Whiskey Beach Part 56

He turned the scowl on her. "Since I qualify as a moron in this area, I should be able to handle it."

"Great. Mind if I get a gla.s.s of wine?"

"Go ahead. You can pour me one, too. In a freaking tumbler."

Though she found cooking relaxing, she understood the frustrations of the novice or very sometimes cook. "What inspired this domestic bliss?" she asked as she got out gla.s.ses-winegla.s.ses, despite his comment.

His eyes narrowed as she slipped into the butler's pantry for the wine. "Are you looking for a kick in the a.s.s?"

"Actually, I'm looking for a nice pinot grigio," she called out. "Ah, here we go. I hope I'm invited to dinner," she continued as she brought the bottle back to the kitchen. "It's been a while since anyone's cooked for me."

"That was the idea." He watched her uncork the wine she'd very likely stocked herself in the wine cooler. "Is nine-one-one on speed dial?"

"Yes." She gave him a gla.s.s, and a friendly kiss on the cheek. "And thank you."

"Don't thank me until we rule out kitchen fire and food poisoning."

Willing to risk both, she sat on a stool, enjoyed her first sip of wine. "When's the last time you cooked anything that didn't come out of a can or a box?"

"Certain smug people smirk at food from cans and boxes."

"We do. Shame on us."

He turned his frown back on the garlic bulb. "I'm supposed to peel and slice this garlic."

"Okay."

When he just stared at her, she shifted, picked up the knife. "I'll demonstrate the procedure."

She tugged off a clove, held it up, then, setting it on the cutting board, gave it a kind of smack with the flat of the knife. The peel slid off, easy as a stripper's breakaway. Once she'd sliced it, she handed him back the rest of the bulb and the knife. "Got it?"

"Yeah." More or less. "We had a cook. When I was growing up, we always had a cook."

"Never too late to learn. You might even like it."

"I don't think that's going to happen. But I ought to be able to follow a recipe for morons."

"I have every faith."

He mimicked her slicing procedure, and felt marginally more hopeful when he didn't cut off a finger. "I know superior amus.e.m.e.nt when I'm standing in it."

"But it's superior and affectionate amus.e.m.e.nt. Affectionate enough I'll teach you a trick."

"What trick?"

"A quick and easy marinade for that chicken."

Fear and loathing of the very idea echoed in his voice. "It doesn't say anything about marinade."

"It should. Hold on a minute." Rising, she went to the walk-in pantry. It gave her a jolt, seeing everything mixed up, out of order, jumbled. Then she remembered the police.

Saying nothing, she picked up a bottle of liquid margarita mix.

"I thought we were drinking wine."

"And so we are. The chicken's going to drink this."

"Where's the tequila?"

She laughed. "Not this time. Actually the chicken I use for tortilla soup drinks tequila, but this one just gets the mixer."

She got out a large bag, slid the chicken inside, dumped the liquid in with it. Sealed the bag, turned it a few times.

"That's it?"

"That's it, that's all."

"That part should've been for morons. I could've done that."

"Next time you will. It's good on fish, too, just FYI."

When she sat again, he went back to focusing on slicing garlic, and not his fingers. "The police were here today, all day, executing a search warrant." He glanced up. "And you already knew."

"That they were here, yes. I a.s.sumed the search." Reaching across the island, she brushed her fingers over his wrist. "I'm sorry, Eli."

"After they left I went through a couple of the rooms, put things back together. It started p.i.s.sing me off again, so I decided to do something else."

"Don't worry about any of that. I'll take care of it."

He only shook his head. He intended to do a couple rooms at a time until the house was back to normal. Bluff House and everything in it were his responsibility now.

"It could've been worse. They could've trashed the place. They were thorough, but I've seen searches before, and they didn't just dump things."

"Fine, points for them, but it's still unfair. It's still wrong."

"Unfair and wrong happen every hour, every day."

"That's a sad and cynical viewpoint."

"Realistic," he corrected.

"The h.e.l.l with that." Her temper spiked, making her realize it had been in there bubbling all along. "That's just an excuse to do nothing about it."

"Do you have any suggestions on what to do about a duly authorized warrant?"

"Having to accept it isn't the same as accepting it's just the way life goes. I'm not a lawyer, but I was raised by one, and it's pretty d.a.m.n clear they had to push the envelope and push it hard to get a search warrant. And it's just as clear that Boston cop did the pushing."

"No argument."