The saying was even more true of a small town like Elkview, with a population hovering just under one thousand people, depending on whether Mary Jane Chapman had twins or triplets.
By the time Trooper’s shepherd’s pie was ready, I’d forgotten all about the missing Oliver and the nonresponsive Victor. I joined my friends for some Elkview gossip: how Jeb and Sam got into it again in the bar on Main Street over the weekend, how the Martin girl took a job as the nanny for the ever-growing Chapman family, whether the junior hockey team would make it to the finals, and other breaking news. It was times like this that I loved being home again.
Then a familiar sound interrupted our conversation: Trooper’s pager, a remnant from the past that many law enforcers still used as backup.
Trooper stepped into the small hallway in the back of the Bear Claw, where the restrooms were and the pay phones used to be. Small town or not, he did his best to keep police matters private. His integrity could be a bit annoying to a curious person like yours truly, and even more so to a journalist like Chris.
Chris twisted his very fit body in the booth he’d been sharing with us, apparently trying to provide a better angle for his good ear. I would have followed suit, perhaps even heading for the kitchen to be closer to the hallway, but the rattling of the assembly of doorbells caught my attention.
A veritable crowd entered the diner: A shivering young couple with cherry-red faces, followed by two men with unkempt beards and none-too-clean heavy jackets. Each pair took a booth toward the front, and I smiled broadly as the population of the Bear Claw more than doubled.
I greeted my new patrons and urged them all to try the shepherd’s pie with complimentary corn muffins and free refills on the coffee. As often happens, people behaved against type, and the scruffy guys were more pleasant than the gentrified couple who probably hailed from an East Coast city.
That last thought had me mentally shrinking from my mom’s disapproval for the second time today.
“Don’t be so quick to judge, Charlotte Agnes,” I heard her say in her scolding voice, taking me back to every childhood reprimand that began or ended with my formal name. Adding my middle name, in honor of my sainted aunt whom I’d never met, gave immeasurable weight to the rebuke.
I moved in to take the order from the couple in designer parkas, navy blue for him, baby-doll pink for her.
“It’s sleeting out there,” said the male, as if he were personally affronted by the weather, unaware that he could be in Fairbanks, Alaska, the coldest city in the United States, by dinnertime.
“Not exactly,” I said. “Sleet is a mixture of rain and snow. What we have here is freezing rain, which happens when rain that’s in below-freezing air hits the ground.” I illustrated with a vertical clap of my hands.
“Who knew?” he asked, in a tone that said he didn’t like being corrected. I immediately regretted my little meteorology lecture. At least I hadn’t gone on about where ice pellets and hail fit into the winter precipitation scheme. I reminded myself that while pretty much everyone in Alaska was a weather junkie, these folks wouldn’t know that.
I cut my losses and made my way back to the kitchen with orders for four pies, four muffins, and four coffees.
“Hot, please,” the pink parka called after me, as if in this weather I’d have assumed cold, with a side of ice.
I’d glanced at the brochures on the table between the pristine parkas. The National Scenic Byway. Denali National Park. The Musk Ox Farm. The Matanuska Glacier. If they’d been more sociable, I’d have told them about the wedding I’d attended on the glacier. On the ice. Transportation by helicopter. A delicious cold buffet. And a spectacular photo album that had been featured in a travel magazine.
I’d worked at the various visitors’ centers attached to the parks one summer during college when Dad convinced Mom that I needed a break from diner work, if only for my résumé. I’d memorized every Fun Fact about the sites and loved to share them with my patrons.
“Did you know,” I’d begin, “that the ultra-fine qiviut fiber on the musk ox is softer than cashmere and eight times warmer than wool?” I didn’t share such amazing knowledge with this couple, however. Their loss.
When a truck I recognized as belonging to Al Messner of Pilgrim Packing Company pulled in at the edge of the parking lot, I knew I’d better take out a second tray of pies. Big Al could be counted on for a double order. I was ready to rehash the funny bit we usually shared about how far off track those Pilgrims had gotten. I felt comforted that a regular customer had arrived. Al would be happy to sit through talk about the weather as long as I kept his mug filled and didn’t stint on the Dutch apple pie.
I was so swamped for a few minutes, I didn’t notice that both Chris and Trooper Graham had left—through the back door, or I would have seen them traipse down past the stools. What does it mean when a trooper gets a call and he and a journalist leave together? My mind whirled with the possibilities.
* * *
* * *
A group of climbers headed for Denali cleaned me out of pies and muffins, but it was worth it to eavesdrop on their talk of ski plane landing sites and the best climbing routes. It was five thirty before I had a minute to breathe. Even better, help had arrived. It had been a while since I’d played cook, bottle washer, and waitress.
First, Annie showed up, her thick pale green down coat adding ten pounds to her already chubby frame. Annie and I were friends all through Elkview schools, hardly lost touch though we attended different colleges, and enjoyed being neighbors again.
“You’d better put me to work,” she said. “I had a call from a tour bus leader with a group on their way from Anchorage to Fairbanks. She’s looking for food and lodging for about thirty people, in case they all wanted dinner in a diner.” Not for the first time, Annie thought that was a pretty funny line and laughed accordingly, but then, she was always in a good mood.
“How come you’re not home making up beds?” I asked.
Annie shrugged. “We’re okay. All the cottages are made up and Maria’s got the house under control. I might need to borrow some towels, however. Oh, and how about four dozen bear claws for tomorrow’s breakfast? That will cover the strays and singles, too.”
“Why are we standing around wasting time?” I tossed Annie an apron.
Annie had inherited her parents’ inn—there was a lot of that going around our little community. Her property housed a midsize Victorian with a row of small cottages on either side. Like the Bear Claw, Jensen’s Elkview Inn survived on the tourist trade. I smiled, thinking how the ice climbers, another category of regular patrons, would recoil at being lumped in with “tourists.” Regardless, taken together, with all the mountains, parks, and other natural attractions in the area, it worked out pretty well for food and housing businesses.
Finally, Victor arrived, and I no longer had to be head chef.
“No Oliver yet?” Victor asked.
I shook my head.
Victor’s dark hair was tousled, as if he’d come straight from his bed. His eyes always seemed at half-mast even when he was in a cooking frenzy, blending sauce ingredients with one hand and building a multilayered sandwich with the other. As he wrapped an apron around his slight frame, I pointed to his chest.
“That doesn’t mean you can use his apron.”
He laughed and ran his fingers over the stitching along the top edge. “Oh, is that what ‘O. W.’ means?”
I tsk-tsked my disapproval, knowing Oliver would be furious. “It’s your funeral,” I said.
“You said double time, right?”
“Time and a—oh, sure, double time.”
For that rapid pay increase I earned a high five, though the exuberance was slightly one-sided.
I left the menu to Victor while Annie and I followed directions.
“Moose and pork meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Tossed
salad and custard pie,” he announced. “And we have about six servings of mac and cheese, in case there are kids, plus French fries if the mashed don’t work, and maybe three or four plates of wings. But push the meatloaf. Special recipe, only the best moose meat, unique to the Last Frontier, et cetera. You know the drill.”
A great cold-weather menu. Victor dug into the meatloaf prep; Annie was assigned to peeling potatoes; I raised my hand for salad duty, cutting up lettuce, carrots, tomatoes. Victor’s sister was a Bear Claw part-timer, and he called her in to help serve. Nina, a business student at a local community college, was like her brother: small, dark, and quick.
Annie and I had no trouble chatting while we worked. There was always an interesting guest or two at her inn, and today’s was a Frenchman, no less.
“He’s so charming,” Annie said. “From Switzerland. On his way to see the northern lights. His name is Pierre. Pierre Fournier. Isn’t that a great name?”
“Of course.”
“Sort of musical.”
“Uh-huh.”
Annie had obviously forgotten how we’d both struggled through high school French, and at the time “musical” was not the term we gave it. In fact, “It hurts my nose,” she’d said, more than once.
“He’s writing an article for some travel magazine. But his rental car broke down and Max’s is saying they can’t get the part we need. Well, he needs. So he’s staying with me. Well, not with me, but maybe with me.”
It was always a challenge to unwrap Annie’s syntax. Fortunately, she almost never required a direct response.
“He has this great chart,” she continued. “It shows sunrise and sunset for any day of the year for any city in the state, even the teeny ones. Teeny towns.”
“Is that so?” I refrained from reminding Annie that she probably had a similar chart, as I did, as most Alaskans did.
“He said he’s always wanted to chase the aurora.” She smiled as if he’d claimed to want to chase her. But maybe I was reading into it, since Annie was an easy mark for a pretty face and a healthy dose of charm, especially an exotic French specimen. “He talked on and on about ox, and how Fairbanks is home to the only captive research herd of musk oxen in the world. He really wants to see them. Wouldn’t that be something?”
This time, I declined to answer.
We moved out to the dining area, checking condiment containers and restocking napkins. I wondered if Annie would have been as interested in the musk oxen if it had been an old guy from Juneau who went on and on about the animals. I doubted it, but there was no need to bring it up while she was free labor in my diner.
A new tinkle of the bell over the door brought in a woman I recognized as Oliver’s girlfriend. She wasted no time, but came up to Annie and me, one hand outstretched.
“I’m Gert Marcus, Oliver’s friend,” she said, going for my hand first. “I was here once before and I remember you.” She moved over to Annie and introduced herself, then got to the point, speaking loudly enough to reach Victor and Nina in the kitchen. “I’m looking for Oliver. Anyone know where he is? We’re supposed to be going to the movies tonight down in Wasilla.”
Annie shook her head; Victor yelled, “No.” I started to explain that I hadn’t seen Oliver since just after lunchtime, but Gert had already turned and headed for the door.
“Woman on a mission,” Annie said. “She must be the construction worker; she’s built like one. We should have asked when that old theater is going to reopen.”
“She didn’t leave a lot of time for that.”
Annie got a call saying the tour bus was on its way, with thirty-three adults and three children. They’d be here in about twenty minutes. I checked my watch. Just after six. Except for a brief visit to Benny after lunch, I’d been at the Bear Claw since eight in the morning.
It was a good thing I’d filled Benny’s feeder. According to the promos for the product, he could go a week before a refill would be needed. I hoped I’d never have to test that promise. But if Annie was serious about needing bear claws for her breakfast crowd, I’d have to plan on being here a couple of hours after dinner. I looked out the window and tried to decide if it was worth dropping in at home again. But the diner was so warm and cozy that I decided to check in on Benny again remotely. I hoped my mom would never find out how weak her only child had turned out to be.
I took a seat on a stool across from the pass-through window and clicked on the Benny app. I felt daring enough to start the laser game with him. Benny saw the bright red dot immediately and began chasing it around the floor to the rhythm of my finger movements.
My laughter brought Annie and Victor out to the dining area.
“What’s this?” Victor asked. When I explained, he grabbed my phone. “You have to give him a challenge and some real exercise,” he said and shot the laser dot up the wall to about four feet, then made rapid circular motions.
Benny’s head jerked up as he tried to paw the image. He jumped to a level higher than I’d ever seen him reach. Victor lowered the dot quickly and had Benny racing around with it in what I thought was a panicky state. I grabbed my phone away from Victor, gave him a don’t-you-ever-mess-with-my-tabby-again look, and wished there were a way to travel through space and help Benny calm down. I had to be satisfied with audio only.
“It’s okay,” I told Benny, in my most soothing voice. “It’s going to be okay.” From all appearances, Benny was calmer than I was, but it would be a while before I turned that laser on again, and certainly never in Victor’s presence.
I resisted making some “bad Victor” comments, because I still needed the uncompromised services of my sous chef. Benny leapt up on a sweatshirt I’d left on a chair and kneaded it, his orange and white tail twitching, his green eyes darting toward the camera, sensing my presence, virtual as it was. I relaxed when he switched to licking his paws, starting his long grooming process.
As Benny continued his ritual, the sleek white tour bus pulled up in front of the Bear Claw. A line of tourists, huddled in mittens, scarves, and hoods, stepped down and rushed toward the door. About ten passengers into the unloading, Annie nudged me.
“Charlie, Charlie. There’s Pierre,” she whispered, a wide grin taking over her face. “I was hoping he’d decide to join the tourists for dinner.”
I had the feeling Annie was going to be the first one at Pierre’s booth and that he’d get excellent service.
As for me, I noticed Trooper’s patrol car pull up, with Chris’s old jalopy close behind, as expected. From their grim faces, I sensed they didn’t have good news. The question was, how long could I wait to hear it?
THREE
There is nothing like a diner full of cheerful sounds and mouthwatering smells on a bustling evening. Especially if you own the diner and want it to succeed.
The clanking of heavy platters on the through-window shelf competed with the chatter of satisfied customers, who were spilling over onto stools and sliding into booths. Victor’s happy whistling added a nice touch—fortunately, he had forgiven my scolding over Benny and the laser dot game—as he filled the air with the aromas of his spicy moose and pork meatloaf and the baked stuffed bell peppers he’d magically produced as an extra offering. I wondered how long Victor would stay at the Bear Claw. He was young enough to want a career that was “going someplace,” as he’d put it to me more than once, though he wasn’t willing to make the effort of earning a culinary school certificate.
With Victor here now, I had it easy, taking orders, refilling drinks, and manning the register as needed. I also sold a few Bear Claw Diner T-shirts and several logo mugs, all emblazoned with a friendly-looking cartoon bear designed ages ago by one of Mom’s employees. About once a week a customer would ask to buy one of our heavy white plates with the same design. One of these days, I’d get around to adding them to our modest souvenir case under the cash register. Oliver was convinced that cus
tomers had been sneaking out the plates their food was served on, under their down vests or in their backpacks.
“Might as well sell some clean ones and make money to replace the stolen ones,” he’d said. Once in a while Oliver thought calmly and clearly—but only when he wasn’t talking about changes to the menu.
How quickly I circled back to Where is he?
Annie and Nina did the heavy lifting this evening, back and forth to the kitchen with overloaded trays. To her credit, Annie lingered only a short while at Pierre’s booth with each trip.
“Come and meet him,” she said to me at one point. “He’s going to have a drink with me in the parlor when we get back. His idea.” She’d patted her chest at heart level to indicate what she thought of the idea.
I smoothed my apron and tucked a piece of long hair behind my ear as if I were preparing for an interview. He’s the one who should consider himself on the hot seat, I told myself. He needs my approval, especially if he has designs on my BFF, Annie, who deserves only the best.
Pierre stood, as much as anyone can stand in a diner booth, and shook my hand. His hair was squared off on top, very high and very blond. I’d never seen an Irish knit sweater so stylish, as if it were custom made to fit a broader- than-normal chest. My judgment, taking it all in? A rock star or a runway model, not an accountant.
“Annie has told me so much about you,” he said, with just enough of a French accent to be adorable. “And your friend, Benny. And how you play with him from here, from your excellent diner.”
He pronounced my cat’s name as if it were spelled Ben-EE, with the accent at the end. The diner became dine-ER. Otherwise, his English was very good. I wondered where he’d learned it, but I held back comments like Don’t you have a cadre of girlfriends in Zurich? and You’d better not hurt this amazing woman.
“Your research sounds fascinating,” I said instead. “I understand you’re heading for the northern lights, but you’re not with”—I swept my arm in a half circle, to indicate the diner population—“these folks.” I also took the opportunity to greet Pierre’s tablemates, not surprisingly all female.
Mousse and Murder Page 2
