Deep tide, p.13
Deep Tide, page 13
He took the folder. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
• • •
Leyla created a perfect petal, and then another and another. She finished piping the flower on the square of parchment paper and then examined her work.
Fifty-two down, forty-eight to go. She set the blossom beside the other buttercream flowers on the baking sheet. Then she shook out her sore arm and started again.
She could be at the Nautilus right now, drinking wine and sampling Anton Devereux’s supposedly “innovative” Texas-Creole cuisine. A teeny, tiny part of her regretted her decision not to go. She’d been wanting to try the place for months. Sean had guessed right. Of course she wanted to see what one of the island’s few classically trained chefs was doing.
But it wasn’t a guess. Sean knew she was competitive, and he had no qualms at all about using that knowledge to try to get her to go on a date with him. She was impressed by his tenacity and his ability to read people. Or at least, to read her. He’d been doing it since that first night on the beach.
But maybe she wasn’t hard to read. It wasn’t like she tried to hide the fact that she was competitive. She took pride in it. Growing up with three brothers, it was either compete or get left behind, and she’d carried that attitude into adulthood. It was her competitive nature that had led her to rent out a shuttered ice cream parlor and turn it into one of the island’s most popular cafés. And then she’d aggressively grown the business, expanding to a second location and then starting a catering firm, all in a matter of four short years. None of that would have happened without her competitive streak, and she was proud of how far she’d come. While some of her friends from culinary school were still toiling away as line cooks in Manhattan, Leyla was running her own company, calling her own shots in a place all her own.
Of course, her place wasn’t exactly in a trendy location. Some people might even consider it a backwater. But she’d grown up here, so it was her backwater, and she felt a sense of excitement watching Lost Beach transform from a sleepy shrimping town into something more eclectic. Her hometown was changing every day, gaining restaurants and bars and food trucks. They even had their own microbrewery now.
And then there was the true pull of doing what she did.
She loved it.
She loved the beautiful chaos of a busy kitchen. She loved the smell of fresh bread dough, the clatter of pans, the hiss and groan of the espresso machine. She loved the subversive comradery of cooks and servers bantering back and forth. She loved the pure, simple pleasure of making something good with her hands, something pretty and delicious and—on a good day—maybe even inspiring. Leyla took pride in her work, and she knew that it showed, and that it was the reason people came back to her humble little café again and again.
A blur of motion caught her eye, and she noticed Siena waving from the doorway.
Leyla plucked out her earbuds.
“She had her music in,” Siena said over her shoulder. Then she turned to Leyla. “You have a visitor,” she told her, lifting an eyebrow.
Sean stepped into the kitchen, and Leyla felt a rush of giddiness.
“Hi.” She set down her piping bag. “What brings you here?”
“Just dropping by.”
Siena was watching them with a curious smile.
“Siena, did you meet Sean at Joel’s wedding?”
“I did not.” She turned to him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sean.”
“Likewise.”
“Well, I’m all done out there.” She grinned at Leyla. “See you in the morning, Ley.”
Siena vanished, leaving Leyla alone in her kitchen with the one man she’d ever known who could turn her knees to Jell-O with a single kiss.
He stepped over to the counter. “Damn, that’s a lot of roses,” he said.
“I’m about halfway done,” she said. “And they’re cherry blossoms.”
He tipped his head. “Okay. I see it now. We get those in D.C. every spring. They have a festival on the Mall.”
“Yes, I know.” She smiled. “This bride is from Virginia, so this is her theme.”
He glanced at the five-tier cake in the refrigerated display case behind her. Leyla had frosted it with buttercream earlier. “So, these go on the wedding cake?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Mind if I watch?”
A little tingle went through her. “Not at all.”
She picked up a flower nail and secured a square of parchment to it with a dab of icing. Then she started a new flower, glad for something to do with her hands. She piped each petal, rotating the nail as she worked.
“I saw that I missed your call earlier,” Sean said.
“Yep.” She added the new blossom to the baking sheet. Each flower had five petals made of pale pink icing, so five hundred petals for the entire cake. It was completely over the top, but so was this bride.
She glanced up, and Sean was leaning against the counter, watching her.
“You didn’t leave a message,” he said.
“Yeah. No, I wanted to talk to you in person.”
She set her bag down and grabbed a towel.
“Everything okay?” he asked, looking worried.
“It has to do with the investigation, so I didn’t want to leave it in a message.”
He looked guarded now.
“You’ve asked me several times whether Amelia had a boyfriend. I gathered it wasn’t just a casual question, so I did some digging.”
His eyebrows tipped up.
“I chatted with one of my baristas this afternoon—a girl who had a lot of overlap with Amelia’s schedule. I asked some questions about boyfriends, and she mentioned something I thought you’d find interesting.” She set the towel down and rested her hand on her hip. “Amelia didn’t have a boyfriend per se in the last year or so, but this spring she went on a couple of dates with a guy from Seattle.”
Interest sparked in Sean’s eyes. “Who?”
“This friend didn’t know his name. Amelia had mentioned he owned a tech company, and this girl got the impression it was a startup.”
Sean pursed his lips.
“I know what you’re thinking. Gagnon’s company isn’t exactly a startup. It’s worth, like, two-point-four billion dollars.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“I looked it up. But anyway, it just so happens that Gagnon is from Seattle, so I thought you might be interested.”
Sean didn’t respond.
“Seeing as how you’re investigating the man?”
Again, no response.
She rolled her eyes. “Are you seriously going to pretend you’re not?”
“This isn’t a conversation I want to have with you.”
“Okay, fine. Just take the tip and do what you will with it.” She slid the sheet of flowers into the fridge and then stepped over to her standing mixer. Using a spatula, she spooned pink icing up the sides of the piping bag and then added a scoop of white, which would create the gradient effect she wanted.
She looked over at Sean. “What?”
“I don’t like that you’re going around asking people questions about this.”
“It was just a casual conversation with someone who works for me.” She shrugged. “So what?”
“So, you shouldn’t be involved.”
“Well, I care about Amelia, so I am involved.”
“You need to drop it.”
She searched his face, wondering if he realized how much his reaction revealed.
“You do know that you’re confirming what I thought, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You believe Amelia’s murder is somehow linked to that thing you’re here for. Your secret project.”
Now he rolled his eyes. “Leyla . . .”
“Why can’t we just talk about it? I’m trying to help you.”
“Thank you. But I don’t want you involved. At all. You need to leave it to the investigators.”
“Sure. I just thought you’d want to know.” She watched his eyes, looking for clues that she was on the right track here. “Are you aware Luc Gagnon used to stay at the Windjammer Hotel? He was there all the time while his place was under construction. He’d fly down on his private plane and check on his house between fishing and rounds of golf.”
“What’s your point?”
“We have a location at the Windjammer. Gagnon used to come in for coffee. We even catered an event for him.”
Sean frowned. “When?”
“Earlier this year. It was nothing big. He did a breakfast meeting in one of the hotel conference rooms, and we took in pastries and coffee. My point is, Amelia could have met him at the Windjammer during one of his trips.”
Sean clearly didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken—which told Leyla she was onto something.
“This is all conjecture,” he said. “The guy Amelia dated could be anyone.”
“Yes, because we have so many Seattle tech CEOs hanging around Lost Beach. They’re everywhere.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Leyla . . .” His voice was full of warning now.
“Fine. Let’s talk about something else.”
The room fell silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. She reached over and tapped her phone to switch her music to speaker mode. Latin jazz drifted from the phone, and she resumed her piping. She focused on her work and tried to ignore the sudden tension in the room. It was the tension more than anything that told her that her instincts were right, and Sean had more than a passing interest in whether Amelia had had a boyfriend. Well, Leyla had gotten an answer for him, and now he wanted her to kindly butt out.
That wasn’t happening. Leyla was interested now and determined to learn more. She had contacts Sean didn’t. Just because he was some hotshot FBI agent didn’t mean he couldn’t use her help.
He walked up beside her, and she felt a shiver of excitement. She ignored it. He smelled like that cologne or bodywash she remembered from last night, and she ignored that, too. Obviously, he was trying to distract her from their conversation.
“How do you get those so perfect?” he asked, leaning his hand on the counter.
“Practice.” She finished another blossom and added it to the baking sheet. “Would you like me to teach you?”
“I’m not artistic.”
“Everyone’s at least a little artistic.”
“Not me.”
“Want to try one?”
“Sure.”
She peeled a flower from a parchment square and turned to face him, lifting it up. He held her wrist and licked it off her fingertip.
She turned around.
“That’s good,” he said.
“Yep.”
“It just dissolves.”
His hands settled on her waist, and she turned to face him again.
“I can’t concentrate when you do that.”
“I know.” He gazed down at her, giving her a chance to push him away. When she didn’t, he dipped his head down.
His mouth was warm, and she tasted her icing on his tongue. Nerves shot through her as he leaned into her, pinning her against the counter with his hips. She tossed the piping bag aside and slid her hands into his thick hair.
Desire surged through her, and she thought about how much time she’d wasted today thinking about last night’s kiss on the beach and how hard it had been driving home alone afterward. She’d thought she’d made progress today shaking this off. But now she knew she hadn’t made any at all. She was right back where she’d been last night, wanting to throw caution to the wind for once. His hand slid up her side and grazed her breast.
“Damn it.” She kissed his mouth, his jaw, his neck. “I wasn’t going to do this tonight.”
“Why not?”
She pulled back and looked up at him, and the intensity in his eyes sent a jolt of yearning through her. She was so ridiculously attracted to this man, even when he ticked her off, like he was doing right now.
She kissed him again, pulling his head down as she pressed against him, probably getting sugar and butter all over the front of his clothes.
“Leyla.”
She didn’t stop, afraid if she let him talk, she’d remember why this was a bad idea.
“Leyla?”
She jerked back.
“Someone’s here, babe.”
“What?”
He nodded over her head.
She whirled around and heard a rap rap rap coming from the front of the shop. “Damn. It’s Rogelio.”
She rushed out, straightening her apron. Rogelio stood at the door with his silver cart. He wore a white chef jacket and checked pants—the required uniform for the Windjammer Hotel kitchen.
She unlocked the door, then remembered to tap in her code before opening it.
“Hi,” she said, stepping back.
“My code didn’t work,” he said as he wheeled in the cart.
“I had to reset everything. I’ll give you the new one.”
Rogelio looked behind her. “Who’s here?”
“Just . . . a friend.”
He glanced at the kitchen again. Then he shot her a knowing look with those brown-black eyes. “You’re pink, chiquita.”
“Oh, whatever.” She waved off the comment, but her cheeks warmed as she followed him into the kitchen, where Sean leaned against the counter.
“Hi. Rogelio.” He reached out a tattoo-covered arm. “You must be . . . ?”
“Sean.”
They shook hands, and then Rogelio started unloading trays filled with biscotti.
“Vanilla, chocolate, and amaretto,” he said. “I still have to dip the vanilla ones.”
“I’ve got some Ghirardelli chips in the back,” Leyla told him.
Sean caught her eye. “I’ll head out.”
She felt a stab of disappointment. Followed by relief. Then disappointment again as she walked with him to the door.
He stopped beside it, glancing at the brand-new keypad on the wall.
“New system?” he asked.
“Just got it today.”
“It’s a good brand.”
“That’s why I got it.”
She held the door open for him, and humid air wafted inside.
“You plan to be here late?” he asked.
“Not too much longer. I need to get home. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” She nodded back toward the kitchen. “We both do.”
He held her gaze. Then he tilted her chin and kissed her mouth. “Be careful,” he told her.
“I will.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Nicole turned off Palmetto Drive into the pitted parking lot. It was mostly full, but she found a space at the very edge of the lot next to a dinged pickup even older than hers. Cutting the engine, she stared up at Amelia’s building. Lights glowed in many of the units, and several tenants stood out on their narrow balconies, either smoking or talking on the phone.
Nicole slid from her truck and locked it. A stench hit her—like rotten vegetation and sewage, and she pinched her nose as she walked across the spongy lawn. A man watched her from a second-floor balcony, the orange glow of his cigarette moving through the darkness as he leaned against the railing. She reached the corner staircase and trudged up the steps. On the landing she encountered a pair of teen boys who stuffed something under their shirts as she passed them.
Nicole walked down the open breezeway to Amelia’s second-floor apartment, then pulled out the key and let herself in. The scene had been released, but the victim’s family hadn’t been here yet. From her conversation with them after the funeral, Nicole had gathered that Amelia’s parents didn’t know when they’d come down to pack up their daughter’s apartment. They had seemed too overwhelmed to think about it.
Nicole locked the door behind her and flipped the light switch. A fluorescent fixture flickered on in the kitchen, and she stood still for a few moments, just surveying the room. This was her fourth trip here, and she wasn’t quite sure what she expected to find. Clues suggested that Amelia had had a wealthy, possibly shady, man in her life. Maybe the tech mogul from Seattle. Maybe someone affiliated with the Saledo cartel. If so, Nicole wanted to find evidence of him. A number from a burner phone wasn’t enough. She needed a receipt, or a gift, or maybe a note—something she could use to prove this phantom boyfriend existed.
Nicole grabbed a pair of gloves from the box that had been left by the door. She tugged the gloves on, then toed off her dirty sneakers and pulled paper booties over her socks. She stepped into the kitchen and took a cursory look around. It had been thoroughly searched already by a pair of county CSIs. Her gaze fell on the class schedule taped to the fridge. Above it was a slip of paper with a printed quotation that Nicole remembered without having to look. It was a Bob Ross saying about no mistakes, just “happy little accidents.”
Nicole headed into the bathroom first. She pulled back the shower curtain and scanned the items lined up on the side of the tub. Razor. Loofah. Hair and skin products galore, but nothing that looked like it had been taken as a souvenir from a ritzy hotel.
Turning to the medicine cabinet, she noted the smudges of fingerprint powder as she opened the mirrored door. The prints they’d lifted from here hadn’t come back yet, but Nicole wasn’t optimistic about getting anything useful. This dingy apartment didn’t seem like the place for a romantic rendezvous. The medicine cabinet contained the typical stuff—makeup, sunscreen, whitening toothpaste—and Nicole had been through it all before. She moved to the cabinet beneath the sink, crouching down on the old linoleum floor.
A dark spatter along the baseboard caught her eye. She pulled the Mini Maglite from her pocket. Her pulse quickened as she shined the flashlight on the reddish-brown dots that looked like blood. How had the CSIs missed this? She opened the cabinet. Inside was a jar crammed with paintbrushes and a shoebox filled with watercolors. She blew out a sigh. Paint. One of the CSIs had mentioned something about paint in the bathroom, but at the time Nicole had been distracted by the discovery of Amelia’s iPad.
