Flipped For Murder (4 page)

“I will. Want to let this chill a bit before I start baking.” She turned out the dough onto the pastry slab and deftly kneaded it for a short minute before making a disk, wrapping it in plastic wrap, and taking it to the cooler.

I whisked up Buck's breakfast in no time and brought it to his table. I accepted payment along with thanks and congratulations from the remaining group of customers, and cleared their table as the screen door
thwacked
shut after them. I was beat, too. I needed to cut out and bake the last pan of biscuits in case we were flooded with hungry after-church customers, but I thought I could sit for a couple few minutes, anyway.

“Join you?” I asked Buck, who waved without speaking at the empty chair across from him. Good thing he didn't try to talk with those cheeks bulging with omelet. “Any new developments in the case?”

“Listen to you,” Adele said with a snort. “You sound like you're on one of those television cop shows.”

“Well,” I started to protest, “since I'm apparently a person of interest, as they say, I'm pretty interested in Buck and his colleagues finding who really did kill Stella.”

Buck swallowed.
“Actually,”
he said, drawing out the word, “you're not a person of interest. That's a technical term.”

“You asked where I was yesterday afternoon. Sounded like you were interested.” I watched him. “So Stella was shot from behind?”

He raised his eyebrows, then narrowed his eyes at Adele. “You tell her that?”

“Yeah,” she said. “The news is all over town. Heard the weapon was a Bersa Thunder, although most people wouldn't know a Bersa from Adam's off ox.”

“Like me,” I said. “I've never even held a gun.” I was amazed, but not really surprised Adele knew the make and model of the gun. She was one tough lady who'd lived by herself on a small farm for years. She'd had to shoot coyotes and foxes who preyed on her lambs. I only hoped whoever shot Stella didn't have anybody else in his very real sights. Or hers.

Buck groaned. “How in blazes that news got out, I'll never know.”

I leaned forward. “So, Buck, your police department is pretty small, isn't it? You, Wanda, and the chief, and a couple others. I read that feature they did on you in the
South Lick Sentinel.
Are you equipped for a murder investigation?”

“Welp, that's kind of a sticky issue. We rightly called in the Brown County Homicide Unit. But they're not that big, either. And believe it or not, there was a murder way down in Becks Grove couple days ago and they're all-out busy with it.”

“But you guys know what you're doing?” I pressed.

Vera carried a glass of water to the table and joined us.

Buck sat up a little straighter. “We were all trained in homicide investigation. You bet.” He nodded as if that might convince him it was true.

“So, who are you looking at? Who would she have invited into her house?”

“Stella knew everyone in town, Robbie,” Adele said. “She'd been the mayor's aide since before my two terms, and that was years ago, although she was pretty young then. Younger'n me, anywho.”

“Rubbed a lot of them the wrong way, too.” Buck sopped up whatever was left on his plate with his last biscuit and popped it into his mouth, washing it down with the rest of his coffee, then unfolded himself out of his chair. Laying a ten and a five on the table, he said, “Duty calls.”

“That's too much money, Buck,” I said. We weren't as inexpensive as some breakfast joints, but what he'd consumed sure didn't cost that much.

“Throw it in the tip jar, then.” He ambled out.

“A tip jar,” I said, staring after him. People left tips on their tables, but I could add a jar at the register. “Why didn't I think of that?”

Chapter 6

I didn't lock up and turn the sign on the door to
CLOSED
until after four. I'd planned to be open from eight to two on Sundays, but the lunch crowd never let up, and I realized lots of folks kept a later schedule than the early bird I was. Adele and Vera had graciously stuck it out, working their butts off, until I shooed them home at three-thirty. I'd cooked burgers and eggs at the same time, since I offered breakfast all day long. My helpers had served up the menu from pancakes to brownies, and Vera's apple pies had sold out, especially after she'd suggested serving pieces with a slice of Wisconsin sharp cheddar alongside. My fears of being shunned because of Stella's murder hadn't materialized.

But I needed to hire help and I hadn't received any responses from the craigslist ad I'd placed right after that girl quit. Who would want to work in an untested restaurant in a small rural town, anyway? I don't know what I'd been thinking, that I could both cook and wait tables. It exhausted even three of us. It was a good problem to have, I supposed, to be so busy, and the till was full of money. But I now saw I couldn't do it alone. Adele and Vera weren't young, and they had lives they wanted to live while they could. And Phil worked as the secretary in the IU music department. He'd said he didn't mind helping out now and then, and was willing to bake the desserts from home, but he couldn't work for me on any regular basis.

Speaking of the till, I emptied it except for Tuesday's starting change and secured it in the small safe back in my rooms. As a single-woman proprietor, I couldn't be too careful.

My stomach complained bitterly of neglect, so I loaded up a plate with an extra hamburger I'd cooked after miscounting and sank into a chair. I munched the burger, surveying the kitchen mess still to be cleaned. At least we'd be closed tomorrow, my compromise for staying open all weekend, and maybe I could get out for a long bike ride. After I swallowed the last bite, I laid my head on my arms. Cleanup could wait a little.

I must have dozed off, because I awoke with a start to a knocking noise. Sitting up, I wiped a drop of drool from the corner of my mouth and paid attention. The knocking started up again. Somebody was at the front door. A pang of fear shot through me. A murderer still walked free out there, as far as I knew. But would a murderer knock insistently at the front door? I laughed and tried to shake off the fear. Still, I made my way around the side walls of the store until I could see out the front window without being seen myself. It was a tall, slim young woman, with reddish gold dreadlocks pulled back in an unruly ponytail.

Fumbling for the lock, I finally opened the door to say, “I'm sorry, we're closed.”

“I'm not here to eat. Are you Robbie?” she asked.

I nodded slowly. Adele had convinced me to add
ROBBIE
JORDAN
,
PROPRIETOR
to the sign above the door.

“I'm Danna.” She waited, head tilted to the side, one hand rubbing at the shoulder of the tie-dyed T-shirt she wore over long cargo shorts.

“Hi, Danna. Am I supposed to know you?”

She frowned, her light brows knitting above hazel eyes. “I want to work for you. I answered your ad, you know, on craigslist?”

Was I still sleeping? Or was she an angel arrived to answer my secular prayers? Then I realized what had happened.

“I haven't checked my e-mail in a couple days. We only opened yesterday, and—”

“I know. My mom was your first customer.”

That explained her height. “You're Corrine's daughter? And you want to work for me?”

“Totally.”

“Come on in, then. Let's talk.”

After we sat, I said, “Do you have experience working in a restaurant?”

She started to roll her eyes, but she caught herself. “I attached my résumé to the e-mail.”

“Which I haven't seen. Why don't you just tell me about yourself?” She looked to be less than ten years younger than me, but I suddenly felt like an adult. A tiny silver ring was laced through one of her eyebrows, and she wore an even tinier blue topaz stud in one nostril. At least it didn't sound like her tongue was pierced and no tattoos were in evidence. I'd never understood the piercing trend among people my age. And tattooing? Don't get me started.

“I've worked at Kowalski's Country Store restaurant for three years. I'm nineteen, and my mom thinks I'm taking a ‘gap year.'” She surrounded the last two words with air quotes. “But I'm just not sure I want to go to college.”

“What does your dad say?”

“My dad? I don't have a dad.” She folded her arms over her chest and looked over at the kitchen area.

Poor thing. She was trying to be nonchalant, but I thought I heard an undertone of hurt.

“Anyway,” Danna went on, “when I saw your ad, I thought I could literally walk to work instead of driving into Nashville.”

“What did you do at Kowalski's?”

“I bussed, then I waited tables. But what I really want to do is cook. They finally let me work on the line last year.”

“So, why leave?” I set my forearms on the table and leaned on them.

She gazed at the same corner of the ceiling Buck was examining this morning, or was it last night? I was so tired I couldn't remember.

“Let's just say the environment there isn't so great.” She tapped the table with her black-painted nails and didn't meet my eyes.

Something had clearly gone wrong at Ed's. “Will someone give you a recommendation?”

She looked at me again. “Yes. And my counselor at the high school will, too.”

“Brown County High School?”

“I graduated in June. Robbie, I hope you'll give me a chance. I really want to work here.”

I looked at her, wondering why she wanted to work for me so badly. She held my gaze, chin up. She demonstrated initiative. She wanted to cook. She looked strong and healthy. “Let me check out your résumé and your references. I'm thinking this could be a good fit, but I'll need you to help with everything—clearing, waiting, cleanup, along with cooking. I'll do all of it, too,” I added hastily as she started to look unhappy at what I'd said. “We can trade off. Sometimes I'll need to be out there with the customers and sometimes I'll need to be cooking. How does that sound?”

A slow smile spread across her face, the first sign of cheer I'd seen on this serious girl. “Good. It sounds good.”

“I'll need you here on the dot of six-thirty every weekday except Monday, and on Saturday. Sunday's an hour later, and I'll pay time and a half. Okay?”

“No probs.”

“We'll do a probationary period for a couple of weeks, though. Just to be sure we work well together.”

“Whatever. Want me to start right now? Looks like a tornado hit in here.” She surveyed tables littered with crumbs, an industrial sink full of dishes waiting to be rinsed, a grill needing scraping and oiling, a stack of baking sheets and pie pans awaiting a scrub. Not to mention the floor.

“You can't even imagine what a great offer that is.” I proposed an hourly rate she seemed pleased with and showed her where I kept the aprons. Between us the place was spotless in an hour. She seemed able to work without incessant chat, but also was open to conversation.

Maybe I was going to pull this gig off, after all. If I wasn't associated with any more murders, that is.

After Danna left, promising to be here at six-thirty on Tuesday, I locked up again, then threw my apron in the hamper and carried the bin to the big washer and dryer I'd installed near the back door of my small apartment. I'd run out of money with all that needed to be done in the restaurant, so my personal space was pretty rudimentary: a linoleum-floored kitchen last remodeled in the 1950s, a small bedroom that fit my double bed and wooden dresser with little room to spare, a bathroom with a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink, and a little living room featuring big windows looking out on the old barn and the woods behind it. Still, I'd given it all a fresh coat of paint—a pale yellow for the kitchen, a light rose in my bedroom, and linen white for the rest. I loved light-colored walls to show off my few pieces of art, if I ever found time to hang them. I'd placed a house plant in every room, and my mom's sleek handmade tables and chairs filled the space with the beauty of fine wood. Despite chipped trim and cracked ceilings, the apartment was clean and mine, with about the best work commute in the world.

I started a load in the washer, then stood in the kitchen with aching feet, uncertain. I glanced at my vintage clock that read five-fifteen. What I really wanted was a glass of red wine and today's
New York Times
crossword puzzle. But I knew from long experience what I needed was a spin on my bike. Fresh air and exercise always cleared my brain and my energy pathways. I drank a glass of water and went to change into biking shorts and a long-sleeved biking shirt in neon yellow. Being on the western edge of the time zone in October meant it was still light until seven-thirty. The wine and puzzle would be here when I returned. I slipped the slim wallet I always carried and my cell phone into the pocket on the shirt's back, filled the water bottle that clicked into a holder on the frame, and slipped on the stiff cycling shoes that clicked into their own holders on the pedals. No good for walking any distance in, but the ride was a lot more efficient if you pulled the pedals up as well as pushed them down.

Lifting my lightweight Cannondale bike from where it hung on the wall in the back entryway—it was way too expensive to keep it in the barn and risk theft or weather damage—I wheeled it out the door, stopping to lock up after myself. I fastened on my helmet and was about to throw a leg over the cycle when I heard a plaintive sound from the antique lilac a long-dead shopkeeper must have planted a century earlier. I heard the sound again. It was coming from under the bush, whose leaves had turned a winey deep red. I leaned the bike against the wall and squatted to look.

A forlorn cat huddled there, its long-haired black coat lightened by a white face with one black eye patch. I'd never seen it before.

“Hey, kitty cat. Come here.” I scratched the ground in front of me. “It's okay.”

The cat made its way slowly toward me. But when I reached out to pet it, it retreated under the bush again, keeping its eyes on me with a hungry look. I stood, watching it.

“Whose kitty are you? And why are you afraid?” When I got no response, I unlocked the door and filled two small dishes, one with milk and one with water. I set them on the ground near the bush, made sure I locked up again, and set off down Main Street.

As I pedaled past Shamrock Hardware, I remembered what the proprietor had said—
What was his name? Denny? No, Don.
Don said he'd been friends with my mom. He implied it might have been a bit more than that. Maybe Adele knew the story. Mom had never mentioned him, but why should she? She'd left Indiana before I was born, after all. And who hasn't had a high-school fling? Don hadn't seemed any too happy with Corrine, that was for damn sure, or with Stella, either.

I thought I'd head out toward the village of Gnaw Bone, which would give me hill work. By the time I got back, I'd have done a strenuous twenty. I rode past the gazebo on my way out of town. What a treat it would be to head for a soak in a hot springs after this ride, after this weekend. Far as I knew, there weren't any still operating in town, though. As I cycled along the country lane, passing a sign for
HAPPY COW DAIRY
FARM, I
felt my stress lowering even as my heart rate rose. The slanting light was particularly lovely on the leaves in shades of red and gold, and the cooling air smelled of cut grass and wood smoke, overlaid with a hint of manure. Maybe I'd even stop at the Gnaw Mart and indulge in a wet tenderloin. My stomach growled out loud at the prospect. The little store, the only one in town, mostly sold snacks and drinks, but their deli counter specialized in deep-fried breaded tenderloin dipped in gravy. Even though this ride wouldn't anywhere near burn up so many calories, it was okay once in a while.

But my plans took a big honking detour when a sleek black car sped past me on the two-lane road. “Hey, look out,” I yelled as it veered way too close to my left side and forced me onto the gravel-strewn shoulder. My front wheel skidded. I struggled to control the bike, to stay upright. Instead, we both went down in a pile sideways. The brush growing just beyond the shoulder scratched my hands. My knee scraped on the gravel and then twisted, caught under the bike until my shoe released from the pedal.

I raised my head and caught a glimpse of the vehicle vanishing down the road, but I could only make out the last few letters of the vanity plate:
TOR.
After I extricated myself from the bike and stood, I assessed the damage. Thank goodness I'd worn long sleeves; scratches and scrapes seemed to be the extent of it. When I lifted my road cycle, it seemed intact, too, apart from its own scratches. I took a few steps, testing my knee, and was relieved when it wasn't damaged.
Damn that car.
It was almost like it sideswiped me on purpose.