Grilled for Murder Page 5

  Octavia scribbled a signature.

  “Thanks. And good luck with the investigation.”

  “If you think of anything that might help us, overhear anything, please let me know.” She handed me one of her business cards.

  “I will.”

  “We’ll be parking ourselves at the South Lick police station for the duration of the investigation—too far to go back and forth to the state police post in Bloomington all the time.” She turned toward the door.

  “I definitely know where the town’s police station is,” I said, remembering my grilling there last month when I was briefly under suspicion of murder myself.

  “Bye, Detective,” Adele called.

  Octavia waved before closing the door behind her. I wandered over to the desk and set the card on it.

  “Bet you didn’t expect any of that this morning,” Adele said, her hands deep in sudsy water. The wall clock chimed once, marking the half hour into the now quiet air.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Are you doing all right?” she asked.

  “I guess I am. I was shaky and kind of numb for a while.” I pushed a stray curl off my forehead, then started wiping down the tables. “I wish none of it’d happened, especially not seeing Erica dead. And then having to close the store.” I’d seen plenty of folks stop by while the teams were at work. They peered at my sign out front and then walked away, shaking their heads.

  “Any idea who killed her?” Adele glanced at me.

  I shook my head. “She seemed to rub everybody the wrong way last night except her parents and maybe her sister. She was heavy into flirting with both Jim and Max. She made Jim uncomfortable and Max mad. Although he was already pretty mad.”

  “He’s a veteran, you know. Could be he has PTSD issues.”

  “Interesting. He seemed to really want to control Paula,” I said. “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a locksmith, I believe.”

  “And Tiffany who owns the jewelry shop—”

  “Tiffany Porter?” Adele asked. “She’s very talented.”

  “That’s her. She accused Erica of stealing from her. And then Erica delivered some kind of racist insult to Phil. To Phil!” I shook my head. “The sweetest guy in the universe. She claimed she’d only been joking. He wouldn’t tell me exactly what she said, it was that bad.”

  “But none of that is exactly cause to take and kill someone.”

  “Of course not.” I rubbed my chin. That take and phrasing was common around here, and to my ears was completely superfluous, since take and bring simply meant bring, just like take and kill really only meant kill.

  “Last night Paula, Erica’s sister, went home with her,” I went on. “Erica said they were going to have a sister slumber party. But she must have gone out again, or been abducted from her own house. I wonder if Paula heard her leave.” I picked up a feather duster and swiped at the powder that was everywhere. Dark powder on light surfaces and light powder on dark. Had they gotten any useful fingerprints? Mine would be on nearly every surface, of course. Plus, hundreds of customers had come through here in the last month and a half, picking up a vintage chopper here, examining an antique whisk there, checking out cookware from sifters to salt boxes, checkered crocks to cast-steel cleavers. The feather duster barely dented the powder, so I grabbed a rag instead and headed over to the shelves of cookware, which were always in need of dusting, anyway.

  Wait a minute. On the wall where I hung my collection of not-for-sale favorite kitchen implements, I saw a blank spot. I racked my brain, trying to remember what had hung there. The wall where the empty spot was showed a lighter circle, maybe six inches across. I peered at it. Was there also a long narrow light stripe? I snapped my fingers. The vintage sandwich press was missing.

  But why? Had some light-fingered partygoer made off with the press when I wasn’t looking? Tiffany had been interested in it last night, but I knew she hadn’t walked out with it. It wasn’t exactly the easiest tool to steal, anyway, with those two-foot long handles. Or . . . a tremor rippled through me. Had the murderer whacked Erica on the head with it?

  Chapter 6

  “It’s just that I noticed it was missing off the wall,” I said to Octavia after I’d reached her by phone.

  “How big is it again?”

  I described the press. “So it’s long, and it’s kind of heavy because of the cast-iron disks. With the right leverage, I guess. Wait a minute.” I looked at Adele, who waved at me.

  “She can look at mine if she wants,” Adele said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Octavia, my aunt Adele has one exactly like it at home. She says you can look at it.”

  Octavia blew out a breath. “All right. Give me her number, and I’ll send someone out to pick it up.”

  “She’s still here. I’ll have her call you when she gets home, okay?”

  She agreed and I disconnected the call, staring at Adele.

  “Could someone have used the press to kill Erica? The police did find what they called a contusion on the back of her head. It’s totally horrible even thinking about it.” My voice shook, and I swallowed. “If the killer used the press on Erica, he took it away with him, or else the police would have found it.”

  Adele dried her hands on a blue-and-white-striped towel. “Guess you’re lucky they didn’t use the chopper.” She pointed to the two-handled curved blade, which fit exactly in a shallow wooden bowl.

  “Ack. You’re right. I don’t even want to think about that.”

  “I’m heading back to the farm now, hon. Left Sloopy out.”

  “How’s he doing?” I liked her energetic border collie.

  “Good. Loves his job, rounding up the flock. And Samuel’s coming over a little later on.” A blush tinted Adele’s deeply lined cheeks.

  Phil’s grandfather was Adele’s main squeeze, and good for them, finding full-blown romance in their seventies.

  “Sounds like a nice afternoon.” I remembered something I’d been meaning to ask her. “Adele, I want to add some new gift items for the holidays. You know, local crafts and such. You’ve got yarn from your sheep that you sell. Could you bring some over? We can set up a special display, maybe bring in more shoppers before Christmas.”

  “That’s a great idea, hon. I have a decent supply, and in the most gorgeous colors. I’ll bring it by next time I come to town.”

  “Thanks. Now go home to your dog and your man. I’ll be fine.” I held out my arms for a hug from the only relative I’d ever known besides my mom. Mom had died suddenly last January at only fifty-three, and the taste of missing her was still bitter. She’d taught me cabinet making and how to love life, and she’d left me enough money so that, combined with my savings, I could buy this country store and make it over into a restaurant.

  She hugged me. “Any word from Roberto?”

  “His foot is healing up well. I Skyped with him on Friday, and we’re planning my trip.” Last month I’d discovered my absent father was a professor in Italy who’d never even known of my existence. Mom had never told him about me, or me about him. After I contacted him, he’d welcomed me into his heart and invited me to come to Tuscany for Christmas to meet him and the half-siblings I wasn’t even aware I had.

  “That’s just ducky, hon,” Adele said. “All righty, I’m out of here. Now don’t you worry about having to be closed. Folks are going to come on back as soon as you reopen, you’ll see. People around here have gotten used to your tasty meals.”

  “I hope so.” I mustered a smile as I saw her out the side door. I closed the door and thought for a moment, and opened it again. I needed to board up the top part of my door. Cardboard wasn’t secure at all, and with a murderer out there, being secure was high on my list. I knew I had some plywood left over from the store renovation out in the old barn that’d come with the property.

  Half an hour later, I shot in the last screw with my power drill and stepped back to examine it. I hated to have to put screws
into an antique door, and it wasn’t pretty, but the door was as secure as it was going to get for today. I’d order replacement glass tomorrow. It was too bad, because the antique glass had made lovely wavy patterns on the floor when late-day sunlight streamed through it. I thought they made unbreakable glass for doors now, so perhaps having it broken was a blessing, as long as it didn’t set me back too far financially.

  Now that that chore was finished, I didn’t know what to do with myself on a Sunday morning at eleven thirty. I hadn’t had a Sunday off since before I opened in early October. I puttered around, returning the uncooked bacon and sausage to the walk-in, stashing the clean dishes, sweeping up. At least I hadn’t made a big batch of pancake batter I’d have to throw out. A batter made with baking powder wouldn’t freeze well or keep in the cooler, either. The coleslaw I’d made yesterday for today’s lunch would probably keep, although by Tuesday it might be too wilted to serve. I might as well chip away at it for my own lunches. I drew out the bowl full of the colorful salad—a cheerful mix of green and red cabbages and carrots—from the walk-in and headed for my apartment.

  At the door, I turned back to look at the cookware wall. That empty space where the press had been bugged me. I wanted to hang something over it, move a frying pan or a popcorn popper into its place. But the detective would certainly want to check out the wall for prints or DNA or something. I turned into my apartment and locked up tight behind me.

  After I let Birdy out of the bedroom, he sauntered after me into the kitchen and rubbed against my leg.

  “Hey, kittycat.” I rubbed his head and picked him up, putting my face close to his until I got one little scratchy lick on the nose, then he squirmed out of my hands and jumped into the sink. A dutiful cat mom, I turned the faucet on low and watched him lap up the running water, an H2O source apparently much preferable to fresh water in a bowl on the floor.

  But I kept picturing Erica. Wondering who’d killed her, who’d broken into my store. I’d never seen a dead body before. It’d been an upsetting, terrible sight. I knew some funerals included an open casket, but I’d never been to one. And in that case I was sure they prettied up the dead.

  It was Sunday, so maybe the puzzle would distract me. I downloaded and printed out the New York Times Sunday puzzle from my subscription, clamped it onto my puzzle clipboard, and found my special pen, which Buck had returned to me after it was found at the scene of the crime in October. It was one of the pens my mom had had printed with the logo for her cabinetry business, a long table inscribed with JEANINE’S CABINETS. I put my feet up on the futon sofa and got to work.

  After I’d filled in the top left corner, though, my mind drifted back to the Who Killed Erica puzzle. Even though she wasn’t well liked, she didn’t deserve to die at the hands of another. And I sure didn’t deserve to have a dead woman dumped on the floor of my store. I couldn’t figure out the connection. Why kill Erica? Why leave her here?

  I watched Birdy perform feats even the best yogi couldn’t master as he bathed his lithe black-and-white self in a spot of sunlight on the floor. Solving this murder wasn’t my job, of course. But it might require the same kinds of contortions, except of the mental variety.

  * * *

  After I finished the puzzle, it wasn’t even noon. I stretched my arms as I wandered through the kitchen to the back door, pushing it open. The sunshine was already melting the couple of inches of white stuff. Early snows this far south never lasted long.

  I still wanted to distract myself from the deeply disturbing events of the morning. But there was too much snow on the ground for me to want to take my nice road cycle out for a long ride. Good thing I’d ordered a bike trainer I could click my cycle into. I set it up in the living room, changed into biking shorts and a tank top, and put on a collection of arias sung by Luciano Pavarotti. I was the only twenty-something I knew who liked opera. It was one more thing I’d picked up from Mom, and after I learned my father Roberto was Italian, I realized why the Italian baritones were her favorites.

  I’d been pedaling for about half an hour, getting into the zone of exercise where my mind switched off and the endorphins flowed, exactly where I wanted to be, when my phone rang. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to interrupt the Zen. But with a dead woman found in my store this morning, I needed to reset my priorities. I hopped off the bike and grabbed the phone from the sleek maple coffee table my mother had crafted, then resumed riding at a slower pace.

  “Robbie, I heard what happened,” Jim said without preamble. “Poor Erica. The family is devastated. I was just over there.”

  “I’m sure they are.” Unease twinged through me. I hadn’t even thought of calling Jim and talking about the murder. Shouldn’t he have been the first person I’d want to share the news with, and my confusion and distress about it? At some point I’d need to ponder why calling him hadn’t occurred to me.

  “And poor you,” he continued. “They said you found her body. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, but it was awful to see her dead right there on my floor.” I rocked in my seat, twisting my silver pinky ring, the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder.

  “I can imagine. It’s terrible you had to go through that.”

  “And the store’s closed. Until Tuesday, if not longer, according to the detective assigned to the case.”

  “Well, that’s no good,” he said. “I’m sure they’re only doing what they have to, though.”

  “I guess.”

  “I’ll have to let my parents know,” he said. “Erica was their daughter-in-law, even though they didn’t get along so well with her.”

  I stopped pedaling. “I wonder what else the police think they’re going to find in my store. It was swarming with both the local police and the staties for several hours, although they’re all gone now.”

  “Not sure,” Jim said. “Who is the detective on the case?”

  “Her name is Octavia Slade.”

  “Really?” His voice rose higher than usual at the end of the question.

  “Why, do you know her?” I asked. He was a lawyer, after all, but he practiced real estate law, not criminal. His reaction to hearing Octavia’s name was oddly similar to hers hearing his.

  He didn’t speak for a minute, then he said, “I do. Or I did.”

  I didn’t ask what he meant. He’d tell me when he was ready to. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

  He cleared his throat. “Listen, I also called to see if you wanted to go dancing with me tonight.”

  “That sounds like a perfect way to get my mind off finding Erica. But you just lost your sister-in-law. Are you up for dancing?”

  “We were never close, although I wouldn’t mind getting my thoughts off her death, either.”

  “So I guess your migraine didn’t happen last night?”

  “I caught it just in time.”

  “Okay, then. Dancing it is,” I said.

  “We could go back to the roadhouse where we went line dancing. Or, if you want, there’s a special contra dance in Bloomington tonight, and we could get dinner beforehand.”

  “I’ve never been to a contra dance. It’s like square dancing, right?”

  Jim laughed. “Square dancing is different. Contra is usually done in lines with people facing each other.”

  “Will I be able to figure out what to do? And do I need an outfit?” I knew for sure I didn’t have a full skirt and a matching Western shirt in my closet.

  “I think you’ll be able to pick it up. There’s a caller who tells you what to do. And I’ll help. It’s really a lot of fun.”

  “What about the outfit?” I asked.

  “You can wear anything, but mostly women wear skirts. Actually, there are a couple of guys who wear skirts, too.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you?” I asked.

  “Definitely not,” he said. “But don’t wear a heavy sweater—it gets pretty warm in there. Layers are good.”

  “It’s a date, then.”
>
  “I’ll pick you up at five, so we have plenty of time to eat and get to the newcomer instruction starting at seven thirty.” He said goodbye and disconnected.

  I loved dancing, but Jim preferred dances with steps and moves, dances that actually needed instruction. I, on the other hand, liked to work it out, move to the music however my body wanted to. What was I getting myself into?

  Chapter 7

  I headed over to Shamrock Hardware, a few blocks away, after my exercise, a shower, and a sandwich. By one o’clock I was back at the store unloading a couple of big bags bursting with Christmas decorations and new extension cords from my old Dodge mini-van. Might as well take the opportunity of the store being closed to make it look cheery for the holidays. And Shamrock had had everything I needed except fresh greens. For that I’d drive out to one of the local Christmas tree farms tomorrow. I set the bags on the floor and looked around, eyes narrowed, planning it all out. Strings of tiny white lights over the door and around the windows. Garlands here and there. Twenty silver balls. A dozen red bows and . . . my gaze fell on the empty spot on the wall again. Shoot.

  Digging my phone out of my back pocket, I strode to the desk where I’d left Octavia’s card and pressed her number.

  “Slade,” she said in a crisp voice right when I thought the call was about to go to voice mail.

  “Octavia, it’s Robbie Jordan. I wondered when you’d be done with my store. I mean, I wanted to decorate it for the holidays. Is that all right? I don’t want to impede the investigation or anything.”

  She sighed audibly. “I suppose you can go ahead. We’ve already printed the place and checked for other evidence. But leave the area alone around where you said the item was missing. Can you do that?”