Page 32 of Murder By the Millions
Jason nabbed a cookie and took a bite as he settled onto one of the stools by the prep counter. “Perfection.”
I tapped the button on my Bluetooth speaker, paired it with my iPhone, and pulled up a jazz playlist on my music app. I loved to bake to music. The strains of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” filtered through speakers affixed to two upper corners of the kitchen. “Coffee?” I indicated the Cuisinart Coffee Center.
“Just cookies. Until the tarts are done.”
“Ready in about fifteen minutes.”
“You said you made mac ’n’ cheese as a girl. That’s cooking, if I’m not mistaken. When did you learn to bake?” Jason rose from the stool and stepped closer to me.
“At the same age. My mother was a mathematician and inept in the kitchen. If I wanted to eat something other than peanut butter and jelly—she made a mean PB and J—I needed to do it myself. I adore fresh baked bread, and I have a sweet tooth.”
“You’re industrious.”
“I’ve been told.”
He drew so near I could feel heat wafting off his body, and I wondered if I’d been wrong in my assessment. Was he making a move? He reached out and brushed a stray hair off my face. The gesture made me shiver.
“Shouldn’t you put on a hairnet?” he asked.
“Ye-es,” I sputtered, feeling silly for my concern. “When I’m cooking for my clients. Do you want me to do so?”
“Not on my account.”
Call me crazy, but it wasn’t proper even to contemplate romantic feelings for someone who was hiring me for a huge soiree.
The timer for the blueberry concoction buzzed.
Saved by the bell,I thought and hurried to the saucepan to stir.
A couple of minutes later, I removed the tart shells from the oven and spooned the blueberry filling into them. While they firmed up, I reviewed tomorrow’s orders, and Jason sat down again to scan messages on his cell phone.
When the blueberry filling was fairly firm, I topped the tarts with freshly whipped cream, and we ate them warm.
“Delicious,” Jason said when he had finished. “You absolutely must serve them at the soiree.” He rose to a stand. “Would you like a ride home? I parked behind the Brewery.”
“No, thanks. I’ll clean up before I leave, and I can walk. It’s not far. You go on.”
“This was lovely.” He leaned in, pecked me pristinely on the cheek, and exited quietly.
In a flash I washed and dried all the dishes and was soon strolling up the path to my place.
“Here, Darcy,” I called as I unlocked the front door. He didn’t race to me, which didn’t alarm me. He could be a sleepyhead. I stepped inside. “Darcy! I’m home.”
The sound of mewling alarmed me. I rushed to the cat-scratching station and peeked inside. Darcy was in the llama’s barrel-shaped belly, curled into a ball.
“What’s wrong?” I lifted him out. “Oh, no! Darcy.”
His front right paw was bleeding. Not the paw pads. One of the toenails.
“What happened? What did you do?” I whirled and spotted blood on the floor by the fireplace. I held the cat’s face to mine and said, “Did you scrape it on the hearthstone? I can’t fix it. We have to see the vet.”
Darcy wriggled. He understood the word and was having none of it.
“Sorry, buddy.” I held on tight. “You need expert attention.” I wrapped his paw with a towel, deposited him in his cat carrier, and raced to my Ford Transit, which was parked in the carport. I phoned the vet on the way.
When we arrived at her office, she was already there, because she lived upstairs in a two-bedroom unit. Seeing as she was the sole vet in town, her living arrangement made it super-convenient for emergencies. I had to assist her since her staff wasn’t available. As expected, Darcy tried to wrench free of my grasp, but I wouldn’t let him. The vet gave him a small dose of sedative, then trimmed his nail, cauterized it to stop the flow of blood, applied antibiotic ointment to prevent infection, and expertly bandaged his paw.
A half hour later, as he and I were walking into my place, my cell phone pinged. Jason had texted.
