Operation Bonnet Read online

  “Mmm,” I said into my hot-pink phone, cord twisting around my fingers, “goat cheese tarts with heirloom-tomato salad.”

  “I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t make a tart with anything goat related,” Matt said.

  “Smoked chicken with wheat berries and bacon.”

  “Skip the wheat, triple the bacon.”

  “Oh. Wow. Lamb chops with fresh herbs and roasted figs.”

  “What’s a fig? Sounds garden of Eden-ish.”

  Matt was not a great help in those years, but once I got some practice in and started asking him over for dinner, he stopped making fun of goat cheese, though he never gave up an undying ardor for bacon. This is the thought that propelled me under the tumultuous sky to TasteWay as I drove home from work. I sprinted through the parking lot to the sliding-glass doors. The rain had not begun in earnest, but the clouds were impatient and had begun leaking heavy drops onto the warm earth.

  “Well, lookie-loo who’s here!”

  I heard Misty Warren-Pitz before I had finished wiping the rain out of my eyes. “Nellie Monroe, town genius!” She was smiling, but I could hear the bite undergirding the compliment. Misty was not one to mess with when in an irritable state, not when we were prepubescent and not since we’d grown to real people.

  “Hi, Misty, gotta-run-see-you-later.” I made my greeting one long word with hopes that she’d take the hint and back off the town genius. It must have worked because I looked behind me as I was gathering spring carrots and mushrooms and was relieved to find I was alone in produce. I walked through the aisles, gathering what I needed for dinner, and only ran into Misty on the way out of the store. She stood between the sets of double doors, eyes and frown focused on the downpour. She glanced at me as I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and tucked in bundles of afro around my neck.

  “You could just cut the thing and be done with it,” she snarled.

  It was disheartening to know a woman who snarled.

  “Thanks for the input,” I said, forcing my tone upward even as I felt my stomach sink. Sometimes you can’t take the thirteen-year-old out of a girl, genius or not.

  “No problem,” she said quietly.

  I stood in front of the sensor and waited as the doors parted. The wind was picking up, and it nudged a spray of raindrops into the lobby entry.

  “Hey,” Misty said as I started to walk, “I’m pregnant.”

  I turned. Her eyes were big and fearful.

  “Congratulations,” I said but felt immediately unsure it was the right sentiment.

  “Just thought I’d tell you. Before everyone in town is talking about it over their beer.” She laughed sharply and then turned to face the rain.

  “Thanks.” I waited a beat and then shrugged deeper within my sweatshirt. I ran into the storm, wondering how I’d been elected genius, target, and priest all in the same encounter.

  Thunder split the sky with a hungry rumble as I dropped the pasta into boiling water.

  “Is that Nadine’s?” Nona munched on a sliver of white cheddar as she watched me.

  “It is,” I said, pleased that she noticed. Nadine was Casper’s resident Italian lady. She’d run her own restaurant for years and had handed it over to her children a decade ago. When she got the time or the inclination, she still made small batches of fresh pasta and sold them to TasteWay. If you were there at the right time, you could take home a pound of handmade ravioli, melt-in-your-mouth gnocchi, or as I had, ribbons of pappardelle that cried out for fresh vegetables and a white wine sauce.

  “Hi, ladies.” The back door to the kitchen swung shut behind Matt. “You’re both looking lovely this evening.”

  Nona turned her cheek for a kiss, and Matt leaned down to oblige.

  Sometimes when I saw Matt, I’d think of my childhood blanket, Pookie. I never tried to sniff him or rub his satin trimming or anything, but the feeling was the same. So familiar, so comfortable, I could close my eyes and see the imprint of the details without a look: thick hair the color of pecan pie, slightly disheveled and caramel-touched during the summer. Glasses that had morphed with five-year increments, the most notable being “the goggs” of late elementary, which were only slightly smaller than aviator goggles and a zippy shade of green. Wide hazel eyes that focused a democratic curiosity on everything from zoo animals to effervescent Junior League members. Long and lanky after a growth spurt the summer of our freshman year of high school, when he grew four inches in three months but the needle stayed put on the scale.

  I cleared my throat, knowing without a glance that he had mischief on his face. “Flattery and kisses. I’m afraid the effect is inauthenticity.”

  He pulled out the stool next to Nona. “What about flattery and kisses isn’t authentic? I’m nothing if not sincere.” He slouched into the seat and let one edge of his mouth tinker with a smile.

  I rolled my eyes, but Nona patted his hand. “Of course you’re being sincere, Matthew.” He allowed precisely one person to call him that, and Nona was she. “You are the sweetest boy in town, and Nellie knows it.” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “She’s just feeling prickly tonight. Something about work.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows, which for him was the equivalent of shock and dismay. “What happened? Did she finally quit and decide to devote herself to curing cancer, just like we all know she can?”

  Nona giggled. “Now that you say it—”

  I sighed. “I’m in the room. Can anyone hear me speaking? Because I could just do that and save you some trouble.”

  “Oh! Nellie! How are you?” Matt’s eyes twinkled. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

  I took a sharp knife to the bacon. “I’m adding this to your pasta, bratface. Everyone else would be happy with vegetables, but I knew you’d want some sort of pork product as a garnish.”

  “Now, don’t be so tough on him.” Nona again with the hand patting. “If you’re honest with yourself, Nellie, you’ll agree it will taste better with bacon.”

  It’s a low moment when one’s grandmother takes sides with meat over her own granddaughter.

  “Thanks for the pork product,” Matt said. He pulled the plate of cheddar and almonds closer and picked up a wedge of cheese. “What happened at work?”

  I tossed the veggies in the sauté pan one last time and turned off the heat. “It wasn’t really at work, per se.” I drew the words out, concentrating on draining the pasta into a colander. Squinting my eyes into the steam bath, I said, “Misty Warren-Pitz is pregsy.”

  Nona clapped once and cooed. “Oh, a baby. We need more babies in this town.”

  Matt looked confused. “Um,” he said, pointing a cheese slice at Nona, “first, I don’t really understand what that means. Second,” he said, pointing at me, “Misty Pitz knocked up makes you prickly? Isn’t it kind of funny to think of her all front heavy? And wearing a beret?” Spit escaped with his guffaw.

  “Gross. No spitting on the food.” I carried two plates over to the eat-in booth by the windows. The waning daylight shimmered in pockets of yellow warmth, making every green of the garden vie for our approval. The original Byrnes built the dining room to impress, but they added the kitchen booth fifty years into the house’s life as a concession for small children. I’d long since stopped needing Mrs. H. to cut my meat but still preferred a meal by the window over a stuffy feast in the dining room any day of my week.

  “I love this spot,” Nona said. She scooted into the booth, close to the window, her eyes following the movement of dappled light on the grass. “Remember the time I sat down for dinner in the dining room and the Johnsons were there? Oh, they were a prudish lot. Not a good night to do the splits.” She giggled.

  I waited, silencing Matt with a quick shake of my head. This was going to be a doozy of a story, and I didn’t want Nona to get distracted.
<
br />   “Margot Johnson had an ironclad lack of warmth. She used to wrinkle her nose whenever anyone said anything remotely romantic. I’ll bet she wore three pairs of underwear, just in case her husband tried anything marital. Poor Ted,” she said, shaking her head. A hummingbird flew right up close to the window and made Nona smile. She took a deep breath and turned to me. “Nellie, you’re such a good girl to cook dinner tonight. What did you make?”

  I pushed her plate gently toward her. “Pasta by Nadine, Nona. I hope you like it.” I bit the inside of my cheek and could feel Matt’s eyes on me. Everything’s fine, I said with my posture, with the way I attacked my first bite of pasta. Don’t be nice to me right now because I might lose it.

  “So,” I said too loudly, “I have great news. I have my first job as a PI.”

  Nona put down her fork and gathered me in a side hug. “That’s just wonderful,” she said. “I knew success was just around the bend.”

  I felt her weathered hands grip me around the shoulders, and I leaned into her.

  “Sweet,” Matt said. He brushed a passel of stray crumbs into an open hand before continuing. For being a man without a discernible pulse, Matt was nothing but fastidious when it came to table manners. “What’s the story?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t say.”

  “What?” Matt frowned. “I’m your best friend.” He turned to Nona and added, “And best-looking, but who’s keeping score?”

  She giggled.

  “After the countless conversations we’ve had that have revolved around your PI dreams, you owe me, Monroe. Give it up.”

  I twirled noodles around my fork and said nothing.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” Matt’s voice took on an uncharacteristic urgency, and I smiled to hear him almost emote. “At least tell me who hired you. Do I know him? Her?”

  I shrugged. “More bread, Nona?” I asked.

  She took a slice. “Thank you, dear. The pasta is delicious. Matthew, have you tried yours? You seem awfully worked up about something. Eat a bit and take a breather.”

  Matt stared at me, and I smiled. “Obey your elder, Matthew. Partake.”

  He shook his head. “After all these years …”

  “Listen,” I said, softening, “I’m not trying to hold out on you. Professional ethics require discretion, that’s all. I work for my client, and his or her best wishes are my ultimate concern.” His or her. Wasn’t that perfect?

  We ate in silence, the only sounds ones of utility: a fork hitting the plate, the crank of the pepper mill, the optimistic music of ice cubes on glass.

  Matt finally cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said. He tore a piece of bread off a new slice. “Just don’t come crying to me when you need help cracking the case. Or getting a good deal on technology,” he added. “We’ll just keep our professional lives to ourselves.”

  “Sounds fair,” I said and offered the peace pipe. “I made double-chocolate cherry brownies this morning. That is, if you’re not too worked up to eat.”

  “Nellie, you’re shameless,” Nona said. She winked at me. “Hit me with a big one, please. À la mode.”

  “Matt?” I rose from the table.

  He nodded. “Yes, please,” he mumbled.

  “Cream and sugar with your coffee?”

  He grinned but met my eyes only briefly. “It’s really good you’re a great cook. It makes me consider forgiveness as a viable option.”

  “Excellent,” I said and went to cut generous squares of repentance.

  10

  Orientation

  I walked up the long dirt driveway, noting pronounced ruts marking the paths of buggy wheels, and felt nerves churn flips in my belly. Maybe this is how soldiers feel on the eve of battle, I mused. Or runners during the quiet moments before the gun fires to start the race. Or poser detectives who have only online certificates to prove their competence.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said aloud, scuffing one black boot in the dirt. “You look the part, you’ll act the part, you’re made for this work, so prove it. Prove it. Prove it. Prove it.” The words became a cheer, then a sort of creepy incantation. I cleared my throat. Here it was finally game time, and I was doubting my destiny. It’s a little known fact, but even brilliant people doubt themselves. You know how Lincoln failed getting elected multiple times before he became president and how Einstein was dyslexic and socially distrusted because of his hair? I’m just saying, it happens to the best of us, and I tried to remember that as I approached the Schrocks’ white farmhouse.

  My legs were already feeling itchy and hot underneath the skirt. Amos had wondered about my decision to wear the Amish costume, but I’d stood firm. When in Rome, I’d assured him. Plus, the idea was for me to blend in, to become one with his people so that the women would forget I was an outsider and trust me implicitly and tell me anything I wanted to know. This kind of relationship needed care, starting with my ensemble. The Schrocks weren’t about to deposit their secrets with a girl in a tube top, I told him. I didn’t technically own a tube top, but it was a powerful image, one that clearly got through to Amos.

  “All right,” he’d said at last. “I understand your forceful opinion. I will pray that this idea works.” Then as an afterthought, “At least you will not be like Roxanne, you do not need to wear that dress tonight.” He started to hum in falsetto.

  “Thanks for the input,” I said over the music. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

  “Yes, OK.” He made a hang-loose sign with his thumb and pinky. “Toodles.”

  How was he even watching Gidget? The Hallmark Channel? A box set?

  I’d found a pair of black stockings in my mother’s closet. They were actually a leopard print, but I didn’t think anyone would have their noses close enough to notice. From what I’d read thus far about the Amish, they were not big on noses near legs. Plus the long skirt would dissuade even the most curious. Courtesy of my neighborhood Goodwill, the skirt was sky blue cotton. It had a ton of pleats and poofed out a bit around the waist and rear. Not my best silhouette, but I would take one for the modesty team if it meant good intel. I topped my look with a plain dark blue button-down and was nearly good to go. But I’d needed a bonnet, and Amos was no help.

  He’d looked at me like I was a few cards short. “I do not own any bonnet. I am a man.”

  “I know that,” I’d said. Honestly. “But where can I get one?”

  “Of course you must sew one.” He said this like he was describing how to open one’s gas cap on one’s car, stupid woman driver.

  “I don’t sew.”

  He shrugged. “I do not sew either. Perhaps you can ask a woman who does not attack people?”

  I would never live that down.

  As I could not sew and knew no one in town who would accommodate such a request without an inquisition, I’d turned to Johnny Cavell’s Dance and Costume Magic, a Casper curiosity since 1968. Johnny was roughly seven thousand years old by my count. He’d smoked since he was five, and his voice barely registered on human ear frequencies. As a child, I’d thought Johnny was living but gnarled proof that we were not alone in the universe. As an adult, I was still open to the possibilities of his true origins.

  One great thing about Johnny, though, was that he didn’t give a high-hootin’ holler what you were going to do with a bonnet. The one I procured was very much Ma Ingalls and not as much Girl Amish. It was large, so large that I couldn’t exactly employ any peripheral vision as I walked up to the house. To see clearly on either side I had to rotate my entire upper body. In other circumstances, such as if I were a part of the chorus in Oklahoma, I might have looked like I was practicing a tricky bit of choreography.

  When I reached the front door, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. This was it. Nona had prayed with me before I left, asking God to order my
steps. Thinking of Nona and her sweet, almost conversational way of praying made my throat tingle and my eyes sting, even closed. Nona talked to God like he was holding her hand. She didn’t even fill all the silences with words but let the spaces draw out, comfortable and worn, unhurried like a tide’s arrival or departure. I loved listening to her and had thanked her for her prayer that morning. “Strong and courageous,” she’d said. That’s what I was supposed to be, with God’s help.

  I knocked on the door, and the woman who answered summoned up every weak and uncourageous feeling to the marrow of me.

  “Yes?” She spoke with a heavy accent, eyes halved into wary half-moons.

  “Hello. Or guder mariye. Afternoon, I mean.” I cleared my throat. “I’m Professor Moss’s assistant.”

  “Professor Moss?” the woman repeated. She looked to be closing in on seventy years. Mother would have recommended a wrinkle cream, but something told me this lady would not have been a willing guinea pig. She stood at least three inches shorter than me but might as well have been Goliath. Her hair was pulled back into a skin-numbing bun contained by a starched white bonnet. I could almost feel the pull of the comb as I looked at her.

  “Sonya Moss? The professor who comes to cook with you on Tuesday afternoons?”

  The woman appeared to be considering my words, rolling through the old noggin, trying to put a face to Moss.

  “Tall, skinny, very pale?” I made a pinched face and then tried my hand at Professor Moss’s bark-laugh.

  “Ahhh,” she said, nodding. “The Moss. She is the horrible cook.”

  Another woman, half the Friendly Greeter’s age, came to stand in the doorway. Her cinnamon-hued hair, also pulled into a bonnet, fell in accidental wisps around her face, which boasted an early summer’s tan. She wiped her hands on an apron and took in my bonnet with round blue eyes. I’d like to think she was impressed, maybe a bit jealous of my style.