A Side of Sabotage Page 11

  Ben and Dominic each reach for chips from the other bowls. Within a few chews, they are both moaning. Ella doesn’t move to try the chips at all.

  “You guys! These are great,” Zoe says as she pops a few more into her mouth.

  Dominic, who is the most adventurous eater among us, asks her, “What’s on them?”

  Zoe shows the fronts of the three bags: Roddy’s Haggis with Coarse Ground Pepper, Roddy’s Highlands Ghost Pepper, and Roddy’s Roasted Ox.

  The rest of us groan in unison.

  Zoe’s face is as red as her hair now. “You don’t like them? Fine. I brought them all the way home from Scotland, where everyone loves them, and I opened these especially for you guys, and you . . .” Her voice trails off into what I know is going to be a tear fest.

  “Wait, Zoe,” I start. “Maybe we’re just not used to them. You’ve had two years to get used to them. You must have thought they were weird the first time you tasted them . . . right?” I’m almost pleading with her not to become a huge overnight grump. I reach for an ox chip and nibble on the edge. I want to say, That’s not so bad, but I can’t.

  Zoe looks at Ella. “Are you going to try them?”

  “I don’t even do Moxie much,” Ella says apologetically.

  “But you tried it,” I say.

  Ella gives me a green-lidded evil eye. “Only because it’s the official drink of Maine. We’re not in Scotland.”

  “Zoe, these chili pepper ones aren’t bad,” Ben says, “except they’re destroying my taste buds for life and singeing the hair inside my nose. I can eat a few but I need like a gallon of milk.”

  I don’t want to upset Zoe any more, but I really want to get back to talking about suspects.

  Surprisingly, Ella come to the rescue. “If you have some Ziploc bags, I’ll help you put them away, and they’ll stay fresh like you never opened them.”

  The anger starts to fade from Zoe’s face. She looks at Ella, then at the bowls, then at Ella. “Sure. Yeah. Thanks.”

  My blood pressure goes down too. When they get back from the kitchen, I’m forcing a discussion of what we should do next.

  “Look, since Slick’s first on the active suspect list, I think he’s the one to keep a close eye on. He’s got all the signs of being our guy.”

  Ella offers, “Whenever Monroe Spalding’s on a case, he says, ‘It’s the thing you don’t think of that’s most significant.’”

  I ask, “You mean, if we’re supposed to think they’re nobody, then they’re somebody, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So the Lewises, the toddler family, that Martin guy, Mrs. Billingsley, and the hundred-year-old man are all real suspects . . . and Slick is not?”

  “I don’t know,” Ella says. “Maybe. I’m just reporting what an experienced detective has to say on the matter.”

  “An experienced detective in a book,” says Ben.

  He may just be a detective in a book, I think. But he’s been right before. I remind myself to keep my mind open.

  22

  The next day, we’ve switched our task from surveillance at outposts near restaurants to tailing specific suspects. Unfortunately, that still leaves Ella and Ben concealed in the bushes outside Restaurant Hubert. Because they’re free from the informal restraining order, they’ve been assigned Hubert and Slick, and they keep texting us complaining about how detective work is a “whole lot of waiting around.” I keep texting them back, “Suck it up.” Zoe is watching Gusty’s from her bedroom window, and Dominic and I are in my family’s dining room, researching our new shorter list of suspects online.

  “Look at this,” he says and swivels his laptop in my direction. “Martin Candor really is an architect.” There he is, on Dominic’s screen, wearing his usual kind of plaid shirt and tan pants. He has a hardhat on his head and a rolled-up plan under his arm. Behind him is some renovated historic building in Augusta. “I can’t see a reason for this guy to be involved with Hubert.”

  I stare at the picture for a few seconds. At first, I’m going to tell Dominic, Let’s not spend any more time on this guy, but then it hits me. “See if he’s the one who did the plans to turn Loney’s Lobster Pound into Restaurant Hubert. Maybe they met that way.”

  “Good idea,” Dominic says and digs in.

  My thumbs are flying around on my tablet, inputting every phrase about cooking I can think of that would bring up info on Hubert Pivot.

  “Oh my gosh, look at this! He had hair!” I show Dominic that patchwork of images that comes up on a Google search. In Hubert’s case, there’s chef’s coats of varying colors, sparser and sparser hair, increased worry lines, looks of defiance, looks of exasperation, but never a real, full-on smile. I spot one photo with his characteristic smirk. But the more I study the gallery, the more I realize the smirk is not a smirk at all. He has a scar just above the left corner of his mouth, and it makes him look like he’s curling his lip on his resting face. That’s kind of a bummer for him.

  Next, I try the links. Many of them lead to interviews. I click on one from last year.

  At what looks like a fancy espresso shop, a reporter with a big bulbous microphone says to the camera, “We are here at Café Encre Bleue with Hubert Pivot, the chef who has just dramatically walked away from a position at Shovela, a prestigious five-star restaurant, in order to preserve the integrity of his creative spirit.” The camera pans to show the famous chef next to him. “Chef, what are your plans for the future?”

  For someone who recently pitched a fit over the variety of kale in a salad, Hubert looks remarkably calm. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “The natural variety of ingredients in the world is the essence of cooking. I cannot work where those distinctions are not appreciated.”

  The reporter with the big microphone looks surprised that Hubert’s answer is so short. “Could you say more about what you’ll do next?”

  “Let me say one other thing first. I cannot abide the wasting of food. True chefs use all of the vegetable. They repurpose a misshaped and unloved tuber. At Shovela, they couldn’t understand that.”

  “Are you contemplating a new signature dish?” The reporter thrusts the mic up a little higher, as if to urge Hubert to fill it up with enough words to cover the spot.

  “I’m definitely exploring the spotted reef crab. It’s a tiny, fingernail-sized crab that only grows on the west side of Oahu and must be harvested by divers who separate each one from the reef by hand.”

  The reporter presses him. “How will you prepare them?”

  “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?” Hubert is dead serious.

  “Ha, ha, no. I guess not. You guys have your secrets.”

  Hubert appears to lose interest, and I click on another link, this one leading to an episode of a public TV show that profiles young chefs. The episode’s focused on Hubert Pivot. The studio kitchen is cramped but simple, with scaffolding behind and above the cooking area. The camera drifts around and sometimes catches audience members, light stands, and the backstage crew.

  Hubert has half a head of hair and sports a classic white chef’s coat. He speaks in low tones, and a crew member comes up and adjust the microphone and whispers to him.

  “They’re telling me to speak up,” Hubert says, and a few titters arise from the audience. “So, let’s see, today, I’m going to talk about myself, which I can’t imagine many of you are interested in, and I’m going to do it while I make a tempeh dish. It’s going to be like watching a trained bear spinning saucers on sticks while standing on one foot.”

  The audience laughs, which seems to perk Hubert up. He smiles a little. Finally.

  He slices zucchini as he continues. “So I grew up reading cookbooks, and I enrolled in the Culinary Academy of North America as soon as I could, before I finished high school.” He scrapes the chip-sized disks from the cutting board and drops them into sizzling hot skillet. “Of course, I didn’t finish. Too many tests and things. I had to be in a restaurant ki
tchen.” He lifts the pan from the flame and shakes it, flipping the slices into the air, then expertly catching them. He doesn’t make eye contact with the camera. His eyes are on his knife as it turns basil leaves into frilly shreds. “I believe in fresh. I believe in organic. I believe in honest cuisine.”

  The camera pans the audience, and a few people in the front row are leaning forward to smell the food.

  “Hey, Q, look at this!” Dominic grabs my sleeve and shoves his phone in my face. At the same time, my own phone starts going wild with texts.

  Ben: YOW the inspector is at Hubert’s.

  Ella: Yeah he’s talking to Slick at the kitchen door.

  Ben: We think Slick just gave the inspector something. Holy sheesh.

  Ella: It looks like an envelope. Could be cash.

  Ben: What should we do?

  I start typing like a fiend:

  Me: Are you getting this on your phones?!! Pics or movie whatever you can get.

  A few seconds later, I get a photo message from Ben. The picture shows Slick in the doorway with a white cloth tied around his waist. You can clearly see his face, and there’s a burst of light shining off his left ear. The inspector’s facing him, his back to us. Except for the fact that Slick’s left shoulder is a little high and he’s got a bent elbow, you can’t see anything being passed between them. No envelope. No nothing. Another picture comes. There’s a smile on Slick’s face—he’s slugging the inspector on the shoulder. These guys are getting along big time.

  Me: Don’t go any closer.

  * * *

  By lunchtime, Ella and Ben are done with their Restaurant Hubert surveillance shift, and we meet up at Gusty’s. On the way in, we have to queue up behind the toddler family and Mrs. Billingsley. At least Billingsley’s with Groucho. That little dog is so darn cute. Today, he’s wearing little blue overalls. It’s hilarious.

  Mrs. Billingsley heads for the table she has made her own, all the while burrowing in her big handbag and grumbling that she can’t find something. After some deep digging that attracts the attention of everyone in the café, she dumps the bag out on the table. A mountain of stuff appears: a wallet, a can of dog food, a ring of keys, wet wipes, the head of a flashlight. She brightens and picks up the head of the flashlight, which has a headband attached to it.

  “Here we go, Groucho.” She scoops up the little dog and puts the light on his head. Instantly, I realize he’s a Minion. I can’t help myself, I like Mrs. Billingsley a bit for dressing up her dog like a freakin’ Minion.

  That is, until she makes a great display of waving her arms in the air and telling Clooney that there’s something sticky on her tabletop.

  Without a word or a smile, Clooney walks over like a robot and wipes the tabletop with a wet cloth, using more circling motions than reason would call for. Then she wipes it dry. Before she turns away, she gives Groucho the Minion some good old down-east stink eye.

  “What shall we have today, Grouchy?” Mrs. Billingsley asks the dog in a goo-goo baby voice.

  At the next table, the toddler parents are way past baby talk. The dad is busy moving the salt, pepper, sugar, ketchup, and other tabletop condiments out of the toddler’s reach. The mom pulls out a baggie with cheddar Goldfish and tries to keep the kiddo busy. He’s crying and waggling his fingers toward the sugar packets. For a second, it looks like the dad is going to give in and let there be sugar and sweetener all over the table.

  For once, Ben’s more interested in talking about his observations than his stomach. Dominic and I listen intently.

  “The inspector drove up kind of fast and jumped out of the car, still talking on his cell phone,” Ben says. “As he was walking to the kitchen door, he ended the call and stuck the phone in his pocket.”

  “He was carrying a clipboard, like he was going to do official inspection business,” says Ella. “But before he could go in, Slick came to the door and stepped out.”

  “Yeah, and Slick kept looking over his shoulder while they were talking, like he was watching to make sure no one inside saw him,” Ben adds.

  “He was looking around outside, too,” Ella says. “Do you think you should show these pictures to your mom, Q?”

  “The problem is,” I say, looking at them again, “the really important parts aren’t visible, like the inspector’s expression and the transfer of the envelope.”

  “Hi, guys!”

  I nearly jump out of my skin when Dad shows up at our table. We all ease back from our phone-watching positions. “Hi, Dad.”

  “What’s it gonna be? Today’s special is a Gusty burger, lobster fries, and a soda of your choice.”

  Ben stretches and rubs his stomach. “I’ll have that, and some onion rings too, and a whoopie pie and milk.”

  Dominic says, “Clam chowder—a bowl, not a cup—and pie and Moxie.”

  “No fish head soup today?” Dad asks.

  “It’s really delicious. Really. But today I’m going with the chowda.”

  Dad scratches his head with the non-ink end of the pen. “Do you guys think I should serve it without the heads?”

  “No, Dad!” I tell him. “It’s perfect the way you have it on the menu. Just like it is now.”

  Dad nods noncommittally and wanders away, mumbling about how Hubert has him all bollixed up. I look at Ella, and we smile sadly. Poor Dad and his fish head dilemma.

  23

  For the rest of lunch, I wrestle with whether I should show the pictures to Mom. This could clinch our case that Hubert is bribing the inspector to harass Gusty’s and that Slick is his go-between. Except, that’s not exactly what they show. One captures Slick and the inspector friendly-like and goofing around. The other shows Slick talking to the inspector and smiling and moving his arm, plus a view of the inspector’s back. You have to put the second image together with Ben and Ella’s testimony to establish that an envelope passed between them. And the first thing Mom would say is, But we don’t know what’s in the envelope. And I’d want to whine a little bit and say, What else could it be? And she’d say, That’s circumstantial evidence and not very persuasive circumstantial evidence. We need a real link.

  I mull this over as I swallow my last bite of lobster roll. Even if Willy is up to no good, the stuff in that envelope could have been money to bribe the inspector to give Hubert’s a good health rating. I have no proof it relates to Gusty’s. I’m pretty much concluding I should wait to show Mom the pics, when the café door opens and Martin Candor comes in. I almost forgot about him for a minute.

  “Don’t stare,” Dominic whispers to me.

  “Right,” I say, but I keep checking him out. Same shirt, same pants. Same business casual clothes. He smiles. Not too small, not too large. Seems comfortable in his own skin. Waits casually for a seat.

  Something comes over me, and I wave him to our table. “Over here, mister. You can sit here. We’re leaving.”

  He raises his hand slightly as if to say hi and thanks at the same time.

  We’re filing past him when I get a burst of boldness. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He reels back a bit but says, “Maybe. It depends on how personal it is.”

  “The first day you were here, I saw you take a picture of the café. Why’d you decide to do that?”

  His brow wrinkles like he’s trying to remember the first day he was here. Then he laughs. “Well, that’s not so personal. I’m an architect. I like buildings—especially old café buildings like this one. You know, some people like barns. I like these.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He takes out his phone and scrolls to the picture he took of Gusty’s, then starts pointing to various spots on it. “The frame of the place is similar to many built during the postwar period . . .”

  It starts to sound like blah blah blah blah de blah. I look to the door. Everyone’s gone outside, except Dominic, who is giving me bug eyes. I wave at him to go ahead, then turn back to Martin Candor. “I’m Quinnie Boyd,” I say and stick out
my hand.

  “Martin Candor.” He shakes my hand. His hand feels like a normal hand. Not the hand of a saboteur. “Are you related to Gusty?”

  “He’s my dad.”

  “Well, Quinnie Boyd, you live in a very special town and you have a very special father. And this is a classic New England structure.”

  I leave the table pretty convinced he’s not planning to hurt this historical site.

  * * *

  Outside, Ben, Dominic, and Ella are waiting.

  “So where’s Zoe today?” Ella asks the group.

  “She’ll catch up with us,” says Ben. “She said she was eating lunch at home so she could wait for the mail. I guess she was getting a box from Scotland.”

  Once again confirming she left her heart—and maybe her brain—on a sheep farm across the Atlantic. I tell myself to relax. Re-acclimating takes time. But I hope the box doesn’t have more haggis chips.

  Ella must have been watching me because she leans over and whispers, “She’ll be fine, Q. Born a Mainah, always a Mainah. Right? Isn’t that what you told me?”

  Well, that kind of makes me want to cry. I’m on the verge of tears much too much lately. I do not care for it. Focus.

  Dominic also seems to sense that something’s up with me. “What was that with the Lone Man?”

  “Let’s go to the beach and I’ll tell you,” I say. I can always get my focus from looking at the ocean.

  * * *

  “So?” Dominic demands. “What did Lone Man show you on his phone?”

  “Pictures of buildings—cafés from the olden days.” It takes me a while to explain it all, but eventually I get across that Martin Candor seems to be the real deal when it comes to architecture, and we can cross him off our list once and for all.

  At the end of the beach, we find Ms. Stillford sitting on a rock, staring out to sea. It strikes me how much more gray—and how much less blonde—her hair is than it was last summer. She seems unaware of us as we approach. One of her Birkenstock sandals is dangling off her foot as she leans back with the sun on her face.

  She startles a little when I say, “Hi, Ms. Stillford!”