Quiche of Death

by Mary Lee Ashford

  My guess was Disco, a fellow business owner with a memorabilia shop called Flashback that was located a few doors down. You might wonder at the name.

  Not the shop, but his name. I mean, naming your kid Disco is right up there with naming your kid Apple, or Moon Unit or North.

  This guy, however, wasn’t really named Disco. He had a real name, but I often forgot what it was because everyone in town called him Disco. His store had struggled for a while but he’d made a move into internet sales and seemed to be doing better. But not so much better that he’d stopped coming by our shop to see what Dixie had been cooking. And if there might be samples.

  Can’t blame him. Dixie’s baking is always amazing.

  I stuck my head out of my office to make sure it was him.

  Our morning visitor was not Disco this time. It was none other than Sheriff Griffin. I set the bills aside and went out front.

  “Hi, Terry.” I know it sounds overly familiar, but he’d given me permission to use his first name a couple of dead bodies ago. I’d easily adjusted to using it when he was out of uniform, but I had a more difficult time with the first-name basis when he had his here-in-an-official-capacity duds on.

  Like today.

  “Good morning.” He nodded briefly.

  Terry was good-looking in a high-school jock that had aged well sort of way. No chemistry there for me other than in a friend sense, but if he and Dixie were in the same room the chemistry was on the Bananas Foster flaming-alert scale.

  “Hey.” Dixie walked out from the back with a tray laden with lemon blueberry cupcakes and held it out to him.

  Terry looked at her, looked at the cupcakes, smiled, and picked one up.

  They paused, time stopped, birds sang. Like I was saying.

  “What’s new in the Arbor family case?” I asked, hating to break the spell, but was unable to tamp down my curiosity, even in the name of love.

  “Quite a bit.” Terry took his cupcake, shifted his duty belt, and sat on the edge of one of the stools at the polished counter that took up most of the space in our main area.

  Dixie and I joined him.

  “Like what?” Dixie asked, sliding the tray onto the polished quartz countertop.

  He paused to lick a bit of frosting from his thumb and we almost lost Dixie again. She leaned forward, watching intently.

  I kicked her shin.

  “Ouch.” She frowned at me.

  I raised my brows, sending her pay-attention vibes, but she ignored me.

  “Well, for one, the tip that was on the arrow that killed Colette was a hunting arrowhead.” He set down his cupcake, his fingers now sticky from the frosting.

  “What does that mean in terms of who shot the arrow?” I asked.

  “The target-practice arrowheads are entirely different.” He looked around and Dixie handed him a paper napkin from under the counter.

  “So, it could be hunters, then?” I asked.

  “Could be.” He was a man of few words.

  “Or someone who intended to kill her,” Dixie finished for him.

  “What about the cigarette butt?” I asked.

  Sheriff Terry rubbed his chin. “I questioned all the family members. Not a smoker among them. They gave me names of people who work on the property. I’ll start with them next.”

  “Sorry,” I sighed. “I thought it might be a good lead.”

  “It still may be.” He stood. “Are you two headed back there anytime soon?”

  Ah. The real reason for his visit. Except for Dixie, of course.

  “Max and I are heading to Arbor House tomorrow afternoon to get some formal photos of the family for the book.” I reached for one of the cupcakes for myself.

  Dixie eyed me but to her credit she didn’t say anything. Her cupcakes and cookies—and scones and biscuits—were the whole reason I’d had to take my walking to the next level. Since going into business with her, I’d already gained ten pounds and was well on my way to fifteen if I didn’t get things under control.

  The thing was, I loved food. Which meant I was more than willing to do whatever I needed to do, whether it was three thousand extra steps, five thousand extra steps—whatever—in order to have one of those cupcakes.

  I checked my wrist. Already at 7,312 for the day. I’d been out for an early-morning walk before I left home. I figured I’d only need to add a couple of thousand more to offset the cupcake.

  Okay, the truth is I have no idea how many steps it would take to earn a lemon blueberry cupcake. I would have to ask my friend Google when I got the chance.

  Dixie and Terry stared at me and I realized I hadn’t exactly been paying attention.

  “Sorry. What was that?”

  “Terry asked what time you’re going.” Dixie smirked.

  “Max is picking me up tomorrow after lunch.” I gave her a glare and took a big bite of the cupcake.

  The bell dinged again and this time it actually was Disco. Like a guided missile homing in on a target, he came in the front door and headed directly for the tray of cupcakes.

  “Wow, man.” Holding back his shoulder-length hair and looking over his wire-rimmed glasses, he leaned in for a closer look. “What are those?”

  “Cupcakes.” I wondered what he meant. I knew he’d seen cupcakes before.

  “Whoa, but they’re blue, dude.”

  The only dude in the room was Sheriff Terry, but for Disco “dude” was a generic term.

  “Blueberries,” Dude Dixie answered. “Try one if you like.”

  Disco whipped out a tie-dyed kerchief and carefully placed two of the cupcakes in the middle.

  The sheriff’s phone rang and he quickly answered. “This is Sheriff Griffin.”

  Disco took advantage of our preoccupation with attempting to eavesdrop on the sheriff’s phone call to skedaddle out of there.

  “See you later, alligators,” he called as he tromped off, cradling his summer of love cupcakes carrier.

  “See you later,” I responded before turning back into the sheriff and his call.

  “Thank you.” He tapped the phone to end the call and slipped it in his pocket. He waited a full minute, watching our expectant faces.

  I couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Sheriff, put us out of our misery,” I begged.

  “We contacted the firm where the young woman was employed and they supplied her emergency contacts.”

  “And?” Dixie prompted.

  “And they’re all fake.” He wiped a hand over his face. “Every last one of them.”

  “Fake?” I couldn’t believe it. “Who does that?”

  “Fake,” he confirmed. “Phony names, addresses, phone numbers.”

  “I guess that means you’re back to square one, right?” Dixie asked.

  “Exactly.” The sheriff paused. “I have a dead girl, but no next of kin to contact. I have what may or may not be an accidental death. Hunting season, but no hunters spotted in the area. And I have a family of archers, but no one, as far as we can tell, with any reason to want the dead girl dead.”

  “Wow, talk about a dead end.”

  Dixie and the sheriff both gave me a hard look.

  “When you and Max are there tomorrow, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “I can do that.” I nodded, thinking the request almost made me a deputy. Not a real deputy, you understand, but like a citizen deputy.

  “Do you think it’s okay for Sugar to go?” Dixie asked. “Do you think she’s in any danger?”

  “No, I don’t believe she is.” Terry shook his head. “But Sugar, remember: I’m only asking you to keep your eyes and ears open. No snooping, no digging, no asking questions.”

  “Got it.” I sighed. Okay, maybe not so much like a citizen deputy. Still, it would kind of be like I
was working undercover, right? I liked that idea.

  The sheriff left and Dixie and I got back to what we’d been working on. I had returned to working on the bills when I heard the front door ding again.

  “Hey, dudes.” Our retro friend was back and this time the tie-dyed kerchief was tied across his forehead like a headband.

  “Hey, Disco.” I left my desk and headed out front again. “You haven’t eaten both of those cupcakes already, have you?”

  “Actually, yeah, I did.” He looked sheepish. “But that’s not why I’m here. I forgot to tell you what I came to tell you earlier.”

  “What was that?”

  “I forgot to ask whether you were going to the Square Merchants meeting.”

  Now, Disco didn’t mean that we were “square” in the dull and uninteresting sense of the word, nor as in a hip-to-be-square sort of reference. Though some of us might qualify for that description. He meant the association for the businesses located around the town square.

  There were probably twenty to twenty-five businesses around the outside of the streets that faced a lush green space with the historic limestone Jameson County Courthouse at its center.

  Merchants meetings were held quarterly unless something in particular was going on. We’d had a special meeting in the summer about getting together to have flower baskets attached to the light poles.

  They turned out really pretty and now that the summer pansies were fading out, there had been some interest in filling the baskets with fall flowers. I couldn’t imagine Disco had a great interest in that topic. However, there was always food at these meetings.

  “About flowers?” I asked.

  “Nah, it’s about Glue Man.”

  “Who?” I was taken aback.

  Was Glue Man some new superhero?

  Look out Superman, Spiderman, and Aquaman. There’s a new man in town. Glue Man.

  Or maybe a new breed of vandal. We’d had a problem a while back with graffiti. Maybe this prankster glued things down so you couldn’t move them. Imagine your glass glued down at a restaurant or your lawn chairs glued to your porch or maybe even your mailbox glued shut. The possibilities were endless.

  “You know.” Disco glanced around. I wasn’t sure if he was looking out for Glue Man or checking to see if Dixie had more cupcakes. “He’s the guy that invented that glue that is so strong you can glue a guy to a steel beam. Though why you’d want to glue a guy, I dunno.”

  I’m afraid I’d missed that. I was unaware of Glue Man and his super-duper glue.

  “Why are we meeting about him?”

  “Cuz he wants to open up a store on the square, but Harry thinks it will hurt his business.”

  Harry had Harrison’s Hardware store on the opposite side of the square from us. He’d managed it for years and had recently bought it lock, stock, and barrel from the Farmer family. It was an institution in town and carried everything from paper clips to power tools.

  “I don’t see how. But in any case, you can’t keep out competition.”

  “That’s what Toy George said. Said she didn’t fuss when that submarine sandwich place opened last year.”

  “Back to the meeting. When is it?” I asked.

  “Tonight. In the back room at the Red Hen Diner,” Disco explained. “I didn’t know if you guys got the notice since you’ve been out of town.”

  “I didn’t see it.” We hadn’t been very far out of town or gone very long, for that matter. But it was nice of Disco to think of us. “Thanks, Disco. I’ll let Dixie know.”

  “Okay, groovy. Got to get back.” He ambled out.

  I wandered back to where Dixie was sorting through some more of the Arbor family recipe cards. There were a ton.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “That was Disco again. He was back because the real reason he’d stopped by earlier wasn’t just for cupcakes. He wanted to tell us about the Square Merchants meeting tonight.”

  “About what?” She set the recipe cards aside.

  “It’s about Glue Man.”

  “Glue Man?” Dixie opened the notebook for the other project we were working on. “What does he have to do with us?”

  “I suppose you know about Glue Man.”

  “Of course.” Dixie grinned. “He’s the guy with the glue so strong you can glue a man to a steel beam.”

  Whoa. How had I missed this exciting product?

  “He’s opening a store and some of the merchants, or at least one, Harry Harrison, doesn’t think that’s a good idea.” I shared what Disco had told me.

  “Unless there’s something inherently wrong with his plans or his operation, we can’t simply decide we don’t want a particular store.” Dixie shrugged her shoulders.

  “That’s what I said.” I nodded. “And also, according to Disco, what Toy George said.”

  “Disco’s planning to go to the meeting?” she asked.

  “He is. But it might be partly for the free food. It’s at the Red Hen Diner.”

  “We should probably go.” She sighed. “If they’re wound up about this, there may be a need for some level heads.”

  “Any group is in trouble if they’re counting on us for level heads.” I picked up a few of the recipe cards. “But I get your point.”

  * * * *

  “Cluck.” The chime at the front door of the Red Hen Diner announced us as we entered. A unique feature of the diner was the chicken theme and the door chime was your first clue. From there, rooster tiles lined the walls, the place mats had silhouettes of chickens; even the salt and pepper shakers were baby chicks. And don’t even get me started on the menu.

  The restaurant was packed with dinner patrons and the meeting room at the diner was almost full when we arrived. The tables were set up in a U-shape, with the food set up off to the side on a different table.

  Don’t tell Dixie, but, like Disco, part of what had convinced me to come was the promise of pie from Toy George’s kitchen at the Red Hen.

  I latched onto a plate with a slice of cherry pie as we passed the food table and none too soon, because it looked like it was the next-to-the-last piece. Now, I would’ve settled for apple or peach if I had to, but Toy’s cherry pie had been on my mind ever since we’d decided to attend.

  The chatter in the room sounded like less like a merchants business meeting and more like a gaggle of geese had congregated in the space.

  Pouring myself a cup of coffee—because what’s pie without coffee—I found a spot to sit down. Dixie, not as quick on the draw as me, had been left with fewer choices, but had managed to score a slice of lemon meringue.

  She sat down next to me. “Looks like the gang’s all here.” She nodded toward the group.

  Toy George was across the room chatting with Tina Martin from Jameson County Real Estate. Tina was also a beauty consultant with Looking Pretty Cosmetics, one of those companies where they have parties to convince you to buy the products. I hoped Tina wasn’t talking Toy into having a Looking Pretty party, because that would result in Dixie and I getting roped in again. Dixie still hadn’t forgiven me for the last time I had caved. She swore it had taken her days to get all the layers of makeup off her face.

  Lark Travers, who owned the jewelry store next door to us, listened as a very animated Tressa, who had the hair salon the other direction from our shop, talked. Based on her hand gestures and facial expressions, Tressa must have had strong views about Glue Man and his planned store. Or maybe not. Come to think of it, Tressa was always very expressive, even if she was just talking to you about, say, your sandwich.

  Glen Page, news reporter for the St. Ignatius Journal, was also on hand. The paper must think the discussion was newsworthy to send Glen instead of their young cub reporter.

  “Shall we get started?” Krissie, who owned the bakery on the corner, and who must have been the cur
rent Square Merchants Association chair, stood and tapped her fork against her water glass to get everyone’s attention. “If you’ll all take your seats, please, we can begin.” Krissie was a cute blonde with a soccer-mom look, a sugar-sweet voice, and a Shark Tank business mind.

  Those who had been standing obligingly found a place to sit, and the room quieted.

  “First off, I have a letter to read from the company, Glue Man Group.”

  I was the only one in the room who snickered.

  Dixie gave me a “straighten-up” look.

  Krissie read the letter, which was all about how the company hoped the St. Ignatius community would be welcoming. The glue was currently and would continue to be produced elsewhere. I’d wondered about that.

  What they were looking for was a place to serve as an outlet where customers could get the glue directly, and a place where they could handle shipping.

  Coming to the end of the letter, Krissie folded it, put it back in the envelope, and looked up. “Comments?”

  “I don’t see why Milo and Luella had to lease their space to this kind of a company,” Harry protested. “There are tons of local folks who’d be happy to have that prime spot.”

  “I’m afraid they didn’t get many offers,” Lark Travers noted.

  “Or at least none for that kind of money,” Toy chimed in.

  “They didn’t give it time,” Harry shot back. “They were in a big hurry to get to their place in Florida before the snow flies.”

  “Can you blame them?” Dixie commented under her breath.

  The group went back and forth with a handful of actual concerns coming out in the discussion. Those were mostly around the volume of shipping and whether the location was equipped for that. You’d have to think a company that had already enjoyed some success had looked into that, right? But it was a fair question.

  Most of the rest of the worries were around the changes that might occur as a result of having a different type of company on the square.

  “Change is inevitable, though, and if we stop changing, we’ll die,” Dixie spoke up, “like so many small towns around the state. If you’ll remember, when I first talked to you all about Sugar and Spice Cookbooks, you were reluctant. The location we’re in had always been a food establishment: a doughnut shop, a bistro, a cake store. What we were proposing was different.”