“Are you okay?” I hurried over. “What happened?”
Her groan was audible. “Fell. My wrist . . .”
I pushed my way through the small murmuring crowd. Kristen was on her knees, cradling her right wrist with her left forearm. I knelt beside her. Since the only visible part of her skin was her face, it was impossible to see what the damage might be, and I didn’t want to make things worse. Kristen was a chef and permanent damage to her wrist . . . I didn’t want to think about it. She would be fine.
“She should go to the hospital,” a woman said. “But I don’t know where the closest one is. Petoskey? Does Charlevoix have a hospital? Maybe Traverse City would be better.”
“There’s a hospital in Gaylord,” offered a young man. “At least that’s what my friend said. You want me to Google which one is closest?”
Cade and Barb, their boots thumping fast on the asphalt, hurried over. I knew I could depend on them to do what needed to be done, so I thanked the strangers, telling them we were all set. They wandered off and I said to Kristen, “We’re going to McLaren in Petoskey, okay?”
She nodded and the McCades and I helped her to her feet. “I’ll help her into the car,” Barb said. “Cade will get your equipment and drop it at your aunt’s house later.” She said the last while looking at her husband, and he nodded and headed off.
Barb talked as she guided Kristen to the passenger side of my car. “He’s painting a snow series and two days ago he got it in his head that he had to see Michigan snow. We’re here for a few days, so we have plenty of time to help out. No, don’t thank me. Minnie has done far more for us than we can ever repay. There you go, Kristen, let me get that seat belt . . . and you’re set.” Barb gently shut the door, slapped the window, and we were on our way.
• • •
Three hours later, we were still in the emergency room, waiting for the results of the CT scan. “Just to be sure,” the doctor said. “We don’t want a misdiagnosis.”
“No, we do not.” Kristen used her chin to point at her wrapped-up wrist. “If this doesn’t heal properly, there will be no bo ssäm at Three Seasons. No beef Wellington. And certainly no crème brûlée.”
The thought of no crème brûlée sent a chill down my back, but I took a deep breath. Once again, Kristen was exaggerating. Even if she was incapacitated, she had an excellent staff, which included Harvey, the sous-chef, who was aching for a chance to lay down his life for his boss. But Kristen’s passion was developing new recipes, and if her wrist was permanently damaged . . . I shook my head. She was going to be fine.
“Odds are extremely good,” the doctor said, “that you’ll be fine. The X-ray didn’t show any breaks. At this point it’s likely a sprain. A few weeks, a little bit of therapy, and you’ll be back to normal. But we’re going to do a CT scan, just to be sure.”
And an hour later, the results were in. The orthopedic surgeon was consulted, and she agreed. No broken bones. “I’ll get the nurse in to show you how to wrap it,” the emergency room doctor said. “We’ll get you a prescription for pain and for therapy. Check with your doctor in Florida for recommended physical therapists.” He smiled. “Glad you’ll be okay. Three Seasons is my favorite restaurant. I’ll be in for that crème brûlée.”
As the doctor walked out, Kristen flopped back on the hospital bed and stared at the ceiling. “Well, this sucks. But I suppose it could be worse.”
“It can always be worse,” I said.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
She lay there for a moment, looking almost relaxed, then sat bolt upright. “Okay. Enough of feeling sorry for myself. Time to get to work.”
I eyed her warily. “On what?”
“Wedding plans, my dear. That is the reason I came to this land of snow and ice, remember?”
“Hard to tell from your actions the last twenty-four hours.”
She grinned. “All in the past, Miss Minnie. All in the past. Sharpen your pencils!”
Rolling my eyes, I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket and opened the notes file I’d titled Wedding of the Century. “Virtual pencil all set, ma’am.”
“What’s the first thing I need to decide?”
“Venue.”
“Ceremony at the Congregational church, reception at Three Seasons. Done!” She used her left hand to draw an imaginary check mark in the air.
I did not move on to the next item. “You talked to the church secretary and got your name set in stone for the correct date and time?”
Kristen’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t trust me?”
“With my life, absolutely. With following up on this kind of detail, absolutely not.”
She huffed, but not for very long. We’d been friends a long time and we knew each other’s weaknesses and strong suits inside and out. “Yes, I talked to Lois and the date is set. And the restaurant will be dark the entire day. Lots of time to decorate.”
As we ticked through the big items, I added a few notes about things I needed to do, a big one being addressing the invitations, which we’d planned on doing that evening. “I’ll lick every one,” she said. “Promise.”
“Then the last big item is the food.” I put my phone down. “Are we going to have this conversation again? Because I still think it’s nuts for you to cook your own wedding dinner.”
Kristen started to get the look I knew very well—her stubborn look. “I’m a chef. How can I possibly let someone else cook for my wedding?”
“There are other cooks in the land. Even other cooks in northwest lower Michigan.”
“Not like me.”
“True enough. But is it worth your time?” I winced inwardly, because I’d said the exact wrong thing. “Let me rephrase that—”
“Worth my time?” Kristen flushed. “This is the most important meal of my life! It’s my wedding, for crying out loud! I know you don’t understand the importance of fine food, but I do. This isn’t a meal I’m handing over to some schmuck who doesn’t know the difference between a whisk and a waffle iron.”
“Fine,” I said, trying not to snap at her because she was undoubtedly in pain. “Then at least get some help. You can’t possibly cook for two hundred people all by yourself.”
“Of course not.” Kristen rolled her eyes. “That would be nuts. Harvey and the rest of the regular staff are donating their time as wedding presents, and I’m talking to a friend in Detroit about coming up to help out. She used to be in advertising, but chucked it all to buy a food truck. I was serving her a drink in Key West when we got to talking, and it turns out she and her husband drive all over the country, following the weather they like best. I saw their setup, and they’ve developed this really interesting method of—”
Hard-heartedly, I cut her off. “They’ll come all the way up here?”
“She got their permit from city council last week.”
“That sounds good,” I said vaguely, because my mind was wandering backward. Hadn’t the loan Sunny Scoles applied for—which had been turned down by Rowan—been for a food truck?
“How much do those cost?” I asked. “Food trucks, I mean.”
Kristen laughed. “If you’re thinking about ditching the bookmobile for a food truck business, I’d advise against it. Because if you run a food truck, you have to cook. Every day.”
I scrunched my face. “No, this is about Rowan’s murder.” I didn’t want to blab Sunny’s name around, so I said, “One of the latest loans Rowan turned down was for a food truck. So I was just wondering, how much do they cost?”