A Side of Sabotage Page 4

“Thanks. I’ll be right out.” I duck behind the counter to grab the welcome packet while Dad, who’s standing nearby, tells Clooney the rules for service dogs. I’m starting to listen in when Dad turns and says, “Quinnie, Mrs. Billingsley’s waiting.” Fine. Nobody told me about a dog. But if nobody cares, then nobody cares.

  7

  In the parking lot, Mrs. Billingsley has decided to let Groucho do his business near one of the flower planters. Dominic walks around the blue Jaguar, leaning over periodically to inspect it more closely. When Groucho is finished, he darts over to Dominic and puts his little cowboy paws up on Dominic’s leg. Mrs. Billingsley walks away from the poop pile, checking something on her phone.

  I say, “Ma’am, you have to clean that up.”

  Mrs. Billingsley either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to.

  I say it louder. “Ma’am, you have to clean up after your dog.”

  Mrs. Billingsley looks up as if in a phone-daze and says to me, “It’s small, he’s small. It’ll dry up and blow away in no time.” She opens her driver’s-side door. “Now, which way are we going?”

  Dominic says to me, “I’ll ride with her to her rental.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll walk down and meet you there.”

  Dominic starts to get in the Jag, but Mrs. Billingsley shakes her head. “Just give me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

  I’m wondering how this is all going to filter back to Mom . . . and I can’t believe I’m picking up the poop.

  Dominic waits for me while I bag and toss the little lumps. While I’m griping about it, a car pulls into the parking lot from the direction of Circle Lane. It stops to let Slick out. I realize the man behind the wheel is Hubert Pivot. I haven’t seen him in person, but there is no mistaking him from his picture in the paper. He’s as bald as a volleyball, with ears that stick out like wings.

  Slick lingers by the open passenger door. They don’t seem to notice us standing there. “It wasn’t that bad!” he says to his boss. “It said you struck haute cuisine gold.”

  Hubert grumbles and tightens his grip on the steering wheel and says something about “seventy-one percent bookings.”

  Slick says, “A lot of people still go to this joint.”

  I distinctly hear Hubert say, “They won’t for long.”

  Before Slick slams the door, he says, “Don’t forget the spring onions.”

  Hubert peels out, and Dominic and I beat it to the rental to do my duty to Mrs. Billingsley, the words They won’t for long running over and over in my mind.

  * * *

  Billingsley tells Dominic to carry in her bags, then to watch Groucho, who really is a cute little dog. His owner forces me to walk around the house with her and record everything she notes is wrong, broken, or inadequate. Dominic and I don’t leave for another hour.

  Once that hour’s up, I stop by Mom’s office to drop off Mrs. Billingsley’s list of complaints, and then Dominic and I head to Ms. Stillford’s, where the save pile is growing. I swear that she must have come out overnight and moved half of the sell items over to the save heap.

  Dominic’s still trying to decide which cool piece of junk he wants. He’s leaning toward a View-Master slide viewer and a box of two hundred slides from National Geographic. Ella has claimed Ms. Stillford’s vampire costume, complete with fangs and a wig. Zoe wants her Marianne doll. And Ben wants the full thirty-three volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica 1994.

  I’m going through a box of little salt and pepper shakers, all individually wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Ceramic pigs, lambs, snowmen, skaters . . . but I can’t focus. They won’t for long—it’s stoking my suspicions. I walk out of the carriage house and call Dad. He answers on the first ring.

  “Hi, kiddo. Sup?”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Not so much. Midafternoon lag.”

  “Is Slick there?”

  “Willy? Nope. He was here for lunch but he’s gone.”

  “Dad, I heard him talking about Gusty’s with Hubert, and he said”—I think hard about exactly what he said. I’ve learned that exaggeration does not help in these situations—“ ‘There are still people eating at Gusty’s,’ and Hubert said, ‘They won’t be for long.’ ”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “In the Gusty’s parking lot. Hubert was dropping him off.”

  “Right. Well, I’m not sure what to say other than that’s the way competition goes. Everyone would like to have the most customers.”

  “But Dad, he said ‘not for long,’ like something was going to happen. Like he was going to make something happen.”

  “Seriously, Quinnie, what can he do? Out-advertise us? Besides, Slick—as you call him—is eating here on a regular basis. Spending money here. I wouldn’t call that a problem.”

  I don’t think Dad’s getting it. “You should ban him from Gusty’s. He’s trying to steal your recipes and who knows what else.”

  There’s a pause on the other end. I can hear his mind going to that place where I’m an alarmist playing detective again. But he softens his tone. “Your point is so noted.”

  “Okay, Dad. Think about it.”

  I go back into the carriage house and announce, “We have to do a publicity campaign for Gusty’s. And we have to do it now.”

  * * *

  Over the next two days, I take note of the number of people eating at Gusty’s. I can’t exactly say how big the drop is, but for a time of year when summer homes are full and weekly rentals are always booked, the café’s definitely not as crowded as usual. At night, I hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen about gross receipts and net revenues.

  My crew has made flyers that say Gusty’s Café—Family Owned Since 1918 and put them in all the local mailboxes, along with coupons for a cinnamon bun, a bowl of chowder, or a piece of blueberry pie. I needed Mom’s help to pressure Dad on the coupons. He repeated his argument: “I don’t see how giving away food makes any money, especially the food I always run out of.” But Mom urged him to try it. He agreed once we added, with purchase of a sandwich.

  An Instagram account is probably still out of the question. And the friendly fancy food suggestions keep rolling in.

  Ms. Stillford brings Dad a recipe for probiotic goat yogurt with pruneau puree. She says he could blow a flute over it. Dad smiles and shoves it in a drawer. Ben’s uncle, John Denby, hands Dad a scan of his mother’s handwritten recipe for Granny’s Bread Ball Soup. Ben whispers to me that Dad should throw it away, because it’s made with beef lard and will give our patrons heart attacks. Dad tells John, “I appreciate the thought.” Owen Loney tells Dad that his “ma” used to make “porridge with a butterfat lump in it.” Dad says, “You don’t say, Owen.” Then he whispers to me that people are confusing “old-timey with newfangled.”

  On the morning after the butterfat lump incident, Dominic and I are sitting at our usual table, designing a new T-shirt that says Gusty’s Café—Best Blueberry Pie in Maine. Dominic is pressing us to add an infinity symbol when Slick comes in with another man who looks like he’s also from Restaurant Hubert.

  Dominic points to their feet. “Those are Crocs. They’re the preferred footwear in a commercial kitchen.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “Ben and I saw them wearing those goon shoes before, and we looked it up,” he says.

  “You guys don’t have enough to do.”

  Dad walks over to Slick’s table with two mugs and a pot of coffee.

  “Fill ’er up,” Slick says.

  The other guy nods at his cup like he’ll take the same.

  Slick opens the plastic-covered menu and points to various items, telling his buddy that he should try this or that or that one too. “It’s good stuff,” he says.

  Dad hears this and puffs up a bit. “Glad to hear you like it.”

  “You’ve got some interesting flavor medleys going on here,” says Slick.

  Dad beams. Then he does the craziest thing he’s ever
done. He says, “I bet I could even beat Hubert’s in a cook-off.”

  Slick laughs.

  Then Dad gets majorly feisty. “Really, you tell Hubert I challenge him to a cook-off.”

  Slick uses the kind of voice my dad always uses when he’s telling me to simmer down. “Okay, okay, I’ll pass that along to the boss.” He looks at his buddy. “What do ya think, Carl? Fresh versus fried.”

  As Dad walks back toward the kitchen, he underlines his point: “I’m not kidding.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, I’m sitting on our back porch watching the waves, and I get a text from Zoe.

  Zoe: Want to meet on the beach?

  Me: Sure. I’ll text Ella.

  Zoe: Just us, maybe?

  Me: K. Meet you halfway.

  Little alarm bells go off in my head. What’s this about? Doesn’t she like Ella? What if Ella sees us walking without her? Will that hurt her feelings? Am I being stupid? Is this no big deal? Yeah. It’s probably no big deal.

  I stick my head in the kitchen, where my parents are sitting at the table, assembling welcome packets for summer renters, and I hear Mom say, “You did what?”

  Dad says, “I challenged him to a duel.”

  “Not seriously?” says Mom.

  I jump in. “I heard it, Mom. He challenged Hubert to a smackdown.”

  “Smackdown, taste test, cook-off, a food competition. Call it whatever you want.” Dad is swaggering around the kitchen, waving a telephone emergency-contact list. “Bring it on.”

  “Oh my gosh, Gus!” Mom says.

  “I’m meeting Zoe for a walk on the beach,” I say. I don’t really want to get sucked into this conversation.

  Mom and Dad both turn at the same time. “Be back before dark.”

  As the door closes, I hear Mom say, “Did he agree?”

  “I just mentioned it this afternoon.”

  Cold, wet sand flicks at my ankles. It’s almost seven o’clock, and the tide won’t be in for a couple hours. Still, the surf hits the rocks hard, spraying the right side of my body with salt water. It feels strange to be walking past Zoe’s real house on the way to her rental house. When I look up to her old room, where Dominic currently lives, TV light is bouncing off the walls. He’s alone—he could have called me to do something. That hurts a little bit, since he only has three weeks left. Then he walks in front of the window, carrying a box. He’s packing. Pinch my heart. He’s really leaving. But I put this out of my mind.

  A tall, thin figure jogs toward me, red hair bouncing wildly in the early evening light. For a second, I ask myself who it is before realizing it’s Zoe.

  She flips my hood up over my head. I duck, then reach out and pull at her ruby locks.

  “You hate the new look, don’t you?” she says.

  “I do not. I don’t hate it.” I jam my hands into my pockets and look straight ahead to avoid looking at her massive head of hair.

  “Well, you don’t love it.”

  “I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. It surprised me. It looked different when I pictured it in my head.”

  “It’s not like a Merida ’do or anything. It’s just hair.”

  This gets me laughing.

  She wags her head in my face, and I push it away, laughing harder. “It’s . . . so . . . red!”

  “It’s a little weird, isn’t it?” Zoe says.

  “What?”

  “I don’t really feel like I live here anymore.”

  Her voice is almost pitiful. I don’t know why, but it surprises me. I never expected her to not feel at home in Maiden Rock. “You will. Wait until you get back in your house. And I’m here, and Ella’s here.”

  “Q, I don’t know Ella.” She kicks up some sand, runs in the surf, and yells, “I like her nail polish, though.”

  I stomp in after her. “And she likes your red hair.”

  Zoe fails to maintain her enthusiasm. “I miss Scotland already.”

  8

  The next morning, Ella’s dad’s car motors up the road and rolls to a stop in front of my house. I jump in the back seat and lean forward between them. “Morning.”

  “Good morning, Quinnie,” Mr. Philpotts says. He’s not very convincing about its goodness. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he’s been up all night writing one of his crime novels. I’ve learned to recognize “writer face” from seeing it regularly at Ella’s house.

  “He needs a depth charge,” Ella says.

  “That’s a fact,” says her dad.

  “Zoe coming?” Ella asks.

  “I haven’t talked to her since last night. I’m sure she’ll show up.”

  Ella turns to look at me like, Is something the matter? I’m hesitant to admit things are not going as perfectly as I’d hoped.

  Inside Gusty’s, the smells are breathtaking. We’ve arrived just as the blueberry muffins are coming out of the oven.

  Mr. Philpotts waves at Dad and sits down at the counter. Dad immediately turns to the fancy Italian espresso maker he bought last year to satisfy discriminating caffeine drinkers like Mr. Philpotts and Ella’s aunt Ceil and uncle Edgar.

  When Ella and I slide into our regular seats, she asks, “What happened to you last night?”

  Now, I have been known not to tell the whole truth sometimes. But I have never fudged it with Ella, and I’m not going to start now. “I went for a walk with Zoe.” I can tell this bruises her feelings.

  “On the beach?”

  She says it like that puts a paper cut on top of the bruise.

  Something tells me that I shouldn’t say, She wanted it to just be the two of us. So I say what I know is true. “She misses Scotland and doesn’t feel at home here anymore.”

  I must have major disappointment on my face, because Ella pats my arm.

  “You know what Monroe Spalding says, don’t you?”

  Since Monroe Spalding is the detective in her father’s crime novels, I can’t imagine what he’d have to say that applies to this situation. “What?”

  She tips her head and says, “Always follow your first instinct.”

  “What does that have to do with Zoe?”

  “I have no idea, but think about it.”

  I’m thinking about it when the door to the café opens and in walks Slick, followed by Hubert himself. This is my closest look yet at his shiny bald head, those big ears—like open car doors—and his white chef’s coat, with its collar unsnapped and flapping.

  Everyone, I mean everyone, sucks in a breath, and the room falls silent.

  Hubert stands in the center of the room, turning his head like he’s looking for the person most likely to be Dad.

  Dad comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He and the bald man meet in the center of the café.

  Sister Rosie eyes the door like she might make a run for it. People shuffle uncomfortably in their chairs.

  Slick walks in between them like a referee about to do a coin toss.

  Hubert’s neck is blooming red.

  Dad’s chest is rising and falling.

  Slick says to Dad, “Gus, this is Hubert Pivot.”

  Dad sticks his hand out, friendly-like.

  I swear there is a beat of time when we all think Hubert won’t go through with the handshake. Then he extends his arm and says, “How do you do? You have a nice place here.” His voice is quiet and flat, but at the same time, there’s a smirk on his face.

  “Thanks,” Dad says, and everyone in the café seems to relax. “I haven’t seen yours yet.”

  “Well, stop by sometime. I’ll cook something up for you,” Hubert says.

  I’m hoping Hubert doesn’t ask Dad if he likes aspic, because that could send this whole thing into a tumble.

  “So, Gus,” Slick says, “Hubert wants to take you up on your challenge.”

  Dad broadens his stance. “Well, excellent.”

  “How do you want to do it?” Hubert asks, as if he’s done it a variety of ways.

  Dad looks a l
ittle unsure.

  Mr. Philpotts, who has been watching along with the rest of us, interjects: “I have a friend who’s the editor of the Rook River Valley Advertiser. Maybe he’d put his restaurant critic, the Secret Diner, on the case? You guys just run your restaurants, and the Secret Diner will pop in and out—anonymously, of course. At the end of, say, a couple of weeks, the Secret Diner could announce the winner in the paper.”

  Dad and Hubert study each other’s faces for signs of fear or confidence, then both nod and agree.

  Ten minutes later, Mr. Philpotts has made the call.

  “It’s a go,” he says. “The Secret Diner will commence incognito visits in two days. This will go on for seventeen days. And in the end, we’ll know whose food passes the test of our local tastemaker.”

  I want to ask him why seventeen, but Mr. Philpotts goes ahead and explains that the Secret Diner’s doing two weeks’ worth of stops, plus a few off days, so he can keep the restaurateurs guessing. Dang. This is sounding like a bigger and bigger deal.

  Dad and Hubert shake hands one more time before Hubert and Slick leave. Slick orders two whoopie pies to go on his way out.

  When the door shuts behind them, applause breaks out in the café. Dad bows from the waist.

  Ben and Dominic arrive a minute later.

  “Was that who I think it was?” Ben asks.

  “It was,” I say.

  “Hubert in the flesh,” says Ella.

  “I could take him,” says Ben.

  “There’s going to be a competition with the Rook River paper’s Secret Diner as the judge,” I tell them.

  Dad, meanwhile, is moving from one table to another, laughing and high-fiving people.

  I’m not sure how I feel about this. If he wins, that’s great. But what if he loses? When I see how happy he is, I hope like crazy this works out.

  “Gusty’s will grab the W, no sweat,” Ben says.

  “I’m not sure I get it,” Dominic says. “They don’t make the same kind of food. At all. How do you compare Gusty’s chowder to fiddlehead ferns in custard?”

  We look at each other vacantly.

  “That’s a great question,” I say.

  * * *

  At home that evening, while Dad prepares dinner, Mom is at the kitchen table, making a list of everything that has to be done at Gusty’s before the competition starts. A new text makes her phone ping every few minutes.