Page 68 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
Her question is better.
“Chateau Marche,” Betty says. She lowers her voice even further. “Word on the street was, she was gonna sue them.”
Heidi stares at her, looking stunned. “I—you’re sure?” she says.
“Listen, sweetie,” Betty says with a wave of her hand. “You would not believe the things people tell their hairdresser. I heard about it from Patrice Riggs and from Carmina herself. She told me all about it while I was trimming her hair. She says she found a bug in her food. Of course…” She trails off. “I’m not sure if sheactuallyfound a bug in her food, or if she wanted to complain about something. You know how she was.”
Heidi and I nod.
“But either way,” Betty finishes with a sigh, “she said she was going to sue them and try to put them out of business.”
I look at Heidi; she looks at me. We’re comical mirrors of each other, eyes wide, jaws dropped.
We thank Betty for the information, and then we return to the car, neither of us speaking. My mind keeps replaying Carmina’s last words:Murdered.And my guess is that running through Heidi’s head is the same thing, and the same questions: How much trouble did this old woman stir up? Exactly how many people did Carmina Hildegarde have problems with?
And which one of them killed her because of it?
17
IN WHICH HEIDI REFUSES TO PAY SEVENTEEN DOLLARS FOR A SALAD
Chateau Marche is not the kind of restaurant you decide to visit one afternoon and then walk right in, but that doesn’t stop us from showing up.
I don’t know why I was so surprised to hear that Carmina was planning to sue this place; nothing should surprise me anymore. Not anything that woman did, not my missing memories, not the way my stomach flipped when I rested my hand on Soren’s arm earlier. This is my life now—a bombshell-uncovering, memory-missing, stomach-flipping existence.
I flex my hand as we enter the restaurant, recalling the feeling of Soren’s muscled forearm. I haven’t touched another man’s arm yet—it feels invasive, somehow—but I’ll try it later when we go back to Paper Patisserie, or maybe tomorrow. Calvin should be a safe choice for that part of the experiment; our relationship is strictly platonic, and while he might have harbored a little crush on me at some point, he knows as well as I do that nothing will ever happen.
Even though I haven’t touched his arm yet, though, I think I know what will happen. There will be no stomach flips, no tripping pulse, no shortness of breath.
“All right,” Soren says, pulling me out of my thoughts. I startle, my cheeks heating as though he can see what’s going on in my head right now. Which is stupid. Of course he can’t.
“All right,” I repeat.
“What’s the plan here?” He gestures around at the little antechamber we’ve stepped into, an elegant, dimly lit room with large double doors that lead to the restaurant proper. “We’re not dressed for dinner here, and they’re probably booked tonight anyway.”
“I know,” I say, biting my lip.
Chateau Marche is basically a lodge. I’ve never eaten here, but I’ve looked it up before. It plays into the nearness of the Tetons and Yellowstone, with a log exterior and a rustic interior. There are chandeliers that look like they’re made of antlers and the heads of various animals mounted on wall plaques, and they charge seventeen dollars for a house salad. I know this because one of my hobbies is looking up the menus of restaurants and deciding what I would order if I ever ate there.
But in no universe or plane of existence will I be buying a seventeen dollar salad. Maybe the lettuce is secretly a bunch of soggy dollar bills? I don’t know. And I’m not going to find out.
“I don’t think we can waltz in and ask about someone suing them,” Soren says. “That doesn’t seem like it would go over very well, does it?”
“No,” I admit. “Probably not. It might not even be the kind of thing the wait staff is aware of.”
“So what do we do, then? Just…go in and ask to speak to the chef? Or the owner? Are they the same person?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so. But either of them would probably know about Carmina’s claim if there’s anything to it.” I look at Soren. “Because Betty was right; Carmina could have been complaining without actually planning to sue. That’s the kind of thing she’d do.”
“I keep thinking about the things she said before she died,” Soren says now, his voice hollow, his eyes far away. “Pickandlockandmurder.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Me too.” However horrible she might have been…no one deserves to die like that, slumped over, surrounded by people, seeking justice with her last breath.
I know we can’t control when we die, for the most part. But it seems cruel that she didn’t even get to finish saying what she wanted to say.
“Soren,” I say with a sigh, suddenly feeling painfully tired. “This was a bad idea. Let’s go home.” I glance over at him, and my voice is beseeching even though I try to keep it steady and calm. “Let’s not do this today. Let’s wait until tomorrow. We’re not going to be able to get a seat anyway, and we don’t really have a plan, and—”
But I break off when he pulls me into a swift hug, gentle and warm, one hand buried in my hair, the other smoothing up and down my back. It’s an assault on my senses, the sudden warmth of him, his peppery scent, the faint tug of his scruff on my hair and the top of my head.
