stomach. It’s good with other preparations, but it doesn’t do well in stews. Seriously, half of your problems with your meats come down to the fat.”
Delilah shook her head a little and said under her breath. “Yeah, well … Dev’s got a thing about that.” Snapping out of whatever hit her quickly, Delilah looked back at the freezer supply. “So what do you think I should do with all of this? There’s a lot left.”
“You could make a special…” Shea suggested.
“But what? Savory food really isn’t my forte…”
Shea thought about it for a minute. “You know, some of the best-tasting foods really are simple. If you cut this right and marinate it, you can do an à la minute grilled steak with a Chimichurri sauce that will keep for days. A two-element dish may still be better than a recipe that isn’t working.”
“Amen to less complexity,” Delilah said, already seeming convinced. “But I’ve never made Chimichurri. Have you?”
“Ironically, no,” Shea admitted. “But I know exactly how it’s supposed to taste. If you try out a recipe, I can tell you what it needs.”
“That’s kind of amazing—you know that, right? I went to culinary school, but only on the baking side. I can make Grand Marnier souffle but I can barely scramble an egg.”
“I’m a product of my environment.” Shea followed Delilah out of the fridge, figuring she didn’t risk anything by telling Delilah something she’d already told Dev. “You don’t grow up in a restaurant without learning a thing or two.”
“Uh-uh,” Delilah insisted. “Tasting the ingredients in foods isn’t something you pick up by osmosis. You have, like, some kind of superpower.”
By then, they had returned to the table and Shea had reached to pick up the first of her buns.
“Everybody has a superpower…” Shea trailed off. “It just so happens mine is knowing that brown sugar and orange zest are your secret ingredient in these.”
As she mentioned the morning buns, she gave Delilah a little wink.
Delilah narrowed her eyes, even as she looked impressed. “You are a dangerous woman, Shea Summers. And if you tell anyone the secret ingredient in my buns or anything else I make, I’m cutting you off.”
Shea swallowed a bite of bun. “Come on. You know that’s not a chance I’m willing to take.”
After eating the whole thing, Shea reached in her bag for her laptop, asked Delilah for the Wi-Fi code and started up her machine. Shea had already begun to push the laptop toward Delilah when she noticed that Elle West’s email was still open in a browser. Shea was saved when Delilah randomly popped out of her seat. It gave Shea time to discreetly close her window. It also gave Shea a second of privacy to have a mini heart attack. She’d averted suspicion only because Delilah had needed a pencil.
“How’d everything turn out with Dev on Friday night?” Possibly from a sense of panic, Shea blurted one of the conversation starters she had in her pocket. Lulls between the two of them could invite Delilah asking questions of her own. There was only so much that could be said about the food, and food itself could become a dangerous subject. Better for Shea to steer the topic.
“Not good,” Delilah said bluntly as Shea typed best chimichurri sauce recipes into the search bar. “It’s the third case of vandalism down at the mills. And I’m not talking about defacing something—I’m talking major property damage. You know Margareta Walton?”
“I don’t know much of anybody yet.”
“She’s the one with all those dogs? Walks them all at the same time on Oliver Street on Saturdays and she’s always carrying, like, five bags of poop?”
Shea smiled, because she guessed she did know Margareta Walton. Shea’s smile disappeared when she remembered what they were talking about. “Wait—she didn’t get hurt, did she? Brody said there was an accident.”
Delilah nodded. “There was an explosion, down at old Number Eight.”
“Number Eight?” Shea stopped her search for Chimichurri.
“Before things went the way it did, the big industry was lumber. Everyone worked in the mills or drove trucks or were part of the cutting operation. You wouldn’t know it walking down the street now. Now, there are only a few mills left—like Number Eight—and they’re already on their last legs. Margareta’s husband, Brick, is the janitor. When the explosion happened, he was on the other end of the building, cleaning up. He got lucky and walked away, but still…”
“What do they think happened?” Shea still didn’t understand. “I mean, couldn’t it