by Kylie Logan
Yeah, like I hadn’t figured that out already.
I pulled the mask off my face and was grateful when the cool night air rushed into my lungs. The way I remembered it, when two burly firefighters hauled me out of the Terminal, breathing was the last thing my lungs wanted to do. “If I hadn’t started putting out that fire—”
“The fire guys would have done it.” Gus has a doughy face, a flat, wide nose, and the personality of a pit bull with a bad case of indigestion. “The dispatcher told you to exit the building, didn’t she? Why didn’t you exit the building?”
“What are you going to do, ticket me?” My knees shook, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. I dragged myself to my feet and pretended like being trapped in a burning building was all in a day’s work. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked Gus. “This is a matter for the fire department.”
He glanced over his shoulder to where the guys on the fire truck were just rolling up their hoses. The street was two inches deep in pooling water, and in it, I saw the reflection of the Terminal.
Still standing.
I released a shaky breath.
There was bound to be damage to the lobby from the fire, and more damage beyond from the smoke and the water.
But the Terminal was still standing.
By now, word had gone out in Hubbard that there was a fire in Traintown and the entrance to our little enclave was packed with cars and gawking spectators. I saw one cop allow Mike and John to get by the barricades that had been erected. Naturally the first thing they did was look down the street at the Book Nook and when they saw that it was untouched, they hurried over.
John handed me a to-go cup of coffee and I smiled my gratitude.
“Sophie’s right behind us,” Mike said, glancing that way. “She’s a little upset.”
I looked toward the mouth of the street, but there were so many people packed in there, I couldn’t find her. “She shouldn’t have driven here,” I said.
The lenses of John’s wire-rimmed glasses caught the light and winked at me. “I don’t think she did. Declan Fury is with her.”
Declan. Of course. As a business owner in Traintown, he would have been just as concerned as everyone else when word of a fire went out.
Only when I saw him barrel past the barricade with Sophie in tow, he never once glanced at the Irish store.
“Are you okay? You’re okay?” He left Sophie in the care of the firefighter nearest the Terminal and grabbed me by the shoulders. “She’s okay, isn’t she?” he asked Gus. Since he and Gus had never exchanged a pleasant word in all their long association, I think this was something of a milestone. Declan pulled me into a quick hug and I guess the fact that I was breathing told him something good because when he held me at arm’s length, he smiled. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I assured him. “It just happened so fast . . .” I shivered, and when it slipped off my shoulders, it was the first I realized someone had thrown a blanket around me.
Declan picked up the blanket and patted it back into place.
“She might be okay.” Gus rolled the toothpick around in his mouth. “But she’s dumber than a box of rocks.” He studied me and shook his head. “The way I remember it, I always thought you were smart.”
He was referring to the murder of the Lance of Justice, a local TV investigative reporter, and how I’d helped him solve the case.
“I am smart,” I said, and I would have said more if Sophie didn’t limp over.
“Laurel!” She threw her arms around me and gave me a bear hug and again, it was impossible for me to breathe. “I was so worried! We didn’t know what we’d find when we got here. And I was so worried!”
Once she let me go, I was able to turn her around so she could see the Terminal. “Everything’s okay,” I reminded her. “The restaurant is okay.”
“The hell with the restaurant!” Sophie burst into tears. “I was worried about you!”
I guess I started to cry, too, because when I swiped my hands across my cheeks, my fingers were gooey with a combination of soot and tears. Declan handed me a handkerchief with a little green shamrock embroidered on it. I gave it to Sophie.
And while I was at it, I thought about what Gus Oberlin had said.
He thought I was smart.
He was right.
The thought hit and I flinched.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I said.
Gus grinned. “About time you caught on.”
Declan frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I kept my gaze on Gus’s. “I heard glass break. Right before I realized there was a fire. Someone threw something into the restaurant.”
“Molotov cocktail.” Gus spit the word out around his toothpick. “Don’t see that kind of thing around here. Poor man’s grenade. Isn’t that what they called them back in Northern Ireland?” he asked no one in particular even though it was perfectly clear who he was addressing.
Declan clenched his teeth. “My family’s never been to Northern Ireland. And even if we had, we wouldn’t have been there making Molotov cocktails. And who—” He turned away from Gus, but I could see that it cost him. Declan would have much rather gone toe-to-toe with the cop. “Who would do such a thing?” he asked me. “Who has a beef against the Terminal?”
“Not the Terminal.” I knew I was right, knew it in my heart. “The pictures.”
Sophie had dried her tears and she clutched Declan’s handkerchief in trembling fingers. “Who would want to destroy pictures of the Statue of Liberty parade?”
The same person Rocky was staring at during the parade.
It was such a crazy idea, I didn’t say a word. Not then, anyway. I would let it marinate and make a decision about telling someone—or keeping the crazy theory to myself—when I got back from New York.
• • •
JUST FOR THE record, I washed my hair three times that night when I got back to Sophie’s and again in the morning before I boarded a very early flight to New York, and I swore I could still smell the faintest whiff of smoke. With any luck, no one at the senator’s penthouse would notice and mistake the aroma around me for burnt food.
The good news was that I was able to leave the senator’s massive and perfectly stocked kitchen for a bit right around ten and run out for the fresh herbs I’d never had a chance to get at Rocky’s, what with being hit on the head by the intruder and all. Thank goodness there was a place in Union Square that had all the fresh herbs I needed!
More good news . . . the luncheon went off without a hitch, and according to Senator Katherine Stone, who I spoke with personally for fifteen minutes when she was done eating, it was the best crab soup she’d ever tasted, the steak was cooked to perfection, and the sweet potato meringue pie . . . well, maybe it was wishful thinking, but when she said she hoped to include it at her Thanksgiving table and didn’t ask for the recipe, I took it as a sign that I was a shoo-in.
Fingers crossed.
Back in Hubbard before sundown, I was exhausted and as happy as any chef looking for a new job had ever been.
Which doesn’t mean I wasn’t worried about Sophie and the Terminal.
“So,” I asked the minute I stepped inside the door of her tiny bungalow not far from the Terminal. “What did the insurance company say? And the cleaning crew you had in. How did they do today? When can we open again?”
She was in the kitchen with its green Formica countertop and, over the sink, a window that looked out onto a tiny backyard. Across from the sink, there was a table big enough to seat two, and that’s where Sophie was seated, drinking a cup of tea and eating a homemade oatmeal cookie. She handed me the cookie platter. I try to avoid sweets, but I was tired and now that I thought about it, hungry, too. I grabbed a cookie and would have plunked right down across from Sophie if her black-and-white cat, Muffin, weren’t alre
ady there.
“Scram,” I told the cat, but in the nicest way, since Sophie adored the creature. The cat and I didn’t get along, but Sophie had yet to catch on.
With a sneer, Muffin exited, and I took his place and crunched into my cookie.
“We’ll be open by the weekend.” Sophie grinned. “It could have been worse. It would have been worse if you didn’t spring right into action.”
“Instinct.”
“Bravery.”
“Oh no.” I waved what was left of my cookie at her. “Let’s not get carried away. I did what anyone would have done.”
“Anyone who loves the Terminal.”
This, I couldn’t even begin to discuss. Not still floating from the euphoria of my interview with the senator.
I took another cookie, poured myself a cup of tea when the water boiled, and was about to change the subject when Sophie beat me to it.
“What did the doctor say?”
It took me a moment to remember the lie I’d built to explain why I’d be gone all day.
“Right as rain!” I said, and gave my skull a tap. “Everything looks good.”
“I’m so glad!” The way she said it—with so much enthusiasm and so much sincerity—only made me feel more guilty. Rather than think about it, I finished my cookie. “Let’s look through Rocky’s newspaper clippings again,” I suggested.
Sophie perked right up, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the additional cookie she snagged. “You have an idea,” she said.
“I have questions,” I admitted. “Like, why would someone want to destroy our photo display?”
She crinkled her nose. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. And you think . . .”
I told her I wasn’t sure and went to get the pile of things we’d rescued from the safe deposit box.
• • •
AN HOUR LATER, we’d been through all the materials another two times and we decided we were hungry, and not just for cookies, but for real food. On days the Terminal is open late, Sophie and I usually just grab something there. On weeknights when the restaurant closes early, we bring home to-go containers of whatever the day’s special is.
That night, we didn’t have the luxury.
I rummaged through the fridge and found enough for a giant salad. She dug through the freezer and came up with a container of fried chicken. I was too hungry to ask how long it had been in there, and too tired to care.
We added baked potatoes that we cooked in the microwave, and within thirty minutes, we had dinner in front of us.
Dinner, and all those newspaper articles.
“So . . .” As we’d looked through Rocky’s research materials earlier, I’d divided it into piles, and I pulled one of them closer. “What do you think?”
Rocky poured blue cheese dressing on her salad and offered me the bottle. “I think I don’t understand,” she admitted. “What do these things have to do with the photo board? And why did someone want to burn the photo board in the first place?”
“I can’t say for sure,” I admitted, “but I think someone thought there was something in one of those pictures that would implicate him in Rocky’s death.”
Sophie had just taken a bite of salad, so sucking in a breath of wonder was not the best thing to do. Once she was done swallowing, coughing, and pounding her chest, she looked at me, her eyes wide. “You think the murderer started the fire?”
“I think it’s a very real possibility.”
“And you think these old newspaper articles are somehow related?”
This I couldn’t say, so instead I munched a piece of chicken (maybe I was just hungry or maybe it truly was the best chicken I’d ever tasted) and sifted through the articles. “These are all about Steve Pastori,” I said. “A couple of them talk about how he died.”
Sophie reached across the table and grabbed the article at the top of the pile. It was written the day after the last bombing, the day after Steve’s body was found in the rubble of the burned-out ROTC building.
“What a shame,” she said. “What a waste of a wonderful mind and a precious life.”
“The article talks about how he used Molotov cocktails to start the other fires,” I said. “I guess that’s what got me thinking about him, the Molotov cocktails.”
Sophie nodded. “I remember hearing about it at the time.”
“But don’t you think it’s odd,” I said, “that he’d start those other two fires with Molotov cocktails, but that’s not how he started the fire that killed him?”
She wasn’t sure what I was getting at and honestly, I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t exactly sure, either.
“His body was found in the building,” I said, putting down my fork long enough to tap one finger against the picture of the burned building. “He was inside when the fire started, and he got trapped there. The other fires he started from outside, by throwing the Molotov cocktail through the windows and into the buildings.”
“Just like someone did at the Terminal.” Sophie put down her fork, too, and wrapped herself in a hug. “What do you suppose it means?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I have an idea, and I wonder if Tony Russo would go along with it.”
Chapter 20
The grand reopening of Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks was set for the following Friday. We decided early on that in honor of Rocky and all those pictures that were destroyed in the fire (they’d been e-mailed to me, of course, and the restaurant computer was just fine so the firebomber made a mistake there!), we’d continue with our French theme.
Our French flag had been in the lobby at the time of the fire, and we had it sent out and cleaned and we hoisted it on our little flagpole up front to show the world that Sophie’s restaurant might be a little waterlogged, but no way was it out of business.
I baked quiches and we made tartines and I cooked up a whole bunch of crème brûlée because in my book, there isn’t anything more festive or more delicious.
And we invited all of Hubbard to join us in celebrating.
Our doors opened at four, and that’s when our guests started to arrive.
Phil, Dale, Stan, and Ruben, our lunch regulars, were there and they brought their wives and an assortment of children and grandchildren.
Gus Oberlin showed and grumbled something about how he had better things to do but since Sophie had phoned him and personally invited him, he couldn’t exactly say no. We seated him with Tony Russo (with our apologies to Tony first), thinking that maybe they’d have something in common and something to talk about.
Andrew MacLain showed up, too, which was something of a surprise since it was pretty much my fault that he was still stuck in Hubbard. I guess the fact that he was promised a free dinner somehow made up for the inconvenience.
Just as we expected, Muriel Ross and Ben Newcomb showed, too. Muriel, of course, would never miss an opportunity like this, not when she knew the press would be there to cover the reopening. As usual, Ben was at her side and when he wasn’t, he was talking up her best qualities to anyone and everyone who would listen.
Declan’s cousins, who played in an Irish band, had learned some French songs for the occasion and they played outside the office, and from the number of dancers out on the floor and the diners with smiles on their faces, I guess they did a pretty good job.
“Congratulations.” I was headed out to the lobby to cash out a customer when Declan grabbed my hand. “It’s going well.”
“It is,” I told him, and tipped my head to tell him where I was going and invite him along.
He joined me behind the front counter.
“You still haven’t told me why you wanted Tony to be here,” he said.
I handed our customer his change. “He’s a nice guy.”
“He is,” Declan conceded. “And just so you know, w
hen he got here this evening, he talked to me. About you.”
I turned to face him. “What about me?”
“Oh, just the usual,” he said. “He wondered how you were recovering from all the excitement on Sunday night. And he wondered if everything here was shipshape and you were ready for the crowds. Oh, and he asked me if I’d mind if he asked you out.”
“On a date?” The words came out like a squeak, but then, they kind of stuck behind the ball of astonishment that blocked my breathing.
Declan’s expression was stony. “Yes, on a date. He wanted to know what I thought. He wanted to know if he asked you, would you go?”
Would I?
For a moment, the question felt like it took up all the space in the room. Like it sucked out all the air.
I shook myself to reality. “What did you . . . what did you tell him?” I asked Declan.
“What should I have told him?”
“I asked first.”
He conceded with a nod. “I told him that I’m not your keeper, that I can’t make decisions for you, that I don’t know what you think. I told him I’d ask you. So I’m asking you.”
I was glad when a customer walked up and I had to cash her out. It gave me a few moments to think.
When she was gone, I slid a look toward the table where we’d seated Tony and Gus Oberlin.
“Tony’s a nice guy,” I said.
I don’t think it was a product of my imagination; Declan’s shoulders actually did droop a bit.
“And he’s cute, too,” I said, because let’s face it, guys don’t usually notice that in other guys and I thought it was important to point it out. “He’s been great about us helping out with the investigation. I mean, after he got over how he thought Rocky killed herself. He hasn’t treated me like I’m dumb or like I’m getting in the way.”
Those wide shoulders drooped a little more.
“But . . .”
“But?” Declan’s eyes brightened.
Saved by the bell, literally. My cell phone rang.
I checked the caller ID, excused myself, and hurried outside.