Fatal Chocolate Obsession (Death by Chocolate Book 5) Page 9

  “He doesn’t. And calling that poetry would be a stretch.”

  He studied the card carefully. “This doesn’t sound like something he would say.”

  I shrugged. Fred was right. Rick was an idiot, but he was an educated idiot. “Actually, it does sound like something he might write if he was trying to be impossibly cute.”

  “Or maybe this is from somebody else.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  He turned the card over and looked at the back side which had nothing but the name of a commercial card company. “You tell me.”

  “It’s either Rick or somebody has the wrong house. Maybe they meant to leave this stuff at Sophie’s, but their GPS got confused. Mine does that every once in a while. It thinks my friends Judy and Jerry Clarke live in the trash bin at their apartment complex.”

  Holding the card by the edges, he lifted it to the porch light.

  I studied him studying the card. “Can you see fingerprints before you even dust for them?”

  “Of course not. I think you need to get some rest.”

  I could not argue with that. I unlocked my front door, pushed it open, and Henry ran inside. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Fred scooped up the red wrapping paper Henry had shredded.

  OCD. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if he knew there was a mess on my porch.

  I watched as he went down the walk. Of course he couldn’t just cross the lawns. He might bruise a blade of grass. Or step on an elf. It spoke volumes about his concern for me that he’d walked across the grass beside me.

  Then he reached his walk, the decision point. Would he go inside his house or cross the street to Sophie’s?

  He turned toward me and waved.

  I waved back.

  He went on up to his house.

  Darn! I should have gone inside and watched from the window. If he hadn’t seen me, would he have gone to Sophie’s? Would he go over after I went in? Would she come to his house? Was it any of my business? Absolutely not. Did I want to know anyway? Oh, yes!

  I watched Fred’s house until a light came on upstairs. His office, not his bedroom. He was going to get on his computer. Probably planned to illegally hack into government databases and get some more information on Kenneth Bring us a couple of beers Wilson.

  Or maybe he was going to run down the manufacturer of that card, find the names of everybody who bought one.

  I moved to the edge of my porch as if that would give me the ability to see through Fred’s blinds.

  Surely he was checking on Wilson. Surely this late night activity had nothing to do with his interest in the card and envelope he’d taken with him.

  I wished I could unhear his comment about my stalker being somebody other than Rick.

  I opened my palm and looked at the butterfly. It sparkled in the moonlight. Of course Rick had brought it. He did that sort of thing when we were dating and after we split up. It was his MO. There was no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the flowers, wine and crystal butterfly. Though he’d never before written doggerel, I could see him doing that, trying to show me he was an innocent child at heart.

  If Fred wanted to amuse himself by fingerprinting the note, that was fine with me. He’d find nothing on there but Rick’s fingerprints and Henry’s claw marks.

  I hoped.

  The possibility of a stranger coming onto my porch, leaving gifts and poetry for me…that was too creepy to think about.

  A cold wind brushed across my face and sent a chill down my spine. Fall must be closer than I thought.

  I hurried into my comfortable, welcoming house which suddenly didn’t feel comfortable and welcoming. The moon slanted through the windows creating eerie forms in the darkness. The recliner appeared to have a head sitting atop the headrest. A faded red design on my sofa glowed as if wet with blood. Emptiness flowed down the stairs and across the floor from the kitchen, surrounding me. Henry had vanished somewhere into that emptiness and I was alone.

  For a fleeting moment, even though I was still angry at Trent for treating me like a suspect, I wished he was there with me—strong, solid, dependable.

  But he wasn’t, and I was being silly, letting my imagination run away with me. I switched on the light. I must be experiencing a chocolate deficit to have such ridiculous thoughts. I’d make myself a cup of hot cocoa and go straight to bed.

  I went to the kitchen and let out a shriek—just a tiny one—at the sight of eyes glowing in one corner.

  Oh, good grief. It was Henry. I flipped on the light, pushing back the darkness and illuminating my cat who stood beside his empty food bowl, looking up with hungry blue eyes. The bowl was designed for a German Shepherd. Henry’s a big boy. His head is too large to allow him to eat from a cat dish. Besides, I’d have to refill it at least three times.

  “Didn’t catch any snacks tonight?” I poured cat food pellets into his bowl, and he purred gratefully.

  With my cat happy, I set a cup of milk in the microwave and thought about Tina. She was not likely preparing a cup of hot cocoa in a quiet house. Ken had been pretty drunk when we left, and Fred had brought up Bob’s name, reminded him of his wife’s infidelity. Did that renew his anger? Did he take out his rage on Tina after Fred and I left? While I stood in my kitchen waiting for my milk to heat, was she waiting to be seen in an emergency room across town?

  Or worse?

  Would I get a phone call tomorrow asking why I’d visited the recently deceased?

  ***

  I took the butterfly with me to work the next morning. If I left it at home, Henry would feel the need to track it down and destroy it as he’d done with the flowers. Crystal might be a little harder on his paws and teeth than roses. I sanitized it to get rid of Rickhead’s touch and set it in the middle of the top shelf of the dessert display case.

  The morning passed uneventfully. Nobody died. Nobody came in and made a scene. People ate their food, left with a smile, and all was well in Death by Chocolate.

  Then Brandon’s father came in for lunch.

  I’m sure I interact with a lot of people who wouldn’t be my friends if I knew them on a personal basis. But I don’t know them. I ask them what they want to eat and drink, they tell me, I serve it to them, they pay and leave. And life is good.

  I could have served Grady Mathis, washed his dishes twice and never given him a second thought if only we could have confined the conversation to, What would you like today? How about a ham sandwich on moldy bread with rancid mayonnaise and a glass of anti-freeze? Thank you, here’s your order. That didn’t happen.

  He bellied up to the bar and took a seat on the stool closest to the cash register, the one where I’d have to pass him every time I rang up somebody’s check. “Well hello, little lady.”

  I forced a smile and bit back the urge to tell him I was not little and he should not count on my being a lady. “What can I get for you today, Mr. Mathis?”

  He gave a mock frown. I think he intended to look boyish and charming, but he succeeded in looking like a Halloween mask of an ogre. “What’s this Mr. Mathis? You make me feel old.” He reached a hand across the counter, palm up, as if he expected me to put my hand in his. Ewww! “I’m Grady, and you’re Lindsay.”

  I put both hands behind my back and reminded myself, The customer is always right. “What can I get for you, Grady?”

  He ordered a sandwich and drink. “And what wonderful chocolate dessert did you make for me today?”

  The customer is always right. “We have the usual chocolate chip cookies and brownies. Our special dessert today is chocolate pecan pie.”

  He grinned and winked. “I’ll have the special dessert made by the special lady.”

  Oh, barf.

  “Coming right up.” I went back to the kitchen. Unfortunately we had no moldy bread, rancid mayonnaise or antifreeze.

  Paula came in while I was making his sandwich. “Do you want me to work the counter awhile?”

  “I wouldn’t do th
at to you. I can handle this jerk though I may have to throw a pie in his face rather than serve him a piece.”

  Paula shook her head. “Don’t waste the pie.”

  She was right. Besides, an iron skillet in his face would be more effective.

  I took Grady’s food to him.

  “I see you got a new pretty.” He indicated the display case.

  What creepy thing was he implying about my desserts?

  I turned to look at the case and saw the light winking off the crystal butterfly.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Present from the cop boyfriend?” He winked.

  Definitely an iron skillet. A large one. Full of hot grease.

  I moved down to the woman two stools away. She’d just finished her brownie. “Would you like anything else?” I asked.

  “I sure would.” Mathis’ words were low, dark and sludgy, like the oil that drains from my car when I haven’t changed it for several thousand miles.

  I gave the woman her check and she handed me a credit card.

  I had to go past the Mathis Monster to get to the credit card machine.

  “Boyfriend didn’t give you that butterfly, did he?”

  I kept my eyes focused on sliding the credit card through the machine and pretended not to hear, but I could feel the flush of anger rising to my cheeks. I really, really wanted to slap him. The customer is always right.

  I had to pass him on the way back to the customer.

  “Cheating on the cop, huh? You are a feisty one!”

  The customer is not always right. I was going to ask that one to leave, and if he gave me any flack, I knew where the iron skillet was stored. In the interest of haste, I could make do without the hot grease.

  I gave the card back to the customer, got her signature, and turned to confront Mathis.

  He smiled. “So when are you going to bring that little car in and let me make it all pretty and sexy for you?” He winked again, turning an already slimy question into scum from the depths of a pond that’s been stagnant for at least ten years.

  When was I going to take my car to his place? Oh, somewhere around the time traffic cops stopped writing tickets. Maybe on the day I started drinking coffee instead of Coke. Sometime after hell froze over in August. I opened my mouth to speak the words.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  I had been so focused on tossing out the father, I hadn’t seen the son come in. Wearing a cap with the brim pulled low over his face, he slid onto the stool next to Grady. “Hi, Lindsay.”

  I swallowed my smart-mouth replies. “Hello, Brandon. Good to see you again.”

  Only one other seat at the counter was occupied, but Brandon chose to sit next to his father. Since they were not best buds, that felt a little confrontational. If Grady Mathis started bullying his son in my restaurant, I would definitely have to get out the iron skillet.

  Grady slid off his stool. “Guess I’d better get back to the shop since there’s nobody else to take care of it.” His voice no longer dripped with slime, but the smug superiority was equally disgusting.

  Brandon said nothing, just kept his head bowed, the brim of the cap covering his face.

  Grady laid some cash on the counter, looked at me and winked another time. I clenched my fist to keep from punching him in that eye to stop his winking for at least a while. “See you later, little lady.”

  Not if I see you first. The childish retort almost made it past my lips.

  I shuddered and turned my attention to Brandon.

  He sat with one elbow on the counter, his hand covering the left side of his face. “I’m sorry about my dad. He can be pushy.”

  “No problem. I can deal with pushy.” It was the obnoxious part I couldn’t stand. “What’s with the cap?” I grabbed the brim and lifted it…and exposed Brandon’s black eye.

  He tried to cover it with his hand, but I gently pulled his fingers away. “What happened to you?” I had a horrible feeling I knew what happened to him. I remembered the way his father had talked to him in the shop. Paula had told me her ex-husband began with verbal abuse then moved on to physical.

  He shrugged and tried to smile. “Hit my head on a car door.”

  He was lying. I lie often enough to recognize when somebody else does it. “No, you didn’t.”

  His face brightened to a shade similar to the one I wanted for my car. “I…I…”

  “Did your dad do that to you?”

  He dropped his gaze.

  I slowly lowered my fists to the counter, resisting the urge to slam them down.

  “Ma’am,” someone called from across the room. “Can I get my check?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said quietly. “Do not leave.”

  He looked at me, his brown eyes lighting with happiness and gratitude, reminding me of dogs in animal shelters when someone pats their heads.

  Yes, Grady Mathis was destined for an iron skillet encounter.

  I gave the customer his check, Paula returned from the kitchen, and I went back to Brandon.

  “Tell me what you’d like to eat, and when you’re finished, we’re going to have a talk.”

  “Okay,” he said quietly, meekly.

  I got his order for him, then Paula and I rushed around, taking care of the last of the lunch crowd. While we were both in the kitchen loading dirty dishes in the dishwasher, I had a chance to tell her what was going on.

  She paused with a plate in her hand, compressed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t like Grady Mathis either, but it’s not a good idea to interfere in a family fight.”

  “Wouldn’t you have wanted someone to help you when David was abusing you?”

  She stood silently for a moment, holding the dirty plate, looking into the distance. Finally she shook her head. “I don’t know. I did wish I had a friend to talk to, somebody to help me understand what was happening. But I think I would have resented anyone telling me what I should do.”

  I took the plate from her and settled it in the dishwasher. “What am I supposed to do? Let that jerk continue to hurt Brandon?”

  “Brandon works and lives with his father. When you live with an abuser, it’s not always easy to escape. Add the work element, and he’s in a bad situation. You can’t offer him a place to live and a job. You can’t offer him protection.”

  “I understand,” I said, though of course I didn’t since I’d never been in that situation. “But I have to try.”

  Paula laughed softly. “Of course you do. And sometimes that’s a good thing. Go talk to him. I’ll take care of the two people in the corner and block the door if Brandon tries to run away while you’re telling him what to do with his life.”

  I smiled at the image of Paula tackling Brandon. He was twice as big as she was but I had no doubt she could do it. She’d told me she had once been submissive and helpless but had been forced to learn to be strong to protect her son. She’d learned well.

  If Paula could do it, so could Brandon. And maybe I’d check on Tina after work. Invite her to have a drink, talk to her about escaping her abuser. Yes, I’m pushy and bossy and get involved in things that are none of my business. So?

  I went out front, moved Brandon’s dirty dishes aside and set a piece of chocolate pecan pie in front of him. “Eat. You’re going to need your strength.”

  He did as I ordered. Good first step.

  I leaned across the counter and spoke quietly. The couple in the corner didn’t need to hear our conversation. “Brandon, what your father’s doing to you isn’t right.”

  Brandon stared at his plate. “He’s my father.” The words were wooden and devoid of emotion.

  “I don’t care. That doesn’t give him the right to abuse you. You need to get out of that house, find your own place.”

  He looked up, his expression hopeful. Maybe all he needed was someone to tell him it was all right to resent that sort of treatment. “But I work for him.”

  “You can get another job. There are plenty of paint and body sho
ps around, and with your skills, you should have no problem finding employment.” I had no idea what his skills were, but since there was a wide range of skill levels in paint and body shops, he was bound to fit in somewhere.

  He didn’t answer, just sat silently staring at the display case. I suspected he wasn’t really seeing anything except inside his head, an image of his terrible plight.

  “Don’t you want your own home?” I pushed. “Find someone to love you, start a family?”

  “Do you have someone to love you?” The question whispered so softly through the air that I barely heard it.

  “Well, yes, I think I do.” Trent did the I’m-an-officer-of-the-law thing to extremes, nagged me about my driving, and generally got on my nerves. But I knew he loved me. And I—

  “That’s a pretty butterfly.” I was wrong. Brandon had been looking at something outside his head, probably to avoid what was going on inside.

  I couldn’t let him do that. He had to face the situation. “Thank you,” I said. “Okay, first we need to find you an apartment.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “What?”

  “The butterfly.”

  “It was a gift.”

  “A gift from who? The man who loves you?”

  He was trying to change the subject, avoid talking about the actual process of leaving home. I wasn’t going to let him do that, and I didn’t want to discuss that damned butterfly. I certainly did not want to tell him my sleaze ball ex-husband left it on my porch in the middle of the night. I smiled and shrugged, dismissing the blasted butterfly. “You probably need to find a place across town. Make it as difficult for your father to find you as possible.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “Who?” Were we still talking about that stupid butterfly?

  “My dad. Do you like him?”

  That was a sticky question. Even though the man was awful, he was Brandon’s father. If I said I found him totally disgusting, would Brandon feel the need to defend him and refuse to leave him? I had to think about that one for a moment. “I don’t like what your father does to you.”