Flipped For Murder (19 page)

“Good, good.”

“I made up a Pans ‘N Pancakes gift certificate to donate.” I headed for my desk. “Let me go get that. Then I've got to get the food ready.”

“I'll help,” Danna said.

Jim returned to stuffing beer, water, boxes of white wine, and tea bottles into the ice, clinking and crunching as he worked. Meanwhile, the skinny intern with a head full of thick, dark hair stood near the door looking as bewildered as a lost lamb, his arms barely reaching around whatever it was Corrine had stuffed into them.

“Turner, you set up the auction table,” Corrine directed him. “He's got the sign-up sheets, pens, the rest,” she said to me.

After he unloaded his burdens, I handed the young man my gift certificate for forty dollars, told him the minimum bid should be twenty, and turned to the appetizers. After Danna slipped an apron over her head, I asked her to assemble the sliders.

“You'll need to cut open all the buns first. They should be cool enough now.” I slid one out of its cup and tossed it from hand to hand.

“I'll make up a savory mayo for the turkey burgers. You know, with Thanksgiving seasonings,” she said. “Sage, rosemary, thyme. A little fresh parsley.”

“Great idea. Think we should add a slice of cheese to the beef sliders?”

She cocked her head. “Nah, too much work. Fresh black pepper and a squirt of ketchup should be enough. Or maybe I'll mix a few drops of hot sauce into the ketchup.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Hoosiers need a little livening up, you know?”

“I like the way you think.”
What a godsend.
I only hoped her mom realized Danna's talents lay in a restaurant, not a college, or at least not a conventional liberal-arts degree.

I set to transferring the now-thawed appetizers to baking sheets, then cursed. What was I going to serve them on when they were ready? It wasn't particularly elegant to leave them on the pans with years of hot temperatures having baked sugars and fats into the metal, and my kitchen wasn't equipped for catering. I glanced at the shelves of cookware across the room. Turner moved down the long table in front of the shelves, setting out sheets and pens for the donations (still nonexistent except for mine). My gaze traveled upward. Yes! I popped two full pans in the hot oven and strode toward him.

“Hey, Turner.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “I'm Robbie Jordan. I own this joint.”

“Turner Rao.” He extended his right hand. “Nice to meet you, Robbie.”

The cool, smooth skin of a hand that hadn't yet encountered many rough surfaces met mine. “Same here. So I need to get those trays down from up there.” I pointed to the half-dozen flat tin trays standing on end against the wall on the top shelf. The disks were about fifteen inches across with an inch-high rim, and each featured different old-fashioned soda products: Nesbitt's Orange, Brownie Root Beer, Dr. Wells. And, of course, the Coca-Cola checkerboard tray, which interspersed the red company logo with white squares. Its printed motto:
Delicious and Refreshing.
The trays would be perfect, once I got them cleaned up.

“Can you help me get them down?” I asked.

“Sure.” He laid down his papers and squinted up at the shelf. He was a beanpole of a guy, but not quite tall enough to reach up there.

I grabbed a long-handled popcorn popper off a shelf and handed it to him. “See if you can use this to bring the tray forward enough to make it fall.”

He stretched the tool up, and in a second the Nesbitt's tray came flying down. I reached out my hands, but missed. The tray hit the blue-and-white tablecloth on its way down, leaving a smudge of rust and orange paint, and then clattered onto the floor.

“Turner, can't you do anything right?” Corrine called in a sharp voice from the chair where she'd perched, looking up from her phone.

Turner didn't respond, instead picking up the tray and brushing it off. Corrine's response was totally uncalled for.
Poor kid. And good for him for not rising to the bait.

“It's okay. I asked him to help,” I answered her. She sniffed and looked back at her phone, her long red fingernail tapping out something or other.

Working together, we managed to get the rest down without mishap.

“I'll clean them for you,” Turner said. His deep brown eyes bore into mine.

I saw both more sensitivity and more resolve than earlier. I realized I hadn't ever really looked at him and now thought he looked at least part Indian, from India. That would explain the last name. I was willing to place a bet his mother's maiden name was Turner, though.

“That'd be a huge help. Thank you.” We stacked up the trays. “If you can't scrub off the rust, I'll line them with foil or a napkin.” As we carried the trays to the deep sink, I added in a low voice, “I appreciate your help, even if she doesn't.”

 

 

By seven o'clock the door never shut. As soon as one or two people entered, somebody else showed up right behind them. Turner was now stationed at a small table next to the door, collecting everybody's suggested entrance donation. He was even set up with a Square reader on an iPad so he could swipe credit cards—a smart move, for sure. Wanda, dressed in street clothes, sauntered in with another woman, and handed him some cash. Roy, dressed in a brown blazer and slacks, followed the women in, with no gun in sight, to my great relief. Buck must have found him, questioned him, and let him go. Georgia, the library aide, was next to enter, followed by two men. While it was intriguing to watch everybody arrive, my to-do list wasn't empty.

A few minutes later I glanced up from arranging buffalo wingettes on the root beer tray to see Adele, Vera, Samuel, and Phil making their way toward the donation table. Adele set down a rough-woven basket full of skeins of yarn in lovely pastel shades and conferred with Turner for a moment. Phil placed his event brownies on a table. Then he caught my eye and raised up a colorful sheet of paper that looked from this distance like it held color pictures of an assortment of his desserts, plus a few stylized musical notes, before handing it to Turner. I headed toward Phil to bring the brownies to the kitchen area.

“I'll do it.” Phil held up a hand. “I brought a few serving trays to use.” He also wore a black shirt, with skinny black pants and a tie in the bright blue of the restaurant logo.

“You're an angel.”

“Yeah,” he said, then fell to cutting and arranging the desserts on two so-called “throwaway” round aluminum trays, the kind I always wash and reuse. After he finished and cleaned his hands, he headed for the old piano in the corner, sat, and began to beat out a ragtime tune, which made me smile, despite the few out-of-tune keys. The tuner I'd brought in months earlier said it wasn't really worth paying to get it up to primo playing quality.

Corrine posed next to Turner's table and greeted all newcomers, arms outstretched, schmoozing. Her red-painted mouth held a permanent welcoming smile. Various townspeople drifted in, in twos and threes and fours. Several added items to the donation table, while others headed straight for the cold drinks tub or the boxes of red wine. Corrine sure called that one right, ordering wine boxes so nobody needed to struggle with corkscrews.

At a commotion near the door, I looked up from the mini quiches I was arranging. Corrine was in the process of giving Don O'Neill a bear hug. He extricated himself, glancing around. She gave him a big old slap on the back.

Wait. Don? So he's out of jail. Huh. What's that about?
I glanced around. Buck wasn't here or I would have asked him. If I got a chance, I'd ask Don himself. I was pretty sure Wanda wouldn't tell me a thing if I inquired of her.

“So they let you free, did they?” Corrine asked in her usual booming voice. “I didn't think they caught the right person.”

As I recalled, she'd expressed an entirely different opinion earlier in the day.

Don smiled wanly and swallowed. “Told them all along it wadn't me.” He sidled toward the beer tub like a man in the desert.

Danna and I worked together to set out the appetizers and sliders, along with the labels Christine had included. I'd taken a minute earlier to print up a couple of similar ones for the sliders and for Phil's brownies. Jim finished cooling the drinks, shed his apron, and now held a bottle of beer. I'd never gotten a chance to tell him about either Roberto's or Don's involvement in the accident. Well, life was going to settle down one of these days, wasn't it? Jim headed toward Don, who was now talking with Barb from the hardware store and Georgia. Maybe Jim would get the story from Don. Or not.

Abe strolled in next, wearing a tuxedo with green suede sneakers and no tie. This guy had style. He saw me and headed my way, a small brightly colored piece of cardboard in his hand.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “What's that?” I pointed to the cardboard, which looked a lot like a banjo.

“My donation.” He raised one eyebrow.

“It's a pretty neat cardboard banjo.” What was I supposed to say?

He pointed to a printed label on the round part. “Two introductory lessons in the fine art of banjo picking.”

I peered at it, then straightened. “‘Donated by Abraham O'Neill,'” I read. “You teach music?”

“I've been playing banjo since I was eight. Been in a few bands.” He held out a CD in his other hand. “Cut a couple of records.”

“I'm impressed.” What other levels of depth did he have?

He laughed. “Don't be. It's only down-homey music, what my dad used to call hillbilly picking. Where do you want these?”

I pointed to Turner and the donation table. “Thanks,” I called after him, watching as he wove through the crowd. I turned back to Danna, who was squirting little circles of ketchup on top of hamburger patties already sitting on their bottom buns, a tiny leaf of lettuce in between. These occupied the Nesbitt's tray, which, in fact, needed a layer of foil to protect the food from the rust. At least the outside of the rim was still mostly a shiny black with bright orange soda bottles lying on their sides, so it looked pretty.

“Did they come out even, the patties and the buns?” I asked her.

“Short one bun.”

“That's right, I gave it to the drinks man. Nice job thinking to add lettuce.”

“Gives it a little crunch.” She squirted the last one, and I helped her top them all up.

“Hey, everybody.”

At a raised voice from the doorway, I whipped my head around. The buzz of the room quieted as Ed pushed through the door.

“Eddie's here,” he announced in a big sloppy voice. “To support those poor little animals.” He raised a fifth of Jim Beam in one hand and swigged from it. “It's BYOB, right?”

Chapter 28

Don rushed to Ed's side, relieving him of the bottle. I watched as he strong-armed Ed to the food table and made sure his friend filled a plate.

“I ain't hungry, Don,” Ed protested. His ruddy skin was even more flushed than usual, but his hair was neatly combed. He wore a plaid three-piece suit, wide lapels and all, like an outfit on a 1970s TV rerun. “And what're you doing out of jail, anyway?”

Heads turned at that, but all Don said was, “Eat.”

The buzz in the room resumed, with several townsfolk shaking their heads and turning their backs like they'd seen this sideshow before. A couple held hands and walked slowly the length of the donation table, pointing and picking things up, sometimes signing the bid sheet. Three men stood talking near the sliders, beers in hand, feet set apart. Wanda chatted with the friend she'd come in with, but she kept her gaze on Don. A woman swept in the door, followed by a harried-looking younger woman and a man with a big camera on his shoulder. Our lieutenant governor, no doubt, and the reputed press presence. Adele, holding a half cup of white wine, made her way toward me as I set out the last trays of mini quiches and tiny meatballs. I lifted my apron off before giving her a hug.

“What do you think?” I gestured at the spread of food, which was rapidly shrinking.

“It's all yummy. I think this is going to be a big success, despite the short notice.”

I took a good look at her. “That's some outfit. Looks good on you.” Adele, whom I'd rarely seen out of a pair of sensible trousers and either a T-shirt or a sweater, wore a dress-length top slit up the sides over baggy pants angling in slim at the ankles. The cloth was a subdued print in soft shades of yellows and blues, which made her blue eyes more vivid, and wide rows of embroidery decorated the neckline and cuffs. A silver necklace studded with blue stones nestled against the tanned skin covering her collarbones.

“It's from India. Samuel brought it from his latest trip there.” Adele's cheeks pinkened.

“What does he do in India?”

“Mission work at an orphanage. They've been building a library and improving the schoolroom.”

“That's a labor of love,” I said.

“‘Labor of love'?” Samuel appeared at Adele's elbow, dapper in a light gray suit and a tie that matched the buttery yellow in Adele's outfit.

“Your good work overseas,” I said.

“It's not much.” He shrugged. “The kids in the orphanage are regular dolls, and grateful like children in this country haven't been in a long time.”

“I'd like to go with you one day, if I can ever find anybody to watch my animals,” Adele said.

Phil still played at the piano, now taking requests. “What about Phil?” I asked. “I bet he'd stay at your place as caretaker. His talents seem endless.”

“Possible,” Adele agreed. “He's a good boy.”

“That he is, that he is.” Samuel wandered off toward the piano.

Adele lowered her voice and fixed her gaze on my face. “Any more word from Roberto?”

I smiled. “I talked to him. Adele, he wants to meet me. He said Mom never told him about me.”

She put an arm around me and squeezed. “I'm glad for you, honey. Real glad.”

“He's in the hospital, though. Has a bad infection in his foot.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“I hope so.” My throat tightened like somebody was closing up a C-clamp on it.

Corrine stood next to the donation table across the room. It now looked well populated with certificates, a gift basket of wine and jars of local picnic foods, a selection of books wrapped up in a ribbon, as well as the yarn, the banjo, and other items I couldn't get a good glimpse of. I hadn't had a chance to peruse it carefully and hadn't bid on a single thing.

Corrine clapped her hands. “Everybody?” she called out. When nobody but the folks right near her quieted, she put two fingers to her lips and let loose with a piercing playground whistle. It definitely got people's attention.

“As your mayor I'd like to thank you all for showing up during this difficult time in our small town. And as lovers of defenseless animals, the shelter and I thank you for your generosity, too.” She gestured to a trim woman, with a tidy cap of puffy blond hair, next to her, the one who'd been followed in by the camera.

“We're honored to have the lieutenant governor of our lovely state here to say a few words.” After the applause ebbed, Corrine introduced her, and the suit-clad woman spoke three pro forma sentences to the effect of how glad she was to be here and what wonderful services the shelter offered, while the cameraman recorded it.

As nearly half the attendees held up phones to snap a picture, a black-and-white blur streaked by. Birdy leapt past the official to the donation table and, with one more mighty leap, ended up on the top shelf of the cookware.

“There's one right there,” I said in the ensuing silence. “His name's Birdy, but he's not exactly defenseless anymore. And he's not supposed to be in the store, either.” The real question was how he had escaped from my apartment. I was sure I hadn't left the door open. But did I lock it?

People laughed and pointed as Birdy proceeded to bathe in view of everyone. I didn't join in the laughter, imagining who might have left the party and gone poking around in my private living space. And with Don released, it meant the true killer was still on the loose. Perhaps right here in this crowd. I hugged my suddenly goose-pimpled arms.

Corrine went on. “We're all grateful to our newest businesswoman here, Robbie Jordan, for hosting us on short notice and for providing such delicious food. Welcome to South Lick, Robbie!” She gestured at me and clapped, making sure everybody else did, too. The camera now pointed in my direction.

I tried to wave down the applause and mustered a smile. The show must go on. “I'm glad my store and restaurant is open, finally, and happy you all could join in this great cause. I was lucky to have lots of assistants tonight. Jim Shermer helped set up, Phil MacDonald baked the delicious brownies, and Danna Beedle, here, is my new right-hand woman.” I pointed to each of them in turn. “The Nashville Inn donated all the appetizers—except our sliders—so be sure to stop on over there and thank them if you can. Most of all, thanks to Corrine for her superb organizing.”

Corrine bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Now, we have lots of fabulous items for the silent auction, so be sure you don't let yourself get outbid. You only have a half hour left.” She swept her arm toward the donation table. “A big round of applause to all our donors. The auction closes at eight sharp, hear?”

 

 

The state official left minutes after Corrine's introduction, but not before Corrine made sure I'd met her and shaken her cool hand. She seemed to me like a person with higher ambitions, one whom this little town might never see again in person. Spying Jim near my apartment, I headed in his direction.

“Come with me?” I beckoned when I got near. He raised his eyebrows, but he followed me to the door, which, sure enough, wasn't locked. It wasn't even latched. I looked at Jim, turning as cold as the bottom water in a quarry pit. “I wondered how Birdy got out. I didn't leave this door open, I'm sure.”

He tested the handle and the door opened easily. “You didn't lock it?”

“I guess not. Remember, you reminded me to change? And time was getting short. I maybe didn't lock up after myself.” I smacked my forehead. “Dumb. But not so dumb as to leave it ajar. Pretty sure that cat can't open a latched door. And speaking of the cat . . .” I scanned the shelves where I'd seen him last. Sure enough, he slept curled up on top of a rusty vintage American Cutlery Company scale on the top shelf, weighing in at seven and a half pounds. Conversation had picked up where it left off. Bottles clinked, a woman laughed, and music emanated from the piano.

“Hang on a sec,” I said, striding toward my kitty. “Birdy, come on down,” I called when I stood in front of him. He perked up his head, yawned, and jumped down onto one of the donation sheets on the table.

“Ain't she the cutest thing around?” Georgia said in delight.

I wasn't in the mood for chitchat, so I only said, “He's a he,” but I softened it with a smile. I picked him up by his scruff and carried him in my arms to the apartment door.

“Ready?” Jim asked.

I pushed open the door. When Birdy scrambled in my arms, I set him down and watched him streak toward the kitchen and his bowls. Jim stepped in, too, his eyes scanning the living room.

“I want to check out the apartment,” I said as I shut the door behind us.

“Let's walk through the rooms together, if that's okay,” I said. “I could do it alone, but—”

“With what's been going down around here, I'd feel more comfortable making sure nobody's lying in wait for you.” He took my arm and we systematically checked the apartment.

I blushed a little at my bedroom. I'd never gotten around to making the bed and today's work clothes, including a black bra, lay on a heap on the bedroom floor, right where I'd left them. But no one lurked in the closet. As we moved through the apartment, nobody jumped out from behind the couch and the back door was securely locked. My laptop sat in its place on the little desk. Everything in the kitchen seemed in order, or at least as I'd left it, which was kind of messy. At least it looked like my mess.

I shook my head. “Huh. Maybe I didn't latch the door after I got dressed, after all.”

“One more closet?” Jim tilted his head toward the space where I stashed coats, brooms, and charcoal off the back hall.

“Oh, yeah.” I headed over there and pulled open the door. And shrieked. Jim rushed to my side.

“Hey, Robbie.” Roy pushed aside my raincoat and stepped into the hall, wearing an abashed grin.

“Roy, what in hell are you doing in Robbie's apartment?” Jim's voice was stern.

My heart once again beat faster than a turbocharged engine on Memorial Day weekend. “Yeah.”

“Oh, you know. I thought the door was to one of the bathrooms, had to take a leak.” Roy's breath smelled of alcohol and his diction was too relaxed—even for a native of the county.

“It's clearly labeled ‘Private.'” I folded my arms, my heart slowing back to something resembling normal.

“Guess I done missed that.”

“And why were you in my coat closet?” I pointed. “You couldn't possibly have missed that this was my apartment and not the restaurant's restroom.” I wanted to shake a portion of sense into this man, or at least shake the truth out of him. Was he that dense? Was he looking for something of mine? Or what?

He grinned again. “I confess.” He held up his palms. “I just wanted to look around, see what you done with the place. I was going to live here, you know.” His grin gone, he lifted his chin. “This was all s'posta be mine.”

“Well, it isn't yours. You could be charged with trespassing, you know,” Jim said in his best lawyer voice. “Even if the door wasn't closed, it is posted ‘Private.'”

“Don't get your panties in a twist, Shermer. I'm leaving, okay?” Roy pushed past us into the kitchen, then he turned back.

“Listen, you want to charge somebody, you charge Mayor Corrine out there.” He pronounced the name as Corrine herself did, as “Co-reen.” “She killed her husband, you know, long time ago. My mom knowed all about it. She'd been taking money from Corrine for years.”

“Blackmailing her?” So the story was true. Corrine herself had mentioned Stella blackmailing men. But cleverly failed to mention her own case.

“Call it whatever you want. My mom had the goods on her. And on a bunch of others in town, too. Did she share the proceeds with me? She did not.”

Stunned, I watched him disappear into the living room. Jim followed and I heard the door close with a firm click. He returned a moment later.

“Want me to get Wanda to charge Roy?” Jim asked, gazing at me with eyebrows pulled together. “She's still there, in the restaurant.”

“Damn.” I shut my mouth and stared at the doorway to the living room. “I don't know. Should I?”

“It's your call. Seems like a pretty clear case to me.”

I nodded slowly. “Please. I'm also going to check the place more carefully. Who knows what he made off with?”