“Works for me,” said Arden, flicking on her blinker.
“Freaky place for a café,” Lydia observed as we descended the stairs to Tome Raider—or, as it was known in my family, Shaggy Doug’s.
“When Doug and Noreen split up this was all he could afford,” I explained. “He bases all his baked goods on famous children’s books.”
Terry tried to peer through the dingy glass of the front door. “Like what?”
“It’s different every day. I’m not big on the Turkish delight, like the White Witch gives Edmund in the Chronicles of Narnia, but everything else I’ve tasted is great.” Pulling the door open, I ushered them inside.
We settled at a small wrought-iron table in the corner, a relic from someone’s garden. The only other furniture was a sagging couch the color of Dijon mustard, currently occupied by Cadbury, Doug’s tabby cat.
“Would you like to see a menu?” asked Doug, who had crept from behind the nearest bookshelf so stealthily we all jumped at the sound of his voice. His thinning hair was pulled into a straggly ponytail. Unlike the top of his head, the rest of Doug’s body was thickly furred; hence the nickname.
When I nodded yes to the menu question he blinked owlishly at me. “Hello—not one of the twins.”
“Mary,” Lydia prompted.
Doug snapped his fingers. “Right. I knew you weren’t Cam.”
That was me: theotherPorter-Malcolm daughter. Old what’s-her-name. I forced a smile as he set down a single sheet of lined paper, edge still ruffled where it had been torn from a spiral notebook. His cursive was surprisingly neat, like that of an elementary school teacher.
“The Wonderland Sampler,” Arden read aloud. “What’s that?”
“A selection ofeat mecakes anddrink meelixirs in cute little vials.” He held his fingers and thumb a few inches apart, indicating the size. “All the colorings are natural. Fruit concentrates.”
Natural or not, it was clear from Terry’s expression that she had no intention of drinking anything served in a vial, especially not in the subterranean lair of a scruffy middle-aged man.
“What’s the scone of the day?” I asked, glancing at the coppery streaks of spice decorating his apron.
“I’m experimenting with something new for the holidays.” He turned pink with excitement. “I call them Tiny Tims.”
“Because they have ... ??” I waited for him to fill in the blank, hoping the answer wasn’tgoose,or worse,limping little boys.
Doug lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Plum pudding.”
“Yes,” said Terry, with uncharacteristic decisiveness. “That.”
“Fantastic!” Doug clasped his hands together, looking so ecstatic I thought he might burst out with aGod bless us everyone!He cleared his throat. “It’ll take a few minutes. I’ll bring you some juice boxes while you wait.”
“Did he say juice boxes?” Lydia asked when he was gone.
“He can’t serve any hot drinks,” I explained. “Or brown ones. That’s Noreen’s domain.” She had been careful to close the chocolate milk loophole.
After Doug dropped off the juice, we busied ourselves unwrapping straws and piercing foil. I was acutely conscious of the tomb-like atmosphere, especially compared to the hue and cry we would have encountered at McDonald’s. “It’s a lot less bustling here,” I said, tacitly apologizing.
“No, this is different,” Arden agreed, surveying the haphazard decor.
“More of a secret hideout,” Lydia suggested.
“In the olden days, ladies used to reserve a separate parlor at an inn, because it wasn’t proper to hang out at the bar.” I sipped my grape juice, afraid to make eye contact lest I surprise one of my companions in a look of extreme disinterest.
“I like that.” Arden patted me on the arm. “We can come here when we need peace and quiet. Lady time.”
I smiled in relief. “Far from the madding crowd.”
She nodded, setting down her juice box. “It’s actually good we have privacy. We can talk about something serious.”
The words were freighted with portent. Judging from their wary expressions, neither Lydia nor Terry had any clue what she was hinting at either.
