Page 80 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
All right. I’m diving in.
“Uh,” I say. “So. I wanted to ask you about a woman named Carmina Hildegarde. I heard she was threatening to sue Chateau Marche.”
Manniford raises one brow at me, but other than that, his face doesn’t change. “What about her?” he says.
“Well,” I say, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I guess I wanted to know if that information was accurate. Was she threatening to sue? Was there some sort of incident?”
And I feel ridiculous. I feel absolutely ridiculous, asking this man these questions that I have no right to be asking. He would be perfectly within his rights to shut me down hard, to tell me it’s none of my business and to kick me out.
Maybe he’s considering it. His face is oddly blank as he looks at Soren and me, a mask of careful indifference I can’t quite read.
I look him over more thoroughly, trying to pick up on any nonverbal cues he might be giving off. He’s not at all what I expected, honestly. I guess I was picturing your stereotypical hot-tempered restaurateur, large and grumpy and loud and maybe European. But this guy is nothing like that. He’s petite, small-framed, with thinning gray hair and glasses that perch precariously on the end of his crooked nose.
There’s nothing imposing about him. Nothing that screamsI’m a murderer.
I shiver in his presence all the same. Don’t ask me why; I really don’t know. It’s something about his eyes. They’re a pale, pale blue that looks strangely sapped; lifeless.
He might be a mild-mannered chef, or he might be a psychopath. There’s really no way of knowing yet. I take a tiny step closer to Soren and try to make it look as natural as possible. The heat of his body next to mine is comforting, even though we’re barely touching.
My cheeks heat as I remember how it felt to touch his chest earlier, to trail my fingers over his skin. Then I clear my throat.
Focus.
Manniford’s silence stretches just slightly too long. His face remains expressionless—that eyebrow isn’t even raised anymore—and he stares at us for another moment. I resist the urge to fidget, but it’s difficult.
After one eternally long minute, he speaks.
“You were misinformed,” he says, and a hint of a facial expression finally breaks through: a dismissive twist of his lips. “Ms. Hildegarde did express some concerns, but we were able to work through things amicably.”
I blink at him, surprised. “So—shewasn’tgoing to sue?” I turn my head when I notice a flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye, but when I examine the open doorway, no one is there, so I turn back to the man in front of me.
Manniford’s shoulders twitch in what I believe is a shrug. “That may have been her initial intention, but like I said, we resolved her issues.”
I nod slowly, my mind turning this information over. “All right,” I say, still thinking. Try as I might, though, I can’t come up with anything else to ask him. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth or not. I should have googled how to spot a liar before I came here. Do I have time to run to the restroom and do that?
“Thank you for your time,” Soren says, and I jump as his hand lands on my shoulder. I startle further when I see that same flicker in the corner of my vision again, but once again, no one is there.
Manniford clearly hasn’t seen anything; he just sniffs, and he’s already turning his back on us when he replies, “Of course. Enjoy your meal.”
He disappears into the kitchen so quickly that it’s like he was never here at all.
“Well,” I say, turning to Soren, whose hand falls away from my shoulder. “I guess he didn’t feel like sticking around to chat.”
“I get weird vibes from him,” Soren says in a low voice.
“Me too,”I admit.
“But I don’t think we can citevibeswhen making an accusation.”
I sigh. “No. I don’t think so either.” Then, chasing a nagging suspicion, I drift toward the open doorway. “Let me see…”
I stick my head out suddenly, looking left and right, and I’m hit with a rush of satisfaction when I see the same waitress from earlier huddled there—clearly eavesdropping.
“I wasn’t imagining things,” I say. “You’re out here.” I step out and look at her more closely; she’s picking at the nails of her left hand, and her teeth are digging into her bottom lip. I’m hardly a detective or a body language expert, but even I can read these signs.
“Do you have something you want to talk to us about?” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “Or did you need to get in here?”
She clears her throat, her eyes darting nervously around and then lingering on the entrance to the kitchen. Manniford is really gone, though, and she breathes a noticeable sigh of relief when she sees he’s absent.
