She nearly placed the tray on the bottom bookshelf, but Bridgy, who was right behind her with a pitcher of sweet tea and napkins, quickly steered her to Dashiell Hammett. And while the Potluck Book Club members crowded around eating soufflé and praising Ophie’s talent in the kitchen, we settled on Dinner: A Love Story by Jenny Rosenstrach for our next meeting. I asked if anyone wanted me to call the library to put a hold on any copies they might have, but Lisette said she’d heard it’s the kind of book she’d definitely want to own. The other clubbies agreed. The snowbirds bought the two copies I had on hand. I promised to order more and call when the books came in.
Ophie was in her glory, explaining how making soufflés in small portions cut the baking time so drastically that you could “whip ’em up” at a moment’s notice for those occasions when guests arrived unexpectedly. She was sharing her culinary expertise, which included measurements like “somewhere around a cup and a half” and “if there’s a little bit extra in the package, mix it on in.”
She was up to “Don’t forget to chop the chervil into specks. The more you chop, the more you release that wonderful licorice-like flavor” when the door opened.
Ryan and Lieutenant Anthony were gracious enough to stop at the counter and not barge into the middle of the ladies, for which I was immensely grateful. Ryan signaled me discreetly and I slipped away from the soufflé conversation.
“Don’t look so fretful, Sassy. This time I have the best news.”
My heart leapt. Please let the nightmare be over.
“You caught the killer?”
“I only wish.” Ryan frowned, then brightened. “But we did bring you some measure of solace.” He reached into his pocket.
Chapter Thirteen ||||||||||||||||||||
Ryan handed me a tan envelope with a neatly typed white label. It said “Delia Batson.”
“Go ahead, open it.”
I pulled the flap, and a gold rectangle on a slim chain slid into my hand. Could it be? Delia’s locket?
“Where did you find . . . ? How?”
Ryan was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and even the lieutenant flashed a broad smile, which showed off teeth so straight and even that I wondered if he had an orthodontist in the family.
“For a piece of pie, I’ll tell all.” Ryan snatched the chain out of my hand and headed to Dr. Seuss. Frank took a step back to let me go in front of him, murmuring, “Ladies first.”
I brought two large slices of buttermilk pie and set a plate on the table in front of each deputy. Ophie sidled over from the book nook and waited to see their reactions to her pie. Ryan’s mmm-mmm-mmm-ing was long, loud and not unexpected. Frank Anthony took a large bite of pie and began swooning in mock ecstasy. He demanded to meet the baker. The never-shy Ophie pranced forward with a beatific smile. Frank took her hand, raised it to his lips and said, “Please tell me you are not married so I can scheme to make you my own.”
Ophie giggled and let her hand linger in Frank’s for an extra moment or two, then before slipping through the kitchen door she looked over her shoulder at the lieutenant and with a kittenish wink, told him to stop by anytime, the pie would always be on the house. Ryan doubled over, and as upset as I was about all the chaos in our little world, I couldn’t help laughing.
I walked the book club ladies to the door, and then I brought coffee to the table. Ryan ordered me to sit, waving the locket provocatively.
“I thought we had one last chance to find the locket. Suppose Miss Delia was wearing it when she . . .”
He let me fill in that blank.
“So the lieutenant called the Medical Examiner’s Office and asked them to let us examine her personal effects. Her clothes were still in the dryer.” At my perplexed look, he clarified, “Not that kind of dryer. Morgue dryer. It’s special, er, different. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, the tech mentioned that they were finished with her jewelry, prints, fluid tests and all. Turns out she had the locket pinned to her, er, unmentionables.”