Free Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) by Gayle Trent Page A

only trying to lighten the mood a little and to remind you that you have alternatives.”
    I studied his face, saying nothing.
    “Seriously,” he said. “I have until the end of next week to let Nickie know what I’m going to do, and I’m not going to rush my decision.”
    “Good,” I said.
    He ran a hand through his hair. “Why do I feel that you actually mean anything but ‘good’?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Because I do actually mean ‘good.’ It’s an important decision, and it isn’t something you should rush either into or away from.”
    “You don’t want me to take the job, do you?” Ben asked.
    “I want you to do what’s best for you,” I said. “If that means Kentucky and Nickie Zane, then so be it.”
    He grinned at my tone. “You’re jealous!”
    “Yes, I am,” I admitted. “Now are you happy?”
    “A little,” he said, his grin widening. “Yeah.”
    “Did you love her very much?” I asked quietly.
    “Not as much as I loved you,” he said. “I never loved any woman like I loved you.”
    My heart leapt a little. And then I analyzed his statement. He’d said “loved.” Past tense. I’d said the L word last night, but he had not. Maybe he didn’t love me anymore. Maybe he’d thought he did when we started dating again, but maybe Nickie Zane had gotten him so entirely over me that she was the person who now maintained residency in his heart. After all, he and I had been apart for over fifteen years before I returned to Brea Ridge.
    I got up, rinsed off my plate, and put it and my fork in the dishwasher. Ben came up behind me and put his arms around me.
    “You really are jealous,” he said with a little chuckle that infuriated me.
    “Like I said, if she makes you happy, then go for it.” My stiff posture and the hard edge in my voice probably screamed to him that I didn’t mean a word of that.
Then he laughed. He actually laughed!
    I slammed the dishwasher shut and squirmed out of his arms. “I’m glad you’re amused by all this crap, because I’m sure not!” To my mortification, I began sobbing.
    He pulled me back into his arms. “Shhh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
    I started to tell him not to flatter himself but figured that would be the proverbial cutting off the nose to spite the face. Instead I whimpered, “I just wanted to take an Australian string work class from an experienced celebrity chef . . . that’s all.”
    “I know,” he said soothingly. “I know.” He led me into the living room where he sat down and pulled me onto his lap.
    “I didn’t kill Chef Richards.” I nestled against his chest. “Please make this day go away.”
    “I wish I could, sweetheart.” He kissed the top of my head and held me tighter.
    “Don’t let go,” I whispered.
    “Never.”
    I wondered if I could get that in writing, but I knew better. You get no guarantees in this life. You wake up in the morning expecting to finish up an Australian string work class and go to bed that night a murder suspect.

7
F IRST THING Saturday morning, Myra popped in. I was sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe.
    “Hey, hon,” she said. “I just wanted to check in with you and see if you’re okay. I was going to come over last night, but I saw that Ben was here, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”
    “You don’t sound fine. Your face is longer than a rainy three-day weekend.”
    “Where do I begin?” I asked, as Myra pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me. “I’m one of the prime suspects in a murder investigation, and Ben is probably getting ready to leave me and start a new life in Kentucky.”
“Dang,” she said. “That’s a double whammy. The murder thing is bad enough on its own.”
    “Want some coffee?” I asked.
    “Nah. I just had some before I left the house,” she said. “Let’s start with first things first. Mark and I have been looking into Jordan Richards’s