by Jeff Shelby
I watched the girls zigzag up ahead of us. “Like the whole medicine poisoning back in the eighties? What was it, arsenic or something?”
“Cyanide.”
I didn’t know a lot about poisons but I was pretty sure they were both equally deadly.
“It's totally possible, I guess,” I said. “But then don't you think others would've gotten sick? With the drug tampering, I think a dozen people died.”
He didn't say anything.
A woman walking a dog passed us and we nodded at each other in greeting. The girls were about a block ahead of us, waiting at the stop sign, contemplating which way to turn. They looked back at us, both pointing to the park. It had a paved trail that looped around a pond, lots of shade, and the bonus of having a small playground if the girls wanted to stop. I gave them a thumbs up and they took off.
“So let's say something like that happened,” I said, continuing our conversation. “Let's say during shipment. Some food product was sitting in a warehouse.”
“The taco shells.”
“Why the taco shells?”
“I was trying to think of something that isn't made fresh,” Jake said, “and Emily has said those come pre-made.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Let's say the taco shells were sitting in a warehouse somewhere, on a pallet, waiting for pickup. And maybe there's a tear in the packaging or something. And let's say somebody accidentally spills rat poison over the shells.”
“That's gross.”
“Poison in general is kind of gross.”
“But you're suggesting that the shells are stored in a place where there are rats.”
“Maybe it's preventative,” I said. “Like, you put the poison out to make sure the shells aren't stored with rats.”
“This isn't at all where I thought this conversation was going, but okay,” he said.
“So the packaging got ripped or torn or whatever before it got to the warehouse,” I continued. “The rat poison gets spread and accidentally contaminates the shells. The shells are then shipped to Big Mama's and then unknowingly served to guests.”
“I would hope unknowingly.”
I squeezed his hand. “What are the odds that Ted is the only customer who gets sick? That feels pretty slim to me. If that's what occurred, then I feel like more people would've gotten sick.”
“Maybe no one else ordered tacos that night? Maybe the rest of the shells from that shipment were damaged and he was the only person to get some from that batch? Maybe it was a new package and he was the first person to eat from it? Maybe more people will get sick tonight if they ordered the same thing.”
“Or maybe those scenarios seem really farfetched,” I said.
“Having someone purposely poisoned in Moose River feels farfetched, don’t you think?” he pointed out.
He had a point.
I leaned into him as we walked. “I don’t know. I'm just trying to work it all out. I'd think that in a restaurant as busy as Big Mama's if the food arrived at the restaurant tainted, then it would feel way more likely that multiple customers got sick.”
“So you really think Ted was specifically targeted.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “I sort of think so, yeah.”
“Who the heck would poison that guy?” Jake asked. “I mean for a policeman, that guy is beloved around here. No one ever has a bad word to say about him.”
“I know. But I did pick up on something weird from Bjorn.”
He gave me a look. “You picked up on a guy worried about his business.”
“Maybe” I said, but I wasn’t so sure. Bjorn’s response had just felt…off to me. “And Priscilla was weird about it, too.”
“Priscilla is always weird.”
It was my turn to give him a look.
“Okay, fine, she was weird. How?”
I told him about Priscilla's hinting that she wasn’t surprised I had been there, and also told him about the abrupt end to our conversation.
“Stay on the path, girls!” Jake yelled as both Sophie and Grace veered off the concrete and onto the grass that led down to the pond we were circling. They dutifully steered back to the path.
“Well?” I asked. “Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”
“For her to accuse you of something? No.” He smiled. “It’s not like you’re her favorite person.”
“It’s one thing to not like someone. It’s another thing entirely to insinuate that person might have had something to do with a crime.”
I didn’t like where my thoughts were taking me. Apparently, the sky agreed, because the sun disappeared behind a thick blanket of gray clouds and a gust of wind blew through the trees, startling both me and Jake with its intensity.
“Priscilla has always been over the top,” Jake said gently. “You know that.”
I did. And even though her comments about Ted and her demeanor had rubbed me the wrong way, I didn’t really suspect she was doing anything other than being her usual petulant self. Bjorn, however, was another story. For some reason, I kept coming back to him.
“Hard for me to think Bjorn would do anything to any of his customers either, though,” Jake said. “I mean, if he were going to do something like that—and I have no clue why he would, but just for argument's sake, let's say he has some beef with Ted and he's going to get him—I don’t think he'd do it in a way that would sabotage his own business.”
I nodded, fighting back a frustrated sigh. “I agree. But he'd be the natural choice, given he was in the kitchen and he's the cook. If anyone had easy, immediate access, he'd be the guy.”
Jake was quiet for a beat. “Or the server.”
“Who we know wouldn't go near poison with a ten-foot pole,” I said.
“I would've said ninety feet, but sure. A long pole.”
Emily being involved was out of the question. Not because she would be terrified to touch poison and not because she’d be worried about getting caught if she actually had done something that terrible. No, the way I was absolutely certain our eldest daughter wasn’t involved was because it involved someone else. And she was pretty much focused on solely one person at this stage in her life: herself.
“I had to put together a list for Priscilla,” I said to Jake. “Of everyone I remembered seeing in the restaurant that night. So we'll see if anything comes of that.”
He nodded and we walked in silence for a few minutes, watching the girls snake their way around the path, pointing things out to one another. The sky was quickly going form gray to black, and the wind came in stronger gusts, shaking the trees and creating waves on the pond. A few Canadian geese took off for the stormy sky just as thunder rumbled in the distance. Grace and Sophie both turned as soon as they heard it and made a beeline back to us.
“It would be really weird if Big Mama’s had to shut down over this. For that space to go empty,” Jake said after the girls zoomed past us. “It's sort of the centerpiece of downtown. It would be a giant hole right in the middle of town.”
I nodded. “I know. It would be a shame and could have a trickle down effect on the other businesses down there. Fewer people heading there for lunch and dinner might mean fewer people hitting the other businesses around it.”
“Yep.”
“Now I feel like we should've eaten there tonight,” I said. “Done our part in supporting Bjorn.”
“We can't save it on our own. If we're the only people willing to go, that won't be enough.” He shrugged. “We'll just have to wait and see how it pans out.”
I knew he was right.
But as the first, fat raindrops splattered against the pavement and we began running the last block back to the house, I couldn't help but feel like both Bjorn and Big Mama's were in for a rough ride.
TEN
I had trouble sleeping that night. I couldn't get my brain to shut off, as all of the possibilities as to what might've happened took their turn running through my mind. I also felt a little guilty about Emily. She was clearly
stressed out by what happened, and no matter how it was manifesting in the words she was speaking, I knew it was bothering her.
So I decided to be nice the next morning and throw out a peace offering.
She looked at me warily. She’d eaten most of the pancakes I’d given her, and there was still a small puddle of maple syrup on her plate. “Wait. Are you seriously offering to take me to get my nails done?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come, too?” Sophie asked. She’d only managed to eat through half of her stack but she looked as though she was ready to power through the rest of them if it meant a trip to the salon.
“What about me?” Grace demanded. She was still in her pajamas and her hair was standing on end.
“This is something for me and Emily to do,” I told them, trying to ignore the guilt I felt as they both gave me crestfallen looks. Rather, Sophie looked sad; Grace looked like she wanted to stab her oldest sister with a fork.
Emily twirled her fork through the leftover syrup on her plate. “Why? This feels like a trap.”
“Not a trap,” I said.
“I wouldn’t think it’s a trap,” Grace piped up.
“Do I have to pay?” Emily asked.
“No.”
She thought hard for a moment. “Is this gonna be one of those things where you do something nice and then tell me something terrible? Like you're trying to soften the blow or something?”
Will was plowing through his pancakes and he let out a groan. I silenced him with a look.
“I assure you, Emily. I have no ulterior motive. I just thought it would be nice if we could go do something together.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Usually that means you try to take me on a hike or something.”
“I like hikes,” Sophie said.
I reached for Emily’s empty plate. “Well, this time, I'm choosing something you might want to do.”
“Okay, seriously, Mom. Did someone die? Is Jake moving out?”
Grace gasped. “Jake’s moving out?” Her eyes flew to Sophie. “But Sophie can stay, right? Please! She’s my sister!”
“No one is moving out,” I snapped. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. I closed my eyes and reminded myself that Emily needed me. That as difficult as she could sometimes be, she was still a kid and she needed her mother.
“Uh, Mom?” Will’s voice made me open my eyes. “Are you, like, going back to sleep standing up?”
I ignored him, instead turning back to the teenage girl still sitting at the table, watching me with a look of confusion and anxiousness. “Emily, you have thirty seconds to take me at my word or forever miss out on your chance at a free manicure with your mother,” I said. “The clock is ticking.”
Her eyes went big. “Oh my god, you're serious!” She grinned, and it was a genuine one, and the entire conversation we’d just had immediately evaporated. “Give me twenty minutes and I'll be ready!”
She sprinted for her room.
“When can I have a Mommy date?” Grace asked in a small voice. She was staring dejectedly at her plate.
“Soon,” I promised, trying—and failing—to ignore the guilt. I glanced at Sophie. She, too, looked like I’d just told her a beloved pet had died. “And you, too.”
“Where can we go?” Grace asked. She looked at Sophie. “Maybe we can all go on a date together!”
And just like that, they were giggling and chatting and shouting out suggestions for our triple date.
Crisis averted.
True to her word, Emily was ready to go twenty minutes later. With her hair brushed and make-up applied, we said goodbye to the other kids and headed out the door before the younger two could sneak out with us.
Wilma's World of Nails was next to Big Mama's on Main. Wilma Karlson was the owner, and she also owned Wilma's World of Hair on the other side of Big Mama's. She'd started with hair, outgrew the salon, and bought the old bakery spot on the other side of Bjorn's diner. They were as much mainstays of Main Street as Big Mama's.
Wilma greeted us as we walked in. “Well, well! Isn't this a lovely surprise!”
I smiled in response. The salon was housed in a similar building as Big Mama’s, but they were as different as night and day. The restaurant was the epitome of what an independent restaurant should be: eclectic décor, eclectic menu, eclectic employees. My daughter included. But Wilma’s was the very height of sophistication. The walls were papered with a cream and gold wallpaper, and an oversized gilded mirror graced the wall behind the cash register. The floors were polished hardwood, the counters gray and black granite. The smell of nail products was muted by candles or air freshener plug-ins: something smelled like honeysuckle and jasmine, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t the acetone used to take nail polish off.
“So,” Wilma said, smiling brightly. Her lips were flamingo pink, her eye shadow a mix of blues and greens that resembled a peacock’s feathers. “How are we this morning, ladies?”
“We are just fine,” I told her. “And we're hoping we might be able to get our nails done.”
Wilma lightly patted her beehive of black hair. I wasn’t sure how much of it was real and how much might be hair extensions. “Of course! We are happy to have you! Normally, I suggest making an appointment—things can get a little busy around here. I’m always saying we need more space for all of our customers! But you lucked out today—I have two fabulous technicians who can see you right now.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Judging by her statement, Wilma’s Nails was a hot bed of activity. Looking around told a different story. Maybe we had simply lucked out and come during a lull, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone beating down the doors to get in here, or lines spilling onto the sidewalk, either. But Wilma’s job was to sell her business, and she was definitely trying to do just that.
Wilma escorted us to two different stations near the back where two younger women sat. I’d put them in their twenties. Both had brown hair, one cut shoulder-length, the other about six inches longer. Both wore black pants and white button-down blouses, and I wondered if that was the required uniform for doing nails at Wilma’s.
They smiled at us and motioned for us to sit down.
“What are we interested in today, ladies?” Wilma asked, clasping her hands together.
“Chrome,” Emily said immediately. “Can you do the chrome powder?”
Wilma patted her shoulder. “I like this girl. Of course we can! Gigi will do a bang-up job!”
Gigi smiled and started pulling things out of her tray and arranging them on the table.
I wanted to ask what chrome powder was, but since I was apparently the only person in the salon who didn’t know, I kept my mouth shut.
“And Daisy, how about for you?” Wilma asked.
I couldn't recall the last time I'd gotten my nails done. It just wasn't my thing. I didn't like to spend the money to get them done or the time keeping them up. Anytime I painted my nails, it was usually because the two younger girls wanted to play pretend beauty shop.
“Um, maybe just a clear coat?” I said.
“Not feeling adventurous?” Wilma said, her brows rising. They were drawn on with black pencil, the lines so thin that they now resembled worms wriggling around on her forehead.
“Boooooorrrrrrinnnnng,” Emily whispered.
I nudged her foot with my own. “I'm just not really a fancy color person,” I told Wilma.
“Well, that's fine,” Wilma said, nodding. “Gigi can do a nice French manicure for you and make them look divine.”
I looked at the girl across from me, and then at the girl who was now holding Emily's hand. “I thought she was Gigi?”
“They are both Gigi,” Wilma said, clapping her hands together and giggling. “Isn't that funny?”
Neither Gigi smiled as my Gigi began pulling things from her tray. I had the shoulder-length haired one.
“Yes,” I said. “That's...funny.”
Wilma placed her hand again on Emily's sho
ulder. “And how are you doing, pretty girl?” Her eyebrows moved again and I watched in fascination. “I know you work next door with Bjorn. It got a little hectic over there the other night, didn't it?”
“I'm okay,” Emily mumbled, watching her own Gigi intently. She was already rubbing lotion into Emily’s cuticles, using some little clippers to gently snip the skin.
Wilma shifted her gaze to me. “I heard Ted is doing okay, too?”
I nodded. “He is.” My technician was now doing the same thing to my nails.
Wilma clucked her tongue and shook her head. “I am so glad. He is so nice. Always pops in to say hello, asks if we need anything. I can't imagine what might've happened to him.”
She didn't say anything for a moment and I realized she was waiting for me to fill in the blanks so she could, in fact, imagine what happened.
“I'm just glad he's doing fine,” I said simply. I wasn’t about to spill anything to the ladies in the nail salon.
The corner of her eye twitched. I was sure she was used to everyone coming in and talking and gossiping about what was going on in Moose River. It was cliché, but true. Most women saw their hairdressers and nail technicians as a member of their circle of best friends. I was not one of these women. And even though I didn’t think she'd do anything with information I might tell her, I still didn’t think it was my place to talk about what had happened.
She smiled and nodded. “Me, too.” A bell chimed above us and the front door opened. She turned in that direction. “You're in good hands, ladies. I'll be back to check on you in just a few.” She hustled off toward the door.
I had no idea whether or not I was in good hands. My Gigi clipped my cuticles and massaged lotion into my skin and then picked up my fingers one by one and started filing the nails. As Emily happily chatted with her Gigi about whatever she was having done, mine stared stone-faced at my hands. Either she wasn’t much of a talker or she’d picked up from my conversation with Wilma that I wasn’t there for conversation.
That was fine with me.
I was thinking about why anyone would pay for someone to simply file their nails and slap polish on—on a bi-weekly basis, no less—when Emily's elbow found my ribs.
