“The detective says that—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You hired a detective?”
Just then, Sonja Fournet, owner of the restaurant, walked in through the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Hearing her last words, Sonja grinned and mouthed silently, “Darla?”
Andrea nodded and raised five fingers, indicating she would be off the phone shortly. Andrea was an experienced pastry chef, but even her skills were not going to save her job if she kept engaging in these personal phone conversations while on the job, almost all of them from her stepmother. Darla thought nothing of calling up to a dozen times a day, usually about the most innocuous things, like “What’s the best way to cook lamb?” Or “How do I clean the gravy stain off your mother’s lace tablecloth?” Or “Why does asparagus turn my pee green?” Real important stuff.
That wasn’t quite true about Andrea losing her job, though. Sonja had attended the Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris with Andrea eight years ago and was one of her closest friends.
“Listen, Darla, I can’t talk right now. Why don’t I come over tonight and we can discuss this, without interruption?” Fortunately, or unfortunately, her father and Darla lived in a Main Line community only a half hour from the condo Andrea had bought two years ago.
I must have been under the influence of cooking wine when I moved back to Pennsylvania. Couldn’t I find a job in . . . oh, say . . . Alaska? Or, at the least, a chef opening on the other side of Philly? Like maybe New Jersey? Or London?
“Okay,” Darla said. “Could you bring some of those yummy Napoleons with you? Oh, and a few of the chocolate croissants for your daddy’s breakfast?”
“Sure.” She clicked off the phone and looked at Sonja, who was grinning at her over a steaming cup of coffee. “Okay, spill. What has the wicked stepmother’s thong in a twist now? I swear, girl, I wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for you.”
“She says Celie has joined a cult on a dude ranch in Montana that has ties to ISIS, and claims she’s gone all Sharia, complete with burqa, mainlining the usual extremist Muslim propaganda. Though, how she would ride a horse in a robe, I have no idea. I didn’t even know Celie could ride a horse. And, yeah, before you ask, isn’t it strange that a terrorist organization would recruit from a dude ranch? Better that than the mall, I suppose. Bottom line, as usual when it involves my sister, Darla probably wants me to fix things.”
“Merde!”
“Exactly.”
“What does she expect you to do?”
Andrea shrugged. “Lone Ranger to the rescue, I guess, though I don’t ride a horse, either. Or is it Julia Child to the rescue?”
“Warrior with a whisk,” Sonja concluded.
Chapter 2
BREAKFAST IN TRANSYLVANIA (PENNSYLVANIA)
Liver mush
Blood pudding
Amish sausages
Pan Haus (scrapple)
Smoked boar steaks (ham)
Bacon
Pennsylvania Dutch home fries
Buttermilk pancakes
Souse or head cheese (meat jelly)
Cornmeal mush
Eggs, scrambled with cream or fried in bacon fat
Toasted muffins or fresh-baked bread
Sweet butter
Skyr (cheese)
Apple butter
Farmer’s Market fresh jams: strawberry, rhubarb, huckleberry
Coffee
Tea
Milk
Fake-O
Fresh-squeezed blood oranges
Beer
Home, Sweet Home . . . or, rather, Home, Sweet Castle . . .
In the early morning hours of July 9, Cnut was riding his Harley up the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The black and chrome Road King, a recent purchase, was a modest model, but it had so many bells and whistles, it could do everything but fly a jet plane. He loved it. In fact, he’d named it Hugo.
Most important, the motorcycle could accommodate his size, thanks to some tweaks. His height, that was, at six foot four. Cnut was no longer big in other regards, hadn’t been for a long, long time. A careful diet and a rigid exercise routine kept him at a lean, mean two-twenty-five.
Funny thing, though. Cnut still felt fat. Maybe it was like those people who lost a leg but still sensed a phantom limb. Phantom fat. How cool was that? But then, that was him. Cool-hand Cnut.
He should have bought a Fat Boy, instead of a Road King, but that was cutting too close to the bone in terms of description. He could only imagine his brothers’ reaction. As if he cared!
Cnut stretched and wondered if he should pull over at the next rest stop for a cup of black coffee. The sun was just coming up over the mountains, but he was only halfway there. He’d wanted to avoid the capitol traffic as he passed Harrisburg, but then this was Saturday, the legislature wouldn’t be in session. Sane people would be headed north in this heat, to the Poconos or south to the Jersey shore. No, he’d rather get this over with. No stopping. The annual Reckoning was serious business.