Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012)

by Bonnie S. Calhoun

  I stared at him, ready to declare some Jesus-induced healing. "Mr. Andropolis! You can walk. Is this a miracle or what?"

  "Ugh, you crazy kids. You'll learn when you get my age." He grabbed two trays of casserole and balanced one across the width of the other.

  I grabbed one pan and followed him back in. "You mean, you aren't really decrepit?" This reminded me of how my grandfather used to pretend he was too weak to wait on himself, and literally worked Grandma into the grave, and then after her passing all you ever saw was him dressing up to go out on the town. He had the same old-man swagger.

  He stifled a smirk as he put the trays on the Sterno warmers. "No, I can walk just fine . . . when I want to."

  "But that seems dishonest."

  "No more anéntimos than that kleftis that you are associating yourself with."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Anéntimos is Greek for dishonest. Kleftis means thief."

  I could smell my brain matter burning, or maybe it was the Sterno. What conversation had I walked into? "Who are you calling dishonest and a thief?"

  I felt like snorting with laughter. He must mean Trey.

  "That Comino kid. I never did like him. He was always as much of a listi as his father.

  My face formed a question mark again.

  The old man looked like he was losing patience with me. "Listi, plunderer. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

  My chest contracted in on itself. "Andreas is a wonderful man. I'm sure you are mistaking him for someone else."

  Stavros shook his head. "I am eighty-two years old and there's snow on my roof, but there's a fire in my furnace and I'm sharp as a tack. I know that boy's family from the old country. Him and his áplistos father. Speaking of greedy, I need to get in line for the baklava before all these áplistoi ánthropoi scarf it up."

  I was trying to decide if he was slick or just senile. I watched him walk away. "Wait! Mr. Andropolis, I need you to explain." I moved to touch his arm.

  Verlene intervened. "Girl, that old man is a toy short of a Happy Meal. He doesn't know what he's talking about most of the time, and he's not the best at keeping these dinners on schedule." She snatched me by my shirt and pulled me toward the door and more trays of food. "I'm sure sorry that Enzo Mastronardi died. God rest his soul, even with his broken English, he was still the best organizer we ever had for these affairs."

  "What happened?" I grabbed two more trays from the car.

  "He died the day after we had the last dinner, the week before your ma died."

  I stopped in mid-stride. "How?"

  "Heart attack, poor old guy. I guess that's to be expected when you get up there in your seventies. But he was so full of life. He still worked every day and managed all his own properties."

  I remembered him now. It was the talk of the neighborhood when he died because his wife sold one of their properties to Coltrane and left on an extended vacation. We dropped off the last of the trays and headed for the car.

  That wasn't so bad. The people at the Seniors Center were actually very helpful getting all the trays inside without incident.

  The real adventure was yet to come. Verlene was dragging me back to her house to sample something. I just knew it. I was trapped in her car, like a rat on a sinking ship. The water was rising—

  "Are you coming?"

  I snapped from my thoughts and looked around. We were parked in front of Verlene's brownstone. It never ceased to amaze me how she always grabbed a spot out front. Probably with all the fire trucks' regular visits, people were afraid of parking in front of her house and getting a hose run through their vehicle to put out her fires.

  I accepted my fate as her sole New York relative, and trudged behind her to my doom, er, her kitchen. It smelled pretty good in here. And to my total surprise her kitchen had gained a whole new sense of order. All of her implements of cooking destruction were stored away, the egg pox had been cleaned, and even the cat food was gone.

  "Sit down, sweetness. Let me give you a taste of my casserole." She snatched up a plate and shoveled steaming food from an aluminum casserole pan setting on the stove.

  I knew better than to protest. I'd learned to just smoosh it around on the plate when she wasn't looking and let her see the empty fork leaving my mouth. I'm sorry, Lord, for the deception, but this is self-preservation.

  "You're not going to believe my luck. I need you to help me." Verlene placed a plate, fork, and folded paper napkin in front of me and rushed down the hall. She passed the first set of mahogany pocket doors to her right that opened to the living room, and continued to the second set to the right of the front door, which led to her library. It held her computer and an impressive collection of first editions that she and Burt had collected over the years.

  I stared down the hall and then at the plate of food. The aroma made me salivate. Could Verlene have actually learned how to cook something right? I picked up the fork and explored the savory concoction with a golden crumb topping. Noodles, cream sauce, peas, tuna.

  Verlene rushed back in the room, and slid a dark brown leathery-type cloth-wrapped package on the table. "Check it out. I got it for a song." Oh jeepers, the only thing she did worse than cook was sing.

  I laid the fork on the side of the plate and picked up the package. The brown cloth covered a leather-bound book that looked to be rather old. I leafed through the pages. Where Mom would have probably been oohing and ahhing, I was a well of disinterest. "What's special about it?"

  I laid the book back on the table, and picked up my fork.

  Verlene's face lit up with a broad smile. "Check out page seventy-one." She used two fingers to flick through the pages. She looked as pleased as I felt bored.

  I inhaled again. "This smells delicious." For once, I was impressed. Maybe her luck in the kitchen had reached a new high. A prickle ran up my nose, and I turned my face into my elbow and sneezed.

  Verlene grimaced. "Maybe you should get some allergy tablets."

  "As soon as the pollen count goes down, I'll be fine. What is this?" I shoveled the creamy food onto the fork and lifted it into my open mouth.

  "Tuna noodle casserole," she continued, carefully turning pages.

  I stopped. My mouth closed. My mouth opened. I stared at the empty fork in front of my face. I stared at the spot on the floor where I had placed the two cases of tuna cat food. "Uhm . . . where's the cat food you bought this morning?" I pointed at the spot on the floor. Oh no, she would not!

  Verlene followed my hand. "Ya know, that's a really expensive brand. It was on sale for practically nothing. They advertise on TV that it's good enough for people to eat."

  I jerked the napkin to my mouth and disgorged the contents into the folded paper.

  She slowly turned more pages.

  My brain whirled like a fan. Would she actually feed people cat food? Better still . . . would she feed me cat food? I thought of rummaging through her garbage in search of cans. I hurried the napkin to the can in the corner and lifted the lid. It was empty.

  I heard the whirr of the garbage truck motor outside. They must have been running late today to be doing pickup this late in the evening. If there was evidence, it just left the neighborhood.

  "What?" Verlene stared at me as I returned to my seat and stared at the plate. "What's the problem?"

  "Where is the cat food?"

  "I gave some of it to my neighbor for her cat."

  My brain vapor locked and I pushed the plate to the center of the table.

  "What's the matter?" Verlene stared at me.

  "I'm . . . I'm just not feeling well." Okay, so that was a lie, but thinking about putting maybe-cat food in my mouth would certainly make me ill. So I was just stating the obvious after the fact. I wasn't ready to abandon the source of the tuna just yet.

  "What did you do with the rest of it?"

  Verlene held up the book. "Quit worrying about the cat food. This is what I wanted to show you."

  Willing to interrupt another o
f her culinary catastrophes with emphasis on "cat," I turned my attention to the book.

  She pointed to a list of ingredients. "Do you have any idea what this is?"

  I looked at her with a blank expression.

  She opened her mouth and squinted her eyes. "Don't you get it?"

  I shook my head.

  She tapped her finger on the page. "Look! This is Frederick Hines's diary."

  I gave another blank stare. I was getting good at the expression.

  Verlene stomped her foot. "Honey! This is Sugah's original journal. This is his recipe for his secret sauce!"

  I picked up the book and examined the page. It was old, and definitely original. I flipped to the front. Hines's name and the address of his old house were in the front endsheet "property of" page. That block has been razed twenty years ago for a high-rise, and Frederick aka Sugah had been dead for about fifteen years. But his secret sauce was an empire that was unequaled in the barbeque market. No matter how many people tried, no one had ever captured the same flavor. How ironic that the coveted recipe was now in the hands of the ptomaine queen. Okay, to be fair, not all ptomaines are poisonous, but I'm sure in Verlene's capable hands they could be. I wouldn't put anything past her bizarre abilities.

  "What are you going to do with this?"

  "I don't know. I think it would sell for a lot of money. What do you think about selling it for me?"

  "But you don't need money. Burt left you very well taken care of. How would I sell it? I don't know anything about books."

  "You own the bookstore."

  For a split second, Verlene was smarter than me. "I have a dinner date this evening and a full day of appointments tomorrow. I'll get Fifi on it right away. But if this is as important as you say, then you need to keep this quiet until we get it taken care of."

  "I know. For now I'm just keeping it hidden away, and not telling anyone . . . except my BFF Delores."

  It sounded kind of cute to hear someone Verlene's age use Internet-speak for her best friend forever. But it concerned me. Loose lips sink ships. "Don't be talking about the book. It could draw unwanted attention before we get to find out what it's actually worth."

  Verlene looked pensive. "Then I'll just keep quiet and not show anyone else."

  I agreed that that was the best course of action. And I also internally swore that I'd never bring up the topic of tuna noodle casserole again, because I'd never find out the truth.

  On second thought, I didn't want to find out the truth. I had to get back to the store before Andreas showed up, so I'd rather happily think that the cat next door was living the high life on expensive food.

  9

  THE BELL JINGLED AS THE DOOR SWEPT OPEN.

  "Sloane!" The angry tenor reverberated off the walls of the bookstore as the door handle slammed into the counter, prompting the front store window to rattle. "Come out here! I want to talk to you. Sloane! I'm lookin' for you!"

  I parted the curtains to the stock room and held each brocade panel against the sides of the opening. Feet planted firmly. Lips clamped tight. Eyes glaring. And I prayed that my posture telegraphed my intentions, regardless of my shaking knees. His tirades no longer elicited that rabid fear. And to that end I could finally think of myself as his former girlfriend.

  "What do you want, Trey?" I focused on breathing evenly.

  "What have I told you about coming into my place of business acting like a Neanderthal?"

  Trey Alexander's six-foot-two muscular frame filled out his white T-shirt and the open doorway. He stood before me snorting, as though he could breathe streams of fire at any second. His face screwed into a scowl as he clenched and unclenched his fists, making the tattoo on his right forearm undulate. That Bad As I Wanna Be slogan had at one time excited me. What a difference a couple beatings can make. The bad-boy attitude had been appealing, until he started acting bad with me.

  I stared at those huge hands. My breath hitched, remembering the power of being belted with one of those pile drivers. I willed myself to ignore the tightness in my chest and glanced around the store. Good. Closing time had emptied the place. My knees continued to quiver, but I needed to move without falling down and wetting myself. I could do this. I let the curtains drop and moved from the safety of the opening.

  I glared and shook my head. "Grow up." Great. Smooth move. That was just so profound. Sigh. Don't let him see you sweat. I willed my forehead dry. "And shut the door. Did your mother raise you in a barn?"

  He stabbed a menacing finger toward me. "Don't you diss my moms."

  My heart pounded, pushing against my ribs like a caged bird fleeing from a cat. Remain calm. Get behind the counter. I strolled toward Trey. "Don't give me that. You know I love your mother. It's you going all gangsta on me that I can't stand."

  I locked my knees to keep from quivering and reached for the gun drawer. My hands rested just inches from it. Pressing the heels of my palms to the counter calmed the shaking in my wrists.

  "How do you expect me to act?" His eyes flashed wild with rage, and spittle formed white-foam droplets in the outer corners of his mouth. "Don't you think everybody in this neighborhood is laughing at me?"

  I flattened my moist palms on the counter and pressed down hard to stop the tremors, but my hands turned into suction cups. Great! This was not the time to be imitating a refrigerator note holder.

  "Laughing at you?" I shifted my hand to break the hold. "What on God's green earth are you talking about?"

  Trey paced in front of the counter. His sneakers squeaked on the tile floor as he pivoted.

  "You!" He stabbed a finger in my direction.

  I flinched. Bad move. Never let him see you sweat. And of all days not to be using my Dry Idea antiperspirant. I'm sure he wouldn't see the humor in it. Frankly, I wasn't seeing the humor in it, but my nerves were getting the better of me. I hoped that I didn't burst out laughing or something as equally inappropriate for the occasion.

  The whites showed around his dark eyes. "You goin' out with that white guy. Don't you think that makes me look bad?"

  "He's not white, he's Greek. That's Mediterranean, not Anglo-Saxon." Go ahead. That's it. Wave red in front of a bull. Preservation set in. My own blood would probably wind up being the red. I stifled a nervous giggle, knowing full well it might push him over the edge.

  Trey bared his teeth. "Whatever, same difference."

  I rolled my eyes, but quickly returned my stare to him because I could feel his willingness to slap me while my eyes were scouring the inside of my eyelids. "My breaking up with you had nothing to do with Andreas. It had to do with you whippin' on me and always trying to control me."

  "That's because you're too uppity and headstrong. I'm the man in this relationship." He stabbed his thumb into his chest. "Just because you make more money than me doesn't mean you can walk around with a bad attitude all the time."

  "Bad attitude—" I balked. "You spent every penny you could get your hands on for getting high or entertaining your boys. I never got jack from you." I glanced at the diamond stud in his right ear. He had at one time declared that he only bought bling for himself, and not for women. I rested my hands on my hips. "You leave me to fend for myself, and yeah buddy, you're gonna' get attitude!"

  "You just tryin' to be the man in our relationship. You ruined it for me."

  "Excuse me, so this all boils down to you and your status as a virile black man." I was beginning to feel confident. My face stiffened. "Get over yourself, and we won't have to discuss you beating me."

  His face softened. "Baby, you know I said I was sorry. I was having a bad time of it. That was the day I lost my job."

  His typical make up response. I'd heard it a million times. With this, a million and one. It didn't cut any ice with me. "Oh . . . yeah, and that was a reason to beat me? Let's not forget you pushing me down the back stairs."

  "I told you, that was an accident."

  His look could have easily been mistaken for repentance but I wasn't foole
d. I'd seen it more often than I cared to remember, and fallen for it just as many times.

  My face radiated warmth. Don't get too angry. Don't push him. Just get him out of the store. Keep the lips zipped.

  "Like the accident when you threw the pot of boiling water on me while I was lying on the couch." So much for zipping it, but I couldn't resist that slap. Deflecting the pan toward my legs had saved my face, but still resulted in second-degree burns. Lucky for me, I'd been wearing jeans.

  Trey appeared contrite. "I said I was sorry. You made me crazy. I thought you were stepping out on me." He looked down at the floor and shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy-legged painter's jeans, pulling them down a tad lower on his hips and exposing the waistband of his underwear.

  Remembering the pain and the week in the hospital making up stories to hide the truth straightened my spine. "I can't be around you anymore." My voice softened to align with his posture. "I'm afraid of you."

  That wasn't necessarily true, but any port in a storm. I just wanted him to go away.

  The old, soft and sweet Trey shone through the belligerent facade. "Is there anything I can do to show you how much I love you?"

  My heart hitched. His handsome bad boy face was sucking me in like a black hole. My mouth opened, then snapped shut. I almost succumbed. I shook my head. "No, and I'm closing now, so I'd like to lock up."

  I did it! My resolve had just sustained a major assault and I emerged unscathed.

  At first, he didn't move.

  My heart rate ticked up a few beats. Was this going to be a war of wills?

  He glared at me.

  Sweetness evaporated. I couldn't read his posture. My heart pounded faster, making my eyes feel like they were pulsing in their sockets.

  He turned toward the door.

  Relief washed over me. I let loose the breath I'd captured in my chest and waited for him to move before I came out from behind the safety of the counter.