A Deadly Inside Scoop Page 2

  “Some red chili pepper!” said my mother, finishing his sentence.

  I laughed. “That would be Riya,” I said.

  One of my two best friends, Riya Amacarelli was half Sicilian, half Indian and fully American. She had always been a firecracker, hot-tempered and determined. She’d followed in the footsteps of more than half my family and gone into the medical field. Something I’d never considered. I peeked over into my dad’s sauté pan—somehow he’d captured Riya in an egg dish.

  “You want me to make you one, Pumpkin?” my dad asked.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It just seems wrong eating a dish named after someone I know.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll miss a treat.” He flipped over the omelet. “I’m making one for your Grumpy Pa, though,” my father said. “You’ll drop it off to him before you head down the hill?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  My grandfather lived in the same house, but he had his own suite where he’d drawn a line—no entering without an invitation—except for me. I was his girl.

  “Graham, don’t call your father that,” my mother said, creases forming on her brow. “He might be in a good mood this morning.” My mother, the perpetual optimist. “He wanted Win to take over the store and run it, and today’s the day. That has to have him in a good mood.”

  “Grumpiness is built into his DNA,” my dad said. “I’ve been scouring medical journals ever since my residency days to see if a grumpy gene has been identified. Soon as they find one, I’m extracting it out of him.”

  My mother giggled. She thought all of my father’s dry jokes were funny. The gleam in her eye and her constant smile when they were together would make anybody think that they were newlyweds instead of having been married for thirty-six years.

  Other than both being patient and inherently kind, they were complete opposites. My mother, Ailbhe, always joining a Zumba group, a yoga class or a jitterbug dance team, was chubby. Short, with a head of dyed-over gray hair, she was full of energy, joy and laughter. She raised us kids, supported us in our dreams and had helped her in-laws at the ice cream shop from the time she started dating my father.

  Besides riding his bike recreationally with my mom and down to the clinic he volunteered at once a week, my dad, Dr. James Graham Crewse, didn’t do any exercise at all. He was tall and muscular, sturdy and just seemed naturally fit. He was an orthopedic surgeon at the renowned Lakeside Memorial Clinic. A thoughtful, systematic and careful man in everything he did, from performing surgeries even down to picking out a paint color for the den. I, according to my mother, was just like him. It drove her and her impulsive nature crazy.

  I thought I was more like my Grandma Kay.

  “I’m sure PopPop will enjoy his breakfast, Daddy,” I said, not as fully convinced as my mother seemed to be. “He’ll think it’s nice that you shared your creation.”

  “That’ll be the day,” my dad said. He pulled a plate out of the cabinet and slid an omelet onto it.

  Right in sync, my mother took it from my father’s hands, grabbed the plastic wrap and covered the plate. “Tell your grandfather I’ll stop by before I go down to the shop this morning and see what he needs,” she said, handing me the plate.

  “I’m sure this will be fine,” I said. “His morning coffee, his newspaper and”—I held up the plate—“a couple of eggs—”

  “Are all he needs to start his day,” the three of us said in unison, and then laughed. That was my grandfather’s mantra.

  But even though my grandfather had been saying it for years, my father was right. Not even his morning staples could make him satisfied with how any day went. There were only two things I knew that put a smile on my grandfather’s face, and my father’s cooking wasn’t one of them.

  * * *

  - - - - -

  “I’m not eating this.” PopPop pushed the plate across the table after I had placed it in front of him. Not even bothering to take the plastic wrap off.

  My grandfather had met me at the door as I came around the outside of the house to the separate entrance of his living quarters. Already up and dressed like he had a job to go to, he greeted me with a kiss and a smile. It was probably the first one he’d emitted since the last time he saw me.

  I was one of the things that put a smile on his face.

  I trailed behind him back to the kitchen, where evidently he’d been sitting at the table, probably waiting on me. He knew I wouldn’t start today without a talk with him.

  My grandfather was just an older version of my dad (or would that be my dad was a younger version of him?). He was tall, and his daily walks up and down the hilly streets of Chagrin Falls kept him fit. He had a penchant for plaid shirts and wing-tipped shoes and all these years after Grandma Kay’s death, he still wore his wedding ring.

  The small kitchen was neat and tidy. His old radio, loudly playing a sports station, went hand-in-hand with his outdated appliances and old tile floor. He hadn’t let my parents remodel his part of the house, saying that those walls knew all about him and they kept him company.

  “Why won’t you eat it? It’s what you eat for breakfast every day,” I said, turning down the volume on the radio. He denied it, but I’d swear he was getting hard of hearing. “I brought your newspaper in and”—I eyed the countertop—“I knew you’d already have coffee brewing. That’s everything you need, right?”

  “What is that?” He pointed at the plate.

  “Eggs. Just like you like.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I never said I liked eggs like that.” He turned up his nose. “That doesn’t even look like an egg.”

  “It’s an omelet,” I said. I grabbed a fork out of the drawer, bumping it shut with my hip. I walked back to the table, slid the plate back in front of him and handed him the utensil. “Something different from the usual scrambled you eat, but you’ve had an omelet before.” I smiled. “And your son made it. You know what a good cook he is.”

  He placed the fork on the plate and slid it back across the table. Again. “He should stick to medicine.”

  “I bet it’s good.” I sang the words and planted a smile on my face.

  “Don’t patronize me, little girl,” he said, and narrowed his eyes at me. He still called me that even though I wasn’t too far from knocking on thirty’s door.

  “I’m not,” I said. I knew better. No matter how old I got, PopPop was still my elder—you just didn’t talk back. I was taught to show respect. I bent over and kissed him on his cheek. “I never would.”

  “I can make my own eggs, you know,” he said. “I can still take care of myself.”

  “I know,” I said. “We all know.” He had told us enough.

  PopPop was all about his independence. Although he hadn’t run the ice cream shop since my grandma took sick with early-onset Alzheimer’s and couldn’t be left alone, he always reminded us that even at his age he still could. He said his date of birth wasn’t a hindrance to anything other than the draft, and, he noted, they didn’t even have that anymore.

  “So if you know, stop trying to get me to eat that.”

  “Okay,” I said. I picked the plate up and put it on top of the stove.

  “You opening the store today?” he asked. He already knew the answer, but we both liked talking about it. We had been counting down the days.

  “Yes, PopPop. Today’s the day.” I pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “I’m just sorry it took so long to do.”

  “Don’t worry none about that,” he said, and put his hand over mine. “You got it done.”

  I nodded. “I got it done.”

  “Yes, you have, and you’ve done a better job at it than anyone else could have,” he said, a proud smile on his face. “I walked by it the other day, decided to go inside, and it’s looking just like one of those shop
s I see in the trade magazines.”

  “You saw it?” I said, a grin emerging on my face. “I wanted to wait until everything was ready to give you the grand tour.”

  “Looks ready to me.”

  “A couple things are still missing.”

  “Like making your kitchen see-through?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and chuckled. “I want customers to experience just what we’re boasting about. Give them a full view of the love and pride that goes into every handcrafted batch of our frozen creamy goodness.”

  PopPop laughed. “But that pales in comparison to that glass wall you put up at the rear of the store overlooking the falls,” he said. “Anybody sitting at one of those tables you put back there is going to get a treat.”

  I grinned. “The village was established around that waterfall, named after it, and our store sits right on top of it. Why not showcase it?” I got up, reached for two cups out of the cabinet and poured us both coffee.

  “It was a really good idea,” he said. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

  “Well,” I said, setting the cups on the table and going to the fridge for milk, “I like your idea of having a vintage soda fountain.”

  “That was a good idea, wasn’t it?” Another smile escaping his lips, he poured the milk into his coffee—he’d never liked cream—and stirred it. “We make a good team.”

  “Yeah we do,” I said, and took a sip of mine.

  We sat silent for a few moments, no words passing between us as we sipped our brew. I felt so comfortable with my granddad. Like my dad, he had a calm about him that made everything seem okay.

  “I got something for you,” my grandfather said after a short while. “Something I’ve been saving for the right person to have.”

  “Something for me?” I asked, a smile beaming across my face.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “It’s just some little old thing I wanted you to have.” He got up and went to the cabinet next to the sink. I stood and followed behind him, excited about what it might be. Taking out a stack of bowls, he reached back into the corner of the cupboard and pulled out a box.

  “Oh!” I said, my hand going up to cover my mouth, my eyes wide. “It’s Grandma Kay’s recipe box!”

  “It sure is, and I think—no—I know, she’d want you to have it.”

  I looked up into the cupboard and back down at the pale green tin box with citrus fruit and leaves painted across the top and spilling over the rim of the container.

  “Has that been there all the time?” I pointed up. Everyone over the years had been trying to find it. “All this time? You said you didn’t know where it was. Aunt Jack had to use the copies we had.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I said I hadn’t seen it in years. There’s a difference.”

  “You hadn’t seen it?”

  “Right.” He nodded. “I had put it away. Your grandmother toiled over those recipes to make them just right, and she’d only want someone who would do right by them to have them.”

  “And that’s me?” I said.

  “I think so,” he said, and pushed the box toward me. A loud giggle busted out as I reached for it, but he pulled it away. “I know that you’ve come up with your own flavors and you’ve got the photocopies already of some of your grandmother’s recipes.” He tapped the top of the box. “And these aren’t one of a kind anymore. I’ve seen lots of people using her flavor combinations over the years, and the shop will do just fine without them.”

  “But hers are special,” I said, letting him know I understood. “And even if I don’t need them, I want them.”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Her recipes were special. Just like she was.”

  “Thank you, PopPop!” I wrapped one hand around the box and the other around his neck and gave him a big kiss. “I’m going to start a Kaylene line of ice cream. All Grandma Kay’s recipes.”

  “I knew you’d do the right thing with them,” he said. “Now, don’t you lose that.” He nodded at it. “That little box has been around longer than your father.”

  “I won’t let it out of my sight. Ever. Promise.” I opened up my knapsack and pushed it down into a corner—couldn’t chance it falling out.

  “Now,” PopPop said, sitting back down in his chair. “How about grabbing a couple of those eggs out of the icebox?” He nodded toward the refrigerator. “You got time to scramble up a couple for me? I’m starving.” He grabbed his cup of coffee and took a sip.

  “I always make sure I have time for you, PopPop.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling. He pointed to the plate I’d brought over. “And you can eat that thing your father cooked.”

  chapter

  THREE

  For each step I took toward North Main Street, where Crewse Creamery sat, another goose bump rose up on my arm. I could hardly swallow and there was a smile plastered on my face that may have been stuck because of the cold, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I had made scrambled eggs for my PopPop before I left, but no matter how much he had insisted, I couldn’t eat anything. Everything inside of me was in a knot. I was drenched, through and through, with anticipation.

  The store wasn’t opening for another four hours and I had a lot to do to get ready. But I couldn’t be sure that even my prep work could drain all the nervous energy I had bouncing around inside of me.

  I’d made a list mapping out the chores for the day—flavors I wanted to offer, the order I’d make them in and the ingredients needed for each—making sure I didn’t miss anything. It was time to rebuild the Crewse brand. Time to spread the word that we were back in the business of making ice cream the old-fashioned, wholesome, natural way. It was time to cultivate a love, like the one my family shared for what we did, that was evident to everyone who walked through our doors. But most importantly, it was time to show the place I’d created, where, I hoped, people would line up out the door, no matter the season, to see and taste what we had to offer.

  I patted the side of my knapsack and smiled. Probably all my planning was going out the window. That just seemed the way things had gone lately. But this time it would be a good thing—I’d be including my Grandma Kay’s recipes in today’s batches. A deviation made with love.

  Hopefully I had the right ingredients in-house for at least one of my grandma’s recipes. I couldn’t wait to take a look at them. My mother was going to be so surprised to see them after they’d been AWOL all these years, and just as excited as I was. She had spent so much time side-by-side with my grandparents in our little shop, even helping my grandmother conjure up those recipes—at least some of them. Grandma Kay could be very secretive when it came to her Crewse Creamery flavors.

  I spied the store as I turned the corner off Carriage Hill Lane. The golden glow from the bronze wall-mounted lanterns I’d had installed on either side of the front door made the new yellow-and-baby-blue-striped Crewse Creamery awning shimmer. Everything all shiny and new. Everything except for the old wrought-iron bench my grandfather had placed out front for Grandma Kay.

  After Grandma Kay had gotten sick, she’d sit there for hours, everyone taking turns spending time with her while she reminisced. She couldn’t remember what she’d had for breakfast, or sometimes how to get back home after she’d wandered off, but she could relay, down to the last detail, something that had happened in 1958.

  I kept that bench because getting rid of it would have been like losing a part of her.

  As I arrived at the shop, I saw someone standing in front of it, a dog in their arms.

  People lining up already?

  That sent a warm feeling all through me.

  “Morning.” It was a man. He smiled and spoke when I reached the front of the store. “You’re not by any chance looking for a lost puppy, are you?” He held it up to give me a look at it.

  It was an Ori-Pei. I knew
because my down-the-street neighbor had one. The little guy was all wrinkles, with a big head like a Shar-Pei but the floppy ears and thick curly tail of a pug. He was black and white with lots of spots and had big brown eyes that looked right through me.

  “No,” I said, and reached out and scratched the top of the puppy’s head. “Where’d you find him?”

  “Right in the stoop of the flower shop next door.” He tilted his head that way. “Probably trying to keep warm.”

  “No ID tag?” I asked.

  “Nope.” He ran his hand down the pup’s head and around his neck, checking in his folds. “Unless his collar fell off. But he looks too healthy to be a stray.”

  “Awww. Sorry, I can’t help you.” I leaned in and looked into the little puppy’s eyes. “Can’t help the both of you.” The dog gave out a bark in response.

  “It’s okay,” the man said, and pulled off a red scarf that had been around his neck and wrapped it around the dog. “I’ll walk him over to the police station and see if someone isn’t looking for him.” He looked up the street one way and back down the other. “You’re the only person I saw out this early. Figured he might be yours.”

  I chuckled. “I’m on my way to work.” I pointed to my ice cream shop. “Have to get everything made and let it freeze before we open.”

  “Crewse Creamery?” he said, and looked up at the sign as if he was just noticing where he stood. “I can’t believe this place is still here.” He leaned forward and peered through the window. “I used to come here, oh man, must have been twenty-five, thirty years ago. Loved their ice cream. That was when it was owned by the Crewse family.”