“But you wouldn’t say you two were friends?” he questioned.
“No, not really. I mean, we were more than acquaintances. But I don’t know what you call it…”
“Well, when was the last time you saw Mrs. Hayes?”
“A week ago,” I said. “My friend Kate—oh, you met her—well, Kate and I went to eat at The Southern Depot. I’m a food blogger, but I also do restaurant reviews for the Lanai Gazette… and other publications when I can. So, I went there to try out the restaurant.”
The detective tapped a pencil on his notepad. Frustrated with me or frustrated with my answers, I wasn’t sure. I don’t know why I tended to give away too many details, but alas, I did.
“Two forks,” he said with a chuckle. “Yeah, I read it after the folks around here kept mentioning how brutal you were.”
“Yeah, I’ve taken some heat for that,” I added.
“So, you were at her restaurant what, a week ago? Did anything happen? Did you two chat?”
“No.” I shook my head in what had become an all too familiar pattern. “I saw Jessica. She saw me. She dropped some menus on the floor, picked them up, and placed them at the hostess stand. Then she ran back to the kitchen. I don’t think I saw her for the rest of the night. We didn’t talk at all.”
“And did you see her since that night?” the detective asked.
“No, it was the last time I ever saw her,” I answered. There was such finality to that answer. Ever. The last time ever.
A buzzing sound from the light above my head started to pester me. And once I heard it I couldn’t not hear it. It was typical whenever I found myself feeling anxious in a situation, I would try to find the most distracting thing in the room and focus on it.
If I was being honest with myself, the handsome detective was the most distracting thing in the room. But the light was a safer distraction than Javier’s piercing blue eyes. They were nerve wracking—just like sitting here being asked questions about a murder I knew nothing about. Nothing more than what the news conference had told the whole town.
I gazed up at the light momentarily.
“Miss Treadwell,” Javier said, “one final question for now: Where were you Wednesday night from 10:00 p.m. to Thursday at 2:00 in the morning?”
Thanks for the warning, Kate.
I had known this was coming. It was still embarrassing to admit it, especially to the best-looking, well-mannered guy I’d met in a long time. Not to mention, after staring at the light above my head, my eyes had somehow crept down to his ring finger. It was noticeably bare.
“I, uh, I started watching Grey’s Anatomy on the couch around eight o’clock. And I fell asleep with the laptop on Netflix. At some point, I woke up, closed it, and went to bed. Probably around 3:00.”
“Was there anyone at home with you who can vouch for your whereabouts?”
“No.” I frowned. “I was home alone.”
“Thank you.” He nodded, jotting it all down in his notepad. “I’ll be right back.” He stood in a quick motion, excusing himself. As Detective Portillo slipped out the door, I caught a glimpse of Miller Hayes with two uniformed officers being escorted to a room down the hall.
Miller’s here too? I wondered if he had a lead. I was sure he was there to help the police catch his wife’s killer.
A few minutes later, Javier and another unfamiliar man came into the room. I wondered if they had a good chuckle over my less than stellar alibi.
Maybe it wasn’t good enough, I thought. Maybe the other detective is here to read me my rights.
“Miss Treadwell, this is my partner, Hank Burley. While Mister Netflix doesn’t kiss and tell, Hank and I agreed you’re good to go. We’ll let you know if we have any more questions.”
They totally had a chuckle about my alibi!
Detective Portillo handed me his card. “Thanks for coming in today,” he said, his fingers grazing mine as the card slid into my grasp.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurted out.
He nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Did I see Miller Hayes just now?” All of a sudden, I needed a glass of water. “Is he helping you find Jessica’s killer? I know it’s nosy. I just want you to find out who did this.”
Javier smiled curtly, but it was his partner, Hank, who chimed in, “Miss Treadwell, we have to explore all avenues. The spouse is typically our first suspect. I’m not saying Miller did this, but this is his third time here. And it probably won’t be his last.”
How could he even be a suspect, much less the number one suspect?
My gut refused to believe Miller had anything to do with Jessica’s death. I was certain he hadn’t changed drastically from the funny guy getting all the laughs in Spanish class. He definitely wasn’t a murderer.
“I see,” I said.
They both gave tightlipped smiles—they were still laughing about Netflix.
Then Javier led me out of the station.
This little experience downtown was more stressful than I could’ve ever imagined. I sat for a while in my car outside the station, planning out the rest of the day.
I needed to stop by BF’s Curb Market, not for green tomatoes but for garnishes and eggs. Then I’d unwind with a bath bomb—afternoon baths are a luxury of the self-employed.
And once fully relaxed, I knew I’d be able to fry up some wonderful fried green tomatoes with some tomatoes from my Mom’s back patio garden. The Foodie Files fans would love them, I was sure.
While running was therapy number one, cooking took a close second. And it just so happened to pay the bills.
TO: Foodie Allison
FROM: Mom
SUBJECT: Two Forks
Allie,
I still think two forks was too harsh.
Your mother (call me about tomorrow)
5
The first batch of fried green tomatoes had turned out okay—and they’d made up the better part of my dinner. That and the leftover Chunky Monkey.
As if that wasn’t enough to prove my singledom for one night, temptation took over, and I spent my bath with Netflix going on the counter well away from the water. Which, of course, led to more Netflix that night.
At some point I finally drifted away to sleep.
Saturdays are usually a godsend to the gainfully employed but for this freelancer, the day meant work, work, work.
My morning was spent back in the kitchen. This time it was down to business. I wasn’t deviating from the recipe I’d perfected last night. I set out the camera, taking pictures of each step along the way while jotting down any notes or ideas I had for the blog.
While tackling the fried green tomatoes was a task itself, I was still riddled with thoughts about the case. I just knew the detectives had to be mistaken. And I knew what I had to do.
Without allowing myself a second’s trepidation, I hopped into the car, the savory taste of cornmeal still on my tongue, and headed for The Southern Depot.
Of course, the restaurant wasn’t open to the public—not since the murder. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d find.
The restaurant’s building was a fixture in the town. I passed it almost any trip I took. The old railroad tracks had run perpendicular to Main Street, and the railroad station was only about a block away from town center.
The place was Miller and Jessica’s dream. For the past few months they’d practically lived here. I’d seen cars out front for months prior to the opening.
There was an old green Ford pickup and a couple of other vehicles parked on the side of the building, away from it as if they were expecting the lot to be full any minute. Habits, I supposed.
I needed to talk to Miller.
Well, maybe need wasn’t exactly the right word. But I wanted to help. His wife had just died, and I was going to do my best to ensure he didn’t go down for it. That was, of course, unless he committed the crime.
But Miller would never…
Rapping on the glass door seemed fruitles
s, but I tried anyway. No one came to let me in. After a quick search online and a tap of my phone’s screen, I heard the ringing in one ear and the restaurant’s landline from the other.
“Thank you for calling The Southern Depot,” said a dull woman’s voice on the other end of the line. “But we’re currently not open for business. Check back on Tuesday for lunch.” She sounded slightly out of it, robotic—as if she’d spoken those words at least fifty other times today.
“Hi, uh, sorry to bother you. But I’m here—literally outside. I was hoping to see Miller Hayes.”
“He’s not here,” she said in a dry tone, quickly catching up to the conversation and attempting to end it.
“Yes—he is,” I responded. “His truck’s on the side of the building. Tell him it’s Allison Treadwell. And I just need five minutes of his time.”
“Fine,” she said, exhausted. “I’ll ask him if it’s okay.”
There was a murmur as she relayed the information. Then a rather put out sigh hissed into the phone. “He’ll be right up to let you in.”
A moment later, Miller appeared at the door.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a sadder looking person in my life. The color of his skin didn’t seem the same, and his posture was slouched. He was not the confident man I saw just a week before. He unlocked the door in two places and let me inside.
I was a little nervous. More than a little. We hadn’t talked since those days in Spanish class. And this whole situation felt awkward now that I was actually here. I’d never helped absolve a man from murder before, but I’d watched Jessica Fletcher do it enough times with my grandmother to know I was pretty good at solving a mystery.
Miller slid into the first available booth, gesturing for me to follow suit. I seated myself across from him.
“What are you doing here?” He threw his hands up in question. There was undeniable heartache in his voice. And anger. Something was up.
“Well,” I started—it wasn’t a good start, “I was at the police station yesterday. I saw you there…”
“You were there?” he asked. He seemed momentarily taken aback by this. “What’d they want you for?”
“Apparently the review has been on a lot of minds,” I said. “They asked me to give a statement.”
“So, you’re not a suspect?” The question seemed hopeful.
“No, of course not,” I snapped but immediately felt guilty for doing so. I lowered my voice—I couldn’t say why, it just felt like the right thing to do. “But I think you are. Listen, Miller, I know we don’t know each other well… Not anymore. But I know you never would’ve done this. We have to figure out who did.”
“We?” he scoffed. “I think we should let the cops do their jobs.”
“Miller, that’s not what I mean. They are doing their jobs. But they’re heading in the wrong direction. Why would they think you killed her? You loved her! Y’all just opened this place together. They have to have a good reason to think—”
“Besides, that it’s always the spouse,” he interrupted.
“It’s not always,” I countered. “I think they suspect more than just that.”
Miller fixed his gaze on the table, not me.
“They do.” He cleared his throat. He shook as if he didn’t know why he was telling me this, but he went on. “Shortly after we bought the restaurant space, Jessica decided a large life insurance would be a sound investment. Ya know, in ourselves and our future. What if one of us had an accident, and the other had to continue running this place alone… It’s not an easy job.”
I nodded, understanding. I’d been in enough restaurants and met as many owners to know it wasn’t a cakewalk.
“So,” he continued, “I took out half a million dollars in life insurance in Jessica’s name. I know it sounds bad, but she did the same for me. It was her idea. We wanted to protect each other.”
Two men peeked into the dining room from the kitchen door. I turned to look at them. Miller shot them a harsh look.
“Sorry. A couple of our silent partners are up here trying to help me get some stuff organized. We just got the all clear from the police this morning to let us back inside, and the investors want the restaurant back open ASAP. I told ‘em I needed time, but you can see how anxious they are.”
While those two men stayed at the door, another man, a familiar one, stepped out into the restaurant space. He carried a clipboard in hand, and his work clothes were disheveled, almost as if they were slept in.
“Oh, hey, Allie,” Ronnie Ferguson said to me. Ronnie was a year older than me. He worked at his uncle’s business delivering meat and produce.
“Hey!” I smiled to him. “Long time, no see.”
Ronnie nodded. But he was all business as he turned to Miller. “Hey, man, can you sign here?” he asked him, putting down the clipboard. “We were out of some of those steaks you asked for, but I threw in some T-bones, free. I figure you’ll make good use of ‘em.”
“Yeah, thanks, Ronnie.” Miller signed the slip and slid the clipboard back across the table.
“It was good seeing ya, Allie.”
“You too.”
Ronnie made his way past the other two men who had now lost their cool. They were frustrated with Miller. The men strolled into the dining room, double chins held high.
“You almost finished up here?” the taller of the two men asked.
“Just about.” Miller nodded.
The men approached our table. Being that we are in the south and hospitality being what it is, Miller took the time to introduce us. “Allie, these are my business partners, Taylor Coker and Camp Devereaux.”
They both nodded at me. The one named Camp smiled curtly. But neither offered a hand.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Miller said. “But we’ve got to get back at it. Plus, I’ve got Jessica’s mom hounding me about funeral arrangements. We can’t do anything until the police release the body.”
“And when’re they gonna do that?” Camp asked.
“They haven’t said,” Miller answered, standing.
This was my cue to leave. “That’s okay,” I said. My lips pursed in agitation. I really wanted to help. “Thanks for your time, Miller. And if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “But I doubt it’ll come to that. And like I said, let the powers that be figure this thing out.”
I may have nodded in response, but I knew deep down there was no way I was done looking into this.
As my hand gripped the door handle, I could’ve sworn I heard one of the two men utter the words “two forks.” Those two forks were following me around like a bad aftertaste, something completely opposite of the fried green tomatoes from earlier.
Still, I left with another feeling—something quite like an aftertaste. I was missing something. I just couldn’t figure out what.
6
Reviewing restaurants for a local newspaper would never pay many bills. Sometimes, I liked to emphasize the word free in freelance because more often than not the hours worked didn’t add up to what I was paid.
I don’t even remember if it was Kinsey’s idea or mine. But I knew Kinsey appreciated the reviews. She’d often gab away about the restaurant after reading it ahead of its release—holding me captive in the drab and smelly building that housed both the Lanai Gazette’s offices and its printing presses.
Nowadays though, everyone is a critic. Every diner has the power to leave a review on a plethora of review sites from Yelp to Google and so many in-between. Some people even tweet reviews on Twitter only to have them buried mere seconds later by something of little to no importance.
My goal is to help guide the residents of Lanai toward having the best possible dining experience at all the eateries in our area. Before trying out a place for the first time, I resist any urge to read said online reviews. Not out of fear of plagiarizing, but more so in an effort to eat without a preconceived notion.
This is always made more difficult by my friends and family, who instead of leaving reviews on Yelp, decide the best thing to do is to call or text Allie. Even long-time readers emailed with their thoughts of a new restaurant well ahead of my scheduled visit.
The Foodie Files, now, that’s where my true passions lied.
I love food. I always have and always will. Coming up with a recipe is as creative an outlet as any art. It’s kind of like paint by numbers, because once you do it, then everyone else can reproduce that art—at least, in theory.
The thrill, for me, was in turning a good cook into a chef in their own kitchen.
The first year of the blog had been the hardest. It didn’t seem like a viable career. I spent that year taking as many online writing gigs as I could to pay the bills. But all it took was one recipe. One recipe that hit Pinterest with a bang. My followers doubled weekly for the next two years.
Now that I have been at it long enough and have become somewhat of a lifestyle influencer, I get sponsorships, ads that make good money on the side of the blog, and free kitchen swag shows up unannounced with my hunky, but married, UPS driver almost weekly.
Some may say that’s selling out, but what better way is there to make a living than by doing something you love? All my product reviews are honest on my end, so I accept the swag with a clear conscience.
And leading my Foodies, as I lovingly call them, astray is never something I would consider.
The cooking is the easy part. Creating captivating high-quality images to publish is the real work.
I yanked the SD card from my camera and began to go through each of the photos from this morning.
Over fifty photos of fried green tomatoes and their beautifully green un-fried counterparts, and it still didn’t seem like enough. I picked the best four and began to pass them through various filters to reduce the blemishes and crop excess away. To one, I added a cool isolated color effect. A gorgeously green tomato became the star of the show. And its beauty would hopefully get me out of trouble for picking them early without Mom’s permission.
The Salty Taste of Murder (A Foodie Files Mystery Book 1) Page 3