Angels Fall

  '"My agent liked your cookbook proposal."

  "What? What?"

  Brody took a bite of the panini. "Damn good sandwich." he said with his mouth full of it. Then swallowed. "Needs to talk to you directly though."

  "But it's not ready."

  "Then why'd you give it to me?"

  "I just… I thought, if you felt like it, had the time, you could glance over it. That's all. Give me an opinion, or I don't know. Pointers."

  "I thought it was good, so I asked my agent for her opinion. Being a bright individual, she agrees with me."

  "Because you're her client or because it's good?"

  "First, she's got bigger clients than me, a lot bigger. I'm a little fish in her pond. But ask her yourself. Anyway, she liked the way you structured it, but it needs to be formalized into a proposal. She called the intro 'fun and breezy.' Claimed she was going to try out one of the recipes tonight to see how it translates. She actually cooks, but she's also going to give one of the simpler ones to her assistant, who doesn't."

  "Like an audition."

  "She's a busy woman, and wouldn't take on a client unless she believes she can sell. You probably want to talk to her tomorrow, after the audition."

  "I'm nervous."

  "Sure. Lydia won't bullshit you." He pulled out the take-away fountain Coke she'd packed with the sandwiches. "She copped to who you were."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "She's smart, savvy, and she keeps up with current events." Brody eschewed even the idea of a straw and simply pulled off the plastic cap and drank. "Has a memory like a herd of elephants. She asked me if you were the Reece Gilmore from Boston who survived the Maneo Massacre a couple years ago. I didn't lie to her."

  Her appetite took a steep dive. "No, of course you didn't. What difference does it make to her?"

  "It may make one to you. It you sell, it you publish, she won't be the only one to put it together. You've been flying under the radar for a while now, Slim. You'll be back on it if you try for this. Reporters, questions. You'll have to decide if you're up for it."

  "'Mass-murder survivor, former mental patient writes gourmet cookbook.' I get it. Shit."

  "Something to think about."

  "I guess it is." She looked around, the water, the mountains, the marsh. Willows dipped their feathery green leaves into the water. Across the lake, a silver fish wmuled in.idly on the end of Carl's line.

  It was so beautiful, so peaceful—and there was no place to hide. "She may not represent it anyway. And even it she does," Reece considered, "she may not be able to sell it." She looked back at Brody. "It's a lot of big steps."

  "Smaller ones get you to the same place, but they take a hell of a lot longer. So figure out where you want to go, and how long you want to take to get there." He took another bite of his sandwich. "Why'd you put paninis on Joanie's menu today?"

  "Because they're good, fun, fast. Add a little variety."

  "Another reason,"—he gestured with the sandwich—"you're creative. You can't stifle it. You like to feed people, but you like to do it your own way, or at least add a dash of yourself to the process. If you keep working there, you're going to be compelled to put yourself into it, little by little."

  She shifted on the bench, uncomfortable because she knew he was right. Knew she was already doing just that. "I'm not trying to take over."

  "No. But you're not just trying to fit in anymore. The Fist's never going to be Jackson Hole."

  Confused now. Reece shook her head. "Okay."

  "But it's going to grow. Look again," he suggested, and gestured to the mountains. "People want that. The view, the air, the lake, the trees. Some want it for a weekend, or a couple of weeks on vacation. Some want it for good, or for a second home where they can boat or ski or ride horses. The more crowded the cities and the burbs get, the more people want a place that isn't for their alternative time. The thing about people is. they always need to eat."

  She uncapped the bottle of water she'd brought along for herself. "Is this a convoluted way of suggesting I open a restaurant here?"

  "No. First, you'd seriously piss Joanie off. Second, you don't want to run a restaurant. You want to run a kitchen. Do you know who happens to be the biggest entrepreneur in Angel's Fist?

  "Not offhand, no."

  "Joanie Parks."

  "Come on. I know she owns a couple of places."

  "Angel Food, half the hotel, my cabin and three others, four houses, just in the Fist, and a chunk of acreage in and outside it. She owns the building that holds Teton Gallery and Just Gifts."

  "You're kidding. She squawks if I want to spend a few cents extra on arugula."

  "Which is why she owns a big handful of the town. She's frugal."

  "I've come to love and admire her, but come on. She's cheap."

  He grinned as he lifted his take-away cup again. "Is that any way to talk about your business partner?"

  "How does she go from my boss to my partner?"

  "When you propose to her that she open a Casual Gourmet on the opposite side of town from the diner. A small, intimate restaurant, with upscale yet accessible dining."

  "She'd never… She might. Small, intimate for that special night out or that fancy ladies' lunch. Hmmm. Hmmm. Lunch and dinner service only. Revolving menu. Hmmm."

  The third Hmmm had Brody fighting hack a smile. Her brain was already caught up in the idea. Her nerve, he imagined, would catch up quickly enough.

  "Or course, it depends on where you want to go."

  "And how long I want to take to get there. You're a sneaky bastard. Brody, putting that seed in my head. I won't be able to get it out."

  "Gives you a lot to think about. Are you going to eat the other half of that sandwich? "

  Grinning, she passed it over, and the cell phone in her pocket rang. "Nobody calls me,'" Reece began as she dug it out. "'I wonder why I carry it most of the time. Hello?"

  "Reece Gilmore?"

  "Yes."

  "It's Serge. I made you beautiful in Jackson."

  "Oh, yes. Serge. Um, how are you?"

  "Absolutely fine, and hoping you and Linda-gail will come back to visit me."

  Instinctively, Reece lifted a hand to her breeze-tousled hair. She could use a trim, no question. But she also needed to pay her car insurance. "I'll have to talk to her about that."

  "Meanwhile, I called about the picture you left with me. The flyer?"

  "The sketch? You recognized her?"

  "I didn't, no. But I just hired a new shampoo girl who thinks she does. Do you want me to give her your number?"

  "Wait." Her eyes rounded as she stared at Brody. "Is she there now? The new girl?"

  "Not at the moment. She's not starting until Monday. But I have her information. You want it?"

  "Yes. Wait!" She dug into her purse for a pad, a pen. "Okay."

  "Marlie Matthews," Serge began.

  She wrote it down, name, address, phone number, while the canoe drifted lazily on the lake. "Thank you, Serge, thanks so much. As soon as I can possibly manage it, Linda-gail and I are coming in for the works."

  "Looking forward to it."

  She clicked the phone closed. "Someone recognized the sketch."

  "I got that much. Better get your paddle. We'll have to secure the boat before we go to Jackson Hole."

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  MARLIE MATTHEWS lived on the ground floor of a two-level wood box of turüished apartments off Highway 89. There'd been an attempt to give it a bit of style, with take stucco walls forming a little cement courtyard gated with wrought iron. Inside it, there were a few faded mesh chairs, a couple metal tables that still had the white gleam of fresh paint. It looked clean and, though the tiny parking lot was still pocked with potholes from the winter, decently maintained.

  In the courtyard, a towheaded boy of about tour was riding a red tricycle in wide, determined circles. Through an open window on the second floor came a baby's long, furious wails.

&nbs
p; The minute they started across the courtyard, a woman stepped through the sliding glass doors of a lower unit. "Help you?"

  She was small, wiry, with a short, sleek cap of dark hair liberally streaked with bronze. She gripped a rag mop, eyeing them as though she was prepared to beat them off with it if she didn't like their response.

  "I hope so." Because she knew what it was like to be wary of strangers, Reece tried an easy, open snnle. "We're looking for Marlie Matthews."

  The woman signaled to the little boy. All it took was a crook of her finger to have him aiming his little bike in her direction. "What for?"

  "She may know someone we're looking for. Serge from the Hair Corral called me. I'm Reece. Reece Gilmore. This is Brody."

  Apparently the mention of her new boss was password enough. "Oh, well. I'm Marlie."

  Upstairs, the baby stopped crying, and someone began to sing in crooning Spanish. "My neighbor just had a baby," Marlie added when Reece automatically glanced up toward the singing. "I guess you can come in for a minute. Rory, you stay where I can see you."

  "Mom, can I have a juice box? Can I?"

  "Sure, you go get one. But if you go back outside, you stay right where I can see you."

  The boy dashed inside, with the adults following. He went directly to the refrigerator in the kitchen, sectioned off from the living room by a counter. "You all want something?" Marlie asked. "A cold drink maybe?"

  "Thanks. We're fine."

  The place was whistle clean and smelled of the lemony cleaner in Marlie's mop pail. Though it was on the sparse side with its two-seater sofa and single chair, there had been attempts to make it homey with a red glass vase of yellow fabric daisies on the counter, a potted peace plant on a table situated so it could bask in some light through the sliders.

  A corner of the living room had been fashioned into a play area with a little white table and red chair. On the wall, a corkboard was covered with a child's drawings; on the floor, a clear plastic tub held toys.

  Obviously more interested in the strangers than his bike, Rory carried his juice box up to Brody.

  "I have a race car and a fire engine." he announced.

  "Is that so? Which is faster?"

  With a grin, Rory went to retrieve them.

  "You can go ahead and sit down," Marlie told them.

  "Mind if I sit over here?" Brody wandered over to the toy box, sat on the floor with the boy. Together, in male unity, they investigated the contents.

  "I left a sketch at the salon a few weeks ago." Reece began while Marlie kept an eye on her son. "Serge said you thought you might have recognized her."

  "Maybe. I can't say for certain sure. It's just that when I saw the drawing sitting on the counter. I thought—guess I said… 'What's Deena's picture doing in here?'"

  "Deena? "

  "Deena Black."

  "A friend of yours?" Brody said it casually while he ran the tire truck along the floor with Rory's race car.

  "Not exactly. She used to live upstairs where Lupe does now. The new baby?"

  "Used to?" Brody repeated.

  "Yeah, she left. A month or so ago."

  "Moved out?' Reece asked.

  "Sort of." As it satisfied Brody wasn't going to grab Rory and run off with him. Marlie perched on the edge of the couch. "She left some stuff, took her clothes and like that, but left some kitchen stuff, magazines, that kind of thing. Said she didn't want it, just junk anyhow."

  "She told you that?"

  "Me? No." Marlie thinned her lips. "We weren't actually on what you'd call speaking terms by that time. But she left a note for the super. He lives next door. Said she was moving on to better. She always said she would. So she took her clothes, got on her bike and blew."

  "Bike?" Brody repeated.

  "She drove a Harley. Fit her. I guess, cause she brought a lot of biker types home while she lived here." She glanced over to make sure Rory wasn't paying attention. "Worked in a titty bar," she said under her breath. "Place called the Rendezvous. Deena used to tell me, when we were still talking, that I'd make more money there than at Smiling Jack's Grill. I waitress there. But I didn't want to work at that kind of plate, and I can't be out until God knows serving beer, half naked, when I've got Rory."

  "She lived alone?" Reece prodded.

  "Yeah, but she'd bring company home pretty regular. Sorry if she's a friend of yours, but that's the way it was. She had company most every night up until about six, eight months ago."

  "What changed?"

  "Pretty sure there was a man—a particular one. I heard them up there once a week or so. Then she'd light out for a day, sometimes two. Told me she had a fish on the line—that's how she talks. He bought her stuff, she said. New leather jacket, a necklace, lingerie. Then, I don't know. I guess they had a falling-out."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "Well, she came roaring in here early one morning. I was getting Rory in the car to take him to preschool. She was steaming. Cursing a streak. I told her to take it down, that my boy was in the car. She said how he was going to grow up to be a bastard like the rest of them.

  "Can you beat that?" Marlie demanded, obviously still insulted by it. "Saying that about that sweet boy and right to my face?"

  "No, I can't. She must have been angry about something."

  "I don't care what she was mad about, she had no cause to talk about my Rory that way. Set me off. We had a round right out there in the parking lot, but I backed off first. I had my kid, plus I heard she once smashed a guy in the face with a beer bottle at the bar. She isn't the type I want to mess with."

  "Can't blame you." Reece thought of how Deena had slapped her killer, how she'd leaped at him.

  "She didn't back off," Marlie continued. "Got right up in my face. She said how nobody pushes her around. Nobody screws with her. And he—must've been the guy she was seeing—was going to pay. When she was done with him, she'd be moving on to better."

  Marlie shrugged. "That's the gist of it anyway. She stomped away, and I got in the car. I was pretty steamed."

  "Is that the last time you saw her?" Brody asked.

  "No, I guess I saw her around a couple more times. Avoided her, to tell the truth. Heard her bike a few times."

  "Would you remember the last time you heard it?" Reece asked her.

  "I sure would because last time it was the middle of the damn night. Woke me up. It would've been the next day the super told me she lit out. Put the keys in an envelope and split. He said he was putting the rest of her things in storage for a while." She shrugged again. "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. None of my business. I'm glad she's gone. Lupe and her husband are a lot better neighbors. Serge said I can schedule working at the salon when Rory's in preschool, but Lupe's watching Rory evenings when I work at the grill. I'd never have trusted Deena with my kid."