Bel, Book, and Scandal

by Maggie McConnon

  And there was Brendan Joyce, dancing by himself in the middle of the floor, a champion Irish step dancer whose irrepressible joy at flying through the air was caught in the still photograph. I turned the page quickly.

  “It was a beautiful day, Mary Ann. You were a gorgeous bride,” I said, flipping to the end of the album and pushing it back to her.

  “Kevin and I wanted to thank you again in person and see if you and Brendan wanted to come to dinner,” she said. “I don’t want to let too much time pass before we all get together.”

  I looked from Kevin to Mary Ann; I hadn’t told anyone what had happened, so how would they know? “Um, Brendan and I broke up,” I said, pursing my lips in a grim smile. “Right after the wedding. I guess you wouldn’t have known that.”

  Mary Ann put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Bel,” she said, shocked. “I had no idea.”

  Kevin shook his head sadly, looking at his wife, willing her to stop talking. He was uncomfortable and I knew that from years of knowing him, watching him rock from side to side, something he had done since we were kids. “I’m sorry, too, Bel.” He looked out the window. “He’s a nice guy.”

  I didn’t know why they cared that my short-lived romance had died a quick death. They seemed more upset than they should be, but maybe they were aware, like everyone else in this town, that there were exactly three single guys, Brendan being one, plus the guy who took tickets at the train station (eighty if he was a day) and the third, the shop teacher at the high school who was of indeterminate origin, but suffice it to say, Foster’s Landing wasn’t a place that bred warm-and-fuzzy people.

  Maybe not, I thought, Brendan’s lie of omission, the photograph in his wallet, something that I would find hard to forgive. He knew what Amy had meant to me and he had kept his feelings for her secret. What would it have taken to say, “Well, Bel, I had a crush on her in high school and I never really got over it”? Or, “I know it sounds weird, but I’ve always wondered where she went, so I carried a photo of her around hoping I would see her”?

  Anything. He could have said anything except what he had said.

  “I don’t know where that came from.”

  Mary Ann and Kevin were looking at me and I realized it a beat before they started to worry why I had fallen silent. “Nothing makes me happier than to have you be so happy,” I said, and to my own ears it sounded relatively convincing. It was still a shock to see them together, to know that they were married. I had known it in my peripheral consciousness, but every day, or so it seemed, I was reminded of them and their togetherness.

  Today just underscored the fact that they were married, they always would be, and Kevin would never be mine again, even in friendship. He had married her and that had changed everything.

  CHAPTER Thirteen

  I was in the kitchen the next day when Dad called over from the office. I was bent over the stainless-steel counter, thinking about the proper proportions for a pudding that I wanted to make, knowing I could go to my phone to look it up but stubbornly trying to recall the specifics from the deep recesses of my recipe-packed brain.

  “Belfast! Phone!”

  There was an extension in the kitchen, an old-timey wall phone with a long, twisted cord, but I never picked it up because the call was never for me. This time, it was.

  “Bel?” the person said when I answered. “Alison Bergeron.”

  “Hi, Alison,” I said. “What can I do for you?” I realized that with everything that had gone on, my trips to Wooded Lake, I had never followed up with her about the booking for her stepdaughter’s wedding.

  “Listen, I know this is short notice, but my stepdaughter has a free afternoon and I’m not teaching today. Since she knows her father isn’t all that excited about the wedding I thought we could—”

  “Sure,” I said, cutting her off from a long explanation as to why they wanted to come by. I welcomed the interruption, the distraction. Talking about a wedding and what we could do here at Shamrock Manor would be just what the doctor ordered. “Come on up. What time works for you?” I looked up at the big clock on the wall: ten thirty.

  “How about noonish?” she asked. “If we leave now, that gives us plenty of time.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll make us lunch,” I said.

  “Oh, no need!” she said. “We don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s not an imposition,” I said. “It will give your stepdaughter an idea of what we can do here. Any personal favorites?”

  “Well, she loves chicken. Her fiancé, and I should have mentioned this earlier, is gluten-free, so we’ll need to take that into account.”

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  “Lactose intolerant, too,” she added.

  “Still okay.”

  “And a vegan.”

  “Okay, now you’re pushing it,” I said, laughing. “Don’t worry about it. I am a whiz with Brussels sprouts.”

  In the background, I heard the sound of crying. “Sorry,” she said. “I have to run. See you later.” I heard her call out to a child in the background before she hung up.

  I went to the refrigerator and looked in to see what I had. I had some chicken cutlets that I would turn into a nice marsala, and with a few key ingredients that I happened to have I whipped up a nutty rice pilaf. A fresh garden salad completed the meal. I was working on a vinaigrette when Cargan came into the kitchen to check in.

  “For me?” he asked, picking a nut out of the pilaf.

  I slapped his hand. “No. Prospective booking. The couple that was here last week. The one where the father of the bride isn’t terribly enthusiastic about this union…”

  Cargan raised an eyebrow.

  “Age. She’s too young, according to him. But the stepmother is on board and wants to bring the bride here because the wedding is Memorial Day. She knows they need to book ASAP.”

  “I’ll say,” Cargan said. “Despite being a veritable house of horrors,” he added, referencing one murdered guest at our cousin’s wedding and a murdered groom at another, “we still seem to be of interest to some people. Crazy people, but some people nonetheless.”

  “Might have something to do with Dad’s elastic billing policy,” I said. “Have you spoken to him about being more competitive?”

  Cargan’s look said it all.

  “All right, forget it,” I said. “I know it’s a lost cause.”

  “Baby steps, Belfast,” he said. “Baby steps.” He went into the walk-in freezer to see what was available, if I needed him to place an order. “Looks like you’re all set,” he said.

  The newspaper that Alison had left behind was sitting on the counter, the page open to the story about Love Canyon. Cargan gave it a once-over and I steeled myself for the realization that was sure to dawn on his face when he saw the photo of Amy, very much alive, very much free, happier than I had ever seen her in Foster’s Landing, the tilt of her head, the looseness of her body. When he looked up at me, though, there was nothing, just a blank look, a look that he had no doubt practiced for many years as an undercover, no recognition of our long-lost friend in the faded photograph in the wrinkled newspaper.

  The phone rang in the office and Dad called out to me to pick up in the kitchen. At the other end of the line was the voice of someone I never expected to hear from again.

  “Belfast McGrath? Chelsea Mertens.”

  CHAPTER Fourteen

  I held my breath for a second, not knowing if she was going to reprimand me again for inadvertently pretending to be Francesca Dell’atoria or not buying one of her works when I visited her studio.

  “I don’t have long and I will deny this if it ever comes up or is revealed, but you seemed very upset about your friend.”

  “I was,” I said. “I am.”

  “I did see her,” she said.

  I leaned against the wall, holding the phone against my ear so hard that it throbbed after I hung up.

  “I saw Archie again about fourteen years ago. No one knows, not my
husband or my brother or my daughter.” She paused. “And I’d like to keep it that way. I just wanted to confront him. I had some outstanding issues with him. Nothing happened but I would rather that no one know.”

  “Of course.”

  “Your friend was there. She worked in the kitchen. It was more like a summer camp at that point than a commune, but I will tell you that she was safe. I never talked to her, but it was a safe place for her.” She paused. “I’m risking a lot by telling you this and frankly, I’m not sure why she seemed scared and frightened. She was running from something.”

  “I’ll never tell anyone, Ms. Mertens. I promise,” I said, even as my stomach turned sour at the thought that Amy had been on the run.

  “Thank you for saying that.” In the background, I could hear the sound of a cat crying, low and mournful, the sound punctuating our conversation. “I don’t know why she was there or what she was running from, but…”

  “She was safe,” I said, finishing her sentence.

  “Yes.” She let out a sigh. “Just so you know. Maybe you can have some peace now.”

  “Not until I find her,” I said, but the line had gone dead. I hung up the phone and looked around the kitchen, wondering where this path would lead me, if I could get any closer to finding her. Behind me, the door to the kitchen swung open and May arrived, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her chef’s coat unbuttoned.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves so she could begin her tasks for the day.

  “Something like that,” I said as I stood by the phone wondering what to do next. May, seeing that I was going to be useless without direction, gave me my marching orders which wasn’t common but this was an unconventional kitchen. An hour later, we had a meal prepared for our tasting, one that never would have come together without my sous’s artful direction.

  In the dining room, after we served the entrée, it was clear that we would most likely get this booking.

  “This is the best food I’ve ever eaten,” Erin Crawford said, polishing off the last of her chicken and rice pilaf. It really wasn’t a very elaborate dish, but the flavors were spot-on; I knew that and now Erin Crawford knew it, too. The food at her wedding would be wonderful, and that, coupled with the view that she faced from the table in the dining room, meant her wedding would be perfect. The earthy Pinot Noir was the perfect complement to the meal and the two glasses Erin had drunk had probably swayed her toward a booking. I had resisted the urge to proof her. Her father was correct: If she wasn’t too young to get married, she certainly looked too young. A baby, really. A little sprite of a person with long blond hair and a face that belied her twenty-four years.

  Alison hadn’t mentioned that Christine, Erin’s mother and Crawford’s ex-wife, would be with them, but there was no tension among the group. They all seemed like one big, happy family and I wondered how they had achieved that with what seemed like ease. Christine and Alison acted as old friends would, joking with each other and each deferring to the other when an opinion was needed on wedding meal details.

  “Alison, this place is a find,” Christine said, sipping her wine. “I would have leaned toward Connecticut, but coming up to the Hudson Valley makes perfect sense especially since Fez’s family is up here, too.”

  “Yeah, Crawford and I went looking for an open winery last Saturday and hit upon this place.” Alison turned to me. “Oh, speaking of that, Bel, I had a newspaper with me that day and I think I left it here. You don’t happen to still have it, do you?”

  My face caved in but not because I didn’t have the paper anymore, but because I had saved it. And I wanted to keep it. I had been distracted and preoccupied most of this lunch, Chelsea Mertens’ words still ringing in my ears, that dolphin charm on Tweed’s wrist, being the only things I could think of.

  “It’s okay if you don’t have it,” Alison said. “It had a list of antique places that I wanted to keep, but I’ll look them up online.”

  “I have it,” I said. “It’s in my apartment. I’ll get it when we’re done eating.” I had brought it over there before they had arrived, stashing it for safekeeping. Dad was a vigilant recycler and Cargan was nosy. I didn’t want it to go missing when I wasn’t around or was not paying attention.

  “Great!” she said. “There was also an article on some crazy commune that I wanted to finish reading. Love Canyon?” she said, looking at Christine. “Did you ever hear of that place? It sounded nuts.”

  Christine gave a little shrug. “Not that I recall. Love Canyon? Sounds interesting,” she said, laughing.

  “Sounds like the kind of place Crawford would love,” Alison said. She turned to me. “He’s not exactly what you’d call ‘Mr. Romance.’ And a commune? That would send him completely over the edge.”

  “Ew,” Erin said, finishing her wine. “Can we not talk about my father and romance in the same sentence?”

  The meal finished, I got up. “Save room for cookies,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the kitchen, before grabbing the cookies, I poked my head into the office. “Dad, Alison Bergeron is back with her stepdaughter, Erin. Erin’s mother is here, too. You may want to give them the grand tour once we finish up in the dining room.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Belfast,” Dad said, putting on a pair of large sunglasses. “Better?” he asked.

  “Frankly, Dad, the black eye is better than the sunglasses. You look like a bad guy from a Bond movie.” I walked over and took them off his face. “You can explain about the Christmas tree and the accident.”

  “And my lazy sons?” he asked. “Can I explain about them?” He pushed away from the desk and smoothed down the front of his shirt, a green polo that had a stitched representation of the Manor on the left breast, “Shamrock Manor” underneath it. As if there were any doubt. The Manor’s architecture was pretty distinctive. “Okay. Showtime.”

  Dad walked into the dining room and proceeded to charm the pants off of the bride-to-be and her mother. Alison stayed at the table and watched them go off. “This is their moment,” she said, looking at me. “Mother and daughter. Not mother, daughter, and crazy stepmother,” she said, laughing. “I’ve got a few years until I might have to do this again.”

  “You have children?” I asked.

  “A daughter. Bea. Named after Crawford’s late aunt,” she said. “She’s four.”

  “Bea Crawford. Nice name,” I said. “If you wait here a second, I’ll run over to the apartment and get the paper.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said, and before I could protest that that wouldn’t be necessary we were on the front porch of the Manor and then climbing up the steps to my second-floor apartment above Dad’s studio. “I’d love to see where a chef lives.”

  “You’ll be disappointed,” I said.

  The door was unlocked and I steeled myself for the mess that would greet us. I stepped in. Not too bad. Not too great but not terrible. There was a wet towel hanging on the bathroom door; I grabbed it, threw it into the tub, and slammed the bathroom door before Alison could get a good look.

  She walked into the living room. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she said, hands on hips. “You’re not planning on staying, are you?” she said.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Looks like a temporary residence,” she said. She grimaced. “Man, that was rude. I’m sorry. I have this problem, see. I say the first thing that comes into my head.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “To be honest, when I came back, it was a temporary situation. But the longer I’m here, the clearer it’s become that I’m staying.”

  “You happy about that?” she asked.

  I thought about it. “It’s where I need to be right now.”

  “Then, that’s your answer,” she said. “But you need curtains. For privacy.”

  “That’s the cop’s wife in you talking,” I said. “My brother Cargan says the same thing.�
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  “He a cop?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure I could say that he was and immediately regretted mentioning him. He had been deep undercover for years and I didn’t know if his identity was still a secret. I didn’t answer her question. “What kind of curtains?”

  She eyed me before turning to the window. “A valance. And some sheers, maybe? Would really dress the place up,” she said. “But what do I know? I still have old blinds in my daughter Bea’s room that have been there since husband number one.”

  I spied the paper on the coffee table and handed it to her reluctantly. “Here you go,” I said, holding on to it a second too long.

  She held it in her hand. “Do you want it?” she asked. “Is there something in there that you want to find?”

  I looked at the window, the one without the curtains. “Not something.”

  She cocked her head. “I’m not following.”

  “Someone.”

  CHAPTER Fifteen

  They had taken two cars, Erin traveling with her mother and Alison driving alone. After a quick call to Crawford to make sure he’d be home in time to get Bea from day care, I found myself in Alison’s Subaru traveling the same highway that I had traveled a few days earlier, the two of us headed back to Wooded Lake. I had told her the whole story, start to finish including how I had been to Wooded Lake already, had e-mailed the author of the article but hadn’t heard back from him, and had visited Chelsea Mertens in Farringville. How the artist had called me and told me she had seen Amy. I told Alison everything, but I wasn’t sure why.