Page 10 of Murder By the Millions
“Hogwash,” Iggie said. “The guy has all of you wrapped around his finger, but I promise you, he’ll make the mall as gawdy as the one he planned to build in Santa Monica, California, but abandoned. Do you hear me? It. Never. Got. Off. The. Ground.”
“I heard he was quite the celebrity in Hollywood.”
“He was until he wasn’t. ‘Why?’ I ask you. Because he’s a poser. A deadbeat. He lost interest in his last project, and wham! He hit the road.”
Why had Jason abandoned it? What was his story?
“Face it, he’s a flake,” Iggie continued. “A ne’er-do-well.” He took his beverage from the barista, told her to dump Finette’s order, pushed past Reika, and exited the coffeehouse.
I shuddered, recalling how Tegan had claimed tempers were flaring in the heat. In view of Iggie’s sketchy history of possible arson, I certainly hoped that was all that would flare up.
CHAPTER3
“I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.”
—Jay Gatsby in F. Scott Fitzgerald’sThe Great Gatsby
At four p.m. I arrived with Darcy at Dream Cuisine. I loved cooking there. Following strict health guidelines, I’d arranged it so I could also fill orders at home, if necessary, but there was something about baking in the ghost kitchen that made me feel free and ultra-creative. It was three times the size of the kitchen in my cabin and outfitted with dozens of pans, utensils, counter space, a pantry, and a walk-in refrigerator. Plus the location, not far from Feast for the Eyes, was superconvenient.
Darcy meowed from inside his cat carrier. I never allowed him to leave the bag when I was cooking, which didn’t make him happy—cat hair in the food I made was a no-no—but given the alternative, he’d rather be with me than home alone. I rested thebag on the desk to the right of the front door, tossed my keys beside the bag and, after thoroughly washing my hands, slung on an apron.
For the next few minutes, I arranged mixing bowls on the stainless-steel counters, pulled two blenders from the shelf beneath the island, and removed a number of utensils from the magnetic strip affixed to one of the walls.
“I’m here,” Vanna trilled, entering through the rear door. She was wisely dressed in a loose-fitting blouse, leggings, and flats. Like me, she parked her personal items on the desk, washed her hands, tied an apron over her clothes, and tucked her hair beneath a mesh-style chef’s cap.
“We need two dozen scones,” I said.
“For?”
“Legal Eagles.” The law firm was one of my most prestigious clients. “Plain.”
“Why not spruce them up with ancho chiles and paprika?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Heavens, no. They don’t go for anything frou-frou.” Vanna was the kind of chef who thought micro whatever was chic. “Also, we’ll need two dozen raspberry scones for Perfect Brew. I’ll get started on the apple-rosemary muffins for Blessed Bean. Then I’ll frost vanilla cupcakes for Milky Way. I have four dozen in the freezer, which will work perfectly.” On light baking days, I often made extra muffins and cakes and froze them, in case I needed them in a pinch. “I’d like to wrap up everything in a couple of hours. I have a big day scheduled tomorrow. Deliveries. Meetings. Helping out at the bookshop.”
“Why don’t I make all the deliveries and free you up? I’ll arrive at seven sharp.”
“Perfect.”
Surprisingly, with no chatter about the incident between her and Chloe making a dash for Jason Gardner, Vanna got to work.
Despite our differences, in the short while we’d been working together, we did seem to move around a kitchen as if choreographed. We never bumped into one another. Vanna started to hum a Swifties’ favorite. I joined in. No lyrics. Singing lyrics might make us miss a step in a recipe.
A half hour later, the rear door opened again. Tegan tapped the frame as she sauntered in. “Knock, knock.”
I groaned. “No jokes.”
“I was merely announcing my arrival, but since I can tell you’re dying to laugh …” She winked. “Dying.”
I motioned for her to continue. She would taunt me until I caved.
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Cat.”
“Cat who?”
