Toad in the Hole (22 page)
Split double doors that led to the kitchen made a sweeping noise and dishes clattered behind them. “So Ahmed wasn’t bullshitting that he suspected all along that the amethyst in the Tower was a fake and that the real one was at large,” I said.
“That’s what my sources surmise.”
“When did you find all this out?” Travis asked.
“I’ve been digging around ever since Edmond stumbled upon the boys from the Yard here in Yorkshire at my house while you two were at the reenactment.”
“Yeah, thanks for telling them where to find us,” Travis remarked.
“My dear, they were going to catch up with us eventually and besides, we have nothing to hide.”
“Finding the gem saved them some footwork,” Edmond said
“I didn’t know whether it was there or not. It was just a lucky hunch.”
“Admit it, Rach, there was more to this trip than luck.”
Travis was trying to keep on my good side so I’d forget the eels. His finesse was working
.
I drank from my half-pint glass, finishing it before the bubbles went flat. “Losing the oyster brooch to a couple of thugs wasn’t lucky.”
“The thugs had the brooch less than five minutes when Scotland Yard pulled up and confiscated it,” Edmond said before he began to snicker. “The police opened the oyster and followed the coordinates to a dead end. They tore up some poor chap’s barn. It was just north of Allerton, between Marton cum Grafton and Aldborough.”
“They’re lucky Sonny’s meddling handwork kept them in the UK,” I said.
GG took a deep drag from her jewel-encrusted cigarette holder. “After that, they went looking for you again. The Yard wanted to see what you knew and almost found you on the canal in Stratford-upon-Avon.”
I didn’t appreciate being reminded that I’d swum in the dark, icy canal for no real reason.
“The authorities have the brooch, which while valuable, was just the key to the real treasure, the scepter’s amethyst,” Edmond said.
I didn’t have either and I grimaced.
“But how did Ahmed find Rachael at Allerton?” Travis asked.
“He’s smart and cunning,” Edmond said. “And the real deal with diplomatic immunity and all. My guess is he was able to get GG’s address and that he followed the cops to Allerton, where he tracked Rachael down.”
GG rested her hand on mine. “You, my dear, may choose to believe that you fly by the seat of your pants…”
“I can attest to that,” Travis began, before I kicked his ankle under the table.
The creases around my grandmother’s eyes smoothed and after all the time we spent together on this trip, a seriousness I’d never heard emanated from her. “Rachael, like me, you are drawn to art and it to you. It’s a gift that’s in your blood and it comes with consequences.”
NOTE TO SELF
In a split second, my grandmother’s woo-hoo prophecy reminded me of my mother.
Personal message from Paisley Ray
If you enjoyed this or any of my other books, I’d love to hear from you. I answer all my emails in person and if you contact me I can put you on my mailing list to receive notification of future releases, updates, and contests.
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Anachronisms
Horse Chestnut trees drop spikey green conkers in the fall, not the summer.
The journey by narrowboat to Stratford-upon-Avon from London would take closer to twelve days, not three.
THE RACHAEL O’BRIEN CHRONICLES
JOHNNY CAKES
A Novel
by
PAISLEY RAY
“A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.”
~Mae West
A
UGUST 1988
CHAPTER 1
F
air
t
o
M
iddlin’
“J
OHNNY CAKES was looking for you,” Francine said, her eyes intent on the cast iron skillet that popped and sizzled as she scraped it against the electric burner.
I’d been inside Sheila Sinclair’s house just off campus two seconds, max. The sun outside shone bright; inside the space felt sleek with floor-to-ceiling mauve, black appliances, and a mid-century leather sofa sectional. I dropped my duffle bag just outside the kitchen saloon-style swinging door. My head was pounding from lack of sleep and my skin tacky from the motel bar soap film that clung from an early morning shower.
Francine had a cryptic way of making implications. I assumed her greeting was code for one of my past dating disasters. Junior year, I’d determined, was going to be different. With my redneck stalker digested into swamp muck, and having left the crazy Turk and the troublesome Asprey oyster brooch in England for Scotland Yard to deal with, my romantic interests scattered off the radar. This year was going to be normal. I’d have no bigger college concerns than cramming for tests and experimenting with hangover remedies.
Roger’s knees butted against the wall at a breakfast bar opening, his focus steadied on the frying pan. He wore a matted fur something or other around his neck. I stared at him. The belted blanket garb that draped his bare arms and legs had me wondering if the fleabag hotel where I’d spent the night had futzed with my brain. Or had Francine and her boyfriend kicked their relationship up a notch? Maybe they were into some kind of role-play that I didn’t have any business asking about. Flashing the signature gap between his upper front teeth, he said, “Hey Rach, you’re wrecked.”
Perceptive guy.
Then again, if you dared to date Francine Battle, a Bayou-bred, opinionated handful, you had to be on your toes. And a little crazy.
“Me and my car engine.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“On an incline, sandwiched in by the Appalachian Mountains, about ten miles before I crossed the West Virginia state line, my Galaxie coughed fumes that smelled like burnt toxins before the transmission blew steam.”
Francine rolled her neck toward me and acknowledged my presence with a scowl.
Being inconvenienced and parting from funds I’d planned on consuming at bars and on extras I’d need living off campus, I was in no mood for the chilly Louisiana shoulder my temperamental roommate aimed at me.
“That blows,” Roger said.
“Owning that clunker just made a big ding in my bank account. I need to trade the pea green shit can in for something reliable.”
Scoping out Francine and Roger’s get-ups, I had to ask, “What are you two wearing?”
Roger stopped spinning an empty juice glass and it became lost under his carrot size fingers. “We dressed up last night. Posed as apostles at da Vinci’s last supper.”
“What?”
“Which one was I, Francie?
Facing the stove, she said, “Simon the Zealot.”
“Oh yeah, and Francie played Jesus.”
I stared at the bare skin on Francine’s neck, below her morning yellow shower cap. “Since when does Jesus have a scaly tail drawn in black marker? Did you run out of paper while playing Win, Lose or Draw?”
The aged pan Francine handled started to smoke. The air smelled of new carpet, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and skillet-warmed butter. “
Merde
,” she spat, as she scurried to add another generous pat of butter. Once she had the pan under control, she poked flat golden cakes with a spatula and turned the heat down. Stomping her slipper feet out of the kitchen, she buzzed around the corner toward the powder room. We heard the light switch flick and after a beat, she shouted loud enough for the neighbors two doors down to hear her. “Lord have mercy! When the tarnation did this happen? Roger!”
Dutifully, her boyfriend disappeared and I looked past the kitchen to a slumbering body that was tucked into the sofa cushions. Plastic cups littered every surface. “This house has been partified. Did you throw some kind of church supper thing?”
From behind the open powder room door I could hear Roger mew an apologetic tone. “I don’t know, babe. I thought the snake was on you before I arrived. Figured it was a biblical accessory for our costumes, like a Garden of Eden thing.”
“We were apostles, not Adam and Eve. Why would I have a scaly snake drawn on my back and more importantly, how would I put it there?”
“Maybe I should be asking that question,” he countered.
Water ran in the sink, and when they returned her neck looked reddish, but the slithery snake was still intact. She caught me staring at it and prodded me with the spatula.” You were supposed to be here a day and a half ago.”
“My car broke down.”
“Excuses are like assholes; everyone’s got one,” her voice lowered to a murmur. “I should have known. You do this every year.”
“Do what?”
With calculated precision, she squinted her black eyes at me. “You avoid all the work of moving in.”
My voice pitched, “I do not. Not on purpose.”
Placing himself between Francine and the stovetop, Roger stepped in. His head grazed the ceiling of the pint-sized kitchen and he hunched his shoulder to peer into the pan. “Now ladies, don’t be accusing.”
“Are you taking her side?” Francine asked.
“Francie, something from this griddle is smelling mighty fine.”
She manhandled the spatula, and watched the crispy brown that formed on the edges of what I assumed were pancakes. “There isn’t room in here for all of us. You two sit your bottoms down,” she ordered as she adjusted the heat on the electric stovetop.
Everything was ready at the kitchen counter. The red snap-top on the maple syrup was open and a knife stood erect in the center of a tub of butter. Roger tucked a napkin in the neck of the burlap blanket he wore and wrapped each of his fists around a utensil. “So the Galaxie broke down? Is she fixed?”
“Why didn’t you call and tell us?” Francine snapped as she stacked the grill cakes on a plate.
“Has anyone set up the phone service yet?”
Duh. I would’ve called if there was somewhere to call
.
Biting her lip, she re-focused on the food.
I considered storming off, that is, if pancakes weren’t my all-time favorite food. Besides, junior year had just begun and I didn’t want to start it with a fight.
“I ended up phoning Dad to let him know I’d been delayed. He spoke to the mechanic at the repair shop so I wouldn’t get completely ripped off. Even said he’d send me the money to help cover the cost, but I don’t plan on holding him to that.”
“Art restoration business still slow?” Francine asked.
I shrugged. “His business has picked up.”
Which was a good thing since his butt-busting aerobic-instructor girlfriend of two years ate into his pockets with the social calendar she subjected him to.
After tightening her tasseled bathrobe belt and tucking some escaped hair under her shower cap, Francine set the platter in front of us. I noticed Roger’s pie hole maneuver a series of exercises and contortions as a warm up. Both he and Francine took food as seriously as religion, and he was focused on quieting the grumble in his stomach. Sliding a fork down half the stack to serve me, I stopped him.
“Just one,” I said.
The two contorted their faces at me concerned-like.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re great.”
“These are no ordinary pancakes. You’ll change your mind, ” Roger said.
They were golden around the edges, and seemed denser than the ones at IHOP. I could’ve vacuumed most of the stack, but my jeans from last year were snug.
Francine’s boyfriend had perfected fueling her ego. It was his way of placing a protective shield around himself. I knew his gig. He conveyed a simple, easy-going persona, but underneath he was one smart dude.
“To start with,” I said.
“Suit yourself, but these johnny cakes aren’t going to be around for long.”
And it began. The southernisms that always confused me were pitched like fastballs. I slathered soft butter on my lonely cake and poured a puddle of syrup out of the Mrs. Butterworth bottle. “Johnny Cakes? Francine. Who? What are you talking about?”
The downstairs bedroom door lock clicked. Within seconds a pair of lightly freckled, lanky arms hugged me from behind, draping a curtain of red hair over my shoulders. Releasing me, the chronic hugger dangled her nimble fingers onto my plate and tore a corner of my johnny cake. After popping the bite behind her glossy lips, Sheila Sinclair made a show of sucking the leftover drops of syrup off her fingers. “Rachael,” she purred. “Good of you to show. What wanker kept you from your own party?”
