Biscuits and Slashed Browns Read online

  He sighed. “Lieutenant Bird should not be sharing those kinds of details. But you are correct. In the absence of any evidence turning up today, Dr. Rao will be released.” He pounded the table with his fist, but so lightly I could barely hear it. “The key is somewhere. I know it,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

  The key? I was trying to sort whether he meant a figurative key or a physical one when he stood.

  “I appreciate the coffee, Ms. Jordan. You can keep this discussion under your hat, so to speak.” He replaced his own hat and handed me his card. “Text my cell if you learn anything more of interest.”

  I was about to protest I already had his card. Instead I watched him thunk-thunk-thunk down the front steps in his boots. You didn’t see many cowboy boots in Brown County. But it didn’t matter what I or anyone else thought of his boots, as long as he could do his job of restoring justice to our small town.

  Chapter 25

  By ten-thirty I was togged out in my long riding pants and jacket. I rode head down on my cycle, pumping uphill. My shoulders were super tight from the stress of everything that had been going on. I needed to work out the tension soon or I’d snap.

  In the shade the temps were still a bit nippy, but when I rode into the sunlight the air slid by soft and mild. The detective’s visit had shown me a softer, milder side of him, I mused as I pedaled. He’d sounded frustrated, too. I knew the feeling, and detecting wasn’t even my job. Being paid to dig up the truth about dangerous people wasn’t an occupation I ever wanted, even if I did pursue investigating as an interest. I could always walk away from it. Right now riding away was my only goal. I planned to clear my brain, exercise my body, and inhale as much fresh, clean, un-murderous air as I could.

  I’d checked the Maple Festival schedule before I’d left. The activities all wound down today, and I hadn’t wanted to miss the traditional sugaring off demonstration in Brown County State Park. A Native American woman of the Miami tribe had been encamped there for a week, explaining the process of extracting syrup from sap as it had been done as long as her people had lived in this area. Since I was little I’d been interested in everything Indian. I figured, why not combine the visit and my cycling exercise? We were in Indiana, after all.

  After riding over hill and through dale, quite literally, I bumped slowly over the planks of the double covered bridge serving as the main entrance to the park. Growing up in California, I’d heard of covered bridges and maple syrup production only in northern New England. But the Northeast didn’t have nothin’ on southern Indiana. Covered bridges dotted the region and the syrup here was as fine as any “Made in Vermont” I’d ever tasted. I spied a festival sign and pedaled in its direction.

  When I got closer, I saw that the sign pointed to a trail leading into the woods. I braked and put a foot down. I didn’t want to bring my good road bike onto a dirt path covered with leaves and pine needles. I could lock it up out here in front of the lodge and hike in. But my cycling shoes wouldn’t take well to having mud or rocks hammed into the grooves where the pedals clicked in.

  Darn it all, anyway. I guess I’d skip the demonstration this year. I’d have to remind myself next year to either drive here in hiking boots or bring shoes to change into. At least I could use the facilities while I was here. I rode over to the bike rack and locked my cycle in place. I clomped into the small building housing public restrooms, making myself smile at how much I sounded like Detective Thompson in his boots. The walls were rustic sawn boards and the floor a functional smooth concrete, but the place was clean, albeit unheated, smelling faintly of disinfectant. The rangers probably shut it down for the winter and had just reopened for the festival. Or maybe the pipes were insulated and it stayed open all year round for winter birders and hikers.

  I was sitting in the first stall minding my own business when someone bustled in and clanged the door closed on a stall down a few from mine. My ears perked up at a voice a minute later.

  “Jimmy, it’s Mona.”

  Mona. It was definitely Mona Turner-Rao’s voice. I kept listening.

  “No. You kidding me?” she asked with a note of impatience.

  What was she doing here? I shook my head. She had every right to be, naturally, and the park was a public place. In here was an awkward place to make a call, but what the hey? That was her business. After a bad experience dropping a phone into a toilet in college, I avoided the use of stalls as phone booths.

  “Not right now,” she hissed. “The police are bound to be swarming all over it.”

  The police. Now my ears really perked up. Swarming all over what?

  “Look, I’ll pay you, okay? But we can’t do it this week. It’s too hot.”

  I stared frowning at the wall in the direction of her voice. Mona was going to pay someone but not do something. Despite sounding like something out of a bad movie, “hot” must refer to the police, since it certainly wasn’t the weather.

  “No, not anywhere besides the shed, either. For all I know they’re following me. The lawyer said they’re going to release Sajit soon, but they’ll still be watching him.” A pause. “Of course I need it. He needs it. But don’t you understand? I can’t!”

  I heard a flush and the stall door clicked open. Who needed what? Did Sajit need something Mona had to pay for? I was dying to emerge and ask her what was going on, but I didn’t dare. She’d been furious with me the last time we’d talked, and I’d just eavesdropped on a private conversation, one I doubted she wanted anyone to hear. She must not have noticed my shoes in the stall.

  Her exchange, or the side I’d heard, was disturbing on all kinds of levels. It sounded a lot like a drug drop. Mona, a drug addict? I didn’t know her at all, but she’d looked and behaved normally the one time I’d met her, at their house. Who was the “he” she’d referred to? Sajit? Turner? I found it hard to believe either of them was an addict, particularly not Turner. I’d worked side by side with him for a few weeks now. For sure I would have seen evidence of drug use in his behavior.

  Receiving drugs out at the shed could explain why Mona hadn’t wanted me to look for Sajit there, why she’d lied about searching it. And why she couldn’t use the place to swap drugs for cash this week. I couldn’t come up with a single other explanation. Whatever it was had to be illicit. If she was buying yarn or Girl Scout cookies, the exchange could take place at her house, in a public coffee shop, or on a street corner. No, it had to be drugs, and probably opioids. I knew all kinds of otherwise normal upstanding people became addicted to prescription painkillers and sometimes then to heroin. Their lives were often ruined by their dependence.

  I hoped Turner wasn’t involved in whatever his mom’s transaction was. I hoped he was simply supporting his mom’s reasoning that his father wouldn’t have sought refuge in the shed. I hoped—

  Water ran and then the outer door swished shut, leaving only silence and questions in its wake.

  * * *

  I pedaled hard, taking the long way home through Beanblossom, my mind no longer clear. Or maybe it was my psyche. How could I find out what Mona was up to? Other than asking her point-blank, which I was pretty sure she’d get upset about. I wouldn’t learn a thing by alienating her. I might have to wait until tomorrow. If Turner showed up for work—admittedly a big if—I might have an in. Maybe I could find a way to finagle a conversation around to nosing out if his mother had been acting oddly recently, at least before the business with Sajit blew up.

  And how long was this murder investigation going to last, anyway? Even though I found the puzzle aspect intriguing, having a killer at large added a layer of tension to life overlaying everything. It’d be better if Detective Thompson made the correct arrest soon and we’d be done with the whole mess. Speaking of Thompson, I should let him know what I overheard. Let him deal with it.

  I slowed to appreciate the sign in front of the Beanblossom Mennonite Church, a large building painted church white and set back from the road. Stray leaves from last fall littere
d the front lawn, and I spied purple and yellow crocuses peeking out near the foundation. Every time I rode past here the big sign on the front beckoned to me. It read, STRANGERS EXPECTED. Strangers expected. Why didn’t it say, STRANGERS WELCOME? Or ALL ARE WELCOME? Maybe I’d get dressed in a modest skirt and sweater and attend a service here one day so I could ask someone. But no, attending church wasn’t going to work. Sunday mornings were some of my busiest times at the restaurant.

  Sunlight flashed off the window below the sign, making me realize how much light was in the air, how we were on our inevitable way toward the equinox, the long days of late spring, and the summer solstice. It had been a long winter and I was glad of the change. Maybe light would be shed on the murder investigation, too. It could use it.

  I got ready to ride on. One of these days I’d find a member of the congregation and ask them what STRANGERS EXPECTED meant. Before I could leave, a bearded man in dark pants, suspenders, and a flat-brimmed hat came around the corner of the building holding a leaf rake. Looked like my wish had been granted. When he glanced at me I smiled and waved, then dismounted and hoisted my cycle onto the sidewalk. He strolled toward me.

  “Good morning. I’ve been wanting to find out what your sign means.” I smiled and pointed to the words. “Strangers Expected.”

  He smiled back, but kept his eyes away from my form-fitting pants, my entirely immodest attire.

  “You know Jesus said, ‘I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’” His speech was slightly accented. “We welcome strangers, as well, and we expect that they will be in our midst. Including you, miss.”

  “Thank you. Do you ever hold midweek services? I run a restaurant on Sunday mornings.”

  “We do.” He beamed. “Thursday evenings at seven. Please visit us. And tell me what manner of restaurant you run?”

  “It’s Pans ’N Pancakes, over in South Lick. I’m Robbie Jordan, chef and proprietor.”

  “I’m Martin Dettweiler. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jordan. I have heard of this place. Perhaps I’ll bring my family one day. And I’ll bring you a jar of my honey. It goes well with pancakes.”

  “You’re a beekeeper?”

  “Yes, Miss Jordan. We have one of the largest businesses in the county.”

  “I could use a good source of local honey for the restaurant, and I could sell it in the store, too. We’ll have to talk. I don’t have a card on me, unfortunately. Could you contact me? The telephone number is on my Web site.” Oh. Did they even use computers, or telephones, for that matter? Were Mennonites the same as the Amish in abstaining from using modern technology? I had no idea.

  He laughed. “I will visit in person. Now I must clean up these leaves.”

  “I need to move along, too, Mr. Dettweiler.” I figured I’d better match his formality. I rode off, my psyche feeling unreasonably cheered by the interaction. Or was it unreasonable? I was a stranger, and I’d been not only expected but welcomed. In our modern world of rude manners and everybody focused on their phones, a good old-fashioned smile and a few minutes of face-to-face conversation went a long way.

  As I rode, I considered taking my cheered self into Nashville. If the festival ended today, the academic conference probably did, too. I really wanted to talk to Sonia more about Friday night. There must be a way I could get her to tell me where she’d been. But showing up at a conference sweaty, and in biking clothes and shoes? Nah. I’d head home, eat lunch, and clean up. Then I could drive back to the Nashville Inn and hopefully catch Sonia on her way out.

  Chapter 26

  By the time I’d showered and eaten, it was nearly two o’clock. I was backing the van out of the driveway when I spied three people on the front porch of the store. The Mennonites expected and welcomed strangers, and so did I. But only when the store was open. I turned off the ignition because those weren’t strangers. Adele, Phil, and Noreen were family and friends.

  I climbed out and greeted them. “I’d tell you the store was closed, but you know it is. What’s going on?”

  “Hey, hon,” Adele called to me as I approached. “We was just wanting to see how you was doing.”

  “Plus brownies,” Phil added, extended his arms holding two stacked baking pans.

  “Plus brownies,” Noreen echoed. She also held an armful of desserts.

  “Wow, thanks, guys. Good timing. I was on my way out.” I unlocked the door to the store and let them in. “Do you have a minute to sit down, have something to drink?” I helped unload the pans from Noreen.

  She and Phil exchanged a look and a little nod.

  “Sure, thanks,” he said.

  “Tea, coffee, or beer?”

  “I’ll take me a beer.” Adele plopped into a chair.

  Phil pointed to his chest and grinned his acceptance. “Make that two.” His oddly blue eyes glowed.

  “Just a glass of water for me, thanks, Robbie.” Noreen’s face was still pale but she seemed a lot more composed than she had earlier in the week.

  I filled two glasses with cold water and carried one to her, setting the other at my place. “Phil, what about your fender bender? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “Not at all. A dude was texting and bumped the back of my car. The idiot.” He shook his head. “We were only going like five miles an hour so it didn’t cause much damage. But a cop came by and we had to do the whole police report deal.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” I turned to Noreen. “How are you holding up?”

  “Everybody asks me the same question.” She blinked away a few sudden tears and sniffed. “Crappy, to be honest. But what can I do? Sitting around weeping isn’t going to bring my dad back.”

  “It surely won’t. How about them beers, now?” Adele gave me one of her looks.

  “Yes, ma’am. Coming right up.” I hustled to my apartment, coming back with two cold pilsners and a bag of tortilla chips. “I’m sorry it’s a little chilly in here. I don’t turn the heat up on the days we’re closed. You’ll probably want to keep your coats on.” I set the beers on the table, and took the chips over to the counter, emptying the bag into a serving bowl. I dumped ajar of homemade salsa I’d canned last summer into a smaller bowl and carried chips and dip to the table.

  “Brr.” Phil laughed and snugged his striped scarf closer around his neck. “You know me.” His green down jacket was still zipped all the way up.

  “Can’t warm up?” I asked. I knew he was susceptible to the cold.

  He shook his head. “It’s my African blood. I should move to Ghana. I’d be warm all the time.”

  “That African blood of yours is a couple few centuries old, my darling boy.” Adele smiled fondly at him. “I don’t believe you can rightly use it as an excuse anymore.”

  Once we were settled and had clinked bottles and glasses, I said, “Speaking of darling boys, where’s Samuel today?”

  “Home.” Adele rolled her eyes. “He’s got himself a new passion for genealogy. Always got his nose in that there program of his, tracing down this great-uncle and some Yoruba king from who knows when.” She set both forearms on the table. “Any news with the case? I told Noreen here you were the one to ask.” She popped a couple of chips into her mouth and chewed but kept her gaze fixed on me. There was no escaping Aunt Adele’s thirst for information.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” Phil asked Noreen in a soft voice, squeezing her hand.

  She nodded, gazing at me. “I know Dr. Rao was sent home from jail. I hate that he made Daddy hit his head, but if he didn’t kill him, he didn’t. It’s just totally freaky that whoever did is still strolling around out there, free as ever.” She frowned.

  “I know. I was thinking the same thing this morning.” I sipped my beer. “The detective came in earlier and he actually exchanged a bit of information with me.” I savored a couple of the crunchy, salty chips.

  “Really?” Adele asked. “Oscar don’t seem like the type to share much of anything.”

  “It wasn’t much. And he tol
d me to keep it under my hat.” I shrugged, looking around the restaurant. I should probably prep biscuit dough and fruit salad for tomorrow while we chatted, but it was a comfort to just sit here with friends. I’d have time to prepare for tomorrow after I got back from Nashville. And I didn’t want Adele or Phil to feel like they had to work, too. They helped me so much as it was.

  “Mr. Thompson’s been asking me a ton of questions.” Noreen traced her finger around the top of her glass, her gaze pensive.

  “What kinds of things does he want to know?” I asked.

  She looked up. “Like everything about my father. Where he lived, what he did, who he hung out with. He seemed particularly interested in my dad’s career and his other ventures.”

  “What do you mean by ventures, hon?” Adele frowned.

  “Daddy always complained he didn’t make enough money as an academic. And when he inherited money from an uncle a long time ago, he bought a small apartment building. He made it into condos, sold them, and bought a bigger building. And then another. He just kept going. He’s like a real estate tycoon or something.” Her soft laugh morphed into a choked-off sob. “I mean, he was.”

  Adele patted Noreen’s arm.

  “I wonder why Thompson was asking about his business affairs,” Phil said.

  “Maybe the detective believes your dad had a disgruntled tenant who came here to kill him,” I mused.

  “He did have to evict people sometimes,” Noreen said. “One of them could have still been upset with him.”

  “But why come all the way here to do it?” I mused out loud. “Why not kill him in Boston? And anyway, murder is an awfully extreme reaction to not liking your landlord.” Or maybe his death had nothing to do with Boston and Connolly’s real estate dealings. Maybe Mona had gotten rid of someone who’d competed with her husband for research money.