Flipped For Murder (22 page)

Chapter 32

Another late night, another eyelids-of-lead morning. My thoughts about Roberto had woken me up too early, and I'd decided to get a head start on the day. I stood in the shower for too long, hoping the water would wake me up. Instead, the warm flow threatened to put me back to sleep right there on my feet. When I switched it to cold for a moment, I shrieked, but at least my eyes were finally open.

As I dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved blue top, grateful the week was coming to a close, my gaze fell on the picture of Mom and me on my dresser. I was ten and we'd gone camping in Sequoia with a friend of mine and my friend's mom. The other mother snapped this picture of us in our hiking shorts and boots, Mom's arm around my shoulders, me giggling.

“Aw, Mommy. You could have told me about Roberto. He wouldn't have spoiled our lives, I'm sure of it. We could have taken trips to Italy. Maybe I'd have spent a couple of summers with him there. Or, he might have moved to California. Imagine if we'd been a family of three instead of two.” I truly had never missed being an ordinary nuclear family until right this minute.
No use crying over spilled milk,
I scolded myself.
Or lost Italians, either.

After I sat at my laptop and composed a quick message to Graciela asking how Roberto's surgery went, I tied my hair up wet, cranked through my sit-ups, and fed Birdy. I'd have to start spending more time playing with him. This afternoon, I promised him before I headed to work. I started coffee—first things first, and it was already six o'clock—then made for the walk-in to get the biscuit dough and the supplies for pancakes. I passed the closest table. And froze.

The square wooden top, the rolled-up blue napkins, even the sugar shaker—all were littered with inch-long black torpedoes. I gasped, bending down to look. Torpedoes they weren't. Droppings now covered the table I knew was pristine clean when I left. Panicked, I glanced around the room. Feces covered all the tables, the floor, the cooking countertops, and they were bigger than mouse pellets. My stomach roiled even as my brain raced.
Rats? How did they get in here, and in such number?
I shuddered in revulsion, bile rising in my throat. This wasn't a random rodent who happened to find a hole in the foundation. This was an invasion. Although, where were the animals now?

And if anyone saw it, my business would be shut down as tight as a stubborn clam the minute the health inspector caught word. Forget the biscuits—I needed to clean, and fast. But first an apron and rubber gloves. Once those were on, I grabbed the galvanized-steel basin, which sat upside down near the sink, and the hand broom. Table by table, countertop by countertop, I swept turds, napkin rolls, even the salt, pepper, and sugar shakers into the tub. I could sort it out later and I had extras. Once the tables were clear, I carried the tub to the service door and set it down. When I reached for the doorknob, my fingers sat on it, motionless. It wasn't locked. I'd checked all the locks last night. How had that happened? This was getting worse by the minute. At least the door was latched. That wasn't how the rats got in. I opened it and set the tub behind the trash cans in the enclosure. I locked the door after I went back in.

I was busy vacuuming when I heard a drumming on the front door that was loud enough to override the machine's thrum. My heart about leapt out the top of my head. I turned to see Danna pressing her nose against the glass. I let out a breath, dropped the vacuum, and let her in.

I faced her, my hands fluttering. “Um, I . . . There was . . .” The hum of the vacuum filled the air and I smelled the coffee for the first time.

“What's the matter, Robbie? Why are you vacuuming? It's already seven. Shouldn't you be cooking?” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “What's that smell?” Today her dreads were neatly covered by a brilliant green bandana.

“The worst thing happened. But you have to swear not to tell anyone. Promise?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Last night a few of the guys helped me clean up. You could have eaten off the tables—they were that clean. This morning? Rat droppings everywhere! Every surface. It was totally revolting.”

“Eww.”
She opened her mouth like she'd tasted a vile dish. “Where'd they come from?”

“No idea. But if I don't get the rest cleaned up, we won't have to worry because I'll be out of business.”

She set her mouth in a determined line. “What can I do?”

“Disinfect the tables and chairs. And countertops. Lysol spray and rubber gloves. Under the sink. I'll join you when I've finished cleaning the floor.”

“Got it, General.” She saluted and beelined for the sink. She bent down and opened the lower cabinet doors. “Hey, there aren't any droppings under here. Isn't that where mice and rats usually start, under the sink?”

I detoured from getting back to the vacuum. “You're right,” I said, peering in. “Clean as a whistle. That's really odd.” I opened a few more lower cabinets—all clean. Very odd. “Do you think somebody could have set this up on purpose? To sabotage me?”

“Maybe. But for right now, we don't have time to figure out who.”

By seven-thirty we'd finished the cleaning, just. My brain usually worked on puzzling while I worked physically, but the stress of getting this place clean again overrode anything else. It was just a blessing we opened an hour later on Sundays. I started sausage frying to take the smell of Lysol out of the air, and I decided to make drop biscuits so I didn't have to use the marble pastry top. I wanted to scrub it about six more times before that happened. I took a second to pour myself a cup of coffee so I could keep going.

I hurried to get a pan of three dozen biscuits in the oven as Danna set up the tables with unrolled napkins and the minimum of silver.

“Extra salt and pepper shakers and sugar jars are on that shelf.” I pointed. “And if we don't have enough, people can share.” I assembled the pancake batter and pulled the fruit out to take the chill off, grateful Abe had cut it all up last night.

The doorbell jangled at a couple minutes before eight and the first customer popped his head in.

“We're open. Come on in,” I called, and gestured to him. I hustled over, turning the sign to OPEN, then handed him and two young boys menus, plus a couple miniature boxes of crayons for the kids. I might survive this rat threat, after all.

 

 

Danna and I had our hands full with customers all morning. The breakfast business never let up until almost lunchtime. We barely had time to hit the head or eat anything, ourselves. I made her sit down at eleven and eat while I made patties, then we switched. A few times I glimpsed a stray turd on the floor I'd missed, but I always managed to swipe it up with a paper towel. I lost track of how often I scrubbed my hands. Before lunch really picked up, I took a few moments in the restroom to splash water on my face. I took off my hat, tightened up my ponytail, then tucked it back through the hole in the back of the cap. I was living my dream, but it was exhausting. I couldn't wait to relax this afternoon, get out on my bike, inhale lungfuls of fresh air, and anticipate dinner with Abe. And figure out how in heck rats got into my store.

During lunch I recognized a few faces I'd seen for the first time last night. All that work to host the fund-raiser had been worth it if it brought the store more visibility and interest from the local hungries. I was busy doling out three full hamburger platters when the bell jangled. I glanced up to see a uniformed Wanda hold the door for a woman in a dark blazer and a short, sensible haircut, who carried a thick briefcase. They paused inside the door, the woman's eyes scanning the floor, checking every corner of the restaurant. I did not have a good feeling about this. I knew that woman. She was Elizabeth Lake, county health inspector, and I was willing to bet a river of nickels she wasn't here for a turkey burger.

“Robbie,” an unsmiling Wanda called, beckoning me over. She stood with feet apart.

I made sure the customers I'd just delivered to were all set before I headed her way. My guts lurched.

“Roberta Jordan?” the woman asked when I approached.

I glanced at Wanda and back at the woman. “Yes, I'm Robbie. Would you like to see a menu?”

“No. I believe we met when I approved the opening of your restaurant. Elizabeth Lake, health inspector for the county.” She held her hand out, so I shook it. Then she laid her briefcase on the bench and opened it, drawing out a couple of sheets of paper.

“I am closing this establishment on the orders of the Board of Health. We have evidence vermin have recently occupied the premises.”

I stared at her. How in blazes could she know? I mustered my inner warrior. “There are no vermin here. Never have been. Check for yourself.” Then I remembered the tub full of evidence outside I hadn't had time to deal with. I was dead in the water if they found that.

She proffered one of the sheets of paper. I stared again, but this time at a picture of rats . . . on top of my tables.

“Where did you get this?”

“We have our sources.”

“Let me see that.” I grabbed it out of her hand and carried it three steps to the front window, where light streamed in. It had been taken through that very window and the only illumination was from the drinks cooler and the red
EXIT
sign. But it sure as heck looked like rats standing here and there on the tables. On the rolled napkins. On the counters.

Elizabeth followed me and handed me another, this one of the cooking spaces, also covered with rats. It was a fuzzy shot, must have been taken with the zoom on. I glanced up at her. “What can I say? I admit I noticed a few bits of feces on the floor this morning.” Figured I might as well tell the truth, sort of, so I wouldn't get charged with lying. “And I'll call an exterminator first thing in the morning. But we scrubbed everything with Lysol—”

“We?”

“My employee and me.” I pointed at Danna, poor thing, who was hustling double time while I stood talking with a threat to my existence. “Danna Beedle.”

“I'll need to interview her, too. But it doesn't matter if you scrubbed down. We need to run another full inspection and that can't start until tomorrow, since today's Sunday. For today, and until further notice, you're closed.”

“I want a copy of those pictures.” I set my hands on my hips. “And I want to know who took them.”

“I'll send you a copy. To the store's e-mail address, right?” She checked a tablet she'd pulled out.

“Yes.”

“But I can't reveal who sent them to us. We always encourage the public to report infractions, and if we gave out names, that might discourage Joe Citizen.”

I knew what I wanted to do with Joe Citizen, but I kept it to myself. “What about these customers?” I said in a rasping whisper, gesturing around the store. “You're just going to kick them out?” My hands clenched into fists.

Wanda took a step toward me. I held up my hand to her. “Relax, Wanda. I'm not going to hurt anyone.” No matter how much I wanted to.

“They can stay. We don't want to damage you unnecessarily. But I need you to turn your sign to
CLOSED
and not admit anyone else. After the current diners leave, we'll post our notices.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute. There was no worse disaster for a restaurant owner except food poisoning. I opened them and said, “All right. But I'm not happy about it.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips and raised one eyebrow. “No one ever is.”

Chapter 33

Danna and I sat at a table at two o'clock in an empty restaurant with a big orange sign on the front door:
BY ORDER OF THE BROWN COUNTY HEALTH
C
OMMISSIONER THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS HEREBY CLOSED TO PROTECT PUBLIC HEALTH AND SAFETY
. There was more, but that was the really visible part. Visible to anyone who walked up the steps. To any car that drove by, any leaf-peeping tourist or vintage cookware fan. To any of my budding customer base.

“At least they didn't go snooping around and find the tub full of turds,” Danna said.

“I know. I've got to get rid of all of it before tomorrow, though, so the inspection committee won't find it.”

“I'll help.”

“You don't have to.” I traced one of the lines of wood grain in the tabletop.

“I want to. Come on, let's get it over with.” She stood and rummaged under the sink to find two new pairs of rubber gloves. She tossed me a set and pulled on her own.

I blew air out, then rose and found a trash bag and three big nesting bowls. “We'll need to sort the laundry from the dispensers from the silverware.” I followed her out the service door and stopped, stunned.

“Look at this day,” I said. Golden and brilliant red leaves fluttered against a perfect blue sky. A balmy breeze caressed my cheek. The scent of freshly cut grass tickled my nose as the lazy drone of a small plane receded into the distance. A yellow leaf zigzagged its way through the air in front of me, landing on my foot.

“How can I be in such big trouble on such a perfect day?” I frowned. “I remember reading, after the attacks on 9/11, how people on the East Coast couldn't put together all that destruction and chaos with the clear, beautiful day it was.” Not that this compared to that event, of course. But it was still jarring.

“I know what you mean.” Danna opened the enclosure and dragged the tub out, but kept it behind the open gate, hidden from view to anyone passing by on the street. I separated the bowls and pointed.

“Salt, pepper, and sugar dispensers in that one. Silverware here. Napkins there. When we're done, we can empty out the dispensers and sterilize them along with the silver. I'll launder the napkins in super hot water.”

We set to work, unrolling the napkin rolls, weeding through the disgusting pile, tossing the dispensers into their bowl.

“I still don't get how there were no traces of rats under the cabinets,” Danna said, throwing a fork into the silverware bowl. “That literally never happens.”

“I know. And don't you think I would have seen droppings before now?” I shook my head and tossed an antique sugar dispenser a little too forcefully on top of the others. It crashed against the other dispensers, but blessedly didn't break, the old glass was that thick. “The other thing is, you should have seen the pictures. There were rats everywhere. It was like the Pied Piper had lured them all in. I had no idea this town even had rats. I've never seen a single one.”

When the basin was empty of all but feces, Danna reached for the trash bag and stretched it wide open. “Dump it all in here,” she instructed.

I hoisted the tub and let the turds slide in. I set it down, picking out the last two and dropping them in the bag, then I scooped up a few that dropped on the ground and added them.

“Be right back.” Danna grinned and headed into the little patch of woods behind the barn.

I hosed out the basin and checked the enclosure. No evidence. Good. Curious, I lifted the trash cans. No rodent feces anywhere. Wouldn't rats first be out checking the trash for free food before squeezing into a restaurant? I didn't get it. The thought of someone doing it deliberately popped up again. But who? And why?

Danna came back, wadded the empty trash bag into a little ball, and stuffed it way down in one of the cans.

“Where'd you dump the evidence?” I asked.

“Let's just say I fertilized a few redbud trees.” She hoisted two of the bowls. “We're not done yet. Get the door?”

Danna left to the accompaniment of the dishwasher running at its highest temperature, bless the heart of the small-town appliance guy yesterday. I never would have gotten a replacement dishwasher so fast if my restaurant was in California. I carried the soiled napkins into my apartment and started a load of laundry, also on the hottest water the machine offered, setting the load on
HEAVY DUTY
despite its small size. Even though the napkins were blue, I wanted to add bleach, but I restrained myself. That oxy clean stuff and a good dose of detergent would have to do. Plus an extra rinse at the end. I'd do today's napkins, towels, and aprons separately.

I took a moment to check my e-mail, but there was no news from Italy. Sighing, I pushed open the back door. Birdy came at a gallop and streaked out.

“I really ought to get you a cat door,” I said to his disappearing tail. It was still a drop-dead gorgeous day, even though the radio forecast a possible frost for overnight. I turned around and a minute later was back out juggling my laptop, a bowl of chips, a small bowl of salsa, and a beer. I set the stuff on the patio table and sank into a chair, stretching out my legs. I took a long swig of beer, then closed my eyes, letting the warm sun bleach my troubles away. A girl could wish, anyway.

I began to drop off into dreamland—that in-between state where you know you're still awake, but you start seeing pictures on the insides of your eyelids. When the pictures turned to rats, though, I popped my eyes open and sat up straight. I had real rats to look at. I opened the laptop, turning the brightness up to high, and found the e-mail from Inspector Lake. The sun was still too bright to see the screen well, so I moved my chair into the shade and peered at the first picture. What seemed wrong? I saved the image and opened it in a picture viewer where I could enlarge it. I blinked and looked again. Every single red-eyed rat was in the same position. All the tails curved around to the right. Exactly the same whiskers stuck out from each snout. Their heads angled in the same positions. I sat back and swore.

Somebody had staged fake rats in my restaurant. Either that, or they'd used Photoshop to alter a picture. The droppings were real—I knew that for a fact. So that was why there weren't any feces inside the cupboards. Whoever it was had scattered the evidence and the plastic animals about, gone outside, taken pictures, and then removed the rats. I jumped to my feet, knocking into the table and grabbing the beer just in time before it watered the flowerpot below it. I strode out to the edge of the woods and back. Who in hell would do a destructive, disgusting thing like that? Someone who wanted to put me out of business, that's who.

Elizabeth seemed like an intelligent person. Wouldn't she have noticed they were fake rats? I shook my head. If I hadn't enlarged the picture, I wouldn't have, either. I found the inspector's number on the bottom of her e-mail, dug my phone out of my back pocket, and called her. It went to voice mail, though, with her message saying the office was closed, to please call back during regular business hours, and to leave a message of any urgent health infractions. I left a message describing my suspicions and saying I needed that sign taken down as soon as possible. I doubted the inspector would think this was urgent. Although, whoever sent her the fake pictures sure hadn't waited for regular business hours. I munched a chip and opened the second picture. Same rats. Same problem.

Birdy sidled back. He settled into a spot on a warm flagstone and began to bathe, lifting his leg above his head in a pose worthy of a lifelong yogi. I thought again about getting better locks.

“Birdman, who left those rats in my restaurant?” I slid my phone back into my pocket.

He ignored me, then assumed the Sphinx pose, looking equally as inscrutable with his eyes half closed.

“And how did they unlock a locked door?”

I stared at Birdy and narrowed my eyes right back at him. Whoever did it must have picked the lock, which was a simple one in the doorknob itself. I'd heard a noise while I sat at my desk, hadn't I? I'd chalked it up to wind, even though a murderer was on the loose. What an idiot I was. It was past time to invest in some dead bolts. And see how much an alarm system cost. I stood again and gathered up all the stuff. If I didn't get a bike ride in, I was going to explode. Or go crazy. Or both.

I changed into my hot pink long-sleeved cycling shirt and socks, slipped off my jeans, and pulled on my black stretchy shorts, with the gel-filled padded seat that always felt a little like wearing a diaper until I mounted the bike. Then it provided exactly the cushion and protection my lady parts needed.

The pocket of my jeans rang. I hesitated a minute, listening, longing only to be out on the road, when I remembered Jim was going to call. Reluctantly, I pulled it out. Sure enough, the readout read
James Shermer
. I connected and walked back into the sun in my socks.

“Hey, how's your mom?” I asked.

“She broke her hip, but she's stable.” He yawned. “Sorry, I didn't get in until about three.”

“I'm glad she's okay and you arrived there alive. I was worried about you driving so far.”

“I'm worse driving in the afternoon when I'm tired. When it's dark, I often get a second wind. And the coffee and sandwich helped. Thanks, Robbie.”

“Any time. How's your father holding up?”

“Dad needs a lot of attention. I'm afraid he's in early Alzheimer's. I see it now I'm here. I haven't visited him in a while.”

“Aw, too bad.” When he didn't go on, I decided to tell him my news. “Had a little excitement here today, and not the fun kind, either.” I told him about finding the droppings and getting shut down, and about the pictures. “I swear they're plastic rats, or rubber ones. Fake, anyway. I'm really steamed.”

“Whoa. That's a lot to handle. I'm sorry I'm not there to help.”

“What could you do? I'll talk to the inspector tomorrow. She's gotta see they're all identical.”

He spoke away from the phone, then said, “I'm sorry, Robbie. I have to go. The doctor just showed up to speak with us. I wish . . .” His voice sounded wistful.

“You do what you have to do. I'll be fine. It's a stunning day and I'm headed out on my bike to blow off a load of steam.”

“Good. Be careful, okay?”

I promised him I would and disconnected. I'd been careful cleaning up last night and look where it got me. With a cease-and-desist-to-cook order. Perfect.