What’s a girl to do at three-thirty-six am when finally sick of counting sheep, backwards and her own breath? (Which btw gets really creepy when you start imagining the monster under your bed doing the same thing – counting your breath.) Well, thanks to three separate demographics in Rye – insomniacs, college students, and the night shift there is only one (reputable) place to go at this hour. The HUB.
The HUB is a gathering of food trucks situated between Rye University’s dorms and the industrial core (insomniacs motor in) which are open from dusk till dawn. There’s a fair amount of turnover in cuisine choices, but there are a few perennial favorites which haven’t shifted an inch in twenty years (honestly, I am not sure they can – where the rubber meets the road looks permanently fused).
The oldest among them was my current four-thirty in the morning destination, Fried.
It’s my firm belief Fried makes the most delectable donuts known to man. My favorites are their powdered sugar coated mini donuts – five for five bucks. If I’m feeling truly exotic, I might go for the chocolate covered ones with multicolored sprinkles. But generally, the powdered sugar minis command my full attention (one doesn’t look for exotic in comfort food, or at least I don’t when driven out of bed at this hour). Today I made an extra purchase, two bags of plain minis in addition to my perennial faves.
Turns out that while my body was tired enough to sleep for a week, my mind wasn’t. Six hours of drifting off and waking up again only to find ten minutes ticked off the clock – does not for a restful sleep make (and the more math you do – figuring out many hours you have left before you need to get up – the more awake you are).
So when I heard the early bird’s first chirp, I bolted from my bed.
When Little Ben booted me from Nevermore, I never realized how much I enjoyed walking around the grounds in the morning. With all the recent events I’d only managed to arrive at sunset or just after nightfall in Nevermore (the morning I woke up in my car doesn’t count – the rain made it so dark it was basically twilight). Deciding I was fed up with the current state of affairs I decided to eat donuts and watch Nevermore’s four-legged and winged residents wake up.
The ten bucks of plain doughnuts were for them. Everyone can use a treat every now and again.
Which explains why I am currently sitting on the Princess’s hood, wrapped up in my coat with an afghan under my butt in the back-forty of Nevermore watching the first rays of the sun peek over the treetops. I’d crumbled the plain doughnuts under several trees/snags I’d seen flocks of birds and squirrels perched in previously. Then I settled in to wait and watch.
Despite the quiet peace and the thrill of watching the critters scurry out to collect their breakfast, my mind returned like an owl to gnaw on old bones.
None of the Inebriated Three had a clue who tipped Little Ben off the other night, they hadn’t told a soul what we’d planned (I’d asked). And if the informant knew where we were going why didn’t they tell him who we were?
The delicious yeasty, sugary smell triggered the correlation. The questions my Uncle asked over his powdered sugared pancakes about the anonymous letter in the Tiffany Grindle case – were similar to my own. When I tipped off the Surliest Ranger, I’d only included the information I knew for proof positive.
What if Little Ben’s mystery caller did the same thing?
When we’d gone to and fro from the Lavender Lady the backyard lights were off, making the walkway extremely dark. Both my chauffer’s uniform and pirate costume covered me from head to toe in black (shirt shoes, pants, and hat). Which allowed me to easily blend into the night.
Unlike myself, the others were decked out in much lighter colors. Their work clothes ranged from a taupe to light grey. Their pirate ensembles all featured white shirts and large white plumes in their tricorn hats. The rest of their pirate regalia while dark did catch the eye when hit by light, Wood’s was sapphire colored, Beatrice’s ruby and Laney’s emerald.
When the Inebriated Three past thru the narrow patch of the back path illuminated by a streetlamp – the quick flash of three-sevenths of the rainbow could have caught the eye. Dressed in an obsidian colored costume someone might have easily missed my entrance and exit. Especially since I’d lagged behind the others both times locking up.
More details from the other night flew thru my brain once it started manipulating this twisty piece of logic. I’d parked down the street from the Lavender Lady’s back gate, and the Map Room’s door faces the road. No one looking out the rear windows of the big house could have seen me arrive.
What if the tipster, like the anonymous letter writer, hit closer to home than we suspected?
Aware my fish was about to bite I kept my tone even, “If Iron Creek floods the water will work the caskets to the surface and carry them downstream then into town. The City Council will hammer you over it.”
The Rye City Council is a constant source of headaches for Big Ben and his family. Over the last ninety years, they’ve attempted no less than eighteen times to carve up Nevermore for the ‘betterment’ of the city.
They will not be pleased to discover Little Ben expanded Nevermore boundaries further – even if his plan includes helping the city’s hungry. They’d be actively looking for any way to strip Little Ben of the land. Poorly placed graves would give them the ammunition they needed to accomplish the deed.
Circling my bait Little Ben stalled, “That’s just an urban legend.”
Tugging the line enticingly, “It’s not. Research the recent flooding in the south or call one of the others in the association – they’ll confirm the problem. I promise.”
Finally biting, he strove to appear uninterested in his own question, “Where would you place ‘the feature’ in Sunny Valley Farm?” A group of kids wandered close to us, so he used a euphemism. Didn’t matter, they were too busy talking amongst themselves to notice our conversation.
Taking a beat before answering to still myself, “I’m not very familiar with the farm. You should really ask the MacGregors, they’d know the best spot to place it. But from the narrow slice I’ve seen of the property, the field across the road from the Seven Roses might work. ” (Seven Roses is the name of Big Ben’s house in Nevermore) Shrugging I let my attention momentarily wavered off of Little Ben and onto Ruth who currently carried two plates filled with food matching our orders from the kitchen.
Wreathed in smiles, Little Ben bellowed his goodbyes and nearly knocked Beatrice’s burger out of Ruth’s hand with a particularly sizable sweeping gesture in my direction, “I nearly forgot why I originally came over here!”
My heart lurched in my chest.
“You left some stuff in the cottage when you left. I packed it up and moved the boxes to the main offices. Sarah said she’d call you about them, but I guess I saw you before she did. You should pick them up soon, I’m sure they’re in her way.” On that last note, he left us to clean our plates in peace.
It took a moment for my stomach to settle down enough so I could sate my Reuben colored craving. When he’d turned back around I’d half expected him to hand me paperwork banning me from Nevermore. Which would have been awkward.
Beatrice shifted her focus from her phone to me the moment Little Ben exited our sphere, “You handled him beautifully.”
Unable to speak, having taken a rather ambitious bite of my sandwich, I shrugged. When I was finally able to comment my voice sounded tired even to my ears, “My approval of his scheme means he won’t worry himself about how he was able to afford it.” It’s also why I was confident that my words worked. Whatever small portion of his conscious still bothering him about laying me off would quiet once he acted on my suggestions.
I did find it interesting that he did try to place a small wedge between Sarah and me.
We worked our way thru our dinners with yummy noises replacing actual conversation. When only a few stray fries remained on our plates talking resume.
“It is rather anti-climatic though, using my words to convince Little Ben he should reconsider where to put the pet cemetery. My backup plan featured breaking & entering, a switcharoo, and arts & crafts. Nail-biting stuff! But I suppose this produced more reliable results.”
Beatrice laughed at the rueful note in my voice, “Well after last night’s near-miss this solution is probably better. Speaking of last night… will your Aunt really send a copy of our piratey portrait to my parents?” Her smile fading at the end of her question, while her fingers started shredding the lettuce garnish on her plate.
“If they live within a hundred miles of Rye she’ll find them.” Sensing the tension at the table, “I can ask her not too.”
With a smile that didn’t entirely span her face, “I’d appreciate. We aren’t on speaking terms presently.”
(Sandwich Photo courtesy of Unsplash)
The Rusty Hinge’s scotch cupboards are a thing of beauty. Beatrice begged off from partaking, the slight rum hangover still fresh in her mind, I needed a sip to help me deal with Little Ben.
BTW there is another twelve feet (at least) of cabinets on either side of this picture.
“Oh, you’re Phoebe’s former manager. I owe you a big thank you!” After this rather stunning declaration, she accidentally dropped her phone under the table. When she leaned over to retrieve it, she cut herself off mid-sentence.
Little Ben eyed me. I just shrugged.
Popping back up she continued on without missing a beat, “When you laid her off, you gave me the best roommate ever!” Focusing on her phone, which had started doing a fair impression of an angry bee, she addressed both of us, “Go ahead and ignore me, I need to respond to a bunch of emails from work. Apparently, someone shook an author’s hand, and now his publisher is freaking out. So I need to calm the waters.” Waving us on, she dove into her phone.
Trying not to split a seam at Beatrice’s comment and Little Ben’s befuddlement I wrestled my focus back onto what he’d been saying, “So Nevermore?”
Something which looked suspiciously like guilt flitted across his face but was quickly chased away by disdain. Shrugging it off he unglued his gaze from Beatrice and transferred it to me, “Er, yes, Nevermore. I was wondering if you did anything special to ward off trespassers. Specifically students from the high school.”
His question placed me squarely on boggy ground. Helping him meant the possibility of compromising my own avenues of ingress. But on the other hand, left to his own devices….
Too tired to be a jerk I answered, “Replace all the broken lights with bright new bulbs, make sure security varies their routes and up their numbers on holidays and when school is out.”
His answer made me glad I’d gone the route I did, “I was thinking of pulling the groundskeepers in for double duty. They always want extra hours, and they’re cheaper than the guards.”
Trying to head off all the avenues of objection, “Ben, they’ll like the hours right up until they run into a group of genuine vandals. People seriously bent on desecrating burials can turn very nasty very quick. The groundskeepers don’t have the skills to deal with them. And what if they got hurt? It would cost more money in the long run. Stick with our regular firm, they know the hotspots to watch and who they’re dealing with.”
Complaining, “They didn’t do any good last night! And we were featured in the Harvest’s Blotter!”
A ghost of a smile hovered over my lips, “They’ll work harder now. They don’t like losing. And helpful hint, don’t call the cops until after security has detained someone.” On that note, Ruth, our waitress placed a condiment carrier on the table (which the Rusty Hinge takes seriously – filling an old six-pack box with sriracha, horseradish, curry, brown sauce, relish, and ranch dressing. Ketchup and mustard never leave their tables).
Knowing the condiments signaled our impending meal he rushed on, “Have you seen the plans for Sunny Valley Farm?”
“Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.” Claudio advised Don Pedro and Leonardo when they were trying to trick Benedick into loving Beatrice (or trying to temper his pride enough to declare his love for her – but we can debate their motivations later).
Either way, Claudio’s line floated through my head when Little Ben asked his question. If I played my cards right Little Ben would choose the correct course of action on his own. Without me needing to employ any convoluted high-risk schemes to get him to see reason.
Delicately grasping the opportunity, “I saw the advertisement in The Daily Harvest.”.
Okay, so it still requires some guile on my part.
With a keen look in his eye, “So what did you think?”.
Infusing my words with a slightly upbeat tone, “Tapping into a new market is smart. Donating entire harvests to local food banks is genius. It will garner goodwill in the community, and I assume it’s tax deductible.”
Puffing up like a proud peacock, “I thought it was a good idea.”
Hesitating a beat before agreeing with him, I placed a note of doubt in my voice, “So long as the pet cemetery portion of the farm isn’t placed near Iron Creek – I don’t see why your new venture won’t be a success.”.
Confusion lined his face, “Why would that be a problem?”
(Take-Out from the Spare Rib from a previous visit…)
My half-day flipped into a full-day when a couple of the Senior Center members asked me for a favor. They had a hankering for barbeque and wanted to go to the best joint around, The Spare Rib. Familiar with the unyielding grip of a food craving we came up with a compromise. I would drive them there (it was an hour one way) if they got their food to go and didn’t eat in the Princess (good bbq is Messy with a capital ‘M’). The fact I just flat like Betty and Joan didn’t hurt either.
Moreover, the flu-induced set schedule ended in a couple of days and with it the regular hours. So earning a few extra brownie points amongst the Center’s members seemed wise.
When I finally dropped them off, bbq in hand, at their apartment building I was starving and had zero interest in cooking. While the bbq whetted my appetite, it wasn’t what my tastebuds hankered after this evening.
My heart’s desire could only be found at the Rusty Hinge – a nice thick Rueben sandwich (they make their own Rye bread, Russian dressing and sauerkraut – it is to die for) and hand-cut fries. When I slid into my preferred booth, the one in the back next to my favorite pinball machine, my bones fused to the vinyl.
My poor body was unused to the amount of running we did last night and needed a moment to regroup before attempting to retake my Addams Family crown (aka the high score that Benedict stole from me). Leaning my head against the scalloped cushion, I took a deep breath and let my mind float along the waves of ambient stimulus – the aroma of sautéing onions filtering from the kitchen, errant strands of dialogue emanating from the pinball machines and groans from the football fans watching their team commit yet another penalty. Slowly my mind spun until it landed on the conundrum Sarah placed in my lap earlier today (she’d texted me after our marshmallow bargain).
Sarah: Just thought I’d let you know – Little Ben was tipped off that you guys were coming last night.
Sarah: He let it slip to Seth last night. Someone called him. That’s how he had security, the MacGregors and the groundskeepers on site so fast.
Me: Crap. Are you sure he doesn’t know it was us?
Sarah: Yes. I don’t think he could keep it to himself if he did. He’d have called a meeting to inform all us you were banned from the property. Like he did with Sue.
Me: Any clue who called him?
Sarah: None. This is all second hand, I didn’t want to grill Seth – might send up a red flag.
Me: Thanks for the heads up!
(Or No Problem Any Time)
Ruth broke into my train of thought to take my order (and Beatrice’s she was meeting me here), which was fortuitous since I might have drifted off in another second.
If correct Sarah’s data spun the previous night’s events in a whole new direction. But who on earth knew we were bound for Nevermore last night? On top of that, other than Little Ben, who would care?
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
My mulling moved to the back burner when a familiar bulky form barreled across the floor towards my booth.
Little Ben boomed halfway across the floor, “Phoebe! I’m glad I’ve run into you!”
I’ve never ceased regretting telling Little Ben about my favorite greasy spoon.
Reaching my table Little Ben’s voice sunk into conspiratorial tone, ”Did you hear about what happened in Nevermore last night?”
“I read about it in the Blotter this morning.” His question told me Sarah’s assessment was correct. If Little Ben had figured out I was among those he’d chased around Nevermore last night, he’d have let everyone hither, thither and yon know it.
Little Ben’s face set into a grimace, “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Without so much as a by your leave, he started moving towards the empty side of the booth to take a seat. Unfortunately (for him, not me) he found the booth’s entrance unexpectedly cutoff – Beatrice had arrived.
Taking off her long purple coat, she laid it down on the seat between us and slipped into the booth, “Sorry I’m late. Things are crazy at Pulp right now. Hello! I’m Beatrice.”
Biting my lip, I watched Little Ben’s frustration at being thwarted cross his face, “Hi. I’m Ben. I was just discussing something with Phoebe.”
Beatrice, draping herself with an air of innocence, “Oh, you’re Phoebe’s former manager. I owe you a big thank you!”
The most interesting door I delivered a fare to this week!
It belongs to Slide, a guitar store here in Rye.