Grilled for Murder (13 page)

“What a crying shame, Robbie. They just up and took it?”

“It was in a bucket around the side by the service door. I cut it myself on Monday.” I shook my head.

“Probably not much chance of finding it, this time of year.”

“I know. Hey, Don, this isn't related to anything, but I found a strange little object in my store. It looks like a tool, but I didn't see one like it in your store. It's got two little, like, levers or something. About yay long.” I showed him the size with my fingers. “I guess that's not much of a description. I meant to bring it in and show you.”

“It doesn't ring a bell. But do bring it in next time, and I'll see if it looks familiar.”

“Thanks.” I headed around to the driver's side as he turned to go back into the store. “See you at the funeral this afternoon?”

He shook his head. “I didn't know her. And even if I did, well, God rest her soul.”

Chapter 17

When I hurried back into Pans 'N Pancakes with the glass in my arms, every table was occupied and Danna shot me a desperate glance from the griddle. This was crazy. Who ever heard of Wednesday at eleven bringing on a rush of hungry customers? I shook my head as I carefully set my load down by the service door, then quickly washed my hands and slipped on a clean apron. A crowd was great for the bottom line, but it made for a hectic morning.

“Want me to cook or do tables?” I asked her.

“You cook, I'll do the front.” She headed toward a table full of folks who were looking impatient. “And we're almost out of biscuits,” she called over her shoulder.

“I'm on it.” I checked the order slips clipped into the rack at eye level. I laid six strips of bacon on the griddle and poured twelve perfect circles of pancake batter, the blueberries sticking up like little round boats in a pond. After I stirred the meat gravy, I laid two biscuits on a small plate and ladled gravy on top, the crumbles of sausage bumpy under the sauce. A kitchen-sink omelet, three bowls of fruit salad, and an order of two eggs sunny-side up later, I slapped the little bell we used to indicate orders were ready.

When Danna picked up the plates, I said, “How'd lunch prep go? Did you finish?”

“I think we're all set.”

I rolled out the last of the biscuit dough and slid a panful into the oven. It was getting near lunch time—even though we cooked breakfasts all day, we didn't offer the lunch menu until eleven thirty—so I loaded up the warmer with buns. And the rush never let up. Lunch customers started ordering burgers at eleven thirty sharp. The air was redolent with the mixed aromas of berries sizzling next to beef patties doing the same. When Abe materialized at my side at noon, the griddle in front of me was full and a couple of parties were waiting for tables.

“Popular place today,” he said with a grin, his big brown eyes smiling, too. “Where do I start?”

“Wash your hands and grab an apron.” I pointed to the box of clean store aprons. “Then I'll show you where we keep things. You and Danna can decide if you want to cook or work the front, which means taking orders, delivering food, and busing tables.”

“Your wish is my command, madam.” He stuck one foot out and bowed, making circle waves with his hand toward the floor before straightening and heading for the sink.

I laughed. “I really appreciate your help. I'll finish this batch of burgers and then go get changed.” I flipped all the patties on the griddle and added slices of cheese to the two black bean veggie burgers and to one of the turkey patties.

From the sink, Abe said, “Looks like you didn't get your door fixed yet.” He gestured with his head toward the front.

“I know. Picked up the glass from Don this morning but haven't had a free second to install it. It's over there by the side door. And speaking of the side door . . .” I told him the story of my stolen Christmas tree. “The very one you helped me carry to my van on Monday. Can you believe it?”

“Awful. Criminal. You reported it, I assume.”

“I did.” I slid the cooked patties onto bottom buns on which I'd laid lettuce and tomato. “Do you remember what the variety was? What kind of tree? I didn't pay any attention to the name.”

“It was a Fraser fir. You gonna go get another one?”

“Maybe. If I ever have time. Which probably won't be until next Monday, but that's okay. If I get it closer to Christmas, it won't dry out as much. I thought it'd look pretty in here.”

“The place looks great already the way you've decorated it.” Abe smiled.

There was something about a dimple in a man's cheek that made my knees go weak. I cleared my throat. “Here's where we keep the meat and cheese. Veggie burgers are over here so vegetarians won't think they've been contaminated by meat.”
Jim's suggestion.

“But you cook them on the same griddle as the meat.”

“I know, it's kind of silly. We warm the buns in here.” I pointed to the warming oven, and then to the cooler. “The walk-in is over there if you need to resupply, and Danna knows where everything is, anyway.” I dinged the bell again.

“The ready bell?” he asked.

“Sure is.” Danna said as she walked up. “Hey, Abe. Thanks for helping out.”

“I'll leave you guys to it, then,” I said. “See you in the morning, Danna. And Abe, I owe you one.”

“I won't forget to take you up on it.” He locked his gaze on mine.

* * *

I parked my van at the end of a row of a dozen or more cars in front of the Berrys' house and sat for a moment. The funeral had been sparsely attended, which surprised me. Sue and Glen Berry were both from South Lick themselves and had lived in town their whole lives. I would have thought the church would be packed. The paucity of attendees had to be a testament to Erica's difficult nature. Jim was there with the family, of course, and a number of people I didn't know. Octavia stood in the back. I chose not to sit up front with Jim, instead deciding to take a seat toward the rear. After I spied Adele and Samuel, I slid in next to them. The service blessedly didn't run on too long, and the priest managed to find some positive things to say about Erica.

I climbed out of the van and made my way into the house, handing my good coat to a teenage girl who said she'd take it upstairs. I was a little worried Paula would accuse me of the murder again. Maybe I could find a way to talk with her alone. I followed the noise of voices, laughter, and glasses clinking to the same kitchen-sitting area where I'd visited with the family on Monday. The island was now spread with platters of finger food like meat pastries, tiny meatballs, deep-fried shrimp, Buffalo wings, something looking like it might be little catfish cakes, and more. Not a fruit or vegetable in sight, but I'd gotten used to that in Indiana. Lots of Hoosiers really liked their meat, at least in this area. A table, next to a side wall, was set up as a full bar, and by the looks of the crowd almost everyone was partaking.

I spied Paula sitting with her back to me in the corner of the sunroom. I wasn't going to bother her right now. Adele had said she and Samuel weren't going to be able to come to the gathering, as they needed to get the sheep in before coming back to town for my dinner. After Jim waved to me from the other side of the dining room, I helped myself to a glass of Chardonnay, slid a few meatballs and shrimp onto a small plate, and headed in his direction.

Sue turned away from the cluster of women she'd been talking with as I passed. “Aw, Robbie, thanks for coming to Erica's service, hon.” She laid her hand on my arm. “And we're so glad you could join us here, too.” Her skin was puffy under watery eyes and the glass she was holding shook, making little whiskey waves.

“It was a lovely service, Sue.”

She started to speak, then clamped trembling lips together. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, then opened them. “My baby's dead. But we have to move forward, don't we?” She pasted on a steely smile as she lifted her chin. “Now you go ahead and have a fine time, hear? You got yourself something to eat and drink, good.” She patted my arm and turned back to the women.

It wasn't right, for a mother to lose a child. I wove my way over to Jim, my own eyes suddenly filled with tears, grateful he stood alone. I set my drink on an end table, tucked my hand through his arm, and squeezed.

“You all right?” Jim peered down at me. He took a step back, effectively disengaging my arm.

I swallowed hard. “Feeling sad for Sue all of a sudden.” And wishing for the comfort of his arm. I swiped my eyes, and took a sip of wine.

“I know. Doesn't matter how prickly Erica was, she was still their little girl.” He gazed at Glen, then at Sue.

We stood there without speaking for a couple of minutes, watching guests and family talking, eating, pouring drinks. Paula sat on the couch with a couple of other women her age, and Max, holding a plate of food, was in an animated conversation in the far corner with Vince and several men I didn't know. I watched as Max lifted his fork with his left hand and took a bite.

“What are you making for this birthday dinner tonight?” Jim asked.

“Not sure yet. It's going to be easy and fast, though.” I glanced at a wall clock. “It's only three, but I shouldn't stay long.” I looked at Jim through narrowed eyes as I thought of what Danna had told me. “But before I go, I want to run something by you. Let's go find somewhere quieter to talk.”

He cast me a look I couldn't interpret, blinking fast a few times. He glanced around at the room, but finally followed me out through the hall to the small living room in the front, which was blessedly empty. I sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to me.

“What's the mystery?” he asked as he sat, but at the other end of the couch, instead. He jiggled his right knee up and down like a reciprocating saw, at a rate slow for a saw, but fast for a knee.

Why was he sitting way down there? “Well, Danna . . .”
Wait.
Bringing up Jon's death right now could be a painful thing for Jim. A clock ticked on the mantel.

“Danna what?” He waved a hand as if to bring me back.

I let out a breath. “She was looking for information about Erica on the Internet.”

“Trying to figure out who killed her?”

“I guess.”
What the heck.
Jim might already know about the corrupt police officer. “She found a news story about the police officer who was investigating your brother's death. Well, not investigating, but the one who—”

“The one who declared it a suicide?” Jim's mouth looked like he'd tasted spoiled tofu. “The corrupt one?”

“Exactly. This reporter was digging into the officer's story. Danna said the article speculated your brother was murdered, that he didn't commit suicide.”

Jim looked horrified. “Why didn't I ever see this article?” He shuddered.

“Maybe it came out after you'd come back down here. After his funeral.”

“Does this reporter think the officer killed Jon?” His low, urgent tone matched his lowered brows.

“I don't know. I haven't read it yet. But get this. The reporter also implied Erica might have been having an affair with the officer.”

Jim stared at me. The noise from the back of the room floated into our bubble of silence, a buzz of talking punctuated by a laugh here, a clink of glass there.

“And that she killed my brother. Her husband. The only one who adored her.” His nostrils flared and his eyes were grim gems.

I nodded slowly.

“I always thought it didn't make sense. Jon's death. He never would have killed himself. Never.” He pushed himself to standing, then paced to the opposite side of the room and back. “Good thing I didn't hear about this earlier. I would have killed Erica myself.”

“What did you say?” Max bellowed. He stood in the doorway with clenched fists.

“Did you just say you killed Erica?” Max took two strides into the room.

Jim held his hands up. “No, of course not. Back off, now.”

I stood, too. “We were talking about something that happened in Chicago, Max. A long time ago.” I kept my voice light. “Jim was joking.”

Max stared at Jim, but he relaxed his hands. “You don't joke about murder, man. You just don't.”

Chapter 18

I unloaded two cloth grocery bags full of food, including various candies for the gingerbread house, in my apartment kitchen before flipping on the radio in time for the five o'clock news. I needed to get going on dinner. But after I'd delivered the news bombshell to Jim, I couldn't very well simply get up and leave. He'd been stunned by the allegation Erica might have killed his brother, and after Max left the room, Jim made me promise to send him the link after I got it from Danna. He'd kept a physical distance between us, though, which wasn't like him. And come to think of it, he'd been acting a little odd even before I talked to him about the article.

At any rate, I hoped he'd be calm enough to enjoy the dinner tonight. Which we wouldn't be having if I didn't get busy.

I took a minute to check out the store, but all was well there. Danna and Abe had cleaned and tidied everything, and the tables were even set for tomorrow. They'd left the holiday lights on, so the place sparkled in more ways than one. Even the glass in the door—the glass in the door! Abe must have installed it. What a great guy. I hurried over to check it out. Perfect glazing, and not a fingerprint in evidence, so he'd cleaned it, too. Now I owed him double. I whacked the
Total
key on the antique cash register and lifted out a nicely full till. I transferred all except the starting cash for tomorrow to a zippered bank bag and carried it back to the safe in my apartment. I didn't bother to lock the door between my apartment and the store, since nobody but me would be in the store before I opened up again in the morning. Now it was time for shrimp bisque.

After chopping and sautéing shallots, celery, and garlic in the Dutch oven, I added half a cup of brandy and let it cook down for a couple of minutes. I stirred in uncooked white rice and tomato paste, followed by a bottle of clam juice and a quart of shrimp stock I'd taken out to defrost this morning. As I waited for the pot to come to a boil, I poured the end of a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge into a glass and took a sip, then minced a red sweet pepper and threw that in the pot, too. I was itching to read the article by the investigative reporter, but that would have to wait. What if his ideas were correct? Who could follow up on them? The police usually protected their own. They probably weren't going to investigate. And now that Erica was dead, she couldn't be questioned or made to testify. Maybe the police officer himself killed Jon, or worked with Erica to make it happen.

I stared at the blue enamel of the Dutch oven, and at the concentric circles in the lid. Maybe the police officer came down here and killed Erica. What had I thought at the Christmas tree farm when it had seemed someone was after me?
Kill once, kill twice, what's the difference?

Steam and the busy sound of boiling brought me back to the present. I shook off thoughts of murder in Chicago as I turned down the heat under the pot. After I drew out Mom's handmade salad bowl, featuring strips of wood in all different shades, I dumped in a bag of mixed baby greens. On top of the greens went a sliced avocado drizzled with fresh lime juice so it wouldn't brown before the guests arrived. I'd been lucky to find a ripe avocado at the store. I halved cherry tomatoes and grapes and added them to the salad.

What else?
The cake. Or the cheesecake, more precisely. I knew I didn't have time to bake, and since the grocery store stocked Bake My Day cheesecakes anyway, I figured why not? It was the marble variety with a chocolate-cookie crust. And if Adele liked anything, she liked chocolate. But there was no way I could fit seventy-one candles on there. Instead I stuck seven around the perimeter and put two in the middle, including the all-important one to grow on.

I checked the clock. Five thirty. I was in great shape. I dashed into my bedroom to swap out the gray skirt for a pair of snug jeans, but left my black cashmere sweater on. I paused in front of the framed picture of Mom and me on a hiking trip when I was ten. She was smiling into the camera with her arm around me, and I was giggling about something. We wore our matching Sequoia National Park T-shirts picturing giant redwoods, the same giant redwoods that reached skyward behind us in the photo.

“Wish you could come to the birthday party, Mom.” My throat thickened as I reached to pick up the frame. “I wish—”

The picture frame slipped out of my hand and crashed to the floor, accompanied by the tinkling of splintering glass. Swearing, I knelt and gingerly lifted up the frame. The photograph was intact, but glass now littered the floor to the side of my dresser. I held the frame by the stand and laid it face down on the top of the dresser, sliding back the clips securing the back. When I lifted it, a folded piece of paper lay between the back and the picture.

I froze. My name was written on the paper. The handwriting was Mom's.

Switching on the lamp next to my bed, I slowly unfolded the note in the light. I read it even more slowly. She'd written it that same summer I was ten, and she laid out the facts about my father I now knew to be true. The facts I'd discovered in October, which she'd never told me. Not once.

At the end, she wrote,
I plan to tell you about Roberto when you're ready. Maybe when you turn twenty-one, or maybe when you're the age I was when I was so overjoyed to give birth to you. But if something happens, I know you'll find this when the time is right. All my love, Mom.

I sank onto the bed, tears dripping onto my lap. I stared at the letter, purple ink on pink paper, Mom's strong, sure hand letting me in on a secret I'd already discovered. The one secret she didn't tell me was why. Why she'd never told me I even had a father on this earth.