Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) (10 page)

“Maybe.” The softness in my voice surprised me. “Or maybe not. Sometimes a person gets to you because there’s something very wrong with them.”

“What’s wrong with Christopher?”

I thought for a moment before it came to me. “The man actually
enjoys
arguing with me. Back in the cave, I swear his eyes lit up when I started to lose my temper. Like he was a vampire, sucking up all my negative emotions.”

Jessica looked up from her nails, her blue eyes bright and curious. “Really? You’ve never said that about him before.”

“I didn’t really get it until just now, in the caves.”

She nodded. “I’m no therapist, but I’ve dated a real assortment of guys. My non-professional opinion is that he’s insecure, and”—she paused to give me a wincing, apologetic look—“you scare him with your strength and independence.”

I practically snorted. “Isn’t that what we women always tell each other when things don’t work out with a guy?”

“Sure, but with you, it’s actually true. You’ve achieved so much in your life. You already own a house and a retail business with employees, and now you’re turning into a brilliant detective.”

I glanced over at the stack of books, some of them still uncracked. “We’ll see about that.”

Chapter 11
 

Jessica and I
were the first ones to arrive at the dining room. We got there in time to catch the
alpenglow
—a red band of light on the mountaintops to the east, formed as the sun set in the west.

Jessica tried to capture the view with her camera, but even when she used the panorama setting, the photo couldn’t live up to the real thing.

We stood at the window, admiring both the outside view as well as the dining room, which looked stunning despite the construction materials. After a few minutes, Marie banged through the kitchen’s swinging doors with a rolling trolley. She wore the same understated gray dress as before, but with plain black flats instead of the red clogs.

“We must be early,” Jessica said apologetically.

Marie replied, over the sound of chattering glassware on the trolley, “Everyone else is late. Typical. Those boys are always late.”

She bumped one wheel of the trolley over a workman’s stray hammer, shaking her delicate freight. Jessica and I dove to steady the bottles of wine before they crashed to the floor.

“Thank you so much,” Marie said, her voice cracking as though she was on the verge of a meltdown. “I’m such an idiot to think I could handle this by myself.”

I patted her on the back. “Launching a new business is never easy. What you’re feeling is normal. Everything will work out fine.”

She blinked back tears. “That’s what Butch says, too, but of course he can say that, because he has a wife who always takes care of everything. Who do I have?”

“Soon you’ll have staff,” I said. “And in the meantime, you have the two of us. I’m not as handy as Jessica, but I can probably wash a few dishes without setting the place on fire.”

She sniffed, mumbled a thank-you, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Jessica leaned across the trolley and whispered, “Can I tell you something scandalous?”

“Is it that Butch and Marie are having cash flow problems? That’s not going to stay a secret for long. I think Christopher’s here to get in on the first round of investing, at bargain rates.”

Jessica wrinkled her nose. “This scandal isn’t about boring money stuff. It’s about Franco. I think Marie’s so nervous because she has an enormous crush on him.”

“Was he the stoner dude, or the skinny guy?”

“They both looked like stoners to me, but Franco’s the scrawny one, Della’s boyfriend.” She tidied up the glasses on the trolley and started opening a bottle of Chardonnay. “When I was helping Marie with dinner prep, she kept going on and on about how Della was a spoiled brat who didn’t deserve someone like Franco.”

“Wow.” I picked up a glass and held it out for her to fill. “Do Franco and Marie have some history? Did they date when they were younger?”

Jessica looked around carefully to ensure we were still alone, then whispered, “They used to
do stuff
in the treehouse, but it was top secret. She was his side girl, on and off, while he chased after more popular girls.”

I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

Jessica asked, “Something wrong with that wine?”

“Not the wine. I just hate the idea of a guy who would string a girl along like that. I wonder if he’ll be up to his old tricks during their reunion.” I chuckled at the thought. “Marie’s married now. Franco had better not try anything stupid, or he’s liable to get himself thrown off the side of the mountain by Butch Fairchild.”

“Who?” A man’s voice boomed across the dining room. “Speak of the devil and he appears.” It was Butch, who had entered in time to hear his name.

Jessica and I exchanged a worried look. I hoped that the tail end of the conversation was all he’d heard.

Butch joined us at the drinks trolley. “Now I’ve put a damper on the conversation.” He rubbed one large hand over his smooth-shaved head, buffing it to a shine. “Ladies, please go back to whatever you were discussing, which was… what, exactly?”

I waved my hand casually. “Just those websites with all the reviews on businesses. There are some real cranks out there, who post things that aren’t true. For example, someone named
Kartman879
is always complaining about the lackluster knife sharpening at my gift store. We don’t even sell knives, much less sharpen them. I was just telling Jessica that if the lodge gets one of those cranks, you’ll throw them off the side of the mountain.”

Butch grinned. “I sure would. And I’d make sure they landed outside of the property line, so it didn’t hike up my insurance.”

He filled his glass and raised it to ours.

Jessica said, “Someone should make a toast. Stormy, your father always does the Irish toasts. I bet you know a few good ones.”

Butch insisted, so I recited the first one that came to mind, as taught to me by my father.

“
May neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you.
” We clinked our glasses as I added, in my best Irish brogue, “
And may you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you’re dead.
”

We finished the toast, then went to the dining room’s windows to catch the last seconds of alpenglow.

The next person to join us was one of the Fox and Hound partners, Dion, looking sweaty and uncomfortable in a purple silk shirt one size too small. His round cheeks looked even fuller above the too-tight collar, but his smile was as bright as ever.

“I don’t dress fancy that often,” Dion said in his deep baritone voice as he unbuttoned the tight purple collar. “I might have put on a couple of pounds since the last time I wore this shirt. I’ve been stress-eating like a madman.”

“Running a business is challenging,” I said. “How do you like owning a pub? The Fox and Hound always looks busy whenever I’ve been there. You must be doing well.”

“Business is good,” Dion said. He asked what line of work we were both in, and didn’t offer further comment on what he’d been stress-eating over.

We made small talk about the view for a few minutes, then Franco and Della arrived. Franco wore a novelty T-shirt, black with a printed design of a tuxedo on the front. The shirt was large and hung loosely on his thin frame.

Della wore a very short, form-fitting dress that showed off her curves and smooth skin. Her gleaming black hair fell artfully over her bare shoulders. She was the picture of a young star, and Franco, in his silly tuxedo T-shirt, looked like her seedy manager.

Marie came out to make sure people were getting their drinks. She said, “How is everyone? Dion, you look great in purple. Franco, I’m so glad to see you got dressed up.”

Franco smoothed the front of his T-shirt and pretended to straighten the printed-on bowtie.

Marie turned to Della and started to say something, but choked on her words. Sputtering, she looked the girl up and down, from cleavage to bare legs and back to cleavage again. Then, mumbling about something burning, Marie turned on her heel and left for the kitchen.

Della didn’t seem to notice, much less care. If anything, she looked bored, and kept checking her phone.

The group’s conversation returned to the view, and the notion of further tourism development on the mountain. Franco and Dion joked about opening a second Fox and Hound on a neighboring peak.

While the others talked, I whispered to Jessica, “You’re right about Marie carrying a torch for Franco. I don’t get it. What’s the appeal?”

“Franco’s got the whole rebellious thing going on. He’s in his forties, but he’s still a bad boy.”

“Bad? I guess so. Like bad yogurt or bad cottage cheese.”

Jessica snorted. “Oh, Stormy. You know what my grandma says.
If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit beside me.
”

A new person entered the dining room, and some of the others yelled, “Benji!”

Franco said, “The chemistry geek has arrived! Benji, are you going to whip us up some magical martinis that won’t give us hangovers?”

Benji had sandy-brown hair, plain glasses with silver frames, and a high-tech, expensive-looking watch peeking out from the sleeve of an ill-fitting and out-of-style brown suit.

Jessica caught my eye and shrugged. I sensed she’d been hoping the ninth and final person to join us would be cute and single, but Benji was far from her type. He was so shy that when she shook his hand, he looked as if he was melting.

Christopher arrived a few minutes later, wearing a sport coat with dark jeans and a pair of Vans sneakers. He avoided eye contact with me and stuck close to his cousin.

The wine flowed freely, and the group seemed to be coming together nicely, despite the twenty-year age difference between the oldest, Franco, and the youngest, his girlfriend Della.

Watching the interactions between the three guys who’d been part of the treehouse gang, I guessed their group dynamic hadn’t changed over the years. Franco was the cool guy, the leader who came up with the ideas. Dion was his sidekick, his right-hand man. And Benjamin was the geeky one, the book-smart kid whose homework they copied.

Marie returned with a tray of appetizers. She would have been the girl they always hung out with, yet didn’t see as a
real
girl. I felt sorry for her as she held up the tray, practically begging to be noticed, while they scooped up food by the handful and kept talking.

She squeaked, “How is everything?”

Benji, who’d been relatively quiet, loosened his too-short tie. “The food is more than satisfactory. Thank you for inviting us, Monsterpants.”

Franco and Dion laughed like hyenas.

Franco shook Benji by the shoulders. “Benji, you haven’t changed at all, you geek. And I totally forgot about Monsterpants.”

Butch gave the guys a quizzical look. “Monsterpants? Is that a nickname? Marie told me she’s never had any nicknames.” He turned to his wife. “Monsterpants?”

Her face as red as a summer radish, she choked out, “Those stupid big sweatpants! They were way too big for me, so I had them in a bag, because I was going to return them. And then these two idiots climbed into them at the same time.” She pointed at Dion and Franco, who were howling with laughter.

Marie stamped her foot. “I am not a monster!” She shot them all scathing looks, then left again for the kitchen.

Butch cleared his throat and silenced the laughter with a stern gaze. “That’s my wife you’re talking about. Do you really want me to toss you over the side of the mountain?”

The three looked guiltily at each other while Benji stammered that he’d meant nothing by it.

Butch said, “And she’s also the chef. Unless you plan to miss tomorrow morning’s crepe buffet or the other meals she has planned, I suggest you stop calling her Monsterpants.” He walked toward the kitchen, calling back, “You’d better show my wife the respect she deserves.”

Once Butch was gone, Dion said, “It’s all on us if she poisons the food.”

“Naw, she’s fine,” Franco said. “Marie, always did have a good sense of humor. She’s quiet at first, but she’s got that big laugh.”

“As big as those sweatpants?” Dion asked.

Franco grinned. “Nothing could be as big as those sweatpants.” He explained to young Della, at his side, “She wasn’t returning them. She wore those sweatpants constantly. What Marie
says
she did and what she
really
did rarely match up.”

Della pursed her full lips, her face taking on a catty quality. “You mean she’s a liar?”

The three guys looked at each other for a moment, then Benji said, “Marie is our friend.”

Franco chuckled. “Sure. Our
good
friend. Remember the stories she used to tell about what she and Benji got up to in that old car of his? The one with the full bench seats?”

Benji’s cheeks reddened. He’d refused wine, taking a can of cola instead, and now drank from his can in gulps, as though his mouth was dry. Either Benji suffered from underdeveloped social skills or he had something to hide. Or, judging by the way he was sweating, both.

Dion asked Benji, “What ever happened to that old car of yours? It was a Plymouth Volaré, right? Why didn’t you sell it to me? I loved that car.”