should be a podium with valet service nearby, but there wasn’t one four years ago and there wasn’t one this night either.
You could wear whatever you wanted to wear to Bistro, but most people put on something a step up from what they wore when they did yard or farm work and a step down from something they might wear to a formal occasion. I wore tan slacks and a short-sleeved rose-colored shirt that hadn’t been stained with fruit or jam or preserves, or none that was easily noticeable, at least. Ian wore khakis and a button-down shirt. His dressier clothes had become a part of his wardrobe since he’d purchased his land and had some dealings with the bank regarding business loans.
“I’ll let you off by the door and find a place to park,” Ian said as he looked around at the crowded lot. “This can’t all be because Joan was killed, can it? Very morbid.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t mind the walk. I think it’s a pretty popular place. Some of it might be because of Joan’s death, but maybe not all of it.”
We parked and hiked around trucks and cars to the front door. The inside of the restaurant was huge, almost cavernous. The lighting was low, and somehow, even in the big space and with all the people, it didn’t seem like the noise level was going to be a problem.
I hadn’t had time to think about it much, but I had wondered at least briefly why Betsy had stopped by Bailey’s that morning. Had she taken the half-hour trip to Monson just so she could cause a scene? Had she been in Monson for some other reason and taken the opportunity to stop by the market and accuse me of killing her boss? I wasn’t sure, but I suddenly had the opportunity to ask.
She was standing at the large maître d’ podium. A young man stood next to her; they were distracted by something they were studying on the podium, so she didn’t see me at first. They both wore short-sleeved three-button red knit shirts that had “Bistro” embroidered over their hearts in bold white letters.
Seeing her made me rethink why I’d wanted to come to Bistro. I didn’t know what to do, so I moved behind Ian and held his arm. Fortunately, there was a big group in the waiting area, so we didn’t stand out.
“What’s up?” Ian asked.
“That’s Betsy, the one I was telling you about, Joan’s assistant.” She was the same version I’d seen that morning: put together and made up, with no glasses.
“Oh.”
“It’s weird that we’re here. She’s going to think something’s up.”
Ian looked at me a long moment and then said, “So? What does it matter what she thinks?”
“She might kick us out.”
“We’ll cause a scene. We’ll make it a good one.”
I thought about it a second and realized he was right. Besides, she had the nerve to approach me and cause a scene at my place of business. I had every right to do the same, I rationalized.
“Let’s go,” I said.
A beat before we reached the desk, though, Betsy walked away from it. Her pace was quick and purposeful and in the other direction. Ian and I shared a victorious smile.
“Can I help you?” the friendly man said.
“Yes, we have reservations,” I jumped in before Ian said anything. I’d forgotten to tell him about our alternate personas.
“Name, please?”
“Pitt. Brian and Angel.”
The man didn’t bat an eye but grabbed two menus, handed them to another woman with a Bistro shirt, and said, “Table twelve.” He turned back to us and said, “Welcome. Have a lovely dinner.”
Ian raised an eyebrow in my direction, but we’d been together long enough that he knew when to go along for the ride.
“How’s this?” the girl said as she stopped at a booth.
“Great,” I said.
As we sat, I caught her eye. “I’m sorry about Joan.”
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you. Yes, it’s been quite the shock.” It was rehearsed and not sincere at all, but that probably didn’t mean anything. The girl was young and might not have ever even met the
You could wear whatever you wanted to wear to Bistro, but most people put on something a step up from what they wore when they did yard or farm work and a step down from something they might wear to a formal occasion. I wore tan slacks and a short-sleeved rose-colored shirt that hadn’t been stained with fruit or jam or preserves, or none that was easily noticeable, at least. Ian wore khakis and a button-down shirt. His dressier clothes had become a part of his wardrobe since he’d purchased his land and had some dealings with the bank regarding business loans.
“I’ll let you off by the door and find a place to park,” Ian said as he looked around at the crowded lot. “This can’t all be because Joan was killed, can it? Very morbid.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t mind the walk. I think it’s a pretty popular place. Some of it might be because of Joan’s death, but maybe not all of it.”
We parked and hiked around trucks and cars to the front door. The inside of the restaurant was huge, almost cavernous. The lighting was low, and somehow, even in the big space and with all the people, it didn’t seem like the noise level was going to be a problem.
I hadn’t had time to think about it much, but I had wondered at least briefly why Betsy had stopped by Bailey’s that morning. Had she taken the half-hour trip to Monson just so she could cause a scene? Had she been in Monson for some other reason and taken the opportunity to stop by the market and accuse me of killing her boss? I wasn’t sure, but I suddenly had the opportunity to ask.
She was standing at the large maître d’ podium. A young man stood next to her; they were distracted by something they were studying on the podium, so she didn’t see me at first. They both wore short-sleeved three-button red knit shirts that had “Bistro” embroidered over their hearts in bold white letters.
Seeing her made me rethink why I’d wanted to come to Bistro. I didn’t know what to do, so I moved behind Ian and held his arm. Fortunately, there was a big group in the waiting area, so we didn’t stand out.
“What’s up?” Ian asked.
“That’s Betsy, the one I was telling you about, Joan’s assistant.” She was the same version I’d seen that morning: put together and made up, with no glasses.
“Oh.”
“It’s weird that we’re here. She’s going to think something’s up.”
Ian looked at me a long moment and then said, “So? What does it matter what she thinks?”
“She might kick us out.”
“We’ll cause a scene. We’ll make it a good one.”
I thought about it a second and realized he was right. Besides, she had the nerve to approach me and cause a scene at my place of business. I had every right to do the same, I rationalized.
“Let’s go,” I said.
A beat before we reached the desk, though, Betsy walked away from it. Her pace was quick and purposeful and in the other direction. Ian and I shared a victorious smile.
“Can I help you?” the friendly man said.
“Yes, we have reservations,” I jumped in before Ian said anything. I’d forgotten to tell him about our alternate personas.
“Name, please?”
“Pitt. Brian and Angel.”
The man didn’t bat an eye but grabbed two menus, handed them to another woman with a Bistro shirt, and said, “Table twelve.” He turned back to us and said, “Welcome. Have a lovely dinner.”
Ian raised an eyebrow in my direction, but we’d been together long enough that he knew when to go along for the ride.
“How’s this?” the girl said as she stopped at a booth.
“Great,” I said.
As we sat, I caught her eye. “I’m sorry about Joan.”
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you. Yes, it’s been quite the shock.” It was rehearsed and not sincere at all, but that probably didn’t mean anything. The girl was young and might not have ever even met the
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