3 Loosey Goosey (3 page)

Pressing my lips together, I turned my gaze toward the line of lodge pole pines outside of my window and away from the neon yellow van pulling a white egg-shaped trailer that stretched across the road.

The truck slowed and the tick tick of its turn signal sounded.

I twisted in my seat. “What are you doing?”

“This guy needs help.”

Reluctantly, I looked. The Lemon was turned halfway into a small road that led to a small National Forest campground. The Egg was sticking out into the road, partially blocking our path.

Damn
. I hadn’t even considered that Rhonda might suggest some place so close to my house. I hadn’t even realized Rhonda knew the campground existed.

I muttered under my breath, “How did she...”

“Who?”

Issue with dating a detective: Peter noticed way too much for my liking.

“Nothing.” I smiled. Then holding my hand as if blocking a non-existent sun I returned my attention to the Lemon.

The Lemon jerked forward, then stopped. The Egg swayed behind it.

“Engine problems,” Peter announced, reaching for his door handle.

I grabbed him by the arm, holding him in place.

Both of his eyebrows rose. “Look at that thing.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

I added my left hand to the hold. “No.”

Slowly, patiently, Peter closed and then opened his eyes. “Lucy, it will just take—”

The Lemon sputtered then backfired. Black smoke bellowed out of its hind fruit, and it jerked forward again. But this time it mercifully kept moving, pulling the Egg behind it until both had made the turn and disappeared behind another line of lodge pole pines.

My fingers relaxed, and I collapsed back against the seat. “All’s solved,” I said, maybe a little too brightly.

Peter’s eyebrow twitched in response, but with just one last look in the driver’s side mirror, he put the truck into gear and moved forward.

I was safe for now. How I’d explain why I hadn’t admitted my relationship to Ben, Lemon, and Egg when my brother and Peter inevitably met was a problem for another day.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I could keep the two separated indefinitely.

It wouldn’t be that hard... I mean, it wasn’t like my brother-turned-animal-activist would do anything to draw the attention of the Helena Police.

Ugh.

Chapter 3

The outside of the Antlers building had been cleaned up, with bricks washed and repointed, a new Kelly green canopy with the restaurant’s name—Tiffany’s—splayed across it added. To top off this renewed splendor, a maroon velvet rope stretched across the newly polished wooden front door.

A small crowd milled around under the canopy, chatting and sharing guesses as to what we would find inside.

“The organ was sold back in the 60s. I wonder if they’ve replaced it.”

“What about the animal mounts? Do you think she kept them?”

“She had to. It wouldn’t be the Antlers without them.”

“It is a restaurant now. Some changes had to be made.”

I nodded and smiled and tried to keep my heels from getting caught in the metal grate that covered a steam vent in the sidewalk while also looking for subtle opportunities to bring up my shop and hand out cards.

I’d only unloaded two, to the couple discussing the mounts, when the front doors opened.

Two teenage girls dressed in black cigarette skirts and tuxedo shirts began herding people inside. The crowd, still riding high on the camaraderie of anticipation, filed in nicely.

The inside of the restaurant was nothing like the postcard that was hopefully now sitting in a place of prominence in the front window of Dusty Deals.

No animal mounts. No paintings of buffalo, mountain scenes, and prairies.

“They’ve gutted it,” I murmured. Horror at what I was seeing kept me from speaking any louder.

“It is modern,” Peter replied. His tone and the way he pushed his hat up off his forehead with one knuckle told me even he knew this was an understatement.

The mounts of elk and deer that had dominated the postcard had been replaced with what I guessed were “art.” Free form shapes of red plastic that looked more like a child’s first attempt at dough art than something anyone not directly related to said child would display willingly.

The walls, once covered in green plaster and wood paneling, were now white, a stark contrast to the red sculptures, as were the floors, ceilings and chairs. The tables were chrome and glass and even the table settings were jarringly unusual.

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten off a triangle,” Peter said as we slid into our seats.

“Me neither.” I fidgeted on my slick white chair and stared around, too shocked to even think of hiding my reaction.

Maybe it was that I’d anticipated one thing and was now confronted with something entirely different, like taking a gulp of what you thought was tea only to discover brandy burning its way down your throat, but the place was distinctly unsettling.

I opened my mouth, ready to suggest we head back out the door or at least move closer to the group we’d been next to outside so I could hear their opinions of what we were seeing, when the waitress approached. Stuck, I closed my lips and pretended intense interest as she ran through the night’s “featured” dishes.

“Pâté,” she announced, “is hard to come by. It’s banned in California.”

I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a selling point, so I smiled weakly and tried to look cultured. “Liver?”

It seemed like a fair question to me, but the waitress stuttered. “I’m not sure, but it’s fancy. I know that.”

I looked at our waitress with fresh eyes and realized she couldn’t be more than 17. Filled with sympathy, I waved my hand and said, “I’m sure we’ll like it then.” I, of course, had no intention of eating said pâté, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d hidden a serving of liver under a napkin or in a potted plant. I’d become quite an expert as a child.

Peter, true to form, cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t lift his gaze from the menu. After taking our drink orders, wine for me and a beer for Peter, the girl scurried off.

I glanced around the room some more, hoping the wine, once it came, would give me a newfound appreciation for the decor. “I thought for sure Carl Mack would be here tonight.” Eating liver might be worth it if it meant I’d be here when Carl arrived and saw what the new owner of the Antlers had done to his historic love.

Peter tapped his finger against the menu that he had set beside his plate. “Maybe we’ll be gone before then.”

His response told me two things. One: Peter was no more enamored with the decor choices than I was, and two: he and I had completely opposite ideas of what might save the evening.

“So he did get an invitation?” I prompted, wondering how long I could stretch out eating or pretending to eat whatever appeared on the triangle in front of me.

A waitress swooped by, leaving a basket of what appeared to be bread. After examining the contents and deciding the round objects were indeed nothing more exotic than hard rolls, I picked up a knife and began buttering.

While I ate, more people streamed in. I recognized quite a few. Tiffany Williams, the owner and chef, had obviously crafted her guest list carefully. Everyone with any connections or power in Helena or Montana was present. Even the governor was seated in the back with his wife and three other couples.

My detective boyfriend had done good. I smiled at him and ran the toe of my shoe up over his calf. Unfortunately, his boot got in the way of my caress, blocking my loving touch and leaving the only visible sign of my overtures what must have appeared to be a suspicious smile.

He lowered his own roll to his plate and asked, “What?”

Unwilling to admit that I’d been trying to flirt and obviously failed miserably, I mumbled something inaudible and reached for more butter.

A petite brunette wearing a white chef’s coat over a skirt and a pair of the cutest rubber-soled Mary Janes that I’d ever seen swept toward our table carrying a third triangular plate.

I knew immediately she was Tiffany Williams, chef and owner. The coat was a bit of a giveaway, but I’d also seen her picture in the business section of the
News
.

She introduced herself and then held out the plate. “You are the first table to order my specialty. I had to deliver it in person.” She set the plate in front of us with a flourish.

“The pâté.” She said the word with reverence and took a tiny step back to watch our reaction to the grandeur that was mashed up liver.

I stared at the gray mass artfully displayed with some kind of orange jelly-looking substance and a pile of thick-sliced baguette-shaped bread.

“Fresh as new cream!” she added. “The goose arrived just this morning.”

My hand, on its way to the pile of bread, froze. “Goose?” I squeaked or honked. I’m not sure the exact noise I made, but it was not pretty.

“Yes. Goose! Fresh and organic.” She smiled and motioned with her eyes toward the now ominous looking scoop of pâté.

“Uh...” I stared at the plate, then looked at Peter for help. His lips remained closed and his face remained motionless, not even an eyebrow twitch.

“Uh...” I needed a miracle. I might be avoiding my brother, and I might not like his fowl companion, but that didn’t mean I wanted to eat her cousin’s liver. That was just too
Silence of the Lambs
for me. My wine of choice wasn’t Chianti, and I didn’t even know what fava beans were.

“Peter,” I began. This time his eyebrows rose, telling me there would be no help from the authorities tonight.

“Tiffany...” I looked back at the chef, but before I could explain my close relationship to geese everywhere, she picked up a knife and began spreading the gray mush on a piece of baguette. “The jelly is—”

Horns sounded outside. Loud horns and lots of them. A frown formed between Tiffany’s perfectly waxed brows, and annoyance flickered through her big brown eyes. She recovered quickly though. She held out the pâté-covered bread. “The trouble with being the boss. There is no time to enjoy the moment. Excuse me...” Her gaze dropped to the bread, which I had yet to touch.

Peter cleared his throat. Enough vocalization to tell me some movement on my part was expected. With a grimace that I hoped passed as a smile, I opened my hand and accepted the chef’s offering.

She hesitated another moment, as if waiting for me to take a bite. Stubbornly, I smiled in return.

More horns sounded outside. And then yells. “Have a heart, forget the liver.” “Pâté kills!” “Honk if you stand with geese!”

Tiffany’s smile wavered; she muttered an apology and spun toward the entrance.

A few seconds later, the front doors flew open, and my brother and two other protesters, all waving signs and blowing duck calls, strode through. A fourth protester was tucked under my brother’s arm, honking louder than the cars outside.

I dropped the pâté-smeared bread and looked for an exit. Unfortunately, the guests at the surrounding tables all stood for a better look at the chaos, blocking my view of any potential exit except the front door.

Faced with the reality that I was stuck, I chose the next best option for maintaining some level of family understanding. I picked up the plate of pâté and flung it Frisbee-style onto a table behind us.

The governor’s table, of course. Because that is how my life went. Happy I hadn’t made it to his group with my stack of cards I grimaced, mouthed “sorry,” and turned back to the front.

Peter stood frozen, his hat in his hand, ready to put back on his head, staring at me. I turned my attention to my cloth napkin, shaking it out and then carefully folding it before placing it back onto the table.

Peter’s lips brushed against my ear. “I’m sure there’s a story. A logical story. But for now, it will have to wait.”

Hat on his head, he strode toward the honking protesters and the now squawking chef.

Peter being Peter, he got things under control pretty quickly. Looking cool and sexy in his man-in-charge way, he separated protesters from chef long enough for other officers to arrive and take brother, goose, and friends back outside.

After that, he stood quietly while Tiffany ranted and yelled orders that all four protesters be immediately charged with everything from trespassing to terrorism.

While she screamed inside the restaurant, I could tell things weren’t going a lot better on the outside—or at least none of the protesters seemed to have gone home, if the volume of chanting and honking could be used as a guide. If anything, their brief trip inside seemed to have ignited the group to a new level of enthusiasm.

Service had come to a complete halt, and guests were starting to look around, obviously wondering if they should leave. Hoping in the confusion my own actions would go unobserved, I slipped my purse under my arm and sidled in the general direction of the bathroom. A last minute detour took me to a front window, conveniently hidden from the street by velvet curtains and from the interior by a seven-foot red sculpture that had roughly the same shape as a copy editor’s delete sign. Thinking the symbol was ironically appropriate, since there were definitely a few things I wanted to delete at the moment, I squeezed behind it and pulled back a section of curtain to peer outside.

The group of human protesters had grown from three to four. The fourth, happily blowing on a duck call of her own, had butt-length red hair and was waving a sign that said “Peace not Pâté.”

I groaned. Was there nothing Rhonda wouldn’t do for a date? Normally, I overlooked her male-obsessed ways, but since this particular fixation was my one blood relative within 1,500 miles, I felt I was allowed a little input.

And even if I wasn’t, I was going to give it.

“Thinking of making a break for it?”

Carl Mack, nattily dressed in a top hat and tails, pulled back another section of curtain and peered out alongside me. “At least she got the draperies right,” he muttered, fingering the cloth. “Not...” He looked back at me. “…that the original Antlers had front windows. I should have realized when I saw they were added that this...” He waved his free hand above his head. “…was not going to be done well. But the material and color are spot-on for the period.” He sniffed.