Clambake Murder: A Rocky Cove Culinary Cozy - Book 2 Page 4

  He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “That’s not what I’m here to discuss, Ms. Rogers. I’m actually far more interested in what I can do for you.”

  “Excuse me?” Becca was confused and filled with more than her share of distrust.

  Gareth Foster sat back, smiling cordially. “I believe that you met with one of my liaison personnel, a Mr. Jenkins?”

  “Yes, we met,” Becca sat back in her chair, tenting her hands under her chin, giving nothing away.

  “Let me be frank, Ms. Rogers,” Foster gazed at her with utmost sincerity. “Mr. Jenkins is good at what he does in that he is typically able to manipulate others into agreeing with his perspective. That is not how I, personally, do business.”

  “Go on.”

  “I prefer a much more two-sided approach to every situation. What I’d like to see is a situation where both parties come to a mutual agreement in which everyone wins.”

  “That sounds like a very optimistic ideal, Mr. Foster.” Becca wasn’t biting.

  Foster raised an eyebrow and leaned forward again. “What is it that you want, Ms. Rogers? What can I do for you to make an arrangement with Foster Development palatable? I’m a very civic-minded individual – if there are local charities that you support, or if there’s a need in your business that could be met with an influx of capital, I’d be happy to consider such arrangements.”

  Becca had been simmering the entire time that Gareth Foster was speaking, and by the time he finished, she was furious, but refused to let him know that he had gotten under her skin. She took a deep breath, taking great care to keep her voice level, even and strictly professional when she responded.

  “Mr. Foster, I don’t know the type of people with whom you typically ‘do business,’ but there are those of us who actually do care about our communities. Your offer of forced charity is an insult to my intelligence and an indicator that you think so little of me as to believe that I can be bought. You couldn’t be more wrong, Gareth Foster. My property is not for sale, nor am I – at any price. There is nothing you can say, and nothing you can do to change that. Don’t think that I’m unaware that either you or your associate, Mr. Jenkins, have brought in vandals to try to scare me and my neighbors out of our homes. I can assure you that your heavy-handed tactics will not work. This community is stronger than you think, Mr. Foster. You clearly have no idea what you’re up against.”

  Foster smiled smugly, seemingly unphased, and leaned toward Becca, speaking in a low voice. “Admirable, Ms. Rogers, and incredibly naïve. You might want to be careful about what you say…I’d hate to have to bring you into court for slander charges.” He stood to go, glancing around her office at the awards and photos with dignitaries that lined her walls. “How’s business lately?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “Booming,” Becca answered coldly.

  Foster nodded. “Good, that’s good…I’d hate to see what a few well-placed complaints would do to a tiny enterprise like this…”

  “Are you daring to threaten me, Mr. Foster?” she was astounded at his gall.

  “Threaten? Of course not. I was merely making an observation.” His smile was a contemptuous sneer.

  “Get out of my office before I have you thrown out,” Becca ordered, her patience frazzled.

  The insufferable man sauntered toward the door. “No problem, I’ve wasted far too much time trying to be reasonable as it is. Have a wonderful day, Ms. Rogers,” he said, letting himself out.

  Becca’s heartbeat pounded in her temples and she snapped a pencil in two in her frustration. Dumping the fractured halves of the pencil into her wastebasket, she picked up the receiver of her desk phone and dialed Detective Reynolds’ number. She was utterly deflated when Reynolds told her that, until evidence linking Foster Development to the crimes that were committed was found, there was nothing that could be done. Somehow, she made it through the rest of her day, getting most of her backlogged paperwork done despite her disturbing encounter with Gareth Foster. The work was actually a relief, allowing her to lose herself in the mundane world of facts and figures instead of having to deal with crime and sick motives and the death of a dear friend. Katie offered to cook dinner for her at the end of the day, but Becca just wanted to retreat into her formerly safe, familiar home and make the world go away for a while.

  Chapter 10

  Snuggled up on the couch with take-out Chinese food and Netflix, Poppy snoring softly beside her, Becca was settled in for the evening, trying hard to forget about Gareth Foster, his lackey, Samuel Jenkins, vandalism and all of the other ugliness that had been foremost in her mind lately. She had just started watching a mindless romantic comedy when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but picked up anyway, pausing the movie.

  “Becca Rogers,” she answered, curious.

  “Hi Becca, it’s Simon.”

  She was more than surprised to hear her ex-husband’s voice on the line, not having heard from him since shortly after his wife’s murder. Their divorce had been anything but cordial, and Becca had been more than willing to turn her back and walk away, having nothing more to do with her emotionally abusive ex. He had married the ‘other woman’ and asked Becca to vouch for his character when he was suspected of murdering her, which she did, knowing that no matter how vile he might be, he certainly wasn’t capable of that kind of atrocity.

  “Simon…this is a surprise. Is something wrong?” she asked, heart thudding.

  “You tell me. I have a business contact named Gareth Foster, ring any bells?” he asked dryly.

  “Unfortunately. But why does this concern you, exactly?”

  “Becca, look, I know that we haven’t been close for a very long time…”

  “That’s an understatement,” she thought bitterly.

  “I just want to let you know…Foster has a reputation. He gets what he wants and he can be ruthless. I’ve seen him destroy legitimate business owners and homeowners who get in his way. He knows more people in both high and low places than you can possibly imagine, Bec,” he finished, actually managing to sound concerned.

  “Why are you telling me this, Simon?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

  “I just…be careful, Becca, okay? You really don’t know what you’re dealing with on this one.”

  Alarm bells pealed madly in her head when she recognized the exact words that Gareth Foster had uttered coming out of her ex-husband’s mouth.

  “I always am,” she declared with more confidence than she felt. “Goodbye Simon,” she hung up before he could protest.

  Becca trembled in the aftermath of talking with Simon. Was he on Foster’s side? Had the insufferable man gone to her ex-husband to try and sway her? Was it possible that Simon had been behind some part of this, despite the fact that she had helped exonerate him in his wife’s murder? Her head swam, trying to make sense of it all. If Simon was involved, he would be able to provide information to Foster about how he could torment Becca for maximum impact. Her ex was well-versed in pushing her buttons, and hitting her where it hurt most, figuratively speaking. She gathered a sleepy Poppy into her arms for comfort, stroking the warm fur as she pondered what she should do. Not knowing whether it was relevant or not, she decided to call Detective Reynolds in the morning, hoping that he wasn’t getting impatient with hearing from her.

  Poppy snuggled up under her chin as Becca carried her upstairs, having no idea how much comfort she provided to her troubled owner. Becca turned on the shower, her mind a constant whirl of questions as she undressed. The warm water cascading down provided a brief respite for her, but she couldn’t escape the litany of thoughts that haunted her. Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to sleep because of her agitation, she did something that she hated to have to do, but felt like she had no choice. After the divorce, Becca’s doctor had prescribed a mild sleeping pill for times when life got overwhelming and insomnia struck. It was a rare circumstance that led to her taking one, but she knew that she’
d never get to sleep tonight without it, so she swallowed the tablet with a glass of cold water. Donning her softest summer pajamas, she slipped between the sheets, waiting for the sedative to take effect, and drifted slowly into a heavy sleep.

  In her dream, Becca felt stifled by the summer heat, trying desperately to find some relief from the glaring sunlight that flickered through the trees outside her window. She heard a loud insistent pounding from the construction going on next door, where Sally’s sister was turning the house into a tea room and antique store in honor of her sister. Becca’s head throbbed with the pounding and she held her hands over her ears, wishing it would stop. She ran down to her basement, hoping that it would be a cool respite from the heat and noise, but when she dropped down to sit on the basement floor, against a damp, musty wall, a huge spider dropped onto her cheek. Screaming, she brushed it away, and woke up, staring into the wide-eyed face of Poppy who had been batting at her cheek and meowing loudly, as if in distress.

  Shaking her head in an attempt to clear the drug-induced fog, she sat up in bed and realized that the pounding hadn’t been only in her dream. Someone was insistently banging loudly on her front door, and glancing out of her bedroom window in horror, she knew why. Sally Case’s beautiful Victorian home was engulfed in flames. Becca’s sleeping pill had caused her to sleep through the light from the blaze as well as the sirens of police cars and fire trucks. She kissed the top of Poppy’s furry head, thanking her for being persistent in rousing her, grabbed a robe, and wrapping it quickly around her, ran down the stairs.

  A uniformed police officer greeted her when she opened the door, informing her that she would need to evacuate for her own safety. The fire department would be spraying down her house as well as the home on the other side of the blazing Victorian. It was simply too late for Sally’s home, it couldn’t be saved. Choking back tears, Becca threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, gathered up food and supplies for Poppy, put the cat in her travel case and jogged to her car.

  The next morning, Becca sat miserably with Lance Reynolds on the front steps of her home, beside the still smoldering ruins of Sally’s formerly grand home, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. The acrid smell of smoke and burnt materials still hung in the air. Firefighters had worked diligently through the night and managed to save her home and the other houses surrounding the fire, but the scar left behind had swayed two more neighbors to accept defeat and agree to sell to the abominable Foster Development Corp.

  “When is it going to stop, Detective? How far do these people have to go before something is done?” she implored, tears running silently down her cheeks.

  “The fire chief determined that the fire was deliberately started,” Reynolds said grimly. “Now we’re working diligently on finding the perpetrator. We’re getting closer, but there are still lab results that we’re waiting on before we can say conclusively who did these things and why.” He seemed like he was about to say more, but stopped speaking when he saw Hubert Finch approaching from across the street.

  “Helluva thing,” the leathery-faced neighbor said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Becca and the detective nodded in agreement, there was nothing to be said.

  Reynolds took out his notebook and addressed Hubert. “Did you happen to see anything last night, Mr. Finch?”

  “Only thing I saw was a big black SUV parked over behind Sally’s for quite a while last night. It had out of state plates, so I figured it might’ve been a relative, looking after her belongings,” he shrugged.

  “Out-of-state?” Reynolds confirmed. “What state? Do you recall?”

  “Couldn’t really tell from so far away. Looked like maybe New York.”

  Becca and Lance exchanged a look. Becca’s ex-husband had moved to New York.

  “Did you see anyone getting into or out of the SUV,” the detective asked.

  “Nope. Didn’t really pay it much mind.”

  Reynolds nodded and closed his notebook. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

  “Sure thing,” Hubert agreed easily, turning to go. “Whole neighborhood’s going crazy, can’t wait to get outta this place,” he muttered, wandering away.

  “Odd duck,” the detective observed, watching him go.

  “He didn’t used to be,” Becca responded. “He came upon tough times and it just…changed him. I feel sorry for him,” she admitted.

  “Hopefully the change of locale will help him get a new start,” Reynolds nodded thoughtfully, jotting something in his notebook.

  “Hope so. Detective Reynolds, should I be afraid to live here?” she asked, vulnerable.

  “I think that we’re very close to figuring out who is behind all of this, and once we do, you won’t have to worry about a thing. Just be very careful and extra vigilant for now. I’m guessing that whoever did this will lay low for a while, and we’ll figure things out before they strike again,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

  Chapter 11

  “Becca, you’re not going to believe this!” Katie was red-faced and indignant, thrusting a newspaper and a notice of some sort into her boss’s hand when she arrived at the office after Detective Reynolds left.

  “What is it?” Becca asked, alarmed at her normally cool, calm and collected catering manager’s manner.

  “Mrs. Crestwood went to the newspaper with the story about the clambake theft, making it sound like it was not only our fault, but that it ruined her event as well. We’ve had two cancellations already this morning, and the answering machine is full. On top of that, we have an order here from the health department that we have to temporarily shut down until they can conduct an inspection of our facilities. I’ve had Julio and the entire crew in the kitchen making certain that everything is spotless and in order.” Katie was hopping mad and flung herself into a chair across from Becca’s desk.

  “And so it begins…” her boss murmured, lost in thought.

  “What? What begins? What are you talking about?”

  Becca shook her head, coming back to earth. “Nothing. When is the inspection scheduled?”

  “Tomorrow,” Katie growled in disgust. “We’re losing an entire day of productivity over this nonsense.”

  Becca sighed, thinking. “That may not be a bad thing. We can make up the lost time later in the week, and our ‘day off’ can be used to shoot down the bad publicity.” She shooed Katie off to the kitchen to oversee the efforts there, and looked up Amelia Crestwood’s phone number.

  Chapter 12

  Becca rubbed her head in frustration, having just hung up from a very non-productive phone call with Mrs. Crestwood. When she had asked the pillar of the country club set why she had gone to the papers with a bad review, the pretentious woman, who seemed upset that she had even called, responded with, “I didn’t go to them dear, they came to me, and I merely told them the truth. How they presented it is none of my concern.”

  When Becca had called the reporter at the newspaper who had written the story, she was sent directly to voice mail. Calling the two clients who had cancelled this morning and asking them for the reason behind their cancellation, she received a response from one that there had been a ‘change of plans,’ and the other had simply said that they had ‘decided to go in another direction’ with their food plan. Nearly in tears, Becca listened to message after message on her answering machine from clients who either wanted to cancel their reservation outright, or who expressed second thoughts about their decision to use her as their caterer. Not knowing what else to do, she called Detective Reynolds, who asked her for a list of names of the clients who had cancelled, and those who sounded like they might want to. He told her that there was almost certainly nothing that he could do, but that anything that might provide evidence of Foster’s involvement in criminal or harmful activity could be helpful.

  Detective Reynolds seemed hesitant, but also brought up something else that had Becca worried.

  “Ms. Rogers, I think I should let you know that I’
m investigating another suspect in connection with what’s going on,” he said.

  “Really, who?” she asked, intrigued and suddenly filled with hope.

  “Your ex-husband.”

  As much as she wanted to deny it, investigating Simon made perfect sense. He had admitted that he’d had a business relationship with Gareth Foster, and that Foster had called him about what was going on in Cape Cranston. Hubert had said that there was a black SUV from New York parked behind Sally’s house before the fire, and Simon owned a black SUV. Most of the people that were currently cancelling their catering reservations belonged to the social realm that Simon moved within when he lived here, and sadly, he’d been known to be rather vindictive when crossed. But she had helped clear his name, and just the other day, it sounded like he had been trying to warn her about Foster. All of this was so confusing, Becca laid her head down on her arms and closed her eyes, wondering what to do next.

  Chapter 13

  The reporter from The Tribune called back just before Becca left the office for the day, and when Becca questioned him about his source for the Crestwood article, he said that the tip had come in from an anonymous caller. She persisted with questions, but the only information that the reporter had was that the caller was male, sounded older and had a heavy New England accent. Now Becca was truly stumped. Neither Foster nor Simon had a heavy New England accent. Foster’s voice was clipped and precise and Simon’s was Harvard urbane if anything. The reporter eagerly agreed to print Becca’s side of the story, and peppered her with questions about her business, her interaction with Mrs. Crestwood, and the events surrounding the ill-fated clambake. At the end of the interview, the reporter assured her that the story would come out later in the week, leaving her feeling somewhat relieved that she’d done her part to set the record straight.