A Side of Sabotage Read online

  Thankfully, I’m not getting charged for breaking and entering, but I still feel in my bones that someone’s up to no good in this town. Until this moment, I was convinced it was Hubert, that he was trying to make life miserable for Dad, but now I’m not sure. He can’t seem to keep his own restaurant under control. My fingers are itchy. I have to blast out a group text.

  Me: So maybe it’s not Hubert.

  Zoe: I refuse to talk about this.

  Ella: We can’t just stand by and watch Gusty’s get run out of business.

  Ben: What would happen if Gusty’s shut down? Would you still live here?

  This socks me in the gut.

  Me: Of course we would! My mom’s the sheriff, the mayor, the real estate lady and the postmaster. We ARE Maiden Rock.

  Zoe: What would your dad do?

  Ben: He could hang around and drink coffee with Owen Loney.

  I don’t think Ben was intending to knock the wind out of me again, but he did.

  Dominic: They could come to New Jersey and live with us.

  My eyes water at that.

  Ella: They can’t leave Maiden Rock. They can live with us.

  Zoe: They would live with us, first. I think. We’ve known them our whole lives.

  Me: We’re not going anywhere! Gusty’s is not getting run out of business. We are going to save it.

  Zoe: I’m not doing any more break-ins. I am not going to jail.

  Dominic: I’ll go to jail with you Q.

  Ella: Me too.

  Ben: I guess I will too.

  Zoe: I’ll write you guys.

  17

  The next morning, Mom slaps an unofficial restraining order on me, Zoe, and Dominic.

  “I’m almost running out of ideas as to how to get through to you about your”—she draws her lips tight and pauses before she says—“investigative nature. It seems like I tell you and you agree, and then a split second later, you’re doing the very thing I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do.”

  “Could I—”

  “Wait.”

  “But—”

  “You are not to go within fifty feet of Restaurant Hubert. This will apply to you, Zoe, and Dominic. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And let me add that the places you can go are each other’s houses, the beach, Ms. Stillford’s, Gusty’s, and the yacht club. Anyplace else—if there’s any doubt—you ask first. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I mumble.

  I get the point. I could have been in really big trouble after crawling into Hubert’s like that. But it’s really going to handicap my investigation.

  So we lay low for the day. We hang out at Gusty’s, eat chowder and CBTs, and keep our eyes open.

  “Okay, so maybe we’re wrong,” says Dominic. A strand of cheese from his Gusty’s grilled cheddar-bacon-tomato sandwich stretches out over his chin.

  The first six days of competition are over, and despite the problems, things actually look pretty good for Dad. At dinnertime, he’s bopping around the café, smiling at everyone and being Gusty. Still, from my spot at my usual table, I’m watching everything with an eagle eye. I keep my back to the wall so I can see the parking lot, the whole dining room, the counter area, and a little of the kitchen.

  Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, longtime summer people, have come in with their grandchildren, who have grown a year bigger but stayed noisy and loud. “I want a whoopie pie, Grandpa!” “No. Eat your blueberry pie.” “Noooooo!” “Yes.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because it’s not really blue.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  One table over, there’s a young family with a toddler who’s making a mess on the table that’s spilling to the floor.

  Mrs. Billingsley and Groucho are at the table next to them. She’s giving the Morgan grandchildren and the toddler dirty looks and feeding lobster fries to the dog. When Dad stops by her table, she tips the butter cup and says, “This really needs to be heated to stay warm throughout the meal.” Dad says, “It’s a paper cup.” She replies, “You could get those little contraptions that put a small candle under it.” Dad repeats, “It’s a paper cup.”

  The Lewises are here too. She’s eating fish head soup and doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fish head staring at her from the center of the bowl. He’s eating a Gusty burger but asks to taste the soup. She wants a bite of the burger. They’re kind of cute, the way they eat off each other’s plates. I look at Dominic and wonder if we could do that. He’s stuffing the last bite of his CBT into his mouth. I think that’s a new record, five minutes for a giant sandwich. No, I don’t see us picking off each other’s plates. I’d starve.

  Lone Man shows up again. He’s dressed the same way as always—the fancy side of office casual. Light-colored striped shirt, khaki pants, loafers. I know he doesn’t live in Maiden Rock, but he’s been coming here a lot lately, although he’s stopped with the picture-taking. This could make him the Secret Diner, or . . . it could make him a suspect in the assault on Gusty’s. Hmm.

  Clooney is knocking herself out to please him, which is so unlike Clooney. Maybe she still believes he’s the Secret Diner too.

  “More coffee?” Clooney asks Lone Man.

  “Sure, I’ll take a warm-up.”

  “How’d ya like that fish head soup? Pretty special, right?” she says as she picks up the empty bowl.

  “Just superb,” Lone Man says and wipes his mouth with his napkin.

  Clooney beams with pride.

  Lone Man continues: “Is that contest with the place up the street still going on?”

  Clooney leans back and looks at him with a combination of confusion and suspicion. I can guess exactly what she’s thinking: Is this a trick question?

  “Well”—she starts slow—“yes. It is. It’s going on for another ten days or so.” Clooney looks around for Dad, but his back is to her. “Say, where did you say you were from?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m from the Portland area.”

  “What you doing around here?”

  “I’m an architect. I’m working on a project in Rook River for a couple months, and I just went exploring toward the shore and stumbled on Maiden Rock. What a quaint town. A real classic.”

  “That it is,” says Clooney. She doesn’t look convinced one way or the other about the origins of Lone Man now, but I see her attentiveness fade just a little bit.

  Still, Dad takes his turn to schmooze. He swings by with a tray that has several plates of blueberry pie on it. “Can I tempt you?” he asks Lone Man.

  “Sure.” Lone Man pats his side. “I can’t say no to that.”

  Dad makes his way to our table and lowers the tray. “Anyone for blueberry pie?”

  Dominic reaches for one. I’m waiting on a whoopie pie myself. But before I can place my dessert order, the door opens and Sisters Rosie and Ethel arrive. Dad looks at the two remaining pieces on his pie tray and says, “Ah, there are my takers.”

  Cherubic Sister Rosie swoops up on Dad. “Dibs on those two!”

  “They’re yours,” Dad says.

  I ask the sisters to have a seat with us.

  As Sister Rosie situates herself, she digs into the pocket of her flowing black skirt and pulls out a piece of paper. “I’ve been meaning to give you this, Gus. It’s a recipe for a vegetable dish.” She unfolds it and reads, “Corn—fresh corn, right off the cob—with heavy cream, green chilies, and buttered crumbs.”

  Dad pats Sister Rosie’s hand. “Thanks for the recipe, Sister.”

  I check out Lone Man, whose pie plate is clean. He’s scanning the room with that where’s my server? look. He tries to get Clooney’s attention but fails.

  Mrs. Billingsley grumbles that she can’t get her bill. Groucho romps on the floor, pulling on his leash with his teeth and jumping around like a flea. Dang, I want to play with that little guy.

  Clooney can see Lone Man perfectly well, but you’d never know it. She’s perfected that gaze servers have—it goes right past him. She’s whispering to Owen Loney,
who’s holding down his stool at the counter. He has his ear tuned to her, but at the same time, he’s watching Lone Man. I look back at the guy. He puts his napkin on the table and checks his phone for the third time. Again with the phone. There’s an unease about him. He straightens his collar like he feels he’s being watched.

  What was it Monroe Spalding said in that one book by Ella’s dad? When a person thinks he’s being watched, he’s probably worth watching.

  18

  The rest of the evening is calm, except for a notion brewing in my head: that Lone Man is not the Secret Diner but instead something more sinister—a perpetrator on Hubert’s payroll. I don’t mention it yet to anyone, because I need to observe him more closely and gather a shred of evidence. I wonder what other pictures he might have on his phone.

  I fall asleep with visions of Lone Man breaking into Gusty’s with some kind of lock-picking device and switching dish soap for dishwasher soap, then coming back to raise the cooler temperature. I have to laugh, because in my scenario, he’s dressed like in a movie, with a black stocking cap, gloves, and a flashlight, creeping around on his toes.

  I wake to my door flying open.

  “Get up, Quinnie. Hurry. We need help. Dad needs help.”

  “What?” I grab for the covers. My eyes search for something that will tell me the time. What’s going on? How bad is this? The sky outside says it’s barely dawn.

  “Something’s happened at the café,” Mom says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. Your dad will be here any second.”

  I stumble out of bed.

  “Get dressed, come downstairs. Dad will pick you up so you can help Clooney put things back together.” Then she’s out of the room, leaving the whiff of freshly laundered sheriff’s uniform behind her.

  This is not like Mom. She’s not one for being cryptic. What do I have to help fix? I search all at once for my jeans, a T, and my shoes. I check the phone for emails and texts. Nothing.

  Dad’s coming through the front door. He stops and holds it open. His face is as red as cayenne pepper.

  I look at Mom. She waves her phone. “Go! Go!”

  Getting in the car with Dad, I can feel the heat he’s generating over whatever has happened. He must have assumed Mom told me, and she must assume he’s going to tell me, but he keeps pounding the steering wheel with the heel of his hand and shaking his head, so I don’t say a thing. Not one word.

  “I need this like I need a hole in my head,” he says.

  We’re rocketing down Mile Stretch Road on a white-knuckle ride until Dad does a left turn on two wheels, a la Sister Rosie, into the Gusty’s parking lot. “Let’s go.”

  I follow him around the back of Gusty’s and through the kitchen door. Clooney is aproned, flour-covered, and frazzled. Dad points to the cabinet with the café’s spices. “Can you get this straightened out?”

  I have no clue what he’s talking about. Straighten out the spices? Okay. I shimmy behind Clooney to the spice cabinet next to the griddle. She growls at me—actually growls. These two are really maxed out on the stress-o-meter.

  “And when you’re done with that, put the flour back where it belongs,” Dad grumbles over his shoulder as he rolls out cinnamon buns.

  I start to see why Dad’s upset. The spices are a mess. All the caps are scattered around the shelf like they’ve been thrown in rage. It looks like someone has stuck their nose in all of them. I start by putting the caps on. When that’s done, it feels safe to ask, “Do you want them in alphabetical order?”

  “No, Quinnette!” Clooney is up in my face. “We want the right labels on the right containers!”

  The right labels? What the what? I pick up the cinnamon and smell it. Pew. That’s not cinnamon. That’s . . . I’m not sure what, but it smells more like chili than gooey sugary buns. I pick up another one. It says paprika. I stick my nose in it and immediately sneeze. Ouch. It’s red pepper.

  I turn to Clooney with the paprika jar in one hand and the cinnamon in the other. “These are all wrong!”

  She snarls. “That’s supposed to be news to me?”

  “Well, it’s news to me!” I tell her.

  “Ya don’t say.” She turned and yells to Dad, who’s gone into the pantry. “Gus, ya better come in here.”

  Dad comes out wiping his flour-covered hands on a towel. “What now?”

  I’m still holding the not-paprika when I say, “Dad! Who did this?”

  There is so much emotion behind his eyes, I immediately regret the question. This is no accident. It can’t be passed off as forgetfulness or lack of maintenance. A person did this, and Dad has to face it and he doesn’t want to. “I don’t know, Quinnie.” He uses the back of his hand to scratch his forehead, leaving a white streak. It mixes with the sweat on his skin and makes a white sheen. “And I don’t have time to think about it now. Can you just help fix it?”

  All of a sudden it hits me. He thinks I did this! That’s why he came and got me!

  “Of course I’ll fix things, Dad. But I want you to know I didn’t do it. You and Mom could’ve grounded me for the rest of my life because of Hubert’s kitchen. I would still never have done something like this. I would never hurt Gusty’s.”

  I probably should just correct the labels and wait until Dad’s cooled down before stating my case, but the point really needs to be made. “Dad, this was done by the same person who mucked up the dishwasher and raised the temperature in the cooler. This was done by your competition.”

  “What are you saying?” Clooney asks.

  “I’m saying, whoever did this wants Gusty’s out of the way.”

  Dad raises his white hands. “The flour, too?”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. “What about the flour?”

  “Whoever was screwing up the spices also mixed a bunch of cornstarch with the flour and got a lot of dirt in it in the process. We lost an entire batch of buns before we realized it.”

  “Oh, Dad. What can I do?”

  He drops his arms and shakes his head slowly. “It would be a disaster if someone got sick on our food or if the inspector came and found all this.”

  His expression of defeat breaks my heart. I make a move toward him when Mom hustles through the kitchen door.

  “Mom, listen. Please. Whatever has been going on is not accidental. This”—I point to the spices—“this was on purpose. And why spices? Because the wrong ones would make the food taste terrible. It had to be Hubert or his henchmen.”

  Mom’s face cracks slightly. “Go on.”

  I take a deep breath and begin a calm and logical recitation of my concerns. “Look, up until now, you could say that everything that’s happened was a coincidence—things breaking, pure accidents. But this? No way. Someone did this. And they did this to mess up Gusty’s.” I put down the red pepper jar with the paprika label that I’ve been clutching. “I know you don’t want me to accuse Hubert or even Willy. Fine. But that doesn’t mean someone else on the payroll isn’t acting on their behalf.”

  Mom is about to interrupt me, so I hold up my hand and ask her to wait. “Who can deny that they have motive?” I continue. “It’s possible, right?”

  Mom settles down again.

  I continue, cautiously. “So what if it’s the man who’s been in here the last few days? The one we’ve been thinking might be the Secret Diner? What if he’s actually a spy for Restaurant Hubert?”

  “Martin? Maybe he likes my food,” Dad says and rolls his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Clooney says. “The kid may be onto something.” She walks to the sink and washes her floury hands. “He asked me if the contest was still going on, and I asked just what was he doing in this town. And do you know what he said?” She dries her hands with determination. “That fella said he ‘just stumbled on Maiden Rock.’ ” She points at Mom. “You know as well as I do, Margaret, nobody just stumbles on Maiden Rock. You gotta know it’s here to find it.”

  “I can’t
disagree that this thing with the spices and the flour is no accident,” Mom says. “Someone did this on purpose, with ill intent.”

  “And I don’t know if this Martin is as nice as he first appeared,” Clooney says. “He’s gotten a little demanding.”

  “If Hubert’s trying to send a message, he’s gonna have a fight on his hands,” Dad says. He puffs up. “I can be a Bangor bear when I have to be.”

  Mom’s examining the back door now. “It’s not damaged, but someone certainly got through it. Possible lock-pick situation. Don’t touch it—may be too late, but I’ll try to lift a print.”

  Before she leaves, she turns to Dad and says, “I’ll call the locksmith and get him out here to put new keyed dead bolts on both doors as soon as he can.” Then she beckons me over to her.

  “I know it’s useless to tell you not to poke your nose into this, but whatever you do, don’t make me have to arrest you.”

  19

  I knuckle down and start on the spice labels. Dad calls for a grocery delivery. Clooney opens the last thirty-pound bag of flour in the pantry and gets going with new dough. By the time Dad unlocks the front door, the traditional Gusty’s smells are starting to waft out of the ovens. Late but not a complete miss.

  Of course, the first person through the door is Owen Loney. He shuffles to his typical seat and drums his wrinkled lobsterman fingers on the counter. Dad sits down next to him with two cups of coffee.

  “Mornin’, Owen.”

  “Mornin’, Gus.”

  “What can I get for you besides coffee?”

  “Not a thing, Gus. Coffee’ll do.”

  “You can’t live on coffee, my friend. You’re wasting away. You’ve got to eat something once in a while.”

  I’m listening to this conversation while I work on the spices, which requires interrupting Clooney constantly and asking her, “What’s this one?”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer,” Dad says to Owen. “You order something or I’ll bring you what I think you should eat. Come on. On the house.”