Read Online Strawgirl by Abigail Padgett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Abigail Padgett
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remembered, beside Irish immigrants to wrest tourmaline, garnet, topaz, and gold from these hills. Hungry, she wondered how the two groups had managed to combine menus at mining camp chuckwagons. Sweet-and-sour finnan haddie? Steamed soda-bread rolls stuffed with thousand-year egg paste? In her side mirror she could see the Palomar Observatory looming whitely in the distance behind the car. Its two-hundred-inch Hale reflector telescope nightly scanned the heavens for things not visible to the naked eye. The facility's pale dome looked like a huge soup bowl inverted in the hills. Bo decided to ignore it.
"What in God's name is a fay-doe-doe and how would I know if I liked an-dewey? Is it edible?" Hunger had become a nagging irritant.
"The best food north of Ponchatoula," LaMarche replied as he navigated a turn onto a dusty mountain road that quickly lost itself in rolling meadows. "I'm scheduled to keynote a conference in New York this weekend. Supposed to be there today, in fact, to revise the agenda or something. But I rescheduled the flight for tomorrow just so I wouldn't miss this!" At a barnlike structure beside a dilapidated general store whose rusting gas pumps still wore the round glass heads popular during the Depression, he parked the maroon Jag among at least a hundred pickup trucks. "And a fais-do-do is just a big get-together. Food, dancing, a little wine ..."
Bo remembered her own admonition to spend the evening in revelry in order to forget the cherubic corpse on an operating table. She'd followed her own advice, and yet it seemed wrong.
LaMarche noticed her downcast gaze and nodded. "We'll talk about it later. Right now we'll eat, enjoy. It isn't over, you know. It won't be over until Samantha's killer is imprisoned. The other prisoners," his thin lips were ashen beneath his mustache, "will see to an appropriate punishment."
Both sets of eyes stared at nothing as physician and social worker allowed themselves the unprofessional fantasy of revenge. Even the most hardened criminals sometimes felt revulsion at the rape of a child. And lacking a restraint characteristic of the general population, they wouldn't hesitate to mete out a biblical punishment. It was likely that Samantha's killer, released to a general prison population, would relive his victim's torment a thousand times.
The satisfaction of the fantasy made Bo half sick.
"Enough," LaMarche said with finality as an accordion wheezed to life inside the building followed by the scratchy tuning of violins. "Duhon's going to cheer you up!"
Having made a conscious decision to forget Samantha Franer for at least an hour, Bo cocked an eyebrow at the dustbowl parking lot with its army of trucks and grinned. The interior of the huge shed, which had from its pervasive scent been used to store apples from nearby orchards, was lit by a series of emergency lights whose extension cords all snaked to a single generator. Long tables covered in newspaper lined the walls, and a flatbed farm wagon served as a bandstand. Over the sweet apple smell Bo noticed a pervasive odor of hot, buttery flour.
"What's that smell?" she sniffed appreciatively.
"Roux." He was steering her toward two empty folding chairs at one of the long tables.
"Roo?Kanga's baby in Winnie the Pooh ? They're cooking baby kangaroos here? I'm calling the animal cruelty people—"
"It means ... it's a dark, sticky sauce made of butter and flour," he answered her jibe seriously. "How about some shrimp étouffée?"
"Does it have roo in it?"
The answering smile was warm. Almost, Bo realized, seductive.
"No, ma chérie , no roux."
You've always been a sucker for an accent, Bradley. Remember that Portuguese environmentalist who played pan pipes and got you to donate a month's salary for the protection of freshwater clams from a dam proposal? Try not to forget that.
"Shrimp sounds fine," she agreed. "And after dinner you'll provide the promised explanations about the Franer case?"
"Dinner, a little
"What in God's name is a fay-doe-doe and how would I know if I liked an-dewey? Is it edible?" Hunger had become a nagging irritant.
"The best food north of Ponchatoula," LaMarche replied as he navigated a turn onto a dusty mountain road that quickly lost itself in rolling meadows. "I'm scheduled to keynote a conference in New York this weekend. Supposed to be there today, in fact, to revise the agenda or something. But I rescheduled the flight for tomorrow just so I wouldn't miss this!" At a barnlike structure beside a dilapidated general store whose rusting gas pumps still wore the round glass heads popular during the Depression, he parked the maroon Jag among at least a hundred pickup trucks. "And a fais-do-do is just a big get-together. Food, dancing, a little wine ..."
Bo remembered her own admonition to spend the evening in revelry in order to forget the cherubic corpse on an operating table. She'd followed her own advice, and yet it seemed wrong.
LaMarche noticed her downcast gaze and nodded. "We'll talk about it later. Right now we'll eat, enjoy. It isn't over, you know. It won't be over until Samantha's killer is imprisoned. The other prisoners," his thin lips were ashen beneath his mustache, "will see to an appropriate punishment."
Both sets of eyes stared at nothing as physician and social worker allowed themselves the unprofessional fantasy of revenge. Even the most hardened criminals sometimes felt revulsion at the rape of a child. And lacking a restraint characteristic of the general population, they wouldn't hesitate to mete out a biblical punishment. It was likely that Samantha's killer, released to a general prison population, would relive his victim's torment a thousand times.
The satisfaction of the fantasy made Bo half sick.
"Enough," LaMarche said with finality as an accordion wheezed to life inside the building followed by the scratchy tuning of violins. "Duhon's going to cheer you up!"
Having made a conscious decision to forget Samantha Franer for at least an hour, Bo cocked an eyebrow at the dustbowl parking lot with its army of trucks and grinned. The interior of the huge shed, which had from its pervasive scent been used to store apples from nearby orchards, was lit by a series of emergency lights whose extension cords all snaked to a single generator. Long tables covered in newspaper lined the walls, and a flatbed farm wagon served as a bandstand. Over the sweet apple smell Bo noticed a pervasive odor of hot, buttery flour.
"What's that smell?" she sniffed appreciatively.
"Roux." He was steering her toward two empty folding chairs at one of the long tables.
"Roo?Kanga's baby in Winnie the Pooh ? They're cooking baby kangaroos here? I'm calling the animal cruelty people—"
"It means ... it's a dark, sticky sauce made of butter and flour," he answered her jibe seriously. "How about some shrimp étouffée?"
"Does it have roo in it?"
The answering smile was warm. Almost, Bo realized, seductive.
"No, ma chérie , no roux."
You've always been a sucker for an accent, Bradley. Remember that Portuguese environmentalist who played pan pipes and got you to donate a month's salary for the protection of freshwater clams from a dam proposal? Try not to forget that.
"Shrimp sounds fine," she agreed. "And after dinner you'll provide the promised explanations about the Franer case?"
"Dinner, a little