The keep, p.3
The Keep, page 3
Her mother had made big pots from scratch throughout her growing up years. In a large family, soups and stews were a staple. They stretched. Honey's chicken noodle, with its six-hour broth and homemade pasta, was an homage to her mother. It was a special treat that she didn't make often. Booker hated chicken soup.
An hour later, the kitchen smelled like home on a winter day. Friar Philip burst through the swinging door again in a flurry of black robes. "They're lining up. How are we doing?"
"It's ready," Honey said.
The novices carried the food to a long table in the dining room. Honey followed, armed with a ladle. She smiled at the regulars at the front of the queue and spoke to them like friends. The old man who lived in a broken-down trailer. The crazy cat lady who had a house, but also had more felines than the county allowed and spent her Social Security on cat food and litter.
A tired-looking young mother with a milky complexion hiked a baby with a runny nose higher on her hip as she reached for a tray.
"The baby doing better?" Honey asked as she ladled soup into bowls.
"Yeah. It was an ear infection like you thought."
"My son got those chronically," Honey said. "Turned out he was allergic to dairy. Stopped giving him milk, and it cleared right up."
The mother pushed her toddler and preschooler forward. "I'll have to ask the doctor about that."
And, on the line went. Honey greeted, ladled, and caught up. She’d miss this community.
"Are those homemade egg noodles?" An unfamiliar voice, bright but raspy, brought Honey to attention.
She looked from her soup pot into a pair of cat-green eyes. "They are."
"I haven't seen homemade pasta since my Nana died. It's not the same when it's dried." The girl who spoke didn't belong here. She was young, mid-twenties maybe, and beautiful. Her teeth were perfect, her skin creamy, her hair as bright as her eyes.
Behind her stood two equally beautiful young men. One about the same age with hair like rich butterscotch. The other was younger, probably a teenager. He had dark hair and eyes, and despite a lanky frame, he was stunning. All three could be models. Honey was speechless both with surprise and that shyness that sometimes hit her when she was in the presence of exceptionally good-looking people.
"That looks like my mama's soup," the teenager said.
"Naw. Mom never cooked like that." Caramel man laughed.
"You haven't been to the kitchen before." Honey finally found her voice.
"We're pretty new in town," the girl said. "My name is Angela." She held out a delicate hand, and Honey shook it. "This is Zach." She gestured to the man. "And Charlie." She nodded to the boy.
"Nice to meet you," Honey said.
"Can we move it along?" A cranky voice broke up the party. Honey was sorry to see them disappear through the throng.
When the last of the line sat at the long wooden tables to eat, Honey poured a bowl of soup for herself and walked to Friar Philip's table.
He scooted over to make room for her on the bench.
"How do you like the soup? It's an upgraded version of my mother's. She was too busy raising six kids to make noodles from scratch, but the broth is hers."
Four pairs of eyes widened across the table from her.
"Oh." Honey put a hand over her mouth. Six months and she still couldn't remember to be quiet. Although there was no formal vow of silence at the Abbey, speaking during mealtimes was frowned on. She put her head down and ate.
When the only ones left at the table were Honey and Friar Philip, Honey lowered her voice and said, "What's with the beautiful people?"
Friar Philip raised an eyebrow in question.
Honey tipped her head toward the three models across the room.
"Oh, Angela and the boys. They are lovely, aren't they?"
"They stick out like sore thumbs in this crowd."
Friar Philip laughed. "Even beautiful people can fall on hard times."
"But they're so young."
"And impressionable, which I believe was the problem."
It was Honey's turn to raise her eyebrows.
The priest's forehead furrowed. "I don't like to gossip."
Honey stayed silent, hoping he wouldn't talk himself out of sharing the story.
He spooned the last of his soup into his mouth, swallowed, dabbed at his lips with a napkin, then said, "They were deceived."
"Really? By who?"
“I believe that’s ‘by whom.’” Friar Philip mopped up the last of the broth in his bowl with a hunk of bread and popped it into his mouth with finality. He wasn't going to say any more about it. She tried a different tack.
"Angela said they were new in town."
The priest smiled, happy to be on safer ground. "Charlie and Zach grew up in Black Star Canyon. Their father owns a small ranch out there. Charlie’s been living at home all along, but Angela and Zach just moved in."
Black Star? Honey thought about the NO TRESPASSING sign she'd seen that was as riddled with holes as a block of Swiss cheese. She couldn't believe that was the place, although the friar did say the kids were deceived. The signs reminded her of something you might find outside a cult compound. "It isn’t the place with the shot-up NO TRESPASSING sign, is it?"
The friar’s lips thinned again. "I believe so."
She opened her mouth to tell him about the body, to tell him to warn Angela and the men that there may be a killer on the loose, but closed it again. For all she knew, the dead hiker had died in a lovers’ quarrel, and there was no danger to anyone. Weren't the majority of murders crimes of passion? Although, her best friend Rosie came close to losing her life last November in an incident that was more about envy and paranoia than passion.
Zach and Charlie’s father or another Black Star resident might have shot the hiker. Booker had said the locals were on high alert because of the strange crimes that had happened in the canyon. Things she'd read about the shootout at the Branch Davidian compound ran through her head. The kind of man who hid in the hills behind all those signs couldn't be normal. "Zach's father can't feed them?" she asked.
Friar Philip opened his arms like the St. Francis statue near the gate. "We welcome those who are struggling without question."
Which was all fine and good, but Honey was curious. She watched as the golden girl stood, gathered her own and her companion's dishes, lined them up along her outstretched arms, and carried them to the dirty dish bucket. She must have been a server at some point. Her balance and sure movements spoke of experience in the food-service industry.
A pang of guilt poked Honey. Was she reticent to tell the friar about the body because she didn’t think it was relevant, or because she didn’t want to get any more involved than she already was? Every time the memory of that leg sprouting from the earth... A shiver shook her. She didn’t want to think about it. But, if something happened to Angela or the boys because she hadn’t said anything, she’d never forgive herself.
"Booker and I were hiking in Black Star on Saturday." The priest looked at her with mild interest. “We found a body,” she blurted out the words.
Friar Philip’s eyes grew wide. “A dead body?”
“Yes, a hiker. He, or she, had been buried. All the rain we’ve been having washed away some of the dirt.”
He put a hand over his heart. “Was it an accident?”
Honey shook her head. “The police don’t think so, but they haven’t done an autopsy yet. I’m only telling you so you can warn your parishioners--the ones who live out there.”
“Yes. Thank you. I will.”
Honey pushed her chair away from the table and stood. "I'd better be getting to the shop."
Friar Philip inclined his head as if pronouncing a blessing on her. "Owen and Reginald will take care of clean up."
As she turned, she noticed Zach only two tables away. Their eyes met, and he smiled. Honey’s pulse quickened. It was a good thing Willow was safely out of Orange County. Women weren’t safe around a man that good-looking.
By the time Honey gathered her things and made it out to her car, Angela, Zach, and Charlie were gone. Why was she so fascinated by them? It was true they didn't fit in at the soup kitchen, but Friar Philip was correct, all kinds of people fell on hard times. She'd seen many a Mercedes and BMW parked outside the refectory on kitchen days.
It must be the strange coincidence. Black Star Canyon had intruded into her life more in the past three days than it had in the past three years. She loaded her empty crates into her van.
She’d done enough good deeds for one day. She’d fed the poor soup and information that might protect them. Time to get to the shop and leave the mysteries of life and death to the priests and the police.
5.1.4
A brunette in wedge heels, tight jeans, and a flowing orange top leaned against the window of Sweeter than Honey Gourmet Cooking Supplies, her face buried in her cell phone. The woman's head rose as Honey pulled into a parking space out front and killed the engine.
It was Lisa, no Liza—maybe Lizzy—Fitzpatrick. Whatever her name was had scheduled a home cooking class for that Friday night. Her being here, leaning against the closed store, couldn't be a good thing. Honey plastered on a professional smile. "Hi ...you."
"I've been trying to call you all morning," Lisa-Liza said.
Honey pulled her phone from her bag. Sure enough, there were three missed calls. "I'm so sorry. I work at St. Francis's soup kitchen on Mondays."
Lisa-Liza didn't crack a smile. No admiration lit her features. "Your website says you're open weekdays from nine to seven."
Honey strode to the shop door. "We are. I mean, we usually are. My daughter, she used to help out in the shop but moved to San Diego, and I had the appointment at the soup kitchen. . ." She let the words soup kitchen hover in the air. Maybe Lisa-Liza hadn't heard her the first time. Surely the woman would give her kudos for feeding the poor.
"You should hire somebody else," Lisa-Liza said.
Apparently, she didn't have an empathetic bone in her Pilates body. The door opened with a jangle of bells. Honey flipped on the lights, bustled to the counter, stowed her purse beneath, and turned. "What were you calling about?" she said in as pleasant a voice as she could muster.
"The party," Lisa-Liza said. "I'm going to have to reschedule. My mother-in-law died." This last was uttered with such a complete lack of emotion, the words of sympathy that had entered Honey’s head never left her mouth.
Instead, she said, "Did you have another date in mind?"
The doorbell jingled again, and Rosie, Honey's closest friend, entered. Lisa-Liza pivoted and gave her a cold stare. Rosie assessed the situation, nodded, and wandered toward a shelf of casserole dishes she had no interest in.
Honey pulled up her scheduler on the store computer and offered three available dates to Lisa-Liza.
She didn't like any of them. "Can't you do Saturday, January eighteenth?"
"I try not to work outside the store on Saturdays," Honey said, which earned her another incredulous look from Lisa-Liza. Five beats passed before Honey said, "But I do, on occasion."
Before she could reschedule the party in the computer, the phone rang. "Sweeter than Honey," Honey said into the receiver.
"I'd like to do an early dinner," Lisa-Liza said, ignoring the fact Honey was on the phone.
The voice on the phone said, "I'm looking for one of those juicers, you know the ones that are round and you put the fruit in—"
"Hold, please." Honey pushed the hold button. "Five o'clock?"
"I know we were going to do salmon cakes and asparagus, but now I'm thinking a salad. Maybe something with fennel?"
The door chimes sounded again. A dark-skinned woman with glossy black hair and a lanky teenage girl entered. "Welcome to Sweeter than Honey," Honey called out. "I'll be with you in a minute." The woman smiled. Her daughter didn't, but she was a teen, so that was to be expected.
"Take your time," the woman said.
"Mom." The teen sounded like a leaky balloon. "I'm supposed to be at swim practice."
"Chicken and fennel. Maybe something with strawberries for dessert," Lisa-Liza said.
Honey's heart stopped beating. Just for a second, but when it started up again, it was as if someone stepped on the gas and wouldn't let up. It raced like it was competing in the Indy 500. Honey sucked in air and tried to exhale it slowly.
The phone rang again. She picked it up. "Sweeter than—"
"I know. Don't put me on hold again. Just tell me if you have one of those juicers. They look like a garlic press on steroids. You know which ones I mean?"
"Yes," Honey managed to get the word out.
"Yes, what? Yes, you know what I'm talking about? Or, yes, you have them?"
"Both."
"What time do you close?"
"Seven." But even as Honey said the word, she wasn't sure she'd make it until seven. Something was wrong. Her heart galloped in her chest. Her breathing was shallow. Nausea made her salivate.
The teen’s mother approached the counter with an electric kettle in her hand. "Do you gift wrap?"
Honey's mouth dropped open, but no words came. What was happening to her?
"Yes, we do." Rosie walked up from behind and plucked the kettle from the woman's hand. "I can take care of that. What's the occasion?"
Rosie led the mother and daughter to the back wall of the shop where the gift-wrapping supplies were kept, and Honey sank onto the stool behind the counter.
"Strawberry tarts would be nice," Lisa-Liza said.
Honey agreed to everything she suggested. She'd call and change the menu later. Strawberries weren't in season, and tarts were too complicated for a party class, but she didn't have the strength to take on Lisa-Liza at the moment. All she could think about was getting her out the door, which she did.
Rosie reappeared with the mother-daughter duo and a wrapped box. "Want me to ring it up?"
Honey nodded and disappeared into the relative quiet of her office. She sank into her chair, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Dr. Hillary’s serious face played on the dark screen of her mind. For many people, the first symptom of a heart problem is an attack and sudden death. You need to take this seriously, Honey. The words she’d poo-pooed at the time suddenly seemed grave.
Rosie interrupted her thoughts. "You don't look good.”
Honey opened her eyes. "I don't feel good.”
Rosie rummaged in the small refrigerator, pulling out water and string cheese. "Maybe it's your blood sugar. What have you eaten today?"
Honey waved away the cheese but accepted the water gratefully. After she polished off half the bottle, she leaned into her chair. "I'll be okay. Just had a busy morning. What brings you in?"
"I came to tell you about a catering job, but I'm reconsidering."
"No, don't reconsider. What's the job?"
"Peter is having an opening at the gallery. It's for a new artist. He wants to make a splash."
Honey reached for her laptop and flipped it on. She could check the desktop computer in the front of the shop, but that would mean getting up. Her heart rate had slowed to a trot, but she didn't want to rev it up again. "What's the date?"
"January seventeenth. Less than two weeks away, I know, but he says people are chomping at the bit to see this guy’s work. I can’t imagine why."
"Why’s that?"
"You know Peter's taste. It's a horrorfest. The artist specializes in landscapes with dead bodies hidden somewhere in the scene. It's like Where's Waldo? meets Dexter."
Honey laughed. She felt better. Rosie was good medicine. "I have that open. Want me to schedule it?"
"Are you up to it?"
"Of course. I told you, I'm tired. That's all."
"Finding a body is a shock. I know."
Rosie did know. She'd had the same unpleasant experience less than six months ago.
"This was different," Honey said. "All I saw was a shoe. I didn't know it was attached to anything at first."
"Sounds familiar."
Honey was sorry she'd mentioned that detail. "Yes, but I don't know who it belongs to. What happened to you was much more traumatic, Rosie. This was upsetting, but I wouldn't call it a shock."
"I think you're making light of it."
"I could try to work up a case of hysteria if it would make you feel better."
Rosie pinched her lips and changed the subject. "When are you going to replace Willow?"
Honey closed her laptop and pushed her chair out. "Not for a while."
"Why would you put that off?"
"We're in a tight place. I need to bring in more income, not spend it."
"You have to spend money to—"
Honey waved her words away. "I know, to make money, but this is a temporary situation."
"How do you figure? Booker shelled out a lot of cash. You're not going to replace it in a couple of months. You're not going to replace it in a couple of years."
"Joe emailed Booker," Honey said.
Rosie's mouth dropped open. "He did?"
"Yeah. Booker says he’s very circumspect. His emails are long and thoughtful. That’s not his usual MO."
“Does that mean he’s going to make amends? Pay you guys back, go home and face the music?”
“Booker seems to think so, but I don’t know,” Honey said.
A line creased Rosie’s forehead. "Did he tell Booker why he embezzled the funds in the first place?"
Honey shook her head. "No. Book said something about Joe being in an investment club but stealing from a church fund for that seems like a stretch. Carla pays the bills. The girls get free tuition at their private school because Carla is the principal. I happen to know her daddy bought them that big house. They were doing okay."
"Does he gamble?" Rosie asked.
"I don't think so, but I guess I don't know Joe very well. You’d think with all his trips out to California, he and I would’ve gotten close. We didn’t though. He was happy running around doing whatever he was doing, going for hikes with Booker, and eating my food. I was happy he was busy. Honestly, I've never liked him all that much. Always seemed so impulsive. I think if it wasn't for Carla, he might have ended up in jail a whole lot sooner."
