A Pairing to Die For Read online

  “Oh,” Camilla says.

  There’s a long pause, so long I must have missed something. “Sorry, I think you cut out for a minute there.”

  “No, I’m here.” She pauses again. “That is . . . unfortunate.”

  “That’s an understatement,” I bite back, my voice growing defensive.

  “Is that all?” Camilla asks.

  “I guess so.” Anger churns in my stomach at Camilla’s complete disregard for her son’s welfare. Not to mention her rude dismissal of me.

  Then I recall the weirdness I observed between the Wallaces and Oscar. There was a history there, something that was left unsaid.

  “Actually, Camilla,” I say before she can hang up. “Could I stop by and talk to you all later on today?”

  “Whatever for?”

  Is she really that clueless? Does she dislike me that much? Or is there another reason for her evasiveness?

  “For Oscar,” I say evenly, clenching my free hand into a fist. “And for Reid. In order to be of any assistance, I need to learn as much as I can about that night. Anything you guys remember could come in handy.”

  I don’t add another tidbit I’m hoping to find out, which is this: if any of them had motive to kill Oscar. Camilla, for one, certainly seems coldhearted enough.

  Another lengthy sigh. Seriously, if there were Olympic medals awarded for excessive sighing, she’d win the gold.

  “We have dinner reservations at the Flagstaff House for seven o’clock. Stop by before then.”

  Because their son’s arrest is such an inconvenience. I roll my eyes and say through gritted teeth, “See you then.”

  I hang up and let my head fall between my knees. Concerned, Zin meows and paws at my arm.

  I give her a small smile to let her know I’m okay and scratch behind her ears. “How do you feel about a houseguest?”

  She purrs and curls up for her morning nap. I’m going to take that as her assent.

  * * *

  * * *

  I let myself into Reid’s apartment with the spare key he had made for me.

  Reid gave it to me over a late-summer picnic lunch at Chautauqua—one of those rare days we both had off. He’d pressed the piece of metal into my palm like it was no big deal. But I knew better. I knew he’d never taken that step in a relationship before, had never been in one long enough.

  A giddy smile had spread over my face. “What’s this for?”

  “In case you need it,” he’d said simply, intertwining his fingers through mine.

  I highly doubt this is what he’d had in mind.

  His duplex smells like him—peppermint, citrus, and a mix of herbs. It’s intoxicating; savory, refreshing, and, above all, comforting.

  While I’m going to wait to bring William to my apartment, wanting to be there to ensure he and Zin get along as well as their human counterparts do, that doesn’t mean he should have to wait for food. Because if he’s anything like Zin, he’s probably already panicking over the dwindling amount of kibble in his dish. And I have more than an hour until the opening bell at Vino Valentine.

  “William,” I say, and then add kiss noises. I go to the closet where his food is kept and shake the kibble bag, a gesture that would usually send Zin screeching to my side.

  I repeat my call for William, scooping food into his bowl. Still nothing.

  I seek him out in Reid’s bedroom. The space is all masculine. Dim lighting from a black floor lamp, leather accents, king bed strewn with a navy comforter, unmade, as he was forced to leave it.

  The rest of his room is tidy. Clothes tucked away in the closet, notecards neatly stacked on his nightstand in case inspiration for recipes strikes in the middle of the night, and a tasteful speaker perched on the windowsill. A photograph of Reid’s alt-rock band, Spatula—he’s the drummer—hangs on the wall. It’s in black and white, showcasing the members in action, their attention focused solely on their instruments. I smile at the photo, recognizing my brother’s handiwork.

  It was thanks to Spatula, and my brother subbing for their bassist once, that I eventually met Reid. They’d become fast friends. Reid tagged along with Liam to my winery’s grand opening and wasn’t scared away after the most renowned critic in the Front Range wound up dead after tasting my craftsmanship. The rest, as they say, is history. Although hopefully not history history.

  I click my tongue and go to make Reid’s bed, knowing he would appreciate the gesture. When I pull the comforter tight, I notice a small mound in the middle of the bed. Nestled between the sheets and cover is William. He lifts his furry black head and peers at me with wary blue eyes.

  “Hey there, buddy,” I say, letting him sniff my finger. Once I’ve gained his trust, I scratch under his chin.

  Usually William is strutting about with his tail in the air, tracking the squirrels out the window or batting his catnip ball across the kitchen floor. Cats have a sixth sense for when something is amiss, and poor William is clearly freaked out.

  “How would you like to come stay with me tonight?”

  He doesn’t respond, which, given how often I talk to cats, is probably a good sign for my sanity.

  “I’ll be back later. I promise.”

  I tuck William back in and make for the front door. It’s time I was on my way.

  I’m letting myself out when something on the ledge, just inside the door, catches my eye. Underneath Reid’s keys and sunglasses is a slip of paper with a name and phone number on it.

  Susie 303-555-8756

  I frown, staring at the offending Post-it.

  I pride myself on my logic. On not obsessing over things until I know the full story. But no matter what I tell myself, my brain is already in overdrive wondering who exactly this Susie is and why her number is in my boyfriend’s apartment.

  I remind myself that Reid has never given me a reason to distrust him. In fact, secrecy isn’t his style. He’s direct, forgoing drama to get straight to the point. It’s something I’ve always loved—damn that word—about him.

  Still, seemingly of their own accord, my fingers enter the digits into my phone and press call.

  While the line rings, I sift through plausible reasons I can give for dialing this random number and seeking out information.

  I come up blank.

  It doesn’t matter anyway, because my call goes to voice mail. The bubbly voice of Susie instructs me to leave a message, signing off with a flirtatious giggle.

  And that giggle? It rattles in my ears as I lock up, making my jaw clench and my stomach churn. I may shut the door slightly harder than necessary.

  Pearl Street is bustling with professionals on their way to work, exercise gurus on the hunt for protein-packed smoothies, and college students roosting at cafés.

  A bulk of the shops and restaurants are still dark inside (a testament to just how early my morning started). The same holds true for Spoons.

  On either side of a solid wooden door with ladles for handles, rays of sun pour through storefront windows. Chairs with their legs in the air rest on the tops of tables, and every surface has been polished to a sheen. The stage where musicians play is clear. It’s weird to see the space this way—calm, quiet, empty.

  My kitten heels click against cobblestone as I traipse farther down Pearl Street, past the neighboring luxe beauty supply store, to where there’s a street that cuts to the alleyway.

  The back of Spoons is not nearly as welcoming as the front. There’s a large metal door that leads to the kitchen, and bins for trash, recycling, and compost. The alley is barely wide enough for delivery trucks to back into and unload goods, a practice that happens twice a week. Weeds poke through cracks in the cement, dried and brown in deference to the changing season.

  This is where Eli said someone witnessed Reid and Oscar fighting. Where Oscar’s body was eventually discovered. r />
  The hair raises at the nape of my neck and my palms grow clammy.

  I take a step forward, scanning the area.

  The only sign of there having been a crime scene is a single strip of yellow caution tape snagged on a nearby telephone pole. The tape flaps in the breeze, making a snapping sound as it hits the side of the restaurant.

  A brownish stain the length of my shadow stretches across the ground. Unbidden, an image of Oscar enters my mind. Him lying in this very spot, the life slowly bleeding out of him. His handsome face turning ashen, his eyes dull and glassy.

  I suppress a shudder.

  Who had Oscar really been fighting with? What could the argument have been about? And why would someone assume it was Reid?

  Tucking my purse under my arm, I comb the area. It’s doubtful that Eli or his crew would leave something behind, but there’s always the chance I might find a clue they overlooked.

  But there’s nothing. They must have done a clean sweep.

  I peek inside each of the bins. The trash can is full of black bags deftly knotted at the top; I defer further investigation for now. I open the lid to the recycling to find it full of clear plastic containers and empty wine bottles sporting the Vino Valentine logo—crisscrossing grapevines punctuated by the sun. The compost bin yields nothing, apart from the unpleasant stench of spoiled produce.

  As I slam the last lid shut, something on the ground glints in the sunlight. I kneel down for a closer look. Wedged between the wheel of the compost bin and the cement is a pearly white button.

  I know better than to directly touch anything. After digging in my purse for a tissue, I pick up the button and hold it up to the light, studying it. There’s a smudge of brownish-red on the outer edge, but otherwise it’s your standard-fare button.

  Of course, there’s a chance it could have been here for ages, maybe popped off after someone overindulged during a night on the town. But there’s also the chance it came off during the skirmish last night, especially given the blood-colored splotch.

  I stash the button in my purse, just in case. I’m fastening the brass clasp when I hear a voice behind me.

  “Can I help you?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Nick Prasad eyes me warily. He freezes in place, a few paces away, his chef’s coat tucked under one arm. His appearance is as pristine as you’d expect, given his rule-abiding personality. Buzz cut, clean-shaven (although that could be because he can’t get more than peach fuzz to grow), straight pearly whites, and slacks with a pressed crease along the side.

  Nick squints and, recognition dawning, says flatly, “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Ah,” I say sweetly. “The way every girl dreams of being greeted.”

  “I only meant . . .”

  But whatever he meant is interrupted by Britt’s arrival.

  She’s lugging a tote with apples peeking out of the top. No doubt the bag is heavy, but she makes it look like it weighs nothing, her arms strong from kneading pastry dough. Her pixie cut is styled into platinum spikes and a tattoo snakes down the side of her neck, a cursive script I’ve never been able to read.

  I squirm under her gaze, her gray eyes seeming to take in more than everyone else’s. “Is Reid with you?” she asks. “I’ve gotta talk to him about the menu. The pears were no good, I think we’re better off going with an apple pastry tonight, and I’ve got something new I’ve been wanting to try.”

  I glance from Britt to Nick, inwardly wincing. Oscar’s murder, Reid’s arrest—they don’t know about any of it. How would they? Unless one of them was there.

  “You haven’t heard?” I probe.

  “Heard what?” Britt asks.

  Something tells me to withhold specifics until I have a chance to chat with each of them independently. I cross my arms over my chest, deciding to keep it vague. “Reid is taking a little involuntary time off.”

  “Maybe he caught what Katy has,” Nick suggests, forehead creased in concern.

  If only Reid were suffering from a virus. “Katy Gonzales?”

  Katy is one of those servers who never writes any orders down. The first time she waited on me, I played it safe and kept my order straightforward. Since then, I’ve gotten more . . . creative. No matter how hard I’ve tried to stump her, she always gets my order right. Through this weird game of restaurant-chess, we’ve become something akin to friends. She also happened to be working last night.

  I recall the way Katy and the other server, Tony Robson, had their heads together, their hushed whispers as they watched their tables, their tips dwindling as the minutes ticked by. I’d be inclined to call in sick after a shift like that, too.

  Nick nods, fiddling with the key he’d just dug out of his pocket. “She sent a group text an hour ago, said she was out sick.” He walks around me and unlocks the door to the kitchen.

  “How much time is Reid taking?” Britt asks, still holding her hefty tote. “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Those are totally fair questions and ones I have every intention of answering.” Once I figure out how, I think.

  To buy myself time, I pivot on my kitten heels so I’m facing Nick straight on. “But first, Nick, mind if I have a word with you?”

  Nick drops his arm from the handle of the door, his neck growing blotchy. “I guess.”

  “Come find me when you have those answers,” Britt says, giving me a pointed look. She nudges past Nick and me and goes into the kitchen.

  “What’s up?” Nick asks as the door clicks shut.

  I carefully consider my words, not wanting to give anything away. “Have you seen Reid’s chef’s knife?”

  “No, but I haven’t clocked in yet.”

  “Did you notice it last night?”

  “You mean apart from when Reid was using it?”

  “Yes,” I say, biting my tongue to keep from adding an obviously.

  He scratches the side of his nose. “He left it out on the island counter. Knowing what it means to him, I moved it to the magnetic block.”

  I feel like my limbs have been doused in ice at the revelation. I try to play it cool. “I thought it was, like, sacrilegious to handle another chef’s knife without their permission.”

  “I was doing him a solid. He must’ve forgotten it after the mess with the food and his family being there and all.” His neck flushes an even deeper shade of red. “I figured it was better on the magnetic block than out in the open.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “How late were you here?”

  “Around midnight,” he answers.

  “Are you usually here that late?” I ask. I mean, I know the restaurant business demands long hours, but that is conveniently in the time frame when Oscar was supposedly killed.

  “Sure, when I’m in charge of inventory,” he says. He shifts on his feet, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  He’s getting impatient, which means I need to get a move on with my questions.

  “Did you see anyone when you were leaving?”

  He shakes his head. “Look, did something happen I should know about?”

  I ignore his question, leaning my back against the kitchen door. “How are things between you and Oscar?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “Really?” I challenge, raising one eyebrow. “Because from what Reid has said, you two don’t always see eye to eye.”

  He doesn’t answer immediately and I find myself waiting, somehow knowing he’ll eventually cave. Overhead, a flock of geese fly by, their honking punctuating the morning silence. A car creeps by on the street at the end of the alley, no doubt seeking a coveted parking spot.

  Finally, he shrugs. “We’re not best friends or anything, but we get along okay.” His tone is placid and completely unbelievable.

  “I’m just trying to fig
ure out how deep the resentment goes.”

  “We disagree sometimes, but what coworkers don’t?”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. I stand up straighter. “Did you guys have a disagreement last night?”

  He opens and closes his mouth. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

  I change tactics. “Do you know what happened to the food?”

  “Oscar probably experimented with the recipes,” he snaps. Even the tips of his ears are flushed red. “He does that a lot.”

  “I take it you don’t like it when he experiments?”

  “It makes for inconsistencies between plates. And what makes him think his palate is better than Reid’s?” He rubs one hand over his buzzed head, clearly having kept his frustration pent up for a long time. “Have you ever had anyone change a recipe you painstakingly tested until it was perfect?”

  “There are no recipes in winemaking. Everything can change depending on the grape harvest, the sugar concentration, the speed of fermentation.” I tick each point off on my fingers, thinking of the harvest in progress at my shop. “I would think the same would be true of cooking. It’s an art, open to interpretation.”

  “You sound like Oscar,” Nick says with a pitying smile. “Cooking is a science, requiring precision.”

  “Maybe,” I concede. “But Oscar said he didn’t change anything in the recipes last night. He was adamant about it.”

  I remember the way Oscar’s eyes had darted about, how he’d been on the verge of saying something when Camilla disrupted our conversation. If only I could go back in time and make him spill what he knew.

  “Too bad Oscar isn’t here to defend himself,” Nick hisses, then clamps his jaw shut.

  My breath comes up short at the harshness in his voice.

  “For a good reason,” I choke out. “Oscar was murdered last night.”

  I watch as these words land. Watch as comprehension sinks in.

  Blood drains from Nick’s face and his grip on his coat slackens. He leans against the wall, bringing his hands to his face, his chest rising and falling erratically.