Fries and Alibis

by Trixie Silvertale

  “And what about the affair? Is he seeing Kitty?”

  “Apparently, she vehemently denied it, but phone records provided evidence of a suspiciously high number of calls between the two.” Silas shakes his head.

  Grams swishes down and gives me a sanctimonious grin. “I told you it was the trollop.”

  “So, they did it? Did Cal find out about the affair? Is that why he was changing his will?” I slap my hands together. “Of course, Kitty must’ve found out about the will and convinced Finnegan to kill Cal before he could make the changes official.”

  Jacob raises his hand like a schoolboy. “May I ask a question?”

  I don’t want to pause, but I gesture for my father to speak.

  “Who said Cal was changing the will?”

  Silas steps into the fray. “I spoke to your father’s lawyer earlier this week. It seems Cal was leaving the bulk of his estate to you.”

  “Me?” The color drains from Jacob’s face and he looks left and right. “Me? He hasn’t spoken to me since the gavel fell and they carted me off to prison. What on earth would possess him to put me in his will?”

  Before any of us can speculate, the metal “Employees Only” door opens and two anything but employees walk through.

  Deputy Paulsen already has her weapon trained on my dad. “Don’t move, convict.”

  “Sheriff, what’s this about?” My father’s face reddens with anger.

  I chime in with, “Erick, what’s going on?”

  Sheriff Harper pulls out his cuffs. “This is standard procedure when dealing with ex-cons. Everyone keep calm. Kitty Zimmerman-Duncan claims she was having an affair with Jacob Duncan. Obviously we have to follow every lead in a murder investigation.” He walks toward my dad. “I’m not putting you under arrest, I’m—”

  “Arrest? You think I killed my own father?” Jacob looks like a trapped animal.

  His eyes snap to the door and I sense his need to escape.

  I feel it in my gut, just like when I had my episode with the mood ring. I rush forward.

  “Freeze, scumbag.” Deputy Paulsen points her gun straight at my heart.

  “Dad, don’t worry. We know you’re innocent. We’ll find the proof. Please don’t do anything stupid.”

  He shakes his head. “Seems like the only stupid thing I did was come back to this backwoods piece of—”

  “Dad, don’t make it worse.” Despite the firearm zeroed in on my torso, I reach out and place a hand on the sheriff’s arm. “Erick, it’s only questioning. Can you please skip the handcuffs? He’ll cooperate.” My eyes plead with the sheriff. “You’ll cooperate, right Dad?”

  “Sure, for you. I’d do anything for you.” His voice is barely a whisper.

  The knot in my stomach fades.

  Jacob’s shoulders relax.

  Erick slips the cuffs back in the holder on his belt. “Don’t make me regret this, Jacob.” He takes him by the arm and they walk out.

  Silas follows and adds, “Please note that my client is represented by council, Sheriff.”

  Deputy Paulsen brings up the rear and mumbles a familiar refrain, “The guilty always lawyer up.”

  Chapter 23

  Silas drives off to meet my father at the station, but I decide to walk. I have a stop to make.

  I push open the door of the diner and the lunch crowd is packed in like sardines. Every seat is full, and Tally’s daughter delivers food while Tally takes orders. My timing isn’t great.

  I slip back into the kitchen and the smell of burgers instigates a loud growl from my stomach.

  “Should I throw one down for ya?” asks Odell.

  “No thanks. I’ve gotta get over to the station.”

  He looks up and raises an eyebrow.

  “Long story. I’ll be back for lunch after the rush.”

  He returns to flipping burgers and drops the basket into the fryer. Popping, snapping, and bubbling welcome the raw potatoes into the oil.

  I push the hair back from my forehead. Geez, it’s hot back here. I guess I’d have a buzz cut too if I had to work over a grill all day. “How come you never mentioned that you and Cal served together?”

  His spatula stops mid-slide. “That’s none of your business, kid. Twiggy shouldn’t be tellin’ tales out of school.”

  I have no idea what he means. “Twiggy didn’t say a thing. I saw a picture of you, Cal, and a couple other guys in uniform. The photo was hanging in Cal’s office.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Why were you poking around in there?”

  “Odell, what’s going on? Did something happen between you and Cal?”

  He plates up a few orders and refills the fry basket for the next batch. “I won’t speak ill of the dead, Mitzy. That’s all I’m saying on the matter. Your grandmother and Cal are together now.” He scrapes his metal spatula across the grill and I barely hear his last comment. “That’s how it should be.”

  He can play coy all he wants. I happen to have direct access to one person in that triangle, and I’ve never known her to keep quiet. “Thanks, Odell.”

  “See ya later, Mitzy,” he calls through the orders-up window as I leave.

  I walk back to the bookshop.

  Grams is nowhere to be found. I think as loud as I can while searching the apartment. No response, and no sign of Ghost-ma.

  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try . . . the best friend.

  Twiggy rings up several books for an eager customer, wraps them in gold tissue, and places them in a black paper bag with a gold embossed Bell, Book & Candle logo on the side.

  “Thank you. I just love this bookshop.” The happy customer takes one more look around before she walks out.

  “Twiggy, have you got a minute?”

  She scans the stacks before she replies, “They can live without me for a couple minutes.”

  And modest, too. Once in the back room, I launch straight in. “I saw a picture of Odell and Cal serving in the Army together. I asked Odell about it and he said he wouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Can you shed some light?”

  “Did you ask Isadora?”

  “I can’t find her.”

  Twiggy nods. “Must be something going on, you know, on the other side.”

  I spare Twiggy the explanation of this in-between place where Grams is trapped and wait for a reply to my question. “Do you know anything?”

  “I know everything, doll. If your Grams gets peeved about me telling this story, she better not haunt me. All right?”

  “All right.” I answer with a confidence I don’t possess.

  “Your Grams was a USO gal and she and Cal really hit it off.”

  “But I thought Odell was her first husband?”

  “Am I tellin’ this story or are you tellin’ this story?”

  “Please continue,” I say with a bow.

  “Anyway, the boys got shipped off, and Myrtle promised to wait for Cal. Odell came home first and he looked her up straightaway. Myrtle was a free spirit and a bit of a drinker back then. She had a few too many, woke up next to Odell, and claimed true love.”

  “I can relate,” I mumble.

  “They did seem to be in love. She had a bit of money saved and Odell had saved his Army pay, too. They had a quickie wedding, bought the diner, and dove into their new life.”

  “But they ended up divorced.”

  “Clearly. Did you want to hear why?” Twiggy takes a stack of bags and ties little gold ribbons on the handles while she talks.

  I nod silently.

  “Cal returned from his deployment a year later, and when he came callin’ on Myrtle he discovered that his best friend had stabbed him in the back. Things got ugly fast. Myrtle drank while Odell and Cal fought. She divorced Odell and ran away. I lost touch with her during the Linder years—that was the second husband. She traveled the world, partied with the rich and famous, and lived dangerously. When Linder died in a car crash five years later, she got his fortune. The accident shook her up. She got sober and
dropped her first name.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’ll say. When she came back to Pin Cherry as Isadora Linder, Cal pursued her relentlessly. They had a fairytale wedding. Odell and Cal never spoke again.”

  “But Odell spoke kindly of Grams when I came to town.”

  “He swears Cal broke them up, and he never blamed your Grams for any of it. He never remarried because he claimed he still loved her, but there was always bad blood between him and Cal.”

  “How bad?”

  “After Isadora died, Silas had to contact you before he could make the details of the will public. But in the meantime, Cal tried to buy up the diner and the bookstore. Tally said he and Odell had a knock-down, drag-out in the diner a few weeks ago.”

  “Does Erick know about this fight?”

  “The whole town probably knows. Why?”

  “Well, wouldn’t that make Odell a suspect?”

  “Odell? He wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

  “Twiggy, he was in the Army.”

  “Sure, doll, but he was a chef.”

  “Wait, how do you know Cal was shot?”

  “I hear things.” Twiggy shrugs.

  “Did you happen to hear the caliber of the bullet?”

  “Nah, I’m a little deaf in one ear, you know.” Twiggy grins and returns to the floor of the bookshop, just in time to help a customer who sounds desperate to locate a first edition of Captains Courageous.

  I have first editions. This day keeps getting weirder.

  Heading toward the stairs, I stop and pretend to browse when a snippet of gossip grabs my interest.

  “I heard the owner passed away recently.”

  “How is it still open?”

  “I’m sure it’s something with the missing will. I saw Janice at the pie judging, and she said no one knows if there’s a new owner. The whole place might shut down.”

  “What about all these books? Oh my goodness, it breaks my heart.”

  “Did you hear about the murder in—?”

  That’s my cue to leave. Maybe I’ll put my name in the hat for Pin Cherry Festival Princess. Despite my notoriety as a murder suspect, it sounds like folks need to meet the new owner of Bell, Book & Candle.

  I chuckle while I make sure the coast is clear. Good, no one on the mezzanine. I pull the candle handle and slip into the apartment.

  I could go through my dad’s case files one more time, but it seems pointless. I only have the one lead, and I need to wait for Odell’s Army buddies—

  The PI! Don’t ask me to connect the dots. I run to the bathroom and grab the receipt. It’s the weekend, but private investigators probably answer their phones seven days a week. I know I would. That reminds me, I’m definitely going to get my cell service re-activated on Monday.

  I scan the apartment for a phone. There’s a landline in the back room downstairs, so I thought there would be a line up here.

  I don’t see anything. I’m about to open the bookcase and look for Twiggy when the fancy scrollwork covering the intercom speaker catches my eye. Hooray!

  I press the button on the right.

  Nothing.

  I press it a little longer.

  Nothing.

  I press it for longer than necessary.

  “Yes, Your Highness?” Twiggy replies.

  I don’t care for her tone. “I was wondering if there’s a phone up here?”

  “Do you see a phone?”

  This woman knows exactly how to push my buttons. “The lack of visual discovery is the reason for the call.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bundle, doll. It’s in the privacy booth.”

  “The what now?” I look around the room and nothing stands out.

  “Notice that bump-out in the far left corner, beyond the bedside table and the flapper display?”

  I stare at the flapper and grin. There must be some juicy stories in my family’s past. But I don’t see the “bump” that Twiggy mentioned. “No, I don’t see anything.”

  “Trust me, it’s there. Anything else?”

  I don’t reply. How can she ask if there’s anything else when she didn’t address the first thing? Geez!

  I walk to the far corner, past the flapper, and see that the wall comes out in a square. I assumed there was a chimney or some ducting running up the wall of the building.

  I press on the wall and to my surprise—not as much surprise as a secret bookcase door or a Ghost-ma—the wall springs open to reveal a well-lit, cozy phone booth.

  I step in and it takes me a minute to figure out rotary dialing. Once I solve that mystery, I dial the number on the receipt.

  “Hello?”

  I expected more. “Um, hi. Is this Jackson Investigations?”

  “You called me.”

  Does he mean yes? Does he mean no? “I did. I was wondering if we could meet?”

  “You got a case? I ain’t got time for chit-chat.”

  Maybe this guy is related to Twiggy? At the very least they both went to the same finishing school. “Yeah, I got a case.”

  “Be at the diner in an hour.”

  The line goes dead.

  I can’t meet him at the diner. If Odell is somehow involved . . . I dial the number again. The clickety-swish of the rotary phone is growing on me.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hi. We just spoke and I can’t meet you at the diner. Is there someplace else?”

  “The pizza place on 87th.”

  “Wait, wait.” I don’t know much about Pin Cherry, but I’m fairly certain there’s no 87th. “What city are you in?”

  “How’d you get this number?”

  I look down at the address on the receipt. Crap-tastic! This guy is in Minneapolis. “I’m calling from Pin Cherry Harbor.”

  He’s unusually slow to respond. “How’d you get this number?” This time there’s a menacing growl to the tone.

  “Look, I’m Cal Duncan’s granddaughter. I’m not sure if you heard what happen—”

  “This conversation is over.”

  DIAL TONE.

  That went well.

  I step out of the booth and press the wall-door closed.

  I’m sure that sheriff trumps PI. Looks like I’ll have to share my lead with Erick if I want to get this private eye to talk. Fiddle-farts.

  I wipe the smeared mascara from under my eyes and walk to the station.

  Maybe I should ask if they have a punch card. Ten punches and I earn a date with the sheriff. Now there’s a frequent-felon club I’d gladly join.

  Chapter 24

  The influx of tourons—my clever compound word for tourist/morons—from down south has pushed the small sheriff’s station to its limits. A frantic lady in red has misplaced her handbag or maybe it was stolen; she’s not sure. There are four teenagers arguing with a deputy about how the bottle of pin cherry wine got into their car without their knowledge. There’s a large man with an impressive handlebar mustache that claims his pin cherry pomade stand was robbed.

  I make a beeline for the desk clerk.

  “Hi, I’m here to—”

  She looks up from her game of Furious Monkeys and recognition flashes across her features, instantly replaced with disdain. “They’re in interrogation room one.” She points, dismissively. “Down that hall.”

  “Thank you.” Let the record show that at least one of us has manners.

  I approach the room and my hand hovers above the tarnished handle. Should I knock? I do.

  “Come in,” says Erick.

  I smile and open the door.

  My father looks up and shakes his head.

  Silas looks more grim than usual and his shoulders seem to bear an additional burden.

  “What’s going on?”

  The three men exchange a glance that has meaning only to their special trio.

  “What?” I repeat.

  Sheriff Erick stands and offers me his chair. “Close the door, Moon.”

  I close the door, but sitting seems like giv
ing up. “I’ll stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” Erick returns to the chair.

  “Can someone tell me what the heck is bringing down this room?”

  Silas for the win. “Miss Moon, the sheriff has far more evidence than we assumed to support Mrs. Zimm—”

  “Just call her Kitty,” I interject.

  “To support Kitty’s claim of an affair.” Silas pats my father on the shoulder.

  “Of course. But the affair was with Finnegan Wells.”

  “We looked into that, but Mrs.—Kitty came forward with evidence to corroborate her claim that Finnegan was blackmailing her, and that she was actually having an affair with your father.”

  “She’s a liar.” I slam my hand down on the table.

  “Easy, Moon.” Sheriff Erick gives me a stern look.

  Luckily I remember why I came to the station. “And the PI can confirm all this?”

  The various versions of shock that pop up on the faces of the triumvirate are priceless.

  “What private investigator? Hired by who?” Sheriff Erick leans forward.

  “By whom,” I correct. “I’m sure your thorough investigation included questioning the PI Cal hired. The one certainly hired to tail Kitty.” There’s a wonderful joke in there, but I must press on. “There are probably pictures of the dirty deeds committed by her and Finnegan that will clear my dad in a second. But I forgot, this town isn’t about clearing my dad. Seems like you’re all way more interested in suppressing evidence if it facilitates a speedy conviction.”

  “Mizithra, that’s enough.” Jacob puts his large, calloused hand on top of mine.

  “It’s Mitzy, Dad.” I pull my hand away. “So, what did the PI have to say, Erick?”

  “It’s Sheriff Harper, Miss Moon. It sounds like you have some information you failed to share.”

  I know the words are meant to fill me with guilt and shame, but when I look at the muscles clenching in his rugged jaw I get all warm and gooey instead. I slap the receipt on the table. “I’m sharing it now. I spent my time wisely in Cal’s office.”

  He picks up the slip of paper, reads the imprint, and looks me dead in the eyes.

  My knees wobble.