Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Date Night
JAMIE
After fretting over her outdated hair, trying on seventeen different outfits, and doubting the shade of her lip gloss, Jamie was finally ready for date night.
Jamie had succumbed to Derick’s styling, advice, and beratement, signed up for Dinner for Six, and after some commitment to the gym, it had all come down to now.
She caught a glimpse of herself just as she was leaving the house.
Her hair fell to her shoulders in soft waves, her eyes were bright, her skin glowing, nails on point. Not bad.
She heard a vicious dog-barking ring tone and looked at her phone. Elaine Cromwell Frisco was calling.
Jamie answered, “Hi, Mom, I’m just heading out.”
“Oh, I know. The big date. I wrenched that information out of your obstinate brother when I went to see the ultrasound photo of my granddaughter. I’m just calling to let you know you’re behind the eight-ball, so make this date the date. Lest you wind up penniless and destitute.”
“Thanks for the encouragement, Mother. I’ve got to go.”
“My wedding looms. Tick tock. Remember, your ovaries aren’t getting any younger.”
“God!” Jamie fiddled with her phone to hang up, but Elaine Cromwell Frisco beat her to it. Jamie didn’t even get the satisfaction. Flustered and now miffed, Jamie grabbed her keys and walked out the door.
Located on Fourteenth Street and Ocean Avenue on a narrow pedestrian-only walk street that emptied onto The Strand in Manhattan Beach, Jamie arrived at Piccolo Restaurant at five forty-five PM.
She’d been on high alert since the call with her old supervisor, Max Crandall.
Melvyn Ott was now out of prison. Between dealing with that looming strand of dread, combined with a threatening call from her mother and first-date jitters, Jamie’s nerves were frazzled.
She tried to focus on the task at hand, which was almost as dreadful as a psychopath on her trail: Be charming. Find a date. Get this over with.
Set up by Lorna Gray, founder of Dinner for Six, her date was at six PM sharp. Jamie wanted to arrive early, get the lay of the land, note the emergency exits, and have a drink.
The scent of fresh basil, tart balsamic, and warm baked bread hit her when she came through the doors of Piccolo.
The space was small and intimate, with a large oak table in the center of the room, an elegant chandelier dangling above it.
Four smaller tables were against the wall.
Seated at one of the smaller tables was an older couple in their sixties sipping champagne and scowling at each other.
Candlelight flickered off white linen tablecloths, and a dark wood-paneled ceiling added to the coziness of the room making it inviting, like only good ambience can.
Jamie spotted a small bar at the back of the room, three lit taper candles inviting her to it.
She sauntered that way, knowing nothing tamped down frazzled first-date nerves like a well-made Old Fashioned.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the far wall.
She was grateful she let Derick pick out her outfit.
She looked slim and stunning in a midnight-blue wide-leg jumpsuit with a halter top that showed off her shoulders.
A perfect single gold necklace set off her golden hair, which fell in soft waves to her shoulders.
She was unaccustomed to feeling confident in her appearance, but she felt dazzling tonight. Must be the lighting.
As if sensing an approaching patron, a bartender materialized from around the corner.
Tall, lanky, slicked-back hair, aloof, and smelling of surf wax and weed poorly hidden behind some cheap cologne.
He was exactly Jamie’s type. Aimless, uncomplicated, Peter Pan syndrome.
She felt the stirrings of her baser instincts waking to the moment but tried to tamp them down.
She could almost hear Derick Hampton’s voice in her head: “For God’s sake, get your mind in the game.
You are not going home with a bartender. Snap to!”
“Hi. I’m Justin,” the bartender said, friendly and flirtatious.
Of course you are.
He stood relaxed but at the ready while Jamie wrestled with her thoughts. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“I’ll have an Old Fashioned.”
He smiled a too-damn-sexy smile and said, “Right on.” He set to work.
Jamie checked her phone and had three text messages. The first was from Derick.
Focus on your short-term goals. You are here to secure a date for Elaine Cromwell Frisco’s wedding. Nothing more. No matter how cute the bartender is. That fear you’re feeling? It isn’t reality, it’s just residue. Now for the love of God, re-apply your lip gloss.
She blinked herself out of her haze with Derick’s text as she pulled out her lip gloss and read the other two. She swore at his magic. How did he always know?
The second one was from her brother, Rip.
Go get ’em, hot stuff! Just be yourself! But try to leave out the murder-y bits.
Finally, the third text was from her mother, who lingered in the shadows of her life like a vampire, knowing all, casting gloom and doubt, sucking joy out like blood.
I presume you know what I mean by suitable. Don’t disappoint me. Tick tock.
Jamie shoved her phone in her purse at the same moment her drink arrived. It was the perfect shade of brown. She took a long sip, appreciating that Justin the bartender had at least one skill that could generate income. She let the bourbon soothe her jangled nerves.
The kitchen doors violently swung open and a large, highly animated figure came rushing out.
The chef, as Jamie surmised from his white coat and floppy chef’s hat, bee-lined toward the older couple with a small, wiry woman in tow who was carrying three different bottles, likely the sommelier.
The chef went on to explain the prix fixe menu in a flourish and spoke fervently about the wine pairings to the couple at the table.
As Jamie tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, an attractive, edgy young woman clad in a waitress uniform and sporting several piercings and a neck tattoo that looked like a snake, sidled up to Justin at the bar.
“Chef Pascal’s nervous,” the woman murmured to Justin, as she nibbled on her claw-like black lacquered nails.
Jamie concentrated on her Old Fashioned while listening to the new conversation.
“Dude. For sure. It’s his big opening week,” Justin said.
“Well, that too, but that’s not just some jerkoff over at that table. That’s Nigel Spokes and his wife, er, I forgot her name.”
Jamie looked up at Justin, whose expression clearly stated that he could not fathom who Nigel Spokes was. “Who?”
“Only the most notable food critic on the West Coast. Restaurants live and die by his reviews. He always comes in the first week of a new restaurant’s opening because he once famously said, ‘If they can’t get it right in the beginning, they’ll never get it right.’”
Justin appeared to take in this information with the deep appreciation of a stoner and said, “Whoa.”
Jamie took a peek over at the table. Nigel Spokes’s back was to her so she couldn’t read him, but she could read the face of his wife, who tipped her champagne glass while never taking her steely glare off her husband.
Betrayed, calculating, homicidal. Maybe that last judgment was a little too strong.
Maybe Jamie was simply picking up unhappy due to recent spat.
Happened all the time. Who hadn’t briefly imagined a little spousal murder after a terrible argument?
Jamie ruminated on why Mrs. Spokes might be in such a state when the door to the small restaurant opened and a tall, nerdy guy walked in.
Dressed in khakis, a white button-down, and black leather Adidas, his wide-eyed gaze made him appear both freaked out and excited.
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and headed toward the bar where Jamie was standing.
“Hi, are you, uh—” he stammered.
“Dinner for Six?” Jamie offered a smile. “Yep. Looks like we’re the first two here. I’m Jamie.” He shook her hand and gave a half smile, then drew back his hand and ran it through his floppy hair.
“Hey, I’m Kyle.”
Jamie could surmise through the skittish nature and soft handshake that he was some sort of nerd. Either computers, or gaming, definitely techy. Tech-savvy. Earnest. Nerd. “Weird, huh? This kind of setup?” she offered.
Kyle gave a shrug and said, “Better than online dating.”
“You can say that again. Worst thing ever invented, right?” Jamie said, grateful for the small talk.
“Actually, no. The worst thing ever invented was data trafficking, by far. It has essentially made the world into a Big Brother state, which we’ve all blindly consented to.
It’s so invasive and equally pervasive that I can find out your age, weight, favorite Netflix show, and how much porn you watch within two minutes. ”
“Wow.” So much for small talk.
“What’s your last name?” Kyle asked as he reached for his phone.
“Frisco,” she answered. Jamie sighed imperceptibly.
After ten seconds and a long sip on her Old Fashioned, Kyle looked up and said, “You’re forty-one, used to work in the LA Superior Court system, you have a BMI of 25.
5, you’re considering Ozempic, and you’ve just completed Season Six of the Great British Baking Show.
” Kyle took a quick gander at her body. “You don’t need Ozempic. ”
She didn’t know whether to be insulted or impressed. Maybe a little bit of both. Jamie said, “Thank you?”
Luckily, the door of the restaurant opened once more.
A woman walked in, brassy blond hair, fake eyelashes, wearing a boho dress, a floppy hat, carrying a big white leather purse. She looked around and spotted Jamie and Kyle at the back of the restaurant and sashayed her way over toward the bar.
“Hiya,” she said and gave a small wave. “Are you on a date or are you on my date?”
Jamie caught a faint whiff of cigarettes. She deduced that this blond bombshell was unsophisticated, hint of trailer trash, gullible but optimistic.