Pudding Up With Murder Page 17

Cam’s phone buzzed on the table, and Serafina pursed her lips at him. “Cameron always gets work mail,” she said. Cam picked up the phone, swiped on the screen, and read something, then put it down.

  “Sorry. Just a colleague asking about a presentation we’re doing.”

  “They always bother him,” Serafina said.

  “I asked him to check in with me,” Cam corrected. “And now he did, so we’re all good.” Then he turned to Jay. “Hey, what was that about the other day when you pulled Amber out of class?”

  Jay smiled down at his plate. “You know I can’t talk about that. Her name has come up—several times—in relation to a case I’m investigating. She wasn’t particularly helpful.”

  Cam nodded. “Well, I hope she’s not involved in anything. I happened to learn, through a colleague, that Amber has had a tough life. She grew up in the foster care system and then was finally adopted as an older child—twelve or thirteen, I guess. Those parents were good ones, I’m told. They’re the ones putting her through college.”

  Serafina’s large eyes were compassionate. “I cannot imagine being a child without a parent. Every day I recall lessons I learned from Mama and Papa.”

  It was true; good parents were the gift we all took for granted. I sighed and thought, for some reason, of Marcus Cantwell and his mixed brood. Five children from three mothers; had that made things more difficult for them, growing up? Certainly Cash and Prue seemed well-grounded. Why had Marcus Cantwell disliked Amber so much? She was just a child.

  A thought dropped into my head, and I sat bolt upright.

  Ross had said, when we dined at his house, that Cantwell had six children. Six children.

  I grabbed my phone and texted Parker: Meet me in the hallway.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I waited for him to hear the buzz. He checked his phone and raised his eyebrows, then looked at me with a silly smile.

  “Hey, I just remembered something,” I said to the table in general. “I’ll be right back.” I didn’t bother making a better excuse; I just went into the hall and waited for Parker, who appeared one minute later, still smiling.

  “Lilah, I think we have to wait,” he said, looking both ways down the hall.

  “I’m not demanding sex, Parker,” I said. Then I touched his face and said, “Not yet. But I just realized something. Ross said Friday night that Cantwell had six children. I corrected him and said five. But what if Cantwell had said six? If he told Ross that he was supporting six children?”

  Parker picked up on my thinking immediately. “You’re thinking Amber is his, and he resents her. Maybe she made demands.”

  “It’s worth looking into, right? But if she was his child, why not acknowledge her? He acknowledged all the others.” I stared into Parker’s eyes, for once not distracted by their beauty.

  “But he was married to their mothers. Amber was never officially his daughter—if she’s his daughter at all.”

  I touched his arm. “But, Jay—if she is, and he treated her badly—that gives her a motive for murder. And she was at the party; I saw her there.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “And another thing. Let’s say, for instance, that she is Cantwell’s child. That would mean at least Cash knew about it, right? And maybe Wade Glenning, too. He acted all weird when I asked if Cash and Amber were friends. The three of them seem to have a secret, and this would explain it. But then why would Cash keep it from his other siblings?”

  “Have you met his other siblings?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, they might have a problem with it. Mostly the two brothers, I think. I don’t know about Emma. Prudence seems cool. I’ve met her a couple of times now—once at the gallery, as you know. She seems—normal.”

  Jay looked thoughtful. “I always got along with her. She was quiet back then—always wandering off to sketch something or to do some painting for her school portfolio. She always seemed close to her dad.” He leaned against the wall and said, “The funeral is tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Your mom asked me to go with her. Will you be there?”

  “I will. For work reasons, mainly. Maria will be outside in her car.”

  “Why? Are you afraid someone is going to bomb the church?”

  He touched my hair. “No. but funerals are emotional; you never know what you might see. So we’re both going to be watching carefully.”

  “Okay. Meanwhile what about Amber?”

  He nodded. “Let me make a call. I’ll have Maria bring her in.”

  He stayed in the hallway while I went back in to the warm, happy apartment, fragrant with pasta and Serafina’s flower arrangement. Serafina was smirking at me. “Now you can’t keep your hands off each other,” she said.

  “That’s mostly true,” I said. “But we were talking about murder out there. Jay might have to leave soon.”

  She wilted at this. “But there is still tiramisu. Stay for dessert.”

  “Um,” I said, but then Parker came in.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “I can stay.” Serafina and Cam went into the kitchenette to prepare the dessert and coffee, and Parker leaned toward me and kissed my ear. Then he said, “I talked with Maria, and we agreed to bring Amber in tomorrow morning sometime after the funeral. We don’t believe she’s going anywhere. She’s actually spending the evening with Maria’s niece Lola.”

  “Did you say Amber?” Cameron said, shocked. He always did have supersonic hearing. “You’re bringing her in?”

  Parker shrugged. “We have more questions.”

  Cameron shook his head. “She’s really not the type. I’m telling you. She’s not some kind of criminal.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true,” Parker said. “Let me help you clear these dishes.”

  Serafina held up her hand. “No! You sit there and I will bring you coffee. Cameron, take away their plates.” My brother did it; I was torn between admiration and disgust. “Now you must eat lots of dessert. There is plenty,” she said.

  • • •

  PARKER AND I got back to my place at around midnight. We sat in the car for a moment in a companionable silence. Then Parker said, “Can I hang around?”

  I turned in my seat. “Do you mean in general, or tonight?”

  “Both.”

  I studied his blue eyes for a while. “I’m counting on the idea of you staying around, Jacob Ellison Parker.”

  “In general, or tonight?”

  “Both,” I said.

  He grinned. “I can’t stay until morning like last time, though. I have to be at work super early. I’m going to have to creep out of here eventually.”

  I knelt on my seat so I could lean over to kiss him. “I have to be up early, too. Why don’t we quit our jobs so we can be together all the time?”

  With a mighty heave he pulled me onto his lap and kissed me properly on the lips, lingering over his work. “Lilah, you have no idea how good that sounds.”

  “Mmm. Come inside. I have to let Mick out, and then I have to run upstairs to make sure my bed is made.”

  Parker laughed. “It doesn’t matter. We’re going to unmake it, anyway.”

  “It does matter. It’s an honor thing.”

  We went inside, hand in hand, and greeted Mick, who was, as always, super glad to see us. I fed Mick a snack and let him outside and back in, and then I raced Parker up the stairs. I had remembered to make my bed, after all, but Parker was right: we unmade it in record time.

  • • •

  WHEN HE LEFT it was two in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. I floated around for a while with not even Mick for company; he had climbed to my room and gone to sleep in his nighttime basket, and now I was on my own. I went back downstairs and smiled at everything I saw. My eyes lighted on the Miss Moxie books, and I realized I hadn’t even told Parker that I had quit the Angelo job. It wouldn’t
have been smart, probably, to bring up Angelo’s name in any context. I would tell him soon.

  My maid of honor book was also lying on the counter. I picked it up and scanned the table of contents, which included sections about the tradition of the bride’s right hand, the philosophy of support during special and ritual occasions, and the specifics of what I needed to do for the bride.

  I paged through this, which had twenty-five sections. “Oh my,” I said. Among other things I needed to be in charge of the other bridesmaids and their dresses, of a shower and bachelorette party for Jenny, of keeping track of her gifts. Those were the ones at the top of the list. I would also need to pay for my own gown and shoes and, apparently, for whatever venue in which we held the shower and the party.

  Catering wouldn’t be a problem, obviously—my Haven friends would give me a discount. But paying for a hall was something I hadn’t thought about, and also something I couldn’t afford. I sat at my counter, trying to think of places in Pine Haven that were pretty and elegant, yet inexpensive. There were, of course, none of those. I looked out the window at the moonlight shining on the driveway that led to Terry and Britt’s place. Their gorgeous stone mansion with a large main room that would easily hold many tables and lots of decorations. Why not? I thought. I could at least ask Terry and Britt, and if not their house, why not the gallery? That, too, was beautiful, and would give a touch of sophistication to Jenny’s shower.

  Warming to this idea, I grabbed a notebook and started jotting down ideas for decorations, along with a note to speak to Terry or Britt about borrowing their space. I would need to call the bridesmaids soon and start organizing some things with them. Now that I had a plan, I felt less intimidated about being a maid of honor.

  With a sigh I pushed the notebook aside and picked up a Miss Moxie book. This one was called Miss Moxie the Spy. In the beginning of the book, Miss Moxie is explaining to her friend what makes a good spy. She clarifies that a spy is merely a watcher, but a watcher who knows what to look for. “A spy sees things that other people don’t see,” Miss Moxie says as she peers across a field with a pair of binoculars. Her friend, a giraffe, asks Miss Moxie why she is studying the family of leopards who live across the field; to her, the leopards have always looked and acted completely normal.

  Miss Moxie shakes her head at her giraffe friend and says, “When something looks too black-and-white, you can be sure it isn’t right.”

  In the end, Miss Moxie is vindicated. The leopards are smugglers, and the police force, which is composed of bears, comes to take them away.

  I closed the book and found some wrapping paper in my drawer, then wrapped three Miss Moxie books for Henry and saved one for myself. The artwork was so lovely I wanted to be able to look at it once in a while.

  I tied a piece of ribbon around the package, knowing that Henry would be scornful of this frippery, but still wanting the present to look nice. I was excited to see what Henry thought of Miss Moxie, and I couldn’t wait to give him the gift.

  Meanwhile I thought about Miss Moxie’s advice to the giraffe. What was there in this case that was “too black-and-white”? Was there someone out there wearing an inauthentic face? And if so, how did one separate him or her from the innocent people?

  If only we had Miss Moxie and her spy binoculars.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Monday morning I made a deep-dish lasagna and delivered it to Alberto Palladini, a friend of Serafina’s who wanted to join his colleagues’ progressive dinner party. He thanked me elaborately, hugging me and kissing both of my cheeks. I laughed and ran back to my car, where I grabbed my phone, called Haven, and left a message for Esther, reminding her that I was going to the funeral and would be late. Then I drove to Weston, and the home of Jim and Marietta Becker. They were the parents of my dear little Henry.

  I pulled up to their house, which was small but sweet like a storybook home, a two-story brick affair with a red door. I hopped out with my gift and knocked; Marietta came to the door, holding a spatula. “Hi, Lilah! You’re up early. I was just making some breakfast—do you want to join us?” Her dark hair was tied back with a bow, and she wore no makeup, but she still looked vibrant and very much like Henry.

  “I can’t—I’m actually going to a funeral, but I just wanted to drop this off for my little friend.”

  She smiled. “You spoil him. Hang on—he’s in the next room. Henry! Your aunt Lilah is out here with a present for you!”

  I’m sure it was the word present and not the word Lilah that brought Henry to us at such impressive speed. He was still wearing his little pajamas—a matching top and shorts covered with army men—and he was clutching a Batmobile toy.

  “What kind of present?” he asked. He also had a severe case of bed head.

  “You mean, Hello, Lilah. How are you?” chided his mother.

  “Hello. How are you?” Henry repeated, his eyes on the wrapped gift.

  I pulled him into a hug and ruffled his messy hair. His Batmobile jabbed me in the abdomen. “I’m fine, dude. I just thought you’d enjoy this—it was recommended by a really cute little girl who’s your same age.”

  Henry’s lip curled. “I don’t like girl toys.”

  “Who said it was a toy?” I said, trying to sound mysterious.

  He stood on his little bare toes. “I’m going to be in Aunt Jenny’s wedding as one of the men in tuxedos. I’m wearing the Batman kind.”

  I handed him the present. “That’s awesome,” I said. “I’ll be in the wedding, too. Will you dance with me at the reception?”

  Henry’s eyes widened. “No! The guys don’t dance.”

  “Some of them do, Sir Henry.”

  “Not the cool ones.” He had ripped open the books and was staring at them. “What are dese?”

  “They’re books! Really awesome books with great stories and illustrations. I think you’ll like them.”

  “Henry loves reading,” his mother assured me. Henry was looking dubiously inside the first book, where he found a picture of Miss Moxie’s friend, a giraffe, entering her house by bending in half at the waist. This made Henry laugh. “Look at this graffe,” he said, pointing. “He’s got a tummy ache.”

  “Look them over, and then give me your review,” I told him. “I have to run to an appointment.”

  “Say Thank you, Henry.” His mother poked him in the back.

  Henry made a goofy face that made the cartilage in his neck stand out. “Thank youuuuu!” he said in a weird voice. Henry had trouble being polite, but he had the excuse of being six.

  “You’re welcommmmmme!” I answered in my own weird voice, and Henry giggled. I patted his messy hair, waved to his mother, and jogged back to my car.

  I would let Miss Moxie work her magic, and see if Henry of Weston could resist it.

  • • •

  THE FUNERAL WAS well attended. The sun wasn’t in full attendance for Marcus Cantwell, but there was an appropriate solemnity about the gray clouds that gathered over the Congregational church where Cantwell’s family would say their final farewells.

  I sat with Ellie, occasionally patting her hand. Jay had joined us briefly to give his mother a kiss and me a slightly longer kiss, but then he floated to the back of the church, where he could keep an eye on the people walking in. Ellie’s grief seemed to abate considerably when she observed the two of us together. “So perfect,” she whispered to me with a little grin. The Cantwell family members, all in black, presented a united front, all sitting in one pew and occasionally slinging arms around one another. Cash looked handsome in a suit—almost like a different person—and his half brothers, Scott and Owen, sat on either side of him, offering what seemed to be genuine love and support. Prudence and Emma sat together on Scott’s right, and Emma’s husband and the three children sat in the pew behind them. Prudence seemed to have recovered from Saturday night’s events, although she looked pale. I
wondered if Parker and Grimaldi were here partly as protection for Prudence Cantwell. I scanned the pews for Damen and saw that he was at the end of the same row that Timothy Britton was in, but the men didn’t seem to be interested in acknowledging each other.

  A quick glance around the room showed me some other faces I recognized: the much-discussed Amber was sitting toward the back, along with Grimaldi’s niece Lola and Wade Glenning, the photographer. Some other people I had seen at Cantwell’s party were there at his funeral, as were some of Ellie’s neighbors, who had also been Cantwell’s neighbors.

  Cantwell’s ex-wives were there—all three of them—and they sat together in one of those strange little realities of fate. They seemed to like one another, and they spoke in low tones in their pew. I noticed that all of them had the same shade of hair, either through nature or art: a deep chocolate brown.

  One woman sat all alone in a side pew; I wondered who she was. She wore a trench coat and a lavender scarf; she looked to be somewhere between fifty and sixty.

  Jenny Braidwell, the third grade teacher of Carrie Britton and the former teacher of Tim Britton, appeared suddenly next to our pew and said, “Can I sit with you?” Moments later Carrie turned around and saw her teacher; her eyes widened, and she poked her brother, who also turned and looked a bit starstruck.

  I whispered, “You are awesome,” and Jenny shrugged.

  “Poor kids,” she said. “Such a nice family.”

  The service itself was relatively short, and the minister had clearly been told not to give a long sermon. He said a few brief words about life and the legacies we leave behind and some of those “footprints in the sand” type of comments. His words were comforting without being preachy, and the family seemed to appreciate them.

  Soon enough some solemn men lifted the coffin with gloved hands and marched it down the aisle, and Cantwell’s children followed with noble expressions. Prudence and Emma cried softly, and the young men looked sad.

  We all followed them out, where the coffin was placed into a hearse. Parker and Grimaldi talked in an unobtrusive corner at the top of the stone steps leading to the church door, leaning against a cement wall. People were holding quiet, grave conversations in small groups scattered over the large graduated steps rather than rushing right to their cars. Even the Cantwell children lingered, approaching people and thanking them for coming. Little Peach wandered past, and I called to her. “Hello! Do you remember me?”