by Kylie Logan
“Seen what?” I plucked the newspaper out of her hand and stepped aside so she could sit down and prop up her leg, still encased in some sort of thingamajig designed to keep her knee safe, before I glanced over the front page. There it was for all the world to see, and in a typeface as big and as bold as any I’d ever seen.
News of Aurore Brisson’s theft of Marie Daigneau’s novel.
The story continued inside and included a picture of the weeping Aurore, who, when asked, claimed she didn’t know what happened, that yes, she remembered finding the manuscript in Marie’s home, but after that—or so she said—she blanked, and doesn’t remember another thing until the finished book appeared on her doorstep with her picture on the back cover.
“Yeah, right,” I grumbled. I kept reading and there were plenty of quotes in the article from Meghan Cohan, plenty of references to the upcoming made-for-cable TV series, and plenty of talk of lawsuits and compensation and prison time for the Parisian plagiarist.
“Three cheers for you,” Sophie said when I’d finished reading. “Rocky would be so proud!”
“It will take a long time for the whole thing to get sorted out. In the meantime, when I talked to her, Meghan said she owed me.”
“Oh.” Sophie’s smile melted. “Does that mean you’ll go back and work for her?”
I’d thought the same thing myself. And it didn’t take me long to decide what I’d do if Meghan asked.
Then again, I had Senator Katherine Stone waiting in the wings.
“No way,” I told Sophie, and felt a twinge of guilt when she brightened up instantly. “I’ve had it with Hollywood. Shallow people, no loyalty. Meghan wouldn’t have cared one bit about Yesterday’s Passion being stolen, not if it didn’t mean publicity for the TV series.”
“I’m glad.” Sophie made a face. “Not about the book being stolen, about you saying you’ll never leave.”
Only that wasn’t what I’d said.
Rather than think about it, I zipped out of the office just as a party of twelve over at table fifteen was finishing up a birthday celebration. They crowded around the birthday girl at one end of the table and asked me to take a picture, and I grabbed the phone someone offered me and obliged before I darted into the kitchen.
“Making quiches!” I told George, and I did, gathering what I needed, making the crusts, and filling them with ingredients that included the last of Rocky’s griselles, along with bacon and Swiss cheese, then just because I was feeling like mixing things up a little, I made one quiche with rosemary, apples, and cheddar cheese and reminded myself to pay attention and see if our customers would take the chance and order it.
The entire time I worked, though, my brain kept tapping out a message.
Pictures.
Of course I was thinking about pictures, I told myself; I’d just taken a picture of the birthday party out front, and while it looked like everyone was enjoying their meals and having a good time, that birthday party wasn’t especially interesting.
And still, my brain kept floating around and coming back to the same word.
Pictures.
The message—if it was a message and not just the product of the slightly woozy head I swore I didn’t have when the doctor discharged me from the hospital that morning—stuck around until long after the quiches were baked and a couple of them served (including a few slices of apple/cheddar).
Pictures.
“Hey, George!” It wasn’t like I expected him to answer, because George being George, he never did, but I called out to him at the same time I unlooped the white apron from around my neck and tossed it on the counter. “Tell Sophie I’ll be gone for a couple of minutes.”
He might have grunted by way of reply. I can’t say for sure. Then again, I was out the door and on my way across the street to the Irish store before he could say much of anything.
• • •
IT IS NOT his shop.
At least that’s what Declan always says. Bronntanas is a family business and he just manages it. He has an office at the back of the gift shop, where in addition to taking care of the ordering and the inventory, he handles the other family business, which, if what the local gossip says is true, is not always on the up-and-up.
You’d never know it from the gift shop itself. It’s small and well lit, as clean as a whistle in the County Mayo air and as well stocked as any Irish store I’d ever seen.
Not that I’d seen all that many Irish stores.
Still, I knew wise merchandising when I saw it, and Declan made sure he had a little bit of everything from Waterford and Galway crystal and Belleek pottery to T-shirts and sweatshirts in various colors (okay, well, in emerald green, anyway) that said things on the fronts of them like Gaelic Girl and Irish to the Bone and I Speak Fluent Blarney.
Just inside the door, I smiled at Paddy the stuffed leprechaun and store mascot, who sat on the counter and who Declan had loaned to us at the Terminal during the weeks we featured Irish food.
“Welcome to Bronntanas,” he called out from the back office. I’d spent a lot of time trying to remember exactly how to say the word which means “gift” in Irish. BRON-tuh-nuss. I could never get it quite right, so like everyone else, I simply called the place the Irish store.
“No hurry,” I replied. “It’s just me.”
He was out of the office in an instant. “Hey! How you feeling?”
I assured him I was fine.
“But not looking for the perfect Irish gift, I bet.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against a glass display case that featured kilts and tams and tweed caps. “What’s up?”
“I keep thinking about MacLain,” I told him. “I keep wondering if he was telling us the truth.”
“Tony will get to the bottom of it.”
I was sure he would. Still, there was something about the whole thing that didn’t sit right with me. Something about—
“Pictures,” I said.
“Pictures?” Declan shoved off from the counter and came to stand nearer to me. Maybe if my head weren’t in such a whirl, I would have been able to keep my usual distance—physically and emotionally. The way it was, something about his presence—firm and steady—made me inch forward just a tad.
He didn’t miss the move and stepped even nearer. He wrapped his arms around me.
“You’ve had some busy twenty-four hours. Getting whacked, the hospital, questioning MacLain. If you’re thinking crazy thoughts—”
“Except I don’t think it’s crazy.” I backed out of his hug, but slowly, so he’d know I wanted to order my thoughts and be able to look into his face when I presented my theory. “I was thinking that lots of people must have taken pictures at last Saturday’s Statue of Liberty parade.”
He nodded the way people do when they’re not exactly sure where the conversation is headed.
“And I’m thinking about what happened at the parade. How Rocky said that the past overwhelmed her and she had to leave.”
“Because she finally got a look at her son after all these years.”
“Maybe.” It was hard to try to stand there and be logical when that gray gaze of his was focused on me. I turned toward the nearest counter and ran my hand through a pile of wonderfully soft woolen plaid scarves. “But remember, before the parade, she was so excited she could barely stand still. She couldn’t wait to see MacLain.”
“And it got to her. The memories. The past. How wonderful it was that he was a successful and intelligent man and how terrible it was that she’d missed out on all the years with him.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But maybe not. Maybe she was thinking of something else.”
He didn’t ask what. He didn’t have to. With a tip of his head, Declan urged me to explain.
“Remember when we were talking in front of Taco Bell, and then I went to see how Rocky w
as going to react because Aurore Brisson was just driving by? And Rocky, she didn’t react at all?”
He nodded. “I remember.”
“Well, I remember that when I got back over to where Sophie and Rocky were standing, Rocky wasn’t even watching the parade. Her eyes were on the grandstand.”
“And you think there was something there that made her think about the past?”
“I think if we had pictures, we might be able to say for sure.”
I knew it wouldn’t take him long to catch on. “Pictures people took during the parade.”
“I was thinking we could have a contest. I can have them e-mail the pictures to the Terminal and we’ll display them out near the cash register and we’ll give some kind of prize—I don’t know, a certificate for dinner, maybe—to the person whose picture gets the most votes as the best, or the cutest, or the most unusual.”
“And you’re hoping that someone might send a picture that shows what Rocky was really watching.”
“I know it’s a long shot,” I admitted. “But it might be worth a try. I’m going to announce the contest on social media and we’ll see what we see.”
• • •
BY THE NEXT morning, what we ended up seeing were dozens of photos e-mailed to us by people who’d attended the parade.
A lot of them were pictures of the little kids in their Statue of Liberty costumes.
Others were of Aurore Brisson, and the e-mails that came with them said things like, “Here she is before the prison stripes,” and “Felon alert!”
Still others showed the usual group of campaigning politicians, including Muriel Ross, who, when she arrived at the Terminal for breakfast on Sunday with her husband and another couple, stopped to admire the picture board we’d put up near the cash register.
“I need to learn to smile with my mouth shut tighter,” she confided to me while she pointed at a picture of herself with her mouth open. “Not exactly the best picture I’ve ever taken.”
“You look like you’re having a good time. I think that’s all people care about.”
“And I think you have a beautiful smile.” Ben wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “And besides, a politician without a big mouth isn’t worth having in office.”
It soothed her and they went to their booth, and Ben waited until his wife was seated next to the window before he sat down at one of the tables that looked out over the railroad tracks just as the first train of the morning rumbled through.
“I never get tired of watching the trains,” Ben told me when I took their menus. “I guess I’m just a little kid at heart.”
A lot of people felt the same way, and while Ben and Muriel were busy staring out the window, I checked e-mail and found a few more photos waiting for us. I printed them and took them out to hang on the board.
“Nice!” Misti was working the morning shift, and she peered over my shoulder at the board. “Which one is going to be the winner?”
To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought about that. I’d been too focused on scanning each picture, hoping against hope that one of them would show Rocky.
None of them did.
I told myself to stop obsessing and got to work. I made a few quiches to put in the fridge, added to what we had left of the potée champenoise because it would be featured on the Monday lunch menu (I knew our regulars, Phil, Dale, Ruben, and Stan would love it even if it did have a funny French name), and tried my hand at a pot of French onion soup. While I was at it, I called some of the farmers who sold us produce and gathered the ingredients for a big pot of ratatouille.
Yes, I was overcompensating.
Yes, I knew it was because I was feeling guilty about heading to New York the next morning.
No, it didn’t mean I would even consider canceling the interview with the senator.
Not for the world.
Three more times that day I checked e-mail, downloaded photographs, printed them out.
Three more times, I tacked them onto the board out in the lobby and each time, I grumbled a curse.
No sign of Rocky on any one of them.
By the time the dinner crowd had thinned and it was time to close, I was pretty much convinced that my plan was a bust.
“At least we have some great pictures and everyone’s enjoyed looking at them.” We were standing in front of the picture board, and Sophie put a hand on my shoulder. “It will be hard to pick a winner.”
Which meant that in the future, a photo contest like this might be a good way to get our name out and drum up business.
Even if it was a bad way to find the motive for a murder.
Once the last of our customers left, we took care of the usual cleanup and I sent Misti and George home. Sophie insisted that she should stick around and help tally the day’s receipts, but I’d seen the way she was favoring her leg. She needed rest, and I needed to finish up the work without her constant interruptions. I had to get back to her place to pack, and I had to be up bright and early the next day for the drive to Cleveland and my flight to New York.
I sent her on her way and settled down in the office.
“Just one more look,” I told myself to excuse what had become the day’s obsession, and I checked the Terminal’s e-mail account again.
There were only two photos. One showed the Hubbard police car with its light bar flashing.
The other was from Muriel Ross.
“I’d forgotten I took pictures last Saturday,” her e-mail said. “But after I saw your wonderful display this morning, I thought it might be worth a look. Here’s one I took from the grandstand, a different take on the parade, I think.”
Attached was a photo shot down Main Street and into the heart of the parade.
It was a different perspective on the parade, all right, and if it wouldn’t look too much like we were supporting a candidate and giving Muriel Ross some extra publicity, I’d be tempted to award her the prize we’d promised to give out.
The view from the grandstand included the lines of kids in their cute and hokey Statue of Liberty costumes streaming up the street. It showed the flashing lights of the cop cars, spectators waving from the curb, and even Aurore Brisson, staring in Rocky’s direction like she was sure Rocky was going to come pounding across the pavement and go for her throat.
It also showed Rocky.
I’d already printed out the picture, and my hands trembled against the paper as I studied it.
Rocky’s mouth was open in a perfect little circle of surprise and even in the picture, I could see that her face was ashen. Her eyes were as round as saucers, her gaze was focused on—
My heart thudded to a stop, then started up again at the sound of breaking glass from out in the restaurant.
“What the—” I leapt out of the chair and pulled open the office door and was greeted by an odd, undulating light out in the lobby near the display of pictures we’d already hung.
Fire!
Sure, I know that at a time like this, a person is supposed to spring into action. But here’s the honest truth of it: when faced with something completely unexpected and totally frightening, it’s hard to move.
Forget the springing, I had a hard enough time convincing myself that what I was seeing was real.
“Fire.” I mumbled the word, but a plume of acrid black smoke and the sudden, blaring sound of the restaurant’s smoke alarms snapped me out of my daze.
“Fire!” I screamed. “Fire! The Terminal is on fire!”
Chapter 19
The 911 dispatcher told me to get out of the restaurant and get out fast.
I knew she was right.
Getting out—fast—was the smart thing to do.
Getting out—fast—was the safe thing to do.
Tell that to the voice inside my head that reminded me that the Terminal was all
Sophie had, and if she lost it, it would not only ruin her financially, it would break her heart.
For a few panicky seconds after I made the call, I stood there in the office, frozen by fear and indecision, listening for the sounds of sirens, and when they didn’t come, I sucked a breath deep into my lungs and held it there, then darted out of the office.
Out in the lobby, I saw the flames ripple and swirl, like a living thing. They shot out a tentacle of black smoke that snaked into the dining room outside the office and came at me like an outstretched hand.
I was mesmerized, horrified at the same time I was fascinated, but when the air in my lungs ran out and I had no choice to suck in a breath, I caught a lungful of smoke. Coughing, I ran into the kitchen.
The air in there was clean and cool, at least for the moment, and I let go a shaky breath and ran for the fire extinguisher we kept near the back door.
We had fire training in culinary school.
It had been a long time since I was in culinary school.
I glanced at the heavy extinguisher in both my hands, trying to remember what to do and what not to do, but when the first wisp of that black, acrid smoke sneaked under the kitchen door, I threw caution to the wind. Armed with the red extinguisher and with a voice screaming at me from inside my head and warning me not to do it, I ran back out into the restaurant.
• • •
“WELL, THAT WAS dumb.”
Detective Gus Oberlin was the last person I expected to see along with the firefighters who arrived just seconds after I started spraying down the flames inside the Terminal’s front door. Something told me he wasn’t planning on being on duty that Sunday evening. That would explain why he was dressed in raggedy khaki shorts and a purple polo shirt that tugged over his bulging belly and was stained across the front with what I’d bet any money was the night’s dinner. Pepperoni pizza with mushrooms, if I wasn’t mistaken. Gus had a toothpick in his teeth, and he slid it from one side of his mouth to the other and bent to look me in the eye where I sat in on the curb across the street from the Terminal, an oxygen mask over my mouth.
“Dumb,” he said.