Feta Attraction Read online

  Well, when he did turn up, I was going to let him have it. Not that I hadn’t done it before, and not that it ever did any good.

  Dolly came in and set a platter of assorted pastries on the counter. “Help yourself,” she said. “I stopped at Kelsey’s Bakery on the way in.” Dolly had worked for us longer than I’d been here, thirty years or more. Her hair was blond and teased up in a high nest into which she’d inserted a sparkly butterfly barrette. Her real name was Norma, but the story was that she’d seen Dolly Parton play at the state fair one summer and had been inspired to change her name. It suited her. She got herself a cup of coffee and sat down for her morning gossip with Sophie.

  I lifted the plastic dome and grabbed a cheese Danish off the tray, then went to my office. I put the pastry on a napkin and sat down at my desk. If Spiro divorced me and I had to leave, where would I go? I’d miss this place, with its beautiful natural woodwork and shining floors and the flood of bright sunlight through the bank of tall windows overlooking the little garden I’d set up for the employees to take their breaks.

  No time for wallowing, I thought. I checked my to-do list, feeling in control for the first time that morning. Number 1: Update Menu Copy. That entry had been on my to-do list since the beginning of the season, I noted, feeling out of control again. But it needed to be done today before the ghost hunters got here. I took the top menu from the stack on my desk and pulled out the paper insert containing the history of the Bonaparte House.

  WELCOME TO BONAPARTE BAY AND THE HISTORIC BONAPARTE HOUSE!

  Well, that much could stay. Bonaparte Bay is located on the picturesque American shore of the St. Lawrence River in the heart of the Thousand Islands. The St. Lawrence connects Lake Ontario and the rest of the Great Lakes to the west with the Atlantic Ocean to the east. Thousands of ships pass through these waters every year.

  I bit into the Danish and sucked some sticky frosting from my fingers without thinking, then wiped them on my apron. My ever-present bottle of hand sanitizer sat accusingly a few inches away and I pumped a dollop into my hand.

  The Bonaparte House was built around 1822, although the records are sketchy. This native fieldstone mansion, built as a two-story octegon (I circled that with a blue pen) with a large cupola adorning its crown in the style of Orson Fowler (Okay, that language could be modernized. And I should say who Orson Fowler was. I think I knew once, but I’d long since forgotten), is the oldest surviving building in Bonaparte Bay. Local legend says that the house was intended for Napoleon when his escape from exile was accomplished. Of course, Napoleon never did escape, and he never lived here.

  In the last century, Vasilios “Basil” Nikolopatos settled in the Thousand Islands, which reminded him of the landscape of Greece. He bought the Bonaparte House and transformed it into a restaurant serving the delicious foods of his native land. Basil died years ago, but his wife, Sophie, and son, Spiro, continue to operate the Bonaparte House for your enjoyment today.

  Spiro had left me off the menu when he’d prepared it this spring. If I’d bothered to review the back copy instead of just the menu selections then, I might have known he was up to something. I opened up my laptop and plugged in the flash drive Spiro had left on my desk, found the document containing the menu, and edited it. I added “daughter-in-law, Georgie” between Sophie’s and Spiro’s names. Ha. I made the other necessary changes, executed a spell-check, then printed off a hundred copies of the inserts and stacked them beside the menu folders to be assembled later.

  I logged into my e-mail account. There was a note from my friend Eileen asking whether we could get together this week. She must have man trouble again. Join the club, I thought.

  What the hell? There was another message from an unidentified sender. I couldn’t help myself and clicked it open.

  WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER? FIND IT AND BRING IT TO ME, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY.

  Well, that was helpful. If somebody wanted something from me, the least he or she could do would be to tell me what it was and where I should deliver it. A knock sounded at the door. I looked up, startled, then took a sip of coffee to collect myself. “Hi, Russ. You’re here early this morning. Come on in.” My pulse slowed, but I still felt jumpy.

  Russ Riley was Dolly’s son, our dishwasher and general gofer. He was a beefy five feet eight, not quite fat, but he probably would be in a few years. The tail of his long black mullet brushed his waist. He’d tied a red bandanna around his forehead in lieu of a hairnet, which he said cramped his style. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his cutoffs.

  “Ma said I should bring this in to you.” He looked down at his Croc-clad feet, then back up. I’d often suspected he might have a bit of a crush on me. He filled my cup from the coffee carafe, then turned and left.

  I called out a thank-you and read the e-mail again. If it was a threat, it wasn’t very . . . threatening. Should I go to the police? What would I tell them? I sighed in relief as I realized someone must be playing a joke on me. That was what it had to be, though I had no idea who would do such a thing. The e-mail was so vague, so nonspecific, I just couldn’t take it seriously. Still, I left it in my in-box. Administrative work finished, I shut down the computer and headed back to the kitchen.

  The faint, not unpleasant scent of bleach wafted up to my nostrils as I donned an apron, fresh from the laundry service, and tied it around my waist. Giving my hands a good scrub at the sink, I dried them on a clean towel, put on some gloves, and got to work.

  A bowl of lemons sat in front of me, their bright yellow skins making a lovely contrast to the gray stainless steel of the prep counter. I smiled and began to rub the fruit with a fine grater. The process required a light touch; press too hard and I’d have the bitter white pith as well as the fragrant outer peel. A familiar sense of peace washed over me as I cooked. This was my element; this was my art. This I could control. I scraped the zest into a container of fat, silky chicken breasts, and added the juice of the lemons and some olive oil. A bit of sea salt, a few grinds of freshly cracked black pepper, a handful of fresh herbs, and a stir completed the prep for today’s lunch special: Greek Chicken with Lemon and Thyme.

  Next to me, Dolly peeled and sliced potatoes and onions for the accompanying side dish, and we worked in companionable silence, each of us in her own zone. I covered and refrigerated the meat. With a simple salad of grape tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, and fresh ribbons of basil, all drizzled with olive oil, we were good to go.

  Some of the dishes we served were complicated. Pastitsio and moussaka, though undeniably delicious, required hours to produce. My favorite recipes were like today’s, though. Simple, and making use of local ingredients whenever possible. The growing season this far north is short, but the produce is fresh and flavorful, and I bought it whenever I could.

  A few hours later the lunch rush was over, and Russ, Dolly, and I had completed the daily cleanup and prep work for tomorrow. I put a film of plastic wrap over the leftover cooked meat, which would become a lovely chicken salad with green grapes and toasted walnuts tomorrow, and handed it to Russ. He toted it over to the walk-in cooler.

  “Can I stay and help?” Russ removed the bandanna from his head, stuck it in his back pocket, and donned a baseball cap sporting a chain saw manufacturer’s logo. I figured he was hoping for an in-person glimpse of Ghost Squad’s lone female investigator, a buxom young woman who always seemed to be dressed in a tight, low-cut tank top even when the rest of the crew wore sweatshirts.

  “Thanks, Russ, but they’ve told us we all have to leave so we don’t influence the investigation,” I said, giving my hands a scrub at the dishwashing sink.

  “Do you think this place is haunted?” His big open face was uneasy as he took off his apron and tossed it in the laundry bin.

  “I can tell you that I’ve lived here for a lot of years and I’ve never heard or seen anything that makes me think that.”

  “But Spiro h
as. He said he heard noises, and got creepy feelings like he was being watched. I think I might have heard something the other day,” he added.

  “We’ll have to see what they find.”

  Speaking of Spiro, the inconsiderate darling still hadn’t shown up or bothered to call. Sophie and I had both tried to contact him several times, but his phone went straight to voice mail. I hoped he was having a good time, wherever he was, because when he got back he was going to have some ’splainin’ to do. Whether he’d left me for good or was just off on an extra-long joyride, I was angry with him.

  And angrier with myself for not having prepared an exit plan.

  Adding to that, I now had to do the interviews with the Ghost Squad people myself. What I wanted to do was spend the whole evening relaxing at the spa on Valentine Island, where I’d begged my best girlfriend, Liza, to find me a room. This would be a rare treat in the height of the tourist season.

  I headed upstairs and stopped at the door to Spiro’s room. Could he have left a note? It seemed unlikely, but I put my key in the lock—couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that, or wanted to! The door opened without my turning the key. Strange. Being moderately paranoid, Spiro always locked his door.

  I surveyed the room. He’d decorated the twelve-by-fifteen-foot space tastefully, though it certainly wasn’t to my taste. Chocolate brown walls complemented the original wide plank floorboards, sanded and polished to a glowing honey finish. A few scuffs in the wood over by one of the walls, but that was to be expected in a place this age. Pale blue drapes and some shiny chrome accessories, no fingerprints dulling the surfaces, gave the room a minimalist, modern feel. Nothing was out of place; nor had I expected it would be.

  The blue and cream spread covering the king-sized bed was wrinkle free, and the graphic chocolate and vanilla throw pillows were arranged with precision. Hard to tell whether the bed had been slept in. He was such a neatnik, he never left his room without making the bed. I checked the closet—he wouldn’t be embarrassed when the Ghost Squad checked out his room—but his Louis Vuitton luggage was still there, and it didn’t look as though he’d taken anything else with him.

  The small table he used as a desk was clean and bare except for a lamp and an unlabeled manila file folder, which I opened. The top pages appeared to be photocopies of historical research about the Bonapartes, but I didn’t go any farther. Spiro was convinced Napoleon was Greek, not Italian or French. He was fascinated by the Bonapartes and had been researching the house for years.

  That knot of anger in my stomach twisted and re-formed in a different pattern. Why did I continue to allow him to blow off his responsibilities? And why did I continue to clean up the messes he left behind? Only a few months ago, the answer would have been simple—our daughter. But Cal was grown now, off on her own.

  I took one last look around. He never, ever went anywhere, including the toilet, without his cell phone, yet there it was, lying on the night table. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket, intending to look at his call records later on. He’d be ripped when he came back and found it missing. I smiled at the thought.

  A commotion caused me to pull back a curtain and look outside. Three big black vans with “NYPI” emblazoned on the side were parked in front of the restaurant. Ghost Squad had arrived.

  I descended the stairs and nearly tripped over a thick orange extension cord. During my short absence, Sophie had greeted the team from the New York Paranormal Institute, then left with Dolly, who would drive Sophie to her cousin’s to spend the night. I’d seen the show on cable a few times and knew that for the two main investigators, the paranormal was their sideline—during the day they were electricians or contractors or something. Hmm, I thought. Maybe I can get them to fix that broken light switch in the bathroom.

  “I’m Jerry, from NYPI.” A studly guy with a shiny bald head pumped my hand.

  “Georgie. I’m one of the owners here.” Well, my name wasn’t on the deed, never would be now, but it was way too complicated a situation to explain on camera.

  “Where can we sit down and do the interview?”

  I led him and Gary, the other investigator, out to a table in front of the fireplace in the main dining room, while the crew set up the video and audio equipment around us. I cleared off the napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, and the small Neofitou vase filled with red carnations, moving everything to table six. I made a mental note to order more vases. The little black-and-gold beauties tended to disappear into coat pockets and oversized handbags as free souvenirs.

  Gary switched on a microphone. “Your husband called us saying he’s been hearing noises at night—knocking, shuffling, voices, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, he has mentioned that to me and to other people here at the restaurant.”

  “How about you? Have you ever heard or seen anything strange?”

  “This is an old house. Who knows what’s in the walls? I’m not sure I want to know, to tell the truth. I’ve heard noises at night, but nothing that scared me.”

  This was so not my thing.

  “I see Napoleon’s portrait here over the fireplace.” Jerry nodded toward the huge oil painting that presided over the room, and the camera operator panned upward. “We understand that this house was built for him.”

  “That’s the legend. A group of French exiles built it hoping to rescue him from Elba, hide him here, and plan out his return to power in France.”

  “Has there ever been any activity associated with the portrait? We sometimes find that to be the case.”

  “Again, I don’t have personal knowledge of any ‘activity.’ My husband would be the one to ask, but he . . . was called away unexpectedly.”

  “Napoleon never lived here.”

  I guessed this had to be dumbed down for television. “That’s right.”

  “Do you know if anyone ever died in this house?”

  Not yet, I thought darkly. “Not to my knowledge, no, but as I said, it’s a two-hundred-year-old house and it’s certainly possible.”

  “We’re going to set up our equipment and see if we can help you out here.”

  I wasn’t aware we needed help. But they seemed like decent guys and free advertising was nothing to be sneezed at. It was all over town that we were being investigated. We were booked solid with reservations through the next three weekends.

  “Here’s my cell number in case you need to reach me.” I handed him a business card.

  On a whim, I returned to Spiro’s room and grabbed the manila folder. I shoved it into the outer pocket of my overnight bag—a Target special. I did not share my husband’s designer tastes. There might be nothing interesting to read over at Liza’s. Maybe Spiro had left a clue as to where he’d gone.

  I walked the half block down to the Theresa Street docks and called the water taxi to take me to Valentine Island. Twenty minutes later, the afternoon sun was dipping lower on the horizon, and I was still waiting. I opened the folder and read the headline of the top newspaper article. “Joseph Bonaparte, Once King of Spain, Was North Country Resident.” Before I could read further, a friendly toot-toot of a small boat horn made me look up.

  “Waiting for me?”

  I smiled down into the soft gray eyes of my friend Keith Morgan.

  “My whole life.” I batted my eyes at him, then felt ridiculous. I was no good at flirting. And I shouldn’t be flirting with Keith anyway.

  He grinned and put a hand to his chest. “Be still my heart.”

  “The water taxi hasn’t shown up, and I’m supposed to spend the night pampering myself at Liza’s.”

  “Want a lift? I’m just out for a little cruise. It’s such a nice day. I can even offer you a drink.”

  “You are the absolute best.”

  He looked up at me, his face serious, the sun behind him turning his hair into a golden halo.

  He
llo! I thought, wishing I could take it back. He was a great-looking guy, and if my situation weren’t so complicated, we might have made some sense together. As it was, something was missing and I didn’t know what it was. I was pretty sure the problem was me. I had no idea how normal couples acted in real relationships.

  “You’d better mean that.” He tied off his boat, a gleaming teak and mahogany antique with the words “Chris-Craft” stenciled on the hull, then reached up onto the dock and grabbed my bag. He stowed it down by his feet, not that that would keep it dry if we got sprayed by something bigger—or faster—than us. A laker blew its horn off in the distance. The football-field-length freight boats that sailed the Great Lakes and made their way out to sea via the main shipping channel of the St. Lawrence Seaway could capsize a small boat if the drivers weren’t careful.

  Keith took my hand and bent his head to kiss it lightly. Why’d he have to do that?

  “You’re looking lovely tonight, Georgiana.”

  Yes, I thought, I’d worn my most glamorous “I Heart Thousand Islands” sweatshirt just for the occasion. And scrunchied my unstyled hair into an elegant ponytail to boot. If he was trying to win me over, calling me by my god-awful given name was not the way to go about it.

  He dropped my hand and reached into the cooler sitting next to him, pulling out two icy Canadian beers and opening each with a deft twist. He wiped the condensation off one with the tail of his shirt and handed it to me.

  “Have time to go for a ride with me before I drop you off? I was just going to tool around for a while, then head home.”

  I considered his offer. “I guess I’ve got time for that.” Liza lived at the spa and wouldn’t care what time I got there, and since she owned the place, the Jacuzzi, kitchen, and wine cellar were always open.