Rhubarb by M. H. van Keuren

Eileen. “Remember, she met some man on the
computer.”
    Doris smacked her lips at Martin after a long pull of beer
and said, “Must piss you off.”
    “He came to the Corner tonight asking about Linda and the
rhubarb pie and Herbert. Thought he should be talkin’ to you,” said Eileen.
    “Long before your time, son,” said Doris. “You aren’t even
from Brixton. Where are you from?”
    “Billings,” Martin said.
    “Billings,” Doris scoffed. “That town killed Brixton. They
put in the Walmart and the Price Club. Don’t get me started on Billings. Awful
place. The traffic…”
    “Was anyone after Linda’s secret recipe before she disappeared?”
Martin asked. The women looked at him as if he’d grown antlers.
    “Now, what would make you go and ask a question like that?”
asked Doris.
    Martin studied his motives in the faces of two of Brixton’s,
if not the state’s, most notorious gossips. Was he indulging a fantasy? Had he
misunderstood Stewart? Had he misread Cheryl? He had to be back at work in
Belgrade in five hours. The beer tasted about two months past its sell-by date.
But he couldn’t help himself. He set the beer aside. “Stewart Campion broke
into my apartment last night and said some very strange stuff.”
    Doris pursed her lips. “You don’t even know this,” she said
to Eileen, “but a company did want to buy Linda’s recipe. When she was pregnant
with Cheryl.”
    “In 1986?” Martin asked.
    Doris nodded. “She told me the recipe was no big deal, but
that if some big corporation wanted to pay her for it, she wasn’t going to say
no. She wouldn’t have to work as many hours. Maybe stick to baking and stop
waitressing. Maybe put away some money for the baby. Herbert helped her make
the deal, but they kept it real quiet. He didn’t want the corporation revealing
where they’d gotten the recipe. Wanted to keep his little world-famous
gimmick.”
    “How do you know all this?” asked Martin.
    “Doris was sleeping with Herbert Stamper,” Eileen told him.
    “Yes, and you’ve done no better,” said Doris. Eileen
frowned. “But it all went to hell. She gave them the recipe, but when they went
to make it for themselves, it wasn’t the same. The corporation demanded to know
what she’d left out. Herbert was furious. He stood to get a good chunk of the
money. I remember him and Linda shouting at each other up in his office. Then
Cheryl was born, Linda was gone, and Herbert was dead.”
    “Stewart thinks Cheryl was kidnapped. And that it’s connected
to all this,” said Martin.
    “Now that you say it, it doesn’t surprise me,” said Doris.
    “But that’s ridiculous. No corporation would kidnap someone
for a stupid pie recipe,” said Martin.
    “Depends on the corporation,” said Doris, then added, “or
the pie.”
    “So there was a secret recipe?” asked Martin.
    “All I know is that after Linda left, no one was ever able
to make the pie again,” said Doris. “Lord knows I tried.”
    “Cheryl made a pie for me,” said Martin.
    “Now, that is interesting,” said Doris.
    “But I didn’t tell anyone. I kept my mouth shut about the
whole evening,” said Martin. “But it still doesn’t make any sense. Food
companies have chefs and food scientists to develop recipes. They don’t need to
rough up small-town bakers.”
    “Unless they do,” said Doris.
    “All right, enough with this enigmatic crap,” said Eileen.
“Out with it, already. Tell us what you want to tell us. I gotta get back to
the diner sometime this century.”
    “I don’t want to tell you anything,” said Doris. “And you
don’t want to hear it. ’Cause you know it’s all true.”
    “I certainly do not know that,” said Eileen.
    “Then why’d you bring this boy out here tonight?” asked
Doris. “You knew exactly what I’d tell him. You want me to tell my crazy story
so you can go back and tell him to pay no mind to old lady Solberg.”
    “Just tell him, Doris,” said