Free A Killer Retreat by Tracy Weber Page A

a vegan restaurant, ma’am. We do not serve flesh.” He crossed his arms. “Even if I wanted to serve you a carcass—which I don’t—I couldn’t. I don’t store dead animals in my kitchen.”
    Monica sighed. “Then I guess I’ll have to make do. Butcher one of the rabbits in the pen out back. At least then the meat will be fresh.”
    â€œAbsolutely not!” Emmy cried. “Bugsy and Mr. Hoppins are pets!”
    â€œYou don’t expect me to eat one of those filthy chickens, do you? ”
    Kyle stepped his feet wide. “Let me make this abundantly clear. I will not cook flesh. Animals are sentient beings. Not snacks.”
    I understood Kyle’s dilemma. Doggie vegetarianism wasn’t an option with Bella’s digestive condition, and I cringed all the way to my tofu-eating toenails every time I fed her meat, no matter how humane the source. But a grudging part of me understood Monica’s point, too. Food choices were deeply personal, rooted in health, ethics, and spiritual belief systems. Who were Kyle and I to judge hers?
    Still, I had a hard time believing she couldn’t survive one meatless meal.
    Bruce tried to propose a compromise. “How about an omelet, then? You must have eggs, from the chickens.”
    Emmy replied. “Sorry, Dad. We don’t keep the eggs. We feed them back to the hens. It replenishes their depleted calcium supplies.”
    Even I thought that was a little weird.
    Monica stood and hooked her purse over her shoulder. “I can’t possibly eat here.”
    â€œMonica, please.” Emmy closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, her face had a determined look. “Wait a second before you leave. I have an idea.”
    She walked Kyle a few steps from the table, but still close enough for me to overhear. “I bought some salmon to serve Monica at the family dinner tomorrow. Would you please cook it for her?”
    Kyle shook his head adamantly. “Absolutely not. We had an agreement. Cooking an animal goes against everything I believe in. When I agreed to take over the restaurant here, you promised—”
    â€œPlease, Kyle?” Emmy begged, crossing her wrists over her heart. “Please? Just this one time. I can’t take the fighting anymore. Monica gets worse and worse every day. I swear she’s so …”
    Awful ,I silently filled in.
    Emmy begged for several more minutes. Kyle didn’t look happy at the end of their conversation, but he acquiesced. Thirty minutes later, a waitress served Monica a large chunk of salmon with sau téed wild mushrooms on the side. I took my first bite of Penne Arrabiata. Tangy, warm tomatoes burst against my tongue, complemented by fresh roasted garlic and liberal red chilies. The perfect combination of sweet, spicy, and salty. Monica didn’t know what she was missing.
    Conflict resolved, we all focused on devouring our food. All except Rene, that is. She picked at her pasta, moving it around with her fork and creating Lego-like structures on her plate. Like a chameleon, her skin had changed color again, this time to match the white of our tablecloth. She set down her fork and pushed away from the table. “I’ll be back in a second.”
    I stood up, too. “I’ll come with you.”
    â€œIt’s OK.” She smiled feebly. “But don’t you dare touch my dessert.”
    I didn’t notice how much time passed after Rene left our table. I was too busy sipping champagne and gorging myself on peppery carbohydrates. I was vaguely aware of a conversation between the hostess, Emmy, and Bruce, after which all three of them left the room. But to be honest, their activities no longer drew my attention.
    The pasta was that good.
    Michael, Sam, and I were fighting over the last fragrant clove of elephant garlic when the hostess approached our table. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the