The Secret, Book & Scone Society

by Ellery Adams

  Too good to be true, Nora thought. Aloud, she said, “Wonderful.”

  “Great.” Dawson proffered a pen. “Then let’s get started.”

  As Nora signed a pile of forms, she didn’t fail to notice the gold script running along the length of the pen. It read, WE BUILD DREAMS, ONE HOUSE AT A TIME—PINE RIDGE PROPERTIES . On the back were the words THE MEADOWS. AGENT: ANNETTE GOLDSMITH.

  The pen must have been a favorite of Dawson’s, because parts of several letters had rubbed off. The G in Goldsmith for example, resembled a C.

  Staring at Annette’s name, Nora realized that she was looking at the second set of initials Estella had seen on Fenton’s Oasis Bar napkin. But what did that mean? Had Annette been involved in Neil’s death? Had Dawson Hendricks?

  “Everything okay?” Dawson asked. He was watching her closely.

  Nora forced a smile. “It couldn’t be better.”

  Chapter 8

  If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

  —J.R.R. Tolkien

  Nora finished signing the documents where Dawson indicated, and he concluded the meeting by promising he’d get back to her soon. He then handed her a lollipop as if she were a well-behaved child and escorted her to the front door.

  Nora limped out of the bank, tossed the sucker in the trash bin, and started for home. She’d made it to the end of the block when a cherry-red Corvette pulled alongside the curb. Estella rolled down the window and called, “Hop in!”

  Smiling over her friend’s choice of words, Nora lurched like a zombie until she was able to drop into the low passenger seat.

  “The Secret, Book, and Scone Society is meeting at the Pink Lady Grill tonight,” Estella informed her. “I hope you don’t have other plans.”

  Nora snorted. “Like what? A hot date?”

  Estella shot her a sidelong glance. “What about that paramedic? He’s now officially the sexiest man in Miracle Springs. And I got some dirt on him today from one of my clients. Wanna hear it?”

  Though Nora most definitely did, she shook her head. “I’m more interested in how you’re doing. After last night.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “If anything, that bastard’s behavior has me even more fired up to seek justice for Neil. I know people look at me and see a slutty, gold-digging hair stylist, but I have a decent brain in this pretty head. Comes from when I was growing up, and I spent all that time hiding in my room with a pile of library books. That’s what you do when you have no friends. And no TV.”

  “Having been to the Miracle Springs County Library, it’s a wonder you found anything to read,” Nora said as Estella accelerated through a yellow light.

  “Papaya!” Estella shouted. She eased off the gas and grinned. “I like to think of different words describing yellow-orange. You know, the shade the light is just before it turns red?”

  Nora laughed. “Like ochre? Or pumpkin?”

  “Exactly.” Estella looked pleased. “Next time, you yell out a word.”

  “Or you could just stop and let the light turn red,” Nora said.

  Estella smirked. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’m hungry. Borderline hangry. I hope Hester got us a table. The Pink Lady is always packed in the summertime.”

  The Pink Lady Grill was beloved by locals and out-of-towners alike. It was an unusual eatery, to say the least. Decorated entirely in shades of pink, the walls were covered with framed motivational quotes and letters from cancer survivors. Jack Nakamura, the owner and cook, was a Japanese-American who’d lost his mother to breast cancer in his late twenties. Back then, the diner had simply been called Jack’s and offered a Southern-style breakfast menu. Nora had heard of how difficult it had been for Jack to convince the townsfolk that he could cook a mean plate of chicken and waffles and that his buttermilk biscuits were just as good as Grandma’s.

  Jack was barely making ends meet when his mother was diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer. As word of her illness spread and the people of Miracle Springs realized that Jack’s mother wouldn’t be working the cash register or showing them to their tables much longer, they flocked to the diner. No one understood how a man raised on traditional Japanese fare made the best hush puppies, fried chicken, chess pie, hummingbird cake, cheese grits, and sausage gravy in the county. In spite of their disbelief, the people of Miracle Springs continued to fill the booths of Jack’s diner long after his mother passed.

  To honor her memory, Jack redecorated and changed the eatery’s name. He also collected funds to help local women in need pay for breast-cancer screenings and other diagnostic tests. Between his big heart and his mastery of Southern dishes, Jack soon became one of Miracle Springs’s favorite sons.

  He had very little spare time, but when Jack took a day off, he spent it reading. He faithfully shopped at Nora’s store, where he purchased biographies, autobiographies, and books on cancer research and recovery.

  “Table for two?” asked the hostess when Nora and Estella entered the diner. Nora noticed that the woman’s fingernails had been painted the same shade of ballet-slipper pink as the walls. All except her pinkie nails, which were hot pink with sparkles.

  “Our friends already have a table, thanks,” Estella said, waving at Hester and June.

  The waitress smiled cheerfully. Following Nora’s glance, she splayed her fingers. “Aren’t they fun? I’ve been using Pinterest to find new designs. You could do it too . . .” She trailed off, suddenly noticing that Nora didn’t have a pinkie nail on her right hand. “What happened, hon?”

  Nora wasn’t about to talk about her accident with a stranger, so she gestured at the rotating pie display and said, “I was chopping apples when the knife slipped—” She shrugged haplessly and continued walking.

  “How was the bank?” Hester asked as soon as Nora sat down opposite her.

  June nudged Hester. “Let’s give the woman a minute to look at her menu before we interrogate her. Or, you could forget the menu and order the fried catfish. Jack’s is the best in all of North Carolina.”

  “I always have the Cobb salad,” Estella said. “And a strawberry milkshake. Jack donates every cent he makes on desserts to the Susan G. Komen Foundation. But before we order, I want to tell you that I think I know the meaning of Buford, the last name on Fenton Greer’s napkin.”

  The other women stared at her.

  “It was pure luck, actually,” Estella continued, her green eyes shining with excitement. “I was flipping through TV channels and stopped to watch Smokey and the Bandit. I love me some Burt Reynolds.” She put her hand to her heart. “Anyway, the sheriff—a tubby, bumbling country bumpkin, is Buford T. Justice. I think the Buford from the napkin refers to our own tubby lawman.”

  “I can definitely see the resemblance,” June muttered. “I remember that movie and what a cliché that character was, but the Toad is a cliché too. A lazy, short-tempered, no-good chauvinist pig.” She nodded at Estella. “The ‘city folk’ from Asheville are making fun of our local Johnny Law. Even though they need him, they don’t have to respect him.”

  Nora, who was too distracted to think about food, dropped her menu on the table. “It makes perfect sense for both Hendricks brothers to be involved. I’m with June. I think you’re onto something, Estella. And if you’re right, then we’re dealing with powerful adversaries. The man in charge of decisions regarding the local people’s money and the man in charge of the town’s law and order.”

  “Was something revealed during your meeting with Dawson?” Hester asked.

  The arrival of the waitress prevented Nora from answering.

  Without looking at the menu, she ordered eggs, bacon, toast, and an iced tea. “I love breakfast for dinner. I could eat bacon and eggs twice a day.”

  The waitress lingered at the next booth, preventing Nora from talking about her meeting at the bank.

  “If I never see another plate of scrambled eggs, that’ll be just fine with me,” June said.
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  Nora cocked her head. “Do you have ovophobia? A fear of eggs?”

  “It that a thing?” Hester asked.

  “Alfred Hitchcock was an ovophobe,” Nora said. “He couldn’t stand the sight of them either.”

  June frowned. “I was fine with eggs until I started working at Belle Shoal Assisted Living. I worked there for fifteen years. During my tenure, I smelled scrambled eggs every morning. Powdered ones. Runny ones. Uneaten ones, mostly. The residents hated those eggs and even though those poor souls really needed their protein, they couldn’t choke those nasty things down.” She waved her hands. “But enough about me. Tell us about your meeting with Dawson.”

  Nora filled them in on her exchange with Collin Stone first. By the time she was done, their meals had arrived and she took a break to eat her omelet.

  “Where was this assisted-living place?” Estella asked June as she drizzled dressing over her salad. “Not around here. The name’s not familiar.”

  “It’s in New York,” June replied. “That’s where I’m from.”

  Hester put down her fork. “Why did you leave?”

  “Shame,” June said, pushing away her plate even though she’d barely touched her catfish. “I was fired from my job and sued for neglect. The suit was filed against the company who owned the facility, but it also included me directly. I lost. And when I lost, I lost everything.”

  The other women remained silent, sensing that June needed to get her story out all at once—that it was sitting in her throat like a trapped bird desperately waiting to be set free.

  “Belle Shoal was not one of these ritzy retirement communities with delicious meals and scenic walking paths,” June continued. “The residents weren’t entertained by magicians, karaoke machines, dance classes, or elementary kids singing carols at Christmastime. People went to Belle Shoal because they didn’t have money to pay for a nice place. Most of them were without family. They didn’t have visitors. Their days were filled with bland food, boring TV programs, and hours of staring at the fish tank in the main hall.”

  “It sounds like a setting out of a Dickens novel,” Nora said.

  June nodded. “Bleak House, maybe? Belle Shoal—beautiful shore—was a failed metaphor. The residents called their home Hell Hole instead. That fish tank, which was in the center of the hall and was supposed to be the ‘shoal,’ contained a few pathetic goldfish. Me and the other caregivers did all we could to bring a little music and color into that place. We made tissue-paper flowers, bought radios from yard sales, held bingo and Scrabble tournaments, and brought in anyone who’d visit for free. And we read aloud to our residents every afternoon. The book that ended up changing my life was Water for Elephants. Does anyone know it?”

  The other three women at the table indicated that they’d all read Sara Gruen’s novel.

  “The residents loved it,” June said, her gaze turning distant. “By coincidence or by some crazy twist of fate, a traveling carnival came to town days after I finished reading the book. The carnival was set up in the field down the street, and we heard the music from the rides. The residents told me that they could see the lights at night and a few even claimed to smell buttered popcorn. Suddenly, they started sharing stories of circuses, fairs, and boardwalks. They came alive talking about these things—about winning a toy for their best girl. Or eating hot dogs. Riding so high on a Ferris wheel that they felt like they were flying. Treasured memories.”

  Estella signaled the waitress and ordered strawberry milkshakes for everyone at the table. She then looked at June. “I counted the days to the county fair. Years ago, it was the biggest thrill a person could find in a small town. The biggest legal one, anyway. I understand why your residents were so excited.”

  Hester glanced from Estella to June. “But they couldn’t go, right?”

  June didn’t respond. She picked up her fork and pushed her green beans into a neat pile.

  “You took them,” Nora said softly. “You wanted to do something special for them. You wanted them to have new memories that were filled with color, sound, and flavor.”

  June’s gaze remained on her plate.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “I wanted them to live once more before they died. No one visited. They didn’t get care packages or letters. I tried to implement a pet program, but the owners of Belle Shoal decided that animals were unsanitary and would make the residents sick.” She chortled, but there was no mirth in the sound. “They were already sick! Every one of them had health issues, but I was worried about them here.” She pounded her fist against her chest.

  “How did you manage it?” Nora asked. “The logistics must have been incredibly complicated.”

  June whistled. “You have no idea. Sneaking two dozen old people out of an assisted-living facility is like breaking a bunch of serial killers out of a maximum-security prison. I had to convince certain staff members that I was taking the residents to the movies. I had to rent a bus and purchase food and ride tickets using my own money. I thought it was worth it. When I saw Mrs. Lowenthal eating cotton candy and Mr. Bloom on the bumper cars, I thought I’d made the right choice. The only choice.”

  “I bet they had a ball,” Estella said. “No matter what happened, I don’t see why you’d regret doing what you did. You were thoughtful and generous. And no matter what, those people knew how much you cared. Look what you did to prove it to them.”

  June’s eyes sparked with anger. “But I should have been thinking about my family first. I didn’t consider how my actions might affect them. I couldn’t have predicted that Mr. Wayne would suffer a heart attack on the tilt-a-whirl. I couldn’t have known that he would die before he reached the hospital and that anything positive that happened that night meant nothing in comparison to Mr. Wayne’s accident.”

  The waitress appeared with their shakes. In light of June’s story, the pink frozen beverages topped with crowns of whipped cream and Maraschino cherries suddenly seemed offensive in their frivolity.

  “Enjoy, girls!” the waitress trilled and bustled off again.

  Hester broke the silence by saying, “You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

  “Yes, I do. This is how we’ll know we can trust each other, remember?” June reached for her milkshake and tried to take a sip, but the shake was too thick for the narrow straw. Instead, she pulled the spoon from the bottom of the glass and popped it into her mouth. “Hmm, that’s good. It has chunks of fresh strawberries.”

  Following her lead, the rest of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society members sampled their shakes.

  Nora couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a milkshake. When the cold, sweet flavors of vanilla ice cream and strawberries coated her tongue, she tried to savor the taste, but it was difficult to feel enjoyment with June’s story hanging like a thundercloud over their table.

  “Mr. Wayne’s family filed a wrongful-death suit against the assisted-living facility,” June continued. “They also sued me for neglect because I took Mr. Wayne to the carnival. They didn’t care that he’d spent his last breath thanking me for the best evening he’d had in decades. They didn’t tell the judge how they hadn’t paid him an ounce of attention until they realized that they might profit from his death. And profit they did. They won. I lost.”

  She paused and Nora almost looked up—looked up to see the thundercloud that was June’s story break open and release its cold, biting rain.

  “I lost my job and every penny to my name,” June went on in a near-croak. “My boy, who was supposed to start college the next fall, couldn’t go. I couldn’t afford it. I couldn’t afford anything. I lost our apartment, my car, and the love and respect of my son.”

  “Is he still in New York?”

  June moved her straw in a circular motion, blending the whipped cream into the strawberry shake. “Tyson went to live with my sister while I looked for a new job. I knew I’d have to leave the state—take any work I could get. Girls, I have done it all. I’ve waited tables, clea
ned hotel rooms, manned a clothes press, bagged groceries. And during that time, Tyson refused to communicate with me. He wouldn’t come to the phone or read a letter or e-mail. He lived with my sister for just under two years and then, they had a falling out and Tyson left. She never heard from him again.”

  “God,” Hester breathed. “Did you try to find him?”

  “Of course,” June said heatedly. “As soon as I had the money, I hired a detective. He found Tyson in L.A., working as a bouncer for some nightclub. I called the club . . .” Her voice wavered and she stopped to collect herself. “Tyson told me never to contact him again—that I was dead to him. I kept trying. I sent letters and packages, but they came back unopened. Finally, I saved enough to fly to California. I showed up at the club an hour before it opened for business, but Tyson turned me away. He said that he didn’t have a mother.”

  June let out a single, heart-wrenching sob before covering her face with her napkin. Hester put an arm around June and squeezed. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry, June.”

  Nora longed to comfort June too, but there didn’t seem any words more fitting than the ones Hester repeated in a soft, soothing murmur.

  “Everythin’ all right?” their waitress suddenly asked in her loud twang.

  Estella jumped a little in surprise and said, “We’re just fine.” Her reply probably sounded more abrupt than intended.

  “Good thing we’ve eaten or she might spit in our shakes.” June dabbed her eyes, sniffed, and said, “The long and the short of it is this: Though I never stop trying to connect with my son, he’s made it clear that he wants nothing to do with me. Sometimes, the pain of missing him and wondering what he’s doing is almost more than I can bear.”

  “But you bear it,” Nora said. “Without letting the pain turn into bitterness.”

  June pointed at the window. “I found more peace here than I ever hoped to find. But I’ll tell you what. It’s mighty nice to have friends to talk to. I’ve had friendly acquaintances in other towns, but not friends.” She picked up her milkshake glass. “So let’s toast to sharing secrets with friends and get on with our investigation.”