Summer Breeze (33 page)
He returned to the cell phone. “Honey, are you in any danger that you know of?”
“I’m sure Mr. Fugal is harmless. He can barely see, and only one of his hands works right. But please hurry, Derek. He may change his mind and try to leave. He told us he does have a criminal record.”
“Can you get me his date of birth, Kim?”
“No, his health data is confidential.”
Derek spoke on the radio again. “The subject will be a possible 10-99 out of Camden County,” he said, informing the office of the man’s checkered past. “The name is Abe—as in Abraham—Fugal. No date of birth available. Can you run a 27, 28, and 29 on him?”
The dispatcher confirmed that Mr. Fugal’s name would be checked for possible warrants as well as records on whether he might be dangerous. In moments, the dispatcher asked Derek, “Are you 10-12?”
Kim knew the code well enough to understand that Water Patrol wanted to know if he was already at the scene. That indicated they had turned up something suspicious in Mr. Fugal’s documentation. Cell phone still pressed against her ear, she walked back down the hall and glanced into the cubicle to find that Dr. Groene and Abe Fugal were discussing baseball standings, particularly the St. Louis Cardinals and whether they had another shot at the World Series this year.
“Derek,” Kim said as she stepped back into the hall, “I think this is it—the clue you’ve been looking for to identify the body you found at the start of summer. I think the woman who died lived with Abe Fugal in an old trailer around the bend not too far from Deepwater Cove. You know the one that lost part of its roof in last year’s big storm? I’m pretty sure I know who she was. I used to see her here when she came in with Abe. Her name is June Bixby.”
“June Bixby,” he repeated. “Good. I’m on my way. Listen, I want you to know that when I get there, we may be separated. I’ll need to work with the Major Case Squad, and I’m sure the police will want to question you. I doubt I’ll make it home for dinner tonight.”
“It’s okay, Derek.”
“Kim, you might not think the old guy is dangerous, but he does have a record. Be careful, honey. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “It’s all right.”
“I just want to make sure you know I love you. We’ve been through a lot lately, and I need to tell you—”
“Derek, I hear you. I understand what you’re telling me.” Kim paused. “And I love you, too.”
W
ith a fair amount of trepidation, Patsy eyed the lawn chairs as she carried her plate of appetizers toward the group of men gathered near their grills. She spotted a sturdy plastic chaise lounge that would easily bear her ample figure, so she sat down on it and stretched out her legs.
“Hey, fellas,” she said.
The men interrupted their discussion for a moment to greet her. “Hey, Patsy,” they offered in a chorus of tenors and basses. Then they went back to talking.
It didn’t bother Patsy that the men ignored her. On the Fourth of July, she’d drawn enough attention to last a lifetime. Not only had she endured that awful lawn chair collapse, but her slightly over-the-top patriotic outfit and star-spangled hairdo had only added to the spectacle.
For the Labor Day barbecue, Patsy had decided to go for a more sedate look with an autumn influence. She had returned her hair to the color closest to the one she remembered from childhood. Unfortunately, that particular hue might best be termed dishwater blonde or mousy brown or something in between. So Patsy had added a few golden highlights and then some auburn ones to brighten it up a bit.
As it was still hotter than blazes outside, she had chosen to wear a short-sleeved top with a taupe, brick red, and black leaf print. In order to give it a little more autumn flavor, she had pinned on a brooch that had belonged to her mother—a real maple leaf dipped in acrylic. Its lovely red-orange color perfectly matched the knee-length shorts Patsy wore. And the whole outfit coordinated well with the black platform sandals she had chosen from her closet.
She dipped a corn chip into the puddle of black bean salsa on her plate and chewed thoughtfully. Too bad Pete Roberts wasn’t going to make it to the barbecue. He had decided to keep Rods-N-Ends open for the last of the summer gas-guzzlers passing through. She couldn’t blame him. The end of the season meant a lull that nearly put the Lake of the Ozarks community to sleep. This was the time when the weakest businesses began failing left and right. Only the locals and a few off-and-on visitors kept stores and restaurants alive through the down season. Pete’s first year had been rough, Patsy knew, but he thought he was going to make it.
Bitty Sondheim’s Pop-In, however, appeared to be doomed. Two weeks ago, a Closed sign had appeared on the front door, and the inside of the little restaurant remained dark day and night. Patsy hadn’t seen her neighbor in several days, so she was happy to spot the Californian with her long hair and swoopy, ankle-length skirts arriving at the barbecue. Bitty was in the parking area, and she seemed to be wrestling with something large in the back of her van.
“Hey, Brad,” Patsy called, drawing the attention of Ashley Hanes’s handsome young husband, who sat nearby. “How about you, Derek, and Steve helping Bitty out over there? Looks like she brought half her restaurant.”
“Probably trying to unload her leftovers on us,” Brad said. He glanced at his wife, who was selling beaded necklaces from a table set up under a tree. “Ashley keeps dragging me to the Pop-In. If I never eat another eggplant wrap it won’t bother me a bit.”
With that, he and several of the other men pushed themselves out of their lawn chairs, checked the pork steaks on their grills, and then lumbered over to see if they could carry anything for Bitty. Patsy had hardly had time to sample the pimento cheese–filled celery sticks on her plate before Brad was back, more animated than she’d ever seen him.
“Charlie!” he hollered. “Patsy! All you guys, come see what Bitty’s done. You won’t believe this!”
Not wanting to miss out on any excitement, Patsy scrambled to her feet and hurried across the lawn to the long foldout table where Bitty was opening boxes and spreading her wares. The bad news was that she looked close to tears as she set down rows of plates and began laying one or two parchment-wrapped packages on each. The good news was that Brad Hanes had tasted one of these wraps and was about to go berserk with joy.
“Chicken-fried steak!” he exclaimed, displaying the innards of the rolled item he’d just bitten into. “It’s covered in mashed potatoes and gravy—with buttered Texas toast on the outside! And she grilled it! It’s good. It’s delicious. You gotta try one.”
“Chicken-fried steak in a wrap?” Patsy murmured, picking up a plate.
“That’s not all,” Bitty said in a wounded, snippy voice. She pointed to one item after another. “Right here, you’ve got your batter-crusted catfish. It’s coated in tartar sauce and covered with a deep-fried hush puppy batter. This one is your chicken wrap. It’s a large fried-chicken tender, rolled in a mixture of mashed potatoes and green beans, and then covered with baked homemade dinner roll dough. And finally, here’s your ham wrap. It’s got a big chunk of canned pineapple on it, along with a thick layer of applesauce, and it’s been baked inside a coating of corn bread dressing.”
For a moment, the men stared at the plates in stunned silence. “Where are the fajita wraps?” Derek asked. “I always enjoyed those.”
“And what about that Greek salad wrap my wife liked so much?” Steve asked.
“Discontinued,” Bitty said as the men began picking up the plates and biting into the strange-looking food. “Discontinued along with the eggplant wraps, the onion-and-feta-cheese wraps, the baked-lamb-and-hummus wraps, the avocado-and-shrimp wraps. In fact, all the wraps are discontinued. So are the omelets. And so is Bitty Sondheim’s Pop-In.”
“Now, just a minute,” Patsy said. “You’re not leaving us, are you, Bitty? You’ve hardly given us a fair shot. One summer isn’t nearly enough time to let us get used to your California cooking.”
“It’s long enough for me.” She looked from man to man.“My out-of-town visitors liked my food pretty well, but I’ve heard your comments. I’ve seen the faces you locals make when you read my menu. I know how you feel about my California wraps. So here!” She spread out her hands to indicate the array of food she had brought. “Here’s your Missouri-hearty-homemade-just-like-Grandma’s-deep-fried-heart-attack
junk
. You kept telling me you wanted chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, so here it is. Take all you want. It’s on the house.”
At that, Bitty burst into tears, turned on her heel, and headed for her van.
Dismayed, Patsy set off after her. “Now, Bitty,” she called, regretting her high platform black sandals with every step. “Bitty, please wait. Don’t leave us like this, honeybunch!”
“I’m going back to California where I belong. Missouri is just too weird for me.”
“Missouri is weird?” Patsy caught up to Bitty, who was pushing boxes and baskets into the back of her van. “We’re not weird, sweetie; we’re just home folks. We’ve been doing the same old things for years. We eat what we’ve always eaten, and we pretty much wear what we’ve always worn. Change doesn’t come easy to us, but it’s not impossible. Please don’t run off, Bitty. Give us another chance. I was really beginning to like that humus.”
“
Humus
is dirt enriched with cow manure!” Bitty wailed, turning on Patsy. Her voice rose as she spoke until she was practically screeching. “I was serving
hummus
! Hummus is a creamy puree of chickpeas and sesame seed paste seasoned with lemon juice and garlic! Everyone eats it in Greece and the Middle East! Hummus is served with bread for dipping or as a pita filling!”
“Well, all right,” Patsy said, holding up both hands to try to calm Bitty. The last thing she needed was to make another big show. “Simmer down, now. I’m sorry; I didn’t know the difference, Bitty. I’m sort of ignorant about these kinds of things. Most folks around here are—but that doesn’t mean we can’t be educated. If you’d put on your menu that you were serving chickpea paste, well … well—”
“You see? No one wants to eat my kind of food. You know who my best customer was? Miranda Finley—and that’s because she’s from St. Louis. She knows about international cuisine. She knows about healthy eating. She understands what I was trying to do. I thought I could come to the lake and set up a little restaurant and just live out the rest of my life right here where the cost of living is low and the pace is slow. But all my dreams are ruined.
I’m
ruined, Patsy! I put everything I had into the Pop-In!”
“Oh, Bitty, come here and let me give you a hug.” As Patsy wrapped her arms around the woman, she suddenly realized that most of the men who’d been tending their grills were headed toward Bitty’s van like soldiers on a mission. She swished her hand at them to try to ward them off, but they wouldn’t be deterred.
“Bitty, we want to talk to you,” Steve Hansen said. “These men have just voted me chairman of the Pop-In Revitalization Board.”
Snuffling, Bitty lifted her head from Patsy’s shoulder. “I already turned in my final rent check, Steve. I’m sorry to let you down, but I just couldn’t make a go of it. You’ll have to find a new tenant for the space.”
“I’m going to have to prevent that,” Derek Finley said, stepping forward and leading Bitty back toward the table, where a crowd had gathered to sample her new wraps. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to shut down the Pop-In, Bitty. We don’t dare risk the riot that might cause.”
“What?” she asked, her voice tremulous. “What do you mean?”
Now Brad Hanes spoke as he held up what was left inside his parchment paper. “We want you to stay open and keep making these Missouri-deep-fried-heart-attack wraps. They’re delicious. I mean that. I could eat one for lunch and actually get full. I’m gonna have to go swimming just to work off the one I ate, so I can be ready when the pork steaks are done.”
“But they’re so … awful,” Bitty said.
“Awful
good
,” Brad declared. “If you’ll keep the Pop-In open, Bitty, I’ll tell the other guys I work with, and we’ll be there every day. I ate the chicken-fried steak wrap, but I’m a big catfish man. Charlie told me his was fantastic.”
“Don’t ever let on to Esther,” Charlie Moore said, leaning in close, “but that catfish wrap has her batter-fried crappie beat by a mile.”
“Are you serious?” Bitty asked.
“Serious as a hearty-homemade-deep-fried heart attack!” Brad said with a laugh.
Everyone was still chuckling when Charlie suddenly elbowed Patsy. “Hey, who’s that? Over yonder near the edge of the parking lot?”
Patsy’s heart lurched as she searched the thick brush at the edge of the clearing. Emerging from the shadows came a tall, broad-shouldered man bearing a large box. For an instant, she thought by some miracle it might be Cody. But this was someone new. A good-looking stranger who must have noticed the gathering and decided to check it out.
“I had to park halfway to Tranquility,” the man called as he sauntered toward Bitty’s van. “’Course, that’s pretty much to be expected, seeing as I’m from Halfway, Missouri.”
At that, Patsy gasped so loudly that everyone turned to stare at her. “Pete?” she whispered. “Is that Pete Roberts?”
It was. But it couldn’t be. Where was the shaggy sheepdog? the old grizzly bear? the lumbering goof in overalls and a plaid flannel shirt?
“Hey, Patsy.” He smiled, and suddenly she realized she was definitely looking at Pete Roberts’s teeth. But had she ever seen those lips? that chin? the squared jawline?
“Aren’t you going to speak to me?” He paused, grinning. “I brought my homemade pecan pie—a recipe of which I am most particularly proud. I hope I haven’t missed the pork steaks.”
“You missed Bitty’s new Missouri wraps,” Luke Finley said. “They’re good.”
“No problem, Pete,” Brad assured him. “You can drop by the Pop-In anytime you want. Hey, did you lose weight or something?”
“He shaved,” Patsy said, breathing out the words with a deep sigh. “Pete shaved. You shaved off your beard.”
“And got myself a haircut. I should have let you do it, Patsy, but I wanted to surprise you. I closed up early to show off my new do. So, what do you think?”