Читать книгу Midnight Cravings - Elizabeth Harbison - Страница 10

SWEET POTATO PUDDING

(from page 14 of The Way to a Man’s Heart by Beatrice Beaujold)

Want him to think you’re sweet enough to marry? This one’ll do the trick!

4 cups milk

3 cups grated sweet potato

4 eggs, lightly beaten

1 cup sugar

½ cup flour

2 teaspoons cinnamon

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

¼ cup butter

1 teaspoon salt

Combine everything in a large mixing bowl, then pour it into a casserole dish.

Bake at 350°F for 2 hours, serve, and watch your dreams come true!

Late Thursday afternoon, Josie Ross stood in the lobby of the Silver Moon Inn, cell phone and briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other, and laptop computer slung over her shoulder, wondering if this was really where she was supposed to be or if someone at Page-turner Promotions had made a mistake.

She sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter. If someone at the PR firm had made a mistake, it was bound to be herself since, at just a couple of months on the job, she was the newest member of the team. Somehow she’d lucked into promoting and assisting Beatrice Beaujold, one of Page-turner’s biggest clients and a major cookbook author, this weekend at the Rocky Top Chili Cook-off, so it was absolutely imperative that she make no mistakes.

This job was too important to her to risk losing it because she didn’t do right by one of their most important clients.

So she’d done her homework, learning all about the history of the contest, the town and, particularly, the author. She’d asked Beatrice’s editor for her impressions of the author, along with any special information Josie might need to know. The editor had complied, and that letter had arrived that morning as Josie was leaving. Now it, along with all of her notes and the generous appearance-fee check the brewery had cut for Beatrice, was tucked safely away in her locked briefcase in a large manila envelope marked Beatrice Beaujold.

Josie was prepared. It felt good.

With her confidence refreshed, Josie walked through the dark-wood lobby, looking for some sign of either the front desk or Beatrice Beaujold herself.

“Hey, baby,” said a dark, bearded man with foam encircling his mouth and a crocheted beer-can hat on his head. He raised a beer mug and sloshed some of the foamy head onto the floor. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” He gave a lascivious grin and winked.

Josie just kept walking, marveling at how certain types of people—and specifically, the worst types of men—could be found anywhere and everywhere. She had a feeling that she would see more of them this weekend than usual.

What would Lyle think if he could see her now? Lyle Bancroft had been Josie’s fiancé for nearly five years. He’d left her at the altar the night of their wedding rehearsal. His reasoning, when he could finally be found to give it, was that Josie was too middle-class. Too practical. She wasn’t a Bancroft sort of woman. It all added up to the same thing: she wasn’t a debutante.

And if Lyle could see her now, in a somewhat shabby inn, surrounded by drunks and the smell of browning onions and chili spice, he would probably feel completely justified in his assessment of her. And, she knew now, he would probably be right.

Josie wandered around for a couple of minutes, unable to find anything that made this look like an inn rather than a frat house. Finally, she stopped a sharp-featured woman with bleached-blond hair and roots as black and gray as half-burned coals. “Excuse me,” she said. “Would you happen to know where the check-in desk is?”

“Chicken disk?” the woman repeated with a thick Southern accent. Her teeth were just a little larger than they should have been.

Josie hesitated. “I’m looking for the check-in desk.” She said it loud and clear, the way one might when speaking to someone whose first language wasn’t English. “You know, for my key.” She made a key-turning motion in the air.

The woman stared at Josie’s hand for a minute, then said in rapid-fire tones, “Yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.”

Josie listened with a complete lack of comprehension, leaning forward and straining to pick out even one or two words that she recognized. “Sorry,” she said, with an appreciative smile, when the woman ceased making noise. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

The woman looked exasperated. “I sayed, yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.” She gestured into the other room as if Josie were an idiot. “Thar.”

“Ah.” Josie nodded as if it had meant something.

“I see. Thank you very much.” She walked in the direction the woman had indicated, and found herself in a darkened hallway. With a doubtful glance backward, she kept walking and followed the hall around until it dead-ended in a foyer. From there she followed the sound of voices until she found herself right back in the room where she’d started, and right smack in front of the surprised face of the woman who’d directed her.

Josie gave a quick, polite smile and continued to follow the crowd to a doorway that had, moments earlier, been closed, but which was now open to reveal a large and obvious check-in area.

There was also a large display of Beatrice Beaujold’s book, The Way to a Man’s Heart: 100 Spicy Man-Luring Recipes.

Good. This was the right place.

After making a few minor aesthetic adjustments to the display, she moved to the end of the check-in line and took out her PalmPilot to review the weekend’s agenda. Thursday night: Beatrice signs books, talks with fans. Friday morning: book signing preliminary round, Beatrice judges. Friday night: free. Saturday: Beatrice—

“Can I help you, miss?”

Josie jerked her attention back to see a pale wisp of a brunette behind the desk. She had a faintly frightened look, like a small animal in the shadow of a large one. “Yes.” Josie snapped her PalmPilot shut and slipped it in her pocket. “Can you tell me if Beatrice Beaujold has checked in yet?”

“I don’t know,” the girl answered vaguely.

Her accent was light and Josie could understand her without any trouble, but when she didn’t say anything further, Josie wondered if the girl had trouble understanding her.

“It’s Beaujold,” she said. “B-E-A-U-J-O-L-D.” Silence. “Could you check, please?”

“Why, yes, yes, I could.”

Josie waited again while the girl did nothing.

“Would you?” she asked finally, realizing that this game was all about picking the right words.

“Certainly,” the girl responded, and looked at the computer screen before her. “No, she hasn’t arrived yet.” She nodded very seriously. “That’s what I thought.”

“Thanks for looking,” Josie said with some irritation. She set her bags down and took her wallet out of her purse. “I guess I’ll just go ahead and check in myself.”

Blank stare.

“My name’s Josephine Ross.” She gestured toward the computer. “I think you’ll find I’m in the room adjoining Ms. Beaujold’s suite. In fact, since I reserved both rooms, I may as well do the check-in for both now. I’ll give Ms. Beaujold her key when she comes in.” It was one small thing she could do to make things a little easier for Beatrice when she arrived. Josie took her brand-new company credit card out, set it on the counter and stepped back to wait. The smell of beer hung in the air like mist.

The girl took the card, ran it through the slider, then tapped at the computer with one finger. It took her about ten minutes, but she finally looked up and announced, “This card’s been declined.”

“What?” Josie’s jaw dropped.

“It was declined.” The girl started to take a pair of scissors out of the drawer.

“Whoa, wait a minute!” Josie snatched the card from the girl. “There must be some kind of mistake. I’ll call the company. Meanwhile, just use this one.” She foraged in her purse for her personal credit card and prayed there was enough room on it to cover expenses. Her savings had dipped very, very low while she was looking for a job. Page-turner had hired her just in the nick of time.

She waited uncomfortably for about five minutes until the girl handed the card back to her, along with a carbon slip for her signature. “I’ve signed you in. I’ll just get your keys.” Remarkably, she turned to do so without being specifically asked.

When she got the large brass keys, Josie thanked the girl, picked up her case and stepped away from the counter so the next poor guest could try their luck with her. Slipping the keys into her pocket, she took the company credit card back out of her purse and opened her cell phone so she could find out what the problem was.

Unfortunately, the phone registered that it couldn’t find a signal. She moved around the room, then out onto the deck, hauling her luggage along with her and watching the face of the phone for some sign of life.

“It’s no use, there’s no cell tower around here,” a kind-faced woman with bright blue eyes and apple cheeks said to Josie.

Josie felt like a foreigner abroad upon spotting an American compatriot. “You already tried?”

The woman smiled and took a similar phone out of her purse. “I’ve been trying since ten miles outside of Charlotte.”

“Well.” Josie put the phone away. “I guess I can do without it for a few days. Somehow.” She’d just use her card and fill out an expense report when she got back. She set her heavy bags down and held out her hand. “Josie Ross.”

The woman took it and smiled. “Dolores Singer. But you can call me Buffy.” She must have taken a lot of flack for her nickname in the past because before Josie could respond, she held up a hand and said, “Yes, seriously. To my great misfortune, I was a fan of Family Affair as a child and my father started calling me Buffy. Before I knew what hit me, it stuck. He meant well.”

“I loved that show.” Josie laughed, remembering that she even had a Mrs. Beasley doll once. “So, I’m guessing from your accent that you’re not from these parts.”

“Nope. Cleveland. How about you?”

“Manhattan. It feels like another planet.”

“I know what you mean,” Buffy agreed. “I like it. It’s so laid-back here. Very relaxing.”

Josie thought that forced relaxation was anything but relaxing, but she didn’t say it. “So, are you here for the chili cook-off? Representing Ohio with some Cincinnati-style chili, perhaps?”

Buffy shook her head. “Actually, I came to meet Beatrice Beaujold. She’s the one who wrote the manluring cookbook. I owe her a huge debt of gratitude.”

“You do? Why?”

“It’s thanks to her that I’m engaged to be married.”

“Really?” Josie asked, ever a sucker for romance, as long as it wasn’t close enough to break her heart.

“Because of her recipes?”

“I think so.” Buffy blushed. “He actually fell to his knees two bites into her sweet potato pudding at a Memorial Day picnic.” She shrugged. “All I can think is that it had something to do with the recipe because I sure didn’t see it coming.”

Josie was extremely skeptical, but she knew it was her job to foster this idea, not to discourage it. Rather than lie, she just remained silent.

“I know it sounds crazy, but I guess crazier things have happened.”

Josie smiled. “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but I need to go to my room to use the phone.”

“The rooms here don’t have phones.”

“What?”

“No phones in the rooms.”

Josie closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “So I’m guessing fax machines are out of the question.”

“Afraid so.” Buffy gave an understanding smile.

“It’s a little bit of a time warp, but I think it adds to the peaceful atmosphere.”

Josie sighed. This was not making her feel peaceful.

“Try the little hall just inside the front door,” Buffy suggested. “I think I saw a pay phone there.”

Josie thanked her and carried her things back into the hallway Buffy had described and set her heavy suitcase down. Sure enough, there was a pay phone, but it was about a hundred years old and the reception crackled like lightning before she even pressed zero for the operator. She fidgeted with the wire, trying to find a position in which the line was quiet enough to make a call, but it didn’t work.

Exasperated, she muttered an oath about tiny backward towns and put the phone down. God willing, there would be a working phone in her room. She’d go on up and make her call quickly so she didn’t miss Beatrice’s arrival. Satisfied with her plan, she went to pick up her suitcase.

It was gone.

How on earth had someone taken her suitcase? She had not been more than three feet away from it, and there was no one else around. How could someone have slipped in, taken the case and run off with it without her hearing a thing, all in the span of about a minute and a half?

She looked around, thinking someone must have moved it for some reason. It was no place obvious. She ran upstairs to check Beatrice’s room and her own, where she left the rest of her things. When she came back downstairs, she asked the girl at the check-in desk if someone who worked there had taken it to a back room, but she was only met with a blank stare and a contention that “We don’t have a back room for suitcases.”

“Is there a manager on duty?” Josie asked the girl, trying valiantly to keep her voice courteous even though she wanted to scream at the girl to wake up.

“There’s the owner. I guess you’d call her a manager.”

“Good,” Josie said, trying to take control of the situation. She thought of the check for Beatrice. The letter from her editor. “Would you please ask her to come speak with me?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Maybe she can help me get this sorted out.”

“Okay.” Smile. Nod.

Every muscle in Josie’s body tensed. “Could you do it now?”

“Oh. Okay.” She disappeared into a room behind the desk, and Josie took another look around the lobby. She covered the whole thing, everywhere she’d been. It was nowhere. She was about to go outside and check the wide wraparound front porch, when she was interrupted by a gentle Southern voice, like that of a character in Gone With the Wind.

“Excuse me, Ms. Ross?”

She turned to see a woman standing at the counter who looked like she was playing a Southern dame in a movie, her fingertips touching the forearm of one of the most shockingly handsome men Josie had ever seen.

“Ms. Ross, I’m Myrtle Fairfield and this is Dan Duvall,” the woman said, in that quiet, sweet voice steel magnolias tended to have. “He’s with the police. I understand you’ve had a little problem with your suitcase. Mr. Duvall is here to help.”

She wouldn’t have pegged him as a policeman. He looked more like a movie star. He was tall, with wavy dark hair and clear eyes the blue of a summer sky. Faint lines fanned out from the corners, giving him the pleasant expression of a man who smiled a lot.

“Thanks for your concern, Officer,” Josie said, all too aware that she hadn’t had the chance to go to her room and freshen up since the two-hour flight and three-hour drive here this morning. Alarm bells went off in her head, giving her the foolish impulse to primp and make herself more presentable for this Adonis, even as she realized that she shouldn’t care what he thought of her personally. She wasn’t only irritated by her reaction to him, she was surprised by it. It had been ages since she’d felt that stir in her chest, but this kind of guy—one so gorgeous you just knew he had a stable of women to choose from—was not the kind of guy she wanted to start thinking romantic thoughts about.

He smiled, showing even white teeth and a dent that could almost be called a dimple. “Call me Dan,” he said. “Please.”

She swallowed. Hard. “All right, Dan.”

He took a step closer to her. He smelled good. Like Ivory soap and clean clothes. Somehow Josie found that reassuring.

“So your bag was stolen,” he said. “Were you hurt in the attack?”

“No, no, there was no attack.” She tried to will her pounding heart to calm down. “I wasn’t there.”

“You weren’t there.”

“No. Well, yes.” He had her flustered. This was bad. “I mean, I was just a couple of feet away. See, I set it down for a moment while I tried to make a call at the pay phone off the lobby. The phone didn’t work, so it couldn’t have been longer than a minute or so, but when I hung up, it was gone.” She tossed an apologetic look to Myrtle. “I’m sorry to trouble you with this. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Please, please, please let there be a logical explanation, she prayed, returning her thoughts to the more important problem at hand.

“It’s no trouble,” Myrtle answered, but she looked very troubled.

“You say you left it over there?” Dan asked, indicating the hallway, where now there was a small crowd of people, apparently having a contest to see who could toss the most peanuts in the air and catch them in their mouths.

“Yes,” Josie said. “Right there where all the peanuts are on the floor now.”

Dan Duvall’s voice grew about one hundred and five percent less sympathetic than it had been when he’d first walked over. “And you weren’t keeping an eye on it?”

She swallowed a terse retort. “I got a little distracted for just a minute. But, as I said, I was only a couple of feet away.”

“You shouldn’t have left your things unattended. Anyone could come along and pick ’em up.”

“That seems obvious now.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around?” Myrtle asked, kneading her crepey hands.

“I’ll get the details,” Dan said, patting the older woman’s thin shoulder. “It looks like Lily Rose needs some help at the counter now.” He gestured toward the girl at the check-in counter, who was now looking fretful and fluttering her hands like birds in front of her as she tried to help an increasingly long line of impatient guests.

Myrtle gave an exclamation and bustled over to help poor Lily Rose, muttering about beer drinkers.

Dan Duvall smiled after her, then turned back to Josie, his smile disappearing, and asked for a description of the missing items.

She gave it to him, noticing that he didn’t bother to write any of it down. “There was an envelope in the side pocket that was clearly marked with the name Beatrice Beaujold,” she explained. “It occurred to me that maybe someone at the hotel had taken it up to Beatrice’s room, thinking it was hers, but it wasn’t there when I looked.”

“What was in the envelope?”

“Nothing very interesting to anyone but me. Beatrice’s bio and picture, and some flyers and information about this contest. My own notes.” She took a short breath. “A check for Beatrice. Her appearance fee from the brewery.”

“Well, it’s not like someone else could endorse it and cash it.”

“Maybe not, but she’s expecting to pick it up when she gets here.”

“I understand. You didn’t lose any cash?”

“No.” She tried to sound calm.

“Well, that’s good. I’m afraid I’m not sure how much we can do to help you,” he said, looking as if he didn’t want to do anything at all to help. “But we’ll certainly be on the lookout.”

There was the sound of smashing glass in the corner and Dan Duvall’s eyes jerked to the scene. His mouth went tight.

“’S’all right,” someone called, waving a feeble hand. “’N’accident.”

A muscle ticked in Dan’s jaw.

Josie tried to get his attention back. “Do you want me to write the description down?” she asked, trying to sound helpful although she was annoyed at how little concern he was showing for her loss. “So you don’t forget?”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll let you know if it turns up.” He gave a short nod and turned to go.

“Wait a minute.”

He turned back, his face a mask of patience. “Ma’am?”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

He raised an eyebrow, apparently waiting for her to elaborate.

“I mean, that stuff is really important to me, even though it isn’t particularly interesting to anyone else. I need it back.” She thought of the letter Beatrice’s editor, Susan Pringle, had written. She’d barely had a moment to glance at it, but the first paragraph had mentioned there were some “special challenges” when handling Beatrice in public. It had also said that there was some “confidential material” in the letter and that Josie should be careful not to let it go astray, but before Josie had been able to read further, her flight had been announced and she’d put the letter away.

She’d intended to read it on the plane, but the flight had been turbulent, and as soon as she’d gotten off the plane, she’d had to drive a car, and…well, she just hadn’t gotten to read the note.

At the time it had seemed so offhand it hadn’t occurred to Josie that it was any more important or confidential than any personnel file. Now her mind reeled with imagined possibilities.

“I really need my briefcase back,” she emphasized. “Should I go to the police station and fill out an official report?”

“You could,” he said, a hint of slow molasses in his accent. “But there’s really no point.”

“It would make me feel better to know it was properly reported.”

“You’re reporting it now.”

“I am,” she said, trying to keep from gritting her teeth. “But are you?”

He gave a maddeningly lazy smile. “Why, yes, ma’am. I am. I don’t have time to go into the station to take your report right this minute, but I’ll file it as soon as I can.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, suspecting he was patronizing her. “Look, there were some really important papers in that envelope. I’d feel better seeing someone commit this report to black and white right now.” Though she thought better of it an instant later, she couldn’t resist adding, “The way most police would.”

“I see.”

“So where is the station house?”

“Corner of Elm and Magnolia. But we’re really shorthanded. If you go in they’ll just have you wait until the chief of police gets in and that’s—”

“Good,” she said, her voice tense. “I’m eager to speak with him.”

He smiled again. Not a friendly smile, but an amused one. On a different person, under different circumstances, it might have been boyish, mischievous. “I’ve got a feeling you may change your mind about that,” he said.

“I won’t.” She gave a polite smile and turned to leave the room. A minute later, she stepped into the muggy sunshine and walked purposefully out to the street. God knew where she was going to go once she got there, but she had the feeling that Dan might be watching her, smugly assuming she’d get lost, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her standing on the sidewalk wringing her hands and trying to figure out which way to go.

Luck was on her side. As soon as she reached the sidewalk she saw that the sign on the nearest cross street indicated it was Elm. So she kept on walking, as if she’d lived here all her life and knew just where to go.

When she was safely out of sight of the inn, she slowed her pace and looked around. The street was about twice as wide as the little suburban street she’d grown up on, and it was lined with tall, shady oaks. Enormous Victorian mansions faced out, looking for all the world as if they had been drawn by Walt Disney. As a matter of fact, the people looked like that, too. A couple of older women stood on either side of a garden fence, each wearing floppy hats and gardening gloves, talking and smiling and nodding to Josie as she passed.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that she’d been robbed, since she felt so completely safe walking through the streets alone. It was a feeling she wasn’t entirely familiar with, since part of her was always on alert when she walked in the city.

By contrast, the pace was so leisurely in this town that Josie actually felt as if her own heart rate had slowed to about half its usual pace, despite the urgency of getting her things back. Why bother to pound any faster? it probably thought. There’s nothing in Beldon to get excited about.

Where the houses stopped, a large, verdant stretch of woods started. In Manhattan, this kind of change signaled dangerous isolation, but in Beldon it was just a pleasant break before a lovely little row of storefronts with apartments over them. The shops all had elaborate colonial facades and were painted in vivid colors. The quaintness was so uniform that Josie wondered if there was a penalty for having a plain building.

That question was answered, though, when she got to the police station. It was a redbrick box, with nothing to distinguish it except a cement sign over the door that read, in block letters, Police Station.

Josie took a short, bolstering breath and opened the creaking wooden door to go inside. There were three empty desks, a single bookshelf with volumes with titles such as Beldon Police Report, April ’72—August ’73, and a plain, round clock with black hands that told her it had taken approximately seven minutes for her to walk there from the inn.

This was one small town.

“Hello?” Josie called out. “Is anyone here?”

There was a startled exclamation and the clanging of metal before a man called, “Hello? Who’s there?”

“No one you know,” Josie answered. “Just a visitor to the town. I’m looking for the chief of police.”

“Er, he’s not in.”

“Who are you?”

Long pause. “I’m…uh…Deputy Fife…er. No, Deputy Pfeiffer.”

“Well, could you come out and talk to me, Deputy Pfeiffer? I have a robbery to report.”

“Don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“I’m not. Do I have to be from here to report a crime?” she asked, annoyed. What was it going to take to get someone to act responsibly around here? Or just to act?

“I’m a little…indisposed.”

She counted to five before saying, “Look, Deputy, I’m sure you’re very busy, but would it kill you to come out and have a word with me?”

A moment passed before he said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Another moment passed. “I’m locked in.”

“What?” She didn’t even bother to hide her astonishment.

“Well, uh, I was cleaning one of the cells and I let the door shut behind me.” A beat passed. “Can you let me out?”

“How?” Amazing. As if she didn’t already have enough to handle, now she had to free the police from jail. It was incredible. This was like a bad sitcom.

“I, uh, left the keys in there on the wall.”

She looked around at the walls. There was nothing on them except the clock, some FBI Wanted posters that looked to be several years old, and a Vargas Girl calendar that was, on closer inspection, from 1959.

“I don’t see any keys hanging on the wall,” she called.

“Must have left them in my desk, then,” the voice returned. “See the desk by the door? One with the pinup-girls calendar?”

“Yes.”

“Try the top drawer.”

She couldn’t believe she had to release the deputy from a jail cell before she could report her stolen bags. How in the world did she end up in this ridiculous town? Why wasn’t it rife with criminals, since the police were so inept?

If she weren’t an honest person she’d consider robbing a bank right about now.

In fact, if things with Page-turner didn’t work out after this weekend, she’d keep it in mind, she thought wryly.

“I’m looking,” she said, opening the drawer. There were some pens and pencils, a couple of paper clips bent out of shape, a pack of cinnamon gum, a set of handcuffs and a cracked black-and-white photo of a handsome young man in a police uniform, flanked by what appeared to be his proud parents.

Josie lingered on the picture for a moment, wondering who the man was and what his story was, then set it down.

“Find them?” the voice called from the back.

“Not yet.”

“Look in the back of the drawer.”

She pulled it out as far as it would go, then reached in. Sure enough, she snagged a set of keys on a large brass ring. “I think I found them,” she said, slamming the drawer shut just as the front door creaked open and Dan Duvall came in.

“Officer Duvall,” she said in a clipped voice, closing her hand around the cold set of keys. “I thought you were too busy to come into the station.”

For a moment he didn’t speak. He looked at her, then at the key ring in her hand. Then he asked, “What the hell are you doing going through my desk?”