by Kylie Logan
We crossed to the other side of the street and the end of the line that snaked out of the bookstore and past Caf-Fiends, our local coffee shop, and all the way over in front of Artisans All, a craft and gift shop with decent merchandise and prices that made this California girl think she’d died and gone to heaven. There we stopped behind three young women wearing medieval attire: long dresses, wimples, and veils. Though I am certainly no historian, I was pretty sure the tattoo on one girl’s wrist wasn’t exactly authentic to the period.
“Oh, I forgot to give you the CDs of French music!” Rocky passed a hand over her eyes. “Silly me. You’ll find them, Laurel.” She put a hand on my arm. “In the basket with the herbs. I brought you Piaf and Maurice Chavalier and of course, Téléphone!” When Sophie looked at her in wonder, Rocky managed a laugh that for a second, erased whatever it was that was bothering her and transformed her into the vivacious Rocky I knew. “Hey, back in the day, they opened for the Stones!”
The doors of the Book Nook swung open and a buzz of feminine excitement filled Traintown as we surged forward and closer to the shop and to Mike and John, who stood on either side of the front door.
The Guys, as they were affectionately known throughout Traintown, were personal as well as business partners. They were middle-aged, both tall and thin and they both wore wire-rimmed glasses and had receding hairlines. Mike, dressed tonight in a dapper suit, favored herb teas and had been the first in line when we introduced sushi at the Terminal. John, who sported a beret and a red cravat, adored the strong coffee I made for myself (and shared with him when he stopped in). That evening, he had a cup from Caf-Fiends in one hand and when we finally got close enough, he raised it in greeting.
“Fabulous turnout.” Not that he needed me to tell him. I tried to glance over the crowd and into the shop. “And the guest of honor?”
Behind those wire-rimmed glasses, John rolled his eyes. He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to us when he mouthed the words, “Prima donna.”
This didn’t surprise me in the least. But then, I had previously lived and worked in a place where prima was never prima enough and every last donna thought she was God’s gift.
A few minutes later we were in the shop and just a bit after that, directly in front of the table where Aurore Brisson, blond, plump-lipped, and curvy, looked very bored and very eager for the harried assistant at her elbow to grab the next book, open it, and slide it in front of her so she could scrawl her signature and move on to the next fan.
“Bonjour.” When Rocky greeted her, Aurore glanced up, but only for a moment. “Bienvenue a Hubbard!”
The author’s smile was tight.
“Next!” the assistant called out.
Rocky stepped aside and Sophie took her place. “So much for trying to be friendly,” I said to Rocky, but she was hardly listening. She’d already flipped open the book and stepped to the side. The last I saw of her, she was headed down an aisle between two bookshelves marked Crafts and Cooking, her nose in the book.
“I’m afraid it’s my fault.” Sophie side-stepped her way around the three medieval maidens who were busy trying to find the best angle for selfies that would include Aurore Brisson in the background. “Rocky’s worried. She’s nervous. You know, about the symposium over at Youngstown State.”
It took a moment for the pieces to fall into place in my brain. “The peace symposium? Rocky’s speaking at it, I know, but how is that your—”
“I talked her into it.” Sophie’s shoulders hunched. “She didn’t want to do it, and I talked her into accepting the invitation. In fact, I volunteered her when I heard Professor Weinhart was putting together the symposium. I told Rocky I thought it was important for people to hear about her experiences on the front lines of the peace movement back in the sixties and seventies.”
Though Rocky had never said a word to me about her hippie days, I’d heard the story from Sophie before. I knew that Rocky had once been involved in a group devoted to ending the Vietnam War. While they were at it, they did their best to spread peace, love, and joy throughout the land. Now, like I always did, I marveled at the very thought. The only thing Rocky Arnaud was radical about these days was the quality of her produce.
“She has so much valuable information, so many interesting experiences with community organizing and lobbying,” Sophie said, glancing toward the aisle where Rocky had disappeared. “They were peaceniks, you know. They were sure they could change the world through their message of love and tolerance. Young people need to hear the story these days and it wouldn’t hurt for some of us old-timers to be reminded, too. But ever since she agreed to speak at the symposium, Rocky’s been . . .” Sophie crinkled her nose. “Well, when she first heard Aurore Brisson was coming to town, she couldn’t wait to get over here and meet her. And last time I talked to her about it, she was just about jumping up and down with excitement about the big parade tomorrow and the talk that Statue of Liberty expert is giving over at the library. But the symposium is getting closer and closer and now tonight . . .”
“She’ll be fine,” I assured Sophie. “Maybe it’s just a case of the jitters.”
Sophie cradled her copy of Yesterday’s Passion to her broad bosom. “Well, I hope so. At least she’s excited about reading the book. I mean, she must be, right, because she couldn’t wait to open it and get started. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe it will take her mind off that symposium and speaking in front of an auditorium full of people.”
Another group of people—all clutching the book—moved away from the signing table, and I grabbed Sophie’s arm to get her out of the way. But then, the last thing I wanted to do was see her take a fall and end up in rehab again. “Caf-Fiends is serving cookies and coffee,” I told her. “Let’s get some.”
If the crowd hadn’t been so heavy, there was no way Sophie would have agreed. See, in her book, Caf-Fiends is an affront to humanity, a place that adulterates coffee with things like whipped cream, sprinkles, and flavored syrups. Then they have the nerve to charge more than three dollars a cup for it. Back when I first arrived in Hubbard, there had been plenty of tension between Caf-Fiends and the Terminal because the Terminal was losing business to the new coffee shop with its wraps, its fancy sandwiches, and its killer key lime pie. The good news was that these days with the ethnic specialities on our menu and our crowds up, the Terminal and Caf-Fiends were learning to peacefully co-exist.
Well, some of us were.
I stepped up to the dessert table and came eye to eye with Myra, the Caf-Fiends waitress who made no secret of the fact that she had her eye on Declan Fury and that she didn’t like it one bit when she saw the two of us together. Hey, I wasn’t the one who was going to tell her that she had nothing to worry about. Declan and I, we were—
“Coffee?” Myra held out a cup toward Sophie and pretended I didn’t exist. “We’ve got cookies, too. John and Mike had us bring lots of cookies.” When she swiveled to look my way, her chestnut-colored ponytail twitched. “Ours are the best.”
“I have no doubt,” I said, scooping a cookie from the table even though I didn’t want one. I chomped into it, turned my back, and made my way over toward the cash register so Sophie could pay for her book. After that, it was all a matter of waiting. Once the crowd of book buyers dwindled, we were told that Aurore Brisson, she of the too-yellow hair and the too-white smile, would be giving a little talk.
I found Sophie one of the last chairs in the shop and stood behind it, waiting for the big moment, and I have to say, once it came, I was a tad underwhelmed.
Aurore, who spoke decent-enough English, didn’t have a whole lot to say other than that her book, it was fabulous and the cable TV series that was about to premiere . . . well, it was nothing short of extraodinaire!
When she was finished singing her own praises, we clapped politely and Mike moved to the front of the room.
“We’ve only got a few minutes,” he said. “But I think . . . I hope . . .” He smil
ed at the author who did not smile back. “Ms. Brisson has been gracious enough to say she would answer a few questions.”
“Questions? Questions?” Where Rocky came from, I couldn’t tell. I only knew that there she was, out of whatever hidey-hole she’d gone into to read, standing at the center of the room with her arms pressed to her sides and her cheeks flaming and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of the peace crusader she had once been.
Rocky’s head was high. Her shoulders were steady. Her voice rang through the shop like the first strident, brilliant chord of Jimi Hendrix’s “Star Spangled Banner.”
“I’ve got a question for you, Aurore Brisson!” Rocky held her copy of Yesterday’s Passion to the sky and used her other hand to point a finger at the author. “How did you . . . Why did you . . .” Rocky’s voice broke and she pulled in a sob. “How can you stand there and let these mensonges . . . these lies . . . leave your lips? Why did you steal Marie Daigneau’s book?”
Kylie Logan is also the national bestselling author of the League of Literary Ladies Mysteries and the Chili Cook-off Mysteries.
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Table of Contents
Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Recipe
Excerpt from FRENCH FRIED
About the Author
