Little Fox Cottage Read online

  "We have to find out who's behind this," Bree said.

  "No," Captain Ryan said. He had intense blue eyes, and they bored into her in a way that made her squirm. "We are not going to do anything. My deputy and I, and the police in Sacramento, are going to investigate, and you two are going to try to ignore all this."

  "But I can't just do nothing," Bree protested. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  "Yes, that's exactly what you can do. How would you feel if you went blundering into some clue and it got thrown out of court because you handled it wrong?"

  She uncrossed her arms. "I'd feel horrible."

  "So you understand the importance of keeping your nose out of this. You risk jeopardizing any case we develop."

  She nodded. "I understand. So what's the second thing?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You said on the phone there were two things you needed to talk to us about."

  He smiled. "Graham said you were quick. Have you ever considered becoming a cop?"

  "No, thank you," Nico said. "She gets herself into enough trouble as it is." He put an arm around her protectively, then seemed to realize what he was doing, because he took the arm away, and stepped back a pace.

  She turned back to the captain. "I think I'll make a better chef than cop. So tell us the second thing. If this was the first, I hate to think what else you have to tell us."

  "It's not something to tell you. It's something I need the two of you to help me do. I have to tell Helena Madrigal her brother was murdered. I wanted her doctor and her friend by her side when I do that."

  He grabbed his hat from a rack by the door, then opened the door and gestured. "After you."

  BREE ARRIVED at the senior center kitchen a couple of days later, and found Wade sitting quietly with his hands folded in his lap.

  "I overheard someone at Santos' Market say that Kim Kelly is cleared," she told him. "She's the only one in town on that type of migraine medicine, but she's only taken three pills since she got it, so—"

  She stopped. Wade was looking at her, right at her, but as if she were a million miles away. All the life had gone out of his face.

  "What's going on?"

  He shifted in his chair, and she saw he was handcuffed. Wade looked past her to the other side of the kitchen. She turned and saw Captain Ryan going through Wade's backpack, along with a deputy who was watching Wade like a cat staring at a mouse.

  "Wade?"

  He still said nothing to her, his face frozen with that faraway look, like he'd given up and gone to someplace beyond feeling, and it didn't matter if she was in the room, or the police, or anyone else.

  "I'm sorry to disrupt your work, Ms. Taylor," Captain Ryan said. He spread out the contents of Wade's backpack on her stainless steel counter.

  "That's not sanitary," she said automatically.

  "I'm sorry," the captain said again. "We have to bag and label all this evidence before we move it from this location."

  "What evidence?"

  He opened Wade's notebook. She saw the beautiful sketches, the penciled lettering, all his dreams of his own business in that cheap little sketchbook. Captain Ryan flipped through the pages, then set it aside as unimportant. "Wade had access to the legitimate prescriptions through his work with the senior meals program."

  "So did anyone else who worked here," she pointed out.

  "They've been eliminated from suspicion. Kim Kelly showed us her migraine meds, and there are only three pills missing—not enough to poison anyone."

  "I know." She cast around for anything to explain this. "But Wade, do you take migraine medicine?"

  He looked away.

  "It doesn't matter. The killer could have stolen the migraine meds from somewhere. That's not important. Wade had access to the victims. And he was the one working the day Helena's prescription was dropped off at the pharmacy. He took in that prescription, and he's the only one who could have faked it."

  "But he didn't have a prescription pad to write the fake prescription!"

  "He knew Nico from the sobriety meetings. He could have easily swiped some blanks when no one was paying attention."

  "You go to the same meetings with Nico?" she asked Wade. No response. She turned back to Captain Ryan. "But that's not enough reason to—"

  Wade finally spoke. "I went to prison for burglary. I stole things and sold them at flea markets so I could buy drugs."

  "And he forged prescriptions," Captain Ryan said. "He was released from prison four months ago. That's why he has this job. It's a condition of his parole to work and stay sober."

  "Oh, Wade! But you did this to those old ladies? You killed Henry? Just for drugs? I thought you were trying to change. How could you hurt all those innocent people?"

  He looked down at the handcuffs.

  "That's enough," the captain said. "Don't ask him any more questions."

  Ryan nodded to the deputy, who went over to help Wade to his feet. "We're ready to head back to the substation and get your statement, son. But first: You have the right to remain silent, anything you say…."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AT THE FUNERAL, all of Pajaro Bay turned out, filling the mission church.

  When the service was over, and Henry had finally, after all the questions and delay, been laid to rest in the Lassiter plot in the little cemetery, Bree walked with Helena as everyone made their way to the reception hall for the memorial potluck.

  They passed the big Madrigal crypt, and Helena paused there for a minute. She didn't look sad, though.

  "Are you all right?" Bree asked.

  "I was just thinking of my Bill." She was looking at a brass plaque to one side of the crypt's door: Guillermo Bartolomé Madrigal.

  "I hadn't really paid attention to him," she said, a faraway smile playing on her lips. "He was just one of the boys. But we were all playing in the tileworks one day. Must have been a Sunday, because they were still in business back then, but no adults were around. We'd chased each other all around the works. Then the boys got to wrestling in the dirt. We girls had climbed the trees and were egging the boys on like the little troublemakers we were."

  She sighed. "I remember Bill and I ended up sneaking off from the others later. We were standing in the shed, and then he just kissed me. I remember every moment of that day: the smell of the dust, the light coming through the cracks in the roof of the shed, the feel of the brick kiln against my back. And my Bill." She reached out a shaky hand to touch the brass plaque.

  "That's when you fell in love with him?"

  "That was the exact moment." Helena took her hand back and almost lost her balance, holding tightly to Bree's hand to stay upright.

  "I'm fine," she said, when Bree asked. "Dr. Nico says I may always be a bit wobbly."

  They saw that everyone had walked on, and started walking to catch up.

  "I'm so sorry, Helena." Bree was sorry for everything. For the pointless loss of Henry, and possibly the other men who died of mysterious heart attacks. For the damage done to Helena and Sophie. For Wade, unfathomably throwing away his life on an addiction that had destroyed all his dreams and turned him to unspeakably evil acts.

  "I'm not sorry," Helena said. "I am here, alive, now. I have my life back. If I have to carry a walking stick, so be it. I'll get a copper one and use it to walk down and see the waves every day. It's like coming out of the dark, Bree. And I have you to thank."

  "Someone would have realized the medical mistake eventually. I just happened to be there."

  "You kept asking questions. You kept bringing things up and making people curious. If it had taken any longer to find the truth, we may have died. And my Henry and Bill." There her emotions overwhelmed her, and she stopped to gather herself. "And the crimes done to them would never have been found."

  "We may never know why it happened," Bree said, feeling the frustration of the injustice, to Henry and the other men, to Helena and Sophie, now damaged, possibly for life.

  But Helena
patted her hand. "I will walk to look at the waves every day. For now that's enough."

  "Of course it is," Bree said, forcing herself to be happy for Helena.

  "And you're here."

  "I am. Of course I am, Helena. I will keep an eye on you."

  "You don't need that apartment. You can stay at Vixen & Kits."

  "I wouldn't impose on you long-term. The real estate agent got me a great deal on the rental."

  "I think I can offer you a better deal. You think I want my place to sit empty?"

  "I suppose not," Bree said. "I would love to stay in Kits, and I can pay you rent once I get my first paycheck. That would be lovely."

  Helena shook her head. "Oh, no. I want to stay in Kits. I don't want all that house anymore. I want a little nest, just for me and Maisy. A place where I can read my books, and make myself a cup of coffee when I want one, and sit out on the little patio on nice days. Yes," she said, turning back to Bree. "You will take Vixen, and I'll take Kits."

  "But, Helena—"

  She nodded firmly. "Yes. That's what I want. I would be happiest that way. In a little place. But you, you're young, and you will have a family, and will need a larger home. And the doctor—"

  There Bree stopped her. "Not the doctor." She shook her head.

  "No? Everyone in Pajaro Bay says you'll get married before the year is out."

  "For once the Pajaro Bay grapevine is wrong," she said dryly.

  "But anyway, you will find someone, and you will need a house for your family. Vixen is small, but just big enough for a family, if they enjoy being close to each other."

  "But it's too much, Helena. I couldn't rent your home out from under you."

  "It's our home, Henry's and mine. And I can't take care of it anymore. Not like this." She held up her shaking hand. "But I can take care of little Kits, and have someone nearby who loves Vixen & Kits as much as we always did. That would be enough for me."

  Bree was tearing up again. "It's a wonderful offer, Helena. But I think you are still recovering. You need to take your time and think about this. You can't just let me take over your home. And I may not stay in the village. I may have to leave to find the work I want to do."

  "Maybe." There was a stubborn set to her jaw. "But I won't be changing my mind. This isn't dementia talking. This is me. This is how I feel. Bill and I couldn't have children, and there's no one left to leave the cottage to."

  "But you're not going anywhere. You have a long life ahead of you."

  "I hope so. But I hope my life will be filled with those nice walks, and time to read, and maybe I'll learn to knit if my hands steady a bit more. I don't want my days to be filled with taking care of a house. Not anymore." Then she looked closely at Bree. "Promise me you'll think about it."

  "I promise. Of course I promise. Thank you for your offer—your overwhelming offer. I will stay for now, but I can't promise to stay forever."

  "I understand. If you don't stay, I'll still go through with my plan. I'll rent Vixen and live in little Kits, and have my books and my coffee and my walks. But if I rent it to a stranger, I won't be able to demand weekly batches of cookies in the lease."

  Bree thought of Helena's card. Butterscotch Girl. "It's true," she said. "Most renters won't provide butterscotch oatmeal cookies."

  "Yes!" Helena said. "So we'll leave it there. Who knows what the future will bring?"

  She led Helena in the door to the reception hall. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

  AN OLDER MAN who looked vaguely familiar kept smiling at her. The reception hall was filled with people, but this one man kept staring at her. He was short, bald as a casaba melon, and sported a big belly that was barely contained by his dark suit. She couldn't place him, but he seemed to recognize her. It was starting to bug her.

  She walked over to where he stood next to a dessert table groaning under the weight of pies, cakes, and dozens of cookies.

  "I'll never forget your demi-glace on the pork loin," the man said. "It was exquisite."

  "My demi-glace?"

  "I told Henry you were a treasure. You were all wide-eyed and scared as a rabbit back then, but he knew how to find talent, n'est-ce pas?"

  She remembered him then. He had come to visit Henry during her first month at Lassiter's. Henry had stood nearby while she made her first demi-glace since culinary school. Her hands had trembled holding the ladle as she stirred, but the sauce had turned out a rich caramel color, smooth as silk, and she'd finished it with little button mushrooms that she'd sautéed in butter until their edges were browned and they'd released their rich umami flavor.

  The little bald man had tasted the sauce, winked at Henry, and then said to her, "Bon. Très bon." And she'd floated back to the kitchen on a cloud of glory. She pictured the man's card, in Henry's precise handwriting: Great person. Great chef. Rotten poker player. Never met a mushroom he didn't fall in love with. She smiled and shook his hand. "Jacques. You run the kitchen at Petit Roman in San Francisco. You're so kind to remember me."

  He held onto her hand, patting it with his other one. "Oh, I would not forget you, petite. You have my deepest sympathies on your loss. Henry was a lovely man." He let go of her hand, but continued to smile warmly at her.

  "Yes," she said. "Henry was special."

  "I suppose you are at loose ends now, with Henry gone."

  She nodded. "I'm finding work, here and there."

  "I heard. You are working as a poissonnier."

  She laughed aloud to hear her job at Mel's Fish Shack referred to as a poissonnier—in kitchen parlance, the expert on seafood dishes. "Yes. Something like that. And I have a second job as well."

  "You are cooking the meatloaf for the old people, non?"

  "Yes. I'm trying to earn a bit of extra money. Who knows where I'll end up."

  "It's the traveler's life for us, is it not?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "My own saucier has received an offer to study in Provence, just out of the blue. I will be without someone vital in my kitchen in only a week from Monday. So I find I am at loose ends a bit, just as you are."

  "That's too bad."

  "So, perhaps we are both at loose ends at a fortunate moment, yes?"

  She stared at him, astonished at where this conversation was heading. A saucier was second only to sous-chef in a kitchen. And Petit Roman was a huge restaurant in the heart of the San Francisco food scene.

  "You would not want to squander your gift on the cooking of the meatloaf and the fried fishes, yes? So perhaps you can help me, and I can help you?"

  She spotted Helena in a group across the reception hall. Helena smiled at her, a wide, uncomplicated smile so like Henry's that it brought a catch to Bree's throat.

  "So you would do me the honor of being my saucier at Petit Roman, non?" asked Jacques.

  She turned away from Helena and that smile, and said, "Of course I will. I would be honored to be your saucier. I can start a week from Monday."

  NICO HAD DONE a good job of staying away from Bree all day, even avoiding Henry Lassiter's funeral so he wouldn't be forced to be in the same room with her. He should be proud of himself. But he just felt rotten. This whole thing was a mess.

  None of it was his fault, Dr. Lil had pointed out. But that didn't help. Dr. Lil was blaming herself, even talking of retiring early. She felt awful about her stubbornness in clinging to the paper records. If they'd had everything computerized, there wouldn't be any paper prescriptions. No one could have faked a prescription and given the old women the medication that almost destroyed their lives.

  So they would set up a new, state-of-the-art system for the clinic that linked up with the pharmacy's computer, and duplicate prescriptions would be immediately flagged. That was one good thing to come out of this.

  And Helena and Sophie would survive, and with luck, recover almost all of their previous cognitive abilities.

  And Wade would go to prison for what he had done.

  And Bree Taylor would move on to
a better job. That had been the last blow, with the village grapevine wasting no time in informing him of her "amazing," "wonderful" job offer a hundred miles away.

  Yeah, everything was working out just fine.

  He walked through the door at the mission marked Village Regulars (Open Meeting).

  He needed this meeting, more than ever.

  Apparently he wasn't the only one feeling the need to attend an extra meeting to stay on track. All the regulars were there, and all of them looked subdued, even leaving the doughnuts untouched on the side table. Even Hector was sitting quietly in his chair without a snack. Wade had been one of them, and his fall had left them all shaken.

  "I remember him getting his one-month chip," Tom Robles said sadly.

  "That was something," Nico said. "I'll never forget how he burst into tears when the padre handed it to him."

  Hector suddenly slumped down in his seat and sobbed.

  "You need to talk about the grief, Hector," Father Anselm said. "That's why we're here."

  Hector wiped his eyes. "You're never supposed to lie in the meetings."

  "Of course not," the padre said patiently. "Honesty is vital in recovery. But if you told a lie, you can come clean and make a fresh start now."

  "I didn't lie!" Hector said, obviously hurting. "Wade did. But he was afraid!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "He didn't want to go back to prison."

  "You're not being clear, Hector. Explain."

  "Wade was afraid if he messed up, he'd go back to prison. His parole officer said he needed to come to meetings."

  "But he couldn't be sent back to prison for falling off the wagon. That's not how it works. As long as he kept trying in good faith, he would be fine. He shouldn't have given up."

  "He didn't give up. He just messed up. And he didn't want to tell because he'd go to prison again."

  "You can't feel guilty for what Wade did—"

  "Wait a minute," Nico said, interrupting Father Anselm. "Hector, are you saying Wade was ashamed to take the chip because he hadn't been sober for a whole month?"