French Fried

by Kylie Logan

  I looked to her before I dared put a hand on the box, and when I got a brief nod as a go-ahead, I flipped open the lid.

  Sophie caught her breath, but whether it was with relief or surprise, I couldn’t tell. “Newspaper articles!”

  They were, and they looked old.

  Carefully, I retrieved the stack of a couple dozen articles and set them in a pile next to the safe deposit box. There was a scrapbook at the bottom of the box and one of those notebooks like kids use in school, and I took those out and handed them to Sophie.

  She dropped into one of the chairs near the table and quickly paged through the scrapbook. “Flyers that Rocky used to hand out at protests and rallies.” She tipped the book toward me so I could see the colorful handouts. “And here’s a pressed flower. A daisy.” Along with the brittle flower, there was a picture of a very young Raquel Arnaud, her hair long and straight and loose around her shoulders, a daisy tucked up behind her ear.

  Her eyes bright with unshed tears, Sophie closed the scrapbook, cleared her throat, and grabbed the notebook. “Rocky’s handwriting,” she said, tracing the letters of the writing with one finger. “It looks like a sort of outline, what she was planning to talk about at the peace symposium.”

  “And these articles . . .” There were too many to study too closely, not right there, anyway, so I gave them a cursory look. “She’s got them dated. September 1, 1970. October 3, 1970. October 6, 1970.” I read over the headlines. “They’re all about the peace movement and the Young People’s Underground for Peace. According to Professor Weinhart over at Youngstown State, that’s the group Rocky was part of.”

  “Yes, of course. Peaceniks, we called them.” Sophie smiled across the table at me. “It makes sense that Rocky would have articles about them if she was planning to talk about the movement at the peace symposium. She was probably using all this for research.”

  “But why hide the articles in a safe deposit box?” I riffled my fingers through the articles.

  “Well, if there was a fire . . .” Sophie suggested.

  “She could have scanned them,” I said. “That would have kept the originals safe. Or she could have copied the articles and kept the copies at home. When we looked through the house . . .We didn’t find newspaper articles of any kind.”

  But Professor Weinhart had mentioned them, hadn’t she?

  She’d told me that Rocky showed her the research materials she’d gathered to support her presentation at the symposium.

  I wasn’t sure what this meant other than the fact that at one time, Rocky had kept the materials in front of us at Pacifique; that’s where Professor Weinhart said she’d seen them.

  I pulled out one article at random. It was dated January 26, 1971, and included a picture of a skinny, bearded guy with long hair and wild eyes. The photo was old, grainy, black and white, yet something about it conveyed the intensity of the time and the young man who was identified in the caption as Steve Pastori.

  “Steve!” Sophie caught sight of the photo and plucked the article out of my hand. “My goodness, I’d nearly forgotten all about him. He was a mover and shaker on the Ohio State campus, that’s for sure.”

  Yes, I know the young have a hard time picturing older people as ever having lives that included not being old, but it was the first time I’d ever thought of Sophie as young. It was the first I’d ever wondered about what her life was like before she bought the Terminal and devoted her life to providing home-style food to her customers, along with a spot that many of them considered their home away from home.

  “You went to college?” I asked her.

  She barked out a laugh. “Hard to believe this old hen was ever a young chick, isn’t it?” She didn’t hold the question against me—I could tell by her smile. She wrinkled her nose. “Back in the day, I thought I wanted to be a nurse, and I attended Ohio State for two years. But the course work . . . well, math and chemistry weren’t really my strong suits.”

  “Cooking is all about chemistry,” I reminded her.

  “It is, and that kind of chemistry, I understand. The other kind—the real kind—well, I tried. Really hard. But I never quite got it.”

  “But you were there. At Ohio State with Rocky.”

  “Sure, that’s how we met. She lived down the hall from me in our dorm, and Rocky . . .” Thinking back, Sophie cocked her head. “Rocky was different, maybe a little too different for most of the girls in the dorm. They were put off by her. But remember, I’d grown up with Nina!” This time when Sophie grinned, the warmth of it traveled right through to my bones. “Nina was always the girl everyone noticed, the one who spoke up, the one who pushed the envelope when it came to what she did and what she wore and how she felt about the world in general.”

  “Just like Rocky.”

  Sophie nodded. “We hit it off the first time we bumped into each other in the cafeteria line, and after that . . . well, I think both our roommates were relieved that we’d found each other and spent so much time together that they didn’t have to put up with us! My own roommate was a party girl who didn’t want to bother with a wallflower like me, and Rocky’s roomie, well, like I said, she wasn’t sure what to make of a girl like Rocky who protested for causes she believed in and wouldn’t keep her mouth shut when she thought she could right a wrong.”

  “And Steve?” I asked.

  The smile faded from Sophie’s face and her eyes clouded with memory. “Young, impulsive, committed. It’s hard for people these days to understand what things were like back then. That’s why this peace symposium is so important. It’s why I encouraged Rocky to speak at it in the first place. There was a war happening on the other side of the world and so many people here thought it was wrong, that it was immoral. So many people didn’t want to send our boys to the jungles of Vietnam to die. There was anger.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “There was so much anger.”

  I glanced over the article in front of us and what looked to be an interview with Steve Pastori. “And Steve was one of the angry people?”

  “The angriest.” Sophie picked up the paper and looked at the picture again. “Like I said, he was committed and convinced that he was right. Sometimes people like that are impulsive. He was a national organizer, and Rocky, she started out as an organizer on the OSU campus, then worked the entire Midwest region. She and Steve, they bumped heads a lot.”

  “Ego wars and political wars.” When I realized Sophie was looking at me in wonder, I shook my shoulders. “That’s what Professor Weinhart said, that a lot of the tension within the peace movement was caused by ego wars and political wars, people who wanted to make a name for themselves, people with their own agendas. Is that what happened between Rocky and Steve?”

  “Something like that.” Rocky closed the notebook and put it on top of the scrapbook, then grabbed the newspaper articles and piled them on top and gave them a pat. “We’ll read these at home,” she said. “When we have more time. What do you suppose they’ll tell us?”

  This I couldn’t say. Not for sure.

  I knew only that there was something contained here in this small pile of aging paper that made Rocky think she had to keep it from prying eyes.

  It was those kinds of secrets that got people killed.

  • • •

  ON THE WAY out of Cortland, I mentioned to Sophie that I wanted to stop at Pacifique and gather some herbs, and she didn’t object. Or question me.

  Good thing, because I wasn’t ready yet to tell her about Senator Stone.

  I would, I promised myself. Monday after the interview, I’d assess my chances for the job and if I thought there was even the remotest possibility (even while I was driving I crossed my fingers), I’d come clean and tell Sophie there was a very real chance that I would be leaving, and soon. Until then, she didn’t need to know that I was looking for the curly parsley, thyme, marjoram, oregano, sage, and rosem
ary that I would use in the bouquet garni in the senator’s soup.

  “I’m going to go inside.” As soon as we were out of the car, Sophie headed for the front door. “I’ll just make sure everything’s all right and I’m going to make a cup of tea while I’m at it. You want one?”

  I didn’t really, but I told her I’d take one anyway. Making the tea would give Sophie something to do and besides, it was chilly that Friday morning. By the time I was done in the garden, I was sure a cup of tea would be exactly what I needed. As soon as she was inside, I got to work. I went into the barn and rooted around for everything I needed.

  A towel.

  Gloves.

  Some of the small plastic containers Rocky used when she sold live plants.

  I scooped them all up in my arms and while I was at it, I grabbed one of the sturdy canvas aprons Rocky wore when she was out in the garden. Once that was on, I was ready to go, and I tromped out into the herb garden.

  And stopped cold when I realized there was already someone out there.

  Someone who looked remarkably like . . .

  I swallowed hard and bent forward for a better look at the woman who tracked through the garden with her back to me, a straw sunhat on her head and an apron similar to mine looped around her neck and billowing around her on the end of the stiff October wind. She walked with an easy gait, one hand out to brush through the knee-high lavender that grew all around her. Even from here, I could tell she was relaxed and at peace in the garden, and at the same time I envied anyone who could be so at one with her environment. My heart bumped and my stomach swooped.

  “Rocky?”

  The name came out of me more like a squeak than an actual question, but the woman heard it and whirled around.

  I braced a hand to my heart and nearly collapsed from the relief.

  Until I realized I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss my fears.

  “What are you doing here?” In clean jeans, a white sweater, and that apron, Minnie Greenway looked like a different woman, but she sounded like the same old Minnie when she confronted me. “What do you want?”

  I held up my trowel as if for proof. “Just digging up some herbs. How about you, Minnie? What are you doing here?”

  I had closed in on her. Minnie’s hair was combed and pulled back into a ponytail. There was color in her cheeks. “I . . . I was just walking, enjoying the sunshine.” As if it were the first time she realized exactly where she was, she glanced over at the house and bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. I just started walking and I guess I just lost track of the time and where I was and . . .” She stepped over a row of neatly planted parsley. “I’ll go home now.”

  “You don’t have to.” I thought about the last time I’d seen Minnie in the Cortland police station when she made her phony confession. “How are you, Minnie?”

  It took her a little while to think about it. “They put me . . .” She drew in a breath. “I was in the hospital. For two nights. And they changed my medication and I promised them I’d take it every single day like I’m supposed to, and I have. I haven’t missed even one dose. Otis makes sure.”

  “That’s good. It shows.”

  She touched a hand to her hat. “Does it? That’s what Otis told me this morning. He said I looked like a new woman, and I told him . . .” Again, her gaze darted to the house and this time, her eyes filled with tears. “I told him that I understand now that when he came to see that Frenchwoman, he wasn’t looking for a new woman, just a friend he could talk to. He says . . .” She looked down at the earth at our feet. “He says this old woman he has is just fine with him.”

  “I’m glad, Minnie.” I thought about giving her a hug and decided that might be too much for Minnie, so I kept my distance. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “And you know I didn’t kill that Rocky woman, right? The police, they told you that?”

  “They told me that you thought maybe you did.”

  She nodded. “But I wouldn’t. Not really. That’s what my psychiatrist told me. She said I might have fantasies, but I’m not a violent person. I would never really kill someone.”

  So what’s a person supposed to say in response to a comment like that?

  That’s good?

  Hoorah for you?

  Because I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t say anything at all.

  “I sometimes pick the lavender. That Frenchy, she never minded.” There were a few sprigs of it in Minnie’s hand and she showed them to me. “Otis puts it next to my pillow. He says it helps me sleep. I like the way it smells. Do you think I’ll get in trouble for being here? For picking the lavender?”

  It was another one of those questions that’s impossible to respond to.

  I shrugged. “Eventually, the house will belong to whoever Rocky left it to in her will. Or it will be sold and belong to some stranger. Then . . . well, maybe those people won’t want you here picking the lavender. But right now, Sophie’s in charge of the house and I know she won’t mind.”

  Minnie smiled. “I’m just going to pick a little more and then I’m going to leave. Can I pick a little more?”

  I assured her she could and while she was at it, I got busy and got to work.

  I’d already dug up three curly parsley plants and plopped them in plastic containers when I realized Minnie was standing over me.

  I sat back on my heels and looked up at her just in time to see her hold a wand of lavender to her nose and sniff.

  “I was here. I was picking lavender,” she said. “The night I saw the man.”

  Coming from anyone else, this might have been something to sit up and take notice about. But remember, this was Minnie, and medication or no medication, I knew the things Minnie said couldn’t always be trusted, that they weren’t always sensible. Or true.

  Tell that to the sudden thumping inside my rib cage.

  Slowly, so as not to startle her, I got to my feet. “The night you saw the man?”

  She nodded, then held out the lavender to me. “It smells good.”

  I took a sniff and nodded. The lavender smelled heavenly and as long as I was here, I’d take some home for myself and some for Sophie, too. But that was a thought for later. For now . . .

  “What man are you talking about?” I asked Minnie.

  “He came in a car, and he didn’t see me.” Minnie shook her head so hard, her straw hat went cockeyed and she didn’t straighten it. “I was in the garden. She was in the garden, too. Earlier.”

  “She?”

  “Frenchy. Always in the garden. Morning, afternoon, and evening.”

  “And was it morning, afternoon, or evening when you saw the man?” I asked Minnie.

  “It was evening. Late. But she wasn’t in the garden when I got here. He was. He parked his car over there.” She pointed behind us toward the barn and the little outbuilding beyond where I knew Rocky stacked firewood for the winter. “He didn’t see me because I went into the barn and I hid in one of the old horse stalls.” Minnie bent nearer and whispered, “I’m smart.”

  “You are smart,” I told her. “But you forgot to tell me when this was, Minnie. You say there was a man here. He must have been visiting Rocky.”

  “She wasn’t dead yet.” Apparently, I was as dumb as dumb can be because Minnie rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t have a visitor if she was dead.”

  Not dead.

  Then at least a week before.

  Which, of course, meant nothing.

  I did my best to control my excitement, but let’s face it, I had to know more. I remembered those pictures Otis showed us at the police station, the ones that proved that he and Minnie were at a harvest festival the evening Rocky died. “It wasn’t the day you and Otis were at the church festival, was it?”

  I got another eye roll for my efforts. “The police
know I didn’t kill her,” Minnie said. “Because we were at the festival and we got home late. Too late for me to kill her. But not too late for me to see the man.”

  I could only imagine the jumble that was Minnie’s brain, and it was frightening. The best I could do was try to step my way through and make some sense of it all.

  “Then it was the night of the festival?” I asked her.

  Minnie giggled. “Before you came here with that good-looking guy.”

  My heart thumped. Me and the good-looking guy—Declan—we were here Saturday night. We found Rocky’s body.

  And unless Minnie was here and watching, she had no way of knowing that.

  As much as I tried, I could barely control the shiver of excitement in my voice. “You were still here when Declan and I showed up?”

  She nodded. “I was in the barn, and nobody knew it. Saw you go inside. Saw the police come, too. That’s when I skedaddled home.”

  “But before you did that, before I got here with Declan—”

  “The good-looking guy.”

  It was my turn to nod. “The good-looking guy. Before we showed up, you saw someone else here.”

  “He went inside. But not for long.” One corner of Minnie’s mouth crinkled. “Went inside, came outside. He got in his car and left and then a little while later, that’s when you and that good-looking guy—”

  “You should have told the police about this, Minnie.”

  “I didn’t remember. Not until now. Because now I’m taking my medication. And I’m picking lavender.” Again, she held out the stems for me to see. “Can I pick more lavender?”

  “Sure, Minnie, only . . .”

  She was already walking away and she turned back around.

  “Can you tell me what the man looked like?” I asked her.