Death by French Roast

by Alex Erickson

  DEATH BY FRENCH ROAST

  Albie’s brow furrowed and he leaned toward me. “What’s all this about anyway? I doubt you’re curious just because old Eleanor passed on.”

  “I’m interested to hear about her life, what made her the way she was.”

  “Why don’t I believe that? Krissy Hancock on my doorstep, asking questions about a thirty-year-old murder. You thinking you might go and do what I couldn’t and find the person who did Wade in?”

  I shrugged one shoulder, refused to meet his eye. “I thought I’d at least ask around, see what people remembered. Rita’s my friend.”

  “Is she now?” Albie sat back and stroked his chin as he regarded me. “You best be careful poking around in a murder that’s sat silent for this long. If the killer is still out there and catches wind you’re sticking your nose in their business, they might not like it too terribly much.”

  “They never do.”

  “Well, this one has simmered for a very long time. The reaction might not be what you expect. . . .”

  Books by Alex Erickson

  Bookstore Café Mysteries

  DEATH BY COFFEE

  DEATH BY TEA

  DEATH BY PUMPKIN SPICE

  DEATH BY VANILLA LATTE

  DEATH BY EGGNOG

  DEATH BY ESPRESSO

  DEATH BY CAFÉ MOCHA

  DEATH BY FRENCH ROAST

  Furever Pets Mysteries

  THE POMERANIAN ALWAYS BARKS TWICE

  DIAL ‘M’ FOR MAINE COON

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Death By French Roast

  ALEX ERICKSON

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DEATH BY FRENCH ROAST

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Eric S. Moore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2113-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2114-3 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2114-4 (eBook)

  1

  “All life must come to an end. And for my mother, Eleanor, that time has come.”

  I lowered my head and wiped away a tear. Two rows behind me, a woman—Judith Banyon, I believed—sniffed. Other than the two of us, and Jane up front, all the other eyes in the place were dry.

  “Mom didn’t have many friends,” Jane Winthrow went on. “She preferred it that way. She always said that there is only so much love to go around, and she’d much rather share it with a special few, rather than dilute it among too many people, many of whom might not deserve it. I didn’t agree with her for the longest time, but now, I see that maybe she was right.”

  A quick glance around the funeral parlor showed me that no one else had shown up since Jane had started talking. My neighbors, Jules Phan and Lance Darby, sat a couple seats down, hands intertwined. They’d lived two houses down from Eleanor long before I’d moved to Pine Hills. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye with her—no one really did—but they did seem sad to see her go.

  Judith and Eddie Banyon, the owners of the local diner, the Banyon Tree, sat a few rows behind Jules and Lance. Behind them, a group of dour-looking men whispered amongst themselves. A man who often played Santa every Christmas, Randy Winter, sat to the front of the room, but he was lounging back, almost as if he was watching a play, rather than a funeral.

  And that was it. Jane was Eleanor’s only remaining family as far as I was aware. Eleanor, while a bit on the nosy side when it came to the neighborhood, had kept to herself in most matters. Her husband had died of an aneurism sometime before I’d moved to Pine Hills, so I’d never met him. Eleanor’s only true friend I knew about was Judith, and last I heard, they weren’t seeing each other as much as they once had.

  I had a feeling health had a lot to do with that. Eleanor wasn’t in the best shape, but I never realized it was so bad. Jane had shown up one day last week, and the next thing I knew, Eleanor was gone, passed away quietly in her sleep. Apparently, she’d known it was coming and had called her daughter so they could spend a final couple of hours together.

  Jane finished up her speech with a few words of thanks and then turned to the casket. She laid a hand on it briefly, whispered something to her mother, and then she headed down the aisle, and out into the lobby.

  One by one, Eleanor’s few mourners rose and walked to the front of the room to view her casket. I remained seated and watched as Judith stiffly paid her respects. From the tension I saw on her face, I could tell she was just barely holding it together. Her husband, Eddie, looked sad, but wasn’t in danger of breaking down in heaving sobs anytime soon.

  Jules and Lance passed by, said their good-byes, and then when they walked back down the aisle, Jules gave my arm a squeeze. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. I understood him perfectly. Eleanor had driven us both crazy with her constant binoculars-assisted spying from the armrest of her chair, but now that she was gone, we’d both miss her.

  I rose, but before I could leave the aisle, two of the men I’d seen sitting together in the back walked by. They were older—one completely bald, the other with fine wisps of white hair that stood up every which way—and neither looked happy to be there. When I glanced back, I noticed the other men had already left. Randy Winter was also gone.

  I waited for the two men to be done, rather than intrude, but neither of them said anything. They stood there, looking down at the casket, side by side, and then, as one, they turned and walked away. Both their faces were void of emotion, as if Eleanor’s passing couldn’t touch them. It made me instantly dislike both men, even though I didn’t know a thing about them, let alone how they knew Eleanor.

  With everyone else gone, I made for the front. The casket was open, and I noted Eleanor looked peaceful, which made me happy. She’d never seemed at peace while she was alive. I was glad she’d found it now.

  “We had our differences,” I said, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t echo in the now empty roo
m. “But know that I never hated you. Not when you were peeping in my windows with your binoculars, or all those times you called the police on me because you misunderstood what was happening at my place. Rest well, Eleanor. You’ll be missed.”

  And with blurry eyes and a sniff, I turned and walked away.

  Jane was waiting for me by the door. Her smile was sad, but appreciative as she took my hands in both of hers. “Thank you for coming, Krissy.”

  “She was a good neighbor,” I said, trying my best to be diplomatic, considering how often Eleanor had frustrated me. “I wish I’d gotten to know her better.”

  “We both know that’s not true. Mother could be difficult at the best of times, and a downright terror the rest.”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “That’s true.” Jane was wearing a black pantsuit, which suited her. I couldn’t imagine her wearing a dress, no matter the occasion. “Her life wasn’t easy. She did it to herself, and I know that despite what she said, she missed having more people around her. She was lonely, and nothing I ever said helped ease that loneliness.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I merely nodded.

  “I don’t know why we bothered!” The shout came from outside. Both Jane and I moved so we could see what was happening on the other side of the door.

  The group of older men were standing in a huddle, a few yards from the funeral parlor. The man who’d shouted was slightly younger than the rest, meaning he had all his gray hair, and he didn’t have quite as many wrinkles lining his face as his companions.

  “You’ll be lucky if someone comes to your funeral, Arthur.” This from a man with bifocals who was wearing a black suit and tie—an upgrade from the more casual attire of his friends.

  “She hated every last one of us,” the shouter—Arthur—said. “Do you think she would have paid her respects to a single one of us? No, she wouldn’t have. She’d have spit on our graves before we were buried!”

  “She had her reasons,” the bald man said.

  “They weren’t good ones,” Arthur muttered. He looked up, noticed Jane and me watching, and then turned and marched angrily away. After a moment, his friends followed.

  Jane heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I can’t believe they’d do that here. I was surprised they even came, to be honest.”

  “Who are they?” I asked. I didn’t know them from around town, which wasn’t saying much. Pine Hills might be small, and I owned and ran the only dedicated coffee shop in town, but that didn’t mean I knew everyone.

  “People from Eleanor’s past,” Jane said. “They—” She cut off as a man in a dark blue suit and a somber expression approached.

  “Ms. Winthrow,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you have a moment, there’s a few details we should go over before we proceed to the burial.”

  Jane glanced at me, but before she could speak, I waved her off.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  She started to walk away with the man, but paused. “I’m going to be going through a few of Mom’s things once I’m done here. I . . .” She cleared her throat, and briefly, I saw a woman devastated before her mask was back in place. “If you have the time, I could use some help.”

  “Of course,” I said. Going through her mother’s things would be hard. She didn’t need to do it alone.

  “Give me an hour,” Jane said, and then she headed into a side room with the man.

  I drove home with a heavy heart. When I parked in front of my house, the neighborhood felt different, lonelier. Eleanor and I might not have been friends, but I’d always felt her presence nearby.

  Her house looked strange knowing that she was no longer in it. It seemed smaller somehow, a shell of what it was. I wondered what would happen to it now, if it would be sold, or if Jane would keep it. I couldn’t imagine anyone but Eleanor living there.

  I spent the next forty minutes puttering around my house, cleaning with my long-haired orange cat, Misfit, trailing in my wake. He was rather demanding about being pet. Every time I paused, he would butt his head under my hand and then run his entire body across both of my legs. I had to be careful not to step on his long tail.

  “I know,” I told him. I knew the neighborhood would be more peaceful now without Eleanor calling the cops on me every chance she got, but oddly, I feared I’d miss it. I guess the fact that she was gone contributed to my somber, reflective mood.

  Misfit meowed once, and then dug his claws into my leg to force me to pay more attention to him. I was happy to oblige.

  When Jane’s car pulled up in front of Eleanor’s house, I was standing by the window, waiting. The sun was bright in the sky, the breeze cool. I crossed the yard and met her just as she unlocked the front door.

  “I have a couple of hours,” I said. “Then I’m due for work, if that’s okay?”

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I should be fine to go it alone after the first twenty minutes or so. Starting is going to be the hard part.”

  We entered the house together, each of us braced for the oppressive silence that would follow.

  The place was much like I remembered. The orange shag carpet was still dirty and faded, the television ancient. There were more newspapers stacked on the floor next to the blue armchair where Eleanor had often sat than the last time I was here, but that was to be expected. I’d learned then that Eleanor was a hoarder when it came to newspapers, and seeing that she’d kept at it, even as her health waned, made me feel somehow better.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” Jane said from the middle of the living room. “I mean, do I clean up the trash first? Or should I go through her clothes?” When she took a breath, it trembled. She was just barely holding on.

  “What about the newspapers?” I asked, figuring that if anything, it might be the easiest. “What do you want to do with them?”

  Jane picked up a stack and flipped through them. “It seems a shame to throw them all out,” she said. “Mom took such good care of them.” She set the papers on the recliner, and picked up a box sitting beside it. She ran a hand over the wood and then twisted the key that was already shoved into the lock. She lifted the lid and a sad smile played across her lips.

  I was dying to know what was inside the box, but remained silent. Now wasn’t the time to pry. If she wanted to tell me, she would.

  After a few moments of quiet perusal, Jane removed a photograph from the box. She brushed her fingertips across it once, and then handed it to me.

  The photograph was old. It looked like it was taken in the seventies, if the way the two people in it were dressed was anything to go by. The photo was of a man and a woman—the woman being a much younger Eleanor Winthrow. I recognized her features, but barely. Time had indeed been hard on her, and had worn her down to the bitter older woman she’d become. The man was taller than her by about a foot, and was extremely good-looking.

  “That’s Mom and Wade.”

  “Was Wade your dad?”

  Jane surprised me by laughing. “No, Wade was my uncle.”

  “Eleanor had a brother?” I asked, looking at the photo again. Now that I knew they were related, I could see the resemblance. “I never knew.”

  “He died a long time ago.” Jane took the photograph back. “He was the reason Mom started collecting papers. They’d always been close, and when he died . . .” She shrugged. “She sort of lost it.”

  “Did he get sick?” I asked.

  Jane stared at the photo for a minute more before placing it back into its box. She turned the key and returned the box to where she’d found it. She then picked up the stack of newspapers from the recliner and carried them into the kitchen, where she set them on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, following after. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s not that,” Jane said. “I needed a moment to think.”

  “Still, I’m sorry. It has to be hard reliving any of this.”r />
  “It is.” She turned in a slow circle, taking in her mother’s kitchen. “It’s much like it was back then,” she said. “Everything is. After Wade died, Mom got stuck in the past. She didn’t want things to change, refused to move forward, not until she learned the truth.” She touched the stack of newspapers. “Now she never will.”

  Jane slid into one of the dining-room chairs and then motioned for me to do the same.

  “You’ve solved a few murders in your time, haven’t you?” she asked me once I was seated. She already knew that I had; she’d been around for one of them.

  “A few, I suppose.” Though, honestly, I was hoping to steer clear of any more suspicious deaths.

  “Mom said it was a hobby of yours.”

  “Not on purpose,” I said. “I tend to be in the right place at the right time.” Or the wrong place, I thought.

  Then it dawned on me why she might be asking. “Wade was murdered?”

  Jane nodded. “It happened over thirty years ago. I think it was around 1985, ’86. I was away at college, and honestly, back then, I wasn’t too close with my family, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t know the exact date.”

  “It was a long time ago,” I said.

  “Those men you saw at the funeral were Wade’s friends. They didn’t get on with my mother all that great, but knew her well enough. She always suspected they knew what happened to Wade, but none of them ever admitted to it.”

  “What do you think?”

  Jane ran her hand over the table, then shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know for sure is that one day, my uncle was killed, and the police never found out who did it.”