Boo (16 page)

“Now, I’m adding a dash of red wine vinegar here. When in doubt, add red wine vinegar to sautéed vegetables.” She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was listening.

He was. Intently. He never knew cooking could be so interesting. But part of him knew it wasn’t the cooking he was so interested in.

“I’m going to add the garlic now. You don’t want to add garlic too early, but if you add it too late, you’re not going to get the flavor you want.” She looked over at the large pot of spaghetti boiling in water. “Looks like the pasta is cooking up nicely. We’ll watch it closely. There’s nothing worse than overcooked pasta. Except undercooked chicken.”

He stepped next to her and watched her as she threw the garlic into the skillet. “You’re very good at this. I could never take a look in the refrigerator and pantry and come up with something to cook.”

She shrugged lightly. “Years of practice, I guess. And an insatiable appetite for Martha.”

“Martha?”

“Stewart. She’s pretty much my hero of all that is domestic and homey.”

“Ah. Well, she should watch out. Her protégée seems hot on her trail.”

Ainsley obviously relished that compliment. She added a little more olive oil and stirred the vegetables, causing them to sizzle. Setting the spoon down, she turned to him. “I have to confess something.”

Her jubilant demeanor had vanished. Her face was serious. “Okay.”
He swallowed hard. What was she going to confess? If she was going to confess what he hoped she was going to confess, then he should confess his feelings for her too. It was only fair, and he suddenly drew great boldness from her. By the look on her face, this was no small thing she was about to say. “I’ve got something to confess too.”

Her neatly arched eyebrows rose with interest. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, okay. But I bet it isn’t as embarrassing as what I’m about to confess.”

His hands found his pockets, and he felt heat creep up his neck. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

She smiled slightly, but her face was still serious. “Well, okay.” She gripped the counter and took in a deep breath, hardly able to look him in the eye.

“Go ahead. Please.”

She straightened her shoulders and engaged his eyes. “All right. Here it is. I butter my spaghetti.” She threw up her arms and hung her head as if she’d just confessed to grand larceny.

Wolfe blinked and wondered if he’d heard right. “I’m sorry. You … you butter your … your what?”

“My spaghetti. It’s not something I tell a lot of people. If Martha were dead, she’d roll over in her grave. I’m not proud of it, but I tell you this. If Martha came over to my house, and I was cooking spaghetti, I’d butter it. We’d have a grand debate, and I’m sure she’d win in the end, but I like my spaghetti buttered, and doggone it, I’m not going to apologize for it!” Her delicate features were intense with opinion, and Wolfe found himself utterly speechless. “You’re looking at me weird. Have I forever marred your image of me?”

Wolfe tried to recover. “No. No … of course not. I mean, I think buttering is … um … why is buttering bad again?”

“Because,” she said intently, “then the pasta won’t stick together. That’s the whole magic of pasta. That’s how you can eat it with some kind of grace. When it’s buttered, it slips and slides right off your fork. It takes much more effort to get it into your mouth, that’s for sure.”

“I see.”

“But it tastes so good that way. And sometimes I think Martha overlooks simple things like what spaghetti
tastes
like with butter. She stares into that television screen as she’s draining the water from her spaghetti and says in that deep voice of hers, ‘Never, ever butter your pasta.’ It makes me cringe.” She salted and peppered the vegetables with authority, then turned her attention back to Wolfe, who was still trying to figure out where he’d missed it. “Now, yours can’t be that embarrassing.”

“Mine?”

“Your confession.”

Dread pinched the corners of his heart. Oh yeah. His confession. What in the world was he going to say now?

“Well, c’mon. I told you my deep, dark secret. Now it’s your turn.” She smiled sweetly at him, and for a moment he thought he might actually confess all his feelings for her. Then he scolded himself for being so stupid as to think that she might confess feelings for him. They barely knew each other, for heaven’s sake.

“I don’t even know how to cook spaghetti.”

She laughed. “You don’t?”

He shook his head, wondering if that confession, which was a lie, was a worse proclamation than the fact that he’d been in love with her for years. “I, uh, thought you nuked it in the microwave.”

She laughed heartily and shook her own head. “Well, that is quite a confession. How long has this package of spaghetti been in your pantry?”

Three days. “Three years.” He smiled sheepishly, and she patted him on the back.

“I hope you’ve been paying attention, then.” She pointed to the pot. “Boil the water, add a little salt, add the spaghetti, then boil uncovered for seven to nine minutes until it’s al dente … that’s slightly firm.”

“Got it. I’m happy to know now.”

“Good! Glad I could help.” She took a fork and snatched a piece of spaghetti out of the pot. She handled the steaming string delicately, and then threw it in the air. It hit the ceiling and stuck. “Perfect!”

He stared up at it. “What’d you do that for?”

“That’s how you can tell if your spaghetti is ready. If it sticks, it’s done.” She took the pot and poured the water out into the sink. Wolfe turned off the fire on the stove. She returned the pot to the stove and took a stick of butter out of the refrigerator. “Here it goes.” She cut several pieces off the butter and put it on the spaghetti. She finished and looked at Wolfe, who was staring at the ceiling. “It’ll fall in about three minutes.”

“Oh. Good.”

The doorbell rang, and suddenly Wolfe remembered he was expecting company other than Ainsley.

“That must be the reverend. I’ll get the door.” Wolfe left the kitchen. He opened the front door and found the reverend standing on his porch, right on time.

“Wolfe! Hello! Thank you so much for inviting me to dinner.”

Wolfe smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you for coming. Come on inside.” Wolfe took the reverend’s coat and hat and hung it in the coat closet.

“Smells wonderful,” the reverend said with a smile.

“Well,” Wolfe said in a hushed voice, “we’re lucky enough to have a special cook this evening.”

“No kidding?”

Wolfe gestured toward the kitchen. The reverend peeked around the corner and saw Ainsley, who smiled and waved. The reverend waved back and turned to Wolfe. “My, the Lord can work quickly sometimes, can’t He?”

Wolfe laughed, then cleared his throat as Ainsley moved to the entryway to greet Reverend Peck. “Hi there,” she said and hugged him tightly.

“What a delight!” the reverend said. “Two of my favorite people here. Dinner will be marvelous.”

“Let me get you some coffee, Reverend,” Wolfe offered. He went back into the kitchen while Ainsley and the reverend made their way into the living room. He took a mug and poured the coffee, but his mind was still numb from what had just taken place in the kitchen.
What kind of idiot was he to think Ainsley Parker was going to stand in his kitchen and wear her heart on her sleeve? He shook his head and wondered if love had made him crazy.

He stood at the counter and resolved to be at his best tonight. He had to be charming, witty, smooth, and debonair. Everything he did tonight was going to be important. If he didn’t win her tonight, he might not get another chance. He stood up straight and adjusted his shirt, making sure all corners were tucked in.

He walked into the living room and smiled engagingly as Ainsley and the reverend were speaking.

But she stood suddenly, her bright face dulling ever so slowly. “I’m sorry, Wolfe. I can’t stay.”

“You can’t? But … but you cooked the whole meal.”

“I ruined your first meal,” she said with a small smile. “Besides, you and the reverend will have a lovely time together.”

Wolfe’s enthusiasm deflated. “Okay.”

Then she laughed. Wolfe tried to laugh but had no idea what they were laughing at, and could only imagine that it was something he said.

Ainsley finally controlled herself enough to wink at him, point to his hair, and say, “I guess that spaghetti finally fell off the ceiling.”

M
ARTIN
B
LARTY
, the town treasurer and a lifelong Skary resident, blinked as if he had something in his eye, but Missy knew it was just shock registering. She sat there quietly across the booth from him, sipping her beverage as if they’d just been discussing the weather.

“Marty, dear, take a drink.” She pointed to his water.

His startled eyes complemented his scowling face nicely. “You know how I hate to be called Marty.”

She played dumb. “Oh? Why’s that—oh my, yes. I see. Then it would be Marty Blarty. I’m old, dear. Forgetful.” How easily she could play that card!

Martin had small eyes, a small mouth, and a big face, and as Missy studied his features she realized what a nightmare it must be for him to find decent looking glasses. Perhaps that’s why he always squinted so much. He could never find the right kind of glasses.

He looked over his shoulder and all around the restaurant before saying, “I don’t know how you found this out, but it’s none of your business.”

“Marty, I’m not judging. Listen, it’s a nice Chevrolet. If Oliver didn’t have the right kind of car at his car lot, then why not go somewhere else?” Everyone knew how very upset Oliver could get when he learned an acquaintance had bought a car elsewhere.

Martin’s eyes shifted back and forth. “Look, he’s my friend. We’ve been friends for years. But Gordon MacNamera next county over had the same car for two thousand dollars less,
with
power windows.”

“You don’t have to explain, dear.”

“I’ve had the car for twenty-four hours, kept it in my garage mostly. How did you know this?”

“That’s not why I’m here anyway.”

Martin blinked hastily again. He looked down at his untouched food. “Then why are you here? I don’t recall seeing you much at this restaurant.”

“No, dear. I hate the food. Who in their right mind could eat something called Swamp Mud?”

“Why are you here?”

“To warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“Yes. You see, there’s a man in town. And he’s here to write a book about Skary.”

“Oh?”

“Well, we are quite famous.”

“True.” Martin looked apprehensively at Missy. “What exactly are you warning me about?”

“Well, no doubt he’s digging for dirt. Sells better, you know. I just wanted you to know your secret is safe with me.”

Just the word
secret
caused his eyes to blink even faster.

“What secret?”

“Oh, you know, that little thing that happened between you and the mayor.”

The blood drained from his face. “What … um, what thing?”

Missy was amused. She never knew this little tidbit of information would come in quite so handy. “Oh, you know,” she said in a loud voice, “when you covered up his embezzling—”

“Ssshhhhhh!”
Martin practically screamed.

“What, dear? I’m half deaf.”

“Well, I’m not! Lower your voice!”

“Oh. Sorry. Yes. I do sometimes speak a little too loudly.”

Martin blotted sweat off his brow. “How’d you know about that?”

“Oh, honey, it’s not important. I mean, who cares what a little old lady like me knows, right?”

Martin grumbled. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m just saying that this fellow might be poking his nose where it
doesn’t belong, you see. Wanting information. And I just want you to know that your secret is safe with me.” She winked. “Along with where you bought your car. Though you’d better come up with some explanation for that. You know Oliver. He’ll ask questions.”

Martin breathed heavily and stared at the table. “The mayor is a friend. He had a moment of weakness. He’s nearly paid it all back.” He glanced up at Missy.

She grinned empathetically. “You don’t have to tell me, Marty. I’m the mayor’s biggest fan.”

Though shaken, Martin seemed to be easing off the ulcer a bit and took a bite of his food.

“Listen,” Missy said, “I’ll let you get back to your lunch.”

“Fine.”

Missy smiled down at him as she stood. Yes, Marty Blarty would come in very handy, very soon. But first, while she was here, she had to take care of one little detail.