The Biscuit Witch

  “I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

  She shook her head. “Not your fault. Thanks for the laugh.” She nodded toward Eve and Teasel, who were still butting and bouncing. “I have to go back to my biscuits. You’ll stay out here and make sure she doesn’t hurt him? I think her head’s harder than his.”

  “I’ll be right here. Don’t you worry. You can trust me, Tal. If you feel like telling me what’s up with this visit of yours . . .”

  Her eyes went darker, the way they had when she looked at the dough. I stopped talking. She was studying me, what I was made of. Suddenly the moment was close, intimate, filled with the kind of personal scrutiny that can segue, very quickly, into a kiss. My god, I’d only known her a few hours. I wasn’t lubed with alcohol or drugs, and I was beginning to shiver because I’d left my coat inside. And yet I felt hot and giddy.

  Her breath came quick. A bit agitated, in a good way, I hoped. “This is going to sound strange,” she said, beginning to frown. “But . . . some people have an odd talent. They see colors around people. Auras. They see colors that go with sounds and emotions. All sorts of things. I have . . . a similar . . . oddness. Sometimes, people give off a scent. Not a real scent you can smell in the air. More of . . . an emotional scent. It’s in my mind.”

  She was clearly embarrassed about the admission. I would never make fun of woo-woo notions. I have a few myself, and besides, in the Cove, “woo woo” is a daily occurrence. Just like in Asheville, where they sell t-shirts that say, “It’s not weird, it’s Asheville.”

  “Do I have a good scent?” I asked.

  “Scotch whiskey and cinnamon buns.”

  A compliment. Definitely. A good thing. A grand thing, even.

  She wasn’t married. She wasn’t in love with Eve’s father, and I brought hungry thoughts to her.

  The kitchen door burst open. Cleo stuck her head out and scowled at us. Cleo is the one who’d run outdoors earlier, yelling about the biscuits heading to Idaho. She was Delta’s sister-in-law. Married to Delta’s husband’s brother, Charlie “Bubba” Whittlespoon. Cleo’s a good person, no nonsense, cares a lot about the family, the biscuits, the reputation. She’ll guard your back in a fight. But she’s not necessarily the most relaxed person to leave in charge. Not even with Jesus as her assistant.

  Cleo snorted. “Delta never leaves her biscuits alone in the oven.”

  “I’m coming in right now.” Tal went back inside.

  Leaving me hungry, too.

  The biscuit test

  EVERYONE WAS on pins and needles about the outcome of Tal’s biscuits. There was no backup plan if her first batch looked like leftovers from one of those cardboard tubes of processed dough you buy at the supermarket. Too late to close down for the night.

  Cars started rolling into the front lot; the dining rooms began to fill with noisy, happy people. Pots of coffee and pitchers of sweet iced tea were carried out to greet them. No beer or wine, though Delta had been pondering the addition, just as soon as Jefferson County approved it by the drink. I myself would like to see a good rowdy pub in the vicinity. I was still known to down a beer or three.

  “We’ll need the first batch of biscuits in no more than five minutes. Five minutes!” Cleo said to Tal, coming over from the casserole oven to hover and pace near the biscuit oven.

  “Ready,” Tal said calmly. She swirled a dish towel around her hand, swooped down like a curvy ballerina and opened the oven door.

  Curtain up. Lots of breaths were held. The fry cook, Arnold, the grill cook, Bubba, and the salad chopper, Jenny, looked like stop-action figures with the batteries turned off. All eyes went to that open oven door.

  “Come to me, you big, handsome boys,” Tal said. She pulled out a large baking tray. On it stood row after row of fat, fluffy, golden-brown biscuits. In the Biscuit Olympics, she’d just won the Gold at least for presentation.

  “They look passable,” Cleo said haughtily. As if everyone weren’t awed. “But now for the taste test.” She snatched two biscuits up, yipping as the buttery heat hit her fingertips. “Here.” Half to Bubba. Half to Arnold. The other biscuit was split between Jenny and Cleo. I glanced beside me at Eve, who was wiggling on her chair and grinning at her mother proudly.

  Tal had already gone back to seducing another mound of dough. Confidence. Talk dirty to that bad boy, lass. Slap it and rub some butter on the bulges and . . .

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Arnold said, chewing the biscuit with a look of ecstasy on his face. A biscuit so good it made a church goer backslide. He had spiked hair, a nose ring, and a neck tattoo that said Saved under a crucifix.

  “Arnold!” Cleo hissed.

  “I’m sorry Miz McKellan, but this is as good as Delta’s!”

  “Do not take that name in vain!”

  Not sure whether she meant Jesus or Delta. Or both.

  Silence. Stark, prickly, and shocked. I did a quick survey of Bubba’s face. His eyebrows shot up, and he turned back to his grill, wiping biscuit crumbs off the hairnet covering his gray-brown beard. A wise man. Avoiding confrontation.

  Jenny, the salad chopper, hid her last bite of biscuit in a pocket of her apron and said, “I best go wash this butter off my fingers.” She fled to the outside bathroom, which was mostly used by staff and family. We called it The Privy of Fine Art, and it was famous.

  Cleo stared at the biscuit she hadn’t sampled yet. As if tasting toxic waste, she sniffed it, stuck a tiny bit in her mouth, bit that off with her teeth, and pretty much swallowed the sample without chewing. She dropped the rest in a trash can. “They’ll do,” she said, “but they’re not up to Delta’s standards.” She stomped out.

  Tal hummed and went back to kneading dough.

  Memories of Mama and apple pie

  I WASN’T worried about my biscuits. Baking came to me naturally. I simply channeled Mama and Mary Eve Nettie. Mama’s aunt was an early feminist, environmental activist, life-long goat-and-sheep shepherdess, seducer of younger men, and a pure-T wizardly alchemist in the kitchen.

  Aunt Mary Eve died of a stroke in nineteen seventy-nine (she was seventy-two by then) while leading an anti-Reagan rally in downtown Asheville. Some say she pushed herself too hard, that she shouldn’t have been smoking so much weed or gotten that last tattoo on her aging shoulders, the big one of the haloed biscuit shooting rays lined with the Cherokee syllabary. Can a person seriously translate “Fear No Weevils” into Cherokee?

  At any rate, she left her magic in good hands: Mama’s and Delta’s. There aren’t Six Degrees of Separation between Southern cousins. There is only one degree: family.

  “Baaah,” Eve said softly, back in her chair by the café’s kitchen door.

  I turned to see if Teasel had sneaked inside. Instead I found her and Doug wiggling their fingers atop their heads and butting the air at each other. He glanced at me and smiled. Scotch and cinnamon, yes. His aroma curled deep inside me. “Cleo’s coming back,” he explained. “You best look biscuit-ish.”

  “Baah,” Eve repeated, and butted the air. He did the same again. This big, brawny Scotsman did not seem to fear looking delightfully silly. He’d named their game “Bad Goat.” When Arnold the Fry Cook made the mistake of praising my biscuits, I glimpsed Eve and Doug signaling Bad Goat at each other.

  He’d known my daughter for only a few hours, yet they were comfortable together.

  Forget about Cleo, real trouble has arrived

  MIDNIGHT. Eve was curled up asleep under the chair with Doug’s fleece-lined coat wrapped around her. My hands ached from kneading so much dough. My shoulders throbbed. My arms felt like rubber. If there is a Guinness world record for Most Biscuits Made From Scratch In One Evening, I’d win it.

  Over five hundred biscuits. Except for the plate of ten that Bubba had hidden for himself when Cleo wasn’t looking, all had been eaten on site
, purchased for take-out by one hundred very happy golfers from the resort in Turtleville, or saved to serve to the breakfast and lunch crowds tomorrow.

  “We made more money in tips tonight than in a whole entire weekend during the best part of fall leaf season!” proclaimed Danielle, the fraternal twin sister of the other waitress, Brittany. Both were dressed as elves.

  Everyone was happy except Cleo, who stared at me as if I’d spray-painted gang symbols on the side of a church. “Here. Twelve dollars an hour for seven hours’ work. Thanks for helping out. We’ll be back on our biscuit delivery schedule tomorrow. Won’t need you again.” She handed me a wad of cash. Since I was helping Jenny, the salad chopper, wash pots and pans, I took a moment to dry my hands while I gazed stonily at the money.

  “Divide it among the kitchen staff. I didn’t do this for pay. I came here to visit Delta. I’m a cousin. This is a family operation.”

  Jenny looked up at me from over a steaming sink. Her brows flattened. She went from me to Cleo to me again. “Just for the record,” she drawled, “Tal, your biscuits are as good as Delta’s. You’ve got the touch.”

  Cleo angrily stuffed the cash in a clean coffee mug. The impact rattled a metal prep table. “You show up here unannounced,” she spat at me, “not calling ahead. you don’t even know that Delta is up in New York—but that’s where you’re from—and yes, I grant you that your mama’s reputation is a calling card, Bless Her Heart and May She Rest Easy In The Bosom Of The Lamb, but other than that, we don’t know you from Adam’s housecat, and Alberta Spruill-Groover says—and she has plenty of experience from studying women who are in trouble—Alberta says you’re on the run from something. So why don’t you quit pretendin’ this is some sweet little visit to a cousin you never cared enough about to visit before, and ’fess up what you really want?”

  “She wants to be treated with a bit o’ respect and a nice big ‘Thank you,’ for saving your bacon tonight,” Doug interjected. He’d stepped inside during Cleo’s tirade. Cold air wafted off his flannel shirt. He’d helped out by bussing tables and toting garbage outside. His deep voice singed the air. He could look ferociously angry.

  I wanted to adore him. Reckless, unqualified adoration, based on nothing but a few hours’ superficial acquaintance. Hadn’t I learned anything from trusting my impulses with Mark?

  “Thank you,” I said to Doug, and put a dishwater-pruned hand to my heart. I turned back to Cleo. “I’m glad to have helped out here in an emergency. Now Eve and I will be moving on. I’m sorry we missed seeing Delta.” I folded the dish towel, took off my apron, and knelt by Eve on the floor. I stroked her red hair back from her face. She looked like a Celtic Eskimo, swaddled in a halo made by the thick fleece of the coat’s collar. “Wake up, sweetie. Time to go.”

  She ‘ummmed’ and huddled deeper into Doug’s coat.

  “You’re not thinkin’ to get back on the road tonight, are you?” Doug asked grimly.

  “Yes. I understand Turtleville isn’t too far, and there are a couple of inns there . . .”

  “It’s on t’other side of the next mountain, and there’s no need for you to make that drive. There’s nice little cabins scattered about the cove, all for rental, and . . .”

  “They’re all occupied,” Jenny put in sadly. “Since Jeb and Becka are up in New York City, I’ve been put in charge of ’em. Booked up. Sorry.”

  “Then Tal and Eve can stay at Delta’s house. She’s got plenty o’ guest rooms, and I know she’d want them to stay.”

  “The house is locked up,” Cleo snapped. “I’m in charge of it. I can’t and won’t give permission for strangers to use it. I say ‘No.’”

  “What’s got into you, Cleo? Delta and her biscuits don’t need you to fight for them. She’d be the first to say ‘Good on you!’ to Tal, here. And she’d welcome her to be a guest in her house.”

  I stood. Looking up at Doug’s unforgettable face. I knew I needed to get far, far away from him before I lost all restraint and common sense and threw myself on him like butter on a hot muffin. “It’s not good for us to be here. Not good for any of you, or this café, or for Delta. She has a lot at stake and I’m . . .” Too much information. “Look, I’m used to taking care of myself and my daughter without any backup plan.” I hoped the words sounded gentle, not arrogant. No brag, just fact. “It’s best that we leave.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s step outside and have Teasel decide, how about that? I’ll set out two flower pots. If he butts the one on the left, you stay. On the right, you go.”

  “I have a feeling you’ve taught him secret goat signals.”

  “Ah, you know me too well! I’m a goat-whisperer.”

  No, the problem is that I didn’t know him well at all. My instincts might be perfect with baked goods, but they were disastrous with men.

  Bubba stuck his head through the doorway to the dining room. His beard waggled in its net. “There’s two men out here lookin’ for Tallulah B. MacBride. I’d say they’re trying real hard to seem way too casual about it. You expectin’ any company?”

  I froze. Everyone’s eyes turned to me. Had Mark sent people to track me? How?

  No choice. I glanced at Eve to confirm she was still sound asleep then looked at Doug. “I’m not a criminal. Please don’t ask me to explain, at least not right now.” I tilted my head, indicating Eve.

  For a heartstopping moment he judged me shrewdly, and his jaw hardened. Is he for me or against me?

  Cleo spouted, “I’m in charge here, and if those men are officers of the law, I’m going out there right now and be honest with them. I’m sorry, Tal, I truly am. But Delta’s husband Pike is the sheriff of this county. I am duty-bound to cooperate with the Law. Right, Bubba?”

  Her husband shuffled unhappily then found his courage. “Hon, you want me to list all our kin who’ve got reason to avoid the Law? Starting with Joe and his weed patch?”

  “Bubba! She’s not kin, not really. Some high-falutin’ distant cousin is all she . . .”

  “I’ll take responsibility for talking to the strangers,” Doug said. “Put it on my shoulders. I’ll do it.”

  “You sure, Doc?” Bubba looked relieved.

  He gave me another indecipherable look, frowning, then shifted his gaze to Eve. “Are you on the up and up? Is this about protecting Eve? Just nod or shake.”

  I nodded.

  “Then I’m your man.”

  Bubba stepped aside to let him ride out on his white horse.

  More than they bargained for

  I’VE SOME experience with trouble, and I’ve learned a thing or two from a lifetime of tending animals. Not so different from reading the moods of people. A shifty eye, a direct stare, a slight curl of the lip, or a certain tilt o’ the head. Warning. Danger. Plus I know a bit about how mams treat their babes and how babes act around mams who are loving and patient.

  Not to compare Tal MacBride to a cow, a mare, or a ewe, but as we say in the birthing sheds, she gives milk with a lot o’ heart in it.

  Whatever her problems, and whatever her blame for those problems, Tal MacBride was all about keeping her daughter safe. I was right there with her on that score. If she wanted to stay clear of the boys standing in the café’s empty dining room, looking like attack dogs pretending to be lap dogs, she had some good reason.

  “Hail and well met,” I said to them. Nothing throws an attack dog off faster than an unexpected Scottish greeting. “I’m the manager. Doug Firth’s the name.” I held out a hand. “And you two gents would be . . .?”

  They smirked at me, smiling like I might bring out a banjo and start singing a Scots’ version of Coming Round the Mountain or My Hillbilly Ways Put The Love In Her Eyes (a favorite vintage tune of mine, by the way). They shook my hand and introduced themselves. I filed away their names and noted their body language. Fidgety, I named one
. Shark Eyes, I named the other.

  Both were outfitted like the kind of hikers who only hike to a pool hall or strip joint. Trouble, yes.

  “We’re private investigators,” Fidgety said, wiggling his fingers by his side. “We’ve been following a woman named Tallulah MacBride. We found her car in the parking lot here, tonight. New York State license tag. Ford Bronco. We’d just like to talk to her.”

  I decided to play stupid. Comes easy to me. “Well, now, you can see that we’re closed for the night, and there’s not a customer left in sight. We had a full house. Maybe she’s rented a cabin around here. Or she’s a golfer from Turtleville. This place was full to the rafters with ’em. Smelled like mowed grass and wet balls.”

  “Her car’s still outside,” Fidgety said, cracking his knuckles.

  “Really? We’ve got an outside toilet—but with modern plumbing, I mean. It’s a lean-to on the back of the house. Sometimes people hide in there to skip out on their bill. Or to have a bit o’ fun. But we’ve got an attack goat on the premises, so I usually hear the screaming. Can you describe this Tallulah woman to me?”

  “She’s nearly six feet tall,” said Shark Eyes. “With long red hair. A little on the chunky side. Big green eyes. A hint of a southern accent. Has a little bit of an overbite. She’s hard to miss.”

  “Sounds like my kind o’ woman. Is she alone?”

  “She’s got her daughter with her,” Fidgety said, bumping the heel of one hand on his creased cargo pants. Who puts a crease in their cargo pants? “Long red hair, five years old, gawky, an overbite like her mother. Not a contestant for any little-girl beauty pageants.”

  “Not ringing a bell,” I told them. “Maybe this ‘Tallulah’ found herself a friend among the golfers and caught a ride to a hot night on the town.”

  “Would you mind if we look around? Check that . . . what did you call it?”

  “Privy. It’s full name is The Privy of Fine Art. Sure.” I jerked a thumb toward the front doors. “Out to the left, past the side porch, past the loading dock and the kitchen doors, and look out for the goat.”