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

by Bud Crawford

  The monopoly family had gone quietly to their rooms in the carriage house. The sisters were still reading, sitting so close their knees touched under the table. Not identical twins, Geoff thought, maybe fraternal ones.

  Honoria seemed to be watching everything, while watching nothing in particular. She had taken her knitting from her bag, the bamboo needles whispered to each other. Jerry was still paying particular attention to some feature at the center of the house. He and Toni were bent forward over the plans, Dwight watched and listened, but leaned back into the sofa.

  Geoff said, "So, Dwight, have they found the secret cellar?"

  "If I've caught everything, two priest holes, one underground railroad stop, a pirate's chest of drawers, and a fossilized disco ball. Also a really clever channel for all the electrical, computer, and cable TV wires to run in."

  "And they found the little cupboard in the plans, where they found the plans," Honoria said.

  "But the shelf in the library that swivels to reveal the stairs to the secret cellar where the jewel chests and good wine are?" Geoff pulled up the chair he'd sat in earlier.

  "Not yet," Dwight said, "but there still two more sheets.." Dwight sighed and smiled. "Sipping single malt watching other people work — life is good."

  Jerry looked up at his partner. "If we end up bidding the job, you will actually have to look at all this."

  "And if we don't, I won't. You'll make the right decision, you and Toni." Dwight settled deeper into the cushions.

  "What is the job, if it isn't a privileged issue," Geoff asked.

  "Well, when these prints appeared, I got to thinking," Toni said. "There are possibilities for routing cables, maybe also ducting, that never would have occurred to me, without the plans. I'm considering redoing the mechanical system sometime soon, we're running off the original heat and a really patchwork AC." She swallowed the last of her drink. "These lads are electrical contractors in real life, so they might be a good fit for the job, since they're also licensed for mechanical." She turned to Jerry.

  "Sure. Like all builders we prefer new construction. At least in theory, if you build up in the right order, systems get installed without running into each other. A retrofit like this is all about stubbing your toes, especially if the idea is to have little or no down time. It's a jigsaw puzzle. I'd say we're well-equipped to handle it."

  "The first thing I'd do," Geoff said, "is check the plans against the building."

  "Meaning what?" Jerry said.

  "If the job is really intricate, and you want to fit things in with minimal tearing up, you're at the mercy of the blueprints. If they're true, you can see in the dark. If the contractor who did the actual building approximated a little here and fudged a little there, you're back to guessing."

  Dwight sat up. "You're not just a pretty face, Geoffrey. That's right on. There'd be no point to checking everything. But overall dimensions, for one, and internal consistency, to see if the parts add up. And selected specifics. If the plans say this wall is twenty-seven nine, and the tape says twenty-six four, you know there's a problem. A few hours up front could save days in the job."

  "Rehab without plans, rip out everything. Rehab with plans, trust but verify." Geoff bowed.

  "Wisdom compressed to fortune cookie. Wasn't that the Ezra Pound epiphany with the German/Italian dictionary?" Dwight leaned back.

  "Surely, young man, that is secret knowledge of the priesthood?" Honoria said.

  "Before Jerry here lifted me from the gutter, released my inner engineer, and made a man of me, I was an artist. Well, artist by temperament and inclination, there was no actual work."

  "They also serve who lie in the gutter and wait." Ellen had come up behind Geoffrey. "Abraham Lincoln said that." She put her hands on Geoff's shoulders. "Stef and Harold have gone up to bed. Let's follow their example, and allow these good folks, if they wish, to follow it, also."

  Geoff stood, stepped beside his chair, and put his left arm around Ellen. "Good night, everyone, I am summoned."

  chapter tenth

  Geoff sat cross-legged at the head of the huge bed, leaning against the headboard. Ellen sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. She wore a long t-shirt, Geoff his boxer shorts, their usual night clothes, when they wore any.

  "Not what I expected, not at all." Ellen shook her head. "I thought I might hate her and be perversely drawn to him. No, I don't know what I expected."

  "Stef's a sweetie, isn't she? I'm sure she's not as completely straight-through nice as she was when we were children playing lovers. Eighteen years must have left some bruises, mine for a start. She didn't say anything tonight about her first marriage. I always thought he was a creep, not near good enough for her, but that was emotion without evidence. I met him once, by accident, for five minutes, she wasn't around. They were married eight years, I think."

  "Ten, she said."

  "Ah, the girls in the garden in the dark." Geoff stretched his arms over his head, let out his breath. "What was your take on Harold?"

  "Conflicted would be the nice word. Maybe some more years with Stef will repair the tribalism, the racism and homophobia. It happens. I don't think it's core with him, he seems kind of caught up in catch phrases." She recrossed her legs. "He's extremely smart, in abstract ways, I'd trust him with my taxes or mutual funds, I think. But he's kind of a bubble boy, and getting long in the tooth for the boy part."

  "I think you got him. There's a nice tolerant guy in there, the coin collector, history buff, photographer, but he doesn't trust himself and the weird fears rule. I wish somebody else could have done the work on him ten years ago so Stef didn't have to now. She deserves easier."

  "Tell me again why you dumped her? That was what happened, wasn't it?"

  "Yeah, basically. It was all too soft, too considerate. I couldn't be those things, all the time. The harsh angry nasty parts of me couldn't breathe."

  "She made you feel bad when you acted creepy?"

  "It was a very subtle kind of cruelty."

  "Pretty perverse. Doesn't exactly make you sound like a great guy."

  "You'd know."

  "But I do understand, taking it from the other side. I know I can get pissed at you, truly furious, and say so, and act it out. But I know you won't break, and you won't hate me, and we'll get back in balance after a bit. I don't have to hide anything from you." She rolled onto her right side, and stretched out her legs. "Unless I want to."

  "The blade gets hard when blue-hot steel is quenched in the icy bath, not when the lukewarm dips into the tepid."

  "The sex wasn't good?" She reached her arms over her head, stretched full length across the bed.

  "The metaphor was about enduring relationships, not the shallow phallic images you always reduce things to."

  "Me! You monster of evasion. Tell me about the sex."

  "You've seen her. She wasn't any less cute at twenty. The sex was great, she was curious and kind of wild. It was the conversation that was restricted." He looked down the bed at his wife of thirteen years. Her shirt had rolled up over her hips. "You come to me this time."

  ~

  Alistair watched his hard wide hands, trained so thoroughly for death, press the dough flat one more time. He rolled it back into a tube, rolled the tube long, and dusted with flour. His heavy hands pulled the ends of the tube even longer, then made a loop. He threaded the end through, then through again, and patted the knot into a plump oval. He set it on the baking pan, and covered it with a towel. Two more loaves, and I can go to bed; then get up in four hours. It's the training, he thought, including the naps. Semper fi. He'd never thought about food, in those days, it was just fuel. Now food was the center for him, his sanity: trying new recipes, feeding people. He had picked up where he left off as a kid, before he enlisted. And before so many tours in unfriendly places, before the years spent training new marines how to do what marines do and come home safe. There were no regrets, but he was glad the past was past. .

  chapter eleventh �
�� tuesday

  The sideboard in the dining room at breakfast was equipped with the elements of a continental breakfast: there were three fruit juices, a basket of whole fruit, a glass-covered plate of bagels on a warming tray flanked by dishes of capers, red onions, lox, and cream cheese. There were two loaves of fresh-baked bread on a cutting board. Pots of jam and honey, sweet butter and salted butter were on each of the tables. The coffee urns were labeled Kenyan bright and decaffeinated Italian roast and brazil organic blend. The teapots were marked lemon-grass rose and Ceylon black.

  Ellen and Geoff, at ten-past-eight, were not first into the dining room. A small man they had not met sat alone at the table farthest from the door. The family they'd watched playing monopoly had settled in the corner nearest the patio, focused on the breakfast before them with the same intensity they'd had for the board game. They spoke very little and spoke softly. All four wore khaki shorts, sneakers, and sweatshirts. Their shoes and shirts all proclaimed who had made them. The man and woman had round brimmed cotton hats sitting on the table to their left. Both children wore baseball caps. The boy was a Yankee, the girl a Giant, her ponytail threaded through the back of the cap.

  "Ah, I see that the Herberts are ready for the rafts." All seven heads turned to Alistair's voice. He was swaddled in his chef's apron, navy blue trouser cuffs showing below, shirt sleeves rolled above his wrists. He nodded to Ellen and Geoff and the single man, then turned to the Herberts. "You're going up to Hot Springs, is that right?"

  "Yes, there is a bus to take us up-river, then we shall be water-borne back to Asheville for a tour this afternoon of the riverside parks." The man's English was precise and careful, underlain by a slight German accent. His wife looked up smiling at Alistair, the children were cutting the crusts from their slices of bread, dipping them in honey, tilting their heads back to catch drips, then swallowing the crusts. They watched just the honey, the bread, and each other.

  Alistair turned to the man in the corner, "Good morning, Mr. Ross, did you find what you were looking for yesterday afternoon?"

  "I made a good start, thank you, there is more to do." He turned to Ellen and Geoff, "I'm Andy Ross." He was slight, wiry, crew-cut, tanned. His eyes squinted as if the lights were very bright. He wore a polo shirt, pleated khaki pants, leather shoes.

  "This is Ellen, I'm Geoffrey. Fletcher. Nice to meet you." Ross nodded and smiled. They sat at the adjacent table.

  "Help yourselves to breads, juice, coffee, tea." Alistair turned towards the sideboard and swept his arm in a short arc. "I'll bring in our fruit course directly: raspberry-lime parfait, with yogurt or cream." He stepped aside to let Stephanie and Harold into the dining room, and waited for Honoria a few steps behind. "Good morning, everyone, please find seats, and help yourselves to the sideboard."

  Ellen waved Harold and Stephanie to their table. Honoria said, "Good morning, Fletchers." She crossed to the man she did not know. "Would you mind if I joined you? It seems we are the only unaccompanied people here. I am Honoria Staedtler."

  He stood. "Of course, Miss Staedtler, glad to meet you. I'm Andy Ross. Please sit."

  "I shall directly, just let me get some tea first and a piece of Alistair's cranberry-walnut bread." She poured herself a cup of Ceylon tea, set the cup in its saucer on the table, across from Ross. He had taken his Blackberry from the pouch on his belt, checking for messages.

  Dwight came alone into the dining room, nodded vaguely to everyone, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat at one of the three empty tables. He hunched, watching his hands held over the coffee cup, waiting for the coffee to cool to drinking temperature. His hair fluffed unbrushed around his head.

  The sisters, who had looked only slightly similar the night before, were dressed identically this morning in simple linen dresses, carrying identical raffia hats. They set their hats on an empty table and went to the sideboard, decaffeinated coffee for Mary-Beth, herbal tea for Beth-Ann.

  They look ten years younger this morning, Geoff thought. Dwight looks ten years older and ten pounds heavier. That impression faded as Dwight sipped his coffee, now become drinkable. His head lifted, his features cleared, and he looked for the first time around the room. He waved to Geoff, whose glance he seemed to have felt. Jerry joined Dwight, with just a glass of juice. He sat alongside his partner, so they both faced into the room. Jerry put his hand on Dwight's and said something no one else could hear. Dwight laughed, a snort so loud everyone turned to them for a second.

  Marti pushed a cart into the dining room: a dozen clear glass bowls, filled with gelled purple parfait, tiny sprigs of mint, arranged in a circle around each one. Her apron strained across her breasts, they rose over then slipped below the top hem with each breath. She wore a man's dress oxford shirt that was a couple inches snug and gaped between its buttons. Alistair stepped to one side of the cart and presented the dishes to the tables on the right side of the room. Marti served the tables on the left. They ladled out yogurt or heavy cream, as each guest chose, then left the bowls on the sideboard and withdrew.

  "Well, truly a luscious dish, so soft, but yet so firm and healthy," Geoff used the back of his spoon to spread yogurt across the parfait.

  Ellen sliced grooves for the cream to run into. "I guess you can't avoid seeing what presents exactly at the level of your eyes. But you could learn to keep your mouth from dropping open."

  "I've never had that problem with my shirts," Stephanie said. "Must be kind of fun. Ballet boobs just don't have that effect on people." She looked down at the pleats of her blouse.

  "It is nothing but trollopy exhibitionism that prevents her from wearing clothes that fit." Harold shook his head. "That sort of display is simply not appropriate at the breakfast table."

  Ellen laughed suddenly, then stopped herself, choking slightly. "Harold, I'm so sorry. I just had this slide show shoot before my eyes of appropriate and inappropriate displays for all the meals of the day."

  Stephanie laughed, and Harold flushed. "I don't see how it's funny that a girl sets such a low value on herself."

  "Well," Geoff said, "if it isn't funny it also isn't horrifying. It's puppy cute. She's a kid, it's what they do, one way or another, working stuff out." He noticed Ross listening, pretending not to, and Honoria looking frankly straight at their table.

  "Honoria," Geoff said, "you have seen more generations than one battle out from adolescence. Doesn't it come down to just a few variations on a few repeating themes?"

  "Well, when I was a child of a certain age, my ambition was to become a flapper. That seemed to girls then the pinnacle of glamour and style. Then the stock market crashed and we all had to wear underwear again. We did what we could, as I recall, using whatever we had."

  Alistair stepped briefly into the room to assess the progress of the fruit course.

  "I, too, had pretty plumage once," Dwight said, "as the aging Yeats recalled.".

  "Aye, lad, you did, and not done yet," Jerry said.

  Harold lifted his hand and opened his mouth to speak. He speared his spoon into the parfait, instead, eating with his eyes down, his face almost the color of the parfait. He had declined a topping and picked off the sprigs of mint. He swallowed a large mouthful. "Actually," he said, "this is delicious."

  Ellen said, "Yes it absolutely is. And we should finish up appreciatively. Alistair is a-hover with the egg course."

  Marti set an empty tray on a stand by the sideboard. She collected the bowls of yogurt and cream, and cleared the empty dishes. Alistair pushed in the rolling cart as soon as she had carried her tray to the kitchen. Steam was rising from plates of identical omelets, neatly folded, with bulging centers and a trace of brown crisp at the joined edge. He moved quickly, setting one before each guest.

  "Organic, cage-free eggs, of course, organic milk, home-made fresh mozzarella, basil from our greenhouse, diced red pepper, shiitake mushrooms, a slight zest of jalapeno pepper, with tomato sauce fresh frozen from last year's crop. I'd top with black pepper. Marti is comin
g with sausage, both pork from an organic producer in Hot Springs and soy patties made in our kitchen, as you choose. Enjoy." He turned, just missing Marti, who set two platters down, and offered first the soy, then the pork. She left both platters on the warming rack.

  The room stirred briefly as the guests refreshed coffee and juice and bread, then quieted almost completely for several minutes, except for the clatter of forks. There was a second stirring, chairs sliding, cups rattling in a final topping off, quick sampling of the other kind of sausage, another little bit of bread. Wordless sounds of contentment circled the room, soft thuds of napkins plopped onto the tables.

  "Alistair," Ellen said as she saw him standing in the doorway, "you have rendered fourteen people speechless with your omelets."