“As far as I’m concerned, the case is wide open. I’m looking at all suspects. It could be someone close to Gene. Or it could be someone who just arrived in town. I’m doing ballistics tests on your weapon today.”
“Why my weapon? If Vera’s has already been tested, why do you need mine?”
“That’s police business.” He sat there staring at me, implying that, despite his denial, my sister and I were in fact his prime suspects. He was playing some kind of cop mind game with us.
Any earlier, pleasant thoughts I’d had about Detective Alex Holt dried up.
“Well. I’ve got to be going.” I climbed to my feet. “It’s not in my best interest to sit here and talk to you.”
“Didn’t you have something you wanted to tell me about Gene?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Since I’m apparently a suspect, I’m going to ponder whether I need to hire a lawyer. Unlike my sister, I’m not cool with inadvertently incriminating myself. I don’t like taking risks.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “You’re a gator trapper who doesn’t like taking risks?”
“Gators are more predictable than humans,” I snapped. Somehow his smirk annoyed me. Entitled prick. “Have a good day, detective.”
Chapter Eight
That night, I took out all of my frustrations on a bowl of Caesar salad dressing. First I whisked the egg yolks to a yellow goo, then added two different oils—that was the secret to great Caesar dressing, olive and grapeseed oil—and finally, crushed four garlic cloves and mashed them to a pulp with a small tin of anchovies. Once everything was well combined, I added a hefty sprinkle of salt and Parmesan, then tossed it all into a bowl with freshly washed romaine.
I’d learned this recipe from a chef I once dated. Too bad he would piss with the door open—even while I was eating breakfast. That infatuation had dried up quickly.
My cell phone pinged with a text, and at first I didn’t recognize the number.
“Oh, it’s Amos,” I muttered aloud.
Hey, FYI. The name of the computer hacker/animal rights guy is Diego Viernes. He lives above Cheesy Does It in the second-floor apartment. You might want to keep your eyes open because he really dislikes gator trappers.
Thanks a bunch, I texted back.
Vera walked into the kitchen. “You think this will be enough food for three people?”
She eyed the ginormous bowl of lettuce while reaching for a baguette.
I stowed my phone in my back pocket.
“Jack said he’s making a tray of lasagna.” I wiped down the counter with short, furious movements. “A tray implies that he’s making a lot of food.”
“You don’t have to be snippy. It’s obvious you don’t want Jack here, but I thought it would be neighborly to all have dinner together.”
She walked out before I could respond.
I didn’t disagree, but I was still annoyed. Just when I’d hoped to have a night with my sister alone to talk about everything—and ask why she was being so evasive—she’d gone and invited Jack over.
It wasn’t that I disliked him. He seemed like a decent enough person. But after my day of inadvertently gathering clues, I wanted to share them with Vera and not deal with being a hostess and making small talk with a stranger.
It also meant that I had to keep my bra on for a few more hours. Fricking torture devices, if you ask me.
I heard my sister’s chipper voice in the hall. Jack was here, and by the sounds of it, she was gushing over his food.
“Let’s put it in the dining room. Oh my gosh, it looks amazing!” she squealed.
I grabbed a corkscrew, a bottle of pinot noir, and three glasses, set them on a tray, and headed out.
“Hello, hello,” I called out, pasting on a smile. It was difficult for me to lie about my emotions, but it wasn’t fair to take my annoyance out on Jack. After all, he was new in town, staying here for six months, and alone.
I remembered that feeling well from when I moved to Boston.
