A Side of Sabotage

by C. M. Surrisi

  Owen Loney grumbles then says, “Whatever. Fine, I’ll take two eggs, side by each, and a pair of toast.”

  Dad pats him on the shoulder, and I feel a wave of goodness from both of them.

  Once I’m done with the spice reset, I ask Dad and Clooney if there is anything else I can do for them. They say no and load me up with a bag of breakfast goodies: cinnamon bun, blueberry muffin, crab-cake-and-egg sandwich.

  Before I leave, Dad pulls me aside. “I’m really sorry I was so harried this morning. This is all just so horrible.”

  “It’s okay. Dad. I know. And I want to help catch whoever is doing this.”

  “I just wish—”

  “I know. You just wish I wasn’t so much like Mom.”

  He laughs. “Not at all. I love that you’re like your mother. You two follow a mystery like a bloodhound after a rabbit.” He gives me a big hug. “But leave this to her, will you? Today was very scary.”

  * * *

  Six hours later, my friends and I are lolling on my back porch, watching the waves. We each have a leg over the arm of our chair. The scene would look casual from the outside, except everyone is quietly tense. The sun’s beating on the beach rocks, but their hot, smooth surface will fake out anyone who thinks the water’s going to be warm too. The Morgan grandchildren skip ahead of their grandparents, wearing swimming suits. Big mistake.

  “I bet your mom traces this Martin guy’s license plate number,” says Ella.

  “It could be a rental car,” says Dominic.

  Zoe says, “He doesn’t look like a bad guy.”

  I sort of agree with her. “Maybe he’s not,” I say. I’m torn about this. “It could still be Slick or Hubert. Well, probably not Hubert himself. After watching his midnight milk-drinking mess, I don’t think he can be stealthy. But it could still be Slick. Or anyone else. Anyone.”

  “The lock wasn’t actually broken on the door, just released or tricked somehow,” says Zoe. “That might mean a professional criminal.” She tightens up and makes an eek sound.

  “Or someone with a key,” Dominic says. “Who has keys?”

  “Dad and Mom and me and Clooney. That’s all.” I start to pace along the porch as I wonder who else could have gotten a copy of the key. “Anyway, we need to be more organized about our investigation.”

  Zoe groans. “No more playing detective, please.”

  I ignore her. “What if we stake out both restaurants and record who comes and goes? Then we compare findings, like who’s been going to both of them?”

  “We’d probably spot the Secret Diner too,” Ella says.

  “For sure,” Ben says. “And when Gusty’s is closed, let’s have someone watching it. The front door and the back door, since I don’t think crooks walk right in the front.”

  “Hang on.” I pause to think this through a second. “My mom is ordering new super-locks for the café doors—”

  “That doesn’t mean he won’t try—”

  “I know, I agree. But I’m thinking my mom will have someone out there at night, like an unmarked squad car from Rook River. So let’s stick to days as long as she has that covered. Now, who’s going to stand watch and fill in the report at each location?”

  “I am not standing watch,” Zoe says. “Nowhere, no how, no place.”

  “One minor consideration,” Dominic adds. “The restraining order.”

  I wave off his concern. “No problem. Even if it were a hundred percent official, that only applies to three of us. Ben and Ella can go anywhere they want.”

  I run from the porch into the kitchen and return with a pen and paper. “Okay, so we need shifts at both places. And we don’t have a lot of time. Tomorrow’s day nine of the competition.”

  Ben and Ella take the Hubert’s shifts. That’s a given. Ella takes a.m., Ben p.m. I take mornings at Gusty’s. Dominic takes through closing.

  “I’ll be your Gusty’s backup,” Zoe says. “From my window.”

  20

  By the close of business, and after two and a half days of surveillance, my friends and I have a list of people going in and out of Restaurant Hubert, complete with dates and times, and we’ve cross-referenced it with people coming and going from Gusty’s. We’ve also determined that Mom had a car at that location, confirming my hunch about a man in the field.

  This hasn’t been easy. It’s the Fourth of July holiday, and the town’s having its typical influx of strangers. That means extra license plates, along with changes to note in family composition, attire, and general behavior. Plus, we’ve been a little distracted by Dad’s picnic menu, along with the clowns on the fire truck during Sunday’s noon lunch hour (we went out to hoot).

  By the close of the weekend, our list has about twelve persons of interest who’ve gone to both restaurants. Some we know by name. Some we can only describe. We get together on my porch to discuss the matches.

  I chew on the end of a pen as I read our results from a spreadsheet that Dominic put together. “So, it’s the young couple with the toddler with the messy face and hands; an old man with a walker who doesn’t look like he’ll make it through the week; Mr. and Mrs. Boardman, who are regular Maiden Rock summer people; Martin the Lone Man; the Lewises; Slick; Mrs. Billingsley; and—what—the sisters!?”

  “Oh, your dad’s not going to like Sister Rosie and Sister Ethel eating at Restaurant Hubert,” Ella says.

  “I think they’re just curious.” I tap my pen on their names.

  “I don’t know,” Ben says and raises his eyebrows. “Maybe we should keep them on the list.”

  Ella and I look at each other for a long moment. “It’s not like they’re angels,” she says. “But they do come into Gusty’s every day. And they clearly love the place. And they’ve tried to help with these goofy recipes. What’s their motive for being in cahoots with Hubert?”

  “Maybe he’s making a big donation to their cat-rescue fund?” says Ben.

  Dominic laughs. “From what I hear, they have learned their lesson about fundraising.”

  “Really,” Zoe says, “I can’t see Sister Rosie as a cat burglar.”

  “Oh, yeah?” says Ben. “Sister Ethel’s got some moves. I mean, she can handle a boat like a demon.”

  I decide to leave them on the list but put them at the bottom.

  “What do we really think about these names? Do we need to watch them all?” Ella asks.

  “We know Martin is a suspect,” I say. “And Slick, for sure. And Mrs. Billingsley? If anything, she’s punishing Hubert by also eating at his restaurant. Especially if she’s telling him to warm the bowls or whatever too. Mr. and Mrs. Boardman are a ‘no way.’ They’ve been coming to Gusty’s forever. The hundred-year-old man? He moves at the speed of a turtle. But the Lewises? I wouldn’t have guessed the Lewises might make the suspect list. Still, we need to put eyes on them. Them and the messy toddler family.”

  “When you think about it,” Ella says, “either of the messy toddler’s parents are fit enough to manage a break-in. The toddler could be a decoy.”

  “Where do the Lewises live, anyway?” Zoe asks. “I don’t think they’re Maiden Rockers.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You know, they don’t eat like normal people. They’re always picking off each other’s plates.”

  “People do that all the time,” Ella says and gives Ben’s leg a bump. “Ben eats most of my food.”

  Ben smiles. “Sure, but not till you’re done with it.”

  Dominic says, “Between the Lewises and the toddler parents, I’m going with the toddler parents. They’re more likely to be friends with Hubert, fit enough to sneak into the café and do the deeds, and smart enough to have jammy-kid cover.”

  I laugh at that last part, but Dominic is serious. “The kid is an authentic touch.”

  21

  I’m trying to be a professional about this. When the spreadsheet is cleaned up and I think it contains the most reasonable possible list of suspects—and the rest of my crew has headed ba
ck to their own homes—I go looking for Mom.

  She’s in her office, near the end of signing a lease. I wait quietly.

  When she’s done, she swivels her chair around and smiles. “What’s up, kiddo?” I’ve been holding the investigative report behind my back, but she sees it. “What’s that?”

  I know better than to just hand it over. Instead, I give it a concise introduction. “Mom, I wanted you to know, because you always want me to tell you things, that my friends and I have not broken into any more places or violated our restraining orders. But we have made some observations that we think are useful in this investigation. I put them in this report.”

  She leans back in her chair. Her shoulders sag a little, although not as much as they might have. Which is a good sign. “Okay.” She reaches for the report, and now I do hand it over. She studies the page as I start to explain.

  “We made lists of everyone who went in and out of Gusty’s and Hubert’s and cross-referenced them. Then we narrowed them down to one list of people who have some connection to both places and might be the ones who are sabotaging Gusty’s.”

  “Or who might be the Secret Diner?” Mom asks. “Right? Going to both places isn’t necessarily incriminating. It could be the sign of a person trying both menus. Like the Secret Diner’s supposed to.” She looks at me for confirmation.

  “True. But the person who’s in on it with Hubert might have the same routine.”

  “I guess that’s possible. But these people are only people who ate at both places, right? During business hours, during the time you surveyed?”

  “Right. Business hours. We just looked for connections among people who came and went. Whether they ate or not once they went in, I don’t know.”

  Mom looks at the list again. “You know, Quinn, I’m not dismissing the idea that there is a connection between Hubert and what’s happened at Gusty’s.” She gazes out the window as she continues. “And tracking people eating at both places is one way to look for a connection. Still, I’m not persuaded that the person who broke in and tampered with things would have to be any of these people. But I have to admit . . .” She pauses and rocks in her desk chair. “None of this started until Hubert arrived.”

  “Okay, Mom, but my report—at least it identifies some possibilities, right? Or eliminates some people, right?”

  “Sure. Is this list comprehensive?” she asks.

  “Well, I eliminated some obvious people and . . .” I watch her read to the bottom.

  Mom throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my gosh. Dad will be surprised to see the sisters on here.”

  “I know they’ve had their problems.” I’m having second thoughts about leaving them on.

  “You’re right. But if there is one truth in this town, it’s that those ladies love Gusty’s and they would never do anything to hurt it. It would kill them to think your father knew they’d tried Hubert’s food. How many times were they there?”

  I consult my chart. “Just once.”

  “I think you can take them off before we show this to Dad.” It gets another laugh out of us. “You know, Quinnie, the person doing this is probably not walking boldly into either restaurant—”

  “But that could be the perfect cover!” I argue. “Hiding in plain sight.”

  “Yes. Yes. I agree. But remember, whoever messed with the spices, they did it at night. Not while Gusty’s was serving lunch.”

  Maybe I’m about to raise Mom’s temper, but I keep pushing. “If you had to pick a suspect from the list, though . . .”

  She looks back down at the paper. “I can’t say about the Lewises. I suppose it’s possible. They look affluent. They don’t live in town. They come frequently. They aren’t very friendly. They could have some interest in Hubert’s succeeding. But they don’t exactly fit the profile for people who would do the dirty work.”

  “What about the people with the toddler? He could do it or she could do it.”

  “The Camps? I’ve seen them in Gusty’s. They’re both fit enough for a caper. And they look about Hubert’s age. It’s possible they have some connection. Maybe. Still, they don’t fit the profile either.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “ ‘Martin’ is Martin Candor of Fergusson Architectural Firm. I traced his license plate. It’s a rental in the name of the firm. I think that eliminates him as a suspect. He could still be the Secret Diner, I suppose, but that would make him a very busy man. Willy Lovelace—I’m not calling him Slick—I shouldn’t be telling you this, but he’s got a short rap sheet. Bad checks, siphoning gas, driving while intoxicated. All when he was pretty young, though. Still, he could be doing this for money or out of misplaced loyalty. He’s on my list.”

  I don’t know why I’m always surprised by this, but Mom has been on the case all along. I want to snatch the investigation report back out of her hands and record this new info, but I remain calm and nod my head, trying not to show how overly interested I am.

  “I don’t think it’s Hubert himself,” Mom continues. “He’d have too much at risk just as a property owner here in Maiden Rock, and then there’s his reputation. But I’m interested in the new inspector too. I’m checking him out.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  “At least the contest will end soon,” she adds. “And who knows, maybe this will all be over after the winner is announced.” She gets up and places the paper on her sheriff’s desk. “Don’t get any closer to this, okay? If you have an idea, come to me. This was good, what you did. But no closer. Messing with equipment, tainting the flour . . .” Her voice trails off. “This character could be dangerous.”

  * * *

  I walk out of the room slowly, not wanting to rattle the whole house by pounding up the steps. Once I’m behind my door, I open up the spreadsheet that Dominic made and start arranging our suspects in order of most likely to sabotage Gusty’s. The biggest revelation from Mom is that Slick has a record. This puts him back at the top of my list—after Hubert Pivot. I kind of see her point, that Hubert wouldn’t do this himself, but still, he has the biggest motive. Motive, means, and opportunity. That’s what a suspect needs.

  In the number three spot, I take Mom’s lead and put the new inspector. I debate whether Martin Candor or the Lewises should be in the fourth spot, then decide the toddler parents should go fourth. They’re the most physically fit. Fifth place goes to the Lewises, because Martin seems to be a legit architect. But still, he’s in sixth. I leave off the hundred-year-old man and Mrs. Billingsley. I just don’t see either of them being involved.

  With the names rearranged, I fall asleep feeling this case is well in hand.

  * * *

  The second I wake up, I text the group.

  Me: I gave my mom the list and she took it. She has her own suspects too.

  Ella: ?????? Tell.

  Dominic: Lone Man Martin, right?

  Me: Let’s meet. My porch.

  Ella: How about my porch? I don’t have a sheriff in my house.

  Zoe: How about my porch? It’s never MY porch.

  Ben: I’m in a bball camp in Rook River today.

  Dominic: I have to help clean this rental house today—boo.

  Zoe: Yeah. You better get all your germs out before I reclaim my room.

  Me: Hello!

  This is getting ridiculous.

  Zoe: Actually I can’t now. I have to go somewhere with my parents. I’ll be gone all day. Tonight after dinner? Maybe we could do a sleepover on my porch. I’ll make snacks. Totally cool Scottish snacks.

  Ben: It won’t be sheep intestines or bladders will it?

  Zoe: Shut up. Of course not.

  Dominic: Sounds good to me.

  Ella: Fine. Whatever.

  All the patience is draining out of me. We’re on the trail of something big here, and we’re losing focus. On the other hand, a sleepover will give us the whole night to figure this out.

  Me: Okay. Done. Sleepover tonight at Zoe’s.

  Zoe: Uh, one m
ore thing. I don’t think my parents will allow Dominic and Ben to actually sleep over.

  Dominic: Fine. We’ll leave before midnight—before we turn into vampires.

  * * *

  At eight p.m., Ella knocks on my door, and we knock on Dominic’s door, and all of us head to Zoe’s. Ben is already there, since he and his uncle were invited for dinner. Zoe’s parents and Ben’s uncle John have finished eating, and they’re relaxing around the dining room table with their chairs pushed back. A few molasses cookies sit untouched on a flowered plate. Zoe’s mom and Uncle John are talking about when they were kids and he made her a harness and wings out of a bedsheet and tied her to a tree limb. “Hey, she wanted to be Tinker Bell,” he says. Zoe’s mom nearly spits out her coffee.

  The rest of us file through the kitchen and toward the porch, grabbing sodas while Zoe rounds up some bags of chips. Zoe’s dad says loudly, “You kids keep it down out there!” This is followed by uproarious laughter from all three adults.

  The Buttermans’ current porch has delicate-looking furniture—no slamming into chairs or cramming pillows into balls under our heads for us. Zoe’s parents have placed vases with flowers and citronella candles atop the small, round glass tables. We manage to get comfortable without full-on slouching.

  “Can we light the candle?” Ella asks.

  “I don’t think so,” Zoe answers.

  I show everyone a printout of the revised suspect list.

  “I agree Hubert-slash-Slick should be number one-slash-two,” Ella says.

  “Me too,” says Ben.

  “I don’t think the people with the baby could be it,” Zoe says as she breaks open three chip bags and pours them into a few bowls. “They seem nice and really have their hands full with the baby.”

  “Well, I for one still think that the messy toddler is a great cover,” Dominic replies.

  “I think the Lewises are suspicious,” I say and reach for a chip and pop it in my mouth. It takes a couple seconds for the taste to register in my mouth. Then I spit the half-chewed pulp into my hand. “What is this?”