Pasta Mortem

by Ellery Adams

  “That’s what I want to know,” James said. “How is Murphy benefiting from what she’s done?”

  Bennett nodded toward the entrance to the restaurant and lowered his voice. “Why don’t we ask her? She just walked in.”

  As one, the supper club members turned and looked at the couple standing at the hostess station. Murphy appeared tall and sleek in a pair of skintight, black skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled black leather boots. Her bobbed hair had been colored a rich molasses brown and shone under the restaurant’s soft lights. She wore a form-fitting gold sweater that was cut very low and showed off her ample assets.

  “Who’s that with her?” Gillian asked.

  “We’re about to find out,” James said.

  When Murphy spied their table, she made a beeline their way. Her companion, a tall, lanky man with brown hair, thin lips, and an angular face with a wide forehead, kept his hand on Murphy’s lower back. He wore a white button-down shirt, khaki pants, and a navy blazer and looked around with a proprietary air.

  Reaching them, Murphy’s sharp gaze went directly to the copy of Southern Style on the table. “So you’ve seen the magazine. I hope you appreciate my surprise. All of you are famous!”

  “Without our permission,” Bennett growled. “You said the pictures were for the Star.”

  Murphy raised her index finger and shook it back and forth. “Now, now, Bennett, you signed a release form when I took your photo. Each of you did. I put the photos to better use.”

  “Nobody read that fine print,” Bennett shot back.

  “That’s not my fault. What’s wrong with you?” she demanded impatiently. “You all seem angry. I thought you’d be pleased to be ambassadors of our growing town, featured in a national magazine. Never mind. You’ll soon change your tune. Let me introduce you to the man who’s going to help Quincy’s Gap grow. Everyone, this is Ray Edwards, my partner in the new Honeybee Heaven Farms Corporation.”

  “Partner?” James repeated.

  Edwards looked at James from under thick eyebrows. “That’s right. I’m a real estate developer, and this hot property”—he glanced at Murphy and wound an arm around her waist—“and I are going to make you Quincy’s Gap folks rich.”

  “Along with ourselves, right, stud muffin?” Murphy said, a glimmer in her eye.

  “You betcha,” Ray Edwards confirmed.

  Lucy glared at Murphy. “How are you going to do that exactly?”

  “Exactly like this, Lucy dear,” Murphy replied, scorn lacing every word. “Ray bought Buford Lydell’s peach farm and the two thousand acres with it for development. I’m an investor and partner in the corporation. Quincy’s Gap and the whole area will benefit from our foresight.”

  “But Lydell’s honey and peach farm has been a popular attraction for as long as I can remember,” James protested. “During the peach season in summer, Lydell has hayrides set up, a petting zoo, and a small fair. I go every year.”

  Gillian said, “I have a jar of Lydell’s honey in my kitchen cabinet right now. Locally sourced honey is the best.”

  Edwards scoffed. “Quaint, but we won’t be doing anything so small-town. My plan is to turn the farmland into a massive planned community of two apartment complexes, condos, and houses around a new man-made lake, and a shopping center. We’ll have no problem selling to people from all over the country. Current businesses will thrive, which will attract more companies, bring in new restaurants.” Again, he looked around Mamma Mia’s with an appraising eye. “This place might want to open another location in our shopping center. They better hurry if they do. All of Quincy’s Gap’s properties and land are about to skyrocket in price, especially now that Murphy got Joel Foster to feature the town in Southern Style.”

  James contemplated Murphy. “All of this is about money. You don’t care about Quincy’s Gap. You only care about lining your pockets! Aren’t you rich enough from your book sales?” He turned the magazine over so that Murphy’s new cover was faceup. The supper club members looked from the image of the book’s cover to Murphy with disgusted faces.

  Murphy adopted a wounded expression. “When my last book came out, it doubled tourism and brought money to shopkeepers and places like Dolly’s Diner. I’ve done nothing that hasn’t made Quincy’s Gap better.”

  “And if you happen to make enough money to buy the whole town with this latest scheme,” Bennett said, “that will be to our benefit too, right, Murphy?”

  James saw a faint rise in Murphy’s color. Maybe it was Murphy’s plan to own as much of Quincy’s Gap as she could!

  “A big increase in population will bring crime with it,” Lucy said. “Have you thought of that?”

  Murphy’s gaze darted over to Lucy and sharpened. “You should be happy to have your photo in a national magazine, Lucy. Maybe some man will find you attractive and get in touch. With the TV show reunion coming up, you’re bound to lose Sullie to a pretty girl from Hollywood. Or, with his movie star looks, he’ll dump you and move out to Los Angeles to pursue a film career.”

  Lucy stood. “Why you—”

  Gillian put a restraining hand on her arm.

  Lucy sat down but scowled at Murphy.

  Murphy ignored them. “Jane, I almost didn’t notice you.”

  Jane didn’t lower herself to respond. Before James could say anything, his attention was captured as a distinguished-looking gray-haired couple entered the restaurant. James recognized Arthur Pritchard IV, the owner of Pritchard Stables. The Pritchard family had been breeding racehorses since the 1930s, the business passed down within the family through the years.

  Unfortunately, Ray Edwards recognized Mr. Pritchard as well. “Mr. Pritchard, sir,” he called.

  The older man, dressed in a handsome tweed suit, motioned for his elegant wife to continue to their table. He strode over to stand in front of the developer.

  Ray Edwards held out his hand. “Have you thought about my proposal?”

  Mr. Pritchard ignored Edwards’s proffered hand. “Have you thought about mine?”

  Edwards rocked back on his heels. “Now, Mr. Pritchard, you don’t want to be the one holding back progress, do you? Preventing a further expansion of this great town? I made you a more than fair offer for your land since it abuts the peach farm and lands I now own.”

  Pritchard stood unusually still. James thought the man was barely containing his fury.

  “I told you, I’m not selling, and I made you a good offer for Lydell’s farm.”

  Edwards chuckled. “Mr. Pritchard, I understand that your land has been in your family a long while, but there’s a time and season for everything. This is the time to retire, let your land become the new home of many people instead of one family. Accept my offer, take your wife and the money, and go somewhere warm.”

  “Never,” Pritchard declared. “Not only is it my nephew’s inheritance, but people around the United States rely on me when it comes to purchasing horses fit for racing. Racehorses are high-strung animals. A year or more of construction noise from what you’re planning will be detrimental to them in the extreme.”

  Edwards shrugged. “You’ll have to buy ’em earplugs then. You can’t stop progress.”

  Pritchard’s face reddened. “It’s not progress, it is greed! I’ve warned you. I will not be thwarted in this matter. You have my word on that.”

  “You can’t stop me.” Edwards took a step toward the older man. “Like I said,” he sneered. “Go someplace warm. Like Hades.”

  Mr. Pritchard stalked back to his table.

  Murphy took Ray Edwards’s arm. “Come on, stud muffin, I brought a bottle of Dom Perignon over here earlier and had them chill it for us. There’s no sense in spending another minute with people who don’t know how lucky they are.” The two walked away.

  Bennett looked at their retreating backs and said, “Murphy’s so cold, if she wanted to chill the champagne, she could have just put the bottle in her mouth.”

  “I can think of another place she c
ould put it,” Lucy fumed, sitting down.

  The waitress brought their food, but although the fare was tasty, after they’d all eaten, James thought no one had really enjoyed their meal. An atmosphere of apprehension had settled over the supper club members.

  James couldn’t shake a feeling of dread.

  Chapter Four

  Over the next week, Quincy’s Gap changed from a tranquil place where neighbors stopped to chat with each other, and the news of a wedding or the birth of a child could keep people talking for days, to a veritable hive of activity. Throngs of cars with out-of-state license plates—James counted three from Wisconsin—clogged the streets and roads around the town. Curious out-of-towners were everywhere he went, jamming the shops and eateries on Main Street, and not all of them were as polite as the residents of Quincy’s Gap.

  James took to leaving the library at lunchtime in order to keep abreast of what was going on. He tried to tell himself that most of the strangers were in the area for the Hearth and Home reunion, which would begin in three days, but he knew that was only partially true.

  He decided to grab a salad at Dolly’s Diner. Dolly would have the latest news. But despite high temperatures of around thirty-three degrees, James found he couldn’t get anywhere near the diner. The line extended out the door, with people he didn’t recognize standing in the cold wanting to get a taste of small-town diner food.

  He drove to Joan Beechnut’s office at Blue Ridge Realty, anxious to put a few questions to her. Joan, a prim blonde, had been the Realtor who’d sold him his cozy house. She was the area’s leader in home sales for four years running. Today, her professional demeanor slipped.

  Seeing him, she held up her hands in a defensive position. “Don’t even think of asking me what your house is worth, James.”

  “Why would I do that?” James asked, wrinkling his brow. “I love my house and so does Jane.”

  Joan stared at James. “Since Quincy’s Gap was featured in Southern Style, I’ve been swamped with people wanting to know how much they could profit if they sold their house. Half the time, I can’t decide if they’re serious about selling or not, but I still have to put in the work.”

  James imagined a mass exodus of the current townsfolk and grimaced. “Have you gotten any new listings?”

  “Two in the last three days. And I’ve already sold both of them. One to a family from Maryland, the other to a couple from Detroit. See this binder?” she asked.

  “That’s where you keep listings for houses for sale in the area. I remember going through it with you when I was looking to buy.”

  Joan nodded, opened the binder, and flipped through the pages. “Every one of these is sold. I’ve rented all the available apartments in Mountain Valley Woods too.” She closed the book with a snap. “Ordinarily, I’d be thrilled to do this much business in the middle of winter, but I’m concerned about the future of Quincy’s Gap. Why, I even sold the old Hayes House and Tavern.”

  “You did? I thought the Shenandoah County Historical Society planned to buy it and fix up the tavern. George Washington supposedly drank there. He mentioned it in his diaries.”

  Joan nodded. “That was the plan, but Savannah Lowndes at SCHS told me that Hayes dragged his feet about selling. Said the Historical Society had too many rules. Then he up and died, leaving everything to his granddaughter over in Richmond. All she cared about was who offered her the most money.”

  “Who bought it?”

  Joan’s lips thinned. “That developer, Ray Edwards. The house and tavern come with ten acres of land. He’ll raze everything and put up as many houses as possible.”

  After meeting the man, James believed that’s exactly what the developer would do. “Joan, that’s terrible. A loss of our county’s history.”

  “I agree. That Edwards is a shark. You know, even with all my sales awards, he wouldn’t hear of me coming on board to help him sell his new houses once they’re built. The ones he’s putting up in Buford Lydell’s old peach farm? Edwards is bringing in some woman from his hometown in Kentucky, who’ll make a killing.” Joan paused. “Or maybe it’s a man. Edwards said he’d yet to make a decision. All I know is that it won’t be me.”

  James commiserated with her, then left. First the Lydell peach farm, then the Hayes place, and an offer, unlikely to be accepted as it was, for the Pritchard horse farm. If Edwards had his way, all that natural beauty and history would be gone, replaced with what James was sure would be cookie-cutter homes.

  James had a sour taste in his mouth. He decided what he needed was a cup of whatever new flavor of custard Willy had come up with this week at the Custard Cottage. Making his way there, James had to drive the Bronco through the parking lot three times before a space opened up. He dashed through the cold and opened the yellow door.

  All the tables were crammed with people. Customers were lined up at the counter, watching Willy scoop up custard, add their requested toppings and a spoon, and place the cup into eager hands. Willy saw James and grinned, but it was a good fifteen minutes before he could serve him.

  “What will you have, friend?” Willy asked.

  “Memories of Moon Pie is the flavor of the week?”

  Willy leaned closer so the people behind James couldn’t hear him. “I haven’t had time to make up a new flavor this week. It’s been nuts in here and I’m not talking about the toppings.”

  James nodded. “I’ll take a small one,” he said, thinking neither the marshmallow, the chocolate, nor the pieces of cakelike cookie were on the Mediterranean diet. He told himself the custard was his lunch and accepted the generous portion Willy fixed him.

  When James pulled out his wallet, Willy waved it away. “On the house. You know, I pride myself on knowing all my customers, what custard they like with what toppings. I love creating new flavors, too. But if the rumors are true and Quincy’s Gap becomes a big town, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep up. I’ll be grateful for the extra money, but it’s kinda sad what I’m trading for it. You want anything to take home to Jane?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.” James mulled Willy’s words over as he sat in the Bronco and devoured the custard. Willy had hit on exactly what he didn’t like about Ray Edwards and Murphy’s development scheme. An increase in business and profits would come at a high price: the personality of their little town.

  Back at the library, he gave the Bronco’s dashboard a pat as he pulled into his parking spot. “You’ve been good this week. Keep it up and you’ll get more premium gas.”

  He stepped out of the vehicle, and to his shock heard a man’s voice, then a microphone was thrust in his face. “Excuse me, what did you say?” James asked.

  A fit bald man in an expensive suit said, “I’m Chuck Curtis from National News, Mr. Henry. It is Mr. Henry, isn’t it? Town librarian?”

  “Y-yes,” James stammered, noticing the man behind Curtis held a huge, long camera propped on one shoulder, aimed right at him.

  “I thought I recognized you from Southern Style. What’s your opinion on the proposed renaming of Quincy’s Gap to Quincysville in light of the town’s projected growth?”

  “What?” James spluttered.

  Chuck Curtis turned to face the camera. “And there you have it, folks. People in this small Virginia town are reluctant to embrace change.”

  “I didn’t say that,” James protested, but as quickly as they’d appeared at his side, the news reporter and his cameraman disappeared into a white van with the National News logo on the side and drove away.

  James stomped through the front door of the library. He paused at the vending machine inside. Fumbling in his pants pocket for change, he muttered, “Quincysville? What the heck? Is that Murphy’s idea or Edwards’s? Probably Edwards’s. Murphy would rename the town Murphysville.” He pressed the button that would release a little package of orange heaven. Taking the package of cheese puffs and ripping it open, he popped one puff into his mouth and savored the salty goodness as he entered the library.<
br />
  “Hey, Professor,” Scott called. He sat in front of a screen in the computer section.

  There was no need to whisper, James realized, as a quick sweep of the library told him they had no patrons. “Hi, Scott. Where’s Francis?” he asked, crunching another cheese puff.

  Scott turned in his chair. “He’s eating lunch in the break room. Willow made a rum cake. You’ve got to try it. It’s intoxicating . . . well, not in that way, but it’s mind-alteringly good.”

  James knew he shouldn’t, but Willow’s cakes were better than any he’d ever tasted. Francis had called his girlfriend a “cake enchantress,” and the phrase was apt. “Have you been busy?”

  “Not really. Been kinda dead in here. Looks like you were interviewed on National News. You’re famous!”

  James scoffed. “Not something I asked for. That reporter asked me how I felt about the town being renamed Quincysville. Have you heard anything about that ridiculous idea?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry, Professor. It’s probably fake news.”

  James grunted.

  “Francis said you’ve been invited to the special VIP reception tonight for the Hearth and Home people over in Cardinal’s Rest.”

  “All of us who were featured in that Southern Style article were.”

  “You going?”

  James shrugged. “I thought I would. What have you been up to?”

  “Francis and I emptied the shelving cart and dusted the children’s section.” He tilted his head toward the computer screen. “You might want to see this.”

  James balled up the empty bag of cheese puffs, threw it in a trash can under the computer desks, and moved to Scott’s side. “What is it?”

  “This is the Quincy’s Gap section of the Airbnb site. Look at all the listings for rooms to rent.”

  “Almost three hundred dollars a night for one bedroom?” James exclaimed.