A Side of Sabotage

by C. M. Surrisi

  “It smells really bad,” I say.

  “The whole town smells bad,” she says.

  First, she pulls out a leather wallet with wet spots on it, then lipstick with the cap off, a lipstick cap, a pen, some receipts, a brush, and the incriminating evidence—two large plastic zip bags with the remnants of rotten fish in their corners.

  She opens one of the bags, puts her nose near it, and reels back in revulsion. “I guess we know what went into the soup.”

  As she carefully re-zips the bag, there’s a banging at the front of the house, and we both turn our heads.

  Mom goes to the door, and I hear Hubert’s voice. “What do I need to do to get my mother?”

  “I see you didn’t eat the soup,” Mom says.

  “No,” he answers. “I don’t eat fish myself. I’m allergic to it.”

  Mom looks at him skeptically. “Look, Hubert—she’s involved in this. And I’m going to find out who else is. Where’s Willy?”

  “He’s in the car.”

  “Then both of you get in the back of mine. I’m driving.”

  34

  That night everyone—everyone who didn’t order or managed not to eat the tainted fish soup—is gathered in the kitchen at the Boyd house. Ella, Ben, Mom, Dad, Clooney, and I are fine. Dominic and his parents, Zoe and her parents, Ms. Stillford, and Owen Loney are still at their homes, nursing their stomachs or recovering from secondhand queasiness. Beverly Billingsley is in jail. And so is the county health inspector. After interviewing Hubert and Willy, Mom learned that the inspector had been unsuccessfully trying to get money out of Hubert, the same way he had tried with Dad. He may not be on the hook for the soup, but he’s under arrest for attempted extortion.

  Mom is making coffee. Dad is baking brownies, even after I’ve tried to hint that people won’t be hungry. I’d have Groucho on my lap to comfort me, but Mom turned him over to Hubert.

  “What happens now?” Ben asks.

  “I have to hire a toxicity abatement company to clean and treat the café,” Dad says.

  “That inspector,” Mom says. “We found out he’s been ‘selling’ passing inspections all over the county for about six months.”

  “What about Hubert?” I ask. “Any sign he knew about the Gusty’s stuff?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Mom says. “He and his mother have a very testy relationship. She’s the one who pushed him to buy the lobster pound. He wanted to run an organic restaurant on a farm. She wanted him to be a Food Network star.” Mom clasps her hands on the table. “He’s horrified and wants to do whatever is necessary to compensate people.”

  “What about Willy?” Ben asks. “Did he pay off the inspector?”

  “I asked him about what you boys saw. About the envelope.” She laughs. “It was a payoff, but not for passing an inspection. Willy was giving the inspector a copy of Hubert’s secret recipe for a Peruvian drink made with pineapple rinds in exchange for some cash. So, he might not be employed at Restaurant Hubert much longer, but he’s not going to see any jail time.”

  “I can’t believe Hubert didn’t know about any of it,” I say.

  “Billingsley’s admitted it, Quinnie,” Mom says and pats my hand. “She wanted him to be a brand. She said she was frustrated with his lack of initiative. When he became a chef, she hoped he’d become big and famous in Boston, but he blew it. So when he came to Maiden Rock, she decided to watch over him. And when it looked like he might lose the contest, she thought if someone got sick at Gusty’s, that would seal the deal.”

  “You mean she really was the man in black?” Ben asks with more than a little disbelief.

  “Yes. She was the man in black.”

  “Wow,” Ben says. “She’s fast.”

  * * *

  Before bed that night, Dad’s sitting in the desk chair of my room. Mom’s on the floor, leaning against the wall with her arms on her bent knees. Somehow she manages to make this look official. I’m on the bed, hugging my pillow.

  No one is saying anything, and I haven’t perfected the ability to keep my mouth shut in this kind of situation. “I should’ve stopped her before she got to the soup.”

  Mom says, “Maybe I should’ve picked up on something when she asked me not to tell anyone she was Hubert’s mother. But our guests make funny requests all the time.”

  “Where did she learn how to pick locks?” I ask.

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m sure we’ll find that out too,” Mom says.

  “Do you think we’ll get sued? Even though it wasn’t our fault? Even though we were sabotaged?”

  “I’ve already offered to pay people’s medical bills.” Dad’s voice is so defeated.

  “Won’t Billingsley have to pay all that?” I feel a choke in my throat.

  “Eventually, but it could take a while getting that through the courts,” Mom says.

  “I should’ve caught her so much earlier. It feels so rotten to fail.” I feel the tears coming.

  “No one failed, Quinnie.” Mom sits forward. “It’s complicated. Life’s complicated. She got past us, by a critical few seconds. But she didn’t get away. Thank goodness no one was seriously hurt. And I don’t think the café’s reputation will suffer long-term.”

  “I understand—it’s complicated.” I stop at that. I sure don’t need my contributions to the complications examined in detail.

  * * *

  The Rook River Valley Advertiser covers the story extensively, and everyone in Maiden Rock learns what happened, who did it, how she did it, and who her son is. The paper states that authorities have not implicated Hubert Pivot in the crime and that three days after the contest’s infamous final lunch, the health department has declared Gusty’s safe for reopening.

  The paper’s Secret Diner has also waited to announce the winner of the competition until Gusty’s started back up. Today’s the day. The aroma of cinnamon buns, blueberry muffins, and espresso fills the café to its farthest corners. Many of our Maiden Rock neighbors and friends are here, waiting for Mom to bring the papers from the post office, where the Rook River paper delivery truck drops them off.

  When Mom hurries in with a bundle of papers under her arm, a hush comes over the dining room. Dad grabs the stack from her and starts paging through the paper, looking for the column.

  “Here it is!”

  I feel so sorry for him. He’s smiling, but the tips of the paper are shaking.

  He starts to read. “‘This critic compared the two restaurants in the coastal village of Maiden Rock over a two-week period, using my own unique criteria. Mwah hah hah! So let the critique begin.’”

  Dad laughs nervously, and we all join him. “Funny guy, huh?” He clears his throat. “‘Restaurant Hubert hit the local Maiden Rock food scene earlier this year, offering cutting edge culinary adventurousness of the highest quality, with small portions and hefty prices. It benefits from Chef Hubert Pivot’s skill and inventiveness and the supreme atmosphere of Maiden Rock. It will be hard to forget the comically dramatic impact of the souffléed lobster quenelle.’”

  There’s a smattering of laughter around the room, but mostly tension fills the air.

  Dominic leans over to me and says, “I think he’s saving the winner to last.”

  I can’t say anything because my throat is dry. I just dig my fingertips into his hand.

  Dad clears his voice and continues. “ ‘Gusty’s Café has sat prominently on the side of the Maiden Rock Tidal Pool for generations, serving up authentic regional dishes and serving as a mainstay for locals and summer folk alike. Run by Gustav Boyd, the most recent in a line of Boyd family owners, the café maintains a comfort-food-based menu and a cozy atmosphere achieved through a certain amount of nurtured neglect. But we all know that old is not necessarily good. Sometimes it’s just what’s available.’ ”

  Dad pauses. He looks like he’s going to cry. Every face in the room is stricken.

  Mr. Philpotts calls out, “Gus, keep reading!”

  Dad
raises the paper again like he’s being led to an execution. “ ‘However, that’s not the case with Gusty’s.’ ”

  We all breathe a sigh of relief.

  “ ‘This café has consistently served some of the area’s most reliable and delicious standards. To name a few items: Gusty burgers and lobster fries, a killer lobster roll, more-than-respectable clam chowder, cinnamon buns, whoopie pies, blueberry muffins and blueberry pie with real Maine blueberries, and a crab-cake-and-egg breakfast sandwich. Plus, he makes a mind-crushing double espresso.’ ”

  Dad takes a breath, and the café erupts in applause and hoots. “Wait, wait. There’s more.” He reads on: “ ‘Yet I would be shirking my solemn duty as a critic if I did not address the saga of the fish head soup.’ ”

  Dad cringes, but there’s no avoiding it. “ ‘The people of coastal Maine have been eating fish head soup for as long as they’ve been fishing. It’s good. It’s hearty. Gusty’s has been serving it off-menu forever. Why off-menu? Because most flatlanders can’t abide the fish heads ogling at them from the bowl. But for this little competition, Gusty Boyd went public with the dish, modernized it nicely from a taste standpoint, and anointed it with kale and sea spray in a parody of Restaurant Hubert’s gastro-decadence. I found it enchanting. And although the dish became the platform for an act of sabotage, Gusty Boyd is not to blame. Therefore, I declare Gusty’s Café the winner of the Maiden Rock Secret Diner Competition.’ ”

  After a rousing round of applause, people start pumping Dad’s hand and slapping him on the back. I wait my turn since I know I’ll get to squeeze the life out of him when the crowd backs off. When the café settles into breakfast, he walks over to our table.

  “You and Dominic were right on with the fish head soup,” he says.

  “You made it happen. It’s wonderful, Dad.”

  I hear murmuring ripple through the café. Hubert Pivot has walked through the door with a paper under his arm. Dad stiffens a little bit, but Hubert walks right up to him with his hand out for a shake.

  “Gus. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Hubert.”

  “And another thing. I’d like to cover any of your expenses over the fish soup thing, so you don’t have to wait for insurance payments or lawsuits or anything. Just send the claims my way.”

  Dad’s eyebrows wrinkle like he’s trying to understand what he just heard. “Really?”

  “Yep. Really. She’s my mother. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Well, thank you, Hubert. Thanks very much.”

  Next, Hubert turns and walks over to the counter. This part surprises me even more: he asks Owen Loney if Loney wants to buy back the lobster pound. “I can’t see how I can do business in this town and not feel ashamed every day,” he says.

  Owen Loney proves himself to be a big man. “People around here wouldn’t hold you responsible for a wayward relative. Though I don’t think they’re much for beams of light on their food.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s not what I wanted anyway. I want to run a farm.”

  I hear a lightness in Owen Loney’s voice that I’ve never heard before. “It would need to be turned back into a lobster pound. If I was to take it back, you know.”

  “How about you give me what I paid for it, plus, I’ll turn it back to a pound?” Hubert offers. “It’ll be exquisite. Like none other on the coast.”

  Owen Loney barely moves a muscle when he says, “Ayuh. You got yourself a deal.”

  35

  What happened? I’m organizing stakeouts, creating spreadsheets, finding keys, and generally managing to not think about how Dominic’s leaving, but suddenly there’s a moving trailer in front of his house. From my bedroom window, I watch Dominic’s mom and dad grunt and hoist boxes into their rented trailer. This is it. Soon their home of the last year will go back to being Zoe’s house.

  My feet feel like lead as I drag them next door, past the trailer, and up the stairs. I had promised myself I’d enjoy every minute of these last days, and then toxic fish head soup swallowed them up.

  Pictures have come off the walls in the upstairs hallway. Only the hooks are left. I touch one and try to remember what photo had hung there, who was in the picture. Nope. Nothing. Dominic’s family is fading from the house already.

  I catch sight of Dominic’s elbow on the other side of the doorframe. It’s a denim-shirted elbow. I’m going to miss that denim-shirted elbow.

  “Hey!” He’s entirely too happy for this mournful day.

  His room is nearly bare. The mattress is stripped of sheet and blankets. There are no Funko Pops in sight.

  I perch myself on the sill of the ocean-side window. Buster and his seagull gang fly a figure eight over the beach, then dive for sand crabs. “You’re going to text me, right?”

  “I will text you and write you by snail mail and scare you with my geeky mug on Skype.”

  I want him to come over and stand by me, but he’s finishing up taping the last box. “That’ll be good,” I say.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” he says casually, but casual like people act when they’re leaving somewhere they never intend to come back to.

  “Right.”

  This is the moment when I’m ready for the big good-bye kiss. I wanted it, and then I didn’t, and now I do. But he picks up his stuffed duffel bag and reaches for my hand. I give it to him, and he leads me down the stairs.

  “I’m not going to the moon,” he says, “just New Jersey.”

  So he’s not going to miss me as much as I’m going to miss him. I get it. It makes me kind of sad-mad. But I get it.

  Outside, Dominic’s parents are packing in the last few things. I notice a pickup approaching the intersection and recognize it as John Denby’s. He turns the corner and pulls up behind the moving trailer. Ben’s in the passenger seat with his head out the window. “Ready to go?” he calls out to Dominic.

  Dominic, still carrying the duffel bag, walks over to the pickup and slings it in the box. Then he gives his mom and dad a big hug.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Oh, wait. Didn’t I tell you? I’m spending the rest of the summer at Ben’s.”

  I feel like I just washed my face with a warm washcloth on a winter day. So good. So happy.

  Dominic throws his arm around my shoulder for a big squeeze. For the first full, wide-open moment of summer, I am carefree.

  “Hey!” Ella’s voice calls to me from the direction of her house. She and Zoe dash up together, one in silver-sparkle tennis shoes, the other with bouncing red locks. “We came to say good-bye.”

  “He’s not leaving yet,” I say. I know I have a stupid grin on my face. “He’s staying with Ben for the rest of the summer.”

  Ella gives Ben’s arm a punch. “You didn’t tell me!”

  He pretends to flinch. “Ouch! It was a surprise. It’s like your dad’s detective, Monroe Spalding, says: ‘It’s the thing you don’t think of that’s most significant.’ ”

  “Aw,” she says. “How sweet. You’ve been reading my dad’s books.”

  “Not exactly,” Ben replies. “There’s a popular quotes section on the Monroe Spalding Wikipedia page.”

  Ella leans her head on Ben’s arm, and Dominic takes my hand and locks fingers with me. It feels most significant.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my entire family, and especially to Chuck Hanebuth and Magda Surrisi, who support me in every possible way, and to Ellie and Michael, who are eagerly awaiting this book. To the entire VCFA tribe, and to the Magic Ifs and Magic Sevens, the SCBWI gang, the Asheville Secret Gardeners, and my other writing friends everywhere—you know who you are.

  To our family of friends in Asheville who have become so dear, especially Anne Wall and Reina Weiner, who have been beta readers for me. And to Will Hart, my middle-grade beta reader for the three Quinnie Boyd Mysteries, who is without question Quinnie’s biggest fan, and who said of this one, “I couldn’t believe who did it!” There’s nothing a mystery
writer likes more than that!

  Thanks to all the great people at Lerner, who make beautiful books, and especially one of the smartest people I know, my editor Greg Hunter, who exemplifies excellence and is a gracious guiding hand—and truly, special thanks to him for loving Quinnie Boyd as much as I do. And to Linda Pratt, who is not only my agent but a lifelong friend. She always finds the time to talk and read and give great feedback. Finally, to Julie McLaughlin, for creating the most delicious cover for this volume.

  About the Author

  C. M. Surrisi lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with her husband Chuck and two rascal Cavalier King Charles Spaniels named Sunny and Milo. She is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA program in Writing for Children and Young Adults.