Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“What—?” I managed, and that was as far as I got.
“Sorry, Signora.” There was absolutely no recognition on his face, although at least he got the honorific right. As he should, frankly.
I’m sure there was recognition on mine, although my back was to the man-mountain, so it didn’t really matter.
Mendoza didn’t give me long to ponder it, anyway, before he ducked back through the swinging kitchen door.
To fetch a mop and bucket, I assumed, and probably to re-submit the pasta orders, too, since there were two diners in the dining room right now whose dinner was decorating the floor at my feet.
I stared after him with my mouth open, something that could, luckily, be explained away by the fact that I was standing here dripping shrimp and mushrooms.
“Whatcha waiting for?” the giant wanted to know. When I gave him an incredulous look—what did he expect me to do, walk out of here like this?—he lifted both shovel-sized hands and made shoving motions. “Go on now. Shoo!”
Shoo? “Like this?!”
“You were going to the ladies’ room, weren’t you? Go on and clean yourself up.”
I stared at him for a second with my mouth open—appalling, how dare he?—but eventually I did the only thing I could do. I huffed. “Who’s going to pay for my boots, I’d like to know? The skirt will probably come clean—leather can be washed off—but I’m never getting the lemon sauce out of the suede.”
“Talk to Luigi,” the giant said, making those same shuffling motions with his hands. “Off you go.”
I put my hands on my hips. Squishy. Ugh. “Your boss will hear about this, you know.”
Something flickered his eyes, and I wanted to take a step back. It was only the knowledge that he’d probably enjoy it if I did, that made me stay where I was.
“You just be happy we’re not charging you for two extra dinners,” he told me. “Shoo, now.”
I shooed, finally. There was nothing else to do. Mendoza wasn’t likely to come out—not while I was standing here—and I needed to wipe down my skirt and do the best I could with the probably-ruined boots before the stains set even more than they had already.
Greg’s eyes widened when he saw me come out of the passageway to the kitchen.
He made to get to his feet, but I waved him back down and made my way to the restrooms while the human colossus watched from the rear.
Once there, I spent the next few minutes wiping myself down with paper towels, wet and dry, while my thoughts ran in circles.
So this was where Mendoza had been hiding since the last time I’d seen him.
But what on earth was the man who had been a homicide detective three weeks ago doing, slinging pasta in an Italian restaurant?
Had he been fired from his job? Had he quit? Had he done something during the Newsome investigation that he shouldn’t have, and someone had found out?
And more to the point, was it my fault?
He had occasionally bent the rules for me before, when he ought to have believed me guilty of something or other. I couldn’t remember anything like that happening during the Newsome mess, but that didn’t necessarily mean that nothing had. Mendoza was more aware of the rules than I was.
Although if I had gotten him fired, the least he could have done was tell me so.
Hell, if I’d gotten him fired, I would have hired him in a heartbeat. Working for Fidelity Investigations had to be better than working here.
Or maybe not. Mendoza had a particular dislike for private investigators. His ex-wife had hired one (to prove Mendoza was cheating) and then married him (the PI), so maybe he truly would prefer serving pasta to snooty strangers to throwing down with Zachary, Rachel, and me.
And again, what right did I have to call myself a PI if I hadn’t noticed him until we literally came face to face?
Had I really been so wrapped up in Greg (and in justice to it, the Branzino), that I had overlooked the fact that Jaime Mendoza was waiting tables twenty feet away from me?
It didn’t say much for my powers of observation, if that was the case.
When I made it back to the table, the tiramisu had arrived, along with two small cups of espresso.
“What happened?” Greg asked as I slid back into my seat, a bit more wet and bedraggled than I had left. There was still a slight whiff of lemon-butter sauce emanating from my feet.
“Ran into one of the waiters.” I managed a smile. “Literally. Ended up with shrimp and mushrooms all over me. And him, too.”
“You all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “Nothing that won’t wash out.” I hoped.
He nodded and seemed to take my word for it. “You have to try this.” He pushed the tiramisu toward me. “It’s the best I’ve had outside of Italy.”
I forced any and all thoughts of Mendoza out of my head and lifted my fork.
I didn’t even look for the detective-slash-waiter for the rest of the meal, just in case it would make Greg notice him, too.
Mendoza had been the homicide detective in charge of Harold’s case, and he isn’t the type you forget once you’ve seen him.
So I kept my attention firmly on Greg as we shared the dessert and the espresso, and while we made small talk about books and travel and Nashville’s restaurant scene.
When the waiter—not Mendoza—finally brought the check, Greg insisted on paying despite my half-hearted offer to split it. “I invited you, Gina.”
“It was my request that we change the venue,” I pointed out. While Fidelio’s isn’t cheap, it isn’t Sambuca, so he must have ended up spending more than he’d planned.
He shook his head. “Insulting me isn’t going to work. I can well afford dinner, thank you.”
He pulled out an American Express Black Card and handed it to the waiter, who smirked and walked off with it.
“Touché,” I said, and Greg smirked, too.
The drive back to Hillwood passed quickly, filled with small talk about nothing in particular.
When we pulled into the driveway Greg was telling me about a research trip he was planning to Scotland, and we ended up parked in front of the house for a minute while he finished what sounded like the introduction to inviting me to accompany him.
By then, I was only half-listening because I was pretty sure something was wrong.
Everything looked OK. The driveway was empty. The porch light was on, and so was the light in the kitchen. I could see it glow from inside the house. Edwina’s food and water dishes are back there, and so is one of her doggie beds.
But Edwina wasn’t at the door.
I can always hear her when I pull up outside—the frantic scrabbling of paws on hardwood, the high-pitched yipping that meant she knew I was home and why wasn’t I inside already? Boston Terriers aren’t exactly quiet dogs, and Edwina was less quiet than most.
But now there was nothing. No sound at all from inside the house.
“Gina?” Greg’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Is everything all right?”
I realized I was clutching my handbag tightly enough that the seams dug into my skin . “It’s probably nothing.”
I couldn’t even make myself believe it, and it must have been obvious, because Greg’s brows drew together. “Doesn’t look like nothing. What is it?”
“Edwina should be at the door.” I kept my eyes on the house, looking for any sign of movement through the windows. “She always barks when I come home. Always.”
And I could always see her bouncing up and down through the glass in the door.
Greg’s expression shifted, becoming more serious. “When was the last time something happened here? This was where my sister-in-law tried to kill you, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “A few weeks ago. And before that, after David died—after the funeral—someone set fire to the house. I had to jump out the second story window.”
“Jesus.” He cut the engine. “I’m coming in with you.”
“That’s not—”
“It is. If something’s wrong, you shouldn’t go in alone.”
I wanted to argue, but the truth was, I didn’t want to go in alone. Not with Edwina’s strange silence ringing in my ears and the memories of flames crackling below me and smoke billowing still fresh enough to make my hands shake.
We got out of the car together. I fished my keys out of my purse with fingers that felt numb, and Greg stayed close as I found the front door key and fitted it into the lock.
That was when I realized that I was trying to unlock a door that was already unlocked.
I pulled the key back out and dropped it in my pocket with a little whimper.
Greg looked at me, but didn’t ask. Instead, he waited for me to turn the handle and push the door open.
My heart was pounding now, images flashing through my mind—Edwina hurt, Edwina dead, Edwina stolen by whoever had been in my house while I was gone.
She’d only been with me for a couple of months. Mendoza had saddled me with her, actually, after her previous owner had been murdered. I hadn’t wanted her at the time, and now I couldn’t imagine my life without her.
But I could still see, in my mind’s eye, the small, bloody pawprints all over the concrete outside the house in Crieve Hall.
Please, God. No bloody pawprints here.
“Edwina?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then the sounds I had expected earlier: a scramble from the kitchen, and the clicking of nails on the hardwood floors as my dog rounded the corner and took off down the hallway toward me, barking.
My knees gave out. At least that’s what I think happened. Maybe I just sat down. But I found myself on the floor trying to hold onto my dog as she bounced around me, barking and wriggling and trying to lick my face.
I was probably crying.
There was movement up ahead, and I looked up just as a male figure stepped into the doorway from the kitchen.