By Cook or by Crook (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) (14 page)

The three women finished their smoothies and left the café. As Val cleared their table, Bethany arrived to relieve her.

“I hope the lunch menu doesn’t include strawberries, tomatoes, or beets. That red diet was murder.” Bethany covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t use that word lightly.”

With the café empty, Val seized her chance to ask Bethany a few questions. “When Chatty told you about the burned racket, did she say where she’d seen it?”

Bethany donned an apron over her sundress printed with tropical flowers. “In the trash container at Nadia’s house. Why are you asking?”

“Just curiosity.” About whether Bethany could have passed that information to her brother. Val moved the blender to the sink and took it apart to wash it. “Did you tell anybody about the burned racket?”

“Just Bigby. I called him when I got off the phone with Chatty. Wasn’t I supposed to tell?” Bethany sounded defensive. “Nadia didn’t care. She treated it like a big joke.”

“I didn’t know you talked to her about it. When was that?”

“Monday afternoon.”

Val’s grip tightened on the blender as she washed it. “You saw her on Monday? Where?”

“The diner. I went there to pick up a sub after our teacher’s meeting ran late. She’d already eaten. I stopped at her table to prove I didn’t hold a grudge about how she ditched me. When I mentioned the racket burning, she said she didn’t take it seriously.”

Or pretended she didn’t, to show that the incident hadn’t intimidated her. Val wished she knew what else Nadia had said in the diner. “Nadia tried to reach me later that afternoon. I never got back to her. Maybe she talked to you about what was on her mind.”

“Nope. The busboy, Jeremy, came to clear her table, and I went to the counter to wait for my order. Nadia talked to him for a while. He went back to the kitchen. Then Luke came out to see her.”

“Did she talk to anyone else at the diner?”

“She waved to Darwin when he came in, but they didn’t talk while I was there.” Bethany put on an apron. “I know why you’re asking all these questions. You’re helping the police figure out who murdered her. Do they suspect anyone we know?”

“Please don’t go around saying I’m helping the police identify the murderer. That could put me in danger.”

Bethany’s hand flew to her mouth. “I never thought of that. I won’t repeat anything you tell me. Promise.”

“I have nothing to say. The police aren’t giving out information about their suspects.” Val hung up her apron. “See you tomorrow at the memorial service.”

She hurried out. Next stop: the diner. If anything had troubled Nadia in the hours before her murder, she might have told Jeremy or Luke about it while eating her final lunch at the diner.

Chapter 15

Val opened the door to the diner. Its AC circulated batter-fried air, as appetizing as cold French fries. A young couple and a toddler occupied a booth. An older couple sat at a table near the window, and two men in work boots perched on stools at the counter.

A stout, pink-haired woman bustled toward Val—Luke’s mother. “A booth okay with you, hon?” Without waiting for an answer, she conducted Val to a booth with red vinyl bench seats.

Val slid into the booth. The gray laminated table came equipped with a bottle of ketchup, a glass sugar pourer with a screw-on metal top, and salt and pepper shakers of the same style. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Forsa. I’m Val Deniston. Luke and I used to hang out as teenagers.”

“Call me Rosie.” She stared at Val and then snapped her fingers. “You must be Don Myer’s granddaughter. We don’t see him here much anymore. How’s he doing?”

“He’s well, thank you.” With lower blood pressure than when he frequented the diner. “I’ll let him know you asked after him.”

“Luke told me about you. You came back after years away. Just like him. He moved down here from Baltimore when his daddy passed.” Rosie set out a paper place mat, a napkin with utensils rolled inside, and a glass of ice water. “Want to try our special today? It’s one of your granddaddy’s favorites—Southern fried chicken, batter fries, sweet slaw, and fried okra.”

“Just a light lunch for me. How about a BLT on toast?” No one could mess up a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, not even Granddad. Not that he’d ever get the chance. His new healthy diet didn’t include bacon. “And iced tea please.”

Rosie wrote down the order, but made no move toward the kitchen. “You heard what happened to Nadia Westrin, didn’t you? Mark my words. Someone from that club killed her. Sports rage, that’s what it was.”

“Sports rage?”

“It’s like road rage. She did something to set somebody off in a tennis game, and they let her have it. That’s what happens at hockey games.” Rosie tucked the pen and pad in her apron pocket. “She shoulda asked the police for protection after somebody burned a racket on her lawn. Good thing Luke was there to put out the fire.”

Val choked on her water. Luke had told his mother—and how many others?—about the racket burning. Did he cast himself as the hero of the story or did his mom assign him that role?

Rosie leaned down and cupped a hand at the side of her mouth. “Luke just broke up with his girlfriend in Baltimore, and I’m glad. I’d like to see him settle down here with a hometown gal. You married, hon?”

“No.” Better change the subject or Rosie might interview her as a potential bride. Val tilted her head toward the TV on a high shelf behind the counter. On the screen two women slugged a tennis ball back and forth across the net. “Wimbledon. Are you a tennis fan, Rosie?”

“Not me, but my hubby always had sports on the TV here. When he was young, he played most everything except golf. Luke is big on sports too. He only ever played baseball, but you can’t tear him away from football and basketball games on TV.”

Val took advantage of the break in Rosie’s word stream. “By any chance, were you here at lunchtime on Monday?”

“Most days I work breakfast and dinner. Luke does lunch. I’m only here today because the waitress called in sick.” Rosie glanced toward the swinging door to the kitchen. “I better give Luke your order.”

“I’d like to talk to him if he’s not too busy.”

“Don’t worry, hon. He’ll make time for you.” Rosie winked.

While Val waited for her lunch, she watched the TV. With a seeded player struggling against an upstart, the match had more drama than most early rounds of tennis tournaments.

Luke delivered her BLT with chips and pickles. His dark green T-shirt clung to him, emphasizing his toned biceps and his slight paunch. A barbells and beer body. He pointed to the TV. “My money’s on the Russian gal even if she’s behind now.”

“I always root for the underdog.” Val eyed her sandwich. Mayo blobs and limp bacon overhung a burnt crust. You could, after all, mess up a BLT. “A friend of mine picked up a sub here on Monday and raved about it. She said Nadia was here talking to you.”

“Yeah, Nadia was hustling as usual. Wanted me to invest in more property. It wasn’t enough she sold me one house.”

“Did she say anything about the racket that burned?”

“I teased her about it. Told her she should stop hanging out with the lowlifes at the club. She didn’t appreciate it.”

She hadn’t cared for his humor Sunday night either when he’d joked about her cremating her racket.

Val unwrapped the utensils rolled in her napkin. “Your mother knew about the burned racket.”

“I told her.” He leaned down as if fearing his mother might hear him. “I know Nadia wanted to keep it quiet, but stuff like that gets around. Mom would have heard it somewhere and reamed me out for not telling her.”

“Did you mention it to anyone else?”

“Just Mom. Why?”

Luke told Rosie, Rosie told—how many people? As many as possible, but she’d focus on her son as a hero, not details about the charred racket.

“It’s not important. Your mother’s looking well. Is she still living in the house where you grew up?”

“I tried to convince her to move to a condo. No dice. The house is too much for her now that my father’s gone, but she never lets go of anything.”

“And she’d probably miss her friends from the neighborhood. By the way, is Jeremy working today?”

“Making deliveries. He should be back soon.” He touched her shoulder. “Enjoy your lunch.”

Val scraped off mayo globs and nibbled on her sandwich while watching the street through the diner’s storefront window. When a van pulled up and Jeremy climbed from it, she left the money for her lunch on the table, rushed out the door, and called to him.

Tall and broad, with an awkward gait, he’d make an intimidating hulk in a dark alley. During the day, though, he looked like an overgrown kid.

He squinted through thick lenses at Val. “Hi.”

“I saw your mother this morning. She told me you were really sad about Nadia. I’m sorry. It must be hard on you.”

Jeremy nodded. “I already miss Nadia.”

“We’ll also miss her at the racket club, where I work. I’m writing an article about her for the club newsletter, and I think you knew her really well.”

“She was my friend.”

“I heard you talked to her on Monday when she had lunch in the diner.”

“That was the last time I saw her. I didn’t even have a chance to—” He looked down at his high-tops. “To say I was sorry.”

“For what?” Val waited for an answer that didn’t come. She spoke more gently. “Did you have a disagreement with her?”

“She asked me to do something, but I didn’t want to. Mom and Dad said I shouldn’t.”

What could she have asked him to do that his parents advised against? Maybe they were so protective of him that they ruled out his doing anything even slightly risky, like cleaning the gutters on Nadia’s steep roof.

“Hey, Jeremy.” Luke called out from the door of the diner. “We got some more deliveries.”

Jeremy brushed past Val. “I need to work.”

Val stood in his path. “Wait, Jeremy. I’d like to talk to you about Nadia sometime when you aren’t working.”

“I’m off Sunday afternoon, but I always watch baseball.”

“How about I stop by your apartment then?”

“Okay. I live over the garage at Luke’s house. Bye.” He fled into the diner.

Val went back to her car, disappointed. Stopping at the diner had given her no new information about the murder. She still had a few things to tell the chief and hoped he would return the favor.

As she drove to the police station, she had to press the brake pedal harder than usual. It felt spongy. She’d better take the car to a garage after talking to the chief. The large garage in Treadwell had several mechanics. She hoped one of them had time this afternoon to diagnose her brake problem and fix her flat tire. She’d already driven far enough on the undersized spare.

The chief couldn’t see her immediately, so she settled on a wood bench in the reception area. She wouldn’t leave until she talked to him about Bigby, who’d risen to the top of her suspect list, and Maverick, second on the list. Maybe by now the police knew where Maverick had spent Monday night.

She rubbed her arms. Police headquarters felt like a walk-in cooler. She looked up and saw Deputy Holtzman watching her and drinking something steaming from a Styrofoam cup. She could use some hot coffee.

He approached her. “I understand you had some trouble at your house last night. You’d better watch out. The Bayport police confirm that a raccoon is operating in your neighborhood.” The sneer on his face matched his tone of voice. “And that road incident you reported two days ago? The police haven’t had time to investigate that yet, but I have some advice for you. The next time someone wants to pass your car, slow down. Don’t feel you have to race him.”

She stood up. If she were a man, she’d be tempted to clock him. She folded her arms. “You’ve been hostile to me since we met. Care to tell me why?”

“Not hostile. Surprised.” He sipped his coffee. “When I met you, you’d just found the body of a woman murdered in a gruesome way. Dead bodies upset most people, even when they don’t know the victim. You knew her, and yet you were all business.”

She’d managed to stay calm and rational only with great effort, and he was holding that against her. “I was trying to be helpful, telling you what I saw and what I did. I figured the police would want facts, not feelings.”

“Just the facts, eh? That worked fine as long as you were talking about the murder. But I hit a mother lode of feelings when I brought up the hit-and-run? Care to tell me why?”

She locked on his protruding eyes. “I’m here to talk to the chief.”

“Friends in high places, eh?” He walked away.

She now understood what she’d done wrong in Tuesday morning’s interview. She’d been too coherent for his tastes. The harder he’d pushed to get a reaction from her, the more she’d tightened the reins on her emotions. Exactly the wrong thing to do. Bethany, on the other hand, had met his expectations and evoked his sympathy, probably by sniveling and batting her teary eyelashes at him.

Val could do without his sympathy, but she expected common courtesy. He’d mocked her for reporting two incidents to the police. When the investigation into Nadia’s murder was over, when Holtzman no longer had power over her or Monique, she’d lodge a complaint with his boss at the sheriff’s office. He had no right to belittle any citizen’s fears.

She asked the woman at the reception desk if she could use the restroom. The receptionist pointed to a hallway and told her to follow it to the end. Offices lined both sides of the hall. The door marked CHIEF was closed.

On her way back from the restroom, she heard voices coming from an office with an open door. She caught the words “preliminary report.” She slowed down and inched closer to the doorway.

“Blood sample . . . alcohol and barbiturates . . . made her drowsy or dizzy . . . not enough to kill her . . . couldn’t fight back . . .”

The gray-haired officer who’d interviewed her about the road incident emerged from a room down the corridor. Val hustled to the reception area. She’d overheard enough to convince her that the murderer had drugged Nadia before killing her with the racket. With a large enough dose of alcohol and barbiturates, she would have slipped quietly away. Instead, her killer had given her the drug as an appetizer to a grisly main course. Why go to such lengths? Out of hatred or anger? Or to send a message to someone else? If so, that message hadn’t yet gone out, thanks to the chief’s gag order on the weapon.

The chief met Val in the reception area and led her to his office. He gestured to a straight-backed metal chair facing his desk. “Take a seat, Val. You might be able to help me, but if you’re gonna balk at speaking ill of the dead, tell me now.”

She perched on the hard seat that discouraged lingering. “I’m just as willing to abuse the dead as the living. What do you want to know?”

He peered at her over the top of his reading glasses. “You ever see Nadia Westrin pop pills or act spacey?”

“Never. If Nadia had a headache, she went for a yoga timeout rather than swallow an aspirin. She avoided diet drinks because of the chemicals in them. Does that sound like a drug abuser to you?”

“What about alcohol?”

“She drank good wine, but not more than she could handle.” An image of the wine rack in Nadia’s kitchen popped into Val’s mind. “The morning I found Nadia dead, I noticed two water-spotted wineglasses hanging on a rack in her kitchen. The other glasses were sparkling clean. She might have drunk wine with her killer.” Wine tainted with a barbiturate.

“Good observation. You didn’t come here just to tell me that.”

“Chatty Ridenour had some information about Bigby O’Shea. Did she call you?”

The chief shook his head. Apparently, Chatty’s tongue loosened only when her fingers massaged a face.

Val summarized Chatty’s story about Nadia rejecting Bigby and later seeing him parked across from her house. The chief laced a rubber band through his fingers while she talked, his face expressionless. For all the reaction she got from him, she could have been relating a fairy tale, rather than presenting him with a murder suspect.

He flicked the rubber band into a desk drawer. “There’s a lady in town who thinks the boyfriend she jilted fifty years ago parks outside her house and follows her around. She calls us once or twice a month.”

“If that woman turned up murdered, wouldn’t you check on that old boyfriend?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll check if Mr. O’Shay has an alibi for the night of the murder.”

Mr. O’Shay. More like Mr. Almighty. As a major land developer, Bigby probably had influence over the town council and the police budget. “Bigby’s sister told him about the burned racket. She knew it was in Nadia’s trash bin. He could have raided the trash while Nadia was working Monday and studied how the handle was tapered.”