Grilled for Murder (4 page)

Chapter 4

I hurried to shut Birdy in my bedroom, then returned to the open door and watched. Kenny now was going around spreading black powder on surfaces, while Wanda typed into her tablet. George still guarded the door.

I glanced at the now cooling biscuits. I was guessing I wasn't going to be able to open this morning. There went a day's profits, or worse. A murder in my store could turn the entire town's stomach. My business could easily tank. I felt bad worrying about money when a woman lay dead on the floor, but I had my life savings and my dreams invested in this place. I hugged myself as another shiver ran through me. I glanced over at the sad sight of Erica's body and quickly looked away again.

Danna hurried into the side door and glanced at me in the doorway to my apartment. “Robbie, what's going on? Police cars, and yellow tape across the porch?” My only employee, nineteen-year-old Danna Beedle, put on the brakes when George extended his arms to the side.

“Crime scene, miss.” His voice was unexpectedly deep for one who looked so young.

Danna's hand flew to her mouth and her pale green eyes flecked with brown widened in horror as she spied Erica. She turned her head in slow motion to look at me.

“I found her next to the pickle barrel,” I told her. “I'm sorry, I didn't get a chance to call you.” A teenager shouldn't have to see a dead body, even a smart, competent teen like Danna.

“That's terrible. The poor thing. Do you know . . .” She glanced at the body again. “Wait, that's Erica Berry, isn't it? When I was little, like eight or nine, she used to lead our church choir. She has, I mean she had, a gorgeous voice. She could sing anything. Then she got married and moved to Chicago.”

Wanda hurried over. “I'm sorry, miss. This is a crime scene. You're going to have to leave.”

I had no idea why Wanda was acting like she'd never met Danna, when I knew for a fact they'd had several conversations right here in the restaurant.

“Hey, Wanda.” Tall, talented Danna had been a godsend when she'd applied to work as cook, waitperson, dishwasher, and everything else in Pans 'N Pancakes right after its grand opening in early October. We'd made it through Stella's very unfortunate murder, followed by sabotage at the store, and my shoulder was pretty much healed from the accident I'd experienced in my encounter with the murderer. We'd really found our rhythm, me and Danna, and I hoped we could keep it up through the holiday season.

Danna glanced around, but she avoided the spot where Erica's body lay. “But we're not going to be cooking today, are we?” She rubbed the strap of a well-worn messenger bag slung bandolier style across her chest and kept her hand on her left shoulder. Her long, reddish-blond dreadlocks were neatly tied back with a wide green and turquoise band matching the stripes in an oversized bowling shirt she wore belted as a tunic.

“No, you're not.” Wanda pointed to the door. “Now, if you'd—”

Buck strode in the side door, followed by a thickset man with thinning red hair. Buck almost bumped into Danna. “Excuse me, Danna,” Buck said. “Getting yourself all messed up in a murder again, are you, Robbie?” he called over to me. He patted George on the shoulder and ambled over to where I stood. He looked down from a foot above me and shook his head with a baleful look.

“Morning, Buck,” I said. “I wouldn't say I was getting myself messed up in it, exactly. Somebody else did, though.”

The other man took a step forward. He wore a green sweater and a shirt with one point of the collar over the sweater and one under. His thin hair looked like he'd gotten dressed in a hurry, too.

“That there's Carl Mayers, George,” Buck said. “County coroner. Let him on in. Carl, this is Robbie Jordan.” Buck gestured to me. “She owns the place. And that's Danna Beedle, her employee. You know Wanda, right?”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Jordan, Ms. Beedle,” a slightly breathless Carl said. “Hey there, Wanda.” He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

“Should I go home?” Danna asked.

Buck waved toward the door. “Yes, go on home,” he said. “Don't talk about what you seen here, though.”

“I won't. Robbie, text me when you know about reopening.”

“Of course,” I said, and watched Danna head out.

“So what do we got here?” The coroner puffed over to the body and squatted.

Wanda followed him and recited what I'd told her about finding Erica.

“Did you touch her, Ms. Jordan?” Carl asked.

“No, not at all. I didn't even go very near her.” My knees were feeling shaky again so I leaned against the doorjamb for support. “She was dead when I found her. I mean, she wasn't moving at all and . . .”

The coroner lost interest in me. “Looks like bruising on the right cheek.” Carl pointed to Erica's face. “Turn her over for me, will you?”

“She's got upper body rigor,” Kenny drawled. “You want I should break it in the shoulders? 'Cause otherwise she ain't gonna lie flat.”

My own shoulders clenched in a shudder at the thought of them breaking her shoulders, whatever that meant.

“Nah, that's okay. Just hoist her up so I can see her back.”

Kenny lifted Erica's upper body off the floor. Carl leaned in and examined the back of her head then oofed back to standing.

“Contusion. Get a picture of it, will you?” Carl directed.

Kenny looked around with a bewildered look until Wanda grabbed the camera from him and took the picture.

“Go ahead and lay her on down again,” Carl said. “We got some shifting lividity and some fixed,” Carl rubbed the top of his head, leaving a few strands of hair puffed up like a disheveled pompadour. “She's a little bit of a thing, not much body fat, so I'm not surprised at the rigor even though it seems early. You said she left here at eleven?” he asked, walking over to me.

“Right around then. Her sister Paula drove her,” I said. “What's
shifting lividity
?”

“Huh,” Carl grunted, not answering me. He glanced at the wall clock and then at me. “And you found her at six thirty?”

“That's right.”

“You didn't hear nothing in the night?” Buck asked, hands in his pockets. “No glass breaking or nothing?”

I shook my head. “You'd think I would have. But my bedroom is way at the back of the building, and it's too cold now to have any windows open. Plus, I use silicone earplugs, because I sleep so lightly. I didn't hear a thing.”
And if I had?
Would it have made a difference in Erica's life?

Buck shook his head. “That's a crying shame, for sure.”

“Do you think she was killed here?” Wanda asked the coroner. She stood with feet apart, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Can't say at this time.” Carl wiped one hand off on the other, back and forth, a few times. “All righty. I'm done,” he said to Buck and Wanda. “You send her on over to the county morgue in Nashville when you're finished. I'm all kinda backed up for autopsies, but I'll see if I can't shove her to the head of the line.” He headed for the door, but paused by the rack of biscuits. “Okay if I grab one of these?” he called back to me.

“Help yourself. And come on back whenever we get to reopen. The biscuits are great with gravy.”

“And her pancakes are to die for,” Buck added. “Uh, so to speak.”

“I'm sure they are.” With a wistful look, Carl grabbed a biscuit. “I'm sure they are.” He disappeared through the service door.

* * *

“When do you think I'll be able to reopen?” I asked Buck. I wrapped my arms around myself, still feeling the chill of spotting Erica on the floor, still numb from the shock.

“Dunno. Right now, I'm waiting on the county detective to show. Can't take Erica away till after he says we can.” He ruffled his already flyaway sandy hair until it stood straight up. “Going to have to confiscate your pickle barrel, I'm afraid.”

“Why?” I heard my voice rising.

“Might could have evidence on it. Maybe that's where she hit her head at.”

“That's awful. Take it if you have to, but you'll have to empty it first.” There went one of my country store dreams, a big pickle barrel full of crisp fat dills. I wrapped my arms around myself, for comfort more than warmth.

A trim woman in dark slacks and a tan blazer over a turtleneck appeared in the service doorway. She paused, taking in the scene as she wiped her feet on the mat, then fixed her gaze on Buck.

He ambled toward her. “I'm sorry, ma'am. Restaurant is closed. Crime scene.”

She pulled a card out of her blazer pocket and handed it to him, then opened the side of the jacket. I caught a glimpse of something silver pinned inside.

“Octavia Slade, state police homicide detective for Brown County. You're Lieutenant Buck Bird, correct?” Her dark hair fell just below her ears and framed a barely lined face. Brown eyes behind black-rimmed glasses looked like they didn't miss a thing.

“My reputation precedes me, ma'am, and heck, call me Buck, would you? But I thought we was waiting on Oscar.”

“Lieutenant Thompson is on leave at present. I recently transferred down here from Tippecanoe County, and I'm the detective on this case.” She moved toward Erica's body. “Fill me in.”

“Wanda?” Buck gestured. “This here's Sergeant Wanda Bird, Detective Slade. She was the responding officer.”

Wanda shook the detective's proffered hand. “Ma'am. I'll let Ms. Jordan tell you what transpired.”

“You want me to come in now?” I asked.

Wanda waved me in, so I skirted along the back wall, staying as far from poor Erica's body as I could.

“You can stay back there.” The detective motioned for me to stop in the kitchen area and moved toward me.

“I'm Robbie Jordan, Detective. This is my store and restaurant.” I extended my hand.

The detective shook hands, her skin cool and smooth. “Now, Ms. Jordan, please tell me what happened, start to finish.” Her gaze was focused and friendly at the same time. She drew a small notepad and an elegant silver pen out of her pocket.

“I found Erica dead on the floor next to the pickle barrel after I came in this morning.” I heard a shake in my voice and swallowed hard to master it.

“You knew her?”

“I met her only last night. Her parents threw her a welcome-home party here in the restaurant. I told Wanda all about it.”

Her gaze shifted to Erica's body. “I'll get it from her, then. You gave her the list of people at this party?”

“I told her the ones whose names I knew.”

“I'm sure I'll have more questions for you after I review it. Did the victim have problems with anyone at this party?”

“I told Wanda all about it,” I said. “Erica seemed to rub several people the wrong way. Her own brother-in-law, my friend who was bartending, a local jeweler.”

“That's all? Nobody else?” She narrowed her eyes like she could peer into my brain.

I squirmed mentally and made a snap decision. “She was flirting pretty heavily with a local lawyer, too, her former brother-in-law. Her late husband's brother. Her husband died last year.”

“Wanda has his name?” The detective jotted something in her notebook in small, neat letters.

“No. I forgot to tell her that part. It was Jim Shermer, Erica's husband's brother.”

She lifted her face slowly until she looked at me. “Did you say
Jim
Shermer?” She stressed Jim's first name.

“That's right.” Did she know Jim, or know of him?

She blinked a couple of times. “So the victim's last name is Shermer.”

“Right. Her parents are Sue and Glen Berry, who live here in South Lick.”

Detective Slade turned away. “Buck, has Carl already been by? I heard he'd been summoned.”

“Yes, ma'am. He said he'd try to push poor old Erica to the front of the autopsy line tomorrow.”

“Good.” The detective walked around Erica and the pickle barrel, then strolled to the front door.

“I assume this happened in the night?” She pointed to the broken glass but gestured for me to stay where I was.

“Yes. I don't know exactly when, though. Sometime between 11 p.m. and 6:30 this morning. I live in the apartment in the back.” I pointed toward the door into my personal space. “But as I told Wanda, my bedroom is way at the rear, and I wear earplugs when I sleep. I didn't hear a thing.”

“How convenient.” She arched a single eyebrow.

Why had she said that? Did she think I was lying? My palms began to sweat. “I wish I'd heard something, at least.”

“Yes, well, then you would have had to deal with a murderer and you might be dead, too.” She leaned over and looked through the jagged hole and at the simple bolt mechanism on the inside. She used her pen to poke around in the shards on the floor. She motioned Kenny over.

“Did you get pictures of the glass and the door?”

He shook his head. “Not yet, ma'am.”

“Well, make sure you do. I think there's some blood on it. Dust the lock for prints, too, and bag up the shards. Might have DNA on them if whoever broke in cut himself. Or herself.” She straightened.

“Ms. Slade—” I began.

“Call me Octavia. I don't stand on ceremony.”

“Octavia, this place is my livelihood. I know you have to do your job, but how long am I going to have to stay closed?”

“What are your usual hours?”

“Sundays eight to three. I'm normally closed on Mondays.”