On the way to my house, we make a plan to sneak to Mrs. Billingsley’s house after dark and check the key in her lock. If it opens the door—that’s it, she’s our man.
* * *
Waiting for my parents to go to sleep takes an eternity. Once sundown comes, the guys have to go home, despite their best efforts to hang with me, Ella, and Zoe, who has finished up what her mom calls quality family time. Dominic’s dad actually walks over and says good night for him. Ben’s uncle John calls him, and I can hear the command in his voice. That leaves me and Ella and Zoe on the back porch, where we’re idling until we can find the right time to sneak up to beach house #16 and try the key.
“Kinda sucks to be back here, huh?” Ella says to Zoe.
Zoe’s tucked up into a ball, hugging her knees. “Uh-huh.”
“I sort of know,” Ella says. “I mean, I moved to Maiden Rock from New York.”
“Do you miss it?”
I’m listening intently for the answer.
“Not really,” Ella says. “Not since Gusty’s got an espresso maker, anyway.”
“There are no guys here,” Zoe says. “It didn’t bother me when I was a little kid, but that sucks.”
“There are lots of guys at Rook River High.”
Then Zoe surprises me—she perks up and asks Ella to tell her about the tenth grade boys.
This is the most energized I’ve seen Zoe since she got back. With Dominic on my mind, I can’t exactly relate, but it’s good to see her looking forward to something.
By one a.m., my house has gone quiet and the town is still—except for the sound of the breaking waves. It’s one of those smooth ocean nights. The moon shines on the glassy-topped swells and the waves tuck tight against the outcroppings, as if they’re trying to be quiet too.
We sneak down my stairs and walk down the beach toward #16. Our mission is solely to see if the key opens the front door. We pass five beach houses along the way. #11 is dark. No summer guest is occupying it yet. #12 has a faint light in an upstairs window. It may be the flickering of a TV. #13 is asleep, with towels drying on the porch rail. #14 is still boarded up. #15 is dark, but I know the Stevenses are inside. They’re just sound asleep—I hope.
We walk between #15 and #16, ducking down and shushing each other. Since I did the walk-through with Mrs. Billingsley, I can assume she is sleeping in the big bedroom upstairs.
I take the key from my pocket and put my foot on the first wooden step to the door. It creaks. Ella and Zoe grab me. I don’t know what would produce the least amount of ruckus—taking each step slowly or dashing up. I decide on a dash.
Creak. Crack. Snap!
Bark-bark-bark-bark.
Groucho is growling and howling and throwing himself at the window above us. For a split second, we’re frozen. The light in the room overhead snaps on, shedding its glow on the steps below. We jump and dart like rabbits after gunfire—between the houses, up the beach, up our steps, onto the porch, and into our sleeping bags.
We don’t talk. We’re all breathing heavily. After about a half an hour of trying to calm ourselves down, our heartbeats have slowed, but we keep asking each other, “Are you awake?”
32
There are gulls cawing and people laughing on the beach when the morning light warms my face. My back aches from sleeping on the porch, but I struggle upright and jostle Ella and Zoe.
When I find my phone in my jeans and check it, there are three texts from Dominic.
Dominic: Are you guys dead? It’s the BIG DAY.
Dominic: There’s a ton of buzz in town already.
Dominic: Hello? DID THE KEY FIT?
My phone says it’s 10:00. The final lunch of the contest happens at noon. I nudge Ella and Zoe and jump up and pull on my jeans and T. “We have to get going.”
After rolling up our sleeping bags, we start pulling ourselves together in my room when there’s a knock at the front door. I open it to find Beverly Billingsley, who is holding Groucho in a mini-chef outfit.
“I’m turning this in,” she says. She holds out her gloved hand. “I thought I lost mine, but I found it. So here’s the extra.”
My mind is confused. What’s she saying? I try to sound casual. “Oh, thanks. Where did you find it?”
“It was by my front door. It must have fallen out of my purse. So here is the duplicate that I had to pay for. I’d like my money back.”
The fog in my head starts to clear. She’s handing me the key. I must have dropped it last night.
I take it from her and fidget a bit. My fingers press the outside of my pocket. Yep, it’s empty.
“I’ll give it to my mom, and she’ll call you or something.”
“Okay, but I’m formally returning it as of now. So make sure and tell her.”
She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. Groucho barks at me. He’s never done that before.
* * *
We arrive at Gusty’s at ten thirty. And, whoa! The crowd looks huge. Dominic and Ben are having a hard time hanging on to our table, so they’re thrilled to have Zoe and Ella join them. I decide to take a look in the kitchen. Clooney Wickham is at the stove, on her tiptoes, stirring a giant pot with a long spoon. There’s a second pot next to it. Steam rises from both of them, causing sweat beads on Clooney’s face. Fish heads bob in the low simmer of the pots’ broth. On the long prep counter, there are stacks of bowls waiting to be filled.
The tables are full—well, except for two of them. One has a tent on it that says Rook River Advertiser and Guests. The other says Restaurant Hubert and Guests. Sister Rosie and Sister Ethel have arrived in time for the festivities, sitting at a table with one open seat. I walk over to them to say hello.
“Oh, Quinnie, we’re so excited,” says Sister Rosie. She lowers her voice and leans toward me. “I’m sure Gusty’s is going to win.”
One of the chairs has been tipped against the table, and I put my hand on it.
“So sorry, dear! We’re saving that for Beverly.”
“Beverly?” I ask. I know what she said, but I’m surprised they’re on such familiar terms.
“Yes, Mrs. Billingsley,” Sister Rosie says. “You know, she’s not as strange as she seems.”
“She’ll be here soon,” Sister Ethel adds. “We told her we’d save a seat.” Sister Ethel doesn’t look as enthused as Sister Rosie.
I guess I would have expected Mrs. Billingsley to sit with her son, Hubert, unless they’re keeping that all the way confidential. But when I look over to the Hubert table, it’s starting to fill up with Willy and other people from the restaurant. Hubert himself hasn’t arrived.
Dad dashes around with trays of lattes and espressos, giving out samples. At each table, he drops off the Special of the Day menu insert. In large blue script, it says FISH HEAD SOUP with Pilot Crackers and a side of Garlicky Cole Slaw.
I look at my phone. It’s eleven ten. I head to my table and sit down. Everyone is chowing on Cheese Nips from a bowl in the center of our table. The whole room feels impatient, as if people might start pounding and chanting for the Secret Diner.
By eleven forty-five, Beverly Billingsley has arrived with Groucho, Ms. Stillford has joined Owen Loney at the counter, and Ella’s dad has filled a seat at the table reserved for the Rook River paper.
Clooney is going around taking all the orders. At each table, she aggressively sells the special. After seeing the two pots in the kitchen, I can see why. We’ll have a lot of soup to toss if people don’t chow down. Although, I have to admit, the aroma coming from the kitchen is divine.
I go back to watching Beverly Billingsley. She and the sisters have already given their orders when I hear her begin to complain. “There isn’t a Captain Mowatt’s hot sauce here.” Clooney turns to look at the table, but Sister Ethel rolls her eyes and motions for Clooney not to worry about it. “I’ll get one,” Sister Ethel says.
Sister Ethel strides to the counter, grabs the Captain Mowatt’s, and puts it in front of Billingsley. Groucho stick his
nose up to it, then jerks his head back and repeatedly licks his face. Clooney sees this and fumes.
In the midst of this, Hubert Pivot steps into Gusty’s and locates his table. The toddler family is behind him. They search the room, see someone they know, and join them. Next come the Lewises. They squeeze in with people they don’t know. The remaining seats at the Rook River newspaper table are taken by people I’ve never seen before. One of them has a stack of newspapers with him, as well as a large envelope.
Mom comes up to me, and I ask her, “Where’s the Secret Diner?”
She says, “I guess if the Secret Diner were revealed here, that would be the end of the secret and the end of the column. All we get to know is the winner.”
Everyone at my table grouses about this for a while. Here we’ve been doing all this guessing, and no one’s going to tell us who it is. I notice that Billingsley is holding up the Captain Mowatt’s bottle with two fingers. Screwing up her face, she says something about it being a disgusting, sticky mess. Knowing her, that probably means there was a dot of dried hot sauce on the bottle.
After the sisters don’t give her complaints much attention, I notice Billingsley pick up her big bag—with Groucho in it—and hike it onto one shoulder. She uses her other hand to take the hot sauce bottle by its cap and then heads toward the kitchen door.
Clooney stops her and says, “You can’t go in that kitchen—especially not with that dog.”
Billingsley snorts, takes Groucho out of the bag, and plunks him in Clooney’s arms, then disappears into the kitchen. Dad is across the dining room, talking to Mr. Philpotts, when he sees this go down. Mom’s standing at the newspaper table, shaking hands, and the pair of police guys tries to signal her, with expressions that say, Uh, Sheriff, is that lady supposed to go back there?
By the time Clooney has handed the dog off to someone else and Dad has made his way around the tables, Beverly Billingsley is walking back out of the kitchen. She holds a towel, wiping off the Captain Mowatt’s bottle she’s apparently washed. “Sticky bottles,” she says, shaking her head. “Now that’s a health issue.”
Once Billingsley has returned to her seat, I get up and walk to the kitchen door myself, since Mom is still schmoozing with the Rook River people. Slowly, carefully, I scan the shelves and countertops. Not sure what I’m looking for. But nothing looks missing—that I can tell.
Shaking off Billingsley’s disruption, Clooney and Dad begin the grand soup service. They bring it out on large trays laden with hefty bowls. The aroma wafts from each bowl, causing patrons to stretch their necks and whisper oohs and aahs.
Someone calls out to Dad, “Have you added something new to the soup, Gus?”
“Nope. Same since the new menu.”
Soon Clooney delivers the orders to our table. I sniff the contents of my bowl, which certainly smells like Gusty’s Fish Head Soup, maybe a little more pungent than usual. Billingsley and the sisters get their orders next. Clooney moves on, and Rosie and Ethel dig in, but I notice that—although her spoon’s in her bowl—Mrs. Billingsley’s not eating. She’s checking out the other diners.
I avert my eyes quickly so as not to connect with her. When I think she’s not turned my way, I catch her raising a spoonful of soup to her mouth—and letting it drop back into the bowl. What the heck? If she doesn’t want the special, why’d she even order it? She doesn’t strike me as someone who feels any pressure to eat what everyone else eats.
I send a questioning glance toward Mom, who has taken a chair at the newspaper table. She gives me a did you see that? look. We both survey the room, but nothing else unusual seems to be happening. Mom motions to me to follow her to the kitchen, and she grabs Dad and Clooney on the way.
“What’s up?” Dad asks.
Mom says, “Quinnie and I thought we saw Mrs. Billingsley . . .” She pauses as if she’s at a loss for how to describe what I know we were both thinking.
“Pretending to eat the fish soup,” I say.
“She’s a dumb cluck,” says Clooney.
“What are you talking about?” Dad asks. Looking through the kitchen doorway, he checks back on the dining room.
We all do. We see her do it. She lifts the full spoon to her lips, tips her head down, peers left and right, then lowers it to her bowl without taking in one little sip.
“Well, what the heck?” Dad says. “Everyone else is already at the bottom of their bowls.”
He hurriedly walks to the pot and scoops a ladle and inhales the savory scent.
It all starts to happen at once. Behind me, I hear Dad cry, “No. Oh, no. No. No.” Clooney yells, “What? What?” Someone in the dining room gags, followed by a retching noise. Then, from across the room, there’s a disturbance, and Toddler Dad pushes back from his table and upchucks into his napkin.
Mom and I run into the dining room, waving our arms. “Don’t eat any more soup!”
33
It’s too late. Within ten minutes, the dining room is filled with the smell of sickness. Two people have puked all over themselves, and the other people at their table have clasped their hands over their noses to avoid the smell, including the two police officers.
Oops. There goes another one—it’s one of the officers. The other officer joins him. All the sick people are at the same table. Maybe they got soup from the same pot. Hopefully, it’s only one bad pot. Mom radios for backup and ambulances as the people around me swallow repeatedly and try not to blow chunks.
Two green-faced people are up and looking for extra napkins, and Billingsley is slowly making her way around them. She has her hand cupped over her nose as she moves toward the door.
Mom sees her officers are in distress, rushes over to me, and says, “You get her bag—I’ll get her.” We take off after the dog-loving saboteur, who is just about out the door. I grab Billingsley’s elbow and get a handful of sweater. It slows her down long enough for me to wrench her bag off her shoulder. Groucho pops his head out of it, barks, and leaps to the ground, and I lunge to catch him. Bag and dog in hand, I step back so Mom can get past me and follow Billingsley out the door.
Dad sees the chaos and yells, “Oh, no! My food!” He grabs two fistfuls of napkins and runs from table to table, handing them out. Mr. Lewis, who mentions that he’s a doctor, offers to assist. Dad practically weeps as he says, “Thank you!”
Ben, who hadn’t ordered any soup, runs to his uncle John, who is green and gagging but not throwing up. Ella, also not a soup eater, is trying to help the sisters. Dominic looks like he’s in rough shape, but he’s rushing to help his parents, who are also gasping for air. Mrs. Lewis is swallowing hard as her husband tends to her. Maybe not everyone got the bad soup, but we’ve all had our lunch ruined.
Zoe has her head down, her cheek flat against the table, and her mass of red hair halfway in the bowl. She’s not barfing but she’s green. The smell alone has turned other diners the same color.
I hurry outside to see if Mom needs any help. But Billingsley’s on her belly, and Mom is already handcuffing her. Hubert nearly pushes me over when he comes barreling through the main door.
“What are you doing?” he yells. “Stop it! Hey! That’s my mother!”
Mom orders him to stand back.
“Hubert,” Billingsley shouts, “do something, you useless idiot!”
Sirens roar in the distance, and a Rook River squad car squeals onto the scene. Mom lets the uniformed officers get Billingsley up and read her the arrest rights. As an officer guides her into the squad car’s back seat, Billingsley yells, “My dog. I want my dog!”
“Give me the dog,” Hubert says.
“Not now,” Mom replies. “We’ll take it into protective custody and address that tomorrow.”
I hand Mom the big purse, Groucho included. She puts it in the front seat of her squad car.
“This is illegal search and seizure,” screams Billingsley.
“Pipe down,” Mom says.
Then she turns to Hubert and tells him, “M
eet me at my office in ten minutes and bring Willy. We’re going to the station in Rook River.”
As Billingsley kicks the Rook River squad car’s protective steel mesh and bulletproof glass divider, one officer turns to another and says, “I think we’re going to need some help on the other end.”
Three ambulances from the fire and rescue station wail into town and turn into the parking lot, followed by another two police cars from Rook River.
The paramedics and extra officers flood into the café to help sick people and collect evidence, including the vomit samples, the pots of soup, and anything Billingsley touched. They have white paper masks on, but that doesn’t keep three of them from gagging.
Mom says to one of the paramedics directing people into ambulances, “Can you handle all of this?”
He replies, “Yes, ma’am. It’s what we do. But you better call the state health department. They’re going to want to examine the food that did this.”
She nods. “We have plenty of samples for them.”
Thankfully, I’m told to stay outside with Groucho while they finish up.
Dad comes out of the restaurant and looks around for Mom. “I can’t believe this. This is crazy. They’re sick. From my cooking. Not in my lifetime. Not in generations. I feel terrible.”
“I’m pretty sure Mrs. Billingsley poisoned the soup,” I tell him.
“How? When?”
“I think it was when she went in the kitchen to wash the hot sauce bottle.”
“You mean it wasn’t my food?” Dad looks so relieved, I think he’s going to cry.
Mom puts her arm around his waist. “No, honey. Not any ingredient you added.”
* * *
Mom drives me, Groucho, and the big handbag back to her office at home. Because we’re taking her squad car, I have to ride in the back like a perp. Groucho thinks it’s fun, bouncing around and jumping at the chain mesh divider. I guess he and I are friends again.
Once we’ve arrived, Mom puts plastic down across the surface of her sheriff’s desk and places the bag on top of it. She works her hands into surgical gloves and tags the bag as evidence. Then she starts examining the contents.
A Side of Sabotage Page 15