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Authors: Lora Roberts
Tags: Mystery
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see what the hang-up was. She stared fixedlyat the square white envelope that rested on the leather seat.
“Someone left you a fan letter, looks like.” I thought that would make her happier and relieve some of the tension she exuded.
I was wrong. She looked at the envelope as though it was a snake. Finally she reached to pick it up. She looked at Naomi, who had gotten in the other door. Naomi looked back, her eyebrows raised in a silent question. Don resumed his seat by the chauffeur, and Kim and I crawled into our seats facing backward. But those two didn’t even notice me scrounging through the bags. They were busy staring at each other.
Finally Hannah turned away, tucking the note into her handbag. I noticed she used only her fingertips, as if she was saving the fingerprints. Naomi noticed too.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“No.” Hannah didn’t look at Naomi. She stared straight ahead, not looking at Kim or me either. “I have an idea what it says. I’ll just save it for the lab.”
“Lab?” Naomi’s voice came out as a croak. “What do you mean, lab?”
“I hear they can find DNA these days in even the smallest amount of saliva. Whoever licked that envelope to seal it left their DNA. The police will be able to find out who’s—” She broke off, noticing Kim and me. I was frankly hanging on every word.
“Since when do you take your fan mail to the police?” Naomi scoffed, but her voice sounded nervous.
“I think you can pinpoint it, if you try.” Hannah looked at Kim. “You said my water was out here.”
“Here.” Kim handed over the green glass bottle I had placed in a cup holder. “I didn’t bring a glass. Sorry.”
Hannah took the bottle, but reluctantly. “You know how I like it.” She looked at me. “You should know too.”
“Ice halfway up the glass, water, a lime wedge squeezed and then dropped into the glass.” I spoke promptly. “Kind of hard to produce in a car, though.”
Hannah leaned forward and pressed a button on what I’d thought was just a console between Kim’s and my seats. A door swung open, revealing a small refrigerator compartment, which contained tiny bottles of liquor and wine, but no glasses or lime.
“There are ways,” Hannah said, “of doing almost anything, if you’re motivated enough.” She stared at Naomi as she spoke, and her voice was very cold.
We rode the rest of the way in silence.
Chapter 7
Judi Kershay walked into the demonstration area of the FanciFoods store at 7:10. I was so glad to see her I almost cried.
“Thank God you’re here. Everything is too, too weird.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s make sure the event is set up right, then we’ll talk.”
Kim and I had been very impressed with the demo area when we’d arrived twenty minutes earlier. The store was a lush temple to food, with sparkling black and white floor tiles and lavish displays of everything edible, not to mention a gourmet take-out section that Kim said rivaled the place where she worked in Boston. On the second floor, up a winding staircase that gave panoramic views of reverent produce pyramids, was an auditorium of food with raked seating. Even those in the back could easily see the action on the gleaming marble counter, inset with stove burners and backed with a rank of ovens, the whole area reflected in a huge, tilted overhead mirror that projected the action to the audience.
Kim had started right in assembling the spare casserole of huevos rancheros; she was sprinkling its top with grated queso fresco, which Greg, the FanciFoods event coordinator, had been only too happy to supply. The air was scented with chorizo and the tortillas she’d heated on the comal that had been part of Hannah’s equipment. I had been the scullery maid, cleaning up her pots and pans while she worked swiftly to assemble the layers of tortillas, chorizo, and the salsa-like tomato sauce. She had poached eggs in the wide skillet without any
“Someone left you a fan letter, looks like.” I thought that would make her happier and relieve some of the tension she exuded.
I was wrong. She looked at the envelope as though it was a snake. Finally she reached to pick it up. She looked at Naomi, who had gotten in the other door. Naomi looked back, her eyebrows raised in a silent question. Don resumed his seat by the chauffeur, and Kim and I crawled into our seats facing backward. But those two didn’t even notice me scrounging through the bags. They were busy staring at each other.
Finally Hannah turned away, tucking the note into her handbag. I noticed she used only her fingertips, as if she was saving the fingerprints. Naomi noticed too.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“No.” Hannah didn’t look at Naomi. She stared straight ahead, not looking at Kim or me either. “I have an idea what it says. I’ll just save it for the lab.”
“Lab?” Naomi’s voice came out as a croak. “What do you mean, lab?”
“I hear they can find DNA these days in even the smallest amount of saliva. Whoever licked that envelope to seal it left their DNA. The police will be able to find out who’s—” She broke off, noticing Kim and me. I was frankly hanging on every word.
“Since when do you take your fan mail to the police?” Naomi scoffed, but her voice sounded nervous.
“I think you can pinpoint it, if you try.” Hannah looked at Kim. “You said my water was out here.”
“Here.” Kim handed over the green glass bottle I had placed in a cup holder. “I didn’t bring a glass. Sorry.”
Hannah took the bottle, but reluctantly. “You know how I like it.” She looked at me. “You should know too.”
“Ice halfway up the glass, water, a lime wedge squeezed and then dropped into the glass.” I spoke promptly. “Kind of hard to produce in a car, though.”
Hannah leaned forward and pressed a button on what I’d thought was just a console between Kim’s and my seats. A door swung open, revealing a small refrigerator compartment, which contained tiny bottles of liquor and wine, but no glasses or lime.
“There are ways,” Hannah said, “of doing almost anything, if you’re motivated enough.” She stared at Naomi as she spoke, and her voice was very cold.
We rode the rest of the way in silence.
Chapter 7
Judi Kershay walked into the demonstration area of the FanciFoods store at 7:10. I was so glad to see her I almost cried.
“Thank God you’re here. Everything is too, too weird.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s make sure the event is set up right, then we’ll talk.”
Kim and I had been very impressed with the demo area when we’d arrived twenty minutes earlier. The store was a lush temple to food, with sparkling black and white floor tiles and lavish displays of everything edible, not to mention a gourmet take-out section that Kim said rivaled the place where she worked in Boston. On the second floor, up a winding staircase that gave panoramic views of reverent produce pyramids, was an auditorium of food with raked seating. Even those in the back could easily see the action on the gleaming marble counter, inset with stove burners and backed with a rank of ovens, the whole area reflected in a huge, tilted overhead mirror that projected the action to the audience.
Kim had started right in assembling the spare casserole of huevos rancheros; she was sprinkling its top with grated queso fresco, which Greg, the FanciFoods event coordinator, had been only too happy to supply. The air was scented with chorizo and the tortillas she’d heated on the comal that had been part of Hannah’s equipment. I had been the scullery maid, cleaning up her pots and pans while she worked swiftly to assemble the layers of tortillas, chorizo, and the salsa-like tomato sauce. She had poached eggs in the wide skillet without any
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