Death by French Roast

by Alex Erickson

  It was a sad sight to see. The hedge animals were overgrown now when they weren’t outright dead. One entire patch looked as if someone had lit it on fire; only the branches remained. I didn’t think it was entirely from lack of care, but the Bunfords were getting up there in years. They’d once hoped to restore the entire property to its former glory, but it was obvious they didn’t have the funds, or the energy, to do so.

  I turned at the last bend and found an empty spot in the parking lot. In fact, most of the spaces were empty. There were three cars there, which I assumed belonged to Ted and Bett, and one other employee who worked for them since the Bunfords couldn’t do it all on their own. The emptiness didn’t bode well for the future of their business.

  The mansion turned bed-and-breakfast was only partially painted. Two of the windows had recently been replaced—they still had stickers on them—and the front door was different from the last time I was there, though I couldn’t tell if it was a fresh paint job or a new door entirely.

  So, the repairs were still ongoing, but slowly. If I had the money to donate, I’d happily throw a little toward the restoration of the mansion. It was a beautiful place, despite its less than stellar state, and I’d love to see how it would look once the repairs were complete.

  I paused at the front door. The last time I was here, I managed to get myself banned, though, honestly, I’d only been trying to solve a murder, so it wasn’t like there’d been any malicious intent when I’d broken into one of the rooms. I didn’t think there was anything official, like a restraining order or anything like that, but that didn’t mean Bett wouldn’t call the cops the moment she saw me. I only hoped she’d give me a chance to explain myself before throwing me out.

  Instead of walking in, I chose to knock on the door. Maybe if I was polite, I’d be given the benefit of the doubt.

  It took two knocks and one loud throat clearing before the door swung open and a confused Jo looked out at me. She was one of the first people I’d ever met here, and since that first meeting, she’d soured on me, much like her bosses had.

  “Oh. You.”

  “Hi, Jo,” I said as friendly as I could. “Nice day out, isn’t it?”

  “Ms. Hancock.” She kept her voice low. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know,” I said, dropping my own voice to similar levels. “But I really need to talk to the Bunfords.”

  She raised one eyebrow at me. “They’re not going to change their minds about you. Bett gave us specific instructions as to what to do if you were to ever show again.”

  Since Jo wasn’t running off to call the cops or screaming for Bett, I hoped that meant I had a chance to talk her into at least letting the Bunfords know I came in peace. “I promise, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” I said.

  Jo glanced over her shoulder, to the empty room behind her. “Justin spoke up for you, you know?” she said, dropping her voice even further as she turned back to me. She was practically whispering now. “He says you aren’t as bad as Bett thinks.”

  Justin was another employee at the bed-and-breakfast, one who’d stuck his neck out for me on more than one occasion. If he was speaking up for me now, I needed to find the time to thank him. “I’d like to prove he’s right,” I said. “I’m not trying to bring trouble to Bett or her business. And you’ve got to know I had nothing to do with the murders that have happened around Pine Hills over the last few years. I’m only interested in finding the truth.”

  Jo drummed her fingers on the door as she studied me. No sounds came from the bed-and-breakfast, further solidifying the idea that the place was empty of guests. I hoped that I was wrong and someone had booked one of the rooms but were currently out enjoying the sights.

  After a good minute, Jo heaved a sigh. “All right. Stay out here. If Bett wants to talk to you, she can let you in. I’m not going to risk getting fired for you.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble on my account.”

  Jo didn’t look as if she believed me before she closed the door.

  I paced out front, mentally rehearsing what I was going to say. While Lance believed the Bunfords had worked with Wade Fink, that didn’t mean they’d liked him. As far as I knew, they were just as happy as everyone else seemed to be about his demise.

  It did make me wonder if Rita and Jane had it wrong and Wade really was a bad man. He had decided to date a woman much younger than him, who was likely just out of school, if not still in it at the time. That didn’t make him a bad person outright, but what if Rita wasn’t the only young woman he’d had eyes for?

  I refused to make assumptions, though it was a question I’d likely have to ask if I wanted to get a real idea of who the real Wade Fink might have been. As far as I knew, he’d had a string of teenage girls following after him, with none of them aware of the others.

  If that was the case, I wasn’t sure what it would do to Rita. I’m not sure I wanted to know.

  The door opened again and Bett Bunford glared out at me. She was leaning heavily on a cane—something she hadn’t needed before. When I’d first met her, she’d had strong hands and had looked capable of crawling around the property, weeding every inch of it.

  Now, her hand trembled on the cane. I couldn’t tell if it was from anger, or weakness. I was kind of hoping for the former.

  “Mrs. Bunford—”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, voice wavering. Age was quickly catching up with her, and my heart broke a little hearing and seeing it.

  “I was hoping we could talk about something,” I said. “A friend told me you might have some insights for me and that I should stop by to see what you could tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s about Wade Fink.”

  Bett went completely still. Even the tremble in her hand ceased.

  “Wade? Why would you want to talk to me about Wade?”

  “I was told you worked with him. Since I never got the chance to meet him, I thought that you might be able to tell me what kind of man he was, and maybe a little something about his friends.”

  She blinked at me slowly. And was that a tear in her eye?

  “Both Ted and I knew him,” she said. “And, yes, he worked with us for a time. Are you . . . ?”

  Even though she never finished the question, I knew what she was asking. “I hope so,” I said. “His sister was my neighbor. She died recently and I was hoping to solve Wade’s murder in her honor.”

  “I heard about that,” Bett said, lowering her head. “Eleanor’s death, I mean. I couldn’t make the funeral, but wanted to.” She coughed and cleared her throat. “You’d better come in. Ted will want to hear this.”

  Bett turned and walked away. Despite the cane, she moved pretty well. By the time I stepped inside and closed the door, she was halfway to the back where they kept their offices. I was forced to jog to catch up.

  Jo appeared surprised as we hurried past her. I shot her a thumbs-up and a mouthed, “Thank you,” before following Bett into the office.

  Well, office wasn’t quite the right word. I’d expected to find filing cabinets and desks where they could keep track of their guests and finances. The desk was there, as was a computer, but the rest of the room looked—and felt—like a comfy den. There were bookshelves packed two rows deep with books. Ted was sitting in a rocker by the window, a hardback in hand. When we entered, he closed it and then set his hands atop it.

  Bett walked across the room and sat in the rocking chair across from him. A book sat on an end table next to the chair, as did a teacup. I could imagine the two of them sitting there in companionable silence, reading and enjoying each other’s presence without a word.

  The only other place to sit in the room was the computer chair behind the desk. I decided not to presume and instead stood just inside the door with my hands folded behind my back.

  “Thank you for talking to me,” I said, taking the lead. “I know you haven’t be
en thrilled with me lately.”

  Ted flashed a smile, while Bett merely nodded.

  “As I told Bett, I was informed you both knew a man by the name of Wade Fink, that you worked with him.”

  Ted’s head snapped back as if I’d struck him. “You’re looking into Wade?”

  “I am,” I said. “I’d like to figure out who killed him and was hoping one of you could tell me something that might help.”

  “Wade Fink,” Ted said with a sad shake of his head. “He was good people. Might have been a little too cocky at times, but he never hurt no one.”

  “Broke a few hearts,” Bett said with a smile.

  Their eyes met and something silent passed between them. With the sparkle in Bett’s old eyes, I thought I knew what it was, but wasn’t going to say it out loud.

  “We worked with him,” Ted admitted. “It was a long time ago. He did his job, and did it well. It was meaningless work, not like the bed-and-breakfast where we’re actually trying to do something good. It was just a little stop and shop that closed up not long after Wade died. As I said, he was a good worker.”

  “But he sometimes got distracted,” Bett added. “All the women loved him.”

  Even you? I wondered silently. “Did he favor any one woman over another?” I asked.

  “Rita Jablonski,” Bett said. “She had her hooks in him and he didn’t even try to shake her off. He was beyond smitten. It was kind of nauseating to watch them together.” She chuckled, telling me the last was in good humor.

  “Other women tried to get his attention,” Ted said with a sidelong look at his wife. “He wanted nothing to do with any of them. He never even let them flirt without telling them he was already attached. I think if he hadn’t been murdered, those two would have gotten married.”

  My heart broke for Rita. She was alone now, all because someone came along and killed what very well might be the only man she’d truly loved.

  “Were there jealous boyfriends?” I asked. “Did anyone confront him because their girlfriends were interested in him?”

  “Some,” Ted said. He rocked slowly in his rocker. “But it never got violent. Wade always made sure those men understood he had no interest in their girlfriends and wives. I’m not sure Wade ever raised a hand to anyone.”

  “Well, there was that one time . . .” Bett said.

  “What one time?”

  It was Ted who answered. “It had nothing to do with jealousy as far as I’m aware. It was a spat between friends.”

  “The fistfight?” I asked. “Someone told me Wade got into a fight with some of his friends.”

  “It wasn’t some, just one,” Ted said. “The others were there, of course—they were always hanging around—but they didn’t step in. I’m the one who called the police. I was afraid that if it went on too long, someone might do something they’d later regret.”

  “It happened right in front of where we worked.” Bett continued the story. “Wade was done for the evening and stepped outside to wait for Rita, who was supposed to meet him there. She was running a tad late, and while he waited, his friends showed up.”

  “There were words,” Ted said.

  “A lot of them,” Bett agreed.

  “Do you know what the fight was about?”

  Ted shook his head. “We were inside when it started. I didn’t realize anything was happening until the shouting alerted me to it.”

  “I saw who threw the first punch,” Bett said. “It happened so fast, I wasn’t sure if it was a real fight, or if they were just messing around like men sometimes did with their friends.”

  “Who threw the punch?” I asked.

  Bett frowned, eyes going hazy. Ted’s answer was slow, uncertain. “I think his name was Arnold. I didn’t know them all that well.”

  “Arthur?” I asked. “Arthur Cantrell?”

  “That might be it,” Ted said. “The memory is a bit fuzzy, but I do recall his name starting with an A.”

  “He was arrested a few years later,” Bett said. “I do remember that.”

  “Arrested?” I asked, interest growing. “For attacking Wade?”

  She shook her head. “No, it was something else. I can’t remember the details, but do remember it being news for a few days. I think he went to prison, didn’t he?”

  “I believe so,” Ted said. “It was for a violent crime of some sort. Probably another fight that went too far. Some men can’t handle their tempers, especially if they had a little too much to drink.”

  “Was Arthur a drinker?”

  Ted shrugged. “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I always wondered if that friend of Wade’s was the one who killed him,” Bett said. “It was a shame. Wade Fink didn’t deserve to die, and if it was one of his friends who did it, it only makes it that much worse. If you can’t trust your friends, who else is there?”

  Ted murmured an agreement and lowered his head.

  “How long before Wade was killed did this happen?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’d say a week, maybe two.”

  I’d taken up enough of the Bunfords’ time, so I thanked them and said my farewells. When I left, there were no warnings not to come back again, no threats that they’d call the police on me. I hoped that meant my ban was over. Maybe I’d stop by when this was all over and see if there was anything I could do to help them around the property. I didn’t know anything about hedges, let alone how to trim them into the shape of animals, but I could always help with the painting.

  I got into my car, mind turning over what I’d learned. Wade had stirred the pot by dating Rita and his friends weren’t happy about it. Was that what got Arthur so fired up and caused the fight? If so, did Arthur take it a step further and then kill Wade for it a week later?

  Checking the time, I decided there was one place where I could find out more about Arthur and his crimes, and see if somehow it could all be traced back to Wade Fink’s murder. Besides, Patricia Dalton already wanted to talk to me about Jay Miller anyway. It would allow me to ask about both men at the same time.

  11

  The Pine Hills police station sat smack-dab in the middle of the downtown area. As it was on most days, the parking lot was mostly empty, with only a few cars in the lot that didn’t belong to officers on the force.

  As I parked, I noticed Paul Dalton’s personal car sitting in the corner of the lot, next to one I knew to belong to John Buchannan. I didn’t know which patrol car Paul used, however, so I couldn’t be sure he was there until I went inside. I kind of hoped he was out so I could talk to his mom without my thoughts—and eyes—drifting to him.

  It felt good to pass through the front doors of the station without it being because I was in some sort of trouble. I practically skipped across the threshold, to the front desk, where no one currently sat. In fact, there were no police officers evident at all.

  “Huh,” I said, glancing around the empty police station. I knew crime in Pine Hills was low, but this was ridiculous.

  Before I could get myself into trouble and go wandering the halls to look for someone, the door to the police chief’s office opened and four officers poured out, laughing and smiling, each carrying a small piece of cake on paper plates.

  One of the officers stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing at the front desk.

  “What did you do now?” John Buchannan asked. His customary scowl shot to his face the moment he realized it was me. It might have been intimidating if it wasn’t for the small bit of icing stuck to the corner of his mouth.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m here to see Chief Dalton. She’s expecting me.”

  His eyes narrowed and he said something to the woman next to him. I knew her too: Officer Becca Garrison. She nodded at whatever Buchannan said and then wandered over to her desk, where she proceeded to finish off her cake in two large bites. The other two cops paid me no mind, choosing to chat amongst themselves as they moved deeper into the station, leaving me to face off with Buchannan alone. />
  “What do you want to see her about?” he asked, walking over to the desk. He took a bite of cake before setting it aside and crossing his arms.

  “She asked me to come,” I said, eyeing the remains of his cake. I’d hardly eaten anything at all today and my stomach was starting to complain. “Was there a party?”

  Buchannan actually moved his plate farther away from me, as if he thought I might try to steal it out from under him. “Why did she ask you here?” he asked, ignoring the second question. “Do I need to take you to the interrogation room?”

  “Just let her know I’m here,” I said. “We have something to discuss.” And then, just so he knew, “There’s no need for an interrogation room.”

  I expected him to argue that, too, but Buchannan picked up his cake, and with a warning for me to stay put, he returned to Chief Dalton’s office.

  “Jerk,” I muttered, and then corrected myself. Buchannan wasn’t a bad guy. He just didn’t like me always poking my nose into murder investigations. I couldn’t fault him for that. I mean, solving crimes was his job, not mine.

  Well, I did seem to be involved in the cases one way or the other, but that didn’t mean I actually enjoyed it.

  Who was I kidding? A part of me loved putting bad guys behind bars. The only difference between me and John Buchannan was he got paid for it.

  While I waited for Buchannan to verify my story, I noted Officer Garrison was watching me. I waved, hoping she was back to liking me again. We had an on-again, off-again relationship, although we seemed to land on the off side of things more often than I’d like.

  Garrison nodded her head once, acknowledging me, and then she looked away. It was as best as I could hope for, I supposed.

  Buchannan returned a moment later, looking put out and was, unfortunately, sans cake.

  “Fine,” he said, sounding almost like a petulant child. I think he really was hoping to throw me out on my ear. “You can go back.”

  “To her office?” I was actually surprised. The only places I ever found myself in the police station were the interrogation room and the cells. I’d expected Chief Dalton to come out and meet me, or maybe tell me to wait outside. This was definitely a big upgrade.