Yappy Hour Page 5

  How could she have eloped with the guy?

  I searched her computer cache for anything related to elopement: bridal dresses, floral bouquets, or wedding cakes—and found nothing. I glanced around her room; there were no photos, no evidence of a new relationship. I walked to her closet and examined the clothes. All were hers; there was no man’s anything anywhere. It was hard to believe that she was in a relationship with this Mr. Chuck at all, much less a relationship serious enough to elope.

  Sadness bore down on me. Why would she not confide in me? After all, if she didn’t trust me enough to tell me she was getting serious with a guy, how likely would it be for her to reach out to me if she was in trouble?

  I went to pour myself another drink and was shocked to see the dent I’d put in the bottle. How many drinks had I guzzled? All right, it wasn’t every day you found a dead guy, but still, I didn’t need a hangover in the morning.

  I put the bottle away, disgusted with myself, and staggered to Rachel’s door. It was late now, time to go home. Tomorrow would be another day. I’d start with a fresh slate, bright eyed and bushy tailed, determined to locate my sister.

  My stomach rumbled and I remembered with a sigh the way the evening was supposed to have gone down: a nice steak dinner at Grunkly’s. Now, I’d kill for a steak.

  Did Pacific Cove do takeout? There were some things about New York I’d never get over missing.

  Why had I even left? I sighed as I pulled open the front door and stepped out into the darkened hallway. Before my vision could adjust, I heard a rustling. A chill zipped up my spine, my senses going on high alert.

  Who was here?

  I froze, pressing myself against Rachel’s apartment door, feeling vulnerable. There’d already been one murder tonight. What if …

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor and my blood pressure skyrocketed. I was a sitting duck! What would I do if this person attacked me?

  Then the inevitable happened.

  My stomach growled.

  A man’s voice called out. “Rachel?”

  The voice was deep, low, and very manly indeed.

  I was silent, speechless.

  Suddenly the man approached. “I can’t see. Who’s there?”

  I cleared my throat. “Not Rachel.”

  The man fussed with something. “Sorry, it’s dark.”

  “I’m Rachel’s sister,” I said.

  The man was upon me. He had a cell phone in his hand and waved the light at me. “Ah! Rachel’s sister?”

  I couldn’t make out his face. Only his form. Tall and imposing. He wore dark clothes. Was this the man who watched me from the doorway of DelVecchio’s? Goose bumps rose on my skin and I shivered.

  Was I in danger?

  Could this man be the murderer?

  The vodka was making the hallway spin. Why had I drunk so much?

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, but my stomach rumbled again.

  “You hungry? I always cook for Rachel after the bar closes. You must be hungry now, too.” He took hold of my arm and pulled me toward his apartment. “How about veal piccata?”

  I staggered along the corridor, leaning a little too much on him. “Whoa,” was all I could muster.

  He chuckled and steadied me by grabbing my arm. “Did you have a few too many greyhounds tonight?”

  I suddenly giggled uncontrollably. “Sorry, I … I’ve had a rough night.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I just closed the restaurant, but I have a good bottle of Chianti here. It goes nicely with the veal. You’ll love it.”

  Some part of my mind was warning me off. I didn’t even know this guy; why in the world was I following him into his apartment? And yet, the lure of food was too great. Veal and Chianti, no less?

  Bring it!

  “I’m Gus, by the way. Gus DelVecchio.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it.

  “I’m Maggie.”

  His hand was warm in mine and I realized he wasn’t letting go.

  “What about Rachel?” he asked. “Is she hungry?”

  “Uh … no…”

  He let go of my hand and pulled a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and held it open for me. I walked into his apartment.

  The apartment was the mirror image of Rachel’s, only his was tidy and masculine, the décor a sexy red and brown with leather chairs and glass tables. There were a few framed art pieces on the wall: still lifes with fruit, ham, cheese, and wine.

  My empty belly was about to howl out a complaint, so I clamped my hand over it and pressed.

  Gus looked over at me with a curious look on his face. “Are you okay?”

  I gave him a tight smile.

  “What happened at the bar tonight?” he asked. “There were police there and it was closed for Yappy Hour.”

  He didn’t know.

  I was still sworn to secrecy, wasn’t I? I wasn’t supposed to say anything until next of kin had been notified. Had Brooks already done that?

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” I said.

  Gus immediately uncorked a bottle of wine. “Don’t talk about it, then.” He smiled, a disarmingly charming smile. “I don’t want you to talk anyway. Just eat.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  He laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

  He poured the wine and walked to the kitchen. I followed him, sipping on the fragrant full-bodied wine.

  The kitchen was set up for a professional chef, complete with a commercial oven and a million steel-bottom pots and pans hanging overhead.

  Gus pulled the meat, a couple of eggs, a lemon, a jar of capers, and a fresh bunch of parsley from the fridge.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  He put a large sauté pan over medium heat and added some olive oil. “Can you cook?”

  I smiled. “Do frozen dinners count?”

  A horrified expression crossed his face. “No. Have a seat.” He pulled out a kitchen chair for me and proceeded to coat the veal cutlets in flour and egg. They sizzled when he popped them into the pan. In no time, the kitchen was filled with the heavenly scent of frying meat.

  He whipped up the sauce, then plated the food and topped off my wine. “Eat,” he instructed.

  I didn’t exactly do as I was told, I more or less inhaled the food.

  He chatted as I chewed, telling me about his stint at the Culinary Academy in San Francisco. After a bit, he asked, “Where’s Rachel?”

  “I’m not sure,” I confided.

  Gus got a wicked little glint in his eye. “You know, my business partner, Dan, didn’t show up for work today. Maybe they’re together.”

  I almost choked on the veal. “Uh…”

  “You know they were dating, right? I thought they broke up a couple weeks ago. At least that’s what Dan said. And he sure moped around enough about it. But today, when he didn’t show at work, I figured maybe they—”

  “No!”

  “What?”

  I bit my lip. “Uh…” What now? I knew I wasn’t supposed to say anything and yet …

  When I hesitated, Gus repeated, “Well, anyway, I figure they were probably together tonight—”

  I thumped the table with my hand. “No!”

  Gus lurched back, startled. “What is it? Is something wrong with the food?”

  Suddenly my hands were shaking. I couldn’t go on letting this man think that his partner was alive.

  “Dan is dead,” I blurted out.

  Gus’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “What do you mean?”

  “This afternoon. That’s why the police were at the bar.”

  Gus stared at me, one hand clasped over his mouth.

  “Dan was killed inside the bar. I found him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. The police asked me not to say anything. They wanted to notify the next of kin before—”

  Gus shook his head. “Are you sure? It can’t be. Do you even know Dan? Maybe it wasn’t him.”

  “Yolanda identifi
ed him. Officer Brooks confirmed…” I reached for Gus’s hand, but he stood, pulling away from me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “How? How did he die?”

  “I really don’t know. I found him on the floor. I’m sure the police…”

  Gus looked around the room as if suddenly lost. “I … Excuse me one moment, Maggie, I want to call his folks.” He glanced at his watch. “They live back east. It’ll be early morning there now … but…”

  I stood. “Of course. I should go.”

  He grabbed my shoulders abruptly. “No. Please. Stay. I just…”

  “Okay, no problem. Go ahead and call them.”

  He left the room, and a heavy sadness enveloped me. I hated to have been the one to break the news to him. I should have listened to Officer Brooks. Why did I have to stick my nose into it? Let the professionals handle it.

  As I waited for Gus, I finished my veal piccata. I was tempted to lick my plate, but figured that was in extremely poor taste. I mean, who even had an appetite after finding a dead guy?

  Me, apparently.

  I poured myself some more wine and sipped, waiting for Gus to return. When he did, it was evident he’d been crying.

  “I’m sorry, this is really a shock. Dan was my best friend. He was like my brother.” Gus looked away from me, his eyes searching the room, his shoulders slumped.

  “I understand,” I said, feeling the sadness grip my heart. What would I do if something happened to Rachel?

  “Were you able to reach his parents?” I asked.

  Gus shook his head. “I got their voice mail. I didn’t have the heart to leave a message.” He dragged a hand through his dark hair. “I cook Thanksgiving dinner for these people … they’re like my family.” He took a deep ragged breath. “I’ll try them again later.”

  He sat at the table next to me.

  “Dan and I met at the Culinary Academy. It was his idea for the restaurant. He’d run it and I’d be head chef, because he couldn’t cook to save his life—” Gus paled and his voice hitched. “I mean…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, letting the gravity of it sink in.

  Gus poured himself a glass of wine. “Well, Dan wouldn’t want me sitting around crying, that’s for damn sure.” He pressed his lips together and seemed to pull resolve from within.

  I fidgeted in the chair and determined to pull on the same internal resolve Gus had reached. I cleared my throat. “What made you think Dan was with Rachel?” I tried to ignore the pit that formed in my stomach as I asked the question.

  Gus frowned. “What?”

  “Earlier you said you thought Dan might have been with Rachel. Why did you think that?”

  Gus shrugged. “He talked about her constantly. Said he was going to win her back.”

  By threatening to bring Alcohol Beverage Control down on her?

  Or had the letter been a ploy? Perhaps an excuse to see Rachel?

  I wondered if Gus even knew about the letter.

  “What do you think happened?” Gus asked. “I mean, what strikes a man down in his prime? Did he have an aneurism, a heart attack or…?” He shook his head, frowning. “He was so healthy.”

  “Gus, no. I don’t think it was a natural cause.”

  Gus blinked at me rapidly. “What do you mean? Not a natural cause…”

  An image of the magnum bottle beside Dan flashed across my mind and I felt nauseous. “I think someone killed him, Gus.”

  Gus shook his head, clearly in denial. “No, no, that can’t be. Who would hurt Dan?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “Everyone loved Dan,” Gus said.

  Clearly not everyone.

  In the silence that followed, Gus abruptly stood and then sat again. He drummed his fingers on the table, and then fixed his eyes upon me. “Maggie, you have to help me. The police are going to think I killed Dan.”

  Chapter Eight

  I woke up with a throat as dry as sandpaper and a pounding headache. I glanced around the room, completely disoriented. Where was I?

  And then suddenly it came flooding back. I’d found a dead guy, Rachel was missing, and I’d passed out at the hot Italian guy’s place—the guy who thought he might be suspect numero uno.

  My head throbbed out a rhythm similar to Beethoven’s Fifth.

  Good God, why had I drank so much? It certainly didn’t solve any of my problems.

  On the night table was a tall glass of water. Apparently, Gus had left it for me. What a nice guy. Still, I couldn’t be too careful. If what he’d blurted out last night was true, he had a lot to gain from Dan’s death.

  Like half ownership of DelVecchio’s.

  We had talked into the late hours of the night. He’d been emotional about losing his friend and, let’s face it, I wanted the company.

  But what had I agreed to? He’d asked me to help him find out who killed Dan. But I wasn’t qualified to investigate anything. That’s what the police were supposed to do, right?

  And what about Rachel? Where was she really? I wasn’t buying the elopement story. That seemed crazy. There’s no way she’d eloped because, if that was true, I would have found something on her computer. Searches for a marriage license, or a list of best places to elope, even a search on Vegas, but I hadn’t found a thing.

  I just couldn’t believe it.

  If she had met someone online, then I certainly would have found evidence of him; aside from the few chats, there were no texts, photos, or even a sweater he’d left in her closet.

  Then a terrible thought tugged at my consciousness. What if the person who killed Dan had kidnapped Rachel?

  Or worse …

  I shuddered to think about it.

  I thought back to the last communication I’d had from Rachel. A text … How did I even know it was from her? Anyone could have sent it. All I really knew was that it had come from Rachel’s phone, but if she’d lost it or someone had stolen the phone …

  I groped for my cell and tried her number again.

  Voice mail!

  The smell of bacon wafted through the apartment.

  Oh goodness. Gus was cooking me breakfast.

  I slipped out of the covers and found that I was fully clothed—wrinkled, but clothed nonetheless. There was a bathroom attached to the master bedroom, and I took advantage of the chance to wash my face. Gus had left a new toothbrush alongside a fresh set of towels. He was thoughtful, I’d give him that. Then a nagging little voice reminded me that a murderer had to be thoughtful to commit a crime and get away with it.

  I couldn’t let my guard down until the police had arrested the killer. I pushed the thought from my mind that my own sister had plenty of motive and her disappearance could also be self-imposed.

  Was she on the run?

  I stepped out of the bedroom and peeked into the living room. A rolled-up blanket and pillow were on the couch. Obviously, Gus had given up his room to me. He’d fed me and made sure I’d been comfortable last night and this morning. How could I think this man could have anything to do with Dan’s death?

  I crossed into the hallway and called out, “Is that bacon I smell?”

  “No!” Gus answered. “Pancetta.”

  Murderers didn’t cook pancetta for their guests for breakfast!

  He smiled as I came into the kitchen. He looked refreshed this morning. His eyes were bright and clear; gone were the red rims from the weeping he’d done the night before.

  He picked up a pair of tongs and placed the pancetta on a plate for me, then he slid an omelet alongside it and handed me the plate. “Did you find the towels and toothbrush?”

  “Yes, thank you. I appreciate you letting me stay the night.”

  He grinned and my knees went a little jelly and weak. Did he have to have such a killer smile?

  “Don’t worry about it. You weren’t in any shape to go home last night. It was my fault anyway. I shouldn’t h
ave given you Chianti in your condition.”

  “You didn’t make me drink it,” I said.

  He chuckled. “I’ll make you drink this though. It’ll cure anything.” He steamed some milk in a small aluminum pitcher, poured it into a cup, then added some espresso with a flourish. When he handed me the demitasse cup and saucer, I saw that he’d made a heart on top of the coffee for me.

  I laughed. “It smells heavenly!”

  From an overhead cabinet, he pulled out a small bottle of pain relievers and shook out two brown pills. “These are just backup.”

  “Are you part angel?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “No one has ever accused me of that.”

  “Well, you’re acting the part this morning,” I said, digging into my omelet. After one bite I stared at Gus.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “This is the best omelet I’ve had in my life.”

  He smiled. “I don’t do breakfast at DelVecchio’s yet, but I’m thinking about opening for a Sunday brunch soon.” His handsome face grew serious, almost sad. “At least that’s what Dan had wanted to do. He had big plans for us, but now…” He waved his hands around as if he didn’t know what else to say and wanted to drop the topic.

  “Have you been able to reach his folks yet?” I asked.

  Before Gus could answer, there was a knock at the door. Gus looked puzzled. “Excuse me,” he said, walking out of the kitchen toward the living room. When he opened the front door the voice of Officer Brooks floated down the hallway.

  Oh no!

  How was I going to explain the fact that I’d spent the night at Gus’s place? It had been completely innocent, that was true—Gus was a perfect gentleman—but still, it looked awful. At the very least, I showed poor judgment in drowning my stress with vodka last night.

  This was sure to get Officer Brooks and me off on the wrong foot. Inanely, the thought of hiding under the table crossed my mind.

  No! Ridiculous!

  Behind a kitchen swinging door?

  Don’t invite him in, Gus, I thought, hoping to send him the message telepathically. Don’t invite him in!

  The voices were getting louder, aka closer.