Grilled for Murder (5 page)

“It's going to take some hours to process this place, I'm afraid. I don't see why you can't open up again on Tuesday, though, depending.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'd better put a sign up out front, then.”

Octavia held up a hand. “Wait a sec.” She looked at Wanda. “I don't suppose you took care to preserve footprints out front?”

Wanda cleared her throat. “No, ma'am. That, uh, did not occur to us. Although I'm the only one of us who went up the steps and approached the door.”

“Waste of fresh snow,” Octavia grumbled. “Go ahead, put up your sign,” she told me.

And none too soon. By the time I walked around the side to the front with tacks and a sign I'd hastily printed out in my apartment, a couple stood at the bottom of the steps staring at the yellow tape. They'd been here for breakfast at eight sharp every Sunday since I'd opened.

“I'm so sorry,” I told them. “There was an, uh, accident in the store this morning. We're closed for today. But I'll be open Tuesday as normal.” I smiled as brightly as I could manage.

“What happened? All these police cars and such?” the man asked.

“Did somebody die?” the woman chimed in, her eyes wide.

“I'm not at liberty to say.”
Damn.
The news would be out soon enough.

The man shook his head and took his wife's arm. “We'll have to drive into Nashville for breakfast, honey pie.”

I tacked the sign to the post at the bottom of the steps:
P
ANS
'N P
ANCAKES CLOSED FOR TODAY DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND OUR CONTROL
. S
EE YOU ON
T
UESDAY
!
The couple climbed into their car and drove off, adding two more sets of footprints and tire tracks to the trampled-down mess of snow at the base of the porch. Octavia was right. If Wanda and the men had kept a wide berth around the front of the steps, maybe the footprints of the murderer could have been identified, since it had probably kept snowing long after Phil and the others left last night. I peered at the steps. Or maybe it wasn't a waste of fresh snow, after all.

Making my way back around the side, I paused to gaze across the road at the woods, the snow coating the bare branches of the trees like a giant had shaken powdered sugar over them. The hills rose up in the distance, today looking a grayish-blue. The colorful riot of the changing leaves of October was long gone.

“I saw some footprints in snow on the front steps,” I said to Octavia when I came back inside. “Maybe two different sets.”

Wanda gave me the stink eye from across the room. One set of prints had to be hers. But wasn't it her job to have checked for footprints before she went up the steps for the first time?

Octavia nodded. “We'll check it out. Good eye, Robbie. My evidence team will be here soon. You can head back to your apartment now.” She glanced upward. “Or wait. This is a two-story building. What's upstairs?”

“It's empty. Like a big loft, really. I plan to develop it into guest rooms someday.” My real dream was to expand into offering bed-and-breakfast rooms. I already made breakfast every day, and I could manage to turn over linens and clean rooms in the afternoons after the restaurant closed. But that was a future dream. I pointed to a door in the far corner of the cookware area. “That leads to the upstairs.”

She pulled out a phone and turned away. As I walked away, I heard her tell someone to make sure they had the footprint kit, and to come around the side.

I stood in the doorway to my apartment, observing the action. Everybody seemed to have a job except Buck, who sat watching the officers work. I knew from getting to know him after the murder in October he projected a real country hick image, but inside he was smarter than most of the county residents. I'd bet that mind of his was even now cranking out ideas, although Octavia might not think so from the exasperated look she cast him.

A rush of cold air ushered in several officers, dressed in the state police uniform of navy blue long-sleeved shirts, with light blue neckties that matched their pants. All three carried equipment cases in various shapes. After Octavia spoke to them, a stocky man went back outside. She directed a tall female officer to check out the upstairs first.

“Careful,” I called out. “The floorboards are a little iffy.”

“We already done the dusting, Octavia,” Buck said to her with a slow smile.

George and Kenny paused from emptying the pickle barrel into a couple of big pots I'd given them, and watched Octavia take a seat at Buck's table.

“It's okay, guys. Proceed,” she called. “We're all on the same team here. Dave, why don't you check for bloodstains?”

The man she'd addressed gave a mock salute and knelt to open his case.

Buck raised a finger in the air and looked in my direction. “Any chance of some breakfast for the team, Robbie?” He stressed the word
team
.

“I can do that, since I'm not getting any actual customers. That okay, Octavia?”

She looked up from where she and Wanda were conferring over Wanda's tablet. “No. Not until we're finished with the crime scene.”

Chapter 5

I watched the team wheel Erica out as I oversaw sizzling bacon and sausages and a growing stack of pancakes. My legs were starting to feel more solid than shaky. Octavia had finally given me the go-ahead to cook more than two hours later, at which Buck had looked hugely relieved. The footprint guy had been busy outside and the staties had examined all kinds of things inside after the tall officer cleared the upstairs.

George and Kenny had zipped Erica into a body bag while I cooked. Her legs and feet had stiffened while she'd lain there, and the guys had had a hard time getting her into the bag. I'd felt my stomach roil, watching, and I kept my eyes pretty much on the griddle after that.

“Food's about ready,” I called before they reached the door.

The guys paused.

“Put her in the wagon and lock up, then come eat,” Buck said. “She'll stay plenty cold, God rest her young soul.”

It took a couple of full trays to bring the loaded plates to the three tables where people had chosen to sit. I'd decided not to short-order cook but to give everybody the same food, since I doubted I was getting paid for these meals. The last plate was for me, and I sat with Buck, Octavia, and Wanda. Buck's legs stretched so far under the table I could barely scoot my chair in. Octavia had pushed her bacon to the side.

“I don't eat meat,” she said when she saw me looking.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

Buck looked longingly at the forlorn bacon until Octavia laughed.

“Take it.” She pushed her plate toward Buck.

“Thank you, ma'am. Hey, Robbie, any of them biscuits left?”

The man was a bottomless pit when it came to eating, but then again, he had a lot to fill, as tall as he was. I rose and grabbed the platter of biscuits, which still held a half dozen. The officers at the other tables had split along local/statie lines, and conversed quietly among themselves. I'd just shoveled in a too-big bite of pancake when my aunt Adele burst through the service door.

George, who'd been stationed at the door again, held up his hand.

“What in tarnation is going on here?” The edges of Adele's no-nonsense steel-gray hair peeked out from under a multicolored knit hat, with long, brilliant green cloisonné earrings dangling below her hair. Her faded blue eyes flashed. “Are you okay, Roberta?”

“Ma'am,” George said.

“Let her in, George.” Buck waved a hand even as Octavia shook her head.

Adele hurried to my side.

“I'm fine, Adele.” My mom's sister was the only person I allowed to call me by my full name.

Adele looked at the officers, who, to a one, looked back. “Well, something's up on God's green earth, that's certain. What are all them cherry toppers doing out there? I ain't seen so many panda cars together in a long time. Howdy, Buck, Wanda.” She waved.

“Pull up a chair and sit down,” I said. There were definitely lots of police cars out there, and the state police colors were blue and white but knowing Adele, they were all panda cars to her.

Octavia's eyebrows pulled together. “The restaurant is closed until future notice, ma'am.”

Adele grabbed a chair and squeezed in between Buck and me. “I'm no ma'am, ma'am. I'm family.”

I stretched my arm around Adele's shoulders. “She's my aunt. And former mayor of South Lick as well as former fire chief. Adele, this is State Police Detective Octavia Slade. Octavia, Adele Jordan. The reason I'm in Indiana.”

“Nice to meet you, Octavia.” Adele reached her hand across the table. Octavia shook hands with a look of reluctance. “Sure smells good in here,” Adele said.

I sniffed. The scents of meat and pancakes had finally taken over for pickle brine and death. “Breakfast?” I stuffed in one more bite and grabbed my last bacon as I stood. I knew what Adele's answer would be and I had enough batter left for one more plate.

“You bet,” Adele said. “Now, who's going to fill me in on all this commotion?”

* * *

The last of the officers cleared out of the store, leaving only Octavia donning her coat. Adele was washing dishes, and I held a rag in my hand, ready to set the place to rights again. I'd duct-taped a big piece of cardboard over the broken glass when the police gave me the all-clear, just to keep the cold out, but I was going to have to get the glass replaced as soon as possible.

“I'll need to speak with you again, I'm sure,” Octavia said to me. “And you need to keep the store closed until further notice.”

“All right. But I thought you said I could reopen on Tuesday.”

“I expect you'll be able to, but I can't guarantee it.” She handed me a credit card. “Go ahead and put all the breakfasts on this.”

“Really? I was offering them on the house.”

Octavia shook her head. “State regs. We can't accept freebies.”

“Got it.” I took the card and swiped it through card reader on the store iPad, which I'd mounted on a stand at the counter next to the antique cash register. I pressed the total for the meals and swiveled it around to face her.

“Sign with the stylus,” I said. “Or with your finger, either one.” I would have fed everyone for free, but it was great to be paid, too. My profit margins were pretty slim, and I'd only been open a month and a half. I was already worrying about the food in the walk-in going bad if they were going to make me stay closed for a while, and if anybody would even want to eat here again after hearing about the murder. I imagined talk already going around about how surely I would have heard something in the night, or gossip about how I had a grudge against Erica for flirting with Jim. Small towns are a blessing and a curse. People's love for you can turn to suspicion or even hate in a matter of hours.

Octavia scribbled a signature.

“Thanks. And good luck with the investigation.”

“If you think of anything that might help us, overhear anything, please let me know.” She handed me one of her business cards.

“I will.”

“We'll be parking ourselves at the South Lick police station for the duration of the investigation—too far to go back and forth to the state police post in Bloomington all the time.” She turned toward the door.

“I definitely know where the town's police station is,” I said, remembering my grilling there last month when I was briefly under suspicion of murder myself.

“Bye, Detective,” Adele called.

Octavia waved before closing the door behind her. I wandered over to the desk and set the card on it.

“Bet you didn't expect any of that this morning,” Adele said, her hands deep in sudsy water. The wall clock chimed once, marking the half hour into the now quiet air.

“You can say that again.”

“Are you doing all right?” she asked.

“I guess I am. I was shaky and kind of numb for a while.” I pushed a stray curl off my forehead, then started wiping down the tables. “I wish none of it'd happened, especially not seeing Erica dead. And then having to close the store.” I'd seen plenty of folks stop by while the teams were at work. They peered at my sign out front and then walked away, shaking their heads.

“Any idea who killed her?” Adele glanced at me.

I shook my head. “She seemed to rub everybody the wrong way last night except her parents and maybe her sister. She was heavy into flirting with both Jim and Max. She made Jim uncomfortable and Max mad. Although he was already pretty mad.”

“He's a veteran, you know. Could be he has PTSD issues.”

“Interesting. He seemed to really want to control Paula,” I said. “What does he do for a living?”

“He's a locksmith, I believe.”

“And Tiffany who owns the jewelry shop—”

“Tiffany Porter?” Adele asked. “She's very talented.”

“That's her. She accused Erica of stealing from her. And then Erica delivered some kind of racist insult to Phil. To Phil!” I shook my head. “The sweetest guy in the universe. She claimed she'd only been joking. He wouldn't tell me exactly what she said, it was that bad.”

“But none of that is exactly cause to take and kill someone.”

“Of course not.” I rubbed my chin. That
take and
phrasing was common around here, and to my ears was completely superfluous, since
take and bring
simply meant
bring
, just like
take and kill
really only meant
kill
.

“Last night Paula, Erica's sister, went home with her,” I went on. “Erica said they were going to have a sister slumber party. But she must have gone out again, or been abducted from her own house. I wonder if Paula heard her leave.” I picked up a feather duster and swiped at the powder that was everywhere. Dark powder on light surfaces and light powder on dark. Had they gotten any useful fingerprints? Mine would be on nearly every surface, of course. Plus, hundreds of customers had come through here in the last month and a half, picking up a vintage chopper here, examining an antique whisk there, checking out cookware from sifters to salt boxes, checkered crocks to cast-steel cleavers. The feather duster barely dented the powder, so I grabbed a rag instead and headed over to the shelves of cookware, which were always in need of dusting, anyway.

Wait a minute. On the wall where I hung my collection of not-for-sale favorite kitchen implements, I saw a blank spot. I racked my brain, trying to remember what had hung there. The wall where the empty spot was showed a lighter circle, maybe six inches across. I peered at it. Was there also a long narrow light stripe? I snapped my fingers. The vintage sandwich press was missing.

But why? Had some light-fingered partygoer made off with the press when I wasn't looking? Tiffany had been interested in it last night, but I knew she hadn't walked out with it. It wasn't exactly the easiest tool to steal, anyway, with those two-foot long handles.
Or
. . . a tremor rippled through me. Had the murderer whacked Erica on the head with it?