I eyed her coldly. “You could have a little more sympathy for my situation.”
“And you need dessert.” She picked up the phone and dialed the kitchen. “Harvey? No, not the crème brûlée, not tonight. What she needs is a piece of the new thing. You know. Thanks.” She replaced the receiver and leaned back in her chair. “Just think: If this Jennifer person turns into the new director, you have nowhere to go but up.”
She had a point, but it was even more likely that Ms. Jennifer Walker would want a new assistant director to replace the one named Minnie, whom she’d fired her first day on the job.
“What did everyone else think about her?” Kristen asked.
I slid down a little farther. “They’re begging me to give the board my application.”
The board had toured Ms. Walker through the building and then taken her upstairs to the boardroom for the interview. The staff had immediately congregated in the break room to discuss the potential boss, and their knee-jerk reactions had been overwhelmingly negative.
“Did you see her face?” Kelsey had asked. “All screwed up tight?”
“Well,” I’d said, “Eddie had just heaved his stomach contents onto her Italian shoes.” Which I’d only known were Italian because she’d told me so when I’d tried to help clean them. “That’s not likely to bring out the best in anyone.”
“She could have asked how Eddie was,” Donna had said. “All she cared about was her stupid shoes. Who wears shoes like that in Chilson, anyway?”
My point that anyone would have expected their shoes to be safe in a public library was ignored.
“It was like she’d never seen a cat before,” Josh had added. “Lots of libraries have cats. She looked at Eddie like he should never have been born.”
The thought had chilled me. If Eddie had never been born, my life would be the lesser for it. He brought me comfort and companionship, and if Ms. Walker became the new Stephen, would she want to ban Eddie from the bookmobile? I’d bit my lip and tried not to worry. She was only the first candidate, after all.
“Minnie,” Holly had said sternly, “you have to apply for the job. Just think if that . . . that witch is our new boss. She’s just like Stephen.”
Heads around the room had nodded, mine included, because from the little I’d seen of her, she might be even more strict and have even less of a sense of humor than Stephen.
“Then it’s settled,” Holly said, dusting off her hands. “Minnie’s going to apply. They’ll have to interview them all, just to say they did, but they’ll hire Minnie in the end.” She’d sent me a brilliant smile.
“But—”
I’d wanted them to know that all I’d been nodding about was that Ms. Walker was Stephen-like, not that I’d apply for the job, but my explanation was lost in the shuffle as everyone left the room, satisfied that life would be good from here on out.
Kristen thumped her long legs up onto her desk. “And are you going to? Apply, I mean?”
“Do you have a date for Trock yet?”
She gave me a look, knowing that I was trying to change the subject, and decided to let me. “Yes. Tuesday.”
“The second Tuesday in July, you mean?”
Kristen’s restaurant was scheduled to appear on an episode of Trock’s Troubles, a nationally syndicated television show hosted by Trock Farrand, who owned a nearby summer home. Trock also had an adult son, Scruffy Gronkowski, who was currently dating Kristen.
Three Seasons had been short-listed for the show before she’d met Scruffy, but it had taken a lot of Trock’s convincing her that the other restaurateurs in the area wouldn’t hate her for being on the show of her boyfriend’s father. “They will love you for it,” he’d said. “After the show, people will come to this adorably quaint town for a weekend, and since they won’t be able to eat at Three Seasons three times a day, they will eat elsewhere, yes? Yes.”
My friend leaned back and yawned. “No, I mean next Tuesday.”
“What?” I squeaked. “Like the Tuesday that’s”—I made a quick count on my fingers—“five days from now?”
“Just like.” She put her hands behind her head, trying to act all nonchalant, but failed completely, since a huge grin was lighting her face from ear to ear.
“When did the date get changed?” Last I’d known, the taping had been scheduled for mid-July, with an October air date. That was unfortunate for two reasons; one, July was the busiest month of the year in Chilson, and tripping over a television crew wasn’t going to help get dinners served any faster, and two, an October air date was worse than useless, because Kristen closed the place down around Halloween.
“Just yesterday,” Kristen said. “A restaurant that was set to be on the show burned to the ground the other night, so they bumped me up.” Her smile faded. “Horrible thing, to have your place burn. I hope they get back on their feet soon.”
Knowing Kristen, she’d start a social-media campaign to support them in their time of need and send a hefty check. “And when will you be on TV?”
Her grin reappeared. “That’s getting moved up, too. Scruffy says he’ll rush the production and get it on the air the second week of August.”
“Hmm.” I squinted at her. “I’m trying to think of better timing, but I can’t think what it could be. What did you do to deserve all this good fortune, anyway?”
“Not a thing,” she said promptly. “Except this.” She nodded behind me, and Harvey bustled into the room, carrying a tray and a tray stand. Smoothly, he set up the stand, settled the tray down, tidied the small arrangement of flowers, straightened the silverware and napkins, and pulled off the silver domes that covered the plates.
“Your desserts, madams,” he said in a suave, butlerlike tone that wasn’t anything like his usual voice, and retreated.
I gaped while Kristen pulled her chair around the desk to sit opposite the tray from me. Four adorable little crepes the size of my palm were stacked with alternate layers of sliced strawberries and whipped cream. A massive chocolate-dipped strawberry topped the creation, and an artistic chocolate drizzle decorated the entire plate. It was almost too pretty to eat, but Kristen would have my head if I didn’t put a fork into it, so I did. If possible, it tasted better than it looked. “You’re a genius,” I said solemnly.
Kristen nodded. “I know.”
I took another bite, then asked, “Say, who should I talk to about the DeKeysers?” Kristen and Rafe, being Chilson born and bred, were my sources for insider knowledge. If they didn’t know the dirt on someone, there was a roughly 99.9 percent chance they’d know someone who did. And since I was convincing myself that Andrea’s death was somehow linked to Talia DeKeyser’s passing, getting background on the DeKeysers was a good starting place.
My friend stared at me. “Does this have to do with Andrea Vennard’s murder? Don’t you dare tell me you’re getting mixed up in that. Remember what happened last time.”
“Yeah, I ruined my cell.” The water resistance of cell phones clearly needed to be improved. Sure, I’d accidentally immersed the thing for nearly twenty minutes, but still.
“And you were almost killed,” Kristen said accusingly.
“Like the man said, the report of my death was an exaggeration.”
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“Mark Twain,” I said, sighing and shaking my head. “See what a PhD in biochemistry got you? An unrounded education.” I finished the last bite of dessert and laid my fork across the plate. “Can I come and watch the filming?”
“Not a chance.”
“Please? I promise I won’t make faces at you.”
She snorted. “Now, that’s a promise that you can’t possibly keep. See? You’re making a face right now.”
I flattened my expression, which felt really strange. Something else I needed to work on. Next week, maybe. “So, who should I talk to about the DeKeysers?”
“No one,” she muttered.