Caught Bread Handed (9 page)

“I wish he would talk about it with me.”

“He will. He loves you, Mom. Give him some time.”

She didn't look convinced, but forced a smile and tossed the sponge into the sink. “I hope so.”

Stephanie stomped into the kitchen with a tray full of dirty soup bowls and plates. “People are crazy today.”

“Thanks for helping out front. It looked like a mob scene up there.”

She submerged the dishes in the soapy water in the sink and positioned the empty tray on her forearms to go back for another round. “You don't even want to know. Don't come out there. You'll both freak.”

Mom's eyes widened. “Why will we freak?”

Sterling jogged into the kitchen and headed straight for the closet where we keep the cleaning supplies. He grabbed a broom, mop, and dustpan. “We got this. Don't worry.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

Sterling ducked out of the kitchen with his cleaning gear. Stephanie shook her head. “It's fine. It's just a mess. It looks like a tornado hit. A soupy tornado.”

Mom and I looked at each other and without a word raced to the front.

Stephanie hadn't exaggerated. There were splotches of tomato orange soup on the floor and the tabletops. Pieces of crust and bites of cookies were littered all over the floor. Discarded receipts and order tickets were scattered on the front counter like confetti.

“What happened?” I asked, holding up a vase with a white lily. It looked like it had been dipped in tomato orange soup.

Andy stood behind the espresso machine. His face matched the soup. Sweat dripped from his forehead.

Sterling pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie and started sweeping while Stephanie loaded up the empty tray with more dishes. Carlos was nowhere in sight.

“We couldn't keep up. So many people wanted orders to go, but then they stayed to talk while they were waiting. Soup got sloshed everywhere. We couldn't get the tables cleaned in time. No one seemed to mind. They loved the food, and all they wanted to do was talk about the murder.” Sterling pointed out the window.

A makeshift shrine had been constructed in front of ShakesBurgers. People had left flowers, balloons, votive candles, and cards. I put my hand over my heart. This is why I loved Ashland. Mindy hadn't been loved, and yet our community rallied to pay their respects to her.

Mom put her arm around my waist and leaned her head onto my shoulder. She sighed. “How nice. We'll have to bring something over to add to the tribute.”

“We will,” I agreed.

She inhaled through her nose and glanced around the dining room. “But first we need to get this place back in order.”

Sterling tapped the broom to the floor. “We got this.”

We sped around the dining room picking up used plates and coffee cups. Sterling swept while Mom followed after him with a wet mop. Stephanie rinsed the dishes and filled the dishwasher. Andy restacked paper coffee cups and tidied up the sugar, honey, cinnamon, and cream station. I wiped down the front counter and restocked the pastry case with an assortment of afternoon sweets. Within twenty minutes Torte was in tip-top shape and ready for business again.

What teamwork, I thought as I washed my hands. I would have been thrilled to have such a hardworking and enthusiastic staff on the ship.

The bell on the front door jingled just as Mom positioned the last flower vase on the tables. Alan Matterson walked inside. Strands of stray hairs fell from his braids. He wore a tie-dyed sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

Mom greeted him with a hug. “Alan, how nice to see you.”

He returned her hug. “Man, am I too late for lunch?”

“Never. What can I get you?” Mom asked.

“Surprise me.” Alan headed for a window booth.

Stephanie dried the last mixing bowl and stacked it on the counter. “Do you need me to do anything else?”

I shook my head. “No. You've been great. Go.”

She untied her apron and tossed it in the laundry bin. “I'll walk you home,” Sterling said, as he returned the broom and dustpan to the closet. “As long as that's okay with you, Jules? Carlos said he'd be back around two. Apparently Jose is running late.”

“Of course. Take a break,” I said. Sterling gave me the namaste pose. I watched him place his hand on Stephanie's back and escort her to the door. Maybe things were progressing with them.

Mom sent Andy home too. “We've got it from here.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. C?” Andy handed her his notebook. “You think you can handle the chunky monkey?”

“I'll give it my best shot.” She grinned.

“Good one, Mrs. C. Your best shot. Get it? Like espresso shot?” Andy tossed his apron in the bin too. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

That left Mom and me. On Saturdays during the off season we usually close around three or four. Sometimes we get a few late-afternoon customers who come in for a coffee or a box of sweets for the evening, but otherwise Saturdays are usually pretty slow after lunch. We've been using the time to prep for Sunday suppers and map out the menu for the following week.

Mom sliced sourdough bread. “I'm going to make Alan a sandwich. Do you want to see if he wants a coffee or tea to go with it?”

“Sure.” I was secretly glad that she sent me to check on Alan. I wanted to ask him about Mindy. I stopped at the coffee bar on my way to the front and grabbed a carafe of coffee and a clean mug.

Alan was staring out the window watching the crowd milling around ShakesBurgers. The neon signs on the fast-food chain's window continued to flash in a steady rhythm.

“Hey, Alan,” I said, setting the mug and coffeepot on the table and sliding onto the bench across from him. “How's it going?”

He sucked in his chest. “Whoa, Juliet, you snuck up on me.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to.” I pointed to the coffee. “Mom thought you might want something to drink while you wait for your lunch.”

“Your mom knows me too well.” Alan poured himself a cup of the dark brew.

“Do you take cream with that?”

“Nah. I take mine black.” He raised the mug in the air. “Thanks for this. It's been a day. Heavy, huh?” He looked out the window again.

“I know. It's terrible.”

Alan sipped his coffee and considered my words. “True. It is, but maybe this means I have a shot of getting the Jester back.”

I swallowed twice to try to maintain a passive face. What did Alan mean by that?

“You're trying to get the Jester back?”

He took another drink and then placed his mug on the table. He didn't answer right away. “I don't know. It could happen.”

“Won't Mathew take over ShakesBurgers?” From what I'd been told, Mindy and Mathew owned the franchise rights to ShakesBurgers' Ashland location.

Alan frowned. He picked a piece of lint from his sweatshirt. “Is that what you heard?”

“I haven't heard anything. It's probably too soon to know what will happen to ShakesBurgers. The most likely scenario is that Mathew will assume ownership, right?”

Alan's jaw tightened. “You think so? That's not what Mindy said.”

“Mindy?”

“Nah, it's nothing. I swear to Buddha, I can't catch a break.”

I had known Alan for years. His handmade corn dogs at the farmers' market were a weekend tradition when I was growing up. Unlike the standard white tents that most of the vendors at the farmers' market erected, Alan's tent was tie-dyed, with colorful streamers hanging from each corner. It was hard to miss, and even harder not to be drawn in by the delicious smells from his booth. In addition to his corn dogs, he served strawberry shortcake piled with organic strawberries and mounds of whipped cream and batches of fresh raspberry, mango, and mint lemonade. Mom, Dad, and I often stopped for corn dogs and glasses of lemonade that Alan served with red-and-white-stripped straws. His booth was ahead of its time. He was one of the first vendors in Ashland to fuse organic products with carnival food.

The rumor around town was that Alan had taken on too much with opening the Jester. Running a food booth with a small selection of items versus a fifty-seat restaurant with a full menu were two very different undertakings.

“You're still upset about losing the Jester, aren't you?” I asked.

Alan rested his chin on his hands. “You know, man, it was the worst. I'd been saving up and dreaming about owning a real place for years. I thought I really had something going. People liked the food, you know.”

“I heard they did. I'm sorry I never had a chance to try it. Your corn dogs are one of my favorite food memories. Have you considered opening the market booth up again?”

He stretched and leaned back against the booth. “I don't know. Maybe. I've got a lot to figure out.”

“Alan, can I ask you something?” I decided to try the direct approach.

“Go for it.”

“It's about the meeting last night. You seemed pretty upset at Mindy.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I was wigging out. I guess I was venting my frustration, like everyone else in town.”

I begged to differ, but I thought it was best to keep that to myself. “Did you know Mindy well?”

He shifted in his seat. “Why would you ask that?”

“I just wondered how the buyout process went. You must have worked with her, right?”

“Not really.” He picked up his coffee mug but didn't take a drink.

I got the sense that he was holding something back. “It's sad that she's dead.”

He gave a small nod in agreement. “Yeah. Bummer. It's a drag, but I guess some people probably won't share that sentiment.”

“What do you mean?”

Mom arrived with Alan's lunch. “Here you go,” she said, offering a plate with a deli sandwich, bag of potato chips, and two of our signature oatmeal-raisin cookies to Alan.

“Looks great, Helen.” Alan picked up half of the sandwich and studied it.

“It's our chicken salad. I hope you like it.” Mom caught my eye. I could tell that she sensed that she'd interrupted something. “I'm going to scoot back to the kitchen. I have some cleaning to do. Enjoy your lunch.”

Alan took a bite of the chicken sandwich. Mom's chicken salad is legendary. The secret is in her homemade dill mayonnaise. She combines that with diced green onions, yellow onions, almonds, fresh dill, salt and pepper, and just a dash of sour cream. “Good stuff,” Alan said with a mouth full of sandwich.

I prompted him to continue. “You were saying that you don't think everyone is upset that Mindy's dead.”

He looked across the street. “Yeah. You missed it last night. You thought I was wigging out? You should have seen Rosalind, man.”

“Really?”

“She and Mindy got into a huge fight at the end of the meeting. Rosalind grabbed Mindy's arm and almost yanked her to the ground. I think she might have thrown a punch.”

“Rosalind?”

Alan nodded, buying himself time as he swallowed another bite of the chicken salad. “Yeah. She's ruthless when it comes to protecting Ashland.”

“Wait. I thought you and Mindy got into a fight.”

“Me? No. Mindy and I were fine. I was bummed about losing the Jester, but fighting isn't my style. Rosalind looked like she was about to murder Mindy last night.”

Alan finished his lunch and left. Some of what he'd said didn't add up. He claimed that he wasn't angry with Mindy, yet he'd been vocal at the meeting last night that he didn't approve of how ShakesBurgers had taken over his restaurant. I couldn't picture the mellow food vendor murdering Mindy, but he could be lying. If it was true that Rosalind and Mindy had almost had a physical altercation, could she have returned early this morning to finish their fight?

 

Chapter Nine

Mom was organizing the spice rack when I returned to the kitchen with Alan's empty plate. “I think he liked it,” I said.

“You two looked like you were having a serious conversation.”

“I know. We were. I was asking him about Mindy and he said that Rosalind went after Mindy last night. That she knocked her off her feet and tried to punch her.”

“Rosalind?” Mom looked as dumbfounded as I'm sure I had when Alan told me. “Sweet Rosalind?”

“That's what he said.”

Mom twisted the cap on a container of cloves. “Did he tell Doug?”

“I don't know. I didn't even think to ask. I was so surprised that I think I just sat there, repeating, ‘Rosalind, Rosalind?'”

“Doug and I are going to dinner tonight. I'll mention it to him. He probably already knows.”

“Where are you going to dinner?”

Mom smiled. “His place. He's making me dinner.”

“Ooh. Very romantic.”

“Juliet, stop.” Mom tossed an almond at me.

“Are you throwing food?”

“I am. Are you going to stop me?”

“No, but I might join you.” I reached for a canister of flour.

“You wouldn't.” Mom threw her hands out to protect her.

“I might.” She knew that I was bluffing. The kitchen was practically spotless with the exception of the spices she was organizing and a bag of almonds waiting to be placed back in the cupboard.

“Truce.” She picked up a bottle of cinnamon sticks. “I have important work to finish here.”

“I see that.”

Mom kept her gaze on the spices. “So how are things going with Carlos here?”

I wasn't prepared for that question. “Uh. Fine. I think.” I picked up the bag of almonds and walked to the far side of the kitchen.

“He seems very committed to making things work. Do you think he's going to stay?”

“No.” I clutched the bag. “I mean he can't. He has to be back on the ship on Tuesday.”

“I know. I wondered if maybe he was reconsidering.” Mom placed the last jar of spice on the rack.

I returned to the island. “What does that mean?”