Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  “No…” I admit, as I’m struck by a new possibility. What if Mr. Kruffs is genuinely concerned for his aunt? We’ve only been cooking with her for a short time—surely he must know lots of things we don’t. What if before we met her she wasn’t eating? And she did have a fall that put her in the hospital…

  “And now she’s gone missing, and you’re here. She doesn’t have any friends anymore that live close by. So where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” I concede. “And I can see why you’re concerned.” I look at my friends. Everyone nods worriedly. “But honestly, your aunt seems okay. When we’ve been around her, she’s seemed happy, and she’s eaten the stuff we’ve cooked for her. So maybe she’s doing better than you think?”

  He gives me a long look, and I can feel sweat beading up on my forehead. I raise my chin and try to sound like a grown-up. “Mr. Kruffs, would you like to stay a little longer and have some of the supper we’ve been cooking? It’s just salad and pasta with homemade sauce—the recipe is from your aunt’s special book.” I think of what Mom would say in her blog and take a deep breath. “It might be a good idea if we all sit and talk.”

  Chapter 33

  The Warning

  He stares at me. I stare back. The others look at me—surprise and shock on their faces. My heart bangs inside my chest.

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

  What have I done?

  Violet and Alison practically flatten each other in their hurry to set an extra place at the table. I’m amazingly relieved when Gretchen gestures for our guest to take a chair and sits opposite him. She sits up tall, looking every inch the cool, calm, collected PTA rep and future lawyer that all the grown-ups love.

  Mr. Kruffs crosses his arms, looking for a moment as if he’s sorry he accepted the invite. I bring the huge wooden bowl of freshly tossed salad over to the table and sit next to Gretchen.

  “So, Mr. Kruffs…” Gretchen says, “how’s the campaign going?”

  “It’s going just fine.” His gaze focuses on me.

  “That’s what my dad says. You may know him—Alan Sandburg.”

  “He’s your father?” Mr. Kruffs straightens up in his chair.

  “Yeah.” Gretchen smiles smugly. “He says you’re a real champion of the senior vote.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Kruffs says. “Our senior citizens are important members of society. We need to respect and value them.”

  “And I suppose you’ll have to travel up to the capital a lot if you’re elected.”

  “That’s right. I’ll be there most of the time. I’ve got a trip planned for early next week.”

  “Don’t you have any family here?” I ask. Violet and Alison sit, and I pass Mr. Kruffs the salad bowl.

  He serves himself a generous plateful. “I’m divorced,” he says. “So, no. Other than Rosemary, of course.”

  “It’s so nice of you to care so much about your aunt,” Violet says. It sounds like she means it. I frown.

  Mr. Kruffs spoons on some oil-and-vinegar dressing and passes the salad bowl on to Alison. “Whether you believe it or not, I do care about her. As I said, Aunt Rosemary is my only relative. Once, she was almost like a mother to me. But her health has been getting worse lately. She’s scattered and forgetful, and sometimes she’s unsteady on her feet. Of course, she won’t talk about it, but I think she may be suffering from dementia.”

  “And what is that exactly?” Gretchen says.

  “In simple terms, it means she’s losing her memory.” Mr. Kruffs takes a bite of salad and chews thoughtfully. “It happens to lots of old people. There’s no cure, and she’ll only get worse and worse. She might forget to turn off the stove, or she might forget to get dressed or feed the cat—or even eat regular meals. She’s a danger to herself, and I can’t always be around to look in on her—even if she wanted me to.”

  We all eat our salad in silence. I mull over what he’s just said.

  “These tomatoes…” Mr. Kruffs muses. “I must say, they do taste very fresh.”

  “Your aunt grows them in her garden,” Violet says. “They’re totally organic.”

  “My aunt grows them?”

  “Yeah.”

  He narrows his eyes and finishes off his plate of salad. When he’s finished, Alison jumps up and brings over the steaming bowl of spaghetti. It smells delicious, but I know I can’t eat another bite. Not until I confess to what happened.

  “Mr. Kruffs, there’s something you need to know,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Your aunt didn’t leave the stove on that time it caught fire.” I grip the edge of the table. “We did—accidentally. She was teaching us how to cook eggs Benedict from her special recipe book. We forgot to turn off the gas, and it was my fault that the dish towel caught fire. Not hers.”

  Mr. Kruffs’s face twists into a scowl. “What did you say?”

  “I said we started that fire, not your aunt.”

  He sits back, stunned. “I could call the police right now. What you did was dangerous and stupid—not to mention a waste of public resources.”

  “It was dangerous and stupid,” I admit. “But…it was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

  I bite my tongue, waiting for the explosion I’m sure is coming. Will he jump up and push over the table, shattering everything on the floor? Will he really call the police or drag us out himself?

  So, I’m surprised when he reaches for the bowl of pasta and serves himself a heaping pile.

  “Here’s the sauce,” Gretchen says. Her hands are shaking as she passes him the bowl.

  He dips the ladle in the sauce, holds it up, and looks closely at it. Then he pours it over the pasta. He takes a bite, barely chewing it before diving in to take another. The rest of us watch in stunned silence—in a few seconds, he’s demolished half the serving.

  He sets down his fork and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “It was brave of you to confess,” he says.

  My friends and I all breathe at once.

  “Not that it changes anything,” he says. He passes the bowl to Gretchen, who takes a small portion for herself and hands it to Violet.

  “It doesn’t?” I croak.

  “No.”

  I swallow hard. “But maybe Mrs. Simpson doesn’t really have dementia or whatever. If she’s a little scattered sometimes, it might just be because she’s old. And maybe she’s sad about her daughter too.” My little cook. Gretchen gives me a sharp jab with her elbow. I ignore it. “When did she die?” I say.

  “Two years ago,” Mr. Kruffs says. “It was a car accident.”

  Violet breathes in sharply.

  “It was quick and painless—so they say—but she was Rosemary’s only child. No parent should have to outlive their child.”

  “Did Rosemary’s daughter like to cook?” I ask.

  “Like to?” He nods. “She was amazing. She went to cooking school in Paris and Switzerland, and she became a professional chef in New York. The restaurant where she worked was awarded a Michelin star while she was there. I remember the Christmas dinners they used to cook together—it was like a banquet there was so much food. And all of it was perfect.” He smiles faintly. “They were happy times.”

  “It’s just so tragic,” Alison wails as she spoons sauce on to her pasta.

  “Yes,” I say. The food comes around to me. “But that doesn’t mean Mrs. Simpson has dementia or is losing her memory. Maybe she’s just sad—or lonely—or bored. Maybe she needs something else to do.”

  Mr. Kruffs shakes his head. “As I said, her health is suffering. She needs to be looked after. And I can’t do that. There are some very nice places out there with very nice people. Whatever you might have heard”—he snorts, sounding annoyed—“and people say some idiotic things about homes for the elderly…well, there are a lot of good, kind places where older people are very ha
ppy. And safe. She’d make new friends too. It’s just what she needs.”

  “But we’re her friends,” I say, feeling more and more upset. “That’s got to count for something”

  “‘Friends’ that practically burned down her house?” He glares at me. “I think she can do without those, don’t you?”

  “It was an accident!”

  “But it happened.”

  I cross my arms. “I know you’re her nephew, but you can’t just make her leave her home and go into one of those places.”

  “Actually, I can.” His eyes glint coldly. “I have her power of attorney, which means I can make decisions on her behalf. And I own a share of this house.”

  “But it’s cruel! She doesn’t want to go—”

  Gretchen elbows me even harder this time. I snap my mouth shut and stare sullenly down at my plate.

  “I understand what you’re saying about your aunt, Mr. Kruffs. Really, I do.” Gretchen passes him back the bowl of pasta. “My grandma was in poor health and needed care before she died. A caregiver came to visit her every day. And Dad installed an emergency button in case something happened when the nurse wasn’t there.”

  Mr. Kruffs fills his plate with seconds. “I don’t think that’s going to be enough. In the last few months, I’ve become convinced she needs around-the-clock care.”

  And then you can sell her house? I open my mouth again, but Gretchen cuts me off with a look.

  “It’s just something to think about.” Gretchen sounds like a real adult. “An option.”

  Mr. Kruffs doesn’t answer. He’s back to eating the pasta like it’s going out of style. I inhale the steam coming from my plate. Now that Gretchen’s taken charge, I take a small bite. The fresh herbs and the spices of the sauce tingle on my tongue, the vegetables full of delicious flavor. The homemade pasta is silky and rich.

  “This food…” Mr. Kruffs says, wiping his mouth on a napkin, “…is delicious.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” Violet smiles brightly. “I’m so glad. Your aunt would be proud to hear you say so.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief.

  The bowls of pasta and sauce get passed around again, and the food is gone in a few minutes. “Would you like some dessert?” Gretchen offers him.

  “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to pass,” Mr. Kruffs says. “I must run. The fact is, my aunt is still missing. I have to phone around and try to find her.”

  “Has she done it before?” Violet asks.

  He pauses before answering. “A few times. Unfortunately, any old friends she has are scattered here and there. She’s gone to complete strangers’ houses before, looking for people she used to know who died years ago.”

  “Oh.” I don’t really have a good answer to that.

  “Is it okay if we stay to do the washing up?” Alison asks. “We’ll check to make sure everything is turned off and we’ll lock up.”

  “You do that,” he says. “But from now on, you need to find somewhere else to do your cooking—do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I say. The breath leaves my body like a punctured balloon.

  “I’m leaving next week for a day or so,” he continues. “Tuesday morning, early. If she’s not back home by the weekend, I’m calling the police.”

  “Fair enough,” Gretchen says.

  I nod.

  “Thanks for eating with us,” Violet cheerfully changes the subject. “I think we all understand each other much better now.”

  “It’s been…interesting.” Mr. Kruffs runs a hand through his dark hair. He nods curtly at us, then turns and walks out.

  • • •

  As soon as he’s gone, the four of us open our mouths as if to talk at once, and yet no one speaks. Violet clears the plates from the table, and Alison runs a sink full of hot soapy water.

  “What now?” I find my voice and turn to Gretchen.

  “You didn’t help things by getting annoyed like that,” she scolds.

  “And you sure were a Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, sucking up to him like that—”

  “I can’t believe you told him about the fire!”

  “Well, we can’t let him keep believing that she did it, can we?”

  “Okay, okay,” Violet intervenes. “That’s enough. We need to think about what we do next.”

  “We have to hope Mrs. Simpson comes back,” Alison says. “If he has to call the police, it will make things a lot worse for her.”

  “Alison’s right,” Gretchen says. “There’s not much we can do unless we find her.”

  “But if she does come back, then how do we know we can trust him?” I say.

  Gretchen smiles cryptically. “Once she’s back, I think Mr. Kruffs will come around to our way of thinking.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I snap. “He seemed like a total creep to me.”

  Gretchen rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Scarlett. Don’t you ever read your mom’s blog? She’s always saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  Chapter 34

  Hiding Out

  I’m relieved when I get home that night: We’ve stood up to Mr. Kruffs and given him more than just food for thought. Though I have to admit—Gretchen’s grown-up way of dealing with him might have been more effective than mine. But there’s still one big problem—where’s Mrs. Simpson?

  For the second night in a row, Mom is working on her laptop in the living room. Her hair is tangled and stringy, and she has dark circles under her eyes. But sitting on the table next to her is a tasty-looking cupcake with pink frosting, and the crumbs and wrapper of one already eaten.

  “Hello, Mom,” I say, putting down my bag.

  “Scarlett.” She smiles wearily and checks her watch. “Let me guess—working hard on your science project?”

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s going to be really cool when we finish.”

  “I’m glad you’ve made a new friend. What did you say her name was?”

  “Violet.”

  “Violet. That’s pretty—like Scarlett.” She smiles.

  “Yeah.” I start to head off.

  “Sometimes I worry that you don’t have friends because…” She hesitates. “Well, you know…”

  I stop.

  “…because of me,” she finishes in a whisper.

  I stare at her in disbelief. “Because of you?”

  “I know, it was a silly thought.” She gives a little laugh. “I mean, no one knows who I am for real, or who you are.”

  “Um…”

  “Except the people at Superdrug, of course. And maybe anyone who might recognize my profile picture. So really, I know it’s not an issue. But you know…” she says, brightening further, “I’ve had this idea lately. That I might move in a whole different direction.”

  I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I press my lips together. Now that I think about it, it’s been a few weeks since she’s written any bad blog posts about me. After “The Single Mom’s Guide to Dating,” she wrote a post for another site on “Best Mom-Friendly Day Spas,” and this week’s Friday post will be “Psst—I’m in Superdrug!” about her upcoming product launch. If that equals a new direction, then maybe I should be all for it.

  “But anyway…” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  “Sounds…interesting,” I manage.

  “Would you like a cupcake?” She gestures to the plate. “They’re really nice. I had a big dinner and can’t eat another bite.”

  “Oh.” I look closely at her. Mom’s usual idea of dinner is a little cup of yogurt and a bag of potato chips—maybe a slice of cold pizza now and then. And certainly not cupcakes. I remember what Gretchen said about Mom’s blog and the way to a man’s heart—maybe she’s planning to start dating again. That would probably be a good thing—give her lots of stuff to blog about other than me.r />
  “I’ll have it later, Mom,” I say. “And if you want to go to bed early, I can help you with your work—like we agreed the other night.”

  She rummages through her papers. “I’ve printed out some emails for you to update my contacts. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “Well, then…” She stands and flexes her fingers wearily. “I’ll leave you to it. And just remember—I’m trusting you not to be looking at any websites you shouldn’t. You know, I can always check.”

  I give an offended shrug. “Whatever, Mom. I’m just trying to help you. But if you’d rather I didn’t—”

  “No, Scarlett, I appreciate your help.” She walks to the door. “As I said, I trust you.”

  “Oh, Mom, one more thing.”

  She turns back toward me. “What?”

  “Is something wrong with your office?”

  “No,” she says a little too quickly. “It’s just that I can always smell cooking from the other side of the wall. It’s really distracting.”

  • • •

  I eat the cupcake and update Mom’s contacts. When I’m finished, I log into my blog. I’m not too worried that Mom might actually check up on me. Even if she sees I accessed a cooking blog, what’s the harm in that? I click on my draft blog post to update it. I manage to upload the pictures of our food creations that Alison emailed to me. The layout isn’t quite right, but I’m satisfied I’ve done the best I can. I hit the icon to publish my first post as the Little Cook.

  The Secret Cooking Club Online is now officially live.

  I surf for a while, looking at other cooking blogs. I check back a few times to see if there’s any sign that anyone has seen my blog. Of course, no one has—it’s only been up for minutes—what am I expecting? But then a little warning flashes on at the bottom of the screen: low battery. Mom doesn’t have the power cord in the living room. It must be in the Mom Cave.

  I set the laptop aside and go to the kitchen. I’m surprised to see a bunch of pots and pans on the drainer next to the sink, all washed up and drying. Mom wasn’t kidding when she said she had a big dinner. There are also three plates. Mom, Kelsie…and…?