Page 23 of Say Yes to the Death

Luke silenced her with a steely glare.

“Perhaps I’ve been a bit…unkind.” Rachel slowly pushed her appetizer plate away and folded her hands in front of her. “I’m a curious person, and that wasn’t appropriate. I apologize.”

“Great,” Claire said, snatching her plate. Surely smashing it over Rachel’s head would be more satisfying than dumping it in the dishwasher.

“I’m going to get more wine,” Luke announced, stomping back down the basement stairs.

Claire prickled. He had defended her, which was nice. But he had just left her alone with the enemy. Again. And now the basement door didn’t have a doorknob. What if she needed to storm down there in the middle of dinner? You couldn’t slam a door with no knob.

“So, Claire,” Rachel began. Oh, boy. Ice Queen wasn’t done with her questions. At least she had gotten the correct name this time. “What are your intentions with my son?”

“Excuse me?” Claire asked, spinning around. She had been immersed in her plans to crack a sleeping pill into Rachel’s wine glass.

Rachel leaned forward, and her green eyes bored into Claire’s. It was almost like an evil, female Luke staring back at her. Had she and Luke ever tried the face swap app? “Your intentions.”

“Oh, I’m just using him for his pool.” Claire pulled a potato peeler out of the cutlery drawer. She wasn’t going to win any brownie points with this one. Her beloved-by-mothers streak was one hundred percent broken. Just like her business’s reputation for happily ever afters. She might as well lean into the slide.

“Clever. Are you seeing each other exclusively?”

“I—yes.” Claire hesitated. Luke had said a couple weeks ago that there wasn’t anyone else after she had not-so-subtly interrogated him about his reputation of being a ladies’ man.

“And you are living here?” Rachel asked.

Where had he gone to get more wine, Siberia? Claire slid the garbage can out and viciously peeled a potato. Rosie stood next to the can, on high alert for scraps. “No. I have my own apartment in the city. But I do stay here sometimes due to needing constant bandage changes from the stabbing that you enjoy bringing up so much.”

“I see. What do your parents do for a living?” Rachel continued her cross-examination. There was no denying her occupation.

“My mother is…an entrepreneur.” Better to gloss over her mother’s psychic television career. Why was she answering this evil woman’s questions? Their conversation was hardly less awkward than silence. Maybe she was making an effort to get to know Claire? “My stepfather is a mechanic and handyman.”

“And your biological father?”

Luke walked into the room and paused mid-step, dangling a bottle of Riesling precariously by its neck. He had never heard the answer to this question either.

Claire bristled. For a prickly curmudgeon who couldn’t manage to get her name right, Rachel sure had a lot of personal questions. She didn’t owe her any more details. But maybe Luke had a right to know. “He hasn’t been in the picture for twenty years. I have no idea what he does for a living.”

“Hmm,” Rachel said noncommittally as Luke refreshed her glass of wine. Rachel didn’t protest, so she apparently didn’t plan to stick to her one-glass rule. Hopefully, some booze would lubricate her enough to remove the ten-foot pole from her ass.

Luke gave Claire’s hand a reassuring squeeze as he passed her and returned to tinkering with the doorknob. He eventually reattached it, twisting it several times, then came hesitantly back into the kitchen as though expecting a bomb to go off. He picked up a knife and began dicing the potatoes Claire had just peeled.

She took the opportunity to turn her back to Rachel and toss some scallops into her mouth. Screw Rachel—they were better than adequate. She set a plate with the rest of the scallops next to Luke and washed the frying pan.

“You said you had a sister?” Rachel asked, smoothly transitioning to a new topic.

“I didn’t say that, actually.” How did she know that? Luke must have told her more than he admitted to on their walk. “But yes, Charlie. She lives in Los Angeles.” She opened the oven to glance at the chicken marsala, refusing to make eye contact.

“Any nieces or nephews?”

“Enough with the questions,” Luke half-shouted. “Leave her alone. Why don’t you tell us about the case you’re in town for?”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Rachel said. She drummed her manicured nails on the countertop.

“Really?” Luke raised his eyebrows. “Earlier you said it was one of the riskiest cases you’ve ever worked on.”

“Yes, well, that’s neither here nor there,” she said evasively. “How’s your latest project coming, Lucas?”

He threw the potatoes into a pot and emptied the bagged salad into bowls. He launched into the story of his scheduled interview with Jennifer Heiser’s mother.

By the time the main course was ready, Rachel had picked through her salad, drunk a third glass of wine, and not-so-subtly commented on the lack of cloth napkins. In the meantime, Luke had applied lubricant to a squeaky cabinet door, fixed a wobbly chair in the dining room that was never used, and aggressively mashed the potatoes.

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