“Jeannie's back. I can go now. Where did you have in mind?”
“I thought it might be nice to try that new restaurant with the Civil War theme.”
“The Fields of Glory. Isn't that the place that's owned by Bernice's boyfriend? Are you planning to investigate her murder over our lunch?”
“You got me,” I admitted. “Perhaps we could ask him a few questions over hardtack and molasses.”
“Thought that's what was served to sailors.”
“Okay, goober peas, then.”
“Sounds good to me,” Maggie said. “In fact, anything sounds good to me. I'm starving.”
As we were leaving the library, I noticed a sprig of mistletoe hanging above the front door. “Isn't that interesting,” I commented. “I just read that mistletoe was used by the Druids in their solstice rituals. Did you realize that kissing under the mistletoe at Christmas is really part of an old Druidic fertility rite?”
“Stop kidding me, Tori.”
“Sorry.” I pushed the door open and stepped out into the brisk winter day.
Maggie followed in a few seconds. I glanced back and noticed the mistletoe that had been hanging in the foyer was gone.
We walked down the street to the restaurant. On the outside, it looked much like the other Victorian town houses on Lickin Creek's Main Street. The brick walls rose three stories high and were painted a soft shade of sky- blue. The front entrance was set to one side with two white-framed windows off to the right. Raised gold letters on a wooden sign above the door tastefully announced that this was the Fields of Glory Restaurant.
Inside, the walls between the rooms had been removed to create the long, narrow dining room.
Beside an antique walnut desk stood a short, rather stocky woman wearing a dark green watered-silk gown. Her face was framed with a white lace fichu. “Welcome to the Fields of Glory,” she said with a smile.
“Mary Todd Lincoln?” I asked.
“Right you are. Table for two?”
She picked up two parchment scrolls and led us to a table in the back near French doors looking out over an enclosed courtyard.
The scrolls were menus, of course. The napkins and tablecloths were real linen, and the flatware and glasses all of good quality.
“Can't last,” Maggie said, looking around the room at the rough-textured plaster walls, the framed Civil War prints, the exposed ceiling beams, and the crackling fires in the twin marble-faced fireplaces. “We local folks aren't used to such luxury.”
A drummer boy filled our water glasses, and a Union soldier brought us a basket of rolls-no hardtack. A Hessian in a splendid uniform stepped up, saluted, and said, “My name is Josh, and I'll be your server today.”
I had to avoid Maggie's eyes, for I knew if we connected we'd have an embarrassing attack of giggles. With admirable dignity, we ordered Maryland-style crab cakes and Greek salads.
“Notice the prints?” she asked, after Josh marched toward the kitchen with our order.
They all depicted scenes from Lickin Creek's historic past. One was of General Lee in the square. Another showed Confederate soldiers in front of the old downtown hotel-now a seedy bar-threatening to burn down the town unless ransom was paid.
“Nice touch,” I said.
“They're from the Lickin Creek National Bank,” Maggie said. “About two years ago, they gave them out free to anyone who opened an account there.”
“That must have been a very successful promotion,” I said.
Maggie shook her head. “Bad. Lots of hard feelings. Old account holders got mad because only new customers got the prints. Some people even closed their accounts and went over to Gettysburg to do their banking. The LCNB's still suffering from that marketing fiasco.”
Josh put our plates in front of us. “Bon appetit,” he said, making it sound like
The crab cakes were perfectly prepared with huge lumps of crab held together with a small amount of binder and seasoned just right with a spicy seasoning. The Greek salad was even better, heavy on the feta cheese and with lots of black olives-just the way I like it.
Maggie added a dab of tartar sauce to what was left of her crab cake. “This is too good for Lickin Creek.”
Josh paused at our table. “Is everything okay, ladies?”
Maggie glared at him. “Do waiters go to a special school to learn exactly when to interrupt a conversation?”
He blanched under his big hat.
“We'd like to talk to the owner,” I said. “Could you get him for us?”
His hand went to his mouth, and his eyes grew as round as the shiny brass buttons on his uniform.
“It's a personal matter,” I assured him. “Absolutely nothing to do with the food or service, both of which are excellent.”
Mouth agape, our Hessian retreated, still looking worried.
“Hate it when they do that,” Maggie said, buttering a roll. “Only thing worse is when they ask how everything is when I have a mouth full of food. What are you going to ask the owner about?”
“Rumor says Bernice bankrolled this restaurant for him.”
“So?”
“What if she was demanding to be paid back, and he wasn't willing?”
“The restaurant's doing well. I'm sure he could get a bank loan to pay off his debts.”
“I wasn't referring to a financial payback. I was thinking more along the lines of marriage.”
Maggie spluttered into her iced tea. “You mean you think VeeKay killed Bernice because he didn't want to marry her?”
I looked around to assure myself no one was listening. “Not so loud, Maggie. I only want to learn if he had a motive for wanting her gone. That's all.” Maggie called him VeeKay. It was the first time I'd heard his name.
“Do you really think VeeKay would be stupid enough to kill the golden goose?” she asked.
“Maybe-if the goose had stopped laying. Shhh. Here they come.”
Maggie looked up and whistled softly. “What a hunk!” she sighed.
“Don't forget you're engaged,” I said.
“Doesn't keep me from looking.”
The bearded young man who followed Josh was the same man I'd seen with Bernice the night she died. Only today, for some reason, he looked better than I remembered. Unlike his employees, he wore modern clothes; a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and jeans riding low over his flat stomach and rising higher in the back, emphasizing a well-developed rear end.
“I understand you wanted to talk to me,” he said with a smile. Pulling a chair from a nearby table, he straddled it and folded his arms on the back.
Maggie sighed softly, and I avoided her eyes for fear of acting like a teenage idiot, myself.
“I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced,” he said to me. “I'm Vernell Kaltenbaugh, known to most folks around here as VeeKay. Welcome to the Fields of Glory. I hope your lunch was all right?” The two vertical worry lines appearing between his sea-blue eyes were all that marred the smoothness of his forehead, so summer-brown it could only have happened in a tanning bed.
I said softly, so as not to attract any more attention from the nearby diners, “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Bernice.” My voice trailed away awkwardly. I'd never been very good at expressing sentiment.
“I really appreciate that.” He blinked several times, but not before I noticed with surprise that his eyes brimmed with tears.
“Your restaurant is charming,” I said inanely, trying to give him a moment to recover his poise. “What a clever idea to use a Civil War theme.”
“It was Bernice's idea,” he said. “We shared a dream of turning downtown into a cultural oasis. Our opening Fields of Glory together was a symbolic start.” This time he was unable to blink back the tears, and several ran down his cheeks. He swiped them away. “I suppose it's a lost cause now… now… that she's gone.”
If the tremor in his voice wasn't real, then he was putting on an act worthy of an Oscar.
Maggie retrieved a package of tissues from her purse and handed it to him. He wiped his eyes and dabbed at
