The Focaccia Fatality Read Free Page A

their jobs.
    A police officer escorted me home while Porter responded to the scene of the crime. I hadn’t asked what the crime was, nor did I care. As long as it didn’t center on me and mine, I was fine with the situation.
    At the door, I thanked the officer for the ride home. He smiled, said it was no problem, and left. I heaved a sigh and went inside, made some tea and kicked off my shoes. I didn’t think I’d enjoy being part of a police family. It wasn’t my idea of what family should consist of. Aidan Sinclair’s face popped into my mind. He was the reason. I knew it as sure as I knew the sun would rise in the morning.
    My phone rang. Porter’s silky voice came across the line. “I wanted to check that you arrived home safe and sound. McGinty dropped you at the door, then?”
    “He did, thanks. Are you still at the crime scene?”
    “It looks like it’ll be a long night into a longer day. I had a great time, Melina. We’ll get together soon.”
    In the background I heard his name being called. He said he’d be in touch and hung up. I smiled, considered his thoughtfulness, and then headed upstairs to change. There was bread to be made for the morning crowd and while I’d left the dough to rise, it was time to undertake the baking process.
    A few hours passed without interruptions, but then, it was the middle of the night and who the hell would be apt to stop in now? I snickered at the idea and pulled loaves of miche bread from the humongous oven, a rectangular, country-style French pan loaf that smelled heavenly and tasted even better. I laid them on the cooling rack and pulled several loaves of marbled rye from within the oven and set them to cool beside loaves of pumpernickel and potato bread.
    Lines of rolls awaited packaging. It took a while, but I got them all bagged and tied, ready for display. I glanced at the clock, yawned, and headed upstairs when the phone rang again. Geez, now who?
    Reluctant as I was to answer, I worried the call concerned Seanmhair. I picked up the phone.
    “Melina Cameron,” I said.
    “This is Mark Lyons, the Greenwood Apartment Complex coordinator. There’s been a fire and though no one was seriously injured, I was asked to call you to come over and get your grandmother.”
    Mind boggled at his words, panic ran through me as quickly as wildfire in a heavy wind. “Is she all right? I-I’ll be right there.” Without waiting for his answer and knowing he’d hardly tell me if she’d been hurt, I hung up, reached for my coat, grabbed my evening purse, and ran full tilt for the parking lot out back.
    My little Fiat flew through quiet streets until I came upon a mass of fire trucks and rescue personnel outside the complex where Seanmhair lived. My adrenalin was out of control as was worry for Sean. I parked at the end of the street and raced up the sidewalk.
    A paramedic loaded gear into the outer side section of the rescue. I recognized him from having been in the shop and as the man in charge when he turned as I laid my hand on his arm and asked, “Is Seanmhair all right?”
    His face soot smudged, his smile was pure white. “She’s over there. Scared, but fine. You’ve got one spunky grandmother, Melina,” Eric Monroe admitted with a shake of his head.
    I could only imagine the ration of shit she might have given the rescue team, and their firefighting cohorts, when they’d arrived and told everyone to leave the premises. I thanked him and searched the crowd for Seanmhair, who was short, round, and hard to find with so many people milling around.
    “Sean,” I said when I found her. I hugged her tight and then studied her bedraggled appearance. Smoke streaked her face as she looked at me with her bright blue eyes.
    She rose from the stone wall she’d been perched on and began to cry. Between sobs, she told me how the fire had begun on the floor above hers. She’d smelled smoke before the alarms went off and had called the emergency people to make them