And right now I was hoping to enjoy some cowboy eye candy.
The door opened and there was a collective groan when snow blew into the diner and landed on some of the customers seated near the door.
Sheesh.
Ty should have waited until the outside door had closed before he opened the inside door, but the wind took it. He mumbled a sheepish “sorry” to the folks sitting nearby, took his cowboy hat off, and brushed off the plastic bonnet that protected his hat.
How cute!
The plastic bonnet reminded me of my aunt Helen’s living room, with her plastic-covered sofa and chairs. I used to stick to the sofa whenever I wore shorts, and my father loved to joke about the covers as he drove us all home after our visit. But Aunt Helen was proud of how the plastic kept her furniture just like new.
“Isn’t it way too early for this kind of weather? When is this stuff ever going to stop falling?” Ty snapped, unzipping his bomber jacket, shaking it out, and hanging it on a peg.
“August,” someone shouted.
“I believe it,” Ty said.
“Amateur,” I mumbled. “It’s only January.”
But then I remembered that this was only Ty’s third winter in Sandy Harbor. It was my second as owner of the Silver Bullet and the eleven housekeeping cottages on the point (there used to be twelve, but that’s another story). I also own a big Victorian farmhouse with three floors, a bunch of rooms, and a bunch of bathrooms, because my late uncle Porky loved company and loved porcelain.
I loved it here in Sandy Harbor. I loved my staff, the villagers, the closeness, and the camaraderie. We were a tight-knit community, and if someone needed help, then help they’d get—no questions asked!
Nancy arrived with some orders, interrupting my ogling. “Two cowboys on a raft, wheat. One deadeye with sausage, sourdough. One pig between two sheets, sourdough. And two cows, done rare—and make them cry. And, Trixie, the two cows are taking a walk.”
Nancy loves her “Dinerese.” And over the years I’ve come to love it, too. It’s like our own special language. I got the two Western omelets frying and the wheat bread onto the toaster Ferris wheel. I got the water boiling for the two deadeyes—poached eggs—and put two orders of sourdough bread on the wheel. I cut slices of raw onions to make the cows, or hamburgers, “cry” and toasted their buns. When the meat was ready, I plated everything and boxed up the hamburgers for their walk.
Just then the back door opened and Juanita Holgado came bustling in.
“This weather sure is something. I need a vacation, Boss Trixie. Like now!”
“Whenever you want a vacation, just let me know.”
Juanita shook off her coat, pulled off a brightly colored hat, and stomped the snow off her boots. After unzipping and removing her boots, she slipped into a pair of rubber clogs.
Today Juanita wore her signature chef pants with red and green peppers on them. My signature pants were covered in red tomatoes. The other cook, Cindy Sherlock, had pizza slices on hers.
I ordered them especially for us because they all had special meanings for us. Juanita loved to eat peppers and feature them in her recipes.
Cindy was a wonder with her crispy-edged pizza dough, and everyone loved her specialty pizzas. Sometimes she couldn’t keep up with the pizza orders and one of us would have to help her.
As for me, I loved tomatoes, especially in the summer, when I could pick them right off the vine and eat them. As I looked out at the blizzard, I remembered how warm and sweet they taste fresh from the garden. Yum. I know I shouldn’t, but I carry a salt shaker in my pocket for occasions just like that.
And when I do pick the tomatoes, I can them and freeze them. Then, all throughout the year, I make spaghetti sauce, pizza sauce, marinara sauce, and anything else I can think of.
As I loaded more bread onto the Ferris wheel, I thought of my other alleged cook, Bob, who had come with the diner and whom I’ve never met.
Bob served in the army with Uncle Porky, and it was Uncle Porky who’d hired him as a cook. When I took over, Bob kept calling in sick from Atlantic City, Vegas, Connecticut, and other casinos . . . er . . . I mean specialist physicians.
Bob only ever called in sick to Juanita, but the next time he called, I told Juanita that I wanted to talk to him. Bob was probably in Vegas right now, I thought, sighing to myself. At least he was warm, unlike us.
Juanita’s arrival meant that she was ready to start her shift and that mine was finally over. I grabbed my mug of cold coffee, tossed it down the drain, and rinsed it off. I figured I would get a fresh cup in the diner and unwind for a little while before I headed home for my morning nap.
Pushing open the kitchen doors, I paused to take in the scene. The diner patrons were completely silent, which was unusual, but then I realized there was relentless pounding on the roof. It sounded like the place was going to shake apart.
“What on earth is going on?” I asked, to no one in particular.
Ty answered. “It’s hail. And they’re as big as softballs. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Terrific,” I grumbled. “What’s next?”
Just as I said that, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. There was a collective gasp from my customers as the building creaked and groaned.
I hope the Silver Bullet holds up.
Chapter 2
While refilling my mug with fresh coffee, I replenished everyone’s coffee at the counter. Just as I was about to do likewise for those in booths and at tables in the side room, Colleen, another waitress, took the pots—regular and decaf—away from me.
“You finished your shift, Trixie. You must be tired. Go sit down and talk to that delicious cowboy,” she said with a pointed smirk, her dark ponytail dancing as she spun on her heel and walked away to make a lap around the diner to refill coffee.
I had to lean in to hear her, though. The hail seemed to be pounding on every side of my diner.
I hoped that Clyde and Max had taken shelter somewhere safe. No sense trying to keep up with the current massive weather mess.
The hail eventually slowed, then stopped, and everyone started to breathe easy again. Pretty soon the cordial din of chitchat and people eating returned.
Ty and I both walked over to the side window at the same time to see if there was any visible damage.
“It turned back to snow,” he said, as we looked out. “And it’s really coming down again. I’d better get going. I’m sure some crazies are trying to drive in this.”
I sighed. I couldn’t understand why anyone would risk their life or anyone else’s to drive in these conditions. But it happened regularly.
Then Ty’s radio went off. And so did most everyone’s cell phone or radio. He listened to the static-filled device as Deputy Vern McCoy’s disjointed voice came through.
I flashed back to my days with Deputy Doug and the “let’s get together code” that he and his young chickie had devised via his radio.
From the grim look on Ty’s face, I could see that this wasn’t a booty call but something rather serious.
“What?” I asked Ty. “What’s going on?”
But Ty didn’t have to answer my question. “The roof of the library collapsed” was the response twittered around the diner.
Right about then all my customers stood up at the same time, shrugged into coats, pulled on their gloves, and plopped hats on their heads. That was the thing about small towns—in a crisis, everyone helped one another out, no questions asked.
“Thank goodness the library was closed,” Ty said, slipping into his own jacket.
I sighed. “A couple of years ago it was the courthouse. Last year it was the American Legion and now the library. What’ll it be next?”
He adjusted the rain bonnet on his cowboy hat. “Maybe we need some roof inspectors to come in and take a look at some of
the buildings to make sure they’re structurally sound—at least before anyone gets seriously hurt. The weather here is just plain . . .”
“Hideous?” I supplied.
“Yeah.” He swung his hat and plopped it on his head, tapping it with a couple of fingers into a comfortable spot.
I glanced out the window again at the fast-falling snow. “Ty, can you at least call Karen and get her or someone else to plow your way? It’s going to be tough to drive out there, and all these people are going to drive either down the highway, where there is zero visibility, or into downtown, where there are narrow streets and there is nowhere to put the snow.”
“It’s already been done. You must have missed that on the radio.”
“A police radio is like Dinerese,” I said. “You have to develop an ear for it. I never did.”
“See you later, Trixie.” He put his gloves on and turned to the big line of villagers who were gathering in the center aisle of my diner, ready to respond.
Ty raised a hand for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, please listen up really quick. I want everyone to take their time driving in this weather. The village plows have cleared a path for us, but it’s still treacherous out there. And from what I understand, no one was in the library, so there is no rush. We’ll try to tarp it to save what we can, but first the village engineer, Emmett Woolsey, will decide if what’s left of the building is stable enough for us to go in there and do some damage control.”
Ty’s radio went off again. Same type of mumbling, same static.
“I stand corrected,” Ty said. He hooked his radio onto his belt and was ready to rush out the door as if his jeans—which fit perfectly (not that I’d noticed)—were on fire. “I have to go.”
“Is anyone hurt?” I asked.
“Can’t say.”
He never can say.
“Please call me. I have a diner full of people who care,” I instructed.
He didn’t answer. He was sliding down the sidewalk to his big black monolith of an SUV. I kidded him about it, but a mega truck or an SUV was pretty much mandatory in these parts, especially in the winter months.
“Did I hear the police dispatcher say something about the ‘Tidy Trio’ on the radio?” Leo Sousa, an EMT, asked, just as his own radio went off.
“I heard that, too,” Megan Hunter said, then turned to me. “The Tidy Trio is the town’s nickname for Donna Palmeri, Sue Lewandursky, and Mary Ann Glading. They’ve been cleaning the library for years.” Megan owned an antiques shop and restoration business in downtown Sandy Harbor. I hadn’t spent a lot of time getting to know her, but from what I knew, she was a bundle of energy, like an elf at Christmas. “I sure hope they’re okay.”
Everyone’s phone went off again. “Tidy Trio” was murmured throughout the diner. And what few customers were left dropped their forks and stood, slipping into their coats, boots, and hats.
I held open the exit door as almost everyone hurried out.
“Be careful!” I said.
My plea was echoed by all the people who had been left behind, with unfinished meals on the tables and the bills.
The Silver Bullet was quiet now. Only a handful of customers dotted the inside of the diner, eating in relative silence, thinking and praying that the Tidy Trio were okay.
It seemed like an eternity before Ty called, and I was buzzed on enough coffee to float a battleship.
“They’re all okay,” Ty said in answer to my unspoken question. “They were just scared out of their wits by all the noise. The big stained-glass dome is now in shards on the floor. Luckily, they were away from the worst part of it when the roof collapsed.”
I looked up to see that every pair of eyes was trained on me. “They’re all okay, Deputy Brisco said. Just scared.”
There was a round of applause, and a semijovial atmosphere returned to the Silver Bullet.
“How did the rest of the library fare?” I asked Ty.
“Everything’s either completely ruined or damaged with the exception of the archive room and a couple of offices. When this roof decided to cave in, it did a bang-up job. It’s too late to tarp the books. They are gone. All gone.”
“Oh no! Not all those beautiful books,” I said. “And all that marble!”
“The marble is okay. But it’s now a marble skating rink.”
“Sheesh.”
“I gotta go, Trixie,” he said.
“Wait! Ty, tell everyone there that I’ll deliver hot coffee and sandwiches.”
“You’re a good egg, Trixie Matkowski.”
I smiled. “Good to know.”
“Bye,” Ty said.
I turned to the patrons again. “Deputy Brisco said that almost all of the books are ruined.”
My heart was breaking. I’d grown up in libraries and I loved the sounds and smells of them. As a voracious reader, I loved to touch, feel, and smell a book in my hand and get lost in the world of words.
“I sure hope all that beautiful wood wasn’t ruined,” Megan Hunter said. “Or those beautiful desks and brass lamps! That would be such a shame!”
Nursery-school teacher Jane O’Connell stood. “We definitely have to have a fund-raiser to repair the library and get replacement books.”
“Yeah!” Several fists pumped the air.
“Maybe we should have a chili cook-off contest,” Lorraine added. “A cooking contest is something we haven’t tried lately.”
“Please, no.” I shook my head, getting into the excitement. “Everyone does chili cook-offs. We need to come up with something bigger—something different and more original, something that will get some real attention.”
“What do you have in mind, Trixie?” Megan asked, listening intently.
I thought for a while, then snapped my fingers. “How about we host a macaroni and cheese cook-off? It’s a pretty easy dish to make, so a lot of people could participate, and we’ll see who can make theirs stand out the most. They’ll get first prize. We could have three prizes—gold, silver, and bronze.”
“I nominate Trixie Matkowski to be the chairperson of the library fund-raiser,” said Jean Vermer, whom I’d hunt down later.
“Wha—”
“Don’t worry, Trixie,” Megan assured me quickly. “I’ll help you out. So will most of the village—whoever’s able.”
“I second the nomination,” said Tess Drennan.
“All those in favor, say aye,” Megan yelled.
Oh no! I’d love to take on something so much fun as a cooking contest, but these days I didn’t even have the time to tie my sneakers.
“Aye!”
I smiled, grateful that my friends had so much faith in me. It’s not like I didn’t want to help, but I had just chaired the Miss Salmon Contest and had housed way too many of the contestants for way too long.
I was simply pooped! But as long as I had a lot of help, I could do it and would have a lot of fun.
“The ayes have it!” said Megan. “You’re the chairperson of the library fund-raiser, Trixie, and we are having a macaroni and cheese cook-off.”
“I’ll do my best, but remember, I’ll need help—lots of help.”
“Like I said, I’ll be your cochairperson,” Megan announced to a round of applause. “I’ll contact an old sorority sister of my mother’s from Sandy Harbor High. They’ve kept in touch throughout the years. My mother tells me that this certain sorority sister is breezing through town on her way to Ottawa so she can tape her TV show there. I’ll call Mom and ask her to contact her for us. Just wait until you all hear this name: Priscilla Finch-Smythe.”
There was a general sense of awe around the diner. Add me to the list. I loved watching Priscilla on TV. She was famous for making basic comfort food and was renowned for her many published cookbooks, her latest being Comforting Comfort Food by the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food.<
br />
“So what do you think about Mabel Cronk coming to town to judge the contest, Trixie?” Megan asked, blowing on her nails and then buffing them on her blouse.
“Mabel Cronk? Who’s that? I thought you said Priscilla Finch-Smythe was coming to judge it.”
“They are one and the same person.”
“I guess you can’t be a TV personality with a name like Mabel Cronk,” I said with a wry smile.
“Oh, Trixie!” Megan shook my biceps until my teeth were ready to fall out. “You’re a scream.”
Megan continued chatting. “If Priscilla agrees, and I can’t see why she wouldn’t, I was thinking the first prize could be a weekend in New York City with Priscilla and an appearance on her TV show to cook the winning mac and cheese recipe—since it’s a comfort food. Wouldn’t that be incredible? We could get real chefs and wannabe chefs from all over the world by relentlessly using her name. We could charge an enormous entry fee. Good idea, huh?”
“Just incredible,” I repeated, and I took a deep breath. “And everyone will help?”
My patrons nodded and clapped, excited to rebuild the library. But I had to admit that I was little overwhelmed. All I said was “macaroni and cheese” and now I was in charge of a national cook-off?
With enough help, though, I thought that, just maybe, I could pull this off. And it was obvious that everyone else felt the same way, too.
So why didn’t I feel comforted?
Chapter 3
A week later I was putting out orange plastic cones on the floor of my diner—the ones that said WET FLOOR! DO NOT FALL!—wondering if the warning would actually stop anyone from falling. Midthought, Megan Hunter came bustling through the door.
She didn’t fall, but she did slide a foot or two before regaining her balance.
“Geez, it’s snowing like crazy again,” she said, uncoiling a bright, colorful scarf from around her neck. “Are we ever going to catch a break from all the white stuff?”
Macaroni and Freeze Page 2
