Twenty-four
The following morning as she approached the door of Ru’s flat, Fiona paused, pulling her raincoat close against the wind as she listened to the distant crash of waves below.
This morning it reminded her of a steady drumbeat, as if sounding an alert.
Yesterday, they had wasted most the meeting dealing with Ru’s jealousy.
But she had learned that he had made it through his interview without raising any suspicion.
Maybe it was the gift of that pen – simple, sincere, and so very him – that quietly spoke volumes about his character.
Today, she was determined to run through the suspect list properly.
The door was ajar, and she jogged up the stairs and into the flat.
A kaleidoscope of aromas – cumin, coriander, and a hint of something buttery – filled the room.
Ru had a knack for transforming simple ingredients into something special.
Her heart fluttered at the sight of him.
He had unfastened the top buttons of his chef’s jacket, letting the front flap open and giving her a glimpse of his chest.
Ru was stirring something in a frying pan and the sound of sizzling potatoes permeated the space.
Fiona leaned against the counter, pretending to be casual.
Where once he had been the person she was most comfortable to be around, now she trod warily, watched what she said and how she spoke.
It was a delicate balance, like pairing wine with food, wanting to experiment yet fearing that, instead of delighting the palate, it might clash.
To anchor herself, she placed her list of suspects on the kitchen counter.
‘So, what’s on the menu this morning?’ she asked.
A flash of pride lit up his face. ‘Aloo paratha – spiced potatoes stuffed in flaky bread. It’s Indian comfort food really.’
She inhaled deeply again.
She had been right; the buttery smell wasn’t butter but ghee. The absence of the salt was what she had detected. ‘It smells incredible,’ she said, letting her enthusiasm show.
As he skilfully flipped the parathas, the golden crust crackled, sending a burst of steam into the air. ‘What do you think? Should I serve this with yogurt or the green chutney?’ He raised an eyebrow, challenging her to choose.
‘Why not both?’
Sprinkling fresh coriander over the finished parathas, he suggested they ate at the breakfast bar.
He pushed a plate towards her, and she picked up her warm and flaky paratha.
As she took a bite, flavours exploded on her tongue; cumin and coriander were a wonderful combination. Just like she and Ru used to be.
For a few minutes, their conversation danced around lightly, avoiding anything about feelings or either of their rivals, like a pair of novice skiers choosing the safe route down a slope.
Exhausted with small talk, Fiona asked Ru what he thought Rose would do now she’d interviewed most of her ‘suspects.’
He shook his head as he tore a piece from his paratha. ‘She’s flailing about. I think she’s just hoping someone will confess. What about you?’
‘She told me she knows I’m not the thief.’
A look of relief crossed Ru’s face, and Fiona wondered if he was worried his backers might hear of this drama. ‘Well, that’s good news,’ he said.
She took a cautious bite of her paratha, the spices biting back as she chewed. Her eyes dipped to her suspect list. ‘So, who did this?’
Ru’s gaze shifted. ‘Hmm. I have news.’ He dunked his paratha in the yogurt sauce. ‘You might not want to hear this, but your new boyfriend has a criminal record.’
Fiona shook her head dismissively. ‘He’s not my boyfriend! It was just a date. Anyway, I know it’s not Josh.’ She took another bite, the heat almost distracting her from her annoyance.
‘He’s suddenly become remarkably interested in wine, don’t you think?’ Ru’s tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. ‘... for a kitchen porter.’
Fiona put down her paratha, feeling the need to defend Josh. ‘That’s because he’s working with a sommelier for the first time.’
Ru raised an eyebrow. ‘Think a little less highly of him now?’
‘Actually,’ she said, wiping her fingers, ‘Josh told me himself.’ Wanting to avoid another trip down jealousy lane, Fiona didn’t add that Josh had confided in her at the end of their walk on the beach.
Josh had explained his one-off shop lifting had been an ill-thought-out act of rebellion; his way of forcing his parents to accept he would not waste his life pursuing their dream of him becoming a professional surfer.
‘I was going to mention it last time we met,’ Fiona said, ‘but you got all huffy about me walking with him on the beach. I didn’t think you’d be objective.
’ She took another defiant bite, the spices a comforting heat in her mouth as she locked eyes with him.
Ru looked at her a moment longer, then shrugged, taking a bite of his own. ‘Well, Josh asked my advice. Apparently neither Rose nor George knows, and he’s not sure if he should tell them.’
‘No,’ said Fiona, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. ‘I told him he should keep quiet about it unless asked directly. It doesn’t help that he was prosecuted for shoplifting a bottle of whisky.’
‘What if someone finds out and tells Rose?’
‘I doubt that will happen; you won’t shop him and neither will I. And anyway, nobody asked if he had a criminal record before thy hired him, so he hasn’t lied.’
She peeled off another section of paratha, then bit into the gooey filling. She really had missed Ru’s cooking. ‘Do you think he did it?’
‘No. The only time I recall him going to the cellar alone was when you were ill.’
‘So, who did do it? I made a list of possibilities. Let’s run through it and rank them.’
Ru leaned forward, an excited look on his face. He was so close she could smell the spices clinging to him. Mentally, she pulled his mouth closer, feeling his lips brush against hers. When he spoke, she felt his breath warm on her face.
‘If we dismiss you, me Ivy and Trish, that only leaves Josh, and Kim.’ Fiona tensed at the mention of her rival’s name.
‘What about the kids?’ asked Ru.
At first, she didn’t reply, startled that Ru hadn’t leaped to defend Kim. She shook herself. ‘The kids?’
‘Yes. Do they know where the key is kept? Could this be a prank and they’ve hidden the stuff?’ suggested Ru.
Picturing Timmy and Becky lugging around magnums of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Fiona laughed. ‘No. They’re never left on their own – too young. But you raise a valid point – Rose and George should be on our list. By the way, Rose loves that new pen you gave her and hasn’t managed to lose it yet!’
‘Pleased to hear that,’ he said, grinning, then he screwed up his face. ‘Why would they steal their own wine?’
Fiona giggled. ‘Do you think George might be financing a secret mistress?’
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not likely. He’s a family man.
He and Rose are a good team.’ That made her wince.
She and Ru were a good team once, until she became a failure, and he became a celebrity.
‘Joking aside,’ said Ru, ‘he wouldn’t have time.
If he’s not cooking, he’s glued to a screen. ’
‘Doing what?’
‘Dunno. I guess researching recipes and sourcing ingredients, like me? Time for another coffee?’
Fiona glanced at the sun rising over the horizon, a beautiful mix of soft pinks and purples. She let out a contented sigh, wishing she could curl up on the sofa for the day, but her books beckoned. ‘Go on then.’
For two hours they discussed and rejected possible theories, each one more outlandish than the next.
Was Kim flogging bottles to finance her incredible wardrobe?
Was Trish trying to bring the pub into disrepute so that Prosecco laying up for you!’
‘Not for me,’ she replied. Rose had given her the evening off as a thank you for helping with the cellar stock checks. Fiona would spend it studying.
Back at Ivy’s cottage, Fiona trotted upstairs and pulled out her books.
She chose one on South American wines and lay upside down on the bed, her feet resting on the pillows, propping herself up on her elbows with her chin resting in cupped hands.
The words seemed to spin in front of her eyes.
She blinked, focusing on the Malbec grape, running her tongue round her mouth, imagining the taste, but her mind kept drifting back to the delicate earthy flavour of the mushroom filling in her lunchtime pasta.
A Malbec’s bold tannic structure would smother that flavour, and the low acidity would be a mismatch for the elegant, earthy profile of the mushrooms.
She pushed herself off the bed and carried her books downstairs. Her aunt was in the kitchen, but she had lit a fire in the sitting room a bright orange reminder of her morning with Ru.
Fiona peeled off her jumper. It was too hot to concentrate on grape varieties.
Trying to dislodge the muzzy feeling, she shook her head.
After spending every morning playing amateur detective with Ru, studying was vital.
She had booked enough time off work so she could travel to London the day before the three day exam and was intending to stay at the flat in Ladbroke Grove.
She had her keys, Ru would never know, and anyway, she was still the joint owner and couldn’t afford to stay anywhere else.