I scanned the countertop for the final ingredient for my pièce de résistance. Where was the tuna? I could’ve sworn I’d left it there along with the soup and noodles I’d taken out earlier. I’m sure it had been there, nice as could be, before I left to meet the sheriff. There had to be a logical explanation. Were my eyes playing tricks? Had I hallucinated Charlie the Tuna’s picture on a blue can? Maybe I’d absentmindedly returned the can to the pantry. Frantic, I pawed through shelves filled with cans, jars, and boxes. Soup, beans, and pie filling. I shoved aside cake mixes and packaged rice. I discovered a mix for lemon poppy seed scones I had purchased long ago and given up for lost.
“Something wrong, Kate?”
I wanted to scream but didn’t want to frighten Krystal. This was a disaster of the worst kind. How does one make tuna noodle casserole without the star ingredient? I needed tuna. I needed it now!
“The tuna fish. I-It’s gone.” I felt as if I were losing it. I took a deep breath to quiet my burgeoning hysteria. I wasn’t usually this easily upset. Maybe it was a delayed reaction to seeing a man killed. Maybe it was seeing my hopes of a cozy evening with Bill the Tool Man dashed. Or perhaps-plain and simple-I was going bonkers.
Krystal rose abruptly and left the kitchen. I heard the door leading onto the deck open, then close. She returned a moment later carrying a small cereal bowl. “I’m sorry, Kate. There’s nothing left. It’s all gone.”
Save for one tiny telltale scrap of tuna, the dish had been licked clean. I stared at it in dismay. “What? Who…?”
“He was so scrawny. I felt sorry for him.”
“He…?” I struggled to wrap my mind around the problem before I unraveled completely. Had a beggar in dire need of tuna shown up on my doorstep? And the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What to do about Bill’s dinner? A tuna noodle casserole minus the tuna equals a noodle casserole. Oh, yum!
I shot a glance at the clock. Bill was due any second. No time to run to the Piggly Wiggly. Immediately my mind went to Plan B, only to discover I didn’t have a Plan B. I didn’t have a Plan C either. Drat! I hate when that happens.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill’s pickup turn into my drive. My panic ratcheted up a notch-or three. It wasn’t bad enough there was no dinner; I didn’t have time to primp. I needed to run a brush through my hair, freshen my lipstick, spritz on pricey designer perfume guaranteed to make me a femme fatale.
As if on cue, the doorbell pealed. Frantic, I raced to the pantry, grabbed a bottle of vanilla extract from the shelf, and dabbed some behind each ear. Krystal gazed at my antics in wide-eyed fascination.
“Kate, you’re scaring me. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I added an extra dab of vanilla to the valley between my breasts. I saw this trick recently on one of those morning talk shows. An expert on something or other claimed men found the scent of vanilla irresistible. As an added bonus, it saves buying pricey perfume.
“Then you’re not angry with me?”
The bell rang again.
“There isn’t time,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried toward the foyer. “Angry will have to wait ’til later.”
I flung open the door. “Bill!”
I must have sounded surprised-or out of breath or both-because he looked at me quizzically. “Kate, you all right? You were expecting me, weren’t you?”
“Of course, of course.” My laugh was a nervous fluttery sound. I stepped aside to let him enter. “Come in, come in.” I kept repeating myself but couldn’t seem to stop. My speech pattern mimicked echoes down a canyon.
“I know how much you like Riesling,” he said, handing me a bottle of my favorite white wine.
He looked… great! He wore a navy Windbreaker over a blue chambray shirt, which emphasized the color of his eyes, and freshly pressed Dockers. The man didn’t need a tool belt to make my heart dance a samba.
Collecting my wits, I led him into the kitchen, where Krystal stood clutching the empty cereal bowl and looking anxious. I made the introductions and explained Bill had a friend willing to take a look at her Civic but he needed her car keys.
Bill shrugged out of his jacket. “Planned to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for supper when you called. Couldn’t turn down your offer of tuna noodle casserole.”
At the word tuna, Krystal burst into tears.
Bill’s eyes widened in alarm. “Whoa! What did I do?”
I took the bowl from Krystal’s hands and offered her a tissue from the box on the counter. “There’s been a last-minute change in tonight’s menu.”
“I’m s-sorry, Kate,” Krystal blubbered. “He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.”
“Krystal, you’re not making any sense. Who hadn’t eaten in days?”
“The c-cat. The orange cat.” She sniffed noisily. “I saw him prowling around your backyard. He looked half starved, so I fed him the tuna.”
Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. The cat I had assumed as feral was always on the lookout for food. “Tang,” I said by way of an explanation. “That’s the cat’s name. He’s been coming around for handouts for months, but seems to be people-shy.”
Bill frowned. “Tang? Like the orange-flavored drink the astronauts used in the space program?”
I nodded. “The one and the same.”
“The space program?” Krystal sniffed.
“If memory serves, NASA first used it during the Gemini missions.”
Bill was a font of information. I wondered if he ever considered being a contestant on Jeopardy!. If there were a Law & Order or CSI category, I might consider it myself.
“Gemini?” Krystal brightened, wiping away the last of her tears. “I’m a Gemini. My birthday’s June thirteenth.”
“The space missions I’m referring to took place in the mid-sixties,” Bill explained patiently.
“Oh,” Krystal said. “That was way before my time. I wasn’t even born yet.”
Bill and I exchanged smiles, then shook our heads. Ah, the innocence of youth.
“Well,” I said briskly, “no sense crying over spilled milk, as the saying goes. Grilled cheese sandwiches sound like the winner. Think I might have some tomato soup to go along with them. And,” I added with a smile, “we have lemon bars for dessert.”
“I’m s-sorry, Kate.” Krystal broke into a fresh bout of weeping. “I ate them.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “All of them?”
She bobbed her head, sniffling and snuffling. “Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I’ve been craving lemon ever since I found out I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 15
The sight of cheese sandwiches grilling in a pan sent Krystal flying out of the kitchen. I heard a muffled, “Sorry, morning sickness.” Then a bedroom door slammed.
Bill watched her sudden departure with a befuddled expression. “Morning sickness, this time of day?”
I nodded and turned toward the stove. “Good thing Krystal’s not working the evening shift.”
“From the expression on your face just now, I’d venture this is the first you’ve heard of the woman’s pregnancy.”
“It’s my own fault,” I said, giving the tomato soup a stir. “I should have guessed she was pregnant the second I spotted her with a box of soda crackers.”
“You’ve taken on more than you bargained for, haven’t you? How much do you know about her?”
I shrugged. “Not much. Her real name was Krystal Weindorfer. She changed it to Krystal Gold after she got out of high school. Said she’s originally from Iowa. That’s about it. Oh, yes, one more thing. She’s a sucker for scrawny orange cats with a yen for tuna.”
“And she craves anything lemon,” Bill added.
Both of us chuckled at the reminder of our almost-dessert. It felt good to laugh-nearly like the old, pre-Michigan days.
Over soup and sandwiches, we talked about this and that, impersonal things, keeping the conversation light until our plates and bowls were empty.