Flipped For Murder (3 page)

Chapter 4

I busied myself making a pot of coffee a few minutes later, keeping my back to Buck and Jim at the table behind me. I'd insisted we talk inside. The image of Stella, dead with a biscuit in her mouth, filled my brain until I thought it would explode. Me, I didn't want coffee. My bottle of Four Roses Kentucky bourbon was calling out like an across-the-border siren. I slid it out of my private cabinet and measured a shot into a mug before I poured coffee for Buck.

“Tea, Jim?” I asked, setting Buck's mug down in front of him, managing not to trip on his stretched-out legs.

Jim shook his head. “Got anything stronger?”

Those green eyes were going to be my undoing, I could tell. Even took my mind off murder for a second.

“Sure. You can have what I'm having.” I set the bottle and the shot glass on the table with another thick blue mug and joined the men, collapsing into a chair. “All right, Buck. Now I'm ready.” I sipped the bourbon, which went down like a silky ribbon of warmth.

Buck rubbed the top of his head, which only made his hair resemble the locks of a cartoon character who had just stuck his finger in an electric socket. That is, more than it already had. A tablet device lay on the table in front of him.

“I know you had several disagreements with Stella,” he began. “And I have to look at anybody who might coulda killed her.”

Jim hoisted the bourbon bottle and poured a bit into his mug. I sampled my own drink again.

Jim gazed at Buck. “Do you have any evidence to link Robbie with the killing?”

“How could he?” I heard my voice rising.

“I'm a lawyer, Robbie. Let me ask the questions, okay?” Jim looked encouragingly at me and nodded in that way people did when they wanted you to nod back.

“No evidence to speak of. So far, anyway.” Buck stared at the ceiling. “But it appears Robbie did have motive. You know, a reason to do away with Stella.”

“I know what ‘motive' means.” I took another sip, set the mug down, and folded my arms. “Why in blazes would I want to jeopardize all this”—I opened my arms to encompass my store—“when I just this week finished the renovations and opened my new restaurant? Sure, Stella was difficult over the last year, but I'm looking forward, not back.”

Buck looked straight at me and used his serious police voice. “I'm going to ask you again. Where were you at between three o'clock and seven o'clock tonight, Roberta Jordan?”

I swallowed. “I told you. I was here in the store, and then in my apartment in the back.” I'd watched enough TV shows to know the drill. “I didn't leave. I was alone. I didn't talk to anyone.” I was innocent. They had to figure that out sooner or later. The former, I hoped.

Buck used his left index finger to type laboriously onto the virtual keyboard of the device.

“How was Stella killed?” Jim asked.

“Just a sec.” Buck held up his right hand until he finished typing what was presumably my answer, then looked at Jim. “I can't share the method of death at this time,” he said in a sorrowful tone, as if he would share if only he could. He stared at me for a beat. “Did you kill Stella Rogers?”

“No! There's gotta be other people in town who'd just as soon Stella disappeared,” I said. “Right? She wasn't a very nice person. God rest her soul,” I hastily added, even though I was about as unreligious as they came.

Jim took a sip of his drink. He set the mug down and folded his forearms on the table, narrowing his eyes. “What about Ed Kowalski? Robbie's his newest and only competitor.”

“But why kill Stella to get at me?” I copied his arms and attentive gaze until I realized what I'd done, then unfolded my arms and sat back in my chair. “That seems crazy.”

“If it was staged to make Buck here think you killed Stella, you'd be out of business,” Jim said. “Hard to make pancakes from jail.”

Buck let out a low whistle and nodded his head so slowly I wondered if he was falling asleep.

“Coulda happ'ned. Coulda indeed.”

He kept his gaze somewhere near the ceiling so long I looked, too. Had I missed painting a section, or was a bat roosting up there? I didn't see anything out of place.

I thought of something. “Where's Stella's house? My Dodge van was here all day, parked around the side like always. Somebody must have seen it, walking or driving by.”

Buck shook his head real slow. “She lived three blocks down and one over. On Beanblossom Road. You coulda walked. Or ridden that bicycle of yours.”

“Rats.” I glanced at Jim, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to say,
“Good try.”

When something started buzzing, Buck retrieved a big old cell phone out of a case clipped onto his wide belt and flipped it open with all the flair of the pre-smartphone days.

“Yup.” Buck listened and sat up straight. “Yes, sir.” He flipped it shut and stood. “Gotta go. Chief says to ask you to stick around town, Robbie. If you'd be so kind.”

I rolled my eyes. “Like I'm going anywhere.” I watched Buck amble out; the bell on the door tolled his departure. I turned back to Jim, who stared at me, chin in hand, looking a little bit inscrutable.

“What?” I asked. I took another sip of bourbon.

“I was just thinking this changes the picture.”

“What picture?” Was he talking about him and me, that picture?

“I hope being a person of interest in a murder investigation doesn't jeopardize your brand-new business here.”

Oh.
“Ya think?” I shook my head. “I had such a good first day, too. Now folks might not want to eat breakfast cooked by a killer. Well, I didn't murder anybody. And they're going to figure that out sooner or later.” I stretched my arms to the ceiling, and then let them collapse at my sides. I was out of fuel, as drained as a gas tank running on fumes. I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them when I heard Jim's chair scrape the floor.

“I'll let you get your beauty sleep,” he said as he stood.

“Ha,” I said, also rising. “All six hours of it.” I walked him to the door. The electricity of the moment in the car had vanished with the pronouncement of murder, and I wondered if it would ever come back.

With his hand on the door handle, he looked at me with a somber face. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

“I should thank you. I enjoyed getting to know you beyond the world of real estate law, and the dancing . . . well, that was great.”

A smile spread across his face. “It was, wasn't it?”

On an impulse, I stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Let's do it again sometime.” I stepped back before things got carried away.

 

 

Despite how tired I was, I took the time to clean out the coffeepot, set up the regular coffee and the decaf for the morning, and make sure all was clean and ready for what I hoped would be another breakfast rush. My brain was rushing along like the
Wabash Cannonball
and I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep yet. Instead, I pulled out butter, milk, cheese, and eggs. I could prep the biscuit dough now to save time in the predawn hours. It would hold fine in the walk-in overnight.

After I scrubbed my hands and put on an apron, I measured out the flour, half whole wheat and half unbleached white, into the big stainless bowl, mixing in baking powder and salt. The image of Stella Rogers with my biscuit in her mouth rose up as if I was looking at her in full color on the big screen at the Starlite Drive-In in Bloomington. Who would have done a thing like that? Was somebody really trying to frame me? I didn't hate anybody. Well, besides Will, my ex. But you'd have to hate someone to kill them. Wouldn't you? Or to even frame them for murder.

I cut the butter into small cubes and used my big vintage pastry cutter to slice it into the flour, pressing the U-shaped wires down again and again until the flour was the texture of coarse meal. What other reasons would drive a man or a woman to take a life? Rage at losing something valuable, like a spouse or a treasure, I supposed, or at feeling unfairly treated. Fear of being exposed could be another motivation, exposed for having committed a crime or done something shameful.

Making a little well in the flour, I cracked in the eggs and stirred them up with a fork, then added the milk and the grated cheddar from the industrial-sized bag. Buying already grated cheese might have been cheating, but it saved so much time I'd decided to give it a try. I stirred the dough until it just came together. Who in this small town felt that kind of rage at Stella, or that type of fear?

I floured the big marble pastry slab I'd installed at hip height—which for me was only thirty inches off the floor—and turned out the dough. I kneaded it only enough to bring it all together, then slid it into a clean plastic bag, sealed it, and set it in the walk-in along with the other perishables. After I cleaned up, still wearing my apron I sank into the chair next to the bourbon. One more little splash wouldn't hurt, and it might help me sleep.

My gaze wandered to the framed picture on the front wall. My mom and me, each with an arm slung over the shoulder of the other, laughed into the camera. I lifted the mug toward the image.

“Hey, Mommy. How'd I do?” Adele had taken that picture the last time she'd been out to visit before I moved to Indiana. Mom and I had taken her to the Wild Pelican, a high-end restaurant perched above an unspoiled beach outside Santa Barbara, its wall of windows showcasing the sparkling Pacific that stretched out all the way to Japan. My mom's wavy blond hair was cut in a no-fuss short do and her blue eyes were brilliant in a face tanned from walking on the beach. I'd gotten my dark curly locks and Mediterranean skin tones from my long-disappeared father, but my body matched Mom's. We'd often talked about how we came from good peasant stock.

“You would have loved this place,” I told her, taking a sip of bourbon, another taste we'd shared. My throat thickened, as it still did frequently, when I thought about her. She'd been my best friend. She'd taught me carpentry, giving me projects in high school to keep me busy and off the streets. Every summer she'd sent me out to stay with Adele for a month so I'd get to know my Midwestern roots. She'd fostered my love of puzzles of all kinds, and encouraged me to attend the engineering program at Cal Poly a hundred miles up the coast in San Luis Obispo. She'd even given me her blessing when I wanted to marry Will the day after I graduated, even though I could tell she didn't like him much. I should have trusted her judgment over my own.

“But I have the feeling you'd think this was the right move. This store, this restaurant. Right?” I didn't have much of a belief in the afterlife, but I hoped her essence was out there watching, listening, and giving me the thumbs-up with a great big old grin.

Chapter 5

Boy, howdy. Six hours of sleep was not enough, no way. Sleep had come at last, but not before about one o'clock. Thoughts of murder weren't exactly conducive to a good night's sleep. Or morning's, as the case may be.

I rubbed my eyes and then pocketed the key to my small apartment at the back of the store. I didn't want anybody wandering in there looking for the store restrooms, which were the next two doors to the right, even though I'd mounted a sign on my apartment door that read
PRIVATE
, just in case. The restrooms were clearly labeled, of course, with
SHE ALL
and
HE ALL
, the almost-too-silly suggestion of Phil. I'd let him paint those words because, so far, he'd demonstrated a pretty good design sense of what worked visually and what was just too country cute. I'd installed the restrooms and constructed them to
AD
A code, with doors wide enough for a wheelchair, levers on the sinks, grab bars, and more. The previous owner would have made do with an outhouse behind the store if he'd been able to. As it was, the single dingy bathroom had made you feel dirty before you even walked in.

For now, though, I had breakfast to make. Since it was Sunday, I'd decided we didn't have to open until eight. Two hours should be long enough to prep and get started cooking. Adele and Phil, who were the extent of my crew until I hired paid help, were coming in at seven-thirty. I donned a fresh apron, extracted the biscuit dough along with bacon, eggs, milk, and butter, and got to work.

But when I flipped on the coffeemaker, I froze. What if Buck came back? What if he'd been serious about me being a suspect? I had nobody to vouch for me, no alibi for those hours he'd asked about. Even the fact that my old Dodge van had been here didn't mean diddly-squat, since Buck had said Stella's house was an easy stroll from here.

I shook off the worry. My business would definitely fail if I got paralyzed by anticipating something that wouldn't happen. I hadn't killed Stella. I wouldn't be arrested. Period.

A bell dinged over and over. I strode to the wall near the door where a vintage phone in a wooden case hung on the wall. I'd had modern innards installed, but the heavy black receiver hanging from a hook on the side worked, as did the rotary dial on the front.

“Pans ‘N Pancakes. This is Robbie.” I listened to Phil croak out he was sick, and then grimaced before saying, “Just get better, dude. We'll be fine. Adele's coming in.” But after I hung up, I hoped I was right. I was still getting used to the pace of the breakfast rush, and things could get tricky with only two of us.

By the time Adele walked in, the pancake batter was made, the first batch of biscuits was in the oven, and I'd made a fresh batch of miso gravy. I was about to greet her when another woman followed her in. It was Vera from the day before.

I greeted her and then said, “But I'm sorry, we're not open yet.”

Adele laughed. “She's with me, honey.” She clapped Vera on the back. “We realized we needed a chance to catch up, so—”

“So I left the tour and spent the night with Addie. Hard to believe how long it's been since we sat down with a beer and shot the shi . . .” She caught herself with a grin. “And got reacquainted.”

“She's going to help out this morning. Okay by you?” Adele cocked her head.

I nodded as I thanked Vera. “Happens to be perfect timing. Phil called. He's sick. Stomach flu. No way he's coming in.” I tapped the countertop. “Vera, can you bake?”

“Can I bake? Addie, can I bake?” Vera set hands on hips.

“She used to run Vee's Bakery. Of course she can bake.” Adele laughed loud and hearty.

“Whew. Phil makes the desserts for lunch. I'll need brownies and anything else. Can you do that by eleven-thirty?”

“Of course. You want me to bake here or at Addie's?”

“Here's fine.”

“I make a pretty mean apple pie. You got apples?”

“You bet. There's a whole bushel of local Spartans in the cooler. It's apple season, after all. But start after the breakfast rush is over, okay?”

“What can I do now?” she asked.

“Adele knows where the aprons are. Tables need setting, and then you could make sure salt and pepper shakers and the ketchup squeeze bottles are full. Of course that's assuming we get a breakfast rush. I should tell you both what happened last night.”

“About Stella coming up dead?” Adele asked as she tied an apron on after handing one to Vera.

“Of course you would already know. But it's more than that.” I told them about coming home with Jim last night and about Buck here waiting for me, getting grilled about where I'd been, me with no witnesses to my whereabouts.

Adele whistled. “No fun. Don't you worry your head; they'll find the person who shot her.”

“You already know how she was killed? Last night Buck wouldn't tell us.” I turned my attention back to my cooking and began laying sausage links on the grill.

“I got my sources, sugar.” She laid blue-and-white striped paper place mats on the table next to her. “She was shot, all right, and in the back, as I heard it. The biscuit in the mouth was a nasty touch, wasn't it? For her—although, of course, she was gone by then—but mainly for you.”

“I'll say.” I tried to focus on the now-sizzling sausage. “Shot in the back. That means it was somebody she knew? Who she let into her house, I guess.” I jumped back when a drop of hot grease landed on my hand.
Damn.
Thinking about murder was Buck's job, not mine.

 

 

I wiped my forehead with a corner of my apron as the old clock on the wall chimed nine. My fears about people staying away because of the murder were unfounded. The breakfast rush was in full force. I'd been flipping pancakes, cooking short-order eggs, serving up gravy on biscuits, and frying bacon and sausage as fast as I could. Vera and Adele both waited tables and bussed after we'd decided to rotate jobs. The three of us were like a machine oiled and tuned to its exact specs.

“Any more apple butter?” Vera asked.

I pointed to the shelves above the cutlery station. Quarts and quarts of locally made apple butter sat at the ready, another popular topping for the biscuits. We served a dollop in little paper cups when customers requested it.

After I slid another tray of biscuits into the oven and set the timer, grateful I'd made up the dough last night, I took a breath and looked around. Two men and two women about my age wearing matching brightly colored stretchy shirts and biking shorts sat around one table, all of them lean and tanned, with platters of breakfast in various stages of decimation in front of them. One texted on a phone while the others examined a map. Maybe I should try to join a cycling group, myself. I'd been so busy I hadn't had any time for socializing. Until last night.

Several townspeople I recognized walked in and waited until Adele showed them to a table. She clearly knew them, and stood chatting for a moment before turning to clear the dishes for a couple who'd finished eating. The newcomers looked like they'd dressed for church, the man in slacks, a white short-sleeved shirt, and a green tie. The older woman wore a pink pantsuit, and the younger one, who appeared to be their daughter, was dressed in a conservatively tailored dark sweater and skirt.

I beckoned Adele over. “Trade jobs for a bit? I really should get out there and welcome my guests.” At her nod, I swapped out my greasy batter-stained apron for a clean one, washed my hands, and headed for the breakfasting public.

First I stopped at the bicyclists' table and greeted them, introducing myself. “I ride, too. What's your route today?”

One of the women smiled and said her name was Lou. “Cycling is a workout around here, isn't it?”

“True words.” I smiled back.

“Every time we go down a hill, there's another one to go up. We're grad students at IU, so that's fifteen miles to get here. We plan to loop around through Beanblossom and Nashville. Total about fifty miles.”

“Unless we pop in on the Brown County Cyclefest down in the park,” one of her companions said.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Road bikers weekend,” Lou explained. “Bluegrass music and bunches of cycling folks.”

“Sounds fun,” I said. “Wish I owned a few free hours.”

“You oughta ride with us some time,” said the guy sitting next to her.

“I'd love to. I won't be taking weekends off for a while, though.” I gestured around the store. “We only opened yesterday. But thanks.”

“We have pretty flexible schedules,” Lou said.

I dug my card out of my back pocket and handed it to her. “Text me next time you're going out and I'll see if I can join you midride. Nice meeting you all.”

A woman waved her arm at me from the shelves of cookware on the opposite wall, so I headed in her direction. “Can I help you?”

She held up a two-handled chopping knife with a dark curved blade. “What do you use this for?”

I reached up and grabbed a wide, shallow wooden bowl with lines on the inside pointing all which way. “It's for chopping nuts or herbs. Anything, really, but I like it for chopping nuts.”

“I see. So they don't spray all over the place?”

“Exactly. You kind of rock the knife. Works great.” I gave her a price, and when she said she wanted it, I took it over to the cash register. Money in, cookware out, exactly how I liked it. I wrapped the knife carefully in paper and slid both items into a blue-and-white paper sack with handles.

I then moved on to the table of churchgoing breakfasters and repeated my welcome and introduction. The older woman, her puffy blond hair styled to a shellacked perfection, sniffed instead of speaking. Her husband, whose black toupee wouldn't have fooled even the most naive observer, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

“Heard you're a person of interest in a murder.” He narrowed his eyes. “Wadn't shooting Stella enough? Why'd you have to stuff that biscuit in her mouth?”

Oh, boy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw heads perk up at the nearby tables.

“Daddy!” The younger woman frowned at him.

“That's not very Christian of you. Besides, if Officer Buck or Officer Wanda knew Miss Jordan was the murderer, do you think she'd be standing here taking our breakfast order?”

I opened my mouth to speak when the man laughed.

“I'm just ribbing her. No offense, Miss Jordan.” He tapped his fork on the table. “But it needs solving.”

I swallowed and started again. “It needs to be solved, all right. I'm sure the police will discover poor Stella's actual killer any hour now. And please call me Robbie. Now, what can I get you for breakfast?”

 

 

By the end of the hour, the first rush had ebbed and the air in the store was getting stale from all the frying, despite the exhaust fan going full-time. I swung open the front door until it was flat against the inside wall, pushed the screen open, and stood in the fall sunshine for a moment. The store was at the edge of town, and I was blessed with a slice of heaven for a view: red and yellow leaves decorating the woods across the street, and hills rising up in the distance. I closed my eyes, letting the light bathe my face in warm comfort, smelling wood smoke, dry leaves, and a hint of apple from the orchard down the road. The cyclic rhythm of their droning cider press suddenly was drowned out by the bells from the three churches on Main Street that competed in ringing their invitations to worship. Our Lady of Springs was nearest, followed by the popular Hope Springs Eternal Assembly of God, with Grace Zion a block farther down. A half-dozen other churches were scattered through the village. People in Indiana took religion seriously.

My bubble of respite popped when someone cleared his throat. My eyes flew open to see Buck in front of me. I groaned.

“That's not much of a good morning, then, is it?” he asked in his usual drawl.

“Sorry. I'd forgotten about Stella's death for a minute there.”

“Wish I could forget. Yes, I sincerely wish I could.”

“You're not here to arrest me, are you?” I smiled a little nervously.

“Not at this time, no.” He cleared his throat again. “I wondered if I could get a bite of breakfast, though.”

I laughed, my nervousness gone as fast as it'd come on. “That's what I'm here for.” I gestured into the store. “After you, Officer.” I let the screen bang behind me.

Buck ordered the Kitchen Sink omelet—peppers, sausage, cheese, salsa, the works—and biscuits, with a side stack of pancakes. I took it to Adele, whose hair was damp under her hat.

“Let me take over cooking again. You look beat. Go sit down, why don't you?” She was healthy and vibrant, but she was seventy, after all. My mom, sixteen years younger than Adele, had apparently been a late-in-life afterthought for their parents.

“It's a deal.” She tossed her dirty apron in the makeshift hamper under the sink, poured herself a tall glass of orange juice, grabbed a biscuit, and took them to Buck's table.

Vera, meanwhile, slid a gigantic rimmed baking sheet full of brownie batter into the oven. Then she combined flour and butter in my industrial-sized food processor and mixed for half a minute. Adding a measure of ice water, she pulsed it for a few seconds. She turned to catch me watching her.

“Hey, it's the way Julia Child made pie crust in her later years. Worked for her, works for me.” Despite looking the same age as Adele, Vera didn't appear quite as whupped.

“Not a problem for me, Vera. I'm just grateful you're here to help. Make sure you sit down soon, too, though, okay?”