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Clarissa Barker, the owner, was only a decade or so older than us, or so I’d read on the internet. In person, she looked considerably older. Her face was lined, skin rough, nose red and bulbous. She telegraphed hard living.
But her kitchen was large and clean. I looked around, trying to imagine Laurel here. In college, she couldn’t even get a grilled cheese right. Maybe she’d stuck to serving.
“Ms. Barker?” Jamie wore what I was beginning to understand was his approachable reporter face, all gentle affability. I needed to work on my own.
Clarissa glanced up but didn’t stop mixing, arm muscles flexing. “I have to do this for two more minutes or the batter’s ruined.”
“That’s okay,” I said, trying on affable. “We can wait.”
She shook her head. “Go ahead and ask me your questions. I’ve got an event tonight, so I’m on deadline.”
“Right.” Jamie pulled out his phone. “Do you mind if I record you to use in the podcast?”
She managed to shrug while swirling. “Fine by me. My daughter loves listening to those things. Maybe she’ll get a kick out of it.”
“Great,” Jamie said. “We were—”
“You can start by quoting me on this,” Clarissa interrupted, wiping her brow. “I always knew I’d be answering questions about that girl one day.”
I leaned over the stainless-steel table. “You mean Laurel?”
“Yep. I figured it was only a matter of time before someone showed up on my doorstep.”
“Can you tell us what you remember about her?”
“Before you do,” Jamie said, “do you know anything about a company called Dominus Holdings? Is it connected to Hudson Delights in any way?”
Clarissa huffed a laugh, flashing yellowed teeth. “You think I got money for aholding? Nah. These days, I’m barely keeping my head above water. Never heard of it. Weird name.”
Jamie nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Tell us about Laurel.”
Clarissa stopped mixing, dropping the spatula with a clatter. “I hired Laurel about seven, eight years ago, something like that. She was a freshie, right out of college. Whitney, I think. I remember because she still had that glow on her, that ‘I just spent four years living on campus’ shine. With all those brick mansions and ivy trellises, soaking in money, you know? She knew nothing about catering, but she seemed desperate for the job, and I figured I could use some of that college polish to class up the joint. Plus, she was pretty—a little frail, but pretty. Which is something.” Clarissa cast me a knowing look. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”
“Shay went to Whitney, too, on a beauty pageant scholarship.” Jamie flashed me a grin. “You’re looking at Miss Texas 2009.”
You have no idea what it was like, I wanted to say. But that would only invite questions:So, what was it like?And Jamie had been the one who’d told me not to do it in the first place. He was being generous now, acting like he thought the pageants were something positive—an accomplishment, not an embarrassment.
“Good for you. Use what God gave you, I always say.” Clarissa raised an eyebrow. “I bet you didn’t tell your Whitney friends you were a beauty queen, though. I know the kinds of girls who go to that school. They’d eat you alive.”
I crossed my arms. “You said Laurel was desperate for the job. Why?”
Clarissa shrugged, moving to the large stainless-steel sink to wash her hands. “Don’t know. She practically begged me to hire her, said she’d do anything. At the time I figured she wanted to run her own catering firm one day and thought my shop would be a leg up. Back then, we were one of the most popular caterers in the area. Had some exclusive contracts.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I was living high on the hog.”
“How long did Laurel work for you?” Jamie asked.
Clarissa pulled the batter out of the mixing bowl and began kneading it with strong, sure hands. I dropped my eyes, her movements triggering a flood of memories: a bright flash of molten shame, a twinge of arousal.
Once, I’d kneaded dough naked on my hands and knees, and I’d liked it.
“I got a good year out of her.” Clarissa’s voice broke the spell, and I swallowed hard. “Then she started missing work. She’d lie, tell me she was sick, and then people would see her out around town. She started getting off-balance.”
“What do you mean?” Jamie asked. I was grateful he was doing the talking.
Clarissa shaped the dough. “Moody. Irritable. Erratic. When you’re a waiter, you have to be charming. Hell, at leastniceto your customers. I started cutting her shifts because she’d come in with bags under her eyes, all angry and sullen, and she’d back-talk the clients. I was starting to think she was on drugs, to be honest. They find any drugs in her system?”
None of this sounded remotely like sweet, accommodating Laurel. But maybe Clem’s death had broken something in both of us.
“None we know of,” Jamie said. “How’d she quit?”
