Dee turned to see Liza standing by her table, holding a large bone. Nugget gave an enthusiastic bark, accompanied by much tail-wagging, and the restauranteur handed it over. He lay back down, holding the bone between his front paws, and happily gnawed at it.
“Thank you so much,” Dee said, grateful.
“Jasper used to stop by for bones,” Liza said. “Although I can’t remember a time when he ate here himself. He was an ornery sort.” She scrunched up her face. “Wow, did that sound Goldsgonedian!”
Dee laughed. She silently thanked Nugget for inadvertently engineering the meetup with Liza and vowed to reward him with a lifetime of bones. “Are you busy? Can you sit for a minute?”
Liza scanned her restaurant. “Everything looks good right now. I’ve got a break until the lunch rush.” She took the seat opposite Dee.
“I’m Dee Stern. The new owner of the Golden, with my partner, Jeff Cornetta. But I think you know all that.”
“I do.”
“Thank you for letting me eat here. I was afraid Verity Gillespie got to you.”
“She did.” Liza said this without any hint of apology.
“But you looked hungry. And she’s not the boss of me.”
Dee couldn’t help grinning at Liza’s facetious word choice. The restauranteur was clearly her own woman, which Dee appreciated. She gently segued to the reason for her visit to the restaurant. “She holds me responsible for our guest who died.”
“Michael.”
An expression Dee couldn’t decipher crossed Liza’s face. “We worked together on a show. My first, his second. Someone said you knew him too?” She played innocent, posing this as a question.
“We dated in high school. And a little after.”
Convinced Liza was downplaying the relationship, Dee decided a small lie might extract more details about it. “When we worked together, Michael told me about this girl he’d reconnected with from his past and how into her he was. And now here I am in your restaurant. Small world, huh?”
“Are you sure he was talking about me?” Liza said this lightly, but with a definite edge.
“Positive. He described your restaurant and everything.” Yikes, it’s a little scary how easy it is for me to lie like this. “Someone told me you two were a couple again. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I don’t know who told you that,” Liza said, her tone casual. “But they’re wrong. We did go out a few times over the last few years, but it was never serious. We never expected more from each other and finally decided just to be friends. We agreed it was the best thing for us.” She stood up. “The lunch rush is starting. Enjoy your salad.”
Liza left. As Dee ate, she went over their conversation in her mind. Dee’s television career had taught her the difference between good and bad directors. She’d even shadowed a couple of the good ones when she pondered a career change, only to learn there were even less opportunities for women directors than women writer-producers.
The good directors were able to draw a variety of emotions from the actors, encouraging layered performances. Through them, Dee learned to spot the subtextual emotions under a simple line reading. Which is why she knew Liza was covering her real emotions with a nonchalant façade.
“Best thing for us,” my keester. She was furious at Michael for how he treated her. “Keester.” Ha! Now I’m the one who sounds like a Goldsgonedian.
Dee finished her salad, which was a satisfying mix of designer lettuces, chicken, dried cranberries, toasted quinoa—a mixture Miss Sally the Saloon Girl never would have dreamed of back in the day. Having laid waste to this bone, Nugget indicated a need for a bathroom break, so Dee paid her bill and attached the leash to his collar. She gazed over to where Liza was welcoming customers to the restaurant and felt a pang of sadness. She’s felt an instant rapport with the restauranteur. Under other circumstances, she could see them being friends. But until the police arrested Michael’s killer, absolving Jeff and her, to a lesser extent, of the crime, she was flipping America’s legal script and operating under the presumption that everyone was guilty until proven innocent.
She began herding Nugget toward the patio exit. Suddenly the dog stiffened. He let out a growl that belied his easygoing nature. Wondering what might have disturbed him so much, Dee followed his eyeline to an excessively buff thirtysomething, with a shaved head, wearing a tank top and gym shorts. His skin was so heavily tanned, it conflicted with the tattoos decorating his body.
Liza handed the hulk a huge to-go drink. “Here you go.”
The guy pulled a large shake colored a bilious green out of the bag and examined it. “Raw honey? Extra protein?”
“Yes,” Liza said. She didn’t bother to hide her exasperation, indicating he wasn’t a customer she felt a need to impress. “I . . . We’ve been making you protein shakes forever, Shawn. I think we’ve got your order down by now.”
Dee’s pulse raced. Muscle Man was Shawn Rand-something, local personal trainer and Michael’s former best friend. Another potential suspect.
He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut. He looked at Liza with an expression Dee couldn’t decipher. Then he grunted a response that didn’t sound like an apology and headed off, walking the walk of a bulked-up hulk, unaware of the woman and dog following him.
CHAPTER 14
Dee and Nugget, who was becoming a valued partner in crime, casually moseyed down the block behind the personal trainer. He disappeared into one of Goldsgone’s endless supply of picturesque storefronts. An artificially distressed wooden sign above the door read GYM DANDY. A placard next to the front door listed all the equipment and classes the gym offered, ending with the name of its sole personal trainer.
Dee took Nugget’s leash and wrapped it around a parking meter designed to look like an old hitching post. “I have to talk to the man we followed,” she said to the dog in a whisper. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. Promise.”
Nugget barked what sounded to Dee like No worries, and relaxed onto the pavement.
Dee pulled open the gym door. Luck was on her side. The trainer was manning the small gym’s front desk, a disgruntled expression on his face.
Dee made a show of perusing a corkboard full of flyers for local events. She picked up a gym brochure from a stand on the desk and studied it. “This is exactly what I’ve been looking for.” She held up the brochure. “I’m interested in a semiprivate training session with Shawn Radinsky. I’ve heard great things about him as a trainer.”
“He’s me.” Conversation with Radinsky revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “And happy to get you set up. Do you have any potential schedule conflicts?” Dee shook her head. Radinsky typed on the keyboard with thick, meaty fingers and studied a computer screen in front of him. “How’s Wednesday, two p.m.?”
“I’ll take it.”
The trainer tapped on the computer a few more times, then said, “You’re booked for Wednesday, two p.m., Dee.”
Stunned the trainer knew who she was, Dee’s mouth dropped open. “How . . .”
“I heard all about you from Verity Gillespie.” Shawn pointed outside. “And I recognized Jasper Gormley’s mangy mutt. Who’s trying to mate with the town gossip’s standard poodle.”
Dee craned her neck to see what Nugget was up to. The hound was on all fours straining on his leash in a vain effort to align himself with a coiffed apricot standard poodle, who was playing hard to get. The poodle’s pet parent was busy gossiping, or so Dee assumed, and oblivious to the dogs’ mating dance.
