Death and Relaxation (24 page)

“Two. Drinks, dear. And savories.”

“No pies?”

“Not the sweet pies.”

I didn’t know why that made me feel better, but taking on a wet pink mess of pies eye to eye without a convenient dog under the table to feed it to seemed like the highest level of insanity.

“I need a dog.”

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I squared my shoulders and tugged my hand, but she was not letting go. Valkyries were also smart. “How bad can it be?”

“Oh.” She frowned. “I forgot this is your first time.”

“What? What was the ‘oh’? It’s going to be bad? How bad? Bertie, how bad?”

“It’s going to be lovely,” she lied through her pretty, straight, sharp white teeth, her short white hair puffed up like a halo atop her head. “Just sit here at the end of the table. I’ll gather the other judges and your assistant.”

“I get an assistant? To feed me?”

“Delaney,” she said with one eyebrow raised. Ah. I had finally hit the end of Bertie’s patience. “I’m not dragging you to your grave. You would know.”

“Is it an option?”

“Oh, it could be arranged, dear.” She shoved me down into the chair with a firm finality that made me wish for another explosion, or maybe a friendly class-five hurricane.

“Now, much like death,” Bertie said through her smile, “this will be much more pleasant than you think. Food, drink, and all the men you could desire.”

I angled a glare up at her. “Are you selling me a castle in the sky, Bertie?”

“I am comforting you and promising you glory for your bravery on this battlefield,” she said quietly, and with the tone most people would associate with someone complimenting a six-year-old who had made a gold-star thumbprint turkey painting.

Deities and creatures always showed their true nature, right in front of us all, even if most of us didn’t know to look for it. Still, it had been a while since Bertie had threatened me with my own grave.

“What’s the assistant for? Really?” I asked.

“Didn’t you read the information I sent you today?”

“Some of it?”

“Delaney. You’re an officer of the law. I expect you to take this seriously and pay attention to details.”

“I will. I was just”—
staring at Ryder—
“distracted by work.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve put you in very good hands.”

And then she was off, swooping down on some other poor, unsuspecting soul in the crowd.

Valkyries made amazing party planners.

Bertie gathered the judges, who all took their places at the table with a lot less complaining than me.

I was surprised to see Fawn Wolfe, one of Jame’s sisters, at the end of the table, but decided maybe it was a bit of brilliance to have a werewolf among the judges. They had amazing sense of taste and smell.

Frigg took the chair next to her and gave me a big wink, while she waved to the audience. Next to her sat our postmaster Chester, a mortal, and his niece Aluvia, the lead chef from the The Kraken, our one high-end restaurant.

The last chair was taken by big, tall, dark-haired, bearded Tomas, who was our local Leshy. A guardian and creature of trees and forest in his native land, here Tomas spent most his time as the second-in-command at the public library.

So we had two creatures, one deity, two mortals, and me. Pretty nice showing. I scanned the crowd, waiting for the starting gun, or whatever would be used to kick off this event. I was also taking note of the nearest trash cans in case I had to barf.

The audience settled into their seats. Mortals I knew, tourists I didn’t, and a smattering of creatures. I even caught sight of Herri in the back, her arm around Chris Lagon, who looked exhausted and sad. It looked like Herri was there to keep Chris on his feet, or maybe had been the one to talk him into attending the judging event.

He wasn’t taking the death of Heim very well, not that there was an easy or correct way to grieve the loss of a friend.

Herri caught my gaze and gave me a small smile and nod. She was there in support of Chris, which was really nice of her.

I looked through the crowd for Margot, Chris’s girlfriend, and didn’t see her. Not that I expected her to be there. She and Chris hadn’t been seeing each other for all that long. I couldn’t blame her if she wasn’t into rhubarb.

Dan Perkin had been sitting and twitching in the front row since I first walked in, his baseball hat shoved down hard on his head, his eyes flicking around the room, and then coming back to focus on me like I was the only light in the place.

I made eye contact, gave him a polite half-smile, and ignored him.

How many other people in the audience were competitors and how many just liked to watch people eat? And who was my assistant?

Bertie plucked assistants out of the crowd and ushered them up to the table, introducing them to the judges, and then moving quickly away to snatch up the next person.

She was obviously having the time of her life.

The buzz and thrum of conversation had a friendly, excited tone to it.

Well, that was what we wanted, after all. These festivals were about getting people together to share their passions, hobbies, and ideas. Yes, it brought money into the town, but in many ways the biggest strength of it was drawing people together.

I saw him before he saw me—tall, dark, walking easy in his work boots and jeans, he moved like a man who had spent his life in deep forests, head tilted just a bit, eyes bright, movement fluid and graceful for a guy in flannel and boots.

Ryder Bailey.

My heart raced faster. My skin warmed. I liked watching him when he didn’t know he was being watched. Took my time to soak in his details.

He hadn’t shaved, and his thick, dark hair was tossed by the wind. He looked like he’d been working, and might have changed his dark gray T-shirt, but not the brown and green flannel shirt he had rucked up to his elbows. His hands were long-fingered and strong, his forearms muscled and nicked with a couple of old scars.

He was a man who worked with his hands for a living, a man who worked with his body for a living, a man who strolled through a crowded room and caught the eye of every person without knowing it.

He reached the edge of the seating area and tipped his head up to meet my gaze.

That direct stare stoked the heat under my skin, and I held my breath so I could savor the fire roaring across my nerves.

How could a man I’d known all my life make me forget what I was doing, forget my job, this town, and everyone in it?

I was here to judge the contest, to keep the peace, to find a murderer, to change someone’s life by making them a god. That to-do list was enough to satisfy anyone.

But all I wanted, all I could think of, was what it would be like to stand up, walk over to that man, and devour him with my mouth.

He blinked once slowly, but it didn’t break the spell. And that soft, almost intimate, and certainly hungry curve of his lips didn’t do anything to put out the fire smoldering in me.

The connection that I could practically feel thrumming gently over my skin like a fingertip slipping up and down my spine was amazing. Addictive.

I wanted more.

I wanted Ryder.

Bertie suddenly appeared in front of Ryder, smiling and talking quickly as she took his hand to lead him to where ever she wanted him to be.

I inhaled, exhaled shakily. I’d been staring. And if anyone was watching me, they’d caught me at it.

Mooning.

Great.

I kept my gaze somewhere safely toward the back of the hall, my face neutral. Bertie walked down to the far side of the stage again just as footsteps on stage approached me.

“Evening, officer,” Ryder said, his voice much too low, too full, too throaty for a concrete community hall in the middle of an old cow field.

“Reserve officer. You might want to take your seat. I think Satan’s about to start the torture.”

He pulled out the empty chair next to me and settled in it, his wide shoulders brushing mine before he shifted slightly to make room.

“What are you doing?”

He rested his forearms on the table and smiled at the audience. “I’m your assistant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He wasn’t looking at me. “Have you found any way to refuse Bertie when she’s on the warpath to acquire volunteers?”

I groaned.

He agreed with a nod.

“When did she get you?”

“This afternoon when Jean sent me out of the file room. I would have been much happier doing menial paperwork.”

“So noted. At least you don’t have to eat this crap.” I mimicked him, smiling out at the crowd.

See? I could do this. Be a happy person helping out her community one plate of gooey pink fruit at a time.

“Honor and duty, officer,” he said.

“Stuff it, Bailey.”

He chuckled then cleared his throat. “Here we go. Smile for the cameras, darlin’.”

His voice, low and intimate, rolled through me, and I laced my fingers together on top of the table to keep from reaching for him. He was so close that our hips and legs were almost touching.

But there would be no touching here. This was serious business.

Bertie took the stage with the strut of a professional ringleader, and then gave a short speech on the history of the Rhubarb Rally that ended with her thanking the community for being so flexible with their hours and allowing for a change of judges under such terrible circumstances.

She asked for a moment of silence for the passing of Heim, a good man and judge who had served on the rhubarb panel for the last two years.

The crowd complied. While I bent my head, I also watched the reactions in the audience. If our guilty party really was connected in some way to the rally, they would be here.

Everyone lowered their heads, except for a couple parents who were busy trying to keep their children quiet.

Dan Perkin didn’t lower his head. He scowled and messed with the brim of his hat, as if even this slight delay of him winning first prize was an indignity he refused to endure.

Then Bertie thanked everyone and, in an arresting, uplifting voice, introduced the judges and announced we would begin with the savories, of which there were twenty-three entries.

I groaned quietly through my teeth, and Ryder chuckled.

He pulled a pen out of his pocket and clicked the top of it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

“You might want to get a barf bucket instead.” One of the food handlers set a small plate with a wedge of necrotic pink cheese in front of me, along with a clean plastic fork and napkin.

“Thank you,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “How exciting.”

She left a glass of water within reach.

“Round one.” Ryder produced a white sheet of paper.

I picked up the fork. I quickly decided there was no way I’d be able to fake a smile through the whole thing, but keeping a straight face was something I had long practice with.

“Something wrong?” Ryder asked.

“Nope. I plan to deal with that cheese like I would any other perpetrator under interrogation.”

“Cheese interrogation. That a special course they teach you in the academy?”

“Maintaining professionalism in unfriendly environments.”

“You think this is unfriendly? People have gathered just to cheer you on as you eat. You couldn’t have stronger support.”

“It’s a hostile work environment. Hostile cheese too.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t tasted it yet.”

“Yeah.” I had been staring at the cheese the entire time, the fork poised in my hand. I couldn’t bring myself to actually make my arm and hand move down to touch the gelatinous mass. The air shifted a bit and I got a strong whiff of cooked rhubarb.

And goat cheese.

“You might want to get on with stabbing it,” he suggested. “You’re falling behind.”

I glanced down the table. All the judges had already moved on to new plates. One that looked suspiciously like macaroni and cheese. Pink macaroni and cheese.

I fought back my gag reflex. “Switch places?”

“I think they’d notice. Take a bite.”

“It’s rhubarb.”

“Only some of it is rhubarb. Some of it is cheese.”

“Don’t be reasonable with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His hand under the table pressed down on my knee and rubbed a gentle circle, fingertips dragging softly down the inside. Even through the heavy denim of my jeans, I could feel the heat, the pressure of his hand.

“One bite and I’ll make it worth it,” he murmured.

I might have been holding my breath. I didn’t look over at him, but from the corner of my eye, I could see his polite and interested expression as he stared down at the plate, and my fork hovering over it.

He was surprisingly good at hiding the truth behind that polite expression. Now where had he learned to do that?

“That’s a dirty move,” I said.

“Not yet it isn’t.”

He gently stroked my knee again, slowly letting his fingers drift upward along the inside of my thigh. It was only a couple of inches, but his hand drew my attention away from this room, these people, and that insult to the dairy aisle in front of me.

“You think that’s going to help?”

“I’m enjoying myself.”

“Delaney?” Bertie called out.

I swallowed a yelp of surprise. She stood in front of the stage, her back to the crowd.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Not with me, dear.” Her words were sharp as knives. “Is there something wrong with the entry?”

“No. I was just…admiring the…”

“Presentation,” Ryder provided. “High scores for presentation on this one.”

“Love the mangled chunks of rhubarb that doesn’t resemble raw hamburger mixed with curdled milk at all,” I said. “High points for that.”

“Delaney,” Bertie said through her teeth. “I hope you’re not thinking of disappointing me and all the good people of Ordinary with complete disregard to Heim’s memory by making light of your duties.”

I raised my eyebrows. Impressive. Bertie knew how to lay on the guilt trip.

“Not at all.” I forked up the tip of the cheese and popped it in my mouth.

“Mmm.” I tried to make it sound good while an explosion of soft, salty but slightly sweet cheese held battle with tart, bitter, disgusting rhubarb.