thought, but didn’t say it. I slid onto one of the stools that was placed next to a beautifully finished, waist-high, dark-stained farmhouse table in the center of the kitchen. “So you had this all worked out before you died? I mean, before you left?”
“Yeah.” He took a chef’s apron off a hook near the door and wrapped it around himself. “I drew up a will making Robson the executor. I had him give some money to a few people and he kept the rest in trust.”
“What in the world happened to make you think you had to go through this charade?”
“It’s a long story, and I need to cook while I talk.” He pulled mushrooms out of the refrigerator and onions out of a bag in the pantry closet, grabbed a head of garlic from a basket on the counter, then cut bits of herbs from several pots perched along the kitchen windowsill. I recognized thyme, oregano, parsley, and basil.
“I never knew you were such a cook.”
“I never was until I moved here,” he said as he briskly chopped the garlic cloves into tiny pieces. “No choice, really. It was learn to cook or starve.”
He scraped all the garlic bits up with the knife and placed them in a small bowl. Then he handed me another knife and a small wood chopping board. “Can you mince the herbs together?”
“Sure.”
He patted my shoulder. “And while you’re at it, tell me why you came here.”
“Oh yeah. Okay.”
Although,
I reminded myself,
it’s
Max
who has the most explaining to do.
Walking back to the pantry, he pulled out two large jars of tomatoes and put them on the counter by the stove.
“Do you can those tomatoes yourself?”
“Yeah,” he said, picking up his knife again. “They taste better that way. Now talk.”
“Right.” I pushed the stool away and stood to work at the center table. Suddenly a great bundle of fur brushed against my ankles and I almost screamed.
“Meow.”
I looked down at the fat orange creature. “What’s this?”
“It’s a cat,” Max said. “That’s Clydesdale. Clyde, meet Brooklyn.”
“Hello, Clyde,” I said.
He blinked at me, wound his way in and out of my legs, then curled into a ball under the table.
I had to concentrate on chopping herbs and not my fingers as I told him the story. “A few days ago, I got a call from Ian McCullough at the Covington Library. He had a book for me to restore for their new children’s wing. I drove over there Friday morning to pick up the book and was surprised to see it was a copy of
Beauty and the Beast
.”
He stopped chopping and I noticed his grip on the knife was so tight, his hand was shaking. “Was it…” He shook his head and rolled his shoulders as if he were in a boxing ring, gearing up for a fight.
“Yes, it was the book I gave you and Emily.”
“So. She sold it.” He clamped his jaw shut, pressed his lips together. After a moment, he let out the breath he was holding and slowly continued his chopping.
Men.
I rolled my eyes, then said, “No, Max, she didn’t sell the book.”
His chopping stopped again and he flashed a suspicious frown at me, but said nothing.
“It’s true,” I insisted. “Two weeks after you
died
, someone broke into Emily’s house and stole the book. It’s been missing for three years and it just resurfaced thisweek.”
Kind of like you did,
I thought, but didn’t say it out loud.
“So…wait. I’m not following you. Explain how—”
“Just let me finish,” I said, knowing his mind would drift off to Emily if I didn’t get the story out fast. “I knew the book had been stolen from Emily years ago, so I had to break the news to Ian. He let me know who he bought it from, and I drove to that bookstore to talk to the owner, Joe Taylor. I wanted to find out who sold it to Joe—you know? Anyway, when I got there, I found Joe dead. His throat was cut.”
That shook Max up. “Jeez, Brooklyn.
“Yeah.” He took a chef’s apron off a hook near the door and wrapped it around himself. “I drew up a will making Robson the executor. I had him give some money to a few people and he kept the rest in trust.”
“What in the world happened to make you think you had to go through this charade?”
“It’s a long story, and I need to cook while I talk.” He pulled mushrooms out of the refrigerator and onions out of a bag in the pantry closet, grabbed a head of garlic from a basket on the counter, then cut bits of herbs from several pots perched along the kitchen windowsill. I recognized thyme, oregano, parsley, and basil.
“I never knew you were such a cook.”
“I never was until I moved here,” he said as he briskly chopped the garlic cloves into tiny pieces. “No choice, really. It was learn to cook or starve.”
He scraped all the garlic bits up with the knife and placed them in a small bowl. Then he handed me another knife and a small wood chopping board. “Can you mince the herbs together?”
“Sure.”
He patted my shoulder. “And while you’re at it, tell me why you came here.”
“Oh yeah. Okay.”
Although,
I reminded myself,
it’s
Max
who has the most explaining to do.
Walking back to the pantry, he pulled out two large jars of tomatoes and put them on the counter by the stove.
“Do you can those tomatoes yourself?”
“Yeah,” he said, picking up his knife again. “They taste better that way. Now talk.”
“Right.” I pushed the stool away and stood to work at the center table. Suddenly a great bundle of fur brushed against my ankles and I almost screamed.
“Meow.”
I looked down at the fat orange creature. “What’s this?”
“It’s a cat,” Max said. “That’s Clydesdale. Clyde, meet Brooklyn.”
“Hello, Clyde,” I said.
He blinked at me, wound his way in and out of my legs, then curled into a ball under the table.
I had to concentrate on chopping herbs and not my fingers as I told him the story. “A few days ago, I got a call from Ian McCullough at the Covington Library. He had a book for me to restore for their new children’s wing. I drove over there Friday morning to pick up the book and was surprised to see it was a copy of
Beauty and the Beast
.”
He stopped chopping and I noticed his grip on the knife was so tight, his hand was shaking. “Was it…” He shook his head and rolled his shoulders as if he were in a boxing ring, gearing up for a fight.
“Yes, it was the book I gave you and Emily.”
“So. She sold it.” He clamped his jaw shut, pressed his lips together. After a moment, he let out the breath he was holding and slowly continued his chopping.
Men.
I rolled my eyes, then said, “No, Max, she didn’t sell the book.”
His chopping stopped again and he flashed a suspicious frown at me, but said nothing.
“It’s true,” I insisted. “Two weeks after you
died
, someone broke into Emily’s house and stole the book. It’s been missing for three years and it just resurfaced thisweek.”
Kind of like you did,
I thought, but didn’t say it out loud.
“So…wait. I’m not following you. Explain how—”
“Just let me finish,” I said, knowing his mind would drift off to Emily if I didn’t get the story out fast. “I knew the book had been stolen from Emily years ago, so I had to break the news to Ian. He let me know who he bought it from, and I drove to that bookstore to talk to the owner, Joe Taylor. I wanted to find out who sold it to Joe—you know? Anyway, when I got there, I found Joe dead. His throat was cut.”
That shook Max up. “Jeez, Brooklyn.
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