Sour Grapes

by Jeff Shelby

  “What exactly did you hear?”

  She brought the glass to her mouth again and sipped. “He was on the phone,” she told me. “I was going to his office to let him know the music selection for an upcoming service—he likes to know what I’m going to perform in advance so it can be printed in the bulletin—but I stopped when I heard him talking.”

  I waited.

  She sipped again, slowly, savoring her beer.

  I tapped my foot on the rung of my barstool.

  “He was making arrangements to go back to Tennessee,” Mabel said. “I don’t know who he was on the phone with, but he said that he’d received a call from the diocese and Declan was heading back from Brazil. He said that he’d been asked if he wanted to stay at St. Simon’s but he told them no, he was happy to go home.”

  My head was buzzing with questions. Was Declan coming back of his own accord? Had he gotten sick? Hurt? Did something happen with the church?

  “So you have no idea what happened in Brazil or why he's coming back so soon?”

  Mabel shook her head. “All I know is Declan Murphy is headed back to Latney.”

  “I see.”

  She studied me with her watery eyes. “I can’t believe you didn’t know about this.”

  “Why would I know? I’m not a church member.”

  “No, I'm aware of that,” she conceded. “I just thought you might've...been informed. I just know that you and Declan are...close.”

  Heat rose to my cheeks and I looked down at the floor. She was right about that; she was one of the few people in town who knew about my and Declan’s brief romantic interlude.

  “I didn’t know,” I said in a low voice.

  “Oh, dear.” A frown creased her forehead. “This isn’t bad news, is it? I thought you would be happy.” Her frown deepened, indenting her forehead like railroad tracks. “Is this because of your other young man? That big, strapping hunk of handsome? Gunnar?”

  I took a deep breath. “Of course it’s not bad news,” I said, ignoring her question. “I’m thrilled to hear he’s coming home. I think it's great. For St. Simon's.” I smiled at her. “Really. I'm happy to hear he's coming back.”

  And I was.

  Dawn returned from the table carrying a stack of dirty dishes. The men had mowed through their hamburgers at a record pace. She moved by at a snail’s pace, which was at complete odds with how quickly she’d been moving earlier, and I had to think this was intentional. I wondered just how much of our conversation she’d overheard.

  “You need another, Mabel?” Dawn asked.

  Mabel stared at her. “I’ve barely touched this one. It ain't Mardi Gras. I'm not celebrating that much.”

  Dawn just nodded and turned to me. The dirty plates were still in her hands, and a loose strand of hair partially blocked her vision.

  “How about you?”

  I hadn’t even touched the soda in front of me. “What? Oh. No. No, thank you.”

  “You sure?” Her smirk was back.

  “I’m sure,” I said firmly.

  She leaned closer. “How about a beer? Or maybe something a little stronger? Tequila? Bourbon?”

  “I'm fine,” I said.

  “Alright.” She chuckled and laid her hands flat on the bar, looking happier than I'd seen her since I walked in. “Looks like we both have had our worlds rocked this week.”

  NINE

  I WASN’T THINKING STRAIGHT when I walked out of the Wicked Wich.

  Thoughts of Declan flooded my mind: his return, his departure, and everything that had happened in the span of time he’d been away.

  I was so consumed by my thoughts that I almost ran straight into the woman heading toward me on the sidewalk.

  I saw her shadow on the pavement and lurched to a stop.

  Charlotte, Mikey’s sister, jumped back, visibly startled.

  “I didn’t see you,” she said by way of apology.

  “I wasn’t looking, either,” I admitted.

  I took a long look at her. She was older than her brother, but I didn’t know by how many years. Today, though, she looked at least a decade older. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her mouth was set in a tight, firm line. She’d recently dyed her hair platinum blonde, but it was long enough ago that dark roots were already beginning to show. She was dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a scoop-necked blue sweater that matched her eyes. And her little daughter was nowhere to be seen.

  “Were you just at the restaurant?” she asked. “At the Wicked Wich?”

  I nodded, trying not to frown. It felt like an odd question. I wondered if, like Dawn, she thought I might stop going now that Mikey was no longer cooking there.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “So, are you excited about the grand opening?” I finally asked.

  She looked blankly at me. “The what?”

  “The grand opening. Your brother’s restaurant. The Cow & Vine?” I said. “Are you excited?”

  She gave me a cool stare. “Sure.”

  “Is...is something wrong?” I asked. I didn’t know Charlotte well at all—our paths only crossed occasionally, at the grocery store or at local town events—so I felt a little weird asking. But there was definitely something bothering her.

  “What could possibly be wrong?” she asked bitterly.

  “I don’t know,” I said, as gently as I could.

  She huffed out a breath and folded her arms across her chest, and it was only then that I noticed the piece of paper clutched in her hands. “My ex-husband stopped paying child support and alimony.”

  I made a sympathetic face. I didn’t even know she was divorced. “That’s terrible.”

  She gave a curt nod.

  “Is there anything you can do? Maybe take him to court or something?” I suggested.

  She gave a harsh laugh. “Sure, but all that will do is put him in jail. He doesn’t have a job. He can’t pay me if he doesn’t have any money, and he definitely won’t have any if he ends up getting locked up.”

  “I’m sorry.” It was a wholly inadequate response, but it was all I could offer.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said with a bitter smile. “And I’m especially sorry that Grams didn’t see fit to leave me anything in her will.”

  I cringed. I knew all about the way Mikey’s grandmother had treated Charlotte. He’d told me early on about the dementia his grandmother suffered from, and how she’d gotten it in her head that her granddaughter, Charlotte, was really Gram’s sister, Nadine...who had stolen Gram’s husband. To prevent angry outbursts, Charlotte avoided visiting Grams, and only came over to help with cooking and cleaning. Companionship had fallen squarely on Mikey’s shoulders, and his grandmother had adored him

  She’d made that perfectly clear when she left her house and her modest savings to him, and him alone.

  “That’s terrible.” Again, it didn’t seem like the right thing to say.

  She looked at me, her expression hard. “You can say that again.”

  “Have you talked to Mikey?” I asked. “I’m sure he would help you out—”

  Another harsh laugh escaped. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. I think he’d help you in a heartbeat.”

  “I don’t want his money.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t. Besides, he’s spent it all,” she spat. “Invested every last cent Grams left him in that stupid restaurant.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it stupid—”

  “Oh, please.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Who takes every dollar they have and sinks it into a new business venture? A business that, by the way, you have zero experience running. And do you know what the success rate of new restaurants is?” She frowned. “I watch Top Chef and I watch Hell's Kitchen. Restaurants don't last forever.”

  I thought about pointing out that Mikey wasn’t running it alone. He’d invested with Chuck, an individual who did have experience with restaurants, and that th
e area Mikey would be responsible for was something he did, in fact, have a lot of experience with: cooking. And that didn't even touch on the fact that most entrepreneurs took huge risks with money in order to bet on themselves. Yes, some of them failed, but plenty did not. This wasn't Mikey irresponsibly investing money into a business he knew nothing about it. I thought the odds of him succeeding were actually pretty good.

  But one glance at Charlotte and I kept my mouth shut. It was clear she was bitter and angry over being shut out of the inheritance, and rightfully so. I just didn’t think it was fair to blame her brother, especially if she hadn’t asked him for help.

  Charlotte let out a sigh. “Look, I don’t have time to talk. I need to get this turned in.” She held up the paper she was holding.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “An application,” she responded.

  I turned and looked at the help wanted sign Dawn had put up on the restaurant’s door. “You’re applying at the Wicked Wich?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Why not? I need money, and they need help. It’s a match made in heaven.”

  I thought about the bitter woman standing in front of me, filled with anger over her current lot in life, and the woman holding court behind the bar, rage permanently etched into both her features and personality.

  I shook my head.

  They were definitely going to be a match made in...somewhere.

  TEN

  I DROVE TO THE COW & Vine the next morning. I knew Mikey would be busy trying to get things ready for the grand opening—if there was still going to be one—so I figured me going to him would be the best use of his time. Especially since he wasn’t answering his phone.

  The drive to Winslow took a little longer than usual, thanks to VDOT closing down the westbound lane outside of Latney to fill potholes. There were flag men holding signs and directing traffic, which never seemed like much until we were all stopped on a county road, waiting our turn for the one usable lane. It felt like a game of controlled chicken that had no winners.

  Finally, I reached the restaurant and pulled into a parking space near the front door. I grabbed my purse and phone and headed to the entrance. I knocked once on the large metal door and then tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  “Mikey?” I called as I stepped inside the darkened building. A single light was on in the back of the restaurant.

  “Back here,” he responded.

  I shuffled through the dining area, weaving between tables to make my way to what I assumed would be the kitchen. It was hard to see the décor in the dim light available, but I could tell the tabletops were metal, the seating a blend of different wood benches and chairs. The brick interior was jazzed up with metal artwork similar to what I’d seen outside, and the unfinished ceiling, with pipes exposed and light fixtures dropped down, gave off a cool, industrial vibe.

  Mikey was in the kitchen, slapping slabs of bacon on a grill. Scrambled eggs bubbled in a pan nearby and he turned to it, stirring and scraping the mixture with a spatula. Freshly baked miniature croissants filled a baking tray nearby. It was a cornucopia of delicious smells.

  “You trying out a breakfast recipe?” I asked.

  He glanced up at me and smiled. He looked tired, and I wondered if he’d even gone home last night or if he’d worked straight through. “Eh, sort of. I’m going to be making some croissant sliders for the appetizer menu. But the eggs and bacon are breakfast. For me.”

  I set my purse down on the stainless steel counter. The kitchen was pristine, and about five times the size of my own spacious kitchen at home. I didn’t spend much time cooking—after all, I was usually making meals for one—but I thought it might be different if I had a kitchen like this, filled with specialized appliances and top of the line pans and equipment.

  “When did you get here?” I asked, returning my attention to Mikey.

  “I never left,” he admitted. “Too much to do.”

  I nodded in sympathy. I’d been right.

  “I like your shirt,” I said, pointing at the purple shirt he was wearing. “Great logo.”

  He glanced down at it. The restaurant name arched over an image of a cow wreathed with grape vines. It managed to look fun and elegant at the same time. “You like it?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I wasn't sure about it,” he said. “I didn't want it to look too goofy or cheesy, you know?”

  “It doesn't look goofy or cheesy. It looks good. Unique.”

  He grabbed a plate from a stack on a shelf, then picked up another. They were white, with grapevines wreathing the edges. A tiny purple cow was stamped in the center.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  I was always hungry for Mikey’s food. “I don’t want to eat your breakfast,” I said.

  “There’s plenty to go around,” he said, nodding toward the full pan of eggs and the half dozen slices of cooked bacon. “I can’t eat all of this.”

  I was pretty sure he could, but I didn’t argue with him. All I’d had for breakfast was yogurt and coffee, and my stomach was already begging for bacon.

  He slid a plate in front of me and handed me a fork. I’d had breakfast components on Mikey’s burgers before, but I’d never had a breakfast meal prepared by him.

  I took a bite of eggs and tasted feta cheese along with a hint of garlic. “Delicious,” I said.

  He handed me one of the croissants he was holding. “Here, try one of these.”

  I bit into the roll, which promptly seemed to melt on my tongue, it was so soft and buttery. I sighed contentedly and Mikey smiled.

  “You like?” he asked eagerly.

  “No.” His brow puckered and I said, “I love.”

  “I'm still playing with the recipe.”

  “Don't. It's perfect.”

  He poured a cup of coffee for me and set it down. “So,” he said, finally taking a bite of his breakfast. “Did you find out anything?”

  I thought about my conversations with Dawn and Charlotte.

  “I have some...leads,” I said slowly.

  “On where the statue might be?” he asked hopefully.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “On who might be responsible.”

  He cocked his head, a frown stealing across his face. “You do?” He paused. “Wait. Who?”

  It was my turn to pause. I didn’t know how to bring up the possibility that his own sister might somehow be responsible for sabotaging his new restaurant.

  “I saw Charlotte yesterday,” I said. I tried to sound conversational, almost as if I was switching gears.

  “You did?” Mikey shoved a piece of bacon in his mouth. “Where?”

  “In town. Right outside the Wicked Wich.” I sipped my coffee. He hadn’t put creamer in it and I didn’t want to be rude and ask for it. But I wasn’t a fan of black coffee and I tried not to wrinkle my nose as I swallowed it down.

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She brought up the inheritance...and being left out of it.”

  Mikey’s expression was pained and he dropped his gaze to the plate in front of him. “Oh. I feel awful about that.”

  “It seemed like it hit her pretty hard.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. And I know why Grams did it. She wasn’t in her right mind, hasn’t been for years. But I still wish she hadn’t.”

  “Dementia is a terrible disease.”

  He looked up, his eyes burning. “The worst,” he said. “Char was so hurt when we found out about the will and stuff.”

  “Was it a big surprise?” I asked. “I mean, you have sort of been responsible for her for quite a while, right? Access to her bank accounts and making financial decisions for her and all that.”

  “I was,” he said. “But I didn’t know about her will, and I didn’t realize she had a small life insurance policy. I was just focused on the day-to-day stuff of taking care of her, you know? I was paying her bills and all that, but it's not like I was acting like her lawyer or something. I had
no idea about the policy or the will.”

  I understood completely. Mikey was a young kid, just in his twenties, and the burden of being responsible for his ailing grandmother was probably more than enough to keep him occupied. Add a full-time job into the mix and I could see how he had been more focused on getting through each day as opposed to worrying about what the future might hold.

  “I offered to split it with her,” he said.

  “The money?”

  He scraped the last bit of eggs from his plate. “I felt bad,” he said. “And she did just as much for Grams as I did. It was just behind the scenes, since Grams didn’t want to see her.”

  “But you offered her the money?”

  He frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? She was just as much Grams’ grandchild as I was. But she said no, absolutely refused to take it.”

  “What?” This was news to me. Based on what Charlotte had told me, she desperately needed money, and she’d given me the impression that Mikey had just taken it and run. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’s stubborn,” Mikey said. “Because she’s more like Grams than anyone else I know.” He tore a hunk off his croissant. “Her feelings were hurt and I know she was mad, too. I couldn’t force her to take it so I decided to use all of it to buy into this.”

  I followed his gaze as his eyes swept across the kitchen.

  “And when I make my money back, when this place does gangbusters and we’re rolling in dough, I’ll give her half. Because then it won’t be Grams’ money anymore. It will be mine.” His face fell. “If we get that far and I make my money back.”

  My gut tightened. It was time to tell him my suspicions about his sister. I could tell him about Dawn, too, but I wanted to get the harder one out of the way first.

  “Do you think she might have had anything to do with the stolen statue?” I asked.

  Mikey’s eyes widened. “What?”