Irish Stewed Part 11

It was pretty much what I'd told Kim Kline. No doubt, her reports were among those Declan had been watching. "So, what are the theories?" I asked him. "Who are the other suspects?"

"Your cook, for one."

This was not news, and the way I waved away the information told Declan that. "He has an alibi."

"Good. I'd hate to see George locked up for twenty years. You'd have to teach someone else to fry bologna."

I hoped my pasted-on smile conveyed my opinion of that plan.

"I was thinking about suspects when I watched the retrospective of Jack's career last night," Declan went on. "They featured his most sensational reports."

"Do you think there's something there that explains why he was killed?"

"I don't know. The old stories, that's all water under the bridge, so to speak. The people he exposed in them-people like your George-have already been shown to be dishonest. So it's not like any of those people would have anything to gain by silencing Jack. I guess one of them could still be angry, though. Is George angry?"

"Don't you think he has the right to be?"

"They showed a couple minutes of footage from that story last night. And some others, too. George claims he was framed, right? That Jack Lancer trumped up that whole story about how his place was filthy and rat infested? If that's true, then maybe Jack did it to someone else, too. That could explain why someone might have a grudge against the Lance of Justice."

"Or somebody could have been trying to keep him quiet and not report some new story." This was not a new thought. After all, I'd asked Kim what kinds of stories Jack had been working on at the time of his death.

Declan nodded. "Good point. The stories he was working on currently, well, those would be stories about people he hadn't exposed yet. Those people might have more invested in making sure Jack kept his mouth shut."

Again, my mind flashed to Kim. "It might be possible to find out what Jack was working on," I said.

Admiration gleamed in Declan's eyes. "That's why you let that reporter in the restaurant yesterday."

"I didn't exactly pump her for information," I lied.

His sandwich finished, Declan sat back. "What did you find out?"

"Not much." I hated to admit it. "She thinks there might be a personal motive. It seems Jack Lancer was something of a ladies' man."

"I'm not surprised. It's the whole TV thing. Some people are powerless to resist the pull of stardom."

Apparently roguish gift shop owners also made the list. Myra showed up, her blusher touched up since last she was at the table, and she had a fresh coating of lipstick.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked Declan and not me.

He tipped back in his chair, the better to see the refrigerated case near the cash register. "Peanut b.u.t.ter pie for me," he said. "Laurel will have-"

"Nothing, really." I'd already decided to take the second half of my sandwich home. "I'm stuffed."

"She'll try the key lime pie," he said.

I waited until Myra was gone. "Are you always so bossy?" I asked him.

"It's one of my most endearing qualities."

"What if I don't want to try the key lime pie?"

"Then you wouldn't be able to be objective about it when you find out it's Caf-Fiends' biggest seller."

"And you know this how?"

He jiggled his eyebrows. "Myra. She'd do anything for me."

"Like tell you which menu items sell and which don't."

"That, and other things. Like the fact that the night Jack was killed, she saw a car parked out front of the Terminal."

"Really?" I thought this through. "But Myra said she hadn't seen you in a while."

"To Myra, a day without seeing me is a while."

"So, yesterday you were here asking what she might have seen the night of the murder."

"I thought it was worth a try."

"Why?"

"My cousin was in jail, remember."

"And you decided to get him out."

"It's what I do."

"And this car, did Myra catch a license plate number? A color? A make?"

"You sound like Gus Oberlin." The way Declan said this, I knew it wasn't a compliment. I also knew that though Myra may have claimed to see that car, she didn't have the particulars to back up her story.

"It might have been my car," I said.

"No. She saw it earlier. Before you got here."

"Then it could have been Owen's."

"Owen doesn't have a car."

"You think it was the killer's?"

Declan's shoulders rose and fell. "If we knew, we'd have this case wrapped up."

"So that's why you've been b.u.t.tering up poor Myra."

"Have I? Been b.u.t.tering her up?" This was a new thought for him. "I thought I was just being friendly."

"She's hoping for more than friendly."

"And you?"

Lucky for my equilibrium, Myra showed up at that very moment with our desserts. When she set mine in front of me, I smiled across the table at Declan. Two could play the same game. If he was determined to throw out t.i.tillating innuendos, I could be just as determined to pretend they didn't bother me in the least. Or send my imagination soaring in directions it shouldn't.

"What am I hoping for?" I swapped him smile for smile. "After that sandwich, I hope I have enough room left to finish this pie. It looks fabulous."

Chapter 10.

All right, I admit it-I completely got why the key lime pie at Caf-Fiends was their bestselling menu item. It was the most scrumptious thing I'd eaten in as long as I could remember. Then again, ever since Meghan tossed me out of her kitchen, her Beverly Hills mansion, and her life, I'd been conserving the money I stockpiled while I worked for her. Gone were the days of lobster salad and j.a.panese flower mushrooms, truffles and sea cuc.u.mbers, and all the other rare, wonderful, and expensive ingredients that made cooking for Meghan the best gig in the culinary world.

These days, salads were more like it.

Salads and leftover pastrami sandwiches.

Back at Sophie's neat little bungalow, I tucked my to-go container with half my sandwich in it in the fridge and checked m.u.f.fin's food bowl. Empty. Again. In the three days I'd been there, I'd yet to actually see Sophie's cat, who apparently came out of hiding to eat only when I wasn't around. I refilled the food bowl, called out the requisite, "Here, kitty, kitty," and when I was ignored as I'd been ignored before, I grabbed a bottle of water and headed into the living room, where I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the sofa.

I didn't mean to fall asleep, and believe me, I had no intention of dreaming about Declan when I did, but I guess my subconscious has a mind of its own. In my dream, he leaned over the table at Caf-Fiends, took my hand in his, and asked, "Are you Irish?" in that as-smooth-as-brandy voice of his. I tensed. I held my breath. Even dreaming, I was aware enough to know I wasn't sure I did-or didn't-want to know what was going to happen next.

Thankfully, I never had a chance to find out; I was jolted awake by a noise from out in the kitchen.

I sat up like a shot and, still half-asleep, looked around at a room both familiar and foreign.

Yellow walls, white woodwork, worn blue carpet.

"Sophie's," I told myself, relieved now that I felt as if I was back on solid ground. I glanced at the clock on a nearby table. I had been asleep for only twenty minutes and still, my head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton.

I shook it and heard another sound from the kitchen.

Scratching.

Curious, I pushed off the couch and headed that way. When I flicked on the kitchen light, I was just in time to see a black-and-white blur race away from the back door and duck under the kitchen table.

m.u.f.fin.

"Here, kitty, kitty." I tried for a voice both kindhearted and gentle-two things I generally am not-and bent down so the cat could sniff my hand.

m.u.f.fin had other plans. She swiped her claws across my knuckles with enough oomph to draw blood, and I cried out and stood back up in a flash. "You little creep!"

I shook out my hand and, never one to easily give up, I closed in on the critter.

This time, my toes took the brunt of m.u.f.fin's displeasure.

Except to admit I was grumbling when I grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and limped back into the living room, I will not report what I said in response to that last attack.

Instead, I sat back down on the couch, propped my foot on the coffee table, and applied the wet paper towel. It stung like the d.i.c.kens and, okay, I was probably being a little too overimaginative, but I had the distinct feeling that when m.u.f.fin sauntered into the room, she was grinning.

I made a face at the cat.

Other than emitting a throaty sound that was definitely not a purr, the cat pretended I didn't exist.

"Be that way. If you're not going to be nice, I can ignore you just like you're ignoring me," I grumbled, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV.

A sitcom that starred one of Meghan's former lovers (as lousy an actor as he was a boyfriend) came on, but even before I could change the channel, the show cut for a commercial and Kim Kline's face and glossy curls filled the screen.

"Tune in at eleven for continuing developments in the Jack Lancer murder investigation," she said. "We've got the latest updates, including the release of Owen Quilligan, the prime suspect in the case."

They rolled tape of Owen being led out of the local police station by a handsome guy in a snazzy charcoal gray suit.

A handsome guy who looked awfully familiar.

But then, he should. I'd just had dinner with him.

I sat up and turned up the volume on the TV, the better to hear it over the rumble coming out of m.u.f.fin that intensified the moment I moved.

"Obviously, the police have determined that they don't have enough evidence to hold my client," Declan told the nearest reporter at the same time the subt.i.tle under his picture identified him as Declan Fury, defense attorney.

The screen flashed back to Kim. "Owen Quilligan," she said, "was the only suspect in Jack Lancer's horrible murder. What will the police do now? How long will the Lance of Justice have to wait . . . for justice?"

A car commercial followed, but I'd already switched off the TV before the spokesperson got two words out.

Declan was an attorney?

Funny, he'd never bothered to mention that to me.

Just like he'd never bothered to mention that he was representing his wayward cousin in the murder case.

Thinking this over, I drummed my fingers against my water bottle. No wonder Declan was so interested in that car Myra from Caf-Fiends may or may not have seen in front of the Terminal the night of the murder. No wonder he'd been anxious to look around the restaurant the morning after I found Jack's body.

He was looking for evidence, or maybe even more important, for exactly the opposite. Without concrete evidence, the cops couldn't charge Declan's client with Jack's murder.

Another thought hit.

No wonder Declan invited me to dinner! It was his opportunity to pump me for information.

Knowing Declan had an ulterior motive and that he wasn't looking for a relationship should have cheered me right up.

It did cheer me right up.

Well, except for the sourness that suddenly filled my stomach.

Hey, blame it on the pastrami.

I know I did.