you dream that upset you so much?”
“It doesn’t matter—because that call upset me more.”
“Go on.”
“I will, but first I’m reheating that dinner we never ate.” I pointed to Java and Frothy, still smacking their lips over the Savory Salmon. “They’re not the only ones who need sustenance. I’m starving.”
“Me, too . . .” Mike sauntered into the room and took a seat at the kitchen table. When Frothy curled her little white body around his leg, he picked her up and scratched her ears. “I don’t have to meow, do I?”
“Not unless you want a cat toy.”
E leven
S KILLET Lasagna turned out to be a great idea for a postponed supper. For one thing, the dish tasted better reheated: just a splash more sauce and a fresh sprinkling of cheese. The mozzarella bubbled under the heat, becoming somewhat crusty as it cooled; but when you got below that crust, you were rewarded with a world of soft, gooey goodness (the culinary equivalent of my longtime relationship with Mike Quinn, when you got down to it).
“Smells fantastic,” Mike declared, inhaling the tangy tomatoes and floral oregano. Then he picked up his fork and dug in.
Since my building was still without power, I’d cranked up the oven for warmth and lit a few candles for light. The little kitchen felt cozy, even romantic, and for a few minutes, I enjoyed our silent munching of ricotta-enriched noodles. Then I began to unload, filling Mike in on my talk with Franco and my call to Paris.
“It’s obvious now. The problem between Franco and Joy is
Yvette
. She’s been talking trash about Franco, filling Joy’s head with offensive ideas, and—”
“And why would Joy allow her roommate’s opinion to sway her?”
“Because she’s close to Yvette. They’re like sisters.”
Given Mike’s twenty years as a detective, I shouldn’t have been surprised when he asked, “Particulars please?”
“The two shared an apartment here in New York during culinary school. So, of course, they’ve been through ups and downs together, parties and Pilates, crushes, breakups, and—”
“And if you know that, why is the situation upsetting you? Has something changed?”
“Yes, Yvette’s changed! She never talked like a brat before. Until that phone call, she’s been gracious to me and generous to Joy.”
“Sometimes ‘generosity’ comes at price.”
I thought about that. “You’re suggesting Joy feels obligated to her? That she’d dump Franco just to please her rich girlfriend?”
Mike gave a half shrug.
“Look, I know my daughter. I didn’t raise her to judge people with such superficial yardsticks. She never cared if a friend—boy or girl—had money or not. And she’s never been a gold digger.”
“Maybe Yvette’s not the only one who’s changed.”
My fork stilled in midair. I set it down. “Don’t even
think
that.”
Mike held my gaze. “Then how do you explain what Franco told you earlier today?”
I shifted on my chair, not liking the question. “Why are you so prickly? Is it that remark Yvette made about a cop’s salary? Are you taking it personally? Because I don’t feel that way.”
“But it seems Joy does—or she’s willing to consider it, based on her roommate’s opinion.”
“We’re going in circles. I need to talk to Joy, find out—”
“Find out what, Clare?” His tone was sharp. “You found out. You just don’t like what you found out.”
I stared across the table. A shadow had crossed Mike’s face. The room felt colder all of a sudden, and the candlelight didn’t seem so romantic anymore.
“Whose side are you on?”
Mike exhaled tension. Then he leaned forward, out of the shadows. “I’m on your side, sweetheart. I’m always on your side. I’ve just run enough investigations to know we can’t change facts—as much as we’d like to sometimes.”
“I don’t care. I’m still going to talk this out with my daughter.”
“Of course you are . . .” He leaned back again,
“It doesn’t matter—because that call upset me more.”
“Go on.”
“I will, but first I’m reheating that dinner we never ate.” I pointed to Java and Frothy, still smacking their lips over the Savory Salmon. “They’re not the only ones who need sustenance. I’m starving.”
“Me, too . . .” Mike sauntered into the room and took a seat at the kitchen table. When Frothy curled her little white body around his leg, he picked her up and scratched her ears. “I don’t have to meow, do I?”
“Not unless you want a cat toy.”
E leven
S KILLET Lasagna turned out to be a great idea for a postponed supper. For one thing, the dish tasted better reheated: just a splash more sauce and a fresh sprinkling of cheese. The mozzarella bubbled under the heat, becoming somewhat crusty as it cooled; but when you got below that crust, you were rewarded with a world of soft, gooey goodness (the culinary equivalent of my longtime relationship with Mike Quinn, when you got down to it).
“Smells fantastic,” Mike declared, inhaling the tangy tomatoes and floral oregano. Then he picked up his fork and dug in.
Since my building was still without power, I’d cranked up the oven for warmth and lit a few candles for light. The little kitchen felt cozy, even romantic, and for a few minutes, I enjoyed our silent munching of ricotta-enriched noodles. Then I began to unload, filling Mike in on my talk with Franco and my call to Paris.
“It’s obvious now. The problem between Franco and Joy is
Yvette
. She’s been talking trash about Franco, filling Joy’s head with offensive ideas, and—”
“And why would Joy allow her roommate’s opinion to sway her?”
“Because she’s close to Yvette. They’re like sisters.”
Given Mike’s twenty years as a detective, I shouldn’t have been surprised when he asked, “Particulars please?”
“The two shared an apartment here in New York during culinary school. So, of course, they’ve been through ups and downs together, parties and Pilates, crushes, breakups, and—”
“And if you know that, why is the situation upsetting you? Has something changed?”
“Yes, Yvette’s changed! She never talked like a brat before. Until that phone call, she’s been gracious to me and generous to Joy.”
“Sometimes ‘generosity’ comes at price.”
I thought about that. “You’re suggesting Joy feels obligated to her? That she’d dump Franco just to please her rich girlfriend?”
Mike gave a half shrug.
“Look, I know my daughter. I didn’t raise her to judge people with such superficial yardsticks. She never cared if a friend—boy or girl—had money or not. And she’s never been a gold digger.”
“Maybe Yvette’s not the only one who’s changed.”
My fork stilled in midair. I set it down. “Don’t even
think
that.”
Mike held my gaze. “Then how do you explain what Franco told you earlier today?”
I shifted on my chair, not liking the question. “Why are you so prickly? Is it that remark Yvette made about a cop’s salary? Are you taking it personally? Because I don’t feel that way.”
“But it seems Joy does—or she’s willing to consider it, based on her roommate’s opinion.”
“We’re going in circles. I need to talk to Joy, find out—”
“Find out what, Clare?” His tone was sharp. “You found out. You just don’t like what you found out.”
I stared across the table. A shadow had crossed Mike’s face. The room felt colder all of a sudden, and the candlelight didn’t seem so romantic anymore.
“Whose side are you on?”
Mike exhaled tension. Then he leaned forward, out of the shadows. “I’m on your side, sweetheart. I’m always on your side. I’ve just run enough investigations to know we can’t change facts—as much as we’d like to sometimes.”
“I don’t care. I’m still going to talk this out with my daughter.”
“Of course you are . . .” He leaned back again,
Similar Books
