Irish Stewed Part 25

I turned and leaned against the sink. "Do you suppose it all has anything to do with the murders?"

He finished with the last of the dishes and draped the red-and-white-checked cotton dish towel over the counter. "I wish I knew."

"Maybe if we watched those tapes of Kim's again . . ." Inside my head, it had sounded like a good suggestion, but the moment the words were out of my mouth, I couldn't help but think how lame it was. "We watched them once. We didn't see anything useful."

"Which doesn't mean we can't give it another try."

We went into the living room together and Declan tossed aside the pillow he'd used the night before so we could sit side by side on the couch when he got out his iPad. For the second time, we watched Kim's reporting of Jack's murder.

"It's all the same old, same old," I said halfway through. "Photos of Jack. Kim looking somber, reporting the facts."

"And that crazy segment with her secretly taping you."

We were just at that particular segment and together, we watched the action unfold on the screen in front of us.

"There's Denice walking in with Ronnie," I said, my voice as dull and heavy as the dead-end feeling in my stomach. "There I am handing out the menus with the Irish stew special."

"And Kim is going to place two orders."

We watched her do it.

"I'll give it a try," Kim said. "Denice . . ." She called the waitress over. "I'll try the stew and, Dustin? Make that two."

There was nothing there. Nothing unusual. Nothing telling. Certainly nothing suspicious.

I asked Declan to replay the segment anyway because as weird as it seemed, that nothing felt very much like something.

Again, we watched the scene.

"I'll give it a try," Kim said. "Denice . . ."

I sat up like a shot. "That's it!"

Declan paused the video. "And it is what?"

"Back it up a little," I instructed him, and when he did, we watched Kim and Dustin get settled. "Kim said she'd never eaten there," I told Declan. "I swear she told me that. But when Denice arrived she called her by name." We watched it all happen again.

"Your waitresses wear name tags," Declan reminded me. "It all makes perfect sense."

I wasn't so sure. I asked him to back up the video again and this time, to enlarge Denice when she came on the screen and to play the tape in slow motion. "She's running late. Her shirt isn't even tucked in. And look!" This time I didn't bother to point, I poked my finger into the screen right at the spot where the Terminal was embroidered on Denice's shirt, and Declan saw what I saw.

Denice hadn't put on her name tag yet.

Declan sat back and looked at where he'd paused the video, right on Denice. "What do you think it means?"

"For one thing, it means Kim was lying."

Declan's nose was hardly red at all. Still, he fingered it, no doubt because he remembered what happened the last time he said something he shouldn't have. He inched away from me. "Maybe she just didn't want to admit she'd eaten at the Terminal before. You know, on account of the restaurant's reputation for-"

"What?" I demanded.

"Good food. Great service." His smile didn't convince me.

Exactly why I didn't acknowledge it.

"Let's watch the rest of what they caught on tape that day," I suggested instead. "Maybe there's more."

And guess what, there was, though on first glance, it sure didn't seem like much.

Dustin the cameraman had kept the hidden camera rolling through dinner and though I enjoy good food and appreciate other people's love of a well-cooked meal, I can't say it was especially interesting to watch Kim slurp down the Irish stew, even though she commented more than a time or two about how delicious it was.

"He's a good kid." In the background of the scene, Denice zipped by with a tray on her shoulder. I think she was talking about her son, Ronnie. "And it's not like he's taking up a table where customers would be sitting. Well, not usually, anyway. Am I right, Marvin?" She raised her voice enough to be heard by Marvin, who was seated two tables away. "My Ronnie, he's a good kid, right?"

Marvin-the man I would always remember as the one who ordered the only lentil quinoa salad I'd ever sold at the Terminal-answered. "The best. He should be on TV!"

"Yeah!" We couldn't see Denice on the video, but she was standing close enough to Dustin so we could hear her loud and clear. "Imagine him on the big screen. You know, one of those flat-screen TVs like they hang on the wall, forty-two inches wide."

"Forty-eight inches," Ronnie called out. "I'd look way better on a screen that was forty-eight inches wide."

"Forty-eight inches." Marvin chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds good."

There was more background chatter after that, more small talk between Kim and Dustin and-thank goodness-more compliments for the Irish stew. Watching it all was a bit like watching paint dry.

Then I brought over complimentary slices of chocolate pie, and there was Kim giving me an intense look from across the table. "The story of the Lance of Justice's murder has local Emmy written all over it," she crooned. "You know I can't give away the details. They're just too delicious."

"Then, you do know something?" I asked.

Denice came over to collect the dishes just as Kim said, "Not only do I know something, but I have a line on who killed the Lance of Justice, and why."

"That's it, Declan!" I grabbed on to his arm with both hands, so excited I could barely sit still. "Kim did know who killed Jack Lancer. And you know what? I think that now I do, too."

Chapter 21.

n.o.body knows how to throw a party like I know how to throw a party.

I should. For six years, I'd made sure that Meghan Cohan was the toast of Hollywood. I knew the food and I cooked it like a wizard, and I knew the party planners who could work their own special magic and make sure Meghan's Pacific Palisades mansion looked even more spectacular than usual.

Meghan wanted an Arabian Nights theme?

We pulled it off, complete with tents on the lawn, an oasis around the pool, and a variety of foods that would make a sultan swoon.

Meghan was in the mood for something more medieval?

Believe me, I wasn't thrilled about planning a menu that included turkey legs guests would eat without silverware, but I endured and even got a chance to watch jousting on the back lawn.

What I had planned for the Terminal, needless to say, was a little less epic scale and a little more down-to-earth.

A party after the restaurant closed on Wednesday.

And staff, neighbors, and some customers were invited.

"You're sure about this?" It was almost time for our guests to arrive and Declan looked over the restaurant and nodded his approval. In honor of our Irish specials, we'd gone all out with the "old sod" theme: there were green streamers hanging between the ceilings fans, a rainbow made out of multicolored balloons over the front entrance, and even green cloth napkins on every table. The band was here, too-more for backup than music-and I'd invited a couple special guests who were going to stay put in the kitchen until I told them it was time to come out.

"I'm sure." I sc.r.a.ped my palms against the skirt of the taupe, cream, and black colorblock sheath dress I was wearing. "I think."

"Well, the Terminal looks wonderful!" He was trying to cheer me, trying to calm me, and for that, I was grateful. "You know, you might think about turning this into an Irish pub."

"Sophie would have my head! And, speaking of Sophie . . ." We saw a van pull up to the front door and I hurried that way to help Sophie out of it.

"Well, isn't this just . . ." She looked around at the decorations and spent a moment listening to Seamus tune up his fiddle to help pa.s.s the time, and when she looked my way, she blinked as if she'd been asleep for a hundred years and she wasn't quite sure where she'd woken up. "We're an Irish restaurant now?"

I put a hand on her shoulder to rea.s.sure her. "We've got a few Irish specials on the menu. The decorations . . . well, most of the decorations are just for tonight."

"Just for the party."

It wasn't a question, so theoretically, I wasn't required to answer. Instead, I helped Sophie over to a chair I knew would be at the center of the action. The Terminal was her restaurant-her life-and I owed her a ringside seat.

"Our guests will be here in a minute," I told her and Elvis, the man who'd brought her over to the Terminal-the one with the luxurious mustache.

"What are we celebrating?" he wanted to know.

I knew someone was bound to ask, and I was all set with an answer. "Sophie's recovery, for one thing," I told him. "And the chance we've had this last week to get to know our neighbors better. They're all here. Look." I glanced toward the door just as Carrie from the art gallery and Bill and Myra and Barb from Caf-Fiends and John and Mike from the bookstore showed up. They were followed by Kitty and Pat Sheedy, who'd brought Owen along-even though the kid looked as though he would have liked to be anywhere else-and a minute later by Inez, who apologized for running late again and then paled when she realized Sophie was there and heard her, and by Denice, whom I'd told to bring her son, Ronnie, along. George stepped out of the kitchen.

Denice looked up at the bouquet of shamrock-shaped Mylar balloons that floated overhead. "You worked hard once we left today! The place looks amazing."

"It's the least I could do." I sat Denice and her son next to a table with Kitty and Pat. "I wanted to thank everyone for helping me feel so at home this past week."

"Did you? Feel at home?" Sophie clapped her hands to her heart. I swear, the woman could cry at the drop of a hat. A fat tear streaked down her cheek. "I'm so happy you're settling in. It's beautiful, isn't it, Elvis?" The man with the mustache-who did not look like an Elvis to me-nodded. "It's so nice to know you're going to call Hubbard home."

I had never said this, but I wasn't about to argue. Not right then. Our next batch of guests arrived-Stan and Dale and Phil and Ruben took their usual table. Marvin, he of the lentil quinoa salad, started for his usual spot across the room, but Declan deftly ushered him to a table closer at hand and he sat down, looking mighty confused about what was going on and what he was doing there.

Once everyone was settled, I stepped to the center of the room. "Welcome. I have a feeling some of you might be wondering what's going on here tonight. Like I just told Sophie, we're here to celebrate her recovery!" There was a round of applause. "And her continued rest and relaxation," I added because I saw the way she was checking out the stack of menus that had been left on a nearby table, and I had the distinct feeling she was going to pop up and go get a damp cloth so she could wipe off the plastic-coated pages.

"We've got Irish food for dinner and Irish music after." I lied like a pro to put our guests at ease, and gestured toward the band. There was another smattering of applause, the loudest from Kitty and Pat, but then, Dan and Martin were their sons. "But first . . ." Hey, I'd learned a thing or two in Hollywood. I drew out the drama by pausing for a moment or two. "First, I think it's important that we talk about murder."

This time, the applause was replaced by a murmur of voices and a shuffle of feet. Ronnie grumbled a word he shouldn't have used in front of Sophie. Marvin still looked confused and our four regulars sat up in their chairs, eager to hear more.

"You want to serve something while you're talking about all this?" Denice asked me, and took a step toward the kitchen. "I can get fried pickles."

Fried pickles were one of our most popular appetizers, but they could wait. By the time we were done, I wasn't sure anyone would have much of an appet.i.te. "I'd like you here," I told Denice. "And I'd like you all to see something."

That was Declan's signal. He started up the video. I'm no whiz when it comes to technology, but he'd figured out a way to project the video onto the wall, and together we all watched Kim's secret tape and saw ourselves, bigger than life, up there on our makeshift screen.

We watched Kim Kline get settled, and we watched Denice race into the restaurant. We heard Kim call Denice by name.

Just as we'd discussed, Declan paused the tape right there.

"Weird, isn't it?" I asked no one in particular, but I looked at Denice. "She knew your name."

Denice's nose twitched. "Of course she did. We all wear name tags, don't we?"

"You weren't wearing one. You hadn't put it on yet that day," I reminded her, and every single person in the room looked up at the picture on the wall and saw that it was true.

Denice shrugged. "Then, she knew me because she'd been here before. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," I told her, "is that Kim had never been here before. Isn't that right, Sophie?"

"Never." Sophie was sure of this. "At least not until she showed up here the night of the murder to interview us. I'd remember a big star like that coming into the restaurant."

"And I'd remember it if Kim ever interviewed you about the murder, Denice," I added, "but she didn't. I should know. I watched the tapes of her reporting of the case a hundred times over the last few days."

"So?" Denice was a wiry woman and when she twitched, she reminded me of a fidgety little mouse. "That doesn't mean anything."

"It really doesn't," I conceded. "Not on its own. Except there's more on this tape."

"And I don't see why I have to sit here and watch any of it!" Marvin popped out of his seat. "You're wasting my time."

"I'll try to make it quick," I promised him, and he sat right back down again. Believe me, I didn't have any illusions (or delusions) about my ability to convince him; I'd stationed Brian and Seamus at the front door, and Marvin knew there wasn't a chance they were going to let him leave.

"Here's what really put me on the right track," I said, and motioned to Declan. He restarted the video and we heard Denice's conversation with Marvin and Ronnie about the big-screen TV. Then we heard Kim tell Denice that she knew who killed Jack Lancer.

"Don't prove nothing." Ronnie folded his hands over his chest, sat back in his chair, and stuck his legs out in front of him. "Bunch of bull, and none of it, it don't mean nothing."

"It wouldn't," I told him. "If I didn't have this."

Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, I reached to the table behind me for the receipt I'd left there.

"Lentil quinoa salad," I said, looking at Marvin. "You're the only one who's ever ordered it. Here's the receipt."

He raised his chin. "So?"

"So I was thinking about that day, and it's a shame Kim wasn't here secretly taping me then, because then we'd have video that shows how very much you wanted to make sure Denice took the money for your lunch. But it wasn't the money you were worried about, was it, Marvin?"

His eyes narrowed and he sat up when I produced a second piece of paper. This one was tucked into a police department plastic evidence bag.

"You didn't care if Denice got the tip you left for her," I told Marvin. "What you really cared about was this piece of paper, the one you slipped under the receipt. To me . . ." I didn't need to see it again, but remember, I was being all about drama. I gave the piece of paper a careful look. "It doesn't look like much to me. A square drawn on a piece of paper. A few tick marks on one end of it. A list of numbers on the side." Not that they could see it very well from where they all sat, but I showed the bag and its contents around. "Fortunately, the police are a whole lot better at figuring out this kind of thing than I am."

Oh, I said the magic word, all right, and at the very mention of the police, Marvin jumped out of his chair again.

Not to worry, that was the exact moment Gus Oberlin stepped out of the kitchen.

Marvin ran his tongue across his lips. "That don't prove nothing," he said.