Free Tasting Fear by Shannon McKenna

while Liam finished his omelet with undiminished appetite. Finally, she looked up. “I’m not sure what just happened,” she said. “But I have a feeling it was my fault.”
    “All I know is, one minute I was talking to you, the next minute I had an uptight, bitchy stranger in my face, wearing a Nancy mask.”
    “Sorry.” She blinked back a startling rush of tears.
    “Don’t be,” he said. “Come on, Nancy. Indulge me. Eat some of your sandwich. Please.”
    Oh, for God’s sake. What did she have to lose by obliging him, anyhow? She picked it up and took a bite. His dimples flashed.
    They talked, carefully and politely, about neutral subjects. She managed to eat almost three quarters of her sandwich, which made him happy. When the bill came, he snatched it from her hand and looked personally offended when she tried to pay. Wow. She’d never met one of those guys before, although she’d heard that they existed in the wild.
     
    After they left the diner, Liam opened the truck door for her, climbed in, and started the engine. “So where’s the jeweler?”
    The paperwork was buried in the rubble at Lucia’s house, but the name, Baruchin’s Fine Jewelers, was burned into her mind. A consult to her BlackBerry located it as a couple of towns away. The time it took to drive there was spent in conversation that was calculated to keep her calm. It wasn’t working. She got more distracted as they drew nearer.
    They pulled up in front of the storefront. The metal sliding doors were down. Closed, on Saturday at noon. Prime shopping hours. Everything around was open and bustling. Odd.
    Nancy’s neck prickled unpleasantly as she got out of the truck. There was a small restaurant, Tony’s Diner, next door. Nancy headed in and slid onto a stool at the counter. Liam joined her.
    A middle-aged lady sporting a high red bouffant came over with a coffeepot. Nancy smiled and held out her cup. “Yes, please. I have a question. I need to speak to the jeweler next door about a delivery. I was wondering how long they’ve been closed. Is he on vacation?”
    A splash of hot coffee slopped out of the pot and onto Nancy’s thumb. She jerked back with a gasp. The bouffant lady’s face crumpled. She set her coffee down, covered her face, and fled into the kitchen.
    Nancy glanced at Liam. He was frowning. She sucked on her scalded thumb. “That’s not a good sign,” she said.
    “Sure isn’t,” he agreed.
    After a minute, a bent, scowling elderly man with bushy white eyebrows, wearing a paper cook’s cap, came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. He scanned the counter and headed straight for them. “You folks was askin’ Donna about Sol Baruchin?”
    Nancy nodded. “I don’t actually know Mr. Baruchin personally,” she said, a little nervously. “I needed to ask a professional question—”
    “Old Sol’s dead,” the old man said heavily. “He got murdered.”
    The cold, weighty silence seemed to grip the whole room. Everyone was frozen, listening. Not a spoon clinked.
    “M-m-murdered?” Nancy echoed, in a tiny, shaking whisper.
    “When?” Liam asked.
    “Last night, sometime. Him and his wife and his mother-in-law, all three. Christ, the mother-in-law was bedridden. Musta been ninety, ninety-five years old. Goddamn animals. I got this cop buddy, comes here for breakfast. He tipped me off about it. Frickin’ horrible mess.”
    Nancy covered her mouth with her hands and tried to process this information. It wouldn’t seem to go in. Everything was blocked.
    “Sol’s been having breakfast and lunch in this joint every day for the last thirty-five years,” the old man said dully. “Donna’s all broke up. Christ, it’s hard enough at my age, with friends dropping like flies from heart attacks and strokes, without some sick bastard murdering ’em. So, anyhows.” He shook his head, his wrinkled mouth compressed into a grim, bluish line. “Sol’s shop ain’t gonna be open anytime soon,