Flipped For Murder (16 page)

I tapped my fork on the side of my plate and narrowed my eyes.

Jim reached out and waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Robbie, come in, please.”

I looked at him. “I found out something very interesting this week. Well, yesterday and the day before. Remember when I said I was going to the library? Well, I found a picture of Mom and Don, all right. And I think I also found my father.”

His eyes went as wide as the Ohio River. “No kidding.”

“No kidding.” I shook my head. “He's an Italian named Roberto Fracasso. I look exactly like him. He was a Rotary scholar who stayed with Don's family the spring before my mom moved to Santa Barbara—the year before I was born. And then I read about an accident at a quarry, where he was injured. A news article said Don jumped in and saved him.”

“Amazing. This Roberto survived the accident, though? Quarries are awfully dangerous.”

“He did. I kept digging, and found out he's a professor in Tuscany. I sent him an e-mail, but he hasn't responded.” I raised a shoulder and let it drop. “Last night when you called me? I thought it might have been him. Believe me, I wasn't disappointed you called.” I laid my hand on Jim's.

“You were disappointed it wasn't him.”

I swallowed hard. I nodded, then took a sip of wine. “But back to the murder for a minute. I went over to the hospital in Bloomington and ran into a friend who works in the records department. She and I searched online until we found the information about his admission. I was sure it would have been Mom who called for help, but I was wrong. It was Stella. She's the one who called the ambulance and came in with Roberto and Don.”

He cocked his head. “I don't get how that connects to Stella's murder.”

“I'm not sure. What if there was something fishy about the quarry accident? I think Don was dating Mom. Then this handsome Italian blows into town and she falls in love with him. Maybe Don pushed him in or whacked him on the back of the head. And Stella saw him do it. And she was blackmailing him all this time.”

“That's a lot of
ifs
and
maybes,
Robbie.”

“You got that right. And it was all so long ago. I'm not sure how I'll ever find out.”

He turned his hand so our palms were facing and squeezed. “Do you have to?”

“I guess not. None of my business, right? Buck has Don. Presumably, he has evidence. And it's starting to look like Roberto doesn't want to talk to me.” I blew out air. “I'll just get back to what I'm supposed to be doing. Which is running a business. And speaking of that, tomorrow's breakfast customers are going to be pretty unhappy unless I get home and get stuff ready.”

Jim looked down. He pursed his lips and tapped the table, then he looked out into the dark, avoiding my eyes.

Now I'd put a big old damper on his hopes for the evening. “I'm sorry. I'm not much of a dinner guest, talking about murder and the past the whole time. Plus I'm going to turn into a pumpkin any night when I have to open the next day. I think Sunday's going to be a better date night, all things considered.”

He looked back up and raised his eyebrows. “Did you just invite me out for Sunday?”

“If you're free.” I raised my eyebrows and smiled.

“I believe I am. But I did make my special super-creamy coffee ice cream for you tonight. Sure you can't stay a few more minutes? Then I'll drive you home.”

“Oh, twist my Santa Barbara arm.” I smiled back. At least something was right in the world.

 

 

Jim pulled up his Prius in front of the store and reached his right hand over to rub my shoulder. “Let me come in with you and make sure everything is okay.”

“‘Okay,' as in no murderers lying in wait? Or snipers?” I gave a little laugh, then frowned. “You don't think . . .” I gazed at the dark building, lit from within only by the red glow from the EXIT sign that was always on and the pale light from the drinks cooler. I gave a quick glance at the street behind me, too.

“No, I don't think. But let's make sure.”

After I switched on the lights, we checked out the cooler, the restrooms, and my apartment.

“Thank you,” I said as we walked back to the front door. “You were right. That does make me feel better.”

“Good. You might think about motion-activated lights for the porch, too, and even one inside.”

“That's a great idea. I'll put it on my to-do list.” We moved out onto the porch. “So, will you be coming to this crazy fund-raiser tomorrow?”

“Why not? As long as Corrine doesn't make me donate a day of lawyering or anything. How about I come over early and help out?”

“I'd love that. Five o'clock?”

He nodded, then he planted a long, delicious kiss on me before clattering down the steps.

Smiling to myself, I locked up tight and puttered around the store, getting things ready. I set the tables, mixed up the perennial biscuit dough, and rummaged in the cooler. The tuna burgers hadn't sold out, so I wiped the Specials chalkboard clean. I wrote:
Spicy Tuna Hash.
I could mix the fish with sautéed onions and garlic, use the potatoes that were getting soft, and add a bit of jalapeño. Not too much, though. This part of the country wasn't known for a love of peppers, unlike where I'd grown up. I smiled, remembering when I'd challenged my friend Mike, a guy almost twice my size, to a pickled jalapeño contest in college. We sat across from each other, with a half-gallon jar of the pickled peppers between us. I looked him in the eyes, fished one out, and ate it. He returned the look and ate one. I ate one. Back and forth, until he finally caved right before I was about to. Then we went out for huge bowls of cool, soothing ice cream.

I set my hands on my waist and looked around the store. If Corrine thought she was going to draw in a big crowd tomorrow, we'd have to make an open space where people could mingle. Jim and I could push all the tables to the periphery and serve the food on them. Or maybe Corrine would need them for the donations. The cabinet held a supply of white-and-blue paper tablecloths I'd ordered, just in case. Speaking of donations, I should donate a Pans ‘N Pancakes gift certificate. Whoever bid on it could use it either to buy cookware or a meal. I moseyed over to my office corner and fired up the computer and the printer. I'd created a gift certificate with our logo and a fancy border before the store opened, so now all I needed to do was print it out on half-sheet card stock.

As the printer
zoo-zooed
its print heads, I took a deep breath and opened my e-mail. I stared at the in-box. Right up top was
Regarding Jeanine Jordan,
the subject line of the e-mail I'd sent to Roberto. But this one included a
RE:
in front of it.

“Be still, my heart,” I said out loud, and patted my chest. I clicked open the message.

Graciela. My half sister.
I read the message over and over, my eyes filling with hot tears, my heart thudding. My father ill with an infection in the hospital, an illness he might not survive. I'd just found him and now I might lose him. But he said he would talk with me. The words blurred on the screen until I tore my sleeve across my eyes. I stood and paced around the store. I wanted to get in my van, drive to Indianapolis, buy a plane ticket (no matter the cost), and fly to that hospital in Tuscany. Or get Scotty to beam me up and plop me down there now, right now. Infections were bad. And hospitals could make them worse. What if I never got to meet him?

Instead, I sat and read the message again. And again. Finally, fumbling with the keys, I typed a short reply:
Please send me the hospital name and number. And his room number. As soon as possible.

I went back and added
Thank you, Graciela
to the beginning. I wanted to stay on this woman's good side. On a new line I started to type,
And tell him,
but then I shook my head and erased it.

Tell him what? That he was my father? That I love him? I've never even met him.
Graciela would think I was crazy and I'd never get his phone number. The time in the corner of the monitor read 10:10. She'd sent it at six, late at night in Italy. And right after I'd left for Jim's.

I added to the bottom:
Thank you so much, Robbie
and pressed SEND. Then I sat there, stunned. I was sure I wouldn't hear back until the morning, and then I'd be in the breakfast rush.
Wait. If it's ten o'clock here, it's three in the morning over there. If she got up at seven, maybe she'd write back at two in the morning my time. Or three?
I could get up extra early and check. If I could even sleep.

My agitation made me doubt that. I got up and poured a little bourbon in a glass; then I found the playlist I'd labeled “Mom” on the computer. I'd never known why she loved to listen to opera so much, until now. I started the Bocelli album playing, the one where he sings arias from a number of operas, which I'd listened to dozens of times since I lost my mom. I set it to play
“Che Gelida Manina”
from
La Bohème,
one of her favorites. As the tenor sang, I found Roberto's picture again and gazed at his face. At the end of the song, I knew the words translated to: “Now that you know me, speak, tell me who you are! Will you say?”

“Will you tell me who you are, Roberto Fracasso?” I asked the image. “Will you say?”

Chapter 24

With a big yawn I slapped the BREW button. That alarm going off at five-thirty, after I finally got to sleep at eleven, was getting old. Neither my hundred sit-ups nor my shower did little to lighten my heavy eyelids. Finding no new e-mail from Italy kept my heart heavy, too. Birdy swishing around my legs was the only spot of light in the dark of predawn. I'd filled his bowl and sat down on the floor, stroking his back as he ate, hearing him chirp with what sounded a lot like happiness.

I pulled the biscuit dough out of the cooler to warm, along with eggs and milk, and began to assemble the pancake batter. I'd set it aside and was dicing potatoes when the bell on the door jangled. I'd unlocked it for Danna and didn't look up.

“'Morning, Danna,” I called. When she didn't answer, I glanced toward the door. My eyes widened. Roy stood there, watching me, the still-dark morning behind him. He was dressed in green-and-tan camouflage gear, a matching blotchy cap on his head. Some kind of a long gray-and-silver gun was slung over his shoulder by a strap. A gun I didn't want to have any part of.

I turned toward him and mustered a smile. “Hi there, Roy. We're not open yet.” I pointed to the sign in the window and then to the wall clock, which read six-thirty.

He looked around and narrowed his eyes. “Abe here yet?”

“Abe?”

“Abe O'Neill.”

“No, he's not.” I sensed flour on my cheek and swiped at it with one hand. “We're really not open, you know, not until seven. The hours are posted.”

“Damn. Was supposed to go grouse hunting with him. Told him to meet me here. Can I get a cup of coffee while I wait?”

I blew out a breath. “Okay. But you'll have to put your gun in your car first.”

“It's legal. Open carry law.” He glowered. “Got a license for it.”

“I'm sure it's legal.” I spoke slowly and clearly. “But I'm uncomfortable with a gun in my store, so please lock it in your vehicle. If you want coffee, that is.”

He grumbled to himself, but he left. When he came back in, his hands were empty, and he sat at a table for two. As I carried a full mug to him, Danna strode in. She wrinkled her nose at seeing Roy, but she simply waved at me and went straight to the box of clean aprons.

“What's he doing here?” she said in a low voice when I joined her in the cooking area.

“Dunno. Said he's meeting someone to go hunting and asked for coffee. I made him stash his rifle or whatever it was in his car first.”

“Good.” She glanced at the Specials board. “Want me to take over the hash?”

“Sure.” I told her my rough idea for a recipe, then I walked over to my computer and set the Bocelli to playing again. So what if Roy glared at me? We could use a little mood in the place. I dolloped out a pan of biscuits, slid them into the oven, and started sausages cooking.

“Heard Don was arrested for Stella's murder,” Danna said, still speaking softly as she chopped. “And you got shot at.”

“All true.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I don't suppose they'll find who was using me as target practice, though. Seems like everybody in the state has a gun.” I shot my eyebrows in Roy's direction.

“Even my mom. Who is on a super rampage with this event of hers. She never shut up last night, on the phone with literally the whole town.”

We worked side by side until seven. I turned the sign to OPEN and on my way back asked Roy if he wanted a refill.

“No. Don't want a shaky hand for shooting.”

“Want to see a menu?”

“I ate at home, but that bacon smells awful good. Gimme a side of that and a couple three biscuits with gravy.”

I didn't budge.

“Please,” he added.

“Meat gravy or miso gravy on your biscuits?”

“Me so what?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “No idea what you just said. Meat gravy, of course.”

I welcomed a party of four men dressed in orange vests and pants like Roy's. I gave Roy's order to Danna, surprised he'd actually eat cooking from my restaurant, from
me
whom he'd accused of stealing his property. I poured coffee for the newcomers and distributed menus. Abe might be late because of dealing with Don. Maybe he was posting bail or something, if they even did that on weekends. Roy could have a long wait.

At about seven-thirty Corrine flew through the door like a whirling dervish. A young man trailed in her wake, carrying a sheaf of bright yellow paper.

“Robbie, I have flyers,” she announced in a loud voice, making everyone but Danna look up. “We'll put one up on the door and you can hand them out to all your customers.” She waved at the dude she'd brought, likely her intern, who set a stack of the papers on a table and then went back outside. Through the glass I saw him taping a flyer to the door.

“Okay, Corrine,” I said. “Not a problem.”

“Fabulous fund-raiser tonight, folks!” She smiled at the hunters. “For a excellent cause—our poor, neglected, abandoned animals.”

“What time, ma'am?” one of the hunters asked. By the way he snickered and elbowed his buddy, it didn't look like he was asking so he could put it in his day planner.

“Seven to ten,” Corrine answered proudly.

I clenched my jaw. Sunday morning was going to be a blast. “The chef at the Nashville Inn donated appetizers, by the way,” I said to her. “I'll heat them up here.”

“Splendid. Too bad we lost Don's efforts for the event, but justice will be served.”

Leave it to Corrine to give her event higher priority than an arrest for murder. “Do you think he killed Stella?” I asked in a low voice.

“Search me. If the authorities think he did, then he likely did.” She raised one eyebrow. “Oh, hello, Roy.” She called over to him as she gave a little wave, then she whispered to me, “That boy's two sandwiches shy of a picnic.”

Roy glanced up, but didn't reply to her greeting. He then fell to eating from the plate Danna delivered.

“You aren't going to need my daughter all day long, are you?” Corrine asked me.

“I work until two-thirty, Mom,” Danna said. “Of course Robbie's going to need me.”

“Fine, fine. Nashville Vintners wines and Big Woods Brewing beer are being delivered at five-thirty, Robbie. Call me”—she extended her pinkie and thumb, tucking the middle three fingers near her ear—“if you need anything.” She sailed back out the door.

“Whew,” I said under my breath. But then business picked up too much to think about it. Customers streamed in until they occupied all the tables. Five hungry men stood waiting for tables and three women browsed the cookware shelves as they waited. I'd have to install a bench near the door. I glanced at Roy, who sat alone in front of his empty plate, thumbing a smartphone. I could put his table to a lot better use.

“Roy,” I said as I approached, “it's awfully busy this morning. If you don't want anything else, I'd appreciate your table.” I handed him his check.

He frowned but stood, dropping a couple bills on the table. “Don't know where O'Neill is. Now we missed the best shooting time, too.” He looked over my shoulder at the door, where the bell hardly stopped ringing. “Speak of the devil.”

Abe let the door shut behind him and stood in place, his eyes searching the space. I watched as he caught sight of Roy, who then strode toward Abe. They conferred in low voices. Roy gesticulated. Abe threw his palms up. Roy left. Abe saw me and slid past the line of customers, one of whom frowned at his back.

“'Morning, Robbie. Hope Roy didn't give you a hard time about waiting.” He shook his head, glancing back at the door. “He's kind of a loose cannon.”

“It's okay, least it was after I made him put his gun in his car.”

“He brought his shotgun in here?” Abe's voice rose in disbelief. “That's nuts.”

I looked around in alarm, but nobody seemed to have heard. I pumped my flat hand in a lower-the-volume gesture to Abe and lowered my own, too. “He said it was legal to carry that thing in here, and I said I didn't care. I wouldn't give him coffee until he took it back to his vehicle. Anyway, he ate, and he paid.” I stacked up Roy's dishes, slipping the money and ticket into my apron pocket. I swiped the table with a rag, then waved for the couple at the front of the line to come on over. After I carried the dishes to the sink, I greeted the couple and handed them menus. Then I gestured to Abe to follow me to the office corner.

“Looks like you're not dressed for hunting, anyway,” I said.

Abe looked down at his brown street shoes, clean jeans, dress shirt, and dark blazer and laughed. “Not exactly.”

“I was sorry to hear about Don being arrested.”

His expression turned fierce. “They don't have a lick of real evidence against him. Our lawyer's out of town, so I was just down there trying to talk reason into Buck, but he's not hearing it. And now it looks like Donny has to stay in their crappy little jail all weekend. It's just not right.”

 

 

Even at ten o'clock the place was still going strong. Tourists, hunters, birders, locals, academics, cyclists—some of which overlapped—they all wanted to check out both pancakes and pans. My bank account was going to be some kind of happy, but my feet hurt, the rehabbed dishwasher I'd bought broke down at eight-thirty, leaving piles of plates in the sink, and we'd run clean out of bacon. It brought to mind a children's book Mom used to read to me, about a couple who ran a pizza parlor a century earlier. After people stopped wearing hats and the hat factory next door closed down, Frank and Zelda lost most of their customers. A funny little man came in and granted their wish for more customers. Soon they were run ragged by all the business, including a busload of basketball players who demanded pizza for breakfast. Eventually they closed the restaurant and opened a little food truck on the beach, at last getting their true wishes.

I was only a week into my own wish coming true, and was as positive as a battery terminal I'd find away to manage—as long as I didn't have to add pizza to the breakfast menu. Still, I was going to have to fork over for another dishwasher, and fast. And, for sure, we were using paper and plastic
everything
at the event tonight, whether Corrine liked it or not.

After about half an hour, almost all the tables were empty. I washed my hands, grabbed a cold breakfast sausage link, and, munching, pulled out my phone. I called the place where I'd bought the used industrial dishwasher and told them what had happened.

“I need a new one and fast. There was a guarantee on it, remember.”

The guy said he needed to check the records and put me on hold. I tapped the desk as I waited.

“Yep,” he drawled. “I'll take and bring you a new one. Be around later today?”

“You can install it today?” My eyes bugged out, even though I wasn't looking at him.

“Yep,” came the reply. “About two, two-thirty?”

“I think I love you.”

“Well, now, let's not get carried away, ma'am,” he said with a chuckle.

When we were done, I pressed the number for the police station and asked for Buck, but I was informed he wasn't in.

“Could you please ask him to contact Robbie Jordan? I was shot at last night and I'd like to know what he has found out about it.”

When the dispatcher said she would have him call me, I disconnected and sank into the chair at my computer as Danna valiantly tried to catch up with the dishes. My eyes widened when I saw another e-mail message from Graciela. I stabbed at the message three times with a shaking mouse before I managed to click it open. All it said was Roberto's room number and the name and number of the hospital. I looked around. I couldn't make the call now, not with Danna working on overdrive, customers still eating, and someone else walking up the front steps by the looks of it.

I stood and was heading over to scrub the grill when I saw that the person walking through the door was none other than Buck, all six feet a hundred of him. I veered in his direction.

“I just called you,” I said. “Did you already get the message?”

“What a co-inkydink.” He pulled out a chair at an empty table. “No, I didn't. But best I have something to eat as we talk.”

I handed him a menu. “Did you manage to find time to check for bullets in the wall?” I folded my arms, tapping my right hand on my left elbow.

He looked up. “I'd like the pancake platter, please, with bacon and biscuits.” If his drawl were any slower, it'd end up in the next century.

“I'm out of bacon.”

“Then give me ham, please, and coffee.” He glanced at the Specials board. “And a scoop of the hash, if you have some.”

I scribbled on my pad and strode toward Danna. “Sorry, but Buck wants a truckload of food and I need to talk to him about last night. Can you—”

“No worries, Robbie.” She pulled down the big sprayer and rinsed the plate in her hand, then grabbed a hand towel. “Really.” She took the ticket.

“How do you stay so calm all the time?” I asked.

“Hey, growing up with my mom? You kind of have to figure how to keep cool, you know?”

I set a mug of coffee down in front of Buck with a tad too much force. It sloshed over the top and dribbled a dark line toward the vintage sugar shaker in the middle of the table. I sat myself down across from him, making myself fold my hands so I wouldn't show my impatience.

“The answer is, yes, we found the time. And we found the slug right where you described it.” He sipped the coffee, watching me over the top of it.