Biscuits and Slashed Browns Read online

  The officer touched her hat. “I’ll be waiting for you, Ms. Jordan.” She headed back to her cruiser.

  “Waiting for you?” Corrine asked in a quizzical tone.

  “She detected I’d had a glass of wine.”

  Corrine grinned. “Ms. Straight-Arrow Hardworking Proprietor Robbie? No way.”

  “I’m hardly a straight arrow.” I supposed I was, actually. I’d never been much of a party animal. “She let me go with a warning, thank goodness. Jeez.” I shook my head. “Anyway, she said she’s going to follow me home. Make sure I don’t imperil myself or anyone else is what she said.”

  “Good enough, then. Be careful, hon.”

  Oh, I would be. And the heck with drinking and driving from now on. It just wasn’t worth it.

  Chapter 29

  I turned into my driveway and waved as the cruiser shut off its flashing lights and drove away, my nerves still a-jangle from my close encounter. Really, how stupid was it to have a glass of wine and then get into an old vehicle to drive on hilly roads? I could drink at home or when someone else drove.

  I pulled up to my antique barn, which doubled as a garage. A couple of months ago I’d discovered an underground tunnel connecting the barn with my store. A killer had tried to get to me through the passageway, so I now kept both accesses to the tunnel securely locked, and the barn door, too. The security was worth the trouble of unlocking and locking the barn every time I used my car, and in the warmer weather I usually just left it outside, anyway. It wasn’t particularly warm right now, but I decided to lock the van where it sat. My burrito was calling my name with increasing urgency in a loud and clear voice.

  A couple of minutes later I sat at the kitchen table with a glass of seltzer, a plate full of dinner, and today’s newspaper. Birdy batted around the balled-up foil burrito wrapper. He pounced on it like it was an evil mouse he was compelled to catch. My phone buzzed with an incoming text. I took one more bite, savoring the mix of black beans, cheese, green chilies, avocado, and homemade pico de gallo. I wiped off my hands and dug the device out of my purse, which I’d dropped on the chair next to mine. I read the text. My eyebrows went up when I saw it was from the detective. He was fast.

  Got your messages. From Genest, too. Thx.

  No elaboration. Fine. At least he’d gotten the messages and had thanked me. And was an old dude who knew text abbreviations like thx for “thanks.” Or maybe Thompson wasn’t really that old. He had to be at least fifty from the way his skin looked and the way he acted. I’d met a number of people in their later years who didn’t really like to text because they’d never mastered how to tap out letters quickly using both thumbs. It was laborious to hit one button at time with your index finger. I didn’t blame them. Texting must be part of the detective’s job.

  While my hands were clean, I dug my new Leatherdos multi-tool out of my purse and clipped back my hair with it. Abe had given it to me recently. It wasn’t the standard Leatherman, which folded a good knife, a screwdriver, and a few other handy tools into an easy-to-carry and indispensable gadget, one I usually carried in either my pocket or my bag. This one was a three-inch-long hair clip that included a cutting edge, a wrench, three sizes of screwdriver tips, and a ruler. Abe had guessed right with his gift, knowing it was perfect for me. I shook my head when the image of the woman I’d seen talking with him earlier popped into my brain. In the calm of my home, I felt a lot less worried about whatever their interaction had been.

  Birdy chased his tin-foil prey into the slot between the wall and the fridge. I watched him reach way in, amazed at how far he could stretch his long-haired black and white body. He snagged the ball on a claw and resumed the proverbial cat-and-mouse game with it. At least this one wouldn’t leave the gift of a half-eaten or decapitated carcass on my floor, or worse, on my pillow. Was Detective Thompson going to have to chase Connolly’s killer into a slot and stretch nearly beyond his reach to catch him?

  When I refocused on the paper, my eyes froze on a headline. SOI DRUG TASK FORCES CLOSES IN ON GANG. I held my now-dripping burrito over my plate and leaned sideways to read the story. I straightened when I was through, popping the last bite of dinner into my mouth. The gist of the story was that prescription drugs were being imported from Canada and sold to southern Indiana addicts for exorbitant rates. Wow. I never imagined our bucolic hilly county being Drug Central, although I supposed the nationwide addiction epidemic wasn’t confined to big cities. Our region had a lot of people still out of work and living on the edge. Maybe opioids took the pain away for them, but I knew it couldn’t help their financial situation.

  How did Mona’s phone call tie into this? With any luck I could gently question Turner tomorrow as we worked. If he showed up. I groaned. Speaking of work, helper or no helper, I had prep to do. Once again I’d better be extra thorough with it in case I ended up alone on the job again.

  Another text came in, this one from Danna.

  Sorry, still out. How R things?

  I tapped in return, Doing ok. Can’t wait to see you back, tho!

  Was I really doing okay? I supposed. My life couldn’t get back to normal fast enough. I sure as heck hoped our town being plagued by murders wasn’t the new normal.

  * * *

  I was about to get to work in the restaurant when I spied crumbs of chips on the floor near where we’d all sat earlier. I whisk-broomed the floor under the table, sweeping it all into the dustpan. I straightened, but halted midstep toward the trash can.

  Gold glinted amid the crumbs and dust bunnies. Gold? I set the dustpan on the counter and plucked out the gold. After I blew it clean, I held it up to the light. And laughed. I might have just solved one mystery.

  The gold was shaped like the surface of a molar. Maybe Connolly hadn’t been the victim of a malicious object secreted in his biscuit the day of the competition. He’d simply lost a filling, or a crown, or whatever the right dentistry word was. Or someone else had lost a filling and the noise I’d heard had been nothing. The thing could have been stuck under the table leg or something since Friday, or even earlier. I swept up several times a day and mopped every afternoon, but a teeny object like that can get missed. I found a clean envelope in my desk and slid in the gold, labeling the envelope. I’d pass it along to Thompson when I could.

  I had let Birdy into the restaurant along with me, where he’d explored for a few minutes. Now he perched on my desk, eyes closed but alert. The last aria in Otello kept me company as I chopped and mixed and pre-assembled. I sang along: “Era la notte, Cassio dormia, gli stavo accanto.”

  Really, a good Italian opera could get your mind off your troubles like nothing else. I’d much rather muse about the issues facing a fictional black hero than murder in my own town. I sang along where I could, but it lapsed into a hum when I didn’t know the words, which was more than half the time. I didn’t care. I didn’t yearn to have a singing career. Which was good, since my voice was marginal and I had no sense of key, although I could carry a tune well enough not to have been kicked out of chorus as a child.

  In honor of my father’s country, I mixed minced rosemary and parsley into the flour for the biscuits and added finely grated Parmigiana, too. I cut in the butter, added eggs and milk, and lightly kneaded it just to draw the dough together before stashing it in plastic wrap in the cooler. What else could I do for a special tomorrow? Mini-pizzas for lunch should be doable. I had tomato sauce and mozzarella. I’d call it Italian Day on the Specials blackboard and play opera in the background while we were open. The prospect made me smile to myself. At breakfast I—or we, if Turner showed up—could serve caffé latte, which was basically café au lait. I might as well make a special day out of tomorrow, since I had nothing else to do. I clearly couldn’t be out testing cars for bloodstains.

  When I visited my father in Italy after Christmas, we’d had a hard toast like zwieback with our caffé latte, but Americans probably wouldn’t find it appealing. An almond-flavored sweet cookie would fit the bill much
better, so I’d make up a couple of batches of biscotti tonight, too. And the novelty of my doing an Italy-themed day might take customers’ minds off murder. Or at least it would take my mind off the investigation, and might distract customers from noticing slow service if Turner didn’t make an appearance.

  I added yeast to warm water and stirred in about half the flour the pizza dough was going to need, then covered it and set it aside for the sponge rise. I was about to start mixing the biscotti dough when my phone dinged from its charger on the desk. I hurried to wipe off my hands and turn down the music before checking it. Abe’s ID brought another smile, my earlier jealousy evaporating in an instant.

  “Buona sera, mi caro,” I said in my sexiest Italian voice.

  “Is that Robbie?”

  I giggled. “Yes, Mr. O’Neill. It’s me.”

  “And why are you answering your phone in a foreign language?”

  “I knew it was you, for one. Two, I just had a brainstorm to make tomorrow Italian Day in the restaurant. Biscotti, caffé latte, mini-pizzas, and opera all day long. What do you think?”

  He laughed, a welcome hearty sound. “I like it. What’s the occasion?”

  The sound of his luscious laugh, so familiar by now, made me think the whole scene with the woman in the street had in fact been nothing. She’d just been a too-friendly customer. I wasn’t going to bring it up. “Oh, to take everybody’s mind off murder, including my own.”

  “I get it. I’ll make sure I come in for both meals, then. Do you have any news?”

  “Hang on. I’m going to switch you to speaker so I can work and talk at the same time.” I jabbed the speaker icon and carried the phone to the kitchen area, stashing it on a shelf so it wouldn’t get flour on it. I could only imagine the effect of fine white flour sifting into the phone’s inner microelectronics. I opened my special notebook, a lay-flat binder with plastic sleeves containing my tried-and-true recipes, to the biscotti page, and set the oven to preheat.

  “No, no news to speak of,” I went on as I cut butter and set it to beat on low. “Actually, that’s not quite true. Earlier Sonia Genest told me she saw Dr. Rao push Connolly onto the stone block, and then she left him there and drove away. Can you believe it, Abe? She didn’t go see if she could help him, she didn’t call it in. Hang on a sec. This is going to be loud for a minute.” I ground toasted almonds in the food processor. “Okay, done.”

  “For her not to help or call, either, is pretty shocking. I’m going to guess you convinced her to tell the detective. Am I right?” The smile in his voice came through loud and clear.

  “You know me too well.” Which was kind of amazing. We’d only been dating a few months. “Yes, she promised to tell, and Detective Thompson confirmed she did.” I lightly mixed cocoa, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt, then beat them into the butter on a low speed.

  “Did she say what she did with the rest of her night?” Abe asked.

  “I forgot to ask.” I cracked eggs into the bowl and added almond extract, keeping the mixer going. “So she might be lying. She really, really disliked Warren Connolly, Abe. She said she drove away, but she could have stuck around and, you know . . .” I’d been about to say “finished him off” but it sounded way too crude.

  “And finished him off. Oh, that sounds bad, doesn’t it?” Abe asked. “Sorry. But you know what I mean.”

  “No worries. I almost said the same thing.” I added the ground almonds and half the flour and started the mixer up again, adding the rest of the flour.

  “The detective knows now and he’ll follow up. That’s good.”

  “Exactly. I heard something else disturbing today.” I related my restroom eavesdropping as I mixed in both the ground almonds and the sliced ones.

  “Sounds like a drug drop,” Abe said.

  “Exactly what I thought.” I tore off long sheets of wax paper, then divided the dough and scraped it out onto the paper, shaping it into long rolls. “I hate the idea of Mona being an addict. I’ve never seen any evidence of it in the few times I saw her.” Or was it only once? Maybe so. “What do you know about drug addiction in the county? I saw a story in the Democrat today about a gang that has been importing prescription drugs from Canada.”

  “Prescription drugs is part of it. There’s also the usual heroin and cocaine use. I don’t have my finger on numbers, but I know it’s widespread.”

  “What a shame.” I flipped the rolls onto a big cookie sheet and flattened them slightly, then slid them into the oven. “The drugs have to be expensive.”

  “They are. Heroin is surprisingly cheap, but half the time it’s cut with something super lethal. Or another substance from China which is equally bad crap.” He fell silent for a moment.

  “Whatcha thinking?”

  He sighed. “My son’s aunt has a drug problem. She’s tried to kick it so many times, been in and out of rehab. It’s very sad.”

  “You have a sister?” I’d never heard of one, only his brother Don.

  “No, it’s my ex’s sister.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” I frowned as I wiped off the counter. “I just remembered something else from the conversation Mona had. I only heard her side, but she said, ‘I need it. He needs it.’ I hope the ‘he’ isn’t Sajit or Turner.”

  “Did you tell Thompson?”

  “No, I forgot about that part.” I wiped the counter on top of the oven. “Damn.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Forgot to set the timer. Sorry, I’m baking biscotti for tomorrow. I guess they’ve been in about five minutes. I’ll just watch them carefully.” I dialed my white vintage timer to twenty minutes. I flashed on the woman I’d seen Abe with earlier. Should I ask him about her? Why not? I’d opened my mouth to speak when his voice resumed, instead.

  “Hey, I gotta run pick up Sean at debate team and take him home to his mom’s. I’ll see you for breakfast. A river dirt cheap.”

  “A what?” I stared at the phone.

  A laugh rolled out of him. “Isn’t it how you say good-bye in Italian? That’s what we say here in the boonies, anyway.”

  Light dawned. “You mean arrivederci?”

  “Exactly what I said. A river dirt cheap.”

  Chapter 30

  I’d never been so happy to see someone as when Turner pushed through the door, jangling the bell a few minutes before seven the next morning. I’d been racing around, trying to get ready to open, despite all my prep last night. The biscotti had come out rich and crunchy, even though they had a tendency to break as I took them off the baking sheets, and the savory biscuits were to die for.

  “Reporting for duty, Captain ma’am.” He pulled up to a crisp salute but the strain on his face belied his cheery tone.

  “Am I ever glad you’re here, Turner. Thank you.” I hurried over to give him a one-armed hug, not my usual greeting with my employees, but times had changed.

  “I met resistance at home, for sure. But I made it. And it smells incredible in here.” He slid an apron over his store T-shirt and tied it. He didn’t look anywhere near as bright and chipper as usual, with his skin showing a faint overlay of gray, but he smelled like he’d come straight from the shower. And, as he said, he was here. He set to washing his hands. “You want me on the grill or the floor?”

  I cocked my head. “What do you prefer?”

  He scrunched his face. “The grill, I think. This is my first time out in public since my father came under suspicion. I’m not really up to answering a bunch of questions from overly curious customers.”

  Adele’s reaction on Saturday, too. Not a problem. I was better than the average bear at simply smiling and evading the queries of too-inquisitive locals. “Deal. Last night I decided today is Italian Day. I thought it might sort of take customers’ minds off—” I stopped myself before I said “murder.” “Off of everything going on this week. I made Parmesan herbed biscuits and biscotti, figured out an Italian omelet, and we’re going to do caffé latte, which is war
m milk and coffee. It should be steamed, but I don’t have a milk steamer, so I put a large pot of milk on the lowest heat. We can ladle out of there.”

  “What’ll we serve the coffee in?”

  “Good question. Our mugs are too small. And I don’t have a few dozen large cups.” I surveyed the shelves where I kept the dishes. “Let’s use soup bowls. They’re high enough to mimic the bowls Europeans sometimes drink café au lait out of.”

  “Got it. And what should I put in the omelet?”

  “How about minced rosemary, crumbled Italian sausage, and a sprinkle of Parmesan? How does that sound?”

  “Good. Maybe mushrooms, too?”

  “Great idea, if you have time to prep them. We might have some already sliced. For lunch we’re doing simple mini-pizzas, too.” I glanced at the clock. “Let’s talk later on when things lighten up, all right?”

  “Sure.” He faced the grill, flipping the strips of bacon I’d just laid on. I headed to the Specials board and added today’s offerings. I turned toward the door when the bell jangled again, ushering in a group of four men followed by Buck.

  “Sit anywhere, folks,” I called. “Morning, Buck.” I added a wave for him.

  After I’d poured coffee all around, I took breakfast orders from the men, including an order of my always-popular cheesy grits. Only two of the men opted for any of the specials. I hoped my big idea wouldn’t backfire. After I delivered the orders to Turner, I headed over to Buck.

  “So you got you an eye-talian day today?” He squinted one-eyed at the Specials board.

  “We sure do. You want all of it?”

  “Why not? With a couple few pieces of bacon along with, and gravy on them biscuits, if I can.”

  “You can have whatever you want, Buck.” I lowered my voice. “Any news?”

  “Nope. One half less’n zero.” One corner of his uniform collar stuck up and the shirt could have used an iron. He looked like he’d grown a new set of lines in his narrow face from the stress of the unsolved case, even though it was Thompson’s responsibility to catch the killer, not Buck’s.