Page 35 of The Rainbow Recipe
An instant later, La Bella Gente’s CEO bit into Pris’s caviar and collapsed on the floor, convulsing. The almonds and the tray of appetizers disappeared beneath a dozen feet as everyone rushed to help—including Pris.
All the cops needed was motive and her cousin was in a deep vat of trouble.
Eighteen: Pris
Italy
Pris fedthe twins the next morning, still stewing in anger and disappointment at being manipulated into returning to the villa instead of exploring on her own as she’d intended. The damned selfish prince needed...to learn how to handle children.
She dampened her roiling confusion, appreciating the reason for his deception. Dante had gone into total panic over a little blood. If she hadn’t been there...At the very least, he needed a nanny before she left him again.
With the twins fed, she sent them off in search of their father and swiped the laptop Dante so carelessly left lying about. Carrying her tea and the computer, she locked herself in her bedroom.
Evie had sent streams of information yesterday. Her ADHD-afflicted cousin hadn’t compiled or even read these reports, Pris knew, but she’d somehow mushed all the information into a concise summary.
Limoncello, the most likely source of cyanide. Pris’s almonds and caviar to confuse the issue. Opportunity by everyone in Kit-Kat’s vicinity, including Pris—if she wasted time poisoning almonds or caviar. Means and opportunity obvious for all. Motivation—murky.
She read Reuben’s research on cyanide. The poison salts could have been added to the almonds to accelerate death, or the nuts could have been used to obscure any lingering evidence in the shot glass, or both. Whoever had done this had been methodical and planned ahead and knew Kit Kat well.
The cops had kept information to a minimum, but Jane the Lawless Lawson was spreading ludicrous rumors of jealous rivalry to stir up the mindless masses. Because Larraine’s sexual predilections were well known, the blogger hinted at Pris’s as well. Jane apparently thought all sex was unchristian or illegal. She described seductive glances at the wealthy newcomers and private meetings in closed offices. She produced evidence that Pris had once checked on the space La Bella Gente had rented for their still-unopened bistro—as if she might have resented someone else taking it over.
Pris had evaluated almost every available restaurant space between Charleston and Savannah over the past year.Of courseshe’d investigated her hometown first. The space had been too large and expensive for her needs, so she’d moved on.
The reporter hadn’t. Why?
She read the report on Jane’s background and adolescent tragedy. Parents dying from cyanide did not explain her hatred of Pris and Larraine. Or of everyone else in the universe who wasn’t like her—ahhh, a clue.
Pris wasn’t like Jane Lawson.True, she was white and cisgender and not the typical target of most of the reporter’s bigotry, but unlike the rest of her family, Pris didn’t attend church—as Jane did. As a caterer, Pris worked late on weekends. She liked sleeping on Sundays. That probably wasn’t enough to catch Jane’s critical eye—but Pris also had a reputation for beingweird.
Weird was pretty normal for her family, but people accepted reading tarot and talking to ghosts as entertainment, an acceptable means of making a living in Afterthought’s cotton fields.
But because it took too much effort to block out morons, Pris wasn’t entertaining or sociable. Worse yet, she streaked her hair with dye according to her mood that day and didn’t abide by any dress code except her own.Everyonethought she was peculiar, including her own family upon occasion. But she had no one to account to but herself.
Apparently, she should have consulted Jane about that.
Childish voices interrupted her reverie before she could list all the ways Jane had probably concluded Pris was awitchand a suitable target for the narrow-mindedness that drove the columnist’s internet popularity.
Furtive knocking followed the whispers.
Well, she had promised Emma she’d look after the kids. Conte Dumquat had probably given up teaching the letter A.
She unlocked the door and the twins tumbled in carrying a stack of Disney DVDs. They pounced on the laptop.
Of course, Dumquat had worked out the best way to occupy the twins was in front of a screen—the one she was using, naturally. Not so dumb after all.
“Give me a minute,” she told them, shooting off Evie’s emails to Dante’s mailbox. She hoped they exploded all his devices.
Then she carried the laptop downstairs to the kitchen where she could keep an eye on the twins as they settled into their movie. Where was Dante and what was he doing now?
The kitchen was chilly, so she fixed hot chocolate for the children, then threw together dough because she needed to pound something after reading all that crap Evie had sent.
As if led by his nose, Dante arrived, appearing underfed. In her anger at being deceived yesterday, she’d heated up Emma’s frozen pizza for the twins and the plumbers, leaving her host to his own devices. No telling what he’d fixed for lunch yesterday. This morning, he’d had to fix his own breakfast. It was nearly noon. A healthy hunk required large amounts of sustenance.
He poured himself a mug of thick coffee and rummaged in the refrigerator. At least he’d received the message that she was furious. “Do you have a grocery list?” he asked. “I could send in a delivery order.”
Silly question. Shealwayskept lists. If nothing else, the plumbers had to be paid with food. She pointed at the notepad in the corner where Emma kept her cookbooks.
He picked up the list and settled at the table with the twins and his phone. Sipping his dreadful coffee, he called in the order. Score one for the man.
