Just in Time. Suzanne Trauth
Wilson sang out, accent on the second syllable, and, grabbing me in a bear hug, swung me around, “I am so hap-py!”
I bounced against his mid-section. “Wilson, you can put me down.” My feet touched the ground, my knees flexing, my legs wobbling. “What’s up?”
A grin creased his brown face. “Henry iz beautiful! You are beautiful! And me? I am making my blanquette de veau!” He kissed his fingers and released the smooches to the air.
Tonight was the rollout of the winning appetizer—stuffed potato skins with avocado and cilantro—backed up by a simple dinner special of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. Why in the world was Henry relinquishing the kitchen to Wilson and his white veal stew? “Where is Henry?” I asked.
Wilson smiled broadly and enveloped himself in a chef’s apron. “In ze back.”
I walked outside. Behind the restaurant, Henry cultivated a garden that produced an abundance of basil, rosemary, thyme, oregano, parsley, and dill—and kept the kitchen stocked with fresh herbs. They were his secret bullets. He tended his plants like an over-protective parent.
“Things are awfully green out here,” I said, as he pinched leaves and cut bits of stems here and there.
Henry grunted.
“Wilson tells me he’s doing the veal dish tonight. Thought that was next week. You know, introduce the palates of Etonville to his French-Haitian recipes gradually.”
Henry sighed.
“What’s going on?” I asked gently.
“I miss Enrico.”
“I do too, but give Wilson time and he’ll be—”
“And my daughter got engaged to a nincompoop,” he finished darkly.
“Oh.” Henry rarely talked about his home life. His wife worked in the city at a Wall Street investment firm, and his daughter graduated from college two years ago. This was the first I’d heard about a match gone wrong. I flashed on a picture of my father’s reaction to one of my high school boyfriends. Also a nincompoop. “When’s the wedding?” I asked carefully.
“When hell freezes over if I have anything to say about it. Which I don’t.” He tossed a spray of rosemary into a basket. “I said ‘yes’ to Wilson in a moment of frustration.”
“Right. Is it too late to walk it back?”
Henry ducked his head forlornly.
* * * *
Ruby’s passing was all anyone talked about during the mid-day rush. Henry’s potato leek soup garnered limited attention—which was too bad because it was one of his best recipes. As Benny poured drinks and Gillian hurried from table to booth, I topped off coffee cups, rang up bills, and eavesdropped on conversations.
“Here we go again. Another ELT production, another death.” Unfortunately, true.
“At least she wasn’t murdered.” Also true.
“Good thing she’s not from Etonville.” A member of the Etonville Little Theatre.
“What will happen with the show?” The question on everyone’s lips.
At two o’clock, just as the steady stream of hungry townsfolk dwindled, Lola swept into the Windjammer. She didn’t bother looking right or left, but headed straight to my back booth by the kitchen door. She slumped onto the bench and I signaled Benny to bring us coffee.
“Are we never going to get a show up without a crisis?” she cried.
Crisis was Lola’s euphemism for sudden death. “Sorry Lola. I know this is the last thing any of you need.”
“I feel terrible about Ruby, of course. She wasn’t the most agreeable accompanist I’ve ever worked with, but Dale said the Creston Players couldn’t have gotten along without her.” Lola twisted a length of blond hair around her index finger. It was a nervous tic I’d seen before.
“She certainly knew music. I mean, scanning a score and then putting it away? That’s a rare talent,” I said.
“Dale said they were lucky she showed up some years ago. He actually brought her into the Players. She was an accompanist for his voice teacher,” she said.
“Where did she come from? Does she have family in the area?”
“According to Dale, she lived alone,” Lola said.
“So now what?”
“Penny is contacting the cast. We’re going to have rehearsal at the theater tonight and cancel the tech for one day. Our new accompanist needs to get up to speed with the piano,” she said.
“You have a replacement already?”
“The only possible person at this late date,” Lola said. “Alex. The musical director. He knows the show. He’s not as talented on the keyboard as Ruby, but…”
Beggars can’t be choosers, she left unsaid. I didn’t have much contact with Alex, but he seemed like a decent guy—polite, soft-spoken, and patient with Walter. That in itself made him an asset to the production. “So he’ll direct the combo and play the piano?”
“It’s done a lot. He’s done it before, he says.” She bit her lip. “I had such high hopes for Bye, Bye, Birdie.”
“It’s too soon to get depressed. There’s time to pull it all together,” I said.
I left Lola with a bowl of Henry’s potato soup and replaced Gillian at the cash register so that she could take a break.
Other than seeing Ruby at rehearsal and when she ate at the Windjammer, I didn’t know her well. I felt down about her dying and wondered who would miss the older woman? Who knew her well enough to miss her? What was it she’d said to me last night? “You can’t trust anyone…they only get you in the end…I know…from experience.” Sounded like a bitter memory, if you asked me. Of course, no one was asking my opinion of Ruby’s life or death—and it was just as well. I wanted no part of this latest catastrophe. I had enough on my culinary plate.
Gillian waltzed through the swinging doors and into the dining room. A crash and a loud exclamation followed her.
Wilson again.
3
I flicked off the lights and locked the front door of the Windjammer. It was almost midnight; I’d sent everyone else home over an hour ago. Sometimes, being the last person standing felt like a good way to wind down from the day. The afternoon had been hectic, preventing my normal three o’clock break. Instead, I prepped the inventory sheets for the winning entrees, assuring Henry that, though he was iffy on the contest dishes, patrons would love them as much as they did tonight’s winner. The potato skins earned raves—this kind of an appetizer was definitely in Etonville’s wheelhouse. I was not sure about upcoming specials.
Wilson’s blanquette de veau was another matter. I’d say it was a fifty-fifty response. Some patrons thought the veal stew was fine, though a trifle too chichi. The other half of the crowd speculated on why it had to be so white. Where was the color? Wilson insisted on the classic version prepared by his Haitian grandmother, and was adamant about no carrots or peas. He and Henry sparred for three rounds until Henry yielded, still dejected by his daughter’s impending marriage. Wilson gave him a bear hug as a consolation prize.
I stopped on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and gazed upward. The sky was inky black and clear, promising a sunny day tomorrow and hinting that the weather might cooperate throughout the week. The last thing the theater needed was to be rained out on opening night. I sank into the driver’s seat of my Metro and cranked the engine. My mind skipped to this morning and witnessing the EMTs placing Ruby’s lifeless body on the gurney. I took the leisurely way home. All was serene, quiet. I drove through the empty streets of Etonville to the north end of town, though I lived in the south end. I was in Lola’s neighborhood