Maybe Matilda had gotten too big for her British britches.
I checked. The address was correct. I would have to call the ABBA lady, and ask her for better directions to her house. The problem was, I wasn’t sure I could explain to her exactly where I was.
Reaching across the seat to get my cell phone, I noticed a white mailbox barely visible out my side window. Arbor House, it read.
Holy smokes, Matilda, you were right.
I was at my destination. It didn’t look like a place where I should leave my car though. Was there something I was missing? I got out, leaving the Jeep running, and walked around the Jeep toward the mailbox. As I did, I spotted the narrow lane beside it. There was tall prairie grass on each side and the entrance had been hidden.
I climbed in the Jeep.
“Not walking from here,” I told Matilda, pushing the off button so she wouldn’t freak out. Pulling the Jeep into the lane carefully, I drove at a snail’s pace. There would be barely enough room if I met another vehicle.
How on earth could they expect someone to find Arbor House? I hoped they gave guests better directions than I’d received. I crossed a small wooden bridge and then at the crest of a small incline, I spotted the house.
Awestruck, I stopped the car. It looked like a fairy castle. A graceful Victorian was nestled among the trees and framed by a profusion of pastel flowers. The house itself was a soft cream with accents in delicate pink, robin’s egg blue, and lavender for its trim.
Where I come from in the South, we have some beautiful plantation houses and elegant mansions, but this little gem lifted your mood just to look at it. I could see curling up with a book on the wide front porch and letting the world pass me by.
Speaking of which, time had been passing as I’d sat there staring at the house. I pulled forward into a parking area that had been concealed behind a hedge of bridal wreath bushes.
Checking my watch, I was glad I’d allowed plenty of time. It meant my time arguing with Matilda, and the additional minutes lost in La-La Land while I fantasized about the house, had not made me late.
Getting out of the car, I grabbed my briefcase and headed to the front of the house. As I approached the steps, a tall, slender woman with short silver curls opened the door. Glasses perched on her elegant nose framed intelligent dark eyes, and her raw-cotton shift and soft charcoal shrug managed to look cozy yet professional.
“You must be Sugar.” She held out her hand. “And I’m Gwendolyn Arbor.”
“So nice to meet you, Gwendolyn.” I shook her hand. She had a strong, capable grip. “You were a little hard to find.”
“Gwen is fine.” She smiled and held open the screen door. “I should have warned you about the lane. I usually remember to mention it when someone hasn’t been here before.”
“That’s okay,” I said. Though it really would have been good to have been forewarned. “I relied on my trusty GPS to get me here, but I’ll confess I was a little concerned there at the end. The lane is difficult to spot.”
Gwen motioned me through. “One of the features of Arbor House is the seclusion. We have a lot of retreats that book it just for that reason. But that can make it challenging to find if you’re not prepared for that factor.”
No kidding.
“Your house is amazing.” I looked around as we stepped into the entryway set with a warm walnut library table and a vase of fresh flowers. “You operate it as a B&B?”
“We do.” She led the way through the living room, which was furnished with solid but simple antiques. The effect was one of comfort and charm. “My husband and I are from New York and began considering a move to Iowa to be close to his family. We looked for a while and when we found this place, I fell in love with it.”
“I can certainly understand why you would.” The heavenly smell of fresh baking wafted throughout the downstairs, and if the guest rooms were as nice as what I’d seen of the downstairs, I didn’t know how they got anyone to leave.
“Jonathan was a Wall Street broker, and we’d originally thought we’d spend a few months a year here and plan for a permanent move later. But that’s not a kind of career you can simply take a break from and then go back to. If you’re going to take a break, you’ve basically quit.”
“Hmmm.” I continued to admire the house as I followed what Gwen was saying. But her comment about Wall Street caught my attention. The way Nick Marchant told it, he was on a short hiatus and would soon return to his high-stakes career. If Gwen was right, and I had no reason to think she wasn’t, Nick was done. No wonder the brothers had been so intense over breakfast at the Red Hen. Staying permanently was different than coming back for a visit.
I tuned back into Gwen as she led the way to a large adjoining room.
“If you don’t mind,” she said. “I thought perhaps we’d sit at the dining room table. It’s so much brighter than my office, and we can have some refreshments.” Gwen’s voice, soft and lilting, fit the house. Though she said they were from New York, I thought I detected a hint of the South in it.
“No problem. That will work fine. I have some numbers to show you.”
We settled into chairs at one end of the heavy oak table and I pulled out my samples of cookbooks we’d done and showed off the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Cookbook with a swell of pride.
It was our first project and, in my opinion, one of our best. I didn’t mention the two murders that had occurred during the course of the project.
A young woman quietly slipped in with lavender scones and tea served from a simple French country white teapot. I’d made up my mind to have only one of the scones, which was still slightly warm, but before I knew it I’d polished off the first and was eyeing a second. What an incredible taste combination. Dixie would be sorry she’d not come along on this visit. I wondered if I could smuggle that second scone into my bag for her.
Reminding myself I was there on a professional mission, I decided it probably wasn’t a good move to be seen stashing food in my purse.
After Gwen had a chance to look through the cookbooks, I handed her the one-page proposal I’d put together. There were several options and the price changed depending on the number of pages, the type of paper, and the photos they wanted included.
I let her review it while I sipped my tea and enjoyed the last few crumbs of my second scone.
Sorry Dixie.
“Well, Sugar.” She looked at me over her glasses. “This looks very promising. I like it very much, and I love the professional look of your projects. I’m not sure any of us have the time it would take to pull off that kind of polish.”
“Thank you.” That was the conclusion I’d hoped she’d reach.
“I’ll need to discuss this with my board.” She laid the paper on the table. “If it were just for Arbor House, I’d be ready to sign on the dotted line, but it’s not just me on this project.”
“I understand completely.”
“I can’t imagine they won’t agree.” She tapped her pen on the paper. “Could you send me this pricing sheet via email?”
“I can definitely do that.” I packed up my other folders. “And if you’d like, you can keep that copy of the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Cookbook.”
I’d found that the best advertisement for Sugar and Spice Publishing was word of mouth. You never knew when someone was working on something or had something in mind for the future. Most of our projects were fundraisers, but some were other types of recipe collections. The more we did, and the more people were happy with the final product, the more likely they were to tell others about us.
The grapevine effect could be a positive thing.
Thinking about the grapevine effect reminded me of Gwen’s earlier comment about Wall Street.
“You said your husband helps with the running of Arbor House?” I asked.
“He does some with Arbor House, but I mostly run the business.” She adjusted the sleeves on her shrug. “He’s developed an interest in rehabbing houses and tha
t keeps him busy.”
“That sounds like fun. I live in an older Victorian that I’m currently renting but would love to own. It’s been kept in very good shape.” Except for that problem with the renter letting weeds overtake the yard, I thought to myself. “But there are others in town that have not fared so well.”
“Those properties would be right up his alley.” She smiled. “He loves old houses.”
“You’d mentioned him working on Wall Street. I’m guessing he’s left that life behind.”
“Mostly yes, but he keeps in touch with a few people from his old life.”
“I know this is really imposing, but I wondered if there was a way to check out someone who had approached me about stocks.”
Okay, that was really stretching the truth. I’d recently gotten an email from someone I used to work with at Mammoth Publishing about investing my severance from the company, but no one was beating down my door. And said severance had already been invested in starting Sugar and Spice Publishing. What I really wanted to know was whether Nick Marchant, the guy who continued to pursue a relationship with my best friend, was on the up-and-up.
“How would I know if this person is legit?” I asked. “Is there an association like ABBA for stockbrokers?”
“Not exactly like it.” She took a sip of her tea. “I can’t remember what it’s called, but I know FINRA, that’s the financial industry’s regulator, has some sort of database. If you do a search for FINRA, you should find it.”
“Thank you.” I felt bad deceiving her but I was already too far in on this to back out. “I just want to do my due diligence, you know.”
“Very wise.” She pushed aside a silver curl and smiled. “Also, before you go, I wondered if Sugar and Spice Publishing ever does small projects. You know, like a family cookbook.”
“We love to do those kinds of projects.” Again, a bit of a stretch because we’d only done one. But in my defense, we had loved doing it. “Did you have something in particular in mind?”
“Well, it’s my husband’s family. As his mother has gotten older she doesn’t cook much anymore but she, and her mother before her, were the stuff of legends. According to my husband and his siblings anyway. The family would like to preserve some of those family recipes.”
“That sounds like a great idea and a fun project.” See, I was right. You never know what project someone might have on the back burner. “If they decide to go forward with it, let me know and we’d be happy to talk through the idea with them.”
“Much like this.” She tapped the paper. “I imagine it will depend on the number of recipes and what they’re looking for in terms of photos. Right?”
“That’s right.”
I thanked Gwen again and asked if she would mind if I took a couple of pictures of the outside of the house. I was excited to tell Dixie about the place and didn’t trust that I had enough adjectives to describe just how amazing Arbor House was.
Gwen gave me free rein to take pictures at my leisure and then excused herself. They were getting ready to host a genealogy group that was arriving later in the day, and she had some preparations to finish.
After a few photos with my phone that I was sure didn’t do the setting justice, I climbed back in the Jeep and set off for home. I hoped I had a few that I could show Dixie. What I’d really love would be to get Max to come and do some photos. With his talents he’d be able to capture the stunning house and the whole ambiance of Arbor House.
Before leaving Arbor House, I had programmed my home address for the return trip. Matilda prompted me at each turn and though the route did look vaguely familiar in reverse, I was glad for her guidance.
There was a huge oak tree that hugged a pond. I thought I recognized the tree. A big red barn with one side painted red, white, and blue was another landmark, I remembered. But I never would have remembered I needed to turn right just after the landmark. I’d have probably turned left and ended up in Timbuktu. Matilda and I traveled well together.
With Matilda’s help, in no time we were off the country roads and back on the highway that led to St. Ignatius. Feeling like I’d had a very successful call with Gwendolyn Arbor and that we were well on our way to a new client made me even more anxious about the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club cookbook.
I needed to find some way to collect the remaining recipes that hadn’t been in either the initial folder nor in the batch Alma’s daughter had given us. This Saturday was one of their all-you-can-eat breakfast fundraisers. It would be great if I was able to get a message to the group and ask them to bring their recipes to the event. They could sign the release forms right then and there, and we’d be back on track.
Wondering who might have a contact list for the group, I turned into the town square. It was early enough that many of the shops were still open. Most didn’t stay open in the evenings, other than a few bars and restaurants.
St. Ignatius’s town square featured a limestone courthouse that was nicely kept and surrounded by a lush green lawn. The green area was dotted with trees and colorful impatiens that had been planted in large containers earlier in the summer at each of the four corners.
There were no stoplights around the town square. I’d found the lack of traffic controls odd when I first moved to St. Ignatius, but now it seemed natural. People politely waited for merging traffic. Most of the time anyway.
There was one stoplight at the north edge of town. Or was that the west end? Anyway, at one end of town, and it was to control traffic trying to cross the highway.
Planning to park behind the shop, I turned down the side street and spotted Nick and Nate Marchant standing in the alley between Marchant’s Bank and Ye Olde Antique Shoppe.
I had to wait for a very small woman in a very large car trying to pull out of a parking space so I got a good look at the two while I waited.
A heated argument was in progress. Both were red-faced, and though I couldn’t hear with my windows up, it was clear they were yelling at each other. Nick started to walk away and Nate grabbed his sleeve. Nick turned back with a swing and caught his brother’s nose with his fist. Nate bent over holding his face. Nick walked away.
I gasped.
The little lady finally managed to get her big Caddy out of the parking space, I decided to pull in and check on Nate. Walking into the alley, I looked up and down but couldn’t see him anywhere. There appeared to be a back entrance to the bank.
I debated about going into Marchants to see if that’s where he’d gone and to make sure he was okay, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. He’d probably ducked inside to clean up his face. Man, that had to hurt. Both his face and his pride.
I walked back to my car and got in, troubled by what I’d seen. Backing out, I headed to the shop. Dixie’s truck wasn’t there and once inside I saw a note that said she’d had some things to take care of and would see me the next morning.
I sat at the desk for a few minutes considering our dilemma. The need for the remainder of those recipes weighed on my mind. We had to have them in order to plan out the cookbook. Even though the group was only loosely organized, someone must have a list of all the people who were members of the breakfast club. Look how they’d all shown up for the meeting at the firehouse.
Greer had already told me she didn’t know who all belonged to the group. I pictured the firehouse meeting and started working my way around the room in my head. Bertie. Dixie’s Aunt Bertie had been there. I looked up her number and reached for my cell phone.
She picked up right away.
“Hello, Bertie.” I swiveled in my chair. “It’s Sugar Calloway and first, I wanted to thank you for that referral to the Bed & Breakfast Association. I met with their executive director this afternoon and the possibility of us working together is good.”
“Glad to do it, Sugar,” she said. “You and my niece do a bang-up job with your cookbooks.”
“Thank you. Also, I wondered if there was a chance you’d have a list of the people that are in
the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club. Or if you know who would.”
I explained my need to reach everyone and make sure I had all the recipes.
“I could probably name them all off for you, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. I’d miss someone for sure.” She paused. “You know who would have one?”
“Who?” I hoped she wasn’t going to say Alma.
“Stanley B. Marchant, that’s who. He’s Mr. OCD organizer himself and keeps up a list of all the retirees and other seniors. I guess I count as one of those other seniors, since I’m not retired. Heck, he’s probably got us color-coded too.”
“Do you think it would be okay if I called him?”
“I’ll call him for you, hon.”
“That would be great.”
We ended the call and while I waited to hear back from her, I put together a few notes from my visit with Gwen. I couldn’t wait to tell Dixie about the place and show her the pictures. I also wrote a quick note to Gwen thanking her for taking the time to talk to me. I’d post the thank you tomorrow.
I was searching in the desk for the book of stamps I knew I’d bought last week, when my phone rang.
It was Bertie. “I talked to Stanley and I was right, he has names and contact information in a spreadsheet. I told him you’d be by to pick it up. Was that okay?”
“That’s great. I’ll stop by and get it on my way home.” Relief washed over me. With the contact information we could get this project back on track. Truthfully, I’d hoped for an email, but beggars can’t be choosers. A paper copy would work. “Thank you, Bertie. You’ve given me hope.”
“No big deal,” she responded.
“One more thing,” I stopped her before she hung up. “What’s Stanley’s address?”
“Hold on. I’ll get it.” I could tell she’d put the phone down.
I continued to search for my stamps, and in a few short minutes she was back. She rattled off the address and added, “It’s one street over from my place.”
“That’s great.” I wrote down the house number and street. “Thanks again for the referral and thanks for calling Mr. Marchant.”
Risky Biscuits Page 10
