Flipped For Murder (2 page)

Chapter 2

By ten-thirty the breakfast rush was easing up. Only two older gentlemen remained, nursing their coffees and playing chess on the board I'd painted on one of the square tables. It was exactly the kind of scene I'd hoped would take place in my little establishment.

Adele and I pulled up chairs at a table near the grill area and nibbled at a few odds and ends of cooked ham, a misshapen biscuit, a couple of twice-warmed pancakes. Phil belted out a gospel tune from the sink, where he cleaned up pots and pans. I needed to get lunch prep going soon, but it was good to get off my feet for a few minutes.

“Stella was as unpleasant as always,” I said, “but she did buy a sack of biscuits to take home.” I leaned back and resecured my ponytail with a hair tie in the store blue. Owning a mass of curly hair was a pain sometimes, but I loved the feeling of it loose on my bare shoulders at night, so I kept it long.

“No telling with her. She might even have a heart under all that armor.”

“Thanks for all your help, Adele. I'll owe you for all eternity.”

She lifted her right eyebrow. “Don't be silly. You know I want this place to be a big success. Anything I can do.”

My owning the store was Adele's doing. My mom's elder sister and only sibling knew about my passion for all manner of old cooking implements and had brought me to look at the store's vintage cookware collection to help ease the pain of my mom's death. When we discovered the place was for sale—lock, stock, and barrel—I took the plunge, with her blessing.

The bell on the door rang as Buck Bird, second in command in our local police force, ambled in, followed by Jim Shermer, my real estate lawyer. A cute one, too.

“Jim, Officer Bird. Join us?” I waved at them.

Buck Bird slid into the chair opposite us and laid his uniform hat in his lap. The guy had the skinniest, longest fingers I'd ever seen. They matched the rest of him, from his elongated face to feet that just kept on giving. His sandy hair stuck up like he'd just gotten out of bed before he used those serpentine fingers to snake it back into place. Jim was of a more normal height. His dark red hair curled around his ears and set off brilliant green eyes that could pass as jewels. His Saturday attire of a crisp white shirt tucked into faded jeans made him look as good to eat as one of my pancakes. He sat between Buck and me and I could smell his clean rainwater scent waft through the lingering aroma of bacon and flapjacks.

“Sure smells good in here,” Buck drawled in the local way, sounding like his tongue was glued to the bottom of his mouth. “How'd the grand op'nin' go?”

“It's still going. All day long, in fact. We had a busy breakfast rush and are hoping for the same at lunchtime. What can we get you?” I figured he had a serious hollow leg, being so skinny and all.

“Oh, it don't matter. One of everything?” He raised his eyebrows in a hopeful look.

“You got it. How about you, Jim?”

“I'll take a couple biscuits with the miso gravy, and hot herbal tea, please.”

“Side of bacon with that?” I snickered at his alarmed look and headed for the grill. Jim was a vegetarian and had convinced me to offer a nonmeat gravy for the likes of him. Plus the herbal tea, which mostly tasted like warmed-up grass, in my opinion.

I brought their orders back a few minutes later, unloading a stack of cakes, with biscuits, ham, and an apple muffin on the side for Buck, plus Jim's order.

“Her Honor, the mayor, was in earlier, and then Don O'Neill. He seemed to think he should have been elected instead of her. What's up with that?” I leaned against the edge of the next table and folded my arms.

Adele and Buck exchanged a look. “It was all fair and square,” Adele said. “I worked as a poll watcher. Corrine won by only three votes. Don demanded a recount and that resulted in her getting two more votes. A close result, but a real one.”

“They have some kind of past. Not quite sure what went on, but . . .” Buck shrugged and forked up a huge mouthful of pancakes. A slice of banana dropped off into the golden brown pool of syrup on his plate.

“He was mayor for three terms before. Town elected him right after I decided not to run again. He kinda figures the position belongs to him.” Adele stood. “I've got to go let the sheep out, Roberta. Left the house too early this morning. But I'll come back in an hour to help with lunch. You're doing great so far.” She patted me on the shoulder, tossed her apron on the chair, and aimed her no-nonsense stride for the door.

“I'll say you're doing great.” Jim wiped his plate with a last piece of biscuit and popped it in his mouth. When a spot of gravy marred the pristine white of his shirt, he swiped at it with his blue cloth napkin.

“Was Stella here with Mayor Corrine?” Buck asked.

“She was. Why would she be working on a Saturday?” I cocked my head.

“Could be Corrine said this was an official event. Could be Stella wanted to come along. Stella pretty much gets what she wants.”

“Not here, she didn't.” I slid into Adele's seat.

“What do you mean?” Buck asked.

“She tried to stymie Robbie at every turn in the permitting process,” Jim chimed in. “I heard she wanted her son to take over the store. We really had to fight her just to follow legal procedure.”

Buck pursed his lips and nodded like he was filing the information for future use.

“Stella was part of the reason I didn't go ahead with developing the upstairs at the same time as this space.” I frowned. “I want to create bed-and-breakfast rooms up there, but Stella made it so hard just to get the permits for the restaurant that I gave up. For now, anyway.”

Jim finished his tea. “Best breakfast I've eaten in years. You're going to draw all Ed's customers away.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don't mean to do that. Although when he was in earlier, he gave me some kind of look, like we were in a high-stakes tennis match or something. Maybe losing business is what he's afraid of.”

“Wouldn't be surprised. He's been the only country store in Brown County for twenty-odd years, and only a few other places serve breakfast in Nashville,” Buck said.

“I wonder how I never met him before today, since I worked in Nashville for three years. I guess because I didn't eat at his restaurant,” I said.

“I bet he buys his hash browns frozen, and his meat patties, too.” Jim sat back in his chair.

“I sure don't. But that reminds me I need to get started on making up my own patties for lunch. Don't worry,” I said, glancing at Jim, “veggie burgers are on the menu.”

Buck opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. “And beef and turkey burgers from Kiss My Grass Farm, Buck, so you'll have something to eat, too.” Jim wasn't the only one who had cleaned his plate, but Buck still sported a somehow hungry look as he smiled at me. “Plus organic hot dogs, house-made sauerkraut and coleslaw, and fresh hand-cut fries, of course. Phil signed on as cookie and brownie chef, and you'll definitely want to sample those.”

“Good to know. Good to know,” Buck said. “Guess I'll be back in a couple hours for lunch, then.”

I dug both their checks out of my pocket and handed them over.

As Buck unfolded himself from his chair, Jim looked up at me with somewhat more color than usual in his freckled cheeks. “If you're not too tired, can I take you out for dinner tonight? To celebrate all this?”

Whoa. A date? With Jim?
I hadn't dated in nearly four years, since my rotten now-ex-husband had thrown me over for a curvy air force fighter pilot. I looked into those green eyes, whose gorgeous color was not dimmed by the black-rimmed glasses he wore. Could be interesting.

Buck cleared his throat and steered the brim of his hat through his fingers. “Sorry to interrupt your social arrangements. Just wanted to say thanks, and let you know I'm glad you're here in town, Robbie. This place will be good for all of us.” He plopped several bills on the table and his hat on his head before he ambled back to the door.

I called a rather stunned “thanks” after him as I nodded at Jim. “Dinner sounds fun. Do I need to dress up?”

He laughed, a husky sound that came from his throat, the sexiest noise I'd heard in a long time. “You might want to ditch the apron. But no, we'll head out to the roadhouse. Pretty informal. They have line dancing if you like that kind of thing, too.”

A dancing date. I never got enough dancing.
This evening was sounding better and better.

 

 

I surveyed the platter the waiter set in front of me at the Hickory Hoosier roadhouse. “This is enormous.” A dozen ribs oozing with sauce vied for space with corn bread, baked beans, and a little dish of coleslaw. “I'll never be able to finish it.” I picked up a rib with both hands and nibbled off a few bites of the most tender meat I'd ever eaten, leaning over my plate in hopes I could keep the reddish brown sauce off my white top.

Jim laughed. “And I'm not helping you, either.” He gestured to his own large serving of fish and chips. He raised his pint glass of beer. “Here's to a successful country store.”

“Absolutely. Thanks.” I hastily wiped my hands on the stack of paper napkins the waiter had kindly left and picked up my own glass of Cutters Half Court IPA. After we clinked drinks, I took a sip.

“This is good,” I said, licking the foam off my lip. “Great hops. What did you get?”

“The Lost River summer ale. Glad they still have it halfway into October.”

I drank again, and then dove back into the ribs.
Maybe the chef would share his recipe? Unlikely.
I rolled the sauce around on my tongue, tasting a hint of maple, maybe a bit of hot pepper, certainly tomato, possibly balsamic vinegar. I'd have to see if I could re-create it. I glanced up to see Jim smiling at me.

“You enjoy your food.” He set his chin on his right hand and slowly stroked the moisture on his ale glass with one finger of his left as he watched me.

I swallowed to push down the lust he ignited. “I'd be a lot slimmer if I didn't, but hey.” I tended toward the pleasantly plump end of the scale. I knew I was healthy and fit, though, and accepted that at five foot three, food didn't have too far to travel before it settled onto my hearty hips. I got out on my bike and rode a few dozen hilly miles regularly, and the hundred sit-ups I did every morning meant at least I had a waist.

“Who needs slim?” He raised one eyebrow and put his attention back on his fish.

“You're slim. What do you do to stay that way? Run marathons or something?”

“I go dancing every chance I get.” He swirled a French fry in a little paper tub of ketchup.

“Really?” This was getting interesting. “What kind of dancing?”

“Everything. Line dancing, contra, West Coast swing, ballroom, Latin. Used to even go to international folk dancing over in Bloomington.”

“At IU?” The huge flagship campus of the state university was only fifteen miles away.

“Correct.” He lifted his glass and sat back. “So congratulations again on the store being up and running. You're going to be a big success.”

I clinked my glass with his and took a sip. “Thank you. I have a pretty good feeling about the whole thing. Never could have pulled it all together without your help, though.”

He air-batted away the compliment. “Just did my job. Stella was quite the opponent for a while there, wasn't she?” He pushed his glasses up from where they'd slid down his nose.

“I'll say. You'd think somebody who works in government might pay more attention to process.”

“She's held that job way too long. Nobody dares give her the boot, though.” Jim glanced at the stage, where two men in cowboy shirts and hats were picking up guitars. A woman in a hot pink denim skirt lifted a fiddle to her chin, and another one in black jeans with a matching cowboy hat settled into the drum set. “Here comes the music.”

“I don't know how good I am at following. I love to dance, but mostly it's just been, you know, moving around kind of free style.”

“I'll show you, Robbie. Don't worry.”

After we finished eating, we joined the line dance, making me glad I'd worn a flared skirt and my turquoise cowgirl boots. And when the dance turned to West Coast swing, Jim led me through the moves in the most delightful of ways.

Chapter 3

I yawned as Jim piloted us back to my apartment behind the store. His Prius dashboard readout put the time close to eleven-thirty. He glanced over at me.

“Boring you, am I?”

“Of course not!”

He snorted. “I'm kidding you, Robbie.” His voice quieted. “But I only kid people I like.”

I let his comment hang in the air. I was too tired to see it and raise it one. And I wasn't quite sure of my feelings yet, anyway. We'd had a friendly business relationship until now, but this evening had upped the ante. I settled for: “Tonight was really fun. But I had a pretty long day, as you know. And I get to wake up bright and early tomorrow and do it all over again.”

“I don't envy you your schedule,” Jim said with a chuckle. “Me, I like to sleep in on Sundays.”

I watched as we turned onto South Lick Road and rolled quietly through town, past Shamrock Hardware and First Savings Bank, both housed in Art Deco–era buildings from almost a hundred years earlier with symmetrical stacks of geometric forms. We passed the ornate gazebo labeled
JUPITER
, which had been a sulfur spring in the 1800s. The town had been famous for its spas, and Adele had told me Jupiter Water was sold as a laxative nationwide up until about 1950. When we turned onto Walnut, I saw Bill's Barbershop and Play It Again Consignment, where I'd purchased the very boots I now wore, and hadn't paid much at all for them.

“I live upstairs, right there,” Jim said, pointing at the consignment store, which was also in an Art Deco–style building, with a rounded limestone corner and a pyramid-shaped cap in the middle.

“Really?”

“Third-floor condo. It's nice. Mine faces the back, so it's quiet, and I have a view of the creek, which runs right behind. Perfect for a bachelor gentleman.” He grinned.

“If it's perfect for you, then that's all that counts. You know, I was thinking,” I said, turning in my seat to face him, “getting to today was really just a big puzzle, and I love puzzles. Figuring out what I needed to do and putting it together. I worked hard, but I enjoyed the process.” I tucked one foot under me. “I won a state crossword puzzle championship when I was in high school in Santa Barbara.”

“I'm not surprised.” Keeping his eyes on the road, he turned right onto Main Street, then reached over and laid his smooth, slender hand on top of mine. “You're a remarkable woman, Robbie,” he said with a voice turned husky.

His touch sent a zing through me like the most pleasant of electric shocks and I wanted to hear that husky voice a lot closer. I'd opened my mouth to reply when he pulled up to my store.

“Uh-oh,” I whispered instead. 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's hair brushed the illuminated dome light inside the vehicle. He opened the door and stood up, up, up. I got out, too, and hurried around the hybrid to greet him.

“Is something wrong? Somebody didn't break into the store, did they?” My heart thudded like the bass drum in the band at the roadhouse.

“I need to know where you were at this afternoon and evening, Ms. Jordan.” Buck hooked his thumbs through the front of his wide belt sporting all kinds of attachments.

I'm Ms. Jordan all of a sudden?
“Why?” I craned my neck to span the foot-long distance between my eyes and his.

“Please answer me.”

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.” I shivered. My little black sweater wasn't enough to keep off the chill of the fall night, but I pulled it together at my throat for a bit more warmth. And comfort.

“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. And your reason for asking Robbie where she was.” He moved closer until his arm touched mine.

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

“Poor Stella. But 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? Damn. Double damn.