Lemon Pies and Little White Lies (36 page)
Read Lemon Pies and Little White Lies Online
Authors: Ellery Adams
Tags: #Mystery: Cozy - Magic - Georgia
Aunt Octavia pointed at the crest. “Let me hear our motto, boys.”
“
De Nobis Fabula Narratur
,” the twins replied, doing their best to pronounce the Latin words correctly. “Their Story Is Our Story.”
Aunt Octavia smiled. “Excellent. When we get to the village, you may see what I have in my change purse. If you can count the coins correctly, they’re yours. I hear that the Pickled Pig market has a marvelous display of Valentine’s Day candy.”
Jane glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a gleam appear in her sons’ eyes.
“Speaking of Valentine’s Day, are the preparations for Romancing the Reader complete?” Aunt Octavia asked.
“For the most part,” Jane said. “Our guest of honor, Rosamund York, is being a bit of a nuisance.”
Aunt Octavia didn’t seem surprised. “She’s a diva. Wants fresh roses in her suite each day. Will only drink a specific brand of spring water. Prefers not to mingle with her fans outside of her scheduled events. Her publicist sees to her every whim and handles all of Ms. York’s communication. Am I getting warm?”
Approaching a sharp curve known as Broken Arm Bend, Jane reduced her speed. “You’re spot-on. How did you know?”
“Mrs. Pratt is a devout Rosamund York fan. I had the misfortune of running into her at the bookshop. When I foolishly mentioned Romancing the Reader, she turned positively giddy. I’ve never seen a fifty-something woman bounce in such a manner.” She frowned. “It was rather disturbing.”
Jane smiled. “Mrs. Eugenia Pratt is a devout fan of the romance genre. She reads three to four books a week, but I hadn’t realized that she knew intimate details about her favorite authors as well.”
“I’m sure she’d like to get
intimate
with the male cover models,” Aunt Octavia said with a snort.
“What does ‘intimate’ mean?” Fitz asked.
“Being close to,” Jane said as they entered the village. She pulled the car into the only vacant parking spot in front of the Pickled Pig and pivoted in her seat to address her sons. “Mr. Hogg is expecting you. Remember, he’s providing you with lunch and will then introduce you to his new pet. You’ll have a chance to enter the name-the-pet contest, and afterward you can fill a small bag with candy from the bulk bins.” She held out a warning finger. “I expect you both to be on your best behavior. If I hear any unfavorable reports, I will hold your candy hostage until further notice.”
The boys responded with the briefest of nods before Hem turned to Aunt Octavia. “Can we count your coins now?”
Aunt Octavia passed them her coin purse. “Just bring it into the market with you, my dears. I don’t want to be any later for lunch than we already are.”
Delighted, the boys jumped out of the car and ran into the market, nearly barreling into an older gentleman with a walker. Jane said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t get into too much mischief and relocated the car to a spot in between Run for Cover, Eloise Alcott’s bookstore, and Daily Bread, Edwin Alcott’s new café.
Eloise must have been watching for them out the restaurant’s window, because she whipped open the front door before Jane could reach for the handle. Jane’s best friend was a lovely woman in her early thirties with chin-length dark hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her gray eyes were kind and intelligent, and she smiled often. She was devoted to Storyton Village, her customers, and the Cover Girls book club. One would expect her devotion to extend to her older brother, Edwin, as well, but Edwin and Eloise weren’t exactly close. Edwin was a travel writer and had spent most of his adult life journeying around the globe. He could be direct to
the point of rudeness and didn’t seem interested in getting to know the people of Storyton.
So naturally, Eloise was flabbergasted when her brother announced his intention to put down roots, buy the failing café next door, and completely transform the space in time for the Romancing the Reader week.
“You won’t believe what Edwin’s done,” Eloise exclaimed as she ushered Jane and Aunt Octavia inside. “It’s like entering another world. An exotic oasis right here in Storyton.”
Eloise was right. When Jane entered the café, she gasped in wonder. Gone was the aging-diner look of the former establishment. The faded linoleum flooring had been replaced with dark, rich hardwood and an assortment of kilim rugs. Chairs with wicker backs and plump ivory cushions were pulled up to hammered copper tables. The walls were covered with antique maps and framed postcards. Potted palms stood like soldiers at regular intervals along the longest wall. At the back of the café, mosquito nets served as a divider between the main dining area and a lounge space. In this intimate alcove, British Colonial chairs with animal-print cushions were grouped around a black steamer trunk.
“Are people supposed to eat there?” Aunt Octavia gestured at the lounge area.
“It’s a place for people to relax with a cup of tea or a smoothie. A conversation corner, so to speak,” Edwin said, coming forward to greet his guests. He gave Aunt Octavia a deferential bow and then reached for Jane’s hand. “I’m glad you could make it.” He cast his gaze around the café, watching people take in little details that Jane had missed upon first glance, like the border of hand-painted tiles around the perimeter of the room, the antique birdcage, or the urn-shaped wall sconces. “What do you think?” he asked, turning back to Jane.
“It’s wonderful,” Jane agreed.
Edwin offered Aunt Octavia his arm. “May I escort you to the best seat in the house?”
Aunt Octavia inclined her head and thanked Edwin after he pulled out her chair, draped a napkin on her lap, and handed her a menu. After distributing menus to everyone, he disappeared into the kitchen and a middle-aged man wearing a white linen shirt and linen trousers entered the dining room. He flashed them a bright smile from beneath a splendid moustache, introduced himself as Magnus, and declared that he’d be coming around with mango-and-cardamom smoothies for them to sip while they studied the menu.
Jane was delighted to find that all the sandwiches had been named after famous poets and were far more interesting than the dry roast beef and Swiss melts the previous owner had served. She found it difficult to decide which one to try first.
“I’m having the Rumi,” Aunt Octavia declared. “You?”
“The Pablo Neruda.”
The food was delicious. When Edwin came out of the kitchen to check on his customers, he was greeted by a burst of applause.
“You’re going to be mobbed by all the romance fans next week!” Mrs. Pratt, another member of Jane’s book club, cried. “This setting is straight out of an Elizabeth Peters novel. Are you a romantic, Mr. Alcott?” She batted her lashes at Edwin.
“No,” Edwin said. “That malady is for younger men.”
“Come now,” Mrs. Pratt pressed. “A man with such an obvious appreciation for poetry must believe in romance.”
“Lord Byron understood. He wrote, ‘the heart will break, but broken live on.’” Edwin smiled at Mrs. Pratt, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the honey lavender crème brûlée.”
As Edwin vanished into the kitchen, Jane wondered who’d broken his heart. And when.
“Dark, brooding, and handsome. He’s a modern day Heathcliff,” Aunt Octavia said, and then studied Jane. “You’d do well to stay clear of that one. Heathcliffs don’t make good husbands or father figures for young and impressionable boys.”
To her horror, Jane blushed. “What makes you think Edwin Alcott ever crosses my mind?”
Aunt Octavia barked out a laugh. “I may be old, fat, diabetic, and contrary, but I’m not blind. I’ve known men like Edwin Alcott. Indeed, I have. They’re trouble, Jane. Trouble with a capital T.”
“I had enough of that this past autumn,” Jane said as the server appeared with their dessert. “But Romancing the Readers will be completely different than our Murder and Mayhem week. We’ll be hosting a company of ladies devoted to happy endings. It’ll be a lovely, festive, and harmonious time. Not a single dead body in sight.”
At least, I hope not
, she thought and plunged her spoon through the caramelized crust of her
custard.
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