She was tempted to put some bronzer on her pale face, but she stuck to her usual routine of mascara, blush, and lip gloss. Her scar looked a thousand times better than it had after the first skin graft. Liz rarely held her own gaze in the mirror for more than a few seconds. When a child or someone walked by her and did a double take, she never got angry, but their actions always reminded her of that night. Days would go by when she wouldn’t even think about the scar, forgetting it was there at all. Liz was never vain. When she’d modeled to help pay for her tuition at Columbia, she hadn’t gotten caught up in the superficiality of it all. But when she’d won the PEN/Faulkner Award, that was another story. Her success went to her head, and when the dollars started rolling in, the reason she’d started writing in the first place—for the delight of her readers—got buried under the glitter and accolades. The night it all fell apart, Liz didn’t really blame Travis; she was his enabler, like he’d been hers. Their life together wasn’t real, just their fall from grace.
An hour later, Liz pulled the Caddy under the hotel’s canopy. The sheriff’s car she’d seen earlier that morning was parked in the same spot. Liz wondered why it was still there. Waiting for a return visit from Regina’s killer, or was an arrest imminent? Aunt Amelia planned to sleep in her own bed tonight. Maybe Liz should talk her out of it? She parked the car a few feet from the revolving door to the lobby and got out. The storm hadn’t let up, and per the weather report, it wouldn’t until tomorrow.
Chapter 28
When Liz walked into the Indialantic’s kitchen, her jaw literally dropped. Pierre was next to the center island with his toque askew, holding a scoop of flour, half of which had fallen onto the floor, making for a dangerous work space. Liz rushed over and took the scoop out of his hand. He looked disoriented, but his gaze cleared when he focused on Liz’s face. “Surprise. I almost have dinner ready, although I seem to have misplaced the main protein.” He went from counter to counter, searching behind canisters and bags of cornmeal. It seemed that everything that had filled the shelves in the butler’s pantry had been brought into the kitchen.
She took Pierre’s elbow and guided him toward the farm table. “Sit for a minute. I’ll look for it.” But Liz didn’t have to look long, because she smelled it. “Pierre, was your ‘protein’ lobster?”
“Yes, Lizzy dear. Did you find it?”
Liz moved toward the double wall oven and opened the top oven door. Inside were the lobster tails she’d planned to use in the meal meant to impress Ryan. The spiny Florida lobster tails had been just one of the seafood components she had planned to use. She certainly hadn’t meant to use all twenty-four on the tray in front of her. The lobster tails were charred on top, one second away from bursting in flames. A bottle of brandy sat on the counter next to the oven—Pierre must have intended on creating one of his famous flambés. She got an oven mitt and pulled out the tray.
Aunt Amelia charged into the kitchen, out of breath. “What’s that smell?”
Pierre twirled the ends of his mustache, then said, “Surprise dinner!” He took off his toque and reached inside. His hand came out empty. “Have one more step to finish, just need to find the damn recipe. Where did I put it? Lizzy? Amelia? Do you see it?”
Aunt Amelia walked toward him. “Pierre, Betty told you that Liz—”
Liz gave her great-aunt the “shush” sign. Aunt Amelia understood that Pierre had forgotten what Betty had told him about Liz making tonight’s dinner.
“Come, Pierre,” Aunt Amelia said. “Let’s get cleaned up. Liz will look for your recipe and finish it for you. You know how much she adores your…uh…”
“Lobster Louis,” Liz said.
“Of course. Of course,” he said, blinking a few times. “I think I might lie down a bit before our meal.” Pierre got up and Aunt Amelia followed him to the left of the butler’s pantry and into the hallway, toward the service elevator.
A tear coursed down Liz’s cheek, causing a stinging sensation when it met her scar. No matter how much Pierre protested, Liz, her father, and Aunt Amelia would have to convince him to see a doctor.
Dinner was usually served at five thirty, six at the latest. Liz had only a short time to figure out what to make. The first thing she did was check the lobster. She removed one tail from its shell. The top was burnt, but when she turned it over the bottom was barely cooked. Pierre must have had the broiler on. Liz strode to the oven and sure enough, the Broil light was on.
There was only one thing to do; she had to cut off the charred tops, then cut the lobster tails into small chunks and make some kind of seafood risotto, cream sauce, or a chowder. She walked to the commercial refrigerator and opened the door. It seemed Pierre had already been inside. Carrot tops were missing their carrots, and unwashed leeks lay atop an unwrapped wheel of sheep’s milk cheese with truffles that went for fifty dollars a pound. “Oh, Pierre, what a mess.”
Barnacle Bob cooed from the pantry, “Oh, Pierre. Oh, Pierre. What a mess. Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven.”
“BB, you’re incorrigible.”
Liz spent the next half
