by Rae Davies
“The official opening is Friday, but the chef is having a ‘soft’ opening tonight.”
“Soft, huh? How many cats got the call?”
Right off her month of 24/7 jazz, Betty’s vocabulary was a bit... foreign. I took a minute to translate the question in my head.
“I don’t know. Peter got the tickets from the mayor, I think.” The Antlers reopening was a huge deal. I hadn’t thought about who else would be there, but now that I had... “Did those business cards you designed ever come in?”
Betty pointed toward the register. I went to stock up on cards while she walked to the front window and peered out.
“Carl Mack will be there for sure, don’t you think?” I asked, my head still inside the storage space beneath the counter.
“He’ll wig out if he isn’t.”
Mack was the head of the local historical association. He’d been working on a fund to buy and renovate the Antlers for three decades. When news came that someone else had beat him to the act, he’d made a big deal of how happy he was that the building wasn’t going to be razed, but he’d also supposedly sent the new owner a stack of documents and photographs with details of how the building had looked in its heyday.
He would want to be there to make sure every last finial was properly turned. If the Antlers had finials, that was. The only picture I’d seen of the inside was from an old postcard that I’d had in the shop for years.
Which reminded me—with the press the new restaurant was going to get, I needed to dig the thing out and set up some kind of display. Maybe even in the window... I had a beef poster there now, but I could tie in the Antlers postcard and some real antlers or something.
Cows had horns. Close enough. It would work.
I was busy musing over this and retrieving the postcard from its dusty box when Betty looked back at me.
“They’re gone,” she announced.
“Really?” I jerked to a stand. “Lemon and Egg?”
“And brother and friend,” Betty replied. “Rhonda was talking to him. Giving him directions, I think.”
Clutching the stack of business cards in one hand and the postcard in the other, I smiled. I knew it was too much to hope that Ben had decided to head back to Missouri after all, but he hadn’t come in asking for a key to my house either. Rhonda, good friend that she was, must have come out of her fog and realized friendship was thicker than broad shoulders.
“Rhonda probably sent him to Three Forks,” I suggested. “She used to camp there with Stanley.” Stanley Cox was Rhonda’s last relationship. A rich momma’s boy who’d loved fly fishing and being waited on. Rhonda had decided she wasn’t a big fan of either and had dumped him.
“Oh.” Betty’s lips curled. She didn’t know Stanley that I knew of, but she did know his mother. While Betty had been out on her jazz tour, Phyllis Cox had taken to working at my shop salary-free. She’d dropped in twice since Betty had returned.
Being in the room with the pair of them made me feel like I was walking through a tiger cage wearing a meat cape.
Eager to get her thoughts off Phyllis, I waved the Antlers postcard her direction. “You think you can work this into the window display? Maybe with those pronghorn pictures hanging by the back door and the antler-handled knife in the oak case?”
My ploy worked. Betty walked forward, a skeptical look on her face. “I thought you wanted to target the beef ranchers. Isn’t that why you put that salt lick out there?”
“It’s stoneware!” I defended.
“It’s a salt lick... for cattle... in a field.”
Which is why I’d thought it was the perfect find when I saw it at an auction last month. It had been a steal too. Only five dollars. I knew I could sell it for six times that.
I didn’t answer though. Betty was still touchy about Phyllis and as long as the window appealed to both cattle ranchers and Antlers enthusiasts I’d be happy.
I said as much to her and handed over the postcard. She flicked it against one magenta thumbnail and studied the window. I could tell by the crease between her brows she was already lost in what she could do with the display, which, considering I’d just remembered that Phyllis had mentioned coming in today, was a huge relief.
I took a step toward my office. “You know with Ben here and my date, maybe I’ll head out a bit early today. You don’t mind do you?” I took another step.
Betty’s boa fluttered in response.
Good enough for me. Still clutching the business cards, I grabbed my keys and my dog and trotted out the back door to the alley where I had parked my rig.
As I walked out the back door, the front bell sounded and Phyllis’ voice called my name.
I tugged on Kiska’s leash and, for once, he did as I asked, trotting by my side as we hurried to my Cherokee and then, once inside it, raced out of the alley.
My shop might not be standing when I returned in the morning, but for now, I’d escaped.
After leaving Dusty Deals, I thought about going by Rhonda’s to see if she knew where Ben had gone. I thought about calling her. I even thought about calling Ben.
But then I thought about my date and how many influential people would be at the restaurant opening and how important being my at my utmost would be. And I realized not knowing where Ben and his Egg-pulling Lemon were parked was probably for the best.
If you can’t fix something, deny, deny, deny.
I held my breath for the last half mile to my house. Ben hadn’t come in and asked for a key, but that didn’t mean Rhonda hadn’t directed him to my house.
However, the road in front of my house was empty and the gate that surrounded my acre still locked.
No Lemon. No Egg. No Ben. All good.
o0o
Despite my earlier relief, six hours later, a teeny crinkle of guilt for not hunting my brother down tickled at the back of my mind. I didn’t feel bad that I hadn’t extended an invitation to camp on my acre, but it occurred to me a good sister would at least want to know where her brother had landed.
And then there was my mother. I just knew she was going to call at any minute wanting to know how our visit was going. Ben might not have said that she knew he was here, but she had radar for such things. Plus, I hadn’t talked to her in three days. Her regular “how are things with that police detective going” call was way overdue.
When Peter arrived, I was sitting on my couch watching my phone as if it might rise up at any moment and attack. At his knock, I hurried forward. Freshly shaven, wearing a crisp shirt and carrying his best cowboy hat in his hand, he was looking more fine than usual, but I didn’t have time to acknowledge his efforts.
I stepped over the threshold and quickly pulled the door closed behind me.
He raised a brow.
“Don’t want to be late!” I declared and moved out ahead of him down the hill. Unfortunately, I forgot that for the occasion I’d pulled out my one and only pair of heels. The tiny spikes sank into the soft dirt of my unpaved path, causing me to teeter side to side.
Peter, always the gentleman, placed a firm hand on my elbow to stop my sideways swaying. “We have time for you to change,” he offered.
“Change?” I glanced down. I’d chosen my outfit carefully. Gray skirt that hid malamute hair well. Silky top that gathered at my waist to emphasize that I had one, while flowing forgivingly over my hips. It might not have been out of Vogue, but I thought I looked pretty darn nice.
“Shoes,” he explained with another raised brow.
“Oh.” I looked down at my feet and my sunk-in-the-dirt heels. “What else would I wear?” I asked, as if he might possibly have a reasonable solution.
“Something you can walk in?”
I stared at him with wide-eyed disbelief. Obviously, being a detective for the Helena Police Department did not come with even the tiniest speck of understanding into the female mind.
With a snort, I pulled my elbow free and pigeon-walked down to his truck.
The drive into t
own was short, but long enough for me to do some damage control on my heels. I was coyly scraping mud off my heels and onto the underside of the passenger seat when Peter slammed on his brakes and cursed.
I looked up, only to wish immediately that I hadn’t.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” he mumbled.
Pressing my lips together, I turned my gaze toward the line of lodge pole pines outside of my window and away from the neon yellow van pulling a white egg-shaped trailer that stretched across the road.
The truck slowed and the tick tick of its turn signal sounded.
I twisted in my seat. “What are you doing?”
“This guy needs help.”
Reluctantly, I looked. The Lemon was turned halfway into a small road that led to a small National Forest campground. The Egg was sticking out into the road, partially blocking our path.
Damn. I hadn’t even considered that Rhonda might suggest some place so close to my house. I hadn’t even realized Rhonda knew the campground existed.
I muttered under my breath, “How did she...”
“Who?”
Issue with dating a detective: Peter noticed way too much for my liking.
“Nothing.” I smiled. Then holding my hand as if blocking a non-existent sun I returned my attention to the Lemon.
The Lemon jerked forward, then stopped. The Egg swayed behind it.
“Engine problems,” Peter announced, reaching for his door handle.
I grabbed him by the arm, holding him in place.
Both of his eyebrows rose. “Look at that thing.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
I added my left hand to the hold. “No.”
Slowly, patiently, Peter closed and then opened his eyes. “Lucy, it will just take—”
The Lemon sputtered then backfired. Black smoke bellowed out of its hind fruit, and it jerked forward again. But this time it mercifully kept moving, pulling the Egg behind it until both had made the turn and disappeared behind another line of lodge pole pines.
My fingers relaxed, and I collapsed back against the seat. “All’s solved,” I said, maybe a little too brightly.
Peter’s eyebrow twitched in response, but with just one last look in the driver’s side mirror, he put the truck into gear and moved forward.
I was safe for now. How I’d explain why I hadn’t admitted my relationship to Ben, Lemon, and Egg when my brother and Peter inevitably met was a problem for another day.
Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I could keep the two separated indefinitely.
It wouldn’t be that hard... I mean, it wasn’t like my brother-turned-animal-activist would do anything to draw the attention of the Helena Police.
Ugh.
Chapter 3
The outside of the Antlers building had been cleaned up, with bricks washed and repointed, a new Kelly green canopy with the restaurant’s name—Tiffany’s—splayed across it added. To top off this renewed splendor, a maroon velvet rope stretched across the newly polished wooden front door.
A small crowd milled around under the canopy, chatting and sharing guesses as to what we would find inside.
“The organ was sold back in the 60s. I wonder if they’ve replaced it.”
“What about the animal mounts? Do you think she kept them?”
“She had to. It wouldn’t be the Antlers without them.”
“It is a restaurant now. Some changes had to be made.”
I nodded and smiled and tried to keep my heels from getting caught in the metal grate that covered a steam vent in the sidewalk while also looking for subtle opportunities to bring up my shop and hand out cards.
I’d only unloaded two, to the couple discussing the mounts, when the front doors opened.
Two teenage girls dressed in black cigarette skirts and tuxedo shirts began herding people inside. The crowd, still riding high on the camaraderie of anticipation, filed in nicely.
The inside of the restaurant was nothing like the postcard that was hopefully now sitting in a place of prominence in the front window of Dusty Deals.
No animal mounts. No paintings of buffalo, mountain scenes, and prairies.
“They’ve gutted it,” I murmured. Horror at what I was seeing kept me from speaking any louder.
“It is modern,” Peter replied. His tone and the way he pushed his hat up off his forehead with one knuckle told me even he knew this was an understatement.
The mounts of elk and deer that had dominated the postcard had been replaced with what I guessed were “art.” Free form shapes of red plastic that looked more like a child’s first attempt at dough art than something anyone not directly related to said child would display willingly.
The walls, once covered in green plaster and wood paneling, were now white, a stark contrast to the red sculptures, as were the floors, ceilings and chairs. The tables were chrome and glass and even the table settings were jarringly unusual.
“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten off a triangle,” Peter said as we slid into our seats.
“Me neither.” I fidgeted on my slick white chair and stared around, too shocked to even think of hiding my reaction.
Maybe it was that I’d anticipated one thing and was now confronted with something entirely different, like taking a gulp of what you thought was tea only to discover brandy burning its way down your throat, but the place was distinctly unsettling.
I opened my mouth, ready to suggest we head back out the door or at least move closer to the group we’d been next to outside so I could hear their opinions of what we were seeing, when the waitress approached. Stuck, I closed my lips and pretended intense interest as she ran through the night’s “featured” dishes.
“Pâté,” she announced, “is hard to come by. It’s banned in California.”
I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a selling point, so I smiled weakly and tried to look cultured. “Liver?”
It seemed like a fair question to me, but the waitress stuttered. “I’m not sure, but it’s fancy. I know that.”
I looked at our waitress with fresh eyes and realized she couldn’t be more than 17. Filled with sympathy, I waved my hand and said, “I’m sure we’ll like it then.” I, of course, had no intention of eating said pâté, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d hidden a serving of liver under a napkin or in a potted plant. I’d become quite an expert as a child.
Peter, true to form, cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t lift his gaze from the menu. After taking our drink orders, wine for me and a beer for Peter, the girl scurried off.
I glanced around the room some more, hoping the wine, once it came, would give me a newfound appreciation for the decor. “I thought for sure Carl Mack would be here tonight.” Eating liver might be worth it if it meant I’d be here when Carl arrived and saw what the new owner of the Antlers had done to his historic love.
Peter tapped his finger against the menu that he had set beside his plate. “Maybe we’ll be gone before then.”
His response told me two things. One: Peter was no more enamored with the decor choices than I was, and two: he and I had completely opposite ideas of what might save the evening.
“So he did get an invitation?” I prompted, wondering how long I could stretch out eating or pretending to eat whatever appeared on the triangle in front of me.
A waitress swooped by, leaving a basket of what appeared to be bread. After examining the contents and deciding the round objects were indeed nothing more exotic than hard rolls, I picked up a knife and began buttering.
While I ate, more people streamed in. I recognized quite a few. Tiffany Williams, the owner and chef, had obviously crafted her guest list carefully. Everyone with any connections or power in Helena or Montana was present. Even the governor was seated in the back with his wife and three other couples.
My detective boyfriend had done good. I smiled at him and ran the toe of my shoe up over his calf. Unfortunately, his boot got in the way of my caress, blocking my loving touch and leaving the
only visible sign of my overtures what must have appeared to be a suspicious smile.
He lowered his own roll to his plate and asked, “What?”
Unwilling to admit that I’d been trying to flirt and obviously failed miserably, I mumbled something inaudible and reached for more butter.
A petite brunette wearing a white chef’s coat over a skirt and a pair of the cutest rubber-soled Mary Janes that I’d ever seen swept toward our table carrying a third triangular plate.
I knew immediately she was Tiffany Williams, chef and owner. The coat was a bit of a giveaway, but I’d also seen her picture in the business section of the News.
She introduced herself and then held out the plate. “You are the first table to order my specialty. I had to deliver it in person.” She set the plate in front of us with a flourish.
“The pâté.” She said the word with reverence and took a tiny step back to watch our reaction to the grandeur that was mashed up liver.
I stared at the gray mass artfully displayed with some kind of orange jelly-looking substance and a pile of thick-sliced baguette-shaped bread.
“Fresh as new cream!” she added. “The goose arrived just this morning.”
My hand, on its way to the pile of bread, froze. “Goose?” I squeaked or honked. I’m not sure the exact noise I made, but it was not pretty.
“Yes. Goose! Fresh and organic.” She smiled and motioned with her eyes toward the now ominous looking scoop of pâté.
“Uh...” I stared at the plate, then looked at Peter for help. His lips remained closed and his face remained motionless, not even an eyebrow twitch.
“Uh...” I needed a miracle. I might be avoiding my brother, and I might not like his fowl companion, but that didn’t mean I wanted to eat her cousin’s liver. That was just too Silence of the Lambs for me. My wine of choice wasn’t Chianti, and I didn’t even know what fava beans were.
“Peter,” I began. This time his eyebrows rose, telling me there would be no help from the authorities tonight.
“Tiffany...” I looked back at the chef, but before I could explain my close relationship to geese everywhere, she picked up a knife and began spreading the gray mush on a piece of baguette. “The jelly is—”
