Flipped For Murder (7 page)

Chapter 11

Sure enough, Tuesday morning wasn't quite as busy as the weekend. But Danna showed up on time and ready to work, her dreads neatly tied back with a turquoise scarf, and a steady stream of customers came through, despite the rain that began to fall right when we opened. The two of us were shaping up to be a good team. Locals who came in seemed pleased to see Danna, and she knew every one of them, of course. She even pulled an empty half-gallon Mason jar out and hand lettered a TIPS sign she taped onto it, setting it next to the cash register. I'd had a few requests for take-out orders, so the jar could come in handy.

Cooking and greeting kept me too occupied to dwell on last evening's delicious end, but a rosy feeling still held me. Jim and I had danced and, well, just plain made out. We never did get to our dessert. And then I'd reluctantly sent him along home. I knew I had to get up early. But Jim said he'd see me this week and I believed him.

Corrine Beedle sailed through the door during the nine o'clock lull. Stella's death hit me again. Last time the mayor was here, Stella walked in right behind her. I waved from the sink and called out a greeting.

“You got somewhere I can put my umbrella?” She stressed the first syllable like it was a dignitary.

I pointed at the umbrella stand right next to her.

Corrine deposited the flaming red but soaking wet umbrella, hung her raincoat on the wrought-iron coat tree near the door, and sauntered to a table, this time clicking on blue heels matching her suit. Danna was at the grill, so I pulled an order pad out of my apron pocket.

“Thanks for coming back,” I said. “What can we get you today?”

“I'm just spying on my baby there. Hey, baby,” she called to Danna.

A couple of customers who were tucked into their omelets looked up and smiled. Danna didn't turn from the grill, but she lifted a spatula and waved with it. I expected she was used to being embarrassed in public by her bigger-than-life mom.

“But I am just a touch hungry,” Corrine said. “Why don't you give me two eggs over easy with bacon and hash browns. You got any fried biscuits with apple butter?”

“'Fraid not. You're not the first person who's asked, though.” Deep-fried biscuits might be a local delicacy, but my hands were full enough keeping up with the regular old nonfried version. I took the order over to Danna and carried the coffeepot back to Corrine.

After I poured, she gestured at the chair across from her. “Take a load off, honey.”

“Just for a minute, but thanks.” After I eased into the chair, my feet expressed their extreme gratitude. I was going to have to build in break time. “Danna's been a godsend. She works hard, knows how to cook, and is easy to be around.”

Corrine smiled like she knew what I was talking about. “Always been her own person, that girl.”

“I should offer my condolences on the death of your assistant. Her shoes will be hard to fill.” I wasn't sure about that, but I thought it sounded like the right thing to say.

Apparently, it wasn't, because Corrine snorted. “Stella? I'm sorry she's dead, but she was a real bitch.”

I must have looked surprised, because she went on. “Well, she was. And somehow she'd gotten her job written into the town bylaws so she'd have it in perpetuity.” She shook her head. “Doncha think a new mayor might ought to be able to bring along her own admin? Couldn't believe it when Stella told me I couldn't. I'm glad to be rid of her, frankly.” She drummed long blue fingernails on the table, over and over.

“She was a little difficult to deal with,” I said.

“‘Difficult' is kind of an understatement. I heard tell she was blackmailing half the men in town.”

My eyes flew wide open like little strings pulled them up. “Really? For what?”

“Oh, this and that.” She patted her hair, today done up in a kind of twist, the front swooping low across her forehead. “Is there a man alive who don't have something nasty in his past? Stella knew everybody's secrets.”

 

 

I hummed to myself as I did final cleanup. I'd sent Danna home a little while ago after a good day of working together, and had flipped the sign on the door to
CLOSED
, since it was after two-thirty. I emptied the compost bucket in the bin outside the service door on the left side of the store beyond the kitchen area. I made sure the door was locked when I went back in.

Corrine's gossip about Stella blackmailing town residents didn't sit well, but I'd been too busy to dwell on it. And it wasn't my business, anyway. Let Buck and his cohort weasel out which among her victims might have been the one to turn the tables on Stella.

I whirled when I heard the door bell jangle, and then lit up inside as I saw my visitor was Jim, even though I was tired and a day's worth of cooking odors clogged my pores. I wiped my hands on a towel as I strolled toward him.

I smiled. “Nice to see you.”

He sank into a chair and didn't speak. He didn't smile back, either.

Uh-oh.
I sat, too, and waited.

He brushed raindrops up off his forehead and into his hair. “I have some bad news. Did you happen to lose a pen recently?” He gazed over at the shelves of cookware.

I nodded, as slow as a bobblehead in a slo-mo video.

“A pen with ‘Jeanine's Cabinets' printed on it? Your mother's shop logo?”

“Yes. Did you find it?” I did not have a good feeling about this.

“Buck did. In Stella's apartment. They're testing it for DNA and prints now.” He finally looked at me.

Astonished, I sat back and let his news sink in. I shook my head, hard. “But it's my pen. Of course it'll have my identity all over it. Plus I taped a red plastic flower to the end so nobody would walk off with it. What Buck should be doing is figuring out who stole it and left it there.” I stood and paced to the cookware area and back. “Somebody really is trying to make it look like I killed Stella.”

“Appears that way. When's the last time you used the pen? Or noticed it was missing?”

I thought for a minute. “I remember missing it when I wanted it for my crossword.”

“You do crosswords in pen?” Jim's voice lost its edge and he smiled a little.

“Of course. Even though I'm a leftie. But I'm careful. Anyway, that was Sunday night. I must have been using the pen to take orders Saturday morning. Mom would have loved this place, and I remember putting the pen in my apron before we opened, so she'd be part of it. Anyone could have taken it on Saturday . . . and then planted it in Stella's house.” I gripped the back of the chair I'd been sitting in. I was steaming at the thought of Mom's pen being defiled. First stolen, then used to deflect guilt for a horrible crime.

“Pretty much the whole town came through here the first day,” Jim said with a grimace.

I sat again and fixed my gaze on an antique meat grinder on a shelf across the room, next to its little box holding disks with various-sized holes. The cast-iron device, with a conical hopper, a long grinding handle, and a vise at the bottom to attach it to a table, was a silvery color and looked comfortingly substantial. Way more substantial than my life felt at the moment.

“Would anyone else have one of those pens?” Jim folded his arms. “Adele maybe?”

“She might. Mom might have sent her one and the killer could have stolen it. I can ask her.” I scrabbled in the apron for my cell phone.

Jim held up his hand. “Later. No one else?”

“Hmm. Don at the hardware store said he was friends with Mom long ago, but he made it sound like it was more than just friends. He gave her our cat, Butch, too. I never knew that. I don't think they'd been in touch, but maybe they were. Maybe she sent him a pen. For all I know, he'd been out to visit her in the years since I left home.”

We sat in our bubbles of thought for a few moments. Mine was filled with both angst and ire. My happy new life as restaurateur and proprietor was exploding in my face. My exciting new romantic life seemed to have gone up in a puff of smoke, too.

I looked up and swallowed. “So now what? Am I going to be arrested?”

“No, but Buck wants to talk with you.” He cleared his throat. “I told him I'd bring you down. And I'll stay there until we learn if you need a criminal lawyer or not.”

“Buck wants to talk with me now?” My voice angled up.

“This afternoon.”

“I need to clean up.” I glanced at the wall clock. “I'll be ready in an hour.”

“Okay. I'll be back at four.”

I untied my apron and started toward my apartment. Then I stopped. “Wait a minute.” I turned back.

Jim rested a hand on the door. He looked at me.

“You knew about this last night. That was what Buck told you yesterday, about my pen.” I couldn't believe it. “And you wouldn't tell me.”

“I'm sorry.” He blew air out through his lips. “I didn't want to spoil our dinner.”

“Well, you've spoiled it now.”

Chapter 12

I tapped my fingers on the metal table in the police station interview room. Jim sat catty-corner from me doing something with his phone. I didn't want to be here, and I sure didn't want to be here with him. Knowing he was aware last night of me being under suspicion and not telling me left the taste of spoiled lemonade in my mouth. You want it to be sweet, but instead it's acrid and half fermented.

All the time while I'd showered and dressed, my mind was a boiling pot of thoughts. I searched the little I knew about Saturday's customers for who'd had the chance to steal my pen, and then who had reason to leave it at Stella's house before killing her, but I came up with almost nothing. Possible suspects included Corrine, because Stella was a bitch. Don, because he hated Stella for blocking his election. Ed, because I was his competition. But then why kill Stella? Why not murder
me
? For all I knew, Stella herself took the pen out of spite.

After stewing about what to wear to a police interview, I'd pulled my hair back in a severe knot and dressed in a dark sweater, skirt, and boots. A kindly female professor had told me once, when I was worried about presenting a paper, it was always better to be overdressed when you were nervous. This pretty much fit the bill.

Now, though, I was even more nervous, because we'd been sitting here for half an hour. My stomach was a winter nesting ground for butterflies. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jim look up at me, but I didn't look back.

“Robbie, I know you're upset with me,” he said. “But when Buck comes in, try to stay calm. Answer questions as simply as you can. A ‘yes' or a ‘no' will suffice, and don't elaborate if you don't have to. Okay?”

“Yes.” I clasped my hands on the table and willed them not to fidget.

Finally the door pushed open. Buck sauntered in, followed by a female police officer.

“Robbie, Jim. You know Wanda, right? I mean, Officer Wanda.” He gestured at her.

He spoke so slow I thought maybe he was about to nod off midsentence. Wanda stood in front of the door without looking at us, her hands behind her back and her feet apart. Her distinctly female body was stuffed into the male-cut uniform like a sausage, and her hairdo matched mine, except hers was gelled into submission.

Buck sat across from me, stretching his legs out, as always, and laid his tablet on the table. Scratching the back of his neck, he checked the corners of the ceiling.

“All righty, then.” He pressed something on the tablet, spoke his name and rank, and stated the date. “Roberta Jordan, do I have your permission to record this interview?”

I glanced at Jim. I hated to admit it, but I needed his help now. When he nodded, I said, “Yes.”

Buck asked me to state my name and address.

“Roberta Jordan, 19 Main Street, South Lick, Indiana.”

He went through the same questions as Saturday night: Where had you been? Did you kill Stella? I answered him the exact same way.

“Do you own a pin with a picture of a table and the words ‘Jeanine's Cabinets' on it?” He looked me in the eyes.

I sat up straight. “I own a
pen
like that. Not a
pin.
” That was how he'd said it, even though it was rude of me to point it out.

He gave an exasperated sound. “Don't get fresh with me, now. Do you currently know where your
pen
is at?” He stressed the word, but it still sounded like “pin” to my ears.

“No. I—” I cut myself off. Jim had said not to elaborate.

“When was the last time you're aware you were in possession of the pen?”

“I put it in my apron pocket before the store opened Saturday morning.”

“Did you have it Saturday night?”

“I don't know.”

“When did you realize it was missing?”

“Sunday night.”

“Do you agree to let us test your DNA?”

“Of course.” I opened my palms and leaned forward. “But listen, Buck. If it is my pen, my DNA will be all over it. Fingerprints, too. Which doesn't prove . . . anything.” I thought it would be prudent not to let loose with a string of obscenities, but my anger had taken over for my nerves. “You need to find the DNA of the idiot who thought they could frame me for a crime I didn't commit.”

Buck sighed with a deep, mournful sound. “Do you know of anyone else who owns such a pen?”

“No.” I glanced at Jim.
The heck with his instructions.
“You should ask Don O'Neill if he has one. He used to be friendly with my mother.” I wasn't going to suggest Adele might have one, though. Let them figure that out. The murderer could be trying to frame her instead of me, and she'd been baking biscuits all morning Saturday.

Buck raised his eyebrows all the way up to Canada. “I'll ask you not to talk to anyone about this pen business,” he said. “Do I have your word?”

“Of course, whatever. But there's another thing.” Now I was on a roll. “Yesterday Corrine Beedle told me she heard Stella was ‘blackmailing half the men in town.' Her words. There's gotta be people around here with an actual reason to kill Stella. I sure didn't have one.”

Buck cleared his throat. “You might not know this, Robbie, since you're still a newcomer to the state and all like that.”

“I've lived here for three years.”

Buck ignored me and went on. “We have a law against spiteful gossip.”

Jim stared at him, swallowing as if he was trying not to laugh. He looked at me. “It's true.”

“You'd better tell Madam Mayor, then.” My breath was coming fast and furious now, with “furious” being the key word. “I'm just passing on what she said. She's the gossiper, not me.”