Candice ran a few minutes late. “I’m so sorry.” She gulped to catch her breath.
“That’s fine.” Ange offered her a seat.
Candice’s gaze flickered to me.
“You can talk freely. Ange is trustworthy.”
“I’m also a doctor’s wife, and I can see when a woman needs something stronger than tea or coffee.” Ange, who’d ordered a pot of decaf filter coffee as well as a pot of chamomile tea for the three of us, took a silver flask out of her purse and added a shot to a cup with coffee. She put it in front of Candice.
Candice watched it with trepidation. “I don’t think I should.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had a shock. Or are you pregnant?”
“No.” Candice blushed under the thick layer of make-up she’d put on, in a stark change from her customary fresh-faced look. Butthen she normally didn’t need to cover up the aftereffects of being connected to a murder case.
“Do you want me to order something else?” I asked, as gently as I could.
“I’m silly.” She took a sip, and then another, longer one, before she burst into tears. “You’re so nice to me.”
“I thought we’d established that when I agreed to help you and Rick.” I gave her a reassuring pat on the hand. Any moment now, and I’d morph into a mature Mary Poppins.
Candice emptied her cup, which Ange promptly refilled, with a slightly smaller dose of alcohol added to the coffee. “You should hate me,” she whispered.
Ange opened her mouth.
I softly kicked her. If Candice needed to get a few things off her chest before we could get to the point, so be it. Unless she needed me to clutch her to my slightly more ample and droopy bosom. That’s where I drew the line.
“I don’t hate you. Granted, you and Rick are not topping my Christmas card list, but we’re all grownups,” I said.
Ange bent to her dogs and petted them, allowing Candice the illusion of privacy.
“We didn’t mean to fall in love. I thought it was simply a fling we needed to get out of our system and then move on, but …”
“I really don’t need the details,” I said. Forgiving was all very well, but intimate confessions were taking it too far. I blamed the clearly fast-acting brandy.
“Anyway, Rick was so different from the others. He’s kind and considerate, and …” She broke off and stared into the distance.
“Right. Back to the present. You think the police are convinced you had something to do with the murder. Why would they suspect you?”
“Because Tim and I had a fight at the fair.”
“A fight? What about?” I feigned ignorance.
Candice hesitated. “It’s so stupid.”
“Honey.” With a side glance to me, to see that I was okay with her butting in, Ange covered Candice’s hand with hers. “If we started to list all the stupid things we’ve said or done over the years or the awkward situations, we’d be here for a week. We can only help you if we know what’s going on. And we’re not judging, right, Bex?”
“Yes.” This was neither the time nor the place for a caveat, as much as it was needed. Of course I was judging. The witch in me might be too enlightened for that kind of thing, but little ol’ Bex Merriweather sure as heck wasn’t.
Candice held out her cup for more brandy.
Ange hesitated. “Talk, and then you can have a bit more.”
“We used to date, Tim and I. I went to community college in Cannon Hill, after a few years working as a secretary and being treated either like a flunky or like a bimbo. He seemed like a dream, charming, with money and style. But then - anyway, I broke it off two years ago, moved far away, and started to work for -” She reddened.
“For Rick and me.” I’d been impressed with her honesty. I’d seen too many padded or exaggerated resumés that made you wonder why the applicants weren’t working for a big auction house or a set designer. Having a young woman admit to a humble degree from a humble institution had been refreshing.
She clammed up, obviously embarrassed again at the whole situation. Maybe the brandy hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
