Well, Oscar wasn’t going to be fooled or punked. But he was definitely looking forward to a meal he didn’t prepare himself, and the possibility of a good beer or two (he wasn’t counting on all three being winners).
The Lakeside Grille was on the northwest side of Wicks Lake. It was a couple miles from the little town and tucked away from the county road—which was why it was mainly a hangout for the locals, and, he’d been told, was usually overlooked by the tourists because they couldn’t find it. But since Declan had given him directions—there was no sign for the restaurant except for a large piece of sealed driftwood leaning against a tree, withLGpainted on it—Oscar had no trouble finding it.
The place looked like a big box with a long porch on the front of it. It had a high-peaked roof of dark green corrugated metal and was sided with dark brown shingles. There were large windows on the lakeside for obvious reasons, and two huge barrel planters bursting with colorful flowers flanked the front door. Although the parking lot was full, he didn’t see anyone standing around waiting for a table.
As soon as Oscar walked in, Declan saw him and called him over. He was sitting at a round table in the middle of a collection of more round tables, all in the same old-fashioned Colonial style Oscar remembered from his grandparents’ house in Boston. Scarred maple tops, slender and ornate legs, wavy chair backs, and a large pedestal that balanced each tabletop. All of the tables were filled, crowded with people laughing, talking, and eating.
There were two other men with Declan, and the fourth chair was empty. He gestured to it, and Oscar took his seat after shaking his host’s hand. Already his mouth was watering—whatever the Rubenesque woman was carrying out from the kitchen smelled amazing. But before he could comment, Declan made introductions.
“This is Oscar London. He’s staying up at Stony Cape Lighthouse with my cousin Teddy. This is Joe Longbow, chief of police—we just call him Joe Cap,” Declan said, nodding to a man in his mid-fifties. He had short, grizzled hair that might once have been jet black but was now salt and pepper. Oscar supposed his nickname either came from his title—Captain—or the Tigers ballcap he wore. “Joe’s got the night off; that’s why he’s here to sample as well.
“And this is Baxter James,” Declan went on, using his thumb to point at a slender, handsome black man about their age. “Bax, I’m thinking you owe Oscar at least a couple of beers on the house.”
“Good to meet you,” said the brewer, offering his hand for a shake. “I hear you’ve been keeping T.J. Mack fed and watered while she finishes her next book—and you’ve got my eternal gratitude for that. I’ve been waiting for it ever sinceTitan Mistcame out last year.”
“It’s my pleasure,” replied Oscar, feeling surprisingly comfortable, surrounded as he was by strangers. “And when it comes down to it, now that she’s got the book going, Teddy’s pretty easy to see to. I just slip a plate through the slit under the door, and when she’s done, she pushes it back out. No knives allowed, though—I don’t want her getting any ideas about escape before the book’s done.”
Baxter looked at Oscar for a second as if unsure whether to believe him, then they all laughed. “Well, I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t mind a sneak peek or some sort of hint as to what’s coming next for Sargent Blue. Can you tell meanything?” As he spoke, he put a trio of juice-sized glasses down in front of Oscar, then filled one with a nut-brown beer from the pitcher next to him. “Consider this a bribe: I call this my Steel-Edge Porter. It’s got a bite to it, but a smooth finish. Let me know what you think.”
“There’s a trapdoor,” Oscar said, lifting the beer to examine it. Not cloudy, very clean, a good dark brown color. It smelled fresh and sharp. “I was helping her figure out how to get Sargent Blue out of his latest situation,” he added modestly, and Baxter’s eyes went wide. “And she jumped on my idea of a trapdoor.”And then she jumped on me.
“Why thehelldidn’tIget double-booked with T.J. Mack at the keeper’s cottage?” Baxter grumbled. “Lucky dog.”
As Oscar sipped from the beer, he realized he was damned pleased he’d been stuck with Teddy at the cottage—and not because she was a famous writer. Not because she was a writer at all.
And he was also very glad it wasn’t the handsome, toned Baxter James who’d been the one having plot discussions about RBSs in the pool with Teddy. No, Oscar was just fine hanging out with the sweet-smelling, talk-your-ear-off, ping-pong conversationalist and bouncy personality who gave pretty sexy kisses when someone gave her a good idea.
He couldn’t wait to give her another one.
Baxter was pouring a second beer for Oscar to taste when the curvy waitress came up to the table.
“Hi there, handsome. I’m Mirabella—but just call me Bella. Welcome to the Lakeside. My husband Reggie and I own the place.” Bella looked to be just on this side of fifty, but she was a well-preserved woman with a huge bust and matching curvy hips and ass, displayed by the tight dress she wore. It was pale pink with dark pink flowers splashed all over it, and a round white collar and cuffs at the end of elbow-length sleeves. The apron she wore over it was bright green. Her white-blond hair had a light purple streak in it that coiled around into a puffy style that would have fit right in on the set ofGrease.
Oscar felt like he needed to blink, and if he did, the wild splash of colors would be burned on the inside of his eyelids. Instead he just smiled and said, “What do you recommend on the menu?”
“Everything, honey,” she said, her startling red lips curving in a smile. “But tonight, special, we’ve got fresh lake trout Reggie’s dusted up with some flour and Cajun spices, and deep fried. Fresh right from Wicks Lake out there. You can get co’slaw with it or green beans just as fresh from the backside of the restaurant. My Reggie’s also known for his Monte Cristo sandwiches, and he turns a pretty good venison burger—with or without cheese. Best served with a slice of raw onion like this.” She used her fingers to demonstrate a measure of no less than an inch thick.
“I like a burger with my beer,” Oscar said. “And while I’ve had ostrich and bison, I’ve never tried venison, so I’ll give that a shot.”
“I’ll get that going for you,” she replied, then swished off to grab an order that had just been shoved through from the kitchen.
“So what else can you tell us about the new book?” Baxter asked. “Anything?”
“Not really. Now that Teddy’s got going, she doesn’t come out of her room much. I hear her typing and swearing sometimes, and once she was congratulating herself on something—I don’t know.” Oscar spread his hands and smiled as he sampled the second beer. “Oh. That’s interesting.” He managed to swallow the pungent taste as he put the glass down rather quickly.
He and Declan exchanged pained glances, and Baxter explained, “I was trying for a cherry shandy, since, you know, Michigan’s known for cherries. Not working for you, then?”
“Uh…I like the porter better,” Oscar said, and Declan laughed.
“He’s politer than I am, Bax. Forget the shandy. Let’s try the third one. Did you say it was a wheat beer?”
All in all, Oscar had an enjoyable evening, trading stories—everyone wanted to know what a microbiologist was doing in Wicks Hollow for the summer. He told them about his sampling and testing of the hot spring, leaving out the details about his escape from Marcie’s wedding.
“Well, there are some legends about that hot spring,” Joe Cap drawled. “About it being somethin’ special.”
Before Oscar could pursue that topic, Bella arrived with an efficient swish and began to slide a plate in front of each of them.
She pointed out the small piece of Cajun-spiced trout she’d added to Oscar’s plate. “Just wanted you to have a taste. When’s the last time you had fish right out of the lake and onto your plate in less than two hours?”
