A Few Minutes Past Midnight by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

arms.
    “I’ll get the potato surprise,” she said and departed.
    Bidwell had leaned over to say something to Emma Simcox.
    “I will get back to the phone after dinner,” Gunther offered softly.
    “I don’t think we’re going to find her in the phone book,” I said.
    “But we are not certain,” Gunther said.
    The cabbage leaves and hash smelled good, and the huge platter of potato surprise was steaming as Mrs. Plaut carried it in. It had little chunks of something dark in the mountain of mashed potatoes.
    “What are those?” Bidwell asked, pointing at the potatoes.
    “The surprise,” Mrs. Plaut said with a smile. “Dig in and remember the starving Armenians.”
    Mrs. Plaut sat at her regular spot at the end of the table and handed Emma a large serving spoon.
    “Our search for Fiona Sullivan is not over,” Gunther said, boldly reaching for the potato surprise.
    “I hear she is getting married,” said Mrs. Plaut, watching the platter of cabbage rolls go round the table and Gunther spoon a modest serving of potato surprise onto his plate.
    “Who?” asked Emma.
    “Fiona Sullivan,” said Mrs. Plaut.
    I was holding the platter of cabbage leaves in my hand. Gunther had his first forkful of potato surprise almost to his lips. We looked at each other and then at Mrs. Plaut.
    “The surprise is Spam,” she said, opening her napkin and putting it in her lap. “Sugar-browned Spam.”

CHAPTER
    4
     
    “F IONA S ULLIVAN ?” I repeated.
    “Getting married is what I heard,” Mrs. Plaut said, holding out two hands to take the platter of cabbage leaves.
    “You know her?”
    “Who?” asked Bidwell.
    “Fiona Sullivan,” Mrs. Plaut repeated. “Takes in boarders, too. Used to be in the RKO makeup department, and other places too. Not friendly, but decent enough in appearance.”
    “Where?” I asked.
    “Her face, her posture. Some say she’s attractive.”
    “No, where’s her boardinghouse?”
    “Fourteenth,” she said. “Fourteenth Place, not Street.”
    “You have her address?” Gunther asked.
    “Of course,” said Mrs. Plaut. “You like the surprise?”
    “What?”
    “Potato surprise,” she said.
    “Delicious,” said Bidwell, who managed amazingly well with one arm.
    “Very satisfying,” I said.
    Mrs. Plaut looked pleased, got up while we ate, disappeared into the other room where Westinghouse went crazy, and returned with a pile of papers, which she plopped next to my plate.
    I knew what it was.
    “Just leave it in my room. I’ll read it tonight,” I said.
    “Now, I’ll bring everyone a cup of cocoa and vitamin pie,” Mrs. Plaut answered, pointing to the top of the pile of papers. Written in a neat, penciled script was the name, “Fiona Sullivan,” and an address.
    For dessert we had the vitamin pie. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either, but Gunther and I ate it.
    “I’ll make Cousin Cassie’s oatmeal prune cake tomorrow,” Mrs. Plaut said. “Your favorite, Mr. Gunther.”
    Gunther nodded and smiled.
    When we were finished, Gunther and I thanked Mrs. Plaut, said good night to Simcox and Bidwell, and hurried off. The manuscript pages and Fiona Sullivan’s address and phone number were tucked under my arm.
    “Cousin Cassie’s oatmeal prune cake?” I whispered to Gunther as we climbed the stairs. “Your favorite.”
    “I have never heard of this cake before,” he said.
    Emma Simcox followed right behind us and started past us up the stairs.
    “Miss Simcox,” I said, “is Mrs. Plaut really your aunt?”
    Miss Simcox paused and looked at me.
    “Yes,” she said. “By marriage. Aunt Irene has told me that she plans to write about our side of the family in her memoirs.”
    She looked pointedly at the papers under my arm.
    “I await that part of her history with great interest,” I said.
    She moved ahead of us.
    It was a little after six. After I dropped the manuscript pages on the table in my room and put the sugar bowl on top of them so Dash wouldn’t knock them