The Cove
Page 5
“Three times a year. Oh, God, Aunt Amabel, I hated him. But now—”
“Now you’re afraid the police are looking for you. Don’t worry, baby. No one would know you in that disguise.”
He would, Sally thought. In a flash. “I hope not,” she said. “Do you think I should keep wearing the black wig here?”
“No, I wouldn’t worry. You’re my niece, nothing more, nothing less. No one watches TV except for Thelma Nettro, who owns the bed-and-breakfast, and she’s so old I don’t even know if she can see the screen. She can hear, though. I know that for a fact.
“No, don’t bother with the wig—and leave those contacts in a drawer. Not to worry. We’ll just use your married name. Here you’ll be Sally Brainerd.”
“I can’t use that name anymore, Amabel.”
“All right then. We’ll use your maiden name—Sally St. John. No, don’t worry that anyone would ever tie you to your dead papa. Like I said, no one here pays any attention to what goes on outside the town limits. As for anyone else, why no one ever comes here—”
“Except for people who want to eat the World’s Greatest Ice Cream. I like the sign out at the junction with that huge chocolate ice cream cone painted on it. You can see it a mile away, and by the time you get to it, your mouth is watering. You painted the sign, didn’t you, Amabel?”
“I sure did. And you’re right. People tell us they see that sign and by the time they get to the junction their car just turns toward The Cove. It’s Helen Keaton’s recipe, handed down from her granny. The ice cream shop used to be the chapel in the front of Ralph Keaton’s mortuary. We all decided that since we had Reverend Vorhees’s church, we didn’t need Ralph’s little chapel too.” She paused, looking into a memory, and smiled. “In the beginning we stored the ice cream in caskets packed full of ice. It took every freezer in every refrigerator in this town to make that much ice.”
“I can’t wait to try it. Goodness, I remember when the town wasn’t much of anything—back when I came here that one time. Do you remember? I was just a little kid.”
“I remember. You were adorable.”
Sally smiled, a very small smile, but it was a beginning. She just shook her head, saying, “I remember this place used to be so ramshackle and down at the heels—no paint on any of the houses, boards hanging off some of the buildings. And there were potholes in the street as deep as I was tall. But now the town looks wonderful, so charming and clean and pristine.”
“Well, you’re right. We’ve had lots of good changes. We all put our heads together, and that’s when Helen Keaton spoke up about her granny’s ice cream recipe. That Fourth of July—goodness, it will be four years this July—was when we opened the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop. I’ll never forget how the men all pooh-poohed the idea, said it wouldn’t amount to anything. Well, we sure showed them.”
“I’d say so. If the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop is the reason the town’s so beautiful now, maybe Helen Keaton should run for president.”
“Maybe so. Would you like a ham sandwich, baby?”
A ham sandwich, Sally thought. “With mayonnaise? Real mayonnaise, not the fat-free stuff?”
“Real mayonnaise.”
“White bread and not fourteen-vitamin seven-grain whole wheat?”
“Cheap white bread.”
“That sounds wonderful, Amabel. You’re sure no one will recognize me?”
“Not a soul.”
They watched a small, very grainy black-and-white TV while Sally ate her sandwich. Within five minutes, the story was on the national news broadcast.
“Former Naval Commander Amory Davidson St. John was buried today at Arlington National Cemetery. His widow, Noelle St. John, was accompanied by her son-in-law, Scott Brainerd, a lawyer who had worked closely with Amory St. John, the senior legal counsel for TransCon International. Her daughter, Susan St. John Brainerd, was not present.
“We go now to Police Commissioner Howard Duzman, who is working closely with the FBI on this high-profile investigation.”
Amabel didn’t know much of anything about Scott Brainerd. She had never met him, had never spoken to him until she had called Noelle and he answered the phone, identified himself, and asked who she was. And she’d told him. Why not? She’d asked him to have Noelle call her back. But Noelle hadn’t called her—not that Amabel had expected her to. If Noelle’s life depended on it, well, that would be different. She would be on the phone like a shot. But she hadn’t called her this time. Amabel wondered if Noelle would realize that Sally could be here. Would that make her call? She didn’t know. Actually, now it didn’t matter.
“Now you’re afraid the police are looking for you. Don’t worry, baby. No one would know you in that disguise.”
He would, Sally thought. In a flash. “I hope not,” she said. “Do you think I should keep wearing the black wig here?”
“No, I wouldn’t worry. You’re my niece, nothing more, nothing less. No one watches TV except for Thelma Nettro, who owns the bed-and-breakfast, and she’s so old I don’t even know if she can see the screen. She can hear, though. I know that for a fact.
“No, don’t bother with the wig—and leave those contacts in a drawer. Not to worry. We’ll just use your married name. Here you’ll be Sally Brainerd.”
“I can’t use that name anymore, Amabel.”
“All right then. We’ll use your maiden name—Sally St. John. No, don’t worry that anyone would ever tie you to your dead papa. Like I said, no one here pays any attention to what goes on outside the town limits. As for anyone else, why no one ever comes here—”
“Except for people who want to eat the World’s Greatest Ice Cream. I like the sign out at the junction with that huge chocolate ice cream cone painted on it. You can see it a mile away, and by the time you get to it, your mouth is watering. You painted the sign, didn’t you, Amabel?”
“I sure did. And you’re right. People tell us they see that sign and by the time they get to the junction their car just turns toward The Cove. It’s Helen Keaton’s recipe, handed down from her granny. The ice cream shop used to be the chapel in the front of Ralph Keaton’s mortuary. We all decided that since we had Reverend Vorhees’s church, we didn’t need Ralph’s little chapel too.” She paused, looking into a memory, and smiled. “In the beginning we stored the ice cream in caskets packed full of ice. It took every freezer in every refrigerator in this town to make that much ice.”
“I can’t wait to try it. Goodness, I remember when the town wasn’t much of anything—back when I came here that one time. Do you remember? I was just a little kid.”
“I remember. You were adorable.”
Sally smiled, a very small smile, but it was a beginning. She just shook her head, saying, “I remember this place used to be so ramshackle and down at the heels—no paint on any of the houses, boards hanging off some of the buildings. And there were potholes in the street as deep as I was tall. But now the town looks wonderful, so charming and clean and pristine.”
“Well, you’re right. We’ve had lots of good changes. We all put our heads together, and that’s when Helen Keaton spoke up about her granny’s ice cream recipe. That Fourth of July—goodness, it will be four years this July—was when we opened the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop. I’ll never forget how the men all pooh-poohed the idea, said it wouldn’t amount to anything. Well, we sure showed them.”
“I’d say so. If the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop is the reason the town’s so beautiful now, maybe Helen Keaton should run for president.”
“Maybe so. Would you like a ham sandwich, baby?”
A ham sandwich, Sally thought. “With mayonnaise? Real mayonnaise, not the fat-free stuff?”
“Real mayonnaise.”
“White bread and not fourteen-vitamin seven-grain whole wheat?”
“Cheap white bread.”
“That sounds wonderful, Amabel. You’re sure no one will recognize me?”
“Not a soul.”
They watched a small, very grainy black-and-white TV while Sally ate her sandwich. Within five minutes, the story was on the national news broadcast.
“Former Naval Commander Amory Davidson St. John was buried today at Arlington National Cemetery. His widow, Noelle St. John, was accompanied by her son-in-law, Scott Brainerd, a lawyer who had worked closely with Amory St. John, the senior legal counsel for TransCon International. Her daughter, Susan St. John Brainerd, was not present.
“We go now to Police Commissioner Howard Duzman, who is working closely with the FBI on this high-profile investigation.”
Amabel didn’t know much of anything about Scott Brainerd. She had never met him, had never spoken to him until she had called Noelle and he answered the phone, identified himself, and asked who she was. And she’d told him. Why not? She’d asked him to have Noelle call her back. But Noelle hadn’t called her—not that Amabel had expected her to. If Noelle’s life depended on it, well, that would be different. She would be on the phone like a shot. But she hadn’t called her this time. Amabel wondered if Noelle would realize that Sally could be here. Would that make her call? She didn’t know. Actually, now it didn’t matter.
