twenty-one

They found Jonathan, but he was in the kitchen, having been recruited by Mary Ruth to help with food prep for tomorrow. The pink apron looked out of place over his black shirt, but no worse than Toby, who had his over an ugly camouflage sweater with fall decals he must have picked up at Bridgeton. The men looked out of place next to the four baker-helper women from the Festival Committee.

Alice worked on creating scones for the next day, which were cranberry-orange. Joy wasn’t around but Francine presumed she was doing something for Channel Six. The whole place smelled of cookies and scones baking.

Talk of murder and computers snatched illegally from cars to see what they might reveal took a back seat to Mary Ruth’s need to get food prepared for tomorrow’s rush.

Francine slipped on the pink apron Mary Ruth handed her. “That’s fine. We’re glad to help.”

There was a knock on the kitchen door that opened to the outside, and Marcy walked in without waiting for someone to let her in.

Mary Ruth acted like she expected Marcy to be there. “I switched out the flavors of cookies and scones like you suggested. Some of them, anyway.”

Marcy slipped off her jacket. “Exactly,” she said. “Ramp up the anticipation by swapping out a few items every day. Not the corn fritter donuts, which are becoming quite the attraction, or the cinnamon rolls, but the easier things.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes as Marcy donned a pink apron. “I’m confused. Whose publicist are you now? Ours? Joy’s? Merlina’s?”

“I’m Mary Ruth’s publicist officially now, so you don’t have to pay me anymore, Charlotte.”

Charlotte’s eyes went wide as she put a finger to her lips, hoping Marcy would stop talking.

Francine knew instantly what was going on, like a bubble of understanding had suddenly risen up in her. It made her smile. “Item fifteen: Be more generous and philanthropic,” she said.

Charlotte cleared her throat loudly. Marcy realized what had just happened. She tried to cover. “I’m also handling Joy’s bookings and Merlina’s bookings,” she announced, “but Merlina’s are mostly local and easier to accommodate. Mary Ruth’s are national!”

The news took Francine by surprise. “National?”

Marcy clapped her hands. “I’m pleased to announce that Food Network is back and interested in Mary Ruth Burrows! As it happens, a camera crew for Robert Irvine’s new show will be making a detour stop through Rockville for a look at Mary Ruth’s Fabulous Sweet Shoppe.”

“Ooohhh!” Charlotte said. “Isn’t Robert Irvine the one with really big biceps?”

“And the very cool British accent,” Alice added.

Francine went to the refrigerator and extracted four sticks of butter according to the peanut butter cookie recipe. “But I thought he was the guy who’s always trying to fix what’s wrong with things, like restaurants and recipes and stuff. What’s this new show about?”

Marcy waved her hand in a dismissive way. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s about how to sell more product.”

“That’s the only thing Food Network seems to be focused on,” Alice said. “Selling more of their product. That and creating competition shows. What ever happened to cooking and baking?”

“That’s on the Cooking Channel,” Mary Ruth observed. “It’s not as popular. The economy’s recovering, and people are cooking less and eating out more. Food Network is all about celebrating chefs.”

“Or being a celebrity chef.” Francine threw the butter into a stand mixer.

“Precisely what we’re aiming for with Mary Ruth,” said Marcy. “We want Robert to see the lines of people, taste the baked goods, and have him give an excellent report.”

The group was ordered back to task by Mary Ruth. Within minutes the kitchen was humming with activity.

They worked until suppertime. No one felt like making dinner, so Jonathan ordered Mexican from a restaurant on the square in Rockville. It was within walking distance. Francine volunteered to go with him to get it. She knew it was far enough away that Charlotte wouldn’t volunteer to go with them. Besides, Charlotte was dying to get her hands on William’s laptop. Francine, on the other hand, had the second diary tucked away in her purse and hoped they would have to wait for the food and she could skim the entries while she waited.

Francine and Jonathan walked at a good clip toward the square in Rockville.

“Tell me,” Francine began, “did you know Charlotte had taken William’s tablet out of the back of the car when she gave it to you?”

“She came in from the outside, so I’d wondered where she’d gotten it. I had no idea it was William’s.”

“She’s probably scouring the tablet right now looking for clues.”

“Not unless she finds someone who knows William’s password. It was password protected. Charlotte tried to get me to turn it on, but I couldn’t get past the first screen.”

“Toby might be able to do it. He’s done it for her before.”

As they walked along, Francine couldn’t help but marvel at the large historic homes in the area and how many appeared to still be homes. In the greater Indianapolis area, such homes were largely turned into businesses because the upkeep was so great. Langley Funeral Home on the other side of the street seemed to be the exception.

She gave it more than a passing glance and saw William’s car parked in the lot. There weren’t many other cars. Langley wasn’t the name of the funeral home Dolly had given Francine for William’s arrangements. Must be that nursing home resident she mentioned.

El Monterey Delgado was doing a brisk business, mostly from Hispanic-looking faces, so Francine hoped it would be authentic food. She could detect cumin and adobo in the air, and the aroma of tortilla chips being fried was strong. Jonathan checked on their order and found it would be a few minutes. The place was mostly take out; there were a few tables, but there was no waitstaff that she could see. The tables were already occupied. They found a spot on an empty bench inside the restaurant that seemed to be specifically for waiting. She opened her purse and took out the diary.

The first entry in this diary was much later than the other diary, October of 1944. Francine did some calculation and determined her grandmother, Ellie, would have been thirty-nine years old at the time. Francine’s own mother was twenty, and expecting. Francine would be born in April of 1945.

She tried to speed-read, knowing that it wouldn’t take long for the order to be ready, but the handwriting didn’t lend itself to that. She found herself absorbed in the context of the entry.

I do not think it is inappropriate for my mother to consider marrying a man who is not a doctor. She is, after all, a widow, and has been for five years. She loved my father in her own way, and she has remained faithful to his memory, at least in public. Having proven she can live on her own, must she, forever? She has had suitors of my father’s station, but none of them have interested her. I would defend her ability to fall in love with a simple tradesman like a gardener, let alone someone who has an international following like Doc Wheat. It does not matter that he has no degree; he has proven that he can produce marvelous remedies. Some people say he’s a huckster, but Mother does not believe that, nor do I.

Francine stopped. Her great-grandmother married Doc Wheat? Surely she would have known that. Wouldn’t her mother have told her that? Or her grandmother?

She began to skim the entries looking for key words like marry or Doc Wheat. Two entries later, she found a reference.

Mother and I cannot believe the stir that has been created by her relationship with Doc Wheat. One would think she has chosen to marry someone whose brain is not right in his head. Even my husband believes it is not for Mother’s well-being. “Doc Wheat is a fortune hunter,” he has opined. “He is only after the money she has inherited from her father and from her husband.” I grant that this is a substantial sum, but Doc Wheat is himself successful. Years before he took up with Mother, back when Father was still alive, he had purchased additional land adjacent to his farm and paid for it in cash. At least that was the talk. A brook runs through it, and also a good deal of forest land. I have toured it with Mother. There are places where it is hilly, and it has a lovely meadow where the brook emerges from the ground. Doc Wheat has a garden there where he grows his medicinal herbs.

And then there is the matter of love. It would not appear to me that he is after her money. I have known of their secret relationship for the past three years. They took great pains to hide it then. You, my diary friend, know that I have written of how I have witnessed their love many times. I accompanied them on summer picnics when my husband had business out of town. Doc would hitch up his horse and carriage and we would take paths deep into his property to where the sycamores and the maples provided shade from the noonday sun in a perfect grassy spot. I watched him spread out the blanket for us, and he and I would sit in anticipation as Mother retrieved the food she had prepared. She made simple meals but beautiful ones. Then they would hold hands as we sat and talked and ate. The passion they had for each other, the way he would caress her hands, the way Mother’s breath shortened at times when she would get back in the carriage and he was close behind her, helping her, their bodies briefly in contact. It was as if they were my age instead of theirs. Would that my husband made me feel this way!

“Jonathan!” a heavily accented voice called. Francine jerked her head up from the page and saw a Hispanic man put two large paper bags with handles on the counter. She found herself momentarily confused, jerked out of an idyllic scene to return to the sights and smells of El Monterey Delgado.

Jonathan, fortunately, was more together. He leaped up from the bench and went to the counter.

The diary had a fabric placeholder in it. Francine marked the spot she was at and carefully returned the diary to her purse. She met Jonathan at the counter. She checked over the order to make sure it was correct. When they left the restaurant, she noticed it had only been ten minutes.

“Did you learn anything?” Jonathan asked.

“They were certainly in love, at least in my grandmother’s eyes.”

“Who is they?”

“My great-grandmother and Doc Wheat.”

“Did we know they were in love?”

“No. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

They took the same path back to the mansion. It took them past Langley Funeral Home once more, but Dolly’s car was not there. A few cars remained in the lot, and Francine wondered about the older resident for whom Dolly and William had such affection that they were willing to arrange for a funeral. Would she recognize the name if she saw it?

“Would you mind taking dinner back to the group without me?” she asked. “I want to check out the visitation at the funeral home. William’s car was there on our way to the restaurant, and now it’s gone. I’m curious what Dolly was doing in there. It’s not where William’s body is going to be.”

Jonathan made disapproving noises. “I could come with you.”

“And then everyone’s order would get cold. I’ll be along in a few minutes. Really.”

“You spend too much time around Charlotte. Her penchant for being a snoop is rubbing off on you.” But Jonathan let her go and headed toward the mansion toting both bags of meals as she’d asked.

Believing the cars in the lot meant the doors would be open, Francine walked up the concrete sidewalk. She tentatively tried the door handle, not wanting to make much noise, but the door swung open easily. A small directional sign with removable letters stood in front of her. Belinda Miles Flowers, it read, with an arrow pointing to the left. She noted that the calling was from four to five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Francine was struck by the Miles name, which was her own maiden name. She tried to think of any relatives named Belinda, but none came to mind. It was a common enough name, especially in the area. She couldn’t help but take a peek into the room, just to find out if there were any clues as to who Belinda might be. She wasn’t at all certain it would be the woman Dolly had spoken about, but the fact that Dolly had been there ten minutes earlier and that there were no other funerals listed fueled her desire to investigate.

Ahead of her were double doors that led into a smallish viewing room. The doors opened into the back of the room. As she approached it, she saw chairs set up, ready for visitors to sit while they shared their grief over the death of Ms. Flowers. Francine could hear someone grieving, and she hesitated before sticking her head in. She didn’t want to disturb whoever was in the room. But she was certain the person would be facing away from her, focused on the front of the room, and she still wanted to know if it might be an acquaintance or relative of hers from long ago.

She peered into the room. Zedediah Matthew sat in a plush turquoise funeral chair in the front row, his head in his hands, weeping.