Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
MAVEN
I fiddle with the ice in my first margarita glass but don’t touch the second one. I won’t risk getting tipsy around this man. He’s far too dangerous a temptation.
Even though I hate him, he’s still like the apple the serpent offered to Eve. One bite of him could bring total ruination.
Again.
I’m considering this meal an exercise in self-control, nothing more. It’s good for me not to succumb to the urge to use cutlery as weapons.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Ronan wolf down the remains of his meal. He eats like he’s been stranded on a desert island with only driftwood for sustenance for years. I don’t remember him being quite so ravenous, but then again, it wasn’t as if we sat around sharing leisurely meals together.
What we did together burned a lot more calories.
“Your face is red again. You have some kind of skin problem?”
“Shut up, Ronan.”
“Make me.”
“Don’t tempt me. There’s a chain saw back at the house with your name on it.”
Finished inhaling his food, he sits back, picks up his napkin, and wipes his mouth and fingers with it. Then he grabs his fresh margarita and waves it at me as if casting a spell.
“So you’re not married, you don’t live in Los Angeles, you have a degree in bugs, you have a daughter who definitely isn’t mine, and your grandmother’s corpse is missing. What else is new?”
I love it that he’s irritated. It puts us on more equal footing.
My smile is warm and generous. “That about sums it up.”
His glare is livid, and his tone is challenging. “No funny tales from graduate school to entertain me with? No loving anecdotes about your wonderful fiancé?”
Just as I become more at ease when he’s angry, he becomes more at ease when I am. We’re two opposite ends of a seesaw, the opposing sides of a coin. If we ever met in the middle and were both happy at the same time, the known galaxies would probably implode.
“Ezra? Oh, there’s not much to tell.” I nonchalantly examine my fingernails. “Besides that he’s highly educated, extremely intelligent, independently wealthy, and one of the preeminent scientists in his field.”
“You said he was an ocular surgeon. Suddenly he’s a scientist?”
“I said Bea’s father was an ocular surgeon.”
“So there’s another lucky guy who isn’t Bea’s father. Keeping track of everyone must get confusing.”
I press the grin from my mouth and answer with a straight face. “There’s an app I use that makes it all so much easier. Did I mention Ezra is independently wealthy?”
“Yeah. You did.”
“Because he is. It’s from all the patents on his inventions. And careful investing, too. He grew up without much money, like me. Nobody handed him anything on a silver platter.”
Ronan stares at me with flared nostrils and thinned lips. “Sounds like you have a lot in common. And the silver platter comment was unnecessary.”
I feign ignorance and flutter my lashes innocently. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you sensitive that you never had to work for anything or worry about money because you inherited massive generational wealth?”
If he keeps grinding his teeth the way he’s been doing, he’ll need dentures soon.
“Keep making those baby deer eyes at me and running that smart mouth and see what happens, Maven.”
His low, threatening tone sends a thrill through my body. It’s pure adrenaline, fight-or-flight. I haven’t felt this alive in years. The laugh that breaks from my chest is gleeful.
“Now you laugh! You really enjoy seeing me miserable, don’t you?”
“No, I enjoy making you miserable. Seeing you miserable is just icing on the cake. I’m trying the chile relleno.”
I reach across the table and make a big show of sawing off a portion of his food. Chewing like a horse, I make a yummy noise and swallow a hunk of absolutely terrible breaded poblano pepper. Describing it as seasoned cardboard is giving it too much credit. It tastes like an old leather shoe.
“So delicious! You didn’t like it? How strange. Your tastebuds must be deadened from all that salty caviar you rich people eat.”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. He looks as if he’s restraining himself from bursting at the seams. He loathes being teased about his family’s money, a weakness I’ve exploited on many occasions.
“I’ve never had caviar in my life.”
“Yes, you have. I distinctly remember you licking a big black blob of it from a blini before throwing the spitty blini across the room where it stuck onto my forehead.”
He scoffs. “You’re imagining it. That never happened.”
“Shelly Smith’s parents’ Christmas party, seventh grade.”
He thinks for a moment until he retrieves the memory from some old rusty file cabinet in his head. “Oh. Yes, I do remember that.”
“Do you remember how everyone howled with laughter? Do you remember how I ran out in shame?”
“I remember how I followed you to try to apologize and explain that I was aiming for that fool Tim Barnes who was harassing you, but you’d disappeared. I wandered around the neighborhood for an hour, looking for you.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Those lies roll off your tongue so smoothly.”
“Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”
“Since when did you start truth telling? I didn’t think you were capable.”
“Like you’re not capable of remembering anything but the bad things that happened between us?”
“Everything that happened between us would have left a weaker woman dead. Tell me what else you were thinking about my grandmother.”
Running his tongue over his teeth, he debates whether or not he’ll allow the change of subject.
I suspect it’s one of the reasons he was first drawn to me. Men who excel at everything and expect deference as their due find a strong woman either scary or irresistible.
He throws back a swig of margarita and gives in. “What did she die of, exactly?”
“How is that relevant?”
“It’s just that one day she was healthy and the next she was dead.”
“She was ninety-three. At that age, if you wake up in the morning, it’s a surprise for everyone. Besides, how do you know she was healthy? We don’t broadcast our health status on the local news.”
“I saw her coming out of the hardware store a few days before she died. Bumped into her, actually. She hissed at me like a cat.”
Picturing it, I smile.
Granny’s hatred of the Crofts was almost as renowned as the healing teas of dried herbs and roots she sold to cure various maladies of the townsfolk.
Those intrepid enough to make the journey up the rutted dirt driveway to Blackthorn Manor came away with folded paper packets filled with goodies that, when steeped in hot water, cured everything from gas to gout.
They paid well for the privilege, but Granny’s teas never failed, so they kept coming.
“Did she have a heart attack or something?”
I lift a brow. “Didn’t your spies tell you?”
“I don’t have spies. I have people on payroll who keep me informed of important things.”
“That’s literally the definition of a spy.”
He exhales through his nose and keeps talking. “Anyway, I was told there wasn’t an autopsy. Your aunt Esme just called up the funeral home one morning and said, ‘Hey, there’s a body here that needs to get buried. Come pick it up.’”
“She didn’t say it like that.”
“I’m paraphrasing. So what did she die of?”
“Maybe seeing you so close set off a chain reaction inside her body, and all her organs shut down, one by one. It’s the most logical explanation, really.”
“Can we be serious for a second?”
“I am. I can feel my kidneys shriveling into raisins as we speak.”
He glowers at me, I smile sweetly at him, and this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
“I think that’s your heart you feel shriveling. My point is that she looked strong as an ox, your aunts declined an autopsy, and her body mysteriously vanished the day she was supposed to be buried.”
I furrow my brow in confusion. “What’s your point?”
“Maybe Lorinda wasn’t really dead.”
I wait for the punch line. When it doesn’t come, I say, “Are you serious? You think my grandmother faked her own death?”
“Maybe.”
“What possible reason would she have for doing that?”
He shrugs. “Same reasons most people do it. Insurance money. Fleeing creditors. Wanting to start a new life somewhere else.”
My tone is dry. “Yes, because a ninety-three-year-old woman just can’t wait to run away to Tahiti for exciting adventures under a new name.”
“I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”
“Your imminent death at my hands is a possibility, too.”
“It’s interesting that you still haven’t said what she died of.”
“It’s not interesting, it’s none of your damn business. But I will tell you one thing. Blackthorns don’t get autopsies.”
When he makes a disbelieving face at me, I continue, even though I’d rather stuff the remains of the leathery chile relleno past his perfect front teeth.
“It’s a family tradition. Our bodies aren’t messed with after death.
They’re kept in their natural state and buried in the ground in a biodegradable coffin so the decomposing matter can feed the worms. The circle of life and all that.
So her not having an autopsy isn’t unusual at all.
What is that hideous expression you’re making? ”
“If she didn’t have an autopsy, does that also mean she wasn’t embalmed?”
“Yes. So?”
“How long was it between her death and the viewing?”
“Six days, I guess. Why?”
Pale eyes glittering, he stares at me. “You’re the scientist with the big brain. You tell me what happens to an unpreserved body a week after death.”
The realization hits me like a slap.
He’s right.
A corpse begins to deteriorate immediately after bodily functions cease.
If it is left undisturbed, houseflies and blowflies lay eggs around natural body openings that hatch within twenty-four hours.
Within three days, the internal organs decompose.
Within five days, the body is bloated, and bloody foam leaks from the mouth and nose.
Build-up of bacteria and putrefaction of tissues cause intensely foul odors.
At six days postmortem, my grandmother should have been well on her way to spectacular decay.
Instead, she looked exactly as she always did. Scary and fierce, but definitely not decomposing.
Ronan says sourly, “Look at those wheels turn. Next, you’ll have to figure out a way to tell me I’m right without choking on your tongue.”
“I need to get back to the house. Thanks for lunch.”
He quirks his lips. “I never said I was buying.”
“Always the gentleman. See you around, Scrooge.”
Rising from the booth, I hurry to the front of the restaurant, my mind whirring with questions.
I’m distracted as I grab my umbrella from the stand where I left it.
When I pull the heavy wooden door open and step outside, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the artificial brightness inside to the gloom of the day.
I stand frowning, deep in thought, rain streaming down all around me, until someone grabs me from behind.
“Look out!”
Ronan yanks me into his arms and spins me around just as a huge chunk of concrete falls from the sky and slams into the ground in the exact spot I was just standing.