By Familiar Means (14 page)

“Have you got a face Food TV would love?” I suggested.

She nodded. “So, they let me pull together a recipe for the festival's media night, and there I was, public face on, handing out the food. It was a potato soup with sorrel and watercress and Gruyère cheese. Simple, warming, not too heavy. We used vegetable stock instead of cream—”

“And Jimmy was there?” I interrupted before she could really get going. I love her, but when Martine starts talking food, it is a long time before she stops.

“This kid comes up to the table and he takes a cup of soup and he starts . . . needling me is the only word for it. He smells it, tastes it, starts asking all about the cooking techniques and the ingredients and where'd it all come from and where'd I get the recipe and on and on forever.” Her jaw hardened. “And I've got a line of people behind him, and I'm smiling and I'm trying to be polite, because my potential new bosses are there, along with every food critic and blogger on the seacoast, and finally this kid turns to the woman he's with and he just shrugs. ‘Whatever. It's boring, it's bland and it's the product of a very ordinary mind,' he says, and pitches the cup into the garbage.”

“He did that?” I clutched at my own soup cup as if it might suddenly be snatched away from me.

“Oh, yeah, and then he walks off with his privileged little nose in the air. It wouldn't have been such a big deal, except for who he was with.”

“Who was that?”

“Gretchen Hilde.”

I'd already heard that name today. “She's the head of the family that owns the Harbor's Rest.”

“That's her.” Martine gestured toward me with her soup mug. “I was sure I'd just been sunk. I thought maybe it was a race thing going on, or a woman thing. You get that in some kitchens. But it turns out it was just a Jimmy thing.
Upton got off on confrontation. Whenever he saw anybody who might become the competition, he attacked them first.”

“Did he want the Pale Ale job?”

“No. He was already Mrs. Hilde's golden boy. He just wanted to make sure she knew she'd made the right choice. His way to do that was to demolish everybody else.” She shook her head. “I didn't like him, but I will say this—Jimmy had the kind of touch that only comes along once in a blue moon. He really could have been great.” Martine loves the art of cooking. When she sees a talent, she acknowledges it generously, no matter whom it's attached to.

Martine tipped her mug this way and that, watching the last drops of soup dribble across the bottom. “Anna, are you really going to do the Nancy Drew thing again?”

“No,” I said immediately, but that only made Martine look down her nose at me. “Well. Maybe. But just to help Jake and Miranda. Lieutenant Blanchard is looking cross-eyed at them, and I feel responsible.”

Martine made the kind of face she normally reserved for sour milk and split sauces. “In what way are you responsible for Upton finally making somebody so angry that they got drastic on his lily-whites?”

“I found the tunnel. If I'd just left things alone, Jake and Miranda wouldn't be in this mess.”

“Maybe not right away, but this is the kind of thing that comes back to haunt you, whether there's a real ghost or not.”

“All the more reason we should try to help.” The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about them. But this was the truth. It might not have been smart, but I couldn't stand by, not knowing what I knew.

Not being who I was.

“Did you ever meet Jimmy's sister?” I asked her.

“He had a sister?”

I took that as a no. “Jake and Miranda said she worked in the coffee shop for a while, but she split . . . erm . . . left, and they don't know where.” Come to that, Frank had said Jimmy didn't have any family in the area.

“News to me. But it sure doesn't sound good.” Martine picked up her remaining bread and tore it in two. She looked at the crumbs for a while, making up her mind how much more to say.

“And you think it's not the only thing that doesn't sound good?” I prompted.

“No.” She sighed. “Listen, Anna, what do you know about kitchen organization?”

I shrugged. “Only what you've told me.”

“Okay. Upton was the sous chef at Harbor's Rest. In a traditional French-style kitchen, the sous chef is responsible for making the sauces, and that is a very serious, very high-level job. The sous is also the head chef's right hand and gets to be large and in charge.

“Jimmy got this job by climbing over a bunch of people who had been there longer.”

“Sounds like the kind of situation that could generate a lot of resentment,” I said slowly.

Martine's nod was also slow. “If Jimmy Upton was murdered, you are going to have a whole long list of suspects to choose from, even without any missing sister. And it's going to include pretty much the entire Harbor's Rest kitchen staff.”

15

Martine had to get back to work. Staffing schedules waited for no chef. She did have one other piece of advice for me.

“If you want to find out what was going on with the service staff at the hotel, you should talk to Kelly Pierce. She's their food and beverages manager, and she's new,” she added. “She was brought in to help turn things around, and she's not a Hilde, so there's no family stuff going on with her.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You are the best, and I'm coming by next Monday. This time I promise it's strictly the girl's day. No magic or corpses.”

“I'm holding you to that, Britton,” she told me. “Oh, and pro tip: If you do go talk to Kelly, take coffee.”

I walked out into the fall evening. I wasn't thinking of much; I just started strolling toward Market Square.

What was I doing? Did I really think I could help Jake and Miranda? Yes, I'd been able to help out before, but that was when I'd just been caught up in the situation. Not to mention the fact that I'd been a suspect then and needed to try to clear my own name. This was different.

I sat on one of the benches in front of the North Church. I wished I had my cat with me. I wished I knew what I ought to do.

What I did do was get out my phone and dial Grandma B.B.

“Hello, Anna!” she said. “Where are you, dear? Are you all right?”

“I'm
fine
, Grandma. I was just wondering if you were home.”

“Oh, well, no, not right now. I thought since you were
busy
, I'd catch up with some old friends. Maybe we should meet somewhere?”

“I don't want to interrupt the reunion,” I told her. “If you're near downtown, we can meet at the River House for dinner. You'd love the fried clams.” Thanks to the soup and bread with Martine, I wasn't actually hungry anymore, but after the day I'd been having, I desperately wanted a moment of normality.

“Sounds perfect, dear. How about . . .” She paused, probably to check her watch. “Seven o'clock?”

“Great. You'll be able to find it all right?”

“Of
course
I will. What a question.”

We said good-bye and hung up. I looked around at the passing crowds of tourists. According to the church clock, it was just five thirty. I'd meant to get to the library and do a quick little bit of research for the murals, but they'd be closing up now. I could spend the time walking along the river and getting my head together after my eventful day. I could do something entirely mundane like heading over to the Circle K to pick up some cat food.

I could do all kinds of good, sensible things.

What I did instead was turn down Market Street and head straight for the Harbor's Rest.

*   *   *

I'd been in the Harbor's Rest exactly once, and that was for a celebratory dinner after I'd been initiated into the coven. The food was great; the wine was great; the dining room was elegant and old-school. I'd promised myself I'd
come back. I just never imagined it would be under these circumstances.

The hotel's entrance had kept all its Gilded Age splendor. There was a fancy plasterwork ceiling, polished wood and marble-tiled floors. All the art on the walls had heavy gilt frames and looked like it had been commissioned especially for the hotel, especially the oil painting that showed a cluster of cats sitting in what was clearly this very lobby.

That bar was the most famous part of the hotel, at least locally. Its bay windows provided a beautiful view of the marina and the river. There were plaques and framed newspaper clippings on the walls telling how Babe Ruth had gotten into a fight in there with some Red Sox fans who took exception to his move to the Yankees. There were photos of the gangsters and silent movie starlets who drank bootlegged champagne there. Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman had drunk and fought and written masterpieces here. Various Roosevelts and Kennedys had wined and dined constituents, donors and other connections here.

It was the right time for the predinner rush, but the bar was only about a quarter full when I walked in. Men in Lands' End khakis and women carrying designer purses sat at little round tables with beers or delicately colored cocktails in front of them. Martinis seemed to be a favorite, and when I saw who was behind the bar adding a spiral of lemon peel to the glass in front of him, I was not at all surprised.

“Young Sean!”

“Anna!” Sean flashed me a smile and a wave with his free hand, while he set a drink on a server's tray for her to take over to the waiting customer. “Pull up a stool.”

“Does Martine know you're moonlighting?” I asked as I climbed up on a seat on the short side of the bar by the door. I'd met Sean because he was the head bartender at the Pale Ale.

He laughed. “Like I could do anything behind Chef's back. I'm helping Dad out today. He had an errand to run. Can I get you something?” He gestured toward the shelves of empty glasses and full bottles.

“What have you got?” I am not much of a drinker, but Sean's mixtures were like Martine's food, something not to be passed up lightly.

He studied me for a minute and then touched his fedora brim like a salute. “I know just the thing.”

I watched as Sean went to work with his bottles and his shaker. As usual, he was sharply dressed. Today, in addition to the fedora, he wore a bright blue shirt, black-on-black patterned vest and black tie. The effect was cheerful, stylish and ever so slightly vintage.

“How are Jake and Miranda doing?” Sean asked as he carefully poured out the cocktail into a wide-mouthed glass.

“They're trying to be okay, but it's hard.”

He nodded as he set the drink in front of me. “Pear martini,” he said. “You will notice is it shaken, not stirred, which means it's milder. There's a reason James Bond drank these on the job.”

I smiled and I sipped. The martini was just sweet enough and lovely and cool, and as he'd promised, fairly mild. “Thanks, Sean.”

“Maybe I should ask if you're doing okay?”

“Bartender sense tingling again?”

He shrugged. “It's a gift.”

“I don't suppose anybody's been talking about . . . things here?”

“Was that supposed to be a subtle reference to Jimmy Upton's murder?”

“It's a work in progress.”

Sean chuckled. “As a matter of fact, Dad told me that yesterday the food and beverages manager—”

“Kelly Pierce?” I put in.

“You're fast. Yeah. Kelly got all the staff together and gave them the warning from on high that they were absolutely not to be talking to any press or police about Jimmy Upton without approval from Mrs. Hilde herself. So, somebody's worried about what Jimmy's death means for the hotel. And we've already had to chase Frank Hawthorne out.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” I took another sip of martini.

“Because we both know Frank,” said Sean. He glanced toward the door behind the bar. “Now, here comes the man you should really talk to.”

The swinging door was pushed open from the other side and a gray-haired man in a battered shovel cap with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows backed in, carrying a wooden crate. It rattled.

“There's himself,” said Sean, suddenly sounding very Irish.

“Himself, indeed.” “Old” Sean McNally hefted the crate up onto the bar with a grunt. It rattled again.

The senior Sean McNally is a wiry, weather-beaten man with iron gray hair and calloused hands. He always shakes mine delicately, like he's afraid he's going to break something. Just then, his eyes twinkled at me and his son, in a way that threatened to make me blush. Sean, I noticed, was not looking at me.

“Well, hello, Anna. What brings you in here this fine day?” Old Sean peered skeptically at my glass. “And what's this concoction my son's talked you into?”

“It's a pear martini.”

“
Pear
martini,” Mr. McNally sneered in mock horror. “Corrupting good liquor, that's what the boy does with his syrups and his fruit and heaven knows what else.”

Sean rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, looking for patience. “
So.
How'd it go, Dad?”

Mr. McNally laid his broad hand reverently on the crate. “What we've got here, my boy, is a dozen bottles of the finest moonshine from the White Mountains. Still can't get used to being able to bring it in the front door.”

The distilling laws had recently been changed to make small-batch moonshine legal in both New Hampshire and Vermont. Now, apparently, the craft liquor industry was booming in both states. The Sean McNallys, Young and Old, had certainly been over the moon (so to speak) about the change.

A server came up with another order. Sean got to work,
pulling a couple of bottles of beer from the fridge under the bar and then some more bottles of liquor off of the shelf. “Anna was there when they found Upton, Dad,” Sean said as he started mixing spirits and bitters with practiced efficiency.

“Were you, now?” Mr. McNally raised his shaggy gray eyebrows at me. “God almighty, what a thing. Not that I'm entirely surprised, mind you.”

“I've heard he wasn't very well liked,” I remarked.

“Well now, that would depend on who you asked, wouldn't it?” said Old Sean. I took another sip of martini. I knew Old Sean well enough to know he wouldn't appreciate it if I tried to rush a good story. Yes, I'd just heard that the hotel bar staff had been told not to talk to anybody. But when has a warning like that ever actually stopped an Irishman?

“I suppose you could say he was a problem child,” said Sean. “Not that you could have told Mrs. Hilde herself that, but—”

But that was as far as he got.

“Good afternoon, Mr. McNally.” A woman's voice cut across whatever he'd been about to add.

We all turned. A petite, strongly curved woman who wore the hotel's red blazer over a black turtleneck and black pencil skirt walked up. Her attitude and her blazer had “management” written all over them. I picked up my drink and tried to make myself look casual and not at all like I might be wasting staff time with unauthorized gossip.

“Is that our moonshine?” the woman asked as she reached the bar.

“It is indeed.” Old Sean extracted a clear bottle from the case.
GRANITE SHINE
was written in flowing script above the outline of a twisted apple tree clinging to the edge of a rugged cliff.

“And may I take it you've sampled the batch?” The woman asked as she turned the bottle in her hands.

“Ah, well now, I couldn't risk bringing an inferior product here, could I?” said Mr. McNally with a wink and a distinct thickening of his Irish brogue. “I can promise you it is as smooth as silk and twice as strong.”

“Excellent. I've got a conference representative coming
in this afternoon to look us over. I'll just keep this as a sweetener. Enjoy your stay,” she added to me before she walked out with the bottle.

“Your boss?” I asked.

Sean shook his head. “That was none other than Kelly Pierce, the food and beverages manager for this grand hotel.”