The Curious Case of the Missing Figurehead: A Novel (A Professor and Mrs. Littlefield Mystery)

by Diane Noble

  She laughed. “If I tell you, I’ll have to shoot you.”

  “I take it that’s a yes.”

  “I plead the fifth.”

  “So you’re involved.”

  Sighing, she said, “Honestly, El. I can’t tell you. I promised Max.”

  That got me to thinking I was certainly right in my assessment. Before I could say so, Hyacinth added, “We do have an edict from on high for adding the extra help and the high price we knew you’d demand.”

  My radar went up. “What edict?”

  She sighed. “Let’s wait till we get together. Bad news is easier to give—and take—in person.” Amusement tinged her voice, the kind that bubbled just below the surface. The kind that meant trouble. “I tell you what,” she said. “To make up for the bad news I have to deliver, I’ll help with the extra shopping. I’ve been at the library more hours than any sane person should admit to. Truth is, I could use some time away. How about a trip out to the pig chalet?”

  “I’d like the company.”

  “Because no matter how you slice it, pigs still die and you get depressed. You need me to cheer you up afterward.”

  “‘Slice? That isn’t funny,” I said. “Even the thought of escargot makes me—” I laughed, interrupting myself. “Here I go again. Animal rights, even for snails. Hey, thanks, my friend. I can use the help. Ribs for an extra two hundred people. That may not be so easy. I’ll be there in five. Get ready.”

  “I was born ready,” she said.

  I revved the engine and raced down my driveway, glad the Ghia’s canvas top was down. Nothing like the early morning air hitting your face to wake up a girl. As if the Chronicle article hadn’t already.

  Hyacinth was watching for me through her front window. She waved as I drove up, and then trotted from the house in jeans and a wild, colorful poncho. She’d tied her thicket of unruly curls back with a long scarf, and her hair’s latest shade of red and fuchsia caught the sun. Part of what I’d loved about my friend for decades was her determination to go against stereotypes.

  “Glad we’re doing the Thelma and Louise thing,” she said, patting the folded canvas top as she passed. “Makes it easier to get in.”

  I grinned at her as I reached over to open the door from the inside. She sidled in, her spine as straight as a pool cue, and then dropped like a stone into the passenger seat. “New skinny jeans,” she said, breathlessly. “They’re supposed to make you look twenty pounds lighter, so of course I ordered them.”

  “That would be great,” I said, “if you could breathe.” I shaded my eyes with my hand as I studied her. “Internet?”

  She grinned as she buckled her seat belt. “You betcha. From If You’ve Got It, Flaunt It. Dot com. It’s for women of a certain size.” She looked my slight frame up and down. “But you ain’t got it to flaunt, El. Sorry to say, you skinny little thing.”

  I couldn’t help laughing with her as I glanced at my thighs. “Even so, cellulite has no favorites.” I was still chuckling as I pressed the accelerator and took the corner without braking. She grabbed hold of the passenger-side armrest, ever the drama queen.

  “Okay, spill,” I said, guiding the car toward the interstate.

  She glanced at me through her oversized sunglasses. “All in good time,” she said. “Let’s just enjoy the country air for now.”

  A few minutes later we were on the interstate heading south. A red Peterbilt loaded with chrome roared up beside me, then geared down. The driver shot me a glare, fell back, and pulled in behind me. The shiny grill loomed large in my rearview mirror. The driver hit his air horn.

  I frowned. “What’s he so upset about?”

  “I think you floored it when he was trying to pass,” Hyacinth said as if it were an everyday occurrence. Which it was.

  By the time I reached the turnoff to Wilber’s Pig Farm, she still hadn’t spilled the beans about the edict. But for good reason. We’d talked through what we needed to beg, steal, or borrow within the next forty-eight hours. She took notes as I listed the extra ingredients we needed for the rub, the coleslaw, the Beauregard soufflé, the hush puppies, and the cupcakes. She also made calls to the florist for extra centerpieces and to the cupcake designer who was making the custom beauties for the professor.

  We were discussing the table placement when we reached Wilber’s Pig Farm. The farmer was out feeding his pigs beside the barn and saw us coming. He waved, climbed over a fence, and trotted over to the car before we got out.

  “Been expecting you,” he said. “Saw the big news in the paper. So you’re expecting three-hundurd, ’stead of one. Already got the word out to some of my farmer friends. Not to worry. We’ll have all the ribs you need.”

  “How do your farmer friends treat their animals?”

  He stooped and peered into my face with a frown. “All them pigs are bein’ raised happy, pigs in clover, just like mine, right up until the minute they’re—” He made a slashing motion across his neck. “No factory farms in my circle of hog friends, believe you me.”

  We took care of the business end of the deal, and then Hyacinth and I were on our way to the tomato farm a few miles down the road. As we drove, we reminisced about some of our recent run-ins with our rival caterers, Bubba and Junior Sutherland, who owned Sons of the South—or SOS, as the young hotshots called themselves.

  “They were heirlooms, you know.” I was getting riled up just recalling what they had done to my van. “Perfectly ripe and ready for making tomato bisque.”

  “They might as well have been cannon balls,” Hyacinth said. Mirth bubbled below the surface of her words. “You have to admit, it was amusing.”

  “Amusing, my foot. You were screaming bloody murder as the van careened all over the interstate.”

  “The EMTs thought we’d been shot.” She doubled over with a loud guffaw. “They were about to declare the whole thing a crime scene. Wrap us and the van in yellow tape.”

  “Wasn’t funny. I was the one driving when the tire blew.”

  “And then there was the Beauregard business,” she said, “I’ll never forget the look on your face when you found the potato.”

  “Who puts potatoes in tailpipes anymore? Errant teens, that’s who. Not grown boys in their twenties.”

  “Fess up,” she said. “You wouldn’t have been half as mad if it had been a russet. You just have a thing for the ‘Queen of all Sweet Potatoes,’ the almighty Beauregard.”

  “The head of Greenpeace would’ve felt the same way if he’d found a baby spotted owl in his tailpipe.”

  She hooted. “Touché. Cut ’em a little slack. They just wanted you out of the way so they could have a shot at having the winning bid for the gala.”

  “Wanted me out of the way?” I sputtered. “You’re forgetting about the forged letter from my alma mater. They basically said my credentials were a fraud.”

  “Their signatures were clever, you’ve got to admit.”

  “N. Corrigible? D. S. Troy?” I had to laugh with her. “I could have wrung their beefy necks. Still could.”

  “You’re right. They’ve got a lot to learn. Right now they’re dervishes looking for a place to whirl. It’s too bad their godfather is holder of the purse strings.”

  My ears perked up. “What do you mean? What godfather?””

  “You know the new board member, Silas Sutherland?”

  How could I forget a face that’s plastered on billboards all over town? “The real estate guru, right?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I glanced at her, but she was staring straight ahead, obviously trying to get up the nerve to tell me something unpleasant.

  “Okay, what about him?”

  “They say he bought his way onto the board of regents.”

  “So, that’s news?” I laughed, shaking my hair in the wind. “Everybody knows he provided
funding for the new library wing. And that was his ticket.”

  “Sutherland may be new,” she said, “but he’s got clout. And not just the the kind that money buys.” She paused. “He’s in thick with the VP of finance, who listens to every word Sutherland speaks as if it’s pure gold. If he says no extra funding for The Butler, you’ll have to abide by the original contract.”

  “Uh-oh.” I thought for a moment. “Something tells me this has to do with the edict, that we’ve got some strings attached.”

  “You betcha.” She took off her sunglasses and looked over at me, waiting for the neurons to connect.

  They did. In a flash. “Oh dear. You’re kidding.” In my distress, I swung the steering wheel hard to the right, something I have a tendency to do if I’m looking at the person next to me. A loud screech of brakes followed as a little Toyota of some sort moved out of my way. A feeling of dread swept over me. “What else?”

  “Silas wants us to hire SOS as our sous chefs for the retirement dinner.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. They’re a couple of kids in grown-up bodies, and that’s about the kindest thing I can say about them.” The brothers who ran SOS were recent graduates of some unknown New York culinary school, or so they’d led the folks in Eden’s Bridge to believe.

  She rolled her eyes. “The problem is, Silas wants the boys to be under your tutelage. He thinks they need to learn a thing or two, get better at what they do. He’s insisting.”

  “SOS has been trying to either run me out of town or take down my business for weeks. And Silas wants me to hire them?” I frowned. “As sous chefs? It’s a setup for sabotage.”

  “If you don’t,” Hyacinth said, “no extra moola comin’ your way from the university.” She rubbed her fingers together.

  I glared at her. “So we have no choice.”

  She shook her head. “And you can’t back out now.”

  She knew I’d borrowed against the company to have the funds to make this event work. Our success would mean new business, new gigs, money in the coffers to replace what I’d borrowed.

  I drew in a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Chapter Three

  When I get nervous about an upcoming catering gig, I bake chocolate-chip cookies. When I get nervous about a case I’m looking into, I bake double-chocolate-chip cookies, adding white chocolate to the bittersweet. When my anxiety meter spikes, I bake triple chippers, adding a cup or two of butterscotch chips to the mix. While they bake, I crank up Mozart on my iPod, conduct an imaginary orchestra with my spatula, and then do a boot-scootin’ boogie the length of the kitchen.

  It was a triple chipper night. Or maybe I should say morning. I’d been awake since 3:17, and this was my third batch. Rather than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and worrying about how I was going to pull off tonight’s dinner with grace and elegance, I’d risen to do battle in my sock monkey pajamas and my grandmother’s faded ruffled apron.

  The Sutherland boys had been given a list of their duties, but the closer we got to the retirement dinner, the more I worried they might try to bring us down if not watched carefully. It was in their nature.

  I glanced at the clock, which read 6:24. Dawn was about to break, and I needed to get upstairs to change into my work clothes before Bubba, Junior, and their crew arrived. Catering day was always one of organized chaos. Most of the expanded crew—including my daughter, Katie, who played manager when I wasn’t there—was already at work at the Encore kitchen. I planned to join them as soon as Enrique and Juan arrived with the ribs.

  I pulled out the large tub of sauce, a unique recipe I called my secret weapon. For perfect ribs, you need crisp spiciness on the outside, succulent juicy flavor on the inside, and a burst of flavor from the sweet and pungent glaze brushed on at the last minute. The timing had to be perfect, or the sugary sauce would scorch.

  I tasted the sauce, let out a sigh at the heavenly taste, and then closed the refrigerator door.

  With Mozart streaming through my earbuds, I treated myself to one more cha-cha slide across the kitchen.

  I halted midcrescendo as an off-pitch chime rang out from the percussion section. As the chime sounded a third time, I realized it was my doorbell, not the London symphony.

  I left the kitchen for the dining room, stepped up to the lace panels at the window, and peered through. A man appeared to be stretching out his hamstrings, or whatever they’re called, on my front porch. I didn’t recognize his profile, but he wore running clothes and had a sports towel hanging around his neck.

  I pulled the door open and blinked when I saw who it was.

  “Dr. Haverhill,” I said, opening the door wider. I recognized the professor from his picture in the Chronicle, but what was he doing here on my front porch, especially at this time of day?

  Dr. Haverhill scratched his forehead and then seemed to take a sudden interest in his running shoes.

  I followed his gaze for a second and caught sight of my sock-monkey slippers. And pajamas. And Grandma’s faded apron. I didn’t remember running a comb through my hair. Or washing the sleep out of my eyes. I felt my face grow warm and wished the floor would just swallow me now and be done with it.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “About tonight’s dinner.”

  He gazed anywhere but at me and my pajamas. Even so, I could see his expression and it wasn’t that of a man looking forward to his retirement party.

  “Tonight’s dinner?” It came out in a squeak.

  He nodded. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  I couldn’t bear hearing bad news, standing here in my doorway in my sock monkey slippers and PJs. Don’t ask me why, I just couldn’t do it.

  “Cookies,” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Uh, why don’t you come in and help yourself?” I reached for his arm and pulled him inside, and then couldn’t believe I’d done that.

  “The cookies are cooling on the counter. Milk’s in the fridge.” I rambled, while backing slowly to the stairs at the other end of the entry hall, hoping I’d aim right and not land on my fanny. “I need to run upstairs for a minute. I’ll be right back. I promise. We can talk. Whatever it is that you need to talk over, we can indeed talk.” Finally, I reached the stairs, turned, and trotted out of his sight, the entire time speculating about what bad news he had about tonight’s dinner.

  I returned to the kitchen in less than ten minutes, ready to roll: face scrubbed, pixie hair fluffed, clad in baggy jeans and a work shirt.

  Dr. Haverhill, sitting at the kitchen table, faced the backyard garden and oak trees at the rear of the property. He was chewing a chocolate chipper, something I’ve found can calm the most troubled soul. Two others, one from each batch, sat on a small plate in front of him. He seemed lost in thought.

  He stood as I walked toward him.

  “Please, no formalities. We’re practically old friends by now,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t greet just anyone in my pajamas.”

  He gave me a stiff smile. “I’m Max Haverhill,” he said, extending his hand. As if I didn’t know.

  I shook his hand and smiled into what I realized was a very good-looking face. Strong. Lots of character. With eyes the color of a deep mountain lake. My heart did a little cha-cha slide of its own. “Elaine Littlefield,” I said, rather breathlessly. “My friends call me El. And since you’re officially a friend …”

  “El,” he said. “Yes, it suits you.” I wondered about that but didn’t ask why. “Please, call me Max.”

  “Okay, Max, how about some coffee to go with your cookies?”

  He shook his head. “I really can’t stay. I came by to tell you about the cancellation in person. I planned to wait until the hour was decent and phone you, but I saw your kitchen light on.”

  The thought of him watching me dance made my face burn once again. “I bake w
hen I can’t sleep. I play Mozart, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and—”

  Then it hit me. He’d just said cancellation. “Wait, what did you say?” He started to speak, but I held up a hand. “Just hold on a minute.”

  I went to the fridge, grabbed a carton of milk, and then opened the cupboard door over the counter and picked up two glasses. I had to keep moving or I would bawl on the spot. I set the glasses down and then headed to the cooling rack on the stove and placed more cookies on the plate.

  “We have to cancel tonight’s dinner.”

  “I thought that’s what you said. But you can’t.”

  “I must.”

  “No.” I wanted to shout, or at least cry. “No,” I said, the decibel level increasing. “Why?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You have to have a reason.”

  “I do. A very good one.”

  “What is it?” I felt the heat of tears behind my eyes.

  “As I said, I can’t say.”

  I stood and moved to the center of the kitchen. Mainly because I couldn’t sit still. Not with this news. “You wouldn’t believe how much food has been prepared,” I said patiently as I paced. “We’re expecting three hundred and twelve people. Think of it. And the preparations. The people flying in—your people—historians, dignitaries … the … the …” I ran out of nouns. “Everyone.

  “Most people don’t know what goes into putting on a dinner party for even one hundred guests. You start weeks ahead of time, hiring a crew of at least two dozen—and in the case of your party, twice that.” I was on a roll, still pacing. “I hired a couple of extra sous chefs, at least a dozen extra servers, still others to set the tables and refresh the food warmers. And yet another crew for cleanup.”

  I grabbed a double-chocolate chipper to give my hand something to do besides shake a finger at him. “You just have no idea what it’s taken to coordinate all this—and then to have two hundred people added to the guest list two days ago—” My voice rose an octave higher and threatened to keep rising. “All the preparation and planning and people who are counting on the night’s wages and tips. My daughter, Katie, is just one of many.” I took a huge bite of the cookie.