French Fried

by Kylie Logan

  “Which is why he started the fire at the Terminal.” Gus sucked on the toothpick propped between his teeth. “Stupid, really. You got these pictures via e-mail. You could have picked them up on any computer, anywhere. He couldn’t destroy them.”

  “I have a feeling he wasn’t thinking that clearly. Not when he realized that after more than forty years of dodging the law, his lies were about to come crashing down on him. He took a chance and started the fire and when that didn’t work . . .”

  “When that didn’t work, you dug a little deeper.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was actually a note of admiration in Gus’s voice. Good thing I knew better.

  “I just couldn’t see who else would want to keep Rocky quiet about the peace movement,” I said. “What difference would it make to anyone after all these years?”

  “Except this MacLain fellow—he wanted to keep her quiet.”

  “He did.” I thought of Andrew MacLain and his desperate attempt to keep his adopted mother’s secret. “It’s sad, but at least before she died, MacLain had a chance to see how much Rocky loved him. At least before she died, she had a chance to see him and see what kind of man he was.”

  The kind of man who wanted his biological mother to disappear from his life.

  The thought made me uncomfortable, and I squirmed in my seat. “Anyway,” I said, because thinking about Ben Newcomb was better than listening to the old voices inside my head that wondered about my own family, my own mother. “I sort of did a process of elimination. Who could Rocky have been looking at up there on the grandstand? Why would she care? The fingerprints, that sealed the deal.”

  “It was a good idea.” Like the words tasted bad in his mouth, Gus grunted. “Scooping up that glass that Newcomb used and getting his fingerprints. That’s what really proved to us who he was. And he never suspected a thing! So that’s that. We solved a nearly fifty-year-old mystery, we solved Ms. Arnaud’s murder. As for the suicide . . .”

  I’d been dealing with the terrible memories all day. Sitting there with Muriel, feeling the waves of her anguish . . .

  It was impossible to get rid of the emotions, but I tried anyway, twitching my shoulders. “Can you imagine what the revelation of who Ben really was would have done to Muriel’s political aspirations?”

  “Would have done?” Gus tipped his head. “I’m thinking this whole suicide thing isn’t going to do her any good.”

  “But it will,” I pointed out. “If Ben had run, well, the news that he was a wanted murderer and that she’d married him might have ruined Muriel. But the fact that he committed suicide, that he was repentant, and that he took his life because of it . . .”

  “But we don’t know if he was sorry.”

  I think it was the first time all that day that I smiled. “No, we don’t, do we? But I bet anything that’s the way Muriel’s going to play it up. The wronged wife. The grieving widow. The fact that Ben killed himself as a final act of repentance might actually help her campaign, not hurt it.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when I sat up like a shot.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gus asked. “What are you thinking?”

  What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t sure, but that didn’t stop me from saying, “Let me have a look at those pictures of Ben Newcomb.”

  • • •

  THERE HADN’T BEEN a bigger story in Hubbard in as long as anyone could remember, and Ben Newcomb’s death was the talk of the Terminal that evening. It was the last night we planned to celebrate French cuisine and we did it up big, including crêpes (both sweet for dessert and savory as a dinner entrée) along with the wonderful French sausage and white bean casserole called cassoulet. We were slammed and the dining room buzzed with conversation.

  All of it about what was no longer the mystery of the long-missing Steve Pastori.

  Our regulars showed up (two nights in a row!). So did Carrie from the art gallery across the street, John and Mike from the bookstore, and even Myra, Bill, and Barb from Caf-Fiends, though they had to come in shifts because they couldn’t leave their own shop unattended.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the entire Fury family walk in, and there were so many of them, they took up every table in the small dining area right outside the kitchen and the office. Declan wasn’t with them, and since I didn’t want to start up any rumors or spark any speculation, I didn’t ask about him. I did, however, find myself looking across the street at the Irish store more than a time or two, noticing that the lights were still on there, thinking that he was working late, wondering if once he closed up, he’d come to the Terminal for dinner.

  About two minutes after I saw the lights flick off at Bronntanas (okay, so it was more like two seconds, I admit it), I realized that my heartbeat had quickened at the same time my stomach fluttered.

  It was the same time I realized something else.

  If Declan didn’t stop by, I’d miss him.

  The thought not only caught me off guard, it smacked me in the solar plexus and left me fighting to catch my breath.

  I’d miss Declan that evening.

  Just like I’d miss him once I was on Senator Stone’s staff and cooking up a storm between Newport, New York, and D.C., using the finest ingredients money could buy, planning parties and fund-raisers and intimate dinners for power brokers with china and silver and flower arrangements in mind.

  I stood frozen by the enormity of the thought, and I guess being still, ignoring my surroundings, and listening to the thoughts inside my head were what made another revelation possible—

  Once I was gone, I’d miss the Terminal.

  I’d miss Sophie, who had no idea why I was standing there like a statue and whizzed by and gave me a smile anyway.

  I’d miss the crazy Fury clan and our regulars and even . . .

  When a train rumbled by, I automatically clutched the cash register counter.

  I’d miss it all, and not just because being there in Hubbard had exposed me to murder and helped me learn that there was a logical side to me that helped solve crimes.

  There was more to the town than just that, something that felt so strange and so foreign, I couldn’t even begin to describe it except in one simple word.

  “Family.”

  “What’s that you said?” Sophie was handing out small samples of our crêpes to the people waiting for tables, and she grinned at me over her shoulder. “You talking to yourself?”

  “I’m . . .” I shook my head, trying to clear it. It didn’t work. I knew only one thing would.

  I told Sophie I’d be right back, and because there was no place in the restaurant quiet enough, I darted outside and made the call.

  I think it’s fair to say I caught Fletcher Croft flat-footed.

  “What do you mean, you’re not taking the job?” he stammered in answer to my announcement.

  “I appreciate the offer, I really do. It’s just . . .” I glanced up at the French flag that flapped in the evening breeze. “I can’t,” I told him. “Tell the senator thank you, but I just can’t.”

  I ended the call before I could come to my senses and change my mind, and by that time, a dark sedan had pulled up in front of the Terminal. Gus Oberlin got out.

  He tossed his keys and caught them in one hand. “You were right,” he said.

  I had a perfectly good excuse for not knowing what he was talking about, at least for a few fuzzy-headed moments. I’d just turned down the kind of job offer other chefs can only dream of, the job offer I had desperately wanted just days before. Yet suddenly, none of it seemed to matter. Not as much as feeling deep down inside that I’d done the right thing.

  “Right about what?” I asked Gus.

  “Oh, come on now!” He tried to sound as if he were exasperated, but Gus couldn’t hide the smile that split his doughy face
. “Just thought I’d come by and tell you we did some poking around, talked to some friends of the deceased. Ben Newcomb was left-handed, all right.”

  In a flash, I remembered the way he picked up his fork, and the way he made sure to sit down at the Terminal so that his elbow wouldn’t poke into the person seated next to him.

  “She was so upset, she never even thought of it,” I said.

  Gus chuckled. “All she was worried about was how she’d get more sympathy and more votes out of a husband who killed himself than she would if he was a felon who left town. I’m heading over there now to surprise her. You want to come along?”

  “Nah.” I glanced back toward the Terminal and then, over to the front of the Irish store when Declan stepped outside. “I’m going to stay here. Thanks!”

  Gus put two fingers to his forehead and gave me a little salute before he drove away.

  “Another cop after you?” Declan asked when he walked up.

  “There are no cops after me, not Gus, not anybody.”

  He carried an Irish store gift bag and he shifted it from one hand to the other. “What about Tony?”

  “What about Tony?”

  “What are you going to tell him? You know, about going out with him.”

  I pretended I had to think about it. “What I’m going to tell him is that he’s a great guy and I like him. As a friend. Then I’m going to tell him that I’m already spoken for.”

  Declan’s dark brows rose. So did the corners of his mouth. “Someone I know?”

  I slipped my arm through his. “I’m pretty sure.”

  He slipped his other arm around my waist. “Glad to hear it. And now we can celebrate.”

  Declan led me into the restaurant and into the room where his family was seated. He must have called Sophie and told her he was on his way, because she was there, too, and so were Misti and Inez and George.

  “What’s up?” I asked him.

  Rather than answer, he pulled a bottle of champagne out of the bag he carried and popped the cork. “I have news,” he said nice and loud so that everyone could hear him. “I’ve just been going over some paperwork in regard to Rocky’s estate.” He reached into the bag and handed me an envelope.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “Open it” was his only answer.

  I did and what I found made my jaw drop. “It can’t be,” I said, looking over the official paper. Rocky couldn’t have . . . she didn’t . . .”

  “She did!” Apparently, Sophie was in on the secret, because she gave me a bear hug.

  “She left you this, too.” Declan handed me a handwritten note.

  Dear Laurel, it said. Pacifique, it means “peace,” and that is what I’ve found here on my land. Now it is time for me to pass that peace on to someone else, someone I know will love this place as much as I do. I know you are not a farmer! You do not need to be. Perhaps you can putter in the small garden near the barn and grow the herbs for your fabulous cooking. May you have as many beautiful mornings, glorious days, and starlit nights there as I have always had. I give you this place and this peace with all my heart, Laurel. I give you this, a home.

  Recipes

  QUICK CASSOULET

  Traditional cassoulet recipes call for many more ingredients and much more fussing, but when time is of the essence and you need a hearty meal fast, you can’t beat this quick version. To round out the meal, serve with French bread and a green salad.

  1 tablespoon vegetable oil

  2 carrots, diced

  2 stalks celery, diced

  1 small onion, diced

  2 cloves garlic, chopped

  ½ pound smoked sausage, sliced

  1 (15-ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed and drained

  1 (15-ounce) can cannellini beans, rinsed and drained

  1 (14.5-ounce) can diced tomatoes, drained

  2 bay leaves

  1 teaspoon thyme

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon ground pepper

  Chopped fresh parsley to sprinkle on each serving if you desire

  Heat oil in a large skillet. Add carrots, celery, onion, and garlic. Cook and stir until onion is transparent. Add sausage and cook to brown.

  Add beans and tomatoes, season with bay leaves, thyme, salt, and pepper. Cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer 10 minutes or until veggies are tender.

  Remove bay leaves before serving and sprinkle with chopped fresh parsley.

  Serves four.

  TARTINES

  Tartines are the ultimate sandwich, and there is only one secret to creating them . . . use really good ingredients. You really don’t need a recipe to make fabulous tartines. Just follow this simple blueprint.

  Use really good, country-style bread. Cut it in thick slices.

  Add a spreadable ingredient (butter, tapenade, pesto, hummus, etc.)—anything that suits your tastes and the flavors of your other ingredients.

  Add whatever else you choose—chicken, cheese, meats, eggs. All these ingredients should be already cooked.

  Pop your tartines in the oven or under the broiler long enough to heat through.

  Enjoy!

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  "I can explain.”

  At my side, Sophie Charnowski pressed her small, plump hands together and shifted from one sneaker-clad foot to the other. The nearest streetlight flickered off, then on again, and in its anemic light, I saw perspiration bead on her forehead. “It’s like this, you see, Laurel.”

  “Oh, I see, all right.” Good thing I was wearing my Brian Atwood snakeskin ballet flats. In heels, I would have tripped on the pitted sidewalk when I spun away from the building in front of us and the railroad tracks just beyond. When I pinned short, round Sophie with a look, I meant to make her shake in her shoes, and it gave me a rush of satisfaction to realize the ol’ daggers from my blue eyes still carried all the punch I intended. Sophie flicked out her tongue to touch her lips, then swallowed hard.

  While she was at it, I stabbed one finger toward the train station and the sign that hung above the door that declared the place SOPHIE’S TERMINAL AT THE TRACKS.

  “This isn’t what I expected,” I said.

  Sophie rubbed her hands together. “I know that. Really, I do. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

  “No.” I cut her off before she could say anything else ignorant and insulting. “You can’t possibly imagine how I feel. I just drove all the way to Ohio from California. Because you told me—”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.” Sophie was a full eight inches shorter than my five foot nine, and as round as I am slender. She had the nerve to look up at me through the shock of silvery bangs that hung over her forehead. Believe me, the hairstyle wasn’t a fashion statement. When I picked Sophie up at her small, neat bungalow so we could drive across Hubbard and she could show me the restaurant, I had the distinct feeling I’d just woken her from an after-dinner nap. “I knew once you saw the place—”

  “Once I saw the place!” Was that my voice echoing against the old train station and bouncing around the semigentrified neighborhood with its bookstore, its coffee shop, its beauty salon, and gift boutiques?

  I was way past caring. “Sophie, you told me—”

  “That I’m having my knee replaced tomorrow. Yes.” She took a funny sort of half step and pulled up short, one hand automatically shooting down to her right knee. She kept it there, a not-so-subtle reminder of the pain she’d told me was her constant companion. “And that I need someone to help out while I’m laid up. Someone to run the restaurant.”

  “Which isn’t the restaurant it’s supposed to be.”

&n
bsp; “Well, really, it is.” A grin made her look so darned impish, I almost forgave the lies she’d been feeding me for years.

  Almost.

  “The Terminal at the Tracks has been a neighborhood gathering place for going on forty years now,” she told me, and don’t think I didn’t notice the way she rushed to get the words out before I could stop her cold. “I always loved it here. We used to stop for breakfast on Sunday mornings after church. And after our Tuesday bowling league, we’d always get a bite to eat here. Only these days . . .” This time when she caressed her knee, she added a long-suffering sigh. “Well, I’m not doing very much bowling these days. But that doesn’t change how I feel about this neighborhood. It’s got the feel of history to it, don’t you think?” Instead of giving me a chance to answer, she drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly while she swiveled her gaze from the train station to the tracks behind it and the boarded-up factory beyond.

  “When I had the opportunity to buy the Terminal fifteen years ago, I just jumped at it. So there’s my name up there on the sign.” Sophie made a brisk ta-da sort of motion in that direction. “And here I am.” She pointed at her own broad bosom. “And now . . .” It was spring and almost nine, which meant it was already dark. That didn’t keep me from seeing the rapturous look that brightened Sophie’s brown eyes and brought out the dimples in her pudgy cheeks. “And now here you are, too. So you see, everything is just as it’s supposed to be.”

  Really? I was supposed to buy into this philosophical, all’s-right-with-the-world horse hockey?

  My pulse quickened and my blood pressure would have shot to the ceiling had we been indoors instead of outside in front of the long, low-slung building with a two-story section built in the middle above the main entrance. When that streetlight went off and on again, it winked against the weathered yellow paint and the dark windows of the restaurant.

  I hardly noticed the sparkle of the light against the glass.