Death by French Roast

by Alex Erickson

  “Really? I thought . . .” He shook his head. “No, what I thought doesn’t matter. It’s about time you two have finally taken the next step. Everyone’s been waiting for it.”

  “I don’t know about everyone,” I said.

  Jules merely rolled his eyes.

  I was already nervous enough about the date, and talking about it was making me more so, so I changed the subject.

  “Do you know Clifford Watson?” I asked. “He’s an older man, drank coffee with Wade Fink.”

  “Is this about the unsolved murder?”

  I nodded. “It is. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about him.”

  Jules tapped his lower lip, eyes going distant. I noted his nails weren’t painted and he was wearing a polo and khakis, rather than his usual work attire. He looked so, I don’t know, normal when he wasn’t at work.

  “The name doesn’t ring any bells,” he said finally. “I knew a Madeline Watson, but she moved away a couple years back. Had a kid, but I don’t recall if she ever mentioned a husband.” He frowned. “Well, depending on how old this Clifford is, he might be her father. She was only in her forties, maybe early fifties, when I last saw her.”

  “Cliff is still in town,” I said, but I filed Madeline’s name away, just in case they were related somehow.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help.” Maestro squirmed to be let down, but Jules kept a firm hold on him. “There’s been a buzz going around about your investigation. I overheard a couple of ladies talking about it earlier.”

  “People are talking about it?” I suppose it wasn’t surprising, but it still came as a shock.

  “They are. Seems you have ruffled a few feathers with your inquiries. Not everyone is happy that you’re looking into something that—how did they put it?—‘something that didn’t deserve a second thought.’”

  “A man died,” I said. “I can’t let it go.” Especially because it involved Rita.

  “I know you can’t,” Jules said with a wide smile. “That’s what we all love about you.” He shifted Maestro from one arm to the next. The little dog was desperate to get down. “Well, I best let you go so you can get ready for your date. You’ll have to tell me how it goes.”

  “I will,” I promised him. “It was good to see you.” I crouched so I could look the Maltese in the eye. “And you too, Maestro.” I gave him one last ear scratch, before I let Jules return home.

  By the time I was back in my house and cleaning off the dirty doggie prints on my knees, I had only about thirty minutes before Paul was due to arrive. I mentally forced everything that had to do with Wade and his murder from my mind and resolved to get back to it in the morning when I could think about it with a clear head.

  15

  “It doesn’t look too busy tonight,” I said as Paul pulled up in front of an unassuming brick building. A simple sign that read GERALDO’S hung out front. I knew from experience that the place was much nicer on the inside than its exterior indicated.

  “That’s good,” Paul said, driving around to the small parking lot in the back. He slid into a spot and shut off the engine. “I’m starved.”

  “Me too.”

  We got out of his car and headed for the restaurant. Paul had chosen to dress in a pair of black slacks and a simple button-up shirt, which made me feel good about my choice of dress. We didn’t look overdressed, nor did we look like we’d just come from the rodeo Jules had mentioned.

  Paul opened the door for me and I stepped inside Geraldo’s. Light jazz played over the speakers hidden among the dim colored lights. Though you could see other tables, the seating felt intimate, private. There was a soft murmur of voices that created just the right ambiance to the room, adding to the odd sense of public seclusion. Even before we were seated, my heart was stuttering.

  We were led to a table near the windows. Paul looked as if he was going to pull the chair out for me, but I hurriedly did it myself. I’m not sure why I did it. Maybe it was an independence thing. Or maybe I was just scared that it would start to feel like a real, romantic date.

  Isn’t this what I wanted?

  It was, but now that I was there, I was afraid I was going to screw it all up somehow.

  Paul looked momentarily crestfallen, before he relaxed and took his own seat. We began to peruse the menu.

  I was dying to ask him about Jay Miller or anything else he might have uncovered about Wade Fink’s murder, but I held my tongue. This was a date, and I needed to remember that the investigation was mine alone, and that the cops weren’t involved this time. He might have taken me to see Arthur Cantrell, but that didn’t mean he needed to do anything else.

  I’d just chosen the lemon herb chicken when the waitress appeared. She looked to be in her fifties and looked mildly distracted when she approached our table.

  “Hi, I’m Candace. Are we ready to order?”

  “I am,” I said, checking with Paul, who nodded.

  We both ordered, with Paul adding a bottle of wine to go with our meal. I asked for a water, just in case, but was pleased we weren’t going the soft drink route. Somehow, wine made the date feel even more like, well, a date.

  Candace’s smile was distant, and was clearly there out of habit, as she jotted down our orders. She didn’t look at us again before she hurried to the back.

  “I hope the wine is okay,” Paul said. “I know you don’t usually drink . . .”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “One or two won’t hurt.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat, seemed to consider what to say next before deciding on, “I’m glad you got ahold of me earlier. I looked into Mr. Cantrell some more after we left his place, and I’m not so sure aggravating him is such a good idea.”

  “Did you learn something else about him?” I asked, happy he’d brought it up so I didn’t slip up and do it first.

  “Nothing major that we didn’t already know,” he said. “But there were a lot of little things that added up to a man who is no stranger to the law. Citations, complaints. I found a few instances out of town where he’d had the cops called on him. No arrests, outside the one we know about, but it’s clear Arthur Cantrell is a troubled man.”

  Troubled enough to kill? I wondered. “I’ll stay clear of him. And if something does come up and I need to talk to him again, I’ll be sure to call you first.”

  Paul grinned. “You’d better.”

  The waitress returned with my water and the bottle of wine Paul had ordered. She filled each of our glasses, and then left the bottle.

  “I can’t believe you bought the whole thing.” I said. A single glass was expensive enough.

  “Why not?” he said. “If we don’t finish it, I can always give it to someone else.” He glanced around the room as if searching for that lucky someone.

  I picked up my glass and took a sip. The wine was sweet and didn’t have the normal tartness I disliked. “It’s good,” I said.

  “I’m glad you liked it. I . . .” Paul trailed off, eyes moving over my shoulder.

  I glanced back to find Shannon, Paul’s former girlfriend, walking toward us. Her jaw was tight, eyes pinched, though she was trying to hide her displeasure at seeing us there. She was dressed for a night out, and I wondered if she’d abandoned a date of her own to pay us a little visit.

  “Shannon,” Paul said when she reached the table. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Paul.” Her eyes flickered to me. “Krissy.”

  “Hi, Shannon. You look lovely tonight.” And she did. She might not be very happy with me since she blamed me for causing her and Paul to break up—not that I’d done any such thing—but she had the grace to smile.

  “Thank you.” She turned back to Paul. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He looked at me, and I could tell a part of him wanted to see what she had to say. I didn’t get the impression that he was hoping she’d ask him to give their relationship another go, but my chest tightened anyway.

  “Perhaps later
,” he said. “Krissy and I are having a quiet meal together.”

  Shannon stepped closer to him. “Please, Paul. It will take just a minute. I don’t want to interfere, but . . .” She glanced at me, as if hoping I’d help her out.

  Against my better judgment, I did just that. “Go on. I’ll be okay for a few minutes.”

  “You sure?”

  I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Paul reached across the table and rested his hand on my own. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  He rose and followed Shannon back toward the bathrooms. There was a hallway back there that was likely the closest thing to privacy they could get without going outside.

  It would be easy to get jealous—I mean, my date had just walked off with another woman—but I trusted Paul. I took another sip of wine, and then folded my cloth napkin onto my lap in preparation for the meal. Shannon could try all she wanted to get Paul back—if that was what she was actually doing—but I felt confident that Paul wouldn’t abandon me so easily. We had a history.

  Okay, that history was marred with murder investigations and awkward encounters, but darn it, it was still a history.

  A minute passed. Then two. After five, a part of me started to get worried. What if I was wrong? What if Paul was still interested in Shannon, and seeing her dressed up now made him regret coming to dinner with me? What if they were pressed against the wall, lips locked, hands frantically roaming over one another?

  I mentally slapped myself upside the head. That was old insecurities talking. As much as I’d grown since I’d come to Pine Hills, they still liked to creep up on me sometimes. I had more than enough proof that Paul and I were a fit. I wasn’t going to let anything come between that; not anymore.

  I nearly sagged in relief when Paul returned alone. He sat down with a smile and a shake of his head.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “What did she want?” I asked, unable to keep the question from slipping out. I might trust him, but I didn’t know Shannon well enough to know what she was capable of. I didn’t even know her last name.

  “Nothing,” he said with a wave of his hand. “She wanted to clear a few things up between us.” He met my eye. “They’re all clear.”

  I didn’t like that he wasn’t being more specific, but honestly, what happened between them was none of my business. Now, if Paul and I moved beyond the occasional date and she kept showing up, then we’d see.

  I was about to change the subject to something lighter when my phone buzzed in my purse. I steadfastly ignored it, but it succeeded in wiping whatever I’d been about to say from my head.

  Who’d be calling me now of all times?

  Paul’s gaze flickered to where my purse sat in the chair next to me, and then back again as it fell silent.

  “How was work?” I asked.

  “Same as most days. Though there was this one older lady who called in claiming someone was trying to break into her house. Turns out it was her cat. She’d somehow trapped him between the screen door and the heavy wooden front door and he couldn’t claw his way out.”

  “Is the cat all right?”

  Paul chuckled and nodded. “He was a little wild-eyed when I opened the screen door to knock. When she opened the door, the poor cat just about knocked her over as he bolted inside. I have a feeling he’ll be a little more careful where he roams from now on.”

  “That’s good.” My phone started buzzing again.

  Paul and I looked at each other.

  “No,” I said.

  “It might be important.”

  I bit my lower lip. I had a sudden image of Dad lying on the floor, clutching at his chest, with Laura frantically trying to reach me.

  Why she’d call me instead of an ambulance, I didn’t know. But it did serve to make me break down and fish my phone out of my purse.

  “I don’t know the number,” I said, glancing at the screen. It was local, so it wasn’t Laura or Dad.

  The buzzing stopped.

  “Maybe they’ll leave a message this time.”

  My phone buzzed again. Same number. “Nope.” With a sigh, I answered it. “Hello? Krissy Hancock speaking.”

  “Ms. Hancock.” There was relief in the man’s voice. “I wasn’t sure I had the right number. I had to ask around, and even then, I wasn’t positive I’d be able to reach you. You weren’t at home when I tried to call.”

  “You tried to call my house?” I asked before shaking off the question. “Who is this?” I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Sorry, sorry. It’s Cliff, Clifford Watson.”

  “Cliff?” I just about stood in my shock. The waitress returned with our plates, just then. She hesitated before setting mine down, as if unsure if she should interrupt. “What can I do for you, Cliff?”

  “I need to talk to you.” His voice shook. “It’s been a tough couple of days.” He laughed, though there was no humor in it. “No, it’s been a tough thirty years. I have some information on what happened to Wade Fink.”

  “You know who killed Wade?” I said it a little louder than was necessary, but he’d surprised me. Candace gave a little gasp at my outburst.

  “Please, not on here. Let me give you my address. We need to talk. Tell me you can come tonight? I’m not sure I’ll be capable of talking about it later, not if I have more time to think about it.”

  “Tonight?” I looked to Paul, who nodded; he knew what I was asking, and was on board. “Sure. Give me your address.”

  Cliff repeated it twice before he said, “Please, come soon. This is tearing me up and I can’t live with it any longer.” He hung up.

  “Well, that was interesting,” I said, tucking my phone away. “He sounds scared.”

  “We should go now.”

  I looked at my full plate of food and sighed. It smelled fantastic, and I knew it would taste just as good. My stomach grumbled in protest. “Probably.”

  Paul spun in his chair to look for our waitress, but she was long gone. I’d probably frightened her off with talk of murder. Poor Candace. She’d already been working distracted, and now to put thoughts of dead men in her head.

  “I’ll take care of the bill,” Paul said, pulling out his wallet and a wad of cash. It appeared he left more than what our meals cost, but I supposed that since we were abandoning the feast to be thrown away, it was the right thing to do.

  “It seems a shame to leave this here.” Unable to resist, I took a small bite of my chicken. It was good, but not as good as I was expecting. I imagine the roiling of my stomach had a lot to do with that.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Paul said, rising. “Shall we?”

  We left Geraldo’s and got into Paul’s car. I gave him Cliff’s address and we headed that way, dutifully going the speed limit, though I was anxious to get there as soon as possible. Cliff had sounded unsure about talking to me, and I feared that by the time we arrived, he would have changed his mind.

  It took nearly twenty minutes to get to Cliff’s place, thanks to a small fender bender a block away. Paul got out of the car briefly to check to make sure everyone was okay and that the police were on the way, and then took us down a side road, which added a little time to our trip.

  “Did he give you any specifics about what he wanted to talk to you about?” Paul asked as we pulled to a stop outside a tiny house that looked barely big enough for one older man to live comfortably. The gutters hung woefully low, and a small plant was growing out of one of them.

  “He just said that he had something to tell me about Wade’s murder. I’m thinking he might know who killed Wade.” Or that he might have done it himself.

  My mind drifted back to what Eddie had told me. Cliff had looked guilty when he’d returned to the Banyon Tree. If he had killed Wade, it didn’t appear as if he was happy about having done it. Living with it for a few hours was hard enough. Living wi
th it for over thirty years had to take a toll.

  We got out of the car and went to the front door. Paul took the lead and knocked.

  There was silence from within.

  He knocked again, this time with a frown. “Mr. Watson?” he called. “It’s Paul Dalton. I’m here with Krissy Hancock, as per your request.”

  Still no answer.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk with you here,” I said. If he was about to admit to murdering his friend, I doubted he’d want to do it in front of a cop.

  “He’s got no choice.” Paul hammered harder on the door.

  It opened with an ominous creak.

  Every hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end. Paul gave me a serious look, and then pushed the door open.

  “Mr. Watson?”

  When there was still no answer, Paul turned back to me. “I want you to stay here,” he said. “I’m going to make sure he’s okay.”

  I nodded, worried. Clifford Watson wasn’t a young man. The stress could very well have gotten to him and he’d had a heart attack the moment he’d hung up from me. If that was the case, there was a chance I might never learn who killed Wade Fink.

  Paul entered the house, calling Cliff’s name. I shifted from foot to foot, just outside the door. I could make out the corner of a couch and a small box television to the right. A hallway led deeper into the small house to the left. I could see nothing else, not even a photograph on the wall.

  I glanced back toward the road. There were other houses in the neighborhood, but they were spaced far apart. No one was looking out a window as far as I could tell, and no one drove by.

  Paul was gone for only a minute, but in that time, I’d imagined every horrible thing that could have happened to Cliff Watson. I prayed he’d merely closed his eyes and had fallen asleep. Older people did that sort of thing all the time.

  When Paul returned, the look on his face was grim. “Go ahead and go back to the car,” he said.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Go on,” Paul said. He was pale, which combined with the tone of his voice, told me all I needed to know.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Paul nodded. “I’ve got to call it in.” He sucked in a breath and I noted it trembled. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop looking into Mr. Fink’s murder. This is now an official police investigation.”