Page 45 of Deadly Evidence
“What?”
“Look.” She held up the tray, and after a good minute, he finally did.
She had lined them up like pencils in a box, with a twist of pimento across the top.
“What did you dothatfor?”
“Presentation. Style. Appeal. All well-considered and carefully executed. To make you feel guilty enough to eat,” she added darkly.
“And why would I feel guilty?”
“Because someone cared enough to make you something really,reallyspecial.”
He eyed the canned green beans. The woefully flat brownie—which made Mia wonder just how many years that box of mix had been on the shelf.
And the soggy chicken patty, which probably should have been baked instead of microwaved, but who knew?
A chess set sat on the bureau in the corner, its pieces well-worn and a few of them chipped.
“You eat, and I’ll play you a game of chess. Either that, or I’ll bring in my violin. I’ve had it in my luggage this whole trip and haven’t even practiced once. Isn’t that terrible?”
“Bluegrass?”
She pursed her lips. “Never, but I could sure try to learn—let me go get my case.”
His mouth twitched as his gaze lifted from the plate to her face. “You aren’t really a nitwit, are you,” he said flatly.
His bitter expression had changed to irritation, then defeat, but now his features softened into something close to a faint smile.
Mia thought wistfully of Vicente, wishing that just once she could have gotten through to him, as well.
“Give me that tray to eat in peace. Then I’ll beat you at chess.”
Mia nodded and left, then waited outside Jonah’s door for a moment until she heard the clank of silverware against the stoneware plate. Then she grabbed Vicente’s tray and headed out the door and down the long path to his cabin.
“I’m on a roll,” she muttered to herself, “so it won’t hurt to try.”
At the door, she knocked twice, then tried the handle. The door swung wide, revealing a Spartan, immaculate sitting area with a table and two chairs on one side, a tiny galley kitchen, and a door at the far end that likely led to the bedroom and bath.
There wasn’t so much as a sock or a magazine out of place, and the effect was almost sterile despite the homey glow of the deep-golden pine paneling and the soft, crimson-and-black woven rugs on the oak-planked floor.
The only picture in the entire place was a gold-framed photograph of an elderly Latina woman placed dead center on top of an old-fashioned TV.
“Hellooo,” she called out. “Anyone here?” Taking another step inside, she found Vicente in a recliner just behind the narrow room divider that held the row of kitchen cabinets that faced the door.
He appeared pale and drawn and probably a bit woozy as he stared at her from beneath several multicolored afghans.
“I brought you lunch.” She walked in and scanned the sitting room, spied a TV tray set, and unfolded one next to his chair. “Here you go...are you hungry?”
“No.”
She put the food tray down and smiled, ready for battle, but he must have seen the gleam in her eye because he gave an indifferent wave.
“Leave it here,” he said wearily. “I’ll get to it.”
“How come you came down here?”
His eyes closed. “This is where I belong.”
