Grilled for Murder (17 page)

Chapter 24

Before I left Adele's, we'd talked more about Erica and the cop, and as I drove home I couldn't get the thought of them out of my mind. There had to be more to the story as far as Erica was concerned. But how could I find out? I could shoot the reporter an email. I could turn it all over to the lovely and passionate Octavia.
Now, Robbie, spite isn't an attractive trait
, I could hear my mother saying. I wrinkled my nose. I sure couldn't talk to Jim about it. I . . .

I slammed on the brakes, pulling to the side of the road across from the Beanblossom covered bridge. One person in South Lick might know all about it. I pressed the Berrys' number and said hello to Sue when she picked up.

“Hey there, Robbie.”

“How's it going today, Sue?”

She didn't speak for a moment. “It's only about the hardest thing we've ever had to go through. But we'll be fine. It'll be all right.”

“I'm so sorry. I lost my mom last winter, and—”

“Oh, hon. I didn't know about that. My heart just goes out to you.”

“Thank you. The pain does get a little less sharp with time. A little.” I cleared my throat. “Say, you know your friend Vince?”

“Of course. It was so dear of him to come down and offer his condolences in person.”

“Absolutely. I wondered if I could speak with him, please. If he's staying with you.”

“He's not here.”

Rats. Had he already left town? I watched a bald eagle beat its wide wings toward Lake Lemon, and then glide under a sky that had turned to a steely gray in the last hour.

“He's staying at the Lamplighter Motel,” Sue continued. “But he told me he's in town doing a few things.”

Whew
. “In South Lick?”

“No, he went up to Nashville. Let me give you his cell, okay? You might could catch him or figure out a place to meet.”

“Thanks, Sue. Perfect.”
Was it?
Abe was picking me up at six and it was already after four.

She rattled off the number after I found a pencil stub and an old receipt among the detritus strewn about my van. I thanked her again, disconnected, and pressed Vince's number.

After I greeted him, I said, “Remember me? I came by with some food on Monday.”

“Sure. How's it going?” His voice, scratchy on the cell phone, sounded less jittery than before.

“I learned about something that happened in Chicago, and I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

“What about?”

“It's kind of complicated. Could we meet in person?” I asked. “Maybe for coffee in Nashville?”

“I guess. But I'm at Brown County State Park checking out some birds. I'm not done yet.”

I looked toward the west. Shadows were lengthening, but it was still an hour until sunset. It would take me fifteen or twenty minutes to get there. The talking wouldn't take long. I should be able to swing it and still get home in time to get cleaned up for dinner.

“I'll be there as soon as I can, but it'll be at least fifteen minutes.” Would he wait for me?

“That'll give me enough time. If I'm not already in the parking lot, I'll be heading that way on Trail One.”

“Thanks so much. I'll see you there as soon as I can.” The phone went dark. I had a sudden pang, questioning the wisdom of meeting someone who might be a murderer on a trail in the woods. But no, the park was always packed with nature lovers, hikers, birders, not to mention rangers. I'd stay in the parking lot and wait. I'd be fine.

* * *

At the state park entrance, I drove through the double covered bridge, the only one in the state, showed the ranger in the booth my yearly pass, and headed into the parking lot. Where was everybody? I saw exactly two vehicles, plus the state park vehicle near the booth. Must be the difference between early October and late November. The last time I was here, when I thought someone was using me as target practice, there'd been barely an empty parking spot. I glanced over at the Abe Martin Lodge, which looked distinctly unoccupied. I thought they were normally open year-round, but maybe they were closed for renovations.

I definitely wasn't going to head out Trail One to meet Vince. I climbed out of the van. Leaning against the driver's side door, I pulled up the collar of my thigh-length coat and snugged my scarf more tightly around my neck. The sun had sunk below the tree line and the temperature was dropping fast. Slate-colored clouds scudded by and the air smelled of pine with an overlay of wood smoke. Where was Vince?

Laughter came from the opening to the trail and I watched it closely. Maybe Vince had been birdwatching with friends. Instead, two middle-aged women trudged out, hardy in fleece sweatshirts, hiking shorts, and boots, with gloved hands holding pairs of walking sticks. They climbed into a small SUV and drove off, leaving only a tan sedan with Illinois plates in the lot.

I paced circles around my van, glancing occasionally at the trailhead. No Vince. I checked my phone. No message, and now it was quarter to five. Should I call him again? I didn't want to scare him off by being too persistent. I'd give him five more minutes and then I was leaving. If I didn't, I'd be late to meet Abe. I pulled down my e-mail account on my phone, but saw nothing important in my inbox. The scratchy, piercing cry of a raptor made me glance up to see one soaring overhead. It beat its wings to stay in place, and then swooped to the ground in the open field at the end of the lot. When it took to the air again, a field mouse struggled in its powerful talons. My hair prickled, and not from the cold.

“Waiting for somebody?” A reedy voice spoke from behind me.

I held tight to my phone as I whirled. Vince stood behind me with his hands in his jacket pockets. Binoculars hung around his neck over a khaki jacket.

“Where'd you come from?” I asked, patting my chest. “You startled me.”

“Sorry. Came around the long way. Was tracking the song of a hooded warbler. Never did see it.” His pale blue eyes were bright in his linen-colored face. Even the brisk air didn't bring any natural pink to his cheeks. He wore a black watch cap, with stray strands of reddish-brown hair sticking out over his ears like straw.

“No problem.” I shivered again, and this time it was from the falling temperature.

“Want to get in and talk?” He gestured to the van.

No way.
“No, it's okay.”

“So you said you had some questions for me.” His words came out in a rush, and he rubbed his thumb and fingers together with a rapid motion like he was trying to polish them.

“I do, and thanks for agreeing to meet with me. Did you ever know of a man named Bart Daniel?”

“Bart Daniel.” Vince gazed at the woods, then back at me. “Why are you asking?”

“He's a police officer in Chicago.” I watched for his reaction.

His face darkened. “The one who called Jon's death a suicide.” He shook his head. “I never met him personally.”

“Did you know if Erica knew him? Hung out with him, even?”

“Erica did what she pleased.” His mouth looked like he'd tasted moldy apple butter. “Husband's dead, why not hook up with the cop who didn't look into why a perfectly happy and successful man would kill himself?”

“So she went out with him? But only after Jon died?”

His nostrils flared. “I saw her with Daniel before Jon's death, too.”

“Really?”

“All snuggled up in a booth at a bar across town from where Jon and Erica lived.”

“Wow. Did you tell Jon?”

“And destroy his image of Erica as the perfect wife? No way.”

“I read today the cop is in jail for corruption.” I watched a crow soar across the parking lot and land in a tree.

“Good riddance.”

“The investigative reporter might have had something to do with it, getting those questions out into public scrutiny.”

He folded his arms. “Why are you looking into all this, anyway?”

“My b . . . my friend Jim is Jon's twin. We heard a reporter up there was looking into Jon's death. The article said it might not have been suicide, and that Daniel and Erica might have been involved. Murder is terrible, but thinking your twin killed himself is almost worse. I was only trying to help.”

“Have you told the cops?” Now he watched me, the fingers on his right arm beating a rapid rhythm on his left.

With Jim seeing Octavia?
“They know all about it.”

Chapter 25

I stood in front of my closet. What to wear, what to wear? Abe said we were going to Hoosier Hollow. Which Christina had described as elegant Hoosier food. Which probably meant dressing up, but it was cold out, so my choices were limited. I decided on a magenta cashmere sweater that warmed my Mediterranean coloring and had a luscious floppy cowl neck. I paired it with a flared short black skirt I loved, pink tights, and knee-high black boots. I let my hair down and brushed it out, then pinned back a swoop with an abalone clip on one side. I slid the gold hoop earrings Mom gave me for my sixteenth birthday into my ear lobes, swiped on dark pink lip gloss, and I was ready. I was blessed with full, dark lashes and didn't really need makeup besides a little color on my lips.

And was I a little nervous? Sure. I knew it wasn't the wisest thing for me to do, jumping into a date the day after I was dumped by my previous guy. The last thing I wanted was to be burned in love one more time. But hey, I wasn't marrying Abe. It was only dinner.

Birdy ran to the kitchen ahead of me to make sure I filled his food and water bowls, so I obliged. The clock on the microwave read five fifty-five. I realized I didn't know where Abe expected to pick me up. Did he even know where the back door to my apartment was? I threw on my black wool coat, grabbed my gloves and bag, making sure my phone was in it, and let myself into the store. After I switched on all the holiday lights, I stood for a moment in their glow. What a dark, mixed-up start to the season, which was already dark enough without crimes and secrets to make it worse. No wonder ancient peoples in northern climes had lit candles and brought evergreens indoors in December to ensure the light would return with spring. I flipped on the outside lights, too.

I headed out and locked the heavy antique door behind me. When I didn't see a vehicle parked in any of the slantwise spaces in front of my store, I perched on the top step. I couldn't miss Abe this way.

As I sat, I thought about Vince and our meeting in the parking lot. So he'd known of the cop, but apparently not about the corruption investigation. Vince had said he knew Erica was seeing Bart Daniel, and had expressed his strong dislike for her. But had those feelings spilled over into hatred, enough hatred to kill her? Once again I wondered why he'd come all the way down here if he hadn't even cared about her. Something was very off about that man.

And speaking of men, where was the one who was supposed to be picking me up for dinner? Every time a car approached I thought it would be Abe, but it always drove on by. I didn't even know what kind of vehicle he owned. I kind of assumed it would be a truck, since he worked for the electric company. Which might have been my preconceived notion speaking, a blue-collar stereotype. For all I knew, he drove a Cooper Mini or a vintage Jaguar.

I yawned. It'd been a full day. Maybe this dinner date had been a bad idea. I'd be doing tomorrow's prep late again. I needed to run a load or two of restaurant laundry. And it was possible I should have placed an order this afternoon instead of running off to Adele's. Well, I was committed now.

A Prius drove by. It stopped suddenly, backed up and swung into a space, but the person who climbed out was not Abe. I cursed silently, longing for the anonymity of a much bigger town like Santa Barbara. Jim stood there, his hands on the open door, gazing at me.
Just my luck.
I closed my eyes for a second, but when I opened them he was still there.
Why?

“Hi.” I mustered a small smile.

“Robbie . . .”

I waited. I was not making the first move in this, whatever it was.

He shut the door and took a few steps until he stood at the bottom of the stairs. He clasped his hands in front of him and looked down at them. Finally he glanced back up at me.

“I saw you sitting there and I had to stop. I want to say I'm sorry for springing my news on you last night like I did.”

I lifted my chin.
Wonderful.
He wasn't sorry for what he decided to do, only for how he told me. I didn't trust myself to say the right thing if I opened my mouth, so I didn't.

He opened his palms. “I'm so sorry.” His eyes and mouth dragged down at their outer edges. Even his posture sagged.

“You might like to know what Adele and I found out.” I kept my voice level.

He frowned. “What?”

“The corrupt cop in the article, the one I sent you the link to? He's been in jail for a couple of months. And Vince told me the cop and Erica were indeed involved.”

“Vince. Jon's jumpy friend from Chicago.”

My cell rang in my hand. One quick look told me Abe was calling. Gazing at Jim, I connected.

“Hey, Abe,” I said into the phone.

Jim narrowed his eyes.

“Robbie, I'm really sorry to be late,” Abe said in a rush. “We had an emergency at work. Do you mind heading over to the restaurant and waiting for me there? Order a drink, an appetizer, whatever you want. I'll be there as soon as I can. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Not a problem. Thanks for letting me know.”

“I'll hurry. We have a reservation under my name.”

“Got it.” I disconnected and pushed up to standing. I walked down the stairs until Jim had to back up a couple of paces to let me by. “Excuse me.” I passed him and turned left on the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

“Dinner with a friend.”

* * *

The restaurant was only ten minutes away by foot. I stayed on the main drag instead of taking the shortcut through the alley like I had in October. Getting shot at in the dark can really change your habits. I walked briskly because of the cold, and because it was a welcome relief to get some exercise. Having not only a busy schedule but also a busy brain was tough on the psyche. For me, a good workout was the best way to fix racing-thoughts syndrome, and I hadn't made time for one since Monday.

I pushed open the door to Hoosier Hollow to a welcome rush of warm air fragrant with scents both savory and sweet. A greeter about my age asked if I had a reservation.

“Yes. For two at six fifteen under the name
Abe O'Neill
. Sorry we're late.”

She looked around. “Is he parking the car?”

“Um, he'll be even a little later. I hope that's okay.” I glanced past her. The place was bustling, but several tables still sat empty.

“No worries. Please come with me.”

I followed her to a table for two near a fireplace set in the wall facing on the street. A welcome fire crackled in it, but the back wall of the fireplace was made of glass, so passersby could see the fire, too. A pale pink tablecloth stretched over the table, which was set with dark pink cloth napkins that nearly matched my sweater.

“I'm a friend of Christina's, the chef,” I told the woman. “She said to mention it when I came in.”

The woman smiled. “She's great. I'll let her know you're here.”

A candle in a glass sparkled in the middle of the table and bathed the pink carnations in a small Mason jar with a rosy light. Watercolor paintings of southern Indiana scenes decorated the brick walls: the Beanblossom covered bridge, a limestone building from the university, a cove with its lake water reflecting brilliant fall leaves, a snowy wooded scene with two deer bounding away. I didn't know what I'd expected—more of a country-chic decor, maybe—but this was elegant and comfortable at the same time.

I opened the menu and perused the appetizers, since my stomach was making it very clear it'd been a long time since the bread and cheese at Adele's. When a waitress appeared with a pitcher of water, I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir.

“And can I get the catfish cakes to start, please?” The description sounded fabulous.

“You bet.”

I'd wait to decide on the main course until Abe got here. I idly glanced around the room. I thought the restaurant had been open only a couple of weeks, but word must have spread about Christina's talents, because it was busy. In the few minutes since I'd been seated, diners had filled the few remaining available tables. I spied Tiffany Porter emerge from under the sign that discreetly read RESTROOMS. She wore a sleek sleeveless black dress with black four-inch heels, and strutted like a model back to her table at the far end of the restaurant. She caressed the shoulders of her dining companion, a tall, dark-haired man in a suit and tie, before she sat. I thought their table looked pretty empty from where I sat, so they must have started right when the place opened.

I had no idea of Tiffany's personal life, except she'd said she lived alone. Nice she had a handsome date on a Thursday night. Come to think of it, Max had said he often saw her out with men. As I spied Abe at the reception podium, I smiled. I had a handsome date, too.

I watched as the greeter pointed to me. Abe's eyes followed and I waved. A moment later, he sank into the chair opposite me, wearing a yellow sweater over an Oxford shirt and a neatly knotted turquoise tie.

“Welcome,” I said, still smiling.

“Thanks. Sorry again for being late. Some idiot decided a utility pole in Beanblossom was his garage. We had to sister it to a new one and get the wires back up, since it knocked out power to half the town.” He sipped his water. “Which, of course, isn't saying much in Beanblossom.” He tilted his head as he smiled. “You look nice, Robbie. That color is stunning on you.”

“Thanks.” I sipped my wine to cover my sudden nerves. He must have grabbed a quick shower. He'd combed his walnut-colored hair, damp around the edges, back from his forehead. His cheeks glowed in the firelight. He smelled clean, like soap and rainwater.

“What are you drinking?” He leaned forward and touched my glass.

“An Oregon Pinot Noir. It's very nice. And I ordered an appetizer. We can share, if you want.”

When the waitress approached with a basket of bread, he said, “I'll have a double Glenlivet neat.”

“You got it,” she said and turned away.

“After a long shift, there's nothing like a Scotch whisky.”

“I like Kentucky bourbon, myself,” I said. I reached into the basket and pulled out a roll with the springy feel of sourdough, both to give my hands something to do and to make my stomach act like a lady instead of a roaring, starving beast.

“How was your day, Robbie?”

“Not much happened. You know, cooking. Some more cooking. And a bit more cooking.” The last thing I wanted to get into was a discussion of strangers from Chicago. Or murder.

His rolling laugh burst out as he tilted his head back. “No excitement?”

“Not really. I hung out with my aunt for a while. Not exciting, but always a pleasure.”

“She's a real treasure, your Adele. I feel like I've known her my whole life. She was fire chief when I was a little boy dying to be a firefighter myself, and she must have given my mom and me a dozen tours of the station.”

“She's good like that. It didn't throw you off to have a woman as chief? It's still not very common.”

“Just the opposite, I think.” Abe set his chin on his palm and gazed at me. “It showed me a woman could do any job she wanted to. Although I'm sure my mom might have added words to that effect every time we headed home after visiting the station.”

The waitress brought Abe's drink along with a square plate holding six crispy, green-flecked patties with six small cheese-topped toasts arrayed around the edges.

“What are those?” he asked.

“Catfish cakes,” the server said before leaving. “With fresh dill and capers, served with a lemon-mustard sauce and goat cheese crostini.”

“Don't they look yummy?” I asked.

He held up his glass and smiled, showing his trademark dimpled grin. “Here's looking at you.”

I held up my glass to his and clinked it. “And at you.”

I'd just taken a sip when Buck, Wanda, and another officer in a South Lick uniform burst in through the door. Buck scanned the restaurant for only a second before striding to Tiffany's table, the two other officers following. The entire room instantly grew quiet, with only a murmur of talk and clatters coming from the swinging doors to the kitchen.

I exchanged a quick glance with Abe, then returned my gaze to Tiffany. She raised her chin, spots of color bursting onto her cheeks.

“I need you to come with me, Ms. Porter,” Buck said.

“Why?” Tiffany asked. She folded her hands tight on the table.

“What's this all about?” Her companion stood.

“Are you coming, Ms. Porter?” Buck asked.

“We're here having a nice dinner,” the man said. “Wasn't a crime last time I checked. Surely whatever your business is can wait until tomorrow.”

Tiffany stayed seated but didn't speak.

Buck cleared his throat. “Tiffany Porter, you are under arrest for operating a sexually oriented business without a permit, operating without a business license, and other offenses.”

I looked at Abe, my eyes wide, and back at the unfolding scenario.

Her companion stole a glance at Tiffany. “Now, listen here,” he boomed. “This is some kind of mistake. Miss Porter isn't operating any kind of business other than her store. I'm an old college friend in town for a visit.”

A white-clad Christina pushed open the doors from the kitchen, a long wooden spoon in her hand, and stared.

“Sir, she's under arrest. Ms. Porter, you're going to have to come with us,” Buck said in a sorrowful tone, laying one hand on the back of her chair, the other on the handcuffs on his belt.

Tiffany very slowly pushed herself up from the table, clutching a slim bag. She shook her head at her companion and let Buck usher her out. All heads turned as she passed. The officer I didn't know took a long wool coat from the greeter and handed it to Tiffany, who draped it over her shoulders. I heard Wanda saying, “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right . . .” before the door closed.