Chapter Twenty-Six
Angel
Marg set her coffee mug down gently, as if she was doing everything in her power to not make an unnecessary sound.
Her office wasn’t colorful today. It hadn’t been since that last shift with Felix.
I looked over to the vanilla extract stain on the wall, picturing the last time we were here together.
How scared I’d been by his offer and how confident he was in me.
What I wouldn’t give for just an ounce of his quiet but steady reassurance, a firm pat on my back, and a nod of approval. The kind he used to give me after tasting something new I’d made for the dessert or brunch menu.
But I would never have that again.
None of us would.
My hands folded together in my lap, and I pressed down, forcing them to stay still.
“Sheriff Humbly stopped by my house this morning,” Marg said, finally breaking the silence we’d been sitting in for over half an hour.
“Any updates?”
“Just that Felix’s friend Jonathan returned home last night. Michael said he is no longer a suspect.”
“Frankly, Marg, I don’t see how he ever was. There was no motive,” I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat.
She clicked her tongue, leaning back in her seat. “Two murders within weeks of each other. In my hometown,” she whispered, her voice distant. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
The question was burning on the tip of my tongue. “Do you think Joann’s murder is connected to his?”
“No, dear, I don’t.” She paused, looking at the photo of her husband at the corner of her desk. “There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t wish he were here. I have so much to tell my sweet Andy, and the longer time goes on, the more I find myself needing his guidance.”
I nodded.
Her eyes flicked up to me, and she pulled off her reading glasses, letting them fall around her neck, the beads of the necklace shifting.
“Andy would know what to do, but me? I’m at a loss.
” When I didn’t say anything, she waved her hands about.
“He was the one who took care of all this. When I first told him I wanted to own a restaurant by the sea, we were sixteen and bursting with dreams. I expected him to brush it off, but he didn’t.
” She looked back to the picture. “He spent the next few summers working two jobs while I was in culinary school, saving up. When this place went on the market, we jumped. I was scared. Oh, my dear, I couldn’t tell you how scared I was.
If he hadn’t taken my hand and told me we could do this, I wouldn’t be here, behind this desk, looking at the beautiful and brilliant young chef I want to take over for me. ”
“Marg,” I gasped, my chest deflating.
She smiled. It was small and didn’t meet her eyes, but there was warmth in them that washed over me like a warm summer’s rain.
“I’m just a pastry chef.” I shook my head and gestured to her desk. “I’m not a restaurant owner.”
“No, you’re not.” She leaned forward. “But you could be, in time.”
Fighting back the urge to laugh, I said, “I was still on the fence about taking Felix’s place.
” Her smile faded. “I’m not creative enough to come up with a new menu biweekly.
It takes me three weeks to figure out a new dessert menu.
The lemon delight we have featured? I planned that back in May. It’s August.”
“Yes, I am aware of the month. Thank you, dear,” she sighed, tipping her head back to the ceiling.
I winced. “I’m not saying that I’m not honored. I am. Truly. But I’m not the person for the job.”
“You could be.”
“Could. Could. That means I’ll have an allotted amount of time to train and learn, not only the aspects of Felix’s role, but yours,” I rushed out. The weight of that responsibility was getting ready to drop on my shoulders the second I agreed.
“Years, Chef Howell,” she said, her voice sweet but firm.
“If you accept, you would have years. I wouldn’t dare dump so much on you at once.
It’s careless and not to mention cruel.” She leaned back, settling into her chair.
“I’m comfortable here. Yes, I’ve been in the office more because Felix had the kitchen handled.
His title was sous chef, but we all knew what he was.
What I needed him to be so I could handle the rest.”
Head chef.
I pushed my fingers through my hair, exhaling. “I understand Felix wanted me to take his place, and he gave me his reasons. But I would like to hear yours.”
She chewed on her cheek for a moment, studying me. “You requested that as if you’re nothing more than a list of qualifications to be checked off.”
“Well, yes, I understand this position—both of them—require a multitude of qualifications. And I—”
“Not the job, dear. You.” She paused. “You don’t think you’re good enough?”
The challenge in her question had my spine straightening and the woman I used to be coming forward.
The confident girl who dreamed of having her own restaurant, her own kitchen where she could pour out her creative ideas, explore new flavors, and create a life for herself.
The girl who wasn’t afraid of life. “I never even finished culinary school, Marg.”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “Take six months and go finish. Your place will be here when you get back.”
“But—”
“Your pay will stay the same, and I’ll write you a glowing recommendation.”
“You can’t pay me if I’m not here,” I said in disbelief.
Marg tilted her head to the side. “If you graduate from culinary school and have the title, would you feel better about my offer?”
“Of course I would.”
“Then I have no problem keeping you on the payroll while you’re gone. Especially when you agree to be my eventual successor.”
I opened my mouth, but there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Marg called and I turned to see who it was. No one else should be here.
Scott stepped halfway inside, his mouth snapping shut when his eyes landed on me. My eyes dropped to his neck.
Oh my god.
“Good heavens, Scott, what happened to your neck?” Marg asked as I heard her chair rolling back. A second later, she was in my view, lightly touching his bruised skin.
He gave me a glance before focusing on her, a fake, half-cocked smile on his face. “Got into a bar fight a few nights ago. You know how it is.”
“No,” she muttered, giving him a look. “What are you doing here? Do you need a ride to the hospital?”
“Nah, Marg. I’m fine.” He waved her off, rolling his shoulders.
Marg gestured to me. “We’re almost done if you’d like to wait just a few minutes.”
He wouldn’t look at me, clearing his throat as he looked back into the kitchen. “I’m good, Marg. I just had a question about the schedule next week,” he said, stepping out.
Marg caught the door. “Well, I haven’t made it yet.”
A sharp, extremely uncomfortable laugh echoed through the air. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. I’ll, uh, see you later. Just let me know when we open again.”
As Marg took her seat again, she chewed on her thumb nail. An unusual habit for someone her age, the movement making her look younger than she was. Her brows came together. “Have you ever known Scott to be a drinker?” she asked, finally looking up at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t really know him.”
“You’ve worked alongside him for nearly two years.”
Yes, but he gives me the fucking creeps.
“Anyway,” she began, “back to what we were discussing.” She opened the file cabinet beside her and started searching as she rambled on. “I know a few good schools here on the coast. I'm good with all of them. If you take a look at these pamphlets, we can figure out a plan together.”
As she talked, I quickly pulled out my phone and texted the group chat with Margo and Carrie.
Me: Margo, has Scott been into the Buoy the last couple of nights by chance? Have there been any fights?
Marg handed me three pamphlets. “Just think about it, okay? I don’t want to look everywhere for someone I already have in the kitchen.” She grabbed my hand. “It’s your life, of course. I’ll honor whatever choice you make. If you want to stay a pastry chef, then I’ll be glad of it as well.”
I nodded. “It’s just a lot to think about, Chef. Especially with Felix’s death still on my mind.”
“Yes,” she agreed, giving me a final squeeze. “I understand.”
My phone buzzed. “If there’s nothing else, I need to run some errands.”
She smiled. “Of course, my dear. Let me know where your head is at by the end of the week?”
Oh good. A deadline.
“Yes.”
She walked me out, and thankfully, creepy Scott was nowhere in sight. Once outside, in the glow of the morning sun, I pulled out my phone.
Margo: There’s always fights. Every night. I don’t deal with them. Joey does. Who is Scott?
Me: He’s a line cook at Margie’s Place. Short-ish. Thinning black hair. Always wears a Chicago Cubs hat.
Margo: Never seen him. I’ll ask Rachel when I’m on tonight.
Me: Where are you?
Margo: Red Snake.
I bit my lip.
Me: Is Carrie with you?
Carrie: Sorry, I left my phone at the front counter. What’s up?
I looked to the street, finding most of the shops still closed. The town was quiet this morning.
Me: Are you at Rossy’s?
Carrie: Yeah.
Me: I’m on my way.
Margo: What’s going on?
Me: I don’t know.
Carrie: Are you okay?
Me: I just need a place to think.
Carrie: Come to me.
Ten minutes later, Rossy opened the shop door for me, sporting a kind smile. “Good morning.” His English accent was such a joy for me when I came here for a journaling session and coffee.
“Good morning,” I said, stepping inside. The cool air hit me, and in the middle of the bookshelves, Carrie’s snow-blond curls were bouncing as she ripped open a box. I looked back up at Rossy as he finished locking the door. “Thank you for letting me come in early. I won’t be long, I promise.”
His smile widened as he adjusted his glasses. “Darling, take all the time you need. Though I am sorry to say that Margo isn’t here to make you some coffee.”
Carrie huffed. “I can make us some, babe.” She carried a box of books to the counter. With a grunt, she set them down and met Rossy’s concerned look with a smile. “I told you I could handle it.”