that I decoratively laid on platters Jeff had returned with.

Her eyes gleamed as she stood across from me. “I hired you to keep the bread flowing, Melina, yet I haven’t seen you out there doing so. What seems to be the problem?”

I opened my mouth to answer when Jeff stepped up and said, “Melina’s been helping us out. We’re short one person. Sorry, Mrs. Gallagher. We’re trying our best to keep up.”

To say Jeff was charming was an understatement. He had so much charm and such good looks, that I would have succumbed to him in a second if I wasn’t already put off by my experience thus far with Aidan. Mrs. Gallagher, however, was more than taken with him and flushed as he flirted with her.

She laid her hand on his arm and smiled. “Thank you for clearing that up for me, Jeff,” she said and then gave me a nod before returning to her guests.

“Wow, you know how to work her, don’t you?” I asked softly and gave him a wide grin.

“You didn’t want to tell her about your avoidance issue, did you?” He laughed, snatched a slice of focaccia, and balanced the huge platter on his shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

Helpers came and went until I decided I had to keep up with my own job instead of asking them to do it. Enough of being a chicken-shit. Should I run into Sinclair, I’d kill him with kindness. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did, I was ready.

Another tray of bread in hand, I turned a corner and ran smack-dab into Aidan. I stumbled back and caught my balance as he teetered on his cane. “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I murmured.

“No problem, lass,” he said with a smile and stared at me.

I stepped aside and said, “Excuse me, I’ve got to deliver this.” I left him standing there and strode purposefully toward the long table that appeared to have been ravaged. Workers quickly cleared and replaced empty dishes, containers, and trays, with additional food and pastries.

“Good grief, these people can eat,” I mumbled softly to a young woman dressed in the same gear I had on. We’d joked earlier in the evening about how much food there was and whether it would go to waste, or go home with us. By this time, the guests had nearly cleaned out the entire menu that Mrs. Gallagher had ordered, including the bread.

Jillian snickered. “It’s no wonder they’re fat,” she whispered before disappearing into the crowd with a tray of drinks.

The blonde bombshell stepped to the table, filled her plate with a smidge of everything, and piled a couple slices of focaccia on top of it all. Her slender figure and height reminded me of Vinnie Esposito, a shop owner and criminal justice instructor at a local university who had assisted my friend BettyJo who’d been stalked by a creep not so long ago. This woman wasn’t as tall, and didn’t have the Italian good looks that Vinnie had, but she carried herself with the same confidence and assurance that Vinnie did.

I smiled when she said, “This bread is so tasty. I just can’t eat enough of it.”

I nodded, mumbled I was glad she liked it, and watched her walk away.

She’d crossed the room and began speaking with a burly man of fifty or so. His features were flabby, and drooped like those of an old bloodhound. I watched their conversation heat up and glanced around to see who noticed this little drama. It appeared I was the only one aware of it. I fidgeted with the rolls while her eyes narrowed and her features hardened as she leaned in close to speak to him.

The man stepped back, glanced away, and then back at her. He said something that must have cut her to the quick, because she plunked her dish of food onto the nearest empty space and marched off, still holding a slice of focaccia.

I fumbled with the rolls, ducked away from the table, and walked toward the nearest bathroom. Washing my hands, I wondered what the exchange had been between the two guests. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. I shrugged, figured it was none of my concern, and dried my hands.

The party had begun to wind down. The merrymakers were less jubilant, probably sated from all the food and drink they’d managed to take in. I smiled as I glanced over the near empty dishes, trays and platters of leftover, delectable offerings. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until this very moment. I’d spent most of my evening working with the crew and avoiding Aidan.

I popped around a corner into what I believed was referred to back in the day as the morning room, when I tripped over something. I reached out to catch myself, and looked down. An arm extended past the door case, a piece of focaccia bread clamped firmly in the hand. My gaze traveled the length of the arm, up the shoulder, and over the face of the blonde woman I’d previously spoken with. Her empty-eyed stare and lack of movement raised an alarm that started in my toes and rapidly sped through my entire system. Deep bruises appeared on her neck, making it clear she’d been strangled.

BOOK: The Focaccia Fatality
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