Flipped For Murder (10 page)

Chapter 17

I stood with Jim on the steps of the church. We'd moved to the side to be out of the way as mourners and curiosity seekers alike emerged through the wide doorway bringing a hint of incense with them. Roy fidgeted next to the priest, shaking hands and speaking with townspeople, but he wasn't making much eye contact and his left hand worried a little pleat of cloth at the side of his pants leg.

Leaning toward Jim, I said in a low voice, “Stella didn't seem to have anyone who loved her besides Roy.” I'd been shocked no one rose to offer fond memories of Stella during the allotted period. “No girlfriend, no cousin, no childhood buddy, no college pal.”

“That's right. There's usually someone, at least.”

“People must have been following the rule ‘If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.'” I shook my head. “At my mom's memorial service, a few dozen insisted on speaking about her.” An image of her service, so different from this one, flooded over me. We'd held it in a modern Unitarian Universalist church built on a bluff above her beloved Pacific, a church where the minister was Mom's best friend, Ann. Half the walls were of glass looking out at the ocean, and the wood inside was a light ash with simple curving lines. Bunches of coastal wildflowers had filled small vases throughout the space. An ocean breeze had spread the fragrance of the gardenias tucked into them, blooms I'd gathered from the five-foot-high gardenia bush outside my childhood bedroom window. The memories made me miss my home state as much as my mom. I liked southern Indiana a lot, but it wasn't California.

Jim interrupted my reverie by saying, “I wish I'd known her.” He smiled at me.

“You would have been a little kid when she left.” I was pretty sure Jim was only a few years older than me. “Uh-oh,” I whispered as Buck ambled toward us, the wind making his hair point skyward.

He greeted both of us. The tall officer wore funeral gray today instead of uniform blue, his suit jacket neatly buttoned.

“What's happening, Buck?” Jim asked before I could speak.

“Nothing I can talk about.” He took up position next to Jim, sliding his hands into his pants pockets.

I watched him check out the crowd, his gaze lingering on first this person, then that. For all Buck's slow country bumpkin manner, I didn't think much slipped past him. His eyes finally landed on me.

“Been staying out of trouble anymore, Robbie?” he asked.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I looked up, way up, at him. “I run a business. Too busy to get into trouble.”

“Heard you were digging in the library archives yesterday.”

“So? It's a public library.” I smiled to try to soften my remark. No point in getting heated up about a police officer asking me questions. “A very nice public library, too.”

“Yup.”

“Have you made any progress in finding Stella's murderer?” I asked.

“We're working on it.”

“Is there something specific you wanted to ask Robbie?” Jim asked with a frown.

“You don't need to go all lawyer on me now, Shermer. I was only making polite conversation.”

Right.
I gave a little laugh, then spied Don walking toward us.
Uh-oh, again.
I was not going to ask him about my father . . . or about the quarry incident. I was not. Not here, not now.

“What a beautiful service it was,” Don said with a mournful air after he'd said hello. “Just beautiful.” He wore a dark suit with a tie featuring little pictures of his hardware store on it, and the wind wasn't being nice to his comb-over.

I looked at him. I wanted to say,
“Seriously?”
But I kept my mouth shut. The service struck me as impersonal, full of institutionalized ritual meaningless to me, and the church had smelled of funeral flowers. Well, who knew? Maybe Don really had found it beautiful. And I supposed the faithful of the church found comfort in the ritual.

“How are you, Don?” Buck asked.

“Just feeling sad about poor Stella, bless her soul.” He shook his head. “And poor Roy, there.” He pointed with his chin.

I glanced at Roy and a bad thought popped into my head. “Does he inherit Stella's house?” I asked, looking at the three men one by one. Roy wouldn't have killed his own mother to get her house. Would he? He was the one who found the body, after all.

“I would assume so,” Jim said. He narrowed his eyes and studied my face like his brain just lit on the same idea as mine. “Depends on if she left a valid will. If not, he's next of kin. Buck, you know anything about a will?”

Buck hesitated for a tiny, little minute. “Not at liberty to say at this time.”

I'd bet a gold-plated sand dollar his hesitation meant he didn't know bug-all about the will.

 

 

My stomach let me know in no uncertain terms it was lunchtime as I surveyed the funeral reception spread laid out in the American Legion hall. I didn't see a sign indicating who the caterer was. Somebody must have paid a nice chunk of change for all this food, though. I slid into line behind Corrine Beedle, who was too busy chatting up the man in front of her to notice, and grabbed a plate. A couple of minutes later my plate was heaped with crispy fried catfish from a chock-full warming pan, a pile of coleslaw glistening with mayo, and a nice mound of potato salad. Holding a plate with the same offerings, as well as a couple of rolls and a hunk of the squash casserole I'd taken a pass on, Corrine glanced to her left and noticed me at last.

“Robbie, good to see you.” She held up her plate. “Food looks good, doesn't it? Come on, let's sit down together.”

I said hello, while at the same time noticing Jim waving from a table across the room. “Join Jim and me, then.” I led the way, with Corrine's heels clicking on the linoleum behind me. Two men approached the table before we got there. Don, holding a bottle of beer, sat and began talking to Jim. The other stood with his back to me. When we drew closer, I saw it was Ed Kowalski.

“Ah, Robbie, Corrine.” Ed, also gripping a beer bottle, raised his Stroh's in salute. He wore a pin on his lapel that looked like a cat's pawprint and had
BCAS
written across it.

“Ed, Don, lovely to see you both,” Corrine said. “Sit on down, Ed.”

Ed turned a chair around and straddled it.

Don smiled at me, but he didn't include Corrine in the afterglow. “Madam Mayor,” he said curtly.

“Well, I'll be a corncob's cousin. So you're finally talking to me again, Don?” Corrine set her plate on the table and extended her hand. “What's past is past, right?”

Don shook her hand, but it looked like it was the most reluctant move he'd made in a long, long time.

“No hard feelings?” Corrine kept hold of his hand for way longer than necessary.

“No hard feelings,” Don said, grimacing. After Corrine relinquished it, he wiped his hand on his pants leg and loosened his tie.

“What's the pin for, Ed?” I asked.

His face softened as he patted the pawprint pin. “Brown County Animal Shelter. I volunteer with the cats and dogs nobody wants. I feed the strays and pet them. Take them to get their shots. Animals are so much easier to deal with than humans, don't you think?”

“I just took in a stray this week,” I said. “You remind me that I should get him to the vet to make sure he gets whatever shots he needs.” I sat and took a bite of the catfish. The coating was crisp and the flesh firm and succulent. I tasted a hint of dill and maybe a dash of hot pepper.

Ed cleared his throat. “How are you all liking the catfish?” His face looked redder than usual. Maybe that wasn't his first beer of the day.

I swallowed the bite in my mouth. “It's delicious.”

“Great catfish,” Jim mumbled through a mouthful.

“Do you know who catered?” I asked.

“Why, we did. Kowalski's Country Store.” He beamed. “Usually, the ministry buys and cooks the meat, and supplies bread and drinks. Other church members are called to provide side dishes and desserts. To the family of the deceased, this is a great blessing in their time of sorrow.” He appropriately lost the smile. “But as a prominent business owner and permanent deacon of Our Lady, I was asked to take over the ministry's role. I told them I might as well provide the sides and desserts, too. It was the least I could do.” He folded his hands around his beer bottle as if it were a holy icon.

“That was very generous of you, Ed,” Jim said with a wry smile.

A full-figured young woman in a black skirt and white blouse straining at the buttons circulated with a tray of full plastic glasses. “Wine or cider?”

I took a cup of red wine, as did Jim, while Corrine helped herself to cider.

“I'm on the job, you know,” she said. “The mayor is always working.”

Don grimaced and looked away, taking a swig of his beer. Then he looked back at Corrine. “I'm surprised you didn't offer remarks during the service. About your valuable assistant and how much you'll miss her.”

Jim and I exchanged a quick glance.

“I didn't feel called to do so. I've expressed my feelings privately to her son, of course.” Corrine took a sip of her cider.

“Oh, of course,” Don said.

I looked from face to face. “So, who do you think killed Stella? You all knew her better than I did.” I sipped my wine and waited.

“I'm putting money on some long-lost lover who came back to see her and knocked her off when she spurned him.” Ed pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if he'd given the matter great thought.

“Really?” Corrine dismissed that idea with a wave of her hand. “No, it's going to be someone local, mark my words.”

“Come on,” Ed said. “We all know she wasn't America's sweetheart, but a killer right here in South Lick? I don't think so.”

Don swallowed and stood. “Excuse me, folks. I'm going to see if Roy is all right.”

I watched where he headed, curious if that was only an excuse to avoid the topic, but, in fact, he beelined it for Roy, who stood alone, somehow in possession of a beer in each hand. Catching sight of Adele on the other side of the hall, I waved. She waved back and returned to her conversation with the couple she sat with. I still needed to talk with her about Roberto and Mom. Not here, though. And I was still hungry. But after I took a bite of the coleslaw, I wished I hadn't. The cabbage was limp and a little sour, and a greasy mayo overwhelmed any other flavors. I returned to the fish, not sure I should even try the potato salad.

Corrine looked up at Ed. “When are we going shooting next?” She winked as she pointed a finger gun at him.

Ed's gaze darted at Jim and then at me. “Fall's my busiest season; you know that, Corrine. Probably can't get out until next month sometime.”

“It's ruffed grouse season right now. And quail opens November eighth. Your loss.”

“You have fun without me, then.” Ed eyed me. “You have any plans to serve catfish, Robbie?”

“Not with this delicious dish five miles away. I'll let you corner the market.”

“Excellent plan,” Ed said. He took a swig from his beer.

“People are loving my gourmet burgers, so that's a good niche for me.” I smiled across the table at Ed. “And my breakfasts, of course.”

He blinked a few times with an unpleasant pull to his mouth. “Of course.”

 

 

I wiped my hands with a towel and used it to open the restroom door, then propped it open with my foot while I tossed the towel into the wastebasket. Working as a chef created clean-hand habits that endured even when I wasn't cooking. Letting the door shut behind me, I was about to head back to the reception when I paused in the deserted back hallway to examine a large black-and-white mosaic laid into the white-tiled floor. A black circle of tiny tiles held an ornate capital
E,
also in black, on a background of tiny white tiles, with a squished black ornate
C
written through the
E.
The hall wasn't heated and I rubbed my hands together to warm them as I examined the mosaic. I heard footsteps and turned.

“This used to be the Elite Club Casino back in the Roaring Twenties,” Don said, also gazing at the mosaic.

“Don't sneak up on me like that,” I said, fanning my face with one hand. My thudding heart wasn't only from my being surprised, though. I was alone with a man who'd known my father.

“Sorry.” He moved to the other side of the circle. “Didn't mean to. I love this building. Built in the heyday of the spas, more than a hundred years ago.” He'd removed his tie and unbuttoned his jacket, and his comb-over could have used freshening up.

“This mosaic is pretty cool. So the
E
with the
C
is for Elite Club?”

“It is. They gambled and drank and danced up a storm. There was another Elite Club down in French Lick, but this was the mother ship, the first one built.” He pointed to the wall. “See that button?”

An old-style push button in a small frame was set into the wall at about my eye level. Somebody kept the fixture's brass polished and it, along with the tile, made me want to put on one of those dropped-waist flapper dresses with the fringe, add a forehead band, and sip a glass of moonshine.

“After Prohibition started in 1920, they'd sometimes get raided by the cops. If the police showed up, the receptionist would push the button, which set off a signal letting customers know they needed to split out the back door.” He tapped his temple with one finger. “Quite the system.”