The Rainbow Recipe, page 6
“For all I know, they’re waiting at the bottom of the hill to extradite me for murder.” Looking like a disgruntled brown mouse in her all brown attire, she slid behind the wheel without effort.
“Did you think you’d hide by blending in with the dirt?” He cast her outfit a disparaging glance. Mistake. It fit all her curves much too well.
Intent on learning the gears, she didn’t even waste a glance to glare at him.
That unsettled him. Since childhood, as the only son and heir, he’d been treated like a prince. Since adolescence, women fawned over him. He was unaccustomed to being ignored. “They wouldn’t have let you out of the country if they thought Katherine was murdered. I can read. Rumors are not indictable offenses.”
“The police aren’t publicly admitting that she was murdered. The newspapers know nothing. But I know there is a killer on the loose, and he’s smart or experienced enough to get away with it. That is not a good feeling. My family could be next. How many others may he have killed?” She checked the car’s instruments, then turned on the ignition and pushed all the buttons and gears.
Dante had had time to think about her declaration of reading minds. His family had its fair share of known eccentrics. None of them read minds, although some possessed freaky knowledge that was almost as good. But reading minds. . . would drive any sane person insane. Whatever it was she thought she knew, it couldn’t be the mind of a murderer.
“Just because you think Katherine was afraid, doesn’t lessen the chance of heart attack. Stress can kill. Or she had some underlying condition.” He buckled in and pushed the seat back as far as it would go as the car jerked into motion.
“Believe whatever you like. I’m not waiting for our abysmally slow law enforcement system to find out she was killed by her limoncello. That stuff could be used as paint stripper and would eat any signs of poison as far as I’m concerned. I can’t imagine why it doesn’t strip taste buds.”
Dante thought limoncello too sweet, but to each their own. “Be that as it may, Lucia’s farm has nothing to do with her half-sister’s death. Leo is hanging on by the skin of his teeth. We can check to see if he’s heard from Lucia recently, but I don’t see anywhere else you can take your strange investigation.”
Although if she actually read minds. . . No, that was still ridiculous and useless in this case. Leo was a farmer, nothing more.
“Lucia doesn’t live here?” she asked with a frown.
“Not for years.”
She pondered that while waiting for directions once they reached the bottom of the hill. Despite the hellish ride she’d submitted him to the last time he’d been in her company, this one was uneventful. It was almost restful not having his mother nattering a mile a minute. He adored his mother and owed her more than he could repay, but he was not accustomed to idle prattle. On a dig, he gave orders. When seeking funds and giving presentations, he lectured and talked business. Time mattered.
Which presented a problem if he wanted to chat up a woman.
He directed her down the rutted lane to Leo’s sprawling farmhouse. Like the villa, it was well past its glory days. Leo had no more funds than Dante did to restore his home. The stucco peeled. The roof drooped. And chickens occupied the dirt yard.
“Not the glamorous image La Bella Gente portrays,” his companion said dryly.
“I looked up their website last night. Those are stock photos from Tuscany. This is Umbria. I don’t think they paid a photographer for original images. The ones of Vincent and his family are photo-shopped onto the background.” He opened the car door after she parked where he indicated. Prying himself out of this rolling tin can was going to hurt.
It didn’t hurt as much as seeing those photos of a smiling Lucia. She’d looked happy against the pristine background of a farm Dante couldn’t give her.
Priscilla came around and offered her shoulder so he could stand. Her head barely reached past his shoulder, but she was sturdier than she looked. With her aid and the crutch, he managed not to jar his leg too badly.
“Thanks,” he offered grudgingly as Leo emerged from the shed.
Dante’s neighbor wasn’t much taller than Priscilla, but he was muscular and good looking enough to attract his share of women. Dante waited for his guest to gravitate to Leo’s side, but the witchy female had already taken off to examine the olive trees. This late in the season, the olives had already been harvested.
“What’s going on?” Leo whispered. “I got your message but didn’t expect you back here anytime soon. How’s the leg?”
“I’ll need your cart for getting around, but it’s fine. Did you hire those men I recommended for cleaning out the tunnel?” Dante swung the crutch and ambled in Priscilla’s direction.
Out here in the morning sun, he couldn’t call her a she-devil anymore. The silver accents in her dark frizz were real, not an affectation. Without the punk gel, she almost looked approachable. And she hadn’t said anything obnoxious in twenty-four hours or more. In fact, she’d actually been helpful a time or two. He’d remain wary, but that was second nature for him.
“I’d rather have the crew planting and pruning,” Leo grumbled, loping towards the shed where he kept his cart. “Back in a moment.”
Priscilla turned, her face its usual impassive. “He speaks English.”
Dante shrugged. “Lucia’s father was Italian but spoke English. Her mother was English. Leo spent a lot of time here growing up, helping out. He had to learn. Many Italians speak English. It’s Americans who are ignorant of other languages.”
She nodded, whether in acceptance, agreement, or just to say she heard, he couldn’t say.
“He’s very unhappy and a little annoyed at us. He has better things to do with his time.” She walked toward the golf cart bouncing down the drive.
Dante could have told her that without reading minds or auras or whatever in heck she thought she was proving. He crutched his way after her.
The irritating female stuck out her hand to Leo after he drove up and climbed out of the cart. “Hi, I’m Priscilla Broadhurst. I’m a chef learning about olive oil production.”
Leo brightened considerably. “Leo Ugazio. My friend here spends too much time in the wilds of nowhere and forgets his manners.”
“It happens.” She shrugged. “While he plays in the dirt, perhaps you could just follow your usual schedule, let me go along, and fill me in as we go?”
Oh, si, the she-devil was plotting. He just didn’t know what. “Allora, I can follow you about in the cart while the tunnel is being cleared.” Dante swung onto the bench seat, gritting his teeth.
“It’s really not necessary,” she said with a toplofty glance. “I’ll be fine with Signor Ugazio.”
“Leo, call me Leo, per favore.” He offered his arm. “We’ll start with the press.
She didn’t take his arm but stuck her hands in the back pockets of her corduroys. Dante had never seen such heavy fabric filled out so—artfully. She had one hell of a posterior. He kept the cart on their heels as they strolled toward the sheds, just so he could study the cut of those trousers.
He didn’t follow them into the press room. He’d wasted too much of his life tracking Lucia in there or in the orchards or anywhere but the house. He wasn’t following another fool woman around. He pulled out his phone and caught up on business while his guest toured the facilities.
Blessedly, she emerged in record time, nodding her head at whatever Leo was telling her. As she approached his cart, he heard her ask, “I understand you used to produce creams and lotions. Was that an old family recipe?”
“Lucia and her grandmother.” Leo threw up her hands in disgust. “They had some fool notion we could make our fortunes with beauty products. We haven’t the equipment, of course. And ingredients on a small scale are much too expensive. People don’t want to buy expensive grease.”
Americans do, Dante thought.
Witchy woman cast him a glance. “Americans will,” she said, almost tauntingly. “But I imagine the manufacture would require chemists and health inspections and so forth. I can see why you would prefer a simple production. Lucia is your cousin?”
“She inherited the place.” Leo gestured at the fields. “But she likes city life better. That has its advantages. She found us a good sales outlet for our oil in the UK that paid top dollar, until Brexit happened, anyway.”
“The UK leaving the EU raised tariffs? I can’t get good Italian wine or olive oil without paying a premium, but I assumed that was the cost of shipping.”
Dante shifted restlessly. He had no interest in market talk, but for some reason, he stayed attune to this conversation.
“The cost of everything went up, including shipping. I’ve been trying to tell Lucia that we’ll have to negotiate a substantial price increase with our next contract, or I’ll have to return to selling local, but she’s been ignoring me.” Leo started toward the bottling shed.
“Her half-sister just died. I imagine that leaves her buried in obligations.” The devil woman didn’t sound concerned.
Dante was pretty damned certain that was an act.
“Katherine is dead?” Leo asked in surprise and shock. “How?”
“They’re saying a heart attack. She was opening a line of boutiques in the U.S. It was in all the papers.” She strolled along, allowing Leo to open the shed door for her.
This time, Dante maneuvered himself out of the cart and followed.
“I don’t have time for news. Lucia must be devastated.” Leo hunched his shoulders in thought. “She and Kat were polar opposites, but they were there for each other after their mother died. I’d send flowers, but the last address I have is old. I wonder if I could call the warehouse and ask where to send them.”
“That’s a thought, although a personal note might be better. It’s hard to say when they’ll hold the funeral.”
Leo didn’t know where his own cousin lived? The one who owned his livelihood?
As if Dante had screamed his thoughts, Priscilla turned to study him. “Since you were neighbors, I assume you know Lucia?”
Leo answered for him. “Lucia dumped Dante when she left for London. She only returned once to leave the twins. No one said my cousin is an angel.”
Dante knew a lot about devils in disguise.
Eleven: Evie
Afterthought, South Carolina
* * *
Wearing the kitten heel pumps Loretta and Reuben had insisted she buy to look business-like, Evie nearly stumbled over the La Bella Gente Boutique threshold into the glossy interior of glass, chrome, and discreet lighting. Cursing inwardly, she plastered a smile on her face and tugged her ghostly companion inside.
Kit-Kat still wasn’t communicative, but her aura brightened perceptibly at familiar surroundings.
“May I help you?” the impeccably groomed saleswoman behind the counter asked in a plummy British accent.
Where’s the bloody git? The specter in her head demanded.
Oops, talking to a ghost and a salesclerk at the same time could be problematic. And the ever-present problem of ghosts not remembering names. . . She really couldn’t ask after a bloody git.
“I’m looking for gifts. Do you have sample boxes, perhaps?” Evie had no credit card other than Loretta’s, and she was disinclined to use that. She prayed her tiny bank balance was sufficient if she ended up buying anything.
Jax had insisted that she open a business account for Sensible Solutions, but it was a struggle to keep a minimum balance.
As distracted by Evie’s ADD meanderings as much as Evie was, Kit-Kat tugged loose and vanished.
The salesperson gestured at a neat stack of beautifully beribboned boxes on a center table. “These contain trial sizes of our face and hand lotions, plus a bonus gift card for our extra-virgin olive oil that can be redeemed at our bistro when it opens next week.”
The display had no price. Evie knew if she had to ask, she couldn’t afford it. “The bistro is still opening? That’s fabulous. I feared with the loss of Lady Katherine, expansion would come to a standstill.”
The clerk shrugged with a slight moue of distaste. “Her brother has stepped up to carry on.”
Employees not fond of Matt Gladwell, duly noted. Evie gestured at the display. “Are they scentless? My sister is allergic to fragrance.”
“Our fragrances are all natural. Has she shown any reaction to rosemary? We have a marvelous extract. . .” She swayed hips encased in a tight black skirt to the counter containing pink seashell boxes with the contents visible.
What Evie really wanted was Kit-Kat’s reactions, but it was difficult tuning into ghostly auras while real people waited for response.
Thank all the heavens, another shopper entered. Evie waved a dismissive hand. “Let me look around and think about it. Help your other customer.”
The instant Evie opened her extra sense, her ghostly apparition flared pink and muttered bitch.
Tell me how you really feel, Evie thought to herself, then murmured more politely, “You know her?”
Vincent’s whore. The aura cycled through anger and confusion and floated behind the counter. Anger flared brighter. Fake.
Evie eased in that direction. Apparently the more expensive items were kept in a case behind the counter. The jars and bottles sparkled like crystal, even tempting Evie to touch. The discreetly printed sign named the various products along with long lists of ingredients and their miraculous results.
Evie wondered if her face needed firming or regenerating or if retinol would hide the shadows under her eyes when she didn’t clock enough sleep. Somehow, she doubted it, or women wouldn’t pay for face lifts.
She thought maybe her ghost believed otherwise. “Is any of this any good?” she whispered. It wasn’t as if she knew how to talk face cream.
The aura turned muddy with deception. Mine was.
“This isn’t your formula?” Evie pulled out her phone and pretended to talk into it. If only she’d had this lovely device when she’d been in school, people wouldn’t have laughed at her. But she could never afford one until Loretta came along.
Vincent said mine was too expensive. Then Kit-Kat disappeared behind the curtain that separated the shop from storage.
Maybe she should escape and leave the ghost behind.
“Aren’t you Evangeline Carstairs, the ghostbuster?” a nasal voice asked. The emphasis on ghostbuster was more sneer than curiosity.
Evie debated ignoring the question. She could abandon Kit-Kat in her place of worship and walk out, but that wouldn’t solve her case. Deciding to imitate Pris, she donned an impassive expression, swung around, and raised inquiring eyebrows. She wished she could lift just one. She’d always wanted to look supercilious.
Well, shrimp size and orange hair prohibited that.
Forsaking the peeved sales clerk, Lawless Jane Lawson, columnist and blogger, approached as if smelling something rotten. Apparently dressing like a hobo and having a face on the wrong side of ugly did not shake her confidence as it did Evie’s. “I suppose your sick little business is faring well now that another weirdo is running the town.”
Sick business? Weirdo? Charming. She’d quit responding to bullies in high school. Evie sauntered toward the door wearing an air of disdain.
Lawson caught her arm. Big bad mistake. Evie spaced out to the aura realm. If she did not mistake, the woman appeared motivated by fear. How did one combat that?
Evie yanked her arm free. “I assume hate works well for you? Are you paid by the click? Or the number of trolls you collect? Unfortunately, ghosts can’t buy my services, but anyone of any race or gender can. It’s a far broader customer base than bigots.” While the reporter stuttered for a response, Evie escaped.
She needed time to cool off before she beat up someone. What was wrong with people? Did Lawson’s fear warp her thinking so badly that she thought she had to tear down everyone else to lift herself up? Evie winced. That meant the columnist would be attacking Evie instead of Pris next. Oh well.
To improve her humor, she aimed in the direction of Jax’s office on the next block. Not wanting to walk in on a client, she texted him as she walked. got time?
got news he texted back.
all good i hope She walked faster.
try interesting
She already had interesting. She really wanted good for a change.
Rather than contemplate punching sharp noses, she counted her blessings as she hurried down the street. She had a lot more blessings since Loretta and Jax had entered her life.
Jax set down his phone as the whirlwind that was Evie flew through his outer office. He had time to open his arms to catch her as she landed in his lap and spun his chair around.
“You are my unicorn!” she announced, kissing his cheek.
He demanded more than cheek kisses before returning her to the floor and standing up. “Unicorn? I’m sparkly and horny?”
She laughed happily. That was his Evie. She’d sounded ugly furious on the phone, but she’d apparently recovered. Evie in a temper could be dangerous, so he was glad he’d defused the situation.
“Silver unicorn, defender of justice, mighty hooves raised to trample evil. Look up Jane Lawson sometime and find out why she’s so terrified, or I may have Mavis hex her.” She took his arm and followed him out. “Where are we going?”
“Ariel’s. I want to tell my news only once. Is your fan ghost still hanging around?” He led her into the hall and locked up. One of these days, he’d hire a receptionist to keep the office open when he was out. Today wasn’t that day.
“I last saw her at the boutique. That doesn’t mean she’s not around. She seems to be telling me that the products are fake, although how one can have fake lotion is beyond my knowledge. It’s either lotion or it isn’t.”
