by Kylie Logan
“Here’s the recipe,” she said. “We say it’s Grandma’s but truth be told, I think it was her grandmother’s and probably hers before that.” She stopped just before she handed over the card. “We don’t share this with just anyone.”
“Then I’m grateful,” I said when she handed over the recipe. “I can’t wait to try it.”
“She’ll add sushi to it,” Declan said. “Or tofu. Then Grandma will haunt her.”
Thank goodness for the distraction! I elbowed him in the ribs.
After all, it was better than letting him know that I was worried.
About murder.
About lies.
And about why someone had unlocked the front door of the Terminal, then smashed in the back window to make it look like a break-in.
Chapter 13
The good news—when I got back to the Traintown neighborhood, the street in front of the restaurant was crammed with cars and news vans and reporters who were lounging around looking antsy and eager for a tip just like they’d been lounging around and looking antsy and eager for a tip since I’d discovered Jack’s body.
The bad news—as far as I could see, just about all those reporters in all those cars and news vans had a Caf-Fiends bag or to-go coffee cup with them.
“Bad morning?” Inez was just refilling Lou’s daily order of pancakes and she looked up when I stomped in and slammed the door behind me.
“No.” I didn’t want to give Lou—our one and only customer at the moment—the wrong idea, so I waved off her concern. “Just hard finding a parking place out there.”
Inez leaned back so she could peer beyond the waiting area to the front door and the street outside. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
I glanced around the quiet restaurant. “No Denice?”
“Not this early. Not on Friday.” Inez scampered up front to cash in Lou’s bill and I followed along. “We’re open late Fridays and Saturdays, until nine. So I do the early shift and Denice comes in later and works until closing. And if we’re busy . . .” The way she said it, I could tell that Inez didn’t think this was actually a possibility. “We call Judy. She used to work here full-time. Back in the day. And she’s always willing to work an extra shift if we need her.”
Good to know.
If we were ever busy.
The thought settled in my head and my shoulders drooped. “I don’t know how we’re ever going to be busy unless we try something different. But people around here don’t want to try menu items that are new and different, not unless it’s pizza and wraps,” I grumbled, more to myself than to Inez.
That didn’t stop her from replying. “This is Hubbard. We’re pretty ordinary people. We don’t like things like salmon and leeks. Not in a restaurant like this, anyway. If we’re looking for food like that, we get dressed up and find a linen-tablecloth kind of place. But when we just want good food, we come to a place like this, and we come to a place like this because it’s homey. That means we’re looking for comfort food.”
“Then we should be packed! Fried bologna and onions, some people think that’s homey, don’t they?” The very thought made me shiver. “Or meatballs and rice.”
“Or wraps and pizza.”
The new comfort food.
“So people’s idea of what comfort food is and isn’t changes,” I commented. “Maybe we need to change, too. And not to a place that sells panini sandwiches and wraps. It wouldn’t do us or Caf-Fiends any good to fight over the same customers.”
“At our house . . .” Just thinking about it made Inez smile. “Comfort food is things like chicken and rice. What we call arroz con pollo. Or fried plantains, or bean and cheese burritos or menudo.” She sighed. “That’s tripe and hominy soup, and before you turn up your nose—”
“I’ve had menudo. I’ve cooked menudo,” I assured her, thinking of the months I’d spent in Mexico with Meghan when she was shooting a movie there. Menudo’s ability to cure hangovers is legendary and the way I remembered it, Meghan was feuding with a certain somebody who eventually became her ex. Those days, the tequila flowed like water. Meghan needed plenty of menudo. “You don’t have to convince me how good it is.”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Inez scooped Lou’s change out of the cash register, took it over to him, and headed back into the waiting area. “Everybody has their own idea of what comfort food is, and it changes, you know? The way cities change because the people who live in them changes. Some people think of comfort food as arroz con pollo, and some people think it’s something like stuffed cabbage. Some people think of it as Italian food or Hungarian food or—”
“Irish food.” I plucked Ellen Fury’s recipe for Irish stew out of my purse and, thinking, tapped the index card against my chin. “What if we tried to cater to them?”
“All of them?” Inez laughed. “If we tried to pack our menu with Polish food and Japanese food and Indian food—”
“There’s no way we could handle that. Not with our small kitchen.” I nodded. “But if we ran specials featuring one ethnic food at a time . . .”
“Like every day.”
“Or every week or two. That would be more practical from a menu standpoint and as far as getting supplies and arranging advertising.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, an unfamiliar feeling zipped through my bloodstream and thumped inside my rib cage. It caught me by surprise and it took me a moment to realize what it was.
Interest. Curiosity. Excitement.
Emotions I’d been too numb to feel since Meghan gave me the ol’ heave-ho and pummeled my culinary dreams.
When I headed into the kitchen, recipe in hand, I found myself smiling.
“Ethnic foods,” I crooned. “Different, interesting ethnic foods. Designed to appeal to the different and interesting people of Hubbard.” I imagined the ad we’d put in the local paper, and practically skipped the last few steps and, yes, when I handed Ellen’s recipe to George as if it were being presented on a silver platter, he did give me a funny look.
It didn’t help when I added, “Take that, wraps and pizza!”
* * *
It was nearly four, and I knew Dale, Phil, Ruben, and Stan would be hitting the road soon. They’d enjoyed the lunch special—Swiss steak—and I don’t know how many cups of coffee, and even though we were open late, they’d disappear to wherever it was they disappeared to every day at this time.
Which was why I was surprised when instead of saying, “See you tomorrow, kiddo,” like he always did on his way out the door, Dale waved me over to the table near the windows.
“What is it?” he asked.
Blank stares are so not a good look for me!
I snapped my mouth shut so I could ask, “What is . . .”
Phil breathed in deep. “That smell. What is it? It smells like—”
“Heaven!” Stan grinned.
And I couldn’t help but grin back. “That is tonight’s dinner special,” I told them. “Irish stew.”
“Irish!” Dale chuckled. “We’ve already got an Irish store around here. We don’t need more Irish. We need Polish food.”
“Or Latin food,” Ruben put in.
“Or good ol’ Southern home cookin’!” Stan rubbed his stomach with one hand. “My mother could cook up a pot of red beans and rice like nobody else. I’ll bring you her recipe.”
“I’d appreciate that. And I’ll take your suggestions into consideration.” I passed around the handwritten menus I’d gotten ready for the evening. In addition to our usual Friday-night fare—fish and chips, Swiss steak (hey, why waste anything left over from lunch?), and bean soup—I’d added Irish stew and even embellished the menu with a couple little hand-drawn shamrocks.
Declan would approve.
I shook the thought away. “For the next week, we’re going to feature Irish food,” I told the guys and prayed they didn’t ask which dishes we’d be adding since I hadn’t had a chance to research I
rish recipes yet and I had no idea. “We’re starting with a local family recipe.”
“Well, if it tastes anything like it smells . . .” Stan drew in a deep breath right before he fished his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to call Alice and tell her to meet me here for dinner.”
“Good idea.” Dale grabbed his phone, too. “I’ll give Georgia a call. She’s watching the grandkids today and it would be easier for her to come here for dinner than have her cooking for three extra people.”
Smiling, I left them to it.
My smile didn’t last long when I saw Kim Kline and a colleague come through the front door.
“Dinner, or are you looking for info?” I asked her.
“Dinner? Here?” She glanced around, a little uncertain, then realized that kind of charm would get her nowhere. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about ordering anything to eat here,” Kim said, glossy curls swinging. “It’s just that my schedule never allows it and it’s never been convenient to stop in for a meal and—”
“Uh-huh.” I backed up a step, the better to let her walk through the waiting area and to a table.
Like she was facing a firing squad, she squared her shoulders and looked at her companion. “Dustin? I’m game if you are.”
Dustin was apparently game. I showed the duo to a table and wondered where the heck Denice was. It was after four and she should have been here, and now that we had something of a minirush (Okay, very mini) going, we’d be needing her.
As if just the thought conjured her up, Denice raced through the front door. Her son, Ronnie, was with her.
“Sorry.” She zipped past me, her yellow Terminal polo shirt untucked. “Ronnie and I had some stuff to take care of at the bank and the lines were long and . . .” She waved her son over to a table. “I’ll get you coffee, hon,” she told him. “Just give me a minute.”
Since she was getting herself settled, I grabbed a couple of my new, handwritten menus and gave one to Dustin and one to Kim.
“Irish stew?” She crinkled her nose.
I darted a glance across the street toward the Irish store. “A neighborhood family recipe,” I told her, and was sure to add, “though I’ve changed it up a bit, made a few modifications.”
“The Fury family?” Kim sat up and looked across the street, too. “All right, I’m game. I’ll give it a try. Denice . . .” When the waitress zipped by, Kim buttonholed her. “I’ll try the stew and Dustin . . .” She looked his way and he nodded. “Make that two.”
I am happy to report that the rest of the late afternoon went pretty much the same. Dale, Phil, Ruben, and Stan’s significant others showed and brought along an assortment of friends and grandchildren. Once a couple of the reporters outside saw that Kim was inside at a table and talking to the staff, they obviously thought they were missing something; they came in and ordered, too. Marvin, the customer who a few days earlier had been worried that I’d scoop up Denice’s $1.75 tip and leave town with it, showed up and sat down at a table close to where Ronnie sipped cup after cup of coffee and wolfed down the slice of apple pie I wasn’t supposed to notice that Denice slipped him.
Inez—bless her!—arranged for her mom to watch her son and agreed to stay on a couple extra hours. I was headed into the waiting area to get the next batch of guests to seat, and met her near the table where Kim and Dustin were enjoying their stew.
“You’re a genius,” she said.
As much as I’d like to believe that, I wasn’t convinced. “They’re not all ordering the Irish stew.”
She laughed. “They’re not. Not all of them. But George said if you’re keeping it on the menu for tomorrow, he’ll have to make another batch in the morning.”
“Hey, Inez! More coffee here!”
She glanced across the restaurant at Ronnie, who waved her over.
“Kid must have kidneys like nobody else in the world,” she grumbled at the same time she held up a finger to tell him she’d be right there. “Drinks plenty of coffee and never budges from that table.”
“And, let me guess, he never actually orders a meal. Not one he’s going to pay for, anyway.”
She rolled her dark eyes.
Apparently, that was enough to signal to Denice what—and who—we were talking about. “He’s a good kid,” she said when she zipped by with a tray on her shoulder. “And it’s not like he’s taking up a table where customers would be sitting. Well, not usually, anyway. Am I right, Marvin?” She raised her voice enough to be heard by Marvin, who was seated two tables away. “My Ronnie, he’s a good kid, right?”
Marvin wiped a paper napkin over his mouth. “The best. He should be on TV!”
“Yeah!” Denice laughed. “Imagine him on the big screen. You know, one of those flat-screen TVs like they hang on the wall, forty-two inches wide.”
“Forty-eight inches,” Ronnie called out. “I’d look way better on a screen that was forty-eight inches wide.”
“Forty-eight inches.” Marvin chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
It was all in good fun and we all laughed before we headed off to our duties. Denice and Inez waited on customers. I ducked into the kitchen to make sure George was handling the rush, and I wasn’t surprised to see that he was. As long as I was in there, I talked him out of two pieces of chocolate cream pie and brought them out front with me. I set one piece down in front of Dustin and the other in front of Kim. That is, before I sat down in the seat across from hers.
“What’s this? We didn’t order pie.”
“Compliments of the house,” I told her. “If this is your first time eating here, we want to make sure you have a good experience.”
Dustin—who was apparently a man of few words—dug in. Kim took a bite of pie and smiled her approval. “I wasn’t lying,” she said, her disposition sweetened by the combination of chocolate pudding and real cream whipped to peaks of perfection. “I have thought about eating here before. I’ve just never had the opportunity. Then when Jack’s body was found here . . . well”—she set down her fork—“I have to admit that just the thought of eating a meal in a place where a murder happened . . .” She shivered and hugged her arms around herself.
I glanced at Kim’s and Dustin’s empty dinner plates. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your dinners in spite of all that. And I was wondering . . .” I waited until Kim lifted her fork again. With any luck, she’d keep her mind on George’s rich and creamy pie and she wouldn’t notice how eager I was for an answer. “Have you found out anything? You said you were looking into the Lance of Justice’s old files. And I know it’s none of my business,” I was sure to add even though since the murder went down at the Terminal, I figured it kind of was. “But I just can’t help but wondering if there’s some connection to the restaurant.”
And to the woman who owns it.
I clamped my lips shut and didn’t dare let those last words sneak past them. The last thing I needed was to let some nosy reporter find out that I had my suspicions about Sophie.
What I got in return from Kim was a smile that I wouldn’t exactly call gracious. I had a feeling it was more like the kind of smile she would have given a cute—but naughty—puppy. Or someone she considered far below her in brainpower.
“The story of the Lance of Justice’s murder has local Emmy written all over it,” she crooned. “You know I can’t give away the details. They’re just too delicious.”
I wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad. That would explain why my heart started up a funny, stuttering rhythm inside my chest. “Then, you do know something?”
She gobbled down the last bite of chocolate pie and her timing was perfect; Denice came over to collect the dishes just as Kim said, “Not only do I know something, but I have a line on who killed the Lance of Justice, and why.”
I caught my breath, almost afraid to ask, “Shouldn’t you tell the police?”
Kim sat back so Denice could reach across the table and grab Dustin’s plate. “Not yet,” she purred. “I’m
not quite ready yet to reveal all. I will tell you . . .” She looked left and right and, sure that none of the other reporters were anywhere near, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I will tell you something curious and maybe you can explain it to me.”
I swallowed hard and prayed that Sophie’s name wasn’t about to come up. “I’ll try.”
“I went through Jack’s files. You know, as part of digging into his life and his final days. He had receipts from here at the Terminal. He was here just about every day.”
This wasn’t news and I told her so.
“But here’s the thing I think is weird.” She scooted her chair closer to mine and it scraped across the weathered floor like fingernails on a blackboard. “This is the most people I’ve ever seen in this place. I’m right, right?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I mean, no offense, but every time I looked in the windows before today, this place was like a morgue. No customers. So, I’m thinking in the last few weeks when Jack was here, there weren’t all that many customers, either. I’m guessing . . .” She looked around and then, because she was afraid she’d look too obvious and some of the other reporters at nearby tables might catch on, she sat back and stared down at the table in front of her. “He could have sat anywhere, right? I mean, if there were no customers, he would have just waltzed in and sat anywhere he wanted to.”
“That’s not exactly the way it works in restaurants,” I told her. “When there are fewer customers . . .” Notice I did not use the words no customers. “We generally close off a section or two. Let’s say it was a typical afternoon. We might have seated Jack over by the windows because people like to watch the trains go by and so that’s the first section we fill. We’d leave the tables by the kitchen empty and the ones over there.” I waved in the general area of the tables along the front of the restaurant where I’d found Jack’s body. “There’s no use having our waitresses running all over the place. If we keep our customers contained in one area, our waitstaff has less ground to cover.”
“Well, that explains it, then.” Kim nodded like she’d already thought of this theory on her own and just needed confirmation. “See, every receipt I have of his says Jack was seated at table number sixteen. Every time he came here. So I guess table number sixteen”—she gave the restaurant a sharp-eyed once-over—“that must be right over by the windows somewhere.”
