by Jessica Beck
“I just want to check one thing first,” I said. “Do you mind coming into the shop for a second?”
“Why don’t I make a few phone calls out here while you’re inside,” she suggested. “I’ve got to clear a few things off my calendar.”
I suddenly felt guilty about taking up so much of her time. “I don’t want to put you out, Grace.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been looking for an excuse to do something rash, and this sounds perfect.”
I went inside Donut Hearts and headed straight for the kitchen. The dishes were drying on a towel, and there was a note from George.
“Sorry I missed you. Hope your lunch was productive. I’m going to try something different. I’ll check in later. George.”
It felt good knowing my friends were rallying around me. If news of Lester’s demise had spread through town yet, it hadn’t affected my sales for the day. I wasn’t surprised that we hadn’t sold many éclairs, though.
At least my customers were sticking with me.
For now.
* * *
As we drove toward Union Square in my Jeep, Grace asked, “What exactly happened last night?”
“How did you hear about that?”
She grinned at me. “Come on, Suzanne. You should know how small a town April Springs is better than most folks around here. Do you honestly think no one saw you screaming at Lester outside the radio station?”
I hadn’t realized that my confrontation with him had been so public. “I know Cara heard part of our argument, but I didn’t realize anyone else was listening. Has she been talking about what happened?”
“No, I heard it from Kate Baylor. She was walking her dogs and happened past just as you were reaming Lester out. She told me she wanted to applaud, but she didn’t want to startle Monet and Degas. Those dogs are jumpy.”
It figured that someone had witnessed my diatribe. “I can’t get away with anything in this town, can I?”
“It should be enough to keep you on your toes, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. What’s our cover story going to be this time? Can we be spies? I’d love to be mysterious. I can totally pull that off, don’t you think?”
I laughed. “If anyone can, it’s you. I thought we’d use a simple approach; sorry about your loss and all that. After we offer our condolences, we can ask her questions about her late husband.”
Grace apparently didn’t like that approach. Although she was always there for me, she didn’t necessarily go along with every idea I had. After all, what fun would that be? “Why should she talk to us? We have to have a good reason to interrogate her.”
I thought about that, and realized Grace had a point. Sometimes subterfuge was a handy way of getting someone to trust us.
“We could always be reporters again,” I said.
“No, we’ve done that. I don’t want to work for a newspaper again.”
I laughed. “You know we’re not actually writing a story, don’t you?”
“It should be a little more glamorous than that; that’s all I’m saying.”
Inspiration suddenly struck. “How about if we claim we represent Radio World magazine? We can say we’re doing a tribute to Lester for the next issue and we need background from her.”
Grace thought about that for a handful of seconds. “Is there really such a magazine?”
“With the Internet these days, who’s to say? It can be an online start-up thing, and no one will ever know the difference.”
“Fine. You can be the reporter, though.”
“What will you be?” I asked.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small digital camera. “I’m the photographer assigned to the story.”
“With that?” I asked. “It’s not much of a camera.”
“It’s digital,” she answered. “You’d be amazed by how powerful it is.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’m just saying that it’s not all that impressive to look at.”
“Trust me, she won’t know the difference.”
It just might work at that. Neither of us was all that savvy about what real writers and photographers looked like, and we had to assume that none of the people we were going to be “interviewing” knew, either.
As I drove into Union Square, Grace asked, “How exactly are we going to find this woman? Do you know where she works?”
“I’ve got a source we can use,” I said as I parked in front of Napoli’s Restaurant. It had long been my favorite place, and Jake and I had had our first date at the Italian restaurant.
“Are you going to check the telephone book?”
“I can do better than that. If anyone knows about someone in Union Square, it’s got to be the DeAngelis clan. I have great faith in Angelica and her daughters.”
Grace nodded as we got out, but as soon as we approached the door, she said, “Too bad they aren’t open yet.”
“I’m not giving up that easily.” I pounded on the door, and a minute later, Maria, one of the daughters, came out. “Sorry, we’re closed … oh, Suzanne, how are you?” Maria was an olive-skinned beauty like her sisters and mother, and I always enjoyed seeing her.
After she hugged me, I said, “I’m good. How’s your mother?”
“She’s on the warpath at the moment, but at least I’m not the one in her sights,” Maria said with a smile. “Hi, Grace,” she said as she glanced over at my friend.
“Hey, Maria. Sorry to just barge in like this.”
She smiled. “Friends and diversions are always welcome. How can we help?” We’d stepped inside the restaurant, shutting out the strip mall outside and entering a world with a sparkling fountain, deep red carpet, and faded brass fixtures. The windows were covered with heavy draperies, and the bright April sun was completely blocked out.
“We’re looking for information about someone here in Union Square,” I said.
Maria nodded. “You should ask Momma. She knows everyone around here. Back this way; she’s in the kitchen,” she said as she led us past the tables and through the swinging doors.
The change in atmosphere was striking, and instant. There was real brightness in the kitchen, with stainless steel everywhere and strong overhead lights illuminating the place as if it were an operating room. Angelica was chastising one of her daughters as we walked in, the two of them leaning over a marble slab while working dough, as Antonia looked on. Angelica was lecturing her youngest. “Sophia, you have to be gentle with the dough. It responds to the emotion you have while you’re creating it.”
“It’s just pasta,” Sophia said, and I saw Maria and Antonia both wince.
Angelica suddenly dropped the ball of dough she’d been working with her hands on the slab. “Just pasta? It is what makes us special. Without this, we are just another restaurant. We are—” Angelica noticed us then, and her tirade was cut short. “Ladies. How lovely. Let me make you something to eat.”
“Hi, Angelica. We’re not here for lunch. We’re looking for some information.”
“Speak for yourself,” Grace said. “I’m starving.”
“Grace,” I said firmly, but Angelica only laughed.
“We can eat and talk at the same time, no? What sounds good?”
“Anything you make,” I said as my stomach rumbled. No matter how full I might be, being around Angelica always made me hungry.
Angelica looked around, and her gaze settled back on the dough. “I normally let it cure, but let’s have fresh pasta.”
“Wonderful,” I said as I took a seat by the counter. Grace was quick to join me.
“Do you mind if I work while we talk?” Angelica asked. It was clear to see where her daughters got their good looks, even if Angelica had sampled too much of her own divine cooking over the years to fit into any of their dresses.
After she measured out flour and a pinch of salt, Angelica made a reservoir, cracked a couple of eggs, and added them to the mix. As she stirred the eggs into the flour, she turned to me. “Go ahead and ask. I can talk
while I work.”
“We’re looking for Nancy Patton,” I said.
A cloud crossed her normally sunny face.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I say something wrong?”
“That woman is poison,” Angelica said with passion as she mixed the eggs more and more thoroughly into the flour. When she was satisfied with the blending, she added a teaspoon of cold water, stirred again, added a touch more water, and when it was mixed in, as well, she nodded as she turned to her daughter. “That’s perfect just the way it is. Do you see that, Sophia?”
“Yes, Momma,” all three daughters present said in unison, as if by rote.
Angelica studied them, each in turn, to see if they were having fun at her expense, but quickly saw that they spoke more from habit than anything else.
“What makes her poison?” I asked.
“She thinks the world owes her something, and she’s honor-bound to collect her payment in full. She runs a consignment shop in town and carries all kinds of things for sale. There are people around here who believe she charges much more than she should, and takes more than the percentages she promises.”
“Have you ever sold anything with her?” I asked, fascinated by this woman’s practiced hands at work. Angelica shook her head as she slapped the ball of dough down and then began shaping it with a tapered maple rolling pin. It was much like the one I’d had, and ruined, saving myself from a murderer. I’d bought half a dozen replacements, but none of them were as good as the one that had been destroyed. Maybe, given enough time, one would form to my palms like the other had, but I doubted it.
Once Angelica was satisfied with the thickness and consistency, she took out an automatic roller and set it to its widest opening. As she turned the crank and fed the dough through, it became more and more consistent in its texture. She ran the dough through, folded it once, and then gave it a half turn and did it again.
“We stay away from her,” Angelica said. She turned to her daughters and asked, “Have any of you had any experiences with her?”
“Besides the time she came in here and insisted on a free meal because we were three minutes later than she thought we should be?” Antonia asked.
“That doesn’t count,” Angelica said.
“How about when she tried to sell Bonnie Prescott’s freezer as new and keep the profit for herself?” Sophia asked.
“Do you know that happened for a fact?”
“No,” her daughter reluctantly admitted.
“Then it’s nothing you can prove.” Angelica changed the setting on the machine, and the dough became thinner and thinner with each pass. When she was satisfied, she changed heads on the rolling machine and began cutting long strands of pasta out of the sheets. Wrapping them up loosely on her rolling pin, she went to a pot of boiling water and slid it all gently in. “Did you see that, Sophia?” she asked her daughter, who’d been watching carefully. “How delicately I introduced the pasta to the water?”
“Yes, Momma,” she said, and I saw the other daughters mouthing the words as well, though this time they kept their chorus of responses to themselves.
“We have three minutes,” Angelica said. Maria, Antonia, and Sophia swung into action, setting the counter with real butter and parmesan cheese, along with six plates and wine glasses.
Angelica removed the pasta, drained it, added a touch of olive oil, some butter, and oregano, and then tossed it all together. There was plenty for all of us, and as we were served, Maria provided a touch of wine, as well.
It was one of the best meals I’d ever had in my life.
When we were finished, Angelica smiled lovingly at her daughter. “And that’s the way it’s done.”
Sophia nodded, the understanding reflected in her gaze at her mother.
“Can we pay you for this delicious meal?” I asked as I stood.
Angelica looked hurt. “You would pay for friendship? No, not in my restaurant.”
“Well, I can’t get you to come over and eat donuts at my place,” I said. “It’s not exactly fair, is it?”
Angelica seemed to think about that, and then said, “You make a point. We will gladly accept your offer someday.”
“Soon,” I said.
“Soon.”
As Grace and I stood at the door, I asked, “Where exactly is this woman’s consignment shop?”
“You can’t miss it,” Angelica said. “It’s between Auntie’s Antiques and the barbershop. It’s called Second Acts. What a name.”
“Thanks again.”
“Come back anytime, and bring that fellow of yours with you. I love to watch him eat. You’re lucky with that one.”
“I know, but let’s not tell him, okay?”
Angelica smiled at me. “I have a feeling he knows how lucky he is, too. Don’t wait so long to come back next time, Suzanne. You, too, Grace.”
“We promise,” I replied.
After we were back in the Jeep, Grace said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything so good in my life.”
“She makes magic with some flour, a few eggs, and a pinch of salt, doesn’t she?”
“You’re no slacker, either,” Grace said.
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
“Good, then I won’t have to give you one. It is hard to believe, though, that you two use so many of the same ingredients. Are you ready to tackle Nancy Patton?”
I wasn’t entirely sure at the moment. “It’s almost not worth spoiling that great lunch, you know what I mean? Seriously, if she was married to Lester and they couldn’t stay together, how bad must she be?”
“I’m afraid there’s only one way we’re going to find out.”
We drove a few blocks to the heart of downtown, and Second Acts was right where we’d been told.
I took a deep breath, and then turned to Grace as I parked.
“Remember, I’m the reporter, and you’re the photographer.”
“Got it,” she said, taking her camera out as we walked to the front door.
A woman younger than I’d been expecting was behind the desk of the store. She was more handsome than pretty, with razor lips and a blunt nose that still managed to convey that she was more put together than anyone else on the planet. I had a hard time imagining her with Lester, but then again, who knew what brought people together.
As I glanced around the room at the hodgepodge of items she had for sale, I wondered how she managed to stay in business. At first glance, it looked as though a yard sale had exploded inside, but as I looked a little closer, I saw some really nice things mixed in with the clutter. Something in particular caught my eye. It was a genuine Houpt donut cutter, a different model from the one I owned. An aluminum cylinder the size of a can of peas offered a grid of raised edges for cutting donuts out of dough simply by rolling it across the surface with its wooden handle. It surprised me to see that it was nicer than the one I was currently using. Although Grace and I had a cover story all worked out, in an instant, I decided to abandon it. I had a new plan, and if the price was anywhere near reasonable, I was going to have a new donut cutter, as well.
I turned and winked at Grace, and then picked up the cutter. It was marked $65, and in all honesty, I wasn’t sure if that was a good price or not. I held it up to the woman and asked, “Is there any room to negotiate on this price?”
“Bring it here,” she commanded.
I obeyed, and she took the cutter from my hand. After studying a cryptic code on its handle, she said, “The price is firm, but I can allow a ten percent discount.”
I was about to say that it really wasn’t all that firm after all, when common sense took over. I was trying to ingratiate myself with her by being a paying customer.
“That’s most gracious of you. I’ll take your kind offer.”
She nodded her approval and began the paperwork, no doubt to credit the sale to the proper client.
“You look awfully familiar,” I said as she worked. “Have we met?”
She flicked her glance my way. “I doubt it.”
It wasn’t the warmest response in the world, but I offered my hand anyway. “I’m Suzanne Hart. I run the donut shop in April Springs.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t eat them,” she said severely.
Wow, I was feeling all warm and fuzzy from her gushing about my livelihood.
It was time to lie. I snapped my fingers and said suddenly, “I’ve got it. You were with Lester Moorefield when I saw you. You two were close, weren’t you?”
She shrugged, not even trying to feign an answer now. Perhaps it had been a mistake abandoning the plan Grace and I had come up with, but it was too late now. Or was it? Maybe I could modify it to make it work.
As I slid the money for the cutter to her across the counter, I said, “I also write freelance articles for a few magazines. As a matter of fact, I’ve been approached to write something on Lester.” It was time to dive in and worry about the consequences later. “You two were married, weren’t you?”
Her pen stuttered across the receipt, and I knew I’d gotten her attention, at least for a moment. “Not were. Are.”
She was using her words as though they cost her money, at least with me.
I was about to say something when Grace said just behind me, “Oh, no. I can’t believe nobody told you. I’m so sorry, but he’s dead.”
The woman looked at Grace as though she’d just slapped her. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“I’m afraid she’s not,” I said. “The police found him this morning.”
Nancy Patton started to take a step forward, and then suddenly thought better of it. “I’m not feeling well,” she said just before she collapsed into my arms.
CHAPTER 5
“Great job. You killed her,” I told Grace as I tried to keep Nancy, and me, from falling to the floor. She hadn’t looked all that heavy before, but as dead weight, she felt like a sack of rocks in my arms.
“She’s not dead,” Grace said. “She couldn’t be. The woman just fainted, Suzanne. There’s no reason to overreact.”