Two on the Aisle

by Robbi McCoy

  “The ingrate!”

  “After the review came out, he sent me an email asking what right I had insulting his torte. What right? I’m a food critic, for God’s sake! But I didn’t say that. I answered with my usual reply, that I call them as I see them.”

  “Seems fair.”

  “Actually,” Wren admitted, “my exact words were, ‘Sorry, Cookie, that’s the way the torte crumbles.’”

  Raven winced.

  “Yeah,” Wren admitted, “maybe not as tactful as I might have been.”

  “I’ll bet that really ticked him off.”

  “Big time. He demanded retribution. He demanded I show myself and tell him to his face his torte was dry. He threatened to ferret me out and destroy me. He called me a fraud, a coward, an ignorant, unqualified yokel.”

  “Ooh! Brought out the big guns, did he?” Raven laughed.

  “Right. These people take their food very seriously. Sometimes it just gets so tiresome.”

  “Sick of it all?”

  “Sometimes I am, yeah. I’ve been doing this so long now, it seems like so much of the same thing over and over. I suppose that’s why I brushed him off like that. Just tired of the whining from these self-important kitchen divas who think of me as the enemy. They have the ludicrous viewpoint that if they could just get rid of the critics, their food would be flawless.”

  “That reminds me of that famous line from Henry the Sixth.” Raven hopped up with sudden liveliness. He stood on the couch, bouncing on the cushion and raised one fist above his head. “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the critics!”

  “Lawyers!” Wren objected loudly. “Not critics! Let’s kill all the lawyers.”

  “Oh. You’re right. Sorry.” Raven sank back to a sitting position. “If you weren’t a food critic, what would you do? You love writing about food.”

  “There are other ways to write about food. I’ve got a half-written book somewhere, for instance. And I do write feature articles once in a while. It’s just that I’ve built up such a following as a critic. I’m Eno Threlkeld.” She chuckled. “Hear my name and tremble.”

  “That’s not really a joke, is it?”

  “No, not entirely.” She shook her head. “But I’m tired of being the bad guy.”

  “The majority of people don’t see you that way. Most people can take the bad with the good, as long as it isn’t mean-spirited.”

  “Most people, maybe,” Wren conceded. “Bâtarde, no. But I hadn’t heard from him in a while and thought maybe he’d gotten over it.”

  “But he hasn’t?”

  “Far from it. He’s totally obsessed now with avenging his Dobos Torte.”

  In her mind, she could see the short round Frenchman shaking his fist at her, his ruddy face contorted into a hateful glare, his mustache askew from the snarl on his lip.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he really is insane,” she said, shaking her head. “His mother went mad. Of course, she had reason. The family history, very sordid.”

  Raven looked up with interest. He was always in the mood for a scandalous family tale.

  “When Bâtarde was a kid,” she explained, “his father, Mack Bâtarde, murdered his boss. Stabbed him to death.”

  “No kidding? How do you know about this?”

  “I’d heard rumors, so I looked it up in old newspapers.”

  “What was the motive?”

  “Old Mack had his eye on the top job in his company. He wanted the guy out of the way.”

  “He couldn’t just wait his turn like anybody else?”

  “He was corrupted by ambition and goaded on by his wife Elizabeth. They called her Beth. Actually, she was the one who cooked up the plot to begin with. Very greedy, cold-hearted woman.”

  “She sounds lovely,” Raven noted.

  “They tried to frame one of the security guards at the company, but it didn’t hold up. After his deed was discovered, Mack Bâtarde went on a murderous rampage. He slaughtered the wife and kids of a colleague.”

  Raven’s eyes widened dramatically. “Why?”

  “It’s kind of hard to understand his motivation, actually. I mean, he starts out this fine, upstanding citizen, admired by all, then all of a sudden he’s a treacherous lunatic murdering his friends, driven by greed and paranoia.”

  “Like he was cursed or bewitched or something?”

  “Maybe.” Wren shrugged. “So this guy whose family he killed came after him.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “Killed Bâtarde in revenge. Very bloody business. Meanwhile, the guilt and stress were preying on Mrs. Bâtarde. She starts wandering aimlessly through the halls in the middle of the night, scrubbing at her hands, talking to herself. Completely bonkers.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “There’s a little bit of confusion over that. There was so much going on at the time, her death is almost a footnote, but most accounts said she killed herself. A colossal tragedy for several families by the time it was over.”

  “Wow.” Raven settled back into his chair, balancing his coffee mug on his knee. “So Bâtarde, Junior, was left an orphan, just like my darling Kyle.”

  “Yes, except that Kyle turned into a beautiful, even-keeled person and Bâtarde is utterly unreasonable and a little scary. That reminds me, what’s Kyle’s story? How did he become an orphan?”

  Raven shook his head. “That’s a story for another day. I don’t think we can handle two family tragedies in one sitting.” He dismissed Wren’s unvoiced objection with a wave of his hand. “Read me Bâtarde’s note.”

  She tucked her legs up in the chair and read from the page in her hand. “‘Threlkeld, you coward, if you’re not running scared yet, you soon will be. I know where you are. You’ve slipped up and I’ll soon have your head on a platter.’”

  “Yuck!” Raven said, wrinkling up his face.

  Wren continued reading. “‘Two reviews in ten days. I’m so close now I can taste your lily-colored liver.’”

  “Is this guy some kind of cannibal?”

  “Food-related images sort of go with the territory.”

  Raven waved his hand. “Go on.”

  “‘You’re cornered and you’ll soon be unmasked. You’re finished, Threlkeld! You will rue the day you ever insulted a dessert of mine. Dry, indeed! Prepare yourself to be butchered!’”

  Wren wadded up the paper and tossed it toward the trash can, missing.

  “Maybe you should call the police,” Raven suggested. “He sounds dangerous.”

  “It’s just bluster. He still doesn’t know who I am or how to find me. As long as that’s true, he can’t do a thing to me. Besides, I can’t call the police without revealing myself. For all I know, that’s his game. He’s been trying to flush me out all along with threats and insults.”

  “So he knows you’re in Ashland.”

  “I suppose. He must have seen that review this morning. Anybody could figure it out after the last two columns. If that’s all he’s got, he’s as far from nailing me as he’s ever been.” She picked up one of the pastries and took a bite. “Oh, God, this is good!”

  “Told you.”

  She nodded and finished the pastry, then stood. “I’m going over to the theater to see if I can snag some seats for a show tonight.”

  “I have a couple tickets for tonight’s performance. You don’t have to buy them.”

  “Sorry, Raven, I’d like to see something other than Much Ado this time.” As she anticipated, he made a pouty face. “How many times can I watch you swat Benedick with your fan and still laugh?”

  He smiled. “All right. I’ve heard good things about that Noel Coward’s Private Lives.”

  “Oh, I love that play! I’ll try for that. Has Kyle seen it?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He’ll be set up on Main or Second, where the action is.”

  She nodded, then nipped another pastry before heading toward the doorway.


  “Wait,” he called. “Before you go, I just remembered where I heard that name before, John Bâtarde.”

  She stopped and faced him. “Where?”

  “He’s the celebrity judge they invited in for the Cupcake Extravaganza!”

  Wren stared, surprised and wordless.

  “He’s here!” Raven declared. “Here in town.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I was the more deceived.

  —Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1

  Sophie packed her Styrofoam cooler with dozens of rounds of chêvre and some ice packs, then fitted the lid on securely as she heard her mother’s voice calling her, full of urgency.

  “Sophie! Sophie!”

  She ran out to the front porch to find Olivia standing there with the newspaper in her hand. Thrusting it at her, she said, “Look at this.”

  Sophie took the paper and folded it back to its original shape. “What am I looking at?”

  “An article about Sprouts. Page seven. They dissed our cheese.”

  Sophie sat on the loveseat and found the review, written by Eno Threlkeld, the critic Ellie and Johanna had told her about. It was a glowing review of Sprouts and Sophie was all ready to rejoice…until she reached the part about the cheese.

  The chêvre in the beet salad, from Tallulah Rose Creamery, a new, local dairy, was passable, tangy and properly ripened, but the texture was gritty and the flavor was unbalanced, leaving a slightly bitter aftertaste.

  Sophie was stunned.

  “Who is that guy?” Olivia asked. “He obviously doesn’t know anything about cheese.”

  Sophie slumped back into the cushion. “Unfortunately, he’s a big wheel. A critic from San Francisco.”

  “I thought our cheese was good. Didn’t Ellie say it was the best she ever had?”

  “Yes, she did.” Sophie sighed. “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe the standards are just that much higher in the big city. Maybe we’re only good for Ashland. For San Francisco, maybe we’re just…passable.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?” Olivia stood above her, her mouth set in a determined line.

  “I don’t know what we can do about it. This is his opinion.”

  Olivia sat back in her chair. “Maybe nobody’ll read it,” she said hopefully.

  “I doubt that. This came from the Associated Press. That means everybody sees it. A lot of papers will pick it up.”

  Olivia went silent and sat looking at the floorboards, crestfallen. There was nothing Sophie could do to cheer her up. She felt too defeated herself, over both the lousy review and her discovery that Wren had lied about her employer. Was that even her real name? Fat chance! Who was named Wren? Sophie’s original guess that Raven was a stage name had likely been correct. Wren had probably come up with that take-off on the spot. Very clever of her. She must have had a good laugh over it later. Sophie could easily imagine her telling her brother about it: “I told her my name was Wren and that our parents were birding fanatics.” They’d both probably doubled over at that.

  Sophie was aware that the Wren of her current imagination was a much more callous woman than the Wren she had spent the night with. But she was far too familiar with duplicity to question the possibility that both those women could coexist in one body.

  Going into town to deliver her new batch of cheese didn’t make Sophie as happy as it would have before the Threlkeld review. But she felt somewhat better after the owner of the Blue Moon told her, “Don’t pay any attention to that review. Your cheese is gorgeous stuff. I don’t know what his problem is.”

  Sophie then walked from Main Street down Second Street, coming across a handsome young man set up for drawing caricatures. He was seated at a table across the street from Sprouts. A board behind the table displayed samples of his work. He was clean-shaven, neatly and casually dressed, wearing a suede, Robin Hood-style cap with a long pheasant feather out the back. He drank from a tall paper coffee cup, sitting back in his folding chair with his legs crossed, unengaged. Sophie stopped. She’d always wanted to have her caricature drawn, but had never taken the time to do it.

  He jumped to his feet and smiled, showing his perfect teeth. “Hi. Would you like me to draw you?”

  Sophie nodded and sat at the matching folding chair across from him.

  “I’m Kyle,” he said, putting aside his coffee.

  “Sophia,” she replied. “But everybody calls me Sophie.”

  “Beautiful name.” He reached over and shook her hand. “Greek. Meaning wisdom.”

  “That’s right. And what does Kyle mean?”

  He clamped a fresh piece of drawing paper on his easel. “It’s Gaelic. Means narrow or straight. Ironically, I am neither.”

  Sophie laughed. “I’m sure there are people who would say the same about me being wise.”

  He smiled warmly, then nodded toward his sample board. “Do you have anything in mind? We can do you in Elizabethan style with the ruffled collar. That’s very popular.”

  “No, I think something more just regular me.”

  “Okay. Find a comfortable position. This’ll take about fifteen minutes.”

  Sophie sat back in the chair. “I like gardening. Maybe you can put a big, floppy sun hat on me.”

  He nodded, making the first light marks on his paper. “Are you in town for long?”

  “I live here,” she said. “Not a tourist.”

  “I don’t get many locals. Seems like a nice place to live. I’ve been here just a few months myself, but am considering staying.”

  “The town has a lot to offer,” Sophie observed. “Especially for an artist.”

  After another minute, Kyle focused on his work, dropping the conversation, while Sophie sat still, casually watching the street activity. Across the street, Sprouts was open for lunch. People strolled up to read the menu. Some went in, some went on. A few people on their side of the street stopped to watch Kyle at work, which made Sophie self-conscious.

  Kyle’s estimate of fifteen minutes was exactly right. Just as Sophie was feeling like she needed to stand up and jump up and down, he announced, “Done!”

  She got up and came around to look at his drawing. It was delightful. She was charmed. She clapped her hands together.

  “You like it,” he guessed.

  “I love it!” The drawing was like her, yet not like her. Cute and funny with a hat as large as the rest of her altogether, her oversized head and her undersized body.

  She paid him and he rolled up the paper and put it in a cardboard tube.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Straight and Narrow,” Sophie said. “Your work is fabulous.”

  “I bow to your wisdom, milady.” Kyle bowed from the waist, took her hand and brushed it lightly with his lips.

  “Do you do other sorts of work?” Sophie asked. “For hire, I mean.”

  “If it pays,” he said, “I’ll consider it. What do you have in mind?”

  “A product label. Would you do something like that?”

  “Sure. I’m actually doing one right now, for a winery. Take my card and give me a call.” He handed her a business card.

  She glanced at the card, then tucked it away, thinking she’d found the solution to her label problem for Tallulah Rose Creamery. By now, a young couple was waiting their turn.

  “Thanks, again,” Sophie said.

  As Kyle greeted his next customers, Sophie wheeled her Styrofoam cooler across the street to Sprouts, feeling much better than she had when she’d driven into town this morning. She slipped inside to find Ellie standing at the coffee bar talking with a young man. Sophie recognized him from a week ago. He was the boy who’d played the part of “a boy” in Much Ado About Nothing, the redheaded moppet. He took Ellie’s hand tenderly in his and said, “‘Where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation.’”

  Ellie put her free hand to her throat with a sharp intake of breath as the boy kissed her hand. He then abruptly turned and ran past Sophie and out the door.


  Ellie noticed Sophie. “Hi,” she said, her eyes unfocused, still clutching her throat.

  Sophie approached her. “Did I just hear that boy quote Shakespeare at you?”

  “Henry the Sixth, Part Two,” she confirmed breathily.

  This was interesting, Sophie thought, observing Ellie’s face closely. “That’s okay with you?”

  “No harm done,” Ellie said with a wave of her hand.

  “True,” agreed Sophie. “What’s his name?”

  “Max.”

  “You do know he’s an actor, right?”

  “Yes, I know. He told me. Not exactly my favorite people, as you know. But he’s not a full-time actor and you know how many would-be actors give it a try and end up being house painters or plumbers. Actually, he works in a nursery.”

  “A nursery?”

  “Plants. That kind of nursery.”

  “Oh.” Sophie was still stunned at seeing Ellie being romanced. “Are you dating?”

  “No! I barely know him. He’s come by a couple times. Today he brought me a rose.” She picked up a long-stemmed red rosebud from the coffee bar and held it to her nose.

  “But you’re interested?”

  Ellie tilted her head coyly.

  “Wow,” Sophie breathed. “I never thought I’d see the day. You actually are interested. That’s wonderful! He’s a cute little guy. Buzzes around kind of fast. You might have a hard time keeping up with him.”

  Ellie laughed. “He hasn’t asked me out.”

  “He will. There’s not much point quoting poetry at a girl unless you’re headed that way.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” Ellie said with a goofy smile, “but I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s just so sweet. Shy and quiet. Hard to imagine him on stage.”

  “I’m very happy for you, Ellie. Astonished, but happy.”