Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (7 page)

"Now we come up with a plan," she responds, sitting next to me. "Let's start with Presley. If he really was the killer's target, then the killer will try again. We have to figure out what he's not telling us."

"And how do you propose we do that?" I wait for her to reply with something brilliant. A sure way for me to see right through his entrancing eyes and chiseled physique.

"Oh, not
we
, honey." She giggles. "
You
. You're the one he's into. In the meantime, I'll start gathering information around the inn. Someone must have seen something suspicious."

"What about Frankie?" I ask. "She had to have known what Lacy Leigh was upset about or why she was even in town."

"If Frankie doesn't, then Lacy Leigh's Aunt Gracie might know something," Bree continues. "I mean, according to Presley, Lacy went to visit her the day before she died."

"That sounds like a lot of work," I mutter, still wondering how I'm going to pry the truth from Presley's perfect pout.

"Not compared to what you're doing tonight," Bree responds.

"Bree," I argue. "You're not suggesting I—"

"No," she interrupts, blushing. "Nothing scandalous."

"Good."

"It's Monday night," Bree announces. "Remember our discount dinner cruise? Presley can have my ticket."

"I hardly think he'll agree to a night out right now." I shake my head. I don't even know where I'd begin. It's not like Presley is going to blurt out every secret he's ever kept in one short night.

"Don't be so sure about that." The smirk on Bree's face gives me chills. I hate that she is right all the time. "He was more than happy to stroll through town with you yesterday. The two of you even had a little moment on the beach. Don't think I didn't notice."

"Fine," I agree. "I'll ask him out tonight, but that doesn't mean I'll get any information out of him."

"Be creative," she suggests. "Remember how you got Chef Otto to confess last year?"

"He took much longer than a day to crack. Besides, the moment he stepped into our classroom, I knew he was a liar."

"Just don't let Presley's charm make you all googly-eyed," Bree says.

"My eyes are just fine." I cross my arms. "I'm much stronger than you think."

"Okay." Bree giggles. "Remember that when he tries to kiss you."

My cheeks go warm, and my forehead suddenly feels hot enough to grill a pancake.

"Don't be stupid," I blurt out. "There's no way he'd do that."

"I know his type, Poppy. So do you. He'll try to kiss you."

Bree's words settle into my brain. If Presley does try to kiss me, I'm not sure what I'll do. Then again, is there anything wrong with a secret in exchange for a kiss? Just
one
kiss, of course. I might just find out.

I tug at the dress Bree made me wear as Presley joins me on the dock. I didn't have to ask him twice to get him to agree to take Bree's ticket, and the kitchen is still off-limits until Detective Sugars completes a few tests on all of our equipment and food stores.

The ocean sparkles as the sun goes down. A warm, summer breeze cools off my fiery cheeks, and Presley grins as we board a white and red riverboat with a large group of diners. Some are dressed up for the occasion, and some look as if they've just stumbled off the beach after a day of sunbathing. A hostess shows us to our table—a tiny, two-person spot right next to the window.

"Feel free to walk around the deck as we push off," the hostess informs us.

I pick at my fingernails underneath the table. My agenda for the evening is on the forefront of my mind, and Presley looks as if I've taken him to Disneyland when the boat blows its horn. He glances out the window, smiling in wonder when the spacious riverboat slowly creeps toward open water. Inside the dining room, I can barely hear the engine.

"I've never done anything like this before," Presley says.

"I'm just glad you didn't wear another Hawaiian shirt," I joke. He yanks at his collar. He's wearing a sleek pair of slacks and button-down shirt.

"Well, you promised me air conditioning."

"So," I begin, "tell me how you got into this business. I thought you wanted to play pro football?"

"I did," he responds. "I made it through tryouts in Seattle, but I got injured my first week of practice." He shrugs. "I guess it just wasn't meant to be."

"Sorry."

"I'm over it," Presley goes on. "Anyway, I bounced around a few different coaching jobs. You know, high school stuff. Then a buddy of mine told me about this agency that was hiring ex-football players. That's how I got into the bodyguard business. It really is an easy gig. At least I thought it was."

"How are you coping with everything?" I ask. "Did you tell Detective Sugars about…"

"Yeah, I did." Presley frowns as he places his elbows on the table. "He said my theory wasn't likely."

"Then how does he explain the whole room-swap fiasco?" I tilt my head, easing into the subject as best as I could.

"He said that someone could have easily seen us that night, but I swear the hall was empty," he responds. "He also said it was possible that Lacy's panic attack was purposely pushed on her to get her to switch rooms with me. I don't know. That man is confusing."

"Interesting. Sounds like he's made up his mind about it."

"And it doesn't help me any," Presley replies. "What do I have to do to convince those guys that they're looking in all the wrong places?"

"Well, maybe you should retrace your steps again," I suggest. "If you can find a motive, maybe they'll listen to you?"
Keep going, Poppy
. "I mean, you could always say that the mafia is after you or something? I'm sure that would get their attention."

"I told you, Poppy. I don't know why anyone would want me dead. If there is a reason out there, then I'm oblivious to it." He shakes his head. "Let's order a drink."

"Wait a minute." My brain jumps back to the moment I saw Lacy Leigh's stuff in Presley's bedroom. "Maybe that's the answer? Maybe you saw or heard something you weren't supposed to?"

"But—"

"Think," I cut in. "Nothing out of the ordinary happened once you met up with Lacy?"

Presley narrows his eyes as he thinks through my question. He nods a few times as if he's seeing the last few days play out in his head. I eagerly wait for him to respond. This could be it. The missing piece of the puzzle.

"Now that you mention it," Presley says. "It is a little odd that Lacy Leigh left behind her personal assistant and makeup guy. I guess she wanted to keep things low-key."

"Anything else?"

"Ummm…" Presley pauses again, but comes up short. "I don't know? Nothing comes to mind."

"It could be anything or anybody," I add. "Was Lacy seeing someone in secret maybe?"

Presley's eyes shift away from me.

A waitress attends to our table, placing a bread basket and plate of assorted cheeses in the middle.

"Here we have a variety of…" The waitress's voice trails off. Presley's jaw hangs open.

"
Frankie?
" I stare at her. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I…uh…" Frankie hesitates to say anything else.

"Do you work here?" I ask bluntly.

"Sort of?" She bites the side of her lip.

"For how long?" I can't help myself. I have to know.

"Ugh." Frankie exhales loudly, erasing the light-hearted smile from her face. "Please, don't tell Cherie. Poppy, you have to swear. She'll fire me, and I need the money."

"So this is why you're always running off unexpectedly?" I fold my arms, pleased with my discovery. "This is why you're always late?"

"Something like that," she answers. I glance at the scrapes on her wrist.

"And those," I add. "That was no bike accident, was it?"

"I fell in the marina," she confesses. "Look, I'd offer you free drinks for your silence, but everything's included in your ticket. Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"Hey, your secret is safe with me," Presley responds.

"Poppy?" Frankie raises her eyebrows, waiting for my approval.

"Sure." I give in. After all, telling Cherie her secret won't do either of us any good. "I'm not the tattling type."

"Good." The smile returns to Frankie's face. "Now I don't have to ask to change tables. That would've been awkward."

"There is something you can do for us though," I add.

"Anything." Frankie stands up straighter, back to her usual, sprightly self.

"You could tell us a few things about your old friend…Lacy Leigh Nichols."

Frankie's smile fades again.

"What kind of things?" she asks, lowering her voice as though a reporter could be listening from the next table. In all fairness, one very well could be.

"Was she being stalked?" Presley says a little too loudly.

"Keep your voice down," Frankie scolds him. "Anyone could be listening right now."

"Well?" Presley waits impatiently for her answer.

"Why would I know a thing like that?" Frankie shrugs.

"Because the two of you were friends," I respond. "Good friends according to the word on the street. Do you know why she was in town?"

"First of all," she snidely remarks, "don't believe everything you hear. And second, what Lacy was up to is none of your business."

"So you
do
know why she was here?" Presley chimes in.

"If you two will excuse me, I have tables to wait on."

*   *   *

A hearty meal and a slice of cheesecake later, I find myself on the top deck dancing under the stars. Presley chuckles as he leads me to the edge of the boat where waves are rolling under the moonlight. Our dinner was pleasant, except for the fact that Frankie refused to make eye contact as she served us our food.

I lean against the railing and stare off into the night. My nerves are settled, and for the first time in a couple of days I feel relaxed. I did nothing wrong, and sooner or later, Detective Sugars is going to see that. Presley joins me—his arm brushing against mine.

"For a minute there I almost forgot about the investigation," I comment.

"Yeah, me too." His gaze wanders to the moonlight reflecting off of the ocean water. "I never thought anything like this would happen to me. It feels…"

"There aren't really words to describe it," I finish.

"Exactly." He grins as he looks at me. "It's your turn, by the way. I've talked about myself all night and the possible clues that could be buried in my head. Now it's your turn. Tell me about pastry school. What happened to ballet?"

"My back happened," I admit. "I got injured and had to take a break. It's the best thing that ever happened to me." I smile, remembering the look on my parents' faces when I told them I wanted to leave the dancing world behind. They thought I'd gone mental.

"Well, you look great." He nods.
Please, don't blush
.

"Thank you." I try to act casual, but I know that he's staring, and his eyes burn like two miniature lasers. "My mom accused me of having an early mid-life crisis when I told her I wanted to go to the same pastry school in Georgia that my grandma went to. I think she even told my relatives that I was seeing someone for my little
problem
."

"Ouch." Presley clasps his hands together over the railing. Short bursts of laughter coming from groups of other guests fill in any awkward silences. "But you did it anyway. I'd expect nothing less from you."

"My first semester was torture," I continue. "Day one I made a fool of myself trying to make the school's famous peach pie. It was a mess. My instructor was horrified."
Horrified to death.

"I bet you're exaggerating," he responds, chuckling again.

"Not at all. The filling was like liquid peaches, and the crust…don't even get me started on the crust." I can't help but smile widely, even though I was a total mess that week. Enough time has passed for me to laugh about it now.

"I'm sure you'd kick that pie's butt now," Presley adds.

"Oh, I did. Several times. I even won a contest that set me up with an internship in Paris." I take in the night breeze as I think of my bite-size apartment across the road from the Le Croissant bakery. I was surprised it could even be called an apartment when I first arrived because it felt more like a closet with a tiny bed that folded into the wall. I had to fold my bed in order to walk from wall to wall.

"I've never been to Paris," he replies. "Though I've always wanted to go."

"You would love the food."

"Eh, maybe not the fancy stuff," Presley admits. "I'm a big guy. I need more than just a bird's portion of food on my plate."

"You would be surprised how full you get when you use real ingredients," I say. "I'm talking butter and full-fat cream."

"Well, when you put it that way." He leans in closer. "Where do I sign up?"

Bree's warning comes floating back into my head. My eyes dart to his lips—lips I once dreamt about kissing. My feelings of whimsy disappear into the night as our eyes lock together. My heart races, and my head buzzes with past images of the two of us.

"For Calle Pastry Academy?" I attempt to lighten the mood, but my heart is still drumming. "Keep in mind that everything you bake gets graded. You can't just pull it out of the oven and eat it."

"No." He grins. "I mean when are you taking me to Paris?"

"How about we get through the next twenty-four hours," I answer.

"That's fair." Presley's hand inches closer to mine, and I can't help but look at it. Before I know it, our fingers intertwine, and I feel the warmth of Presley's breath on my cheek. He moves towards my lips. My torso freezes like a bucket of sorbet. I don't know whether to turn away or let him kiss me.

I don't have time to figure it out.

Crash!

A woman screams. And just as quickly as Presley presses his lips against mine, he pulls away. A crowd is gathering on the opposite end of the deck. Another woman screams and points at the ocean. A worried look overcomes Presley's face. He clenches his fists, prepared to take on whatever happens next.