Grilled for Murder (7 page)

Chapter 8

I studied the menu at the Uptown Cafe. After Jim had picked me up, he'd admired my swingy dress. Guess I nailed that one.

“Ever eaten here?” Jim asked. We were there early before the dinner rush, and it was Sunday, but all the barstools behind us were full and other customers clustered standing around it, holding drinks, talking, laughing. I'd never been to Bloomington on a Sunday at happy hour.

“No. What do you recommend?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. I'd chosen to wear it down, since I never got to at work, and I loved the feeling of my full-bodied curls hanging loose and bouncy. It was kind of a pain to keep it long, what with how much time it took to shampoo and comb it out. I gladly spent the time for evenings like this, letting my hair do as it willed and being able to savor the sensation.

“Check out the section called
Cajun-Creole Cuisine
.” He pointed to my menu. “That's my favorite. In fact, I already know I'm going to have the gumbo.”

“Ooh, shrimp and grits sounds yummy.” I read from the menu, “Jumbo shrimp and andouille sausage, atop cheddar cheese jalapeño grits. That's what I'm having.”

“The grits are pretty spicy.” Jim closed his menu and smiled. His pale green long-sleeved shirt matched his eyes, which also smiled.

“I can do spicy. I'm a California girl, remember? I grew up on chilies.”

The waiter wandered over looking very much like a college student, with a pierced eyebrow and bleached-blond hair slicked to a kind of Mohawk peak atop his head.

“What can I get you tonight?” he asked.

I told him I wanted the shrimp and grits.

“I'll have the gumbo,” Jim said, handing him his menu.

“Want that Hoosier style?” the waiter asked.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Jim laughed. “It means with mashed potatoes instead of rice. No,” he said to the waiter. “I'll take it Louisiana style. And can we get some bread to start?”

The waiter gave a thumbs-up as he collected my menu, then turned away.

I leaned in toward Jim. “Who ever heard of mashed potatoes and gumbo?” I asked him.

He grinned. “People from Indiana, that's who.” He tasted the beer in a full pint glass. “Man, this is good. Want a taste?”

“No, thanks. Beer doesn't go so well with Pinot Noir.” I sipped my wine. “I'm surprised I've never been to this restaurant before. Although I think I might have met one of the chefs when I cooked at the Nashville Inn.” I'd been chef at the inn for three years, cooking and saving as much money as I could to open my own place. I gazed at him. “I heard some bad news this afternoon. The police took Phil in for questioning about the murder.”

“Phil?” His eyebrows went halfway up to his red hair.

“My reaction, exactly.” I shook my head. “They totally have it wrong. Luckily, Adele called later on and told me Samuel had hired a really good lawyer. The police let Phil go. Or Octavia did, more likely.”

Jim looked away as if studying the bar running the length of the room behind me. He rubbed his thumb over his fingernails as he always did when he was thinking.

I watched him, my radar activated. “So how do you know Octavia?”

He looked at me. “We dated for a while. In our twenties, so ten years ago or so.”

Aha.
“Nothing wrong with that. But you seem kind of, I don't know, like there's more to the story.”

“There is.” He sipped his beer, looking anywhere but at me. “But I don't want to talk about it now, if it's okay with you.”

The waiter returned with a basket holding a sliced baguette and a little dish of butter. I buttered a piece and took a bite, savoring the crusty, chewy loaf. What had gone on with him and Octavia he didn't want to talk about?

“So who do you think would have killed Erica?” I asked after a couple of minutes of neither of us speaking, only chewing and sipping in silence.

Jim finally glanced at me with a look of relief like he'd been rescued from circling sharks. “Good question. There was the flare-up with Tiffany Porter, but I don't know why she would have killed Erica for stealing from her.”

“What about somebody from Chicago? I was thinking about Jon,” I said, reaching across the table for his hand. “Maybe somebody from their life up there had a grudge against Erica.”

He gazed across the room and then back at me. He squeezed my hand before letting it go. “Interesting idea. I'm not sure how to find out. I was at their wedding, of course, but so were two hundred other people. They held it at the Story Inn, four years ago.” He smiled as if at the memory. “What a day that was. Perfect June weather. Her family rented the whole place for the weekend. Have you ever been there?”

“I've eaten in the restaurant a couple of times but never stayed in one of the rooms.” The Story General Store, now an inn, was in the little town of Story, south of Nashville, and the business had bought up all the buildings in the town center.

“They also rent out the cottages on the property, not only the ones above the dining room,” Jim said. “I heard it was a couple of dropped-out grad students who originally bought the store and fixed it up, and then gradually turned it into an inn serving gourmet dinners.”

“That's right. The decor inside gave me some ideas for my store and restaurant. I'm actually hoping to renovate the upstairs rooms in my building for my own bed-and-breakfast. If I ever find the time.”

“That's a good idea. I remember you said that when you made the offer on the property. Anyway, some of Jon and Erica's Chicago friends came down and stayed in a couple of the cottages. Erica was high on being a bride, of course. I didn't see anybody not getting along. I suppose someone with a grudge against Erica might not have been invited, though.”

“You must have visited Erica and Jon in Chicago.”

“A couple of times. Not enough. That reminds me. I spoke with my folks. They wanted to come down for whatever services the family holds, but my mom isn't well enough. She's still healing from breaking her hip last month.” He drank from his beer, then set it down. “I'll have to think back on who I met at the wedding. There was one guy, kind of pale and nervous, but I can't remember his name. He and Jon were friends. I can ask Paula, too, what she knows about their acquaintances.”

“How about a work conflict? What did Jon do for a living, by the way?”

Gloom settled on his face. “We both went to law school. I chose real-estate law, but he was a criminal lawyer.”

“Being a criminal lawyer must be a hard occupation, whether prosecuting a criminal or defending one.” It suddenly occurred to me that maybe someone from one of Jon's cases had killed Erica to get revenge on Jon, even though he'd been dead for a year.

“He was just getting established when . . .” Jim fell silent.

“I'm so sorry, Jim.”

He gave me a wan smile. “It still seems so fresh. And so confusing. He had a great life, loved his work, doted on Erica even though she could be a handful, as you saw last night.” He shook his head. “And then he shot himself. I didn't get it then and I don't get it now.”

“I know the fresh part. I still automatically reach for the phone to call my mom and tell her something. Then I remember I can't.”

The waiter appeared with our dinners and set them in front of us. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I think we're good, thanks.” I smiled at him.

“No more talk of death tonight, all right?” Jim asked after the waiter turned away, then let out a long breath, staring at his plate.

“Absolutely not.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I picked up my fork but he hadn't started eating yet, so I waited. I glanced at the big TV over the bar, where it looked like a football game was about to begin, with close-ups of eager fans wearing painted faces and big grins. “So how about them Colts?”

* * *

We parked outside an old two-story limestone building, a block from the sprawling Indiana University campus. By the parking lot lights I could see a tall arched entrance that came to a gentle point, with E
LM
H
EIGHTS
S
CHOOL
carved in stone above the door.

“You can lock your bag in the car if you want,” Jim said.

“Good idea.” I set my purse on the floor before getting out. “What is this place?” I asked, coming around the front of the Prius once it gave off the little mini-beeps indicating it was locked.

“It's the Harmony School now, a private pre-K through high school. It's where they hold the dance. But it was the Elm Heights Elementary School before that. Elm Heights is this neighborhood.”

“Do you know how old the building is?”

“It was built in 1926. The style is called
collegiate Gothic
, appropriately enough.” Jim led me toward an open door. Strains of fiddle and piano music grew louder as we approached. Jim took my hand and quickened his step.

“You love this, don't you?” I asked.

He smiled down at me and squeezed my hand. “You got that right. Doesn't hearing the music make you want to hurry in there and start dancing?”

Not really, but I wasn't going to pop his bubble. A minute later we were shedding our coats onto chairs forming a row around the edge of a high-ceilinged school gymnasium. On a stage at the end of the room, a fiddler and a man at a piano were playing next to a bass player. In front of them a woman in a pink dress spoke into a mike directing two lines of people.

“Shall we?” Jim gestured with his arm toward the end of the lines and grabbed my hand again.

“No time like the present.” I took a deep breath and let myself be led onto the dance floor.

Forty-five minutes later the caller took a break, saying the instructional period was over. A white-haired man holding a banjo climbed the steps onto the stage.

“You did great,” Jim said. He beamed at me, his forehead glistening, his eyes bright.

“I was starting to get the hang of it. And you're right. You get hot,” I said, shedding my sweater. The newcomer session hadn't been half bad. The caller was patient and funny, and Jim had rescued me a couple of times, steering me in the right direction.

“Told you. You like the group?” he asked as he wiped his forehead with his right arm, and then unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling up the sleeves.

“I love the music. Who are they?”

“They're called the Oldies But Goodies.”

“They're great. Be right back.” I left Jim chatting with two gray-haired women to go put my sweater with my coat. I turned back toward the floor and had taken a couple of steps when Tiffany Porter hurried toward the row of chairs.
Who knew so many people liked contra dancing?

“Hi, Robbie,” she said, slipping out of a green jacket. She wore her hair tied back in a band at the nape of her neck. From under the jacket emerged a blue sleeveless dress revealing slender and toned arms. Her muscular legs were bare above blue ankle socks and low-heeled shoes with a strap across the instep. “Haven't seen you here before. You like to contra?” She gazed at the floor, exuding the same restless eager feeling I'd picked up from Jim.

“It's my first time. I came with Jim Shermer.”

“You're sure going to love it.” Her eyes sparkled.

“I hope so. Hey, too bad about what Erica did to you,” I said. “And too bad about Erica.”

She stared at me, her nostrils flaring. “I never should have hired her. The woman is unscrupulous and manipulative.”

I tilted my head. “You mean, was.”

“What?” She looked puzzled.

“You didn't hear? Erica was killed sometime between when she left the party last night and this morning, when I found her on the floor of my store.” I watched her.

Tiffany brought her hand to her mouth as her eyes widened. “You're kidding.” She dropped her hand. “No, why would you be? That's awful.”

“It is. I'm surprised you didn't hear it around town.” If I wasn't mistaken, her surprise looked genuine.

She shook her head. “I spent all day with my dad here in Bloomington. He has dementia, and I try to spend Sundays with him. I'm all he has. Gee, poor Erica. I wonder who killed her?”

I lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “There's a state police detective on the case. Plus the local force, of course. I hope they figure it out soon.”

“Erica was a jerk, but she didn't deserve to die. Do they know how she was killed?”

I shook my head to the plaintive notes of the fiddle tuning up. As a tune started up, Tiffany turned her head toward the stage and smiled, then looked at me.

“Have a fun dance,” she said. “I'm sorry, but us not dancing isn't going to bring Erica back.” She sashayed into the center of the gym.

She didn't act like a murderer, not that I knew what acting like a killer was. I'd had contact with only one in my life, and it'd been only last month. I sincerely hoped it was the last time, too.

Chapter 9

I savored the last of my coffee at the desk in my living room the next morning. Jim had dropped me off after the dance. After I'd invited him in, he left, pleading an early morning meeting. Birdy purred from the corner of the desk and sunshine streamed in. Monday was my only day to sleep in and I took full advantage of the chance. Even though my internal clock tried really hard to wake me up at five thirty as always, I'd put a pillow over my head and managed two more hours. Now it was eight thirty and almost time for me to head down to Shamrock Hardware and order new glass for the door, and pick up a Christmas tree somewhere, too. I checked my email first. Nothing new from Roberto, and nothing else I needed to attend to. There wasn't anything I could do about Erica's death, and I hoped I could keep from brooding on it today. The online weather report was for an unseasonably warm day with temps that might even reach sixty. Warm air would get rid of the last of Saturday's light snow, and maybe I could get out for a long bike ride later.

I threw a jacket over my jeans and sweater, grabbed a tape measure, and headed into the store to measure the opening in the door. I stared at the plywood. I'd have to measure from the outside, so I let myself out the service door, making sure it locked behind me. When I came around the front, a green-and-white South Lick police car pulled up. Buck unfolded himself from the driver's seat and greeted me.

“How's the investigation going?” I asked.

He spread his hands. “Welp, it's underway. Octavia sent me over to tell you she's all done here. You can go ahead and reopen whenever you'd like.” He removed the yellow tape.

“That's good news. Thanks for letting me know.” Good thing the sign on the door already said I'd be open Tuesday.

“Not serving breakfast today, are you?” He cocked his head in a hopeful look. “I'm just a teensy bit hungry.”

“You're always hungry, Buck.” I laughed. “Sorry, not today. I'm never open on Mondays, remember? Anyway, I'm headed over to order replacement glass for the door.”

“Good idea.”

“Octavia said she brought Phil in for questioning yesterday.” I set my hands on my hips. “You know Phil. He wouldn't hurt anybody.”

“It was Octavia there who wanted to talk to him. You know we got to talk to everybody who might could've had a problem with Erica.” A car drove by and Buck raised one finger in a wave.

“Who else are you questioning? Or rather, is Octavia questioning?”

“Of course the family. Paula and Max, and Mr. and Mrs. Berry,” Buck said. “Octavia was looking for that Porter woman yesterday but couldn't find her.”

“I saw Tiffany last night in Bloomington. She didn't even know Erica had been killed.”

Buck studied me. “Or that's what she said, anywho.” He took off his hat and rubbed the top of his head.

“She seemed completely surprised when I told her the news,” I told him. “Said she hadn't heard because she'd been with her father in Bloomington all day.”

“One thing you learn purt' darn quick in this here business, Robbie, is there's a whole slew of folks out there with gosh-awful-good acting skills.”

“I suppose.”

“Say, you going to make a gingerbread log cabin for the contest? We need a couple few more entries from South Lick.”

“We?”

“Ah, shoot, they went and put me on the judging committee over there to Nashville. I guess my appetite's sort of legendary in the county, and judges get a special bag of gingerbread treats as a reward. We don't get to eat the houses themselves, of course.”

“I don't know. I've never made a gingerbread house before. Sue and Paula were suggesting the same thing to me on Saturday.”

“Deadline's next Saturday. You got all week, you know.” He gave me a lopsided smile.

As if I didn't have anything else to do with my week, and as if I hadn't recently found a body in my store. “I'll think about it.”

“Okay, then.” He put his hat back on. “It's back to the salt mines for me. You take care now, hear?”

“I'll do my best.” I watched him drive away, did my measuring, then started to walk the few blocks to the hardware store. Was Buck right about Tiffany lying? If so, she was pretty good at it. She was athletic and, being taller than me, was definitely taller than the petite Erica, who couldn't have been more than five foot one and a hundred ten pounds dripping wet. Tiffany was certainly capable physically of whacking Erica on the head and moving her into my store. But why would she?

* * *

I greeted Don O'Neill where he stood behind the wide counter at the back of Shamrock Hardware. He was the owner of the traditional store, with its narrow rows packed with every imaginable item you might need to fix, maintain, or improve a building, inside and out. From screws to brooms to copper wire to paint to bird feeders, he stocked it all. The air smelled of old wood, grease, and turpentine, with a faint overlay of pesticide.

“How've you been, Don?”

“I'm well, thank you. Glad the business with Stella is gone by, God rest her soul,” he said, his brown eyes looking a little worried, as always, his comb-over neatly in place today.

He must be glad, having been a suspect in the murder himself for a while.

“So what can I do for you today, Robbie? Abe told me you had a problem over to your restaurant yesterday.” The only things Don had in common with his handsome younger brother were those brown eyes and a kind heart.

Small-town news network again. I wasn't really surprised Abe knew what had gone on. “I sure did. Poor Erica is dead, and whoever did it broke the glass in my front door. Do you sell, I don't know, glass that doesn't break, or something thicker than the antique stuff I had?”

He shook his head. “Such a tragedy. But sure, we can order glass any thickness you want. Of course, any glass will break with enough force.”

“I guess.”

He peered at his computer screen, then turned it to show me the options. “This would be a good choice,” he said, pointing. “You got the measurements?”

I looked at the description of the glass, then handed him the slip of paper where I'd written the size of the opening. He tapped in the numbers and showed me the price.

“Let's do it.” I choked a little at the price, but that was the cost of owning a business. And I was doing well, at least so far. The stream of customers was steady, my expenses didn't outrun my income, and I was able to pay Danna a fair wage.

“It oughta be in about Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.” He wrote out a slip. “You can pay Barb at the register.”

“Thanks.” I moved to the cash register and waited until the man in front of me walked toward the door. I said hello to Barb, a trim woman with spiky salt-and-pepper hair who always wore red lipstick and a big smile.

“Hey, there, Robbie. Too bad about Erica, ain't it?” She shook her head as she took the slip I handed her.

“I'll say.” I handed her the credit card I used for all store purchases.

“I stopped by the Berry house last night with a green-bean covered dish, you know, with your cream of mushroom soup and your deep-fried onions,” she said. “Took and brought them a sack of cookies, too. They seemed real appreciative.”

“How sweet, Barb. I'll make something for them this afternoon. What do you think they'd want?”

“Well, bless your heart. I'm sure they'll be most grateful. I'd say comfort food, like. Maybe a meatloaf'd be good?” She extended the credit card slip for me to sign, creasing it down the middle so it wouldn't curl up. “Or one of them lasagnas.”

“Sue and Glen must be wrecks losing Erica so soon after her coming home,” I said. “And Paula? It has to be awful for her to lose her sister when she's pregnant.”

“They're all shook up. Just setting around crying, mostly. Writing Erica's obit. Planning the funeral.” She shook her head as she handed me my receipt, then studied me. “Say, you going to make up a gingerbread version of Pans 'N Pancakes?”

Geez.
The whole town wanted me to enter the contest. “Everybody's been suggesting the same thing. I don't think I have time, though.”

“At the least you should oughta go over and see them all set out next week. They're awful dang cute. I made one last year of this store and won second prize.”

“So you're good with icing?”

“One of the best, if I do say so myself.” She glanced behind me.

I twisted my head. A woman held a toddler's hand and juggled an armful of curtain rods.

“Sorry, I'll get out of your way.” I stepped beyond the register. “Thanks, Barb. See you soon,” I said.

“Sure thing,” Barb answered. She peered over the counter, smiling. “Hey there, cute stuff.”

The little boy hid behind his mom's legs. He was indeed a very cute thing. I stepped out into the sunshine and paused. I was starting to feel the itch to have kids myself, regardless of my uncommitted status. I didn't want to go through life single and without a couple of mini-Robbies to tell stories to, do puzzles with, guide along life's path. I'd been so close with my mom I couldn't imagine not being mom to at least one child. It'd be better to have a sweet reliable man in my life to share the parenting with, though. And maybe, just maybe, Jim was going to turn out to be the one.

I smiled to myself and headed off to the small grocery around the corner. Spending an hour making meatloaf and scalloped potatoes to give away seemed like a worthwhile use of my day off, after I cut a tree, of course. Maybe I'd pick up gingerbread house ingredients, too.

* * *

An hour later, I turned onto Greasy Creek Road and parked my van at Wise Hollow Christmas Tree Farm. Too bad I couldn't combine a bike ride with picking up greenery, but unless I got a wheeled cart to lug behind my cycle, there was no way I could strap a tree to the back of my bike. I giggled picturing the sight.

The store wasn't much more than a lean-to in front of rows of Christmas trees stretching down a gentle slope as far as I could see, with a band of woods on the left edge. Wreaths and garlands were set up on stands and also lay in stacks on the covered porch. The tang of fresh-cut pine plopped me directly into the Christmas spirit. A tree was really going to make the store look festive, especially if I put it in the front window. And maybe it would take customers' minds off murder.

A woman emerged from the store holding a wreath. “Howdy, there. Was you wanting a tree?” She laid the wreath on the pile with thick, weathered hands. Her cheeks looked reddened from working outdoors and her blue canvas jacket had been mended with duct tape.

“Yes, I would. And some greens and a couple of wreaths, too.”

“We got all that, as you can see. And you can cut your own tree.” She pointed at several two-foot bow saws leaning against the porch and then gestured out at the trees. “Pick any old tree, don't matter which.” She looked me up and down. “You look purt' strong, but give me a holler if you need help hauling the tree on up here.”

“Thanks, I will.” I didn't own a stand, but I was sure Shamrock would have more than one model in stock. I could always leave the tree in a bucket of water for a few days until I got a stand. I grabbed the curved handle of the saw, which did look like a hunter's bow, with the blade being the string, and headed down the path between two rows of trees. The trees seemed to be different types, some with almost blue needles, some greener, some bushy and thick, some more sparse. I didn't have any experience with kinds of Christmas trees. In Santa Barbara, we decorated the giant ficus in the living room instead of buying a cut tree. My mom's choice, not mine, but I got used to it. I looked for tags identifying the tree varieties but didn't see any. I didn't spy any workers or even other folks browsing the trees, either. Cotton-ball clouds floated lazily above in the sunny sky, and from the woods came the loud rapping of a pileated woodpecker.

I could use a tall tree, since the stamped tin ceiling of the store was pretty high. But I also didn't want to crowd out any of the tables. Even a medium-sized tree would look festive. I wandered down one row, cut through to another, and kept going. After reaching out and stroking branches as I walked, I decided I wanted a variety with softer needles, and searched for the perfect shape.

“Perfect tree, where are you?” I called out, since I was pretty sure nobody else was around to hear me. As I ran my hand over a branch of the tree next to me, something rustled nearby.
Uh-oh.
Maybe there was another tree customer out here who'd heard me talking to inanimate objects. I glanced behind me but saw only trees. I stepped into the next row. Same result. Then I heard the rustling again.

I froze, my heart thudding. Despite this pretty weather, there was a murderer out here somewhere, a killer who'd broken into my store. What if they'd followed me? What if they thought I knew something? Kill once, kill twice, what's the difference? At least I held a big lethal weapon in my now-sweaty hand. Would I be able to use it? At five feet four I was shorter than most other adults, although I was strong from all my carpentry work and my cycling.

The heck with finding the perfect tree.
I turned in the direction of the store and safety, trying to walk without making any noise, avoiding stray branches on the ground. I was hurrying as fast as I could without actually breaking into a run when there was another rustle the next row over. I brought the saw up in front of me with extended arms, trying without success to keep them from trembling. A branch cracked.

Abe stepped out a yard in front of me. I let out a yell.