Rest in Split Peas

by Hillary Avis

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I said I don’t!” Ben’s voice was so loud he was nearly shouting. “Close the door on your way out.”

  Bethany jumped and skittered out of the office, slapped the out-of-order notice on the women’s restroom, and knocked on the door to the maintenance closet again. “Trevor? You in there?”

  No answer. She pressed her ear to the door. She could hear someone inside rummaging through boxes. She knocked again, louder. The door flew open, and Trevor’s face emerged, red and sweaty with the effort of whatever he was doing.

  “You again. What do you want now?”

  “I talked to Ben, and—”

  Trevor rolled his eyes and slammed the door in her face. The noise inside resumed, and this time it sounded like Trevor was dumping boxes of metal pieces out on the floor. What in the world can he be doing? Bethany knocked again, pounding with her fist until he cracked open the door.

  “What?”

  “I wanted to know if you saw Marigold when you did the track check at the end of your rounds this morning.”

  “No, I didn’t. I already told you I didn’t see anything.”

  Bethany stuck her foot in the door so he couldn’t close it again. “You said you didn’t see the train hit her. I’m talking about before that, when she was just standing on the platform. You might have been the last person to see her alive.”

  “So? She was standing on the platform. I didn’t push her in front of that train.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I was just curious if anyone was with her. If you saw Marigold, you probably saw the murderer, too.”

  “I don’t know. I was checking the tracks, not making a list of everybody I saw.”

  Bethany nodded. “Well, if you remember anything...”

  “I’ll tell the police,” Trevor said pointedly. He started to close the door again, and Bethany tried to see around him to the interior of the maintenance closet.

  “What are you doing in there, anyway? It’s awfully noisy.”

  “Looking for something. It’s none of your business.” He scooted her foot out of the way with his own and closed the door again. This time, she heard it lock.

  What could he be looking for? The maintenance closet was cluttered but well-organized, with labeled boxes and bins for parts and tools. He shouldn’t have to dump everything out on the floor to find an item. She’d never seen him act so agitated about anything, either. What was stressing him out so much? Could it be something to do with Marigold’s death?

  Bethany shook her head to clear it. Don’t be so suspicious all the time! He probably just misplaced a small part and figured it fell down into another box or something. Or maybe he was just frazzled because of his impending fatherhood. She walked back across the concourse to her kiosk and was surprised to see the waiting area nearly empty of passengers. The police had obviously released the scene. Jen and Aaron weren’t on the bench, either—they must have gone to their hotel.

  Bethany took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The morning’s caffeine had worn off, and had been nearly thirty hours since Bethany had slept. Her eyes felt gritty, but she shook off the exhaustion and climbed the stepladder to take down Marigold’s sign. The leggings and tunic she wore didn’t have pockets, so she held the screws in her lips as she removed them. One end of the sign was free, and she held it up with one hand while she leaned to reach the last screw on the other side, causing the stepladder to wobble.

  “Be careful up there, hon!” Olive stared up at Bethany. “You have a minute to take the soup over to the shelter with me?”

  “Mhm,” Bethany mumbled through a mouthful of screws. Holding the sign, she backed down the ladder, spat the screws into a container, and slid the sign under the counter of Marigold’s kiosk. Well, not Marigold’s anymore. Her death still didn’t seem real. She peeked under the lid of the soup on the warmer. “I’m a little worried about the temp on this. I’m afraid it’ll cool too much on the ride over. Is it OK with you if I turn up the heat, and we wait a few?”

  Olive hesitated, but then nodded. “Fine. Come get me when it’s ready.”

  Bethany turned up the warmer and headed back to Souperb, where a coating of chicken stock was hardening on her own pot and ladles. She piled the utensils into the stockpot and carried them over to Café Sabine.

  When she pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen, she saw Kimmy’s back through the door to the walk-in refrigerator.

  “Hey!” she called, and Kimmy jumped and turned.

  “You surprised me! You’re late.”

  Bethany plunked the stockpot into the deep dishwashing sink, squirted some dish liquid into it, and turned on the hot water. “Police were holding the scene until they interviewed everyone. It was a mess.”

  Kimmy closed the walk-in and grabbed some disinfecting spray from under the sink. As she began wiping down the counters, she said, “Charley told me about what happened. So sorry.”

  “She checked with you about my alibi?”

  Kimmy paused mid-spray. “Yes! And I chewed her out for badgering you. I can’t believe she questioned you like that.”

  “Don’t be mad at Charley; it’s not her fault. She’s just doing her job.”

  “I don’t have to approve, though,” Kimmy grumbled. “I can’t believe she’d even consider you a suspect, especially after all you went through last May.”

  Bethany nodded and attacked the inside of the stock pot with a scrubber. She didn’t want to think or talk about last May. Cleaning was somehow more satisfying than usual, and she scrubbed even harder at the remains of the epic chicken noodle soup until the stainless-steel pot shone.

  “Soup was a hit?” Kimmy asked.

  Bethany nodded, keeping her eyes trained on the dishwater.

  “What did the reporter think?”

  Bethany shrugged, and Kimmy shrieked in frustration. “Come on! Give me something, here. I did not stay up all night with you to be ignored in my own kitchen!” Then she softened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to blow up at you. I’m just tired.”

  “Me, too,” Bethany admitted. “Anyway, he didn’t taste the soup.”

  “What?!” Kimmy stared at her, the spray bottle slack at her side.

  “He was standing there, about to have some, right when we found out Marigold got hit. He left my kiosk to cover that story for the paper since the station was locked down and no other reporter had access. It doesn’t matter now, though, does it? With Marigold out of the picture, the food feature is a nonstarter.”

  Kimmy nodded. “With the competition dead, the competition’s literally dead.”

  “Morbid way to put it, but yeah.” Bethany rinsed her pot and ladles and then dunked them in the sanitizing bath. “And I am honestly disappointed. I know I complained about the food feature because it was a surprise, but it was my shot, you know? It was finally some attention that wasn’t about Daniel’s murder.”

  “You mean some attention from a guy who isn’t Daniel.” Kimmy eyed her slyly.

  “Milo’s a professional, and he was only there to do his job. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.” Bethany blushed in spite of herself. “That’s not why I’m disappointed, anyway. Well, not the only reason.”

  “It’s about time, is all I’m saying. You deserve to have a little fun.”

  “I have fun!” Bethany said indignantly.

  “Mhm. Name one Saturday in the last three months that you’ve gone out.”

  “I stay home on purpose. I love hanging out with you and Charley. And I ride my bike—that’s fun. And I read.”

  “Super fun.” Kimmy’s smirk was visible across the room.

  “I don’t need a boyfriend to enjoy my life.”

  Kimmy cackled. “So get a girlfriend!”

  “Can’t—all the good ones are taken. Guess I’m stuck being single.” Bethany smirked at her friend. If she was honest with herself, it would be nice to see Milo again without
the strange pressure of a food review. Maybe she’d run into him somewhere else...the waterfront, maybe? Or just walking down the street. She wondered if he’d recognize her outside the kiosk, or if he only saw her as fodder for another newspaper article. Kimmy yawned and Bethany’s mind snapped out of her daydream. “What time is it? I have to get back to help Olive.”

  “Go. Shoo,” Kimmy said, motioning for her to leave. “I’ll finish putting this stuff away.”

  Bethany trudged over to the station and waved to Olive through the bakery window, pointing to the door questioningly. Olive saw her and waved her inside. Bethany helped her carry Marigold’s leftover soup out to her car, a green station wagon that was nearly the same color as the split peas.

  “We have to make it snappy. I left Garrett at the register again.” Even Olive looked tired after today’s events.

  “He’s not a fan of dealing with customers, is he?” Bethany settled into the passenger seat and closed the door as Olive started the car.

  “He doesn’t mind that so much.” Olive nosed the car out of the parking lot and headed downtown. “He’s just put in a lot of time today already, and he’s not feeling great these days.”

  These days. Meaning it wasn’t just a passing cold virus. “Is something wrong? Is he OK?”

  Olive kept her eyes trained on the road. It was Newbridge’s equivalent of rush hour, and while the town never backed up with traffic the way New Haven did at this time of day, there were enough cars were on the street that driving seemed to capture her full attention. “He’ll be fine.”

  She was usually so chatty and open. Why wasn’t she explaining Garrett’s health situation—was she hiding something? It’s probably just something embarrassing like hemorrhoids, Bethany chastised herself. Still... “Is that why you were gone today during the lunch rush?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What were you up to? Garrett said you had errands, but usually you run your errands later in the day.”

  Olive pulled the car into the small lot behind the homeless shelter. “Here we are.” She practically jumped out of the car, leaving Bethany to wonder if she was just eager to get back to Garrett or if she was avoiding the question. Maybe she’s just not ready to talk about it, yet. It could be something serious—Alzheimer’s, maybe.

  She scrambled out of the car and helped Olive carry the soup into the building. They entered through a low doorway into a sterile, tiled hallway.

  “This way,” Olive said, turning to the left, and Bethany followed her into a large kitchen. Everything in it, from the floor to the countertops, was white, and rows of gleaming steel utensils and pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls. The air was filled with the smell of chickens roasting in the massive pair of ovens.

  Bethany stopped and marveled at the space. “Wow, I wish I had a kitchen like this.”

  “The kitchen at the café is lovely!” Olive said. “On three. One, two...”

  They hefted the stock pot onto the range, and Bethany clicked the knob until the burner came on, then turned it down to the lowest flame. “It’s great, but Café Sabine isn’t my kitchen. I’m just lucky Kimmy works there and doesn’t mind me taking up space during her prep.”

  A woman poked her head out of a doorway Bethany hadn’t noticed. “I couldn’t help overhearing. If you want to cook here, we’d love to have you. We can always use more volunteers!” She emerged from the room—the pantry, Bethany realized—lugging a ten-pound sack of rice.

  “Hi, Sister Bernadette,” Olive said, smiling. “We had a big pot of leftover soup at the station, and I thought you might be able to use it.”

  “We made sure it stayed at temp,” Bethany added.

  Sister Bernadette clasped her hands. “Wonderful! I take it you’re the soup genius Olive is always talking about?”

  Bethany looked at Olive. “I guess so. This isn’t mine, though.”

  “Well, it’s one of your recipes,” Olive said wryly.

  “Either way, we are happy to have it. And I’m not joking about you cooking here. We could use someone with expertise to help with menu planning, too, so we’re eating more seasonally and wasting less food. Come see the rest of the place.” Sister Bernadette, a fiftyish woman with plain features and graying hair swooped into a low bun, didn’t seem prepared to take no for an answer.

  “Olive really has to get back,” Bethany protested as the sister herded them into the dining room across the hall from the kitchen. If Garrett was experiencing dementia or another serious illness, she was sure Olive would be anxious to return.

  “Don’t be silly, we can take a few minutes,” Olive said, her face smooth and unconcerned.

  Maybe Garrett just had arthritis or an ingrown toenail, Bethany mused. But if his health problem wasn’t serious, why wouldn’t Olive have waited until after the lunch rush to run her errand? Even a couple of hours later would have been a better time to leave the bakery. Maybe the “errand” wasn’t about Garrett’s health at all. She quashed her suspicions and gave her full attention to Sister Bernadette as she showed them around the dining room.

  “We set the dining room up like a restaurant. Our guests order from a short menu—just two entrée choices, usually. It gives them some dignity to sit down at tables with real tablecloths instead of standing in line.” Sister Bernadette smiled at a trio of women who were setting the tables for the evening meal. “Some of the guests work as wait staff, but we’re mostly volunteers. Oh, Ryan!” Sister Bernadette called to a man walking by in the hall. “We’ll have to add bowls to the tables tonight. Olive’s friend brought soup!”

  “Really?” The man came into the dining room. Tall, with dark olive skin and brilliant green eyes, the man had one of those inscrutable ethnicities. His hair was twisted into short dreadlocks and his T-shirt clung to his fit frame, making Bethany rethink her whole “abs are gross” thing. He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Ryan, but I guess you know that.”

  Bethany took his hand automatically and a jolt of electricity zipped up her arm that nearly took her breath away. “Bethany,” she said. “I have a soup kiosk down at Newbridge Station. It’s not my soup, though. I mean, what we brought.” Her face flushed, and Olive gave her a smug look.

  “I’m sorry to hear about what happened at the station today. You must be shaken.” Ryan still hadn’t let go of Bethany’s hand.

  “We’re all right,” Bethany said, glancing at Olive, who avoided her eye contact. “Happy for a distraction, though.”

  Ryan finally dropped her hand. “Did Sister Bernadette invite you to volunteer? We’re desperate for another chef in the kitchen, especially on Saturday nights.”

  Bethany could hardly look away from his magnetic gaze. Was this guy a volunteer or a shelter guest? Paint-splattered jeans, sneakers with holes in the toes...he wasn’t dressed like a professional doing charity work. “Uh, yes, she did.”

  “So will you?” He looked eager and unselfconscious, like he didn’t know he was the most gorgeous thing on two legs.

  “Please do,” Sister Bernadette said, gently touching Bethany’s elbow. “Think of it as a chance to try out new recipes on a very enthusiastic audience.”

  “And to cook something other than soup!” Olive said. “You need to keep your skills sharp if you’re going to open that restaurant someday.”

  Bethany put up her hands and laughed. “OK! I give up—I can’t resist all three of you. I’d love to help out.”

  “Wonderful, just wonderful!” Sister Bernadette exclaimed. A wide smile lit her face. “Ryan, why don’t you finish the tour while Olive and I get bowls on the tables? Show Bethany what you’ve been working on.”

  “We have to go,” Bethany protested, thinking of Garrett glowering behind the bakery counter. “The Honor Roll is still open and—”

  Olive shook her head, winking at Bethany. “Nonsense. We have plenty of time.”

  “It’s pointless to argue with these two,” Ryan said cheerfully. “Come on.”

  Bethany resigned hers
elf to the tour—it was clear she wasn’t getting out of it—and followed him down the hall. She looked back over her shoulder and Olive gave her a thumbs-up. Her cheeks burned, and she could hear Olive giggling as she and Ryan rounded the corner.

  He pushed open a door. “This is the business center. It has laptops with internet access, phones, office supplies, cameras, a printer—”

  “So people can apply for jobs?”

  Ryan nodded. “Yeah, jobs, but also fill out forms for housing, do taxes, run businesses, write papers for classes, all kinds of stuff. We’re really lucky to have it here.”

  “Business owners and college students live in a homeless shelter?” Bethany asked. Ryan’s brow furrowed, and she immediately regretted the question.

  “Stereotypes are dangerous. All kinds of people live here.” His face seemed to harden a little as he closed the door and moved down the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” Bethany said, hurrying to keep up with his pace. “I just couldn’t tell if you were speaking hypothetically or if people really use the business center in the ways you describe.”

  “We do.” Whatever ease and unselfconsciousness he’d had in the dining room fell away, and even his posture seemed stiffer and more formal.

  Bethany winced. So he was a guest at the shelter, and she’d basically just insulted him. “That’s great,” she said, trying to salvage something from the conversation. “Really great.”

  Ryan’s voice was flat as he pointed out other rooms. “In there are the storage lockers for people’s stuff and a big wardrobe of professional clothes to borrow. In that one we have kennels for pets. Mostly dogs, but some other animals, too. Bedrooms are upstairs.” He led her to the end of the hall and into an expansive room furnished much like a nice hotel lobby, with comfortable sofas and armchairs. Several people were relaxing there, reading, chatting, and playing board games on the gleaming tables. “This is the common area.”

  “How nice!” Bethany exclaimed. “This is somewhere I wouldn’t mind hanging out.”

  “Not what you were expecting from a homeless shelter?” He coolly raised an eyebrow.