“By the way, we have another problem. It sounds like Tilly has been asked to take over Natasha’s TV show.”
Mars coughed. “She’ll flip out. She’s already crazy upset about her sister. This is going to kill Natasha.”
“Is Mercury in retrograde?” asked Bernie. “It feels like everything is going a bit awry.” He sipped his coffee quietly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t Natasha have a lot of fans?”
“That’s been my impression,” I said.
Mars groaned. “Does she ever. They’re rabid! They treat her like she’s the Queen of Sheba. When we were dating and they saw her in public they would rush to her to fawn over her.”
“Then why don’t we stage a protest of some kind? We can pick a time and date and announce it on Facebook and Twitter. I bet we can fill the restaurant.”
“Bernie! What a great idea. And you pretend that you don’t care for Natasha,” I said.
“It doesn’t mean I’m a fan. But I hate to see her lose the show.” He grinned when he said, “Besides, if she doesn’t buy Mars’s share of that house, I’ll never get him out of my house!”
I was most intrigued about the way Bernie put that. He had told us that he was taking care of the mansion for the absentee owner of the restaurant. I’d had my doubts and suspected Bernie might have bought the house. I wasn’t sure why he would want to hide that fact from us, but for the time being, I would let him keep his secret.
Between the two of us, Mars and I had cleaned our plate and managed to finish off the coffee. We thanked Bernie for breakfast and he promised to quietly put together a protest of Natasha’s firing. Mars and I left. We were walking home when Mars’s phone buzzed.
It was impossible not to overhear what was happening. Wolf had called him.
When he hung up, Mars said, “Wolf wants to speak with me again. That can’t be good.”
“Are you worried?”
“Not particularly. I didn’t murder Mia, and I have no idea where Abby went.”
* * *
Back in my kitchen, I pulled carrots and onions out of the refrigerator to cook Tilly’s carrot pumpkin soup. It wasn’t difficult to make, but when I had tasted it at her house, I definitely thought it needed herbs to perk it up.
While I sautéed the onions, I thought about Charlene and wondered where she had lived. The police must have checked out her home. What did Charlene do for a living?
The rich aroma of sauteed onions wafted up to me. I added thyme and sage, and the scent took on a new and delicious note. I spooned in mashed pumpkin and added chicken broth and sliced carrots. Now all it had to do was simmer.
I had so many questions about Charlene. How could I find out more about her? Charlene must have known other people in Old Town. So far Fred Conway was the only link.
I retreated to my office and made a few discreet phone calls. No one knew Fred Conway. That didn’t mean anything. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy who joined clubs and was involved in galas and events. I Googled his name and the street he lived on. By a complete fluke, I discovered Fred’s exact address in a small mention because he had attended a public meeting where he revealed his address to make a comment.
I couldn’t just show up at his doorstep, could I?
Chapter 20
Dear Sophie,
My husband and I have an ongoing battle about the refrigerator. Where does one store the meat? He says it goes into the vegetable crisper (which he learned from his wacky mother), and I say it goes in the main part of the refrigerator. What do you say?
Aggravated Wife in Defiance, Oklahoma
Dear Aggravated Wife,
Meats and highly perishable items go in the main section close to the rear and the walls, where it’s coldest. Greens and veggies are best off in the middle, where they won’t get too cold.
Sophie
Of course, I could visit Fred. His girlfriend was dying. There was nothing more appropriate than swinging by with food. The soup smelled heavenly, but I didn’t want to carry soup over to his house. I looked through Tilly’s recipes until I found the recipe for apple fritters. I had apples in the fridge and the recipe sounded delicious. The rest of the ingredients were basically pantry items. It was one of the recipes that had the strange code on it.
But first I phoned Natasha. To be honest, I was feeling very guilty for being so nosy. I reasoned that Fred’s girlfriend had been beaten and he was probably eager to find her assailant—unless of course, he had attacked her. Another excellent reason to involve Natasha. There was certainly safety in numbers. In addition, Natasha had every reason in the world to want to meet Fred and learn more about the woman who was so closely related to her.
When I told Natasha that I planned to pay Fred a visit, she immediately said she would like to come. We agreed to go around two in the afternoon.
I peeled and sliced the apples, thinking that the fritters probably needed a little something more. But I would reserve judgment until I tasted them. I dredged the apples through the batter. I made a note on the recipe: Add cinnamon. The oil was heating nicely. I checked the temperature with a thermometer. It was time to add the apples. They sank initially, but immediately rose to the surface. I turned them over as they became golden, then scooped them out and set them on a paper towel to absorb the oil.
As soon as one was cool enough to eat, I tasted it. Why hadn’t I tried making apple fritters before? They were delicious. But I thought they needed just a little something to dress them up. I placed them in an aluminum container that Fred wouldn’t have to return.
Then I pulled out a small pot and melted butter with dark brown sugar. When the sugar had melted, I turned down the heat and poured in some heavy cream and bourbon. I dipped a spoon into it. The sauce hit enticing autumn notes.
Quickly, before I forgot, I wrote down the ingredients and the amounts. We could add that to Tilly’s apple fritter recipe if she liked the sauce.
I poured some of the sauce into a disposable bowl with a lid and placed it in a bag with the apple fritters. I stashed the leftover fritters and sauce in the fridge.
Natasha arrived right on time carrying a big bag of her own. She had dressed head to toe in black. I was relieved she hadn’t worn a hat with a veil.
I grabbed my smaller bag. “What are you bringing him?”
“My Coca-Cola cake.”
“I hope someone else drops by with savory dishes.”
We walked over to Princess Street. Fred lived in a Federal-style house with a typical brick exterior and tall windows. It had a flat roof, as did many of the neighboring homes. I walked up the front steps and gently banged the door knocker in the shape of an owl.
I could hear footsteps coming toward the door. There were a couple moments of silence.
“Mr. Conway,” Natasha called out. “I would like to speak to you about Charlene. I’m her half sister.”
The door opened about four inches. Fred peered at us. We must have looked okay to him, because he swung the door wide to admit us.
But now I was hesitant. I couldn’t swear to it, after all it had been dark, but I thought he might be the man I saw leaving through Abby’s gate. I let Natasha take the lead.
She held out the cake to him. “I can’t tell you how brokenhearted I am about Charlene’s condition.”