Flipped For Murder

A green-and-white town police car sat idling in one of the diagonal parking spots, its lights reflecting garishly off the grinning stack of pancakes painted in blue and white on the front window. Buck opened the door and stood up. I hurried around the hybrid to greet him.

“Is something wrong? Somebody didn't break into the store, did they?”

“I need to know where you were at this afternoon and evening, Ms. Jordan.”

“Why?”

Jim strode up. “What's going on? Was there an accident?”

“You might say that. Robbie?”

“I was cleaning here from the end of the lunch crowd pretty much until Jim picked me up for dinner at seven.”

“What time did the last customer leave?” Buck asked.

“Around two-thirty. I sent Adele and Phil home at three.”

Buck turned to Jim. “You can vouch for her whereabouts from seven o'clock until now?”

“I can.” Jim frowned. “Tell us what happened.”

Buck let out a mournful sigh. “Stella Rogers's son Roy found her dead in her house tonight.”

“What does her death have to do with me?” I heard my voice rise and swallowed hard.

“She did not die of natural causes,” Buck said.

“Oh, no. That's awful,” I said.

“Do you mean she was murdered?” Jim's voice came out low and slow.

“Yup. And then somebody stuffed a cheesy biscuit in her mouth.”

Buck stared at me.

A cheesy biscuit. One of
my
cheesy biscuits . . .

Flipped for Murder

Maddie Day

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to John Talbot for getting excited about a series set in southern Indiana, and to the Kensington Publishing crew for sending me on this new cozy mystery venture. To Cindy Shultz and Benjamin for renovating the store in Story, Indiana, so long ago and giving me not only the idea seed for this series but also the practice of making whole wheat banana walnut pancakes. To Rick Hofstetter and Jane Ammeson for talking with me about the current Story Inn, on which I roughly modeled the interior of Pans ‘N Pancakes, letting me take as many pictures as I wanted, and for their book,
Images of America: Brown County.

I'm much indebted to Indiana University linguists Robert Botne, Dan Dinnsen, Judy Gierut, Diane Kewley-Port, and Robert Port, friends all, for help with matters of southern Indiana dialect. Any going overboard with colorful phrases is entirely of my own doing. My sister Barbara Bergendorf, a more northern Hoosier, was wonderful company and a source of much local information on my Midwestern research trip during the writing of this book. Officer Garnet Watson helped out with a few questions of police procedure, which I might not always have followed, and Dave DeCaro allowed me to use his blog detail and photograph of the Elite Club mosaic and alarm button.

I cite Maryann Kovalski's vivid and wonderful tale of a dream gone bad,
Frank and Zelda
. My friend, author, and investigative reporter Hank Phillippi Ryan unknowingly gave me the idea for the awful Sunday morning discovery near the end of the book. My son JD Hutchison-Maxwell helped out with cycling knowledge in this book. Thanks, all.

Books like this do not get done without the help of writer friends. Sherry Harris once again ably gave me editorial feedback before I turned in the manuscript. Sherry and the other Wicked Cozy Authors—Jessie Crockett (aka Jessica Estevao), Julie Hennrikus (aka Julianne Holmes), Liz Mugavero (aka Cate Conte), and Barbara Ross—are my lifeboat. Thanks, dears. Longtime mentor and author friend Kate Flora allowed me to spend four glorious solitary days in her Maine cottage as I revised the story. And Sisters in Crime—national, New England chapter, and Guppies—you're the best.

As always, my deep love and grateful thanks to my family. You know who you are.

Readers: a positive review of a book you read goes a long way to helping the author. Please consider posting your opinion on Amazon, Goodreads, Facebook, and elsewhere if you liked my story (and check out my other author names: Edith Maxwell and Tace Baker).

Chapter 1

My heart beat something fierce as the bell on the door jangled. It was make-or-break time. I'd been preparing for this day for weeks. I thought I was ready, but if I slipped up, I'd be in major hot water. Or financial ruin, as the case may be.

My first customer at Pans ‘N Pancakes turned out to be Corrine Beedle, the new mayor of South Lick, Indiana, all five foot eleven and layered flaming hair of her. She sailed through the door like she owned the store. My country store and restaurant, that is. I'd seen her around town during the last month since she'd won the September election, but we hadn't actually met, and paying attention to a local race had been below the bottom of my infinitely long to-do list.

Her unpleasant assistant, whom I had met many times, followed, looking slightly disgusted with the world as usual. Stella Rogers's puffy upper eyelids and upturned nose gave her an unfortunate resemblance to the porcine genus.

“Welcome to Pans ‘N Pancakes.” Striding toward them, smoothing my blue-and-white striped apron, I hoped my smile wasn't slipping from nervousness. I pulled out a chair at a table for two. “Thank you for coming to our grand opening.”

“Co-rrine Beedle.” The mayor, emphasizing the
“Co”
as much as the
“reen,”
gave me a direct look and a wide smile as she pumped my hand. “Mayor of South Lick.”

I extricated my hand while I still had feeling in it. “Robbie Jordan. Owner, proprietor, and head cook. Well, the only cook, normally.” I gestured to the eight-burner industrial stove and griddle behind the counter, where my aunt Adele was aproned up and tending a dozen sizzling sausages.

“Glad to have a woman business owner in town,” the mayor said, beaming.

“I'm happy to be here. And it's very nice to meet you, Madam Mayor.”

“Oh, hogwash.” She slid into the seat, her bony knee slipping out of the slit in the skirt of her red suit as she crossed one leg over the other. Her black-and-white heels looked about four inches high and a red-shellacked big toenail peeked out of the cutout in each shoe. “Just call me Corrine, honey.”

I'd lived in the hill country of southern Indiana for more than three years now, and I still wasn't used to nearly every female older than my twenty-seven years calling me “honey.”

“Got it, Corrine.” I glanced at her aide, whose position as mayor's assistant seemed to be permanent. Corrine must have inherited Stella, because I'd had to work with her over the past six months when I was applying for my building permit and other permissions so I could fix up the 150-year-old store. I greeted her, too.

“Congratulations on finally getting open, Robbie. It's very quaint.” Stella did not look like she meant any of it—except the dig about how long it had taken me to renovate the place.

Sure, it was quaint. I'd been aiming for an amalgam of what I hoped was everybody's dream, because it sure was mine: a warm, welcoming country store, a cozy breakfast-and-lunch place, and a treasure trove of antique cookware. The last was my particular passion, the vintage cookware lining the walls and several rows of shelves. I'd even hired a guy to restore the potbellied stove, fantasizing that a core group of locals might make this their meeting place, drinking coffee, exchanging yarns, offering advice. I'd worked my fingers off, and my butt, too, to get the place ready for today. My mom hadn't taught me fine cabinetry for nothing. I'd sawed and sanded, measured and nailed, painted and polished, until I could turn the sign on my dream to OPEN.

My friend Phil—short for Philostrate—sauntered up, also clad in a store apron, and laid two menus on Corrine and Stella's table. A bright blue shirt set off his deep brown skin and startling blue eyes. He'd volunteered to help today, which I'd gratefully accepted. I'd hired a waitperson, but she'd quit on me last week before we even opened, so Phil was saving my bacon today, quite literally.

“My name's Phil and I'll be your server this morning,” he announced with a flash of a smile. “Coffee?”

“Good to see you again, Phil. I'd love some.” Corrine smiled right back.

“Hot tea for me,” Stella said with a sniff.

Phil winked at her and whipped a camera out of his apron pocket.
Who winks at Stella?
I'd have to ask him how he knew her.

“Picture of the new proprietor with the new mayor?” he asked.

“Of course.” Corrine stood again and put her arm around my shoulders.

I stood up as tall as I could and the top of my head still didn't even reach the mayor's chin. I slapped a confident smile on my face before he shot us.

“One more in case you blinked,” he said, so we held our pose a little longer.

“You can start one of those series of framed pictures on the wall, Robbie. You with all the celebrities who are sure to pass through,” Corrine said.

“Great idea,” Phil said, heading back toward the kitchen area.

Adele waved at me. “Ready for bacon,” she called.

“Enjoy your meal, ladies. Excuse me.” I hurried to my refurbished walk-in cooler and brought two pounds of bacon to the stove. “How's it going?”

“Fine, of course. Don't you be worrying, Roberta. Everything's running like a well-oiled tractor.” My mom's eldest sister, the only person I allowed to call me by my legal name, wore a blue baseball cap with the store's logo over her short gray pageboy. The logo, which the ever-talented Phil had designed, showed a cast-iron griddle held by a grinning stack of pancakes.

Of course I was worried. I had a lot riding on this venture, which was the result of both saving my chef's salary for three years and inheriting the proceeds from Mom's business after her sudden death last winter at her shop in California. To soothe my nerves, I inhaled the tantalizing aromas of warm maple syrup, savory sausages, cheesy biscuits, and my two kinds of gravy: meat, and vegetarian, made with a secret ingredient.

The cowbell on the door rang again, a bell I'd hung from a little cast-iron hand and muscled forearm. I turned to see a crowd of older women bustle in. Four of them wore hair either snow white or salt-and-pepper, with the rest dyed shades of brownish red. Instead of turning into the restaurant area to their left, they beelined it for the cookware section. They exclaimed and pointed and nudged each other. As two men came in and seated themselves for breakfast, I smiled and moved toward the ladies.

“Good morning. I'm Robbie Jordan, and this is my store. You've found us on our grand-opening day. It looks like you're interested in cookware.”

“Oh, yes,” one of the white-haired women said, nodding. “We're an antiquing club from Indy, but what we really like is cookware.”

“Then we have something in common,” I said. “Browse as much as you'd like.”

“I'm Vera, Vera Skinner,” the woman said. The skin of her lined face looked as soft as brown sugar and her light brown eyes smiled at me. She wore a green-and-blue embroidered jacket with little inset mirrors, which looked like it came straight out of India or Morocco or somewhere. Not that I'd been anywhere near that part of the world myself, but a girl could dream.

“Happy to meet you, Vera. Everything except the top row on the wall is for sale. And we serve a delicious breakfast, too, if you're hungry.”

“We came for cookware and breakfast after we saw the notice in the paper. Plus looking at the leaves, of course.”

“They're pretty spectacular this fall, aren't they?”

Vera agreed as she extended her hand. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Robbie. Hmm. Jordan. I used to know a . . .” Her eyes strayed beyond me. “Bless my soul. Is that Adele? Yoo-hoo, Addie!” she called, waving.

Addie?
I'd never heard my aunt called anything but Adele, Ms. Jordan, Madam Mayor, or Chief. She'd held a couple of influential positions in town, including head of the on-call firefighters.

Adele stuck both hands on her hips and let out a cry that sounded something like, “Sue-EE.”

Vera snorted and headed toward Adele. “We called pigs together as girls,” she added over her shoulder. “Haven't seen her in a couple-three decades.”

Adele had never mentioned Vera, but I liked what I saw of her.
So many older women to learn from, so little time.

I left the ladies to shop and headed toward the door to resume my meet and greet. The place hummed. A middle-aged man with a pained expression on his face and an unsuccessful comb-over pushed through the doorway, followed by a ruddy-complexioned guy of about the same age. The first one looked vaguely familiar.

“Don, just relax.” The second man reached for his friend's arm. “She was elected fair and square. You gotta let it go.”

The other man shrugged off the arm. “It wasn't neither fair or square.”

I opened my mouth to greet them when the one called Don got his eyeballs on Corrine and about blew a gasket. He turned on his heel.

“I don't have to sit here and look at that bi . . . that woman lording it over this town like she was some kind of queen bee,” he sputtered.

“Yes, you do. Peace among us, that's what the Bible says.” The ruddy-faced man nudged Don back toward an open table.

“She cheated me of the election, and you know it. And that Stella helped her.” He spit out Stella's name like it was an insult.

That's where I recognized Don from. I'd seen his face on campaign signs around town, although his thin dark hair had been better arranged in the pictures. I cleared my throat. Ruddy Face whipped his head over to look at me so fast I thought it would go sailing across the room. He cast me the narrow-eyed gaze a tennis champ gives while waiting for a serve from a worthy opponent. Then he plastered on a crooked-tooth smile.

“Ah, Ms. Jordan, the younger. Ed Kowalski, of Kowalski's Country Store.” He tipped his Colts cap, but didn't proffer a hand.

“Welcome to Pans ‘N Pancakes, Ed.” I smiled at the man I now realized was my biggest competitor. I knew Kowalski's did a busy breakfast-and-lunch trade. But it was five miles away in the county seat of Nashville—Nashville, Indiana, that is—and I knew my store and restaurant projected a far different image than his. “And this is?” I gestured at his companion, who still scowled in Corrine's general direction.

The man tore his gaze away from Corrine and Stella. “Don O'Neill. The once and almost mayor of this fair town.” Looking at me, his brown eyes were kind, but they held a worried look around their edges. He surveyed the store and looked back at me with new interest. “Looks nice in here. You did a good job.”

“Thank you. Nice to meet you, Don.”

“I saw all the work going on. Should have stopped in. Who was your carpenter?” he asked.

“Me.” I gave a little laugh. “My mom taught me all I know.”

“Jordan.” Don peered at me, and it turned into a long stare. “Hold on. Are you saying you're Jeanine's girl?”

“I am, her one and only.” I didn't add,
“And she was my only parent.”

“Boy, howdy.” He kept gazing at me with an odd look on his face. “You don't look much like her, except for how short you are.”

I shrugged. “Genes are a funny thing, aren't they?”

“Jeannie and I used to . . . Well, we were friends. How is she, anyway?” Don cocked his head.

I swallowed. No way to sugarcoat it. “My mom passed away last January.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. I truly am.” He reached out and patted my arm. “I run Shamrock Hardware here in town. You need anything, you ask for me personally.”

“Thanks. I've shopped there a number of times. The store is well stocked.” I led them to an empty table and waited until they sat. “Now, what can I get you gentlemen for breakfast today?” I poised my pen above the Pans ‘N Pancakes order pad I held in my other hand.

After I took their order—a stack of whole wheat banana walnut pancakes for Don; biscuits, gravy, and two eggs over easy for Ed—I wove through busy tables to the grill area, passing Corrine's table. Chin in the air, she gave a parade princess wave in Don's direction. I could almost smell the smoke coming out of his ears.