Fifi pushed out a sigh and a few more giggles before her face straightened. She looked down at the book in her hands. "I never saw the book before. Are we sure this is Verlene's book?"
"Of course it's Verlene's book. That's the same kind of cloth hers was wrapped in." A nervous laugh jumped from my chest. I pointed at the dark-brown leathery cloth still lying on the counter.
Fifi sat up straight. "Let me get this straight. We just pointed guns at two guys because the wrapper looked the same?"
"Well . . . I-I . . . it looks—"
"Sloane! Oh, my goodness gracious! Sugah, are you telling me that we just robbed those two guys at gunpoint?"
"Uhm . . . they ran."
"Well, sugah, we did have guns pointed at them."
My brain seized. I only saw the book once. What could I remember about it? The cloth. "I remember that exact cloth . . . I think."
"Oh, good googa-mooga." Fifi raised the book in her hands. "Tell me something, sugah. Anything."
"I wasn't concentrating on the book. I was trying not to eat cat food."
"Cat food? What in the world?"
I raised a hand for silence. My life flashed before my eyes as I watched myself being hauled offto jail. My stomach growled. "Food!" I jumped up. "The secret recipe."
I snatched the book from Fifi . Please God, let there be a secret recipe. Please. Please. I ran my hand across the leather binding. It felt familiar. My suddenly cold fingers flipped through the pages. What page did Verlene say it was on? Seventy-five? I flipped there. Nothing about secret sauce.
My heart jumped up in my throat. "I don't see it."
The tic started to flick in the top of my cheek below my right eye.
"Give me that." Fifi slid the book onto her lap. Her fingers flipped back and forth between the pages. She gingerly slid a page to the right. Page seventy-one appeared and the handwritten recipe came into view.
The "Hallelujah Chorus" rang in my ears. It was Verlene's book! I wasn't going to jail . . . today, at least. "That's it! Thank you, Jesus."
I wrapped my arms around my braided head. I still had a ton of aches and sore spots, but in the last half hour, I really hadn't noticed any of them. Even my face seemed to be loosening up. Maybe it had something to do with the copious amounts of Advil I had been consuming today. At any rate, I felt a lot better.
"What are you thinking, sugah?" Fifi closed the book and ran her hand over the cover.
"I'm thinking that we need to get that in the floor safe right now, and get the security service to come and transfer it to the bank tomorrow."
"I'm on it!" Fifi rose from the chair and headed to the storeroom where the floor safe was hidden. "Are you going to call Detective Justice?"
"Yes . . . as soon as I figure out a plausible story that doesn't involve guns."
Fifi turned at the doorway. "Well, that's one that I'd like to hear. Don't forget, you need to call Verlene and tell her that we snatched her book back."
I jumped from the chair. "Great idea."
I snatched up the cordless phone and punched in her number. It rang several times. No answer. I looked down at what I had dialed. I might have keyed it wrong. Hmm, no, the number was right. The phone continued to ring, but the answering machine didn't pick up.
Fifi strolled into the room. "What's the matter? You look worried."
"Verlene's not answering, and it's not going to her machine."
"Call her cell."
I disconnected, and punched in the number for her cell. "Right to voice mail. It's not turned on." I hung up and drummed my fingers on the counter.
"You're not thinking that she's in any trouble, are you?" Fifi stepped behind the counter.
"I don't know. We don't know if those were the guys who actually stole the book from her. They wouldn't go to her house would they?"
"No! It's broad daylight. They wouldn't be that stupid."
I was getting a bad feeling in my chest again, a sensation I was becoming very tuned into. Even if she were in the backyard, playing with a turkey, she would have her cell phone turned on. "Can I borrow your car? I need to go to Verlene's right now."
Fifi hesitated. "I-I don't think . . ."
I grabbed up my cell phone and keys. "What?"
"There's probably nothing wrong."
"Is this about me driving your car?"
"Well, I don't let anybody—"
"Fifi ! This is Verlene." I held out my hand. "I will not drive like you do. I promise. I just need to be sure she's all right. We have a few more hours till closing, so we can't both go, and I don't want to wait till closing for you to take me."
Fifi screwed up her face but reached in her purse and handed me the keys. "Be careful with my baby."
I tore out the front door.
33
I MOTORED OUT OF THE STORE'S PARKING LOT, CAREFULLY OBEYING ALL the rules of the road that I could remember at the moment. I hadn't driven a car in about four years so Fifi's reluctance to let me borrow it was valid. She'd surely be face-pressed against the front window as I went by, so I resisted the urge to look in her direction. She might have tackled the car and accused me of taking my eyes off the road or something equally as sinister. As soon as I passed outside her field of vision, I floored it.
I had to admit, driving this little sports number was quite sweet. The leather seat molded to my shape, caressing my hips and supporting my back. Funny, I hadn't noticed all this luxury before, while we were careening around corners. I might have to think about getting a car of my own.
I entertained that thought for a good six seconds until I realized that a car would put me square in Verlene's sights. She would expect regular visits and those things called dinners. My fantasy of the little blue version of this same model evaporated as I pulled up in front of Verlene's.
Everything looked normal. Her car was parked in front of the house. No doors open wide. No shot-out windows. No miscreants hanging around. That alone brought a sigh of relief.
I mounted the steps and rang the bell.
And waited . . . and waited.
I pounded.
I yelled her name. As though she could actually hear me through that old-fashioned five-inch-thick door.
Okay, I must admit that nervous little flutter in the pit of my stomach had returned. I'd talked myself out of it on the way over here. I'd rationalized that nothing bad could happen with my courage pulled together so well. I even had the fallen books as an explanation for the discolored look of my face.
I fumbled for Verlene's key and inserted it in the lock. The door swung open to the usual refreshing coolness of her central air. Her house always smelled of honeysuckle and furniture polish like Mom's used to.
"Verlene! Are you here?"
I walked by the hall table and spied her keys, purse, and cell phone. She had to be here somewhere. Why wouldn't she answer me? I raised my voice again. "Verlene!"
I looked in the library and the living room, and headed for the kitchen. No luck.
A tiny yelp from the rear of the house . . .
Oh Lord, please don't let them be in here.
I pulled my weapon and charged down the hall that opened into the wide expanse of kitchen. I canvassed the room, my weapon trained in front of me.
"Verlene, where are you?" She didn't answer me.
I could make out her form through the sheer curtains on the French doors leading out to the patio. Her arms were raised and it looked like she was struggling with a shapeless form.
I charged through the French doors, my gun drawn, yelling as I went. "Let her go!"
Startled, Verlene swung around to face me with her arms outstretched. The movement pulled the metal rack she was holding out of the brining pot in front of her, dragging a liquid-dripping, untrussed turkey along with it. The bird's legs brushed across the open cookbook lying on the table, covered it in salty water, and pushed it into the tall kettle of hot frying oil sitting on a cooker, next to the table.
The kettle spewed
a molten wave of oil bubbles.
Snap!
Crackle!
Pop!
Verlene jumped away from the spattering oil, lost her balance, and let go of the turkey, which jumped legs-first into the same pot as the cookbook, like it was doing a swan dive.
The sudden addition of the turkey disgorged another tidal wave of hot oil that crashed over the sides of the kettle and onto the grass. Verlene stumbled backward and landed on her backside fifteen feet from the pot of oil. Everywhere the oil went, violent flames followed. An angry wall of orange-red flame shot up ten feet in the air and consumed the turkeyfrying kettle.
We both screamed. I shoved my gun into my pocket and ran around the inferno to Verlene.
I gripped her under the arms. "Are you all right?"
"I woulda been if you hadn't scared the stuffing out of me."
I dragged her further away. Flames now licked at the side of the young ash tree at the edge of her garden.
I started for the house. "Where's your fire extinguisher?"
"Inside the kitchen, next to the pantry door. Be sure to get the one for oil."
As I ran into the kitchen, I saw Tracie, staring out her sliding-glass door with a cell phone up to her ear. She smiled and waved. That was the oddest thing.
I grabbed the extinguisher and pulled the pin. A fire truck's siren screamed from the next block as the engine pulled out of the station and crossed Willoughby to come in between the buildings from the other end of the street.
I owned up to the fire marshal my role in causing this disaster. By the look on his face, he either thought I was lying or a chip off the old block in my new family role as the next generation of pyromaniacs. I wasn't quite sure which. I was relieved that they didn't issue Verlene another citation.
Verlene surveyed the damage as the last of the firemen grabbed up his turnout gear and departed. "Sloane, what were you thinking coming in here like gangbusters?"
"I'm sorry. I was scared when I couldn't reach you. I thought those thugs might be after you again."
I stared at the ash tree surrounded by a radiating plume of blackened foliage. Charred plants covered the landscaping around the tree. The smell of burned wood perfumed the air. The poor thing looked a little worse for wear, but a couple more summers and you'd never know the tree did an imitation as a Roman candle one hot, summer afternoon.
Verlene gingerly righted the now-empty turkey fryer. "Why on earth would they return?"
I lowered my voice. "Because they came in my store to sell your book—"
"Yes!" Verlene pumped her fist.
I could feel my face getting warm. "I . . . we . . . me and Fifi held them up at gunpoint and took the book."
Verlene squealed. "You did not!"
"Shh, we did." I waved my hand. "Keep it down. We haven't even called Detective Justice yet. We wanted you to know first because I was afraid those miscreants might try to take it out on you."
"Now, don't that beat all . . . you give, you take away." I pulled back my chin. My face smarted from the movement. "What are you talking about?"
Verlene gestured to the oil-logged cookbook lying on the burned grass. "You just made me French fry my personal cookbook. But on the other hand you reclaimed my valuable cookbook."
I stared at the translucent pages of blurred ink. There was no saving it.
"Sloane, don't think this mess has distracted me." She looked at me real serious-like. "What happened to your face, honey?"
I turned to her and the falling book story rolled right to the end of my tongue and hung there like a Post-it note. I couldn't do it. Funny how I never noticed how much she looked like Mom. I could never lie to her either when it came to important stuff. The new confident me told the truth. At least to Verlene.
I lowered my head. "Trey beat me up."
"What!" Verlene started to rant something about geldings.
I grabbed her arm. "He won't bother me anymore. I shot him. Twice."
"Sloane, honey. What did the police do? Why aren't you at the station?"
"We didn't call the police. And I know Trey won't call them, either."
"Did you hurt him bad?"
"I don't think too bad. I hit him in both arms. He seemed to be walking okay when he left the store, and I haven't seen him since."
"You'd better keep that gun with you just in case."
"I plan to, especially after we robbed your two robbers."
Verlene shook her head. "Look at you. You and Fifi have turned into regular Annie Oakleys."
I snorted a laugh. "More like Lucy and Ethel. But hey! Any port in a storm."
"Did you bring the book with you?" Verlene looked toward the house.
I laughed. "No, I didn't bring it. That puppy is in our store safe, and then it's going to the bank vault for safekeeping until we find you a buyer."
Verlene picked up the oily cookbook with a nearby oven mitt. "Yeah . . . I guess that is a better idea. But I was thinking of maybe keeping it for myself."
"Competitor companies would pay an arm and a leg to get ahold of Sugah's recipe." And I was also thinking that a recipe that important in the hands of someone with Verlene's kitchen skills bordered on culinary sacrilege.
"Yeah, but do I really want them copying Sugah? I mean, he was a legend, and his sauce has remained a secret all these years. I think I should contact Sugah's corporate offices and offer it to them."
I slid my arm around her shoulder. "I wish all my problems today were that easy to solve."
34
I STROLLED DOWN THE DRIVEWAY, TWIRLING FIFI'S KEY RING ON MY FINGER. At this singular moment in the cosmic reality of my life, I felt pretty good. Things were calming down and working out. And I hadn't even scratched Fifi's car. Two points for me! Thank you, Jesus, for the answered prayers.
I began to construct a mental to-do list. Now that Trotter had eradicated the e-mail virus, I wanted to seriously upgrade my computer forensic certifications. My office could be upstairs and maybe I'd dabble as a contract information provider. I'd be out of Fifi's hair and on track with what I am good at.
Speaking of Fifi , her boyfriend, Robby, seemed to finally understand my outright and blatant refusal of Coltrane Realty's proposal. Excellent—one thing done! What can I say? Sometimes I like to put finished tasks on the list, just for the joy and motivation of crossing them off immediately.
And hopefully Trey . . . would stay away. Hmmm . . . the silly rhyming poetry caused me to smirk, which pulled on sore cheek muscles, but it was a smirk nonetheless. "I'm a poet and don't know it" rolled through my mind. Mom used to say that all the time.
Now that Verlene had gotten her book returned, I needed to figure out how to tell Detective Justice, without telling him how we pulled it off. And to do it without getting into more trouble since I'm pretty sure he could tell I was lying the last time. That one may take some time.
The afternoon sun blazed a trail down the center of Fulton Street. A wavy haze rippled up from the sidewalk. The heat felt good on my sore cheek. I turned out of the shaded driveway and looked up. I could smell rain, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Rain might help to wash away some of the tree charcoal in Verlene's backyard.
Before I could open the door and step into the bookstore, the blare of Fifi's calypso music greeted me with a dull roar. Inside, the blare drowned out even the tinkle of the bell. The rush of air-conditioning washed over me.
I stopped in the doorway and shivered. Not because of the cold air so much as because of Griffen Justice. He was standing at the counter talking to Fifi .
Thinking maybe I could get out before he noticed me, I backed up and into a hand pressed into the small of my back. I jumped, wheeling to face its owner.
Andreas.
He looked surprised. Well, that made two of us. "Whoa, skittish today, aren't we?"
I felt momentary relief. I lowered my head, allowing the braids to fall across my face. What was I doing that for? He'd already seen the bruises. I met his gaze and shrugged
. "Hey, Babe. You scared me. I was deep in thought. So, uh, what are you doing here so soon?"
"I wanted to grab you for an early dinner. Another appointment came up for this evening."
"Let me just see what's going on here, and then we'll go." I already knew he wasn't going to appreciate seeing that Justice was here again. These two had some kind of unspoken something going on that I hadn't quite caught on to yet. All I knew at the moment was that I still had a little attitude about Andreas's controlling behavior earlier.
I moved into the store. Okay, so my "everything is groovy" day had just collapsed into the black hole of "oooh, you're gonna be in so much trouble when they hear what you did" day.
I tried to catch Fifi's attention. Did she call Justice? Had she said anything about Verlene's book?
She wouldn't look at me.
Bad, bad sign. Andreas stopped at the end of the counter and positioned himself between me and Justice. He stared at the detective as though he was sizing up some kind of competition. Ridiculous, of course. But it did a lot for my ego.
"My, my, Detective, you are getting to be quite a regular here. I'm going to have to give you your own Beckham's Books and Brew coffee mug if this keeps up." I plastered a cheesy grin on my face and sauntered around the counter to stand beside Fifi .
ifihesitated. "Sugah, the detective has heard from the Interpol team in Egypt." F
I looked back and forth between her and Justice. Neither looked happy. "Is someone going to tell me? Did they find Bakari?"
Justice shook his head. "He was dead before they arrived. It was a one-in-a-million shot. He must have raised his hands to shield himself. The bullet hit him on the underside of the arm, in a brachial artery. He would have bled out in less than ten minutes."
My heart clenched. I didn't know the man, but my mother had. And now another connection to her had also been broken.
More violence.
More death.
I needed to do a better job of Internet investigating these two professors trying to buy that moldy book. I probably should have more respect for it, since its price tag could relieve the debt of a small country.
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 21