by Joyce Tremel
Daisy smiled. “I am, too.”
By this time we were at the door. Two women were seated at a table with a steel cashbox and took our ten-dollar admission fees. There was a large sign welcoming us to their Octoberfest. I decided it wouldn’t be polite to point out that they were a little early, or that they’d misspelled it by using a C instead of a K. It gave me a bad feeling about the beer they’d be serving.
The hall was decorated with black, red, and yellow streamers that matched the tiny German flags on every table. Not exactly the traditional Oktoberfest colors. Daisy caught my eye and made a face. I smiled at her and shrugged. At least they had the German part right.
Kristie pointed toward the far side of the hall. “There are some empty seats over there.” We followed her across the room and sat at the end of a large banquet table. “I’m buying tonight,” she hollered over the din. “What’s everyone drinking?”
Daisy only wanted bottled water and Candy said she’d have the same. I offered to help Kristie and we headed to the bar. I was surprised at the assortment of beverages on hand, and especially that they had bottles of Oktoberfest beer from a local brewery. That moved them up a notch in my eyes. Despite the selection, Kristie and I also chose water for now.
It was too noisy in the hall for much conversation—especially with the band playing—so we sat and listened. The Deutschmen were very good, and hearing them play again made me glad I’d decided to hire them. The four musicians played accordion, trumpet, keyboard, and a sousaphone. I had to admit I’d never seen a sousaphone except in a marching band. I thought it an odd choice when a tuba would have worked just as well—or better. Plus it wouldn’t have taken up half the stage.
There were only two couples on the dance floor until the band broke out in their version of the “Steeler Polka,” which was sung to the tune of the “Pennsylvania Polka.” A dozen people jumped to their feet, including Candy. She grabbed my hand. “Come on. You’re dancing with me.”
I tried to pull my hand back with no luck. “I don’t know how to polka. I’m Irish. O’Haras don’t polka.”
“I won’t hold that against you,” she said. “It’s easy. It’s your basic one-two-three, one-two-three. Just follow me.”
“Do I have any choice?” I asked as she practically dragged me across the room. Everyone in the hall seemed to know the words to the song, but I was too busy trying not to trip over my own feet to sing. By the time the song ended, I could reasonably say I knew how to polka, or at least fake my way through one. We stayed on the dance floor for the “Beer Barrel Polka,” but I drew the line when the band began playing the “Chicken Dance.” I had my pride after all.
I collapsed onto my folding chair and guzzled half of my water.
“Nice work,” Kristie said with a grin.
“I can’t keep up with her.” I pointed to where Candy was enthusiastically flapping her arms to the music. “I don’t know where she gets the energy.”
“I don’t, either,” Daisy said.
The Deutschmen finished the song and announced they were taking a break and would be back shortly. A few minutes later, I went over to the bar, where the members of the quartet were quenching their thirst with cold beers. I’d only talked to one of them on the phone and had never met them in person, so I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Max O’Hara.”
The keyboard player shook my hand. “I’m Bruce Hoffman.” He was in his mid to late fifties, with an obviously dyed crew cut that bordered on orange. He had a friendly smile that made up for his hair color faux pas. He introduced the others.
The trumpet player was Manny Levin, called “Toots” by his friends. Toots appeared to be in his sixties. He was bald and almost as wide as he was tall. The sousaphone player, Doodle Dowdy, was the youngest of the group—probably in his forties, with sandy hair that hadn’t seen a barber in a while. The last member of the band, the accordion player, was Felix Holt. Felix appeared to be the oldest—close to seventy, or possibly even older. He had gray hair, gray eyes, and the deeply wrinkled skin of a smoker or former smoker.
I invited them over to our table, where we discussed my upcoming event and made the final arrangements. While we talked, I noticed Felix kept staring at Candy. Finally he said to her, “You look very familiar. Have we met before?” He spoke with a slight accent.
Candy shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“I never forget a face,” he said. “Especially one as lovely as yours.”
I expected Candy to roll her eyes and make some smart remark. The man was obviously flirting with her. Instead of a witty comeback she said, “You’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think I am,” Felix said. “I know you from somewhere.”
Daisy smiled at the man. “Maybe you’ve been to her bakery. It’s the best one in Pittsburgh.”
“Which bakery is that?” Felix asked.
“Cupcakes—”
Candy cut her off. “He’s never been to my bakery.”
“You’re probably right. I’m sure I would remember the bakery,” he said. “That’s not it. I know you from somewhere else. I am sure of it. It will come to me.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re mistaken? I don’t know you and you certainly don’t know me.” She rose quickly to her feet. “I need some air. I’ll be outside.”
CHAPTER TWO
Daisy, Kristie, and I exchanged glances. What in the world had gotten into Candy? I’d never seen her treat anyone so rudely, unless they deserved it. Felix surely didn’t.
“Excuse my friend,” I said. “She’s not usually like that.”
“She’s always the life of the party,” Kristie added.
Doodle Dowdy took a swig of his beer. “Don’t worry about it.” He slapped Felix on the back. “He’s always thinking he knows someone.”
Felix had been staring at the door Candy had exited. “What did you say your friend’s name was?”
I’d only used first names when I introduced everyone. “Candy. Candy Sczypinski.”
He was silent for a moment then turned to his band mates. “I believe it’s time for our second set, gentlemen.” The others finished their drinks and followed him to the stage. As Felix adjusted the strap on his accordion, he glanced at the door one more time, then shook his head and launched into “Edelweiss.”
Since my business was concluded, we headed outside to get Candy and head home.
• • •
I was at the brewery bright and early the next morning. By seven a.m. I’d already checked the fermentation tanks and inventoried the grain for my next order. Cupcakes N’at opened at seven, which was very timely because I was starving. Plus, I wanted to talk to Candy again and make sure she was all right. On the way home last night she’d explained that she’d just been tired after dancing two polkas. She hadn’t meant to be rude to Felix Holt, but when he persisted with his notion that he’d met her before, she’d had enough. We’d teased her all the way home that Felix was only hoping to get lucky. She hadn’t been amused.
Mary Louise and Candy were both at the counter and customers were lined up three deep when I entered the bakery. It was unusual for it to be so busy at this hour of the morning on a Saturday. But it was a beautiful day so everyone must have decided to get up and out instead of sleeping in. Candy was her usual cheerful self, talking and laughing with the customers.
“There’s our Max,” Candy said when I finally made it to the front of the line. “Can you believe the crowd this morning?”
“I hope you have a chocolate muffin left,” I said.
“You’re in luck,” Mary Louise said. “We have two.”
“I’ll take both.” I’d give one to Jake when he came in.
While Mary Louise bagged my purchase, I asked Candy how she was.
“Never better,” she said. “It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep will do.�
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“I’m glad to hear it.”
Mary Louise handed me the bag and I paid for the muffins. Customers were lining up again, so I bade them good-bye. I shouldn’t have been worried about Candy. Everyone was entitled to be grumpy once in a while, and she was no exception.
Jake came in right after I got back to the brew house, so we sat at the oak bar in the pub to eat our breakfast.
“If you keep feeding me Candy’s baked goods, I’m going to start looking like one of those muffins,” Jake said after he’d practically inhaled his treat.
I reached over and poked him in the ribs. “Not likely.” He wasn’t losing his six-pack anytime soon. Although Jake didn’t play professional hockey anymore, he still skated several mornings a week and played a pickup, no-checking game every chance he got. I’d gone skating with Jake a couple of times but I wasn’t very good at it. He assured me I’d get better, but I doubted it. My exercise mostly consisted of walking to work when the weather was nice and hauling fifty-pound bags of malt up the steel stairs to the mash tun. Plus the touch football game every Sunday in my parents’ backyard.
“How did it go last night?” Jake asked.
“We had a good time.” I gave him all the details.
He grinned. “Sounds like that Felix guy was hitting on Candy. That ‘don’t I know you from somewhere’ line is one of the oldest in the book.”
“He was certainly persistent.” I gathered up our muffin papers, dropped them into the bag, and crumpled it up. “It would be nice for Candy to find someone. They seemed to be close to the same age and he seemed nice enough. Maybe I should try and do a little matchmaking.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? If Candy got so annoyed with him that she walked out, she may not appreciate you butting in.”
“I’m not butting in,” I said. “Not really. Besides, Candy’s always trying to fix everyone else up. Maybe it’s time to give her a taste of her own medicine.”
Jake slid off his stool and put his arms around me. “She didn’t have to fix us up.”
“No, she didn’t. But she did try to convince me you were interested and I didn’t believe her.”
“She’s a smart woman.”
I laughed. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Of course, I can be bribed into not squealing.”
“Anything you want. It’s yours.”
I snuggled closer to him. “You can kiss me.”
“You drive a hard bargain, O’Hara.”
• • •
One of the servers called in sick just before lunch. It was too late to call someone else in, so I left Nicole in charge of the bar, donned an apron, and pitched in to help. It was a nice change of pace, even though on most days I stopped at various tables anyway to speak to the customers and thank them for choosing the Allegheny Brew House. The big difference today was making sure I got their orders straight. The brewery and manning the taps were my areas of expertise. Jake consulted with me with menu changes, but in the end I left the decision on what to serve to him. Cassie, my most experienced server, knew the menu better than I did and was quick to jump in when a diner had a question. Once again, I was thankful I had such wonderful employees. When the lunch rush was about over and only three tables were occupied, I grabbed a quick sandwich and took it back to my office.
I’d only swallowed the first bite when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number so I didn’t bother to answer it. A minute or so later my phone dinged that I had a voice mail. I finished my lunch before checking it. I didn’t recognize the voice until the caller identified himself.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss O’Hara. This is Doodle Dowdy—one of the band members from last night.”
I hoped it wasn’t trouble and they were canceling on me. There would be no way I’d be able to find an adequate substitute at this late date. If at all.
“There’s something very important I’d like to talk to you about. I don’t want to discuss it over the phone, but if you would call me back as soon as possible, maybe we can make arrangements to meet somewhere.” He left his number.
“What in the world was that all about?” I said aloud.
Nicole appeared in the doorway. “What was what all about?”
I told her about the message.
“Maybe he has the hots for you and that’s his way to get you to call him,” she said with a grin.
“Right.”
Nicole rested a hip on the corner of my desk. “You don’t think he’s calling to cancel performing for our party, do you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. It didn’t sound like it anyway.”
One of the servers called Nicole’s name and she stood. “Let me know what you find out. I’d hate for something to ruin our Oktoberfest.”
I watched her leave, then picked up my phone and called the number Doodle had left. He answered on the second ring.
“Thanks for calling me back so quickly,” he said.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I need to talk to you. It’s very important, and like I said in my message, I’d prefer to do it in person.”
I bluntly asked him why. I didn’t understand what it could possibly be that we had to meet in person.
He paused before answering. “It’s kind of a delicate situation.”
“Mr. Dowdy—”
“Call me Doodle.”
“Doodle. I don’t really know you very well.” For all I knew, the guy was two pints short of a barrel. “I need to have some idea of what this is about.”
“It has to do with what happened last night.”
I began to relax. I understood now. I’d been right that Felix had been interested in Candy. He must have put Doodle up to making the call. This matchmaking thing was going to be easier than I thought. While trying to decide on where to meet, I discovered that Doodle owned a house in the Troy Hill neighborhood. My brother, Sean, was pastor of Most Holy Name of Jesus Church in Troy Hill, so I could go to Mass there in the morning (which would make Sean happy) then meet Doodle at his home. I hung up and pushed away from my desk wondering if I should surprise him and take Candy with me.
• • •
“You can’t go and meet him,” Candy said later that day when I’d told her about Doodle’s call. She had stopped for dinner on her way home after the bakery closed and we sat at a table in the corner of the pub.
“Why not?”
She put her fork down none too gently on her plate. “Because you don’t know him. It’s not safe. I would have thought you’d have more sense than that, what with your father being a cop and all. For all you know, that Doodle person could be a serial killer.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “I appreciate your concern, but he’s harmless. He has something to tell me. That’s all.”
Candy leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “And just what could he possibly have to say that he couldn’t tell you over the phone?”
I hadn’t told her yet that I thought Felix Holt had put him up to it. “He said it was important.” I paused. “I think it concerns you.”
“Me.” She uncrossed her arms and picked up her fork. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. He doesn’t even know me.” She picked at a piece of salmon on her plate. “I wouldn’t fall for that if I were you.”
“I think the accordion player put him up to it.”
Candy’s head snapped up from where her gaze had been focused on her plate. “The accordion player? Why in the world would you think that?”
“It makes sense to me. He seemed to be interested in you last night, and the fact that you wouldn’t give him the time of day probably intrigued him even more. He figured this was the only way to find out about you. Why don’t you come with me tomorrow and we’ll see
if I’m right?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“It might be fun,” I said. “Don’t you want to know what he wants to tell me?”
“No, I don’t. I’m not going and that’s it.” She wagged a finger at me. “And I don’t want you going, either.”
We went back and forth like this a couple of times, and I finally gave up trying to convince her to come along. I left her to finish her dinner and went back to work. I couldn’t get our conversation out of my mind while I drew drafts for customers. I didn’t get it. Candy was being ridiculous. Why was she so dead set against me meeting with Doodle?
• • •
Doodle Dowdy’s house was on a tiny side street only a block from Most Holy Name Church, so I left my car in the parking lot after Mass and hoofed it over. The Troy Hill neighborhood was like most of the older ones in Pittsburgh—the streets were narrow and the homes had been built close together. The home had red Insulbrick siding that had seen better days, but it looked like Doodle had attempted to do some updates to the rest of the house. The small front yard was enclosed with a shiny new chain-link fence. The front porch looked new as well—or at least freshly painted. A fiberglass front door had replaced what probably had been an old wood one. The door was open behind a new-looking full-view screen door.
There was no doorbell, so I knocked on the edge of the screen door. I waited a minute, then knocked again. Just then, there was a noise from inside the home. I called Doodle’s name, and when there was no answer, I went in. “Doodle?”
His house was a shotgun style, where one room led to the next all the way to the back of the house. The living room where I entered was well lived in. There was a dark brown leather sofa with a matching recliner. The wood on the coffee table was scuffed, and several newspapers were scattered over the top. A large flat-screen TV just about filled one wall, and a narrow staircase led to the second floor.
The next room must have been a dining room at one time, but now was filled with empty canvases and paint supplies. There was a table pushed up against one wall that was littered with magazines, books, and what appeared to be sketchbooks. Evidently Doodle was interested in art as well as music. Odds and ends of assorted papers and sketches were strewn on the floor. There was an old upright piano on the other side of the room, and on the floor beside it there was a trombone and a plastic crate lying on its side with sheet music spilling out onto the floor. Doodle was not a very neat housekeeper.