by Hillary Avis
“That’s her girlfriend,” Bethany said through the crack in the door. “You grabbed the wrong girl.”
“Fine, OK, whatever,” he muttered, his eyes downcast. “Stupid cat’s yours.”
Kimmy squealed and bounced on her heels. Charley couldn’t help grinning as she shut the car door again. “Catch up with you two later.”
As Charley backed the squad car out of the alley, Bethany watched her best friend cuddling the orange cat. Kimmy looked up with a sad expression. “I know we can’t keep him, but thanks for keeping him out of a cage. Hopefully we’ll find him a good home.”
Bethany grinned at her. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I already did.”
Chapter 9
Honor Roll Bakery
“I HAVE A SOLUTION TO your mouse problem.” Bethany grinned at Olive and stepped aside so she could see Kimmy standing behind her, cradling Orange Guy in her arms.
Olive burst out laughing. “Oh, hon, that’s sweet, but the health department isn’t a fan of animals in the kitchen.”
“Tell me about it,” Kimmy said.
“The mice are coming in from the train station, right? So ol’ Orange Guy can patrol the station and catch them before they get in here.”
Olive reached over and petted the cat’s head while she considered the idea. “Let’s check with the stationmaster and see what he says. He’s the one who has to sign off on it. Usually he wouldn’t like it at all, but he’s at his wit’s end over these mice.” She led them through the door that opened into the train station, across the marble-tiled concourse, and down a narrow hallway to the stationmaster’s office.
“Yoo-hoo,” Olive called as she knocked at the door. “Pest control.”
The door swung open and a stocky, balding man with deep forehead creases appeared. “Oh. It’s you. I thought it was the exterminator.”
“Well, Ben, it is, now that you mention it. I’ve got one fuzzy orange killer right here.” She motioned to Kimmy, who stepped forward with the cat.
“He needs a home,” Bethany said. “He could live at the station and combat the mice. Two problems, one solution.”
“And you are?” Ben’s forehead creases became even deeper.
“Bethany. I work the counter at the Honor Roll. And Kimmy here is the sous chef at Café Sabine.”
“We’re both chefs,” Kimmy said. “She’s being modest.”
Ben sighed and sank into the large leather chair behind his desk. “I don’t usually hire chefs for my pest control problems. And I definitely don’t have any felines on the payroll, either.”
Olive gave Bethany and Kimmy a sympathetic smile. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
Just then, Orange Guy leaped out of Kimmy’s arms and disappeared behind a file cabinet. They heard a scuffle and a squeak, and then the cat emerged carrying a freshly killed mouse. Meowing around the mouthful, he jumped onto the desk and stalked up and down in front of Ben, purring, until Ben relented and stroked the cat’s back and tail.
Bethany grinned, a seed of hope germinating in her chest. “He works for free.”
Kimmy nodded. “He got rid of all the rats in the alley behind Café Sabine.”
Orange Guy dropped the mouse onto the desk calendar and began delicately licking his paws and scrubbing his ears. Ben pulled a pair of work gloves out of drawer and used them to move the dead mouse to the trash can beside the desk. “One down, ten thousand to go,” he said.
“Does that mean you’ll keep him?” Olive clasped her hands hopefully.
He nodded. “Trial basis. If he earns his keep, he can stay. He can sleep in the maintenance tunnels at night so he doesn’t get into trouble.”
Kimmy’s face lit up. “Thank you so much! You have no idea how much this means to me!”
“Me, too,” Bethany added. “I might actually have a job now if the bakery can reopen.”
“It’s nothing,” Ben said gruffly. “I’ll try anything to keep this place running. Last week the mice chewed through some wires and took out the whole arrivals and departures board! Week before it was the lights in the restroom. I can hardly afford the repairs. Cat food is cheaper than getting an electrician out once a week, though.”
Bethany chuckled. “I bet! I know how it is when you have to choose which bills to pay.”
Olive nudged her. “You should ask Ben about renting the kiosk next to the bakery while we’re here. It’s been empty since the souvenir shop moved to the historical museum.”
“You said you’re a chef?” Ben asked. “What kind of food?”
“Well, uh...” Bethany stammered. “I’ve been catering...”
Ben snorted. “Don’t think that’ll appeal to the typical Newbridge Station visitor. They’re not planning an event, they’re headed somewhere. Work, home, shopping, whatever.”
Bethany could feel the opportunity slipping away and scrambled to recover. She riffled through her mental index file for recipes that could work in a train station kiosk. Nothing baked—that was Olive’s domain. Nothing French—Café Sabine was just across the street. No fried seafood, not after everything that had happened before. What had she made recently? Hm...maybe I don’t have to say goodbye to the lobster bisque after all!
“What about a soup stand that’s just open at lunchtime? Something quick and comforting might appeal to train commuters.”
Kimmy gasped. “Yes! Her soups are superb! Bethany always helps me with the soup recipes at Café Sabine.”
Bethany grinned at her. “Charley gave me the idea when we were there last night. And I’d still be able to help out at the bakery in the afternoon if you needed me,” she said to Olive.
“Don’t you worry about that.” Olive patted her arm. “I have a feeling that a soup stand outside the bakery door will sell a lot of bread, too. It’ll be win-win.”
“Can’t hurt to try. Better than the place sitting empty.” Ben shrugged and handed her a sheet of paper. “This is the rental agreement. Standard one year lease, first and last due at signing. The only thing to note is that you’ll have to do your food prep elsewhere; only warmers are allowed in the kiosks.”
“You can cook during my prep time at Café Sabine,” Kimmy said quickly. “It’s just right across the street, so you won’t even have to figure out how to get your soup to the station.”
Bethany’s heart sank. As much as she dreamed of her own little restaurant, her bank account only had about five bucks in it. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t afford the deposit, anyway.” The cat must have sensed her disappointment, because he jumped off the desk to curl around her legs and mewed softly. She handed the rental agreement back to the stationmaster.
He looked at the paper in his hand and then down at the cat, and his face softened. “Well. I guess I can waive the deposit this time. I have a feeling this little guy is going to save the station, and I have you to thank for that. Come on, I’ll show it to you and you can decide.”
Bethany’s heart felt like it was about to burst. She followed Ben out to the concourse with Kimmy and Olive close behind and the cat bringing up the rear. He led them to two kiosks shrouded in canvas. They had “Coming Soon” signs draped across the fronts, though it was clear from the faded lettering that the signs had been there for some time. He opened the canvas curtains surrounding the kiosk that stood closest to the Honor Roll.
“Well, this is it. It’s not much. Ancient like the rest of this place.”
Bethany entered the booth and surveyed the wooden countertops, worn smooth from decades of service. They looked like home.
Can this really be happening, after all I’ve been through? It seemed impossible that the end of all this madness was a little restaurant of her own. OK, not exactly a restaurant, but still... “It’s perfect.”
“I wouldn’t say perfect, but I’ll be glad to have the booth rented out.” Ben handed her the rental agreement again. “Just cross out the line about the deposit. And I’ll waive the first month, too, so you can get your feet under you.”
&nbs
p; “Thank you—I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“To us,” Olive said, and Kimmy nodded.
Bethany felt her eyes well up at their wholehearted support, and even Ben surreptitiously wiped away a tear.
“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly. “Welcome to Newbridge Station.”
Bethany lifted the rental agreement. “I’ll get this back to you tonight.”
“Fine, fine. Slip it under the door if I’m not in my office. I better get going—it’s almost time for the rush hour trains. Does he have a name?” Ben motioned to the cat, who was curled up and purring by his feet.
Kimmy shook her head. “I’ve been calling him Orange Guy, but he needs a real name. He’s yours now, so you should pick one.”
Ben rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Let’s see what he answers to. Tiger?” Orange Guy opened one eye, looked at him, and then shut it again.
“Enchilada?” This time Orange Guy didn’t even open his eyes, just gave a deep sigh. Ben shrugged. “I don’t know, then.”
Kimmy patted Ben on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much about what name you pick. He’ll follow you anywhere no matter what you call him.”
Ben’s face brightened. “I know! Caboose?” The cat yawned and stood up, arching its back in a luxuriant stretch. Then he sat, staring at Ben expectantly. Ben chuckled. “Guess that’s it. Come on, Caboose. I’ll show you around.” He started off across the concourse, and the fluffy orange cat trotted along obediently behind him.
Bethany couldn’t help melting a little at the sight. “Aw. Of course a stationmaster would name his cat after a train car!”
“The question now is what are you going to name the kiosk?” Kimmy asked, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Bethany’s Best?”
Bethany ran her hands over the smooth countertop and shook her head. “I don’t want to name it after myself.”
“Why not?”
“Well, Charley gave me the idea to serve soup, Olive helped me rent the kiosk, and you’re letting me cook in your kitchen. We did it together, just like we solved the mystery of the missing library computers together. I think the name shouldn’t just be about me. What do you think about Souperb Soups?”
“I did say your cooking is superb, didn’t I? I think it’s a great name.”
“You know we’ll help you in any way we can,” Olive added, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. “We’re right here if you need us.”
“I love that all my friends had a hand in making this a reality.” Bethany choked out the words, unable to stop the tears from streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you so much.”
Kimmy scurried around the counter to wrap Bethany up in a huge bear hug. “It couldn’t happen to a nicer person. You’re going to knock ’em dead with this place.”
REST IN SPLIT PEAS
A Death du Jour Mystery #2
Chapter 1
Monday
BETHANY BRADSTREET leaned over the stock pot and inhaled the intoxicating scent of her latest creation. It was almost ready—she just had to whisk in the eggs and lemon juice. She scooped out a few cups of steaming broth into a mixing bowl.
“Do you have a sec to pour for me?”
“Why don’t you use the whisk attachment for the mixer?” Kimmy asked, wiping her hands on her Café Sabine apron.
Bethany shrugged. “I don’t know—I just like to do things by hand. For some reason it tastes different.”
“You’re right. I can always tell when chefs use some elbow grease. I’d never get plates in front of diners if I did everything by hand, though.” Kimmy poured a slow, steady stream of beaten eggs into the broth while Bethany furiously beat the mixture with a whisk so the eggs wouldn’t curdle in the hot soup. “Avgolemono—brave choice. How are you going to make sure it doesn’t turn into scrambled eggs while you serve it?”
Bethany laughed. “Very careful babysitting. That’s the upside of only making one soup per day! It gets all the love.”
“I want some love!” Charley poked her head through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Kimmy rolled her eyes and gave her girlfriend a peck on the lips. Charley shook her head. “No—I meant I want some of Bethany’s soup.”
Kimmy’s mouth dropped open in mock dismay. “Should I be jealous that you like Bethany’s cooking better than mine?”
Charley blinked innocently. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know, because you come by the café every morning now that Bethany makes her soup here, when you never did before?”
Charley kissed Kimmy again. “You know I like your home cooking. All the French stuff here is too fancy for me, though. Give me a bowl of comfort food any day.”
Bethany ladled out two servings of the avgolemono and added a pinch of chopped herbs to the top of each. “What would I do without my two professional tasters?” she asked, hoping to stop their argument before it started. She handed them each a spoon.
“Fine.” Kimmy rolled her eyes and dipped her spoon into the bowl. “Oh, wow, Bethany! This is fantastic. Just the right amount of lemon—and those herbs! Marjoram?”
Bethany nodded.
“Mmm,” Charley said. “What did you say this was? Avocado-mole?”
“Avgolemono,” Bethany said. “It’s Greek.”
“Well, it’s all-good-emono if you ask me.” Charley glanced at her watch. “Can I take it to go? I’ve gotta get to work.”
“Shoot, is it that time already?” Bethany slammed a lid on the stock pot and heaved it onto a dolly. “Come by the kiosk later—law enforcement eats free.”
“Better not tell my buddies that, or you won’t have any left for paying customers.” Charley grinned at Bethany and then tugged the ends of Kimmy’s braids. “I’ll see you later, hon.”
“Hm.” Kimmy crossed her arms. “Will you?”
Charley batted her eyelashes. “I don’t know—are you going to make those yummy little cookies dipped in chocolate?”
Kimmy motioned to the rows of madeleines cooling on a rack behind her. “Every day.”
“Then you will definitely see me later. Want help loading, Bethany?”
Bethany nodded. “I could use a hand. Thanks for letting me cook here, Kimmy.”
Kimmy patted her on the back. “Don’t let Charley eat it all on the way out.”
Together, Charley and Bethany wheeled the dolly out the back door of Café Sabine and loaded the stock pot onto the cargo trailer hitched to Bethany’s yellow bike.
Charley waved as she mounted her own bike and headed off to the police station. Bethany locked the empty dolly to the bike rack and gingerly pedaled across the street to the train station, careful not to jar the trailer as she navigated the curb and a manhole cover. She dismounted and pushed her bike through a vaulted entrance that seemed a little too grand for such a small depot.
Newbridge Station was as old as the town, but it was tiny—only a single platform in each direction, and the ZamRail trains only ran on weekdays, mostly to service commuters headed to New Haven. The compact concourse housed a small bakery, the ticket office, and a circle of antique benches for passengers to wait on, and not much else. The Souperb Soups kiosk, Bethany’s pride and joy, was squeezed against the wall across from the bakery with another kiosk. Nothing in the station was glamorous except the beautiful arched entryway and vaulted ceiling. Still, it was a lovely, historic building with enough foot traffic that Bethany’s business was brisk.
She wheeled the bike to the back of her kiosk and unloaded the avgolemono onto the warmer, careful not to scuff the worn marble floor. She lit the burner and turned it down as low as it would go so the eggs wouldn’t curdle in the broth. “OK, little soup—be good while I lock up old Daisy, here.”
When she got back, a small line was already forming by her booth, but before she could get behind the counter and start serving, Olive flew out of the Honor Roll Bakery toward her, turquoise earrings jangling and her hands fluttering wildly.
“Oh, honey!” she said
, her large brown eyes full of concern. “Don’t look. Just ignore her.”
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
Olive put her hand to her mouth, a deep crease forming between her eyebrows. “Oh, I can’t even say it—I don’t want it to be true. It’s just too much. She’s just too much.”
Bethany groaned. “Say no more.” She knew exactly who Olive was talking about—only one person in Newbridge was too much for Olive, and that was Marigold Wonder. She rented the kiosk next to Bethany’s and made weird smoothies that were supposed to be healthy out of things like mushrooms and algae. During Marigold’s grand opening last fall, she’d handed out pamphlets of anti-gluten propaganda that Olive did not appreciate, to put it mildly. “What’s she making now, dirt smoothies?”
“Maybe you can hang up a curtain so you don’t have to see it,” Olive said.
Bethany glanced over at Marigold’s kiosk and almost fell on the floor. The booth was shrouded in canvas and had a big banner that said “CLOSED—Grand Re-Opening Tomorrow.” Marigold was teetering on a ladder as she installed a new sign: Souperior Soups.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
Olive shook her head. “I know. I know.”
Bethany marched over to the base of the ladder. “What the heck, Marigold?!”
“Isn’t it amazing?” Marigold picked her way down the ladder, carefully placing her spiked heels on each rung, and gazed up at the sign admiringly. “Newbridge isn’t very health conscious, so the smoothies weren’t really working out here. I looked at your lines”—she motioned to the people standing at Bethany’s kiosk—“and I knew a good idea when I saw one!”
“Maybe if you made your smoothies out of something other than sticks and leaves—” Bethany sputtered.
“Too late now, I already changed the sign. Anyway, making soup is going to be fun! We can be soup buddies. Do you have a mirror? I probably look awful after sweating over all the renovations.” Marigold fluffed her bleach-blonde curls, her fingers sparkling with rings. “Oh—look who I’m asking. Of course you don’t.”
