by Linda Reilly
Talia pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and set to work. First she lowered three fistfuls of chunky sliced potatoes into the smaller of the two deep fryers. Then she dredged three haddock fillets through a shallow tray of flour. Next, she coated each fillet thoroughly with Bea’s special batter. She lowered them one at a time into the deep fryer reserved for fish only. Hot oil bubbled and sizzled, sending a tantalizing scent wafting through the kitchen.
From beneath the counter, she snagged three cone-shaped serving dishes forged from swirls of black wrought iron. Into each cone she tucked a paper liner that resembled newsprint. Talia thought the liners were a clever—and far more sanitary—improvement over the old English tradition of wrapping fish and chips in real newspaper.
After the potatoes had fried to a golden hue, Talia drained them and then divided them among the lined cones. Atop the “chips” in each cone, she carefully placed a crisp haddock fillet. For the final touch she sprinkled each one with a dash of malt vinegar. She set the cones on a large tray, along with three ramekins of mushy peas. Her own stomach was rumbling with hunger pangs by the time she delivered the meals to the ladies. All three women immediately dug in, and Talia heard them clucking their approval as she went back into the kitchen.
Talia was just refilling each of their coffee mugs when the door opened again. In strode a fair-haired young man wearing a hooded denim jacket and faded jeans. Talia squelched a shudder at the row of metal studs that lined his lower lip. How did the man eat, for pity’s sake? In addition to the facial hardware, he had fleshy cheeks and a flattish nose, and a smirk that gave him the air of a know-it-all.
“Whitnee around?” he said to Talia, more a demand than a question.
Holding the coffeepot aloft, Talia forced a smile. “Yes, she is, although she had to run out to her car for something. Did you wish to speak to her?” She hadn’t meant to sound so formal, but the young man’s unsmiling arrogance unnerved her.
He looked around and sniffed the air like a hound trailing a scent. “I never been in here before. Smells good. Yeah, I wanna talk to her.” Avoiding eye contact with Talia, his gaze traveled instead past the aquamarine counter and into the kitchen. Wearing an oversized navy sweatshirt, Whitnee had just emerged from the storage closet clutching a package of printed napkins. Talia hadn’t even noticed that she’d returned.
“Yo, Whitnee,” the visitor called out when he spotted her.
Whitnee stopped short, nearly dropping the napkins. After setting them down on the front counter, she scuttled into the dining area and sidled up next to him. “Pug, what are you doing here?”
He slid one arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward him. “Hey, what’s the prob, babe? I thought you’d be glad to see me. You can’t spare a few minutes to talk to your man?” His voice carried an edge that made Talia’s hackles rise.
“No, I mean, sure, but—” Whitnee’s face flushed redder than a ripe strawberry. “The thing is, the lunch rush just started and we’re gonna be, like, crazy busy for the next few hours.” Whitnee swiveled her head toward the kitchen. “I just don’t want to get in trouble with my boss.”
Poor Whitnee, Talia thought. She looked trapped between a fire and a flood. Talia quickly stuck out her only free hand. “Hi, I’m Talia. Whitnee and I work together.”
The man gawked at Talia’s hand as if she’d offered him a poisonous lizard. He snatched her fingers in a pathetic imitation of a handshake, then ran his own fingers through his oily, dishwater blond hair. “Pug,” was all he said.
“His real name’s Brandon,” Whitnee said with a nervous giggle.
Pug glared at Whitnee, but said nothing.
Talia felt her heart sink. She couldn’t imagine what Whitnee saw in this ill-mannered oaf. Whatever the attraction was, she only hoped it would fade before Whitnee got serious about him. That is, if he was even capable of being serious. The man wasn’t ringing any chimes on the sincerity meter.
Feeling bad for Whitnee’s obvious discomfort, Talia leaned toward the pair. “Hey, look,” she said, in a conspiratorial whisper. “Why don’t you two chat and catch up for a few minutes. I’ll square things with Bea, okay?” She winked at Whitnee, who looked visibly relieved.
With that Talia flew into the kitchen and returned the coffeepot to the burner. Bea had reappeared and was unscrewing the mayo jar.
“Who’s the bloke?” Bea hissed, shooting a scowl at Pug. She removed a sharp-edged knife from the utensil drawer and set it down on the cutting board next to the dill pickle.
“Boyfriend, I think.” Talia lowered her voice to a whisper. “They just need a few minutes, okay?”
The wall phone jingled. Bea nodded and turned to answer it. Talia smiled when she saw Bea grab a lined pad and start scribbling down what appeared to be a sizeable order. She crossed her fingers and uttered a quick prayer that business was getting back to normal.
Out of the corner of her eye, Talia saw Pug saunter toward the counter at the same time she felt Bea tapping her arm. She turned to Bea, who shoved an order slip at her. Phone to her ear, Bea worked her eyebrows feverishly, apparently trying to convey a message. She jabbed her finger at the slip.
Talia looked at it. Bea had scrawled D.W. at the bottom and underlined it several times. “Derek Westlake?” she mouthed at Bea.
Bea nodded furiously, then turned again to answer the other blinking line. The takeout orders were coming in fast today, and earlier than usual.
Talia frowned at Westlake’s order. Although she knew he ordered takeout every Friday for himself and a handful of his officers, she couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to place an order today, of all days! Hadn’t he just told Bea she was a suspect in Turnbull’s murder? For sure, the guy had one heck of a nerve.
Still, five orders of fish and chips was nothing to sneer at. Business was business, even if Westlake had implied Bea was guilty. Talia only wished she could add a plateful of common sense to his order, along with a helping of humility. The man looked good and he knew it.
Talia was dropping the requisite potato slices into the fryer when Pug smacked his palm hard on the counter to get her attention. “Hey, um, Talia is it?” he drawled.
Irritated, Talia glanced at him briefly, then turned and dragged a haddock fillet through the flour. “Yes, what can I help you with?” She swirled the fillet through the batter and lowered it carefully into the fryer.
Pug leaned both arms over the counter and grinned. “Hey, like, Whitnee says it was you who found that dead body yesterday. That is, like, so freakin’ cool. I mean, that is righteously sick, know what I’m sayin’?” He cocked a finger at her, as if pulling a trigger.
Talia felt a flare of red-hot anger burst inside her. She grabbed another fillet, slapping it through the flour more roughly than she intended. “Yes, Pug … whatever your name is. It was sick, but not in the way you mean.” She continued dredging, coating, and frying—moving in a rhythm that seemed to be getting ahead of her brain. “It was horrible, finding a man brutally murdered. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even—” She broke off, her hands shaking.
Pug gave his mouth an ugly twist. “Okay, lady, you don’t have to get your thong in a knot. It’s not like I killed the dude. Chill out, will ya?” He ran his forefinger over the metal fence beneath his lip.
“Pug.” Whitnee tightened her fingers around Pug’s upper arm and whispered something in his ear.
He shook her off roughly, then shot a menacing look at Talia. “I’m outta here,” he said and stormed out.
Bea finally hung up the phone. She looked at Whitnee, then at Talia. “What’s going on? What’s all the bloody fuss about?”
“I’m sorry, Bea. That was all was my fault,” Talia sucked in a breath. “I shouldn’t have lost it like that.”
Whitnee was shaking her head, her face drained of color. “No, it wasn’t your fault. Pug shouldn’t have talked to you that way.” She looked at Bea. “I am so, so sorry he came in here, Bea.” With a hitch in her voice, she
hugged her arms to her chest and stared at the floor. “You’re prob’ly sorry you ever hired me.”
For the first time all morning, Talia saw Bea smile. “Aw, luvvy, I’d never be sorry I hired you. Was that chap your boyfriend?”
Whitnee nodded.
“Well then, it’s water over the falls, isn’t it. Let’s all get back to work, shall we?”
• • •
“Oh my, I believe those were the best fish and chips I’ve ever had!” one of the silver-hairs trilled to Talia. “We’re definitely going to make this a regular stop in the future.”
The other two nodded, their faces beaming as they mined the depths of their vinyl handbags.
Smiling, Talia leaned forward. “I apologize if you overheard any unpleasantness,” she said.
“Oh, we didn’t mind at all,” one of the other women tittered. “In fact, we were cheering you on. That young man was most obnoxious. I’ve never seen such rudeness.”
“In my day,” the stoutest of the three said, “our granddad would’ve taken a boy like that behind the woodshed and given him what for.” Her face stern, she snagged a twenty out of her wallet.
The others nodded in agreement, and after calculating the tip they paid the bill. They scraped back their chairs and rose to leave.
“One last thing,” the first senior said to Talia. “What do you know about the murder?”
Taken aback, Talia opened her mouth to respond just as the eatery’s door swung open and Derek Westlake stepped inside. Tall and imposing in his crisp blue uniform, he tipped his hat to the ladies and nodded at Talia. All three seniors looked up at him, muttered hellos, and then scurried past him and out onto the plaza.
Saved by the bell, Talia thought, though she was less than thrilled to see Bea’s accuser.
“Must’ve been the badge,” he said with a shrug. With his long fingers, he straightened the gold shield pinned to his crisp navy jacket.
“Or the attitude,” Talia quipped.
Westlake narrowed his dark eyebrows at Talia. She met his steely blue gaze straight on and said, “Your order is ready.”
“Excellent. I’m starving.” A smile hovered on his lips, but he wisely suppressed it.
Resisting an eye roll, Talia turned on her heel and went to the kitchen to retrieve his takeout order. Westlake strolled up to the counter.
Bea, meanwhile, was searching around as if she’d lost something. “Talia, did you— Oh,” she said when she saw the chief.
“Hello, Bea,” he said courteously.
Bea’s green eyes glared at him. She pursed her lips but said nothing.
“Yours is on top,” Talia said, handing him a tall brown bag with handles. “As always, it’s marked EMP for extra mushy peas.”
The chief smiled. “Great.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a rectangular, red-checkered box. “I think I’ll have a bite right now.”
This time Talia did roll her eyes. Every week it was the same thing. Too hungry to wait until he was back at the station, he scarfed down half his lunch standing at the counter. He’d shown the same kind of impatience in high school, where he rushed through Steinbeck, sprinted through Dickens, and galloped through Hemingway as though his hat was on fire.
Talia planted a hand on her hips and shook her head. “Why don’t you just sit down and eat your lunch here every week instead of taking it out?”
“Can’t.” He reached into the box and removed a golden length of fried haddock. “Gotta bring the boys and Abby their lunches. They don’t want to eat ’em ice cold.” He bit off a large chunk and began to chew slowly, savoring the taste. All at once, Westlake’s face crumpled. He snatched a handful of napkins from the dispenser, and into it he spewed his entire mouthful.
Talia looked at him in horror. “Derek, what are you doing?”
Grimacing, he wiped his lips. “What am I doing? What are you doing?” He focused his gaze directly on Bea. “Are you trying to kill me?”
8
Bea trotted over to the counter. “What’s the matter? What are you talking about?”
Westlake tossed his napkin into the nearby trash receptacle. He slammed the remainder of his takeout lunch on the counter and shoved it at her. “What do you call this? Green fish?”
Her legs wobbly, Talia pulled the box over for a closer look. After all, she was the one who’d prepared the takeout meals for Westlake and his gang. If anything was wrong, it was her fault.
A sudden giggle erupted from Bea, followed by an attack of roaring laughter that had her bending over at the waist. When Talia realized what she was looking at, she covered her mouth with both hands. “Derek, I am so sorry,” she said, her smile peeking through her fingers.
“I looked everywhere for that pickle!” Bea howled, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“It’s my fault, Derek,” Talia bit her lip to keep from getting her own case of the giggles. “I got so flustered by one of our … customers, that I must have grabbed it by mistake when I was coating the fish.” She reached for his takeout box. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll make a whole new—”
“Stop!” Westlake clamped his fingers over her wrist. “Hold on a second.” He licked his lips a few times, then reached for the deep-fried pickle and took another bite. “You know what? This is actually delicious.” His words came out garbled over a mouthful of food.
Bea grinned and clapped her hands with glee. “Look at that, Talia. I think you’ve discovered a new side dish!” She pointed at Westlake’s takeout box. “Take that one off the bill—it’s on the house today.”
Westlake tossed his half-eaten pickle back into the box and tucked in the flaps. “Thank you, Mrs. Lambert,” he said, digging his wallet out of his pocket, “but I’m afraid I can’t accept a free lunch.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to add something else, but then closed it.
Talia’s brief moment of levity faded. Pressing her lips into a firm line, she rang up the order and gave him change.
Westlake tipped his hat. “Ladies,” he said with a nod. He grabbed the brown carryout bag and left.
Talia hesitated only for a moment. “Bea, I’ll be right back,” she said, and then followed him out the door.
“Derek,” she said to his back when they were outside on the plaza.
He stopped and turned to her. “Yes?” he said warily.
“Bea told me the police think she killed Turnbull,” she said, rubbing her arms against the nippy October air. “She said they supposedly found evidence that connects her to the murder.”
Westlake’s jaw hardened. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he said, his severe frown making crease lines in his brow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“No, I won’t excuse you! What is this so-called evidence? Can’t you tell me? Doesn’t the public have a right to know?”
Still facing her, he took a step backward. “I’ll say it again. I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation. The state police are in charge now, so I suggest you direct any questions you have to them. Sergeant O’Donnell at the Berkshire Detective Unit in Pittsfield is heading up the case.”
Talia stopped just short of stamping her sneakered foot on the cobblestone. “But you’re the top cop in this town, and you’ve known Bea forever. You know she’s not a killer!”
“Let me give you some advice, Talia.” Westlake worked his jaw for a brief moment, while his gaze roamed the cobblestone arcade. “If you care about your boss, tell her to get herself a lawyer. And I would suggest she do it sooner rather than later. That’s all I can say. Have a good day.”
He turned and strode away, leaving Talia to gawk at him.
A good day? Was he kidding?
She stomped back into the eatery, where the heated air and delectable scents immediately warmed her bones. Bea was flinging potatoes into the fryer, and Whitnee was on the phone with more takeout orders.
“Everything okay?” Bea said in a low voice.
“I tried to extract some information from De
rek, but his lips were zipped.”
Bea’s shook her head in disgust. “That’s a copper for you. They never want to tell you anything, but they expect you to spill your innards.”
Talia pulled the next order slip from the clip above the work counter, and all three worked in tandem through the busy lunch rush. Business was brisk—far better than Talia had expected, given the hype about the murder. It almost seemed as if the horrible crime had drawn people to Lambert’s instead of repelling them. Fish flew into the fryer, potatoes sizzled, and mounds of mushy peas filled takeout containers like mini green mountains. For diners less inclined to go totally authentic, Bea offered helpings of her piquant homemade slaw, using a recipe she’d tweaked over the years. It was a concession she’d made long ago to those “fussy Americans”—a phrase she used with the utmost affection—who viewed mushy peas as nothing more than green blobs of toddler grub.
Talia wondered if the other shop owners, Suzy and Jill in particular, were experiencing the same uptick in customers.
Around two thirty the eatery slid into its usual midday lull. Bea had gone to the hospital to pay a quick visit to Howie, and Whitnee had opted to grab lunch at Queenie’s Variety. Grateful for the break, and for a few minutes alone, Talia whipped up a snack for herself and dropped into a chair at the table tucked in the tiny alcove behind the commercial fridge. The space was just small enough to be hidden from view to anyone walking into the eatery.
Poking a fork into the scoop of mushy peas on her plate, she thought about Westlake’s dire warning—his “advice” to Bea, as he called it. Talia still hadn’t told Bea what he’d said about getting a lawyer. Did she really want to send Bea into a worse tizzy than she was already in? Or should she let sleeping pups lie and hope she’d never have to shake them awake?
