Love You to Death (9 page)

A
five-hour drive gave me a lot of time to think. Namely of why. Why, why, why was someone after my ex-boyfriends? If I looked at it that way, Mary-Kate Darling looked a lot less guilty and more like someone pissed off at the world for taking her fiancé.

Fact A: Tom Greer broke up with me via e-mail. The next day he was pushed in front of a truck.

Fact B: Riley Witherspoon broke up with me via telephone. Two days later a pit bull snacked on his leg.

Fact C: Ted Puck broke up with me—Hey, wait a minute. Ted hadn’t broken up with me; he’d cheated on me and had gotten caught. He’d said he was going to “tell me anyway,” but would he have? If he’d strung along me and Twinkle and Ariella, maybe he would have strung along me, them and Mary-Kate. Maybe he’d figured kinky wouldn’t last past a month.

Interesting. Ted hadn’t broken up with me. Not the way Riley and Tom had. What Ted had done was pull a Charlie Heath—he’d gone the passive-aggressive route and let his actions engineer the breakup for him.

And Charlie Heath was (a) still alive and (b) apparently not the victim of foul play, or I would have heard about it.

But I’d been crazy about Ted and Charlie and only in serious like with Riley and Tom. Why wait six months, till Ted was engaged, to go after him? Hopefully Charlie wasn’t planning on proposing to anyone.

I practically stopped short, which wasn’t a problem because there was no one behind me and hadn’t been for thirty miles. I pulled over to think. Would the killer go after Charlie if he got engaged? Was Henry Fiddler saved because he’d pulled a Charlie/Ted and let his actions do the dumping? Actually, I had to amend that. Henry hadn’t broken up with me so much as he’d ditched me and taken off so he wouldn’t have to go to the bris. I hadn’t called him to tell him he was a wussy superjerk and that we were
through;
he hadn’t called me to tell me that since I probably hated his guts anyway, we might as well call it quits. We just both assumed correctly.

I rolled my eyes at myself and pulled back onto the road. As if the killer was thinking this hard? Analyzing my breakups down to the boring details? Doubtful.

Which led me back to who. And why. If I could figure out the why, maybe it would lead me to the who. Or maybe if I figured out the who, I could just ask him or her the why and call it a day.

I would have liked to call it a day right now. Welcome To Moose City greeted me via a green sign on the side of the road. There was nothing
but
road. And trees. I wouldn’t mind seeing a moose. Not in front of my car, of course.

Ah. There—up ahead was another sign. Moose City Center. I turned off the highway and followed a curve for a mile and came upon a village square, which looked very quaint.
Moose City Boulevard, make left,
said Marcella’s directions to my bed-and-breakfast, which was called Fowler’s Inn. Marcella had chosen well (
of course
she had). The inn was a gorgeous antique farmhouse in the middle of the village, which was as quaint as New England villages came. There was a clapboard general store and several eateries, which catered to skiers and snowmobilers. (Moose City was well-known for its miles of trails, both beginner and advanced.)

I pulled into the parking area next to the big red barn and lugged my suitcase up the porch steps. I was so looking forward to my cozy room, my heavy-down-comforter-covered king-size bed, a hot bubble bath and a good night’s sleep—not that I expected
that.

A jangling bell overhead announced my arrival, and I was immediately welcomed to the inn and Moose City by the proprietors, a fiftyish couple who introduced themselves as the Fowlers, Ed and Mary-Jane. Ed took my suitcase, and they led me to a good-sized room with wide plank floors, quilts on the walls, a thick down comforter on the bed and a private bathroom with radiant-heat floors. No need for the Winnie the Pooh slippers. On the bedside table was a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a mug, with a selection of teas and a note: “Hot water available in common room at all times.”

I unpacked and sifted through the stack of brochures next to the cookies. Marcella had been instructed not to tell the Fowlers that I was there on business as Best Of editor. Otherwise, the small town of Moose City would roll out the red carpet when they saw me coming, and that would skew the results. I’d done some research online before I left and I had a few places on my to-visit list, but I figured I’d find most of the establishments to visit by walking through the village. There were at least three restaurants, each of which served breakfast, lunch and dinner. I could easily hit them all between today and Sunday morning. There were also two coffee bars, a few shops that sold mostly ski gear, two bakeries, three hair salons, three bookstores, four antique stores and two fortune-tellers.

Ha! I could have my fortune told complements of
Maine Life
magazine. The one that said my future didn’t involve prison would be declared Best.

I was about to hit the common room with my brochures and a tea bag when there was a knock at my door.

“Abby, it’s Benjamin Orr.”

Oh, for God’s sake. He had to be kidding.

I opened the door, and there was Ben’s gorgeous face. “You trailed me to Moose City? You really do think I’m guilty, don’t you?”

“I’m just doing my job, Abby. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me, since I’m here and you’re here and you need to find the best steak in Moose City.”

Charming. I had to remember that.

“Actually, for my first meal I was planning to hunt down the best
moose
steak in Moose City,” I said. “You do like moose, don’t you?”

That famous unreadable expression failed him for just a moment, then he broke into a smile. “You’re good. I’ll have to remember that.”

We thought alike.

The plan was to meet in the common room in half an hour. The moment the door closed between us, I tore through the closet and chest of drawers. I’d once read in a women’s magazine that a seasoned traveler always packed for every occasion, even if she was headed to snow country in the middle—or should I say
top
—of nowhere. I’d brought mostly warm-weather clothes—heavy jeans and heavy sweaters—but also my black wrap dress and my knee-high boots, one pair of good black pants, one skirt (f lippy and red) and one slightly low-cut cashmere-esque black sweater.

I was deciding between my white everyday bra and my black push-up when a little something called reality grabbed me by the shoulders. I stared at myself in the mirror.

This was
not
a date.

I opted for the
Maine Life
magazine dress code: a combination of business casual meets dress-down Friday. Black boot-cut pants and the slightly low-cut black sweater. I was glad I didn’t go the appropriate-for-Moose City route; Ben was wearing nice pants, dark gray, and a gray sweater. I smelled just a hint of aftershave.

“You look nice,” he said, standing up.

This is not a date. This is not a date. This is not a date.
“You, too,” I said.

“Ready?” he asked.

The Fowlers came out of the dining room and burst into smiles at the sight of us.

“Well, isn’t that nice!” Mary-Jane said, her hand over her heart. She leaned forward and whispered, “Separate rooms. You don’t see a lot of that nowadays.”

Ed nodded and smiled his appreciation, as well. “You two enjoy yourselves,” he said, holding open the door. “It’s a cold one.”

It was. The moment we stepped outside, a blast of cold air sneaked inside my down coat. A temperature gauge attached to a tree in front of the inn read twenty-one degrees. Ben and I pulled on our gloves and zipped up our coats to the chin.

“So I guess you didn’t inform our kind hosts that you’re a big-city detective and I’m a murder suspect,” I said.

“There’s no need. None of your exes live around here. I checked.”

“You’re very thorough,” I said.

“I have to be.”

“So I assume you checked out whether or not Ted was dating anyone else when he was dating me?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And—” He stopped walking. “Are you sure you want to know? You might not like what you hear, Abby.”

“Oh, I love hearing that I’m a suspect for murder—and attempted murder.”

“Gotcha,” he said, and resumed walking. “He was dating two other women. He went out with both only a few times and ended the relationship, one by phone, the other in person, a couple of weeks before he met Mary-Kate.”

“Why didn’t he end things with me?” I wondered aloud.

“Maybe he wasn’t sure he wanted to,” Ben said.

“Then he wouldn’t have cheated on me at my party. He wanted out. He wanted to get caught.”

Ben nodded. “Sounds like it.”

“I hate dating.”

He smiled. “Everyone does.”

“Including you?” I asked.

He pointed at a tree a few feet in front of us. “Is that white pine?” He studied the bark intently.

“You could just say no comment, you know.”

“No comment,” he said, shooting me a smile.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I see. This is a one-sided question-and-answer session.”

“That’s right.”

At least he was reminding me—often—that this definitely was not a date.

This is not a date. This is not a date. This is not a date.

Benjamin Orr is not a guy. He’s a cop. A detective who trailed you five hours away!

“So about Twinkle and Ariella,” I said as we crossed the street. “I assume they had airtight alibis.”

“Abby, I can’t discuss the case with you.”

“Well, if you’re here and not there, then I assume they did have airtight alibis.”

“I’ll tell you what they didn’t have,” he said. “They didn’t have two other ex-boyfriends who were the victims of attempted murder.”

There wasn’t much I could say to that.

Actually, there was! “Unless I’m being framed!”

“Framed backward?” he asked. “Push one ex in front of a truck that may or may not kill him. Send a pit bull to attack another ex, who may or may not end up dead. Yet shoot, at point-blank range, Ted Puck, who broke up with you six months ago, seemingly because he got engaged to another woman. It doesn’t add up to a frame job, Abby.”

“It also doesn’t add up to me,” I said. “I mean, I know it looks like I had something to do with it all, as they were all my former boyfriends. But I had nothing to do with any of it!”

“We’re investigating all leads, Abby. That is what I can tell you.”

“But I’m your biggest. I have to be if I’ve moved up from person of interest to prime suspect. If my family and coworkers are scared to death of me. You’ve apparently spoken to everyone I ever walked past. Did you really have to talk to the girl who tormented me in elementary school? Did you know she e-mailed me an apology, lest I track her down and make her pay for calling me beanpole?”

He eyed me. “You filled out nicely.”

I sucked in a breath. That was flirting. That was pure, one hundred percent flirting!

“Just a statement of fact,” he said. “No one could call you a beanpole now. At the Portland police station, body type is crucial in ID’ing perps and/or victims.”

Oh. So maybe he wasn’t flirting.

Whatever he was or wasn’t doing, I was about to tell him, again, that he was wasting his time—that I didn’t kill or try to kill anyone—but for just the moment I wanted to fantasize that Benjamin Orr was mine. That we were a couple away for a long weekend. That a dream I’d had at sixteen had come true. That he
was
flirting.

“Tonight’s restaurant is the Moose City Tavern,” I told Ben as we continued down Moose City Boulevard. “It’s just a few doors away. Here it is,” I said, peering in the front door. “Hey, it’s pretty crowded.”

The hostess led us to a candlelit table by a window. Too romantic.

Within minutes we had menus, had ordered and our soup and salads were served.

“This is not the best Caesar salad in Moose City,” I whispered to Ben. “They forgot the grating of Parmesan cheese. And the chef was stingy with the croutons.”

“The clam chowder’s delicious,” he said, holding up a spoonful to me.

He surprised me. I leaned forward and took it with my mouth, aware that he was watching me.

“Mmm. You’re right. That is good. Thick and flavorful. One more spoonful to be sure I can declare it the best?”

He smiled and fed me again.

“Yes, that is definitely in the running for best,” I said, taking my own mini notebook out of my purse and jotting down some thoughts on the soup. “You’re not the only one with a notebook, you know.”

Our entrées arrived. For Ben, the filet mignon. For me, swordfish.

“Not bad,” Ben said. He forked a piece for me and held it up.

“Mmm again,” I said. “That’s actually delicious.”

“I wouldn’t call it the best, though,” he said. “And I know steak.”

I smiled. “You’ll be my judge, then.” I glanced up at him, my appetite gone. In a way, he
was
my judge.

“I’d love a bite of the swordfish,” he said.

I forked a piece for him and he took it with his mouth. I couldn’t take my eyes off his lips.

“Really good,” he said. “So tell me, Abby Foote, if you were the answer to a Best Of, what would it be?”

I glanced at him. “I have no idea.”

“Sure you do. Best cook? Best practical joker?”

“I’m not a practical joker,” I said, realizing that he was slyly investigating me.

“You have a sarcastic streak, though,” he said. “Unless what you said to your brother-in-law wasn’t meant to be sarcastic.”

“It was,” I said.

“Were you upset that you weren’t named godmother?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I can understand why they wouldn’t name a single person godmother.”

“But were you upset?” he repeated.

“A little, I guess. I might have been more upset if they’d named Opal godmother. But they chose Oliver’s married sister.”

“Do you want children?” he asked.