Feta Attraction (2 page)

TWO

I woke to bright sunlight flickering through the leaves and branches of the huge old hickory tree outside my bedroom window. A cool breeze off the river billowed the sheer pale curtains into the room, and I instinctively pulled the comforter up around my neck with a shiver. August days are hot here in the North Country, but nights and mornings are cool and afford a nice excuse to stay in bed a bit longer. The alarm clock radio wouldn't go off for a few more minutes.

“Damn!” I threw off the covers and jumped up, an adrenaline surge allowing me to brave the chill, and ran through my little sitting area to the attached bathroom. I turned on the hot tap full blast and waited for it to warm up, which could take several minutes in this old pile of rocks. I couldn't believe I had forgotten that, weeks ago, Spiro had arranged for
Ghost Squad
to come and investigate the house and restaurant for paranormal activity. The cast and crew of the television show would have full run of the place all afternoon and through the night, and I hadn't picked up my rooms; nor would I have time to do it properly before they got here. Not that I was a huge slob, but having a dozen or more people poking around my private living spaces would require some tidying up.

I threw off the oversized T-shirt I had slept in and stepped into the steaming shower. At least I could absolve myself of guilt for not attempting the Pilates DVD I'd bought in Watertown, the closest city to Bonaparte Bay, last week. My intentions had been excellent. But the shrink-wrap was still intact.

No sense dwelling on that now. My core could wait. I soaped up with some luscious almond-smelling creamy stuff and breathed in a big lungful of the scent. I shampooed, rinsed, and stepped out onto my plushy bathmat, grabbed the towel from the European-style towel heater, and dried off.

Fifteen minutes later I was dressed and had shoved all the visible loose clutter into the emptiest drawer I could find. I'd have to come back upstairs in a couple of hours and see whether I could straighten out the closet. Those
Ghost Squad
members were forever opening doors and sticking equipment into enclosed spaces.

No sooner had I gotten downstairs and into the kitchen, hair still damp, than Sophie accosted me. For some reason that crazy e-mail from last night popped into my head.
Bring what to who? Or whom
, I mentally corrected.

“Where is he? I need to talk to him,” she demanded.

“I still haven't seen him, Sophie.” I dumped a premeasured foil packet of coffee into the Bunn machine and flipped the switch. I retrieved two thick china mugs from a shelf and added a good slug of cream—the real stuff that we whipped up fresh every night for the desserts—to each. This was one of the reasons I needed that Pilates DVD.

Sophie was more insistent than usual regarding Spiro's whereabouts, making me instantly suspicious. “What's so important?”

Her face softened. “Never mind. Just let me know when you see him.”

“Have you checked his room?” The coffeemaker spluttered and I removed the carafe, sticking the coffee cups one by one under the stream of hot liquid. I replaced the pot and congratulated myself for not spilling any during these maneuvers. Just one of my many skills, honed after years in the restaurant business. I handed a cup to Sophie and took a sip out of my own.

“Not there. And he don't answer his cell phone.”

I looked out the back door into the employee parking lot. Dolly, our cook, was stepping out of her metallic green Ford LTD. “The Mercedes is still gone.” A bubble of anger formed in my gut, mixed with the hot coffee, and expanded. It was damned inconsiderate of Spiro to just ditch us for so long without so much as a phone call. This had to end.
Maybe it's already ended—for you,
a voice piped up inside my head.

Well, when he did turn up, I was going to let him have it. Not that I hadn't done it before, and not that it ever did any good.

Dolly came in and set a platter of assorted pastries on the counter. “Help yourself,” she said. “I stopped at Kelsey's Bakery on the way in.” Dolly had worked for us longer than I'd been here, thirty years or more. Her hair was blond and teased up in a high nest into which she'd inserted a sparkly butterfly barrette. Her real name was Norma, but the story was that she'd seen Dolly Parton play at the state fair one summer and had been inspired to change her name. It suited her. She got herself a cup of coffee and sat down for her morning gossip with Sophie.

I lifted the plastic dome and grabbed a cheese Danish off the tray, then went to my office. I put the pastry on a napkin and sat down at my desk. If Spiro divorced me and I had to leave, where would I go? I'd miss this place, with its beautiful natural woodwork and shining floors and the flood of bright sunlight through the bank of tall windows overlooking the little garden I'd set up for the employees to take their breaks.

No time for wallowing,
I thought. I checked my to-do list, feeling in control for the first time that morning. Number 1: Update Menu Copy. That entry had been on my to-do list since the beginning of the season, I noted, feeling out of control again. But it needed to be done today before the ghost hunters got here. I took the top menu from the stack on my desk and pulled out the paper insert containing the history of the Bonaparte House.

WELCOME TO BONAPARTE BAY AND THE HISTORIC BONAPARTE HOUSE!

Well, that much could stay.
Bonaparte Bay is located on the picturesque American shore of the St. Lawrence River in the heart of the Thousand Islands. The St. Lawrence connects Lake Ontario and the rest of the Great Lakes to the west with the Atlantic Ocean to the east. Thousands of ships pass through these waters every year.

I bit into the Danish and sucked some sticky frosting from my fingers without thinking, then wiped them on my apron. My ever-present bottle of hand sanitizer sat accusingly a few inches away and I pumped a dollop into my hand.

The Bonaparte House was built around 1822, although the records are sketchy. This native fieldstone mansion, built as a two-story octegon
(I circled that with a blue pen)
with a large cupola adorning its crown in the style of Orson Fowler
(Okay, that language could be modernized. And I should say who Orson Fowler was. I think I knew once, but I'd long since forgotten)
,
is the oldest surviving building in Bonaparte Bay. Local legend says that the house was intended for Napoleon when his escape from exile was accomplished. Of course, Napoleon never did escape, and he never lived here.

In the last century, Vasilios “Basil” Nikolopatos settled in the Thousand Islands, which reminded him of the landscape of Greece. He bought the Bonaparte House and transformed it into a restaurant serving the delicious foods of his native land. Basil died years ago, but his wife, Sophie, and son, Spiro, continue to operate the Bonaparte House for your enjoyment today
.

Spiro had left me off the menu when he'd prepared it this spring. If I'd bothered to review the back copy instead of just the menu selections then, I might have known he was up to something. I opened up my laptop and plugged in the flash drive Spiro had left on my desk, found the document containing the menu, and edited it. I added “daughter-in-law, Georgie” between Sophie's and Spiro's names.
Ha
. I made the other necessary changes, executed a spell-check, then printed off a hundred copies of the inserts and stacked them beside the menu folders to be assembled later.

I logged into my e-mail account. There was a note from my friend Eileen asking whether we could get together this week. She must have man trouble again
. Join the club,
I thought.

What the hell?
There was another message from an unidentified sender. I couldn't help myself and clicked it open.

WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER? FIND IT AND BRING IT TO ME, OR YOU'LL BE SORRY.

Well, that was helpful. If somebody wanted something from me, the least he or she could do would be to tell me what it was and where I should deliver it. A knock sounded at the door. I looked up, startled, then took a sip of coffee to collect myself. “Hi, Russ. You're here early this morning. Come on in.” My pulse slowed, but I still felt jumpy.

Russ Riley was Dolly's son, our dishwasher and general gofer. He was a beefy five feet eight, not quite fat, but he probably would be in a few years. The tail of his long black mullet brushed his waist. He'd tied a red bandanna around his forehead in lieu of a hairnet, which he said cramped his style. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his cutoffs.

“Ma said I should bring this in to you.” He looked down at his Croc-clad feet, then back up. I'd often suspected he might have a bit of a crush on me. He filled my cup from the coffee carafe, then turned and left.

I called out a thank-you and read the e-mail again. If it was a threat, it wasn't very . . . threatening. Should I go to the police? What would I tell them? I sighed in relief as I realized someone must be playing a joke on me. That was what it had to be, though I had no idea who would do such a thing. The e-mail was so vague, so nonspecific, I just couldn't take it seriously. Still, I left it in my in-box. Administrative work finished, I shut down the computer and headed back to the kitchen.

The faint, not unpleasant scent of bleach wafted up to my nostrils as I donned an apron, fresh from the laundry service, and tied it around my waist. Giving my hands a good scrub at the sink, I dried them on a clean towel, put on some gloves, and got to work.

A bowl of lemons sat in front of me, their bright yellow skins making a lovely contrast to the gray stainless steel of the prep counter. I smiled and began to rub the fruit with a fine grater. The process required a light touch; press too hard and I'd have the bitter white pith as well as the fragrant outer peel. A familiar sense of peace washed over me as I cooked. This was my element; this was my art. This I could control. I scraped the zest into a container of fat, silky chicken breasts, and added the juice of the lemons and some olive oil. A bit of sea salt, a few grinds of freshly cracked black pepper, a handful of fresh herbs, and a stir completed the prep for today's lunch special: Greek Chicken with Lemon and Thyme.

Next to me, Dolly peeled and sliced potatoes and onions for the accompanying side dish, and we worked in companionable silence, each of us in her own zone. I covered and refrigerated the meat. With a simple salad of grape tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, and fresh ribbons of basil, all drizzled with olive oil, we were good to go.

Some of the dishes we served were complicated. Pastitsio and moussaka, though undeniably delicious, required hours to produce. My favorite recipes were like today's, though. Simple, and making use of local ingredients whenever possible. The growing season this far north is short, but the produce is fresh and flavorful, and I bought it whenever I could.

A few hours later the lunch rush was over, and Russ, Dolly, and I had completed the daily cleanup and prep work for tomorrow. I put a film of plastic wrap over the leftover cooked meat, which would become a lovely chicken salad with green grapes and toasted walnuts tomorrow, and handed it to Russ. He toted it over to the walk-in cooler.

“Can I stay and help?” Russ removed the bandanna from his head, stuck it in his back pocket, and donned a baseball cap sporting a chain saw manufacturer's logo. I figured he was hoping for an in-person glimpse of
Ghost Squad
's
lone female investigator, a buxom young woman who always seemed to be dressed in a tight, low-cut tank top even when the rest of the crew wore sweatshirts.

“Thanks, Russ, but they've told us we all have to leave so we don't influence the investigation,” I said, giving my hands a scrub at the dishwashing sink.

“Do you think this place is haunted?” His big open face was uneasy as he took off his apron and tossed it in the laundry bin.

“I can tell you that I've lived here for a lot of years and I've never heard or seen anything that makes me think that.”