Free Fadeaway Girl by Martha Grimes Page A

at the paprika sprinkled across the cheese sauce and smiled. I had, for once, the perfect solution. “Welsh Rarebit,” I said.
    Miss Bertha looked at me with suspicion, but my face was as clear as a glass bell, and my voice was carefully modulated to match it. I was all sympathy. “White or whole-wheat toast, Miss Bertha?” I fluttered my eyelashes a little.
    â€œWhite. And I want an egg, a hard-boiled egg sliced up on the toast, and then the sauce over everything.”
    â€œComing up!” I said cheerily.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” said my mother, slapping down her chef’s knife, then marching to the refrigerator and hauling out a dish of hard-boiled eggs. “Walter, shell one of these under running water. The shell comes off more easily.”
    Walter loped over and took the egg and did as instructed. I took the ground red pepper from the little shelf of spices and held it behind my back and hummed, watching my mother slice up the egg. Waiting, I turned (shifting the red pepper to my front) and saw through the kitchen window over the distance to the back door on the other wing of the hotel. There was a man walking out and up toward the cocktail garden. I could not make out whether he was old or young.
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œWho?”
    I sighed. “I don’t know or I wouldn’t be asking.” The toast popped about a mile high and my mother slapped it down and started trimming off the crust as she looked off more or less in the direction of the back door. “I don’t see anyone.”
    â€œNot now you don’t. It’s a fellow in shirtsleeves who came out and walked up the back. He’s light-haired.”
    â€œOh, that’s Ralph.” She arranged the sliced egg on the toast and reached for the cheese sauce.
    Oh, that’s Ralph? As if “Ralph” had been her sous chef for years, in addition to managing the books and making martinis. “Well? Who’s Ralph?” I had the small canister of pepper ready, holding it below the counter. I had the paprika in my other hand up on the counter. “I’ve never come across any Ralph around here.”
    â€œRalph Diggs. He calls himself ‘Rafe.’ That’s the way the English pronounce Ralph. To rhyme with ‘safe.’” She poured the cheese sauce and I held up the paprika, showily. “I can’t say I care for him much.”
    Although I was nearly drowning in impatience, I managed to give the cayenne pepper several shakes over the sauce when my mother turned her back. As she turned around I placed the innocent paprika on the counter. “Well, I probably wouldn’t care for him either if I knew who he was. Who is he?”
    â€œMrs. Davidow hired him to carry bags and help out generally.”
    â€œBut Will’s the bag carrier, the bellhop. Will is.” In case she’d forgotten her son and his hotel role.
    â€œWill’s just too busy with his theater work.” She shook a cigarette loose from a pack of Kools and lit it and said, “Take the lunch in before it gets cold.”
    I ignored this. “His theater work? Well, what about my newspaper work? Why don’t you hire someone to take my place in the dining room?”
    â€œYou’re indispensable.” She smiled through the smoke, insincerely.
    I smiled back, insincerely. “Why is anyone needed to carry bags, anyway? We hardly get that many guests, and most of them carry their own bags.”
    â€œWill’s not let off completely. He’s to be hotel concierge. In case guests have questions.”
    Concierge? Will? “The only question he can answer is, ‘where is the Big Garage?’ Where did he come from, this Ralph? We haven’t hired anybody new in years.”
    My mother merely looked grimly at the plate still sitting on the tray. “Lunch.”
    Angrily, I hoisted the tray, marched it into the dining room, and placed the