Death Over Easy Read online

  METHOD OF MURDER

  “Detective, how was Pia killed? I know Isaac found her body, but was she shot? Poisoned? Stabbed?” I paused in my assembly of the dry ingredients for pancake batter.

  The detective tapped her hand on the end of the counter where she’d laid her tablet. “I hear you’ve acted as an amateur detective previously.”

  “Not exactly. I simply kept getting drawn into murder cases.” I shrugged.

  “I’ll tell you the method, but first I’d like your word this time you won’t get ‘drawn into’ my investigation.” She surrounded the words in finger quotes.

  “Fine with me,” I answered. But was it?

  “Ms. Bianchi was choked. Garroted, actually.”

  Garroted? “You mean with a rope or something?” A shudder rippled through me at the thought.

  “It was actually a metal wire. We’re looking into whether it was an instrument string, and if so, designed for which instrument.”

  “Wow. With thousands of musicians in the county this week . . .”

  “Exactly . . .”

  Books by Maddie Day

  FLIPPED FOR MURDER

  GRILLED FOR MURDER

  WHEN THE GRITS HIT THE FAN

  BISCUITS AND SLASHED BROWNS

  DEATH OVER EASY

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Death Over Easy

  MADDIE DAY

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  METHOD OF MURDER

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Recipes

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 Edith Maxwell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  KENSINGTON BOOKS and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1123-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1124-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1124-6

  For Sisters in Crime,

  the advocacy organization for female crime writers.

  I would not be a published author if not for

  what I’ve learned from my peers in this incredible group.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, my apologies to the Bill Monroe Bluegrass Festival, during which, to my knowledge, no one has ever been murdered.

  I’ve loved incorporating colorful phrases for police lieutenant Buck and other characters to use in this series. Thanks to Betty Tyler, Ramona DeFelice Long, Kate Russell, and Max Carter for dialect help this time around. Tina Van Roggen kindly helped with clogging insights. The Sugar Cream Pie recipe is courtesy of Hoosiers Max and Jane Carter. With several fans tying for the win in a contest I ran, Celia Warren Fowler, Norma Bolling Wilson, Scott Forest-Allen, and Kristina Anderson came up with the clever campaign slogans for Chase Broward.

  Nashville Chief of Police Ben Seastrom and Brown County Sheriff Scott Southerland were very generous with providing answers to my questions about police procedure in unincorporated towns in Brown County, towns like Beanblossom. Any mistakes are my own, and I promise that Wanda Bird and Anne Henderson bear no resemblance to any actual sheriff’s officers, as far as I know.

  Wearing her developmental editor hat, Terri Bischoff gave the manuscript a close read before I turned it in. The book is much improved due to her insightful comments.

  My thanks to John Talbot, whose initial enthusiasm for this series turned out to be a great predictor of readers having the same reaction. Also many thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and to the great support team at Kensington Publishing. The Wicked Cozy Authors continue to keep me sane (mostly) and inspired: Jessie Crockett/Jessica Ellicott/Jessica Estevao, Sherry Harris, Julie Hennrikus/Julianne Holmes/Julia Henry, Liz Mugavero/Kate Conte, and Barbara Ross. You gals are the best (and check out all those new names).

  Once again, a big huge thank-you to my sons, my sisters, my beau, and my many author and Quaker Friends for supporting me in myriad ways. Love and hugs, always.

  To cozy mystery readers and librarians, I continue to be delighted by how much you adore this series. Thank you! Please know that a positive review of a book you liked goes a long way to help authors. I would be ever grateful to see your opinion on Amazon, Goodreads, Facebook, and elsewhere if you enjoyed my story (and check out my other author names: Edith Maxwell and Tace Baker).

  Chapter One

  A crow scratched out a call from a tall black maple at the edge of the music festival seating area. A shiver rippled through me, but I shook it off. I don’t believe in bad omens.

  The bluegrass group onstage had finished with a flourish and a bow. The applause diminished and the buzz of voices increased as the musicians packed up their instruments and left the stage. I smiled at Roberto and Maria Fracasso seated in camp chairs next to me. My father and his wife were visiting from Italy, and what was a more American event to immerse them in than the Brown County Bluegrass Festival? Especially since Roberto had confided in me that he’d grown to love the twangy energetic genre when he’d been a visiting graduate student here all those years before.

  “Abe is up next.” I pointed to the stage with the giant American flag as backdrop. Above it stretched a big banner reading “Back Home Again in Indiana.” My boyfriend Abe had just appeared, banjo case in hand. My guests had met him last night at the dinner I’d thrown for them, my aunt, and her beau. Everyone had gotten along great. Actually, Roberto knew Abe from when he’d lived with the O’Neill family almost thirty years ago, but Abe had been so young he ba
rely remembered the man who had been the Italian graduate student in town on a research grant.

  “Roberta—no, I should call you Robbie,” Roberto began.

  “Either is fine.” Roberta was my given name, after all, even though I hadn’t known I was named for him until recently.

  “Well, I am very happy.” My father reached for my hand and squeezed it with his firm, smooth grip. “The weather, the music, but most of all to be with you. Giusto, Maria?”

  She simply nodded and smiled. Even though Maria’s English was about as bad as my Italian, the universal language of smiles went a long way. I was happy, too, getting to spend time with the father I never knew I had before last fall. And he was right about the weather. It was perfect. Early June, warm but not too hot, not yet buggy, with daylight lasting well into the evening. As crowded as the Bill Monroe Music Park grounds here in southern Indiana were, it was a good thing daytime highs weren’t any warmer than the low eighties.

  A petite woman in her fifties paused next to me at the end of the row of chairs. She wore a yellow festival visor on her cap of bottle-blond hair. Clipboard in hand, cell phone at the ready in a holster on her belt, she looked like she was in charge. I glanced at her face and recognized Sue Berry, a local woman who often came with her husband to my country store restaurant for breakfast.

  “Hey, Sue,” I said. “Are you working here?”

  She looked startled, then smiled down at me. “I’m running the whole shebang this year, Robbie, if you can even believe it. Coulda knocked me dead with a flyswatter when they upped and asked.” Her laugh was a peal of melodic notes that made you want to laugh right along.

  “Somebody clearly made the right choice,” I replied. “Everything seems to be running smoothly.”

  “I got a lot of helpers, but yeah, we’re better organized than a marching band in the Super Bowl.”

  I introduced her to my father and Maria, and Sue leaned over to shake their hands.

  “I don’t talk no eye-talian,” she said. “But you folks are surely welcome to our festival. Imagine, you came all the way from Europe to hear some of our hillbilly music.”

  Maria looked completely lost at Sue’s local twang, and Roberto frowned.

  “What is hilly billy?” he asked.

  “Hillbilly means the traditional music of the people from around here, from Appalachia, from Kentucky and Tennessee,” I said to the accompaniment of Sue’s nod. “It’s also called bluegrass, folk, or old-timey music.” My Aunt Adele, who had lived her whole life a few miles from here, also used the term hillbilly music.

  “Ah, I see.” Roberto’s frown slid away.

  The amplified sound of instruments tuning up brought my attention to the stage. A fiddler with his hair in a knot on top of his head played a riff, then stopped to adjust the tuning. Pia Bianchi, a lanky woman with spiky red hair, a short denim skirt, and turquoise cowboy boots, plucked a banjo and turned the tuning pegs.

  “She’s got the nerve,” Sue muttered under her breath.

  “Pia does?” I asked. Pia and I had both joined a puzzle group a month ago, and so far she’d proved a little testy. Nothing major, but not a winner of the Miss Congeniality crown, either. I didn’t know she played bluegrass, though, or I would have told Abe. Unnecessarily, as it appeared.

  “The very same.” Sue gestured with her chin. “Pia Bianchi. We used to be friends. Now she owes me a boatload of money and she ain’t paying it back like she promised. I can’t believe she’s rubbing my nose in it, being onstage like she is.”

  Roberto gazed at Sue. “Did you say Pia Bianchi?”

  “In the flesh,” Sue answered.

  “I know a Bianchi family back home. Their daughter Pia went to the States for college twenty years ago and never came home.” He squinted at the stage. “I didn’t see her since she was a girl, though. I don’t know if this woman is the Pia from my town or not.”

  Maria tugged at his sleeve and an interchange in rapid Italian followed.

  He faced Sue and me again. “My wife, she says this is the same Pia. She knows her twin sister, her . . . uh . . . Robbie, how do you say perfect copy twin?”

  “Identical?”

  “Sì, sì, sì. That is it. Maria says the twin looks like the one on the stage.”

  Sue snorted. “Well, I’d like to take and drag her sorry butt off that there stage and make her pay up. That’s what I’d like to do.”

  I’d never seen this side of Sue. Previously she’d always been a congenial diner in my restaurant or a grieving mother when one of her daughters had been murdered. Her annoyance with Pia was borderline angry.

  Onstage, Abe stood facing Pia, both with banjos slung across their chests. Abe’s fists were on his waist, while she held her instrument close to her body.

  “No, we aren’t going to do that number,” Abe said, his ire clearly amplified.

  “I wrote it and I want to play it.” Pia’s voice, also loud and clear, sounded defiant.

  Did she know their mikes were live?

  “We have six people in this group. You agreed to be part of it. It’s not a solo act. What do I have to do to get you to understand?” His voice rose.

  Abe and I had been a steady twosome since last winter, and I well knew it took a lot to push the normally easygoing, genial, caring man to the point of that kind of annoyance. So much that it almost never happened.

  “Are you threatening me?” Pia asked.

  “Of course not!” He turned away with a frustrated move, then twisted back to look at her.

  “Hey, hang on, dude.” The fiddler stepped forward and touched Abe’s elbow. “I know Pia’s song, man. It’s totally good. She’s got talent, man.”

  Abe shook his head. “No. We’re sticking with the plan.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Sue rushed toward the sound booth, a raised platform at the back of the audience area.

  A young man dressed in black hurried across the stage toward Abe and Pia.

  “Come on,” Abe urged Pia and the fiddler. “It’s time to start. We have the playlist we agreed on.”

  The stagehand faced the sound booth and made a slicing motion across his throat. I could see the worry on his face.

  “Fine. Have it your way,” Pia said. “But don’t think I won’t remember this. I can’t be held responsible if something happens to—”

  The amplification went dead.

  Chapter Two

  After things seemed like they’d calmed down onstage, I excused myself to visit the facilities. When I came out, I heard the rhythmic thudding and tapping of clogging. To the left of the restroom building was a wooden platform a couple of inches high. A banjo and a fiddle played as a man and a woman moved their feet in fast, tricky steps. The dance looked like a bluegrass meld of tap dancing and step dancing. I took a second look. The woman dancing was Beth Ferguson and the fiddler was her partner Ed Molina, a couple occupying one of my B&B rooms. Beth was a slender woman in a vintage dress, with dark anklets above lace-up black dancing shoes, her skirt swirling with her movements. The man dancing opposite her wasn’t young and had a mature man’s midsection in a blue sweat-stained dress shirt. But could he ever dance.

  I watched mesmerized, my own feet tapping and twisting in place. Sue came up next to me.

  “Aren’t they amazing?” I asked. When she didn’t answer, I glanced over at her. “Don’t you like clogging?”

  Her mouth twisted like she’d tasted a sour lemon. “I like the dance just fine. It’s the dancers, or rather one dancer, I’m unhappy with.”

  “Why?” A ray of early evening sunlight slid through the trees behind me and illuminated Sue’s smooth skin now marked by a furrow between her brows.

  “Ms. Ferguson there? She snuck onto the festival grounds. Didn’t pay her entrance fee. I don’t know why she thinks she gets a free ride when everybody else here”—Sue gestured in a circle encompassing the grounds—“paid what they owed.”

  The music ended with a flourish and somehow Beth and th
e man seemed to know ahead of time. They ended with a dance flourish at the same moment. They joined hands and bowed to the sound of many hands clapping and even a couple of whistles and approving hoots. Beth extracted a handkerchief from her dress pocket and wiped her forehead. Sue marched toward her. I sidled up behind.

  “Ms. Ferguson, I believe you owe us your entrance fee.” Sue stood tall, which didn’t get her very far.

  Beth swigged water from a plastic bottle before answering. Ed joined her, fiddle and bow in hand.

  “I told the person at the gate I forgot my purse and that I was on the program.” Beth lifted her chin. “They said I could pay tomorrow.”

  “That’s not what I was told,” Sue replied. She checked something on her clipboard.

  “It’s true,” Ed said, laying an arm on Beth’s shoulders.

  From the look on her face, Beth didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture.

  Because she was hot from dancing or because they weren’t getting along? I had no idea.

  “Look, we’re both on the program for tomorrow night,” Ed went on. “We’ll bring the money then.”

  “See that you do.” Sue set her free hand on her waist. “We have a lot of costs associated with this festival. We need participants to pull their own weight.” She turned and hurried off.

  Huh. Any time I’d seen Sue, she’d been totally easygoing. Tonight I’d seen her upset with two different people in a short time. The pressure of running the festival must be getting to her.

  Ed and Beth murmured to each other. They didn’t seem to have seen me, so I left, too, to rejoin my father and his wife. On my way back I sniffed the air. Somebody was enjoying a joint off in some corner. Good luck with that, I thought, spying a beefy security guard sniffing the air, too, his hand on his walkie-talkie.