Barb grabbed her purse and excused herself.
“Hey, watch this.” Cade lifted his weak arm, made a fist, then released it. “Not bad, eh?”
I clapped loudly. “That’s fantastic! You’ll be painting again in no time.”
He started to make another fist, but this one fell apart halfway through. “Time being a relative term,” he said, but there was humor at the back of his voice. “So, tell me.” He glanced up at the open door. “Have you made any progress with… with…”
“With you-know-what?” I supplied.
His face, still uneven from the stroke, twisted into a smile. “Exactly.”
“Sort of,” I said.
“As I recall,” Cade said, “our deal was that you ask a few questions of a few people. You’re sticking to that agreement, yes?”
I filled him in on what I’d found out so far, ending with the fact that Hugo Edel had mentioned Carissa hanging out on Trock’s set. He did some nodding and some frowning, then said, “Trock Farrand. I’ve met the man. A little flighty, I’d say. Be careful, Minnie. Someone killed Carissa, and I don’t want anything happening to you.”
“Careful as I’d be in a crystal shop.”
“One more thing,” Cade said. “Please don’t say anything about your efforts to Barb.”
I blinked. And here I’d thought they shared everything. “If that’s what you want, sure. But why?”
“For her own peace of mind. Please. The police have been silent for days and if she hears you’re looking into this, she’ll be worried and get upset all over again and I don’t want that for her.”
I swallowed. True love. That’s what these two had. I couldn’t speak, so I gave a weak nod instead.
It must not have been very convincing, because Cade leaned forward. “I’m sure you think it’s silly, but—”
“That man thinks everything is silly,” Barb said as she breezed in. “Don’t take it personally, Minnie. The only thing he’s ever taken seriously in his life is his painting, and I’m not always sure about that.”
She smiled at her husband fondly. “Now, what was it you two were arguing about?”
“Whether or not ‘de rigueur’ is a real D word,” I said. “What do you think?”
She considered the question, then made her pronouncement. “Doubtful.”
“Darn,” I said, sighing dramatically, and left them to their evening.
Chapter 12
Two things accompanied me to bed that night, a brand-spanking-new copy of Bernard Cornwell’s latest historical novel and an Eddie. Both were heavy, but both gave me comfort, and after a relaxing hour of reading about the early days of England, I turned off the light and slept the night through.
The next morning, I was halfway through my prework preparations when I realized I wasn’t scheduled to work that day. And since I was the one who made up the schedule, there was no excuse for my early rising.
“Here I am,” I said. “All dressed up and almost ready to go. Now what?”
I asked the question of Eddie, who had squeezed himself onto the houseboat’s small dashboard. Since I docked the boat nose-out, the dash not only allowed a view of Janay Lake and the passing boats, but also showcased seagulls, mourning doves, swallows, the occasional evening bat, and every so often a bald eagle.
He hunched down and made a cackling noise at the feathered creatures that were wheeling about.
“You do realize those birds are on the other side of the window, don’t you?” I spooned up the last bite of cereal. The bottom of the bowl held a cat-sized pool of milk. “Ready, Eddie?”
The second he heard the light thump of the bowl hitting the floor, Eddie leapt down and trotted over for his morning treat.
I listened to the noise of his laps. “You know, my mother always said to eat with my mouth closed.” Eddie ignored me. When he finished with the milk, he sat down and began cleaning his back leg, which had mysteriously gotten dirty when he was drinking.
That wasn’t something I had much interest in watching, so I started sliding out of the booth.
My movement startled Eddie. He jumped, squirreled sideways, and fell over, all four legs scrambling for purchase on the smooth flooring. After an eternity of effort, he managed to right himself. One long jump later, he was back on the dashboard, staring at the birds as if nothing had happened.
But one thing had. Eddie’s bumbling antics had given me an idea for the day’s activities.
• • •
A little bit of Internet searching and one phone call later, I tracked down the location of the day’s filming of Trock’s Troubles, the cooking show that had made Trock Farrand a national celebrity.
Or at least a national celebrity in certain circles. For someone like me, who wasn’t overly interested in food except as fuel, the man’s name had scarcely been heard except from my aunt and my down-to-earth best friend who started talking in giggles when asked if there was any chance her restaurant was ever going to be featured on the show.
However, since said best friend was also the person who had confirmed that Farrand’s show was being taped at his house today, I forgave her future giggles and even made an internal vow not to make fun of her for turning into a bedazzled thirteen-year-old at the mention of the man’s name. After all, if I ever met Nancy Pearl, the famous librarian, I might get a little giggly, too.
I parked my car on the side of the road and walked up Farrand’s driveway. At this point, however, it looked more like a parking lot than anything else. Vans, SUVs, pickup trucks, and even a few sedans crowded the asphalt from garage door to right-of-way.
People milled about, some looking bored, some looking worried, some looking tense. But since none of them were paying any attention to me, I waltzed on past as if I belonged, nodding vaguely to everyone I passed.
“Morning,” I said calmly, and every one of them nodded back. Though I’d thought there’d be some sort of security in place, I didn’t see even a single guard keeping an eagle eye out.
It seemed weird, because Trock’s Troubles was a long-running television show and they were bound to get gawkers who could make a nuisance of themselves. But what did I know about taping a television show? I didn’t even know for sure if they called it taping or filming, and I certainly didn’t know who got to eat the food that was made during the show. Kristen said I was a Philistine to even think about something like that, but I thought it required careful consideration.
“Oh, man,” a male voice at my right shoulder muttered. “Not again. I can’t freaking believe it.”
I glanced at the guy. A few years older than me, with sharply defined arm muscles and white-blond hair, he was shaking his head and tucking a cell phone into his pocket. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
He looked at me. “You must be new,” he said, smiling in a sour way that still managed to be friendly. “Our friend Trock has a habit of changing the meal plan just as we’re starting to shoot. Throws everything off schedule something fierce. Trock says that’s part of the show’s charm, but I say he’s nuts.” He stared in the direction of the most activity. “The troubles that get on the air aren’t half of the troubles we have to suffer.”
I smiled and stuck out my hand. “Minnie Hamilton.” Whoever this guy was, and in spite of his harsh-sounding words, it was clear that he had a deep respect for Trock Farrand.
“Scruffy Gronkowski.”
I eyed the sharp crease in his khaki pants and the perfectly rolled collar of his polo shirt and raised my eyebrows.
He laughed. “Nickname from when I was a kid. It’s better than the name on my birth certificate, so what do I care? And since I’m the producer on this wretched show, I should probably know what you’re doing here.”