Flipped For Murder (6 page)

Somebody was nervous about Stella.

Chapter 9

Rolling slowly up Van Buren Street, I tried to avoid tourists wandering diagonally across the main drag without looking. Tourists had much to be distracted by: dozens of shops featuring quirky lawn ornaments out front, advertising fudge and salt water taffy, or offering hand crafts from purses to pillows to picnic baskets. I passed the Hobnob Corner Restaurant, which I knew served decent food all day long. The building had formerly housed a general store, and then a pharmacy. I glanced at the delightful Melchior Marionette Theatre, a brightly painted space open to the sidewalk. It advertised free popcorn and delightful entertainment. I'd wandered in one time and read a sign painted on an old board:
AN ACT TO PREVENT CERTAIN IMMORAL PRACTICES
. It referenced a law enacted by the second session of the state general assembly in 1817. Section 7 prohibited staging puppet shows for money, with every person so offending to be fined three dollars for each offense.

After I reached the Nashville Inn, I parked my bike and knocked on the service door around the back. The big kitchen exhaust fan thrummed as loudly as usual, so I finally just pulled the screen door open and entered my former workplace. While I loved my new gig, I kind of missed the inn.

“Christina?” I called. I turned from the hall into the kitchen. “Anybody home?” Christina had been my assistant, and she snagged the job of chef when I left.

Nobody occupied the big industrial kitchen, but lunch prep was clearly under way. Stock simmered on the stove, and squash and carrots in the process of being chopped lay on the wide stainless-steel worktable.

Christina emerged from the front, a big smile erupting when she saw me. “Robert! You're back.” She always played with my name.

“I was in town, thought I'd stop by.” We exchanged a hug, and I watched as she washed her hands. “How's being head honcho treating you?”

She rolled her eyes and resumed chopping carrots. “You know. It's crazy. But I love it. How about you? You're both head honcho and owner now. Is it good? I hear you opened on the weekend.” A straight blond ponytail hung down her back from a white baseball cap with the inn's logo on the front. Her slender hands were like machines with the knife, the carrots rapidly transformed into tiny cubes. “Sorry I couldn't make it over. Things were nuts here with the foliage fanatics.”

“No worries. If you ever get a Monday off, come by and we can hang out.” I plopped onto a metal stool.

“I'll do that.”

“The opening weekend was pretty good. Nothing burned up, and it was solid customers the whole time. Which reminds me . . . I have to get to the bank sometime today.”

“Money to put in the bank's always a good thing. But what about this murder over in South Lick?”

I grimaced. “Stella Rogers. She came into my place for breakfast. The bad thing is, she was found with one of my special biscuits stuffed in her mouth. So the police think I might have done it.”

“You kidding me? One of your signature cheesy biscuits?” She paused and looked up. “But you wouldn't hurt a soul.”

“Of course not.” I tapped my finger on the counter. “I have a question for you. Do you ever hear anything about Ed Kowalski's restaurant?”

“Other than that it's a plain-wrap, low-quality breakfast-and-lunch joint? Not really. Although people seem to love it. I'm only glad we don't do breakfast, other than the continental spread we put out for paying guests. Why do you ask?”

“I hired a local teenager yesterday to help out. She was working for Ed, but she didn't seem too happy about him. When I asked Ed how she was as a worker, he put on a big old frown and said she was standoffish.”

Christina laughed. “That lech? He'll feel up anything with boobs. It doesn't matter how old or how young. He has a hard time keeping female employees.”

“That must be it. How disgusting. Danna isn't even twenty and he's gotta be fifty.”

She rolled her eyes. “Way of the world, kiddo. Way of the world.”

“Is he married?”

“Not sure. Betsy told me he grew up in South Lick, though.”

“I saw a picture of him from a few years back with Stella, the woman who was killed,” I said. “In the photo they were both smiling, but he claimed they weren't friends.”

“He probably went to kindergarten with her or something.”

“So maybe Ed grew up in South Lick. He came into the store Saturday with Don, the guy who owns the hardware store.”

“Well, married or not, Ed's sure not my type.”

I laughed. “Well, duh.” I knew Christina's type was Betsy, a lean welder.

“Speaking of type, you found anybody your type lately?” She waggled her eyebrows. “It's time to get over Will, you know.”

I nodded slowly. Even though I'd left Will behind in California, I'd poured out the whole story to Christina when we worked together. “Funny you should ask.” I told her about my date with Jim. “I'm making him dinner tonight, actually.”

“That's what I like to hear. Get out of here, now. I have work to do.”

“Same here.” We exchanged another hug and promised to see each other soon, somehow.

 

 

I checked the wall clock in my store and then my list. Three o'clock and many of my errands and chores were checked off. I was such a list person—if I forgot to add a task, but I'd already done it, I wrote it down simply to have the satisfaction of crossing it off.

I'd deposited the weekend's cash at the bank, picked up frozen shrimp at the market and local produce from the farm stand for dinner, bought a litter box and litter, and cleaned the kitchen and living room. Working in the restaurant, I'd made tomorrow's miso gravy, prepped the biscuit dough, and cut up pineapple, melon, and grapes for a fruit salad I'd add to the Specials menu on the chalkboard. I was pretty sure business on weekdays would be slower, but I still wanted to be ready. As I was washing up, someone knocked on the store's front door. Walking over as I dried my hands on a towel, I spied Phil.

“Hey, feeling better?” I opened the door and stood back. He wore an old red IU sweatshirt with ratty jeans, and he held two wide trays stacked on top of each other.

“I am, thank the blessed Lord.” He handed me the trays, which were sealed with plastic wrap. “Take these. Be right back.” He turned, leaned into the back of his old Volvo station wagon, and drew out two more, then followed me into the store, setting them on the counter next to where I'd put the first two.

“Sit down for a minute?” I asked. “You must have taken a sick day.”

“I did. Whew,” he said, shaking his head as he sat. “I don't recommend the twenty-four-hour stomach bug to anyone.” Somehow his dark skin looked pale and his eyes watered.

“Thanks for baking. Are you sure—”

“That I didn't infect the brownies?” At least his wicked grin was his usual. “Yes, ma'am. I was over it by this morning. I wiped down my kitchen with disinfectant just in case, and I washed my hands about every two minutes as I was cooking.”

“Well, I appreciate it. We missed you Sunday, but by some miracle a competent young woman answered my ad and I hired her on the spot. Madam Mayor's teenaged daughter, Danna.”

Phil laughed. “I used to babysit her, even though I'm only a few years older. She was a handful. Smart, but a bit too adventurous sometimes.”

“That's funny.” Then reality dawned and I felt the smile drain off my face. “You heard about the murder, I assume. Hard to believe.”

“Stella. She never seemed happy, anytime I saw her.”

“You seem about the same age as her son, Roy. Did you go to school with him?”

He nodded. “That one donated his brain to science before he was done with it. He'd lose a debate with a doorknob.”

“That's not very nice, Phil. But Roy's odd, for sure. I ran into him in the hardware store this morning. What was it Don said to him? Something about being nice, like Don had tried to help him before.”

“Don coached his Little League team and he's kind of looked after Roy ever since.”

“Roy didn't seem too broken up about his mother being killed.”

“I don't know if he's got Asperger's or if he simply has different reactions than most people.” Phil shook his head. “His dad died when he was a kid, and that was tough on him.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I never even thought about Stella having a husband. What did he die of?”

“I don't remember. I was a kid, too.” He raised his eyebrows and stood. “I'm off. Rehearsal tonight.”

I stood as well. “What's the show this time?”

“It's Copeland's
The Tender Land.
Absolutely gorgeous. And I have the male lead.” He grinned.

“Get out. Really? That's awesome.” I knew he aspired to a career in opera. “Thanks again for the desserts, Phil. You'll do more on Thursday for the weekend?”

“You bet.” He left, humming as he went.

Chapter 10

Yikes.
It was five-thirty already and I still hadn't changed for dinner. I finished whisking the rosemary vinaigrette together, fussed once more with the silverware and cloth napkins I'd laid on a vintage floral tablecloth, and turned the shrimp kabobs in their marinade one last time. I rummaged in a drawer, coming up with two red candles left over from Christmas. I stuck them in glass candleholders and decided they'd do just fine.

I ripped off my jeans and T-shirt and raced through a super-high-speed shower without washing my hair, to rinse off the sweat of biking, cleaning, and cooking. But now what to wear? I slipped on a pair of black leggings and searched my crowded bedroom closet, finally grabbing a long silk shirt in fuchsia from a hanger, since bright colors lit up my Mediterranean skin. I brushed my hair out loose on my shoulders and added silver earrings, a chunky silver necklace, and a touch of lip gloss. Satisfied, I left it at that.

Back in my apartment kitchen, I ruined the look by adding an apron over the silk top. Better that than stains. I poured a half glass of wine from the open bottle on the counter, sipping it as I thought of what was left to prepare. I sliced a couple of the last heirloom tomatoes of the season onto the salad and had just put pasta water on to boil when I heard a knock at the back door, the only door to the apartment besides the one leading into the store.

When I pulled the door open, Birdy streaked in ahead of Jim, who carried a bottle of wine in one hand and a fat paper-wrapped bunch of flowers in the other. He was wearing a pressed pink button-down shirt untucked over jeans and once again looked good enough to devour.

“Whoa, what was that?” he asked.

“I just adopted a cat. Actually, he just adopted me. His name's Birdy.” I smiled back, trying to keep my nervousness from showing. Or maybe it was my lust I was trying to hide. “Come on in.”

“First this.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for inviting me over.” He smelled like fresh air and rainwater, with undertones of healthy male.

Flustered, I said, “You're welcome.” I stood there for a second, looking at him.

“Are we having a standing meal?” he asked with a laugh.

I whacked my forehead and turned, leading him into the kitchen, where Birdy posed at one of his bowls and gave me a quizzical look. I tore open the cat food sack and scooped a cupful of dry kibble into his bowl. He fell to crunching.

“Looks like he was hungry,” Jim said as he extended his offerings. “Flowers for the lady, and red wine, as per your expert recommendation. It's a very fine Cabernet, if I may say so.”

I thanked him and set the wine on the table. When I unwrapped the flowers, I looked up in astonishment.

“How did you know I love yellow alstroemeria?”

“Just a hunch.” Jim stuck his hands in his pockets, his eyes taking me in like a couple of thirsty emeralds. “You look really nice, Robbie. That color is stunning on you.”

Now I was blushing. “Thanks.” I cleared my throat. “How about if I open the wine?”

“Looks like you got a head start.” He tilted his head at my half-full glass. “Just pour me a glass of whatever that is and hand me the opener. This one can breathe until we're ready for it.”

I filled a glass and handed it to him, along with the folding corkscrew, then dug out my best vase, a trumpet-shaped heavy crystal that had been my grandmother's. Clipping off the bottoms of the stems, I said, “How was your Monday?”

“Unh.” The cork popped out. “It was a Monday. Had a closing. Wrote a will. Ate lunch with Buck.”

I'd been half listening as I clipped. “That's nice.... Wait, what? You had lunch with Buck?”

“Yup.” He poured wine into his glass and topped mine up, too. “I ran into him at the courthouse in Nashville and we grabbed lunch at the Chili Shack.”

I finished arranging the flowers before I spoke. I was dying to know what they'd talked about, but did I want this date to turn into a discussion of murder?

“How was the chili?”

“Great. Triple alarm.” He fanned his open mouth, then took off his glasses and polished them on a corner of his shirt. “Poor old Buck can't eat spicy chili unless he gets heartburn.”

I took a sip of my wine. “You mean he can't eat chili
because
it gives him heartburn, right? You're talking like a Hoosier.” I laughed.

“Hey, I am a Hoosier. I grew up here. You'll pick it up, you just watch.”

“You don't usually talk that much like a local.”

“It's because I'm a lawyer. Plus my folks are from Chicago and I was back East for law school. I kind of trained it out of me.”

I glanced at the clock. “Time to start the coals.” I grabbed my wine and a box of matches and headed out the door. I stuffed newspaper in the bottom of the cylindrical chimney and poured coals in the top. As I lit the papers, Jim strolled out, glass in hand, and leaned against the wall.

“You know what you're doing.”

“Yeah. I like grilling.” I dusted my hands of charcoal dust before I sat on the bench, patting the seat next to me. The low sunlight slanted through the half-clad swamp maple. The air brushed softly on my arms, but I knew the temperature would drop as soon as the sun did.

Jim joined me. “What were you up to today?”

I told him about my encounters of the morning: Don and Roy at Shamrock Hardware. Ed, his picture with Stella, his reaction to my asking, and what Christina said about Ed's habits. Phil's assessment of Roy.

“I've heard similar things about Ed. So far, nobody's brought charges.”

I cocked my head and listened. “Water's boiling. Be right back.” I hurried inside, poured a box of orzo into the steaming pot, stirred it, and turned down the heat. The coals would be ready soon, so I brought the long, narrow dish of marinating kebabs outside and set them on a little table I kept next to the kettle grill.

Unable to resist, I said, “Want to tell me about lunch with Buck? Has he locked up Stella's killer yet?”

Jim looked at the old barn behind the store, which I used for storage, then at me. “He asked me not to talk about it.”

“But I'm your client. Or . . . maybe I'm not? I guess we haven't talked about what happens if they actually arrest me.”

“If you're arrested, which you shouldn't be, you need a criminal lawyer, not a real estate and probate lawyer. And I'd recommend someone I know.” He stared at the barn again.

Frustrated, I stood and dumped the hot coals onto the bottom rack of the grill with a bit more vigor than they needed, jumping back to avoid a spark landing on my shirt. I set the top grill rack on to heat and headed for the kitchen.

 

 

An hour later our plates were empty and the candles on the kitchen table were half the size from when I'd lit them. A half-dozen empty skewers attested to some pretty tasty grilled shrimp with crimini mushrooms, Vidalia onions, and sweet yellow peppers. A limp lettuce leaf hung off the edge of Jim's plate. On mine a few green-specked torpedoes of orzo vied with an errant translucent pink shell I missed when I prepped the seafood.

I'd managed to get a handle on my mood as I threw together the orzo and my special basil pesto. If Buck asked Jim not to share a secret, then I should be admiring his integrity. I'd closed my eyes and taken three slow breaths in and three slow breaths out. Calmer, I'd gone back out to grill the kebabs, and we'd been chatting about everything except murder since then.

Now I said, “How can you call yourself a vegetarian if you eat seafood?” I set my chin on my hand. The room had darkened as we ate, and we sat in a circle of candlelight, the rest of the world lost to the night. Jim's skin glowed and the light flickered in the wineglasses.

He leaned back in his chair. “I've been a vegetarian since college. But a few years ago I was feeling kind of
meh.
I consulted a nutritionist, who told me I needed more high-quality protein. So I eat fish and other seafood on occasion. I prefer wild rather than farm raised, but when I'm out”—he gestured at the table—“I get off my high horse and eat what I'm served. Which was delicious.”

“Thanks. I thought it was pretty good, too. It's a marinade I developed when I was cooking at the inn.” I felt Birdy rubbing my ankles. I reached down to stroke him, which produced his chirping purr again.

“Lime, soy, maybe wine?” Jim raised his eyebrows.

“Good detective work. Plus ginger and sesame oil. But I can't figure out why eating fish doesn't disqualify you from being a vegetarian.”

“You're right—it should. Somehow the fact that fish are wild and don't have legs seems an important distinction.” He gazed at me. “You're kind of wonderful, you know that?” He leaned forward now, folding his arms on the table, gazing at me. “You can cook. You can build things. You can dance and solve puzzles. You bike all over the place. What can't you do?”

“Don't ask.” I laughed to soften my answer. I couldn't hold on to a first husband, for one. “I'm miserable at foreign languages. I didn't even catch on to Spanish. In California.” I shook my head. “My eyes glaze over at talk of the stock market, and I hate writing. I can't type for beans and I don't even like writing thank-you notes or birthday cards. There's more, but I don't want to spoil my reputation.”

Jim topped up my wineglass. After holding the bottle up to the light, he drained the rest into his glass. He took a sip, then set his glass down.

“You're a successful lawyer,” I said. “You can dance. I'm sure there's lots more you're good at. So what are your failings?”

He laughed. “I hate reading fiction. My brain just can't suspend disbelief and stop analyzing why the people in a story would never, ever do something like that. And I bit my nails until a year ago.”

I glanced at his hands. Sure enough. His nails were short, but they were trimmed rather than ragged. “That's not so bad. Nothing else?”

A cloud scudded over his eyes. “You don't want to hear the rest.” He cleared his throat and mustered a smile.

“Gotcha.” I stood and collected our plates. “Apple crisp?”

“Absolutely.” While I cleared the rest of the dinner things, Jim wandered into the living room. “Okay if I put on music?” he called in. Soft light shone in from the doorway.

“Sure. Help yourself.” I cut two pieces of crisp, adding a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream to each before I set them on the table.

The tune of “Ya Gotta Dance” filled the room. Jim appeared next to me and pulled me into a close dance position. “Shall we?”

“The ice cream is going to melt,” I murmured into his shoulder.

“Let it.”