Dead Ends (Main Street Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

Barely able to raise the stubbly goatee required for the image, Tucker had needed his physician father to apply for a license to serve alcohol, Tucker himself being too young to drink.

Practically overnight, though, the place had become a success. And, for Daisy, it was a home away from home, tucked under and in front of her long-time abode.

Or
another
home away from home.

As AnnaLise rounded the corner onto Main Street proper, the true heart-and-soul of Sutherton, the town, as well as Griggs, the family, came into view: Mama Philomena's restaurant. Phyllis Balisteri, aka ‘Mama Philomena,’ was Daisy's oldest and dearest friend. Between the two women, they'd managed not only to raise AnnaLise after Timothy Griggs died, leaving the widowed Daisy with a five-year-old, but keep both Griggs Market and the restaurant afloat.

Not that it hadn't been without its challenges.

Going by the restaurant's name, red-and-white-striped awning and big plate-glass window, you'd expect Mama Philomena's to offer family-style Italian meals. And you'd be . . . well, more dead wrong than disappointed. True disappointment would come only if you tried any of the Italian delicacies that Phyllis had tried to replicate from her mother Philomena's original menu.

Mama, as Phyllis and her mother before her were inevitably called, had been tipped to the town's opinion of her early efforts immediately, of course. Sutherton natives were not known to mince words, especially when the tourist industry – the town's bane or its boon, depending on who you were talking to and at what time of year – could be affected.

Because no matter how much they enjoyed complaining about the influx of out-of-towners, including students attending the University of the Mountain, the locals knew that the reason Sutherton continued to thrive was that its cool mountains, picturesque lakes, and beautiful trout streams drew people trying to escape the heat of the deep South all summer long, foliage-gawkers in the fall, and skiers through the winter.

For better or worse, Sutherton had an eleven-month tourist season and Mama Philomena's on Main Street – listed in every tour book and travel website – could not be allowed to founder on the rocks of inedible meals.

Facing mounting pressure, Mama had turned to what she, herself, had survived on while her own mother provided authentic Italian cuisine to the rest of the town: convenience foods and the easy recipes found on the backs of the boxes, cans and bottles in which those brand-name favorites were packaged.

And so Mama Philomena's had survived, as did its standing as the hub of life on Main Street. The restaurant served as Sutherton's tribal campfire, where stories were swapped and information shared. Sort of a brick-and-mortar Wikipedia, right down to the occasional questionable source.

Mama's Monday ‘LUNCH SPECIALS,’ handwritten on a bright pink sheet of paper, were already up on the door, strategically placed between a flyer advertising next month's annual Woolly Worm Festival in nearby Banner Elk and a second circular, this one for Beary Scary Halloween on neighboring Grandfather Mountain.

AnnaLise read the menu: Corn Flakes Crunchy Baked Chicken, Bennett's Chili Sauce Brisket and Beans and, for dessert, AnnaLise's own favorite: Grape Nut Pudding.

‘What's the occasion?’ AnnaLise asked, pushing open the door to find her own mother on the other side of it.

Daisy had a roll of tape in her hand, presumably having just posted the specials. Now she plunked both fists, tape in one of them, on her hips. ‘AnnaLise Griggs, you can't tell me you've forgotten the Woolly Worm Festival. You haven't been away that long.’

Ten years, if you were counting. And, of course, her mother would be.

‘Please,’ AnnaLise said, ‘one does not forget the whole county coming out to watch Woolly Caterpillars race up strings and then using the color pattern of the winner's bristles to predict the coming winter's weather.’

‘Hey there, AnnieLeez.’ The voice came presumably from the kitchen and undeniably from Phyllis ‘Mama’ Balisteri. ‘Don't you go making fun of our Woolly Worms. They pump a whole lot of dollars into the county's coffins.’

AnnaLise bit her tongue to avoid correcting that to ‘coffers.’ She'd long ago sublimated Mama's butchering of her own given name.

‘Not to mention Mama's cash register,’ Daisy said, setting down the tape roll. ‘It's only a month away. Maybe you won't miss it this year, AnnaLise.’

There was a wistful tone to Daisy's voice, tinged with a hint of fear. Both mother and daughter knew that if AnnaLise stayed beyond the end of September it would be because of Daisy's spells. And AnnaLise didn't think either of them really wanted that, Woolly Worms or not.

She changed the subject. ‘By “occasion,” I was referring to the menu. ‘Brisket? Grape-Nut pudding? Sounds like Mama's pulling out all the stops.’

‘I think it's a reaction to the doctor,’ Daisy said, pushing blonde curly hair away from her sun-darkened face. ‘Sort of a last hurrah.’

AnnaLise felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. Was Mama, who admittedly knew Daisy best – better even than AnnaLise herself – so worried that she'd, in effect, prepared the ‘condemned’ woman her final meal of favorites?

‘Grape-Nuts should have a hyphen,’ was all AnnaLise could think to say.

Afraid to make eye contact with her mother, she plucked a Wheat Chex out of a small bowl of snack mix set in the middle of a nearby booth.

A palm lightly but crisply slapped her hand. ‘Complimentary Chex Mix is for the paying customers. Don't you go digging in there or the Health Department will shut me down.’

AnnaLise whirled to face her 'other' mother, who – much to Daisy's dismay – was often mistaken for her biological one. But it was true that AnnaLise's dark hair and eyes echoed more Phyllis Balisteri's coloring than her own mother's blue-eyed blondeness.

Besides,’ Mama continued, laying paper-napkin-wrapped sets of silverware next to matching placemats already on the table, ‘you eat too much junk and you'll get fat.’

Well, there was a new sentiment from Mama, who was known to slather doughnuts with butter before frying them up. ‘When I arrived just a week ago this past Saturday, you told me I was too skinny and made me drink whole milk,’ AnnaLise pointed out. ‘And eat cake.’

‘You asked for that hunk of cake, AnnieLeez Griggs.’

Mama was right, but then AnnaLise had needed to gird herself for her return to Sutherton in response to Mama's panicky call about Daisy's blood drive gaffe. Bacardi Rum Cake was as close to a cocktail as AnnaLise could justify at ten a.m. in the morning.

AnnaLise opened her mouth to say so, but Mama apparently wasn't done. ‘And don't you dare be telling me any different, you hear now?’ With that, the restaurant owner whisked the snack mix off the table and disappeared into the kitchen, looking for all the world like she was going to break into tears.

‘My God,’ AnnaLise whispered to Daisy, while keeping a lookout over her shoulder, lest Mama reappear. ‘Is she truly so worried about your appointment with the neurologist?’

Specters of what her mother's best friend might know – or suspect – were dancing in the younger woman's head.

‘
My
appointment?’ Daisy had moved on to cleaning the glass display case that held the restaurant's cash register on top and ancient candy and bric-a-brac below. ‘Don't be silly. Phyllis is just upset about what the doctor said after her annual physical yesterday.’

Mama returned with a fresh bowl of the snack mix and slapped it on the table, sending Chex flying. ‘Fat my southern-fried ass, Jackson Stanton!’

Dr Jackson Stanton, being Tucker's father. The Stantons had been summer visitors until Theresa – Jackson's wife and Tucker's mother – died. The summer after her death, the widower came with Tucker anyway, and they just never left.

‘He didn't say you were fat, Phyllis,’ Daisy said. ‘He said your cholesterol was up and you should cut
out
fat.’

‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ Mama asked. ‘I have a restaurant to run.’ She swept the errant cereal off the table and plopped it in her mouth.

Before AnnaLise could delve further, if she indeed dared, the electronic chime on the door signaled the arrival of a new customer; one that AnnaLise was very happy to see. ‘I'll get this,’ she said, grabbing a menu from the front counter's stack and turning to the man who had entered, newspaper tucked under an arm.

James Duende was about six-one, with shaggy dark hair and eyes the color of melted Hershey's milk chocolate.

But that wasn't what interested AnnaLise. She was still untying slip-knots from her last romantic entanglement.

‘This booth is ready, James,’ she said, sweeping a hand toward the one Mama had just set.

‘Thanks, AnnaLise,’ he replied, taking the offered menu as he slipped past her to slide onto the bench facing the front window. Duende was a recent addition to Sutherton--a writer, and a closed-mouthed one at that.

‘So good to see you back,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I heard you were away on assignment for a few days. I hope it went well.’

‘Last week?’ he asked, unfolding his copy of the
High Country Times
. ‘It went fine.’ He took a red Flair from the inside of his jacket and laid it on top of the paper before looking up at her. ‘Though not as good as yours, I understand.’

Uh-oh. AnnaLise took the bench across from him and leaned forward. ‘I take it you've heard that Dickens Hart hired me to do his memoirs?’

‘Dickens Hart?’ Duende repeated, leveling those chocolate eyes on her. ‘You mean your father?’

AnnaLise squirmed. ‘At the time I took the job, I didn't know that was the case.’

And still refused to acknowledge him as such. The man was a womanizer and an egomaniac, the former witnessed by AnnaLise's very existence, and the latter by the boxes of journals he'd kept "for posterity" and which now filled AnnaLise's childhood bedroom toward
Dickens Hart: The Poor Man's Hugh Heffner
.

Probably
not
the final title, admittedly, but it was the way AnnaLise thought of the project. Still, the money was beyond anything she could earn as a reporter and an outright godsend, given her current suspended state of employment.

AnnaLise glanced over at Daisy, who was arguing with Mama. Business as usual between the two mothers. The last thing AnnaLise needed was an illegitimate father in the mix But then, we get what less of what we want and more of what we deserve.

‘Listen,’ she said to Duende. ‘We both know you're a legendary biographer – the male Kitty Kelley.’

That chocolate in his eyes hardened. ‘I'm a legitimate, highly credentialed author.’

Presumably Kitty Kelley, the queen of unauthorized biographies, thought the same about herself. The likes of Frank Sinatra, Nancy Reagan and the British Royal Family might beg to differ.

Nonetheless, AnnaLise held up her hands in apology. ‘I'm sorry. I know the sensationalized, unauthorized bio isn't your thing.’ Unless it paid well enough. ‘But you know that I had nothing to do with Dickens choosing me to write his autobiography over you. In fact, I tried to price myself out of the market. Unfortunately, I didn't realize he'd gone,’ a sheepish grin toward Duende, ‘upscale.’

That elicited an answering smile from Duende. ‘A reporter who didn't do her research.’

‘I didn't know who you were then, or that you were here for the job. Believe me, if I could back out of it I would, but . . .’

She involuntarily glanced toward where her mother was exchanging the glass cleaner she'd been using for her purse, presumably toward leaving for the doctor's appointment.

Duende put his hand on AnnaLise's as she checked her watch. ‘How is your mom doing?’

AnnaLise shrugged. ‘Fine. For now. I mean, until the next time she's not.’ The reporter colored up. ‘Sorry. Not my best syntax. Maybe you
should
be writing the Dickens Hart story.’

Duende didn't let go of her hand. ‘Did you have to take an unpaid leave from the paper?’

She felt her cheeks go warmer. ‘Yes, but – ’

‘AnnaLise? Are you ready?’ Daisy stood by the cash register. ‘We need to make a stop on the way, remember?’

‘Of course.’ AnnaLise smiled and slid her fingers out from under Duende's. ‘I have to go. But thanks for understanding. Or . . . uh, at least not being mad.’

Geez, what was it about sitting across from this man that made her incapable of stringing together a proper sentence? AnnaLise Griggs, who, as Mama was fond of saying, not only corrected everyone's grammar, but would copy-edit their thoughts if she could access them.

Granted, the man was a multi-published author, with more than a couple
New York Times
Bestsell –

‘AnnaLise?’ Daisy sounded impatient and for good reason. The woman had to be nervous about what her doctor might say.

‘I'm sorry, Daisy,’ AnnaLise said, sliding to the end of the bench.

As she did, Duende caught her hand again. ‘If you need anything, please: Just ask.’

AnnaLise hesitated.

‘I mean with the biography,’ Duende said, his olive skin getting a little duskier. ‘I've written a ton of them and you're pretty much a . . .’

‘Virgin?’ AnnaLise asked, thinking it felt good to flirt again, so long as it could be done safely.

‘Well, I was going to say “'rookie,” but – ’

The electronic chime rang out again.

‘Thank God we found that inn,’ an adult female voice said. ‘At least
it
has a little charm.’

With a smile of thanks to Duende, AnnaLise turned to follow Daisy and stopped.

At the door stood Benjamin Rosewood, district attorney of Urban County, Wisconsin, and, until about a month ago, AnnaLise's lover.

And with him, his wife and daughter.

Three

Tanja Hobson Rosewood. Suzanne Rosewood. AnnaLise knew them from their photos. The framed ones on Ben's desk. And on his walls. Or candids with Ben in the papers.

Tanja, daughter of self-made billionaire Lenny Hobson. Tall, slim and well-kept, her hair was, eerily, the color of rosewood and so thick and shiny it could have been a lacquered, curvy plank of same. She and Ben met while they were classmates at Northwestern University north of Chicago. Married in the fall of 1992.