32

There are gulls cawing and people laughing on the beach when the morning light warms my face. My back aches from sleeping on the porch, but I struggle upright and jostle Ella and Zoe.

When I find my phone in my jeans and check it, there are three texts from Dominic.

Dominic: Are you guys dead? It’s the BIG DAY.

Dominic: There’s a ton of buzz in town already.

Dominic: Hello? DID THE KEY FIT?

My phone says it’s 10:00. The final lunch of the contest happens at noon. I nudge Ella and Zoe and jump up and pull on my jeans and T. “We have to get going.”

After rolling up our sleeping bags, we start pulling ourselves together in my room when there’s a knock at the front door. I open it to find Beverly Billingsley, who is holding Groucho in a mini-chef outfit.

“I’m turning this in,” she says. She holds out her gloved hand. “I thought I lost mine, but I found it. So here’s the extra.”

My mind is confused. What’s she saying? I try to sound casual. “Oh, thanks. Where did you find it?”

“It was by my front door. It must have fallen out of my purse. So here is the duplicate that I had to pay for. I’d like my money back.”

The fog in my head starts to clear. She’s handing me the key. I must have dropped it last night.

I take it from her and fidget a bit. My fingers press the outside of my pocket. Yep, it’s empty.

“I’ll give it to my mom, and she’ll call you or something.”

“Okay, but I’m formally returning it as of now. So make sure and tell her.”

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. Groucho barks at me. He’s never done that before.

* * *

We arrive at Gusty’s at ten thirty. And, whoa! The crowd looks huge. Dominic and Ben are having a hard time hanging on to our table, so they’re thrilled to have Zoe and Ella join them. I decide to take a look in the kitchen. Clooney Wickham is at the stove, on her tiptoes, stirring a giant pot with a long spoon. There’s a second pot next to it. Steam rises from both of them, causing sweat beads on Clooney’s face. Fish heads bob in the low simmer of the pots’ broth. On the long prep counter, there are stacks of bowls waiting to be filled.

The tables are full—well, except for two of them. One has a tent on it that says Rook River Advertiser and Guests. The other says Restaurant Hubert and Guests. Sister Rosie and Sister Ethel have arrived in time for the festivities, sitting at a table with one open seat. I walk over to them to say hello.

“Oh, Quinnie, we’re so excited,” says Sister Rosie. She lowers her voice and leans toward me. “I’m sure Gusty’s is going to win.”

One of the chairs has been tipped against the table, and I put my hand on it.

“So sorry, dear! We’re saving that for Beverly.”

“Beverly?” I ask. I know what she said, but I’m surprised they’re on such familiar terms.

“Yes, Mrs. Billingsley,” Sister Rosie says. “You know, she’s not as strange as she seems.”

“She’ll be here soon,” Sister Ethel adds. “We told her we’d save a seat.” Sister Ethel doesn’t look as enthused as Sister Rosie.

I guess I would have expected Mrs. Billingsley to sit with her son, Hubert, unless they’re keeping that all the way confidential. But when I look over to the Hubert table, it’s starting to fill up with Willy and other people from the restaurant. Hubert himself hasn’t arrived.

Dad dashes around with trays of lattes and espressos, giving out samples. At each table, he drops off the Special of the Day menu insert. In large blue script, it says FISH HEAD SOUP with Pilot Crackers and a side of Garlicky Cole Slaw.

I look at my phone. It’s eleven ten. I head to my table and sit down. Everyone is chowing on Cheese Nips from a bowl in the center of our table. The whole room feels impatient, as if people might start pounding and chanting for the Secret Diner.

By eleven forty-five, Beverly Billingsley has arrived with Groucho, Ms. Stillford has joined Owen Loney at the counter, and Ella’s dad has filled a seat at the table reserved for the Rook River paper.

Clooney is going around taking all the orders. At each table, she aggressively sells the special. After seeing the two pots in the kitchen, I can see why. We’ll have a lot of soup to toss if people don’t chow down. Although, I have to admit, the aroma coming from the kitchen is divine.

I go back to watching Beverly Billingsley. She and the sisters have already given their orders when I hear her begin to complain. “There isn’t a Captain Mowatt’s hot sauce here.” Clooney turns to look at the table, but Sister Ethel rolls her eyes and motions for Clooney not to worry about it. “I’ll get one,” Sister Ethel says.

Sister Ethel strides to the counter, grabs the Captain Mowatt’s, and puts it in front of Billingsley. Groucho stick his nose up to it, then jerks his head back and repeatedly licks his face. Clooney sees this and fumes.

In the midst of this, Hubert Pivot steps into Gusty’s and locates his table. The toddler family is behind him. They search the room, see someone they know, and join them. Next come the Lewises. They squeeze in with people they don’t know. The remaining seats at the Rook River newspaper table are taken by people I’ve never seen before. One of them has a stack of newspapers with him, as well as a large envelope.

Mom comes up to me, and I ask her, “Where’s the Secret Diner?”

She says, “I guess if the Secret Diner were revealed here, that would be the end of the secret and the end of the column. All we get to know is the winner.”

Everyone at my table grouses about this for a while. Here we’ve been doing all this guessing, and no one’s going to tell us who it is. I notice that Billingsley is holding up the Captain Mowatt’s bottle with two fingers. Screwing up her face, she says something about it being a disgusting, sticky mess. Knowing her, that probably means there was a dot of dried hot sauce on the bottle.

After the sisters don’t give her complaints much attention, I notice Billingsley pick up her big bag—with Groucho in it—and hike it onto one shoulder. She uses her other hand to take the hot sauce bottle by its cap and then heads toward the kitchen door.

Clooney stops her and says, “You can’t go in that kitchen—especially not with that dog.”

Billingsley snorts, takes Groucho out of the bag, and plunks him in Clooney’s arms, then disappears into the kitchen. Dad is across the dining room, talking to Mr. Philpotts, when he sees this go down. Mom’s standing at the newspaper table, shaking hands, and the pair of police guys tries to signal her, with expressions that say, Uh, Sheriff, is that lady supposed to go back there?

By the time Clooney has handed the dog off to someone else and Dad has made his way around the tables, Beverly Billingsley is walking back out of the kitchen. She holds a towel, wiping off the Captain Mowatt’s bottle she’s apparently washed. “Sticky bottles,” she says, shaking her head. “Now that’s a health issue.”

Once Billingsley has returned to her seat, I get up and walk to the kitchen door myself, since Mom is still schmoozing with the Rook River people. Slowly, carefully, I scan the shelves and countertops. Not sure what I’m looking for. But nothing looks missing—that I can tell.

Shaking off Billingsley’s disruption, Clooney and Dad begin the grand soup service. They bring it out on large trays laden with hefty bowls. The aroma wafts from each bowl, causing patrons to stretch their necks and whisper oohs and aahs.

Someone calls out to Dad, “Have you added something new to the soup, Gus?”

“Nope. Same since the new menu.”

Soon Clooney delivers the orders to our table. I sniff the contents of my bowl, which certainly smells like Gusty’s Fish Head Soup, maybe a little more pungent than usual. Billingsley and the sisters get their orders next. Clooney moves on, and Rosie and Ethel dig in, but I notice that—although her spoon’s in her bowl—Mrs. Billingsley’s not eating. She’s checking out the other diners.

I avert my eyes quickly so as not to connect with her. When I think she’s not turned my way, I catch her raising a spoonful of soup to her mouth—and letting it drop back into the bowl. What the heck? If she doesn’t want the special, why’d she even order it? She doesn’t strike me as someone who feels any pressure to eat what everyone else eats.

I send a questioning glance toward Mom, who has taken a chair at the newspaper table. She gives me a did you see that? look. We both survey the room, but nothing else unusual seems to be happening. Mom motions to me to follow her to the kitchen, and she grabs Dad and Clooney on the way.

“What’s up?” Dad asks.

Mom says, “Quinnie and I thought we saw Mrs. Billingsley . . .” She pauses as if she’s at a loss for how to describe what I know we were both thinking.

“Pretending to eat the fish soup,” I say.

“She’s a dumb cluck,” says Clooney.

“What are you talking about?” Dad asks. Looking through the kitchen doorway, he checks back on the dining room.

We all do. We see her do it. She lifts the full spoon to her lips, tips her head down, peers left and right, then lowers it to her bowl without taking in one little sip.

“Well, what the heck?” Dad says. “Everyone else is already at the bottom of their bowls.”

He hurriedly walks to the pot and scoops a ladle and inhales the savory scent.

It all starts to happen at once. Behind me, I hear Dad cry, “No. Oh, no. No. No.” Clooney yells, “What? What?” Someone in the dining room gags, followed by a retching noise. Then, from across the room, there’s a disturbance, and Toddler Dad pushes back from his table and upchucks into his napkin.

Mom and I run into the dining room, waving our arms. “Don’t eat any more soup!”