Page 17 of A Spinster for the Rakish Duke
The three of them stood in front of a squat brick restaurant just a short walk from the office. “The Soup Spoon,” was thinly painted on a worn wooden sign.
“A shame we already ate lunch,” Emma remarked offhandedly but genuinely, which caused both men to turn and look at her quizzically and watch as she proceeded to walk in. Both of them moved to catch up at the same time, Donovan talking to Mr. Herst as he went.
“So, you’ll be able to identify Jenny for us?” Donovan asked in a hushed tone.
“Um, no, I was instructed to deliver the letter to the owner of the business,” Herst said with a pleasant, if sheepish, smile.
“And who is that?” Donovan asked.
Herst pointed to a robust and heavyset man behind the counter, stirring a pot that was big enough to fit Herst inside of it with a wooden spoon as large as Donovan’s forearm.
“That is. He’s Mr. Spoon,” the apprentice whispered.
“That can’t be his real name, can it?” Emma whispered back, but Herst just answered with a shrug.
After a moment passed, Donovan walked up to the counter and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said.
“A moment, sir,” the man responded in a gruff but pleasant voice. “This soup is picky. Got to make sure it doesn’t go wrong. Chowders are funny like that.” The man laughed lightly as if the joke was between him and the soup. Finally, he released the spoon.
“It’s the cream,” he clarified. “Has to mix just right with the heat, or the whole pot is ruined. Cream of eel, today's special. Would you care for a bowl?”
Donovan couldn’t deny the appealing smell that was wafting through the restaurant. “Unfortunately, the business that brings me here isn’t a meal. I’m an investigator, and I was hired to find a missing person. Do you perhaps know Jenny?”
The man cocked an eyebrow at him. “Of course, I know her. Jenny’s my daughter.”
“Ah, I see,” Donovan nodded. “Is she available to answer some questions?”
“You want to talk to my daughter, then you all each have to buy a bowl of soup,” the man said with a satisfied grin.
“Oh,” Donovan said.
“That seems perfectly amicable. I was very curious to try some anyway,” Emma said with a polite and friendly smile.
“As always, the lady is the one with the best head on her shoulders.” The man grinned, and Emma bowed her head to accept the compliment. “My Jenny is my server. When your soup is ready, she can bring it to you. It's after our customers come in for lunch, so she can sit and answer your questions while you eat.”
“Ah, thank you very much,” Donovan said, finding the whole of the interaction rather peculiar. He didn’t like being strong-armed into purchasing soup, but at least it smelled good.
The young woman who brought them their soup was likely younger than Emma but older than Mr. Herst. She seemed put off by the three of them. After she placed their bowls, she took the remaining fourth seat and sat looking at them crossly. She had a bit of her father’s stocky build and muscle and a bit of curve to her frame with wild red hair that hung past her shoulders.
“I presume you’re Miss Spoon?” Donovan asked as pleasantly as he could opposite the cross look.
“Call me Jenny. And I don’t know nothing about anybody who’s missing, so you can ask me whatever you like, but it won’t get you anywhere,” she told them.
“Well as long as you don’t mind if we ask,” Donovan continued, not wanting to let her put him off if he was on the right track. “My friend here, Miss Bradford, her brother is missing, and we were hoping you could help us find him.”
Jenny’s face softened a little. “Did you say Bradford?”
Emma nodded. “I’m Emma Bradford, and my brother Benjamin Bradford has been missing for a few days now.”
Jenny put her hand to her face, covering the small shocked “o” of her mouth. “Benny is missing? Oh no! I wondered why he hadn’t shown up for a few days. I was going to give him such a talking to about not writing or nothing. And nobody even knows where he is,” she said worriedly.
This was not the reaction Donovan was expecting. Truth be told, he found it a bit frustrating, especially since Jenny’s reaction seemed entirely genuine.
“I take it you were close with Mr. Bradford.”
“Well, o’course,” she said with a toothy smile. “He is my sweetheart. Use to come here and talk me up something fierce. Not like every other lug who eats here and speaks in grunts. Oh, that man tells me the sweetest things. I have a whole stack of poems he wrote me,” she said, clearly proud of what she brought out in Benjamin.
“Really?” Emma asked shocked. “I’ve never thought Benjamin had a creative bone in his body. But he writes you poems? I would love to read one,” Emma said, a little smile forming on her face.
