The Iced Princess (14 page)

I nodded at Dad and swallowed, trying to move the lump out of my throat. I gave each of my parents a reassuring hug. If Emmy really was Molly's killer, we'd all be thankful she had been caught.

W
hen I got home, I parked in the front of the house so I didn't have to cross the backyard in the dark. Clint had told me to install better lighting, and his warnings about taking personal safety precautions were starting to get to me. The windy night was playing tricks with the leafless branches of the trees, making them look like long arms reaching out for victims. My imagination was not my best friend at the moment.

I climbed out of my car as fast as I could, locked it, and looked around for anyone who may be lurking in the neighborhood. “Hello,” a voice called from behind me, and I stopped breathing for a few seconds. I held on tight to my keys, prepared to use them as a weapon if I had to. The voice belonged to my next-door neighbor who appeared from beside the giant oak on the boulevard. My fear of what trees
could do was not so outlandish after all. They provided great hiding places.

“Oh, hi, have a nice evening,” I said and made a mad dash for my front door. When I glanced back, my neighbor was standing there, holding on to a dog's leash. I hadn't even noticed the dog a moment ago, proof that people had tunnel vision when they're afraid. The poor guy probably wondered what my problem was, and I had to wonder the same thing. I let myself in and took another look at the moving branches before I closed the door on them. “You need to get a grip,” I told myself.

Logically, I knew it was silly to be so scared, but since I could not seem to steer my brain toward logic at that particular moment, I had to distract myself in another way. I turned on the light in the front entry then opened the closet door and hung up my coat. I wandered into the living room, turned on the lamps, and stood for a moment, appreciating the few treasures that were still in the house from Sandra, the former owner. Sandra was a special woman in my life mainly because she'd been my birth mother's best lifetime friend. Sadly, my mother's life was only twenty-seven years long.

Sandra was gracious, kind, and giving to a fault. And it seemed to me when I moved into her house that it still retained the same positive energy it had when she was alive. The little bird in her cuckoo clock startled me when it popped out. I took a look at it: 7:30 p.m. Too much had happened in the last ninety minutes, and it would take time for it all to sink in. My stomach rumbled a bit, reminding me I hadn't had dinner. I'd bought the ingredients to make a chicken stir fry the night before Molly's death, and I figured if I didn't use them soon, they'd spoil.

I gathered the frying pan, sesame seed oil, teriyaki sauce, and a pound of sliced chicken breasts. Then I grabbed two cloves of garlic, fresh ginger root, a can of sliced water chestnuts, an onion, and a pint of baby bella mushrooms. A bag of baby carrots, a head of broccoli, and a small bag of fresh green beans joined the rest of the ingredients, and I was ready to get cooking. I added a couple of teaspoons of oil to the pan, peeled and pressed the garlic, and added it in, too. Next, I grated some ginger then peeled and sliced the onion and slid it in the pan, then turned on the burner. When the onions had softened a bit, I stirred in the chicken and took an appreciative sniff of the yummy smells.

When the chicken had browned, I added the mushrooms, water chestnuts, and vegetables and cooked them until they were soft but not mushy. Then I sprinkled some teriyaki sauce over the dish and declared it ready to eat. As I pulled a plate out of the cupboard, I thought of the family dinners I'd had growing up and how different they were from the more recent years when I'd lived alone. It was more fun to cook for family or friends, but I liked good food, and there was nothing like a home-cooked meal, in my opinion.

The sound of my ringing doorbell caused me to lose the grip on the plate. Fortunately, it was about a half inch from the countertop and didn't have far to fall. I had been way too jumpy since I'd found poor Molly dead in the bathroom, and I hoped I'd get over it before too long. If the police would just get to the bottom of her murder, that would be a great help to my emotional state.

I rushed to the living room window and pulled back the curtain to see who was at my door. Of all the bad luck; it
was Clinton Lonsbury. Probably there to chew me out for something I may or may not have done.

He knocked on the door, obviously impatient that it took me more than thirty seconds to let him in. “Camryn, it's Clint.”

I unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Yes?”

“Do you mind if I come in?” When I didn't object right off the bat, he stepped in and turned his head toward the kitchen. “What is that?”

I whipped around to see what he was referring to. “What?”

“Food. It smells good enough to eat.”

“Oh, well, I hope so.”

“Am I interrupting your supper?”

“Not yet. I was just about to sit down.”

He nodded. “I'll take off, then. I just stopped by to apologize for being short with you.” Which time was he talking about? He was “short” with me all the time. “You were trying to be helpful when you said Mrs. Ryland and Mrs. Andersohn should be separated, and I took it the wrong way.”

“Oh, okay.” Somehow his apology broke down my defenses, or maybe it was that I didn't want to be alone what with the wind howling outside. Or maybe it was because I hadn't cooked for anyone else for a while. Whatever the reason, I said, “Have you had supper?”

His eyebrows rose. “Why, no, I haven't had a chance.”

“If you like chicken and vegetable stir fry, you're welcome to join me. When I cook, it always ends up being enough to feed at least six people.”

He actually smiled then slipped out of his jacket and laid it on the couch on his way to the kitchen. It was there he
discovered something about me he may not have believed, had he not seen it with his own eyes. I was a very messy cook. Very, very messy. But as Mom had told me many times over the years, “Cami, now I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings, but when you cook or bake, no one makes that much of a mess.” Then she'd smile and finish, “Or can clean up better than you can.” My claim to fame. Little-known fame. In all the years I'd been on my own, very few people had seen my kitchen in its meltdown state.

Clint set one foot in the kitchen and stopped cold. “You must have one good therapy session planned.”

The man was insufferable. I'd let it slip that I found cleaning therapeutic, and he had found several occasions to rub it my face after that. “Yes, that's the sole reason I cook.”

He looked at me long enough to make me blush then turned his attention to the pan on the stove. Clint walked over and inhaled like he was taking his last breath on earth. When he turned and gave me a big, genuine smile of appreciation, my color deepened, and something inside of me melted a bit. For that one moment in time, I let myself admire what a hunk he was when he allowed a happy expression to crack through his normal granite exterior.

“Can I do anything to help?” Clint asked. He was sincere, and I immediately forgave him for the therapy crack.

Of course his question meant that I should answer him. It should have been simple enough, but the state of my kitchen distracted me. I had never had a guest for dinner with utensils and food scraps scattered around, filling the counter spaces. I wouldn't be able to relax surrounded by the mess while we ate. “Um, do you ever drink beer?”

He smiled again. “I have been known to do that on occasion.”

I felt more melting deep inside of me. “How about, like, now?”

His eyebrows went up and down once. “That sounds good.”

I opened the refrigerator door. I had bought a Minnesota brewers' sampler pack with three different beers. Actually, two kinds of beer and a pale ale. I pulled out the pack and set it on the counter. “Any preference?”

Clint stepped closer and lifted one of the pale ales from the case. “One of my favorites.”

I found a bottle opener in a drawer and handed it to him. “If you could take your drink into the living room, maybe catch the news on TV for a few minutes, I'll finish up in here.”

The way he frowned at me seemed to say,
Are you serious?

“Please,” I said.

He cracked the top off his bottle, nodded, then went into the next room. I heard voices on the television a minute later. I drove into a frenzied cleanup, discarding onion and garlic peels and all the other waste I had created. Then I loaded the dishwasher with all the food preparation supplies and wiped down the stove and counter. The small dining room was off the kitchen. I had never had a meal there but kept a tablecloth on the table, just in case. I added a plate to the one I had taken out before Clint arrived, grabbed utensils and napkins, and set the table. Then I scooped the stir fry into a large bowl, added a serving spoon, and put it and the bottle of teriyaki sauce on the table.

I went to the doorway of the kitchen to call Clint to the
table. He was sitting on the edge of the couch watching a nature show. “All set,” I said, and he clicked off the television with the remote he was holding. He stood up, grabbed his drink from the coffee table, and came into the kitchen.

“How did you do that so fast? I don't think I took three sips of beer.”

I shrugged. “I learned early on that the faster I got done with my chores, the sooner I got to play.”

“Just what kind of play are you proposing here?” He raised his eyebrows.

In retrospect, I realized I had set myself up for that one, but it was too late to take back my words. “Or go shopping, or meet my friends, or eat. Like now. And we should, before the food gets cold.”

“We should. Where would you like me to sit?”

I pointed at the table. “Either place. Would you like another drink?”

Clint shook his head. “I'm still nursing this one.”

I got a pale ale for myself then sat across from Clint. I'd set the food on the table in between the place settings and now pushed the bowl closer to him. “Help yourself. I would have made rice to go with it if I'd known you were coming.”

“Thanks, this looks hearty enough without rice. I don't do much cooking myself.” He dished a generous portion onto his plate.

“We had a home-cooked meal every night growing up. I notice the difference in how I feel eating good food versus junk food.”

Clint stabbed a piece of chicken and popped it in his mouth. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “That's what I'm talking about.”

The corners of my lips lifted as I dished stir fry onto my own plate. We held off on talking while we ate, and thankfully, it was more difficult to argue about things when our mouths were full.

After Clint had polished off a second helping, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “That was the best meal I've had in a long time.”

Really? “Thank you. I have ice cream, if you're still hungry.”

“I'm stuffed, but thanks, anyway.”

“I'm glad you stopped by and stayed for dinner. I was feeling kind of jumpy when I got home.”

He studied my face. “Jumpy?”

“With everything that has happened the last couple of days, it's almost too much to process. And after I told my parents about Emmy, my dad said what if Emmy turns out to be a serial killer with other victims nobody knows about.”

Clint frowned. “In any case, it's something we can look into; track where she's lived and if there have been any suspicious deaths in the area.”

That made me feel even worse for Emmy, whether she deserved it or not. If she had hurt others, she needed to pay for her crimes. Maybe I was naïve. And I had been fooled by people before, but I wasn't convinced Emmy had killed either her husband or Molly Dalton.

“Have you told Irene Ryland why Emmy is in jail?” I asked.

Clint shook his head. “Mark and I talked about it and felt it was best to wait until after they make their court appearances, see what happens there. We felt she has enough to deal with for now. We did inform Will Dalton, however.”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much, just, ‘Good, I had my suspicions about her.'”

“I'm surprised Will Dalton even knows Emmy.”

“It's a small town.”

“But what about Emmy would make him suspicious in the first place?”

“I asked him what he'd meant, what gave him ‘suspicions,' and he said it was more of a gut feeling, no real reason. So when I told him what her real name was, it convinced him he was probably right about his gut feelings.”

“Or he's just trying to act like a know-it-all.”

“That's a possibility, too.” Clint got out of his chair and picked up his plate. “I'll get these washed up,” he said.

“Don't worry about it. I have a dishwasher.”

Clint carried his plate to the kitchen, and I followed with my own. He glanced down at his watch. “If you're sure, then, I'll get out of your hair.”

It was close to nine o'clock, much later than my usual dinner hour. Clint went into the living room, picked up his coat from the couch, slipped it on, and then turned to me. I was surprised when he stuck his right hand out, like he wanted to shake mine. “Thanks again.”

Not knowing what else to do, I shook his hand. His grip was firm, and his hand was warm and comforting. That surprised me a little. Not the firm and warm part; it was the comforting part that threw me off. “You're welcome.”

“And there's something I wanted to give you, if it's all right.” He dropped his hand, and I wondered what in the world he might have stuffed in his pocket for me that I may or may not want to accept. But he didn't reach into his pocket; his hands came toward me instead. One slipped around my
waist and settled in the middle of my back. The other lifted my chin, and his mouth closed over mine for a brief kiss. The whole thing lasted a nanosecond, but my heart rate seemed to soar into triple digits, like I had just run a fast sprint.

Clint's lips were still near mine when he whispered, “Good night, Camryn.” Then he slipped out the door. I was momentarily tempted to go after him to beg him to come back for one more kiss. And then I remembered who he was and who I was, and that rushing after him would be a bad idea indeed.