Page 92 of Caper Crush
“Very rational of me, if I do say so myself.”
“Anyway …” William clears his throat. “I was calling to see if you wanted to go on a picnic dinner on Saturday. The cherry blossoms are out in Central Park, and we could go to Cherry Hill. I thought you might be bored.”
“I would love to.”
“Great, I’ll pick you up at four.” William hangs up.
A cherry blossom picnic definitely sounds romantic. I google whether there’s anything in Japanese culture about romance and cherry blossoms, like the first snow in Korean dramas. According to Korean dramas, you’re fated to be with whomever you experience the first snow with. If that’s true, I’m fated to be alone with a handful of strangers on a New York sidewalk. Unfortunately, I can’t find anything specifically romantic about sakura.But it sounds romantic to me, so I’m going with that mindset.
Chapter twenty-two
Williamringsthedoorbellat 4:00 p.m. on the dot, and I limp over to buzz him in. Butterflies cavort in my stomach—half in excitement that something is going to happen and half in fear that nothing will.
I open the door and wait in the doorway. As he comes up the stairs, he looks even better in person than I’ve remembered. And he smells of outside air and suntan lotion. He’s wearing another V-neck, showing the indent of his collarbone and smooth skin, along with jeans and hiking boots.
I step back. We’re detectives together. Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Poirot and Miss Marple. Yes, I should think of us as Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. That should douse these feelings.
“Ready?” he asks, with a huge grin on his face. “Do you think you can get down the steps by yourself?”
“I think so. Staying off of it for five days has really worked.”
He glances at my art scattered around the room; two canvases are leaning against our brick wall. My most recent one is drying on one easel while a half-completed one sits on the other easel. My sketchbook with my drawing of William is safely hidden, although one of my paintings,W with SP 8, has his profile in abstract. But I doubt he can recognize himself.
I hobble down the stairs with my cane. As long as I step gingerly, it works.
He offers me his arm for our walk down the street. Between his arm and the cane, I feel like I’m eighty-five years old. My cane has a snake head, so it’s not even a feminine cane, but it’s appropriate for a pipe-smoking Sherlock Holmes. A deerstalker hat would complete the outfit. Instead, I wear a yellow spring dress with tiny, pink flowers to counter the effect of my limping, cane-sustained forward motion.
“That’s quite a cane,” William says dryly.
“More than you know. It’s got one of those secret weapon tips with a fake sword. Uncle Tony used it in a play.”
I gesture to his hiking boots. “You do know that Cherry Hill is not really a hill?”
He smiles. He sweeps back his hair from his forehead and puts on his baseball cap. I love the way he pushes back his hair.
The spring air feels warm against my body. Everybody in New York City seems to be celebrating, wearing shorts and T-shirts. People linger, chatting, on the sidewalks. The cafés are packed. As we pass, the murmur of conversations buzzes around us.
We walk to Cherry Hill and find a place near one of the cherry trees with a view of Central Park Lake. We check for any stray dog poop, and then I lay out my picnic blanket on the partially grassy and partially dirt turf. Over on the walkway, couples are snapping pictures in a spot where all the cherry trees converge to create a canopy. Another couple smiles at us as they set up their picnic blanket nearby. They offer to take a picture of us if we take a picture of them. We agree. First, we take photos of them, and then it’s our turn. William and I stand under a canopy of cherry blossoms. He puts his arm around me, pulling me closer, and that contact makes me glance at him, just as he glances at me. My stomach flips.
I sit cross-legged on the blanket as William sprawls out. He reaches over his backpack and takes out two bento boxes. Kara-age, onigiri, and tamagoyaki each have their own compartment. We both unwrap our chopsticks, and I break mine apart.
“Uncle Takashi said you love onigiri and shabu-shabu.”
“I do.” He did research. A very good sign. But Takashi must have warned him to stay away from me. I look around, half expecting to see Uncle Tony and Takashi hiding in the bushes, ready to jump out to make sure I don’t get my she-devil pitchfork into William’s heart.
He hands me a thermos of miso soup. A man who cooks and prepares picnics—I’m in awe. I should take cooking lessons. My infatuation is getting dangerous if it is inspiring me to become all domestic.
“This is amazing,” I say.
As he sits cross-legged, his knee touches mine. Neither of us moves away.
I savor my rolled omelet. “Tessa and I played Clue this week, and I think we’ve been too focused on motive. That’s the hardest to figure out. It’s Professor Plum in the kitchen with the knife. If we focus on access to the room and who got it out, then we know it’s Vinnie, Lena, or Miju. Those were the people in the kitchen, and that room is next to the office.” We only have two more weeks until the Vertex Art Exhibit.
“Or someone working with them. But you’re right; they’re still involved.”
“We need evidence to give Officer Johnson something to hang a warrant on,” I say. “I called Miju, and I’m seeing them next Thursday night late. Do you want to come?”
“Sure.” He stretches out. “I needed this. This was a tough workweek. I’m glad to be done.”
