Chicken Pesto Murder: Book 5 in The Darling Deli Series (3 page)

The Town Hall’s basement was one of the most popular places for events in Maple Creek. It had held school dances, sweet-sixteens, even talent competitions. Moira had been there a few times over the years, and was always impressed by how nice the space was. There was a bar area, a dance floor, and a small room for simple food preparation. Tonight the decorations were simple: a handmade banner reading
Thank You for Your Service
hung from the ceiling, and a pair of blue balloons were tied to each table. A few people were already milling around, chatting with each other or signing the guest book. Detective Jefferson greeted her just inside the door, stepping quickly to the side to hold it open for her as she trailed behind Candice.

“I’m glad you got here early; the sandwiches can just go on the table. Feel free to help yourself to the drinks or any of the snacks. The cake we’re saving for later,” he said.

“Thanks. Everything looks amazing.” She looked around the room again, touched that so many people had turned up just to wish the older detective a happy retirement. “I wanted to say hi to Detective Fitzgerald, but I don’t see him,” she said after a moment. “Where is he?”

“He hasn’t arrived yet.” The young detective frowned. “He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. I hope everything is all right. I know that this is a tough milestone for him. He lives for his job.”

“I know the feeling.” Moira couldn’t imagine retiring from working at the deli. What would she do with her days? Even in her spare time, she often did things for the deli, such as inventing new soup and sandwich combos, or visiting local farmers markets to find new suppliers for the fresh produce that she needed. Without the deli to focus on, she would likely have nothing better to do than sit around in her pajamas and catch up on all of her favorite shows. Which, she had to admit, did sound tempting on her busiest days.

“I’ll point him in your direction when he shows up,” Jefferson promised. “You can go ahead and drop those sandwiches off, and then enjoy the party.”

The deli owner did as he suggested, pausing only to pour herself a cup of coffee before heading over to sign the guest book. She wrote,
Thank you for all you’ve done—Moira,
and then tapped the pen against her lower lip, not sure if she should add more. The older detective had helped to solve a couple of the cases that she had been dragged into this past year, and she honestly didn’t know where she would be right now if it wasn’t for him. She decided to leave her note as it was; simple and to the point. He would surely recognize her name, and she could always thank him in person when he got here.

“Here you are. How’s the party?” Moira turned around to find David standing a few feet behind her. He was holding his right arm gingerly, wincing slightly as he moved it to reach for the pen.

“The party would be better if the guest of honor were here, but it’s still nice. Are you injured?” she said, unable to keep the concern out of her voice.

“Don’t worry—it’s nothing major. Since the weather is so nice, I took my bike out for the first time this year. Hit an unexpected patch of loose gravel, and fell on my shoulder.” He shrugged, flinched, and then grinned ruefully. “It’ll heal up fine, and it’s a good reminder that I need to get back into shape.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t worse; Candice broke her arm riding a bike when she was younger.” The deli owner laughed ruefully. “I don’t even remember the last time I rode a bicycle. I think mine is gathering rust in the back of my garage.”

“Maybe we can ride together when the weather is nicer.” He scribbled his signature on the guest book, and then straightened up and looked around. “Did you just say that Fitzgerald isn’t here?”

“Not unless he just arrived. Jefferson told me when I got here that he hasn’t shown up yet,” Moira said.

“Odd.” David’s forehead wrinkled into a frown for a second as he looked around.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Did you ever find your wallet?” she asked.

“No.” He sighed. “Luckily it didn’t have much cash in it, and I already canceled my cards.” He shrugged, less bothered by the missing wallet than she would have been. “It’s annoying, but I already got replacements. Where did you get that coffee? It smells delicious.”

The party carried on, sans the guest of honor, for a good half hour before Moira saw detective Jefferson pull a young officer out of the crowd and drag him over to a secluded corner near her. She tried not to eavesdrop, but failed miserably. When she heard Jefferson tell the young man to go to Fitzgerald’s house and see what was taking him so long, the first tendrils of real concern unfurled in her stomach. What if something bad had happened to the older man? She didn’t know him well, but he didn’t seem like the type to be late for his own party. Biting her lip, she stood up and looked around for David, hoping to ask him if he thought that there was any reason that she should be worried. She nearly bumped into a balding man about her age, who was watching the corner where Detective Jefferson was standing with an odd expression.

“Sorry, excuse me,” she said quickly. He glanced over at her for a split second, during which she noticed pale gray eyes and an unusual tattoo peeking out from his collar.

“’S’alright,” he mumbled, looking away from her again just as quickly. Trying to ignore the man’s unpleasant smell of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes, she looked around the room again, hoping to see David.

Instead of finding the tall, dark-haired private investigator, her gaze landed on another familiar face—that of her friend Martha Washburn. She had known the other woman for years, but their friendship had only really solidified recently, after Martha’s sister’s untimely death. Moira had been the one to find Emilia’s body, which could have put a strain on their blossoming friendship if she hadn’t also been the one who had saved Martha from meeting the same fate. The two women were closer than ever now, though they didn’t get to see each other as much as either of them would have liked.

“I thought you might be here,” Martha said, smiling as she reached out to hug her friend. “I was pretty sure that I recognized your sandwiches.”

“Yep, Candice and I made them,” Moira chuckled. “How are they? We worked all day, but still had to rush to get the last few made.”

“Both of the ones I had were delicious,” the other woman assured her. “I’m positive that you’ve won yourself at least a few more loyal customers this evening.”

Moira opened her mouth to thank her friend, but at that moment a commotion started near the entrance to the hall. A woman screamed and dropped to the floor, to be immediately surrounded by people eager to help. Detective Jefferson was on the phone, looking grim. A young officer was standing next to him, and Moira recognized him as the man that Jefferson had sent to check on Fitzgerald. He looked pale, and even from across the hall, she could see that he was shaking. David was approaching her quickly, and she hurried to meet him, leaving a confused Martha behind.

“What happened?” she asked, fear making her stomach clench.

“Something terrible.” David took a deep breath. “Detective Fitzgerald is dead.”

“Wow, that’s horrible.” Darrin had paused in the middle of scrubbing the counter to listen while Moira told him about the detective’s retirement party the night before. Now he was shaking his head, the rag forgotten. “Why would he do something like that?”

“I don’t know, it just doesn’t make sense,” said Moira. “To serve over thirty years on the force, only to kill himself the night before his last day of work… it just seems so sad. I feel terrible for his wife.”

“Are they sure that it was a suicide?” the young man asked.

“I only know what I overheard the young officer who found him tell Detective Jefferson. His name was Fier, I think. Officer Fier. He said that he found Fitzgerald surrounded by empty bottles of sleeping pills, with a bottle of whiskey in his hand.” She sighed. “I hate to say it, but it really does sound like suicide. I’m sure they’ll have more information in a few days, when the toxicology reports come in, though.”

“I’m sorry you and Candice had to be there, but I’m almost glad that I decided to stay home and work on schoolwork instead of going.” He sighed and picked up the rag again. “You just can’t catch a break, can you, Ms. D?”

Leaving Darrin to finish tidying up before the deli opened, Moira slipped into the kitchen and began to get the ingredients out for the soup and sandwich combo of the day. She began by peeling a few cloves of garlic which she then slid into a pot along with some butter. She turned the heat to just below medium, and then pulled some chicken breasts out of the fridge where they had been defrosting. While the garlic sizzled, she trimmed the fat from the breasts and seasoned them lightly with salt and pepper. They would bake to perfection in the oven while she made the garlic soup, and would be served on toasted Italian bread with a thin spread of fresh pesto and just a squeeze of lemon juice, the perfect complement to the slightly sweet flavor of the roasted garlic in the soup. The combo would be light, yet intensely flavorful, and Moira was eager to see how her customers liked it.

The familiar routine of cooking distracted her from her thoughts of the detective’s death, and helped her to feel better. No matter what else was going on in her life, she always had the deli to keep her focused and calm. It wasn’t until the soup was simmering softly away, the chicken breasts were out of the oven and chilling in the fridge, and a fresh batch of pesto had been made that she took a break from cooking and decided to spend some time up front. She knew that, by now, nearly everyone in town would have heard of the detective’s death, and of course would be wanting to talk about it. She would probably end up repeating her version of events more times than she could count, which she wasn’t looking forward to. She couldn’t avoid her customers forever, though, so, bracing herself, she decided to take over from Darrin at the register and brave the gossip storm alone.

“Welcome to Darling’s DELIcious Delights,” she said, trying not to let her exhaustion show in her voice. “Our special today is garlic soup with a chicken and pesto sandwich.”

“I’ll take a sandwich, no soup. And could I get cheese on it?” the man asked. He looked like he was around thirty, with short spiky hair and a worn leather coat that had seen better days. She thought he looked slightly familiar. Had he been at the retirement party? Or maybe he had been one of the onlookers at the Redwood Grill during David’s argument with Fitzgerald. She wasn’t sure.

“Sure; what kind?” Moira asked. “We’ve got cheddar, swiss, Monterey-”

“Cheddar,” he cut in. “Extra sharp.”

Feeling a bit snubbed, but not letting it show, she poked her head into the kitchen and told Darrin the special order. Then she turned back to the man who was busy looking at, not the food, but the wall of photos and posters that she and her employees had put up a few weeks ago.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked. “A drink, maybe?”

“I’m fine,” he told her without turning around. A moment later, he looked over his shoulder and added, “Was it a fun party?” Moira looked up to see that he was staring at the flyer that gave the information for Fitzgerald’s retirement party. Her stomach dropped. She really should have taken that down the second she got here this morning.

“No,” she replied, walking out from behind the counter to yank the flyer off the wall. “The guest of honor passed away that evening.”

“Oh, how sad.” He looked at his watch and began tapping his foot impatiently. “What happened?”

“They think it was a suicide,” she told him brusquely. It was with relief that she saw Darrin bringing out the man’s food. “Your order’s ready. Thanks for stopping in.”

She was thankful that the next two customers didn’t mention anything about Detective Fitzgerald or the retirement party. They both ordered a cup of soup to go along with their groceries, and left chatting happily together. It was another gorgeous day outside, if a bit chillier than yesterday. Normally such nice spring weather would have put the deli owner in a good mood, but today she just couldn’t shake the bad feeling from the night before. Her temper brightened only slightly when she saw David’s familiar black car pull into the parking lot.

“How are you doing?” he asked as he walked into the store.

“I’ve been better,” Moira admitted. “I just can’t stop thinking about what happened last night.”

“Neither can I.” He paused, examining the selection of cheeses in the display case. His face showed that he was having some sort of internal battle, as if deciding whether to tell her something. After a moment he sighed and walked over to the register. He glanced around to make sure that there was no one in the front room of the deli but them, and then said, “If I tell you something, can you promise not to get yourself involved in whatever is going on?”

“What’s going on?” she asked, attempting to avoid promising anything that she might come to regret.

“Promise,” he insisted.

“I can’t promise anything until you tell me what it is.” She gazed up at him, hoping that he would understand. He sighed and shook his head.

“Fine, but don’t make me regret this.” He took a deep breath. “Detective Fitzgerald didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”

“Oh my goodness, how do you know?” She grabbed the counter as shock rushed through her. Someone had killed the detective on the day he was supposed to retire? Who could do such a thing?

“I stopped in at the Maple Creek police station to get a background check on someone for the case I’m working on,” he told her. “And I overheard the younger detective, Jefferson, talking about it with an officer. He said that Fitzgerald didn’t even have any pills in his stomach, but his body showed signs of suffocation. I’m guessing that they rushed the autopsy on him.”

Moira shuddered, not wanting to think about the gory details. Then she began to think about what the news meant; someone had murdered the detective who had served the town for nearly over forty years. Once this became public news, there would be turmoil. No officer would rest until the murderer was found, and there would likely be a flood of false tips called in to the police station. She understood why David had hesitated to tell her; the police wouldn’t be happy if this information got out before they were ready.