Three Scoops is a Blast! Page 12

  When Beige entered the lounge of the Palace, he was immediately the object of everyone else’s attention. The smell of beer, fries and wings mixed with sweat, hardship and sorrow was overwhelming. Still, Beige was met with more curiosity and tolerance than he’d been expecting. There is nothing quite like the bare-bones accoutrements of a drinking man’s pub to encourage conversation. Beige was hoping for a confessional that would lead him to St. Pierre.

  In no time at all, under the lubricant of free drinks, the other patrons were regaling Beige with stories about the local legend that was Robert St. Pierre. He was a home-town hero who had never forgotten his roots. There is a tradition in the National Hockey League that after the Stanley Cup is awarded, each member of the winning team is allowed to take the trophy back home to show it off. Frostbite would never forget when St. Pierre returned with the Cup.

  When St. Pierre and the Quacks won the Cup in the mid-90s, he had returned in triumph to Frostbite. That’s when a miracle happened. Robert St. Pierre and the local priest, Father Pierre St. Robert, had been friends since childhood. Yes, when they were younger, adults had often gotten their identities confused and the two high-spirited lads became friends while covering up each other’s minor crimes. The grown-up and now sober-sided priest had prevailed upon St. Pierre to let him use the Cup as a baptismal font. On a certain Sunday in early July, ten of the local children had been baptized by means of holy water consecrated in the bowl at the top of Lord Stanley’s mug.

  Nobody in the community would ever forget it. Since then, Frostbite itself seemed blessed. With the exception of one or two embittered and ostracized malcontents who still resented St. Pierre’s middle-of-the-night leave-taking from the Leafs, no one else in town would ever do anything to harm their native son. That’s why a certain rumour was so disturbing.

  On Thursday, there indeed had been a St. Pierre sighting on the edge of town. The phantom in question vanished into the woods. The news spread quickly but the decision was made to leave Robert in peace, if that was what he wanted. But there was more to follow. Later that day, a report came to Frostbite’s Mayor, now seated across from Beige, of a possible polar bear attack on a human being. An elder from the nearby native reserve, saw a fierce commotion out on the ice. He didn’t stick around to gather evidence, since he figured it was largely consumed anyway. Had St. Pierre wandered off into the unknown in a disoriented state and become delectable sushi?

  Beige spent all day Friday racing along on one of two snowmobiles with a native guide by the name of Tom Tallfeathers. They followed what they hoped was the trail of St. Pierre into the wilderness. After lunch, they exited the treeline, dipped over a rise and saw in the distance a family of polar bears. The biggest was a good one-third larger than the other two. It was an adult male, according to Tallfeathers. If St. Pierre had been eaten, he was the obvious gourmand.

  Beige had come prepared. He set up a rifle on a tripod to shoot the bear with a tranquilizer dart. That was when Tallfeathers interrupted.

  “You can’t do that,” said Tallfeathers. “Polar bears are protected by the government and no injury can be inflicted on one of their kind without formal approval.”

  “Let’s shoot now and get an okay from the Ministry of Natural Resources later,” said Beige. “We have to investigate the contents of the bear’s stomach to see if there are any human remains.”

  “You must understand something. There’s no we or us here,” said Tallfeathers. “That particular bear is sacred to my people. You’ll get no help from me or any other member of my tribe.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that bear’s an albino. Can’t you tell? It’s extremely rare. It comes down to earth from the spirit world only once in every seven generations. To harm such a creature is very bad luck.”

  “But it’s a polar bear. They’re all white. White all over. You can’t get more white. My teeth aren’t that white. How can you possibly know it’s an albino?”

  “You get up close and look in his eyes. Wanta go have a look? I just know they’re pink.”

  “Uh, no, I think I’ll pass. But I’ve got to get authorization to tranquilize that bear. The disappearance of someone like Robert St. Pierre can’t be made to go away.”

  And so they trekked back to town. Another day lost.

  Saturday morning, Beige got the phone call that ended the madness. The details, as usual, were depressingly banal. Shirley finally emerged from hiding. She’d been holed up in a hotel room in Niagara Falls, Ontario playing Texas Hold’em poker on the Internet for the past week. Under a false name, she avoided all contact with the outside world until her resolve ran out and a maid identified her. Choosing the Honeymoon Capital of the World for refuge had been a cruel joke.

  The local police soon got the whole story. The source of her split-up with St. Pierre was her career. A competing public relations firm had offered her a huge increase in status and salary if she would abandon ship and come over to their side. There was only one catch. She would have to guarantee Robert St. Pierre and his new sponsorship potential would come with her.

  Robert had waffled. First he said yes, then he said no, then he imposed his own conditional acceptance. She must get anger management counseling. Of course, this set off the worst fight ever between them. She stormed out, leaving no word of where she was going. Later, when she was reported missing, he knew he’d be caught in a net of suspicion and he panicked.

  So there was no victim. Unless, of course, one counted the St. Pierre brisket the giant polar bear had possibly eaten back on the ice floe. But that was more of an unfortunate accident.

  Beige checked out of the motel. The clerk at the front desk, who was also Frostbite’s Mayor, was surprised at Beige’s early departure. When Beige filled him in on the story, however, the Mayor was able to supply the last missing piece. St. Pierre was alive and well and had spent a couple of nights in an ice fishing shack the Mayor owned on Cooked Goose Bay. Beige was relieved to hear it. Most everyone in town knew the truth. The community conspired to protect their guy.

  Now back in his Toronto home, Beige turned to his white plastic carry-all container. This was a side of his life he kept hidden from everybody. The official case was closed. But now his real work would begin. He’d go through all his notes and make a record of his observations. Beige dreamed of being a writer. He knew he had the perfect source of background material. His factual caseload would make for fascinating narrative. You couldn’t make this stuff up. He knew what he’d call this latest chapter, “The Mysterious Disappearance of the Athlete’s Supporter.”

  One Thousand Years of Baked Goods

  March 9, 2010

  The following are the journal entries of Mr. Justin Smythe, a gentleman hobby farmer living outside the lovely theatre community of Stratford, Ontario where a widely-known Shakespearean festival is held each year. Mr. Smythe’s life proceeds quietly as he tends his cattle and occasionally takes walks in 30 acres he has set aside on his property for Christmas tree cultivation. Evergreens are the best shelter from the sun to spur on the growth of mushrooms, which are harvested in October.

  OCTOBER 10, 2000: I hate mushroom pickers. They come onto the property and create nothing but trouble. They litter. They toss away beer cans and luncheon wrap. They pop up in unexpected places. Often they discard matches and cigarette butts, posing a fire hazard. Some even walk around with rifles taking shots at imaginary targets, scaring the bejeepers out of me. They don’t realize I’m working on the property. They tear down “No Trespassing” signs faster than I can put them up. But today, I met a couple who were a complete surprise to me.

  Mushroom pickers are usually of mid-European birth, with thick accents. They’re the only ones who know what they’re doing. Mushrooms can be dangerous. Eat the wrong ones and they’ll kill you. I sure don’t know anything about them, but apparently my property is ideal for their propagation. Every year around this time I have to fend off unwelcome visitors by the car-load.

  Geo
rge and Hannah are completely the opposite of what I’m used to encountering. They’re young, attractive and articulate. I think they might be brother and sister. They look so similar and they don’t interact like husband and wife. They own a shop in town and serve baked goods as well as light meals to tourists and theatre-goers attending the main festival and other events.

  They asked if I would be willing to let them grow mushrooms at the farm. I couldn’t resist. They were so charming. They offered to pay for the privilege, but I said there was no need. It will be nice to see them around from time to time. Hopefully we can get together and chat some more.

  OCTOBER 15, 2001: I stopped in at George and Hannah’s bakery shop today to see how they’re doing. It’s a really cute establishment named Tarts and Torts, with gingerbread trimming on the outside and delicious baked goods on the inside. But that’s not what really got my attention. It was the pies. Hannah is a genius. I like all varieties – peach, coconut, lemon meringue, apple, cherry, pumpkin, strawberry, rhubarb. I don’t even have a favorite. They’re all special.

  The fruity insides were so succulent. That’s only half the story. The pastry is superb. Talk about light and flaky. Hannah’s pies melt in your mouth. I tried three varieties and could barely resist a fourth. Eating any more would have been uncouth. It was after the lunch hour rush and George and Hannah were able to sit with me for a while. I learned some more about them. I was right. They are brother and sister. Apparently their family has a long and illustrious history of owning bakery shops. They’ll tell me more about it next time, they swear. I’ll have to be content for now.

  OCTOBER 8 2002: George and Hannah came by today. They’ve just been out in the fields gathering in their latest crop. Strangely, I don’t even know where they’ve located their plot. Mushrooms can normally be hard to spot. You might have to turn over a fallen log or two. But theirs seem to be well-nigh invisible. I suppose that’s good. If I can’t see them, neither can the nuisance mushroom-pickers who keep sneaking back onto the farm, despite my best efforts.

  Hannah brought the ingredients to cook a meal here. It was delicious. She says she wants me to feel comfortable eating her special recipes. After dinner, George started to talk some more about their family history. It seems branches of their family happened to be in the right place at the right time going way back. There were hints of ancestors serving cake and crumpets to the likes of Shakespeare. This is too delightful to leave alone. I’ll ask more next time.

  OCTOBER 15, 2003: Hannah and George brought their traveling feast to my home again tonight. What an incredible evening. The two of them can trace their history back a thousand years to the Black Forest in Germany. Jumping ahead several generations, there was service with the courts of the French kings, Louis fourteenth through sixteenth. When the revolution came in the second half of the 1700s, and most of the nobility of France had their heads chopped off, thousands of servants, couriers and cooks were thrown out of work. To earn money to feed themselves, royalist chefs opened restaurants in Paris. Ever since, French cooking has been at the forefront of great cuisine. Nevertheless, George and Hannah’s ancestors de-camped to England, which proved to be a wise move.

  I listen to the two of them with rapt attention. They both get so caught up in what they are saying it’s almost as if they were actually there. I can hardly wait to hear the next instalment.

  OCTOBER 9, 2005: Apparently George and Hannah’s family wasn’t always on the right side of the law. They had more than their share of black sheep. After locating to England, there were long-ago great-great aunts and uncles who chopped people up and served the body parts in meat pies. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sweeney Todd apprenticed to some of those skeletons in the closet.

  George had some extra insight into this matter. He said sometimes the septic system can leach into the gene pool. With the passage of time and provided with extra forbearance and forgiveness by the rest of society, offspring can land on their feet again if they strive hard.

  OCTOBER 20, 2006: I was invited to dinner by my best friends again yesterday. The meal was outstanding. Dessert was ambrosia. George even opened the liqueur cabinet. Hot blueberry pie topped with vanilla ice cream followed by Columbian coffee and the sweetly tart taste of Grand Marnier. Then Frangelica, Kahlua and Chambord, one tiny shot after another, accumulating to a dizzying but delirious crescendo. They danced over the palate with the taste of hazelnut, cocoa, oranges and black raspberries. Slipping into a pleasurable haze, I summoned the nerve to ask George and Hannah a rather personal question about their parents. How did they meet?

  George told me their father had signed up for an art class in order to improve his skill at decorating wedding cakes. Much to his surprise and initial consternation, he found himself in a life drawing class. The nude model at the room’s center was a gorgeous young woman he would eventually woo and make his wife. That was their mother. Hannah listened to this story with an amused look in her eyes. At the conclusion, she turned to me and said, “Don’t you believe a word of it.” I don’t know what to think, nor do I really care. The evening crossed over into magical.

  OCTOBER 10, 2007: After giving thanks once again for Hannah’s cooking skills, I prevailed on the two of them to tell me some more about their relatives’ histories. Hannah volunteered some of the names that had gone along with the various establishments over the years. When the family first came to North America, they set up shop in Austin Texas. A La Mode at the Alamo was less than totally successful, since the ethnic population was largely Spanish rather than French. Then another branch of the family, locating next to a burlesque theatre in New York, chose the name Cupcakes and Muffins for their operation. That drew some stares from passers-by.

  OCTOBER 15, 2008: I love this story. I know I’m living vicariously through George and Hannah, but who wouldn’t? Back in the tie-dyed hippie days of free love in the 1960s, George and Hannah’s grandparents owned a coffee shop in San Francisco. It was frequented by the likes of Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsberg. The phrase “flower power” was a later creation. In earlier times, it was Flour Power, based on the name of the neighborhood’s most successful cafe.

  Still, I can’t get over the feeling George and Hannah are intimately acquainted with the times they are describing. They both get far-away looks in their eyes and it’s as if I am no longer in the room with them. They positively glow before returning to the present.

  NOVEMBER 1, 2010: I’m going to ask them when they come over tonight. I can’t put this off any longer. It’s so incredible and amazing. I think I know their secret. Neither of them has aged at all over the past ten years. This isn’t a matter of two exceptional people with good bone structures growing older gracefully. When you look at them closely, they really haven’t altered.

  ~~

  After scanning the key sections of Justin Smythe’s diary, George tossed it into his satchel. He’d deal with it later at a more convenient time, by burning it or running the pages through a shredder or making sure it was deeply buried somewhere. He knew the routine by now.

  In fact, he and Hannah had been dealing with this problem for centuries. Ever since the day their father died. Poppa had been killed in a freak logging accident. He was a woodsman and one of his arboreal victims, in a non-sentient but nevertheless effective gesture of payback, fell on him.

  Soon after, George and Hannah returned to the log cabin deep in the woods. What was most surprising was that much of the inventory was still there. The vicious elderly lady who had formerly owned the place may have been long dead, but many of the materials she used in her cooking were secure and well sealed. This is what launched them on their careers.

  It was the garden out back that was most astonishing. In profuse abundance was a type of mushroom they had never seen before. Bulbous, spongy and spore-filled, its properties were at first a mystery. After considerable experimentation, however, astonishing results came to light. For one thing, with care, this particular form of morel could change color, alternati
ng from ebony to almost clear seemingly dependent on the mood of its gardener. Furthermore, once attached to a certain caregiver, it could disguise itself from everyone else.

  Its edible properties varied greatly. Dried out, shaved and sprinkled lightly on flour, for example, it would put a sparkling gleam in the eye of anyone who ate it. In this form, George and Hannah had found it most useful to serve to actors and actresses. Cooked and mixed with cream or broth in soup or stew, it radiated suffusing warmth that provided a heady feeling of well-being.