Death by French Roast

by Alex Erickson

  “I don’t.” Her brow furrowed as she thought about it. “From what I heard, there was some tension between Uncle Wade and his friends, and I guess they could have fallen out with one another, but they were still friends in many ways. Maybe I don’t want them to be guilty because it invalidates their friendship and I really want to believe the best about Uncle Wade.”

  “A lot of murder victims are killed by relatives and friends,” I said. “Could he have done something that upset one of them enough that they might kill him, even if it was accidental?”

  Jane shrugged as she finished her water. She tossed the empty bottle in one of the multitude of trash bags scattered around the room. “Like I said, I didn’t know them all that well. Anything is possible, I suppose.”

  I mentally debated about asking my next question, fearing I might upset Jane at a time when she was already struggling, but decided I needed to ask it. “What about family?”

  If she was bothered by the question, Jane didn’t show it. “There was tension there,” she said. “My grandparents could be hard people when they wanted to be, and when Wade started running around with Rita, they definitely wanted to be. They tried to get Mom to talk reason into Wade, but she really didn’t see the harm in the relationship, not if Uncle Wade was happy. I guess there was some disapproval, but nothing that caused friction between her and her brother. And my dad . . . well, Dad stood by Mom, even when she accused him of knowing something about Wade’s murder and keeping it from her.”

  “Eleanor thought your father knew who killed her brother?” I asked, trying my best to hide the surprise in my voice.

  “I think, for a time, she thought everyone knew something about it, and that the entire town was conspiring to hide it from her.”

  “Were they?”

  Jane spread her hands. “Who knows? Maybe they were. Maybe it really was the great big conspiracy she thought it was. Or maybe Mom wanted to find the killer so badly, she was willing to accuse just about anyone of knowing who did it in the hopes that one day she’d be proven right.”

  It had to have been a hard way to live, suspecting everyone. No wonder Eleanor was unhappy for so long.

  Jane yawned and I realized I was keeping her from getting some well-deserved rest.

  “I’d best go,” I said. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  “No, thank you,” Jane said, touching my arm briefly. “Mom would be thrilled to know you were looking into the case. I’m sure her spirit is touched.”

  “I hope I do her proud.”

  Jane smiled. “I know you will.”

  I left her to get some sleep of my own. The short walk to my house felt like it was miles long, and I couldn’t stop yawning. Misfit came running the moment I was through the door, but unfortunately, he wasn’t greeting me. I managed to get the door closed just before he managed to sneak past my leg. He came to a stop and glared before he sauntered off toward the kitchen and his food bowl, fluffy orange tail swishing.

  I took a moment to get him some fresh water and some dinner. I knew I should eat something myself, but I wasn’t hungry. Thoughts of Rita and Eleanor and what both women went through had my stomach churning. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if something like that were to happen to me or my family.

  Once Misfit was contentedly eating, I got changed into my PJs and then snagged my laptop. I carried it to the couch and settled in. Despite my exhaustion, I figured I could do a little snooping online before bed. Almost as soon as I was seated, Misfit jumped up and curled up beside me, purring.

  “We’ll figure this out,” I told him, before opening my laptop and getting started.

  Over the last few months, the library had been archiving old newspaper articles, scanning them in and making them available online. I figured it would be the best place to start my search.

  Luckily for me, the library was up to the nineties, so I could easily browse everything from the time of the murder—or, at least, everything they had access to. There were months missing here and there, and sometimes articles were incomplete, but overall, I was pleased.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize how monumental of a task sifting through the articles would be. I had a year, but no month to go on, and there was no search bar for me to simply input Wade’s name and find everything printed about him or his murder.

  I almost gave up and went to bed right then and there, but caught myself before I closed my laptop and dragged myself to bed. The murder happened so long ago, memories would have faded, and people embarrassed by how they reacted might change their stories. If I could see what people were actually saying at the time of Wade’s death, then I might be able to prod some of those hazy memories into something firmer, something more concrete.

  The next twenty minutes was an exercise in frustration, but I persisted. I sorted through pages upon pages of articles, mostly about new attractions to Pine Hills and the surrounding areas, and very little on crime.

  And then I saw it: MURDER IN PINE HILLS!

  Excited, I scanned the article but found little I didn’t already know. Wade Fink had been found by a woman, Jill Thatcher, while she was on a run with her dog. No real suspects were identified. Albie Bruce was mentioned, of course, as was another police officer, Jay Miller. The article also mentioned Wade’s parents, Truman and Mary Fink. There was no mention of Eleanor or any other relatives.

  I jotted down the names for future reference and continued searching.

  There were more articles on the murder, but I found very little of use. It was as if the town didn’t want to be reminded of the crime, so they didn’t bother reporting it. One article did show an old photo of J&E’s Banyon Tree, back when it was relatively new, and it mentioned the fact that Wade was last seen alive leaving his friends there, but the reporter steadfastly refused to name any of those friends.

  I searched the article until I found that reporter’s name: Larry Ritchie.

  I skimmed a few more articles, until I came across one with a headline that gave me pause: A DESERVED END.

  The article was once again written by Larry Ritchie and detailed Wade’s life near the time of his death—or pretended to. It was scathing, so much so, that it made me physically ill to read it. Larry Ritchie hadn’t approved of Wade’s life choices, and went so far as to say his death might have been for the good of the town.

  “Poor Eleanor,” I muttered as I continued to read. What had she thought when she’d seen the article, printed in the local paper like it wasn’t anything more than the character assassination that it truly was?

  Supposedly, Wade was flaunting his relationship with Rita to the point of it becoming obscene. The article claimed they were together merely to hurt the image of the town and its residents. How he was doing that, Larry never said, but he went on to speculate that Rita had been forced to date Wade, that he’d somehow tricked her into the relationship and then used something unspecified against her to keep her there.

  It read like something straight out of a tabloid, and was likely as truthful as one.

  But what if there was some truth to the article? Would Rita really hide that from me?

  I thought of those stories you hear about people who start siding with their kidnappers and attackers; Stockholm syndrome, I believe it was called. Could Rita possibly be suffering from it? How would I know if she was?

  I added Larry’s name to my list of people and then closed the laptop, my taste for research ruined by his article.

  As I put the laptop away and readied myself for bed, I couldn’t help but wonder if the reason no one, other than Rita and Eleanor, cared to find out the truth about Wade’s murder was because Wade Fink wasn’t the nice guy his friends and family made him out to be.

  The thought carried me all the way to bed, and I realized I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I found out more. Within five minutes of lying down, I was up and looking up Larry Ritchie’s name. I found his phone number easily enough, and without thinking what I was doing—or considering th
e time—I dialed.

  “Ritchie.” Larry sounded distracted, and not tired in the slightest, despite the late hour.

  “Hi, this is Krissy Hancock. Am I speaking to Larry Ritchie, the reporter?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Krissy Hancock,” I repeated, wondering if his hearing was going.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “It’s about Wade Fink. He was—”

  “I know who Wade Fink was,” Larry snapped. “Why are you calling me about him?”

  “You wrote about him when he was murdered,” I said, doing my best to keep my cool. Larry didn’t sound like a very nice guy, but I didn’t want to get on his bad side, not when he might be able to help me understand what had happened thirty years ago. “I was hoping we could discuss some of the particulars of the case.”

  “Why?”

  I hesitated to consider my answer. What would make a man like Larry Ritchie willing to talk to someone like me? The answer was simple: his ego.

  “I’m researching the history of Pine Hills,” I said, wincing at the lie. “And I came across Wade Fink’s murder—and your articles about it—and thought it would be a fantastic opportunity to talk to someone who truly knew what it was like back then, get your expert take on it.”

  There was a pause, before, “It happened a long time ago.”

  “I know. And I know it’s a big ask, but if you could spare a few minutes, I’d appreciate it. You would be credited in my paper.”

  Larry sighed. “I can’t now, but I should be able to slot you in tomorrow. How about noonish? My place.” He rattled off an address.

  “I’ll see you then.”

  He hung up even before I finished the sentence.

  7

  I parked in the parking lot of J&E’s Banyon Tree, hoping the owner, Judith Banyon, was taking the day off. The lot was rather full, despite the early hour. It made me wonder why Judith was so upset with me, considering how busy they were despite Death by Coffee’s existence. She’d complained that we were pilfering her customers, yet seeing how many people were here, I doubted it was the entire truth.

  J&E’s looked much like any other diner. There was a quaintness to it, an old-timeyness that made me feel like I was stepping into the past as I entered through the front doors. Old-fashioned country music played low over the speakers, a change from the afternoons and evenings when they often played upbeat rockabilly instead.

  It took only one look around the diner to find the Coffee Drinkers. Even if I hadn’t recognized them from Eleanor’s funeral, I would have known who they were. The six men sat around two square tables that had been pushed together. A waitress was filling one of the coffee mugs sitting before them, though the men ignored her like she wasn’t even there.

  I made straight for the group, glancing quickly behind the counter to make sure Judith wasn’t there. So far, so good, but my luck might not hold out for long.

  “Hi,” I said, approaching the table as the waitress left. “Arthur, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah?” Up close, Arthur looked older than I remembered from the funeral. Deep lines surrounded his mouth, as if his teeth and jaw were slowly caving in. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Krissy Hancock.” I offered my hand. He just looked at it. “I saw you at Eleanor Winthrow’s funeral.”

  The comment didn’t go over as well as I’d hoped. Arthur sniffed and turned away from me, while nearly everyone else looked into their coffees, as if they could make me go away by ignoring me.

  “It’s a shame about Eleanor,” a man wearing bifocals said. “You never think anyone is going to pass, and when they do, it’s always a surprise. I wish we would have made more time for her.”

  Arthur muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch, but knew it wasn’t polite.

  “I was hoping we could talk a little about Eleanor,” I said. “If it’s not too much bother, that is.” I gave the man with bifocals a hopeful look.

  “This is a private group,” Arthur snapped, shooting me a quick glare. “We would rather not be disturbed.”

  “There’s no reason to be rude,” the bald man who’d approached Eleanor’s casket at the funeral said. He scooted his chair to the side, making room. “Grab a chair and join us. It’ll be nice to have some new blood after all this time of just us old codgers.”

  There were grumbles around the table, but everyone scooted over enough so I could pull up a chair without being crowded.

  “Thank you,” I said, sitting. “It’s been a pretty rough couple of days. Eleanor was my neighbor.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” one of the men said. His back was slightly hunched in a way I took to be a medical condition, rather than bad posture. He winced when he glanced my way, as if it pained him.

  I smiled, thinking it a joke, albeit one in bad taste, but he didn’t return it. All right, then. I turned my focus to the rest of the table. “I overheard Arthur’s name at the funeral,” I said. “But I didn’t catch anyone else’s.”

  “I’m Hue Lewis,” the bifocaled man said. He reached across the table to shake my hand, which I took gratefully. I then turned my attention to the man with wispy white hair next to him.

  He looked slightly lost when he answered, “Roger Wills.” When his eyes landed on me, I noted they didn’t quite focus.

  Around the table we went. The bald man was Lester Musgrave and the man with the hunched back was Zachary Ross. The last man at the table had a firm grip and looked to be in as good shape as someone half his age. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly quiet.

  “Clifford Watson, but you can call me Cliff.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cliff.”

  When he smiled, it was tight, and his gaze immediately returned to his coffee.

  “So, what do we owe this pleasure, Ms. Hancock?” Hue asked. He seemed to be the friendliest of the group.

  “Krissy, please,” I said. Hue nodded his assent. “I was hoping you could tell me something about Eleanor’s brother, Wade. He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

  If the majority of the men had given me a frosty reception before, it was downright frigid now.

  “Why do you care?” Arthur demanded.

  I kept my smile in place and shrugged. “Just curious, really. As I said, Eleanor was my neighbor, but she didn’t talk much about her family or her friends. It wasn’t until her funeral that I learned she’d had a brother and I’m curious about what happened to him.”

  “He died,” Roger answered. “It’s been what? Thirty-three years now, give or take?” He shook his head in wonder. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

  “Wade should have known better than to run around with that harlot,” Lester said. “She put those talons of hers in him and refused to let go.”

  My hackles rose, but I kept my cool. “I take it you weren’t happy he was dating Rita Jablonski?”

  Lester snorted, took a drink from his coffee. “Wade always had to do things the difficult way. It was bad enough that he complained about the coffee they served here. He even made them carry something special just for him.”

  “French roast,” Zachary said. “No one else cared about roasts and flavors at the time. Coffee was coffee, and that’s the way it should be, but Wade insisted on it. It had something to do with his family.”

  “I think he had a relative that sold the stuff,” Hue said. “I imagine he had the Banyons buy their stock from that family member, but don’t quote me on that.”

  “The coffee was one thing,” Lester said. “But then he had to go and get himself some kid. Used her to spite us, I say. Thought he was a big deal because someone half his age looked at him like he was a god or something.”

  “He was peculiar,” Cliff said, not without fondness.

  “Peculiar?” Another spiteful laugh as Arthur slapped the table. “He was an odd duck from the start. I don’t know why we let him drink with us. Caused nothing but trouble. Just because he had more money
than the rest of us combined, doesn’t mean he deserved special treatment.”

  “Do you think someone killed him for his money?” I asked.

  “The Fink family had money, but not that much money,” Hue said. “And by the time he died, Wade didn’t have access to much of it, if you catch my drift. I won’t say his parents disowned him . . .”

  “They darn well did, and rightfully so,” Arthur said. “He brought shame on this town, and on the rest of us. We should have nipped it in the bud long before he started parading that kid around town like she was anything more than a brat looking to hook up with an older man.”

  “She enjoyed it.” Lester grimaced as he drank from his mug. “I don’t think that girl cared one bit about him, not really. She only cared about the status she earned by dating someone like Wade Fink. It probably turned her into a celebrity at school.”

  “I don’t think it was like that,” Hue said.

  “Sure it was.” Lester set his mug down harder than was warranted. “She hung onto him like she was afraid that if she let go, he’d find someone else. Probably would have. I mean, what could a grown man like Wade see in a kid like that?”

  “You know what he saw,” Arthur muttered.

  I was gritting my teeth by then. Rita was my friend, and listening to them talk about her that way had me close to screaming.

  “Can you tell me what happened the day Wade died?” I asked in an effort to get the conversation back on track. “He was here, with you, before it happened, wasn’t he?”

  The waitress chose that moment to return. “Can I get you something?” she asked me.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “But thank you.”

  She checked around the table and refilled any of the mugs that had gone low since her last visit. She did so quickly, and quietly, as if she couldn’t wait to scurry off and wait on someone else.

  With the prickly personalities around the table, I didn’t blame her.

  Once she was gone, I gave the men an expectant look. None of them appeared to want to talk about it, which instantly made me think back to what Albie Bruce had said: These men knew something.