Kiss Me, Kill Me. Maggie Shayne

helplessly, and then Ambrose looked her way, and she went still and tried to look innocent.

      “I’ll have to go ask the chef,” Wendi said finally, and then she hurried away. Moments later she was back. “No MSG,” she reported.

      “Hmm. That’s good to know.” Ambrose held the menu open a bit longer, then closed it and said, “And what about the pork loin? How is that prepared?”

      The girl pointed at the paragraph beside the entrée on the menu and read aloud. “Made with an apple-mint sauce, and served piping hot and brimming with flavor.”

      “That much I already knew. But how is it cooked? Baked, broiled, sautéed?”

      “Nuclear fusion, I believe.”

      Carrie choked on a laugh, then quickly pressed the cloth napkin to her mouth as if she really had been choking.

      Ambrose blinked up at the waitress, not so much as cracking a smile. “Pardon?”

      “I’ll go ask.” She hurried away again.

      Ambrose shook his head and muttered about the quality of service these days. Carrie was beginning to wish she’d done what she wanted to do and stayed home tonight.

      Wendi returned. “The pork is broiled, sir. No MSG, either. I asked. There’s no MSG in anything we serve.”

      “Fine.” Ambrose perused the menu some more. For a guy who’d been set on the pasta and waving impatiently a few minutes earlier, he certainly was taking his time now.

      Finally, as the girl stood there noticing that her other tables were in need of attention, Ambrose snapped the menu closed and said, “I’ll have the veal.”

      The girl scribbled. “Is that it?”

      “I think you’d better bring me a diet cola,” Carrie said. “And put a shot of rum in it, will you?”

      Wendi smiled for the first time and nodded. “Got it.”

      And then she was gone.

      “My goodness, you would never know the girl is paid by the hour, the way she rushed us,” Ambrose said. Then he placed both palms on the table and looked at her. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Now that the unpleasant part of the evening is out of the way, Carrie, tell me about yourself.”

      She lifted her brows, because he was smiling and, she thought, trying to be friendly now. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”

      “Of course there is. You’re a doctor. That’s fascinating in and of itself. And a single mother, too. Tell me, how did that come about?”

      Mentally, she raised a steel wall between them. “By choice,” she said, her tone chilly.

      “I’m sorry. Did I ask too personal a question?”

      “Yes, you did.”

      “I’ll try not to do that again.”

      “No worries. I won’t answer anything that’s out of bounds.”

      He met her eyes, and she looked away. “What about you,” she asked after a moment of strained silence. “What are you doing in Shadow Falls, Ambrose?”

      “Just a much-needed vacation. We’ve been working particularly hard at the firm for the past year, trying to keep a handle on our clients’ finances in this volatile economy. It’s not for the meek, that much is for sure.”

      “I see.”

      “I doubt it.”

      She wondered why she’d thought this guy might be interesting. Smart, she decided, did not equal interesting. “So you decided to get away to relieve some stress, then?” she asked.

      “Just a brief respite to refresh my mind,” he said. “And I’ve heard the foliage here is something to be seen, so…”

      “It really is,” she said. “But it won’t peak for another three or four weeks yet.”

      “I might very well still be here.”

      “Oh, your stay is open-ended, then?”

      He nodded.

      “Must be a very liberal investment firm you work for.”

      “Financial planning firm,” he corrected. “I’m a partner. I pretty much do what I want.”

      “I see.”

      Wendi returned with Carrie’s drink, set it down in front of her and placed a basket of warm rolls in the center of the table.

      “Excuse me, but I have to make a quick call.” Ambrose got up and moved away from the table into a quiet corner, bringing his cell phone to his ear.

      Carrie took the opportunity to say, “I’m really sorry he’s so rude.”

      “Oh, don’t be silly. It’s not your fault.”

      “Believe me, I had no idea.”

      “Blind date?” Wendi asked.

      “All but. Listen, I want two more drinks—rum and Coke—but he doesn’t need to know what they are. I’m only telling you so you can tally up the check in advance. We won’t be ordering dessert. Bring the check the minute we finish eating.”

      Wendi smiled hugely. “I’m more than happy to help you out, Dr. Overton.”

      “I knew I knew you,” Carrie said.

      The girl smiled. “You put three stitches in my head last year.” The girl lifted her hair off her forehead. “Softball bat.”

      “Yeeouch. Listen, if I promise to slip you a really good tip, will you do me one more favor?”

      “No tip necessary,” the girl said. “Name it.”

      “I’d better not be driving, so would you call my house and tell my son I’m going to need a ride home, and to be here in one hour and just wait for me in the parking lot?”

      “Sure, I’ll tell Sam. I don’t have your number, though.”

      “Twenty-four, sixty-one,” Carrie said. She didn’t need to give the girl the exchange or the area code. They were the same for everyone in town.

      “You’ve got it.” Then Wendi looked over at Ambrose again. “It really wasn’t a blind date?”

      “No.”

      “Hmm.” Wendi shrugged and turned to go back to her other duties.

      Twenty minutes later the food was served and Carrie was draining her second rum and Coke, feigning interest in Ambrose’s diatribe on 401ks versus IRAs, and recent income tax code changes.

      Fascinating stuff.

      Not.

      She dug into her haddock with relish, mentally willing molecules of mercury to ride the airsteam across the table and rain down onto his veal. It was difficult not to shovel the food into her mouth as fast as humanly possible, but she didn’t want to be obvious.

      “Refill on that Coke for you,” Wendi said, placing the third and final drink in front of Carrie. “How’s the fish?”

      “Perfect,” Carrie said.

      “And your veal, sir?”

      “It’s a bit dry, but I didn’t expect five-star cuisine, after all.”

      Carrie gulped the last bit of liquid from drink number two and handed the empty to the long-suffering Wendi, who took it with her back to the kitchen. She must have been sharing the date from hell tale with the rest of the staff, though, because even though the alcohol was washing over her brain at this point, Carrie was aware of the sympathetic looks she was getting from the other employees.

      Ambrose, thankfully, was oblivious.