Boo Who (33 page)

Of course, these days he seemed to be a shadow of who he used to be. At the point he’d decided that his life had become completely empty, he’d found hope. He’d found purpose. But he couldn’t dismiss how odd it was to find purpose for your life while losing the very purpose you thought you were born for. Never in his life had he doubted he was supposed to be a writer. Now, there was a strange fulfillment in his life, coupled by a rare feeling of dismay. How could he feel purposeful and lost all at the same time?

He’d wanted to visit with the reverend about this, but these days, the reverend seemed as lost as anyone. But Wolfe knew from experience what a quiet moment of meditation could do for one’s soul. And there was nothing like staring into the fiery blaze of the earth’s light to scorch away misguided fears.

Ainsley had reassured him that she could do both: plan their wedding while following Alfred’s twelve steps to becoming Martha Stewart. But Wolfe could see the stress in her eyes, the way she strained to hold that charming smile he so loved to see.

He stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk as a slow-moving car passed by. The sun wasn’t quite tucked into bed, but its warmth had left and the chill of the streets had returned. He turned and walked back toward his house.

And he found himself praying.

He found it remarkable how prayer worked. Before, he’d thought it included a heavy amount of time on the knees, bowing and mumbling words one imagined the Lord wanted to hear. But he understood it now to be more conversational, not in an irreverent way, but in a comfortable way. He found it easy to praise, sometimes harder to ask for help.

Now, though, his life’s wishes seemed to be falling apart. His wedding day was looking shaky. And indeed, the woman of his dreams seemed to have other dreams she wanted to pursue. Not to mention that
his own passion for writing had not diminished, although he now had no idea what to write. He’d also discovered, sadly, that he really didn’t have any other talents that would be useful in the work environment. He knew for sure he was not cut out to sell cars, and he was beginning to suspect after his third romance novel that he was also not going to enjoy reading that genre for any reason.

He liked working at the bookstore, though the pace was horribly slow. At times he prayed for at least one customer to come in needing help, even if just looking for a romance novel.

Instead, most of his time was spent chatting with Dustin, who loved detailing the habits of his two pet snakes.

Oh Lord, how he wanted to marry Ainsley. He couldn’t imagine his life without her. His body ached at the thought of losing her. Then he almost laughed aloud, recalling those horrid romance novels he’d been reading. Maybe they weren’t so far from the truth after all.

As the midnight blue color of the night sky sketched itself over Skary, Wolfe felt very lonely.

The restaurant’s electric atmosphere seemed to feed the crowd around Ainsley. She was trying to pay attention to the conversation while taking it all in.

On her left was Chef Dante Elouise, well-known New York restaurant owner, who had not quite achieved the status of fame. Alfred had explained to her that many chefs were looking for opportunities to become the next Rocco or Emeril. On her right sat Marc Yeager, a Boston chef who had some short-lived success on the Home Shopping Network before one of the products he was touting ended up having a short in it that burned up seven kitchens across America.

Ainsley was enjoying some of the most exquisite food she’d ever tasted. The restaurant specialized in Hawaiian food, and she tried what they called butter fish. It melted in her mouth. But her appetite waned out of nervousness, especially as Alfred was going on and on about what
a superstar she would become. The two chefs seemed to buy it. They talked to her with a respect she’d never known from the professional world.

When it came time for her to share her desired menu for Melb’s reception, the two chefs praised her selection of recipes and the way she chose all the foods to complement one another. They gave subtle suggestions, which she approved of, and at the end, she thought this was going to be the best reception she’d ever attended.

They began discussing some of the particulars of shooting the pilot, and Alfred said, “You know, Ainsley, we are going to have to separate ourselves a bit from Martha Stewart. It will be considered old school after we’re finished with it. There’s a new show in town, and it’s going to outshine the rest. What I’m saying is that we have to be a little different. I think one way we do it is to have more of the reality aspect. Reality is hot right now. Seems like the trend will continue for a while. On our show, we’ll be set apart because we’ll actually have people eating the food. It’s not just for show, you know? It’s for enjoyment. You’ll really be cooking, not just pulling something out of the oven that’s been sitting there for an hour. Part of the show will be the real, live interaction of people. What do you think?”

Chef Dante spoke up. “Sounds like a lot of pressure.” Then he looked at Ainsley. “Pressure I am sure you can handle.”

Chef Marc said, “A lot can go wrong, but sometimes that’s what makes it interesting.”

Alfred nodded. “Exactly. And we don’t always have to have the high-paced atmosphere of a wedding reception. Sometimes it will be a dinner for friends. Or a picnic with children.”

Ainsley laughed. Already she could see how much fun this was going to be. Alfred squeezed her hand. “This is your moment, lady. Everything you’ve been working for.”

Chef Marc said, “It will be a pleasure working for you.”

“Indeed,” added Chef Dante.

“I know Melb is going to be so excited about all this. It will truly bless her.”

“Who is Melb?” Chef Marc asked.

“It’s her wedding we’re doing,” she said, a tinge of sadness clinging to her heart as she realized these men didn’t even have a clue how special this day would be for Melb. She cheered up by reminding herself that
she
knew, and that was all that mattered.

Alfred said, “I’ll call Melb tomorrow and tell her the menu. She’ll be ecstatic. I’m also going to have to tell her she’ll need to extend her guest list. We’re going to need a lot of people there.”

Chef Marc wiped his mouth with his napkin. “All right. We’ll get to work. There will be a lot of planning on this. I’ll be making the ingredients list. Dante will put together the timetable.”

“I can’t believe this. It’s almost like a dream!”

Alfred laughed. “It’s going to be a lot of hard work. Are you up for it?”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Alfred checked his watch. “We better get you two to the airport. Wish we could meet longer, but I know you’re busy, and I appreciate your time here.” All four stood and shook hands. Then Alfred said, “Ainsley, I’m going to go hail them a cab.”

“Okay. May I use your cell phone?”

“Sure.” He smiled and handed it to her. After the gentlemen left, she dialed Wolfe’s number, excitement building with every ring. But his answering machine picked up. “Wolfe? Wolfe? Are you there? It’s me … Hello?”

Only silence answered back.

“Okay, um, I just wanted to tell you about my evening. It was incredible. I was afraid I’d be home too late to call you tonight, so I’m using Alfred’s cell phone. I miss you. I’ll call you tomorrow. You’re not going to believe some of the stuff that’s going on! It’s so exciting. I love you. Bye.”

Wolfe sat in his living room, listening to her voice over the recorder. The cell phone static emphasized his feelings of disconnection. He didn’t
want to talk with her. He didn’t want to hear her exciting news. He just wanted her back in Skary, planning their wedding, loving him.

He closed his eyes as she hung up the phone. Part of him wanted to jump up, grab the receiver, and talk with her. But mostly he was disgruntled and angry. Admittedly, he was still feeling betrayed that she’d agreed to plan Melb’s entire reception without telling him. As far as he could tell, she didn’t have a thing planned for theirs.

Goose and Bunny whimpered their request to go outside. He sighed, wishing for an ounce of their eagerness. Instead his body felt heavy, burdened. He got up and let them outside, and decided to make some hot tea. While his tea steeped, he glanced over to his bookshelf and saw the copy of
Black Cats
that Missy Peeple had brought by at Christmas. He shook his head, holding the little tea string and bobbing the bag up and down in the cup. It was an odd thing to say there was a secret message in something you wrote and you didn’t even know about it. Common sense told him this was a bunch of nonsense. But the imaginative side of him wondered if it could be true.

He added cream and sugar and took his tea to the bookshelf, thinking of the story of
Black Cats
and wondering if there was any kind of significance to it. Sure, he’d gotten the idea by living in a town filled with cats. But that’s where he’d thought the similarities ended. Everything else had come straight from his imagination, or so he thought. Could he have been influenced by some unseen circumstance that had caused him to write a book about the mysteries behind a town?

The warm tea he sipped seemed to melt away these crazy theories. He smiled. It would make a great plot for a novel, though.

He took the book off the shelf, looking at the cover. It was the last book he’d written, one of his best. He’d enjoyed the process of it so much. As he sat back down, the blinking red light of his answering machine caught his attention, pulling his thoughts back to Ainsley. He flipped the pages of the book with his thumb. He didn’t want to feel this way about Ainsley, but these days it seemed the only way out of it was to not think of her at all.

Staring down at the book, he decided to flip it open. It was rare that
he even looked through a book of his once it was published. It was satisfying to see it in print. But he knew the book so well, there was never a need to look through it once it arrived between hard covers.

When he opened it, though, shock electrified his body. His jaw dropped and he let out a surprised laugh. There, in the middle pages of the book, was a small space cut out, just large enough for a … key. A key! It was taped to the inside of the hole.

Wolfe jumped up from his chair and hurried to the kitchen. He set the book down and carefully untaped the key. It was no bigger than his thumb. He checked the time. It was just after nine. He looked up Martins phone number and dialed it.

“Hello?”

“Martin, it’s Wolfe.”

“Hi Wolfe. What’s the matter? You sound—”

“Can you come over right now?”

“Sounds urgent.”

“It is.”

“I’ll be right there.”

CHAPTER 27

“I
CAN’T BELIEVE IT,”
Martin said. He stood in Wolfe Boone’s kitchen staring at the tiny key.

“So let’s go confront Miss Peeple about this. She’s given us some key, now let’s find out what it means.”

Martin grimaced. “One problem. She’s, well, sort of … possibly dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had to be rushed to the hospital this afternoon.”