A Crusty Murder (3 page)

“My daughter is in need of space for her boutique. I want you to move out by the end of the month.” Mrs. Peterson picked a non-existent speck of lint from her coat as she stunned me with her words.

I stammered, “But, but, I have a five-year lease. I have three more years left before I need to renew.”

“Be that as it may, I will take you to court if I must and break the lease. Unless, of course, you’re willing to pay more rent.” Her cold, hard eyes held a challenge. Her mouth pulled back in a sneer. Mrs. Peterson enjoyed being a bully.

“I will do no such thing. It’s absurd to think you can get away with this. We have a signed and notarized rental agreement. I refuse to pay more rent, especially in this economy.” I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and said, “I know for a fact your daughter doesn’t have any interest in opening a boutique, or any other business. Now, I’ll ask you to leave, Mrs. Peterson, and in the future, I will mail the rent to you. Please don’t come here again.”

Mrs. Peterson rose from the chair, straightened her coat, and remarked, “It’s my right as landlady to visit my properties whenever I wish. Don’t forget that, Ms. Cameron. I’ll see you in court.”

Astounded, that’s what I was. I couldn’t believe the miserable bat could treat me so poorly. I paid my rent on time or before it was due, I never complained, and even made my own repairs since she refused to do so. Speechless, I stood watching her stride from the kitchen, and through the front door, which she slammed behind her.

I’d followed at a slower pace, thinking of my options, my bank account, and my business. Paid off business loans had hit my funds hard. Banks offered less interest than ever and my savings had met the meager mark.

“Can you believe that woman?” I’d complained to Seanmhair.

“She’s a right piece of work, for sure. What will you do?” she’d asked with concern.

“I’ll have to think about it. I suppose there’s no chance that she’ll croak in the near future, right?” I’d snorted at the thought.

“Don’t wish that on anyone. Such things come back full circle,” Seanmhair had warned.

“Just joking, I don’t wish death on anyone, truly, I don’t.” I tried to reassure her and myself with the words. “You know, Mrs. Peterson’s daughter, Cindy, is such a lovely girl. I wonder how she manages to be so sweet, when her mother is a wicked witch.”

“There are many mysteries in the universe and that’s one of them, I guess,” Seanmhair had added as she closed up shop. She flicked the store lights off and wished me well as she readied for her afternoon card game of Hearts.

Now, Mrs. Peterson was deader than dead. Crap.

“So, tell me about finding Mrs. Peterson,” Seanmhair interrupted my thoughts. “You’ve avoided the subject all morning. With those news people outside, we have to talk about what happened and get our ducks in a row. You know those hounds won’t leave us alone until they’re satisfied there’s nothing left to be squeezed from the story.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “Though, I have nothing important to tell them, especially after the police chief made his statement on the news this morning.”

“So tell me what happened,” Seanmhair insisted.

I then explained the scene and drama of fainting to the floor. I told her what happened with the police and said I hoped they wouldn’t come back. By the time I finished, Seanmhair had made tea, set a steaming cup of it in front of me, and added a buttered croissant to go with it. I thanked her and munched the buttery creation.

When Seanmhair had waited on the final customer of the day, she locked up, swept the floor, and bundled the dozen or so remaining rolls into bags with the last loaves of bread.

“I’m off to play cards unless you need me,” she said, a hint of mischief in her voice.

“I’ll be fine. I have errands to run. I’ll drop these leftovers off at the homeless shelter. Enjoy your card game. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I answered with a smile.

I scurried behind her, shut down the kitchen, and headed upstairs to my apartment. I’d lived with my grandmother until she’d sold her home and moved into senior citizens’ housing. Seanmhair’s lovely Georgian style house had passed down through our family over the years. With no male heir, coupled with my disinterest in having tax and repair bills I couldn’t pay, Seanmhair had asked if I’d mind if she moved the house on to a new owner. Saddened by the decision, I’d felt it wise to agree. Once I’d finished college, the house went on the real estate market. Seanmhair had moved, as had I.

Through the apartment’s rear window, I watched her drive away. Seanmhair’s driving skills left much to be desired, but she steadfastly refused to surrender her license and give up the freedom it offered. In her shoes, I’d probably feel the same. With a shake of my head, I turned away and considered how I’d pay an attorney to save my ass should I be arrested for murdering Mrs. Peterson.

My coat and gloves lay on the chair. I grabbed them and left the apartment.

Baked goods lay on the passenger seat of my Fiat. I drove to the homeless shelter and handed them to Martin Mason, the manager. He offered his thanks and mentioned the morning news flash concerning Mrs. Peterson.

To quell his interest and possible gossip mongering, I said I’d seen the news and was horrified by such a terrible experience. With that, I said goodbye and left him standing behind the serving counter before he could ask anything else.

Bank deposit made, and my supplies ordered, I climbed the steps to my shop when I heard a car door slam. As part of our lease, tenants parked in the rear lot of our building. Who would handle the rentals now was anybody’s guess. I glanced over my shoulder. BettyJo Seever marched across the pavement, and I badly needed to discuss our dilemma.

We’d been friends in college, had dated some of the same guys, compared notes on them, and now we lived next door to one another. The entire building stretched from one end of the block to the other. While each shop had its own entrance, a long, four-foot wide deck of sorts stretched across the back of the structure. Sets of stairs led to the parking lot.

Hastily, I gathered a couple of empanadas, half-moon shaped bread filled with seasoned meat, from my kitchen counter and went to meet her. Leftover dough had given me the chance to make these luscious pastries. Rather than deep fry them, I baked my empanadas. It was one way to enjoy them without added calories. As it was, I tended to be a smidge fluffy around the middle.

I’m not fat, but not rail thin, either. I’d given up dieting long ago. I realized that I needed to be happy with the way I was and accept the fact that I’d never be model material. I liked to call my bit of fluff
pleasing
.

A nervous expression, and anxious brown eyes, met my smile as BettyJo stared at the bag in my hands. “Okay, what delicious fare are you going to feed me this time, Melina?”

“I thought you could use sustenance after a tough day at the bank, so I made empanadas for us. Besides that, we should talk about Mrs. Peterson and the media.”

BettyJo moaned, rolled her eyes, and motioned me into her tarot shop. I noticed the carpet was absent, and the yellow crime scene tape had been removed. I gazed at the unique doodads draped everywhere. Numerous fairies and glittering stars were suspended from the ceiling. I ducked my head to avoid hitting them. Gauzy, purple fabric swags curtained the reading area. A huge crystal ball was centered on the round tarot table. BettyJo used it when offering her clients the latest update in their love lives. The orb gave off a strange and creepy glow. I knew it was a prop, but nonetheless, it gave me the jitters.

BettyJo led the way into her apartment. Her living quarters mirrored mine in layout, though our taste in furnishings and colors couldn’t be more different. I adored Celtic furnishings, designs, and knickknacks. BettyJo enjoyed ethereal furnishings and accoutrements. The slate gray walls, neutral tones, and soft brownish-green kitchen cabinets, left me wanting to splash color everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, BettyJo’s taste is quite nice, but bland to the palette I preferred.

We’d settled at the table with a teapot filled with steaming Earl Grey tea and plates for our empanadas. I chewed mine thoughtfully, sipped tea, and waited for BettyJo to unwind from her busy day. Banking isn’t as easy as people think, and I’d seen her stressed from the job she disliked more than anything.

“My boss is such an ass,” BettyJo complained. “I can’t find a way to get around her nasty attitude. People think bullying gets them what they want in life, but it just makes people dislike them. On top of that, I think I’m about to be fired over Mrs. Peterson’s demise.” On that note, she stuffed a section of sandwich into her mouth.

Surprised to hear her employment concerns, I gawked at her in silence, searching for the right words, but found none. I considered what BettyJo had shared about her father and then added Mrs. Peterson’s attitude to the mix. I knew what BettyJo was getting at.

“When I last spoke to Mrs. Peterson, we had serious words. She was trying to jack-up my rent. The nerve of that woman was amazing,” I ranted. “She told me to move out by the end of the month, so her daughter could open a boutique. When I reminded her of our lease, she threatened me with court, and then added that I could always pay more rent if I wanted to stay. Imagine?”

Her eyes wide, BettyJo exclaimed, “Cindy has a fabulous job in clothing design. I saw her last week and she’s been asked to work in the New York office next month. I don’t know if she will now, though. Mrs. Peterson wasn’t above using extortion to gain added income.”

I’d finished the empanada, downed two cups of tea, and was into half of the last sandwich. “I’m not surprised the harridan has been done in. She looked for trouble wherever she went. Seanmhair admonished me when I said it aloud,” I remarked. I leaned back in the chair and asked, “You’re certain you’ll be fired over this?”

BettyJo grimaced. “Pretty sure. My boss made several snide innuendos that implied relieving me of my position. Screw her. There’s nothing I can do about it. Look on the bright side. It’ll give me a chance to make this business,” BettyJo waved her hand around, “a huge success. How did your day go? I saw the news people outside when I left for work.”

I told her I’d avoided the media and then shared Seanmhair’s words of wisdom where Aidan Sinclair as a husband was concerned. I laughed over how difficult it would be to concentrate on anything with him in close proximity.

Casually, I asked, “Have you postponed tonight’s tarot clients?”

“Not a chance,” BettyJo said with an air of finality. “I removed that awful yellow tape the cops plastered everywhere, ripped the rug up, and tossed it all in the dumpster out back. I even scrubbed the room like the devil was whipping me. The police can kiss my sunny side. I’ve got clients lined up for readings every half hour for three hours straight,” BettyJo glanced at her watch and continued, “starting in about an hour. I can’t afford to lose business because the landlady got herself killed.”

Proud of her no-nonsense attitude, I said, “Okay then, I’ll leave you to it.” With a smile, I left BettyJo to don her magical, mysterious garb that reminded me of a gypsy fortune teller from the old days.

I had returned home when I heard a greeting called out. I scanned the yard to where George Carly stood waving at me.

“You got a minute, Melina?” he yelled.

I nodded and met him midway through the lot.

“Had company today, huh?” George asked with a frown.

I nodded. “Yes, the media hung around outside the bakery for hours. They didn’t come inside, but then Seanmhair would have made short work of them. Did they bother you?”

George rubbed his lightly whiskered jaw and said, “They visited every shop on the block. When I asked them to leave, they almost refused until I said I’d call the police and have them charged with harassment.”

“Seanmhair thinks I should have given them an interview. I wasn’t aware they’d been to speak with everyone. What do you think I should do?” I was interested to hear his thoughts.

George was an Ivy League baby boomer who’d had a successful career in finance. On his fifty-fifth birthday, he’d retired and opened an antique shop a couple doors down from the bakery. I respected his business savvy, his passion for antiques, and generally liked him all the way round.

His expression intense, George said, “We could get our group of fellow renters together and have a discussion. What do you say?”

I agreed. “Why don’t you arrange a meeting and we’ll speak with the other tenants? I haven’t heard who will be taking over the landlady’s position. Have you?”

George shook his head and said he’d be in touch. He sauntered off toward his shop. I watched as he stopped to pet a stray cat that hung around, mainly because he fed it. I smiled at his tender handling of the multi-colored animal. George swore like a trooper, could be short tempered, but underneath his bluster, there was a warm-hearted soul.

Back in the bakery kitchen, I wrestled a huge mound of dough onto the stainless steel table. I sliced off chunks and gathered each one into a bowl. My class would begin any time now and I wondered if the students would appear or if the news of Mrs. Peterson’s demise had put them off. My answer came when the bell over the door jingled and laughter filtered through the shop.

Hurriedly, I swung the kitchen door open and met several smiling students. Grateful for their commitment, I ushered them toward the coat rack. After they’d discarded their jackets and accessories, I handed out white aprons and asked them to scrub their hands in the corner sink. Willing to follow directions, they sped off to get ready amid jokes and more laughter.

The bell jangled again, announcing more pupils. Once more, I rushed to greet them and found Aidan among them. His wit and charm had captured the group’s attention. They were hardly aware I’d entered the room. I stood with my hands clasped waiting for them to notice me.

“If you’ll come this way, we’ll get started,” I said with a smile.