Read to Death Page 16

  He was having three guests, all from the mainland. I suggested Old Man and the Sea Chowder with Drunken Raisin Scones, My Secret Garden Salad and one of Miguel’s fabulous pecan pies. “Do you need a jug of sweet tea or coffee?”

  “Sweet tea would be splendid.” Then his voice tremored slightly. “Let me ask you about the drunken scones . . .”

  I had to laugh. “Don’t worry, Pastor, only the raisins are drunk. I mean, Miguel soaks the raisins in a tiny bit of whiskey to plump them up and then mixes them in the scones. No one will be the slightest bit impaired.”

  “In that case, I can only say you are a lifesaver.”

  I went into the kitchen to prepare the order. When I told Miguel that it was for Pastor John and his friends, he said, “I made fresh whipped cream this morning. Let me put some in a bowl for the pecan pie. Shall I sprinkle cinnamon? No. Let me . . . Ah, shaved chocolate. That will make the dessert festive.” And he put an ounce or so of shaved chocolate in a small container.

  I always got a kick out of Miguel. Not only was he extraordinarily particular about how the food he prepared tasted, he was totally fussy about the way it looked when served.

  “Chica, write down these instructions. On paper, not in your phone. You have to leave them with Pastor John. Oh, and I included two different salad dressings. Make sure they are labeled.” He dictated precise heating and serving directions that would make the pastor’s luncheon that much easier.

  A few minutes later I pulled into the church parking lot. I parked as close to the pastor’s house as I could and was struggling to get everything out of the car in one trip.

  “Can I help you there, Little Miss?”

  I knew that voice. Tom Smallwood, my favorite handyman.

  We didn’t often cross paths, so I was happy to see him. He’d bestowed the title “Little Miss” on me after an adventure we once shared, and I wore it with pride.

  “Sorry to hear about Oscar. Must have been a shock for you and Bridgy.”

  It never occurred to me that he knew Oscar, but the island was a small community, and everyone knew about the murder within minutes of Bridgy finding the body.

  I was handing him the cardboard box that Miguel had packed so carefully, and I nearly dropped it when he asked if anyone knew what happened to Oscar’s boat.

  “Oscar had a boat?” I recovered the box and pressed it securely into Tom’s hands.

  “Old tub. He was refitting it, mostly by himself. Called it the Jersey Girl.”

  “I had no idea. Where does he . . . did he moor it?”

  “He used to keep it at Tony’s, but Oscar made so much noise and mess with his repairs, not to mention that he was using the boat to store odds and ends, so Tony made him leave. You know how particular Tony is. Oscar had the boat towed to a repair dock on Pine Island.”

  Pastor John met us at the front door. He took the box from Skully, who pastor always called Tom, and thanked me profusely when I gave him Miguel’s notes.

  “Come inside and visit for a minute. Company’s not due for a while. Join us, Tom?”

  Skully shook his head and pointed to a small building toward the back of the churchyard. “No thank ye. I want to get that crossbeam seen to before the end of the day. That will give me all of tomorrow to work on the others.” He turned to me. “Fine to see you, Little Miss.”

  “You, too. Stop by the café before you leave the island. Miguel is in the mood to bake lots of pies, and I’m sure there’ll be a piece that suits you.” Then I turned to Pastor John. “Sorry, I can’t stay even for a second. Any minute the café will be bursting with the lunch crowd and then there’s the Potluck Book Club.”

  “Busy, busy. I do know that feeling. Thanks for your help. Oh, and the bill?”

  “It’s in the box. Got to run.”

  I made it back to the café just as the lunch rush was moving into full swing. I knew I’d be caught short at the book club meeting if I didn’t find time to squeeze in a final review of topics I wanted to cover, but helping Pastor John was a special pleasure, mostly because he spent so much time helping everyone else. I wrapped an apron around my waist and got to work.

  A young family came in. I sat them at Dr. Seuss, and the mom asked me if I would heat a jar of baby carrots. When I went into the kitchen, Bridgy was huddled over the sink on her iPhone. Miguel signaled me to be quiet.

  I popped the lid on the baby food jar and put it in a pan of water. I turned the burner to simmer, moved next to Miguel and head-butted toward Bridgy.

  He mouthed, Owen.

  More lawyer stuff. This needed to end. I stirred the carrots carefully until the contents of the jar were warm but not hot, and when I left the kitchen, Bridgy was still on the phone.

  When the café quieted down, I began to set up for the Potluck Book Club. I set out extra copies of Julie and Julia and My Life in France along with notepads and paper. I started to write the questions I would use to move the conversation along if it stalled. That rarely happened, but I liked to be prepared.

  I wrote my first question: “What do you think would move you to spend a year of your life cooking every recipe from a specific cookbook?” and was brainstorming for a second when the moms burst through the door.

  “Ah, my sweet begonia.” Sage planted a loud kiss on my forehead. She was wearing a flowing white chiffon caftan that looked more like a nightgown than day wear. Luckily, we are a beach community, so nearly any outfit is doable. I know people who, nine months a year, wear bathing suits and tee shirts every place they go except church. In January, they change into shorts and a sweatshirt.

  Emelia, elegant in dove gray capri pants and a matching pullover, took one look at Bridgy’s face, grabbed her for a hug of smotherly love and asked what was wrong.

  “Nothing, really.” Bridgy was fighting back tears. “Same old, same old. This time I have to go to the state attorney’s office for still another interview. It’s just—I can’t understand what they could possibly want. I’ve already given a voluntary DNA sample, been fingerprinted and answered every question under the sun.”

  Emelia began wailing at “DNA” and showed no signs of stopping. Thank goodness there were only three tables that were still occupied. Of course, the diners were very busy pretending not to notice the drama, but I could tell Bridgy and Emelia had everyone’s rapt attention. I guided them into the kitchen, went back to the dining room, picked up the coffeepots and made the rounds offering regular and decaf while asking if there was anything else they needed. I was thankful that all three, including the young couple with the baby, who had barely sat down, asked for their checks.

  The book club members began to arrive. Maggie Latimer walked in raving about Julie and Julia and then gave me a wink. “But some of Julie’s language. What will the ladies say?”

  I was surprised when I saw Angeline Drefke was carrying both books. She held the door open with her hip until Augusta Maddox and Blondie Quinlin came in behind her.

  “All I’m saying,” Augusta boomed, “is that it ain’t my concern if she talks like that, but no lady should write that kind of language.”

  I made a quick decision to address the language in Julie and Julia at the very beginning of the meeting; otherwise, it was sure to come up over and over again.

  When Jocelyn Kendall, the final group member, came in, I hurried everyone to the book nook, anxious to get the meeting started.

  Jocelyn wasn’t even in her chair when she pushed her strawlike hair out of her eyes, looked around and scowled. “Who on earth picked this book?” She waved Julie and Julia in the air. “I am a pastor’s wife. I cannot read this smut.”

  I looked at her, my eyes goggled in amazement. “Jocelyn, weren’t you the one who objected to Julie and Julia in the first place? Didn’t you say you preferred to read a book written by Julia Child herself? Isn’t that why you picked My Life in France?”

&
nbsp; Heads nodded all around. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one dumbfounded by Jocelyn’s outburst. Maggie and Angeline each swatted Jocelyn in less than dulcet tones.

  “Really? I read both books because of you.”

  “The bad language was right in the beginning. You could have stopped reading.”

  The battle would have reached high gear except at that moment the front door opened. It was Owen Reston with what was a wonkish-looking woman dressed in a tan suit. Owen signaled Bridgy. It was time to go.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Everyone stopped. It was as though we were kids playing Red Light, Green Light and Owen yelled “Red light.” In fact, he hadn’t uttered a sound.

  Emelia rushed to Bridgy and gave her a kiss. I heard her ask Owen if she could go with them, and I was surprised she didn’t argue when he shook his head. She walked them to the door, started back to us and then made a turn into the kitchen. I was grateful that Sage left the club meeting and followed her. I doubted Miguel was equipped to handle a frantic mother.

  The clubbies, realizing that there were more serious things swirling around us than a disagreement about a book club selection, quieted down.

  Angeline cleared her throat and said that she decided to read both books because she had the time. After reading Julie and Julia, she went on to read My Life in France. “I enjoyed it so much that I bought a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, written by Julia Child herself along with another woman. It’s the cookbook that Julie used on her blog, and later in the book.”

  That led to a conversation about how Julie made cooking seem so hard while Julia made it seem so easy. Blondie Quinlin opened her copy of Julie and Julia to a page she had bookmarked. “Right here Julie says that ‘“simple” is not exactly the same as “easy.”’ Once you look at it that way . . .”

  Emelia came out of the kitchen, her eyes red, and she was wringing a paper towel in her hand. She patted my shoulder and then sat quietly, half listening to the group banter. Sage was nowhere to be seen. I hoped she wasn’t fiddling with Miguel’s kitchen. She had a penchant for poking around in drawers and cupboards. Miguel kept everything so organized I feared Sage would get in his way.

  Jocelyn, having been neutralized in the clash about proper language, was determined to be right about something. She insisted that we had no way of knowing how much of My Life in France was written by Julia Child since she collaborated with her great-nephew, Alex Prud’homme.

  A lively discussion ensued. The tone was civil, everyone was pleasant and I started to relax. Then the front door opened. Emelia and I turned, hopeful that Bridgy was back, only to see Ophie twirl in on her usual high-heeled sandals, this pair turquoise with rhinestone trim. The color was only a shade or two darker than her surplice dress. Emelia stiffened immediately.

  “So sorry I’m late, y’all. What are we up to?”

  Hoping to move the conversation to safer ground, I rolled back to Blondie quoting that simple did not mean easy when it came to recipes.

  “Of course it does. All you’ve got to do is follow along with any of Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals recipes.” Ophie nodded as if that settled it.

  “How can you say such a thing?” Emelia exploded. “Julia Child has presented cooks with brilliant recipes since Mama was a young bride. That Rachael Ray is a newcomer. I bet she uses slick tricks for quick fixes. I bet you never even read either of these books.” And she pointed to the two books in my lap.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I read the Meryl Streep movie book, the one with the young girl trying to cook. Amy Adams played her in the movie, and all I’m saying is that Rachael Ray would have made it much easier to fix those fancy meals.”

  Not smart enough to see that the argument between the sisters had nothing to do with cooks or cookbooks, Angeline Drefke tried to intercede. “Well now, that might be a topic for us at a future meeting. Everyone could read a cookbook written by a different chef, and then we could all bring our opinions to the club for discussion.”

  She waited. And waited.

  When no one said a word, Angeline got the message. “Of course I’m going home to Pennsylvania soon. This is my last meeting. Still, you could think about what I said.”

  I was hugely grateful to see Miguel come out of the kitchen carrying a large platter that had an appetizing tower of . . . I wasn’t sure. Pancakes? When he set the platter on Dashiell Hammett, I got a closer look. Crepes! I crossed my fingers in the hope that he didn’t copy the spinach crepes that Julie made from Julia’s recipe. I’d much rather a crepe dessert.

  “Ladies, I present Gâteau de Crêpes. A cake made of pancakes. I read about the spinach, mushroom and Mornay sauce gâteau in the Julie and Julia book. I knew you would appreciate the concept, the design, but I took the liberty of adapting it to a dessert I used to make when I was pastry chef at the big resort at the south end of the island. I hope you will enjoy.”

  He hoped we’d enjoy? Seriously? He had our undivided attention at “dessert.”

  Miguel picked up a broad, flat knife from the platter and began cutting the gâteau into airy, elegant wedges. We could see about a dozen crepes were alternating with a white filling mixed with berries. He deftly set each wedge on a plate. I’m sure I would have managed to fumble the wedges until they broke into several pieces. Miguel had no such problem.

  I passed the plates to the clubbies, who examined the wedges and pummeled Miguel with questions. How many crepes are in the stack? Ten. What kind of fruit is in the filling? Raspberries. What is the base of the filling? Vanilla cream.

  Then Blondie Quinlin, who should have known better, set the usually unflappable Miguel off when she asked if he made each crepe by hand or ordered a set from a bakery?

  “¿Por qué preguntas? Why do you ask? When have I ever brought in commercial desserts? Commercial anything, for that matter.”

  “Hold on to your britches there, Miguel. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Just wondered where I could get these tasty pancakes. If they’re only available here, that’ll do me just fine.” She took another bite of the gâteau and sighed with delight.

  Somewhat mollified, Miguel bowed to the group and went back into the kitchen. Now I really wondered what Sage was up to. She wouldn’t even leave the kitchen to join us for dessert.

  I offered iced tea and lemonade but had no takers. We ate in silence partly because the cake was so delicious but mostly because no one wanted to set off another round between the Brice babes.

  The book clubs were my responsibility, and I thought I could end this disaster on a high note as long as everyone was eating.

  I dreaded the question, especially after Angeline’s recommendation, but it was our customary ending to every meeting. “Does anyone have a suggestion for next month’s book?”

  More silence.

  Finally, Maggie squirmed in her chair. She was a little hesitant. “There is a series of books I’ve heard about called Best Food Writing, well, fill in the year. A writer named Holly Hughes has been editing a book each year for more than a decade. She gathers articles from all over the world that have been written about food or food preparation, sometimes even about how food is grown. I thought one of the volumes would be interesting reading for us.”

  “Long as Miguel can find a recipe that goes with the book, I’m fine with it.” Augusta took a meaningful bite of her gateau, effectively breaking the glacier that was rapidly enveloping the book nook.

  Grateful that Ophie hadn’t mentioned Rachael Ray again, I quickly answered, “That sounds like a great series. I don’t have any on hand. Let me check with Sally, and if the library stocks the series, I’ll put the most recent year on hold for us and order a few copies for the bookshelves.”

  Maggie stood. “That sounds great. Hate to eat and run, but I have a class in a few minutes.” She patted her stomach. “After that delicious dessert, I’m going to
have to work harder, but tell Miguel it was so worth it.”

  The clubbies started rounding up their books and packing their totes and fanny packs. Everyone wished Angeline a safe trip “back north.” I thought it was really sweet when Blondie and Augusta said they hoped to see her next year.

  Jocelyn took a parting shot. “Sassy, I really think you are going to have to read the book club choices before the club reads them. Decent women really can’t be subjected to such language.” She took a few steps toward the door and then stopped to turn and wave her index finger at me. “Someone has to be the moral guardian, and as book club moderator, that job falls on your shoulders.” And she was gone.

  Ophie looked at me. “Lord love a rock, what all is she yammering about now?”

  With only Ophie and Emelia left in the book nook, conversation of any kind wasn’t the best idea. I opened Julie and Julia to page eight and pointed to the offending word written repeatedly, sometimes in all capital letters.

  Ophie was horrified. “Well, that doesn’t match my image of Julia Child.”

  Emelia snapped, “That’s because it isn’t Julia Child talking, which you would realize if you bothered to read the book.”

  I slid away from them and pushed open the kitchen door, looking for reinforcements. “Sage, battle stations.” One look at Miguel’s face, and I knew that whatever had been going on, there was no harmony in the kitchen, either. Couldn’t anybody around here act like an adult?

  Sage followed me back to the Brice babes, where Emelia was shouting that Ophie was so busy taking shortcuts through life and then was always surprised when she didn’t know the full story.

  Sage stopped me dead with a quick yank on my arm and put a finger to my lips. We stood by the counter and let the battle rage.

  Although there were no actual years attached to the accusations being hurled, the gist was something like, “You ate my Milky Way” and “It was my Patti Playpal” and “You lost my library copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” None of those words were actually used, but the singsong tone of a sibling argument was definitely there.