1.
“This isn’t over.”
The words still rang in my ears as I carried the stainless steel container with home-made ice cream to my car. Gem and Gelato had become a booming business within months. Well, at least the gelato part had. The jewelry making bit that had been my not very successful mainstay for years took second place. A far, far off second.
I risked a glance back. A furry face stared back at me from the second-floor window of the Darling villa. Cleo, our tabby cat, made it clear that none of my moves went unobserved.
Who wasn’t in view was the beautiful blonde who’d uttered the ominous words.
I closed my eyes and resigned myself to my fate. Sure enough, there she stood before me the second I opened my eyes again. Adriana Darling, mastermind and nose behind my gelato recipes, knew how to strike a dramatic pose. She also had an uncanny talent to make me smile. Good; otherwise, life would have been even more complicated, considering that we were close to inseparable.
The last bit was more down to circumstance than to voluntary choice. I could go my own way, for a certain amount of time and a certain distance, if Adriana stayed put in the family home where she’d drawn her first and her last breath. Officially, she’d died in 1929, at the age of 21. Which meant the spectral form in front of me which to me was as real, alive and demanding as any other person I knew, was over a decade younger than me, and intent on living her afterlife to the fullest.
That joie de vivre included joining me on my gelato drop-off, after initially deciding to spend the day with Cleo. Something told me my quick trip would not turn out exactly as planned.
Part of that was thanks to Adriana’s most impressive talent. She’s a pet-whisperer, a real one. She communicates with four-legged and feathered creatures with an ease most humans only dream of when talking to each other.
That also meant that she liked to make the rounds in Cobblewood Cove, to check in with her animal friends.
On a mild summer’s evening that had been fun. A week before Halloween, with the first frosts at night, I shivered at the thought of trudging the mean streets with her.
Okay, there are no real mean streets in the small New England town of Cobblewood Cove, at least not that I was aware of.
While my great-great-aunt had spent all of her short lifespan in this tranquil place that in its over 200 years had prided itself on lacking exciting events that would have put it in the history books, I was more of a prodigal daughter.
While I’d visited for summer and special holidays, my parents had raised me in a dozen places in half a dozen countries. My stint in the ancestral home had been meant to be short, and as a favor to my mother, who’d recently remarried after a long widowhood. Yet instead of simply sorting through family heirlooms and donate items of interest to the local museum, I’d ended with a murder to solve, villains to thwart, and a spectral partner in crime.
I’d also found a place to call home.
Adriana waved her hand in front of me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Like what?” I put down the gelato containers to unlock my car. The trunk popped open, so I could store the tubs side by side.
Adriana raised a hand to the sky. “Your umbrella. I would have brought it, but it’s a little heavy.”
I peered up. My great-great-aunt was right. Where a little while ago, candy cotton clouds had drifted across an expanse of blue, now a dark gray cloud bank approached us.
I dashed back into the house and grabbed an old golf umbrella. It withstood a lot more than a downpour, and it offered cover enough for me, my containers, and my faithful ghost. Not that she needed protection from rain or wind, but it felt wrong to leave her exposed in case the deluge started.
I deposited the umbrella in the back and let Adriana hop in on my side, before I slid behind the steering wheel.
“I thought you were staying at home. What made you change your mind?” I asked.
“Cleo and I decided you needed some support. These teetotal broads can be a tough lot to handle.” Again, she was right. The women she referred to were a small, but fearsome group of empty-nesters who’d found a new cause. My friend Jolene had decided to use her considerable talents to renovate the infamous former speakeasy and return it to its old glory.
While Adriana love the thought of having something out of her past back in her afterlife, others were less enthused. That was mildly put. Over the last week or so placards had sprung up, store owners were badgered into allowing signature collections, and the whole thing became more and more preposterous.
Sure enough, I’d barely dropped off my sweet offerings at the Cocoa Cabana and was on my way out when the head of the crusaders pounced.
Eileen Watkins bared her sharp teeth in the kind of smile that could give small children nightmares for life. Even I shuddered.
“Stop it right there, Genie Darling.”
I halted, and Adriana blew out her breath. She’d perfected the knack of hitting the exact spot with a chill whenever she was unhappy or peeved. I watched with a certain amount of amusement how Eileen hunched her shoulders as the spectral blast washed over her.
But whatever the woman’s many faults, she was made of stern stuff. She thrust her clipboard and a pen into my hands. “Our newest petition. I’ve already filled in your details, so all you need to do is sign.”
Beside me, I sensed Adriana bristling. I signaled to her to keep calm and studied the piece of paper Eileen had prepared.
“Cobblewood Cove Citizens’ Charter against Debauchery? Have you run out of alliterations?”
She pursed her lips. “Mock all you want. One day you’ll be grateful we take these kinds of things seriously.”
“What a dumb Dora,” Adriana muttered. “Can’t even spell, but gets her bloomers in a twist over nothing.”
She tapped her finger on the entry where I was supposed to sign. It said, Jenny Vivian Darling.
I sniggered. Over the years I’d come across a few variations of my given name, Geneviève, but this one took the cake and the biscuits. I’d thought that at least my nickname would have been safe, but apparently even Genie Darling was capable of being mangled in the hands of those on high moral ground and shaky spelling territory.
I returned clipboard and pen unused to their owner. “You can’t really expect my support,” I said. “You didn’t mind when the place was open as a bar.” Until shortly after my return, said establishment had offered one of the very few opportunities to paint the town red (or at least a mild shade of blush) in Cobblewood Cove. It had closed a few months ago.
“We did mind.” She strained to purse her lips even further as a sign of her unyielding disapproval.
I winced. Any moment now, the limits of her botoxed muscles had to be reached and her face might explode. Or implode?
“I don’t remember your group -“
“Cobblewood Cove Citizens’ Charter,” she supplied the name I’d forgotten. “And you’ve seen for yourself the changes in our beautiful town. We have to be vigilant.”
A wobble crept into her voice.
“Excuse me?” The manager motioned us away from the entrance. Behind us, three of Eileen’s cronies lined up to come inside and fight their crusade over hot chocolate with marshmallows, chocolate fudge brownies, and hopefully a scoop or two of my ice-cream.
Adriana and I fled, and right on cue, the clouds burst.
The golf umbrella offered enough protection to save me from getting wet. My great-great-aunt could withstand a hurricane without a single strand of her wavy blonde hairs losing its place or her silk evening dress showing a wrinkle. At least that was my theory. As tempting as it would for a researcher, I had no intention of traveling into the eye of a storm to test it.
We’d survived enough adventures together (or rather, I had, considering her challenging vital state) to convince me of her near indestructibility, given the right circumstances.
Nevertheless, we sought refuge in Butler’s Pantry, the former home of Gem and Gelato and Cobblewood Cove’s premier foodie heaven. It had been run by a succession of family members, all nicknamed Pierre after the original founder, a Huguenot emigrant called Pierre Bouteillier. The family name had been anglicized, the rest not.
The last Pierre had died several weeks ago. With no chef in the family to take over and recreate the recipes generations of Pierre’s had guarded from prying eyes, Butler’s Pantry now belonged to an outside investor. Currently, a couple of builders were busy reverting the dining area into the proper restaurant it used to be, before my friend and mentor scaled down due to age.
“Hey, Genie.” Jolene, handywoman, waved at me from the back of the room. She held up two swatches with fabric. “Which do you prefer?”
I gazed at the stripes. As a jewelry designer specializing in Egyptian Revival and art déco, I prided myself on a good imagination. Still, I had no clue how to use dark blue or emerald green satin with a geometrical silver pattern in this establishment. “Where are they supposed to go?”
Butler’s Pantry had a distinct, quiet flair, reminiscent of the late 19th century. Dark wood, velvet curtains and shipboard parquet were fine. This satin, on the other hand, would stand out like the Citizens’ Charter at an orgy.
I frowned. Jolene had excellent taste and judgement. She’d been in charge of remodeling my apartment in the Darling villa to the exacting demands of both my mother Aimée, who’d shed the prosaic Amy as soon as she’d left these shores as a newly wed, and of Adriana.
In the first case, it came down to the generosity of Aimée’s second husband. In the case of my great-great-aunt, her spectral life force had a link to items connected with her person before she died. That meant keeping all the original bits and finding other items to match.
For Jolene to come up with clashing ideas was bewildering.
Adriana ogled the swatches. “They’d be perfect for my daybed.”
Silently, I agreed. Still, considering the amount of money I, or rather my mother, had already spent on refurbishing our apartment, and also considering that Adriana plus cat drifted from cushy spot to cushy spot, I didn’t say a word.
“I’ll pay for it with my share of the business.” Adriana fluttered her eyelashes at me. “You wouldn’t want to stiff me?”
“They’re not for this eatery.” Jolene waved the swatches around. “I thought about upholstering a few loveseats in the speakeasy. Which still has no fixed name.”
Did I detect a touch of accusation in her voice? “I’ll have a list of possibilities by tonight. I promise. And I love this fabric.” I glanced at Adriana for guidance on which to pick.
She pointed her finger at the left swatch.
So did I. And then I earned major brownie points in my great-great-aunt’s good book. I asked, “Can you have a couple of cushions made for me from the same fabric?”
“You really have been bitten by the interior design bug. Hard to believe how the villa looked a few months ago,” Jolene said.
Adriana preened. I let her have this moment. Without her, I wouldn’t be the successful, award-winning owner of Gem and Gelato. Heck, without her, I wouldn’t be in Cobblewood Cove at all. I’d have missed out on a lot of things.
In the background, the builders downed their tools for a break.
“Have the new bosses given you have a re-opening date yet?” I asked Jolene.
The kitchen would stay in the safe hands of Pierre’s former second-in-command. I’d have to decide if I wanted to stay at the Cocoa Cabana or return to Butler’s Pantry, where I’d started, or supply both.
“Right before Thanksgiving,” she said. “That’ll give me the chance to finish my old speakeasy first.”
I peered through the window. Puddles stood on the pavement and rivulets ran towards the gutters, but the rain had stopped. Unfortunately, that also meant Eileen was on the prowl again.
Jolene noticed her too. She groaned. “They’re more irksome than a rash, and at least as persistent.”
“Don’t tell me she had the guts to take you on personally,” I said.
Adriana sniggered. “Then she’s a dumb Dora alright. Nobody messes with Jolene.”
That statement was a simple fact. Without Jolene, who also ran the family hardware store Nuts and Bolts and could fix anything, from electrical faults to broken windows, the townsfolk would be in trouble.
I’d seen grown people blanch at the mention of her going on vacation.
If Eileen harassed Jolene, she’d do so at her own peril.
My friend confirmed as much. “It would be fun to see her try,” she said, with an almost wistful air. “That’d add a little excitement to the day.”
I reeled. “You’re kidding. I’m glad we’re back to a normal, quiet backwater, without muggings and murder, and us being in the thick of it.”
“I didn’t mean, like, crime stuff.” Jolene sounded contrite. “Only a bit of spice to keep me from overthinking what I’m doing, what I should have done, and if I’m off my rockers with wanting to restore the speakeasy.”
Adriana touched Jolene’s shoulder in an effort to calm her down. “Breathe easy,” she whispered. “Relax.”
It had no effect. My great-great-aunt grimaced. As much as she cared about our friends, she couldn’t connect with them. That left me and Cleo as her only circle. Well, us and every animal she met for longer than a minute.
“You tell her to buck up,” Adriana said.
I obeyed. “It’s going to be fine. Tonight we’ll sort out the name for your establishment and then we’ll plan the opening party.”
“Toast of the town,” Adriana chirped. I wasn’t sure of she meant that as a moniker for the old speakeasy or as a tribute to Jolene. Anyway, I found myself nodding in agreement.
Jolene grinned at me. “Thanks. I’ll better make sure we put the pedal to the metal here. See you tonight at yours.”
With the still wet golf umbrella held away from my body, Adriana and I ventured out onto Main Street. The car could stay where it was. Our next stop was only a few hundred yards away.
In the library hallway, I stuffed my umbrella into the well-filled stand. Daphne Mills, head librarian and the other participant of tonight’s girls’ night in, kept shushing Eileen, who’d moved her crusade to the reception desk. “It’s utterly inappropriate for me in my official position to take sides. The same goes for the idea of letting you browbeat the users of this public library.”
Adriana applauded. “That’s the best polite dressing down I’ve heard since my mom took on the stuffy old guys over the vote for women.”
That was an enormous compliment. Adriana’s mom, Rosalind, had gone down in both town history and family lore as “Daredevil” Darling.
Eileen fought back. “I’m a taxpayer and you’re hired to serve us. You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do.” She pinned one of her misguided petition sheets to the notice board with a force that screamed of anger management issues.
Daphne’s spectacles slipped down her nose, a sign of inner turmoil. Outwardly, she kept her cool. “Fred?”
Fred Ward, Cobblewood Cove’s busiest retiree and multi-hyphenate volunteer, materialized from behind the shelves with the self-help books. In his hands, he held a “How To Make Friends” guide.
I chuckled as he motioned Eileen towards the exit.
“Please come back another time, when you’re inclined to peruse our reading materials, Mrs. Watkins.” The affable smile on his chubby face made it impossible for her to snap at him, at least in front of an audience. I’d counted five people watching the scene.
Nothing traveled faster than juicy gossip in a small town. Before the day was out, the battle of wills at the library would more closely resemble the gunfight at the OK Corral.
Eileen had one last parting shot. “I’ll stop this sinful venture, with or without your help, if it’s the last thing I’ll do.”
2.
The silence that fell as Eileen marched out of the library lasted all of 15 seconds. Then two things happened simultaneously. Daphne banged her stamp in a way I’d learned was her way to let off steam while at work, and one of the spectators declared, “That Eileen gal’s a real piece of work.”
“No kidding,” Adriana said.
Daphne cleared her throat. “Please ignore this incident. We’re all entitled to an opinion.”
She turned her attention to me. “I’ve found a few things of interest in the old papers, but they’re surprisingly patchy. I’ll bring them tonight.”
“I bet it’s all a load of applesauce,” Adriana muttered. “My dad said a few of the high and mighty kept the newspaper people on a tight leash.”
I covered my mouth with my handkerchief and whispered. “At least you’ll be able to fill in the missing parts.”
My great-great-aunt gave a modest shrug. “Fair enough.”
“Shall we go?” I asked. If Daphne brought whatever she’d discovered about the speakeasy during its heydays, including an infamous raid, there was no need to stay.
“No. I want to hear what’s going on with that Eileen broad. Ask Fred.” She shimmied around a magazine rack.
Fred spun in a slow circle when I asked him, to make sure we were out of earshot. “This is strictly between us two.”
“Three,” Adriana corrected him, more out of habit than anything else. She’d spent enough time since her awakening from close to a century of being dead to have come to terms with the challenges of her renewed existence.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“It’s like this. You remember her husband, Herbert?”
I shook my head.
“Comb-over and three-piece suit, until he got his hair-implants and leather jacket?”
The first description rang a distant bell in my memory. “Isn’t that the director of the funeral home?”
“Former director, he is now traveling a lot for the company that owns the chain. The midlife crisis hit him real hard, and when he sampled the nightlife in a big city during a conference, well, let’s say, Cobblewood Cove’s homegrown attractions seemed a little stale.”
“And now Eileen is worried what a decent night club would do to her husband?”
Fred lowered his voice until I had to cup my ear to understand a word. “Worse. She’s afraid her only son will follow in his old man’s footsteps. Herbert is rumored to have developed a fondness for daiquiri and dancers. That’s why she’s hell-bent on keeping the town temptation free.”
“That’s exactly how the prohibition started,” Adriana said. “We’ve got to stop this before they’ll suck all the juice out of life.”
“And her cronies? Are they all afraid their menfolk will take a walk on the wild side, because of a bit of classy fun in the evening? Or does anybody really believe Jolene, of all people, is intent on creating a den of iniquity? If anything, the citizens’ chapter ought to be glad they can keep an eye on goings-on. Which they probably can’t wherever good old Herbert Watkins is living it up,” I said.
“They should, but Eileen has them so riled up they’re not thinking straight.”
“Or at all.” Adriana rubbed her hands in glee. “This is going to be fun.” She floated a few inches off the ground to show me how much the idea of besting the anti-speakeasy brigade invigorated her.
With a renewed promise to keep my lips zipped, I left Fred to his own devices and went to pick up my car.
Adriana hummed to herself. “Yes sir, that’s my baby.”
A small boy jumped into a puddle, splashing his unimpressed mother in the process. Otherwise, there was not a single soul outside. This included the four-legged population.
I saw two cats staring at us through windows and one terrier in his little dog house. Adriana blew him kisses, for once not stopping for a cozy chat. It was too damp and chilly to hang around.
I switched on the seat heating, one of the most civilized inventions of the last century. Adriana didn’t need it, but she loved the idea.
“Let’s swing by the old place,” she said. “I feel an inspiration coming up.”
“Inspiration, or memories?” Since Adriana had visited the speakeasy once or twice - she and her sister Belle, as well as their friends, had preferred the much classier illicit places in Boston - she was the expert when it came to restoring it to its former glory. She and the original architects. My great-great-aunt – and Jolene – had their hearts set on ensuring as much authenticity as possible when the joint opened its doors again, so we tried to unearth any reference material still in existence.
There was one errand we had to take care of first, before heading towards the speakeasy. I squeezed the car into a spot right outside the city hall. Official opening hours were almost over and we had to hurry before Missy Dooley locked the door of the building department and its archive to the public.
“You go ahead,” Adriana said.
“Really?” Then I noticed the dripping cat hiding under a pickup truck. “I’ll be quick,” I promised.
She waved me off, already crouching to make contact with the little animal. “Hello, sweetheart,” she cooed.
Inside, I dashed up the worn staircase and knocked at the door of the building department.
“Come in,” a weary voice said.
Missy held court behind her desk. Behind her, a row of steel cabinets held a copy of every permit issued and every blueprint of buildings erected in Cobblewood Cove since 1902, or so I’d been told.
“I’ve got something for you.” She peered at me with an intensity that suggested she needed spectacles. I knew that kind of stare. Aimée had the same look when she forgot her contact lenses.
“That’s brilliant.” I beamed at Missy, elevating her in my opinion to my top five public officials ever. I’d asked her for any paper or picture connected with the speakeasy only a couple of weeks ago, when she'd returned to work after illness followed by a brief vacation period. Now here she was, an unlikely heroine in a power suit and teased hair that added two inches to her short stature. Rhinestone studded hair pins adorned the sides.
Both clothes and hairstyle were new. When I’d first met Missy, she’d worn comfortable pants and a cashmere cardigan, and her bobbed hair gave her a nice, but no-frills look.
She touched her updo with a self-conscious air. “Is it too much? I thought with all these changes in town, I could do with a bit of a rejuvenation, too.”
“You look great,” I said, with more politeness than candor. To be honest, I’d preferred the old version, but I also could understand getting bored if nothing in your life ever changed. Both Missy and her husband Winston were born in Cobblewood Grove, went to school here and were destined to never leave.
He divided his hours between doing something well-paid in finance, and playing golf. She worked part time at the building department to get out of the house and to give her something to do apart from playing bridge and volunteering at the kindergarten. The Dooleys were childless, although not by choice.
She had become one of my most loyal customers too, with a large gelato order every Friday for the nursery kids.
The folder she produced for me carried a rust brown spot. The rest of the cardboard was faded with old age. “It’s a set of copies from the 1950s,” she said. “I hope it’s going to help with whatever you guys are doing.”
“So do I.” In her wastepaper basket, I spotted one of Eileen’s petitions, unsigned and unwanted.
Missy chuckled as she followed my gaze. “You’d think she’d have given up by now. She’s not getting many signatures, that much I can tell you. And we won’t have that kind of thing here at City Hall.” She winked at me. “Of course, there’ll be a lot of inspections in Jolene’s place before the opening, and possibly after as well. We’ve got to see to it that menu and everything are up to standard.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” I said. “Jolene is doing her best to ensure that Cobblewood Cove has the sort of evening entertainment it deserves.”
Missy’s gaze wandered to the wall clock.
“I’ll better run,” I said, well aware that office hours had ended four minutes ago. “Next gelato-delivery for the kids is on me.”
A dimple showed in her cheek. “Aren’t you sweet?”