Game of Scones

by Mary Lee Ashford

  I took Max his coffee and he already had everything set up for the first shot. This first recipe was Greer’s Garbage Cookies and he was going with an overhead position so he’d used the side arm.

  Dixie brought out the plate of cookies and placed them on the counter.

  Max positioned the plate on a piece of wood that looked like it came from an old barn. The red paint was bright in some areas and faded in others and the white plate stood out in relief.

  “Could you bring a glass of milk?” He turned toward me. “A plain clear glass if you have one.”

  “Sure.” I knew just the glass. I hurried to the back and pulled a tall glass from our storage cupboard. I picked up a towel and shined it up a bit as I took it out to Max.

  “Perfect.” He poured the creamy white milk in with a funnel so it didn’t splash the sides and strategically placed it near the plate of cookies. I could see what he was going for. The plate of cookies, the barn wood, the glass of milk. Not the fancy polish of the food I’d watched photographed at the magazine. This photo would look like a short break between chores or an after-school snack.

  Several clicks and he was satisfied.

  He handed me the plate of cookies and I inhaled the warm sweet smell. I wondered if it was too soon to eat the props.

  Next up was Betty Bailey’s Broccoli Gratin. As I walked the cookies back to the kitchen area, Dixie pointed to a table in the corner that she’d set up.

  I dropped off the cookies and she handed me her silicone oven mitts.

  “That’s the next one.” She nodded at the casserole dish on the counter.

  I picked it up carefully and carried it out to Max. I would hate to drop something after Dixie had spent her considerable time on it.

  Placing the casserole dish on the counter, I could see that Max had removed the barn board and replaced it with a marble slab. I wondered if he’d had this stuff lying around or how he’d decided what was needed for each dish.

  This food he was shooting up close with the broccoli directly on the marble. He took a couple of photos. Misted the broccoli with his water bottle, tried a couple more, and then stepped back frowning.

  “I’m sorry to keep sending you to get things.” He turned to look at me. “But I need a bit of oil. Vegetable oil. Olive oil. Doesn’t matter.”

  “No worries. That’s what I’m here for.”

  I quickly found some vegetable oil and took it out to him. I’d picked up a pastry brush on the way, thinking that might be helpful. “Will this work?”

  “Yes, it will.” He took the items from me. “We can brush the oil on and get that shine that will make the green look fresher.”

  By the time Max was satisfied with the Broccoli Gratin, Dixie was ready with Mona Patten’s Meatloaf. I couldn’t wait to see what Max had planned for this one. Here I’d been worried that he was a nature photographer and out of his element. So far, his picks on props and angles had been right on the money.

  The meatloaf was center stage on a simple cutting board, sliced to show the texture, and with the knife left in the picture as if the loaf had just been cut for serving.

  Unfortunately, the knife reminded me of the tattoo on the arm of the big guy we’d seen with Kenny. I kept that thought to myself.

  Dixie was a dream to work with. Unflappable. Calm. But kept those dishes coming.

  I cleared the meatloaf and carried it back to the table in the kitchen. Next up was an apple pie that Dixie brought out herself. I knew she’d spent a lot of time on it and I was glad it was in her hands and not mine.

  “I didn’t know if you would want to photograph it whole, just a slice, or what.” She slid it on the counter.

  He looked at it and spun the dish around. Then looked up at the front window and shook his head. “I wondered why I was getting shadows.”

  I followed his gaze. There were several faces pressed up against the window, undoubtedly attempting to figure out what was going on. I hadn’t unlocked the front door, on purpose, and when we’d started none of the shops were open. Now, as stores opened and people were out and about, they’d come to peer in at the photo session.

  “I can pull the curtains if you like.” I offered.

  “No, I need the natural light. It’s much better for the photos. I could drag out my lights but I don’t think you’re going to like the effect.”

  “Okay, then I’ll go chase them away.” I pushed up my sleeves.

  I took some time to make a sign that said, “Closed for Photo Session.” Then, tape in hand, I unlocked the front door and prepared to step outside to chat with the usual suspects. They were a curious lot but I was sure they’d understand when I explained what the problem was with them peering in.

  Just as I stepped outside, the crowd suddenly turned and like a bevy of bees moving to a new flower, they shifted down the street.

  I looked back inside at Max and Dixie, and Max gave me a thumbs-up. “Much better,”

  I shut the door and went ahead and taped up my sign. The crowd had stopped in front of Tina’s real estate office.

  Oh, no.

  Not wanting to join the busy bees, uhm, crowd, I walked across the street to see if I could tell what was happening.

  There was an Iowa Department of Criminal Investigation car parked in front of Tina’s office. As I watched, a man in a jacket that said “DCI Police” in bold letters on the back escorted Tina to the car and helped her into the backseat.

  I stood, trying to sort it out in my head, until the car pulled away. And then I headed back to the shop.

  While I was gone, Max and Dixie had decided to photograph the apple pie with one slice out so you could see the sliced apples inside. Brilliant choice, I thought.

  “Good job on moving the crowd along.” Dixie handed me the pie to take back to the kitchen.

  “I can’t take credit.” I grabbed the server they’d used as well. “They simply moved on to a bigger happening.”

  “What was that?” Max looked up from his camera.

  “Tina just left her office in the backseat of a state DCI car.”

  “What?” Dixie stopped brushing up crumbs.

  “I don’t think she was arrested.” I continued toward the kitchen. “She wasn’t handcuffed or anything anyway.”

  After the excitement, no one came back to look in our window and we continued through the day with my list of photos. By two o’clock we were done.

  We offered to feed Max but he had other commitments and declined. Dixie started her clean-up process and I walked Max to his car, carrying one of his bags.

  “Sorry to have you work with all that food and then not feed you.” I felt bad. And a little guilty because I knew I was about to devour a slice of that apple pie. They’d sprinkled it with extra sugar to get the look Max had wanted, but I didn’t mind. I’d take one for the team and eat it anyway.

  “I promise to make it up to you at some point before this project is done.”

  “Say, I just had a thought.” He paused in loading his equipment into the Land Rover. “Are you busy this evening?”

  “Not really,” I answered. “I had a hot date with Ernest but he’ll be fine as long as I pay up with some food.” I paused. “Ernest is my cat.”

  “Oh,” he chuckled, “you had me going for a minute.”

  “I have a gig and it involves dinner,” he explained. “If you don’t mind a short drive, I’d enjoy the company.”

  I loved the informality of his invitation. He made it easy to say yes.

  “That sounds like fun. What type of place is it?” I wondered if I was dressed appropriately or needed to run home and change.

  “Outdoor venue, very casual.” He stopped his hand on the car door. “That’s partly why I agreed to do it. Why don’t I pick you up at your house about six?”

  I gave him my address and then went back
inside to help Dixie clean up. We made short work of the dishes, and I had my piece of apple pie.

  As I pulled into my driveway, I noticed a white Lexus parked on the street a couple of houses down. It was similar to the one that had been parked on Kenny Farmer’s street. I wondered how long it had been there. I’d love to ask the neighbors but I knew most weren’t home during the day. Mrs. Pickett was, but if I asked her it would somehow be my fault it was there.

  I traded my jeans for a multi-colored maxi skirt and paired it with a dark blue knit tank. Still casual I thought. I grabbed a lightweight jean jacket to throw on if the evening cooled off.

  “Ernest, I am going out,” I explained. “I’ve refilled your food and water.”

  The doorbell chimed and I jumped.

  Not good to be found talking to the cat.

  I opened the door and stepped outside.

  “Nice neighborhood.” He looked around.

  “I like it.” Most days, I added in my head. I could only imagine what Mrs. Pickett would think about a strange car picking me up. I glanced at the Lexus down the street but didn’t see anyone inside. I didn’t know what drug dealers drove but wished I’d paid more attention to the cars that had been in the parking lot at the Weary Wanderer Motel. Maybe Tattoo Guy or his supplier drove a Lexus.

  Max held the door and I settled myself in the passenger seat. We made small talk about the weather, always a good topic in a state where crops were dependent on the elements.

  “Dixie’s from a farm family,” I commented. “I think you know her brother, Hirsh.”

  “I do.” He turned onto the highway and I thought it was the same direction Dixie and I had taken when we followed Kenny. “Hirsh and I hit it off when I first moved here because we’re both Cubs fans.”

  “Dixie and her brother are close. I always wished I had a brother or sister,” I confided. “Do you have siblings?” I turned to look at Max.

  “No, I’m an only child, too.” He glanced my way. “My mother died when I was young and my father remarried. He and my stepmom, a very nice lady, live in Puerto Rico.”

  “My mother is still very much alive and running the world, but my father died several years ago.” I felt my throat tighten. “We weren’t close.”

  “Losing a parent is tough no matter how close you are,” Max said quietly.

  A silence settled between us, but was comfortable rather than awkward.

  I noticed Churchville and the Weary Wanderer Motel as we passed them. Someone else driving, watching fields of corn and soybean whisk by, I felt the stress wing away. I hadn’t known I’d longed for blue sky and open fields when I was growing up in the bustle of city life, but I guess I had.

  A few more stretches of corn and crops, and there was a small sign that said “The Farmstead.” We turned onto a winding gravel road and followed it a little way to a driveway where Max turned in.

  We rounded the curve and…wow. Picture postcard, wow. Movie set, wow. Just wow.

  I don’t think I’d said the wow aloud, but my quick intake of breath and my mouth hanging open must have conveyed the same thing.

  Max smiled at my reaction.

  The restaurant was a converted barn and the waning light touched it and the tall grass just right so it seemed to glow. A patio of sorts had been added to one side and it was lit with festive lanterns. Their glimmer was reflected in the small pond nestled against a bank of river rock.

  Max parked and opened the back to retrieve his camera equipment. At the entrance we were met by a couple who I assumed to be the owners. Max made introductions and they escorted us to a table on the patio.

  “Excuse me for a bit.” Max didn’t sit down. “I need to walk the perimeter.”

  “No problem.” I sat down and looked around. The atmosphere in the restaurant was basic and simple. Tables were covered with off-white cloths, and silverware was tied up in cloth napkins with a piece of twine and a sprig of lavender. I looked over the menu while Max walked around with the couple.

  The conversation we’d had on the way to The Farmstead had me thinking about family. I watched the lights dance on the pond and let the quiet of the evening wash over me.

  Family. What a complicated topic. My mom and her sisters and their own special brand of crazy. Dixie’s brother and her big traditional but rowdy family. Max’s lack of family. I still had my mother and as crazy as we made each other, I hoped to have her for a very long time. But I knew what it felt like to have that hole caused by a missing parent.

  My own dad had been gone out of my life for a long time before he passed away. He and my mom had been estranged for years before his liver disease killed him. A direct result of his drinking, according to my mother. But I’d hoped someday to get to know him, now that would never be possible. Never.

  He was from Iowa. From a place like this, but I’d not found any trace of the Calloway family. Yet. My mother had never met them. Had no desire to find them.

  Maybe it was for the best. Maybe. Who knew? Maybe there was a sordid past. Maybe he was the black sheep of the family. Maybes were all I had. That and a very dim memory of a smiling dark-haired man who laughed a lot, and was willing to playact with a little girl with a big imagination.

  As I let the thoughts of family swirl around in my head, it suddenly occurred to me that as focused as we’d been on Kenny and his affair, we’d never followed up on Elsie’s past. Maybe we needed to go back to the very beginning. When we looked into Elsie when trying to find Bertie, it had seemed like every bit of information related to her once she and Kenny married. But Greer had said she was from some other town.

  What was the name of the town? I closed my eyes and tried to think. It had made me think of outer space.

  “Mars,” I said aloud.

  “As in the planet?” Max had approached while I was lost in reverie and now slid into the chair across from me. “This would be a great location if you’re into planet-spotting or star-gazing.”

  “Sounds like fun, but not the planet.” I thought I might be onto something. “Elsie Farmer was originally from a town called Mars.”

  “I take you to this fantastic setting and your mind is still on murder.” He picked up his camera and snapped a quick photo of the twine-tied napkin.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about our earlier conversation and got to musing about families, and it occurred to me we know nothing about hers.”

  “If she had relatives in the area, I would think they would have attended her funeral.”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” I pictured the packed church in my head. “Maybe they did. There was such a crowd it would be hard to say.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I am.” I confessed. “I’m afraid being around the food as we get ready to publish this cookbook has caused me to think about food all the time.”

  “They don’t have their full menu going.” Max nodded toward the barn. “I think they were waiting on some photos before putting it together, but they put together some samples for us. If you’re ready I’ll let them know.”

  “I’m ready.” I smiled.

  Max left his camera on the table and went to talk to the couple. When he returned it was with a platter of food.

  “I hope we’re not going to be in trouble if we don’t eat all of that.” I eyed the plate. “I know I said I was hungry but this is enough for a family of four.”

  There was a small plate with different types of cheeses, some slices of apple, a handful of grapes, and couple of pieces of brioche. And then on the larger platter were roasted potatoes, chicken wings with blue cheese dip, and battered morel mushrooms.

  Max snapped a couple of photos before we dug in. The food was amazing but I couldn’t decide if it was the food alone or the ambiance of the place that made it seem especially tasty. The owners stopped by with a glass of wine from a nearby winery. Iowa ha
d recently become known for well-crafted wines and I guess it made sense. The rich soil that had made the state perfect for farming was also prime for grapes. The wine was light and crisp and the perfect complement to the variety of fare.

  As the sun began to set, I felt myself relax into the moment. Maybe getting away from the cookbook project and the murder was just what I’d needed. Not thinking about the murder, I’d had a breakthrough on it. Maybe not thinking about the cookbook would work in the same way.

  “I’m going to walk to the other side of the pond to get a couple of shots of the sunset.” Max laid his napkin aside and picked up his camera. “You’re welcome to come along or stay. It’s up to you.”

  “I think I could use a walk after everything I’ve consumed.” I patted my tummy. “If you don’t mind, I’ll tag along.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” Max stood and held out his hand.

  We walked arm in arm across the deck and then down into the field behind the barn. He let go and stopped to take a few photos and then moved toward the pond to get a few more. The opportunity was fleeting, as very quickly the sun was behind the trees and the shadows overtook the light.

  Max offered his hand, and we headed back to the restaurant. My prediction was The Farmstead would be a great success. Enough off the beaten path, but not too hard to find. A solid menu, high-quality food, and a unique experience. If I were still employed at the magazine, I would have gladly covered its opening. As it was, I hoped someone did.

  We said our good-byes and walked back to Max’s Land Rover. I climbed in.

  I’d enjoyed the evening and the drive back to St. Ignatius was filled with get-to-know-you conversation that no longer seemed awkward. We discovered a shared love of good coffee and great jazz, and disagreed totally on the perfect vacation. Mine beach. His mountains. By the time we were back in town, it no longer felt like a first date. It felt like the beginning of a friendship. Friendship was a perfect way to start.

  We pulled up in my driveway. The house was dark. I probably should have left the porch light on what with all the vandalism going on. And having not left an inside light on for Ernest, I was sure to be soundly scolded.