Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14)

by Parnell Hall

  Not very. At least, not where we were going. In about twenty minutes we emerged from the woods on the top of a cliff.

  “Wow, look at that,” Alice said.

  Alice, of course, was well ahead of me and had reached the edge of the cliff. I stepped out gingerly—heights are not one of my favorite things.

  Prince rocketed by me, and I nearly jumped a mile. I was pretty far back from the edge, still I had a moment of panic as I envisioned the dog taking a flying leap and sailing off into nowhere. Fortunately, Prince skidded to a stop and proceeded to look out with all due caution. I made my way to the edge of the cliff, where Jean and Joan had already joined Florence and Alice.

  Wow. Even for a skeptic, I had to admit it was pretty impressive. Below the cliff, the mountain we had just climbed fell away as a slope of rocks dissolved into a slope of treetops that leveled off into a sea of green that stretched out and eventually reached the road. Across the road, and a little to the right, was the sprawling Pinkham Notch recreation center. And behind it, rising majestically up to the sky, was the Mount Washington mountain range.

  I’d seen it, of course, from below, but not like this. At Pinkham Notch you were surrounded by mountains towering around you, too close to see. Here, from the perspective of height and distance, was an entire panorama.

  “Hey,” I said, “this is spectacular.”

  “Worth the climb?” Alice said.

  “Absolutely,” I said. I was rather cocky, knowing how much easier the trip down would be.

  We enjoyed the view a little longer, then moved back from the edge and sat down on the rocks for a drink.

  Joan had a water bottle on her waist, and she and Jean drank out of that. They drank right from the bottle.

  Alice and I had a bottle in the backpack, and paper cups.

  Florence had a paper cup for herself, and a plastic bowl for Prince. He lapped his water gratefully and sloppily, spilling as much as he drank.

  After that, we packed up our gear and headed out, which seemed sensible to me. It was a spectacular view, but we’d seen it, so on to something else.

  “So, what’s next?” I said, after we’d clambered down the rocks and were back on level ground.

  “Glen Ellis Falls,” Alice said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And that’s listed as ...”

  “Short, easy, ideal for the grumpiest husband,” Alice said.

  Florence, Jean, and Joan laughed. I realized in this group I had lost my identity, been subjugated to the role of Alice’s husband, a notorious stick-in-the-mud, to be humored and gotten around.

  It was a bit of a surprise to realize I didn’t really mind.

  Glen Ellis Falls was just a mile down the road. We pulled into the parking lot, piled out of our cars, and took the tunnel under the highway to the trail.

  It was the easiest hike yet. A gravel path twisted down into the ravine. We followed it about a quarter of a mile, and suddenly we were there, at the top of Glen Ellis Falls.

  Which was a mighty impressive sight. It was a high falls, formed by a stream of water flowing between two boulders and cascading down the mountain into a pool below. I whipped out the guidebook and was able to announce that the falls was sixty-four feet high, and had been originally called Pitcher Falls because the rock formation at the top made it look like water flowing out of a pitcher.

  As I made these announcements, I realized I was losing my audience. Prince had not stopped at the top of the falls, and the women were now following him down the stone steps toward the bottom. I stuck the guidebook in the backpack and tagged along.

  At the base of the falls, we climbed out on the rocks. This is one of the attractions of Glen Ellis Falls. In good weather, you can leave the stone steps and scramble around on the flat rocks surrounding the pool. Everyone else seemed to be doing it, so we did too. Alice climbed out, followed by Jean and Joan. Florence even brought Prince. She kept him on the leash, but let him climb. He seemed more surefooted than I would have given him credit for.

  Not wanting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, I stashed the backpack behind a rock, and climbed out too.

  It was fun scrambling from rock to rock. I could see why this falls was such a tourist attraction. Aside from the great view, you really felt you were part of it. Leaving the path. Climbing around. It had just the right sense of adventure, of doing something you weren’t really supposed to do. Although, of course, you were. Scrambling on the rocks was even advertised in the guidebook.

  Be that as it may, Glen Ellis Falls was a pretty good time, and I sort of hated to leave.

  I hated to leave for another reason. The path was up. When we started back to the car, that was the main thing in my mind.

  The fact we were going up. The other falls we’d climbed up to, and then come down. Not this time. This time we’d climbed down to the falls, and had to go up. Which was really a shame, and put a damper on what was otherwise a perfectly enjoyable outing.

  The thing is, that was in my mind, but I wasn’t saying it. And I was making a very conscious effort not to say it. Because it certainly seemed a normal thing to say, but seemed too grouchy even for the old grouch role I’d been reduced to playing.

  Anyway, the point is, I had all that in my head when we left the falls.

  Preoccupying me.

  Distracting me.

  Making me careless.

  Which is why I felt like such a fool when we finally reached the top of the hill and headed for the parking lot and Alice said, “Where’s the backpack?”

  Uh-oh.

  I knew where the backpack was. Right there at the base of the falls where I’d taken it off to go scrambling around on the rocks. I hadn’t given it a second thought.

  I explained the situation to Alice with as much dignity as I could muster, and hurried off down the path, trying to ignore the laughter and comments emanating from Florence and Alice and Jean and Joan.

  At least going down to the falls was easy. Though it didn’t seem easy, with the foreknowledge of what the climb back up was going to be. Still, going down was a breeze. I reached the bottom in no time at all, came around the corner into the alcove where I’d left my backpack.

  And bumped right into her.

  Like a fool, I hadn’t been looking where I was going, I’d been looking at my backpack.

  I stepped back, put up my hands, said, “Excuse me.”

  She said, “You.”

  I blinked.

  It was her. My nemesis. The Swedish hiker. What’s-her-name. Not Inga. Christine.

  Good lord.

  Christine.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. I left my backpack. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  She kept looking at me. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Last night. By the pond.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was you,” she said. “I thought so. You saw me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  What could I say? “Yeah, that was me.”

  “I knew it. Promise me something. Promise me you won’t tell anybody. You won’t, will you? Promise me you won’t.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I won’t.”

  All right, so it wasn’t an exact truth. But what was I going to tell her? That half the people in the place knew anyway? That her romance with Louise’s son was probably the number-one gossip topic at Blue Frog Ponds? That certainly seemed a little harsh. All she’d asked me was not to tell anybody. Well, I certainly wouldn’t tell anybody.

  Else.

  11.

  GRILLED MAKO SHARK WITH MANGO SALSA

  2 mako shark steaks, approximately 1/2 pound each

  1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

  MANGO SALSA

  2 ripe mangoes, peeled and diced into 1/4 inch pieces

  3 tablespoons chopped red onion

  2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

  1 tablespoon jalapeno pepper, roasted and chopped

  1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
<
br />   3 tablespoons lime juice

  3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro

  Makes 2 cups.

  To prepare the Mango Salsa: Seed and derib the jalapeno. Roast at 500° for 10 minutes. Peel off skin and chop. Combine with remaining ingredients.

  To prepare the fish for grilling: Coat with 1 tablespoon of extra-virgin olive oil on each side. Salt and pepper. Grill to taste approximately 4 to 5 minutes on each side.

  Garnish fish with a slice of lime and a sprig of cilantro. Serve with Mango Salsa.

  Serves 2.

  I looked up at Alice. “You paid ten bucks for this?”

  She frowned, glanced around the dining room. “Please. Be a little discreet.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do you want this recipe?”

  “Stanley. Did you taste that sauce?”

  “It was good.”

  “It was to die for.”

  “Whatever. The point is, when are you ever going to cook shark?”

  “You don’t understand.” Alice turned to Florence. Smiled. “He doesn’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand?” I said. “You either cook shark or you don’t. If you don’t, why pay ten dollars for a sauce.”

  “Five dollars.”

  “Huh?”

  “Florence and I are splitting it.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “That’s right,” Florence said.

  “You mean you cook shark?”

  Florence smiled. “You don’t understand.”

  I certainly didn’t. But then I was approaching the problem from the warped male viewpoint of one used to buying things one intended to use. Even so, I probably wouldn’t have made such a big deal of it if I hadn’t been subjected to rather unmerciful husband-bashing all day long.

  “So,” I said. “Let me be sure I understand this. The two of you have joined forces to purchase a recipe for a dish you have no intention of ever preparing. Just because you happen to like the recipe.”

  “See, he does understand,” Florence said.

  I blinked. “No, no. I wasn’t being serious. I was ridiculing the concept.”

  “And very amusingly too,” Alice said. “Now, if you could just do so in a slightly lower voice.”

  I don’t know if I might have pursued the topic, but at that moment my girlfriend came in with her boyfriend. I use the terms loosely. My girlfriend was of course Inga/Christine, my bathing companion and confidante. The boyfriend I was referring to was Lars, cranky Swedish hiking companion. Not unhappily married Louise bed-and-breakfast owner’s busboy son, Randy.

  They were shown to their booth by the younger, less severe-looking waitress, who to the best of my knowledge was not augmenting her income by peddling Xerox copies of pilfered recipes of Louise’s husband, the chef’s specialties to the guests.

  Anyway, she showed the happy couple to a booth directly behind me, for which I was eternally grateful. I didn’t want to be constantly glancing at the young woman, wondering if she was glancing at me.

  You see, I hadn’t had a chance to tell Alice yet. About our meeting by the waterfall. Because when I got back to the parking lot, Florence and Jean and Joan were there. And I’d promised. Given my word. And I couldn’t see telling everybody after I’d promised. Even though they already knew, still, it didn’t seem right. It was like compounding a felony, adding insult to injury, rubbing salt in the wound. I don’t know exactly, but the point is, I didn’t feel comfortable telling people.

  Except Alice. I had to tell Alice. I meant to tell Alice. I intended to tell Alice. And I was going to tell Alice.

  I just hadn’t had a chance to tell Alice.

  So, since I hadn’t been able to tell Alice about the waterfall rendezvous, I certainly didn’t want her to catch the young lady in question trying to flash me secret, unspoken messages with her eyes.

  If you can’t understand that, you are undoubtedly single.

  “Are you ready to order?” Lucy said.

  I hadn’t even realized she was there. She’d disappeared earlier, after slipping the recipe under Alice’s plate.

  “Yes,” I said. I wasn’t about to blow it this time. I went right for the appetizer. “I’d like to start off with the barbecued ribs.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lucy said. “You mean the special, or off the menu?”

  Good lord. She’d told us the specials, and I hadn’t heard a word. I’d been too preoccupied with other things. But it probably wouldn’t be prudent to admit that now.

  “From the menu,” I said. “The ribs on the menu. The ones you said were famous.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “And for the main course?”

  “I’ll have the petite filet mignon,” I said, with complete confidence. It was a small portion, described as lighter fare, and would not open me to ridicule, like ordering the prime rib.

  Lucy blinked. “But that is the special,” she said. “The barbecued ribs and petite filet combination. Of course, you can order it a la carte if you want, but it’s exactly the same thing, and it’ll cost you about six dollars more.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I misunderstood you. Yes, of course, that’s exactly what I want. I’ll have the special.”

  “Space cadet,” Alice said, shaking her head.

  Fortunately, she and Florence still had to order, which kept them from giving me too much grief. Florence had the salmon filet. Alice had some sort of veal dish I had a feeling we’d wind up with the recipe for tomorrow.

  When Lucy left, the husband-bashing got a little heavy, so I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

  The minute I got up, I realized I’d forgotten where the bathroom was. That’s not exactly right. I knew where it was. I’d forgotten who I had to walk by to get there. Fortunately, when I went by their booth, they were being served drinks, so no one noticed me.

  But I certainly noticed them. Particularly since the one again serving them was none other than the busboy, Louise’s son, Randy. It still made for an interesting dynamic. Of course I couldn’t see much, what with the booth being semiprivate and all, but in my split-second window of opportunity as I passed by, I could swear I saw boyfriend Lars looking suspicious and Inga/Christine looking concerned.

  Then I was by them and out the door of the dining room, and I couldn’t for the life of me swear if I was making the whole thing up.

  I stood there a second, laughed, and shook my head. The two guys traveling together whom I thought might be gay were back in the bar, and looked up. I smiled a completely impersonal, noncommittal, meaningless smile, turned and beat a retreat to the men’s room.

  I went in, splashed water on my face, had a little talk with myself. I’m not sure exactly what I told me, but I seem to recall a somewhat sarcastic observation that it was a good thing I hadn’t opted for a job in the secret service.

  On my way back into the dining room I had to pass by their booth again.

  Oh, boy.

  They were having a fight. Or at least an argument. Or at least a disagreement of some kind.

  Not that I heard anything. They weren’t loud. In fact, they weren’t even talking. All I saw was the tableau.

  The girl sat up straight, staring ahead with a blank look, as if seeing nothing. A tear ran down her cheek. Or had run down her cheek—it had stopped now, suspended in the hollow of her cheekbone. She looked like she had just lost her last friend in the world.

  The young man sat glaring at her. His chin set, his eyes hard. He looked positively murderous.

  Neither moved.

  Well, so much for my little attempt to compose myself.

  I went back to my table, sat down, said, perhaps a little too heartily, “How’s tricks?”

  No one noticed.

  “Did you see?” Alice said.

  “See what?”

  “When you were going out.” She lowered her voice. “Randy serving them drinks.”

  I didn’t have to ask who they were. “Is that right?” I said.

  “Uh-
huh,” Alice said. “I wish the angle were better. You can’t see into that booth at all.”

  “Aren’t they entitled to a little privacy?” I said.

  “If they kept to themselves, they’d have it,” Florence said. “If they’re going to run around with the staff ...” She waggled her hand.

  There was no way I was coming out of the conversation a winner. Fortunately, our appetizers arrived just then, driving all other thoughts from our minds.

  Oh, my goodness.

  When I saw the barbecued ribs, I understood why Lucy had advised me against ordering them with the prime rib. I must admit, most of my experience with spare ribs comes from Chinese takeout. Still, I have had barbecued ribs on occasion, and knew generally what to expect.

  But not this. This was a huge basket of ribs, piled high in three to four rows—that’s right, rows—of thick, meaty ribs in a sauce that smelled absolutely sensational.

  Florence and Alice, accepting comparatively modest portions of shrimp cocktail and soup, regarded the ribs with raised eyebrows.

  “Good lord, Stanley,” Alice said. “How can you possibly eat all that?”

  “Are you telling me you’d like a rib?”

  “I’m worried about your health. I mean, look at all that food.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “How about you, Florence? Care for a rib? There seems to be plenty to go around.”

  “And then some,” Florence said.

  We all proceeded to eat our appetizers. Florence and Alice, despite numerous disclaimers, consented to sample the ribs. Alice had two, and Florence had at least three.

  While all this was going on, the dining room was filling up. The two guys from the bar came in and were shown to a table. And the man and woman from breakfast, once again minus the little girl, were seated at a table next to Jean and Joan, who had sat down before us, and were already on their main course.

  It was somewhere in there, and long about the time Alice and I were negotiating over some sparerib or other, though whether it was one I felt she should eat or one she felt I should not, I couldn’t say, the bald, overweight hiker from Champney Falls came in. From my seating position, I couldn’t see where he went. He walked behind me out of my line of sight, and never reappeared. So, unless I wanted to turn around and look, I was out of luck.