by Maddie Day
“Apparently.”
“I’ve heard Mom mention her name, and I’ve seen her around town, but I don’t know her.”
“He doesn’t seem very happy she joined him. He must be too polite to say no.” I glanced at Marcus again. “Danna, that cap Marcus has on is interesting. It reminds me of one that Muslim men wear.”
“It is. He told me he converted to Islam last year. He really respects their principles and finds it a comfort to pray regularly.” Danna straightened from the dishwasher. “What’s funny is that he was raised as Quaker. But he says he finds both faiths suit him and nourish his spirit. He told me Quakers as well as Muslims believe people can have a direct relationship with God. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Chapter Eight
The rush had let up ten minutes later but the three of us were still at full speed servicing every table. When the doorbell jangled, I groaned but kept it silent. And then let out a relief-laden breath. A man came in alone and hung his coat on the rack. When he swiveled to face the seating area, he seemed almost to lose his balance. I made my way over to him, surveying the status of several smaller tables as I went. Adele’s and Samuel’s plates were empty and they looked like they were getting ready to leave.
“Greetings, sir. I’m Robbie Jordan and this is my store. Are you here for lunch?”
“Yes.” In a rumpled suit and tie with the smell of a recently smoked cigarette around him, he looked to be in his sixties, but was still at least six feet tall. His white hairline was creeping back toward the crown of his head. Permanent frown wrinkles coursed between his eyebrows. He wore wire-rim glasses, with hair tufting out from his ears, and had a marked overbite.
“I’m afraid all the tables are full, but several parties are finishing up.” I gestured to the sitting area. “Would you like to sit while you wait? It won’t be long.”
“Thank you, Ms. Jordan. I will be glad for a seat.” He lowered himself and set the leather bag he’d brought in on the floor.
Before I could resume delivering food, Adele and Samuel were at my side. Samuel pressed bills into my hand.
“That Mexican food was a joy,” he said. “Wish we’d brought beer to go with.”
“Why, William Geller, as I live and breathe,” Adele exclaimed, gazing at the man.
Interesting. The owner of the house with a skeleton in the attic. I wasn’t surprised Adele knew him. She knew everyone.
“I haven’t seen you since Gerald Ford was president,” she continued. “Where you been hiding yourself?”
Geller made as if to stand.
“No, you sit, now. No need taxing your bum leg.”
When she bustled over and sat next to him, his smile looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“You know Samuel MacDonald, of course,” Adele continued. “We’re a thing these days, don’t you know?” She winked at Samuel.
“Is that so?” Geller’s nostrils flared as he gazed at Samuel. “Afternoon, MacDonald.”
What was that expression about?
“Good afternoon, Doctor Geller.” Samuel smiled at him with his usual kindly, sincere expression. “How are things in the medical world?”
“Fine. The usual.” His voice was terse.
Turner waved to me from a two-top he’d just cleared.
“I have a table for you, Doctor, if you’d like to follow me,” I said.
“We’ll catch you later, Roberta.” Adele stood and bussed my cheek before sweeping Samuel toward the door.
“Have you been in before?” I asked Geller as he boosted himself to his feet.
“No, I’m normally at work when you are open and I don’t dine out often as I am alone. But I have some, ah, matters to deal with today.”
“I heard it was your house that burned last evening. I’m very sorry.”
His response was a grunt. When we passed Marcus’s table, where he was digging into a hamburger and Toni had started on a quesadilla, Geller paused. I did, too. Toni had been his sister-in-law—or technically still was, I supposed.
“Afternoon, Toni,” Geller said, but didn’t smile at her.
She gazed up at him. “I heard about your fire, William, and the skeleton they discovered. Who do you suppose it could be?” Her words were innocent but laden with a cutting tone.
“As I’ve told more than one investigator, I haven’t a clue.” The doctor didn’t meet her gaze.
“I have some ideas,” she murmured. “Want to hear them?”
Marcus looked from her to Geller and back in bewilderment.
“Not particularly. My table, please, Ms. Jordan?” Geller looked at me with what-are-you-waiting-for expression.
“Sure. Excuse us,” I said to Toni.
But Geller didn’t move, now staring at Marcus’s distinctive hat. “Don’t you know gentlemen remove their hats indoors, young man?”
“My taqiya is a sign of respect for my faith.” Marcus touched his heart. “Peace be with you, sir.” He didn’t touch his hat, but his hands clenched on the table and the corners of his mouth drew down.
“Leave the man alone, William,” Toni said, sounding annoyed.
Geller pressed his lips into a line.
“Doctor Geller?” I gestured toward the empty table, which was blessedly on the other side of the room. And blessedly he followed me.
He chose the seat facing Marcus and Toni and lowered himself into it. “I’m surprised you allow terrorists like that in your establishment.” He pointed his chin toward Marcus.
Terrorists? I cleared my throat. “I serve any paying customers who behave themselves, regardless of religion or anything else. Do you still want to order lunch?”
“I suppose so, since I’m here,” he grumbled. “Not the clientele I was expecting, though.”
“I’ll give you a minute.” I made a beeline back to the kitchen area. That was way too much drama for one afternoon.
Things quieted down over the next twenty minutes. Marcus left, telling Danna he was going for a walk and would be back at three to meet her. Toni left, too, without speaking to her brother-in-law again. Geller had taken what looked like might be a medical journal from his bag and perused it as he ate.
I glanced at the door when it opened at two-fifteen. Phil MacDonald pressed the door open with his back, his arms full of two wide pans. I hurried to his side.
“Is this a brownie delivery?” I asked, holding the door for him.
“You got it. I have a couple trays of cookies in the car, too.” Phil, Samuel’s grandson, was a good friend and also the baker of yummy desserts for the restaurant.
“Let me take those.” I baked sweets when I needed to, but not having to make sure we always had a treat for dessert took a big load off my shoulders. I carried the trays to the counter, then rushed back to hold the door for him again.
He set them on the counter and high-fived Danna, who was finishing up the last lunch orders. “How are things, today?” he asked.
“Kind of dramatic, actually,” I said. “Can you stick around until we close, or at least until customers clear out?”
“Sure.” He glanced at the Specials board. “Can I get a quick quesadilla while I wait?”
Danna shook her head. “No can do. We ran out of tortillas two minutes ago. It was more popular than we expected.”
“No worries. How about a turkey burger, instead, with extra coleslaw?”
“I’m on it,” she said.
William Geller raised his hand, gesturing for the check. Phil looked in his direction, then back at me, his startlingly blue eyes wide in his dark face.
“Surprised you let that dude in here,” he muttered.
“Why?”
“He’s a known white supremacist. Attends KKK meetings, the whole nine yards.”
“Ouch,” I murmured in return. That might explain Geller’s look when he saw African-American Samuel.
“It’s true. Grandpa told me to steer clear of him whenever possible.”
“Well, as I told Doctor Geller when he com
plained that a diner wearing an Islamic hat was a terrorist, I serve anybody who behaves himself or herself. So far, the doc has behaved himself, mostly.”
Danna whipped her face toward us. “He called Marcus a terrorist?”
“He did.” I grimaced.
“Just. No.” She shook her head in disgust. “That man better not show his face in here again.”
“Who’s Marcus?” Phil asked.
I held up a finger, signaling for him to wait. “Hey, girl,” I patted Danna’s arm. “Doctor Geller’s a paying customer minding his own business.” Mostly.
Chapter Nine
We were an empty restaurant by two-fifteen, so I turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the door. Phil still sat at the table he’d taken as far as possible from Geller, who had left without incident. I bused the table next to my friend and came back with a rag to wipe down the top. He was bent over his phone. An image flashed through my mind of a booming chiropractor industry in ten or twenty years treating all the neck and shoulder problems that would arise for our bad-posture small-device-centric generation.
Phil glanced up, then looked around the restaurant. “Everybody’s gone. I hadn’t even noticed.”
“Lost in a novel?”
He pulled his mouth to the side. “I wish. No, I’m reading the latest bad news from Washington. I wish Congress would get its act together for once.”
“Yeah. It’s ever thus, right?”
He frowned at Danna scrubbing the grill. “So, who is this Marcus dude she’s all concerned about? Some new boyfriend? Did she drop Isaac?” He and Danna were good friends, and he looked worried.
“No, she and Isaac are good.” I smiled. Adele had been concerned about the same thing. Sure, Danna was young, but she and Isaac had had a solid relationship for a year and a half. “Marcus is, well, Danna should tell you. Hey, Dan,” I called. “Take a break and come talk to Phil.”
She gave a last swipe to the grill. Turner pushed the Wash button on the dishwasher and moseyed our way, too.
“Looks like a party. Who wants a beer?” I asked.
When three hands went up, I headed for my apartment. By the time I set down four open bottles, Phil had leaned his elbows on the table. He still looked worried.
“Danna, have you checked this guy out?” Phil asked. “What if he’s a scam artist?”
“My mom acknowledges having him.” Danna tapped her finger on her pilsner. “She even said she was sorry for not telling me.”
“Yeah, so she had a baby boy out of wedlock,” Phil said. “How do you know this dude is the one?”
I piped up. “They do share a resemblance. Turner, you saw Marcus. Did you notice it?”
“Now that you mention it,” Turner said, “I think I did, but I didn’t get a really close look at him.”
Danna stood. “Phil, you’re being ridiculous. How else would Marcus know to find me?” Her voice rose. “His parents told him Mom’s name, for goodness’ sake! Google easily takes care of the rest.”
“Okay, okay.” Phil was only a few years older than Danna but had been her babysitter when he was a teenager. He held out a hand. “Sit down, Danna. I asked because I care about you.”
She ignored his gesture. “If you stick around until three, you can judge him for yourself. I have cleaning to do.” She stalked back to the kitchen area.
“Now I hurt her feelings,” Phil murmured, his gaze following Danna, his finger tracing the condensation on the bottle.
“She’ll be all right. Tell her you’re happy for her before you leave.” I took another swig of beer.
“I recently started studying karate,” Phil said. “There’s a tall dude named Marcus in the dojo. He’s pretty good. I wonder if it’s Danna’s Marcus.”
“Possible,” I said. “A woman was in earlier who sat with him and said they are in the same dojo, too.”
“Marcus isn’t a very common name, is it?” Turner asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “On a different topic, I want to know more about Geller. How did you find out he belongs to the Ku Klux Klan?” A shiver ran through me at the thought of the organization’s white robes, pointy face-covering hoods, and burning crosses.
Phil gave me a look. “Robbie, if you’re black, it’s common knowledge.”
“And they’re here in Brown County?” Turner asked.
“They’re pretty much everywhere, but especially from here on south. Dangerous folks, and they’ve gotten bolder in recent years.” Phil drained his beer. “I have to run. Afraid I can’t wait and meet the half brother of mythical proportions.” He pushed to standing. “Thanks for the brew.”
“Sure. Take care, and thanks for the desserts. The check’s in the mail.” I sent him a check every month for his baking, but part of our ritual was for me to say it was in the mail every time he delivered.
“See you, dude.” Phil and Turner exchanged a fist bump. Before Phil left, he spoke to Danna where she was wiping down the stainless counter with way more vigor than it needed, and it looked like they made peace.
“Turner, has your dad ever had a run-in with the KKK?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he has, he hasn’t told me. He’s a pretty light-skinned Indian, and lots of people think he’s Italian or maybe Greek. I sure haven’t had any problems, but my skin’s even paler than Dad’s, although my sister’s is darker. She takes after my dadiji, my grandma.”
“Sound like you might want to avoid Doctor Geller for more than one reason.”
“I promise.”
Chapter Ten
Turner and Danna left at three o’clock. Marcus had shown up right on time, and the two of them sailed off together.
I stayed working in the restaurant. The place was clean, tables were set for tomorrow, and I’d already thrown the laundry in the washer in my apartment, taking a minute to freshen up Birdy’s food and water. Of course he followed me back into the store. I didn’t mind the company, and he was good about staying off the tables and the kitchen surfaces. He explored the antique cookware shelves for a minute, then settled in next to the pickle barrel in a perfect Sphinx pose, watching me through slitted eyes.
I’d felt like using the same eyes on William Geller after both Turner and Phil had divulged that the man had unsavory aspects about him. Could he have killed his wife and left her in his—their—attic for a whole decade? Had he harmed her and left her for dead? Maybe instead she’d gone up there to hide from him and had tripped and hit her head. She’d died alone, and he’d never gone up to look for her. And, if not his wife, who in the world else would the female skeleton be? Was the doctor a serial killer? Perhaps he’d buried other women’s skeletons in the back garden or in the basement.
Geez. I shook my head. I wasn’t usually so fanciful in my musings. And anyway, I needed to leave this to Detective Octavia Slade. It was her circus, her monkeys. It occurred to me that Buck hadn’t come in for lunch. Which was odd, but maybe the case of the skeleton in the attic was keeping him too busy to eat, although that was unlikely. He must have picked up a meal elsewhere.
Abe and Sean would be here in an hour for our tree-decorating party. I’d better get busy. I set to work whipping up some cheesy muffins as a snack. Sean had a legendary appetite despite being an increasingly lanky string bean of a teen. This summer he’d shot up to five foot ten, making him an inch taller than his father, and he didn’t seem finished with growing, either. I’d love to see an eating contest between Sean and Buck. I imagined Sean might edge out the lieutenant for the trophy.
Once the biscuits were in the oven, I mixed up tomorrow’s biscuit dough, since the counter was already covered with flour. Shoot. We hadn’t brainstormed a Thursday special. I wrapped the biscuit dough in plastic wrap and stored it in the walk-in cooler. I stood there surveying what we had in stock. I did have a couple of gallons of frozen turkey stock left over from cooking down the carcasses from our Thanksgiving extravaganza. I pulled those out to defrost for a lunc
h soup.
But what about breakfast? We were out of tortillas, so breakfast burritos wouldn’t fly. I spied a tall stack of bagged pita bread next to a big container of feta cheese. What had we gotten those for? I couldn’t remember. I might as well use them for a stuffed breakfast pita with a Mediterranean touch. We always had pitted kalamata olives around. A feta-olive omelet stuffed into a half pita and grilled made a perfect breakfast special with a Christmasy touch—if you stretched the concept a little. Jesus was born near the Mediterranean in the land of sheep, olives, and flatbreads, wasn’t he? I smiled. Coming up with creative dishes was one of the most fun parts of being a cook.
At a knock on the front door, I hurried over to open it. “How are my favorite men?” I stood back to let them in.
Fifteen-year-old Sean blushed. “Hi, Robbie.”
I knew better than to over-hug the kid, so I patted him on the arm, instead. “Glad you could come, Sean.”
Abe, on the other hand, knew a big hug was exactly what I wanted. He ended with a quick kiss. “Hey, darlin’. We bring offerings.” He handed me a paper sack, the nice kind with handles.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Grandma’s gingerbread people and holly cookies,” Sean said. His voice had finally stopped cracking and was an almost alarmingly low baritone. “I mean, you know, holly-shaped cookies.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Not exclusively gingerbread men?”
Abe laughed. “Mom’s an equal rights baker.”
“She starts her baking early, doesn’t she?” I asked.
“Uh, you could say that again.” Sean shook his head. “She says I eat so many cookies she has to start early so she’ll still have some left for Christmas.”
“She would be right,” Abe agreed.
“Cocoa’s not with you?” I asked the teen. Abe’s parents had given him a chocolate Lab puppy for Christmas a year ago.
“He’s still at doggy day care,” Abe said. “Sean’s mom is working late this week. We’ll get him later. He’s good there until six.”
“He totally loves it, Robbie,” Sean said. “The other dogs are his buddies. It’s so funny. It’s almost like he doesn’t want to come home.”
