Grilled for Murder (16 page)

Chapter 22

Danna cried out and swore as she jumped back from the griddle an hour later, slapping her hand. I hurried over, trying to ignore the scowls and pursed lips of two carefully coiffed matrons sitting closest to the kitchen area. I could tell they thought swearing was bad form at any time, but especially coming from a young woman.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Grease burn. One of the sausages exploded onto my hand.” She uncupped her left hand from the back of her right. A nasty red mark streaked across the back of her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ouch. Sorry you got burned,” I said. “Go run it under cool water until it stops hurting. You know where the first aid kit is, right?”

She headed for the sink. “At least I'm left-handed.”

“Pat it dry and put antibiotic ointment on it. We have some big bandages in there, I think.” I hoped. “But cover it loosely, okay?”

I glanced back at the griddle and did my own swearing, except silently. The bacon was burning and so were a half-dozen pancakes. A customer waved one hand at me and pointed to his coffee mug with the other. A party of four appeared through the front door. And something else smelled burnt, too.
Damn.
The last pan of French toast bake. I'd forgotten to set the timer.

Our morning rush had turned into morning disaster. I scurried as fast as I could. I tossed the burned items and laid fresh bacon on the griddle, followed by six new scoops of pancake batter, then quickly pulled out the casserole and set it on the counter. It looked like the middle pieces would be fine but the edges were all blackened. As I carried the coffee pot to the man who'd waved, I almost burst out in a panicked giggle. Maybe I could pass off the dish as Blackened Jamaican Toast.

When Danna approached the griddle again with a big rectangular bandage on the back of her hand, I shook my head. “I'll do the cooking. You okay to serve and bus?”

“Yeah. It hurts, but I'm okay.”

“If you're sure. I'm awfully glad it didn't splash into your eye or something. We both have to remember to pierce the sausages before putting them on the griddle.” I was once again grateful Danna was neither a wimp nor a complainer. “Let me know if it gets too bad. You can go home any time, okay?”

She bobbed her head as she grabbed menus for the newcomers.

By the time Buck ambled in at around nine thirty, hat in hands, the breakfast crowd had mostly gone. I'd never gotten around to calling him, so he was a welcome sight. He kept his uniform jacket on but unzipped it.

“Sit anywhere, Buck,” I called out. “Or, actually, can you come over here for a minute? There's something I want to talk with you about, but I can't leave the griddle.”

Buck obliged. As he passed Danna, he said, “What happened there?” He pointed to her hand.

She wrinkled her nose. “Grease burn. Hurts like he . . .” She shifted her eyes to a table of white-haired ladies. “Like heck.”

“Sorry to hear it, girl. You might should be careful. Grease is hotter than a hooker's doorknob on payday.”

Danna snorted, then headed over to clear a table.

Buck approached the griddle and leaned against the counter to my left. “What's up?” he asked, stretching
up
into nearly three syllables, as usual. He folded his arms and crossed one foot over the other.

I glanced around to make sure nobody was seated near enough to hear. “I was wondering if the investigation has ever looked into Jim as a suspect.” I kept my voice as low as I could, not quite believing I'd even said the words
Jim
and
suspect
in the same sentence.

“Shermer?” Buck scratched his head. “Why do you ask that, now?”

I lifted a shoulder, then flipped a couple of pancakes. “Jim's kind of like family with the Berrys, isn't he? Aren't they always the first people you look at?” I straightened four strips of bacon, questioning why I'd even brought it up. Was I trying to exact revenge on Jim for dumping me?

“Now, Robbie. Thinking Shermer killed Erica makes about as much sense as a trapdoor on a canoe. Thought you two were sweet on each other, too. And anywho, you know I can't talk about what Octavia thinks or doesn't think. It's her show this time around.”

“That's another problem.” I cleared my throat while I tried to figure out the best way to say it.

“What is? That we got a statie in here telling us what all to do?” Buck matched my soft voice.

“Not that, so much. But if Jim is a suspect, Octavia has a conflict of interest. She and Jim are involved. Romantically.”

“They . . . what'd you say?” He stared at me.

I squared my shoulders. “They used to go out, like ten years ago, and now they are again. He told me last night.” I was horrified to hear my voice wobble and feel hot tears fill my eyes. I blinked fast and took a deep breath. I would not cry about Jim Shermer. I would not.

“Well, tie me to an anthill and fill my ears with jam. Don't that just take all? So he's left you high and dry?” He reached over and rubbed my shoulder for a second. “You poor little thing.”

I swallowed. “It appears so. Don't worry about me. I'm fine.” Or would be. One of these days. Eventually.

* * *

In a bit of a lull, I glanced at the entrance to see Tiffany slide in without jangling the bell on the door. How'd she do that? The cowbell, which hung from a little cast-iron hand and muscled forearm, always rang when the door moved.

Tiffany pulled out a chair at one of the only empty tables, a small one near the cookware shelves, and lowered herself into it with a fluid motion.

I headed in her direction, since nothing was on the grill at the moment. “How's it going, Tiffany?” I handed her a menu, flipping it over to the side with the lunch offerings.

“Fine.” She didn't look up at me.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Hot tea. And a veggie burger, no bun, with a small salad, no onions, vinaigrette on the side.” She handed the menu back, still not meeting my eyes.

“Coming right up.” No “how are you?” and no “Please.”
All righty, then. Be that way.

I relayed the order to Danna and watched Tiffany as I assembled the carafe of hot water and a cup and saucer with a tea bag on the saucer. Chin on her palm, she was staring into space. I followed her gaze to the area where the pickle barrel had been. And where Erica's body had lain, now covered by the bench. This had to be coincidence. Didn't it? She couldn't know where I'd found Erica. Unless she'd killed her. I shook my head. It was more likely one of the local cops had talked about the crime scene to a family member and the information spread from there. Word gets around in a town like this. Or maybe Tiffany had learned about where Erica had been found when she was questioned by the police.

As I set down the tea fixings, I said, “Interested in any cookware today?”

She finally glanced up. “Not today, Robbie.” Her usually silky skin looked blotchy and her eyelids drooped as if they'd rather be closed.

“Is everything all right?” She might not want to answer—we didn't really know each other, after all—but it didn't hurt to ask.

Her faint smile only barely lit up her face. “I'm okay. But thanks for asking.”

“Hey, Adele really loved the kite-flying angel I gave her.”

Now Tiffany put on a real smile. “I'm so glad. I thought she would.” Her gaze drifted back to where I'd found the body for a moment, the smile sliding off. Then, as if wrestling her focus away to something else, anything else, her gaze finally landed on the display of Adele's yarn. “How beautiful. Is that Adele's?”

“Right. I'm hoping to sell some for the holidays.”

“If anyone comes into my store and asks where they can buy the yarn that goes into the hats I sell, I'll be sure to send them over here,” she said.

“Great idea, thanks.”

A buzzing sound came from a phone encased in a stylish black and white sleeve on the table. “Excuse me.” She turned away, crossing her legs, and picked up the phone.

I headed over to clear a just-vacated table of four, but paused when the cowbell jangled again. A uniformed Wanda sauntered in. She set her hands on her hefty hips and surveyed the room.

“Good morning,” I called out, heading her way with a menu. “Take any table.”

When Wanda's gaze landed on Tiffany, she bobbed her head once, like she was agreeing with herself. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” she said, almost too softly for me to hear. She stood near the wall across the room, elbows out and hands on her hips, facing Tiffany's back.

Oh, dear.
She'd better not scare customers away. Or arrest Tiffany right here in my restaurant. It didn't look like Tiffany had noticed Wanda's entrance, as involved as she was with her phone. I shook off the thought. No. Wanda wouldn't arrest Tiffany for the murder. That would be Octavia's job. Then why was Wanda so interested in Tiffany? I shook my head again.

“What can I get you, Wanda?” I said, handing her the menu. “You don't want to sit down?”

She shook her head. “Only got time for takeout today. Coffee, cream and sugar, and a couple of your Sloppy Joe hot dogs with everything. To go.” She looked around the full restaurant. “You got time? You look busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.”

I laughed. “I have time. Want coleslaw with your lunch?”

“Nah. Too healthy.” She barked out a laugh, but didn't stop looking at Tiffany. “But I'm going to go whole hog today and have some of your French fries.”

“Got it. You can sit on the bench to wait, if you want.”

“No need.” Wanda pointed at Tiffany with her chin. “She been in here long?”

“A few minutes. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Danna dinged the bell. I'd turned to go when Wanda laid a hand on my arm.

“Appreciate it if you don't let Ms. Porter know I'm here.” She pursed her lips and blinked officiously.

Huh?
“Why? Is she a suspect or something?”

“I'd appreciate the favor.”

“Well, okay. But I can't help it if she happens to look behind her.” What a crazy request in a big, open, public space, with Wanda not concealing herself at all. Not that there would be anywhere to hide except maybe by crouching down behind the kitchen counter, which would only get in Danna's way.

I hurried to the range, handed Wanda's takeout order to Danna, and brought Tiffany her lunch. She hadn't even poured her tea water. She looked up from the phone, which she'd been thumbing with both hands despite her long nails, now painted in a deep turquoise that matched her long-sleeved knit dress.

“Thank you so much, Robbie.” She drew out a ten and a five and handed them to me. “That'll cover it, right?”

“Of course. I'll get your change.” I perversely wanted to blow Wanda's cover. I glanced over at her, but she gave her head a little warning shake.

Tiffany's phone buzzed again and took her attention away from me.

“Thanks. Enjoy your lunch.” I waited for her reply, but she only nodded, eyes and thumbs on her phone.

It took more than our usual quick turnaround before Wanda's meal was ready, since we'd had to start a new batch of fries. When a table opened up near where she'd been standing, Wanda waved me over.

“Any skin off your back if I eat here after all?” she asked.

“Not at all. Your lunch should be right up.” And it was, so I carried it over to her.

She thanked me, but she was watching Tiffany the whole time. And because I was at least as busy as a two-armed proprietor-chef with a restaurant full of hungry customers, I didn't wait around to see what happened next. Which didn't mean I turned my radar off.

I was carrying a round tray full of drinks and salads to a table of four right beyond Tiffany's when she wiped the corners of her mouth and stood. She left the change I'd brought her on the table.

“Thanks, Robbie. A perfect lunch.” She slipped into her jacket, sliding her bag over her shoulder. When she turned toward the door, I watched as her gaze passed over Wanda. And it stayed there as Tiffany froze in place.

My own gaze zipped to Wanda, who gave Tiffany a little pretend salute. I looked back at Tiffany, like I was watching a tennis match, except slower. Her lips pressed together in a grimace, the kind where your molars are clamped shut so tight they ache. As Wanda rose to standing, Tiffany rushed out the door. The bell tolled after her.

Chapter 23

As soon as I closed up and stuck the till in the safe, I changed into clean jeans and a sweater and headed out to Adele's in my van. I'd made sure Danna would check with her doctor if the burn seemed to get worse during the rest of the day. I hoped she wouldn't have to take the next day off, but if she had to, she had to. I'd cope.

Adele had sent along the email from Samuel with his nephew's contact info. She'd added a note:
How's about coming over this afternoon after the store closes and doing some digging with me? Digging on the Internet, not in the garden
.

Of course
, I typed in return. Not only did I want to dig, I also wanted the kind of comfort only Adele could provide. A kitchen table, open ears, and plentiful hugs awaited me. Maybe I'd grab another Christmas tree on the way back, or maybe I wouldn't. I wasn't exactly feeling in the holiday spirit right now. I dutifully forwarded the private investigator's contact info to Jim, but didn't include a personal message.

I climbed into the van, remembering lunchtime. Wanda clearly had been interested in Tiffany.
But why?
She hadn't followed Tiffany out the door, so it wasn't like she was tailing her. Maybe Octavia had asked Wanda to keep tabs on Tiffany's whereabouts, which would mean the detective was still thinking of Tiffany as a suspect in the murder. I shook my head. Didn't make sense to me, but this week nothing much did.

After I stopped at the bank to deposit the take from the last two days, I aimed the van out of town. I didn't drive by Jim's condo on purpose. It simply lay on the most direct route to Adele's and I was busy thinking about Tiffany and Wanda. I instantly wished I'd gone the long way around. In front of his building, Jim and Octavia strolled hand in hand on the sidewalk, which sent an icicle into my gut. As I passed, they turned into a doorway flanked on one side by the bicycle shop and on the other by my favorite consignment store, both at ground level. It was the doorway leading to Jim's condo upstairs. Watching them, I wasn't watching the road. My right front wheel crashed through a pothole and the entire ratty old frame of the van clunked. I swore, steering out of the hole. When I glanced back, Jim looked over his shoulder directly at me.

I stared straight ahead and drove. Why did that have to happen, right here, right now? He probably thought I was stalking him or something. I pounded the steering wheel. Even with my doubts about us, I guess I liked him more than I realized. The sun, already beginning its descent toward the horizon at barely three o'clock, glared in my eyes as I turned west. These were the darkest days of the year in more ways than one. Why had I ever thought I could trust a man again? Now I wished I hadn't mentioned dinner to Abe. It wasn't fair to him, at all. But canceling at this hour wasn't exactly fair, either. Too late now.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into Adele's drive. I didn't see Samuel's little red car.
Good.
As much as I liked Samuel, I really wanted to have Adele to myself for a bit. Sloopy ran up to greet me, so I reached back into the van for one of the dog biscuits I kept on hand for him.

“Come on, Sloops. Let's go see Mom.” I handed him the biscuit.

He grabbed the treat in his jaws and trotted to the house, pausing once to make sure I was coming. Her door was unlocked, even with a murderer on the loose. Adele probably thought she was safe out here in the country. She did own a gun, after all, and knew how to use it. I called to her and went in. Sloopy plopped down on the old linoleum floor in the kitchen and started crunching.

“In here,” she responded. “Dining room.”

As often happened when I visited, the house broadcast the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread. The loaf, already cut into, sat on a board shaped like a sheep, with butter in a dish and a hunk of cheese nearby.

“I'm going to grab a piece of bread first, okay?” I'd eaten lunch, but I'd been so busy on my feet I knew I'd burned up all those calories and then some.

“Of course,” she called back.

I cut and buttered a thick slice, and added a wedge of cheese for good measure before I walked through the arched doorway. Adele sat at a laptop computer at the dining table. I'd only ever eaten in here at Thanksgiving or Easter, since we normally made do with the table in the warm, sunny kitchen. I kissed her cheek.

“Whatcha got?” I asked. I took a bite of bread, savoring the texture, chewing the crusty outer layer, before setting my plate on the table. The burnish of its rich red tone in the sunlight from the windows warmed the room, as did the colorful Caribbean paintings Adele had brought back from a trip to Haiti.

“Watch the finish.” Adele pushed a cork mat toward me, which I dutifully slipped under my plate.

“Pull up a chair, honey,” she said. “This is pretty dang interesting.”

I sat next to her. “What is?”

“I read the article. The one Danna told you about.” She pointed to the screen. “It's right here.”

“I read it last night.” The headline read, G
OOD
C
OP
? O
R
B
AD
? I scanned the first couple of paragraphs again. “This reads more like an opinion piece, or something out of a gossip rag, doesn't it?”

“Sure does. But the writer's byline says
investigative reporter
.”

“Maybe he hadn't finished his investigation when he wrote it, but he wanted people to start questioning the cop.”

“Could be.” She shoved the computer toward me. “Here, you do the searching. I know enough about the computer to do my email and check the few sites and blogs I read every day. But you young folks are better at it.”

I laughed and set my fingers on the keyboard. “Let me finish rereading the article first.” I focused on the screen, reading and scrolling down until I came to the end. “Not much of substance beyond the cop's name, Bart Daniel. The reporter makes some provocative suggestions, though.”

“What's the date on the story?”

I scrolled back to the beginning. “Hmm. Last June. Half a year ago.”

“Try to find something more recent.”

I searched on
Bart Daniel
. Nothing.
Bart Daniel Chicago
. Zip.
Bart Daniel police
. Strike out. “What's
Bart
short for?”

“Bartholomew.”

I typed the full name and hit
Enter
. “Whoa. Look at this.” I pointed to the screen. “Guess who's in jail?”

Adele's eyes widened as she read the article I'd unearthed. “Looks like the intrepid reporter accomplished his goal. Old Bart Daniel didn't kill Erica. He's been locked up for all kinds of offenses since October.”

I sat back and regarded her. “So he's not Erica's murderer. Wonder who is?”

“It was kind of tempting to want some stranger from away to be the one who did Erica in, wasn't it.” Adele tapped the table with a gnarled finger.

“There's still a stranger from away who's a possibility, this guy Vincent Pytzynska. He said he was from Chicago, a law classmate of Jim's brother Jon. Vince came all the way down here to pay his respects to the Berrys, but I found out he's really from Nashville. He easily could have known Erica in high school.”

“But why kill her?” Adele asked. “Why now?”

“I don't know. And now Octavia is going to think I'm nuts. I told her about that Daniel guy this morning. She's probably already found out it couldn't have been him, after all. Except she's the last person I ever want to see again.”

“Why in heaven's name would you say something like that, Roberta?” Adele cocked her head and watched me.

I finished off another mouthful of bread before I spoke. “Jim told me something last night after we did the dishes.” I again felt the thickness in my throat meaning tears were on their way.

Adele pushed the computer into the middle of the table and covered my hand with hers. “About Octavia?”

“Yes. They'd been very much in love about a decade ago, but she decided to go back to her older husband, who was sick. Now she shows up in town. Her husband has passed away. And Jim wants another chance with her.” A sob escaped my control. “On my way over, I saw them on the sidewalk holding hands.”

“Oh, hon.” Adele pulled me in for an embrace.

In the warmth of her arms, I let a few tears bubble up and out. She didn't say a word as she stroked my hair. When my sorrow was spent, I sat up straight and wiped my eyes with both hands.

“I'm sorry. It's just—”

“No sorries around here. You feel what you feel. And right now I feel like a cup of tea with some of that sorghum. It's just wasting space in the cupboard. Come on into the kitchen.”

I followed her in and sat, watching as she put the kettle on, brought the bread and fixings to the table, and drew two small glasses out from a cabinet. I knew she and Samuel were fond of this drink, spirits distilled from an Amish farmer's sorghum.

“Too sweet for me. It's almost like molasses,” I said. “But I'll bet in tea it's good.”

“Yup.” She poured an inch into both glasses and handed me one.

When she held hers up, I did too. After we clinked, I took a small sip and set it down. “It's a tough week for me. I want to tell you about something I found in my bedroom yesterday, totally by accident.”

Adele tilted her head, but she waited for me to go on.

“I accidentally knocked over a picture frame, one with a photo of me and Mom in Sequoia when I was about ten, and the glass broke. When I picked it up, I found a letter from her to me between the frame and the photograph.”

“My sweet Lord.” Adele set her elbow on the table and covered her mouth with her fingers, her gaze full of concern.

I took a deep breath and blew it out. “She told me all about Roberto. I know about him now, of course. But what she didn't tell me was why—”

“Why she never told you.” Adele waggled her head back and forth. “She never told me, either.”

“But you knew he was my father.”

“I did. Honey, I think she simply wanted you to be happy. The two of you were so close, and it didn't seem to matter to you not having a dad in your life.”

I swirled the liqueur in my glass, watching how it clung to the sides, slowly sliding back down. “I guess it doesn't matter why. I don't have her to ask, but I have a father, and he cares about me.”

“That's right. You go ahead and hang onto that, now.”

I sat without speaking for another few moments. “You know, it's funny. Earlier this week I was starting to wonder if Jim was really right for me. But now he's decided I'm not right for him, or not as right as the charming detective, it smarts like a bee sting. Or more like a heartache.”

“Of course it does. And, for the record, he's an idiot to choose anybody over Robbie Jordan.” Adele took a good swallow of the sorghum. “
Whoo-ee
. That goes down just perfect.”

I had to smile at her. She could be gruff at times, and was the most no-nonsense and competent woman I'd ever known. But she did like her little nip now and then, and didn't try to hide her appreciation for it. I sipped the drink again, rolling it on my tongue, the sweet liquid punctuated by the sharpness of alcohol.

“I think it grows on you.” I sipped again.

“So don't I.” When the kettle whistled, she jumped up and a moment later brought cups of herbal tea to the table. “How are we going to get you past this bump in the road called Idiotic Jim Shermer?”

“Well, I happen to have a dinner date with Abe in a couple of hours.” I smiled and cleared my throat.

“The younger O'Neill boy? The cute one?”

“The very one.” I doused my tea with the rest of my sorghum.

“Way to jump right back in the saddle, honey.” She reached over and patted my hand. “If I were forty years younger, I might could go after that boy myself.”