Grilled for Murder (3 page)

“What happened?” I asked.

“Erica's a racist. She said . . . well, I'm not even going to repeat it.” His voice shook again. “Can you believe it, in this day and age?”

I stroked his arm. “Unfortunately I can believe it, but I'm sorry it had to happen.” A yawn overtook me. “Oops. It's been a really long day.”

Phil looked at me. “Hey, go to bed. We'll clean up and get the place set up for tomorrow. I have a key, remember. I'll lock up.” He glanced at the remaining guests. “Right, guys? We'll set this place right again and let Robbie get some sleep?”

“Absolutely,” Abe called over, and the harmonica guy raised his hand.

“Thanks, my friend.” I pulled Phil in for a hug. “What would I do without you?” His hair, cut in a kind of high flattop, brushed my forehead. It looked wiry, but it was extra soft.

He laughed, the tension sliding off his face. “Well, don't get too used to me. When I land my big opera role, I'll be out of here faster than—” he watched me with a grin.

“I know, than green grass through a goose.” I laughed, too, and made my way toward my apartment door at the back of the store. “'Night, everyone. Thanks so much for the help.” I unlocked the door, then locked it again behind me.

My black-and-white foundling kitty, Birdy, watched from his perch on the back of the easy chair. I gave him a scritch on the head and listened to his chirping purr, the reason I'd named him Birdy.

“Birdy, what do you think Erica said to Phil?” He didn't answer. Most of the time I didn't even think about Phil being African-American. He was just a talented, generous friend. Besides having an amazing voice that'd gotten him plush roles in the Indiana University music department, he baked all the brownies and cookies for the restaurant, he'd designed the logo for the store, and he helped out when his schedule permitted. Plus he was fun, and a good friend I was grateful to have. But I was sure he ran into racism on a regular basis. Our country hadn't really made all that much progress in moving beyond prejudice, despite having elected a black president. That Erica would insult Phil to his face, though, surprised me. Then again, I didn't really know her. And from what I'd seen tonight, including her attempts to honey up to Jim, her fight with Tiffany, and her run-in with Max, I wasn't very eager to.

Chapter 3

Yawning, I rolled out of bed and stretched. I'd known six o'clock was going to come way, way too early this morning. Overall the party had gone well, although it'd been a little tense at times. I was glad it was behind me. Even with all that, it was good publicity for my restaurant and I hoped it would snag me more catering opportunities in the future.

Now I needed to prep for today's breakfast: whole-wheat banana-walnut pancakes, apple muffins, omelets to order, and cheesy biscuits with my special gravy. Customers went nuts over biscuits drowning in gravy. One more day before I could rest on Monday. At least I had a short commute to work.

After crunching through my hundred sit-ups, I showered and threw on black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved blue store shirt displaying a small store logo on the front and a large one on the back. 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 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 lay on the floor half behind the barrel, her purple-tinged arms splayed stiffly out to the sides, her red dress hiked up a little. She wasn't moving. She wasn't even breathing, and her eyes stared at nothing.

My feet felt like they'd landed in wet concrete and my heart thudded faster than the Wabash Cannonball. My thoughts raced, too. How'd she get here? Phil had promised to lock up last night, and Erica had gone home with Paula. Erica had come back here with a killer? My skin tightened as I stared at her, my brain aroil.
The poor thing.
Someone had broken in and left her dead on my floor. It couldn't be suicide, could it?

All right. I needed to move, concrete or no concrete. I grabbed my cell phone out of my back pocket and pressed nine-one-one.

After the dispatcher asked me to identify myself and what my emergency was, I said, “Robbie Jordan. Nineteen Main Street. Someone broke into my store overnight, and there's a dead person on the floor.” Which had to be the most awful sentence I'd ever uttered in all my twenty-seven years. I took a deep breath to try to calm the panicky feeling threatening to close up my throat.

“What store is that, ma'am?”

“Pans 'N Pancakes. It's a country store and restaurant.” My voice came out quavery.

“Do you feel safe, ma'am?” she asked.

“I guess. The glass in my front door is broken.”
Was I safe?
Erica must have thought she was safe, too.

“Do you recognize the victim?”

“Yes. It's Erica Shermer.” My legs started to shake.

She instructed me not to touch anything and to stay on the line until an officer arrived. I gazed at Erica. Her feet, purple all the way up past the ankles, were bare, and her red-painted toenails stood out starkly garish in the darkened skin. My stomach lurched at the sight of her blue eyes staring into infinity, the light gone from them. Her face was stiff and bore dark purplish patches on her forehead and nose, with a darker mark on her cheek, but the rest of her skin showed a yellowish tinge. How could someone have broken the glass without my hearing it? I was terrified to think of this happening while I slept only yards and a couple of walls away.

The coffee machine gurgled and hissed to a finish. I set the phone on a table and walked like a zombie into the kitchen area. I really needed some caffeine, and hoped it didn't seem disrespectful to Erica. I poured half a cup, splashed some milk in to cool it, and drank it down. A siren keened in the distance, getting louder by the second. I wished Jim had stayed the night so I wouldn't have to face this all alone.

Within minutes Sergeant Wanda Bird stood on the wide covered porch peering in the front windows. She leaned down and looked through the broken glass. “Got another door I can come through?” she called.

“Yes. Come around the left side of the building. I'll open the service door.” I saw another officer start to string wide yellow tape across the steps before I hurried to the side door, unlocked it, and flipped on the outside light. Pushing the door open, I inhaled the sharp cold air. The snow had stopped in the night, leaving a blanket of lovely pure white sparkling in the light, a scene at odds with the ugly reality of death. I wanted to go to Erica's side, feeling like someone should keep her company. But that didn't make sense. Nobody was ever going to keep her company again.

Wanda strode in a minute later holding an iPad, her strawberry blond hair slicked back into a severe bun. Her uniform strained on her stocky figure, her well-padded hips reluctantly conscripted into pants cut for a man.

“She's over there,” I gestured.

She clasped the digital tablet in her hands behind her back and approached Erica, leaning over to peer at her.

“This Erica Berry, Sue and Glen's girl?”

I nodded. “Her married name was Shermer, though.”

“Oh, yeah.” She gazed at the corpse and then glanced at the front door. “I'm assuming that glass wasn't broke last time you saw it?”

“No. I catered a party here last night, and it was fine when I went to bed.”

She came back to where I stood. “I'm going to need you to vacate the premises. This place is a crime scene now.” She set her hands on her hips.

Vacate the premises?
“Where am I supposed to go? I live here.” I pointed to my apartment in the back.

“Head on in there, then. I got a couple-few questions for you. I'll come and find you.” Even though she looked very different from her tall, lanky cousin, Buck, the second-in-command on the force, they shared the same southern Hoosier way of talking, as did pretty much everybody else in town.

“I have biscuits in the oven! I can't just—”

She let out a big sigh. “All righty. Stand next to the oven. Don't touch anything. I'll start questioning you in here. When the biscuits are done, take them out and then get out of here. Understand?”

I bobbed my head, moved into the kitchen area, and dutifully took up position next to the oven as two other officers came in through the service door. Wanda could have told me to take the biscuits out now, but she probably thought it was a shame to waste perfectly good baking.

“Photographs, Kenny,” Wanda called to one of the officers.

“Got it,” he said, pulling out a small camera. He approached the body with the tentative moves of someone who'd never been near a murder victim before.

“George,” she said to the other officer, a fresh-faced kid now looking slightly green. “You guard the door. Don't let anyone in without my say-so. And don't touch anything.”

George seemed glad to back away. He assumed his station facing the service door, elbows out, hands behind his back.

“So, Ms. Jordan, any idea how the victim came to be deceased on your floor?” Wanda tapped on her tablet. We might live in a country village, but we have a well-equipped public-safety team.

I'd had dinner with Wanda at Buck's house a couple of months earlier. Was she calling me Ms. Jordan because I was a suspect? “I don't know how Erica got here. She was at the party here last night. Well, she was the guest of honor. But she left at about eleven with her sister Paula.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“They said something about a sleepover.” I thought. “‘A sister slumber party,' is how Erica put it. At her house.”

“Who else was at the party here?”

“Let's see. Her parents, Sue and Glen Berry. They were the ones who hosted it. As I said, her sister Paula was here, too, and her husband.”

“Max Holzhauser?” Wanda asked.

“That's right.” I sniffed. The tantalizing odor of the biscuits failed to counter the fact that a body lay on the floor. The timer on the oven dinged. Wanda rolled her hand, waving permission. I slid out the pan, set it on a cooling rack, and turned off the oven. The warmth barely penetrated the numb feeling in my hands.

“Back you go, then.” Wanda pointed at my apartment. “We'll talk in there.”

I unlocked the door to my apartment and showed her into my living room. “Want to sit down?” I left the door open to the restaurant.

“No, thanks. Go on about who else was here last night.”

I stayed standing, too, despite rubbery legs, as I listed the other guests, at least the ones whose names I knew. Jim, Abe. I stopped, remembering the flare-up with Tiffany.

“That's all the ones you can remember?”

“No. Tiffany Porter was here.”

“She's got herself a jewelry shop in town.”

“And there were maybe a dozen or two who I didn't meet.” I leaned against the wall. “Oh, and Phil MacDonald was bartending. You can get a guest list from Sue Berry, I'm sure.”

“Who could have wanted the victim dead?” Wanda watched me.

“So you think it wasn't suicide or an accident?”

“'Spose it coulda been. But I doubt it.”

“I don't really know who would want to kill Erica. Except . . .” Birdy rubbed against my leg, so I reached down and stroked him until he started chirping his purr of happiness. At least his life was safe and innocent. Unlike Erica's. Or mine, it seemed.

“Except what?”

I straightened. “Well, Tiffany accused Erica of stealing from her. Erica denied it, and Tiffany left. But theft isn't a reason to kill someone.”

“You let us do the investigation. People have some pretty odd reasons for committing acts of violence, I'll tell you. Anybody else not get on with the victim last night?”

“Max was upset with her when he was leaving. He wanted his wife, Paula, to go home with him and she didn't want to. Erica stuck up for Paula.”

Wanda nodded, tapping words into the iPad.

“And then Erica said something racist to Phil.”

She glanced up.

“She claimed she was only joking, but it upset him.” I looked at Wanda, suddenly wishing I hadn't mentioned the incident with Phil. “But he wouldn't hurt a flea. You know Phil, right?”

“Yup. That's it?” she asked. “Anybody else unhappy with Erica last night?”

“That's it, as far as I know.” I didn't really want to tell her about Erica making Jim uncomfortable with her seductive moves.

“And where were you all night?” Wanda drummed her fingers on the table.

“I was asleep in my bed. I didn't hear anything.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” I still couldn't believe I'd slept through a break-in and a murder. “What happens now?”

“We check out where everybody was at last night. Follow up leads. County homicide task force will probably want to get involved.” A vein throbbed in her forehead. “Don't much like working with those guys. They come swaggering in, thinking we're small-town hicks. But we have to let them help.”

I'd overheard a couple of local guys, talking at the post office last month, who made it sound like pretty near every crime case in town ended up cold. Unsolved, that is. I knew their accusation wasn't true, because the authorities had solved Stella's murder only last month. The difficult aide to the mayor had been found dead in her home with one of my cheesy biscuits in her mouth on the evening of my store's grand reopening. Not what I had hoped for as the culmination of months of work. But the local force, with a little help from me, had eventually nailed the killer. Anyway, I was sure the county ultimately had more experience with murder than South Lick's finest.

“Sergeant?” a voice called from the store.

I followed Wanda to the door but stopped when she turned and gave me a look. She hurried over to where Erica lay.

The officer she'd called Kenny gestured with his chin. “Blood on the ground under her head.” With nostrils flared, he pointed.

“Right,” Wanda said. “Make sure you get a shot of that.”

Kenny leaned over and snapped a picture of the floor. Erica's legs lay flaccid and her head didn't move on the stiff neck and torso. Her arms still stuck out to the sides and forward like a grotesque mannequin coming in for a hug.