Last Fairytale, The by Molly Greene Page A

self-assured grin. “I’ll assume Oliver is a gay man.”
    “You’d be right.”
    “Good. Then I’m still in the running.”
    Bree turned toward the kitchen, flustered, and Vonnegon followed.
    She pushed through the door and into a luscious sensory overload. Salvaged wood plank flooring dark with age anchored the ivory cabinetry and concrete counters. Rows of chrome restaurant shelving were piled in organized chaos with white dishes and old crockery.
    A collection of antique pudding tins graced the top shelf. Battered, hand-lettered, food-related signage covered the racks and walls, calling out cheery suggestions like Breakfast served all day, come on in! and Fresh farm eggs, and We cook it the way you like it .
    She chose a thick white crock just wide enough to hold the buds together, filled it halfway with cold water, then snipped an inch from the foot of each stem and arranged them, sleek and tight, in the vessel.
    “Would you like a glass of water or something?” She looked over her shoulder while she worked. He was standing in the open doorway, smiling at the pastiche of carefully arranged clutter.
    “No, thank you. Another time. We should head out. Our ride is waiting, and there will be plenty to drink at the end of it. Do you have something really warm to wear?”
    She led him back into the living room. “Will a down jacket do?”
    “Yes.”
    “Not just dinner down the street then.” She pulled on a coat over her slacks and blazer. She was curious what he’d planned for the evening. “Are we going to the Ice Capades?”
    Vonnegon smiled and shook his head.
    On the street, he held open the passenger door of a Mercedes sedan and closed it once she’d arranged herself in the seat. He angled in behind the wheel, snapped his seat belt closed, then eased into traffic. Ten minutes later he parked at the Commodore Heliport and helped her aboard a waiting chopper.
    Not the Ice Capades.
    “Hey Dave,” he called to the pilot.
    Bree tried to look blasé as he handed her in, strapped on her seatbelt, gave her a headset, and did the same for himself. Finally he signaled Dave the okay to take off.
    The sunset view of the bay from the air made for a breathtaking flight, and less than thirty minutes later they were miles away, being seated by the maître d’ at a candlelit table in the vineyard at Tra Vigne in Napa.
    The air was crisp. Outdoor heaters pumped out enough warmth to make eating outside idyllic. Taylor took Bree’s coat and pulled out her chair, then settled in and offered the wine list.
    “No, you choose.” Bree said. “I’m not qualified.”
    “Shall we start with a nice red?”
    She nodded and opened a menu, but quickly closed it and put it aside. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
    “Not often. Tonight I’ll make an exception.”
    “Why tonight? I mean, what is this? Why are we here?”
    “I hope you’re here to have dinner with a friend.”
    “Okay.”
    “What did you think this evening was about?”
    “I’m not sure. I didn’t think we hit it off the first few times we met, so I didn’t expect it to be quite so, well, quite so much like a date.”
    “Are you sorry it is?”
    “I’m expecting Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the grapevines and tell me I’ve been punked, so it’s hard to relax.”
    “That explains why your eyes keep darting around.”
    “Well, that plus the fact that before the date part starts, I’d like to talk about the night we met.” Bree took a deep breath. “What do you think happened to Ducane?”
    “If we’re going to talk about that, we need alcohol.” He motioned to the waiter, pointed to an entry on the wine list, then dropped his chin into his palm. “You deserve answers. I wish I had more, but I can only tell you what I suspect.”
    “Who or what killed him?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You must have a theory.”
    “He’d started to run with an edgy crowd. I think his friends may have introduced him to people who were a little left of the