Death at the Day Lily Cafe (10 page)

A flat-screen TV was tuned to a Baltimore station. The manager of the Orioles was giving an interview. They were playing the Red Sox that night. I liked tuning back in to the world on the days the café was closed.

Glenn and I perched on adjacent barstools. I looped my purse around a hook under the counter.

“So what exactly do you hope to learn tonight, Rosalie? You don't expect the sheriff to show up, do you?”

“I certainly hope not. He's supposed to be sober.” I folded my hands together and rested them on the bar. “CJ was a regular at this place. My guess is someone here may know something.” I looked around the room. “Time for some sleuthing, Glenn.”

“I like the sound of that.”

The bartender, a middle-aged man in a black T-shirt, approached while drying a glass. His head was shaved clean and shone as if it had been polished. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a square patch of facial hair had been sculpted under his bottom lip. Intricate tattoo sleeves adorned his arms. “How can I do ya?”

“I would very much like a cocktail,” Glenn said eagerly. It must have been pretty obvious to the bartender that neither of us got out much.

I studied the beer taps. “How's the Blue Point toasted lager?”

“Wanna taste?” He flipped the tap, filled a small glass, and set it in front of me.

“Oh my. That's delish. I'll have one of those.”

“I'll have a martooni,” Glenn said. “With three olives, please.”

I giggled. “Glenn!”

“When they're good that's what you call them.” Glenn's grin was wide, his eyes dancing with delight. “And stirred, please, not shaken.” He turned to face me. “Shaking can water it down.”

“The man knows his martinis.” The bartender returned Glenn's smile. “I'm guessing Bombay Sapphire?”

“Perfect,” Glenn said.

“Are you the owner?” I said.

“Name's Chuck. Work here six nights a week, so I might as well be. Owner lives in Florida.”

Once Chuck had walked away, Glenn swiveled in his barstool to face me. “This was an excellent idea, my dear.”

“Agreed. Didn't I suggest to you the other day that you should get out more?” I studied our surroundings. Two men were playing a vintage pinball machine. An image of Fonzie and three well-endowed women adorned the back wall. An equal number of men and women were seated at the bar. Some were in pairs, others alone with a drink before them next to a cell phone. Most looked as if they'd just finished a day of hard work. Or maybe a month. “I've never been here before, Glenn. I like bars.”

“An undiscovered treasure. Want to play pinball?”

“We are here on a mission. We both need to focus. And I have a feeling Chuck is our man.”

A few minutes later, Chuck set our drinks down on cardboard squares advertising Heineken. After toasting Glenn, I sipped the frosty beer. “Chuck,” I said, and took another sip. “This is very good. Where's it brewed?”

“Craft brewery on Long Island. Do you know Kevin and Jake?”

“I do. Kevin makes my confections. I just opened the Day Lily Café. You should stop in some time.”

“I heard about that place. You're getting some good reviews.”

“So why did you ask us about Kevin and Jake?” Glenn said.

“They're regular customers. They like the pinball machine, and Jake is a big sports fan. Anyway, they told me about Blue Point and asked if I could stock it. Now it's a bestseller.” He wiped down the bar.

“I know Kevin, but I haven't met Jake yet,” Glenn said.

“Good guy. Used to be the captain of the John Adams lacrosse team. Now he's the coach. His biceps are as big as tree trunks,” Chuck said. “And he's got to be at least six-three. Wouldn't you say so?”

“He's very fit. And super good-looking.”

“You weren't going to hear me say that.” Chuck rolled his eyes. “I like that Jake and Kevin are part of this town. And they make it better, you know, like telling me about Blue Point.”

“I totally agree,” I said.

“How's your martini, sir?”

Glenn smacked his lips. “Perfectamente.”

I laughed again while Chuck walked over to another customer. “I love craft beers. Glenn, I need to do some research. We could install beer taps at the café.”

“And maybe offer some gin.”

“Something tells me our productivity is about to decline.”

“There is certainly a danger of that.”

Chuck returned with a bowl of popcorn. “I've seen you folks around, but I apologize for not knowing your names.”

“I'm Rosalie, and this is Glenn.” I scooped out a handful of popcorn. “We're new by Cardigan standards.”

“We went to CJ Fiddler's funeral this morning,” Glenn said. “Did you know him?”

“Always sat right there.” Chuck pointed to a seat at the corner of the bar. “Anybody show up at the service?”

“Not many.”

“But you did?” he said.

“We're friends with Doris and Lori,” I said. “I never met CJ. What kind of man was he?”

“He was all right. Always paid his bill. Didn't hit on anyone's wife. Sometimes he got a little loud, but who doesn't in a bar?”

“Did he ever get into an argument?” I wiped my hands on a napkin.

“A few times. But I try to keep things copacetic in here. See that sign over there?”

I followed his gaze. A large piece of poster board was pasted on the wall over the tequila. “No politics, no religion, no problems,” I read aloud. “I like that.”

“Do people follow it?” Glenn said.

“For the most part. But being in a bar tends to loosen inhibitions.”

“So CJ kept to himself?” I said.

“You see, I'm a bartender. People tell me things. I see things. But if I go blabbing what I know, it's bad for business. But I'll give you this—something was eating at CJ a few days before his death. He was drinking harder and staying longer.” Chuck noticed a customer waving to get his attention. “How about another round?”

Glenn lifted his glass and said, “That would be terrific.” Once Chuck was out of earshot, Glenn leaned toward me and said, “You driving?”

“Can't you walk home from here?”

“After two martinis, that may not be the case. Thus the question.”

“I'm at your service.” I finished my beer. “I don't know if we're going to learn much from Chuck.”

“We know CJ was acting funny. I wonder why,” Glenn said.

“Losing his job? The money?”

Glenn pulled an olive off his toothpick and popped it in his mouth. “We know those are possibilities. But that doesn't tell us who killed him.”

I looked around the room. “Do you recognize anyone?”

Glenn dropped the toothpick into his empty glass. “A few. The woman with the purple tips on her hair delivers my mail.”

“Do you know her? I mean, enough to ask her about CJ?”

“I can certainly try. She likes to talk, that's for sure.”

Chuck returned with our drinks. “You know, you two seemed interested in CJ.” He rested his elbows on the bar. “There was one incident that really stayed with me. It wasn't too long ago, but it just seemed so out of character for a guy like CJ.”

I curled my toes inside my shoes, willing him to continue.

“What was that?” Glenn sipped his new martini.

“Remember how I was telling you about Kevin and Jake liking the pinball machine? Well, they usually come in on the weekends, so they never ran into CJ. But I guess Jake won a pretty big tournament, so they stopped in for a Blue Point to celebrate. They were having a good time, and the whole place was enjoying them. That kind of energy is contagious, you know?”

“What happened, Chuck?” I said.

“I never knew CJ was homophobic. But he got riled up. He drank too much and started making comments like telling them not to use the men's room. Everybody tensed up, and then he said something pretty foul to Kevin. Jake got mad, really mad, and told him to take it outside.”

“Good lord,” Glenn said. “I didn't realize people still said that sort of thing.”

Chuck laughed. “Sure they do.”

“Did they get in a fight?” I clutched my glass.

“I don't really know what happened. But Jake came back in alone. I could see he was upset. His face was red, and his jaw was clenched. But he sat next to Kevin and apologized to the crowd. Then he slapped down his credit card and bought a round for the house.”

 

E
IGHTEEN

The next morning I made my way to the kitchen freshly showered and dressed. It was Wednesday, and the café wouldn't reopen until the next day. I was looking forward to catching up with Tyler. I had an idea for a soup shooter we could serve and wanted to see if he knew someone local who could sell us some asparagus.

I was surprised to see every light downstairs ablaze. When I rounded the corner Bini was at the stove wearing lime green rubber gloves. “Good morning,” I said as I made my way to Mr. Miele.

“Hey,” she said without looking up.

I filled my mug and turned to see what she was doing. I watched as she scrubbed my stovetop, putting her full body weight, such as it was, into her efforts.

“What are you doing, Bini?”

“You had some serious buildup under your burners.”

“Why are you cleaning my kitchen?”

“Tyler said you both need help.” She turned around. She was wearing another snug ribbed tank, the same cutoff shorts, and work boots. “When I got here this morning the kitchen was pretty messy. And then you were sleeping in so late, I thought I'd better clean it.”

I glanced at the clock. It was just now 7:00 a.m. “I had an idea for a recipe last night. I was trying out a few versions.” I sipped my coffee. “After being at the café all weekend, doing the dishes last night would have felt like a busman's holiday.” I smiled. “You know, like when someone who cleans houses all day doesn't have the drive to vacuum her own carpet.”

Bini frowned. “I don't really understand what you just said.”

“Well, thank you for cleaning my stove. We should get you a Barclay Meadow T-shirt. Are you an extra small?”

“Most of me is, but they're usually too tight around my biceps.”

I failed to prevent my eyebrows from rising. “A small, then.” I topped off my coffee and headed outside to find Tyler. I had a pretty good idea where he would be.

When Tyler had first suggested we raise chickens in order to create a certifiably sustainable farm, I had balked at the idea. I always thought chickens were stupid and messy. At least they were treated that way on the farm where I grew up. Ours were truly free range, with no fencing or coop. They would just flap around in the barn eating whatever they could find until my father was hungry for a roasted chicken dinner. To him, farm animals existed to serve man, and he raised his children to hold the same belief. At least he tried. Sensing his only daughter's inclinations, he informed my mother early on that
Charlotte's Web
would be banned from the house. So of course, knowing I was forbidden to read it, I headed for the fiction section of the elementary school library and looked up E. B. White the first chance I got.

But my chickens were living the good life. At least they had been, until the hawk came along. Tyler had built a charming house for them, with white siding and forest green shutters to match the main house. They had comfortable nests and he kept the coop immaculate, composting their waste to use as fertilizer in the fields. He built a cistern on the roof that gathered rain and emptied out into their watering trough. Their fencing was movable so that Tyler could rotate their ranging area. Sometimes he had them near the garden to eat the insects and dig up weeds, and other times he let them roam free in the grass and shrubs.

The sun was rising quickly, already scorching the air. I rounded the corner and heard a hammer pounding in the barn. There was no sign of the chickens. Despite Tyler's admonitions, I had grown attached to them. I had named each one, which was easy because their personalities were so distinct. They had free range, and so did I.

We had Mick Jagger, the strutting rooster of course; Katy Perry, a brightly colored hen who loved the sound of her own voice; and Eleanor Roosevelt, a proud matriarch who herded the smaller hens. And they definitely weren't stupid. That was something else Tyler taught me. Farm animals were focused on their flocks and herds, not on what humans would like them to do. In order to get a chicken to do what you want, you have to act like a fellow chicken.

Tyler emerged from the shed pulling a massive square of wire fencing framed in balsa wood. “Hey,” he said.

“No crows?” I sipped my coffee.

“We stopped feeding them. Too expensive. Plus they made a heck of a mess.”

I always found myself smiling a lot when I was with Tyler. His presence just made me happy. And he was a worker. Perspiration stains were already appearing under his extra-large Barclay Meadow T-shirt, and he had a dusting of sawdust on his jeans.

“Can I let the chickens out?”

Tyler scanned the sky. “I think so. If we're both out here, I doubt the hawk would take the risk.”

I opened the door to the coop and called to the chickens. The first to emerge was Scheherazade. I was partial to her. She was sweet and exotic and very observant of the dynamics of her flock. But Tyler had a special fondness for Chicken Little, a petite Ohio Buckeye with dark reddish-brown feathers who was fiercely independent and one of the hardest-working egg layers in the coop.

“Are you going to put that screen over the free-range fencing?”

“I think it will work. Bini has another idea, but in the meantime this will keep them safe.”

“Can I make us lunch today?” I shielded my eyes as the sun blazed through the trees.

“That—”

“Say, Ty.” Bini walked toward us as she tucked her cell phone into her back pocket. “I just heard from Jason at Great Neck Farm. I've got a group together to meet today about forming a co-op. Jason also wants to talk about maybe starting a CSA. Pizza Hut at twelve.”