Grilled for Murder (19 page)

“You did a great job.” I muffled a yawn even the cold air couldn't keep at bay.

“Boring you?”

“Absolutely not.” I laughed. “But I had a long day, and I still have prep to do for tomorrow's breakfast.”

“Hop in, then. Your chariot awaits.”

I climbed into the passenger seat and fastened the lap seatbelt. In a minute we were driving down Walnut to the familiar ticking sound typical of an old VW, or maybe it was simply the music of an analog engine. A friend of my mom's had driven an old VW Bug everywhere. They didn't rust out in California and many more of them remained in circulation.

I flashed back to my first date with Jim earlier in the fall, riding home from dinner in a quiet new-model Prius instead of a restored antique. I'd felt a similar attraction to what I was experiencing right now, only to a different guy. It was curious that I didn't feel uneasy about the change. If I had to guess, I'd say being dropped had a lot to do with it.

It'd only taken me ten minutes to walk over to Hoosier Hollow, so driving got us to the store in no time at all. Which was kind of a shame. Abe pulled into a parking space out front.

He laid his right arm across the back of the bench seat. “I really enjoyed myself tonight, Robbie. You're good company.”

“I had a great time, too.” I unclipped my seat belt and turned sideways in the seat to face him. “Thanks so much for the fabulous dinner. I'll cook for you one of these days. How does that sound?”

“Yum.” He glanced at the storefront. “Hey, you want some help doing your prep work for tomorrow? I'm pretty good at following directions.”

My heart went pitter-pat. I didn't want this evening to end either. “I'd love it. Come on in.”

* * *

As I unlocked the front door to the store, another car pulled in next to Abe's. I turned to look but the headlights blinded me. The lights went out. I didn't hear a door open.

“Can you see who it is?” I asked Abe in a soft voice, my heart rate speeding up ever so slightly. Despite Max's idea, I doubted Tiffany was Erica's killer. Which meant the real one could be in that car right there.

“No,” he said in a normal voice as he peered at the car. “Don't recognize the vehicle.”

“I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,” sang a deep resonant voice.

Phil's voice.
Be still my heart
, as Mom used to say when she was relieved something hadn't turned out for the worse. A car door slammed.

“Phil, what are you doing here?” I called. It had to be past eight.

Phil sang, to the same tune, “I'm dreaming of a fabulous brownie, just like the ones I made last night.” He trotted up the stairs holding a stack of wide-rimmed baking sheets in his arms.

I laughed. “I totally forgot. Good for you. We would have run out of desserts tomorrow.”

“Greetings, earthlings,” Phil said. “I know I just brought some yesterday, but tomorrow is too busy for me to bake.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “We go through them fast.”

“How's it going, Phil?” Abe asked, but I thought his voice held disappointment. I felt a touch of the same. Maybe Phil wouldn't stay long.

“Most excellently. Especially now the police have stopped harassing me. I think I finally convinced the detective I did not kill Erica.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. As I pushed open the door and held it for the guys, a slip of green paper fluttered to the floor.

“What's that?” Abe asked. He stooped and retrieved the paper. The paper had been folded in half to about the size of an index card and stapled shut.

Phil set the pans on the stainless counter, now whistling the tune to “White Christmas.” Even his whistle was rich and warbling. “Love note from a secret admirer?” he asked.

Abe's gaze met mine and he watched me. I liked that he was interested in my answer. Or maybe he had every right to be, since until a couple of days ago my not-so-secret admirer had been Jim.

“I doubt it.” I carefully opened the paper at the staple and read the typed message, which was not signed. I looked up.

“What is it?” Abe asked. He moved to my side. He didn't touch me, but his presence a few inches away was infinitely comforting.

“I don't get it. I told you somebody stole my Christmas tree, right?”

Abe nodded, and Phil narrowed his eyes, gazing at me.

“This note says I'll find a Christmas tree outside the service door. Which is right where I left the other one on Monday.”

Phil, resuming his whistling, sauntered to the service door and opened it. I followed him and flipped on the outside light.

“Yep. Tree.” Phil pointed to an even larger Fraser fir than the one I had cut, with its trunk sitting in the same bucket the first tree had occupied.

“What?” I stared, fists on hips. “Who would bring back a different tree?”

“Who knew your tree was stolen?” Phil asked.

“Danna. Buck. Don. You . . .” I narrowed my eyes at Abe.

He held up both hands, palms out. “Hey, would love to take the credit. And I feel bad I didn't think about it. But it wasn't me. Is the note signed?”

I glanced at it. “In a way. It says,
From your friend.
That's it, and it's all typed.”

“Dude, it's cold out here. You want us to bring it in?” Phil asked, rubbing his arms with his opposite hands.

“Yes, please. I'd hate to see a gift tree get stolen, too.” I headed back into the store.

A minute later the guys stood inside with tree in hand. Needles littered the mat in front of the service door, since the tree had barely fit through. I hurried to the right of the front door where I'd planned to put the smaller tree, and slid the coat rack and umbrella stand out of the way.

“Stick it here for now, okay?”

Abe held it in place until Phil brought the bucket over. “Got a stand for it?” Abe asked.

I shook my head. “I'll pick one up tomorrow.”

“I'm heading home, unless you have any more trees to rescue,” Phil said, smiling.

“Sure hope not. Thanks, friend.” I hugged Phil. “Hey, you want a check now?”

“No. Whenever you have time is cool. I know where to find you.”

“And I'll see you tomorrow night for our log cabin assembly, right?”

“You bet.” Phil pointed a finger gun at me. “Eight o'clock okay? I have an afternoon rehearsal that'll probably run long.”

“Eight is fine. I picked up some candies and stuff at the store yesterday, and the cashier over at the hardware store reminded me of the icing recipe. I'll have it all ready to go.”

“Perfect.”

Abe shook Phil's hand and we watched him run down the stairs, whistling again. I turned back into the restaurant and sniffed. It already smelled festive in here, with the fresh sappy smell of fir that nothing else even approximated.

“Time to get to work, I'm afraid,” I said as I washed my hands.

“Ready and willing, ma'am.”

I cocked my head. “You've eaten here a number of times. Got any ideas for a special you'd like to see on the menu, whether for breakfast or for lunch?”

“Good question.” He thought for a moment. “I often think of soup at lunchtime, but you don't offer any.”

“Soup. That's a no-brainer, isn't it? I could offer soup and sandwich, except it'd have to be soup and burger. Got a favorite soup?”

“Curried chicken soup is awesome. Kind of like mulligatawny. You can use all kinds of vegetables, and throw an apple in. My dad makes it regularly.”

“Sounds like you have the recipe in your head,” I said, drying my hands. “You sent over soup after my accident, come to think of it.”

Abe leaned one elbow on the counter and clasped his hands. “Soup is good.” The dimple creased his cheek.

“Want to give it a whirl? I actually have a gallon of stock and some frozen cut-up chicken from a roasted chicken dinner I catered a couple of weeks ago. Plenty of vegetables and herbs, too.”

“Deal. Show me a knife and the cutting board.” He headed for the sink and began to scrub his hands.

I pulled out a good chopping knife and an acrylic cutting board, then hauled out a wire basket full of carrots, celery, onions, garlic, and apples from the walk-in. I headed back in, to the sounds of chopping, to get the biscuit makings.

As I cubed butter, I asked, “Where do your folks live?”

“They have a little farm halfway down to Story. Both are retired from teaching in the schools, where they landed after they got over doing the hippy-commune thing.”

“In the VW van.”

He laughed. “Exactly. They're great folks. But Don and I lucked out they didn't name us Virgo and Scorpio.”

“Which one are you?” I glanced over to see him smiling to himself as he reduced stalks of celery to neat little bits.

“Scorpio all the way. An extremist in all I do, both good and bad. Better watch out.” He met my gaze. “I have pretty strong feelings about issues and people. And also make colossal mistakes.”

I smiled to myself. Jim wasn't the only one to have found someone passionate. As I passed the community bulletin board on my way back to the walk-in to get the milk, I noticed the poster Buck had pinned up next to the red one about the Gingerbread Log Cabin Competition, and slowed, staring at Buck's. The poster on green paper, which had come from the South Lick police station. The paper that matched what the note about the tree had been typed on. I'd bet tomorrow's breakfast profits Buck had left the new tree. Heck, I'd bet the whole day's till.

Chapter 27

As always, I wasn't quite ready to get up when the alarm went off at six. Spending the rest of the evening with Abe had been a delight. I'd put on some dance music and poured us each a little bourbon. We'd talked and laughed as we worked, with a bit of flirting thrown in for good measure. He'd gone home at ten thirty, leaving a pot of soup and a quick kiss behind.

I savored the memory in bed for a couple of minutes, then made myself get up and do my sit-ups. I took a quick shower and pulled on jeans and a clean long-sleeved store T-shirt. I fed Birdy, promising to play with him later, and headed into the store.

“You sure you can work today?” I asked Danna when she showed up at six thirty. She'd wrapped gauze around the back and palm of her burned hand.

“I'm fine. Not a problem.”

“Good. I'm glad the burn wasn't more serious.” For her sake, I was glad. But if it had been more serious, I'd have to investigate workers' compensation from the employer's point of view. Which I guess I should have done when I hired her. It was one more thing to add to my Responsible-Employer To-Do list.

“It hurt some last night, but I have a huge aloe plant at home, and I kept slitting leaves and spreading that jelly stuff on the burn.” She showed me a plastic bag full of thick, bright green aloe spikes. “It totally makes the burn feel better, so I brought some in to use today.”

“Good idea. Why don't you wear a glove over the hand, too, at least for today?”

She gingerly pulled a glove over the bandage, then we got to work readying biscuits, pancakes, and fruit salad. We were a well-oiled machine of two by now.

Danna emerged from the walk-in juggling three melons and a container of cut-up pineapple but wearing a confused expression. “What's in the big pot in there?”

“Chicken soup. Abe O'Neill made it last night.”

“What was he doing here?” Danna narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait. Did you guys have a date?”

“How did you know?” I brushed a stray strand of hair with the back of my floured hand.

“You just, I don't know, had a look about you. A happy look.” She set to slicing open the melons. “But what about Jim?”

“Jim has decided to get back together with Octavia Slade.” I kneaded the biscuit dough with a little more vigor than strictly necessary.

“The detective? So not very nice of him. He dropped you?”

“Yep. And Abe has been bugging me to go out to dinner with him. So I went.”

“Hot damn. I like it. He's cute, for an older guy,” said nineteen-year-old Danna.

“He is.” I cleared my throat, sensing the warmth in my cheeks. “About the soup, he offered to help do prep after our dinner, and I asked him what else he'd like to see on the menu. He not only suggested soup, he knew how to make it.” I smiled. “So I let him.”

“Cool.” She finished cutting balls of melon flesh and added the pineapple to the bowl. “Okay if I do a spiced yogurt dressing for this today?”

I cocked my head as I cut disks of biscuit dough. “What kind of spices?”

“Cinnamon, mostly. A little nutmeg and clove. And some honey. It's really good.”

“Have at it.”

We worked in silence until the cowbell jangled in our first customers, who happened to be Max and Vince. Why was Vince sticking around town so long? I shook my head. That was his business. I wasn't about to ask.

“Have a seat, gentlemen. Early birds get their pick of the tables.” I brought a pot of coffee over to them.

Vince kept his mug upside down. “I'd like hot tea if you have it.”

“I'll bring it right over.”

“Morning, Robbie,” Max said.

“Hey, Max. How was your dinner last night?” I asked as I poured his coffee.

“Food was good, but the portions were pretty small.” He sniffed and blinked like he'd smelled a rotten piece of meat.

I decided to ignore his reaction. Hoosier Hollow was fine dining, not an all-you-can-eat buffet of unhealthy food. I hoped he hadn't ruined the evening for Paula by complaining about the amount of food served. “What can I get you for breakfast today?”

“Orange juice and the Kitchen Sink omelet for me, with sausages.” Max handed the menu back to me.

“I'll have your pancakes with a side of fruit salad, please,” Vince said.

I brought over a hot water carafe with a tea bag for Vince, and Max's juice, then headed back to give Danna their order.

Samuel arrived with the full contingent of the men's Bible study group and took their usual large table. They were followed by other customers until twenty minutes later every table was full. Vince and Max had finished eating but lingered, with a map spread out on the table in front of them. I was about to clear their dishes when Octavia pushed open the door and hurried in.
Wonderful, just wonderful.
Jim might have told her about us by now. I lifted my chin and walked over to her, determined to be a cordial businesswoman.

“Good morning,” I said. “Afraid we're full right now, but a table should open up soon if you'd like to wait on the bench here.”

“Thanks, Robbie.” Octavia's gaze focused across the room.

I followed the direction her eyes pointed. I was pretty sure she was looking at Max and Vince. She shifted her focus to me.

“Do you ever use gloves when you're working?” she asked in a voice so low I could barely hear her.

“Sure. We have latex gloves. Why?”

“I'd like to ask a confidential favor of you. When you clear the dishes from Mr. Holzhauser and Mr. Pytzynska, please use gloves and set aside a glass or a mug from each for me. Will you do me the favor, please?”

I stared at her. “Gloves so I don't get my fingerprints on them? But they'd already be on them from when I set the table, or carried the juice over.”

“I know. Please help us by doing as I asked.”

“All right.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Are you going to want breakfast, too, or is that the only reason you came in?”

“Yes, I'll eat, too. But I can wait. I'm good at waiting.” She sat on the bench. She kept her back erect as she drew out her phone and began to work on it.

I shook my head a little. So Jim hadn't fed her breakfast this morning. I headed to the sink to slip on a pair of gloves.

“Hey, guys, can I get you anything else today?” I asked Max and Vince. I loaded their dishes on a tray, making sure I kept Max's juice glass separate from Vince's tea mug.

Max shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Vince folded the map and glanced up at me. “Heading out to Lake Monroe for more birding today.”

There had to be more interesting birds down here than in Chicago, for sure. “Have fun. And thanks for coming in.” I laid their bill on the table.

At the sink, I drew out two heavy sealable plastic bags. I checked to be sure Max and Vince didn't see, but Max was laying money on the table and Vince was shrugging into his jacket. I slid the glass into one bag and the mug into the other. I set them in the bottom cabinet and closed the door. When I straightened, Danna gave me a raised-eyebrow look.

“Don't ask. And don't touch those bags. I'll explain later.” I gestured with my eyes and head in Octavia's direction.

“Got it.”

I stuck the money in my apron pocket and wiped off Max and Vince's table. I made my way to Octavia.

“Table's ready for you.”

She stood. I'd turned to attend to a customer who waved at me when Octavia laid her hand on my arm. I bit my lip instead of blurting out, “What now?” and turned back.

“Robbie, I'm sorry about Jim.” She used the same low tone, but this one was soft where it'd been all business before.

What was I supposed to say now? “Like hell you are?” Or, “I don't give a rat's turd?” I blew out a breath, hearing Mom's voice in my head: “When in doubt, say thank you.”

“Thank you.” I gazed at her. “Not a problem.”

To my surprise, she laughed.

“What's funny?” I asked.

“Exactly what my mindfulness teacher used to say.”

I must have looked even more surprised because she continued. “Yes, even police officers can practice mindfulness. You'd be amazed at how useful it is to stay calm and present when somebody's waving a gun around, for example.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yes. We were taught to soften our hearts toward criminals, that they are exhibiting misplaced anger because they are in pain. Not that we don't go ahead and do our jobs, of course, not at all.”

I didn't know what to say. Soften your heart toward someone trying to kill you? It was an admirable idea, but it had to be really hard to put into practice.

Octavia went on. “But Narayan, our teacher, would say, ‘Not a problem' about all kinds of things, and I found it so incongruous this serious Buddhist would use that phrase. She'd even say it if someone fell asleep during meditation.” She smiled as if at the memory.

* * *

We somehow ran completely out of butter, so I headed out in the van during the restaurant's usual mid-morning lull and picked up ten pounds at the market, then stopped at the South Lick Police Station. When I'd given Octavia the two sealed bags before she left the restaurant, I forgot to tell her about the feelings of disgust and anger Vince had expressed toward Erica the day before, and I thought she should know. I could call, but decided it would be just as easy to stop in in person. I pulled open the door of the station at ten thirty.

Paula was perched on the waiting room bench, and Wanda was positioned at the reception desk behind the glass. She glanced up.

“Can I help you, Robbie?” Wanda's voice was tinny through the speaker.

“I need to tell Detective Slade something. Is she in?”

“Take a number.” She gestured toward Paula and the bench.

I turned toward the bench. A pale-faced Paula sat with both hands kneading a handkerchief atop her belly.

“What's wrong, Paula?” I asked, sitting next to her.

She gazed at me, her hair limp about her face. “I lied before. I have to tell the detective something. I can't live with the lie. It's not good for the baby.”

“What did you lie about?” The bench was hard under my rear end, and the room smelled like the last person in it before us had been smoking. Someone must have brought the stench in on their clothes and hair.

Paula glanced at Wanda and then back at me. “I told them I didn't hear Erica leave the night she . . . the night she was killed,” she whispered. “But I did.”

“Max told me you're a sound sleeper.”

“What does he know?” Her mouth turned down and she let out a noisy near-whistle. “He thinks he knows all about everybody else. He doesn't even know himself.” She dabbed her eye. “I am so totally not a sound sleeper. I wake up frequently. And I heard Erica leave in her car at about one o'clock. I know because I heard the car door shut and the engine start up. I like to sleep with the window cracked open as long into the fall as I can. It's healthier. So I heard the car.”

“Where do you think she went?”

“I don't know. But she must have gone to see her murderer, right?” Her face contorted and her nostrils flared.

What a terrible thought. I patted her shoulder. “You're right, she must have. Did they find her car somewhere?”

“That's the thing. It was back in her driveway when I woke up.”

“Really? And you didn't hear it come back?” So whoever killed her brought her car back . . . and then what? Walked home?

She shook her head. “Either whoever returned it was really quiet, or I'd finally gotten into a deep sleep.”

“How did you get home that day?”

“When Erica never came home, I called Max for a ride. That was before I heard what happened to Erica.”

I gazed out the window at the street and then back at her. “So you're worried that Octavia will be upset with you for not telling her earlier.” The police would have wanted to investigate Erica's car for evidence if they'd known she'd gone out in it.

“That's right. I guess I shouldn't be worried. Being pregnant makes my emotions go all haywire. The smallest little thing can get me worked up.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I wouldn't worry. I'm sure Octavia will be glad for the information.” The clock on the opposite wall ticked in the silence. “Shoot.” I stood.

“What?”

“I told my employee I wouldn't be gone long. I have to get back to the restaurant.” I could email Octavia what I wanted to tell her. “You take care, Paula. It'll be okay.”

She nodded, looking less upset and more confident.

I waved at Wanda. “Gotta run.”

“Whatever,” came the tinny response.