Show Time by Suzanne Trauth Page A

eighteen-ninety-eight, when a sea captain had given up his fishing business and settled in Etonville, naming the eatery after his whaling vessel. According to town lore, the poor guy had lost his ship in a poker game and been forced to resort to the life of a landlubber by his furious wife. Maybe to spite her, or because he was still in love with the fishing business, the captain had constructed the interior to remind him of his life upon the sea: two beams in the middle of the room resembled the masts on a whaler, the floor was laid with planking, and a figurehead of a woman’s bust soared majestically over the entrance. Henry had kept the nautical theme when he’d purchased the restaurant in 2002. So now there were life preservers on the walls, linked by ropes and knots, and photographs of sailing ships from the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.
    â€œMaybe we need to have some photos of dishes.”
    â€œYeah, and people eating,” he added enthusiastically. “And a menu and maybe, like, the times you’re open.” He stopped to inhale. “And the address and phone number for reservations.”
    â€œYou really know what you’re doing, Pauli.”
    He grinned bashfully. “I guess.”
    He was cute in a seventeen-year-old nerdy fashion; but he’d need some work if he was going to find a date for the prom, which was Carol’s primary mission.
    Pauli pulled up various restaurant websites while I kept one eye on the dining room and made notes of things I thought we could use for the Windjammer website.
    â€œUh . . . Mrs. . . . uh . . . Dodie, what do you think of this one?” He’d located the site for a very high-end New York restaurant, all muted lighting, intimate booths, and exotic flowers.
    We both inspected the interior of the Windjammer. “Well, maybe,” I said trying to be encouraging. “But it seems a bit too fancy.”
    Pauli nodded wisely and clicked a few keys. “Here’s something more local.” Up popped La Famiglia.
    Pretty perceptive kid , I thought. I studied the home page. I’d stood at the cash register once, waiting for my take-out garlic knots. But it had been late afternoon and the place had been mostly empty. The website featured a photo that showed stucco and brick walls, an open wine rack, a central oven and cooking area, and a parquet tile floor. The dozen café tables were full.
    â€œDodie,” Henry bellowed, halfway out the kitchen door. “What happened to the flounder?”
    Perfect timing. “Henry, I want you to meet Pauli. He’s the son of a friend and a real computer whiz.”
    â€œHi,” he said grudgingly. “We really need to finalize the menu. . . .”
    â€œTake a look at this,” I said and turned the laptop around.
    Henry’s eyes widened. “La Famiglia?”
    â€œPauli’s got plans for a Windjammer website that will knock your socks off.”
    Henry seemed interested. “Okay, but right now we’ve got work to do.”
    â€œI can put some stuff together and get back to you,” Pauli said quickly.
    â€œSounds like a plan. How about it Henry?”
    He nodded. “Make sure you give me an idea of what it will cost.”
    â€œYes, sir. Thanks.” He shut his laptop, jammed it into his backpack, and slid off the stool. “I’d better be getting home.”
    I had a sudden urge to brush his forehead clear of that brown hank of hair. “Say hello to your mom for me,” I said, and followed Henry into the kitchen.
    * * *
    Gillian had finished the set up for dinner, Benny had restocked the bar, and a few customers had begun to trickle in as I settled into my back booth. I was fantasizing about letting Benny close up and heading home for a glass of wine, a hot bath, and a Cindy Collins mystery. But Cindy Collins reminded me that Jerome had offered to lend me her latest book. I kept replaying last night’s drive by his house,