Drew and then went straight to sleep. Why?”
“They think what happened to Deidre last night was intentional.”
“Oh. That. Yeah, I know. I read it in this morning’s paper.” Mary Fran swept her hand, and my attention, toward the paper folded neatly beside the shop’s register. “Though, honestly, the picture they ran of her makes it hard to imagine anyone having any sort of ax to grind with her, you know?”
I leaned across the counter, grabbed hold of the paper, and peered down at the professional photograph of the mother of two. “If Grandpa Stu’s theory is correct, Deidre wasn’t the target. The winner—whoever it turned out to be—was.”
“But who would do that?”
“Someone who was angry they weren’t nominated?” I offered as convincingly as I could.
“Like?”
“Cassie Turner, for one.”
“Cass—wait. Why does that name sound familiar?”
I unfolded the paper and swept my gaze across the front page article and the rest of its accompanying photographs. “She won my category last year.”
“Right, right, right… And she’s the one who handed Deidre her award this year, right?”
I nodded without looking up.
“Do you think there could be any truth to that theory?” Mary Fran asked.
“I don’t know, maybe. I mean, Cassie is known for being a bit of a competitive diva, but that said, I’m pretty sure she’s friends with Ben Gibbens.”
“Ben Gibbens?”
“One of my fellow nominees.”
“So…”
“If she was targeting the category and he’d won, he’d be the one dead right now.” It was a thought that had come to me during the night, but this was the first time I’d voiced it aloud. Not that it mattered, really.
“Could she have known who the winner was in advance?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure.” I allowed my gaze to travel to the bottom of the page and last year’s picture of Cassie standing on the platform at the top of the spiral stairs, her ad displayed on the screen behind her head. “I know it would be a tragedy no matter who this had happened to, but I can’t help but feel like it wasn’t supposed to be Deidre at all.”
When Mary Fran said nothing, I looked up to find her staring at me. “What are you saying?”
“It wasn’t Deidre’s ad that was starting to play when she fell. It was Lexa’s.”
“M-maybe the tech guys made a mistake and ran the wrong one.”
“Maybe. In fact, that’s what Andy thinks, too. But it’s also possible that—” I stopped, took in Cassie’s high-wattage smile, and shivered.
“Possible that, what?” Mary Fran prodded.
I lifted my gaze back to my friend and went for broke. “Maybe Cassie deliberately read the wrong name.”
~Chapter Six~
I’m not much of a cook. Never have been. If a meal didn’t come from a box (hello, Cocoa Puffs), my freezer, or one of about a half dozen eateries that offered delivery, I didn’t eat. Unless, of course, my grandfather was in town and it happened to be a Sunday.
Which he was and it was.
Sunday night dinner was a tradition that began long before I was born. It was my grandmother’s way of keeping tabs on everyone. The fact that my grandmother had also been an amazing cook pretty much guaranteed the success of her plan. By the time I came along, the weekly gathering had grown to include games, an occasional theme, and close friends interspersed around the table alongside blood relations.
So while I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a certain sadness at not seeing my parents (they had tickets to a show), my siblings (transplanted to other parts of the country), and my late grandmother (currently cringing at my lack of prowess in the kitchen, no doubt) assembled around the folding banquet table Carter had managed to secure from the theater, I was also pretty stoked about having all of my friends in one place for the second time in as many days. The only thing that could make it any better (other than the ability to raise my grandmother from the dead), would be the subtraction of one person and one oversized rat that doubled as said person’s dog.
“So what are you subjecting us to this time, Sunshine?” Carter asked from his spot next to my chair.
I rolled my eyes at the laughter that spread around the table and plunked the first of a half-dozen or so platters down in front of my own personal doubting Thomas. “I’ll have you know, my grandmother made this very same roast when I was a kid and it was always a hit, isn’t that right, Grandpa?”
My grandfather leaned in close, sniffed, and then looked up at me, his I-love-you-no-matter-what face letting me know I’d missed an ingredient (or five). “I’m sure it will be delicious, Sugar Lump.”
“If not, I saw an unopened box of Cocoa Puffs in the pantry a little while ago and—” At my answering sputter, Sam laughed and then amended his suggestion. “Okay, so there’s an opened box of Cocoa Puffs we can pass around if necessary.”
“Ha. Ha. Everyone’s a comic.” I returned to the kitchen, grabbed the bowl of mashed potatoes and the bowl of stuffing, and carried them back to the table and the empty spots on either side of the roast.
Curling her upper lip, Ms. Rapple lifted her fork from the table and poked at the contents of each bowl. But just as she was obviously revving up for one of her cutting remarks, she glanced at my grandfather seated to her left and…smiled.
This time when I rolled my eyes, it was mirrored by both Mary Fran (who sees everything) and Carter. But that wasn’t enough for me. Oh no…
“Is there a problem, Ms. Rapple?” I challenged, earning myself a flash of surprise from my clearly smitten (and therefore blind to the reality of McPhearson Road’s resident nut job) grandfather.
“Of course not, Tobi. Everything looks”—Ms. Rapple stopped, cleared her throat, shifted in her seat, and smiled at my grandfather—“delicious.”
I reared back to challenge the sincerity in her words, but let it go as Andy rose from the table and ushered me into the kitchen with an offer to help shuttle in the rest of my attempts at cooking. Still, the second my feet hit the chipped linoleum denoting the start of my rental unit’s kitchen, I balled my hands into fists and released a frustrated groan.
Andy leaned against the kitchen sink and motioned me over for a power hug. “Let it go, Tobi. It’s just one dinner and there’s enough of us here we can talk around her if necessary. Don’t let her presence ruin a really cool idea.”
He was right and I knew it. But still, I had to have my say. Because, well, I’m not exactly a fan of silence. “Her presence shouldn’t even be an issue because she shouldn’t be here. This is supposed to be for family and friends. She qualifies as
