Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,41

Michael, she whispered something in his ear. His cheeks got dusky.

Beth held her glass in front of her with both hands. “I’m going to let Edward do the honors,” she said.

Call it my imagination running away with me, but I had the distinct feeling that Edward would have rather done just about anything but. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today,” he said, and we all laughed on cue. He didn’t smile when we all did, so his expression didn’t exactly get serious. It got more serious. Determined. I had a feeling that if I was standing next to him, I would have heard the bones in his jaw grind together. When he finally forced a smile, the corners of his mouth were as stiff as my meringue never was. “Since this is a surprise to most of you, I’ll explain that I called Michael into my office this afternoon.” With his champagne flute, he gestured toward Beth’s husband. “Michael’s been . . . well, he’s been a real asset to the company. I’ve known him since I purchased Macro-Tech seven years ago, and I can say with some authority that we wouldn’t be where we are today without him leading the charge down in the accounting department. You know I’m much too obsessive to ever loosen my hold on the reins of the company completely, but since everything that happened to Vickie . . . well, I’d like to back off a bit, to free up some time for the kids. I’m happy to tell all of you that as of this afternoon, Macro-Tech has a new chief financial officer.” Edward raised his glass. “To Michael!”

At the announcement, the women squealed their delight and hugged Beth. After they drank down their champagne, the men offered Michael their congratulations and handshakes.

“That’s great news,” I said to Beth, and honestly, I don’t know if she heard me since she was so busy beaming a mile-wide smile at her husband. Michael, too, was looking pretty starry-eyed. Who could blame him? I might not be a mover or shaker when it comes to big business, but I’d done my homework. Macro-Tech was Edward Monroe’s software firm, and it was a mighty successful one at that. The company handled any number of huge government contracts, and unlike a lot of businesses these days, his always turned a profit. Macro-Tech had made Edward millions. It was nice to see he was sharing the wealth, and even nicer to know that Beth had a husband who was well-thought-of enough to be handed the new responsibility. I couldn’t help but be as pleased as everyone else. I sipped my champagne, enjoying the moment.

At least until I realized that in spite of the fact that Edward’s toast had been gracious, his expression never changed. For a man who was loosening his hold—just a bit—on his company, to spend more time with his motherless children, he didn’t look relieved, happy, or even content.

I was curious. And like it or not, thanks to everything I’d been through since that first, fateful cooking class I took and that first murder I’d solved, I was suspicious, too. First Jeremy, the kid who gave nonathletic a whole new meaning, was playing soccer. Then Michael gets a promotion? Sure, I knew good things happened to nice people, and from what I’d seen, Beth and Michael and the rest of them were really nice people. Still, it all seemed a little too fishy.

Eager to find out if my detective instincts were right on, or if I was just letting my imagination run wild, I leaned toward Beth so I could whisper, “It’s such good news and it makes so much sense for Edward to take some time to recuperate from everything that’s happened. I wonder why he doesn’t look happier about it.”

I hoped for a reaction. But not one that involved the need for a cleanup crew.

No such luck. Beth winced as if she’d been slapped, the blood drained from her face, and, as if in slow motion, her champagne glass slipped out of her hands.

Eight

BETH’S CRYSTAL CHAMPAGNE FLUTE HIT THE CORNER of the table and from there, the hardwood floor. Champagne rained down on everything, and the glass shattered into a million pieces.

“I’m so sorry.” No, it wasn’t exactly my fault. Or maybe it was since I’d apparently startled Beth with my comment. Whatever the case, to prove how awful I felt, I