Death at the Day Lily Cafe (3 page)

“I'm heading out, Mom,” Annie said. “I'm going home to get to work on your page. I'll be back later.”

Her face was flushed. I placed my palm on her cheek. “You're warm. It's pretty hot back in the kitchen, isn't it?”

“Um, yes, Mother. It is
very
hot back there.” She tucked her iPad under her arm and half-skipped out the door.

 

S
IX

By eleven thirty the breakfast crowd had slowed, allowing us to start the lunch prep. I changed out the menus, filled the coffee machines, and wiped down the counter. Despite my excitement about our opening, worry for Doris and her sister nagged at me. I wanted to help them. And I felt deeply indebted to Doris. I just hoped I could find the time.

I went back to the kitchen to check on Custer. “We're switching to lunch now,” I said. “Time to start the pizzas.”

He was whistling as he rolled up several basil leaves and sliced them into small slivers. He looked over his shoulder at the counter. Five pizzas were ready to go, topped with halved cherry tomatoes, basil, and fresh burrata cheese.

“Did you brush the crust with garlic and olive oil?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Nice. Is everything going okay back here?”

“Never better.” He went back to whistling. The tune sounded familiar. “Brown-Eyed Girl”? I had no idea someone so young could be a Van Morrison fan. More basil unfurled on the cutting board, and he sprinkled them on a pizza.

When I returned to the dining room, Crystal was sweeping the tablecloths with a small brush while Glenn carried a stack of dirty dishes. His tortoiseshell glasses were askew, and his ordinarily neatly combed silver hair had fallen onto his forehead.

“Why don't you rest,” I said. “I've got table three right here. They're our last breakfast group.”

“Rosalie, I'm fine.”

“Sit,” I said, and gave him a stern look.

He set the dishes in the washtub and eased himself onto a chair. He rubbed the small of his back. “Apparently you are insisting.”

I wiped my hands on a towel and went to work at Mr. Miele II. The espresso squeezed out of the machine with a hot hiss. I topped the cup with lemon zest and slid it over to Glenn.

“How did you know?”

“It's my thing. Sort of like a coffee whisperer.”

Glenn chuckled as he stirred a small spoonful of rock-crystal sugar into the cup. “You're going to help Doris, aren't you?”

“I don't have a choice, Glenn. I could never leave that dear woman in such a predicament.”

“How are you at juggling?” Glenn set the spoon on a napkin and lifted the small espresso cup with his thumb and index finger.

“Maybe if I had someone to help me.” I gave him a sideways glance.

“Hmm.” He took a small sip. “If you just asked me a question, I believe the answer is yes.”

“Coming through…” a loud voice called from the doorway.

I looked up to see Janice Tilghman charging toward us.

“Snow White,” I said.

Janice perched on the seat next to Glenn and dropped a large Coach bag onto the counter. We had been playmates as children when I visited Aunt Charlotte during the summer. Janice came from a wealthy Eastern Shore family, as did her husband. She had opened her arms and home to me last year when I had been feeling as lost and alien as E.T.

“Chocolate,” she said.

“Brownie or espresso bar?”

“Both.” She glanced over at Glenn. “It's an emergency.” She eyed his espresso. “I thought you were getting a liquor license, Rose Red.”

I placed the pastries on a small glass plate and set it in front of her. “I've already got it. But I need a mixologist and/or a sommelier before I can expand our hours to include evenings. I don't know the first thing about making cocktails, let alone selecting a wine list.”

“You could slip a bottle of Jack under the counter,” Janice said as she bit into the brownie.

“One of these little concoctions may help,” Glenn said, raising his cup.

“What is it?”

“Italian-style espresso,” I said. “Would you like one?”

“Yes. Could you slip a Valium in there, too? Oh, and how about a shot of estrogen.”

“Maybe you should make her an espresstrogen,” Glenn said, trying to suppress a smile.

Janice nudged Glenn's arm. “Good one.” She took another bite of the brownie. “Did you make these?”

“Kevin Davenport stopped by when I was getting ready to open a few weeks ago and offered to provide me with pastries. I tried one and about fainted.”

“I love that guy.” Janice looked over at Glenn. “He and his boyfriend, Jake Willows, are the first gay couple to last in Devon County. At least so far. But they're pretty dug in.”

“You don't say?” Glenn said. “And so many people I know here are forward thinking.” Glenn sipped his coffee. “I guess it only takes a few.”

“Oh, we're moving forward,” Janice said. “Unfortunately, it's at the pace of a sloth.”

“So, tell me,” I said as I started the next espresso, “what's going on with you, girlfriend?”

“Perimenopause.” She pushed her hair from her face. A few damp strands clung to her forehead.

“Sounds bad.”

She peered over at Glenn. “Is this too much information?”

He shook his head. “Sounds like you need to vent.”

She pointed at Glenn with her thumb. “Was that a play on words?”

Crystal strolled over and stood next to Janice. “I suggest a berry tincture.”

“A what?” Janice wrinkled her nose. “What's a tincture? Sounds painful.”

“It's like an extract, but it's made with alcohol.” She leaned in and peered into Janice's eyes. “You'll need to mix it with some black cohosh.” Crystal crossed her arms.

“Well—” Janice reared back from Crystal's intense gaze. “I like the alcohol part. Vodka?”

“That will work. Hold out your arm—straight out, and keep it steady.” Janice did as she was told. “Now see if you can resist when I push down on it.” Crystal pushed, and Janice's arm collapsed into her lap.

“Whoa,” I said.

“So what does that indicate?” Glenn said.

“Are you depressed?” Crystal asked Janice.

“Crystal,” I said. “That's not really—”

“I cry for no reason. Just this morning I was doing the dishes and watching Fox News, and all of a sudden I started bawling like a baby.”

“There's the reason,” Glenn said into his cup.

“Maybe you need a dose of NPR,” I said.

“St. John's wort, then,” Crystal said. “Add a teaspoon of that.” She looked around the room. Table three was finishing up. “Do you mind if I take a little break?”

“Of course not, sweetie,” I said. “It's been a big morning.”

When the espresso was finished brewing, I set the cup in front of Janice. Only crumbs remained on her plate.

“I see where you're looking,” Janice said, sounding indignant. “I was a size six before all this started.” She straightened. “Don't judge me until you've walked in my wide pants.”

“Not judging.”

“You'll see when it happens to you.” She shook her head. “I'm hungry all the time and hotter than Hades. My butt is getting so big I'm going to change my name to Jan-ass.”

“Oh, honey,” I said. “Be easy on yourself.”

“Maybe Crystal will help,” Glenn said. “I might see what she can do for my knees.” He stretched out a leg and massaged his kneecap.

Custer shuffled through the door separating the kitchen from the restaurant, shoelaces untied, holding a Day Lily Café coffee mug. “I need a refill.”

“Are you working here, Custer?” Janice had a concerned scowl on her face.

“Back in the sweatbox.”

“Ceiling fans,” she said. “I've installed one in every room. Trevor had the down comforter over him last night because I had the AC set to sixty-four. The fan was spinning so fast his comb-over was flapping against the pillow.”

“I don't suppose I can have that last brownie?” Custer said.

Janice hopped up. “I'll fight you for it.”

“Whoa.” He held up his palms. “It's all yours.”

“Are you sick of the muffins, Custer?” I said. “What about a scone?”

“I think I should let Miss Janice have it.”

“I only need chocolate.”

“Hey,” Custer said, “is this belt okay?” We all stared as Custer lifted his chef's jacket. A white canvas belt looped through his jeans, which hung low on his trim hips. The edge of his plaid boxers peeked out just below a rippled set of abdominal muscles. I blushed instantly at the sight of his rock-hard stomach and the vertical line of dark hair disappearing into his pants.

“It's a nice belt,” I said quickly, and looked away. “I'm certainly glad you're wearing it.”

Janice continued to stare.

“But do guys wear white belts anymore?” Custer let his shirt drop.

“It's fine, Custer.” I cleared my throat.

“Okay, good,” he said. “Annie and I are hanging out tonight.”

“Annie?” I swallowed hard. “
Really
?” I wadded a table napkin in my fist and squeezed.

“Yeah.” He sized me up. “
She
asked
me
.” Custer turned and walked with purpose back to the kitchen.

“Holy Mother of God, did he really just show us that?” Janice said.

I nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”

“Talk about eye candy.”

“Well,” Glenn said. “The boy certainly takes care of his body.”

“I knew it was a good idea for you to open this place,” Janice said. “I feel better already.”

I stared at the door Custer had just disappeared through. “Those six-pack abs, which are on probation, I might add, are hanging out with my daughter tonight.” I crossed my arms. “Do
you
know why he's on probation?”

“Absolutely.” Janice shrugged. “Isn't it obvious?”

“Tell me,” I said.

“Outlaw abs.”

 

S
EVEN

Birdie's Shoe Store was a Cardigan institution. The shop was housed in a narrow, declining building with peeling letters on the front glass. The carpet was threadbare and the plastic molded chairs had begun to crack, but none of that mattered to the customers. In addition to a few shoes, the store was home to a wide variety of newspapers, magazines, penny candy, and most important, Doris's friendly face. She was as reliable as the atomic clock, and her presence behind that counter was reassuring to more people than just me. Which was why it surprised me when she hopped off her stool and met me on the stoop. The
CLOSED
sign thudded against the door.

“Where's Ellie Sue?”

“I sent her home.” Doris clutched her handbag. “Seems she's not as good with numbers as I thought.”

Doris had already started down the sidewalk. I hurried to catch up. “Where does Lori live?”

She stopped abruptly. “Just outside of town, on Route Thirty-five.” She looked down at my shoes. “You've been on your feet all day. I don't know what I was thinking. I walk to work. If I need to go anywhere else, my Betsy drives me.”

“Come on,” I said. “My car is around the corner.”

Doris looked as out of place in my cherry red Mercedes as I often felt. She didn't bother with her seat belt, and after thirty chimes (I counted), the warning stopped. She pointed the way instead of telling me the street names. In Cardigan, people were more likely to give you directions by saying “two doors down from Doc Fisher's house” than an address. The problem for a newcomer like me was that Doc Fisher died twenty years ago, and I hadn't a clue where he once lived.

Loose gravel crackled under the tires as we drove down the long lane leading to Lori's house. The road ended at a pale yellow, aluminum-sided split-level.

A variety of barking dogs immediately surrounded me as I tried to climb out of my car. A German shepherd began to lick my shoes enthusiastically. “I can't imagine how I must smell after serving food all day.” I shut the door, thinking my car looked even more ludicrous on this humble property.

Doris waited on the porch, hand on the door. “Sit,” she commanded the dogs, and they immediately sat in unison, their tails thumping on the floorboards. I followed Doris into the house and was met with the smell of home-baked cookies. Despite the long day I'd spent at the café, my mouth watered.

I stood in the foyer and admired the marble tile beneath my feet. It looked Italian and glistened like polished glass.

Lori appeared and extended her hand. “You must be Rosalie,” she said, and smiled. “I'm Lori Fiddler. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.” She was several inches shorter with a slighter stature than Doris, but she had the same wide blue eyes and kind smile. I had always guessed that Doris was in her mid-sixties, but her sister appeared at least ten years younger, probably more. Shoeless, she wore a neat white blouse over a pressed pair of blue jeans. Her feet were dry and cracked, but her toenails were polished salmon pink.

“Come into the kitchen,” she said. “I made tea.”

Doris followed her sister. “You don't look like you spent most of the night at the sheriff's department.”

“I was in the shower for at least an hour when I got home last night.”

“I get that,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. The small room was scrubbed clean. Despite the metal cabinets and chipped Formica counters, it was warm and inviting. A faded gingham cloth covered the table, and three waiting teacups surrounded a plate of chocolate chip cookies. I looked down at the floor. This one was solid red oak. “Lori, your floors are beautiful.”

“That's what Carl James does…” She stopped and placed a hand over her heart. She looked at Doris. “I have to say
did
, now, don't I? That's what Carl James
did
.” She turned her gaze to me. “Flooring. That was his trade.” Lori shook her head and slid into a chair. “He refinished our bedroom floor about a week before he died. It had always been an old pea-green carpet. He and his worker were up there banging around for days.” She gave Doris a pained expression. “I still can't believe he's never going to walk through the front door again.”