A Crouton Murder (2 page)

He asked for identification and told me I wasn’t allowed in. Only family could visit. I nodded, gave BettyJo’s arm a squeeze, and said I’d be right here, awaiting her return.

Her angry glare directed at the cop, BettyJo said she’d be back directly. I leaned against the wall on the left side of the doorway. The cop took up the right. He didn’t try passing the time away with idle chitchat, nor did I.

Visitors and staff passed by, glanced at me and then at the cop, curiosity on their faces. I didn’t speak or smile. I just waited. Before long, BettyJo joined me and we left.

“He’ll be fine. His throat is sore from where they stuck the tube down his throat, other than that, he’s pretty chipper for someone in his circumstances,” BettyJo remarked.

We walked across the hospital grounds. The car park was jammed with vehicles ranging from jalopies to luxury cars. My small car was nestled among the low end of the money chain, as was BettyJo’s. I’d turned to her when Ezra’s hurried figure caught my eye. He’d scanned the parking lot, and then rushed across a service road, meant for rescues, before he scooted through a private hospital entrance.

“How much do you know about Ezra and Corinda?” I asked while we skipped down a flight of stone steps into the parking area.

“Corinda’s worked for Dad for years. Ezra’s been around since I was a teenager. He and Dad often go on holidays together. Ezra likes to fish, my father, well, not so much, but he goes anyway. I think it’s his chance to kick back and chill. Why?”

“Ezra couldn’t get out of your shop fast enough. When he and Corinda crossed the street, she said something. He grabbed her arm and pushed her toward his car. I thought his actions were strange. He could have been stressed over what happened, though.” I left out that I’d just seen him scurrying into the hospital.

“That must be it. Ezra’s upset over Dad.”

“See you back at the shop?” I asked.

She agreed and we parted ways. I drove across the bridge toward India Point and veered toward the row of shops where a group of us lived and worked. Mrs. Peterson, my former landlady, had bequeathed the building and its shops to her daughter. Since her mother had been murdered by that very same daughter, the court hadn’t stripped her of ownership, but had given the building’s operation over to an attorney to handle while Cindy was doing time. I pictured the pretty young woman as ancient, with witchy gray hair, hunched over a walker as she tottered from the prison, a ragged shawl draped over boney shoulders and her toothless face grim when she finally got out. Good grief, my imagination had taken a severe left. I shook my head and sighed.

The attorney never came around, but left our rent collection up to his secretary. If repairs needed to be done, they were addressed immediately. A sweet change from dealing with Mrs. Peterson.

Traffic was next to none in this part of town once office and shop hours had ceased for the day. My bakery, The Hole in the Wall, was next to BettyJo’s shop, with an unrented shop on the corner. The long building filled one side of the block on Wickendon Street, a historical and famous neighborhood. South Main and Benefit Streets led off from our string of shops, which brought business both ways.

I slipped into a parking space behind the row of shops and saw BettyJo drive in and park. She walked toward me, her expression one of worry. I suddenly felt the responsibility of an oncoming investigation settle on my shoulders. It seemed not long ago all of us tenants were faced with this sort of encumbrance. I heaved a hearty sigh and slipped my arm through BettyJo’s.

“Let’s get a sandwich from Mack & Mutt’s,” I suggested. “I’m famished and had to throw out dinner on orders from Bailey. He took the salad to be analyzed and said I was a suspect. Imagine? I’ve been back from Scotland for a week and we’ve already been implicated in poisoning your father? Sheesh!”

Her eyes on me, BettyJo missed a step and tripped up the back stairs leading to the row of businesses. I grasped her arm, hauled her upright, and exclaimed, “You did realize that implication, didn’t you?”

Her slight shrug baffled me. Had she or hadn’t she figured that out?

“Just because my father had a reaction to the salad doesn’t mean either of us poisoned him. I had time to think while I waited for you to arrive at the hospital. It occurred to me that we were absent from the room off and on while everyone got seated. Before that, the salad sat on the table and could have been fiddled with while they had wine and chitchatted. I brought dinner down from my apartment and you went for bread, which also offered a window of opportunity. Do you think Ezra or Corinda dropped poison in the salad?”

It was my turn to shrug. The whole thing didn’t make sense to me. Who was the intended target? Me, BettyJo, or one of the five others? We would all have likely eaten the salad, so which one of us was the killer after? I couldn’t picture George or Helena doing such a thing, but then I’d never have suspected Mrs. Peterson’s killer, either.

“Good question,” I said. “For all we know, any one of us could have been targeted by one of the others. We should look into Corinda and Ezra. Dig up whatever we can find out about them and go from there. Until we have a plan, let’s eat and talk about something less depressing than attempted murder. I think it’s safe to say our fellow renters weren’t part of it, though if we don’t find anything of use on your father’s friends, we’ll have to look at Helena and George.”

“Sound ideas, both of them. Let’s talk about your trip to Scotland while we eat.”

We strolled into the pizzeria, where Carl Mack stood behind the counter, his pen poised over an order pad. He grinned and said, “Boy, it’s been really dull around here while you were gone, Melina. Glad you’re back.” He grinned and then said to BettyJo, “Sorry to hear about your father. You must have been scared out of your mind.”

She nodded, ordered a spinach calzone, and I ordered a pizza for one. When he’d disappeared into the kitchen, we settled at a corner table, which offered a view of both ends of Wickendon Street. I noticed BettyJo glance up and down the street off and on while we waited. I wondered what she was looking for, but didn’t ask.

Carl brought our meals over and took a seat opposite us. “How was Scotland, Melina? Did you get married while you were there?”

I’d recently returned from visiting Scotland with my grandmother, Seanmhair (pronounced shen-u-ver). I’d met Aidan Sinclair, a handsome Scot, when he took a bread making class from me. The time we’d spent together had turned to friendship and a bit more, which culminated in an invitation to visit his home in the Highlands. With a snort, I said, “Hardly. Seanmhair was in her glory and didn’t want to leave. I had a good time, loved the hospitality shown us by Aidan and his household staff, but thoughts of getting my business back up and running worried me. Aidan is a great host, his family tree is impressive, and the home he lives in is amazing.” I picked a slice of pizza off the plate and gobbled it up.

“Did Aidan stay in Scotland, or did he return to the States with you?”

“He had business at home, so we came back alone. How have you two been doing since Kristina was arrested?” I murmured softly. Carl’s business partner, Bill Mutton, had been dating Kristina when she was found to be involved in Mrs. Peterson’s death.

“Bill moped around for a while, mostly because he was so shocked over Kristina’s actions. He seems to be perking up. We’ve been real busy, so that’s kept his mind occupied.” Carl glanced at BettyJo and remarked, “I hear somebody will soon move into the shop next to yours. Do you know what business it’ll be?”

“I don’t know. A few people have looked at it while Melina was away, but no one has signed a lease as yet that I’m aware of. A couple came to check it out today. They were in there with the attorney’s secretary for quite a while.”

“It’s not good for a building like ours to have an empty shop. It points to signs of economic stress and shines a poor light on all of our businesses,” Carl said. “I was hoping George would encourage one of his friends to rent the store. It’s a corner, so it costs more to rent than an inner shop does.”

“It’s a perfect place for just about any enterprise,” I added and finished off another slice of pizza.

We’d nearly finished eating when Detective Porter Anderson strode through the door. He glanced at me, nodded, and then read the overhead menu. Carl left us and took his place behind the counter. After Porter ordered, he came toward us, taking in the shop and us in one sharp look. His gray-eyed stare, all serious and nerve wracking, rested on me. I pushed a chair out for him and finished my pizza before his questions caused me to lose my appetite.

“Evening, ladies,” Porter greeted us softly.

I chewed a mouthful of pizza and dipped my head in acknowledgment of his arrival. BettyJo leaned back in her chair and gawked at him. Once I’d swallowed, I asked, “What brings you to the neighborhood, Porter?” As if I didn’t know.

“I’ve been assigned the investigation into your father’s poisoning, BettyJo.” He turned that light-eyed gaze on me and continued, “According to Bailey, you’re my main suspect. I have other ideas, but would like to talk to you privately anyway, Melina.”

“Can it wait until morning? I’m beat, and I have to prepare dough for tomorrow,” I griped.

“I’ll be brief. I’ll meet you at the bakery after I’ve eaten, how’s that?”

BettyJo jumped into the conversation. “Should I be there, too?”

“No, I’ll see you afterward,” he answered with a slight smile.

It occurred to me that he might think BettyJo and I were partners in crime. Good grief, just what I didn’t need was another law enforcement issue. I agreed to his request, dumped a couple of leftover pizza crusts into the bin near the table, and stacked the plate on the tray atop others. I sauntered from the pizzeria just as Carl slid a calzone in front of Porter. BettyJo hurried to catch up once I’d hit the sidewalk.

“He’s adorable, isn’t he? He has eyes for you, Melina,” BettyJo said with a wide grin. “After all, you’re curvaceous, pretty, and smart, and to top it off, you’re a wicked good cook. Just what any guy would want in a woman.”

“The only thing he has for me is a pair of handcuffs,” I retorted.

With a giggle, she murmured, “That could be fun.”

Open-mouthed, I gawked at her and then laughed at her expression. Had she just said what I thought she said? “You’re not into that, are you?” I asked with a snicker.

“No, but think of him in his birthday suit, all sweaty and . . .”

“Wait, wait, don’t even go there,” I said with a grin and shook my head. “The things that pop out of your mouth sometimes leave me speechless. Holy shit, woman, do you need to get laid or what?”

Her laughter ricocheted off the walls as we entered my bakery. I glanced at the clock, quickly figured the time needed to create and work the bread dough, and then turned to BettyJo.

She idly wandered the two rooms that made up the bakery store-front and my work area, and then peered out the front windows, and viewed the street in both directions as she had done from Mack & Mutt’s earlier.

My shop had been a wreck after having been torn apart by two angry criminals. After giving instructions to the builder, I’d taken a few weeks off to gather my senses and visited Aidan in Scotland. Spending time with the man of my dreams had been the topping on my cake. Seanmhair came along with me since our family hails from Scotland. To my amusement, and sometimes astonishment, I found our lineage filled with Scottish lore.

“Are you looking for someone out there?” I asked pointing to the front window as BettyJo strolled back into the kitchen.

“Uh, no. I thought I recognized someone, is all.” BettyJo glanced away from me and asked, “The builder did a great job, didn’t he?”

I watched her, wondering why she’d turned to this new subject rather than discuss what was truly on her mind. I agreed on the builder’s splendid work, and his crew of painters had followed my instructions to the letter. I’d mapped out exactly what I wanted before I’d left. Aidan had also added his two cents worth of advice. Memories of his kindness and consideration led to thoughts of heather laden fields, walks on the moors, warm bread from his cook’s kitchen with hearty stews eaten near a blazing, cavernous fireplace. We’d become closer during my stay, though Aidan tended to blow hot and cold, which left me to wonder if he was interested in a serious relationship. Our lips had met on more than one occasion that always seemed to be interrupted by someone or other, and left me wanting more from him.

“Tell me, what has you so bothered?” I asked and tucked my own thoughts away as I stacked ingredients on two stainless steel work tables.

Hedging, she asked, “We’re in serious trouble, aren’t we?”

I glanced up and then measured flour into the huge floor mixer. “You could say that. I’m not jumping to conclusions just yet, though. Why don’t we wait and see what Detective Anderson wants to know?”

“You’re right, of course. No sense in getting ahead of ourselves.” She glanced at her watch, made the rounds of the two rooms once again, and then walked toward the rear door. “I’ll be at my place whenever he’s ready to come over. I’ll call you after he leaves, so we can compare notes.”

I chuckled and said that worked for me. When she’d closed the door, I turned to the job of making bread dough. I worked on dough for baguettes, then mixed wheat batard dough, both of which are in the French bread family and popular with my customers. I’d begun a mix for black Russian pumpernickel when a light tap came at my back door. Porter Anderson stepped inside.

“Wow, you’ve been busy while I had supper,” he said with a disarming grin.

I set the machine timer, flipped the mixer on, and then sat across from him at a clean table near the wall. He’d more than likely interviewed Bill and Carl while he ate. I was sure of it.

I ignored his light banter and asked, “What would you like to know, Detective?”

His expression grew serious as he stared into my eyes. “To be honest, Melina, I never thought I’d be back here so soon, or ever for that matter. I take no pleasure in having to investigate you or BettyJo over this incident.” He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve checked into BettyJo’s relationship with her father. They don’t get along very well, do they?” He’d flipped open the notebook it seemed every cop I met was determined to carry. Maybe it was part of the rules or they had poor memories, hard to say.