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o ONE o
Ever wonder if you're a magnet for disaster? In my case, I was beginning to wonder if I was a magnet for death.
I held up a paint swatch to the wall of the ladies' room of the Bonaparte House, the restaurant I manage for my mother-in-law. I felt a frown wrinkle my forehead as I studied the card, which was lit up by the late November sun shining through the wavy glass of the antique window. Nope. Definitely not Oh-Oh Orchid. I fanned through the stack to try another.
In the twenty-plus years I'd called Bonaparte Bay, New York, home, there hadn't been a single murder within a radius of ten or fifteen miles. But in the last few months there'd been three. Three people who would never marvel at another sunrise over the sparkling blue waters of the St. Lawrence River. Three people who would never again enjoy a meal of pan fish caught fresh that morning. Three people who would never again hold a loved one in their arms.
And all three of those deaths were connected to me.
Don't get me wrong. I didn't kill anybody. But for a woman who had always thought she had no extended family, it had come as something of a shock to find that I did, in fact, have cousins. But before I'd had a chance to explore those relationships, two of my cousins were murdered, along with an acquaintance who had gotten too close to some surprising truths. My mother and another cousin, who just happened to be my best friend, were still very much alive, though. Thank goodness the threat was over. There were some kinks to be worked out, but I was cautiously optimistic that we who were left could learn how to be a family.
The kitchen door banged shut with a sharp report, causing me to start. I took one last look at Buttered Up. That one was definitely pretty, a pale yellow that looked lovely with the original early nineteenth-century woodwork. I put the card on top of the deck and set the samples down on the hideous flamingo pink and black tile counter. If the carpenters would let me, I'd enjoy taking a sledgehammer to that surface myself.
And speaking of the carpenters, that's who was probably in my restaurant kitchen right now.
I hustled through one of the dining rooms, slowing only a little to nod to the old oil painting of a haughty Napoleon that hung over the (nonworking) fireplace mantel. This house had been built two hundred years ago as a place for him to hide out and plot his return to power. Unfortunately for the Little Corporal, his supporters were never able to spring him from Elba or St. Helena. Fortunately for me, this beautiful old stone house survived into the twenty-first century. I lived upstairs, and worked downstairs, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
But it isn't really yours, a voice inside my head said.
Shut up, I told it, not for the first time, as I stepped inside the big commercial kitchen that had been added onto the back of the house half a century ago.
"Hey, Georgie," Steve Murdoch said, not looking up. His soft chambray shirt was embroidered with "Murdoch Kustom Kontracting" over one of the pockets. He held a tablet computer in one hand and tapped something into it with a stylus in the other. I was impressed. I would have expected a simple clipboard and plastic pen from a guy who worked with his hands. Was that tech-ist of me?
"Hi, Steve." I glanced at the clock on the wall. "How've you been? You're right on time."
He looked up at me, his face, still tanned though summer was long over, clouding over then clearing as if with conscious effort. "Eh, I'm all right. One day at a time. And speaking of time, I don't like to waste mine or anybody else's." He nodded toward the small counter and stools over by the walk-in fridge. "Shall we sit down and talk about the project?"
"Coffee and a snack?" I offered. I considered asking what was wrong, but it was none of my business. Advice I should pay attention to as over the last few months I seemed to have developed a hitherto unknown penchant for nosiness. "I've got spice cake with cream cheese frosting." Normally I didn't keep desserts in the house after the restaurant closed for the season. If I wanted something decadent I'd go to the Express-o Bean, the coffee shop a block away. But we'd celebrated my cook's birthday yesterday and I'd saved a couple of pieces.
"Sounds great," he said, and parked his well-fitting Levi's on one of the stools.
A few minutes later, I joined Steve at the counter, setting a plate of cake, a fork, and a carafe of coffee in front of him. I poured him a cup and offered the cream and sugar, which he accepted.
I poured a glug of cream into my own cup and gave a stir. "So," I said. "I want to thank you for your help with getting Sophie on board with this renovation." My mother-in-law-despite having pots and pots of money, and being about to come into a whole lot more once a valuable antique I'd found upstairs was sold next spring-was not a spender. Nor had she seen any reason to update the restrooms, which she'd decorated herself during the Eisenhower years.
Steve forked a hunk of cake into his mouth. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin I'd given him and grinned. "Yeah, sorry about that 'leak' I found. These old pipes can go anytime, you know."
I grinned back. "Wouldn't it be awful if it happened when we had a full dining room? We could be shut down for a week." I only felt a teeny, tiny bit guilty about bending the truth with Sophie. The pipes really were ancient. They really could go anytime. And she really did have more money than she could ever possibly spend. So why not spruce this place up?
"You know I've been itching to work on your restrooms," Steve said as he scraped some frosting up off the thick white china plate. "Every time I come in for lunch they taunt me." Steve was a creature of habit, never to my knowledge ever ordering anything other than a Coke and two gyros, extra tomatoes, light on the sauce.
I laughed. "The men's room is even uglier than the women's." I set my coffee cup down in its matching saucer, where the meeting of the two solid white china surfaces gave a pleasant little clink. "So did you bring me some samples to look at?"
"Sure did." He scooted his empty plate across the counter, and replaced it with a number of tile samples that he set down on the stainless steel. I moved them around, feeling the cool, smooth surface of each beneath my fingertips. I settled on a creamy white square with a pearly luster. I closed my eyes and pictured it with the paint I'd chosen earlier. Lovely. Elegant but not fussy. And Sophie would love it, since yellow was her favorite color. It might just soften the blow when she got Steve's bill. My mind was made up quickly. "This is the one. We'll use it for both restrooms, and paint the men's room walls that cafŽ au lait color you suggested."
Steve nodded. "Good choice. This tile looks great, wears well, and it's not too expensive." He pulled the stylus out of his shirt pocket. He tapped the rubber tip on the tablet, then turned the screen toward me. "Here's a drawing of what the finished reno will look like."
A 3-D graphic drawing in full color appeared. I gave a low whistle. "Beautiful. Maybe too beautiful. What if my customers come for the bathrooms instead of the food? No public restrooms, you know."
Steve chuckled. "I don't think there's any danger of that. But I'm happy you like the rendering. My son, Ewan, is home on vacation from Rensselaer Polytechnic and he's insisting on bringing Murdoch Kontracting up to date with technology." He drained his coffee cup. "He'll have his master's degree next spring." Steve's pride was evident.
"It must be great to have him home for a while. My Callista will be home from Greece in a few days and I can't wait." My heart gave a little tug. Just a few more days, Georgie, and you can give your girl a hug.
Steve tapped the screen again and passed it back to me. "This is the estimate."
The figure was large, but reasonable. Gutting and rebuilding were not cheap. And Steve was doing me a favor by squeezing me in before the holidays. And, well, it wasn't my money. "Where do I sign?"
He handed me the stylus and indicated the spot. My signature looked wobbly on the screen but I supposed it would do. "We'll e-mail you a copy of the signed contract. Since it's supposed to rain, I thought I'd send the demo crew over this afternoon to get started. I can't have them working outdoors today."
"So soon? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. That sounds perfect. Can I have the accountant drop off the deposit check? Not sure if it'll be today or tomorrow."
"Sure, and much appreciated. As is the coffee and cake." Steve rose, shoving his tablet into a briefcase and stuffing his rather beefy arms into the sleeves of his expensive down jacket. "See you this afternoon."
I walked him to the back door. "See you then."
As Steve's truck left the parking lot, a ball of orange fur rose up and came toward me. "Hello, Hortense," I said. "You want some lunch?" The lean marmalade cat seemed to have taken up residence somewhere in the neighborhood because she came by daily now. That might have been because I fed her, outside the restaurant kitchen, of course. She was friendly enough, occasionally rubbing up against my legs and giving a vigorous purr. One of these days I was going to borrow a pet carrier and see if I could get her to the vet for a checkup and some shots, and to find out if she'd been spayed. Or neutered. Honestly, I wasn't at all sure whether she was a Hortense or a Horace.
I went back inside and brought out a can of cat food, which I opened and dumped onto a paper plate and set by the picnic table. A shiver ran through me. It had gotten very cold all of a sudden, and it was still a few weeks before Thanksgiving. Soon the North Country of New York State would be in a deep freeze until next April. Poor Hortense. She couldn't live in the house this winter-pets and restaurant kitchens were mutually exclusive, even if the restaurant was technically closed. Maybe while the carpenters were here, they could rig up a shelter of some kind out back. Or maybe I could find her a real home somewhere, assuming she didn't already have one.
And speaking of the carpenters, I wondered if I should make them some lunch. No, they weren't coming until this afternoon, which meant they would have already eaten. And since they were getting paid hourly, it would be cheaper to have them working rather than eating. Just drinks, then, and a plate of cookies. And I knew just the recipe I wanted to try.
Dishes deposited in the deep stainless sink, I wiped my hands on a paper towel, and headed down the hall to my office.
The heavy oak door was partly open and I nudged it with the heel of my hand. The hinges gave a creak that set my fillings vibrating. Another item for the carpenters to address. I sat down behind the desk and reached for a shoe box that rested to my right.
"Thom McAn" was printed on the sides and ends. The lid was turned upside down and was currently reinforcing the bottom. Which was a good thing because the box was crammed full of pieces of yellowed notebook paper and index cards, some of which had cute designs and some of which were plain white, and old newspaper clippings that looked brittle and about to crumble.
The box belonged to Gladys Montgomery, a lovely older woman who lived in Florida for the winter. During the summer she came north to her cottage a couple of miles south of Bonaparte Bay on the St. Lawrence River. The "cottage" was a three-thousand-square-foot Victorian, one of the elaborate summer homes built around the turn of the twentieth century on the islands and along the shores of the St. Lawrence. My boyfriend, Jack Conway, was caretaking the house for her for the winter. Well, not currently. He was off on some kind of assignment with the Coast Guard, something he wouldn't-or couldn't-tell me about. And I wasn't sure how I felt about that.
Gladys had given me the box before she left and told me to copy what I wanted. That might very well be everything. But it was hard to tell, the contents of the box were so disorganized. Hopefully Gladys wouldn't mind if I did some rearranging. I flipped through the fragile paper gently until I found the one I'd seen a few days ago. Maple Walnut Sandies. Perfect for a cold November day. I placed the recipe on the flatbed of my copier and pressed the print button.
Twenty minutes later the simple dough was mixed and the aroma of warm maple syrup and toasted walnuts wafted through the restaurant kitchen. While the first tray of cookies baked, I laid out a few of the recipes from Gladys's shoe box on the clean prep counter and began to sort. Desserts and sweets went into one pile. Main dishes, side dishes, breads, and vegetables all got their own spot. This project wouldn't be finished today, that was for sure. But I had nothing but time between now and next May when the restaurant opened back up.
I was just popping a ball of raw cookie dough-which was of course a no-no since it contained raw eggs, but, well, I liked to live dangerously-into my mouth and taking the first tray out of the oven when the back door gave its characteristic screech and slam. Two men entered, brandishing sledgehammers. My jaw dropped when I realized the identity of one of the men. My cook's son and my former employee, Russ Riley.
o TWO o
"Hey, Georgie," Russ said. His unshaven chin was thrust out and he looked me in the eye, as if daring me to question his presence on my premises.
Huh. After I'd fired him a few months ago, his mother, Dolly, had told me that he'd gone to Florida to look for work. Wrestling alligators or maybe operating the rides at some off-Disney park-those would be career opportunities open to him. He was on probation, so leaving the state was not allowed, but I certainly wasn't going to rat him out. The farther away he stayed, the better, after the role he'd played in the mess my almost-ex-husband Spiro had gotten himself into a few months ago.
