Flipped For Murder (14 page)

“Mom dated some. She likes to be in control, though.” Danna raised one eyebrow and grinned at me. “Maybe you've seen that.”

I laughed. “Sure. Like this fund-raiser thing. If anybody can pull it off, I guess it's her.”

“She's pretty bossy, but she can get business done, for sure.”

 

 

I checked my e-mail one more time after Danna headed home at two-thirty, even though I'd looked at it less than an hour before. I saw the invoice from the delivery. A solicitation from the American Culinary Federation. A coupon from a restaurant supply company. But nothing from Italy, not even in my
SPAM
folder.

Stretching, I walked with leaden feet to the front door to turn the sign to
CLOSED
. I opened the door, instead. A gust of wind blew a few dry leaves into a mini cyclone scudding down the street, the same wind that had blown the storm through and east to Ohio. Everything was washed clean by the rain, but the air held a taste of winter. A fox squirrel dug its brownish orange head in the golden leaves at the base of a beech tree across the road, then the critter hurried into the woods.

I took a deep breath. The week's puzzles would get solved one way or another. I knew I wasn't a murderer. Even if Buck arrested me on some kind of false evidence, the truth would come out sooner or later. And Roberto? Well, I'd lived without a father my whole life. I didn't need one now.

But I did have an aunt down the road I hadn't seen in a few days. I shut and locked the door, turned the sign to
CLOSED
, and tossed my apron in the laundry bin. I wasn't due at Jim's until six, and Danna and I had completed a bunch of the prep for tomorrow as we'd continued to talk, as well as cleaning up from today.

On my way to Adele's, which was out on Beanblossom Road, I realized I was in front of Stella's house. I slowed to check it out. Her front garden already displayed a look of neglect. An oak leaf sat pasted to the top of a green gazing ball, which perched atop a three-foot-high dirty white pedestal with Grecian curlicues. Next to it, a garden decoration almost lay in the dirt, one of those boards cut and painted to look like the behind of a hefty aproned woman bending over to weed. Curled, dry leaves nestled behind the corner of a low picket fence, which needed a paint job.

I shuddered, speeding up again, and soon the van was clunking along the rutted gravel road to Adele's farm. The woods opened up to a peaceful vista of sheep grazing on a gentle slope beyond a fence. I pulled up next to her cottage, which looked like it belonged in an English village. The front garden, bounded by a low picket fence, held a riot of fall-tinted flowers still blooming in shouts of yellow, red, and gold. Vines trailed over the fence and the doorway, and a peach tree grew flattened and trained against the side of the house. A big pot overflowing with pink geraniums occupied the front stoop, since Adele never used that door. The garden featured her own gazing ball, as many Indiana gardens did, this one a blue-swirled globe held up by a whimsical pink metal flamingo.

A small Honda sat behind Adele's red pickup.
Oops.
She had company. Maybe I should have called first. Maybe I wouldn't be crying on the shoulder of my only relative, after all. When I climbed out of the van, her Border collie, Sloopy, ran up and yipped at me, then stuck his white snout into my offered hand. After I rubbed his black head, I reached back into the van for the container of biscuits I kept for him and handed him one. Adele had showed me how adept he was at rounding up the sheep and told me
“collie”
meant “sheep-herding dog” in Scottish.

I knocked on the side door and waited. I glanced down and groaned at the flecks of pancake batter mixed with grease spatters on my jeans, but I knew Adele wouldn't care. She still didn't come to the door. She could be out in the barn. I hadn't seen her in the fields anywhere and hoped she was okay. She was a tough cookie, but she wasn't a young one. I didn't recognize the car from anywhere and I shivered.
With a murderer skulking around free, what if . . .

No. Don't go there.
She was probably out in the barn. I pressed the doorbell and, after a minute, turned away.

The door opened behind me. “Robbie, come on in,” Adele said.

I turned back. I started to greet her, but then stopped when I saw a man behind her. This was definitely not a dangerous situation, though. Adele's cheeks were suspiciously rosy and her oversized shirt was misbuttoned, one side of the collar sticking up into her neck and the shirttail on the opposite side flapping forlornly against her yoga-pants-clad thigh.

“I don't want to interrupt—”

“Nonsense. Come in and set with us. Do you know Samuel?” She stepped back to reveal a barefooted and smiling Samuel MacDonald next to her, also looking like he'd just pulled on his clothes.

“Phil's grandfather. We met, when, just this morning?” I greeted him and shook his hand when he extended it. I had no idea Adele had a love life. I wasn't so prudish or ignorant I didn't think people in their seventies couldn't enjoy a physical relationship, but I kind of wished she'd told me. I gave a mental shrug. Maybe it was new. Or maybe Adele wanted to keep her private life private.

“How about a mug of hot cider with Sorghrum to warm you up?” Adele asked after I followed them into a kitchen that smelled deliciously of freshly baked bread. “And I have sourdough in the oven. Should be done right about now.” A timer dinged.

“I'd love some,” I said.

A couple of minutes later, we were all seated at the table with steaming mugs of mulled cider in front of us, mugs fragrant with scents of cinnamon and cloves. The bread rested on a cutting board on the counter, smelling like heaven. Samuel set a squat, round-shouldered bottle of an amber liquid in the middle.

“What in heck is ‘sorghrum'?” I asked. Despite being a chef in the area for the past three years, I'd never heard of it.

“Sorghum spirits. It's new,” Samuel said. “A local guy distills it from an Amish farmer's sorghum. An Amish farmer with thirteen children. He doesn't even drink alcohol, himself.” He laughed. “They wanted to call it sorghum rum, but the state wouldn't let them.”

“Want to try a hit?” Adele asked, uncorking the bottle and pushing it in my direction.

“Why not?” I sniffed the spirits, its heady aroma hitting my sinuses. I poured a little into my cider, tasted it, and grimaced. “It's kind of molasses-y.”

“Too sweet?” Adele asked.

“No, it's okay.” I took another sip. “I guess it grows on you.”

“So, what brings you over, honey?” Adele asked me as she laid a knobby, age-spotted hand on Samuel's wrinkled, darker one, his pale pink fingernails neatly trimmed. He gave her the sweetest smile I'd seen in a long time.

I outlined Corrine's harebrained scheme for the fund-raiser. “And she wants to do it tomorrow.” I shook my head.

“Hey, she can pull it off,” Adele said. “Corrine's competent. So she wants me to donate wool? I can do that. Long as it's tax deductible.”

“She said it's for the animal shelter, so I guess it would be.”

Adele eyed me. “I'll bet you really came over here to talk about your father.”

“Maybe. But we'll do that later.” I glanced at Samuel.

“I can leave you girls alone.” He started to stand.

“No,” I said, holding up my hand. “Sit down. There's nothing really to talk about. I mean, I found his e-mail address in Tuscany, Adele, but he hasn't answered. As I've been telling myself, I lived without a father this long, I can keep doing it.” I blew air out through pursed lips, and then blinked hard as suddenly wet eyes threatened to make a liar out of me.

Adele stood and kneaded my shoulders for a minute, then she busied herself slicing the warm bread. She set the cutting board and a glass dish of butter on the table, along with knives and three small plates.

“Eat.”

We all fell to buttering and savoring the chewy, crusty slices in silence.

“I chatted with Corrine's daughter, Danna, this afternoon,” I finally said. “Turns out she's lived without a father most of her life, too. She said he died when she was a baby, so she never knew him.”

“He was killed, when, dear?” Samuel said to Adele.

“Sixteen, seventeen years ago? Danna must have been a li'l bit of a thing.”

“He was killed?” I stared at him. “You mean, murdered?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He was killed in a hunting accident. Fool rifle went off wrong.” Samuel made a tsking sound.

“There was some speculating at the time if Corrine had a hand in it. It was only the two of them out in the woods, you know.”

“Why would she kill her own husband?” I asked.

“Rumors do fly. He was reputed to be a bully and a philanderer.” Adele raised her eyebrows. “But we have something perfectly legal in this country called divorce. You don't need to kill a husband to get rid of him. Anyway, nothing came of it. She was never charged with being involved.”

Chapter 22

It had turned into such a brilliant cool fall day I impulsively turned into the north entrance of Brown County State Park on my way home. My van clattered over the boards in the only double-tunnel covered bridge in the state. I flashed my yearly pass to the ranger at the gate booth, then parked near the Abe Martin Lodge and buttoned up my thigh-length black jacket, glad I'd worn sturdy sneakers. The parking lot was jammed, as it was every fall, but the park was big enough that I'd never found the trails too crowded, at least on weekdays. Sure, a murderer was still at large, but walking in a busy state park in broad daylight, with rangers and hikers aplenty, shouldn't be a risky proposition.

I could spare time for a brisk walk before I needed to get home and do tomorrow's prep. I set out on Trail One, inhaling the crisp air, gazing at sassafras trees turning from green to peachy orange, their lobe-like leaves hanging down as if sad they would soon lose their grip and become forest mulch. A gray, black, and white nuthatch scampered upside down on the smooth gray trunk of a beech, and a squirrel ran, cheek bulging, up the shaggy trunk of a shagbark hickory, depositing its winter dinner in a crevice and apparently ignoring the beauty of the tree's brilliant yellow foliage.

A white-haired couple strode toward me in their sensible hiking boots, walking sticks swinging, cheeks pink from exertion in cool air. As I stepped back to let them pass, I returned the blue-eyed woman's smile. But when I walked on, it stabbed me in the heart that my mom would never be a white-haired senior citizen. She wouldn't get the chance to find love late in life. She would not ever know of my life, of my successes and failures, whether in business or in love.

I admonished myself to enjoy where I was right now. Mom would have wanted me to take in this brightly colored day, not to stew about the unfair timing of her death. I trod on until I came to the sign for Trail Two, which was a two-mile loop I knew passed both the stone Lower Shelter and the North Lookout Tower up on the hill, a classic Lincoln Log cabin built on top of a smaller limestone-brick base. If I hustled, I could get back in time, and a dose of fast exercise was just what the doctor ordered, anyway. Or would have if I had signed up with a doctor, which I'd never bothered to find here in Indiana, since I was blessed with the healthiest constitution of anyone I'd ever met. I never got sick.

Setting out on the trail, I heard a noise and whipped my head to the right. Had I been followed? Catching a glimpse of the white tails of two deer bounding away from me through the underbrush, I laughed. I kept walking and my tension began to ebb. I breathed deeply and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I'd nearly reached the tower when a loud, sharp report sounded. I froze, then I heard two more shots.
Hunting in the state park? That isn't allowed, is it?
I glanced down at my dark jacket and jeans. Great. I wasn't wearing a thread of bright color. Now what? Thoughts of Danna's father killed in a hunting accident crossed my mind.

Or maybe this wasn't an illicit hunter. Maybe it was Stella's murderer. I swore, turned around, and started to race back the way I'd come, patting my pocket for my phone as I ran. Except the only thing in there were the keys to my van. I swore again. The trail was empty of people. When I took a second to glance behind me, my toe caught on a root and I went sprawling, scraping my palm on a branch and whacking the other elbow on a stone hidden under the fallen leaves. I scrambled up, my heart beating so fast I could barely breathe, but I kept running until I switched back onto Trail One. I slowed to a fast, nervous stride until I was able to gulp a few deep breaths, and then I set to jogging again. I didn't stop until I emerged in the parking lot. I leaned over, hands on my knees, panting.

“Miss? You all right?” a man's voice asked.

I straightened to see a stocky, middle-aged park ranger walking toward me. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I said, “I heard shots in the woods. Are people allowed to hunt here?”

“What trail were you on, miss?” He pursed his lips.

“Trail Two. I was getting close to the Lookout Tower.”

“Oh, then it's no problem.”

“Sure felt like a problem. Look at me. I'm not wearing orange. Shouldn't I be able to take a hike in a public park without some fool hunter nearby?” My voice had risen so high, it cracked. I swallowed hard.

“You can calm down, now. It wasn't no hunters. We have an after-school target practice class near there. Don't worry a bit about it. It's all controlled and there aren't no trails behind where the targets are set out.”

Target practice. By children.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and tried to smile at him. “Well, thanks, then.”

“You have a good day, now.”

 

 

After I arrived home, I parked by the side and let myself into my apartment. Birdy wove through my legs, chirping away, as I tried to walk down the hall. I finally picked him up, laid him on my shoulder, and stroked his head as I walked so I wouldn't trip over him and break my neck. I set him down in front of his empty bowl. No wonder he was being so cuddly. After I scooped a cupful of dry food into it, he fell to munching and I fell into a kitchen chair.

What a day of discovery. Realizing the black car was Ed's. Reading in the
Sentinel
that, in their eyes, I might as well be arrested for murder. Hearing from Buck about the eyewitness report of someone going into Stella's house. Agreeing to the fund-raiser and then learning of Ed's trouble with the Board of Health. Finding out Danna and I both grew up fatherless. And seeing firsthand evidence of Adele's boyfriend. The only thing I hadn't learned was how my father felt about me. Which couldn't have happened, I realized, since I hadn't told him I was his daughter. And now it was nighttime in Italy again.

I stood, planning to take a good long shower and get ready for my dinner date. At least that made me smile. I hadn't had a chance to relax with Jim since Monday night. Maybe we could suspend all talk of murder and suspects and simply enjoy ourselves.

Halfway to the bathroom, I heard a noise from the direction of the store and froze. Nobody should be in my store.
Nobody.
I reversed tracks to the kitchen and retrieved my phone from my bag. Then I crept toward the connecting door, in which I'd installed a one-way mirror with the window on the side of my apartment. I hadn't really thought through why, but I had imagined I might have a need to observe what was going on in the restaurant without being seen. Other mirrors were installed around the store because I liked the way it reflected back light and I'd noticed customers liked to look in them, too.

I peered into the window, but I didn't see anyone skulking about. My view didn't reach to all the corners and behind shelves and counters, though.
Damn it. Should I call 911?
I wasn't about to go in there myself, not in a county where the majority of adults toted guns. My heart was a giant jackhammer in my chest. Good thing I hadn't poured more than a short shot of that liquor Adele had offered.

I got real close to the window and tilted my head, trying to see if I could spot anyone at the far edges of its view. Nothing. Maybe the noise was from the wind, which hadn't let up its gusting all day. Could be a false alarm. I still wasn't going in there until I thought it was safe. I retreated to the kitchen and grabbed my keys off the hook. I made my way quietly outside around to the front. I could check out the rest of the interior from the big windows facing the street. If I didn't see anybody, I'd go in that way.

An unfamiliar car was parked out front.
Huh?
If someone had broken in, would they leave their car sitting there for everyone in town to see? Speaking of that, a Jaguar rolled by, giving a beep as it passed. I cringed, but I gave a little wave to Corrine in the driver's seat. So much for sneaking up, unnoticed. I was still going to try. I tiptoed up the side stairs of the covered front porch running the width of the building and pressed my nose against the glass farthest from the door, my heart mimicking an Indy 500 race car revving up for the start of the race.

But I was peering right smack-dab into the back of the six-foot-high freestanding drinks cooler. I moved to the next window, which unfortunately was not as clean as it should have been, since I'd run out of time before the grand opening and never got around to washing all the outside glass. I rubbed a round spot clean, but I still couldn't spy anyone.

“Robbie? What are you doing?”

“Yikes!” I whipped my head to the right. “What in—”

The screen door slapped closed behind Phil, who stood with head atilt staring at me, two empty baking sheets in one hand.

“What in what?” he asked. “What are you doing out here?”

“Jeez, Phil. You about gave me a heart attack.” I sank into the closest rocking chair, patting my chest. “I thought I heard a burglar in the store. Or worse, a murderer. I was trying to look in the window.” I obviously needed to start paying more attention to my surroundings. He was the fourth person to sneak up on me in probably that many days, or fewer.

He snorted. “So now your dessert man is a thief?” He held up the pans. “Just dropping off your order for the weekend, ma'am.”

“But how did you get in?”

He jangled a bunch of keys with his other hand. “With the key you gave me months ago? You don't remember?”

I squinted and wrinkled my nose. “Oh. Maybe I do remember.” I parceled out the words like I was a really slow person dealing cards.

He laughed and sat in the next chair over, which complained with a mighty creak.

“Thanks for bringing the desserts. Good thing I didn't call the cops, right?”

“You could say that.” He rocked and creaked back and forth. “I phoned and texted you a bunch of times, but you didn't pick up.”

I checked my phone, which I still clutched in one hand. Sure enough, the volume was completely off. The voice mail icon and the text icons were both lit up, though, and the tiny red light in the corner of the display blinked insistently.

“I was over at Adele's.” I looked at him. “Did you know your grandfather and Adele were hanging out?”

“No, but he's been looking awfully cheerful lately. He even asked me to go clothes shopping with him in Bloomington. Said he needed to update his wardrobe.”

“I apparently surprised them both at Adele's this afternoon. All rosy-cheeked and dressed kind of slapdash.” I waved a hand at the car in front of the store. “But that's not your car, is it?”

He shook his head. “Swapped out with my mom. Mine's in the shop.”

“Big to-do here tomorrow night, did you hear?”

“Corrine's fund-raiser?” he asked.

“Crazy. Got anything you want to donate? And will you come?”

“I can do up a certificate for a month of Friday desserts,” he said. “Delivered with a song. How about that? And a couple extra trays of brownies for the event itself.”

I laughed. “I like it. All of it.”

Gazing down the street, he stopped rocking. “Speaking of the police.” He pointed.

I let my eyes follow where his finger pointed. A South Lick police car drove toward us, although not with all the bells and whistles lit up. “This better not be what I'm afraid it is.” I shivered.

“I read the
Sentinel
online today. Agree. It better not be,” Phil said, his eyes glued to the cruiser.

But the car didn't slow at the store. We watched as it kept on going.

“Did you see that?” he asked, with a sudden turn of his head toward me.

I nodded, keeping my gaze on the police car until it turned the corner a few blocks into town, in the direction of the police station.

Wanda was driving, and Don O'Neill sat in the car. Not in the front seat, either.