Rest in Split Peas

by Hillary Avis

  “Honestly, no. I thought it’d feel more...I don’t know. Sad. I’m sorry if that sounds ignorant, but it’s the truth.”

  Ryan’s shoulders relaxed and the corners of his mouth quirked up. “I’m going to give you a break and just say that I’m glad you got to see what it’s really like. Sister Bernadette and volunteers like Olive work hard to make sure this is a place of hope, not despair. But I had the same assumptions as you when I first came here. I think most people probably do.”

  “Well, I’m glad you forgive me.” Bethany smiled warmly at him. She didn’t know what Ryan’s deal was, but she hoped that the shelter would help him find stable housing and get his life back together. He seemed like a really thoughtful guy—someone she might date if he weren’t homeless. The instant she had the idea, she mentally chastised herself for stereotyping again. His housing situation was just temporary circumstances, not a sign of bad character. Still. “So what have you been working on? Sister Bernadette said you should show me.”

  “Ah!” His face lit up. “Turn around and you’ll see.”

  Bethany turned and saw, behind where they’d been standing, an enormous mural that stretched the length of the common room’s back wall. It was a landscape—two villages separated by sapphire-blue ocean, with a bridge between them and a glowing sunset in the hills beyond. That explained the paint-splattered jeans. “It’s Oldbridge and Newbridge!” she exclaimed. “You’re an artist?”

  Ryan nodded proudly. “Still putting on the finishing touches. See here?” He touched a Victorian house on the Newbridge side where a tiny figure was planting flowers in a garden. “I’m working on the little stuff.”

  Bethany moved in closer to get a better look at the details. She spotted Café Sabine and the train station, the marina and the park, the public library and town hall, each painted with painstaking accuracy. “You have every business—maybe every house. And so many people doing different things. Commuters on the train, children at school...I love the fishing boats out on the harbor, too! I can even see the fish they’re trying to catch under the waves.” She turned to him in awe. “This must have taken months!”

  “Well, weeks, but yeah.” He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “I wanted it to be beautiful from any vantage point. You know, some people take a big view, some people can only see what’s right in front of their noses. I hope this will remind viewers to try the opposite way of seeing sometimes, too.”

  Bethany nodded. “So this is what you do for work? Paint murals?”

  Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, it’s what I like to do—I don’t get paid.”

  Bethany felt a pang of sympathy, remembering how painful it had been when she was unemployed in the months before she opened Souperb Soups. If Kimmy hadn’t fronted her the rent during that time, she could have easily found herself without a place to live. “Well, it’s obvious you’re a hard worker, judging by all the things they have you doing around here. I’m sure you’ll find a job. Actually, I bet there are a lot of local businesses that would love to have murals like this. Maybe even some of the city buildings.”

  “You think?”

  Bethany nodded. “You have real talent, Ryan. And it seems like the business center here has all the tools you need to get something off the ground.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, shrugging. “I kind of like doing it for free. I’m not sure it’d be the same to paint for hire.”

  Well, that attitude explained why he’d been living at the shelter for weeks. “I guess that’s your choice,” she said.

  “Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate the encouragement.” Ryan smiled at her, and his smile was so charming that she couldn’t help returning it. “I’ve just tried the whole working-for-a-boss thing, and it didn’t turn out great for me.”

  “Me neither,” she admitted. “That’s why I started my soup kiosk. It’s not big, and it’s not fancy, but it’s enough to pay my rent, and I get to do what I love every day.”

  “Right, but you aren’t a personal chef. You get to decide what you paint—I mean, cook.”

  “For better or for worse. People don’t always eat it.”

  Ryan raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Olive says you’re a magician, so I’m looking forward to finally getting a taste on Saturday.”

  Something about his wording and playful tone made her blush. Why was this guy having such an effect on her? She shook her head.

  His face fell. “You’re not going to come?”

  “No, I am. I just don’t want your expectations to be too high. It’s just soup.” And you’re totally inappropriate for me, so I have to stop flirting with you.

  Ugh, maybe that was the underlying appeal—the absolute horror her parents would experience if they knew she was even thinking about what it’d be like to date a homeless guy. Bad enough that their daughter turned down the scholarship to Yale and wasted her mind on culinary school. They were still telling their friends that she was planning to go to law school. She wondered sometimes if all her impulses were just simple rebellion against their expectations.

  No, that wasn’t true—she genuinely loved cooking. And surely her parents would see her ambition and achievement once her dream of owning her own café came to fruition, wouldn’t they? Pipe dream—they’ll never get it. Just like they’d never see Ryan’s talent and work ethic; they’d only see a homeless guy.

  “If something nourishes and comforts people on a deep level, it’s not ‘just soup.’” Ryan touched her shoulder gently. “Don’t diminish what you do.”

  Tears suddenly welled in her eyes, and she felt a knot of sadness creep into her throat. “Why do you understand what I do without even knowing me?”

  He shrugged. “The artist in me recognizes the artist in you.”

  Chills ran down her spine. She stared at him, her eyes pricking with tears. “Who are you?”

  He chuckled uncomfortably. “Just another human being. Come on—I’ll get you back to Olive.”

  Shaking her head, she followed him back down the hall to the dining room, where Olive was setting flower arrangements on the tables. Bethany could hear a timer going off in the kitchen, and Sister Bernadette apologized as she scurried to check on it.

  “Almost time for service!” she chirped on her way out. “See you Saturday!”

  “You’d better get busy,” Olive admonished Ryan.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And come by tomorrow afternoon to pick up some bread.” Olive winked at Bethany, who rolled her eyes. Olive’s attempts to push them together were so transparent, and frankly, unwelcome. The rollercoaster of emotions she’d been on today was too much, and frankly, she wanted off this ride.

  “Bye,” she said firmly.

  “Don’t forget what I said.” Ryan looked at her steadily. “You’re an artist.”

  She nodded and pulled Olive out the door. Someone like Ryan, who valued art over everything—even having a home—couldn’t really understand her, either. It was time to go sleep off the confusing fog of fear, regret, suspicion, and self-doubt that had been swirling around her. Tomorrow had to be a better day.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday morning

  When Bethany woke, she knew exactly which soup to make to counteract Wednesday’s mess. The day required something invigorating, something that represented renewal—and New England oyster season was in full swing. Spicy tomato and oyster stew was the perfect solution. The pressure of the food feature off her shoulders, she truly enjoyed the morning prep at Café Sabine—making fish stock, chopping herbs, opening the shellfish.

  “I’ve never seen someone so happy to shuck oysters,” Kimmy said.

  “You don’t fully appreciate a good night’s sleep until you skip one.” Bethany breathed in the smell of the stew: briny, spicy, enticing. She’d add the oysters in at the last minute and then it’d be heaven in a bowl.

  “Tell me about it.” Kimmy rolled her eyes. “I was up longer than you were. At le
ast you got to go home after you served lunch. That reminds me, are you doing OK with the whole Marigold situation? Be honest.”

  Bethany sprinkled a tiny bit of Old Bay seasoning into the stew. “Do you think Olive could bake oyster crackers to pair with this? Would that be asking too much?”

  “Crackers don’t take very long. I’m sure she could whip some up.” Kimmy paused. “Hey, you’re avoiding my question!”

  Bethany nodded. “I don’t really want to think about it. I mean, it’s not like Marigold and I were friends, but that almost makes it worse. If I’d known she was going to die, I’d have been nicer to her.”

  “Well, we’re all going to die at some point.”

  Bethany grinned. “Are you saying I should be nicer to everyone?”

  Kimmy nudged Bethany with her elbow. “Can’t hurt.”

  “I don’t know, it sounds pretty painful to me!” Bethany’s words were joking, but her heart felt heavy in her chest. “Actually, it’s making me a little paranoid. I see pretty much every person who goes in and out of Newbridge Station. What if the killer is one of my regulars? Any bowl of soup I serve might be eaten by Marigold’s murderer.”

  “Murderers gotta eat, too.”

  Bethany nodded. “Murder is hungry work. Takes a lot of calories.”

  Kimmy cracked up. “You’re sick!”

  “You started it. Anyway, this is one of those ‘if you don’t laugh, you cry’ situations. I don’t want to think it’s anybody I know, but everyone is acting weird—myself included. I feel like everyone’s a suspect.”

  “Not everyone. Not, like, Olive.”

  Bethany said, “Well...”

  “No!” Kimmy stuck out her bottom lip. “You can’t be serious.”

  “She really didn’t like Marigold. That whole gluten thing was personal. And she wasn’t at the bakery at the time of the murder.”

  “Stop. Just stop right now. You gotta turn off the suspicion faucet and let Charley do her job. Otherwise you’re going to get my middle school social studies teacher arrested. She’s a nice little old lady, not a killer!”

  “I just don’t like to rule out possibilities,” Bethany said stubbornly. Not that Olive did it, but I can’t say she didn’t, either.

  Kimmy stamped her foot. “That’s it, get out of my kitchen!” She grinned and added, “It’s coming up on 10:30.”

  “OK, OK.” Bethany slid the shucked oysters into the stew and strained their liquor to the pot for good measure. “I’m done here, anyway.”

  When she wheeled Daisy into Newbridge Station with her steaming pot of spicy oyster stew, for a moment she forgot that anything out of the ordinary had happened yesterday. She steeled herself for Marigold’s inevitable jabs, but when she looked up, it wasn’t Marigold barreling toward her—it was Olive.

  Olive reached out with both hands and gripped Bethany’s forearms. “Be careful, sweetheart,” she said. Before Bethany could ask what she was talking about, Olive rushed back to the Honor Roll.

  Bethany shook her head. What was that all about? Was it a warning? A threat? She glanced over at Marigold’s kiosk. It was closed, shrouded in canvas like a piece of old furniture. So it was all real—Marigold was dead, and someone killed her. Bethany shivered.

  Be careful, sweetheart. Olive’s words echoed in her head as she went to unload the cargo trailer. To her surprise, a customer was already waiting at the counter. Well, maybe not a customer—it was Milo Armstrong, culinary critic for the Newbridge Community Observer, with Caboose sniffing at his shoes. What was he doing there? Had Olive been warning about him?

  “Souperb opens at eleven,” Bethany said as she put the soup on the warmer. “I’m surprised to see you, though, now that the food feature is dead in its tracks.” She grimaced. Poor choice of words, Bethany.

  “I’m not wearing my food critic hat today.” He tugged the brim of his baseball hat as Caboose purred and wound around his legs. “If I can pull off a good story this week, my editor said he’ll let me work the crime beat more often.”

  “That hat is a crime,” she said, and winked at him.

  “This your cat?” Milo eyed Caboose distrustfully.

  Bethany shook her head. “Nope, he just works here. Ol’ Caboose shows up to beg for soup, but he’s supposed to prefer rodents.” She wrote “Spicy Oyster Stew” on the chalk board. Milo wrinkled his nose. “Not a fan of seafood?”

  “Not a fan of spicy.”

  Bethany’s jaw dropped. “How can you be a food critic if you don’t eat spicy stuff? That’s like half the world’s cuisines.”

  Milo shrugged. “I can’t help it—I’m a supertaster. I have the gene that makes flavors more intense, especially chilies. It’s actually an asset as a food professional. Quite a few professional chefs are supertasters.”

  “Seems like a liability to me,” Bethany muttered. “Anyway, the stew isn’t that spicy. Just a little to balance the richness of the oysters.”

  “You just might talk me into it.” Milo smiled, his warm brown eyes trained on hers. Caboose pawed at his leg for attention until Milo reached down and gave him a good head-scratching.

  Bethany leaned over the counter to watch the cat luxuriate in the attention. “I think he likes you.”

  “I think he’s hoping for my leftovers.” Milo grinned, but then rearranged his face into a more serious expression. “Can I ask you about what happened yesterday? You know everybody involved.”

  “Involved?” She frowned. Nobody I know was involved—were they?

  “You know, the regulars at the station: employees, passengers, bakery patrons, and so on. People like Marigold. I remember you said you weren’t exactly friends.”

  “We weren’t.”

  “Why not? You were in the same business, spent a lot of time together. Shared ideas. Seems like a natural friendship.”

  Bethany narrowed her eyes. She remembered that conversation with Milo. She had told him that Marigold copied her soup, not that she’d shared ideas with her. “I think you need to do some fact-checking.”

  “Why, am I off base?” He widened his eyes and flipped back through his notebook. Bethany couldn’t tell if he truly didn’t remember the content of their conversation, or if he was baiting her into airing grievances against Marigold. Well, she wasn’t going to take the bait, no matter how much he batted his lashes.

  “Marigold and I didn’t spend much time together. We were too busy helping customers. She only recently switched from serving smoothies to making soup, so we hadn’t really been in the same business until the last few days.” The minute the words slipped out of her mouth, she regretted them.

  Milo jumped on it, as she knew he would. “So you were angry when she changed her business model.” A statement, not a question. Caboose pawed at his leg again, but Milo didn’t even look down at the cat, just shook his pant leg until Caboose lost interest and sat a few feet away, licking his paws and washing his face. Maybe the cat-lover shtick was just that—an act.

  Bethany shrugged. “It wasn’t my favorite thing ever, no. But I wasn’t out-of-control mad or anything. I went to talk to Ben—”

  “The stationmaster?” Milo interrupted, scribbling in his notebook.

  Bethany nodded. “To ask him to talk to her out of it. He said he would, but he didn’t. Or he did and it didn’t work.”

  “So you complained, and nothing happened. She continued to sell soup. Did it bother you that she was getting special treatment because she was Ben Kovac’s girlfriend?”

  “She wasn’t his girlfriend,” Bethany said automatically, but then second-guessed herself. Why did she say that? Marigold herself had said Ben proposed, for goodness’ sake. And Trevor said they had a “thing.” Only Ben had denied they were in a relationship. Why didn’t he want to admit to a relationship with Marigold?

  “That’s not what I heard,” Milo said, tapping his notebook with his pen. “I’d have been pretty mad. Might have taken matters into my own hands. Maybe you confronted her and got into a tussle, a
nd she went off the edge of the platform by accident.”

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? You were literally at my kiosk two minutes after the train came in. Unless I can teleport, there’s no way I could have pushed Marigold onto the tracks and made it back to my booth while the train was still pulling into the station.”

  Milo tilted his head as though he were sizing her up. “I don’t know. Someone who knows the station well, blends in, doesn’t draw suspicion...I think you could have made it back in time.”

  This could not be happening. The only dateable guy in Newbridge, who also happened to be a food critic, thought she was a murderer. Bethany looked around to see if someone—anyone—around could come dig her out of this hole. She was grateful to see Charley coming through the main entrance, the perfect person to set Milo straight.

  “Charley! Charley!” Bethany waved her hand so Charley would notice her. Charley saw her and smiled, jogging the rest of the way over to the Souperb kiosk. The sudden movement made Caboose dart along the wall toward the stationmaster’s office and out of sight.

  “What’s up?” Charley leaned on the counter and looked Milo up and down. “This guy bothering you?”

  “No, but could you please tell him I’m not a murderer?”

  Charley laughed. “She has an alibi, dude. We checked it out. Go bark up another tree.”

  Milo touched his notebook to the brim of his baseball cap. “Sure thing, Detective Perez.” He walked a few feet away and paused, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

  “What’re you doing here, anyway?” Bethany asked, turning away from Milo.

  “Follow-up on the Marigold Wonder case. Came to ask around about some things the coroner found on her body. I guess I can start with you, since you’re here.”

  “OK, shoot. I have a couple more minutes before the 10:55 rolls in.” Bethany gave the stew a stir. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Milo sidle closer to them to better hear their conversation. She jerked her head toward him so Charley was aware of his presence.

  Charley made a face. “Shoo,” she said to Milo, who grudgingly took a few steps back. She turned her attention back to Bethany. “Any idea where Marigold would get a big fat check?”