Your Goose Is Cooked (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery)
Page 4
“Don’t think those hose got the memo on the twenty-five pounds.”
“You hush up! If it wasn’t for your foolery it wouldn’t have happened.”
“What made you think you can still pick me up?” His chest swelled out as if that would make anyone think he was more than the hundred thirty pounds he was.
“I might be old, but I can still haul your carcass around this town.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, a spark in his eyes.
“You want to have it out right here?”
Then we heard it. The giggles. Mrs. Freeburn and her little group of children were lined up to get on the bus, watching us with wide-eyed amusement.
“You and Hardy having a good day, Mrs B.?” Chris Freeburn, first grade teacher, grinned, her hand turning little heads away from us and directing them toward the doors of the waiting bus.
“Mighty hot out here,” I fanned with my free hand, pasting on a nice smile, my voice dripping brown sugar. “You and the children off on a field trip?”
I heard the clack of a window slide down and a little face poked out a rear bus window. “Hiya, Mrs. B.”
“Well hello there.” I forced a laugh. “Mr. Barnhart’s taking a field trip to the dentist.”
The little nose scrunched up. “I don’t like the dentist either.” Clack-clack-clack, the window hacked upward.
Mrs. Freeburn smiled and gave a wave through the emergency door window.
“Wish I could go on that field trip.” Hardy said as the bus pulled away and we resumed our walk. “Those children probably think we’re crazy, all voices raised and you stooping down like that before your hose gave way. Like some weird geriatric shuffle dance craze.”
“And who started this Mr. I’m-Gonna-Drag-My-Toes?”
“Just don’t want to go.”
“Should have thought of that before now. You’ll be asleep for the whole thing.”
“That’s not what bothers me. It’s the waking up and the pain afterward.”
For that, I could sympathize. Still, did he have to behave worse than a rebellious teenager? We walked in silence for a while. Hardy’s hand brushed mine, his fingers searching for my mine. “’Tish, I’ve been thinking . . .”
I frowned, not quite ready to enter the forgiveness zone. “That’s a good sign.”
“Do you realize our fortieth anniversary is around the corner?”
“If I don’t get some divorce papers cranking first.”
I lumbered up the steps of Dr. Cryer’s office and yanked the door open for Hardy, moving aside so he could enter first. “Take a deep breath. Doesn’t it just make you feel all warm inside to inhale that smell?”
Hardy made a face. “You get those papers together and I’ll sign them first.” He went straight for the armchair, a stack of hunting and fishing magazines beside it. I went to the reception window. Molly, the receptionist, wasn’t in, so I jotted down Hardy’s name and sank down in the loveseat adjacent to his chair.
“Now what’s this talk about our fortieth?”
Hardy’d picked up a magazine with a picture of a huge deer on the front. I knew he was about as interested in hunting as he was in hearing the details of his grandbaby’s birth via C-section.
“We should do something special.”
“That we made it this far is special enough for me.”
“I want to go somewhere.” He flipped a page in the magazine. He held up a picture of thick woods with mountains in the background and a deer in the foreground. “Do something we’ve never done before.”
“You’ve never hunted deer before.”
“I hunted you.” His eyes warmed as he met my gaze.
“Got more than you bargained for.”
“I got everything I needed.”
I picked up the magazine and stared at the picture of those mountains. Maybe it would be nice to plan something big. Only: “How do you think this is going to happen with us needing to manage the Goose?”
“Can’t William do it?”
“By himself?” I shut the magazine and set it aside. No use dreaming. “He barely talks to us, let alone everyone that comes in to eat, and there’s no way he could handle serving and cooking.”
Hardy frowned hard. “Maybe we could do a party.”
“For ourselves?”
The receptionist appeared in the doorway, a huge smile splitting her face. “Why, Hardy and LaTisha, it’s so good to see you both. Daddy so enjoyed that apple pie you sent over.”
“He over his gout?”
“Back on his mail route.”
“When is he ever going to retire?”
Molly’s smile went wide. “Funny, he wonders the same thing about you.”
At the overripe age of forty-five, Molly still lived at home, in the same pink-and-white room she’d maintained since birth. She’d even commuted back and forth to Denver for the six months it took her to complete her training as a dental assistant. Molly was a good girl. The only thing I had against her was she was voting for Eugene Taser. Working as treasurer on his campaign. Must be the pink-and-white bedroom colors messing with her head.
I hoofed to my feet and stared down at the top of Hardy’s head. He didn’t move a muscle. Probably praying for mercy. Or for God to strike him dead. I patted his head and pulled him to his feet. “You stop your worrying. I’ll be right there beside you the whole time.”
Molly kept up her cheerful chatter. “Everything will be fine, Mr. Barnhart. You’ll be real happy with your new set of teeth. Why, you’ll look even more handsome than you do now.”
That lit his fire. He sent me a sly glance and picked up his pace. “That’d be hard to do, but I’m guessing LaTisha can handle me looking even more handsome.”
“That’s what you kept telling me. Seven babies together says a whole lot, but we’re not doing any Sara and Abraham.”
Hardy obediently sat in the chair and Molly stuck that paper napkin chain around his neck and punched the rotating armrest into the down position. “Dr. Cryer will be in shortly. He was taking a call from a jeweler in Denver. The lady who wanted to buy the necklace from his mom wanted her own appraisal and cleaning done.”
Alena Cryer’s diamond and sapphire necklace had been her pride and joy, though she never got to wear it much in Maple Gap. She’d been set to sell it, and even found a buyer, when her sudden death had delayed things.
Molly set up Hardy’s last x-rays in the viewer and snapped on the light. “I know Dr. Cryer hates to part with it now that his mom’s gone. It’s been in the family for three generations.”
“She did look mighty funny with that thing around her neck at the county fair, and her decked out in overalls.”
Molly held up a finger. “Before I forget, Daddy wanted me to ask you if he could buy a few pints of your pepper relish. He’s developed a real taste for it.”
“I could show you how to make it.”
Molly shook her head. “No time. You should stock some in the Goose. It would be a big seller.”
We were discussing price when Dr. Cryer arrived. I knew right off something was weighing in his mind. His usual jovial greeting never found lift-off. As a matter of fact, it didn’t make it to the launching pad. Instead he stood inside the doorway seeming rather distracted. I guessed his phone call hadn’t gone well, or maybe he had indigestion.
Molly handed over a pair of gloves and blurted out, “Was the appraisal not what you’d hoped?”
He blinked at her voice. His unfocused stare went straight to Hardy, then me. Without a response, he moved to the chair and started laying it back. When he had Hardy situated to his liking, he finally cracked a smile. “Nervous, Hardy? I’m sorry for my quiet, I’ve had quite a shock. The lady buying Mom’s necklace says her jeweler is telling her it’s a fake.”
“A fake!” Molly gasped.
I digested that news for a minute. “Let Aidan have a look at it.” Aidan Abbett was Maple Gap’s newest business owner, only five months into his new building
in the strip mall that used to house an antique store and a music shop.
“Aidan was the first person to appraise it for Mom. She’d already made arrangements with this woman to purchase it before she died.”
I sat in the chair in the corner. “And this Denver guy is telling you it’s a fake?”
Dr. Cryer tied a mask around his mouth. “‘A very clever fake,’ were his exact words.”
“Trot it on over to Aidan and hold his feet to the fire. Could be that fancy jeweler in Denver made a copy and is pocketing a tidy little profit. He just might be in on something with the lady who is purchasing the thing.”
“Having the piece appraised in Denver was what the buyer wished.” Dr. Cryer snapped on one of the gloves, working the material down his fingers and over his hand. “It seemed only fair, so Mother agreed.”
“Who was the last to appraise it before Aidan?”
“In Denver, about three years ago. Mom got it in her head to travel the world and almost sold the necklace to do it, but I talked her out of it. Open up, Hardy.”
It was real enough then, why not now? “Did she ever wear it anywhere other than the county fair that one time?”
“You can close now, Hardy.” Dr. Cryer sat up straight and nodded to Molly, who slipped out of the room. “Actually, she wore it to the county fair the year before she got it appraised because I told her it wasn’t a good idea to flaunt such a thing, especially with its age; the clasp could have broken at any point. After that Mom stored it in my safe here at the office.”
Molly returned with a covered tray, set it down, then put the mask on Hardy’s face for the laughing gas. It’s a good thing too, because Hardy’s eyes were so bugged, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I scooted my chair closer and held his hand.
I knew that Dr. Cryer had had it on his mother during the funeral, not that the purchaser would ever know that, but then neither did Dr. Cryer have any way of knowing his mother would die so suddenly, and it had only seemed right for her to wear her prized possession at the viewing.
Molly moved to the other side of Dr. Cryer. She pulled the tissue off the tray of tools, apparently satisfied that Hardy, in his current state of nearly nighty-night, wouldn’t panic at the sight. The rigor mortis-tight pressure on my hand had gone limp as a one-legged pirate.
I decided it was time to retreat when Dr. Cryer began probing Hardy’s mouth. I snuck out the door and back to the shabby armchair in the waiting room.
Three magazines later, I realized just how late it was getting and how much William would be stretched. No help for it, I was going to have to leave Hardy to the happy gases and scoot back to the Goose. I’d bake him a pie and he’d be forgiving real quick-like. I scratched a note for Molly letting her know to call me on my cell phone when Hardy was done. I headed back to the restaurant. In spite of a few dark clouds on the edges, sunshine spilled on my shoulders and I inhaled the sweet peace of my small town. The laughter of the young children from the playground put a smile on my face. A feisty seven-year-old in my Sunday school class came running when she spotted me.
“Mrs. Barnhart! Can I have a chocolate cake?”
I ground to a halt outside the fence “Sure you can, honey. I’ll bring it with me Sunday.”
“Do I have to share?”
I leaned in close to the wire mesh separating us like I was going to whisper a secret. She giggled. “I’ll let you have the whole thing this time, but your momma might make you share with your brother.”
This put a pout on her lips. “Luke’ll eat it all!”
Mrs. Holbraker, her teacher, spotted us. “Lindsey, it’s time to go in.”
“Aw.”
I chuckled at her reluctance and waved at Mrs. Holbraker. When I glanced up Spender Avenue—the base of the T onto Main Street—I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment when I saw the new strip mall and Aidan’s jewelry store. It pulled a sigh from me. With a murder having occurred in the old building, maybe it was better for us to have a shiny new building like this one. At least it didn’t dredge up the ghosts of homicide.
Chapter Seven
William hadn’t wasted time while the restaurant was closed. Like the good employee and cook he was, he had the spaghetti and meatballs simmering for the lunch crowd. Even the French onion and chicken noodle soups were ready and piping on the back burners.
“Careful with that French onion,” I told him first thing. “You know how it can get bitter if it’s left too long.”
I immediately set to work shredding lettuce for sandwiches and frying up some turkey bacon for the Maple Gap club and the BLT. While I waited for the bacon to go golden, I plea-bargained with William.
“You know, William, if something happens to the mayor, you’re going to feel real bad. If I go to the chief, he might be able to offer Eugene some protection.”
William heaved a sigh. Worry lines edged his gray eyes, and I could see the veil of strain descend on him and I couldn’t help but wonder at his sudden appearance in Maple Gap after all the years of reclusiveness.
His mother had been kind and shy. Stories had swirled for years among some of the older folk about William. He’d gone to school one town over. Dr. Cryer had known his family, though he’d never worked on their teeth, since William’s family was too poor. It had occurred to me that William could be doing all this for attention, but he’d been alone so many years, a recluse, I didn’t see him having a sudden need to be noticed.
Some said it was the fever that twisted his mind and took his speech, others had suggested his father’s reputation as a strict disciplinarian had gotten out of control. Apparently drunken rages were not uncommon. Still others said his mother was mental, keeping him locked in his room for hours on end while she cavorted with men.
Such a wide variety of stories didn’t give my mind any rest. First thing I needed to do was discover William’s background for myself. And I preferred the story from his own mouth.
I removed the bacon to drain on some paper towels. William worked some dough with his hands; there were chunks of what looked like green and red peppers and onions in the dough that he kept having to press back in as he kneaded. Only it wasn’t any kneading like I’d ever seen. It was more like he was stretching the dough and folding it. Then he flipped it over and tucked it in to one of those baskets, covering it with a blanky. Okay, a kitchen towel, but it was just so funny to see the way he snugged that dough in under that towel.
“You going to sing it a lullabye?”
Faint humor flashed across his expression, then dissolved into an etched worry line between his brows.
“It’s time to trust someone,” I began, keeping my voice soft. “You need to be telling me why you’re so ready to let everyone think you’re deaf.” I spread my arms to indicate the empty kitchen. “The doors are locked and no one is in here but you and me.”
William’s shoulders sagged. He reached a hand up to lower the blind on the lone window in the kitchen and hauled himself up on a stool at the worktable. I shoved the onions his way and watched as his knife made quick work dicing.
“Heard a lot of stories about how you got to be so you couldn’t talk.”
His lips curved up into almost a smile. “They weren’t true.” He swallowed hard and licked his lips. I went out to the drink dispenser and got him a glass of water. If the water would loosen his tongue and keep him going, then I’d fetch him a gallon if I needed to.
He took a long swallow of the water. “It became habit not to talk. Kids made fun of me for everything in school. My clothes, my hair, that I was poor. Teachers too. They wanted me to be still. To pay attention.” He stretched his back and resumed chopping. “I asked my mom why no one liked me. What was wrong with me.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but I knew that kind of hurt cut deep.
“Then I started painting,” he continued. “My mom encouraged me to pour my heart into it. So I did. I got real good, but she always told me never to show my work to my father.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t come home much.” William’s knife stopped its up-and-down movement and he scraped the chopped onions into a bowl I shoved his direction. He didn’t seem anxious to continue. I decided to give him a rest from the subject.
“What are you going to do next with that bread?”
His hands stilled and his clouded expression lifted. “I’m developing the gluten. It helps the bread develop a chewy texture when it’s baked, and keeps the gases that develop during fermentation in the dough.”
My eyes must have crossed. “Are you speaking English, because you lost me after gluten.”
William laughed, a hearty, rich laugh straight from his stomach, up through his chest, and out on a resonant bass note that pleased me to hear. “You have a nice laugh, William.”
His chin sank into his chest, all laughter gone. Time to revert back to our regularly scheduled program. “Tell me more about your father. Did he ever see your art?”
William resumed chopping the onions, his answer slow in coming. I gave him time, knowing whatever it was, it must have been bad because the worry line was cutting deep. “Yeah. He came home one day. I’d left a couple of my latest pictures on the kitchen table. One was of my mother. Just a pencil drawing.” He put down the knife and did a sort of giggle as he picked up the water and drained the contents. “When he saw it, he exploded. Called me . . . names. Hit me. I don’t remember much.”
I felt his father’s rejection hard, like someone had turned me inside out. My babies knew love, but times like this reminded me there was another side of the coin and not all children got the love they deserve.
He finished the onion and used the knife to shove the bits into the container. “Decided that night that I didn’t need anyone. I’d take care of my mother and we’d be okay. Even though my father had destroyed most of my work, I recreated it over the next few weeks and it did sell. Real well. But she died three years back and I started baking bread and teaching myself to cook.”