A Crouton Murder

Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

Rockland, Ontario, Canada

Copyright © 2013 J.M. Griffin

Exclusive cover © 2013 Laura Givens

Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

from the National Library of Canada

Ebooks are available for purchase from

www.lachesispublishing.com

ISBN
978-1-927555-39-2

Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my mother, who fed us all the best homemade bread ever.

My sincere thanks to Carolyn Sullivan, whose tarot card knowledge is simply amazing.

Esposito Series:

For Love of Livvy (Book 1)

Dirty Trouble (Book 2)

Dead Wrong (Book 3)

Cold Moon Dead (Book 4)

Season for Murder (Book 5)

The Esposito Series Box Set  (Books 1-3)

Deadly Bakery Series:

A Crusty Murder (Book 1)

Focaccia Fatality

(
Deadly Bakery Series
Book 3
)

A Crouton Murder

Sounds of choking and gagging reached me as I entered BettyJo Seever’s shop. She’d set the tarot reading room up for an impromptu dinner. I gawked as her father grasped his throat, writhed on the floor, and suddenly lost consciousness. After I’d hurriedly called 9-1-1, rescue personnel soon rushed into the room to take over the scene. Alongside a police officer, I stood and watched paramedics finger sweep his mouth for an obstruction before they bundled Franklin Seever onto a stretcher and rolled him out the door followed by BettyJo.

When she’d reached the door, BettyJo glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be at the hospital. You’ll be right along, won’t you?”

I said I would as soon as I locked up for her. BettyJo glanced at the others before she hurried out. I turned to the officer and asked, “What can I do for you, Bailey?”

Alan Bailey and I had taken college courses together before I realized I wanted to bake bread for a living. He was broad but physically fit. I noticed how Bailey’s brown eyes took in our surroundings without missing a beat. We hadn’t been close friends, but had attended the same parties, gone to the same Providence Bruins hockey games, and had even cheered for the same players.

“Good to see you, Melina, even if it is under these circumstances. Tell me what happened.” His voice was rich, not baritone rich, but even and soothing. A coercing voice that encouraged a person to spill their secrets, so-to-speak. He glanced at the other guests who were waiting to give their accounts of the events, and then gave me his full attention.

“Franklin is BettyJo’s father. She invited him and a few friends for dinner. I’m not sure what happened. I’d run over to my shop for a loaf of focaccia bread and found Franklin choking when I came back.” I tipped my head toward the guests and said, “They might be able to tell you more.”

After he’d made notes, he asked me to stay and beckoned the others forward. “What happened?”

Helena Bentwood, owner of The Crafty Cupcake Shop, wrung her hands with worry while Charlie Franklin, an antiques dealer, spoke up.

“We’d settled at the table, Franklin helped himself to salad, and began eating. He’d popped a couple of croutons in his mouth and before you know it, he was choking to death. None of us touched any of the food,” George said.

“Can you bag the salad for me, Melina?” Alan asked.

“I’d be happy to,” I answered and went to the cabinet to get plastic bags. Assured by Helena Bentwood’s statement that George was right, he let the two of them leave. The only people who remained were Ezra Canter and Corinda Blake. They’d arrived just before Franklin. Franklin had introduced them as work associates. Ezra was a banker with nearly the same views and power as Franklin. I figured Corinda, who worked in the bank’s employee benefits department, had tagged along due to her fascination for BettyJo’s dad. It could have been romantic fascination or maybe she wanted to be counted on the power scale. Her avid interest in the man had been obvious to everyone in attendance.

“So you arrived at the same time as Mr. Seever, then?” Alan asked.

“Just a few minutes before,” Ezra answered.

“What are your relationships to Mr. Seever?” Alan asked, giving them each a long look.

Ezra cleared his throat and said, “I’m a fellow banker. Franklin and I have been friends since we attended private school together.”

“I’m in charge of employee relations at Franklin’s banking headquarters in Providence,” Corinda replied. Her confident, steady gaze held Alan’s for a moment before she quickly glanced away.

Cops don’t look away, instead, they stare you down. I believe it to be part of their training academy curriculum. I hid a smirk at Corinda’s first lesson in her police interrogation experience. I’d been down this road not long ago and knew better than to act mightier-than-thou when faced down by a cop. Confidence is fine, but entitlement pisses them off.

A bag of salad awaited the trip to the police lab. If Mr. Seever was dead, God forbid, or he’d had a reaction to something he’d eaten, the lab would figure it out.

“You’re sure Mr. Seever only ate the croutons?” Alan insisted.

With a nod, Ezra said, “Franklin said he was hungry and helped himself to the salad. He ate a couple of croutons and maybe a chunk of tomato.”

“Who brought the salad?” Alan asked me.

“BettyJo put the salad together. I made the croutons for her and left them here earlier today. Other than that, BettyJo did all the cooking, uh, except for the dessert. Helena baked cupcakes for dessert.” I thumbed in the direction of her shop up the street. “She owns The Crafty Cupcake Shop.”

Alan turned to Ezra and Corinda. “That’ll be all for now. I have your information should I need to reach either of you.”

Looks of relief flooded their faces. I watched as they gathered their coats and strode out the door in silence. Once they’d reached street level, I noticed Corinda started talking. Ezra grabbed her arm and kept moving toward his BMW parked at the curb across the street.

Alan watched them, a serious gleam in his eyes. I figured he considered them persons of interest, but then maybe we all were. Briefly, Alan glanced around the shop. He muttered, “Look at all those doodads.”

I chuckled. He smirked and answered his jingling phone. He listened intently for a few moments, glanced at me, hung up, and then tucked the phone in the holder attached to his utility belt. His expression usually bland, the only way I could read him was by the look in his eyes. I always knew when he was about to blow-up, laugh, or any of the other feelings one has. His eyes told me all of it. I was in trouble, big trouble.

With a grunt, Alan said, “That was the EMS crew chief. He’s at the hospital with Mr. Seever. Mr. Seever may have been poisoned. It seems he would have died if he’d eaten much more. I’ll take that salad along with the croutons, Melina.” His face impersonal, his eyes spoke volumes, saying he was sorry to have to tell me this. “Don’t leave town without calling me first. You’re a suspect. Sorry.”

“Wh-what? You think I poisoned Franklin? I hardly know the man. I have no reason to poison him or anyone, for that matter.” I drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried to gather my wits.
Shut-up, Melina, just shut your mouth now.
If I was suspect number one, then I’d better keep my own counsel and not share information concerning BettyJo’s relationship with her father. Or the fact that the man was a tyrant. Yeah, keeping my trap shut would be wise, for all of us.

“I’ll be handing this over to the detective division. You’ll likely hear from them as soon as the poison has been identified.” Alan tucked the notebook into his breast pocket and took the bag I offered him before he left.

Worry weighed heavily on me. The lock clicked as I closed BettyJo’s back door. Racing from the parking lot in my Fiat, I rushed to Rhode Island Hospital’s emergency department. BettyJo probably wondered if I planned to show up.

Her brown eyes huge as saucers, BettyJo paced the floor of the waiting room, her dress flowing gently as she went. I envied her thin, willowy shape and the wavy curl of her chestnut-colored hair. She’d been crying. Her make-up had smudged in pools under her eyes where she’d wiped it away. I gave her a hug and murmured, “Officer Bailey said your father had been poisoned. Will he be all right?”

She nodded and mumbled something that sounded like, “He could have died, and it’s all my fault.”

“Your fault? Why would it be? You didn’t poison the food. I know you didn’t.” I handed her a wad of tissues from my purse.

“The police will figure out we argued all the time, and they’ll blame me. You know that, don’t you?” BettyJo wiped away her new flow of tears and blew her nose.

“Why aren’t you in the cubicle with him? I’m sure he’d want you there.”

“The nurse said I was to wait here and they’d let me know when Dad was taken to a room. He’s being admitted for observation.” BettyJo slumped into a well-used waiting room chair. She rubbed her face, ran her hands through her hair, and heaved a sigh. “Will Bailey handle the investigation?”

“No, the department will assign a detective to the case.” I patted BettyJo’s shoulder. “I’m so glad your father is going to be fine. I’ll be the main suspect, BettyJo, because the croutons came from me.”

BettyJo adamantly shook her head. “Nope, not happening again. We just went through a murder investigation. We can’t go through an attempted murder. Hell, I’ll lose my mind.”

“I feel the same way, so let’s get serious and figure out who the hell did this and why. Otherwise, we might be roomies at the big house for bad-asses.”

She’d opened her mouth to speak when an orderly approached. “Your father is going upstairs now. Would you follow me, please?” the slight man asked.

We both rose and walked quickly behind him as he entered the elevator. Soundlessly, the doors slid closed and seconds later they reopened. Having advised us to stop at the nurse’s station around the corner to the left, the orderly stepped back into the elevator and wished us well.

Corridors stretched out in a couple of directions. We scuttled to the way our orderly had pointed and stopped short at the nurse’s station. A dark-haired woman with a name badge pinned to her uniform glanced up.

“Can I help you?” Nurse Hadley asked.

“Could you direct us to Franklin Seever’s room?” BettyJo asked.

Checking a roster, Nurse Hadley asked, “And you are?”

“We’re his family,” BettyJo said as she motioned to both of us.

Nurse Hadley checked her computer and then said, “He’s been put in room 14. You won’t stay long, will you? He needs rest.”

We nodded in unison and skirted the station to get to Franklin’s room. A policeman stood at attention at the door. The single bed in the dismal private room held BettyJo’s father. His pale features were drawn, he lay completely still while monitors beeped and his I.V. dripped. I assumed that I’d look that way or worse if someone had just pumped my stomach. I shivered at the idea.

The cop put his hand out to waylay our entry. BettyJo gave him a sharp glare and said, “That’s my father, and I’ll be going in there, so step aside.”