The aroma of maple bacon and coffee wafted into her office as Poppy interrupted her pondering with a plate full of breakfast and a mug to replace the one that had already gone cold on her desk. “Thanks,” she murmured, still studying the computer screen.
“Don’t get used to the service, mate. Liam talked me into checking on you after I told him about Jackson’s sudden appearance.”
“And the food?” Mel cocked an eyebrow at her friend, who she suspected was just as worried about her mental state as her brother after their chat last night. The lithe, vertically challenged woman might resemble a brunette pixie, but that brain of hers worked with devious speed.
“Figured you’d holed yourself up in here without getting a proper brekkie. Besides, I have a small favor to ask, but not while you’re sporting that glower on your phiz. What’s got you frowning so hard?” She didn’t wait for an answer but came around the desk to have a look for herself. “You’re reading about the cooking school?”
“Can you believe these gullible idiots, and yes, I’m including Jackson among them, pay for the honor of working for free in Isabelle Fontaine’s restaurant?” Taking a piece of bacon, Mel absently munched on it until the flavor of maple, meat, and unbridled joy exploded in her mouth. Poppy wasn’t as diversely talented in the kitchen as Jackson, but she was the master of the breakfast dishes she made. Mel moaned in appreciation before asking, “All right, out with it. What’s this favor?”
“Well,” her friend gave her a sly grin. Never a good sign. Whatever was about to follow would almost certainly be illegal. But when she said, “I need your advice on how to win over Doctor Hart.” Mel’s jaw actually dropped open.
“You’ve never struck me as the kind of person who worries about other people’s opinions.” She eyed the other woman suspiciously. “Why do you care what Doc thinks?”
Poppy wandered around the office, tidying a crooked photo and pulling out one of Mel’s hospitality course textbooks. The only purpose for all of her movement, as far as Mel could tell, was to avoid letting her see her face. “Because she’s important to you and it seems life would be much easier for you if the two of us got along.”
“Really?” She sat back in the creaky desk chair, crossing her arms over her chest as she tried to figure out the ex-thief’s actual motivation.
“Okay, fine.” The woman whirled on her in a huff. “I’ve never had anyone not like me. Ever. Pathetic loser Agnes Mary Nobel? Sure. But since I transformed myself into the fabulous Poppy Phillips? Even people I’ve stolen from end up liking me.”
“Kind of judgey of poor Aggie, aren’t you?” She’d only recently discovered Poppy’s true identity when Gregg investigated her as a murder suspect. Abandoned by her single mother, she’d grown up in Cleveland in various foster homes that ran the gambit from kind to truly horrific. Given that, she understood her friend’s choice to reinvent herself, fake English accent and all. She claimed she identified as British, whatever that meant. If Mel had to put money on it, she’d bet it was because the accent meant she could get away with murder. And she had to admit, it had come in handy more than once to soothe the ruffled feathers of a guest. But Doc Hart, who’d been suspicious of her from the start, remained an aloof skeptic.
“You could try dropping the accent.”
For the first time, she saw a flash of vulnerability in the bold ex-thief’s eyes.
“What would I even sound like without it?” Poppy murmured, then switched to a flat, nasal tone that presumably she thought people from Cleveland sounded like. “My name is Agnes from Cuyahoga County. I like cheese. Blch.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re confusing Cleveland with Milwaukee, but I see your point.”