by Dana Mentink
She heard the ominous sound of the phone ringing when she finally heaved her body home again. “It’s okay, Ruth,” she said to herself. “Maybe it’s a telemarketer.”
“Ruth? It’s Maude.”
Her heart sank. “The flyers are fixed,” she said. “Len said there was no charge as long as you stay out of his shop.”
“Good. Now you need to bake a dozen treats of some sort. Something sweet that fits in with the fog theme. I’ll pick them up tomorrow morning on my way to headquarters.”
“The bake sale isn’t until the last day of the festival. Why do I need to bake treats now?” She could not keep a whiny edge out of her voice.
“The tasting committee meets tomorrow to decide on the final choices for the bake sale next weekend. We need a variety of treats represented.”
“And what are you baking?”
“My famous Cloudy Cashew Chewies.”
Maude’s Cashew Chewies were indeed famous. They made their debut at the Christmas cookie exchange. No fat, no sugar, and quite definitely no taste whatsoever. “All right,” Ruth said heavily. “What am I supposed to bake?”
“Whatever you want. Just make sure it’s sweet, doesn’t require utensils, will keep well unrefrigerated, and fits the fog theme.” Maude hung up.
Ruth slammed the phone down. “That woman has got to have some fascist relatives somewhere in her family tree.” It would have been easy to call down to Monk’s shop and ask him to rustle up a treat. He would be happy to do it, but she didn’t want to add to his heavy workload. She scanned her cupboards, looking for inspiration. Chocolate chips, flour, sugar, espresso powder. Aha! Chocolate chip espresso muffins!
After the muffins were happily packed into the oven, she plopped down on the sofa with the journal.
August the 12th, 1923
Dan was here again tonight. They call him Soapy Dan because he always comes in clean and smelling of spice. I think he has his eye on one of my new dancing girls. I know he didn’t come for the hash as he hardly touched a bite.
August the 16th
Slats came today to give us a once-over. We are to expect a group of his friends later on in the month. He wants them to get the royal treatment. The girls came to the dining room to meet him, dressed in their best and looking well. Except for Hazel. If I haven’t told her a thousand times to lay off the chocolates! And to boot, she wore that robe de style in a luminous green which made her resemble nothing so much as an acorn squash! Far too plump to be on stage with the others.
I could tell from the way his bushy eyebrows came together that Hazel wasn’t going to meet the mark. Sure enough, Slats said the girls were fine but Hazel had to go. But how could the Pickle Jar survive without Hazel? She’s been here since we started. In a bit of daring, I told Slats she was the best cook this side of the Rockies and we needed her in the kitchen for those nights when we were to feed his associates. He was doubtful, but he is a businessman first, gangster second. He agreed to keep her on, for cooking duty only.
Fortunately he liked our new Janey. She is a wonderful dancer, I must admit. The customers love to watch her as they eat.
Hazel (along with Bertha, our real chef ) made a chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes. I was impressed. Slats gave his full approval to the fare. He even tried a few of the greens, though things of the vegetable persuasion are against his ways. Even I have to admit the rhubarb compote was a marvel.
He fell asleep in a chair by the fire. He looked kind of boyish, with his dark patch of hair thrown over his eyes. I’m not fooled by that little boy lost look. I know he’d murder us all if he thought we double-crossed him. I shudder just to think about it. I long for the day when I can buy the Pickle Jar outright and am no longer beholden to this man. Soon, maybe next spring, it will be mine to do with as I please.
In spite of the fires which we keep burning constantly, a cursed fog has settled over our town like a layer of poisonous fumes. I am worried more than ever about what will happen when Slats finds out who stole his bag of cash. I fear what will come of it, something awful. There are many desperate people in town who would do anything to feed their little ones. I just hope whoever did it runs far away from this gloomy place. I am not certain, though, if anywhere is far enough to escape Slats, even in this cloud of darkness.
Only time will tell what wickedness is buried in this evil fog.
The kitchen timer startled Ruth. She put the muffins on a rack to cool and piled the dishes on the counter. The clock chimed—9:30 p.m. and there were still critters to be tended to. It was Monk’s late night, and he wouldn’t be home for another half hour.
She grabbed a bag of Cheerios and protein pellets and headed out to the yard. After making sure the worm bins were covered, she made her way to the far corner of the grassy space.
“Dinner,” she yelled to the undulating swarm of gulls. They followed her to the pen, pushing and pecking at each other. She threw in handfuls of food, and the birds fought their way into the enclosure. Not the sharpest crayons in the box but cooperative where food was concerned. She closed the gate and took one last look into the pen. In the corner, Franklin rested on his bottom. He was missing an eye and a foot after he got tangled in a fishing line and mauled by a dog. The red pucker where his eyeball used to be and the dark gray feathers on his white back gave him the look of a depressed, feathery Eeyore. She generally took Franklin for a hobble along the beach by himself, as it was too hard for him to keep up with the rest of the flock. He looked mournfully up at her.
“Oh, Franklin. I know I promised to take you to the beach, but it’s late and I’ve got a headache.”
The bird cocked his head.
“I’m so tired,” she said. “I’ll take you tomorrow.”
He bowed his neck. If he had lips, she swore they would be trembling.
“Good grief,” she said as she lifted him up. “How can you lay a guilt trip on me when you can’t even talk?” The bird snuggled his satiny head under her chin as she retrieved the slim plastic tube the veterinarian had made to protect his stump of a leg.
“Let’s go, Franklin. There are miles to go before we sleep.”
The beach was dreamlike. The almost-full moon painted the fog in silvery tones and the gravel in tints of ebony and charcoal. It looked like an old black-and-white photograph. She walked along behind Franklin. Waves scurried back and forth to grab handfuls of loose stones, and the air was heavy with moisture and the scent of brine.
The cold was good for her husband’s business. People lined up to purchase vats of his clam chowder on days like this. She smiled when she thought of him. They had only been married for six months. She had been married for twenty-five years the time before, until a heart attack stole her husband away. Their life as husband and wife was still so new, so uncertain, but by the grace of God, she was enjoying every minute.
At the moment, though, Ruth was far from enjoying things. Her indigestion was back, perhaps courtesy of her chocolate bar lunch, and a headache pounded the back of her eyes as she trudged along. Her thoughts were scattered, swirling around like the fog that seeped over the hillside to bury Finny once again. One image came to the forefront. Meg Sooner.
Dimple’s mother was back, all right, and presumably assuming her role of beloved grandmother.
No one had seen hide nor hair of the woman for twenty years and then she blows into town like Mary Poppins. No, more like Glinda, Ruth thought with hostility. Meg was a delicate woman, well tailored and graceful to boot. Even her voice sounded tinkly and sweet when Ruth had spoken to her on the phone while trying to reach Dimple.
Ruth felt her stomach clenched as she recalled that Dimple confessed to speaking with Meg several times in the past few months. From what she’d gathered, it was a near-fatal car accident that galvanized Meg into reconnecting with her estranged daughter. It stung a bit to know that Dimple had been in contact with her mother and Ruth had not known. Somehow it felt like a betrayal. She wasn’t sure why. She was still Cootchie�
�s Nana. Their lives were inevitably intertwined since the day Dimple had asked her to help her through the pregnancy. A biological grandmother couldn’t change that.
Could she?
A twist of uncertainty filled her heart.
She wished fervently that Grandma Meg would not be there for the birthday celebration. Ruth’s agitated breaths fogged the cold air. Enough about Meg.
Ruth looked up at the moon and thought about the namesake of the town. In this ethereal moment, it was easy to believe that decades ago rumrunners like Frederick Finny would anchor in the choppy water and use smaller boats to ferry their precious Canadian whiskey to shore. It was a simple plan that worked like a charm.
Franklin stumped ahead and vanished around an outcropping of slimy rocks. Ruth hurried to catch up. Rounding the corner, she stopped abruptly.
It wasn’t gangsters waiting on the beach this night.
Three small bonfires burned brightly. Around them sat three figures, clothed in black with hoods up or bandannas tied around their heads. In the center of the group was a woman.
They stopped their talking and leaped up to face Ruth.
Ruth remembered Alva’s warning about the proc tologists in search of a sacrificial victim. Her breath froze in her lungs. She could not make out their faces, only the glitter of narrowed eyes. They did not speak, but the biggest one took a step toward her.
“Uh,” she began, her heart hammering with the force of a pneumatic drill. “Uh, well. I see you’ve found the beach.”
The big man took another step and reached inside his vest.
“Uh, what a—a lovely night for a bonfire.” Ruth’s voice trembled.
Now all three figures began to move slowly in Ruth’s direction.
“I’ll just run and get some marshmallows!” she shrieked. Ruth scooped up Franklin and ran as fast as her middle-aged legs would carry her, reciting the Lord’s Prayer all the way home.
Monk immediately began to rifle through the closet when she told him.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer her. Finally, he whirled around with a bat in his hand. “I’m going to go down there and teach those young punks a lesson.”
“You can’t do that,” she gasped. “They might be some sort of gang. I called Jack before I got home, and he said he’d go right over and check it out.”
“I don’t care if they’re Attila the Hun’s army; they got no right to scare you like that.”
It took several minutes of cajoling and pleading to dissuade him from his plan. “Please, honey. They didn’t hurt me. They didn’t even say a word.”
Finally, he reluctantly agreed to suspend his baseball bat mission. They lay down to sleep, but several hours later her eyes were still wide open. She went downstairs and booted up the computer, typing in “ecoterrorists.”
The deluge of information surprised her.
Millions of dollars of property damage. Intimidation. Harassment. Arson.
So there really were cells of people who orches- trated attacks against ranchers, loggers, miners, the government, et cetera.
Maybe Alva was right. Maybe the green bandanna folks were planning to carry out some action in Finny.
One line in the news article she was reading jumped out.
“One group even distributes manuals on how to infiltrate a target area and escape without being caught.”
With cold fingers, she turned off the computer.
Chapter Seven
“You must be Detective Denny,” Meg said to Jack. “It’s so good to see you.” She looked poised and calm in her green sweater set and slacks. “We’re so glad you could come for dinner, even if you have to cook it.”
“Hello. We’re glad to be here. Mondays are usually quiet around the office, but today has been nuts. It’s good to get out of there for a while.” He handed her a bowl of potato salad. “We’re in luck. Louella made this, which saves everyone from having to eat mine.”
She laughed and took the bowl. “Is this your son?” she asked, trying to see around Jack’s leg to the boy who clung there, his head under his father’s flannel shirt.
“Yes, this is Paul. Can you say hello, Paul?” Jack patted the boy’s head through the fabric. “He isn’t much of a conversationalist.”
“No problem. Cootchie is in the backyard, I think.”
They excused themselves and headed outside.
Dimple greeted him with a hug.
In no time Cootchie and Paul were busy digging a hole. Dimple set Jack to work firing up the barbecue and handed him a platter of something.
He looked up from his study of the foodstuffs as Ruth joined him. “Hey, Ruth.” He lowered his voice and looked suspiciously at the slender brown cylinders on the grill. “What in the world is a meatless hot dog made out of anyway?”
“Probably the same thing the cake frosting is made out of. In my experience, it’s best just to go with the flow and not ask too many questions.”
He laughed and wiped his long fingers on a Kiss the Cook apron. “I think you’re right. Where’s your hubby tonight?”
“He’s got a catering gig in Half Moon Bay.”
“You look tired,” he said as he slid the food onto the grill.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. I tried to nap today, but Maude has always got me doing something or other. I spent the entire morning and early afternoon bagging beads to use at the craft table. Do you think we can expect two hundred kids to attend next weekend?”
He laughed. “Not unless Disneyland suddenly packs up and moves here.” He glanced back at the kitchen. “I wonder if Meg is enjoying her stay.” He could see a question in Ruth’s eyes. The same question that was no doubt hovering in the back of his own. Why had Meg Sooner come back to Finny? Neither had a chance to vocalize their thoughts, as Meg and Dim- ple emerged, carrying presents to the lighted patio.
“Cootchie,” Dimple called. “Why don’t you open your presents before Mr. Denny has our dinner ready?”
They all gathered around the birthday girl, and Paul helped Cootchie open the gifts.
The girl squealed at the set of magnifying glasses from Jack and Paul and the fossil excavation kit from Ruth. Everyone leaned forward a little closer to see Cootchie unwrap the glittering package from Meg Sooner. It was a porcelain doll, dressed in pink velvet with delicate orange curls and painted eyelashes. The doll was gorgeous and expensive.
Jack saw the tiny gleam of satisfaction on Ruth’s face when Cootchie tossed the doll onto the grass and hauled Paul away to start an archaeological dig.
“Oh dear. I thought all girls liked dolls,” Meg said.
“I’m sure she’ll love playing dolls after she gets the digging out of her system,” Ruth said.
“Maybe you’re right. I think I’ve got a lot to learn about my granddaughter. And my daughter.” Meg looked at Dimple as she gathered up the crumpled paper.
After potato salad and meatless hot dogs smothered in organic mustard, Dimple and Meg set to work on the dishes. Jack and Ruth walked outside to watch the children digging by porch light in the yard. The sky was heavy with a wet blanket of fog. Pockets of brilliant star-speckled velvet poked through here and there. The round moon escaped its foggy mantle from time to time to bathe the yard in white light.
“Have you come to any conclusions about Ed’s death?” Ruth asked.
“Only that we don’t know who did it. There are so many people in town right now.” He had one visitor pulling his mind away from work matters. The tiny dark-haired woman who had turned out to be Monk’s niece. “So, er, is Bobby finding time to enjoy the festival?”
Ruth nodded. “Yes, but I think she would like Finny better without the crowds. She is always out on a hike or a run. She seems to thrive in the chill.”
He wanted to ask how long Bobby was going to stay, but he couldn’t think of a graceful way to do so.
After a while, the group assembled again on the porch to choke down carrot cake with tofu frosting. Even Meg
seemed to require a lot of iced tea to get the stuff headed in the right direction.
Cootchie put down her paper plate and threw her head back to look at the sky. “It’s de worm moon,” she said, pointing upward.
“The what, dear?” Meg leaned down.
“She said it’s the worm moon,” Dimple repeated.
They all looked up at the almost full moon, outlined by a frame of ghostly fog.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Meg asked, her brow wrinkled.
“It’s a Native American name to describe the full moon that occurs in March. As the temperature begins to warm, earthworm casts appear, trumpeting the return of the robins.”
“Nana has worms,” Cootchie said. She hugged Ruth around the knees. “She has a worm farm.”
“Oh boy. I’m sure your, er, Mrs. Sooner doesn’t want to hear about that.”
“About what? I’d love to know more about you. You’ve been so good to my granddaughter.”
Ruth was saved from having to answer when an explosion lit the sky with a bright orange fireball. The partygoers all stood openmouthed for a moment.
Jack reacted first. “Dimple, can you keep Paul here for a while? I’ve gotta go.”
Dimple and Meg ushered the two children into the house. Ruth jogged along behind him. “Can I come with you?” she asked.
He hesitated only a moment. “Sure. I take it fire and catastrophe are preferable to the present awkward situation?”
“Exactly.”
As they roared down the rock walkway and onto the main road, the dispatcher filled Jack in on the location of the explosion. He radioed for a fire engine as gravel shot out from under the speeding tires.
Jack enjoyed the frantic drive to the makeshift trailer park, all the while being careful of his passenger. Sometimes driving code three was the only perk of the job.
