Flu

Chapter 52

With grooves deepening in his forehead, Rick gazes around the produce section of his neighborhood mart. The selection matches the upscale income of most of its patrons. If the newest nomination for a superfood is available, it will be on display. Rick is a lot more interested in putting a smile on Kate's face than he is in keeping up with the fads pushed by the various celebrities residing in the area. He'd love to make chocolate-covered strawberries for his wife, but they won't be in season in the continental U.S. for months. And to his tongue, shipped-in berries have about as much taste as the plastic containers that house them.

November is the time for pumpkins and cranberries. While they both contribute to fine confections, neither will work for what Rick has in mind. He needs a plan "B." As a smartly aproned young man enters the aisle, pulling a pallet jack full of crates of dark sweet cherries, Rick catches a whiff reminiscent of Kate's shampoo. Perfect! He'll have to pit the succulent fruits. God and Captain Montgomery willing, however, by the time the holiday comes to a close, he and Kate will have much for which to give thanks.

Kate can hear the pride in Perlmutter's voice after she slightly embellishes Brunner's comments. That the senior pathologist remembers his idol worshipper is no lie. She just stretched the meaning of "sharp," a little. Perlmutter enthusiastically agrees to get right on inquiries regarding signs of leather tanning and fingernail clipping.

In a strange reversal of M.E. personalities, Lanie is the prickly one. "Something wrong?" Kate asks at her friend's terse replies.

"You know I was planning to fly to New Orleans tonight to be with my parents on Thanksgiving. Snow buried two hub airports and screwed up a bunch of flights. The airline canceled mine, and I can't get another one."

"How about flying out early tomorrow morning?" Kate wonders. "You could still be there by dinner time."

"I'm on a waiting list, but it seems like so is half of New York. I'm stuck here staring at a freezer full of diet entrées, and I can't make other plans because a seat might still open up for me."

"You don't have to make other plans," Kate declares. "If you can't get to New Orleans, come have Thanksgiving dinner at the loft. Rick always goes overboard on everything. There will be a ton of food."

"Kate, I thought that you and Castle are just having family in this year," Lanie protests.

"Only because Rick is doing his feast at the Pumpkin Palace, so we'll be starting our meal late at home. But you've been my best friend ever since I became a detective. If that's not at least as good as family, I don't know what is. Rick loves to have people around the table who haven't heard his jokes as many times as we have. And Alexis is still obsessed with forensics. She'll probably have a ton of stuff she wants to ask you."

"I've got my fingers crossed that I'll make it to New Orleans," Lanie confides, "but if I don't, it would be great to celebrate with you, Girlfriend. And I'll reach out to other pathologists I know about the leather and the fingernails. I'll give you a call if I'll be joining you."

"With luck, you won't be, but you'll be very welcome if you show up," Kate assures her friend.

The scent of roasted chestnuts reaches Kate's nose as she unlocks the door to the loft. "Thinking of taking Terry Hanson's spot near the courthouse, Babe?" Kate teases.

Rick sneezes as the sage-heavy powdered spice rub he's creating tickles his nose. "What?"

"The chestnuts."

"Oh, no. Cute, Kate. They're for the stuffing. I remember panics from past years. It always took longer than I thought it would to shell them, and I wanted to get it out of the way this time. I found some really cool bread too. You want to take crouton duty?"

"Sure," Kate agrees. "Oh, and Lanie may not be able to make it to see her folks, so I invited her to eat with us."

"Uh-huh, fine."

Slipping behind the kitchen counter, Kate bumps her husband with her hip. "What's going on, Babe? You seem distracted – more than usual, I mean."

The news Rick received from Mark, while the writer was busy dipping cherries in dark chocolate, tumbles around in his mind and out of his mouth. "The celebrity the Cooking Channel is sending isn't second-tier. The Pumpkin Palace's guest chef will be none other than Dean Katz, foodie extraordinaire. He's a three-time Poe Award winner and has been my idol since I was 12. Kate, I'm going to be in a kitchen with him!"

Kate presses a quick kiss to her husband's lips. "Congratulations, that's amazing." She picks up a package of Seven Ancient Grains stone hearth-baked bread. "Is this what you want me to cut up?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

"Babe, Katz's appearance at the Pumpkin Palace will be great PR. So, why are you acting like a kid who got called to the principal's office?"

"His review of my sequel to 'Storm Fall,' um, could have been better. He thought bringing Derrick back from the dead was hack. And the trouble is, he was kind of right. Faking your death is hardly an original plot. It was Black Pawn's idea, not mine. The company refused to lose a cash cow, and I was contractually obligated. But I was still the one who penned the trope. If Katz brings it up, I don't know what I can say to him."

"How about the truth?" Kate suggests. "Katz has to know the publishing world. He'll probably understand. But we can put together a plan. Keep your phone in your pocket set up to text me, even if I can't make it to the pop-up. When I ding you back, you can claim you're needed elsewhere. Then you can duck out."

"Right, like an emergency save on a blind date. I like it, Kate." Rick leans in for a heartfelt smooch. "Good. OK. Ooh, did I add enough sage?" Rick sniffs his herb mix and sneezes again. "This will be perfect."

Scanning through her newest batch of emails, Lanie stops at one from Lorne Faulkner, a fellow M.E. and long-ago occasional date. He's answering her inquiry regarding leather and fingernails. She hasn't heard from Lorne in years, but they parted on friendly terms. They didn't have a break up because there wasn't that much of a relationship to end. After taking jobs in different cities, the two of them lost touch, but Lanie can't help smiling when she sees his name. She opens the message.

"Hi, Lanie. It's been a while. Good to see you're still on top of your game. I had a rape and murder victim who may have fit the profile you outlined, come through here about three years ago. As you described, her fingernails were unusually short. I found no DNA from a killer who strangled her with an unknown leather product, but the lab identified a substance I recovered from the ligature marks as deer brain! It's used in a natural method to tan leather. From my research, if a hunter shoots a deer, the brain contains just enough lecithin to tan the hide. Hell of a way to get something you can buy online from any baking supplier. It looks like we've run across victims of the same sicko. Give me a call if you want to discuss the cases or just shoot the breeze about old times. I'd love to catch up with you. Lorne"

"Well," Lanie mutters to herself, "what do you know?"