Grilled for Murder Page 4

  “Right around then. Her sister Paula drove her,” I said. “What’s shifting lividity?”

  “Huh,” Carl grunted, not answering me. He glanced at the wall clock and then at me. “And you found her at six thirty?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t hear nothing in the night?” Buck asked, hands in his pockets. “No glass breaking or nothing?”

  I shook my head. “You’d think I would have. But my bedroom is way at the back of the building, and it’s too cold now to have any windows open. Plus, I use silicone earplugs, because I sleep so lightly. I didn’t hear a thing.” And if I had? Would it have made a difference in Erica’s life?

  Buck shook his head. “That’s a crying shame, for sure.”

  “Do you think she was killed here?” Wanda asked the coroner. She stood with feet apart, her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Can’t say at this time.” Carl wiped one hand off on the other, back and forth, a few times. “All righty. I’m done,” he said to Buck and Wanda. “You send her on over to the county morgue in Nashville when you’re finished. I’m all kinda backed up for autopsies, but I’ll see if I can’t shove her to the head of the line.” He headed for the door, but paused by the rack of biscuits. “Okay if I grab one of these?” he called back to me.

  “Help yourself. And come on back whenever we get to reopen. The biscuits are great with gravy.”

  “And her pancakes are to die for,” Buck added. “Uh, so to speak.”

  “I’m sure they are.” With a wistful look, Carl grabbed a biscuit. “I’m sure they are.” He disappeared through the service door.

  * * *

  “When do you think I’ll be able to reopen?” I asked Buck. I wrapped my arms around myself, still feeling the chill of spotting Erica on the floor, still numb from the shock.

  “Dunno. Right now, I’m waiting on the county detective to show. Can’t take Erica away till after he says we can.” He ruffled his already flyaway sandy hair until it stood straight up. “Going to have to confiscate your pickle barrel, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?” I heard my voice rising.

  “Might could have evidence on it. Maybe that’s where she hit her head at.”

  “That’s awful. Take it if you have to, but you’ll have to empty it first.” There went one of my country store dreams, a big pickle barrel full of crisp fat dills. I wrapped my arms around myself, for comfort more than warmth.

  A trim woman in dark slacks and a tan blazer over a turtleneck appeared in the service doorway. She paused, taking in the scene as she wiped her feet on the mat, then fixed her gaze on Buck.

  He ambled toward her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Restaurant is closed. Crime scene.”

  She pulled a card out of her blazer pocket and handed it to him, then opened the side of the jacket. I caught a glimpse of something silver pinned inside.

  “Octavia Slade, state police homicide detective for Brown County. You’re Lieutenant Buck Bird, correct?” Her dark hair fell just below her ears and framed a barely lined face. Brown eyes behind black-rimmed glasses looked like they didn’t miss a thing.

  “My reputation precedes me, ma’am, and heck, call me Buck, would you? But I thought we was waiting on Oscar.”

  “Lieutenant Thompson is on leave at present. I recently transferred down here from Tippecanoe County, and I’m the detective on this case.” She moved toward Erica’s body. “Fill me in.”

  “Wanda?” Buck gestured. “This here’s Sergeant Wanda Bird, Detective Slade. She was the responding officer.”

  Wanda shook the detective’s proffered hand. “Ma’am. I’ll let Ms. Jordan tell you what transpired.”

  “You want me to come in now?” I asked.

  Wanda waved me in, so I skirted along the back wall, staying as far from poor Erica’s body as I could.

  “You can stay back there.” The detective motioned for me to stop in the kitchen area and moved toward me.

  “I’m Robbie Jordan, Detective. This is my store and restaurant.” I extended my hand.

  The detective shook hands, her skin cool and smooth. “Now, Ms. Jordan, please tell me what happened, start to finish.” Her gaze was focused and friendly at the same time. She drew a small notepad and an elegant silver pen out of her pocket.

  “I found Erica dead on the floor next to the pickle barrel after I came in this morning.” I heard a shake in my voice and swallowed hard to master it.

  “You knew her?”

  “I met her only last night. Her parents threw her a welcome-home party here in the restaurant. I told Wanda all about it.”

  Her gaze shifted to Erica’s body. “I’ll get it from her, then. You gave her the list of people at this party?”

  “I told her the ones whose names I knew.”

  “I’m sure I’ll have more questions for you after I review it. Did the victim have problems with anyone at this party?”

  “I told Wanda all about it,” I said. “Erica seemed to rub several people the wrong way. Her own brother-in-law, my friend who was bartending, a local jeweler.”

  “That’s all? Nobody else?” She narrowed her eyes like she could peer into my brain.

  I squirmed mentally and made a snap decision. “She was flirting pretty heavily with a local lawyer, too, her former brother-in-law. Her late husband’s brother. Her husband died last year.”

  “Wanda has his name?” The detective jotted something in her notebook in small, neat letters.

  “No. I forgot to tell her that part. It was Jim Shermer, Erica’s husband’s brother.”

  She lifted her face slowly until she looked at me. “Did you say Jim Shermer?” She stressed Jim’s first name.

  “That’s right.” Did she know Jim, or know of him?

  She blinked a couple of times. “So the victim’s last name is Shermer.”

  “Right. Her parents are Sue and Glen Berry, who live here in South Lick.”

  Detective Slade turned away. “Buck, has Carl already been by? I heard he’d been summoned.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He said he’d try to push poor old Erica to the front of the autopsy line tomorrow.”

  “Good.” The detective walked around Erica and the pickle barrel, then strolled to the front door.

  “I assume this happened in the night?” She pointed to the broken glass but gestured for me to stay where I was.

  “Yes. I don’t know exactly when, though. Sometime between 11 p.m. and 6:30 this morning. I live in the apartment in the back.” I pointed toward the door into my personal space. “But as I told Wanda, my bedroom is way at the rear, and I wear earplugs when I sleep. I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “How convenient.” She arched a single eyebrow.

  Why had she said that? Did she think I was lying? My palms began to sweat. “I wish I’d heard something, at least.”

  “Yes, well, then you would have had to deal with a murderer and you might be dead, too.” She leaned over and looked through the jagged hole and at the simple bolt mechanism on the inside. She used her pen to poke around in the shards on the floor. She motioned Kenny over.

  “Did you get pictures of the glass and the door?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet, ma’am.”

  “Well, make sure you do. I think there’s some blood on it. Dust the lock for prints, too, and bag up the shards. Might have DNA on them if whoever broke in cut himself. Or herself.” She straightened.

  “Ms. Slade—” I began.

  “Call me Octavia. I don’t stand on ceremony.”

  “Octavia, this place is my livelihood. I know you have to do your job, but how long am I going to have to stay closed?”

  “What are your usual hours?”

  “Sundays eight to three. I’m normally closed on Mondays.”

  “It’s going to take some hours to process this place, I’m afraid. I don’t see why you can’t open up again on Tuesday, though, depending.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d better put a sign up out front, then.
”

  Octavia held up a hand. “Wait a sec.” She looked at Wanda. “I don’t suppose you took care to preserve footprints out front?”

  Wanda cleared her throat. “No, ma’am. That, uh, did not occur to us. Although I’m the only one of us who went up the steps and approached the door.”

  “Waste of fresh snow,” Octavia grumbled. “Go ahead, put up your sign,” she told me.

  And none too soon. By the time I walked around the side to the front with tacks and a sign I’d hastily printed out in my apartment, a couple stood at the bottom of the steps staring at the yellow tape. They’d been here for breakfast at eight sharp every Sunday since I’d opened.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told them. “There was an, uh, accident in the store this morning. We’re closed for today. But I’ll be open Tuesday as normal.” I smiled as brightly as I could manage.

  “What happened? All these police cars and such?” the man asked.

  “Did somebody die?” the woman chimed in, her eyes wide.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” Damn. The news would be out soon enough.

  The man shook his head and took his wife’s arm. “We’ll have to drive into Nashville for breakfast, honey pie.”

  I tacked the sign to the post at the bottom of the steps: PANS ’N PANCAKES CLOSED FOR TODAY DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND OUR CONTROL. SEE YOU ON TUESDAY! The couple climbed into their car and drove off, adding two more sets of footprints and tire tracks to the trampled-down mess of snow at the base of the porch. Octavia was right. If Wanda and the men had kept a wide berth around the front of the steps, maybe the footprints of the murderer could have been identified, since it had probably kept snowing long after Phil and the others left last night. I peered at the steps. Or maybe it wasn’t a waste of fresh snow, after all.

  Making my way back around the side, I paused to gaze across the road at the woods, the snow coating the bare branches of the trees like a giant had shaken powdered sugar over them. The hills rose up in the distance, today looking a grayish-blue. The colorful riot of the changing leaves of October was long gone.

  “I saw some footprints in snow on the front steps,” I said to Octavia when I came back inside. “Maybe two different sets.”

  Wanda gave me the stink eye from across the room. One set of prints had to be hers. But wasn’t it her job to have checked for footprints before she went up the steps for the first time?

  Octavia nodded. “We’ll check it out. Good eye, Robbie. My evidence team will be here soon. You can head back to your apartment now.” She glanced upward. “Or wait. This is a two-story building. What’s upstairs?”

  “It’s empty. Like a big loft, really. I plan to develop it into guest rooms someday.” My real dream was to expand into offering bed-and-breakfast rooms. I already made breakfast every day, and I could manage to turn over linens and clean rooms in the afternoons after the restaurant closed. But that was a future dream. I pointed to a door in the far corner of the cookware area. “That leads to the upstairs.”

  She pulled out a phone and turned away. As I walked away, I heard her tell someone to make sure they had the footprint kit, and to come around the side.

  I stood in the doorway to my apartment, observing the action. Everybody seemed to have a job except Buck, who sat watching the officers work. I knew from getting to know him after the murder in October he projected a real country hick image, but inside he was smarter than most of the county residents. I’d bet that mind of his was even now cranking out ideas, although Octavia might not think so from the exasperated look she cast him.

  A rush of cold air ushered in several officers, dressed in the state police uniform of navy blue long-sleeved shirts, with light blue neckties that matched their pants. All three carried equipment cases in various shapes. After Octavia spoke to them, a stocky man went back outside. She directed a tall female officer to check out the upstairs first.

  “Careful,” I called out. “The floorboards are a little iffy.”

  “We already done the dusting, Octavia,” Buck said to her with a slow smile.

  George and Kenny paused from emptying the pickle barrel into a couple of big pots I’d given them, and watched Octavia take a seat at Buck’s table.

  “It’s okay, guys. Proceed,” she called. “We’re all on the same team here. Dave, why don’t you check for bloodstains?”

  The man she’d addressed gave a mock salute and knelt to open his case.

  Buck raised a finger in the air and looked in my direction. “Any chance of some breakfast for the team, Robbie?” He stressed the word team.

  “I can do that, since I’m not getting any actual customers. That okay, Octavia?”

  She looked up from where she and Wanda were conferring over Wanda’s tablet. “No. Not until we’re finished with the crime scene.”

  Chapter 5

  I watched the team wheel Erica out as I oversaw sizzling bacon and sausages and a growing stack of pancakes. My legs were starting to feel more solid than shaky. Octavia had finally given me the go-ahead to cook more than two hours later, at which Buck had looked hugely relieved. The footprint guy had been busy outside and the staties had examined all kinds of things inside after the tall officer cleared the upstairs.

  George and Kenny had zipped Erica into a body bag while I cooked. Her legs and feet had stiffened while she’d lain there, and the guys had had a hard time getting her into the bag. I’d felt my stomach roil, watching, and I kept my eyes pretty much on the griddle after that.

  “Food’s about ready,” I called before they reached the door.

  The guys paused.

  “Put her in the wagon and lock up, then come eat,” Buck said. “She’ll stay plenty cold, God rest her young soul.”

  It took a couple of full trays to bring the loaded plates to the three tables where people had chosen to sit. I’d decided not to short-order cook but to give everybody the same food, since I doubted I was getting paid for these meals. The last plate was for me, and I sat with Buck, Octavia, and Wanda. Buck’s legs stretched so far under the table I could barely scoot my chair in. Octavia had pushed her bacon to the side.

  “I don’t eat meat,” she said when she saw me looking.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  Buck looked longingly at the forlorn bacon until Octavia laughed.

  “Take it.” She pushed her plate toward Buck.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Hey, Robbie, any of them biscuits left?”

  The man was a bottomless pit when it came to eating, but then again, he had a lot to fill, as tall as he was. I rose and grabbed the platter of biscuits, which still held a half dozen. The officers at the other tables had split along local/statie lines, and conversed quietly among themselves. I’d just shoveled in a too-big bite of pancake when my aunt Adele burst through the service door.

  George, who’d been stationed at the door again, held up his hand.

  “What in tarnation is going on here?” The edges of Adele’s no-nonsense steel-gray hair peeked out from under a multicolored knit hat, with long, brilliant green cloisonné earrings dangling below her hair. Her faded blue eyes flashed. “Are you okay, Roberta?”

  “Ma’am,” George said.

  “Let her in, George.” Buck waved a hand even as Octavia shook her head.

  Adele hurried to my side.

  “I’m fine, Adele.” My mom’s sister was the only person I allowed to call me by my full name.

  Adele looked at the officers, who, to a one, looked back. “Well, something’s up on God’s green earth, that’s certain. What are all them cherry toppers doing out there? I ain’t seen so many panda cars together in a long time. Howdy, Buck, Wanda.” She waved.

  “Pull up a chair and sit down,” I said. There were definitely lots of police cars out there, and the state police colors were blue and white but knowing Adele, they were all panda cars to her.

  Octavia’s eyebrows pulled together. “The restaurant is closed until future notice, ma’am.”

 
Adele grabbed a chair and squeezed in between Buck and me. “I’m no ma’am, ma’am. I’m family.”

  I stretched my arm around Adele’s shoulders. “She’s my aunt. And former mayor of South Lick as well as former fire chief. Adele, this is State Police Detective Octavia Slade. Octavia, Adele Jordan. The reason I’m in Indiana.”

  “Nice to meet you, Octavia.” Adele reached her hand across the table. Octavia shook hands with a look of reluctance. “Sure smells good in here,” Adele said.

  I sniffed. The scents of meat and pancakes had finally taken over for pickle brine and death. “Breakfast?” I stuffed in one more bite and grabbed my last bacon as I stood. I knew what Adele’s answer would be and I had enough batter left for one more plate.

  “You bet,” Adele said. “Now, who’s going to fill me in on all this commotion?”

  * * *

  The last of the officers cleared out of the store, leaving only Octavia donning her coat. Adele was washing dishes, and I held a rag in my hand, ready to set the place to rights again. I’d duct-taped a big piece of cardboard over the broken glass when the police gave me the all-clear, just to keep the cold out, but I was going to have to get the glass replaced as soon as possible.

  “I’ll need to speak with you again, I’m sure,” Octavia said to me. “And you need to keep the store closed until further notice.”

  “All right. But I thought you said I could reopen on Tuesday.”

  “I expect you’ll be able to, but I can’t guarantee it.” She handed me a credit card. “Go ahead and put all the breakfasts on this.”

  “Really? I was offering them on the house.”

  Octavia shook her head. “State regs. We can’t accept freebies.”

  “Got it.” I took the card and swiped it through card reader on the store iPad, which I’d mounted on a stand at the counter next to the antique cash register. I pressed the total for the meals and swiveled it around to face her.

  “Sign with the stylus,” I said. “Or with your finger, either one.” I would have fed everyone for free, but it was great to be paid, too. My profit margins were pretty slim, and I’d only been open a month and a half. I was already worrying about the food in the walk-in going bad if they were going to make me stay closed for a while, and if anybody would even want to eat here again after hearing about the murder. I imagined talk already going around about how surely I would have heard something in the night, or gossip about how I had a grudge against Erica for flirting with Jim. Small towns are a blessing and a curse. People’s love for you can turn to suspicion or even hate in a matter of hours.