Biscuits and Slashed Browns Page 7

  The going was icy and bumpy, as walkways that never see the sun tend to get in the winter. I realized the family must use the drive, instead, but by now I was halfway there, so I kept on going until my foot turned on a hard bump I hadn’t seen. I went sprawling, arms flailing. I cried out as I grabbed at a branch to keep me from going down, but it snapped. I landed hard on my left elbow and hip.

  I lay in place for a moment, cursing, but the ground was too cold to stay there long. After I pushed up to standing and dusted myself off, I checked for damage. I’d have a bruise on my hip, for sure, but nothing seemed seriously hurt. I headed for the house again. This time I placed my feet with purpose and care and kept my eyes on the ground. Something cracked ahead. I flinched and looked up. Was it a shot? Whoever killed Connolly was out in the world somewhere. But no, it was Turner breaking a different branch as he hurried toward me.

  “Robbie, are you okay? I heard you yell.” His face was drawn with concern.

  “I’m fine, or will be. I slipped on a hump of ice.”

  “I should have told you to drive right up to the house. We rarely use this path. I’m really sorry.”

  “No worries.” But I was relieved when we reached a yard where the sun shone and snow and ice were a thing of the past winter, not the present almost-spring.

  “Come on in the house.” He gestured for me to follow him around the back and through a door off a big deck.

  A minute later we sat at a round kitchen table in a room with a pleasant aroma of maple and curry, plus a hint of cardamom. Two ornate framed paintings of what looked like Indian deities hung on a wall over a small table holding little brass figurines, an incense burner, several squat candles in dishes, and a small bowl of clementines and grapes.

  “Thanks so much for coming, Robbie,” Turner said. “I really appreciate it. We need your help. Coffee?” he asked.

  “Only if it’s decaf. Five o’clock is too late in the day for me to have caffeine.”

  He nodded and selected a pod from a drawer. Before long I was sipping a hot dark roast with milk, just how I liked it. Turner sat with his own mug and let out a long breath through pursed lips.

  “So,” I began, when he didn’t speak, “a body is found on your property, and you can’t locate your father. I assume you’ve texted and called him?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t respond.” With a shaky hand he slowly spun a small lazy Susan in the middle of the table.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “He woke me up this morning like he always does. It was at five-thirty, earlier than usual, but we had a lot to do.”

  “Did he seem like himself?”

  “I guess so. He just woke me up and then left.”

  “Where do you think he was headed?”

  “I figured the sugar shack. Where else?”

  “And then what happened?”

  Turner gazed out the window where a male cardinal pecked at a feeder, the sunlight deepening its red coat. “I didn’t see him again.” He focused on me. “I ate my breakfast and I went out to put up signs and restock the syrup bottles in the store, as he’d asked me to. We were expecting a huge crowd today.”

  “Where’s the store?”

  “Next to the sugaring shack. We sell syrup, of course, plus maple candies, T-shirts, postcards, and other gift items. This is our busy season.”

  “What was your dad supposed to be doing while you were setting up?”

  “Stoking the fire, testing the sap. But when I went into the shack, he wasn’t there.”

  “What time did you go in there?” I knew I was playing detective now but I wasn’t doing a particularly good job, since I wasn’t writing all this down.

  “Seven-thirty? About then. I went and found my mom and sister, but they were busy with their own tasks and they’d just assumed he was working the shack. Like he always does. And your aunt came to volunteer, too.” He sipped his coffee. “This festival is a very big deal to him, Robbie. You must have seen his devotion to it when he came into the restaurant. Mom is still out looking for him.” He frowned. “And this is the last thing she needs. My peepaw, her dad, is really sick. Mom’s been spending a lot of energy taking care of him, and worrying about him, too.”

  “What a shame. But getting back to your dad, there’s nowhere else he was supposed to be today? What about the academic conference?”

  “They don’t have sessions today. They’re scheduled to resume on Monday. The organizers said they wanted the academics to be able to be tourists, too.” He shook his head. “No, Baba was supposed to be right here, demonstrating how to make maple syrup.”

  “Okay. Tell me what happened after Adele found the body.”

  Turner shuddered. “It was like a nightmare. All those police. All those questions. And it just got worse when we couldn’t find my father. You should have seen the detective.”

  “Thompson?”

  “Yeah. Making it sound like my father killed Professor Connolly! The dude was like grilling me. Where had my dad been last night? What kind of car does he drive? Had he ever talked about Warren Connolly? Had I heard anything outside? Where had I been?”

  “Questioning you is his job, Turner. He has to ask.”

  “I guess.”

  “So what did you tell him about last night? And is your dad’s car gone?”

  “I told him I was in my room playing a video game last night, with headphones on, until I went to sleep about midnight. I have no idea where my dad was or what he did. I came in here once for a few slices of cold pizza but I didn’t see him. My sister spent the night with a friend in Bloomington, so she doesn’t know, either. I asked her.”

  “And the car?”

  “He drives a black Jetta. It’s still here.”

  So he hadn’t driven off somewhere. Turner’s mom surely would know her husband’s whereabouts. And I assumed Thompson had grilled her, too. I was about to ask Turner if he knew what his mom had said when the door swung open with a bang. A woman stood backlit in the doorway, her light hair a nimbus around her head.

  “Turner, I . . .” Her gaze fell on me. “Who in the world are you? Another detective? Or one more reporter? I’ll tell you what, we have nothing to say. Nothing left to say.” She came in and slammed the door behind her. She clutched the turquoise purse hanging from her shoulder so hard her hand shook.

  “Mom. Mom!” Turner rose and squeezed her shoulder. “She’s not the police and she’s not a reporter. This is Robbie Jordan, from the restaurant. She’s my boss.”

  Her ire ebbed quickly until she looked drained of energy. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Ms. Jordan.” She flopped into the chair next to mine like a rag doll and extended an equally limp hand, although when I shook it, she had a remarkably strong grip.

  “I’m Mona. Mona Turner-Rao. My son said he was going to call you. And with all this”—she spread both hands as if to indicate the world—“I completely forgot.”

  Now she wasn’t backlit, I saw her cloud of hair was actually just frizzy escapees from a blond ponytail going gray. She had a comfortable figure, as befit someone around fifty, and wore a light turquoise fleece vest over a pink turtleneck, the colors making her pale complexion glow.

  “No problem, Mona. Please call me Robbie. You must be so worried.”

  Mona rolled blue eyes, then pointed to Turner. “We need more than coffee here. How about a beer, Robbie?”

  I smiled. “Twist my arm.”

  Turner opened the fridge. “IPA, pilsner, stout, porter. Those are your options, Robbie. Mom, I know what you want.”

  “I’d love a stout, thanks,” I said. In the colder seasons I liked a beer you could almost chew.

  “Two stouts, coming right up. They’re in the cellar.” He pulled out a bottle for himself and set it on the counter. “Be right back.”

  “I don’t even know you,” Mona began. “But Turner trusts you, so I will, too. I’m alternating between rage at my husband and anguish. He’s never disappeared before. This maple far
m business is all his passion, not mine. We have the biggest event of the year and he’s a no-show. And then a lady—oh, wait, it was your aunt, right? Anyway, she finds a dead man behind the woodpile. A man Sajit hated and had disagreed with in public. Whom the police now seem to believe Sajit might have killed.”

  Turner reappeared with the beers, saving me from an immediate comment to such an outpouring of both emotion and information.

  Mona continued. “I went out looking everywhere once the police decided to leave us alone, although I had to sneak out the back way from the farm. Can you believe WTHR was even here?

  “The Indianapolis news station?” I asked.

  “Exactly. I have no idea how they found out and got here so fast.” She addressed Turner. “I checked Sajit’s office at IU. The pub he takes his grad students to. The IU Hindi Club. The temple. The pond.” She shook her head, her mouth turned down. “Fail, everywhere.”

  “Su called to say she looked for him in Nashville, and in the state park, too. Of course it’s way too big to actually search it.” Turner opened the three bottles, carefully poured them into pint glasses, and brought them to the table.

  “Sujita is still out looking,” Mona said. “She’s my daughter,” she added, looking at me. “It’s going to be dark in a while and I texted her to come home, but she’s not ready to.”

  I glanced at the digital readout on the stove, which said five-fifteen She still had another hour or two of daylight, actually.

  She lifted her glass. “Here’s to a return to life as we knew it.”

  We all clinked glasses. I took a sip then set mine on the table. “What about your own property right here? How big is it?”

  Turner rolled his eyes. “Ninety acres.”

  “Is there a hunter’s cabin or a cottage on it? Somewhere Sajit might have gone?” I asked.

  Tuner and his mom exchanged the briefest of glances. “There’s an old shed on the far perimeter, a former hunting cabin, but it’s a wreck,” she said.

  “Have you checked it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Mona snapped.

  “You did, Mom?” Turner asked, tilting his head.

  “I told you I went out there.” She looked almost insulted he’d asked. “My husband is not in the shed. It’s in terrible shape. Nobody’s been out there in years.”

  Turner opened his mouth to reply. From where I sat, it looked like he didn’t believe her.

  Mona faced me. “We’re all so crazed with what’s happened that we can’t even remember what we’ve done and what we haven’t. I’m not even sure the last time any of us ate.”

  “Where’s the shed?” I asked.

  Mona said, “You don’t need to know,” at the same time as Turner stood and pointed to a framed map on the wall. “The building is around here somewhere.”

  I stood, too, and examined where his finger rested. I realized it wasn’t actually a map but a Google Earth snapshot of the farm. I examined the print for a couple of minutes, spying a wandering line that looked like a stream near where he pointed. I used my own finger to circle a shape barely visible below the treetops.

  “Is this your house?” I asked.

  “Sure is. And here’s the sugar shack.” He rapped a knuckle on the maple syrup production area, which I now saw was next to the clearing representing the parking lot.

  Mona sat gazing out the window. Her hand tapped the table repeatedly.

  “Mona, was your husband home last night?” I asked.

  “Now you sound like the damn detective.” She took another swig of her drink.

  “I’m just trying to help.” I spread my palms.

  “Mom, I invited her here!” Turner frowned at his mother. “Why don’t you answer her?”

  “Because I don’t know if he was home and it bugs me. I was out with the Flick Chicks.” She gazed at me, now with a little smile. “We’re a group of women who get together every month or so on a Friday night. We eat lots of high-fat appetizers, drink wine, and get caught up with each other. We used to put in a video after our gab session but mostly now we just talk.” She let out a sigh. “Sajit has been sleeping in the basement guest room lately. He has terrible insomnia, and sleeping down there he can get up and prowl around or turn the light on in bed and read without disturbing me.”

  “So you had no way of knowing if he was home or not,” I said gently.

  “His car was here when I drove in at eleven. But no, I don’t know if he went out before then or after. I just don’t know.”

  Chapter 13

  Back in my apartment, I yawned out loud. What a long day it had been. I hadn’t been much help to Turner and Mona. I’d urged them to search their hunting shed, just in case, but I hadn’t gotten the feeling they wanted to. Or at least Mona hadn’t. Why not? Turner had called me with such urgency, and yet the one idea I’d suggested Mona had poo-pooed. I found her reaction strange but I couldn’t do a thing about it. Not now, anyway.

  At Birdy’s insistent reminder, I dished him up a dollop of canned food, tonight a salmon in sauce I knew he loved. Which made me remember my own dinner, since it was almost seven, and also of the prep I needed to do for tomorrow’s breakfast. I searched my refrigerator and settled on leftovers of an eggplant casserole I’d made on Tuesday. I nuked it and settled at the table with it and a glass of seltzer. The bourbon at Adele’s followed by the beer with Turner and Mona could be another reason for my yawning, and my day wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

  I read the Brown County Democrat as I ate. The local paper was all about the festival, with only a couple of news stories addressing a political scandal in the state capital and the latest standoff between the parties in Congress. Not really news. I flipped the paper closed as I took my last bite of the delicious layered dish I’d invented: slices of eggplant baked with fresh tomatoes, under brown rice and sautéed chicken, which I’d flavored with basil, garlic, and rosemary. A layer of cheese and a final melding bake in the oven brought it all together.

  I let out a sigh. What I most wanted to do was hang with Abe. It was Saturday night, after all, and he was my favorite—and only—date. I was pretty sure this was his weekend with his son, Sean, but I texted him, anyway. Maybe Sean had had a conflict.

  Just thinking of you, I tapped out.

  Almost instantly came his reply. Same here, darlin’. Playing game with Sean.

  I wrinkled my nose. There went that idea. K

  You all right?

  I considered before responding.

  Alive, safe, tired. Missing you.

  Same here. Soon?

  I typed back Soon before I placed the phone to the side.

  It was time to get going on my tasks for the night. I set my plate on the floor. Birdy loved tomato sauce and cheese and came on the run to lick it clean. A friend in high school had been horrified Mom and I had let our cat, Butch, lick our plates.

  “Cleaning plates is what a dishwasher is for,” Mom had answered.

  As far as I was concerned, her logic was sound. My simple kitchen didn’t include a dishwasher—that would be me—but a nice sudsy bin of hot water and a good rinse had to clean kitty spit as well as a dishwasher did. Anyway, hadn’t I read cat saliva was sterile?

  I headed into the restaurant to prep, leaving the door open for Birdy to follow if he felt like it. As I brought out the first load of biscuit and pancake ingredients, I stopped short. I hadn’t asked Turner if he’d be coming to work tomorrow. Gah. I could see this morning’s early fiasco happening all over again.

  After I set down the flour and butter on the stainless steel counter, I sent Turner a text. I waited for a few seconds, but he didn’t reply. The night was still young, and he was probably out looking for Sajit again. Was there anything I could do to help them find him? Probably not, at least not tonight. And the scientist had to reappear soon—unless he’d been murdered, too. I banished the thought. I hadn’t a reason in the world to believe he’d also met a violent death. Did I?

  I grabbed a few sprig
s of rosemary and parsley from the walk-in, then resumed assembling biscuit dough. Savory biscuits would be a nice change from plain. I grabbed my Tojiro out of the leather knife roll to chop the herbs. I stared at it, swearing. The detective—or was it Buck?—had said Christina’s knife was identical to the murder weapon. As soon as the police took fingerprints off it, wouldn’t they find the killer’s prints along with Christina’s? Christina hadn’t killed Connolly. But maybe the killer had worn gloves.

  When I started chopping, it was rather more furiously than necessary. I had to do something. As soon as the biscuit dough was ready and in the cooler, and after I put together the dry ingredients for the pancakes, I was going to go find Christina and listen to her side of the story.

  * * *

  I stood near the empty reception stand at the front of Hoosier Hollow and surveyed the restaurant. I’d walked over, and the evening air had cleared my head nicely. At nine-fifteen on a Saturday night it was bustling, with nearly every table full. They’d swapped out the pink tablecloths I’d seen last time for a pale blue. The framed photographs on the walls were now local scenes of winter instead of fall, as they’d been when I’d come with Abe on our first date last November. The glow of candlelight, the clink of tableware, and the buzz of contented conversations hadn’t changed.

  A tall woman on the verge of middle age in a black sheath and pearls headed toward me and positioned herself behind the counter. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked, miss.” She smiled politely.

  “I’m not here to eat,” I said, although one whiff of the delectable aromas already made me wish I were.

  She raised a thinly plucked eyebrow. “There’s room at the bar if . . .” She waved a hand toward the far side of the room.

  I looked in the direction she’d indicated. A bar? The polished wood bar lined with high stools and backed by a vintage mirrored case was new. Christina hadn’t told me about that improvement. Probably because it was the owner’s project, not the chef’s. “I actually want to speak with Christina James. She’s a good friend—we’re both chefs—and I have an urgent matter to talk with her about.”