Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  "After that", he told her pony tail, "it will be up to Juniper House, and all the gifted Ashevillian chefs. I'm covered for the next seven days, anyway."

  Ellen set the scallops flat on the shimmering oil, her fingers quick over the heat. She picked four cloves of garlic from the bowl, peeled and minced them, turned the scallops, browned side up and lifted the lid of the rice pot, steaming away nicely, maybe ten minutes more. She turned to Geoff and held the knife in front of her face with both hands, elbows wide, tip high. "I like this for its razor edge and wide steady blade, but the blood grooves make it a multi-purpose tool." She laid the knife on the counter and gathered the browned scallops with a flat wood spoon and liftied them over the edge of the pan into a small bowl. She put another splash of oil in the pan, added the chopped onions, swirling with a pinch of salt. She diced oyster mushrooms, cilantro, parsley, and serrano peppers into neat piles along side the garlic on the cutting board. When the onions were softened, beginning to brown, she added the garlic, stirred for a minute, added a couple pats of butter and the rest of her vegetables.

  Geoff took an open bottle of pinot grigio from the refrigerator and squeezed the lips of the rubber cork; the hiss was strong. He smelled the wine, tasted a drop on his tongue. "Yes?" Held the bottle towards her.

  "Yeah, sure, half a cup. I'll deglaze again with water." She lifted the lid and he poured. The wine sizzled, she stirred and scraped half-a-minute, recovered the pan, turned down the gas. "I will be polite to your floozy and the new husband, because that's my nature." She took her first sip of the cabernet. "This is nice, we can take the rest of the bottle for lunch. Polite to a fault, that's me; but deadly in a clean simple way, when it's called for."

  He opened a new bottle of pinot grigio, replaced the cork with a rubber stopper, put the bottle into the refrigerator. "I bet we can all just get along." He cleared the dry dishes from the strainer, washed everything Ellen was done with, and set plates and silverware on the kitchen table. "The sun's not down yet, are we really going to dine by daylight?"

  "Ten minutes to finish this, and it'll be dusky dark, as Carl calls it." She returned the scallops to the sauce, stirred, deglazed again with a little water and replaced the lid. A minute or two.

  "Is he serious about the heifer? All the work of a herd, for just one cow."

  "Mimi says he wants to grow her into a small herd. A milk cow has to keep making calves every year or two to keep giving milk. And eventually she'll have to be replaced, preferably by one of her own calves, if she's any good. You keep the girls and sell the boys. The herd grows every year, until you've got the number you want. He does know this stuff, he had dairy cows until Rose Crest bought his fields, killed the roses and leveled the crest."

  "Guernsey?" Geoff asked.

  "Yeah," she said, "the milk is one-quarter cream." She moved the wine around in her mouth. "So rich, dairy farmers sometimes keep a couple Guernseys in a herd of Holsteins, the big black-and-white ones, to lift the whole gang's fat content to Grade-A level."

  "I wouldn't mind seeing cows up there. Kind of an inoculation against development; a forlorn last stand anyway. Pretty laborious hobby for Carl, though, at sixty-eight." He pulled a chair back and sat.

  "His daddy lived to eighty-and-six, died in his sleep after a full day's work." She sat across the table from Geoff and held her glass out for a refill. "Mimi, now, might be willing to follow her sister to Florida, at least become bi-housal. Two-hundred-seventy acres, eighty-five hundred dollars per acre, they're rich old farmers. They probably can afford the upkeep on one cow and a few offspring."

  She stood and lifted the lid. The sauce had thickened. "We're ready." They settled with their plates and forks and wine glasses and didn't talk much.

  Exactly the right amount of room was left, after the basmati and stir-fry, for the last two pieces of yesterday's apple pie. Geoff pushed the small plate back and said, "So. Tell me about this trip? We're going to Asheville, because why?"

  "Because why it's my job. I have an assignment. And you have been told everything about it." She set her empty fork on her empty plate.

  "Okay, I know it's a Travel America follow-up on the B&B piece. You're elaborating on that, or stretching it."

  "It's a little stretch, as usual with these pieces. But it's reader-driven." She emptied her wine glass, set it down, and covered it with her hand as he gestured to the half-full bottle. "People wrote in and said, so Asheville is full of great bed-and-breakfasts, what's there to do with the rest of the day? No Grand Canyon, no lighthouses, no pro sports, no history to speak of."

  "Is that true?" Geoff pushed the stopper into the bottle and pumped a dozen times more than the instructions recommended. "The civil war brushed through, did it not? And that monster house is history all by itself."

  "We'll know next week. I was so focused on the breakfasts and the beds, getting us from one to the next without blowing cover, making up stories about why each three-day booking turned into a one-nighter, that I noticed nothing about the town. And then, right at the end, when I might have been able to put two thoughts together, we kept that kid from getting snatched, definitely a good thing. But then we had to sit still for all the legal crap. The cops were nice, just doing their jobs, but they used me up. I'm glad I did good notes on each place we stayed because when we got home I was so churned up I couldn't remember a thing."

  "Robbie's a spunky kid. I'm sure he's fine now. But I'll like it better, without all the packing and unpacking and drama. Which one was Juniper House? They got kind of jumbled for me, too." He stacked and carried their dishes to the sink.

  Ellen put the last of the rice and sauce together in a plastic container and snapped the lid. "We should toss this. It won't be any good in ten days and we can't really take it with us."

  "Save it for now. I might have a bite later, it's just eight o'clock." He washed as Ellen wiped and put away.

  "It was the second one, the biggest building. Huge central common room, balconies all round on the second story, inside and out. There were greenhouses in back, a kitchen garden, flower beds, benches, windy paths. We spent about ninety seconds walking the grounds. We left so early the next day we missed their speciality, a full-on afternoon tea."

  "Okay, I remember it a little. Pretty spooky, Stef meeting Harold there, because of your article."

  She stretched the dishtowel over the bar. "When I've heard her version for myself, and his version, I'll tell you what I believe. I'm holding open the possibility of skullduggery. I just can't figure out a motive or a method." She raised her arms as he stepped towards her, and pulled him in.

  "Delicious," he said. "Always delicious." He lifted and pressed her firmly against him, from knees to shoulders. "Thank you for being you with me." He set her down, pulled a little back to look at her, leaned in for a quick kiss. "Will you need me accompanying on your excursions? I've got about six inches thick of papers to mark up."

  "It's up to you. I'd be happy for the company and the occasional guy-view insight. But I'll be fine by myself." She stepped a few inches away. "Let me amend that. I'll be fine if you come with me, or if this Stephanie thing does. You're not going to be hanging around the bedrooms with each other."

  "Stephanie-thing was the love of my sophomore and junior years. You hadn't bothered to show up yet, and a healthy young lad needed a healthy young lass to be healthy and young with. We could inventory your beaus-before-me, if you like."

  "Don't think anything is going to escape my laser-green eyes. Anything." She grabbed a nylon brief case off the counter and turned towards the bedroom. "I've got homework, got to turn this heap of brochures into an itinerary. See you later, if you get there before I'm out."

  Geoff watched her walk into the bedroom with her travel flyers. He knew she knew he watched. He brewed himself a mug of decaf, turned out the kitchen lights, and settled in his study for a couple more hours with the alligator. Callisto had wedged herself between his keyboard and monitor. He scratched behind her ears, under h
er chin, and turned the computer on. Tomorrow was going to be a complicated day. But tonight he had to bring some order into the life of Simi, a eleven year old Muslim girl born in Mysore in 1937, as she began the long walk north through new-made India up towards new-made Pakistan. Simi and twelve million other souls-in-transit.

  ~

  Jerry was gone, sound asleep at ten-thirty. Contractor chromosomes in that boy, engineer by training, but the trades by birth. It was a good thing Dwight could get by, between weekends, on five or six hours sleep, because it wasn't in his genes to sleep before midnight. Jerry snorted, shook his head, and started to snore. Dwight reached out with his right forefinger and pressed into the center of Jerry's cheek, another snort, but the snoring stopped. Every time, works every time. He reached again, let the back of his fingers brush lightly along the side of Jerry's curly red, compulsively trimmed little beard. Damn cute for an older guy. I love his lips peeking out pink between the coppery moustache and the chin whiskers.

  And I love Asheville. We can walk around together, be a couple, not hide. So good to let go, even if it's just a week. Of course, up to me, we'd come out in Raleigh, anybody it bothered, fuck 'em. Somebody doesn't like me, I can handle that. There's some people I don't want to like me. We'd work it out, the business crap and the social crap. Might lose a couple accounts, might gain a couple. If the whole thing tanked, if Raleigh, as they say, just isn't ready for gay electricians, we could pack it up and move to Asheville. Of course Asheville being ready isn't a given. Downtown shops, restaurants and bars, that was one thing. Hard-hat sites, who can say, never having worked here? I say, let's find out. Jerry says let's not. And then, the employee thing, we've got fifteen people working for us. If we came out, how many would stay? If they did stay, would we still have work for them? We can't be selfish, Jer says. I say how 'bout we can't be chicken shit any longer?

  Thing is, when you love the guy, you can't ride over his feelings. This Asheville trip, totally out here in town, then button it up all day long on the site in Hickory, it wears on you. He's only four years older, so it's more home life than generational. I knew I was into guys when I was seven years old. It took a few more years to figure out what that meant, in practical terms. I knew I had to hide it to keep the peace, but not because I was conflicted or guilty. Better my parents didn't know, better schoolmates didn't know, but it was more like a fun secret than a terrible one. For Jer it was terrible. His dad would have killed him, mom, too, probably. Still would, except (this was another continuing argument), Dwight was sure they knew, even if they didn't admit it. Jerry was just as sure they didn't and that finding out would wreck their lives. You don't think they've guessed what having a guy roommate and no girlfriend might mean? Then Jer'd say: maybe they've guessed, that's different from rubbing their noses in it. Rubbing noses is up to them, what about accepting you for yourself, their only son and a damn nice guy? Who just happens to have the cutest round little ass I've ever seen.

  Enough arguing with himself. He lifted his book off his belly and settled lower against the pillows. He mouthed the words soundlessly, running them through his lips to keep the right cadence, as he heard the verses in his head. He was working through the Browning monologs, old hippity-hop. Whole novellas presented in a few hundred lines, characters so richly colored, episodes so precisely told, in the most sinuous pentameter of any English writer, possibly excepting Chaucer and Shakespeare. Beautiful brain candy.

  chapter third — monday

  Ellen had been out cold when he finally got to bed. The light was still on, a book under her cheek. He remembered pulling the book free, making his best guess with the bookmark, then nothing much more until the sun brushed his face this morning. He turned right to see the big orange numerals: seven thirty-four. He rolled and reached left, she was gone. Selassie lifted and tilted his head to ask if this might be one of the rare mornings when Geoff provided breakfast. Geoff shook his head, no. The cat tucked his face under his paw for shade against the brightness streaming across the bed. The sun hadn't yet burned completely through the soft haze of the April morning, or steamed away the dew dripping from every leaf and roof edge. But it was already fifty-two degrees, and the forecast was for gorgeous.

  Geoff sat up and saw Ellen outside doing the half-minute of stretching that was all she ever did before her morning run. Her over-size t-shirt had always been gray, Athletic Dept stenciled across the back. It hung crooked so her right shoulder was bare, the wide elastic of the sports bra bisected the exposed skin. Her shorts had once been lavender, but were now faded as gray as the shirt. She usually ran a loop down almost to the village, then back up along the ridge, about four miles. It took her half-an-hour. A strong run when you include the third-of-a-mile change in elevation.

  He didn't feel like running or riding his bike this morning. Yesterday, he'd gone out on the bike, long and steep. But anticipating the six-hour drive down the Blue Ridge Parkway, he decided to spend a few minutes with free weights, then a few more with the Bowflex, just to open his joints and circulate some blood.

  He was finishing his last set when he heard Ellen come in through the kitchen. "Hi, guys," she said, addressing the cats, "are you ready for your last lean meal before Mimi starts fattening you up? You know she's a farmer, and you know why farmers feed their stock? Don't let her fool you with sweet talk."

  "Why do you poison the miniscule minds of our cats?" He watched her set the dish on the tile floor. "I was about to hop into the shower — wanna hop along?"

  "Fantastic." She crossed the kitchen and walked ahead of him through the bedroom, managing to shed her clothes without breaking stride, pieces of clothing alternating right side, left side behind her. Geoff kicked them together as he followed, without looking down, and dropped his own shorts on the heap.

  The stall was easily big enough for two, four feet wide, six feet long, tiled up to and across the ceiling. They had splurged on the shower. Geoff had built in four independently controlled shower heads, each with a temperature-remembering on-off valve. You could rinse from all sides at once, or temporarily shut everything to soap up.

  They helped each other wash the hard-to-reach places and, after a while, rubbed each other dry. Ellen tossed the towels and all the dirty clothes into the washing machine while Geoff made the bed. Mimi said she'd run the dryer when she fed the cats. Ellen pulled on a rusty-orange top, mid-thigh khaki hiking shorts, and leather sandals. She buckled her watch, and distributed knife, keys, wallet, cell, and camera into the various pockets of her shorts. Geoff wore a faded green polo shirt, jeans and running shoes.

  Breakfast was quick: juice and coffee, toast with peanut butter for Geoff, toast with marmalade for Ellen, and a shared grapefruit. They cleaned the dishes, filled a thermos with coffee, loaded the picnic hamper and their bags. Ellen had always been able to pack for a week in ten minutes. Geoff couldn't match that, but it no longer took him an hour.

  He locked all the doors, five identical deadbolts that he'd installed just two weeks ago. Their first several years in that house they'd never thought of locking doors; the next several, they did sometimes, on longer trips. The odds and ends of knob locks and hand-thrown bolts made it just possible to lock the exterior doors, if you did them in the right order. But the population of Catawba Township had tripled over the past fifteen years, all the edges of Roanoke County had. It was silly to pretend nothing had changed, and there was no point to surrendering insurance coverage to a quibble about forced entry.

  They took the Caravan, so they could just toss in all their bags and bikes. Twelve years old, Geoff said, didn't look a day over eight. By nine-thirty, they were rolling down the hill, Geoff driving. He took them into Roanoke, then diagonally across the city, up to the eighty-foot tall metal star at the top of Mill Mountain. They paused there for a minute to look across their adopted hometown and up into the mountains north of town, their mountains, where Roanoke and Botetourt and Craig counties met. The day promised to be bright and clear, but a morning haze s
till shimmed over the valley. Roanoke was houses mostly, the airport just visible at the foot of the mountains, a few tall buildings downtown. The whole valley was bisected by the railroad lines and railroad stations and railroad yards that had always carried the commercial pulse of the city. Here and there a glint of light off the Roanoke river, as it looped along below the straight line of the tracks. They got back into the van and drove up the access road to the Blue Ridge Parkway. It transected the same ridge line, just a couple hundred yards from the huge steel star, always lit at night, that made Roanoke the Star City.

  The Parkway is most famous for fall colors, bright reds, oranges and yellows. But April is as splendid as autumn, dressed in a subtler palette. This particular April, a late hard freeze had burned all the early blooms, and left mostly the soft gray-browns of tree trunks and branches, with last year's gray and brown leaves spread beneath. Here and there blazed eruptions of bright green, patches of evergreen ferns and lichen. The freeze killed flowers and early leaves from Pennsylvania to Georgia, all along the line of mountains. But the buds on the tips of every branch were still lit from within with silver and gold, fuzzy charges primed to blow open into a hundred distinct shades of green. Wild flowers dotted the shoulders of the road with notes of white and yellow and blue.