Cobblered to death, p.13
Cobblered to Death, page 13
I studied my salad.
“Don’t look so sad. Eric’s a looker who respects you and is interested in your career. Believe me, friendship is the best start to a lasting relationship.”
“I don’t know.” I lifted my gaze to meet hers. “He’s never said anything or done anything more physical than a hug.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for a signal from you. Most men won’t pursue a woman unless she acts interested.” Shannon gave my arm a squeeze, then returned to eating her salad.
I followed her lead. How could I read attraction into Drake’s and my interactions, always coming away disappointed, and not see Eric was attracted to me? Because he wasn’t. I’d known Eric a long time. Shannon didn’t. She might have misread something he did as personal interest instead of professional interest. After all, we were business partners.
And she didn’t know the secret Eric and I kept about my background that Drake and Sheriff Perry now knew and Skylar had figured out. Eric wasn’t jealous about me having dinner with Drake. He’d been worried we might become the next network scandal. We’d witnessed the firing of a popular show host when a former employee spilled the beans that all his recipes came from the original Betty Crocker Cookbook.
Shannon was wrong. Eric had no romantic feelings for me. He just wanted to keep his job.
* * *
Back on the set, Harrison announced the second challenge of the day: the contestants had to prepare a casserole their morning biscuit creations would complement.
Barb threw her hands in the air.
“What’s the matter, Barb?” Harrison asked with a gentle tone.
“I would have made rosemary biscuits with lemon curd had I known about this challenge.”
Harrison smiled. “You’re inventive. You’ll come up with something.”
His statement earned a smile from Barb and a glare from Tabitha.
“You set this challenge to eliminate me.” Tabitha pointed at Harrison. “It’s not going to work. I’ll make a casserole so spectacular, you’ll hardly notice the biscuit bits.” Snap. A tea towel met the countertop.
Had she forgotten the cameras were rolling?
“I hope you do. I wish all of you luck.” Harrison turned to Skylar and me.
We read the plea in his eyes. Everyone was tired of Tabitha’s outbursts, and to avoid another, we wasted no time in saying, in unison, “The baking begins . . . NOW!”
Our cameraman turned and joined the others, capturing the cooks.
Brenden approached us. “Great ad-libbing, Harrison. I’ll have to edit out Tabitha.” He grimaced and rubbed his neck.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
“I’ll need you to report back to the set by four.” Brenden called Kinzy to him by flicking two fingers.
I slipped my phone from my pocket and tapped the app.
Security man’s minions won’t let me in.
My thumbs sent a brief message. I hurried up the stairs to slip out of my wardrobe and into my skinny jeans, a Cooking with the Farmer’s Daughter T-shirt and tennies. I might have a break, but my work wasn’t done. We were blocking out tonight’s show this afternoon.
I skipped down the stairs, opened the door a crack, got a nod from Security and stepped into the bright sunshine. Taking the main path, Eric fell in step with me when I reached a large oak tree.
“Sorry, I’ve been tied up on the phone or on your set all morning.”
I braced. “How did the phone call go?”
He exhaled a deep breath. “They aren’t happy. Your ratings are terrific. They reminded me that your demographic is the heartland.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It is amazing to me how Sheriff Perry shut this down with the local and national press. No one at the network had any idea a murder had happened. They did understand that, in this case, there is not much you or I can do. They are more concerned you are considered a person of interest. They will get their public relations and attorney alerted to the situation. By the way, their attorney will call you with instructions on how to proceed if you’re questioned again.” Eric stopped walking and faced me. “Promise you will not socialize with Drake anymore.”
I searched his all-too-familiar face. His blue eyes pleaded. Tension showed on his face in the drawn lines around his mouth. “I promise. I want this murder resolved. I’ve been thinking about something Harrison said. He always wears gloves in the kitchen.”
“So?” Eric drew out the vowel.
“They only found my fingerprints. The murderer must have worn gloves.”
“Courtney!” Eric threw his arms in the air. “Stop speculating and questioning. Leave it alone. Let law enforcement do their jobs.”
I didn’t like Eric’s scolding tone. “I have to clear my name.”
“No, you don’t. You are innocent. You will get ruled out. Give them time to process everything they found at the crime scene. Even the smallest hair can detect the murderer.”
I couldn’t argue with his reasoning, so I changed the subject. “While you were on the phone with the higher-ups, did you tell them if they’d remove this clause, we’d have no problem? People would know I’m a trained chef who can cook wholesome and healthy, rib-sticking food in addition to fruit and vegetable art.” I hissed the words through clenched teeth. I knew better than to raise my voice. Whether Eric thought so or not, I’d learned my lesson.
“Yes, we talked about it. They are reluctant. I warned them that in a year, there would be a renegotiation.”
“What’d they say?”
“ ‘We’ll see.’ ”
We’d reached the resort.
“Let’s concentrate on getting our show blocked so the people who paid to watch the live taping aren’t disappointed. Okay?” Eric held the door open and I passed through.
“Agreed.” I turned to Eric. “I love my fans. I don’t want to hurt them, but I feel like I am by not telling the truth.”
“I know.” Eric guided me by the elbow. “Maybe I need to take you to the family farm for a month or two, turn you into a real farm girl.”
We walked down the hall in silence, and I wondered what exactly he meant. Was it an innocent statement? Turn me into a farm girl to alleviate my guilt and have a plausible cause to explain away my past? Or could it be something else? To meet his family? My heart raced at my last thought, which was silly.
I cast a sideways glance at Eric. He was boy-next-door good-looking, successful, articulate and kind. All qualities I considered when I dated a man. A sigh built in my chest. I tamped it down before I released it. I gave my head a shake. I was reading more into everything Eric said. I knew Shannon meant well, but I wished she hadn’t planted this romantic scenario in my mind. I didn’t have time to spend weeding through Eric’s words or actions. I had more important things to worry about: dealing with the aftermath of Mick’s murder and getting my name off the person of interest list. This was one warning of Eric’s I didn’t plan to heed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Skylar had accompanied the judges on the second round of tasting and judging the contestants’ casseroles. We’d been filmed sitting around a white bistro table, part of an outdoors set used by the judges, weighing the pros and cons of the dishes prepared in today’s competition.
Now, we stood ready to make the announcement. I glanced at Skylar. “The baker leaving us today is . . .” I stopped and slowly swept my gaze over the contestants, starting with Rhonda and ending with Tabitha, who picked up on the gesture and sucked her bottom lip under her front teeth. “Rhonda,” I said, casting what I hoped was an apologetic expression her way. “The judges had a tough choice between two contestants. Tabitha managed to salvage her spot with an outstanding skinny-casserole version of chicken Marsala. Rhonda, for some reason, your seasoning was off today, with too much salt in the biscuits and overpowering heat in your chili bake.” It was hard to keep my expression neutral when I knew her overuse of seasoning was intentional.
While the cast hugged, cried and bid her farewell, I wondered if Rhonda really was unnerved by the murder, or if she could have committed the murder and now wanted to leave the premises. Two contestants had left the resort. Had we unsuspectingly released Mick’s murderer back into the world?
“Now to deliver the happier news.” Glee filled Skylar’s voice, creating tension and anticipation on the faces of the remaining nine contestants. “The baker of the day is . . .” He paused. “Barb.”
“Oh my!” Barb shouted and lifted her palms to her cheeks, her surprise genuine.
As the remaining contestants gathered around her, Shannon addressed the group. “Barb’s use of simple ingredients to create vintage comfort food, shepherd’s pie and strawberry shortcake, reminded us good food and meal preparation needn’t be hard or complicated.”
“Well done,” Harrison added with a smile.
For a full minute, we remained on our marks while the cameras caught the congratulatory celebration of the contestants. Then Brenden hollered, “Cut.”
The crowd dispersed. Barb still beamed, which was more than I could say about Otto. Stony anger settled on his features. In a loud voice, he said, “There is no way her food was better than mine.”
He ripped off his apron and stalked for the door through which they ushered the contestants. Melissa followed, her demeanor mirroring Otto’s. The remaining contestants removed their aprons and walked to the exit. The only expression their faces showed was fatigue from a long day of stress-filled cooking. Kinzy beelined to Barb, whisking her off into a corner. Probably to film her interview about the win.
“I have to go.” I started for the stairs. I needed to do a quick change from their wardrobe to my clothes, only to get to the resort to make another wardrobe change for the taping of the Cooking with the Farmer’s Daughter episode.
“I’m coming too.”
After Shannon and I changed, we hurried from the building.
“Let’s go this way.” Shannon pulled at my arm.
“That path is off-limits.” Sometimes I do learn my lesson.
She shrugged. “It’s shorter. You need to have a little bit of downtime before you begin your taping.” She started to walk, pulling me along with her.
I hoped we didn’t run into Drake or, worse yet, Travis. I didn’t think I could stand another one of his scoldings or insinuations. I hadn’t had a run-in with him in a day or two and figured I was due. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even seen him around the set or the resort. I surmised he was either covering the graveyard shift for Security or doing the background checks. I hoped it was the former.
To my relief, we didn’t run into anyone. Shannon and I said our goodbyes. I made it to the conference-room-turned-television-set in enough time that I could relax with a cold drink in a comfortable chair with my feet propped on a box.
As I sipped, I thought about the murder and my frightening thought, that the show could be sending the murderer home scot-free. Yet the show had done a good job of segregating the contestants from the cast and crew. I had never run into any of the competitors at the coffee shop, steak house or even in the halls. So, could one of them have been able to slip away? Somehow, I needed to find out that information. Although Tabitha was the only one who seemed angered by Mick, most of the contestants seemed bothered by his antics in the same way serious classmates viewed the class clown, as a nuisance.
“Hi, Courtney.”
I jumped at Eric’s greeting, sloshing iced tea on my jeans.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I let the door slam.” Eric rummaged around the area, found a paper towel roll and presented it to me. “Glad you weren’t in wardrobe.”
“Me too. It wasn’t your fault. I was lost in thought. Do you ever see the contestants milling around the resort?”
Eric shook his head. “Why?”
“I just wondered if they’d be able to sneak . . .”
“I told you to stop trying to solve this murder.” Eric pulled a chair next to mine. “Don’t put yourself in any danger.”
“I’m not.” I blotted the wet spot on my jeans with the nonabsorbent paper towel.
“Not what?”
Sheepishness crawled through me. I was certain it showed on my face. “Putting myself in danger.”
“Well, you are if you get in the middle of this murder investigation.”
“I just wondered if the contestants were free to roam around the resort. I’d hate to think they weren’t. It’s such a lovely place.”
“My understanding is, they are in another wing of the resort. They have certain paths on the property where they can walk, and their food is catered in to them. They are under surveillance. The show has security measures to check for cheating.”
“So, say, Tabitha couldn’t get out and sneak back to The American Baking Battle set?” I wadded up the paper towel and pitched it toward the wastebasket. It fell short by about four feet.
“You must not have played basketball.”
In unison, both Eric’s and my head jerked toward the door. Sheriff Perry’s voice had taken us both by surprise.
“How long have you been standing there?” I stood, picked up the towel and walked it to the wastebasket. No sense in showing my lack of throwing abilities again.
“Long enough.” The thoughtful expression on his face changed to pointed.
I swallowed hard. “It’s just I think . . .”
“Courtney!”
Eric’s voice reminded me of my promise. I stopped talking and sat down.
Sheriff Perry walked farther into the room and stood beside Eric’s chair. “Everyone has a theory when it comes to murder.” The sheriff looped his thumbs through his belt loops. “I’d like to hear yours, Miss Archer.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes.”
Eric vigorously shook his head. I felt I was on the hot seat either way. I cleared my throat. “I think it was a blackmail scheme gone wrong.”
Sheriff Perry chuckled.
“Love triangle?” I tried again.
I received the same response, which sounded a little practiced on his part.
I drew my mouth into a pout and looked to Eric for support. Instead, he met my pleading with a what-were-you-thinking look. I cold-shouldered Eric by angling my body a few inches. “Is this an official visit?” I asked.
“It is.” Sheriff Perry shot Eric a glance and huffed. “Even though your network attorney called my office, I intend to continue to question you. Are you sure that you didn’t know Mick?”
I glanced over my shoulder at Eric. His eyes beseeched me to keep quiet. I drew my lips into a grim line and shook my head.
“Ah, the silent treatment.” Sheriff Perry clicked his tongue and paced the floor. “After reading your thorough background check, we know you have a secret. The public doesn’t always take kindly to little white lies, now do they?” The sheriff air-quoted “little white lies.”
I turned to look at Eric. He gave his head a small shake.
“Mr. Iverson isn’t a person of interest anymore, but you still are, Miss Archer. If Mick threatened to reveal your secret to the world, would you have killed him?”
“No!” My rebuttal, involuntary, echoed through the quietness of the room. “What makes you think Mick knew my personal background?” Eric and I knew he’d overheard and suspected, but how would anyone else know? He was murdered within twenty-four hours of his eavesdropping.
“Well.” He clicked his tongue again. “When the tech guys broke through the password on his computer, they found a file marked ‘Courtney Archer—bonus story.’ Combine that with the fact that your pan of cobbler, riddled with your fingerprints, killed Mick all point to your theory—a blackmail scheme gone wrong.”
Sheriff Perry touched two fingers to his ball cap and saluted a wave. Then he was gone.
“I can’t believe . . .” I stopped. My stylist entered the room. A quick look at the clock let me know I didn’t have time to debate what the sheriff had said. I had to get ready for the taping.
I hurried to the dressing room. My thoughts roved over the information Sheriff Perry had delivered. What could that mean? Bonus story? The last thing I needed to hear before my taping was the sheriff’s announcement of additional evidence pointed at me. My nerves jittered. I’d fumbled with the buttons on my gingham blouse, popping off one. Now I forced myself to stand still while my stylist scrambled to sew it back on while I was in it so we could begin filming.
She’d secured my hair into a braid and added a headband in the same yellow print as my blouse. Today, I wore skinny jeans, the legs neatly tucked into a pair of low-heeled western boots, plain leather stitched with yellow thread in a daisy-chain design.
“Are you ready?” Eric called through the collapsible wall separating me from the set.
“Just about.” My stylist managed to secure the button and buttoned it without dismantling another. She pulled up the shirttails, tying them in a knot at my waist.
“You need to know the sheriff and Drake are in the audience, along with Shannon and Skylar.” Eric cracked open the door and spoke in a hushed tone inflected with agitation. I knew Eric didn’t like the evidence bomb the sheriff had dropped either.
“Friend and foe,” I muttered. My stylist stood back, gave me a once-over and a thumbs-up. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll cue the music.”
When the familiar twang of my theme song started, I opened the door, pasted on a smile and waved to the audience as I walked onto my set. It was a full house. Not one vacant chair. Via a microphone, Eric introduced me. The crowd stood and applauded.
I couldn’t help but think of the opposite reaction if they knew I was a fraud. Boos, hisses and empty seats. I felt the corners of my mouth droop and forced them back up. If my secret leaked, it could ruin my chances for any other type of cooking show. I really wanted to tell my fans. Hearing it from me in a sincere and apologetic way would lessen the damage. Wouldn’t it?
