A Berry Baffling Businessman

by A. R. Winters

  My blood pressure shot up so high I thought my eyeballs might pop out of my head. “She’s a gold digger! That is the evidence!”

  “And who is this Lara?” Jack asked.

  “She’s Oliver’s wannabe child bride,” I answered with exasperation. “She was only with him because he was rich.”

  “Had she been destitute before then?” Jack asked.

  “Well, no…”

  “What does she do, other than the occupation of gold digger?” he asked.

  I could feel a pout coming on. “Last I heard she was vice president of an ad firm.” She’d been their golden girl with the Midas touch. I’d been thrilled when she’d taken on the ad campaign for what had been mine and Dan’s air conditioning business. And her reputation hadn’t been hype, either. She was good at her job.

  “Prestigious,” Jack’s deep voice intoned.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” I declared. “Just because she had plenty didn’t mean she didn’t want more. She wanted everything she saw!”

  “How do you know, sweetheart?” Agatha asked.

  “Because she wanted Dan!” I blurted. No way was I going to add the tidbit that she’d actually had Dan. If there was any justice in the world, that man’s pecker would rot and fall off.

  There was a round of silent “oh” between them as each averted their gaze. That was the worst. The averted gazes. It meant they pitied me.

  I was not having that.

  “You mark my words, that woman killed him,” I declared.

  “But what would she have gained? If she was a gold digger with a goal of getting him to marry her, what would killing him have done for her?” Agatha asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer, then deflated and closed it again. “I don’t know, but it had to have been something.”

  “So you’re investigating, then?” she asked.

  “No, I shouldn’t.” Then I looked at Zoey. “Unless you want me to…”

  Zoey shook her head. “I’d rather be there for Sebastian as a friend. I don’t want to dig into his life.”

  I understood. If she barely knew him, he could remain an idea, someone to continue to feel good about. Once she started looking at his shadowy parts, though, all of her warm and fuzzy feelings about him would likely be lost forever. It was as bad as finding out the cuddly teddy bear you slept with as a child was a psychopathic murderer. It stole all the nice memories away.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday went by in a blur. The café business boomed because of the town’s growing penchant for murder tourism. Customers I hadn’t seen in weeks showed up, acting like we were old friends. Others had their cell phones out, video calling to show the place off to people all around the country. I caught two people conducting video interviews with out-of-town newspapers.

  Everyone had questions, and I did my best to answer none of them.

  The less I told, the more people bought. I suspected it was their way of trying to incite a sense of quid pro quo—by doing something for me, they hoped I’d feel the need to reciprocate the favor.

  I didn’t.

  They were ghouls. All of them.

  I was tempted to sell them the leftover cookie dough I’d stuck in the back of my apartment’s freezer. It had been there for two weeks. But even that was too good for the likes of them.

  When Sunday morning came, the first thing I did was open the kitchen’s back door. With the sun just coming up and Sage tucked close against my chest, I stared out across my back parking lot. The crime scene tape was already gone. My dumpster was still there, although it now sat a little off-kilter to what it had been. There was nothing to mark the loss of a person’s life.

  “Lara’s going to pay for this,” I whispered into Sage’s ear.

  She mewed and brushed her cheek against my chin. She was a true supporter. She didn’t poke holes in my theory.

  The sound of pots clanging brought my attention back indoors. Chef John stirred a pot, tasted, then grated in more cheese.

  “Where are all your minions?” I asked. The kitchen was empty except for him, me and Sage.

  “They’ll be here in a couple of hours, when it’s time to serve.”

  I grimaced as I thought of everyone at the conference. They must have been reeling from the loss of one of their own. At least most of them. There might have been a few who were happy about opportunities Ollie’s death might provide.

  “I’m a little surprised they’re moving forward with the last day of the conference. Have you heard anyone say anything about what happened to poor Ollie?”

  Chef John snorted. “Poor Ollie…” Then he looked up and I could see him mentally backtrack. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve heard a few rumblings. You should have seen them when I went up to the banquet hall yesterday afternoon. Like you said, I needed to know if they’d still be getting together today. People were saying all the usual stuff you'd expect them to say in a situation like this, but then there were the hungry ones—and I’m not talking about food. A lot of them had this eager gleam in their eyes. They were like vultures circling, gauging when they could have a go at the corpse.”

  I swallowed. Given that I’d seen Ollie’s body, it was a disturbing image.

  But I still didn’t understand Chef John’s initial response to my question about Ollie. He’d scoffed at the man’s death. “Did you know Ollie?” I asked.

  “Eh, as much as you can know a fellow from meeting him for thirty seconds a few times, but those people up there knew him and not all of them were saying nice things.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s why they were willing to move forward with the conference.” He stood back from the counter, put his hands on his hips, and surveyed his work. “Some of them were sad, though. It’s why I’m going with a comfort food theme today. Lobster macaroni and cheese. Lasagna rolls. Fried green tomatoes. Fried cornbread. Fried salmon fritters. Raspberry topped chocolate mousse cups. Chocolate stuffed strawberries. Chocolate tarts. Chocolate stuffed churros.”

  I was definitely seeing some patterns. I had to admit, all of what he had planned would be high on my list of feel-good foods. Give me a pair of sweatpants, a good movie to watch, and a comfy couch to cuddle up on and I’d be all over that menu.

  “You going to have any leftovers?” My stomach rumbled. Loudly.

  Chef John threw his head back and laughed. “I think that can be arranged.”

  I headed out to the open grill section and got to work. Jonathan had sent me another late-night text, this time to say that he wouldn’t be in at all. I didn’t dare try to make his pancakes. They’d become a local favorite. But I was halfway decent with scrambled eggs, so I set everything up to make them per order. With them, I’d offer bacon, sausage gravy, and thick-cut buttered toast.

  I’d make sure that the serving sizes were generous. I hoped it would make up for some of the lack of skill.

  The café’s front door chimed with my first customer of the day.

  “Berry, you made the coffee yet?” Brad asked as he walked in. As usual, he looked better than good in his officer’s uniform.

  “Was just about to.”

  “Don‘t. I’ll do it.” He headed behind the counter where I was.

  I smiled and didn’t complain. The coffee was always better when he made it. “I’ve got the french presses,” I offered.

  “Nah. Don’t need that foo-foo stuff. Just hot water, lots of fresh grounds, and a pot. That’ll do it for me.”

  I gave the sausage gravy I’d already started a stir. I had its pot sitting right on the surface of the grill. Then I buttered the grill up so I could make Brad some bacon and eggs, but Brad took the spatula away.

  “Go. Sit,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  That was a turn I hadn’t seen coming. Eyeing him speculatively, I did what he said and headed around to the customer side of the counter. There, I climbed onto a stool and watched Brad work. He got a clean apron from under the counter, hooked the top loop over his head, and wrapped the strings aroun
d his tight waist. Then he went to work.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked but didn’t wait for me to speak before answering it for himself. “Of course you haven’t eaten.”

  I watched in awe as he made perfectly cooked sunny-side-up eggs. He served them over a medley of toast squares and bacon topped with the sausage gravy. It was so much better than what I’d be offering my other customers as soon as they started wandering in.

  He made a plate for himself and one for me, then came back around to the customer side to sit and eat. We sat in silence for a few minutes, our shoulders brushing each other’s, enjoying the food.

  “You okay?” he finally asked.

  I felt his eyes on me, and I put down my fork and gave him my full attention. “I’m okay.”

  He continued to stare.

  “I am. Promise.”

  “See.” He shook a finger at me. “That, right there, that’s a problem. You’re not supposed to be okay. You just saw a dead body shoved under a ton of steel. You’re supposed to be messed up about it. You’re getting too used to this, Berry. That ain’t normal.”

  I held my breath, wondering if the words that I wasn’t normal were going to come out of his mouth next. Thankfully, they didn’t.

  “You’re upset I’m not an emotional mess?”

  Brad shrugged. “I guess I could understand that better.”

  “If it helps any, I didn’t even realize Ollie was dead at first. I thought he might still be alive.”

  “Yeah… that don’t help.”

  “Well, you don’t help!”

  Brad’s brows knitted together. I could tell he didn’t understand what I was saying.

  “You want me to be somebody I’m not. I’m just me. That’s who I am. So I don’t fall apart when I see a dead body… Does that have to be a bad thing?” I had a lot of stressors in my life. Brad’s inability to accept me as I was didn’t need to be one of them.

  Brad blew out a breath. “Sorry, Berry. You’re right. I just wanted to know you’re okay.” His eyes darkened. “I thought Joel was going to body slam Gregson when he was talking with you.”

  “Oh?” This was the first I was hearing of that.

  “Yeah, he got so mad he broke the lens off his camera without noticing.”

  “No!” I gasped.

  Brad smiled. “Yeah, that made him even madder.” His smile faded. “Gregson mess with you? You okay? You two were looking pretty cozy.”

  I looked away.

  “What?” he asked, pushing.

  I’d just gotten done jumping on Brad about giving me a hard time about not being a mess over the previous day’s events. It was now embarrassing to admit the truth about what had happened. “I—” I mumbled something unintelligible even to my own ears.

  “What was that? Didn’t catch that.”

  “I had a panic attack,” I blurted out, ripping the band-aid off.

  Brad grinned from ear to ear as he took a big bite of bacon.

  “You don’t have to look so happy about it,” I challenged.

  “Hey, I just learned that my best girl’s got a flesh and blood heart instead of a huge lump of coal. I’m happy.” He took another bite of his bacon, grinning even bigger.

  “There’s something wrong with you.” He might not have said it to me, but yep, I said it to him.

  The front door chimed again, and we were joined by Jack and Agatha. I scarfed down several bites of food, then got up and moved back around to the business side of the counter. Agatha sat down next to Brad and Jack next to Agatha. He took off his top hat and laid it on the counter in front of him.

  “You guys want coffee?” I asked.

  Jack looked at Brad. “You make it?”

  Brad nodded.

  “Then yes,” Jack answered brightly. “I’ll have one here and a tall to go.”

  I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t fuss. I liked Brad’s coffee better, too.

  “Tell us, dear,” Agatha said, “have you decided to investigate yet?”

  “No, I’m not going to investigate this time.”

  “Mmhmm… Well, when you do decide to, let me know. I’ve got some ideas to throw around with you.”

  “No, no… Not this time. Really. I’m done with all that. I slept so well last night! And you know why?”

  They shook their heads.

  “No one is trying to kill me. As nice or not nice as Oliver was, I don’t have any real connection to him. What does or doesn’t happen to his killer—even if it is Lara—has nothing to do with me. I get to go on with my life like none of this ever happened. See! Look. I’m making scrambled eggs this morning. Would a person investigating a murder have time to make scrambled eggs? I think not. And if I’m not making scrambled eggs, then I’m never getting better at making scrambled eggs. And if I’m not getting any better at it, then I will never have a hope of being like that man in there.” I pointed at the door leading to the kitchen, toward Chef John.

  The front door chimed again, and a huffing puffing Zoey practically materialized in the doorway. “They’ve arrested Sebastian!”

  Despite the early morning hour, Zoey was alert, awake, and looked as though she’d recently been chased by hyenas. Her raven hair was wild, and she wasn’t wearing the tiniest hint of makeup. She had on huge, fuzzy pink yeti slippers and a thigh-length nightgown sporting a pre-coffee, morning-hating Garfield.

  She and Garfield looked disturbingly alike.

  I topped Jack’s coffee off with a fresh splash. He, Agatha, and Brad were all watching me, grinning. They all knew what was coming next. They all knew that Zoey and I would dig up to our necks through other people’s secrets to get this solved. They just wanted to hear me backtrack on my little diatribe. They wanted to hear me say it.

  Their silent gloating was the loudest thing in the room.

  “Oh, just shut up, the lot of you.”

  They all grinned bigger.

  Chapter 8

  Sam, one of my two servers, made it in, and I put him to work behind the grill’s counter. I loaded up a couple of french presses with coffee grounds and hot water, and I fixed an overflowing plate with a mishmash of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and a side bowl of gravy.

  As a group, we took the food plus a stack of plates and utensils to a table against the windows facing Main Street. Jack and Brad pulled another table up next to the first to create more seating. Agatha had sent Joel a text, and he showed up just as we were all sitting down.

  I sat next to the window, and Zoey sat next to me. Brad and Joel took up spots directly across from us, and Agatha and Jack rounded us off by sitting across from each other. At the very end of the table, all of the food that I’d put together went untouched. There were so many much larger issues at play to concern ourselves with.

  I felt like I should slam a gavel on the table to call our secret society to order.

  Joel glanced at everyone and then leaned forward. He kept his voice low, kind of like he wished he were asking his question in private. “You okay? That jerk of a detective harass you again?” Color was creeping up into his face just from asking the question.

  “No, everything’s fine,” I assured him. “Gregson was rude. I was arrogant. Everything was normal.” I gave him a wink, which earned me a smile.

  Agatha reached across the table and took Zoey’s hand. “What happened, dear? Fill us in on what you know.”

  “Sebastian is innocent. I know that,” she said vehemently.

  “But how do you know it, dear?” she asked.

  I held my breath, wondering if Zoey was going to blurt out that she and Sebastian had spent the whole night together, but those words never came.

  “I just know it,” she said, not backing down from her stance. “And we have to help him. He can’t go down for this.”

  “Okay, what do we know about Ollie’s death?” I asked.

  Joel jumped in. “I heard the officers talking when they were looking over the crime scene.” He’d been there taking pictures. “They thi
nk Ollie was killed sometime between midnight and a little after five that morning.”

  That was a big time gap.

  I looked at Brad. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “There are concerns that the dumpster acted as a heat sink and threw off the temperature of Oliver’s body. That interferes with being able to narrow the window of estimated time of death.”

  No help there.

  “Is there anything else you can add?”

  “Not yet, but the preliminary autopsy report might make its way into the office today. I can keep an eye out for it. See what I can learn.”

  “Detective Gregson knows that you and I are, um, good friends,” I said. “And he knows that Zoey and I have a habit of looking into these types of investigations. Does that cause a problem for you? Does he scrutinize you more? Are you in danger of getting in trouble if he thinks you’re leaking information to us?”

  That was a lot of questions, but I had faith that Brad could sort out my worries.

  Brad shrugged. “All I know is that you guys were there for me when I needed you. It’s my turn to return the favor.”

  He was all in, with both feet.

  Now for the big question—the one that I hadn’t been able to figure out even when I was looking at the poor man. “How did Ollie die?”

  Brad shook his head. “I don’t know. They called in a crane to lift the dumpster straight up off of him. I was there when they did it, but I didn’t see any damage to his body. And he was a big guy. I have no idea how he could have gotten underneath. He was wedged tight.”

  Jack spoke next. “So you’re thinking that the dumpster had to have been lowered on top of him rather than pushed over him or him shoved underneath.”

  Brad nodded. “I just don’t see how he would have been able to fit under there without any damage to his body otherwise.”

  Everyone fell silent, thinking about it. Finally, I jumped back in.

  I turned in my seat to face the woman who had fast become the best friend I’d ever had. “Zoey, how couldn’t Sebastian have done it?” She started to speak, and I held up my hand. “And I don’t mean why. I mean how. Is it impossible for Sebastian to have personally killed his father?”