Hemlock Lake
From Krill Press, September, 2010
ISBN# 978-0982144367
by
Carolyn J. Rose & Mike Nettleton
Chapter 1
“The situation is dire, Molly. Dire and disgusting.” Mayor Henri Trevelle waved an official letter under my nose, and then fanned himself with it. “Fecal contamination. E. coli bacteria.” He shuddered. “Such horrid words emerging from my lips.”
He plopped into his rocking chair at the rear of the Gilded Puffin Gift and Gun Shoppe and peered over the rims of rhinestone-studded reading glasses. “If I had even the tiniest inkling that the sewage facility had reached the end of its days, I would not have allowed Adam to sweet talk me into being mayor.” Henri squeezed his eyes shut and I spotted glittery blue shadow on the lids, eye shadow the same shade as his ruffled silk shirt. “It’s probably not legal anyway,” he muttered, “since I am not a citizen.”
I tapped my pen against a blank page in my notebook, ignoring Henri’s reference to his French-Canadian heritage. Nobody in Devil’s Harbor would consider checking the charter for a citizenship requirement. For one thing, no one else wanted the job. For another, they respected the former hockey legend—some in spite of and some because of his flamboyant style. “Are you saying Brighton Deeds knew the wastewater plant needed a major overhaul but did nothing?”
“Nothing was what Deeds did best.” Henri handed me the letter, then patted his ample lap; Angel, his three-legged Balinese, hopped aboard. “And that is fortunate since what he did was usually far worse than what he didn’t do.” Henri petted the cat with a hand-over-hand stroke. Hair crackling with static electricity, Angel arched her back and kneaded his meaty thighs. “His sole civic improvement was bashing Grabowski with that frozen fish and tossing his carcass off Perdition Point. But don’t quote me.”
I grinned. “Spoilsport.”
He growled and shot me a scowl that must have terrified high-sticking opponents back in the day.
“Strictly off the record,” I promised, raising my hands in surrender.
The truth was that most of my conversations with Henri were off the record. He was an incurable gossip with a huge heart and a mouth that ran non-stop; he was also my best friend—next to Jeffrey Wolfe who wouldn’t be back until a few days before Christmas. I missed him like crazy, but we’d agreed he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make enough in three months to live and write in Devil’s Harbor for two years. He’d left my dad without a first mate, but the charter business was about to go dormant until spring anyway.
I noticed I’d drawn a tiny heart on the paper and quickly scribbled over it. Did I love Jeffrey? That was a mystery. The summer months had been among the best of my life. But, thanks to my ex-husband who’d chosen to announce our honeymoon was over by getting it on with my best friend, when it came to love, I was prone to search for a cloud whenever I discovered a silver lining.
I yanked myself back to my job and studied the letter from the state agency in charge of environmental matters. Translated from bureaucratese, it indicated that the Devil’s Harbor wastewater treatment plant was out of compliance and that twice over the summer hadn’t processed sewage fast enough. Partially treated waste had spilled into the ocean, raising bacterial pollution and putting swimmers and surfers at risk. Not that Oregon’s chill waters attracted many of either, but pollution wasn’t an existential issue—it was there, whether anyone was exposed to it or not.
“It’s not like we intentionally dumped that—well, let’s call it what it is—poo-pay. Bucky Mallory says the system is antiquated. When the sky opens or a bus load of tourists contracts the two-step miseries because Grover hasn’t changed the deep fat fryer grease for a month, then it’s too much.” He pointed at my notebook. “There. That you may include.”
Obediently I made a note and tapped the official letter. “This says state and federal grants may be available to overhaul the system. Are you looking into that?”
“Mais oui. But in order to get a grant, we must have what they call matching funds. Money. Big bucks.”
I drew a dollar sign on the pad. Too many things revolved around money—or the lack of it. “Doesn’t the town have a contingency fund?”
“Thirty-seven dollars worth,” Henri snorted. “There is no money even to pay Bucky’s salary. Fortunately fender benders were plentiful this summer and his body shop was busy. More fortunately, he accepts IOU’s.”
I nodded. Like many Devil’s Harbor residents, Bucky worked two jobs. Note that I said “jobs.” No one in Devil’s Harbor put the label “career” on what they did to make a living. We were a hardy band of realists. Studying the dollar sign, I realized how little I knew about municipal financing. “Where do all the taxes go? Why isn’t there more?”
Henri shrugged. “Two words. Brighton Deeds.”
I sat up straighter. Now here was a tidbit my editors in Portland would leap at, more dirty dealings by the former mayor who’d go to trial next month. “He embezzled from the town?”
“Puh-leeze.” Henri raised eyebrows dyed to match his highlighted blond hair. “Don’t insult embezzlers. The fishmonger mayor was merely a shortsighted, mismanaging wastrel who flew first class to every conference and convention he heard about. His meal allowance for one trip would buy your wardrobe for a year.”
Henri pursed his lips and studied my tennis shoes, jeans, and the T-shirt that read: “What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it’s all about?” I held my chin up. We’d been down this road before. Often. “I’m a reporter, not a fashion model.”
He sighed heavily and waggled his finger, a sign he’d get back to that later. “Anyway, right now the town’s situation is the opposite of the sewer plant’s—nothing coming in and too much going out.”
“Too bad you can’t route the sewage through city hall,” I quipped.
Henri shot me that scowl again.
“Bad joke,” I mumbled. Devil’s Harbor’s city hall was a file cabinet behind Henri’s counter and a table at the Belly Up Bar near the bait cooler. Maybelline Yamamoto, the town secretary, took down the minutes in between pulling beers and mixing drinks. “Can you borrow money for the matching funds?”
“To be able to borrow, one must be able to pay back. With interest.”
“What about increasing taxes?”
He shook his head. “Gus Custer has been—as you say—in my face about that. And Prudence Deeds claims she knows people in high places.”
“In the biblical sense,” I assured him. “And plenty in low places, too.” The former mayor’s wife was legendary for her sexcapades. Most recently she’d been cavorting with Joe Benton who’d finessed the congressional seat Brighton Deeds had pursued before his arrest.
“But I have a plan. And the town council has approved it.” His chest swelled. “The plan is two-pronged.”
I grinned. “You’re one of the few men who can use the word ‘prong’ in an intelligent conversation. Most would try to make it into a limerick.”
A mischievous smile tweaked Henri’s lips. “I understand the temptation. It does rhyme with quite a number of interesting words.”
“I’ll pass on listing them.” I tapped the notebook with my pen. “I have to get this story written and e-mailed in before dinner.” And then check for an e-mail from Jeff while I ate my tuna sandwich. Alone. Wallowing in self-pity.
Henri gave Angel another few strokes and raised the index finger on his right hand. “Prong one: strict water conservation measures. Effective tomorrow. Town councilors are spreading the word and cutting back their own usage.”
He reached for a stack of paper lying on top of the pot-bellied stove that he’d stoke up when rains came with a vengeance in late October. “I’ve made a copy for you.” He handed me a stapled sheaf. “I’ve listed the water usage for each household and business in Devil’s Harbor. Now, water in equates to water out.” He flipped a few pages. “As you can see, businesses like the Devil’s Food Cafe and the Belly Up use the most. Especially during tourist season. Dishes must be washed. Customers eat and drink and then they—” He grimaced. “I don’t need to spell that out for you, do I?”
“Nope,” I chuckled. “It’s only four letters.”
Henri rolled his eyes. “But you see the situation, no? We must waste less. We must take shorter showers. We must repair dripping faucets. We must flush less often. We must—”
“—encourage constipation?” I suggested. “Put up signs that read: ‘restrooms for locals only’?”
Henri rubbed the closely shaved and well-moisturized skin beneath his jaw. “Could we do that?”
“Probably not without having your designer socks sued off. But I can log onto some water conservation sites and get a ton of ideas. I’ll help you make a flyer if you want.” What the heck, it would earn me civic points and what else did I have to do with my evenings?
“Flyers.” Henri kissed his fingertips. “Magnificent. Bright, colorful, eye-catching. I’m thinking fuchsia. Although a morning glory blue would be classy, too. Perhaps a lime—”
I waved him off. “We’ll deal with colors later. I have a deadline, remember? What’s part two of the plan?”
Henri chewed his lower lip. “Remember this is an emergency situation,” he cautioned. “Be sure to use that word, ‘emergency,’ several times.”
“Emergency.” I rolled my eyes as I wrote it in capital letters. “Got it.”
“And remember that water conservation will not solve the problems with the treatment facility, it will only relieve the pressure, so to speak. The government has threatened to fine us the next time the system overflows. We must find funding for a new facility tout de suite.”
I crooked my index finger. “So part two of the plan is?”
Henri sighed. “We don’t like it, but we all agreed we have no other choice.” He sighed again. “Well, all except Adam Quarles. He voted against it. But the majority rules, correct?”
I nodded. “That’s the way democracy works. Except possibly in Florida during a close election. But let’s not go there.”
“Not even Key West?” Henri stroked an eyebrow. “In January?”
“So noted.” I made a squiggle in the notebook. “And the controversial prong two of the plan is?”
Henri took a deep breath. “Logging the town trust land. Selective logging,” he added. “Not clear-cutting. We’ll replant seedlings immediately.”
“Logging?” The town trust land lay on the east side of the hills scalped by Vince Grabowski for the development and golf course. The parcel had been deeded to the town in the 1940s by the widow of a minor logging baron who had hoped, in vain, that Devil’s Harbor would develop a park and erect a monument in his honor. I’d written a story on the acreage back in July when Gus Custer had complained about teenagers drag racing up the dirt road past his house and trashing the woods with boondocker parties. “Do you think Adam will try to block the logging?”
“That’s a given. Adam was born to protest, so I expect he’ll try to rally support.” Henri shrugged. “But he does not have a legal leg to stand on. I’ve already had the land checked for endangered species. I think once we take the case to the people, Adam will be the only voice crying in the wilderness.”
He smacked himself on the forehead. “Mon dieu. I’m beginning to sound like Elspeth Hunsaker. Forget I said that.”
“Already forgotten,” I assured him with a grin. Henri was still doing penance for inadvertently helping the feds unplug our resident Bible-thumper’s sermonizing radio station. Twice a month he lugged a video camera around the county, taping her ravings for public access TV.
Angel meowed imperiously and Henri set her on the floor. “Yes, my darling. Daddy has some poached sea bass. You shall have it in a moment.”
Poached sea bass? The cat ate better than I did.
I snapped my notebook shut and glanced at my watch. Nearly noon. Adam would be with Claire, having lunch or, more possibly, sex. His kite and natural food shop, Passing Wind, would be closed until . . . well, until whenever. I’d rough out my story and get his comments later. That was my obligation as a journalist, even though the case for logging seemed clear. Non-compliance meant more pollution, and hefty fines. The town owned the land. Protesting would just drag things out. But Adam viewed tilting at windmills as a competitive sport.
* * *
Adam Quarles poured organic carrot juice into a glass, added ice cubes and carried the drink to the man enjoying the 270-degree view of the coast from his seat on the extra-long sofa beside Claire Grabowski. Adam winced inwardly at the last name of her former husband, land-grabbing developer and recent homicide victim. Adam wasn’t a male chauvinist. He didn’t expect her to take his name if they decided to have the state sanction their union but he wanted her to change hers—to her maiden name, a letter, a number, or even a symbol. Anything but Grabowski. He’d made his case several times until she’d told him to get over it or get out. He’d come to suspect she hung onto the name as penance, but he couldn’t bring that up. Claire was a woman of her word.
“Thanks, brother.” The man on the sofa swept long blond hair off his shoulders, accepted the drink, and examined it, swirling the orange liquid as if it were fine wine. “You sure this is organic?”
Adam bristled. “Of course.”
“I mean, truthful labeling is a real issue, you know?” He swirled the liquid again, making the ice tinkle against the glass. “You’ve got to do your research, check out the company.” He raised eyebrows many shades darker than his hair.
“I run an organic food store,” Adam said from between gritted teeth. “I buy organic food. I sell organic food. That juice is organic.”
The man swirled the liquid again. “And the ice?”
“Pure spring water.” Claire tossed her dark curls and slid closer to the end of the sofa and farther away from their guest. “I poured it into the trays myself. No chlorine. No fluoride. Adam gets it from Montana.”
That, Adam knew, was a bald-faced lie. Claire’s refrigerator had an icemaker supplied by tap water from the town wells. The lie and her body language told him she didn’t like this guy. Well, she didn’t have to.
The man examined the juice again and twitched his tresses once more. The hair reminded Adam of the guy who’d played the elf in that three-part fantasy movie. But this guy’s eyes were squinty and his mouth was mean. “You can’t be too careful,” the man said.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Claire agreed. “If anything, I’m more of an organic crusader than Adam.” She spread her arms and made circles in the air with her fingers. “In fact, as soon as I finish settling my late husband’s estate, I’m going to have this house leveled—I’ll recycle the materials, of course—and build a completely green model.”
Another bald-faced lie. Claire was yanking this guy’s chain. Adam realized she was tweaking him, too, and felt vaguely queasy. She’d never done that before.
“The world would be a better place if there were more people like you.” The man smiled and shifted closer to her. “If you’re going to talk the talk, you have to walk the walk. Know what I mean?” He twirled a strand of hair around his fingers.
“Exactly. There are so many phonies out there.” Claire wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes at Adam.
What was that supposed to mean? Was she saying he wasn’t committed? He burrowed his fingers into his dreadlocked hair and scratched his head as he sank into a soft chair. The visitor, seemingly satisfied about its provenance, drank half of the carrot juice and set the glass on the cork coaster Claire thrust between it and the polished surface of an oak coffee table. “Shall we get down to . . . ?” Adam groped for a word more appropriate than “business,” but couldn’t come up with one.
“Business?” The man leaned back among plump teal green sofa cushions. “That’s why I’m here. By the way, I’m called Forest Echo.”
Claire choked on a snort and made it a cough. “Do we call you Forest? Or Mr. Echo?”
“I prefer Forest Echo. The words together form an image. It came to me in a vision, when I was fasting in a redwood forest.” He slid several inches closer to Claire. “But you may call me whatever you please.”
“I’m deeply honored.” Sarcasm thick in her voice, Claire bounced from the sofa and snatched up his glass. “Let me get you a refill and then I’ll leave you two to hatch your little scheme.” She scurried to the kitchen, poured juice, returned the glass to the table and, with a fingertip wave, disappeared up the steps to the bedroom loft where, Adam had no doubt, she would listen to every word.
Forest Echo, who’d watched Claire with the rapt attention of a hungry weasel, licked his lips. Adam shuddered. He wanted the deal done and this sleazy character out of the house. “Let’s get down to business. How does this work? Do we sign a contract? Do I fill out a W-2 form? I’ve been involved in a lot of protests, but we always demonstrated for the cause, not for money.”
Forest Echo glared and shoved his hair behind his ears. “Yes, we do sign a contract. But let’s get one thing straight. I’m not merely a mercenary, an activist, a tree-sitter for hire.” He thumped his chest. “I believe in what you’re trying to do, but I have to eat. So do my people.”
“That’s another thing.” Adam was beginning to wonder if putting out an SOS to the radical wing of the environmental movement had been a mistake. “How many people are we talking about? Where will they stay? The town wants to cut the trees to raise money to fix the sewage system. If we add to that problem with a lot of protesters, the media will jump all over us.” Not to mention that Henri would jump all over him. For real.
“Not to worry, brother.” Forest Echo made a peace sign. “My people will camp in the forest. They’ll use only blown-down limbs for their shelters. They’ll subsist on food donated by like-minded individuals in the community and on what they can forage—nuts, berries, roots and fish—nothing on the endangered species list, of course. They’ll pack out their waste and garbage.”
Adam nodded. “Still, if you get a few hundred people camping, cooking, and crapping, we’re talking pollution.”
Forest Echo smiled with what Adam detected as a touch of condescension. “You won’t get hundreds of people this time of year—not with school back in session and the rainy season about to begin. You’ll get only the truly committed—a few dozen, max.”
A few dozen. That was manageable. “Okay. Now what about the money?”
“A thousand up front, for start-up expenses. Then a hundred a day. Cash only.”
Adam hesitated, picking at a loose button on his hemp shirt and grappling with the concept of protesting as a business. He’d never been motivated by money. If he had any left at the end of the year, he donated it to land conservancies and groups working to control population growth.
“Like I told you on the phone. I take care of the publicity. I notify the media and arrange news conferences and video opportunities.” Forest Echo leaned toward Adam and talked faster, like a car salesman about to close a deal. “I’m an independent contractor. I’m insured and I’ll sign a waiver so you won’t be held responsible for anything that might go wrong.”
Contractor? Insurance? Waiver? This was getting way too complicated. “Go wrong? What could—?”
“Nothing,” Forest Echo interrupted. “Everything’s cool, bro.”
“Then why—?”
“Oh, say I got struck by lightning, or fell out of the tree, or got arrested. If you’ve signed the contract, you’re not liable.”
Not liable. That part Adam understood. He wouldn’t need to check with Chuck Yamamoto who handled legal stuff for everyone in town. That was a relief. The fewer people who knew the protesters were paid, the better. Chuck was inscrutable, and stingy with words, but his wife, Maybelline, spread gossip like warm butter, and one of her hobbies was listening in on Chuck’s phone calls. “When can you start?”
Forest Echo licked his lips. “You’ve got the cash?”
Adam nodded. He kept a thousand in the safe at Passing Wind. He had more in the till. Enough, he calculated, to finance a week’s worth of protesting.
“Then I’ll start tonight.” Forest Echo sprang to his feet and thrust his toes into the frayed rope sandals he’d kicked off. “I’ve got a contract out in the car. Oh, it’s not my car,” he assured Adam. “I borrowed it from a friend. I won’t own a polluting vehicle. I’d like to see private cars outlawed, but . . .” He shrugged. “Buses don’t run to the places I work.”
“No railway stations in the woods,” Adam agreed. As he followed Forest Echo across the deck and down the stairs to the driveway, he marveled at the number of patches on his worn jeans and coarse cotton shirt. Could fabric really tear in that many places and not completely disintegrate? Was Forest Echo’s outfit more costume than clothing?
The environmental hired gun pulled two contracts from a file folder on the passenger seat of an aging hatchback and spread them on the hood. “One for you and one for me. Just sign and date them at the bottom.” He offered a pen.
Adam made a show of reading the first few densely worded paragraphs, then gave up and scrawled his name. As long as he wasn’t liable, it was okay.
“Thanks.” Forest Echo tossed one copy of the contract into the car and handed the other to Adam. He smiled, showing all his teeth; his squinty eyes gleamed. “By the way, if you’ll check the fifth paragraph there on page two, you’ll see that, in addition to the cash, there are a few extra items you’ve agreed to provide.”
* * *
“I’ve got this election in the bag.” Sheriff Greg Erdman swung his feet up to the corner of his hulking wooden desk and crossed his arms behind his head. “Nothing can go wrong between now and November.”
Tourist season was over and the crime rate on the Oregon coast had dwindled; he finally had time to campaign for the position to which he’d been appointed in early summer. “I’ve cut costs and increased patrols,” he told a file cabinet in the assured tone he’d practiced for weeks. “And I cracked the Grabowski murder case.”
The file cabinet, never a stickler for accuracy, didn’t bring up the fact that Greg may have collected evidence, but Molly Donovan had confronted Brighton Deeds.
“A lucky guess,” Greg snorted. If he’d had a little more time and a lot more cooperation, he would have nailed Deeds before the overweight offender took Molly hostage during the Whirligig Festival parade.
Greg shifted his legs to head off a cramp and scowled at a listing pile of paperwork he should have plowed through weeks ago. Molly was a Class A pain in the rear, but she was a major babe with a trim body, curly red hair, and exactly twenty-three freckles on her nose. What did she see in Jeffrey Wolfe? A poet? What kind of a job was that for a man?
He smiled as he remembered that Wolfe was temporarily out of the way. Far out of the way. In Houston, writing haiku poems for a shoe company.
“Haiku?” Greg chuckled. “Give me a break.” Haiku sounded more like a sneeze than poetry.
He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothed his uniform shirt and sucked in his stomach. Molly must be lonely. Maybe he’d drive up to Devil’s Harbor, shake a few hands, and kiss a baby—if he could find one that wasn’t covered in drool. Then he’d take Molly out to dinner.
No. He’d stop at Grover’s Clam and Ham and get a take-out order. He’d pick up a six-pack of beer—maybe even some of that microbrew stuff—and they’d picnic on a secluded beach. Women loved romantic, impetuous, spontaneous crap like that.
He reached for a pad and paper to map it all out.
* * *
Whoosh.
Maybelline Yamamoto arose from the ladies’ room toilet at the Belly Up Bar and Bait Shop, zipped her hot pink stirrup pants, and straightened her flowered blouse. She glanced behind her as she headed for the sink.
“Dang it.”
Once again the low-flow toilet had done only half the job.
She punched the silver button on the lid again.
Whoosh.
“Take that!”
Honestly, what good did it do to save water on the first flush if it always took a second one? And sometimes a few jabs with the plunger.
Why were these dratted things so noisy? And why did a piece of toilet paper always seem to make its way back up the pipe and float back and forth like a piece of seaweed drifting with the tide?
Satisfied that a third flush wasn’t necessary, she washed her hands at the small sink with the faucet that had been dripping since the turn of the century. She supposed she’d have to get someone in to fix that. It would be just like Henri, self-appointed wastewater conservation watchdog, to check the ladies’ room and fine her. Honestly!
She used one long silver fingernail to shove a rogue strand of hair back into her orange beehive. With Henri obsessing about every drop of water down the drain and leaning on her to provide a good example, she’d have to put off her post-tourist season intensive deep cleaning.
Hiroshi, bless his little heart, didn’t seem concerned about her fears that Adam would monkey wrench plans to sell the town timber and get a new sewage system in before next summer’s onslaught of tourists. Hiroshi—who everyone but Maybelline called Chuck—had assured her, in his usual terse fashion, that Adam lacked both money and a legal leg to stand on. “No loot, no lawsuit, no dispute,” he’d said. What a chatterbox.
She smiled. Speaking of chatter, it was nearly time to drop by the Devil’s Food Cafe and have a cup of coffee with LaDonna Perkins—before Henri cut off all their water and they were reduced to inhaling instant coffee crystals through straws.
* * *
“Thank you,” Elspeth Hunsaker said as Shelley Perkins set the plate in front of her and topped off her coffee. It was important to display good manners, Elspeth reminded herself, even in a case like this, when Shelley was performing a paid-for service and not, in the strictest sense, doing a favor.
“You’re welcome.” Shelley totaled Elspeth’s lunch bill. Coffee and the crab cake special: $4.69. Elspeth had already done the math and planned to leave a thirty-one cent tip. Fifteen percent, she rationalized, was merely a guideline, not a law. Besides, the crab cake looked a little scorched. Thirty-one cents was more than adequate.
Shelley set the check beside the salt and pepper shakers. “Can I do anything else for you?”
Elspeth couldn’t pass up that invitation. “You could stop consorting and cohabiting with the boy who sells that blasphemous ice cream.”
Shelley rolled her eyes.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt,” Elspeth said, well aware that she felt not a scrap of remorse. The girl needed to know. And if her mother wouldn’t take a firm hand—Elspeth cast a dark glance toward the table where La Donna and Maybelline were giggling about something she was certain bordered on blasphemy—then it was up to someone else in this village to help raise this nineteen-year-old child. “I have it on good authority that you two even shower together.” Good authority being a strong pair of binoculars and the gauzy curtain in Ichabod Ferris’s bathroom window.
A slow smile lifted Shelley’s full lips. “But Miz Hunsaker, you voted for water conservation, didn’t you?”
“I most certainly did.” Elspeth sat up straighter, proud of having done her civic duty. “Before I cast that vote I asked myself ‘What would Jesus do about the water situation?’”
Shelley tugged at one crystal earring. “Walk on it?”
“No! Not waste it,” Elspeth snapped. Sarcasm. Lack of respect for her elders. Fornication. Shelley’s sins were stacking up like stones in the walls of Jericho.
Shelley nodded. “Showering with a friend means less waste.”
Elspeth felt blood throbbing in her temples, but before she could retort, Shelley sashayed off. Pursing her lips, Elspeth glanced once more at LaDonna who was laughing again. She had a good mind to walk out— without paying for lunch—and never return to the Devil’s Food Cafe.
But that would leave her with no culinary options. She was already boycotting the Belly Up because they served demon rum, the Sweete Temptations Ice Creame Shoppe because of the blasphemous names of the frozen treats, and Passing Wind on general principles and the fact that tofu gave her gas. She’d have to drive to Grover’s or else prepare all her own meals.
Her father, rest his soul, had always chastised her for her lack of skill at the domestic arts. She was deficient both in imagination and in that reckless ability to try anything once. LaDonna had both of those qualities. Her chicken salad with grapes, walnuts, and red onion was delectable, and the crab cakes she’d had on special for a week were scrumptious, scorched or not.
Elspeth eyed the jumbo-sized crab cake that sprawled across her plate next to a mound of French fries, a scoop of coleslaw, a paper cup of tartar sauce, and a sprig of parsley. “Thou shalt not waste food” wasn’t on those stone tablets Moses brought down the mountain, but . . .
She picked up her fork, stabbed a fry, and halted. Her breath caught in her throat. Jaw dropping in disbelief, she stared at the grill marks on the crab cake’s golden breading, rotated the plate a quarter turn, leaned closer and stared some more. Yes, there was his hair, his nose, his chin. As she gazed upon it, the crab cake seemed to glow with an inner light and Elspeth was certain that, faint and far in the distance, she heard a celestial choir.
Who would have thought a sign from above would appear in the Devil’s Food Café? Who could have imagined it would be delivered by that wanton girl?
She laid her fork aside and folded her hands. She had been chosen. She would prove worthy. But first she must determine what she had been tasked to do.
Again she leaned close, cocking her head to better hear any utterance emanating from the scorch marks between chin and nose, the scorch marks that—if she squinted—looked almost like lips. She listened with every fiber of her being, holding her breath until she felt her eyes bug out. And then she was certain she heard a wisp of a whisper. “Go forth.”
“I will,” she breathed. “I’ll go forth. But what shall I go forth and do?”
“Go forth and—”
Crash. Clatter.
“Oh, hell,” Shelley yelled from the kitchen. “I dropped the damn silverware tray.”
Suppressing a murderous urge, Elspeth calmed herself, cleared her mind, and listened once again. Alas, the crab cake spoke no more.
