Riptide
Page 14
He laughed as he speared a cold shrimp, dipped it in horseradish, and forked it into his mouth. “Are you ready for this? Okay, there was this rumor that began floating around in 1912 that Jacob Marley Senior found out his wife was sleeping with the local dry-goods merchant. He was so upset that he poisoned her, and that’s why he renamed all the central streets after plants that are toxic.”
“That’s amazing. Any proof of it?”
“Nope, but hey, it makes for a good tale. Maybe he was a closet Borgia, who knows? I think my favorite is Foxglove Avenue. It runs parallel to West Hemlock.”
“What are some more?”
“There’s Venus Fly Trap Boulevard, which runs parallel to West Hemlock to the north, Night Shade Alley, that’s where my gym is, and Poison Ivy Lane, just to the south of us.”
“Wait, isn’t the Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle?”
“Yes. Since I live outside the center of town, it’s just Gum Shoe Lane for the likes of me. However, since you’re in Marley’s house, you get his pièce de résistance—Belladonna Drive. Even better, you’re not in a big house next to all the peasants, no, you’re out there all by yourself, surrounded by all those beautiful trees and just that narrow driveway to get to you.”
She was laughing as she said, “Why did he name his own street Belladonna Way?”
“That’s supposedly what Marley Senior used to poison his unfaithful wife. Pollyanna’s Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court. That’s the name for this plant in Indonesia that’ll kill you with a single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and that’s how it gets its victims.”
She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said, “Hello, Tyler. Who’s this?”
Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her, “Hey, you look familiar, you—”
“I’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her for the Independent?”
She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling stupidly, not knowing what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything to Tyler. She was a fool.
Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”
“Becca Powell.”
“You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities? Obits?”
“None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity. I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”
She’d whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched, “Like what, Ms. Powell?”
“Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a spinach salad.”
“I suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information, stuff like that?”
“That’s right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds.”
Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.
Tyler said, “Dessert, Becca?”
She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, “Yep, that’s what I am, dessert for a newspaper. I’m low on a priority list, very low.”
“No,” Tyler said. “I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for you, Bernie?”
Bernie couldn’t stay. His wife was at the far table with one of their grandkids. “They make special hot dogs for kids here,” he said; then, “Why don’t you drop by with some of the articles you’ve written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article.”
“I didn’t bring any of them with me, sir, sorry.”
Tyler gave her a look but didn’t say anything. But his eyes had widened just a bit. He’d finally realized that this was the last thing she needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he just ruminated awhile, looking at her, then said, “All right, write me up one—whatever topic you like—not over five hundred words, and we’ll see.”
“That’s amazing. Any proof of it?”
“Nope, but hey, it makes for a good tale. Maybe he was a closet Borgia, who knows? I think my favorite is Foxglove Avenue. It runs parallel to West Hemlock.”
“What are some more?”
“There’s Venus Fly Trap Boulevard, which runs parallel to West Hemlock to the north, Night Shade Alley, that’s where my gym is, and Poison Ivy Lane, just to the south of us.”
“Wait, isn’t the Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle?”
“Yes. Since I live outside the center of town, it’s just Gum Shoe Lane for the likes of me. However, since you’re in Marley’s house, you get his pièce de résistance—Belladonna Drive. Even better, you’re not in a big house next to all the peasants, no, you’re out there all by yourself, surrounded by all those beautiful trees and just that narrow driveway to get to you.”
She was laughing as she said, “Why did he name his own street Belladonna Way?”
“That’s supposedly what Marley Senior used to poison his unfaithful wife. Pollyanna’s Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court. That’s the name for this plant in Indonesia that’ll kill you with a single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and that’s how it gets its victims.”
She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said, “Hello, Tyler. Who’s this?”
Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her, “Hey, you look familiar, you—”
“I’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her for the Independent?”
She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling stupidly, not knowing what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything to Tyler. She was a fool.
Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”
“Becca Powell.”
“You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities? Obits?”
“None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity. I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”
She’d whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched, “Like what, Ms. Powell?”
“Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a spinach salad.”
“I suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information, stuff like that?”
“That’s right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds.”
Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.
Tyler said, “Dessert, Becca?”
She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, “Yep, that’s what I am, dessert for a newspaper. I’m low on a priority list, very low.”
“No,” Tyler said. “I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for you, Bernie?”
Bernie couldn’t stay. His wife was at the far table with one of their grandkids. “They make special hot dogs for kids here,” he said; then, “Why don’t you drop by with some of the articles you’ve written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article.”
“I didn’t bring any of them with me, sir, sorry.”
Tyler gave her a look but didn’t say anything. But his eyes had widened just a bit. He’d finally realized that this was the last thing she needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he just ruminated awhile, looking at her, then said, “All right, write me up one—whatever topic you like—not over five hundred words, and we’ll see.”
