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Jane peered at him more closely, trying to read his eyes, his expression. If he was lying, he was damn good at it. “You’re telling me you don’t know anything about it?”
“I don’t!” He spread out his hands as though that might somehow convince her. “Where’d she get cut?”
“On the arm. Averil was the one who told me about it.”
He stepped back. “And how did she know?”
The door opened and his sister stepped out.
“Why didn’t you tell me what happened to Talulah?” he asked her right away.
Averil stopped long enough to let her son slide down her body to reach the ground, at which point he rushed over to get back in the water. “Because I thought...” She looked to Jane for support but Jane remained silent. “Weallthought—”
“That it wasme?” He brought a hand to his chest. “Ididn’t do it!”
Jane was beginning to believe him. “Then who did?”
“I have no idea!” he replied.
Averil came to the pool and got in, although she stayed on the steps. “I’m so glad. I was afraid you’d get in trouble.”
“I’m glad, too,” Jane said. “But...who else would be mad enough to throw a rock through her window?”
“It could’ve been anyone,” Averil said with a shrug. “We’re not the only ones who hate her.”
Charlie seemed genuinely bewildered. Averil did, too—or so Jane thought. But then she realized something that made her slightly uneasy. While Charlie was full of questions, it was Averil who had all the answers. That would’ve been fine; after all, she’d talked to Brant this morning, and he’d probably told her what had happened. That was how she knew. She’d even seen Talulah and the bandage on her arm.
The problem was...something about her manner just didn’t seem right.
Paul still wouldn’t answer his phone. He wouldn’t even respond to Talulah’s text messages.
Will you please talk to me?
I’m sorry you’re upset. Can we have a conversation?
Paul? I’ve called the diner three times. They say you’re not there.
Will you be at work tonight?
Was he going to leave the staff high and dry at the diner with no manager? Did he feel what had happened warranted that reaction? If so, why? Personal aspects aside, the diner was his business, too.
In spite of the worry and the upset—and the constant checking of her phone—Talulah had cleaned up the dishes and started on the carrot cakes she planned to serve for dessert at the funeral dinner.
She wished she didn’t have to bake today, however. There was too much going on in her life. And although the weather outside had cooled slightly, having the oven on for so long heated the kitchen until it was as sweltering as it had been during the heat wave.
Fortunately, she had Brant’s portable air cooler. She’d never been more grateful for it. She also had his flowers. After she’d gotten home this morning, she’d taken them from the living room and set them on the windowsill over the sink where she could see them while she worked. She’d told herself she’d done that because she needed the positivity and encouragement they offered, but she knew that wasn’t all of it. She just didn’t want to examine her motives any more closely.
After mopping the sweat from her face with one of her aunt’s many flour sack towels, she turned her fifteenth and last cake round out of the pan and onto the counter. She could’ve chosen to do a simple one-layer oblong cake. That would’ve been easier to make, transport and serve. But she’d decided to do the food for a reason, so she was making the same tall, triple-layer round cake that was so popular at the diner. Because there was no more room in the fridge, however, she had to wait until after the sun went down to mix the cream cheese frosting. Otherwise, it might melt and the cakes wouldn’t show well, even after all the extra effort.
Tired of being on her feet all day, she was sitting at the dining table eating a caprese sandwich, with olive oil and fresh herbs and spices drizzled over the buffalo mozzarella, when she finally heard her phone ping with an incoming text.
Assuming it was from Paul, she felt her stomach tense. “Here goes,” she whispered to herself. But when she picked up the phone, she saw that it wasn’t her partner. It was Brant.
How’s your arm?
Dared she answer him? It would be smarter to break contact completely. Today, she’d thought of him almost as many times as she’d thought of Paul, and she knew that wasn’t a good sign. But a simple text exchange seemed innocuous enough.
Okay, I guess.
