Cookin' the Books

by Amy Patricia Meade

  ‘I’m almost sure of it. However, it seems I may have to give Celestine another visit tomorrow just to be positive.’

  ‘Well, be careful,’ Mary Jo urged. ‘All I can say is that with two people dead and everyone doing their best to keep their skeletons in the closet, I’m glad I’m here tonight.’

  Tish gave Mary Jo a hug. ‘I am too, honey.’ She frowned. ‘I am too.’

  TWENTY

  With windows and doors locked and bolted, air conditioning switched on to combat the shortage of ventilation, and charged cell phones at the ready, Tish and Mary Jo spent an uneasy, restless night above the café.

  Choosing to rise shortly after dawn rather than toss and turn another hour, Tish quietly pushed back the bed covers and tiptoed past the guest bedroom and downstairs into the kitchen to brew some coffee.

  She was surprised when, less than an hour later, Mary Jo appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’d ask you how you slept,’ Tish greeted, ‘but I think I already know the answer.’

  ‘Ugh. More sleep than I got when Greg and Kayla were babies, but still … ugh.’ Mary Jo yawned and drew her hands through her mangle of uncombed brunette hair.

  Tish rose from her seat and poured some coffee out of the French press carafe keeping warm on the stove. She passed the mug to Mary Jo and pointed to the milk and sugar on the nearby counter, before refilling her own cup. After several wordless minutes had elapsed, Tish and Mary Jo went on to discuss and plan their day, consume another pot of coffee, and then, in turns, shower and dress.

  It was eleven o’clock by the time they each set off to their designated appointments. Mary Jo, with platters of sandwiches in hand, drove to the Channel Ten news station to collect Jules. Tish, bearing a smaller disposable plate of sandwiches, headed to Wisteria Knolls to check in with Cordelia Ballantyne. Before leaving the café, both women urged the other to be safe, promising to reunite there in the mid-afternoon and to phone or text should either of them be delayed.

  Tish, feeling cooped up after nearly twelve hours spent in air conditioning, rolled down the driver’s side window on the Matrix and enjoyed the sounds of birds chirping and children, still a week away from the start of school, playing in the warm, unusually dry August air.

  Having spent the night fearing, analyzing, and attempting to resolve two murders, the noise of ordinary life provided Tish with much-needed comfort. This soothing sense of solace, although therapeutic, was short-lived, as she soon found herself pulling up at Wisteria Knolls. Seeing two cars parked in the driveway, Tish brought the Matrix to a stop beside the curb just before the house and, sandwiches in hand, walked up the gravel-lined front walk.

  She was met along the path by John Ballantyne, who huffed and puffed as he dragged one tall wheeled suitcase, and then another, through the narrow colonial doorway and on to the slate steps.

  ‘Hello,’ Tish greeted, her voice tentative.

  ‘Hi,’ Ballantyne growled. It was clear from his tone that the huffing and puffing had little to do with the physical act of hauling the luggage out of the house and everything to do with the exhausting reasons behind his move. ‘She’s inside. In the bedroom. Not sure she’ll come out to see you.’

  ‘Oh. I’ll try anyway. Maybe she’ll change her mind. Um, are you going on a business trip?’ Tish asked, hopeful that was the explanation behind his departure. Deep down, she already knew the answer.

  ‘No. I’m leaving town. It’s time I got away from Hobson Glen, Wisteria Knolls, and those damned Darlingtons for good,’ Ballantyne declared.

  ‘Have you told Sheriff Reade you’re leaving?’ Tish blurted out.

  ‘What?’ Ballantyne was incensed. ‘Why should I? This is a personal matter.’ He placed special emphasis on the fourth word of his statement.

  ‘Yes, I understand it’s deeply personal, but, um, your mother-in-law and the doctor are dead and there’s an active murder investigation going on. I’m not sure what the protocol is, but you might want to have a word with Sheriff Reade. Just so he knows you’re not skipping town or anything like that …’ Tish’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Don’t you have a café to run?’ he challenged.

  ‘Not for another two weeks,’ she replied in earnest.

  With a dirty look in Tish’s direction, John Ballantyne huffed one last time and turned on one heel, dragging the two suitcases toward one of the cars in the driveway.

  Another potential customer bites the dust, she thought to herself as she watched him drive off. Between the murder victims, those citizens of Hobson Glen who were annoyed with her for trying to find the killer, and those citizens who believed Tish herself to be the killer, she wondered if there would be anyone left in Hobson Glen who would actually dine at her café. Perhaps she should give up the investigation, abandon the concept of a literary café, and simply open a diner in New Jersey.

  Recalling that she wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of living in New Jersey, Tish lurched onward, toward the house. Plate of sandwiches firmly in hand, she gave the doorbell a steady ring and, with the door still ajar following John’s departure, leaned her head into the hall and gave a shout. ‘Cordelia?’

  There was no answer. Tish stepped into the hall and called again. ‘Cordelia? Cordelia, it’s Tish. I came to check in on you. Cordelia?’

  Again receiving no answer, Tish went into the kitchen, past the sink which was filled with a collection of Mason jars in need of cleaning, and placed the sandwiches in the near-empty refrigerator. Spying a pen and a napkin on the table, Tish left a note instructing Cordelia that food was in the fridge and that she could call if she needed anything. Tish signed off on the note with her cell number, just in case Cordelia had misplaced the last napkin upon which Tish had jotted it. Satisfied with her handiwork, she placed the note under one of two silver salt cellars that someone had been in the process of refilling before the scene of quiet domesticity had been rudely interrupted.

  With this task done, Tish retraced her steps into the hall and headed toward the door. Before she even set foot outside, a horrifying thought crossed her mind, stopping her cold in her tracks. What if John Ballantyne was, in fact, running from the police? It would explain why he got so cross with her for mentioning Sheriff Reade. What if he was the murderer and was leaving town before the police caught on to him? What if Cordelia wasn’t grief-stricken, angry, and hiding in her bedroom? What if she was dead?

  Dead because Ballantyne had killed her.

  Tish felt her skin go clammy and her stomach churn. Reluctantly, she turned around and gazed at the flight of stairs that led to the second floor and the Broderick/Ballantyne family bedrooms. Tish drew a heavy sigh and thought of the phone in her pants back pocket. She would notify Sheriff Reade of John Ballantyne’s departure as soon as possible, but what about Cordelia? Should she call Reade and have him and his officers come to the house?

  No, if Cordelia was despondent – who could honestly blame her? – and locked up in her bedroom, hiding from the world, the last thing the woman needed was the Hanover County police dragging her from her bed and asking a thousand questions. No, Tish decided, she would go upstairs and try calling at the bedroom doors. If there was still no response from Cordelia, then a call to 911 would be in order.

  Confident she had made the right decision, yet fearful of what she might find upstairs, Tish moved along the wide wooden planks of the hall, grasped the handrail of the circa-1700 staircase, and placed an apprehensive red-sandaled foot upon the first tread. As expected, the old wood creaked loudly under the slightest amount of pressure. The sound echoed in the sparsely furnished hallway and resonated up the stairs, causing Tish to shudder.

  Pull yourself together and just get upstairs, she berated herself before taking the stairs two at a time and on her toes. Upon reaching the top step, she once again called, ‘Cordelia? Are you here?’

  Again, there was no reply.

  The upstairs landing, like the entry hall below it, featured a neutral color scheme – this time in pa
le yellow – a whitewashed chair rail, picture rail, wide wooden floorboards, and minimal furnishings. However, this being a living space for family, some concessions for modern-day comfort had been made – namely the presence of plush scatter rugs and a hall table featuring an abundance of family photos.

  Tish stepped on to the landing, the floor again creaking beneath her feet. ‘Cordelia?’ she called outside the first closed door she encountered. ‘Cordelia?’

  As she waited – nay, prayed for – some sign of life, Tish wandered over to the center table and examined the photos assembled there. Taking main stage was a faded eight-by-ten color photograph of a young Lavinia Darlington at her wedding to Ashton Broderick. Ashton, as Augusta had described, was tall, dark-haired, and handsome, albeit somewhat serious, while Lavinia, in her high-neck 1970s-style gown, her red hair piled high upon her head and topped with a cathedral veil, beamed for the camera. Lavinia’s right arm was wrapped around her husband’s waist, her left hand placed on his chest in a possessive gesture that suggested Lavinia might have been less excited about being Ashton’s wife than she was about claiming the Broderick name as her own.

  To the left of the wedding photo stood a smaller dual frame featuring Cordelia, first as an infant, giggling and happy in a white lace baptismal gown, and then another wearing a backpack and hugging her father outside a two-story brick building on what appeared to be her first day of school. In front of the dual frame stood a small wallet-sized photo of Cordelia and John Ballantyne on their wedding day. Cordelia, with her mane of teased hair and high-neck fishtail gown, bore more than a passing resemblance to her mother, yet in contrast to Binnie’s wedding photo, Cordelia gazed at John adoringly.

  To the right of Ashton and Lavinia’s photo was displayed a portrait of the Broderick family when Cordelia was approximately nine years old. With her layered, suddenly blonde hair curled into ‘wings,’ Binnie sat in an upholstered wingback chair and stared imperiously at the camera while Cordelia, dressed in a smaller version of her mother’s diagonally striped shoulder-padded frock, her natural blonde hair brushed into a similar early-1980s’ flip hairstyle, stood nearby, a frown upon her face and a hand on her mother’s knee. Ashton, in a three-piece brown suit with ultra-wide lapels, stood alone behind the two female members of his family and seemed so disconnected from his surroundings and the two women in his life that one might have thought him an interloper who had wandered on to the set.

  In front of this odd family portrait stood a candid shot of Cordelia, in her hospital bed, swaddling a new-born Charlotte as an ecstatic John looked on with obvious tears in his eyes. Beside this shot was yet another dual photo frame. The left side bore a photo of a pigtailed Charlotte posed outside a yellow school bus flanked by Mom and Dad. The second featured a recent snapshot of Charlotte. So recent, in fact, that Charlotte looked quite similar to the way she did in the picture on Cordelia’s phone.

  In the recent shot, Charlotte rested her chin on her hands while seated at a red picnic table set in the middle of a grassy field. In the background stood a single-story brick building with metal grates on the windows and a tall chain-link fence which surrounded the nearby environs. Smiling for the camera, Charlotte appeared to be relaxed and happy, so what was it about the photo that made Tish feel so ill at ease?

  ‘Cordelia?’ she called. ‘Cordelia, are you here?’

  This time, Tish’s shouts were met with the sound of rustling covers from a nearby room.

  ‘Cordelia,’ she cried again in the hope of better determining the woman’s location. ‘Cordelia, it’s Tish. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ a groggy voice answered from a room at the other end of the hall.

  Tish drew closer. ‘You’re not physically injured or ill are you?’

  ‘No … I just need to rest.’

  Tish pondered her next move. ‘I’d feel better if I could see you. Even if for just a moment or two.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood to see anyone, Tish. Please go.’

  ‘OK … there are some sandwiches in the fridge if you get hungry, and my phone number is in the kitchen should you need me. I could also call Charlotte for you if you’d like … I know things are crazy right now but—’

  ‘No.’ Cordelia’s voice, previously weak and frail, grew radically stronger. ‘No, I don’t want to burden her with this right now. I need to find the right words to tell her about her grandmother and her dad and … and me.’

  The forcefulness of Cordelia’s words took Tish by surprise, but she supposed it made sense. Cordelia was having difficulty enough processing recent events in her own mind. Organizing that information and then presenting it so that it was digestible for a sixteen-year-old must have seemed an insurmountable task.

  Still, part of Tish strongly believed that Charlotte deserved to know about her grandmother’s passing and of her parents’ decision to separate. Now, however, was not the time to broach the subject. ‘OK. I’ll check in with you later.’

  Tish beat a hasty retreat down the stairs, out of the front door, and back to the Matrix. Not wishing to be seen on the phone, she drove the car approximately one block down the road, then pulled over and placed a call to Sheriff Reade.

  Unfortunately, she got his voicemail. Detailing John Ballantyne’s departure as quickly as she could, she then asked the sheriff if he might check in on Cordelia – without mentioning that Tish had sent him, of course – just to ensure that the despondent woman hadn’t taken a sleeping pill or done anything equally drastic.

  With the message complete, Tish disconnected the call and, after pulling away from the shoulder of the road, proceeded to drive toward Celestine’s house. She had driven only another block when she noticed a spandex-clad figure on a bicycle approaching from the opposite direction.

  Tish put her foot on the brake pedal of the Matrix and, once again, veered right, so as to allow the biker to pass. She then waved the biker, unrecognizable in a helmet and dark wraparound sunglasses, forward.

  Rather than accept the invitation, the biker waved back, and stopped outside the driver’s side window of the Matrix. ‘Tish,’ the familiar voice greeted. ‘Just the woman I was looking for.’

  ‘Oh, hello …’ Tish squinted as she shifted into park and endeavored to put a name to the voice. The biker, as if on cue, pulled aside her sunglasses and yanked the helmet from her head, revealing a tangled mane of silver hair. ‘Opal. You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to ask you about cucumbers.’

  ‘Huh?’ Tish glanced in her rear-view mirror to check for any vehicles that might be stuck behind her. Fortunately, the road was clear.

  ‘Cucumbers. My garden is overrun with both the regular and pickling varieties, and I was wondering if you could use them for your café.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to buy some off you. I want to use local produce exclusively. But my café isn’t quite up and running yet.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll bring over some samples for you to try. If you like them, we’ll talk about price and delivery schedule,’ Opal proposed.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t expect you to give me food for free,’ Tish argued. ‘Even if it’s only a sample, I’m sure you could put them to good use.’

  ‘Nah, it’s fine. Like I said, I have more than I know what to do with. I’ll give you some and then take the rest to the farmers’ market. A friend of mine has a stall there. He’ll sell them on my behalf. Thing is, selling them to you is a sure thing whereas the market can be sketchy. If it’s raining or too hot, people don’t come out to buy.’

  Tish nodded. ‘I understand.’

  Opal gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘It’s funny. You know, Binnie Broderick used to be my best customer. Before she purged my books, I mean. She was a pickle fanatic. Just about every cucumber I put up for sale ended up in her kitchen. Poor things … to wind up as the feature ingredient in Binnie Broderick’s bread-and-butter pickles.’

  Tish’s ears pricked up. ‘So, her pickles were the talk of the town?’
>
  ‘Joke of the town, more like it. I swear, they were infamous. She brought them to every single social function in Hobson Glen. Mind you, they weren’t too bad at first. Not the best bread-and-butter pickles I’d ever tasted, but certainly not the worst. However, the last few times she brought them? Horrid. Absolutely horrid. Edwin Wilson, Doctor Livermore and I were on the planning committee for the annual town picnic and barbecue this June, and we were tempted to ban her from bringing them. We were soon sorry we didn’t. They were so terrible that I thought she was playing some bizarre practical joke. I honestly expected a film crew to jump out from behind the trees and tell us we were going to be on a new version of Candid Camera or Punk’d. The even stranger thing was that while few of us at the barbecue would even venture a bite, Binnie was eating them as if they were going out of style.’

  ‘Hmm, a new recipe, perhaps?’

  ‘Something like that, I guess.’

  ‘Yes … something like that.’ Tish bit her lip. ‘So you and Doctor Livermore were on the picnic planning committee, huh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Opal colored slightly. ‘We were friends. Hobson Glen won’t be the same without him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, “Oh.” You asked me if he was my physician. You never asked me if he and I might have been “friends with benefits.”’

  Tish felt her jaw drop open, much to Opal’s amusement.

  ‘As my mama said, just because there’s snow on the roof,’ the novelist chortled. ‘I’m widowed; he was single, never married. Townsfolk used to speculate he might be gay. I can safely state that he wasn’t.’

  Tish nodded and tried to think of a way to politely extricate herself from the conversation. She needn’t have bothered.

  Opal replaced the helmet on her head and slid her sunglasses back on to the bridge of her nose. ‘Well, I’d better get pedaling. Riding and writing – the only times I don’t smoke. Well, maybe not the only times. Anyway, I’ll stop by later with the veg.’

  ‘Sounds good. If I’m not there, just leave it on the porch swing,’ Tish instructed before the two women said farewell and went their respective ways.