Grilled for Murder

I fed Birdy before heading into the store by six fifteen. The cold air smelled ever so slightly of spilled beer, but the aromas of muffins and biscuits along with grilled bacon and sausage would get rid of any unpleasant smells soon enough. First things first. I fired up the oven and started a pot of coffee, as much for me as for my customers. I pulled a pan of biscuits out of the freezer, popping them in the oven the minute the beeper said it was preheated.

Wait. Why was it so cold in here?
Now I stared at the entrance. The glass in the top half of the antique door was shattered, with thick shards from the gaping hole now littering the floor. I hurried toward the door.

Between the pickle barrel and the shelves of vintage cookware, my gaze landed on a splash of red that didn't belong there. I took a couple of steps toward it and stopped with a gasp. Erica Shermer lay on the floor half behind the barrel. She wasn't moving. She wasn't even breathing, and her eyes stared at nothing . . .

FLIPPED FOR MURDER

 

GRILLED FOR MURDER

 

 

 

Grilled for Murder

Maddie Day

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

As always, many thanks to my agent, John Talbot, my editor, John Scognamiglio, and the entire Kensington Publishing crew. I'm delighted to be continuing the adventures of Robbie Jordan in fictional South Lick, Indiana.

Books like this do not get done without the help of fellow authors. Sherry Harris once again ably gave me editorial feedback before I turned in the manuscript and straightened me out on the matter of several gaffes: Thanks, friend (although, at my own peril, I might not have implemented all her suggestions). Sherry, along with the other Wicked Cozy Authors—Jessie Crockett (a.k.a. Jessica Este-vao), Julie Hennrikus (a.k.a. Julianne Holmes), Liz Mugavero (a.k.a. Cate Conte), and Barbara Ross—are my lifeboat. I'm also grateful for Sisters in Crime—National, New England Chapter, and Guppies. You're the best. And thanks to friend and Friend Bill Castle for the coleslaw recipe.

For Hoosier color and facts, I again thank Dan Dinnsen for details about Bloomington and the local dialect. Tim Mundorff introduced me to fried biscuits and local scenery, and Jeff Danielson shared local insights and amazing photographs of the natural beauty of the area. My more northern Indiana sister Barbara Bergendorf continues to help with cultural information and support. Mary Falker Howard of Nashville (Indiana, of course) encouraged me to include the Create It with Gingerbread Log Cabin Competition, so I did, or at least the run-up to the contest. If I've gone overboard in any area of local culture, I take full responsibility.

At the risk of having poison darts aimed my way, I'm grateful for the very severe New England winter of 2015. It enabled me to sit inside in my second-floor office and watch it snow as I belted out the first draft of this book in two months flat. Nowhere to go and nothing to do but write and take breaks for shoveling.

As always, my deep love and grateful thanks to my supportive family: my sisters Barbie and Jannie, my sons Allan and John David, and my main man, Hugh.

Readers, librarians, booksellers: I wouldn't be here without you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! As a reminder, a positive review of a book you read goes a long way to helping the author. Please consider posting your opinion on Amazon, Goodreads, Facebook, and elsewhere if you liked my story (and check out my other author names: Edith Maxwell and Tace Baker).

Chapter 1

Was I nuts?
I don't know what I was thinking, agreeing to cater and host a welcome-home party in my country store and restaurant tonight. I'd already been working since six this morning serving up breakfast and lunch to wave after wave of hungry customers on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I sank into a chair as the antique clock chimed. Thankfully, two o'clock was only half an hour until closing time, and just three people remained, lingering over their gourmet hamburgers. A couple played a game of chess on the painted tabletop and the third read a newspaper, exactly the kind of scene I'd envisioned when I'd bought this old country store and opened Pans 'N Pancakes on the edge of South Lick, Indiana.

I gazed at the gleaming counters, the shelves full of vintage cookware, the pickle barrel, proud I'd accomplished nearly all the renovation carpentry myself. My mom had wanted to be sure her daughter would always have a trade, a trade which came in handy when I'd bought the rundown place nestled in the hills of scenic Brown County last winter. Now Turkey Day was over. I needed to get decorated for Christmas, but that could wait until tomorrow. After I got through this darn party. Oh, well. It was income, and my bank account could always use more deposits.

I glanced up when the cowbell on the door jangled. Sue Berry bustled in with her daughter Paula, the hosts of tonight's shindig for Sue's other daughter. I waved them over to my table.

“Everything all set for tonight, Robbie?” Sue asked. She plopped down across from me, her short cap of bottle-blond hair looking more tousled than usual.

“I think so. Have a seat, Paula,” I said to the daughter, a woman in her thirties.

“Thanks, but I think I'll stand. My back's kind of bothering me.” Paula nestled her other hand in the small of her back, her pregnant belly pushing out a black knit shirt under her open coat. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a messy knot and her face was devoid of makeup, letting the high color of a woman carrying a child shine through, but also showing the dark splotches under her eyes.

“Three months to go. I sure can't wait to be a grandmother,” Sue said in a bright voice, beaming up at Paula and then turning back to me. “So the cupcakes are all ordered, and Glen and Max will bring the drinks over a little early. I'm just as thrilled as punch we can do this for our dear Erica.”

Sue's other daughter, Erica, had moved back to South Lick a month earlier. I wasn't quite sure why they'd waited a month to welcome her back, but I was happy they'd chosen to have the welcome-back party at Pans 'N Pancakes. Erica's late husband had been my boyfriend's twin brother, so I could hardly say no. Sue and Paula had both been customers over the last month and a half since I'd opened, so they'd had a taste of my cooking.

“I'll have a veggie platter and a couple of dips out,” I said. “I've made up a pasta salad and a coleslaw, as we discussed. I have the mini-sliders ready to go, and a couple dozen hand pizzas ready in the freezer. I'll pop those in the oven during the party so they can be served hot.”

“Hand pizza?” Paula asked. “Pizza with fingers sounds fun.”

I laughed. “They're just small. Like the size of a hand. Maybe I should call them individual pizzas.”

“It don't matter what you call them; they are going to be so yummy,” Sue said. Her blue eyes sparkled behind a bit too much eye makeup.

“The mini-sliders sound delicious,” Paula said.

“Beef, turkey, and black bean. And my friend Phil is going to tend bar.” Thank goodness for Phil. My congenial friend was a talented singer and baker, and had helped me out of a jam more than once.

“Good, so the guys can relax and enjoy themselves.” Sue beamed her approval. “Hey, Robbie, you ever think about entering the log cabin competition in Nashville?”

Nashville was the county seat five miles away. Nashville, Indiana, not Tennessee. “The what? I'd love to build a house some day, but right now I have my hands full here.”

“Mom means gingerbread log cabins, right?”

Sue snapped her fingers. “It's so gol dang cute. Everybody makes log cabins out of gingerbread and other edible stuff. They judge it over at the Brown County Inn.”

“You could make a cabin of a country store and enter it,” Paula said. She gestured around the store. “You know, with the front door standing open. You could have little shelves of cookware showing, and a few tables and chairs. Put a couple of rocking chairs on the front porch like you have and I bet you'd win a prize.”

“It sounds fun, if I could find the time.” When could I fit baking and decorating a log cabin into my schedule, though? Monday, my day off, was the only possibility. On the other hand, it would be good publicity for the store.

The door jangled again and a frowning, broad-shouldered man strode in. “There you are,” he said, spying Paula.

Paula twisted her wedding band around and around. “Max, I told you I was going out with Mom.”

“Max, honey, come meet Robbie.” Sue gestured to him.

After Max approached the table, Sue said, “Robbie Jordan, this is Paula's husband, Max Holzhauser. Max, Robbie.”

He extended a big, meaty hand. “Nice to meet you, Robbie.” He barely got the glower off his face, which featured a jutting Neanderthal brow and heavy eyebrows now pulled together in the middle. His thick hair, tucked behind his ears, brushed his collar.

I shook his hand. “Likewise. Sit down?”
What was he so mad about?

“Can't. Let's go, Paula.” He took hold of Paula's upper arm. She wasn't much taller than my own five foot four. He was not only a little over six feet tall, he was also stocky and heavy boned.

Paula pried his hand off, twisting out of his grasp. “I'm doing errands with my mother, Max. I'll be home in time to get ready for the party.” Her jaw worked.

“Have it your own way, then.” He cracked his knuckles. “You always do.”

One of my chess-playing customers looked up and frowned at the disturbance. I watched Max leave, hearing the door close with more force than necessary, and glanced at Paula. Sue had taken one of her daughter's hands in both of hers and was stroking it.

“Things will work out, sugar,” Sue murmured as the bell on the door continued to jangle. “He'll get a hold on that temper of his, bless his heart. You'll see.”

* * *

The timer on the oven dinged right after the wall clock chimed eight. We were an hour into the party, and it was in full swing. I hurried over to draw out the last pan of pizzas. I slid them onto a tray, the cheese bubbling in tan spots, the aroma of fresh crust almost too alluring. I sliced each pizza into quarters and carried them to the food table. I wiped my hands down my blue-and-white store apron, which featured our logo of a cast-iron griddle held by a grinning stack of pancakes, and surveyed the now-packed room. Late this afternoon Phil and I had pushed the tables to the sides and stacked half the chairs in a corner to leave room for mingling.

Near the W
ELCOME
B
ACK TO
S
OUTH
L
ICK
, E
RICA
! banner, a small group of men, including Max, Sue's husband Glen, and green-eyed Jim Shermer clustered with beers in hand. Paula, now made up and in a green dress that didn't try to disguise her baby bump, sat talking with Tiffany Porter, an attractive local jewelry maker who owned a gift shop in town. Phil stood behind the bar table chatting with Sue. His dark face was aglow and he beamed his wide smile that always reminded me of Denzel Washington's.

Other townspeople, some of whom I'd met, many I hadn't, chatted in small groups, with a few women browsing the shelves of cookware. Country music played from a couple of small speakers someone had set up next to an iPad, and the buzz of conversation over the tunes was loud.

The only person missing was the guest of honor, Erica. She was more than an hour late. People were starting to talk, and Sue had pasted on a smile so fake it looked like it came from a photo-editing app. It had to have upset the family to have Erica's husband take his own life, and I wondered why she'd taken so long to move back home. Or if Sue was now worried something had happened to Erica.

I picked up an empty slider platter and headed back to the open kitchen area, smothering a yawn before drawing another pan of sliders out of the warmer. I'd made little rolls for buns, precooked the patties, and assembled the tiny burgers shortly before the party started. All I had to do now was serve them. Then maybe I could sit down for a few minutes.

As I set the platter of sliders on the food table, Tiffany walked up to me.

“I really like all your cookware, Robbie.” Her full lips curved into a smile, lighting up her face, and her almond-shaped eyes crinkled at the edges.

“Thanks. Half of it was already here when I bought the store, and I've acquired the rest.”

“Don't you just love thinking about who cooked with it when it was new?” she asked, gazing at the far wall.

“Exactly.”

“I'd like to ask you a quick question about one piece.”

“Sure.” We moved across the room together. Tiffany, four or five inches taller than me, especially in heels, walked with a fluid motion like an athlete might. Her light-brown hair fell in graceful waves below her shoulders,

She pointed with an elegant finger that ended in the perfect white tip of a French manicure. “What's that round thing with the two long handles?”

“That's a sandwich press.” It featured two slightly convex cast-iron disks joined by a hinge, and two long handles extending out. “After you insert a cheese sandwich between the disks, you clamp the press shut and then hold it over a gas flame or even a campfire to toast the sandwich. It makes the best grilled cheese in the world. You can grill other kinds of sandwiches, too, of course.”

“And it's beautiful, too.”

“Sure is. Browse as much as you want. The pieces for sale have tags on them.”

“Thanks.” She moved on down to the shelf area.

I turned back to the party and made my rounds, picking up empty dishes, tidying the food display. I paused when I passed a smiling Jim, my new boyfriend and my former real-estate lawyer. I knew he wanted more than the occasional date, but I was so busy with the store and restaurant, and he with his practice, we usually only managed Sunday nights together, since Pans 'N Pancakes was closed on Mondays.

“Everything looks great. And tastes even better,” he said, smoothing an errant black curl off my forehead.

He looked more delicious than any food I could make, with those emerald eyes, that curly red hair he wore a bit long and shaggy, and his trim body. Tonight he wore a deep blue shirt with well-cut black pants, but he could look smoking-hot even in an old T-shirt and ragged jeans.

“Thanks. It seems to be going pretty well, doesn't it?” I smiled back at him.

“Except Erica isn't here.” His forehead furrowed. “I wonder what's keeping her.”

“It's not a surprise party, is it? Sue never said anything about that.”

“No, I don't think it's supposed to be a surprise. Oh, well. Erica has always been a bit, shall we say, dramatic.” He pulled his mouth. “She probably wants to make a grand entrance.”

I saw Sue glance at the phone in her hand and touch it a few times with her index finger.

“Gol dang, she's almost here!” Sue announced with a big smile. “Get ready, y'all.”

Sure enough, it wasn't two minutes later when the cowbell jangled and a woman pushed in, shedding a puffy, white, thigh-length coat as she walked. She wore a snug red dress that crossed over in the front and nowhere near covered her cleavage. This had to be Erica. She was closer in height to her tiny mother than to Paula, and her spiky blond hair and light coloring was more like Sue's, too. Through the door behind her emerged Abe O'Neill, a cute guy I'd met earlier in the fall who worked for the local electric company. He set a banjo case on the floor as the talking fell to a hush.

Erica left Abe at the door and swanned over to her mother on four-inch red heels. She gave Sue a hug and then waved to the room.

“Hi, everybody,” she called out. “Thanks so much for all this.”

Her father, a man in his sixties whose dark hair was shot through with silver, raised his beer. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”

A chorus of “welcome back” echoed throughout the room. Next to me, Jim raised his bottle of Cutters Half Court IPA. “Welcome back, Rickie.”

Erica turned her head sharply, then tilted her head in a seductive pose when she saw who'd said it. She clicked on her heels over to where we stood and slid her arm through Jim's.

“Oh, Jim. You're the only person besides Jon who can call me that.” She pursed her lips in a pout. “And he's gone.” She stroked his arm with her other hand and cast luminous blue eyes up at him.

A shadow passed over Jim's face as he carefully detached from Erica's arm and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Jon, his twin, had killed himself in Chicago a year ago. Jim had told me how hard it'd been for him, and still was, to lose his twin, and to suicide, too. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'll call you Erica from now on.”

“No, I want you to call me Rickie. Please?”

Jim cleared his throat. “Have you met my girlfriend, Robbie Jordan? This is her restaurant and country store.” He slung his arm along my shoulders, giving my arm a squeeze.

Erica narrowed her eyes and studied me before flashing a big smile. She held out her hand. “His girlfriend? Well, isn't this a surprise?”

“Nice to meet you, Erica. Welcome back.” I forced a smile and shook her hand. I snuck a glance at Jim, who straightened his collar and was looking anywhere but at Erica. I gazed around the store. Almost everyone had stopped what they were doing, food halfway to their mouths, bottles halfway raised, to watch Erica.