When the Grits Hit the Fan Read online

  MESSAGE FROM A KILLER

  I slid the barn door open a couple of feet and peered into the shadowy space. With the gunmetal sky outside, little light made its way in the high windows, but I thought everything looked like I’d left it. Except . . .

  On the rough wooden floor a couple of yards in sat a piece of paper folded in half and propped up like a tent, as if whoever left it wanted it noticed. That paper definitely hadn’t been there when I’d locked up yesterday. I pushed the door wide open, glanced there, to make sure no one was lurking behind me, and stepped in far enough to snatch the paper, then hurried back out before opening it.

  In typed capital letters it read: BETTER LAY OFF ASKING QUESTIONS ABOUT THE MURDER. YOU WOULDN’T WANT TO BE NEXT.

  Books by Maddie Day

  FLIPPED FOR MURDER

  GRILLED FOR MURDER

  WHEN THE GRITS HIT THE FAN

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  When the Grits Hit the Fan

  Maddie Day

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MESSAGE FROM A KILLER

  Books by Maddie Day

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Recipes

  BISCUITS AND SLASHED BROWNS

  Teaser chapter

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by 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 and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-6177-3929-3

  ISBN-10: 1-61773-929-4

  First Kensington Mass Market Edition: April 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-930-9

  eISBN-10: 1-61773-930-8

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2017

  For Annie Tunstall and the late Richard Gale,

  the most inspiring eighty-somethings I’ve ever known.

  Richard was one of my Hoosier consultants

  for this series, and they have both encouraged me

  every step of my author journey.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m grateful, always, for the entire team at Kensington Publishing, and to my agent, John Talbot. The Wicked Cozy Authors continue to support and inspire: Jessie Crockett/Jessica Estevao, Sherry Harris, Julie Hennrikus/Julianne Holmes, Liz Mugavero/Kate Conte, and Barb Ross. I love you ladies. I thank Sherry particularly for continuing to suggest that my protagonist Robbie is nicer and stronger than my earlier drafts portray her. She’s right, of course.

  Thanks to Joan Emerson for the idea about bacon-cheddar-chive scones, and fellow author Kelly Cochran for the brilliant book title. My son JD lent more bicycle consulting for this book, and DP Lyle’s Murder and Mayhem helped with several forensic details. I hope I got them right.

  I recently reconnected with a friend from my Indiana grad school days. As The Original Grit Girl, Georgeanne Ross grinds and sells pure stone-ground corn grits and other ground corn products every week. After I tasted them, I had to include her grits in this book. You should order some at http://gritgirl.net/. She graciously allowed me to include a version of her recipe for creamy cheese grits, too. Another friend, the super productive and successful author Sheila Connolly, was nice enough to let me adapt her recipe for Irish Pork Chops for this book.

  Caveat #1: The fictional professors and graduate students in this story bear no resemblance to the actual members of the Indiana University Sociology Department, and particularly not to those who specialize in medical sociology. I am quite sure their interactions are entirely respectful and productive, in contrast to those portrayed in this book.

  Caveat #2: I realize that with climate change, a winter cold enough for ice fishing in Brown County is ever more rare, so indulge me in imagining one of those freak frigid-weather winters that still pop up once in a while in southern Indiana.

  As always, I want to thank my sons, my sisters, my beau, my fellow Friends, and my many author friends for having my back, cheering me on, and putting up with me. I love you all.

  Dear readers, including librarians: I’m awed and blown away by how much you love this series! Thank you, thank, you thank you. A gentle reminder that a positive review of a book you read goes a long way in helping the author. I would be ever grateful to see your opinion on Amazon, Goodreads, Facebook, and elsewhere if you liked my story (and check out my other author names: Edith Maxwell and Tace Baker).

  Chapter 1

  Who knew people could be so nasty to each other?

  I’m Robbie Jordan. While I cleared dinner plates, I watched and listened as a mix of grad students and professors from Indiana University discussed medical sociology during their bimonthly dinner meeting at my restaurant, Pans ’N Pancakes. It wasn’t pretty. I’d served fifteen of them Chicken Ezekiel on rotini, with garlic bread and winter greens from a local farmer harvesting even in February. The air still smelled deliciously of Kalamata olives, garlic, and roasted tomatoes, and from the empty plates, it sure looked like the meal had been a success.

  The conversation? Not so much. Half the terminology went right over my head. But when Charles Stilton glared at my friend Lou Perlman, the meaning was unmistakable.

 
“It was unethical of you to take the ideas in my paper and present them as your own,” Lou went on, the silver rings on her fingers flashing as much as her eyes as she pointed at him across the wide table. “You agreed to sponsor me, but I sure didn’t agree to give up my original research.”

  “You’re a doctoral student,” the diminutive professor said, his bright green shirt a spot of color among the more muted shades worn by his colleagues. He picked up his glass of red wine and sipped. “I’m a tenured professor in the same field. I can’t help it if our research is pursuing parallel ideas. I didn’t steal a thing.” He studied my shelves of vintage cookware and blinked as if the conversation was over.

  I’d met Professor Stilton in the preceding weeks. He’d been polite and friendly to me but had gotten into tiffs with the others at a few of the gatherings. I’d have to ask Lou what was up between them.

  A woman I hadn’t seen before pushed back her chair. She stood and set her hands on the table. “That’s enough, you two. These meetings were supposed to be congenial intellectual gatherings, not some mudslinging sessions.”

  Charles stroked his tidy black goatee. Ignoring the woman, he turned to the man on his right. “How about them Pacers?”

  I watched Lou fume, nostrils flared, lips pressed together. She pushed her chair back and stalked to the restroom. We had met in the fall when she’d come in for breakfast with a group of cyclist friends. She’d helped me find my father and we’d become good friends. I’d never seen her so mad.

  The woman who’d admonished them had come in late and I hadn’t been introduced to her. Shaking her head, she picked up her plate and brought it to where I stood at the sink in the kitchen area that adjoined the rest of the space.

  “Thanks.” I wiped my hand on my apron before extending it. “Robbie Jordan, proprietor here.”

  She set down the plate and silverware and shook hands with a firm, vigorous touch. “I’m Professor Zenobia Brown. But just call me Zen.” A wiry woman, she stood a couple of inches shorter than my five-foot-three, and was at least two or three decades older than my twenty-seven years. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a no-nonsense short do with the top a little bit spiked. She smiled, her skin crinkling around blue eyes. “My mom thought with a last name like Brown I needed a unique first name. Anyway, I’m a new professor in the department. The chair, actually. I live halfway between South Lick and Bloomington and I’ve been meaning to get over here for one of your famous breakfasts. Still want to.”

  “Not so sure they’re famous, but you’re welcome to come and sample what we serve.”

  “Whole wheat banana walnut flapjacks? That’s my kind of breakfast.” She glanced back at the group. “Sorry about the commotion. It’s like wrangling cats sometimes to get these people to act civilly.”

  “It’s okay. As long as I get paid and people don’t start a food fight, I don’t really care how they get along.” I’d happily agreed to Lou’s idea of the dinner meetings. I’d only opened my country store breakfast-and-lunch place in October and hadn’t realized how slow business would be during the winter. It was cold and often snowy in the hills of southern Indiana, but most years not snowy enough to bring a winter tourist trade. Even the locals seemed to be staying home instead of eating out. I’d reduced the days I stayed open to Wednesday through Sunday to save money on my assistant Danna’s pay. It also kept me from ordering food that spoiled because it didn’t get used. The boost of a nice flat sum from this group every other Friday night was definitely helping the bottom line. I served the same menu to everybody, changing it up each time, and so far no one had complained.

  I loaded up two platters of brownies and took them to the table, which I’d created by shoving together smaller tables into a conference-table-sized surface they could all sit around. “Coffee or tea, anyone? Or decaf?”

  “I’m sticking with wine,” Charles said, pouring the last of his bottle of Merlot into his glass. “I can because I’m walking home,” he added in a defensive tone.

  I knew he lived half a mile away right here in South Lick. I thought most of the other faculty and students, like Lou, resided nearer the sprawling flagship Indiana University campus fifteen miles away in Bloomington.

  “It’s so great you got permission for us to do the BYOB thing, Robbie,” Lou said, back in her chair, pouring a half glass for herself from a bottle of white. “Dinner’s not really civilized unless you can drink wine with it. And I’m having more because I caught a ride with teetotaler Tom here.”

  Tom, Lou’s fellow grad student, grinned and waved.

  “As long as I’m not a licensed alcohol establishment, which I’m not, it’s apparently legal. And as long you pour your own.” I’d purchased a supply of stemless wine glasses and a few corkscrews when I’d learned I could allow customers to bring bottles of wine. Nobody had asked yet if they could carry in beer or hard alcohol, which was good, because my research hadn’t extended that far. I didn’t advertise the BYOB option, and I wasn’t usually open for dinner, anyway, but several times a group of ladies had brought their own wine for a special luncheon, as had an elderly local couple celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary with lunch out instead of dinner.

  Lou had been talking with Tom and Zen. She tilted the bottle at Zen’s glass. “More?”

  I noticed Lou was carefully avoiding any interaction with Charles, wisely so. He was still deep in conversation with the man next to him.

  Zen covered the glass with her hand. “Not for me, thanks. One glass is my limit. I’m training for a marathon. But I’d love a cup of decaf, Robbie.”

  So running was why she was that wiry. I was a serious cyclist, myself. It was how I’d met Lou and Tom, who also loved riding for miles up and down the scenic hills of Brown County. But my cycling habit was offset by my love of eating. Nobody would ever call me wiry and I didn’t care. I was healthy, and I did have a nicely defined waist to offset my generous hips.

  I took the rest of the hot drink orders. After I delivered the mugs, I busied myself cleaning up. It was already eight-thirty and I still needed to prep for tomorrow. We’d agreed on a finish time of nine o’clock for these gatherings. I was up every morning by five-thirty to open the doors by seven, so I didn’t want Friday nights to turn into an open-ended session of wine sippers sitting around talking abstractions.

  The discussion had turned to the topic of public health, which apparently wasn’t as controversial as the conversation between Lou and Charles had been, and didn’t seem abstract at all. Snippets of talk about social change in women’s paid and unpaid work and the consequences of these changes for women’s health floated my way. Zen seemed to be leading the discussion, while Charles sat back with his arms folded, a little smirk on his face. I carried the remains of the rotini and the salad into the walk-in cooler. When I came out with butter and flour in my arms for tomorrow’s biscuit dough, the mood had changed.

  Zen stood with her hands on her hips. “How dare you say that to me?” Her eyes narrowed and nearly shot daggers at him.

  Charles shrugged then grabbed his coat. “You can take it. You’re our esteemed chair, aren’t you?” He sauntered toward the front door. “Have a nice night, fellow sociologists.”

  The cowbell on the door jangled his exit, but it looked like Zen’s nerves were a lot more jangled.

  Chapter 2

  By nine the next morning the restaurant was blessedly not in a slump. For once, every table was full and a party of three women browsed the antique cookware shelves as they waited for seats to open up. Good. I’d much rather be too busy than sitting around waiting for customers. The air was full with the rich aromas of sizzling sausages, sweet maple syrup, dark coffee, and freshly flipped pancakes. Bits of conversations were punctuated by the clink of silverware and the occasional jangling of the cowbell on the front door marking exits and entries.

  Between hurrying from table to table, taking orders and clearing, I glanced at Danna, the best nineteen-year-old co-chef I could imagine. T
ied with an orange band, her titian dreadlocks hung down her back as she flipped pancakes, turned sausages, and expertly ladled gravy onto hot biscuits. The girl was tireless, nearly always cheerful, and had contributed plenty of innovative ideas for extras to accompany our usual menu. She’d made creamy grits with cheese last Saturday and we’d sold out. Today the Specials chalkboard read, WARM UP YOUR TOOTSIES OMELET: ROASTED RED PEPPERS AND PEPPER JACK CHEESE SERVED ON A WARM CORN TORTILLA AND TOPPED WITH FRESH JALAPENO SALSA. It was Danna’s invention, even though as a native Californian, I might have thought of it myself.

  “You good?” I called to her.

  She returned a thumbs up, so I continued on my trajectory to three men with the ruddy faces of those who spent a lot of time outdoors. I didn’t know if they were farmers, construction workers, or even electrical linemen like my new sweetie, Abe.

  “Refill, gentlemen?” I held out the coffeepot. One covered his mug with his hand, but another smiled and lifted his mug. The third had pushed aside a plate empty except for a small pool of gravy and was engrossed in the New York Times crossword puzzle. He was doing it in ink. My radar went up since crosswording in ink was my favorite downtime occupation, bar none—even more than cycling.

  “Today’s?” I asked him, sidling around to his side of the table. “I haven’t gotten to it yet.” I smiled when he glanced up.

  “Know what the biggest Channel Island is?” He frowned at the paper. “I don’t even know what channel they’re talking about.”

  “How many letters?”

  “Nine. Could be the British Channel. How do you spell brek-how?”

  “You mean Brecqhou? That’s only eight letters. I’ll bet it’s Santa Cruz. Try that.”

  He added those letters, nodding as he did. “That’s it.” He glanced up at me. “So it must be the California Channel Islands. How did you know?”