“And you always had eggs because Zoe used to raise chickens too, right?” Brittany practically screams to be heard above the noise.
“Yep. And that’s when I decided to learn to cook. Scrambled eggs every night can get pretty boring.” I turn down the blender and pour melted butter slowly through the top. “We kept rabbits as pets for a long time too. For my dad’s shows. And doves. It was quite the barnyard around here until the health department got wind and shut down our mini farm.”
“Seriously? Max used real animals in his shows? I thought that was like, cruelty to animals or something.”
“Hardly.” My father joins us, now dressed in jeans and a polo. “All our animals were loved. Meg and Sawyer made sure of that.” He winks at me. “Right, Jellybean?”
“Right.” I hate it when he calls me Jellybean, but it’s best to ignore it.
Brittany loves watching me squirm every time I hear that nickname, though, and grins like a loon. “Jellybean was just telling me why we’re having breakfast for dinner.”
Meg slips through the swinging door and says, “We’re having eggs for supper? Perfect.” She gives me a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best sister ever.”
“I am.” I turn in time to catch a burst of sadness pass in Brittany’s eyes. Probably because she doesn’t have any biological siblings. But she has us now, so I ask, “Wanna help me poach eggs? Meg can fix human brains like nobody’s business, but eggs? Not so much.”
“Sure.” Brittany hops off her stool at the island and eagerly joins me by the stove.
While Meg ignores my jab because she knows it’s true, I point to the simmering pot of water and say to Brittany, “Pour the vinegar into the pot and give it a good stir.” After the water is ready, I hand Brittany the eggs already broken and portioned out in small cups. “Slip these into the water in one quick motion. In four to five minutes, when the whites are firm but the yolks are still runny, grab them with the slotted spoon and drain them on that paper towel. Then repeat the process one more time. Dylan eats for three, so I need to be sure we have enough.”
“’Kay.” Brittany earnestly watches the eggs, slotted spoon at the ready.
I’m pretending not to watch the eggs while I pull out the warmed casserole dish with custard, bread, and Canadian bacon mixture. “Dylan has a few more questions for you, Dad. And he said you’d better reschedule your next show.”
“Why would I do that?” Dad scowls.
The back door opens, and Dylan strolls in. Thankfully. One less thing for me to deal with while I get dinner ready. “Ask him yourself.”
Dylan closes the kitchen door behind him. “Hi, everyone. Max, can I see you in the living room, please?”
Darn. I want to hear the questions Dylan is going to ask my father. And I want to know what my uncle had to say for himself. I need a reason to eavesdrop.
Beer. That should do it. They both must want one after a trying day.
“Meg, will you set out the silverware in the nook, please? We’re almost ready to eat.”
My sister, who’s been drinking wine and nibbling on the cut fruit, lifts her hand for a salute. “Yes, Chef!”
Smart aleck.
I grab three beers from the fridge and head for the living room. Cooper is torn between following me or staying in the kitchen with Meg, who’s been slipping him bananas. Ultimately, the bananas win, and I head out alone.
My father is sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Dylan must’ve told him Tina died.
I hand a beer to Dylan, who’s standing by the fireplace. Then I sit next to my father on the couch and silently give him a beer too. “I’m sorry, Dad. I know you cared for Tina.”
He nods as he opens the beer. “Dylan told me what happened, but it doesn’t make sense. That trick was working fine when Frank and I tested it. It had to have been a heart attack or something.” He glances up at Dylan. “I certainly had nothing to do with Tina’s death, like this one here is implying.”
“I’m not implying anything.” Dylan sits in a side chair and sets his untouched beer on the coffee table. “We’re still waiting to learn the cause of death. But I don’t think it was an accident, so I have to ask questions. Were you with the bull’s-eye the whole time after it was set up?”
“Mostly.” My father takes a long drink from his bottle. “Tina and I went to the bathroom for a few minutes when she helped with my makeup. Other than that, we waited in the wings with the judges before the show started.”
Dylan nods. “So the mayor was in the back with you too?”
“Yes. We were there before the other two judges joined us.” My father sets his beer down. “But now that I think about it, he did a peculiar thing.”
This sends me to the edge of my seat. “Like what?”
Dylan shoots me a silent “I’m asking the questions here” glance that I ignore. I need to be sure my dad isn’t blamed for anything.
Dad says, “Before the other judges got there, Frank switched the name tags on the flowers. He gave Tina the pink ones and Pattie the red ones.”
Dylan asks, “Did he say why?”
“He said something about how Tina really liked pink. Which I know is true, but I was surprised he knew that.”
Uh-oh. Here’s where things might get sticky. Probably best to let Dylan spill the beans about my uncle and Tina’s affair. So instead, I say, “The Admiral gave the pink ones to Pattie originally because everyone knows it’s her signature color. Not that it really matters who got which ones.”
The confused-puppy tilt of both Dylan’s and Dad’s heads compels me to add, “You both must’ve noticed Pattie dresses in pink every single day. Right?”
“Yeah,
