Page 27 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

That struck a little too close to home. One of the things you noticed if you spent enough time in the writing world was that there were a lot of writers who didn’t actually write.

They talked about writing. They told everyone they were a writer.

Sometimes, they’d even had a book published.

Sometimes, that book had even been a success.

But they didn’t write anymore. And there were the kinds of people Larry had described, the ones who wanted fame or money or status, and the writing was simply a stand-in for that.

“Look, I get that you’ve got a job to do,” Larry said. “Er, so to speak. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. I wouldn’t have killed Mal. Or Sparkie.”

“A lot of people believe that about themselves,” I said. “But the truth is, almost anyone is capable of killing under the right circumstances. What were you and Mal arguing about before he died?”

Larry’s mouth twisted into a smile.

JaDonna Powers brayed laughter in the background.

A trio of kids sprinted past us toward the shark cutout.

At the display case, a middle-aged man with a bad combover was pressing the bell again and again.

Larry was still smiling that awful smile.

“If you’re really innocent—” I began.

“I’m dying.”

The man at the counter was still ringing the bell.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but the words were automatic, detached, half a question.

Larry’s smile tightened. And then his face relaxed, and he shook his head and looked away. “Cancer. They caught it too late. Much too late.”

“Oh. God. I’m so sorry.”

He touched his pocket where he’d placed the pills.

“Pain management. Palliative care, I think they call it. They told me, and it was like—” He gave a short laugh.

“It was like I couldn’t hear them. I understood what they told me.

I understood what it meant. But that was somebody else, or it wasn’t real, or—or something.

I left the doctor’s office and went back to the studio.

Went back to work. Like life was normal.

And a week later, they told me this was the last season, and why didn’t I wrap it up with something special.

Kind of a retrospective. Famous chefs. My favorite dishes.

And that was okay too. It was all just…happening, and I was going along with it.

“I’d already planned to be at Mizzenmast’s opening night, so I came out here and got Mal alone for a minute.

I told him what was happening—the finale, not the cancer.

I said I wanted his help recruiting some big names for the last episode; he had a lot of influence, in spite of everything he’d done.

You know what he said? He said, ‘God, I was counting on you to give Mizzenmast some good press.’ And right then, that’s when it was real.

All of it. I lost my mind.” He sat back.

His skin looked clammy, and he ran the back of his hand across his forehead.

“I was going to die. Everything I’d worked for was going to be scrapped.

And this—this jerk couldn’t even give me the time of day because all he cared about was that stupid restaurant.

” A wave of ambient noise crashed over us: the door opening, a man cracking crab legs, the clatter of pans from the kitchen.

Beneath it all, Larry’s next words barely carried.

“I was glad when Mal died. But I didn’t kill him. ”

“Did you know he was cheating Talmage out of Mizzenmast?”

“Did I know? No, I didn’t know . But I had my suspicions. Everyone knew they’d been on the rocks, and frankly, anyone stupid enough to do business with Mal deserves what’s coming to them.”

“Talmage seems smart. She’s assertive. She knows how to run a restaurant.”

“So,” Larry said dryly, finishing my unasked question, “why’d she fall into bed with Mal?”

“Not exactly, but…yeah, I guess. Why get involved with him at all? She had to have known who he was, what he’d done.”

“I go to these restaurants,” Larry said.

“The meat is overcooked. The sauces are bland. The décor is trash. The staff aren’t trained properly.

I could take a video and show it to ten strangers, none of them experts, and they’d be appalled.

But I do my review, and you know what happens?

The owners are outraged. The chefs are furious.

I get death threats. ‘How dare you?’ Blah, blah, blah.

Because they don’t care about the truth.

And they don’t care about doing a good job.

What they care about is what other people think of them, and I ruined that for them. ”

“Talmage doesn’t seem like she cares too much about what people think.”

“Yeah?” Larry smiled, but the expression held a hint of pain, and he shifted in his seat and pressed a hand to his back.

“Why’d she set up shop out here, then? No offense, kid, but this is the middle of nowhere.

Mizzenmast is—could be—first rate. Why isn’t she in Portland or Seattle or Vancouver?

Because her family’s here?” He put so much scorn on the words that I didn’t know how to respond.

“Everybody cares about what other people think. Let me tell you: knowing that you’re going to die soon gives you some perspective on your own life, and it’s not pretty.

All the things we sacrifice because we want to get ahead.

The things we let go because it’s more important to be successful or famous.

The ways we make ourselves smaller because we hope that if we can just make the right person happy, it will somehow fix everything else.

The question isn’t if we care; it’s who, or what, or where.

Talmage wasn’t going to have a restaurant without Mal.

And without a restaurant, she’d never get to come back here and rub her success in everyone’s face. ”

On the wall, the neon crab was still dancing.

A little girl was trying to climb a fishing net tacked next to the door.

Framed restaurant reviews and newspaper clippings circled the dining room, proof of the success and popularity of Fishermen’s Market.

Maybe Larry was right; maybe we were all looking for some kind of validation.

If so, that would only have added fuel to the fire when Talmage discovered Mal was trying to take away Mizzenmast—because what would her family think if they found out she’d lost the restaurant?

“What’s the deal with Jethro?” I asked.

“Now that’s an interesting question.”

“What do you mean?”

But Larry shook his head. “You first.”

“I don’t know. I guess…everyone’s been telling me how awful Mal was, but that’s not exactly true.

Because he must be charming sometimes, right?

I mean, he keeps getting married. And Jethro told me how kind Mal was to him.

That doesn’t make sense either. Sparkie told me Jethro wasn’t a great assistant, so why did Mal keep him around?

The first night I saw them at Mizzenmast, I got this… vibe. I don’t know how else to put it.”

Larry burst out laughing. “You think they were sleeping together?”

“Is that possible?”

For a few seconds, Larry didn’t say anything, and his face grew serious. “I don’t think so. Look, the restaurant industry is fairly open, but as far as I know, Mal always stuck to one side of the buffet. He’d be more likely to go for that pretty girl who was working for Talmage.”

“Nalini?”

“Mal always liked them young.”

“God.” I shook my head. “So, if Mal and Jethro aren’t sleeping together, what’s going on there?”

Larry toyed with the red-checked paper lining his basket of seafood. “I don’t know. You’re right: it’s strange.”

“When I brought up Jethro, you said it was an interesting question.”

Larry’s fingers stilled, and the crinkly paper went silent.

“What?” I asked.

“I saw him going back into the restaurant.”

“What? When?”

“The night Mal was murdered. He went in through a side door.”

“He told me he was sitting in his car.”

Larry snorted. “He wasn’t anywhere near his car. And I’ll tell you something else: yesterday, before Sparkie started going on and on about how she knew who the killer was, she told me she’d caught Jethro going through her purse.”

“Why would Jethro be going through her purse?”

Larry shrugged and sat back. He flipped his notebook shut.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, and my phone buzzed. I went to dismiss it, but when I saw Fox’s name on the screen, I stopped.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I have to take this.”

I answered as I stepped outside; even under that low, gloomy sky, the day’s relative brightness made me blink, and the breeze off the ocean sliced along the back of my neck. “What happened? Is everything—”

“The sheriff is going to arrest Indira,” Fox said.

“What?” I glanced up and down the pier. “Where are you? Is she arresting Indira right now?”

“No.” Fox sounded out of breath, and noises from the other end of the call suggested movement. To someone else, away from the phone, they said, “Hurry.”

“Fox, what’s going on? Is the sheriff there? Let me talk to her—”

“The sheriff isn’t here yet, but we only have a few minutes.

The fingerprints came back on the gun, and they’re a match.

Thank God I have my sources.” Again, they spoke away from the phone: “Hurry!” When their voice came back, the timbre was different: high and strained.

“We appreciate everything you’ve done for us, but you don’t need to worry anymore. ”

“What does that mean? Fox, put Indira on the phone. We all need to calm down and think clearly about this. Let’s talk to Bobby—”

“Goodbye, Dash. Thank you for trying.”

And then the call disconnected.