Your Goose Is Cooked (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery)

by S. Dionne Moore

  “I’m sorry about your mama.”

  “It got real lonely, Mrs. Barnhart.”

  I set to work slicing a green pepper into strips, using the back of my hand to scratch the side of my face. “You’re a grown man now and there’s a whole world of people who won’t reject you or make fun of you.”

  “But I shake.”

  Shake? At first I didn’t understand, then I saw his knee bouncing and recalled the constant symphony of tics and movements when Hardy and I were with him. “A lot of people have a hard time sitting still. Have you ever thought to ask a doctor his opinion?”

  “They never knew what was wrong with me when my mother took me.”

  “That was years ago; they might be able to figure it out now.” I transferred my sliced pepper to a small plate and pulled over a head of romaine. “Not everyone is mean, William. Kids can be like that, and I’m sorry you had to endure it.”

  “Yours weren’t.”

  I had to stuff down my pleasure at the compliment. “You remember that visit?”

  William ran his hands down his legs and nodded. “When I saw your advertisement for kitchen help, I remembered you.”

  “That was a long time ago. Your mother was sick.”

  A little smile leaked from William. “You seemed like a beautiful angel to me, and your children were so funny. They didn’t tease me at all, but told me how they planned to dump the cake you had them carry—”

  “What!” I let out a snort of exasperation and shook my head. “I was just thinking on that little incident and suspecting they’d plotted something between them.” I hooked a stool with my foot and dragged it closer, feeling the need to get off my feet as I continued ripping salad greens. “I’m guessing I’ll fix their hides by banning them from dessert next holiday.”

  William smiled with his eyes. “I think that visit was the only time I didn’t feel all alone. I mean, I had my mom, but no one else.”

  He checked the clock on the wall and got up to give the soups a stir and check his bread. I finished off one head of romaine and started trimming the stems on baby spinach.

  He returned to the stool, eyes sincere. “It was thinking of you, Mrs. Barnhart. I knew you were the kind of person I wanted to work for.”

  “If anyone doesn’t treat you right. Let me take care of them.”

  A short laugh burst from him.

  “Ring those.” I pointed at the next onion in line. “We need them for the sandwiches and salads.” His knife sliced downward through the round onion, making a perfect rings.

  “Don’t be forgetting about this whole thing you’ve overheard. It could be serious, and I don’t think neither of us want blood on our hands.”

  For a minute he was silent, then: “I think we should say something.”

  From long experience dealing with headstrong teenagers, I’d braced myself for a lecture to convince him of seeing my point of view, but William was neither a teenager, nor apparently headstrong. “Here I was heating up for a debate session and you agree all quick-like. I’m almost disappointed.”

  William got up. “Who’s the doctor in town?”

  “We’ve got two, they alternate between a practice here and one town over. Dr. Alex Icon and Dr. Troy Gordon. Take your pick. Both can help you, William.”

  A stiff nod was his only response. He stirred the simmering spaghetti sauce. I figured he was done talking and would return to silent mode. Finishing off one last pepper, I lumbered to my feet feeling not an ounce lighter than I had a month ago and opened the refrigerator for a salad. Chicken salad. Grilled white breast meat over all those veggies and a crisp mix of arugula, spinach, and romaine. When William turned from the stove, I held one up and raised my brows in question. He shook his head and got down a plate, dishing up some spaghetti for himself.

  Even with the creamy herb dressing I so loved, the salad didn’t satisfy my taste buds. A dangerous place for me because I knew if the food I was eating failed to satisfy, I’d start looking for something that would, which generally meant I’d choose things not good for me.

  William slurped a noodle into his mouth. Reminded me of the time Tyrone proudly sucked a noodle through his nose until it came out his mouth. A cooked noodle, of course. He walked around the house like that grossing out both Shayna and Lela. When Tyrone headed to the front door to wow the neighborhood with his feat, I stopped him.

  “But, Momma,” he protested, talking all funny-like. “The talent show is coming up at school.”

  “You’re not snorting a noodle for the talent show.”

  He shot me a look of teenage contempt. So I shot back. Hunkering down on his level, I pushed my face next to his. “How about I heat you up then you can go out on stage and try to put the fire out?”

  William worked on spinning the noodles around the fork and feeding his face, as I shared the whole noodle story with him. He didn’t say another word, but his eyes sure sparkled. Somehow, deep down, I felt like we’d made a positive step.

  I stabbed another forkful of spinach and chicken. I chewed hard, pushing against the thought of tangy spaghetti sauce and tender meatballs. It got to be too much. I shoved back my salad and pushed to my feet. I took a very small portion of noodles and smothered it with a ladle of sauce and meatballs. William raised his eyebrows at me. I lowered mine at him. He got the message and showed some spirit by bowing his head over his plate and sucking another noodle in lightning fast.

  We ate in silence until William tapped his watch. Time to open up again. I nodded and he hustled out to unlock the front door. He’d just returned to clear his plate when the bell let out a blast of electronic cheer. For just a second, my mind tripped back in time to Hardy slamming the door in Marion’s antique shop the day we found her body behind the counter. As annoying as that bell had been, it sure beat the electronic screech.

  Regina Rogane-Conrad slipped up to the podium, her smile set in stone. “I’m starved. Chad’s meeting me here in twenty minutes.”

  She looked good. Marriage had taken the shadows from Regina’s eyes that’d been there from the first day her momma took sick, only to deepen when momma had to be moved to a nursing facility, where she’d eventually died.

  I pulled out a couple of menus. “When you going to give us some little chiefs? Our police force is lacking numbers, you know.”

  Regina winked at me. “I’d have to close the shop. Where would you get your hair done?”

  I motioned her to follow me to a table for two in the corner. “Now who do you think did it all those years before I ever set foot in Wig-Out?”

  She shot me a bright smile. “Hardy.”

  “Oh, aren’t you full of sass this afternoon.”

  Regina craned her neck toward the kitchen. “Where is your better half?”

  “I know you’re not talking about Hardy. He’s not even big enough to be half of me.”

  “You’re looking great, by the way.” She scanned down the menu and set it aside. “I don’t know why I bother, I’ll have one of your salads and—” She sniffed. “Is that spaghetti I smell?”

  I beamed a smile down on her. “One plate of the lunch special. You let me know if it tastes as good as when I make it. William’s using my recipe, but he might not be doing the pinches here and there of this and that.”

  “So you want me to be an in-house critic?” She handed over the menu.

  “Something like that.”

  Regina spun her wedding ring around on her finger, a worry crease forming between her brows. I almost set my feet to walking away, but hesitated. “You want that salad while you wait, or do you want to chew on what’s worrying you? You keep spinning that ring and you might lose it.”

  “I need to take it by the jewelers to have it resized.” Her lips formed a stiff little smile. “There is something you might be able to help me with.”

  “Spill it out for me, honey. If I can help, you know I will.”

  Regina stared at her ring, twisting and twisting it. “I don’t know. Well,
I mean, I know, but I’m not sure what to do or if there’s anything we can do.”

  I perched on the edge of the chair across from her. “Tell me about it.”

  Regina released a sigh. “Betsy Taser came to the shop this morning. She was her usual self.”

  “I’m sure all that community service has brought out her charming, thoughtful personality.”

  Regina laughed. “Sure. All that and more. But she mentioned the Buchanans.”

  My ears perked up hard. Elizabeth and George Buchanan’s little girl had died after a long fight with cancer. Sara Buchanan was dear to my heart and had been a great fan of my cooking. I still ached with the loss of her. “How you meaning?”

  “She got real chatty, talking about health care and hospital bills and how most health plans don’t cover everything. It got me to thinking.” She unrolled the silverware from her napkin and set the fork on the left and the knife and spoon on the right. “What if they’re struggling under bills. It just seems like we should do something, maybe something in Sara’s honor, but I know everyone would be suspicious of me collecting funds after the campaign scandal.”

  I reached to pat Regina’s hand. “That’s nonsense and you know it. This town isn’t like that at all. Besides, if the town holds a grudge, it should be against Betsy Taser for blackmailing you. Eugene doesn’t seem to think the town will hold it against her, else he wouldn’t be running for another term as mayor.”

  She gave a reluctant little nod.

  I patted her hand. “Let me think on it a spell. I’ve had the idea to sell my pepper relish to raise funds for the school, maybe I can figure a way to expand on that somehow. George and Elizabeth are good people and you’re a good heart to be wanting to help.”

  “I’ve had a prime example all these years,” she smiled into my eyes.

  “Trying to sweet talk a free meal out of me?”

  “Sure, whatever helps.”

  “You want a drink to wash that salad down?”

  “Sweet tea.”

  “Coming right up.” I marked the order on my pad as the bell on the door rattled. Lester Riley made his grand appearance in grungy overalls and boots, with a fresh cake of manure still on the heel. I held up my hand before he took two steps inside the door.

  “You leave those feet outside unless you want to mop my floor.”

  Lester’s eyes twinkled. “You need yourself a good boot scrape.”

  I nodded. “Got me one. Outside this here door. You scrape those boots right off your feet and come on in. I’ll fill you up with enough spaghetti to warm your toes right up.”

  Lester’s face brightened. “Spaghetti!” He backed out the door, almost running over Carl Baereum and Chief Conrad. “Out of my way boys, LaTisha’s got something against good, moist earth stuck to the bottom of my work boots.”

  I nodded a greeting at Chief as he held the door for Lester’s exit.

  “Don’t have a thing against good dirt, Lester Riley. You wanting to drag it through my restaurant is what gets me riled.”

  Chief slid into a chair across from his wife, but not before laying one on her cheek. Just the way he ogled her you could tell his brain cells were depleting real quick, and when he covered her hand with his own, I figured I’d better get myself over there fast before they fell into each other. Still, it did my heart good to see love on display in all its finery.

  “Afternoon, Chief.”

  He tore his eyeballs away from Regina. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu.”

  “No need. Take a deep breath.”

  He did. “Ah.”

  “One plate of spaghetti and meatballs and a glass of sweet tea.”

  Chief gave the briefest of nods and returned his attention to Regina. I hid a satisfied smile. Hardy and I had done our best to get the two together and it made me feel sunshine in my soul to see them so happy.

  Lester Riley slipped back inside in his socks, one toe hanging out of a hole. He had the good grace to look ashamed. “Guess I need some new ones. Hate to throw away a pair of warm socks just because of a hole.”

  “Looks like if you cut your toenails you might not get so many holes. You want the counter or a table?”

  “Counter, that way me and Hardy can chew the fat.” He aimed his rear toward the stool, his eyes scanning the area. “Where is the old boy?”

  “Getting teeth.”

  Lester’s eyes lit. “Ah. Fake ones are never the same as real.”

  “I’m guessin’ some are better than none. You ready for your speech Thursday morning?”

  He hiked himself up on the stool and leaned his elbows on the counter. “Got me some good ideas, but I’m not much with words. Say . . .”

  I set down a coffee mug in front of him, figuring I knew where he was leading. “You want Lisa’s Winter Wonderland or Highlander Grogg?”

  “I’ll try the grogg. Just give me an eyepatch and a peg-leg. Argh!”

  I stared hard at that boy. “You sound like a heaving dog.” The brew sent up a wonderful cloud of scented steam as I poured. Loved the smell, hated the taste.

  “You want to write my speech for me, LaTisha? You’ve always got such a way with words.”

  “Just say it plain, Lester. Flowery speeches aren’t going to win voters. Tell us what you want to accomplish and outline how you plan on accomplishing those things. Leave the big words and double-talk to Eugene. And if you can think up a good way for the school to buy up that property, that’d be a feather in your cap.”

  Lester sipped his coffee and waved away the menu I offered. “No more politics. Bring on those meatballs you were talking about.”

  “Smart man.”

  “I like to get mine while they’re piping hot and fresh,” Lester swiped a hand across his mouth. “And as soon as word gets out you’ve got spaghetti and meatballs, you’ll have yourself a regular stampede.”

  Another jingle and a stream of townsfolk came in. Carl Baereum and Flossie Monroe squeezed through the door at the same time, got stuck, retreated, and tried again, this time with Carl allowing her to precede him. Flossie seemed on edge, eyes darting about, lips a firm line. Carl got stuck holding the door for Betsy Taser as she herded a rather grim Eugene. Pardon. Mayor Taser. Carl, resigned to holding the door for the group, came in last, scowling at Eugene’s back. I’m guessin’ their feud was still on and wondered what, exactly, had fueled the feud.

  “Hello, LaTisha,” Betsy purred.

  I laid a jaundiced eye on her. “Good afternoon, Betsy, honey.” She hated when I called her honey. Knowing Betsy’s airs, I could already feel myself heating toward critical.

  I grabbed up two lunch menus and wondered if the disappearance of the normal mournful expression on Carl’s face as he chatted with Flossie meant something I needed to be knowing about. They were together more now that Flossie had taken up a part-time job at Carl’s funeral home, which was a mighty strange arrangement for a divorced couple, if you ask me. I couldn’t imagine what Flossie did there. Couldn’t imagine what she did working part-time for Betsy’s real-estate venture, for that matter. Wasn’t like Maple Gap had a big roll-over of houses for sale. At any rate, Flossie’d never seemed interested in Carl’s work when they were married, not that I blame her. Made chills roll along my arms just thinking on her job description.

  “Two tables for two each?” I asked, oh, so sweetly.

  “My wife and I, and Flossie is joining us for lunch. Carl’s on his own,” Mayor Taser corrected

  Carl nodded, not once turning his head the mayor’s direction.

  “We’d like a table by the window,” Betsy said. No. She told me.

  Now, last I checked, I owned this restaurant. I started toward the only empty window table and saw a few miniscule crumbs scattered along the surface. I eyed a table in the middle of the room and laid the menus down on the surface. “We’ll get someone to clean up the window table. It’s a might messy.”

  “Don’t you have help?” Betsy asked as she sunk onto her
chair, her nose scrunched in distaste.

  “Sure do, honey. Special today is spaghetti and meatballs. Soup is French onion.”

  Betsy leaned toward Flossie who, interestingly enough, sat between Eugene and Betsy. “LaTisha’s salads are divine.”

  I can tell you that felt mighty good. Until I picked up on the next sentence.

  “’Course, you know she was so big she had to lose weight. I’m guessing all she eats is salads.”

  Hardy would have been proud of me, because I smiled so sweetly at Betsy. Near killed me. Moses took up the serpent. I was wanting to take me up a serpent of my own. I prayed more diligently in that minute than I had at every Wednesday night prayer meeting in a year.

  I retraced my steps, snatched up a rag, and got Carl to follow me, settling him at the window seat Betsy had coveted. With a couple swipes of my rag the table was good to go. Carl didn’t notice the daggers shot our way as he took his seat. He accepted the menu and flicked it open.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “Water sounds good.”

  I made good and sure to make eye contact with Betsy as I passed, sending her my best display of grillwork.

  The crowd descended heavy after that. I hustled hard to get everyone drinks and even went in the kitchen to help William rustle up a grilled chicken club for the mayor while he worked on dishing up four plates of the special, two for Regina and Chad, one for Carl, one for Lester.

  I had delivered the first two piping hot plates to Regina and Chad and waited for the other two plates of spaghetti to appear in the pass-thru. What was taking William so long? I hunkered down to get a gander at what he was up to. He was hunched over the oven pulling out golden loaves of his bread. When he saw me, he pointed to the bread and held up a finger to indicate the bread needed to cool. I nodded and raised my nose to catch the scent of William’s creations while he finished the plates of spaghetti and pushed them through to me.

  When I came back from delivering the spaghetti dishes, loaves of William’s bread, sliced and ready, sat under the heat lamps. He must have caught me looking, because he grabbed my attention and slid a plate with a single piece in my direction. William’s bread had chunks of diced green and red peppers with onions; it was egg-washed and sprinkled with fennel seeds. And it was delicious. Especially because it was made with whole-wheat flour. Healthier. I put every ounce of approval into my smile.