Fillet of Murder (4 page)

Massaging the crunched toes of her left foot, Bea peeked around Talia. She sucked in a noisy breath. “God save the Queen and McCartney.”

Turnbull was lying on the floor, his head and one arm jutting out from behind his monster-sized desk. The one ice-blue eye that Talia could see was wide open. His gelled hair rested in a puddle of darkened blood. Protruding from the side of his damaged neck, just above the pressed collar of his cotton shirt, was the lime-green handle of a silver knife.

By the time Talia unlocked the rear door of Lambert's it was after one. A feeling of utter relief swept over her. The simple act of standing in the eatery's familiar kitchen went a long way toward erasing the horrors of the morning.

She peeled off her flared jacket, which now felt like a ship anchor, and slung it over a hook behind the door. Then she made a quick trip to the bathroom, where she washed her hands for a solid five minutes. The officer who'd taken her fingerprints had given her a solvent to remove the oily black ink. Still, nothing could take the place of a good scrubbing with soap and water and a hefty dose of elbow grease.

Unfortunately, even soap couldn't scour away the image that stuck in her mind. She couldn't stop seeing Turnbull's blue eye, staring and sightless, and that knife poking out of his neck.

Talia swallowed back the lump that had been blossoming
in her throat all morning. Drawing in a long, calming breath, she ran her fingers through her short blond hair. She shuddered, remembering the “interview” at the police station. They'd stuck her in a drab, claustrophobic room occupied only by a table and three wooden chairs. One entire wall was mirrored. Talia knew from watching TV crime shows that behind the mirror, someone would be watching her every move. Scrutinizing every blink of the eye or twitch of the lips. The idea of being spied on that way sent ripples of terror through her. And she had nothing to hide!

Not that she was blameless in this whole mess. It was Talia's crazy idea to sneak into the lighting shop. What was she thinking? Why didn't she just wait until opening time?

Because she didn't want Bea to find out, that's why. Now, thanks to her lovable friend being a nosy posy, she'd gotten them both into a hot pickle.

Police Chief Derek Westlake, who'd been three years ahead of Talia in high school, had escorted her into the interview room. Then a homicide investigator from the state police had arrived, tall and stately in his uniform, his expression appropriately grim. “Tell me again, Ms. Marby,” he'd demanded, his mouth curved up on one side in a near smirk, “why you entered Mr. Turnbull's store when you knew it hadn't yet opened for business?” He'd posed the question at least five different times, his phrasing twisted with each separate attempt. Had he been hoping to elicit a Perry Mason–style confession? And each time she'd told him the truth, insane as it now sounded.

That painful boulder bobbed in her throat again. She couldn't stop thinking about Bea. The poor woman had looked terrified when a pimple-faced, twentysomething officer had loaded her into the back of his patrol car and
slammed the door. Even though he'd assured her that she wasn't under arrest, she'd railed at him with all the fervor of a prisoner being wheeled to the Bastille.

“It'll be okay, Bea,” Talia had screamed to her. But the sight of her friend's frightened face peering through the window of the cruiser had nearly wrenched Talia's heart out of her chest.

After her “interview,” Bea had headed home to change. She and her husband, Howie, lived in a quaint, older subdivision on the outskirts of Wrensdale, about a ten-minute ride from the arcade. Knowing Bea, she was probably standing under the shower at this very moment, scouring her body with a steel wool pad and a bar of industrial-strength soap.

Talia slid her gaze over the stainless-steel work counter, still shiny and clean. An enormous colander of boiled peas sat beside a stainless-steel bowl, waiting to be whipped and creamed into Bea's delectable mushy peas. Over the years, Bea had improved on her original recipe by cutting out the extras and keeping it simple. The result was a luscious and healthy side dish even the pickiest of eaters couldn't resist.

Okay, get to work. The fish isn't going to batter and fry itself, is it?

She wasn't even sure if Bea planned to open for business today. After Bea's interview was over, she'd texted Talia that she was heading home to change and instructed her to meet her back at Lambert's. Maybe—

Oh God, poor Bea. Any other boss would probably hold Talia responsible for this entire mess and fire her. Talia knew Bea would never do that, but still, she felt wracked with guilt.

With a groan, she pulled a clean blue apron off the wooden shelf in the corner where Bea kept them neatly stacked. She
slid it over her neck, then tied it in a bow at the back. The least she could do was look perky and ready to serve.

She'd just started to open the commercial refrigerator when the back door crashed open. Bea charged into the kitchen, spewing a chain of inspired expletives she could only have learned from her stint as a cook in the navy in the UK. But what truly startled Talia was the color of Bea's lips. Fluorescent green, they were smudged at the edges and gave off a weird, shimmery glint. Biting off a giggle, Talia decided not to mention it until Bea settled down a bit.

Talia closed the back door and peered at her friend—possibly her ex-employer—with concern. “Bea, are you all right?”

“No.” Eyes blazing, Bea snatched an apron off the shelf, sending the rest of the pile toppling to the floor. She'd changed into black trousers and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt—an ensemble that matched her current mood, to be sure. She slung the apron around her neck, twisting it into a hopeless tangle even as she struggled to tie it in the back.

“Let me help,” Talia said. She grabbed the bottom edges of the apron and twirled them until they were right side up. She pulled the ties around Bea's diminutive waist and secured the apron with a snug bow.

“Flipping coppers,” Bea sputtered. “Who do they think they are?” She yanked open the door to the fridge, shoved a hand inside, and extracted a plastic bag filled with shredded cabbage. She turned to slap the bag down on her work area, and all at once, her shoulders sagged. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she threw herself at Talia. “Oh, Talia baby, I didn't even ask how you were! What a dreadful, horrid woman I am. All I've been thinking about is how insufferable it was for me. I didn't even ask about you. Did the cops
hurt you? Did they interrogate you? Did they make you sit in a hot stuffy room that smelled like last year's unwashed gym clothes?”

A smile tugged at the corners of Talia's mouth. She patted Bea lightly on the back. “Bea, I'm fine. And the worst I can say about the interview room was that it screamed for a coat of paint and a squirt or three of Febreze.”

“Oh, Talia, you are such a gem,” Bea said with a crooked green smile. “Whatever would I do without you?” Her neon smile faded. “What
will
I do without you?”

“Bea, you'll be just fine. But can I ask you a question? Why are your lips glowing green?”

“They are? Oh for the love of God and England! I must have slapped on that silly stuff I was saving for Halloween. That's what I get for putting on makeup without a mirror.”

“It'll be perfect for Halloween, but since that's a few weeks away, why don't you switch to something more subtle for today?”

Bea scooted off to the bathroom. Since she hadn't said otherwise, Talia assumed she intended to open for business. She hauled a bag of potatoes out of the storage closet, set them next to the work area, and began the peeling process. It was a mindless task, one that gave her too much time to think. She couldn't stop obsessing about Bea. What if Howie didn't recover fully from his knee operation? What if Bea couldn't keep the fish and chips shop running on her own? She and Howie had always worked as a team, both in life and in business. What if—

An abrupt tap at the back door made Talia jump. She blotted her hands on her apron, dashed over, and opened it. Whitnee stood there looking utterly perplexed, her book bag dangling from one bony shoulder.

“What's going on?” Whitnee said, stepping inside. “I've been trying to get in for two hours, and the front door's still locked. Plus there's Staties all over Main Street taking up the best parking spots. And the lighting store has yellow tape around it!” She slid her bag off her shoulder, removed her windbreaker, and hung both on a hook next to Talia's jacket. Normally she wore a spotless T-shirt or sweatshirt over crisp jeans that hugged her slim legs. Today's wrinkled ensemble looked dredged from the bottom of the laundry basket.

Talia instantly felt guilty. Amidst the hullabaloo over Turnbull, she'd completely forgotten about the girl. “Hi, Whitnee. I'm so sorry, we should have called you. Someone killed Phil Turnbull in his store.”

“Wh . . . killed? Did you say
killed
?”

“Bea and I”—Talia swallowed—“found him this morning, but the police think it happened last night.”

That's what Talia had gleaned, anyway, from the questions the police had chucked at her with rapid-fire speed. Her whereabouts between the hours of seven and midnight Wednesday evening had been of supreme interest to them.

Whitnee teetered to the right, and for a moment Talia thought she might faint. Her face had gone milky pale. Tears spilled onto the girl's cheeks. Then she shook her head, covered her eyes, and began to cry in earnest.

“Oh, Whitnee, I'm so sorry,” Talia said. “I shouldn't have blurted it like that.”

Whitnee sobbed quietly into her hands for a minute, then sniffled loudly and wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers. “I'm sorry,” she said and cleared her throat. “You must think I'm a baby or something. It's just . . . I never knew anyone who got murdered before. It took me by surprise.”

“Of course. It's very understandable.”

“I mean, I didn't even like Ph . . . Mr. Turnbull,” Whitnee went on. “He was nasty to everyone, and he—oh God, I didn't mean it that way. Please don't tell anyone I said that!”

Talia smiled and squeezed Whitnee's shoulder. “Believe me, the police will have to search far and wide if they're looking for someone who
did
like Phil Turnbull.” She hated speaking ill of the dead, but she couldn't ignore the truth. Nonetheless, he didn't deserve to die, and for that Talia felt terrible.

Bea stomped out of the washroom, her lips now free of their fluorescent shine. The moment she spied Whitnee's puffy face, she hurried over and hugged her. “There, there, luvvy, it'll all be okay. We'll get through this and go on like before.” Bea sighed.

Whitnee hugged her back, then looked down with an embarrassed flush at her stained sweatshirt and crinkled jeans. “Sorry to look, like, so messy today,” she told Bea. “My mom usually gets up early and does laundry, but she left work sick last night and she wasn't feeling so good this morning. By the time I realized I didn't have anything clean to wear, it was too late to run a load through.”

“Aw, luvvy, that's okay,” Bea said. “Under a nice clean apron, no one will see it anyway.”

Talia tilted her head toward the front of the eatery. “Whitnee said the front door is locked, Bea. Did you lock up before the . . . police took you to the station?”

“I asked the copper to lock it for me,” she grumbled. “I have to admit, the chap was quite obliging. Not bad-looking, either, if you go for the baby-faced sort. So, shall we open up for business? If all three of us get hopping, we should be able to open by two, wouldn't you say?” She looked far less sure than she sounded.

“Let me take a peek outside,” Talia said. She slipped around the side of the counter and went to the front entrance. She opened the door and glanced out over the cobblestone plaza. The sun was bright, tempered by a chill wind. People had gathered in clusters, chattering to one another as they gawked and pointed in the direction of the lighting store.

Only one thing marred the appeal of the faux sixteenth-century village. Stretched across the front of Turnbull's lighting store was, as Whitnee had noticed, a length of yellow crime scene tape, punctuated by a series of orange cones. The tape fluttered in the stiff breeze.

Talia turned to Bea. “I agree, Bea. Let's open. People have to eat, right?”

•   •   •

“Bunch of looky-loos, all of them.” Bea slammed the entrance door. “Don't these people ever eat? Has everyone gone crazy?”

Talia had just bitten into a fat, crispy fry sprinkled with a dose of malt vinegar when she heard Bea erupt over the depressing lack of customers. In spite of the horrible day she'd had, she was ravenous. A bowl of Rice Krispies with a sliced banana were the only food she'd eaten all day. Nevertheless, she felt guilty for stuffing her face when business had been abysmal all afternoon. She swallowed and said, “It's an aberration, Bea. It won't last. By tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”

She hoped.

Wearing a dazed expression, Whitnee busied herself wiping down the work areas in the kitchen and putting away the condiments. She'd barely said a word all afternoon. In the tradition of Talia's nana—the quintessential Italian
grandmother—Talia had tried urging her to eat. But Whitnee had waved away any offer of food, refusing even the mushy peas she normally gobbled with gusto.