“Hi, Dad.” Sherry gave her father a hug before she tucked her purse behind the sales counter. She ran her fingers across a small area rug that sat rolled and bound with string on the counter, awaiting pickup. “I thought I’d get my hours in early today. Sadly, no Marla. If she were still here, I would’ve brought her. She flew out early this morning. Her cowboy needed her back on the ranch. I have a houseguest, though.”
Erno put his hands on his hips. “Do tell.”
“Her name is Amber Sherman, and I met her at the cook-off. She was one of the six finalists. When the event ended prematurely, I took her under my wing and offered her a place to stay. She’s hanging out with Chutney this morning while I’m here. I came in early because I really want to get the batch of wool I dyed that beautiful sea foam green rolled so Mrs. Dumont’s niece can get her dining room rug finished. Such a gorgeous garden theme she chose.”
“Before you start, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Dad. What is it?”
Erno clasped his hands across his waist. “I didn’t wait for your cook-off recap. I discovered it from a different source.”
Sherry made her way around the front of the sales counter, stubbing her sneakers on the floor while inspecting her hands. Once at her father’s side, she studied the man who had been one of her closest confidants since her mother’s passing. The sunlight that beamed through the store windows emphasized how the years had etched creases on his face. The furrow in his brow seemed more pronounced than she remembered. Maybe he hadn’t slept well last night. Maybe he knew his daughter was in a sticky situation. Maybe she should have been the one to tell him the details of the cook-off.
“What did you hear?”
Erno lowered his gaze towards his shoes. “Is it true about the chef’s death having something to do with your recipe? I’m no expert taste-tester, but I know you’re one of the best cooks in the state of Connecticut, if not the whole country, and you have plenty of trophies to prove it. You’re Augustin’s pride and joy when it comes to home cooks. Half my customers say they’d trade their firstborn for your cooking skills. So what’s the story?”
Sherry’s eyes widened. She plunged her hands in the pockets of her capris. “How did you hear about it?”
Erno raised his head. “From two sources, actually. First of all, it may be hard to believe, but your ancient Dad is a huge fan of a food blog named The Foody Dude. One of my customers introduced me to it, in fact. It mentioned the cook-off. And the second time I heard about it was when Charlie called me this morning, really early I might add, just to see if I knew any further details.”
“There are no secrets anymore.” Sherry shook her head. “Thank you, Bill Gates or whoever it was who made computers so ubiquitous. Anyway, Dad, I don’t know who killed Chef Birns, but you can count on the fact it wasn’t me.”
Erno ran a hand through his wispy hair. “That’s all I needed to hear. The Foody Dude is taking his insinuations a bit far. Have you talked to the police?”
“The investigation’s happening in real time, as we speak. There’s a pair of detectives heading it up, and I trust they’ll figure things out quickly. But just in case, I’ve been thinking about doing some snooping around on my own. Can’t hurt and may help.”
“Sherry.” Erno dragged her name out until it almost sounded like a song. “This isn’t something to fool around with. Leave it to the experts. But let me offer some words of advice: If the wind blows from the south, spit north.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember. I’ve got to get rolling, literally. We’ll revisit this topic when the facts present themselves.” Sherry flexed her arms and marched toward the back of the store where the storage room was located.
Erno followed his daughter. “I’m running down the street to the hardware store for tacks. Back in a bit.” Erno slipped out the back door.
The tinkling of the bell over the door alerted Sherry that someone had entered the store. She wiped the excess wool fiber off her hands and emerged from the back room, carrying a bag.
“Mrs. Dumont. So nice to see you. I have your niece’s wool right here.” Sherry pulled a ball of sea foam green wool from the bag. “Isn’t it the most perfect color? I’ve included some extra balls because it’s nearly impossible to get the dye batches exact, so just in case, I always make a surplus.” Sherry put the ball of wool back in a paper bag and placed it on the well-worn wooden counter.
“Beautiful. If it weren’t for my arthritis, I’d be making the rug myself. But I’m lucky to have a niece who has caught the rug-making bug. She’s out in Ohio, and I’ll hold it for her until her next visit. Gives us a great excuse to get together. You and Erno, sorry, your dad, do such a great job here. It’s really special to have this store in town. The next nearest ruggery that sells hand-drawn canvases and special-order wool is in Maine. I hope the store will be around for ages.” Mrs. Dumont handed Sherry her credit card. “Make sure to record the purchase under the name Alice Kerr. Your father keeps meticulous records of customer activity, and I want it credited to my niece.”
“I’m glad you reminded me, thanks.” Sherry rang Mrs. Dumont’s niece’s purchase up. “Dad’s at the hardware store right now, and he’ll be sorry he missed you.” Sherry ran her thumb across the raised numbers on Mrs. Dumont’s credit card that indicated she had been a cardholder since 1974 before returning it. The woman must be about Erno’s age, she considered, give or take ten years.
“How was your cook-off, sweetie? I’ve seen something in the paper about it, but instead of reading your name as winner, as usual, the article was about one of the judges who died. I don’t like the sound of that. You know I’ve been following your cooking successes since your first win, and I consider you Augustin’s celebrity chef.”
“It went well until the very end, but because of the accident”—Sherry spat the word out as if it were a watermelon seed—“the announcement of the winner has been postponed.”
“Such a pity.” Mrs. Dumont picked up her bag of wool. “I wanted to ask you a favor. I’m not getting any younger. I’ve made the decision to retire from the pickle business. If you know anyone who would like to be my apprentice for my final year at the Augustin Farmers’ Market, I would so appreciate your expert recommendation. I want someone to inherit my business who has a passion for pickles. I trust, with your gardening and cooking skills, you would know a great pickler if you saw one.”
“Of course, Mrs. Dumont. I’ll keep my eyes open for the perfect pickler. Have a great day.” Sherry watched the tiny bell swing with the door movement.
“Sherry, who did I miss?” Erno emerged from the back room cradling a small paper bag.
“Dad, you scared the life out of me.” Sherry clutched her chest. “We need a bell for the back door, too, if you’re going to be so stealthy with your entry. You just missed Mrs. Dumont. She was her elegant self, as always.”
After four hours at the Ruggery, Sherry hugged her father good-bye and returned home. She packed a beach tote with towels, sunscreen, hats, and water. Sherry gave Chutney a conciliatory pat on the head, and she and Amber piled into the car.
The drive to the beach, while short in duration, showcased nature’s finest greenery. The speed limit was restrictive because the narrow road was windy and bordered by majestic trees that hung precariously over the cars.
“These trees look like they’ve taken a beating over the years,” observed Amber as a low-hanging tree branch brushed the roof of Sherry’s car. “I’m always amazed at how resilient and adaptive they are, though. They take a punch, maybe lose a limb or two, and just carry on for another half century.”
“I’m beginning to feel a lot of empathy for the old-timers.” Sherry rolled her aching shoulders. “I feel a bit beaten up myself.”
The parking lot was empty except for two other cars. They unpacked their beach supplies and began the trek toward the water. Once they found a location to their liking, Sherry smoothed a patch of sand out with her foot. “This is as goo
d a spot as any. We seem to have the run of the place, which is the beauty of weekdays. They are blissfully quiet. Most screaming children are mercifully absent because they’re in camp or otherwise occupied. Guess that sentiment doesn’t bode well for my desire to have kids, right, Amber?”
“No rush, my friend. Take your time.”
The ladies unfolded their beach chairs and positioned them facing the water. It wasn’t long before Sherry began crossing and uncrossing her legs.
“I know we just got here, but is your stomach growling as much as mine?” Sherry rubbed her rumbling belly. “What is it about the hot sun and sea air that makes me so hungry? Ready to take a walk and find some lunch? Augustin’s lunch shack is one of its rarest gems, and it’s only a relatively short walk from here.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The two ladies walked along the beach toward the roadside eatery, a tiny takeout restaurant named Eliana’s. Outside on a gravel terrace, four family-style picnic tables were filled with small groups enjoying their food.
“Right this way.” Sherry opened the squeaky screen door and led Amber inside to the order desk. “They serve Greek, Italian, and even a little Mexican. It’s the UN of menu choices.”
Amber studied the handwritten chalkboard menu while Sherry waited for her turn to order.
“Greek salad sounds good, or maybe the Caesar salad with grilled shrimp.” Amber continued reading the menu. “The Mexican roasted veggie wrap sounds really good.”
“The drinks and desserts are in the fridge behind you,” advised Sherry. “I have to tell you, the lady behind the counter is a little hard to understand.”
A heavyset woman in ill-fitting pedal pushers and a floral short-sleeved shirt stood in line in front of Sherry and Amber. The woman placed her order and turned to step to the back of the room to await her food. En route, she grazed Amber with her ample bosom, knocking her back a step.
“Excuse me.” The woman maneuvered her wide girth sideways before bumping into Sherry.
“Diana!” Sherry flashed a welcoming smile.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
“I’m Sherry Frazzelle, and this is Amber Sherman. We were just in the cook-off with you. Yesterday? I hardly recognized you without a cooking apron on. Would you like to join us for lunch?”
“I, well . . .” Diana stumbled over her reply. “. . . Okay.”
“Miss.” The woman at the cash register called to Diana. “Your food is ready.”
“If there’s a table available, grab it.” Sherry pointed to the picture window. She could see a group evacuating an outdoor table.
Diana headed out with her full tray of food. “We’ll be right out,” Sherry called after Diana. She got no response.
“I’ll have the Greek Chicken Wrap, please, and this brownie. Have you decided yet, Amber? I think you’re up.”
“It all looks so good. I don’t think I can decide.” Amber clutched her head with her hands.
“You no like eat when you think too hard.” The woman belted out the words from behind the counter and scowled at Amber. “Olives, beautiful! Romaine, sweet! Your heart and eyes choose, head follows. There’s no mystery here to solve.”
“She means choose with your heart and eyes, don’t overthink it,” Sherry interpreted. “You know my father always says, ‘If you drum with your heart, you’ll never lose the beat.’”
“Okay. I think I understand what she means and your father, too. I’ll have the Greek Salad with Grilled Chicken, please.” Amber slumped over on the counter. “If I choose my second husband with as much consideration as I gave my lunch choice I’ll stay married forever.”
“Hope that didn’t wipe you out.” Sherry laughed and mopped Amber’s brow with the back of her hand. “Can you believe Diana’s here?”
“Wow, I’m surprised. I can’t wait to talk to her about the cook-off. You mentioned she was the contestant to beat, the infamous Diana! She’ll have an interesting perspective on things, don’t you think?”
“You know, in the couple of times I’ve been in contests with Diana, I have never spoken to her beyond, ‘Are you happy with your dish,’ so I’m beyond thrilled to corner her for a nice long chat.” Sherry put her palms together and held them in front of her face. “Her reputation precedes her as being arrogant and aloof with an impenetrable exterior, but I’m hoping you can’t judge a cook by her cover.”
“A new twist on an old saying,” laughed Amber.
After Sherry and Amber were called to the pickup window, they collected their orders and paid their bills. They carried their Styrofoam containers of food out to the table where Diana was waiting. Amber slid down the picnic table’s bench next to Diana. Sherry sat across from them.
“I wish restaurants would stop using Styrofoam containers,” said Sherry. “I read they take five hundred years to break down, plus they contain toxic chemicals that leach out when hot food comes in contact with them. When they find their way to the water supply, the chemicals again begin to leak out and poison the marine life and the water. They also require a special recycling process, which is expensive. When and if they are recycled, it is only to turn them into those nasty packing peanuts we all love to hate. Ugh, hopefully they’ll get on the bandwagon soon and stop using them. Anyway, I’ll get off my soapbox.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Diana.
“I worked in my husband’s, I mean soon to be ex-husband’s, law office for a few years, and he had a number of environmental cases pending. I was a researcher there.”
“Hmmm.”
Sherry stared as Diana separated the components of her Big Fat Greek Chef’s Salad with her fork. She made neat piles of ingredients until her plate resembled a relief map. Sherry, entranced with Diana’s unorthodox culinary work of art, tried desperately to catch Amber’s eye but was unsuccessful.
Diana put down her fork. “You’d make a good detective since you can read and remember facts that well.”
Sherry’s cheeks tingled. “Thanks. Not sure it’s my choice of profession, but good to know I have some skills in that area.” Sherry cocked her head to the side and poked at her food. “I didn’t think you lived around here, Diana. It’s a shock to run into you. Did you plan on staying around the area for a while?”
“Not too long. It’s so different here than in Montana. I tacked on two extra days to my trip to do some sightseeing. OrgaNicks is still paying for my flight, and actually it was cheaper to wait two days to fly home than to turn around in forty-eight hours. Do you two live nearby?”
“I live in Maine, but Sherry lives here and graciously offered to put me up for a few days,” Amber said. “I’m at loose ends right now. Kind of on a journey of self-discovery after a divorce. I entered the cook-off on a whim and was so thrilled to be chosen for the finals.”
As Amber spoke, Sherry realized that the more Amber shared, the less Diana seemed to be listening. Seeing Diana wasn’t engaged in the subject matter, Sherry came up with, “I wonder which state is more northern, Maine or Montana?” in hopes of inspiring a lively debate.
Sherry waited for Diana’s reply, which never came. The three ate in silence. Just as the frustration grew overwhelming, finally Sherry caught Amber’s eye. “I give up,” she mouthed.
Amber curled down the edges of her lips.
“Sherry, do you have a pharmacy you recommend?” Diana asked. “My hearing aid battery has no juice, and I can’t hear a thing. It’s pretty embarrassing trying to hold a conversation when I can only catch every other word.”
“Well, what do you know,” said Amber.
“If I can see your lips move, I can catch most of what you’re saying. If I can’t see them, I just guess. I got so tired of asking people to talk louder, I gave up a few years ago. Finally got a hearing aid last year, but now the darn thing’s conking out.”
“I was just saying I got divorced, and I’m trying to figure out my next move.” Amber cupped her hands around her mouth to ampl
ify her voice. The loud comment didn’t go unnoticed by her neighboring diners.
“I’m just about to enter a new phase myself,” Diana said. “My only child just got married and moved three states away. My situation leaves me with lots of spare time, so I’m thinking of going back to work. I was a middle school gym teacher for years before I adopted my daughter. I think it was the coach’s whistle I blew during those years that damaged my hearing. Anyway, I don’t really have to work because I win so much money with my recipes. But there’s a lot more competition these days, so it’s getting tougher.”
“You’re the best at cooking up winning recipes.” Sherry was slow and deliberate in her delivery.
“I know,” Diana agreed. “I hate losing more than anything, and I mean anything.”
“So you’d do anything to win?” Sherry regretted the question because Diana began poking around her plate and didn’t reply. Sherry winced when her shin was assaulted by Amber’s sandaled foot. Sherry aimed an eye bulge at her assailant.
When Sherry was sure Diana was between bites, she asked, “Do you remember the male contestant with a ponytail from the cook-off?”
“I don’t really notice other people while I’m cooking,” said Diana. “Disrupts my focus. What about him?”
Sherry’s foot searched for Amber’s shin under the table but only found the bench leg. “He had a strong personality, to say the least.”
“He wasn’t the guy who threw up, was he?” Before Sherry could answer, Diana exclaimed, “The one who was missing a finger! Yep, I remember him. Kenny Dewitt. He’s the one who told me, after I bumped into him once, maybe twice, I should cook less so I could slim down. He bragged about making a fortune if he published his book, The Just Close Your Mouth Diet, and I should be the first to buy it. He thought I’d laugh, but I just replied, ‘Okay, how about you demonstrate your diet method right now and close yours?’”
“Good comeback.” Amber offered a high five to Diana, but she was left hanging.
“He took it well. I respect it if you can dish it out and take it, too. No pun intended.”
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