Flipped For Murder (5 page)

I could no longer muster the energy for a vigorous ride. I'd create my own spa at home. I'd run a hot bath and take a long, hot soak in the tub with, yes, that glass of wine.

Chapter 7

Much refreshed by my bath, I sat at the kitchen table with a cheese omelet, a round-bowled glass of red wine, and the crossword. Mom had crafted the drop-leaf table out of a cherry that shone, with simple Shaker-style legs. I missed her when I sat there, but it was a perfect size for the small room, and I could expand it if I ever had more than one guest over. So far, I'd been too busy to invite anyone for a meal. I flashed on an image of Jim sitting across from me, candles glowing, a vase full of yellow alstroemeria behind them. That'd be nice. Maybe I'd see what he was doing for dinner tomorrow.

I was a bit out of sorts, though, because I couldn't find my puzzle pen. I always used the same pen when I did the crossword, the pen from Mom's shop. It was a gel pen I could get refills for, and the ink flowed out really nice. But the best part was the logo from her business, the one featuring the outline of a long table with
JEANINE'S CABINETS
written inside it. I'd looked everywhere. In the kitchen drawer, in my handbag, in the store. With the flurry of getting the store ready, I wasn't sure when I'd last had it, but I thought it was in the restaurant. I must have written down breakfast or lunch orders with it over the last two days. Oh well. I dug another pen out of my purse and set to work. It was tricky, being left-handed, not to smudge the letters, but I'd had plenty of practice.

I'd finished a quadrant on the crossword, filling in “strippers” for the clue
ECDYSIASTS,
when I heard a sound from outside. I cocked my head and listened, then realized it must be the kitty. The dishes I'd left had been empty when I returned, but the little creature had been nowhere in sight.

When I flipped on the porch light and looked out the door, there the cat was again, not quite cowering this time, but crouching in a wary stance. I grabbed the bowls and refilled one with water. I glanced at the clock. Eight o'clock was too late to go out and find dry cat food on a Sunday night, but I located a can of tuna in the cupboard and emptied that into the other bowl. When I set them outside the door, the cat came running up. It started scarfing down the tuna, which gave me the chance to see it was a
he.
He then proceeded to purr so loudly, he chirped as I petted his head.

“I guess you were just hungry, little guy. Where'd you come from, anyway?”

He didn't answer. When I switched off the porch light, I glimpsed a full moon rising above the trees and walked back out to get a better eyeful. I supposed it was the harvest moon, not that I was much up on farming lore. It was gorgeous, no matter what it was called. A wisp of cloud floated across the front of the golden orb and I half expected a witch on a broom to follow.

The kitty rubbed up against my leg. I reached down to pet him, which only produced more chirping.

“You sound like a bird, not a cat,” I told him. Should I invite him in? I couldn't have him in the restaurant, for sure. Board of Health would shut me down in a New York minute. But I didn't see why he couldn't share my apartment with me. What if he already had a home, though? It wasn't cold out. I'd leave him alone for tonight and see if he was still around in the morning.

I locked the door behind me, smiling. I hadn't had a pet since I was sixteen and the old cat we'd had all my life died. Butch had been an affectionate curmudgeon, deciding on his own terms when he wanted to sit on your lap and letting you know quite vocally when he didn't. Now I heard another sound and cast my gaze around the apartment for the source. I dashed for the bedroom when I realized it was my cell phone, likely still in the pocket of the bike shirt. By the time I dug it out, the ringing had stopped, but I saw Jim's number on the display, which made me smile all over again.

I rang him back. “I was just thinking about you,” I said after greeting him.

“Is that so?”

“Yup.” I took the plunge. “How about coming over for dinner tomorrow?” When he didn't respond, I added, “If you want to.”
Damn. Did I misinterpret his interest?
It seemed like a week ago, but I realized it was only last night he told me he only kidded people he liked. Maybe that meant people he liked as friends.
Why do I feel like I'm back in high school?

“I want to. Thanks, Robbie.”

He cleared his throat. “I called to say hello, but I also wanted to share something I learned today.”

“Oh?” I was only half listening, already planning what I wanted to cook for him.

“It might be connected to the murder.”

I thudded off my romantic cloud and back to earth. “Oh.” Now he had my complete attention.

“Well, I was in Nashville for a Rotary Club meeting this morning. Ed Kowalski was sitting across the room, and the woman sitting next to me mentioned he's been having trouble keeping employees.”

“Huh. I hired Mayor Beedle's daughter this afternoon to help in the store.”

“Danna?”

“The same. She's been working for Ed, and when I asked her why she left, she wouldn't really say. Only that the environment wasn't so great. Were you thinking Ed's employment problems mean his business is in bad shape, which would make mine seem like even more of a threat to him?”

“Exactly.”

I shook my head. “I don't know. It's just such a stretch for Ed to kill Stella and then hope I'd be prosecuted for it. There'd never be evidence linking me to it, right?”

“Let's hope not. Wait, that sounded bad.” He laughed. “What I meant was I hope the killer didn't plant something of yours at Stella's.”

“But—” An image of my lost pen flashed across my brain.
No, I had to have just misplaced it.

“Robbie, don't worry about it. You'll be fine.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Lawyer Man. I'll tell you, it's been the craziest weekend I've ever had.” I yawned.

“Get yourself some rest, then. What time should I come tomorrow, and should I bring red wine or white?”

“Come at six. We are in the Midwest, after all. I'm not sure what I'm making yet. Red wine goes with anything, in my opinion. But then, nobody would ever call me a wine snob.”

Jim laughed again.

“I should ask if you have any food allergies.”

“Not a one.”

“And even though you're a vegetarian, you eat seafood, right?”

“I do. Thanks for the invite, and sweet dreams, Ms. Jordan.”

Sweet they would be. I was going to have my second date in a week. And for sure Buck and friends would nail the murderer soon.

 

 

With my digital tablet in hand, I checked the supplies in the walk-in in the morning, yawning out loud. I'd found an excellent restaurant inventory app linking me directly to my several purveyors. I clicked a couple of items that needed restocking and closed the door behind me.

I stood for a moment with my back to the door. Something felt out of place. I opened the cooler again. As the door clicked shut behind me, I surveyed the wire rack shelves. Dairy took up a big section in a restaurant like mine, with pound blocks of butter, several kinds of milk, bricks of cream cheese, and hefty chunks of cheese. I kept the meat in its own area, although I was still trying to figure out how much to use fresh and how much frozen. Bacon, ham, and sausages kept well, but I really needed to spend the afternoon making beef and turkey patties and freezing them. I'd created another section for fruit, and the last for vegetables, like green and red peppers, onions, and mushrooms for omelets, as well as lettuce and tomatoes for the burgers. The waxed boxes from the supplier lined up on the shelves like squat waiters ready to serve.

So, what was awry? I walked all the way in, checking every shelf, but I couldn't find anything. The dairy didn't seem quite as I'd left it, but then Adele and Vera had been helping all day yesterday. Either one could have rearranged things. A shudder ran through me and it wasn't from the cold air. As far as I knew, a killer still roamed free in town. And I was shut in alone in an extremely cold place. I shook my head. The big red emergency button perched on the wall next to the door, after all, and I held an Internet-connected tablet that got a signal even in this thick-walled room. I made my way out and pushed the heavy door shut, the thick latch clicking shut with a satisfying
clunk.

I felt at loose ends. I'd planned Mondays as my day off, to relax, to catch up. Ever since I bought the store, I'd been pushing with all my energy toward opening day. But that day had now come and gone. I wandered back into my apartment, where the morning light streamed into the kitchen. I'd had coffee and munched an apple, but my stomach now called out for more.

As did kitty's, apparently. He mewed from outside, so I opened the door. After I picked up his bowls, I propped open the screen.

“Hey, little guy. Come on in.” I filled the bowls with milk and water and set them in the entryway.

He peered in, looked behind him, and moseyed in a few steps. Stopping, he gave a bite and a furious lick to his left shoulder, then licked his paw. With a little chirp, he continued in until he was lapping up the milk, purring like a tiny electric fan.

I watched him finish the milk and then give himself a bath all over. Finding a sack of dry cat food was apparently top on my list for my day off, and a few cans of wet food as well. Did I need to set up a litter box and all, too? As I turned toward where my purse hung from a hook, I jostled a chair, and kitty streaked out the still-open door. He could keep going to the bathroom wherever he'd been going up to now. At least until the ground froze.

I made and ate a piece of toast with peanut butter and honey, then grabbed my bag. I'd seen cat food in Shamrock Hardware. I could pick up a bag there, for starters. As I locked the door behind me, kitty sauntered up again, purring with his chirping noise.

“That's it,” I told him. “Your name is Birdy.”

He eyed me with an inscrutable gaze as he crouched, paws in front of him, looking for all the world like a tiny black-and-white Sphinx. A Sphinx named Birdy.

Chapter 8

“It needs fixed.” The male voice one aisle over at Shamrock Hardware was insistent. “Don't got no insurance.”

I cocked my head, but couldn't place the speaker.

“I'm not talking about this,” he said. “I don't want all of South Lick to know my bidness.”

I lowered my head again to stare at the array of cat treats. He was a local by the way he talked, but I hadn't heard another voice. I guessed it was a domestic spat being conducted over the phone.

Having no idea what kind of food my new buddy, Birdy, liked, and suspecting he wouldn't be picky, I threw a dozen little cans into the basket, then loaded up a sack of the most expensive dry food, the one saying it was made in the USA with organic ingredients. Only the best for my new family member. And from what I'd read about the dangers lurking in pet food made in China, the cost was worth it.

I wandered the narrow aisles, trying to think if I needed anything along the lines of actual hardware. It was an old-style store, with shelves to the ceiling, and a good deal of rather dusty inventory that could have been sitting there for a century: mousetraps, nasty chemical cleaners, cast-iron C-clamps. I added a few sponges and scrubbers to my cart, then searched out picture hangers. I hadn't gotten around to hanging any of my framed art and that could be another easy task for today.

After adding a couple of packets of hangers to my shopping cart, I passed a wide locked glass cabinet and stopped to examine it. It was full of guns. Small ones, big ones. I didn't know anything more about guns than the terms that were tossed around on the news and in books: rifle, shotgun, semiautomatic. Revolver, pistol, weapon. But it sure looked like they were all in there, and for sale, too, along with boxes of what looked like bullets. It gave me a chill to think the gun that killed Stella might have been bought here, and the ammo, too.

Heading over to Barb, the cashier, a trim older woman with perfect makeup and a short cap of salt-and-pepper hair, I spied the frowning proprietor emerging from a door labeled
OFFICE: NO ADMITTANCE
. I waved.

“'Morning, Don,” I called.

When he saw me, he plastered a fake smile over his frown and walked toward me. “Robbie. How were your first couple days?”

“Very good, thanks. We had a great crowd both Saturday and Sunday.”

“Heard about the biscuit.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You know. In Stella's mouth. Bad news for you.”

He had the nerve. I stood up as tall as I could. “Not at all. No one who ate in my store on Sunday seemed worried in the least that they'd die from one of my biscuits.”

“I just thought . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes got that worried look again.

“Do you have any idea who might have killed Stella?”

“Who, me? Not a clue.” He cleared his throat and glanced into my cart. “So, did you find what you needed? Looks like you got you a cat.”

“Just acquired one. Or he adopted me, I guess is more accurate.”

A fond smile spread across Don's face and he finally stopped frowning. “I have three.” He proceeded to tell me about each of his cats, their names, their habits. “Why, I gived your mom a little bitty kitten long, long ago. She took that guy on her drive cross-country when she moved out California way.”

“Butch? You gave Mom our cat, Butch?” I was astonished.

“If that's what she went ahead and named him, why, then, yes, I did. So did you give this cat who adopted you a name yet?”

“I named him Birdy, because he almost chirps when he purrs.”

“Well, he's yours now. You know what they say, once you name a stray, you ain't never going to get rid of him.”

“So far, that's not a problem. He seems very swee—” I stopped speaking when Don turned his head sharply to the right.

“Roy,” he said in a voice that would have put honey to shame. “Let me express my condolences on the death of your mother.” Hand outstretched, Don approached a man a few years younger than me who looked like he didn't exercise much.

So this was Stella's son. Inconveniently named Roy Rogers. Well, maybe he was more typical of his generation than I was, and had no idea who the old TV singing cowboy was.

Roy shook Don's hand without really putting himself into it. “Thanks, Don.”

Whoa. The guy I'd heard on the other side of the partition earlier.
He looked over at me and squinted, running his left hand through hair so greasy it made him wipe his hand on his dark blue work pants.

“This the girl who robbed me of my store?” Roy asked Don.

Don held up both hands facing Roy. “Hold on a chicken-picking minute, Roy. She didn't rob nobody.” He beckoned me over. “Kinda funny, that. Robbie here didn't rob nobody.” He gave a grim little chuckle that neither Roy nor I joined him in. “Robbie Jordan, Roy Rogers. The late Stella's only son.”

I took a deep breath. “Nice to meet you, Roy. And I'm so sorry about your mother's passing.”

Roy snorted. “As if.”

Don gave Roy a look. “Now, Roy, Robbie there lost her very own mother only last year. Haven't we talked about being nice?” He took Roy by the elbow and steered him away.

I watched them head toward Don's office. What was with the “haven't we talked about being nice?” Don's tone was that of an adult to a child. Curious. I approached the cash register and paid Barb for my purchases.

“How's the store going, now's you're open?” she asked with a big smile.

“Good, so far, thanks.”

She leaned toward me. “Heared the sad news about Stella, may she rest in peace.” She shook her head. “She was a tough customer, bless her heart. Hope they catch whoever did it, though. Don't much like a killer running around loose.”

“I'm with you on that. Say, Barb, you don't know if anyone has reported a lost cat, do you?” I figured if anyone knew about Birdy, Barb would. She had a finger on everything that happened in town. “Little black-and-white guy?”

“Not as I've heared. Nobody's put up a poster here, anywho.” She gestured with her head to the large community bulletin board near the door. “Let you know if I hear tell anything.”

 

 

I approached Kowalski's Country Store on my bike an hour later. It was such a beautiful fall day, sunny and crisp, that I'd decided to ride to Nashville and take myself out to a second breakfast, one I didn't have to cook. Spying on the competition wasn't a bad idea, either. I'd looped up through Beanblossom on my way, and smiled as always when I passed the Mennonite church, which featured a prominent sign that read
STRANGERS EXPECTED
. I'd never gotten around to asking anyone what it really meant, but the words brought to mind science fiction or the magical realism I'd read in Gabriel García Márquez's works in college.

Stopping a couple doors down from Kowalski's, which sat just outside the artsy, touristy county seat, I put my foot on the ground and examined the storefront. It featured a porch overhang like mine, but so much kitsch clogged the porch there wasn't space for even one chair. I loved the refurbished rocking chairs in front of Pans ‘N Pancakes, and folks had occupied them now and then over the weekend. Here an old wooden plow vied for space with an oak barrel short a few staves, a rusty hay rake, a low wrought-iron table that could use refinishing, or at least a paint job, and a boatload of other antiques, sort of. I squinted. There was actually a rocking chair amidst the junk, but no way to get close enough to sit in it. The paint peeled off the porch railing, and the middle of each stair tread swayed like the back of an old mare.

I rode the last few yards, locked my cycle in front of the store, and unclipped my helmet. A bell dinged as I pushed the door open. Not an actual bell on the door, though, but an automatic alert someone had entered or left. A long counter lined with round-seated diner stools faced the left wall, with the kitchen visible through a wide order window. Several dozen tired aluminum tables were arrayed in the middle of the space with chairs surrounding them; the restaurant could probably accommodate twice as many customers as mine. Most of the chairs were occupied by folks who looked like they often indulged in big starchy, greasy breakfasts. And since it was a Monday morning, they were either tourists, retirees, or both.

An older waitress dressed in black breezed by, saying, “Sit anywhere you want, dear.”

First I scanned the room and located the restroom. I needed to wash up after my ride. A few minutes later I emerged with clean hands. I'd splashed water on my face, too. The restroom was dingy but clean. Whoever the decorator was, he or she must be long dead—the decor looked that exhausted. The walls of the hall where I stood were lined with framed pictures. I examined them, one by one, as I strolled by holding my helmet. They were mostly of Ed with various groups of townspeople: Ed with the current state representative; Ed receiving a Rotary Club award; Ed with four other men on the golf course; Ed with a cluster of Boy Scouts.

I stopped at one of them and peered more closely. It was of Ed in younger days, with his arm slung over Stella's shoulders. And Stella was actually smiling. I made my way to the counter and took a seat on one of the red vinyl stools.

The same waitress I'd seen earlier slapped a paper place mat doubling as a menu in front of me. “Coffee?”

“Please.” I studied the menu.

She returned in a minute with a thick mug and a pot of coffee. “Was you wanting to order?”

“I'll take the blueberry pancakes with sausage, and a side of biscuits and gravy.” If I was here to assess the competition, I might as well go whole hog. So far, my place was cleaner, brighter, and more interesting. But it was also in a much smaller town. Nashville brought tourists literally by the busload, especially at this time of year.

It didn't take more than a couple of minutes for a steaming platter of food to be set in front of me. I thanked the waitress and tucked into it. First I took a bite of pancake. It was of the white-flour variety that I didn't care for. These were particularly pasty and the blueberries tasted cooked, not fresh. When I threw berries into pancakes, I either used fresh or flash frozen, depending on the season.

My first bite of sausage was crispy on the outside and moist on the inside. Can't go wrong with links unless you let them dry out. I cut a biscuit in half and took a bite. Not bad. Warm and homemade, at least. No cheese in it, of course. That was my idea. Mom had baked cheesy biscuits since before I could remember, and I hadn't found any offered in other restaurants in the county. I poured the warm gravy over the other half biscuit, this time using my knife and fork to lift a bite, but the gravy was salty, lumpy, with little dots of pork, and it tasted like it came out of a can. A can some machine filled a long, long time ago.

I looked around at the other diners. Nobody seemed upset about their meals. People were sopping up egg yolks with white toast, demolishing stacks of pancakes, and crunching down pieces of bacon like there was no tomorrow. I glanced at the rest of the store as I ate the palatable parts of my breakfast.

Vintage shelves, like the ones in my store, lined one wall. I saw a collection of rusty tools and a section with what looked like antique dishes and pottery. But Ed also stocked new fishing supplies, snacks, and other supplies, and had a kind of beach corner set up, with flip-flops, sunscreen, hats, and beach towels. Somebody ought to tell him it was nearly mid-October.

Ed appeared out of nowhere at my elbow. “Taking a day off to slum with the competition?” His face was as ruddy as it'd looked on Saturday and his crooked-tooth smile bordered on a leer as he leaned in a bit too close. With a green tie knotted over a blue dress shirt, he sure as heck wasn't dressed for kitchen work.

“I decided to close on Mondays, since we're open all weekend.” I moved as far away as I could from him without falling off my stool. “I was out for a ride and got hungry.”

“How'd you like the breakfast?” He pointed at my plate. “Looks like you weren't hungry. Everybody loves those blueberry pancakes.”

I mustered a smile. “The sausages were so good I just filled up on them.”

“I can give you the pancake recipe if you want.” He pulled out a pen and held it above my menu with his left hand.

Another leftie. “No, thanks, I have my own recipe I like.” I sipped my now-cold coffee. “Looks like you're doing a good business.”

“The place is always crowded in the fall. Plenty of hungry tourists who also need to pick up batteries or a new lure.”

“By the way, I hired one of your former employees yesterday. Danna Beedle. Said she wanted to be able to walk to work. Can you recommend her?”

He frowned and squinted so hard his small eyes almost disappeared. “We had a difference of opinion. She can be pretty standoffish.” He relaxed his eyes. “But she's a good worker, that Danna, and was shaping up to know what she was doing in the kitchen.”

“Great, thanks. Terrible news about Stella, isn't it? Looks like the two of you were friends.” I watched him. He hadn't greeted Stella at my place Saturday. Not that I'd seen, anyway.

Ed's gaze darted about the room and back at a spot just beyond my right ear. “No. No, we weren't.” He shook his head and cleared his throat.

“Isn't that a picture of you two in the hall by the restrooms?” I gestured with my fork. “You look pretty friendly, although it was a few years ago.”

“Many years ago. Many, many years ago. We were . . . I was . . .” He swallowed and glanced at his big gold watch. “Would you look at the time? I'm late for a Chamber meeting.” He looked past me again. “Nice seeing you, Robbie. Don't worry about the bill. Your meal is on the house.” He rushed off before I could even thank him, and muttered something to my waitress on his way to the door.