No Reservations Required, page 23
part #8 of Sophie Greenway Series
Picking up his drink as he rose from the table, Bram passed by his daughter, whispering into her ear. “I’m going back to the De Gustabus room. I won’t be long.”
Margie gave him one of her dazzling smiles and waved over her shoulder.
So much for her lousy mood.
The other reason Bram had for coming to the club tonight centered around Al Lundquist’s comments about how Bob Fabian had died. Bram had the beginnings of a theory, and he wanted to poke around and see if he could firm up something.
Flicking his eyes to the NO RESERVATIONS REQUIRED sign above the door, he squared his shoulders and entered. It was Monday night. He assumed Vince and Lyle would be dining on stir-fried bat wings—or whatever. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Baldric,” said Vince, looking up from his plate. “Join us.”
Lyle nodded hello.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Stuffed goose neck with a red ant chutney,” said Vince. “And crisp roasted termites over polenta.”
“Oh, yummy,” said Bram, feeling his stomach lurch.
“You missed the dried fly larvae on toast points,” said Lyle. “That was our appetizer.”
Bram thought he detected a smirk. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to drown my sorrows for my bad timing.” He lifted his glass, saluted them, then took a hefty swallow. “I want to talk to you boys.”
“Yeah?” said Vince. “About what?”
“Bob Fabian.” Bob’s photo was still sitting on the buffet, but the crepe paper had been removed. He’d been dead almost three weeks now.
“Shoot,” said Vince, taking a sip of wine.
Bram pulled out a chair and sat down. “My connections in the St. Paul Police Department tell me Bob didn’t die of a gunshot wound.”
“No?” said Lyle, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Nope,” said Bram. “Seems he was poisoned. It will likely be ruled a suicide.”
Both men continued eating. Neither looked surprised.
“Know anything about it?” asked Bram.
“Why would you think we’d know anything?” asked Vince.
“Well, actually—”
“You still think I did it?” asked Lyle. Glancing at Vince, he added, “Baldric here came to my condo the other day. Accused me of shooting Bob in cold blood. Now it appears he thinks I poisoned him. You got a one-track mind, Baldric. Like I told you then, Bob was my best friend. I owe him my life. You think I’d hurt him, you’re crazy.”
Bram scratched his head. He knew he was missing something. “But you guys . . . you were the last people to see him that night.”
“So?” said Vince.
“Then again, you loved him.”
“Right,” said Lyle. “And FYI, Bob would never have committed suicide. He was very religious. Thought Valerie was in heaven. If he took his own life, he figured heaven would be banned from him forever.”
“Kind of an innocent way to view life,” added Vince. “Especially for a West Point grad, and a Viet Nam vet. But that’s what he thought.”
“If it wasn’t suicide,” said Bram, “then it must have been murder.” Lyle glared at him. “Try thinking outside the box for once, Baldric.”
“Meaning what?” said Bram.
“Meaning,” said Lyle, “that there’s more than two options.”
“For instance,” said Bram.
“Well,” said Lyle, “if you were to join our little culinary club, attend our Monday night dinners regularly, we might, say, over a bottle of root beer, let the truth slip. But we’d have to trust you first. And the only way we’d ever trust you is if you became a member. Blood brothers. That sort of thing.”
Bram sat up straight. “You’re kidding, right? You’d tell me what really happened if I joined your group?”
“Well, you’d have to swear you’d never pass it on to your ‘connection’ in the department. There are rules to secret societies,” said Vince.
“You’re not a secret society.”
“Yeah,” said Vince. “True. We’re just two silly old guys with lots of survivalist literature in the trunks of our cars.”
“You are?”
Vince knocked him on the shoulder. “Kidding again.”
Bram stared at the crispy little bodies covering the polenta.
“ ’Course, you never know what secrets lurk in the hearts of men.” Lyle stifled a burp. “But join our group and you can find out.”
Bram didn’t know what to believe. One thing was for sure. They were certainly enjoying themselves at his expense. If they really had murdered Bob, why all the good humor? The whole thing seemed way the hell too bizarre. But, it appeared the only way he would ever get the answer he wanted was to join their group. Unless that was another joke.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”
“We have to vote,” said Lyle.
“And then drink a cup of fresh horse blood,” said Vince.
“Horse blood!”
Lyle laughed. “It’s just so fun to watch your reactions, Baldric.”
“Raise your left hand,” said Vince.
“My left hand?”
“We don’t do things in here like regular folks,” said Vince. “But you already know that.”
“We’re adventurers,” said Lyle. “By the way, Baldric, I took a leave of absence from my job. I’m entering rehab on Wednesday.”
“Good man,” muttered Vince.
“The hand,” said Lyle. “Raise it.”
Bram raised his hand.
“Repeat after me,” said Vince. “I, Bram Baldric, do solemnly swear that I will live life to the fullest, not be afraid of new ideas—or foods—and that I will keep my trap shut about whatever is said in this room.”
Bram repeated it, word for word.
“Welcome to the De Gustabus Club,” said Lyle.
Vince slapped him on the back, then got up to shut the door.
“You guys are total madmen.”
“Yup, very likely,” said Vince. “Here. Try some of the termites.”
“No, you first,” said Bram, eyeing the tiny fried varmints warily.
“Well,” said Vince. “It’s all pretty simple. After Valerie died, Bob went on and on about how much he missed her. Like Lyle said, he believed in heaven. He thought that when he died, he’d be reunited with her. So, ergo, he wanted to die to go be with her, but he couldn’t kill himself.”
“So we told him,” said Lyle, tucking into a thick slice of the goose neck, “hell, we didn’t have any problem with killing. We’d both killed lots of people in Nam. ’Course, this was a little different.”
“A lot harder,’ said Vince. “Harder than we ever imagined.”
“See, Vince and me, we think heaven is a crock, but hell, every man to his own beliefs, right?”
“Right,” said Vince firmly. “So here’s the deal. We thought that maybe, in time, Bob would change his mind. We told him we’d give him one year. If, during that period he had a change of heart, he’d let us know. But, if he didn’t tell us, he could expect that on the anniversary of Valerie’s death, we’d take care of it for him.”
“Send him to his heavenly reward,” said Lyle. This time, he’d stopped eating. His voice was thick. “He was never the same after Valerie died. We could tell he was just biding his time. The old zest for living had already gone out of him. We just helped the rest of him go.”
“I mean, we didn’t want him to die,” said Vince, putting his fork down, his expression sobering. “But we made a pact. We loved him enough to do what he wanted done. We miss him like hell. And we figure he’s in his grave, but maybe, just maybe, he was right. Heaven does exist. Maybe he’s up there right now looking down on us, smiling, his arms around Val, right where they belong. God, I hope he got his wish.”
Bram just sat there. He wasn’t sure if he should be appalled or moved—or if he should believe it at all. “What did you use to poison him?”
“None of your business,” said Lyle, sniffing into a handkerchief.
“We may want to use it again,” said Vince, winking at Lyle.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Bram.
Lyle grinned. “Yes, we’re kidding.”
“But not about Bob.”
“Well, maybe we are,” said Vince. “Then again, maybe we aren’t.”
“Your problem, Baldric,” said Lyle, “is that you think we sit around here every week playing Russian roulette with poisonous blowfish.”
“Yeah, that about covers it,” said Bram.
“Well, we don’t,” said Vince firmly.
“What about the police?” asked Bram. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll eventually figure it out and put you in jail?”
Both men shook their heads.
“Not unless you tell them,” said Lyle.
“We’d deny it, of course,” said Vince.
“So,” said Lyle, shrugging, “life goes on. Such as it is.”
Bram’s head was spinning.
“Now that we’re done with the initiation,” said Vince, dishing Bram up a plate, “let’s eat.”
“Vince has outdone himself tonight,” said Lyle, wiping at his eyes with the handkerchief.
“Remember our motto,” said Vince, pushing the plate across the table.
“No reservations required?” repeated Bram.
“Amen,” both men replied.
Vince grinned. “Come on, Baldric. Dig in.”
Sophie’s Favorite Kransakaka Cookie
Kransakaka is generally made as a wedding cake in Scandinavia, so it’s a big hit (ya, sure!) in Minnesota, too (land of ten thousand Nelsons, Johnsons, Petersons, and Olsons). Give it a try. Oh, and trust me. You’ll like it a whole lot better than you will mealworm dip or deep fried crickets.
2 cups almond paste
1 cup granulated sugar
2 egg whites, beaten slightly (may need slightly more if the
batter is too thick)
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cover a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Crumble the almond paste into small chunks; then add the sugar and the egg whites. Using an electric mixer, beat the mixture together until well combined. Fill a pastry bag with the batter and squeeze out long (approximately 1 inch wide by 4 inches long) cookies onto the parchment paper. Bake for 15 minutes, or until the surface is golden brown. Handle with care when they are hot because these cookies are fragile. Cool. Frost with melted chocolate, powdered sugar icing, or just serve plain. Be sure to put the coffeepot on. Scandinavians always have coffee with their sweets!
By Ellen Hart
Published by Ballantine Books:
The Jane Lawless mysteries:
HALLOWED MURDER
VITAL LIES
STAGE FRIGHT
A KILLING CURE
A SMALL SACRIFICE
FAINT PRAISE
ROBBER’S WINE
The Sophie Greenway mysteries:
THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MURDER
FOR EVERY EVIL
THE OLDEST SIN
MURDER IN THE AIR
SLICE AND DICE
DIAL M FOR MEAT LOAF
DEATH ON A SILVER PLATTER
NO RESERVATIONS REQUIRED
Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1–800–73–3000.
No Reservations Required is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Fawcett Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2005 by Ellen Hart
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-41622-3
v3.0
Ellen Hart, No Reservations Required
