Irish Stewed (11 page)

My head came up. “Did you see the car?”

“A car?” As if it might kick-start her memory, she strolled toward the front window and looked across the street at the Terminal. For a long time, she stood lost in thought before
she said, “You know Jack Lancer spent a lot of time over there these last few weeks.”

“So I’ve heard.” I joined her. From this vantage point—with that pink and white kimono, a flowered teapot, and a row of silky scarves framing the scene—the Terminal looked more dreary than ever. “Do you know what he was doing there?”

“I know what he wasn’t doing!” Carrie tossed back her head. “Man sure wasn’t looking for a story idea. First day he showed up, see, it was all anybody around here could talk about. Then the next day, he was back again. I heard about it from Denice when she came outside for a smoke. Hey, I know how these TV types are. They’re always looking for something new and interesting. So I figured, what the heck, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I put this on.” She pointed to our right and a display of chunky stone jewelry and touched a finger to a necklace made of sterling beads and lapis drops polished to a velvety finish.

“Wore that, and took a walk over to Sophie’s place.”

The why wasn’t a mystery. Hollywood had taught me a lot about self-promotion.

“You were hoping he’d realize that you sell wonderful art and do a story about the gallery. What did Jack Lancer say?”

“The son of a gun didn’t even notice my jewelry. He did”—Carrie elbowed me in the ribs—“he did notice me, though. Not only did he ask me to join him for coffee, he wondered what I was up to that night and just about came right out and propositioned me.”

Kim did say Jack was something of a ladies’ man. “And you told him?”

Carrie hooted. “I told him that I sell art, not myself. And I didn’t have coffee with him, either, in case you’re
wondering. He might have been a TV star, but Jack Lancer was not my type. Too loud. Too pushy. You know what I mean?”

“But even after that day, Jack kept coming back to the Terminal.”

“So I hear. I never saw him again. I never bothered.”

“And the night of the murder, when you were here late doing the books?”

Carrie turned around and went to retrieve her coffee cup. “There was someone there, all right,” she said, glancing across the street over the rim of her cup. “About seven o’clock.”

I didn’t want to look too eager so I stopped myself just as I was about to close in on Carrie. “Who?”

When she shrugged, her caftan rippled in orange waves. “Long shadows on that side of the street at that time of the evening. I couldn’t really see who it was. But I did see the person go in through the front door.”

“But the back door was broken into. That’s how Jack and the killer got inside!” I didn’t want to say too much, but it really didn’t matter. Like the rest of Hubbard, Carrie had obviously been glued to TV coverage of the Lance of Justice’s death.

“The killer got in through the back door. Yeah, that’s what they said on the news. But I didn’t see anyone go around back. Like I said, I couldn’t tell who it was, but I saw a person walk up to the front door and open it with a key.”

*   *   *

Whatever I had expected to hear from Carrie, it wasn’t this. I pretended I wasn’t knocked for a loop, told her I’d be back on a day when I had more time to look around her shop,
and made a beeline across the street and into the Terminal kitchen.

Since there were no customers out front, George, Denice, and Inez were taking a break.

“Who has a key?” I asked.

They looked at me in wonder.

“To the restaurant. Who has a key to the restaurant?”

George grunted. “You.”

“And?” I turned to Denice and Inez.

Denice had been checking her messages and she tucked her phone in her pocket. “Nobody,” she said. “Nobody but Sophie and now, you.”

“But . . .” I paced a pattern between the food pickup window and the grill. “What happens when Sophie’s sick?”

“Sophie’s never been sick,” Inez said.

“Well, what about if she takes a day off?”

“That’s never happened,” George said.

“When her sister died out in California a few years ago, Sophie closed the restaurant for a week or more.” Denice rose from the chair where she’d been sitting. “Besides, she always said if something like that would happen . . . you know, if she would get sick or something . . . then she’d call one of us and we could stop over at her house for the key.”

We heard the front door of the Terminal open and Inez popped out of her chair and hurried out of the kitchen. “She was always the first one here in the morning,” she called over her shoulder. “And she was always the last one to leave at night. Nobody ever needed a key but Sophie.”

Sophie, and whoever had let themselves into the Terminal on the night Jack Lancer was murdered.

The thought burned through my brain along with the fact that if that was true—if someone came in through the front
door—then that broken window on the back door that led directly into the kitchen was just for show so the cops would think the person got in that way. I kicked this around while I went out to the restaurant to see who’d just come in. Stan, Dale, Phil, and Ruben. Early that day, and no doubt anxious for the day’s special, chicken fried steak.

I greeted the men, then hurried to the office, the better to have a few minutes to think over everything I’d learned that morning.

Jack had been a Terminal regular as of late.

I’d heard that much from any number of people, so that wasn’t a surprise.

The question of course was why he was suddenly interested in the Terminal.

But that wasn’t my only question. Now that I knew Sophie was the only one Carrie could have seen earlier that evening, the only one with a key, I had to wonder why she’d made an after-hours visit to the Terminal and why she hadn’t mentioned—to either me or to the police—that she’d been there earlier that evening.

Even those questions weren’t as disturbing as the final one that pounded through my brain.

What was Sophie trying to hide?

“H
ow was the chicken fried steak?”

“No hello?” When I got to the hospital that Thursday evening, Sophie was sitting up in the green vinyl-covered chair in the corner of her room, so I perched on the edge of her bed. “The first thing you ask about is today’s special?”

“Today’s special, tomorrow’s special.” She shifted in her seat and for a moment, her face contorted into a mask of pain. Settled, she took a deep breath. “Better I should think about the Terminal than about what those doctors did to me.”

I didn’t even have to ask. From this angle, I couldn’t help but see that both above and below the bandage that swathed her knee, Sophie’s right leg was swollen. There was an IV in her arm that slowly dripped what I hoped was enough painkiller to alleviate what must have been terrible discomfort.

“No problems at the Terminal,” I told her without
bothering to add,
no customers, either
. “Everything’s as right as rain.”

“George is behaving?”

I assured her he was.

“Denice is still as on top of things as ever?”

This, too, I had no problem telling her was true.

“And how about Inez?” Sophie frowned. “Nice girl. And she needs the job to help support that kid of hers because that no-good lowlife of a husband walked out on her. But she’s not always as conscientious as I would like. She hasn’t been late, has she?”

Since I didn’t want Sophie to worry, I lied.

“So . . .” I slipped off the bed. “You’ve probably been watching a lot of TV.”

“You mean about the Lance of Justice’s murder.” Sophie nodded. “It’s all anybody can talk about. My roommate . . .” She poked her chin in the direction of the second bed in the room, but that bed was empty. “Before she went home today, my roommate said I should be sure to give her a call. You know, when the police solve the mystery. She was mighty impressed about how Jack was found at the Terminal, I can tell you that much. She acted like she was sharing the room with a celebrity.”

“There’s certainly been a lot of talk about the murder,” I told Sophie and this time, it wasn’t a lie. “Everyone has their own theories about what happened and why.”

“I sure do.” Sophie shifted in her seat again and when she reached for the pillow propped at her back and couldn’t quite get it the way she wanted, I went over to help. “It had to be someone he was investigating,” she told me, keeping her voice low as if she were the only one clued in to the possibility. “Someone wanted to keep the Lance of Justice from blabbing about something.”

Something he was investigating. Like a certain restaurant where he’d been spending an unusual amount of time?

I didn’t dare come right out and ask. Not if I expected any kind of answer that actually might help.

Instead, I went over to the bedside table, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Sophie. “You need plenty of water when you’re recovering from surgery,” I told her. “And plenty of time to rest and relax and let all your cares fade away. Maybe if there was something you were worried about . . .” I gave her a knowing look.

She returned it with a blank stare.

I drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “I’ve been talking to the other merchants in the neighborhood,” I told her.

“That’s good. That’s just the kind of thing I was hoping you’d do. It’s a great way to build morale, don’t you think?”

“It might be if we were talking about business.”

As if I’d never dropped that not-so-subtle remark, Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “I hope Declan is one of the people you’ve been talking to. He likes you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Not well. Not yet. But when he does, he’ll like you even more.”

Chances were, once he really got to know me, he wouldn’t. Especially since I wasn’t Irish. And he, apparently, wasn’t totally on the up-and-up.

“I’m not talking about Declan,” I said.

“The others. Sure. You mean like Carrie at the art gallery. And Myra and Bill and Barb over at Caf-Fiends. Oh, don’t look so embarrassed.”

I was pretty sure I didn’t, but that didn’t matter, because Sophie went right on. “It makes sense that you’d talk to them. They’re our biggest competition. It’s just too bad, that’s what it is. They seem like nice enough people. It’s too
bad their coffee shop will never be able to compete with the Terminal.”

“It wasn’t business we were talking about,” I mentioned again. “It was the murder.”

“Well, I imagine it was. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened in the old Traintown neighborhood in as long as anyone can remember. Well, at least since back in the 1930s. You know there was a serial killer working along the railroad lines then. All the way from Cleveland to Pittsburgh. And there are people who say—”

“Someone saw you.” I didn’t mean to be impolite, but if I just sat there and listened to Sophie avoid the subject and if I held my tongue and didn’t get to the bottom of what was going on, I was going to pop like a champagne cork. “The night of the murder. Someone saw you at the Terminal, Sophie. Before you and I showed up and found the body.”

Except for her right hand picking at her blue and white hospital gown, Sophie went perfectly still for so long, I was able to tune into the
click, click, click
of the second hand as it swept around the clock on the wall.

She cleared her throat and looked up at the ceiling. “Who says?” she asked.

“What difference does it make? Someone said you were there.”

She blinked. “They’re wrong.”

“You let yourself in through the front door.”

“That’s not possible and you know it. I was home when you stopped by to collect me.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t out earlier.”

“I was out earlier. To the pet store for food for Muffin. And to the grocery store so I could make sure the refrigerator was stocked for you. I stopped at church, too. You know,
just in case. The night before surgery, I figured it couldn’t hurt to light a candle.”

“Then you weren’t at the Terminal?”

When she shifted her gaze to me, her eyes were wide. “Why would I be?”

“I was hoping that’s what you’d tell me.”

“Well, of course I would tell you.” Sophie offered me a smile that could have melted butter. “If there was anything to tell.”

“So you weren’t at the Terminal?”

“I was. With you.”

“But not before that.”

“My goodness, Laurel!” Her laugh sounded as fatigued as Sophie looked. “I don’t know why you’re going on about this and I don’t know . . .” She winced and grabbed her right leg and when I hurried over to see what was wrong, she put out a hand to tell me to keep my distance. “I’m fine,” she assured me after a moment. “I’m just a little tired.”

I offered to call the nurse but Sophie refused. “I just need to put my mind to feeling better,” she told me. “I just need to concentrate on getting well again. Once I’m out of this place and in Serenity Oaks, I’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”

We’d had this conversation more than once before I ever agreed to come to Hubbard. “You don’t have to go to a long-term care facility to recuperate,” I told her. “You can come home as soon as you’re discharged on Saturday. I can help take care of you and—”

“And who will take care of the Terminal if you’re home fussing over me?” Her lips pressed together, she shook her head in a way that told me the subject was closed for discussion. “Besides,” she added, “Vi and Margaret are over at Serenity Oaks. They’re my old bowling buddies. Not to
worry.” She gave me a wink. “Me and Vi and Margaret, we’re planning to get in all sorts of trouble once I get there.”

I had no doubt of it. Just like I had no doubts that I was getting nowhere with my questions. That didn’t stop me from asking another one.

“Do you know why Jack Lancer had been hanging around the Terminal?”

Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “The food is mighty good.”

“But that doesn’t explain why he’d come in every day.”

“Dale and Phil and Ruben and Stan do.”

“Dale and Phil and Ruben and Stan . . . they’re not investigative reporters with jobs at a TV station. They stop in to pass the time. I think . . .” There was no use holding back, not now that I’d committed myself, so I forged on. “I think maybe Jack Lancer was there because he was doing a story and the Terminal was the only place he could find the information he wanted.”

Sophie’s laugh would have been a good sign that she was feeling better if it were even half-convincing. “What kind of information could he possibly find at the Terminal?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me that.”

“Well . . .” She picked at her hospital gown again. “There’s certainly nothing going on at the restaurant that the Lance of Justice would have been investigating.”

“So, maybe he was trying to pull what he pulled with George. George, he says that the Lance wanted free meals and when George wouldn’t provide them, that’s when the Lance of Justice trashed his restaurant on TV.” Just thinking about it made me choke on my words. “He wasn’t trying to pull something like that on you, was he? Because if that was the case—”

“It wasn’t.” Sophie reached over and patted my hand. “But thank you for caring.”

Caring wasn’t part of my makeup, but before I could remind Sophie, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I think I’ll take a bit of a nap.”

“Of course.” I gathered my things and resigned myself to the fact that though I’d satisfied myself in terms of Sophie’s recovery, I was still left with plenty of questions and the suspicions that went along with them.

I stopped at the door. “Does anyone else but you have a key to the Terminal?” I asked.

“Nina had one.”

“In California?”

“Well, yes. I thought if I ever lost mine . . .” I guess even Sophie realized how crazy this sounded, because she grinned. “Well, I guess it wasn’t the best plan, but it made me feel more comfortable knowing I had a backup. I suppose if I ever did lose my key, Nina could have sent the duplicate in the overnight mail.”

Apparently, the smile I gave her in response to this convoluted plan was not as wide or as convincing as I hoped, because she said, “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong. Not with me. Not with the Terminal. The police, they’ll find out what happened, and then everything will go back to being normal. Now, tell me, how’s my sweet little Muffin doing?”

My smile was as painful as the still-red scratches on my hand and foot. “She’s eating every bite I give her.”

“Good. She’s such a sweet little thing. Always so quiet and pleasant and wonderful.”

What else could I do besides get out of there before the words
cat from hell
escaped my lips?

Muffin was sweet and pleasant, huh?

It wasn’t the first thing Sophie said that night that I didn’t believe for one instant.

*   *   *

I was already in the Terminal kitchen Friday morning making the day’s first pot of coffee when I heard George call out from the front door, “You’d better get back to the parking lot!”

I was just about to loop an apron over my head, and I set it on the counter and trailed outside. I’d parked my car at the side of the building, but I found George all the way around back, standing about four feet from our Dumpster and surrounded with what looked like everything we’d thrown away in the last week.

“What on earth?” My gaze roamed over used paper napkins, coffee stirrers, crumpled wax paper, and empty cans of everything from diced tomatoes (the meat loaf special) to bread crumbs (that would be on account of the chicken fried steak). “What happened?”

George scraped a hand along the back of his neck. “Darned if I know, but it sure is a mess. If you get me the push broom from in the kitchen . . .”

I not only got the broom, but since Denice and Inez were just on their way in, I told them what was up and headed out to help.

“Dumpster’s practically empty.” George peered down into it. “What crazy fool would tear through the garbage like that?”

“Cats?” Since my only experience with cats was sweet and wonderful Muffin, I can be excused from having less than a good opinion of felines. “Dogs?”

“Dogs and cats don’t get down into the Dumpster and toss things out left and right. And they might lick out a can of green beans, but they sure don’t finish up and haul the empty can out and drag it halfway across the parking lot.” To emphasize his point, George kicked one of the cans and
it skittered across the blacktop. “And they sure as heck don’t take every garbage bag out of the Dumpster, rip them open, and scoop every last little thing out. Look at this mess. It had to be done by people.”

I couldn’t help but slide a look toward the front of the restaurant. This morning, like every morning since we found Jack Lancer’s cold and lifeless body, the street was filled with news vans and reporters, eager to dig up the latest on the murder. “You don’t suppose . . .”

George must have been thinking what I was thinking. His eyes narrowed, he tossed a look out front, and grumbled a single word under his breath. “They’re all alike. Bottom-feeders. Looking for something sensational, I bet.”

“In our garbage?” It shouldn’t have surprised me. Back when I worked for Meghan, we’d had more than one incident of too-enthusiastic paparazzi who’d been found going through the trash. At least in their case, I could understand. Sort of. Anything they found was fair game since they’d take the information and sell it to the tabloids. In fact, I was convinced that something Meghan had tossed away without thinking was what led to the media finding out about her teenage son’s drug addiction.

My mouth soured.

But maybe that had more to do with the odor rising off the sea of trash than it did my memories of my last days in Meghan’s employment.

Maybe.

“Well, they sure didn’t find anything here,” I told George and reminded myself. “Not unless one of them has psychic powers and can figure out what happened to Jack Lancer from the vibes coming off used coffee grounds.” I looked at where they were scattered across the parking lot in gritty little mounds and groaned.

“I’ll start sweeping,” I told George. “You go inside and get some garbage bags.”

“And if you bring out a couple of cups of coffee, too, we’d appreciate it.”