COZY MYSTERY: French Cuisine Murder: A Margie Lauderdale Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

by Liz Turner

  “Yes, Father, I am careful.”

  “Yes, Father, of course, I am careful.”

  Margie was sweating a little by the time she hung up; there was something inherently frightening about lying to her father. If Margie told him what had happened, why she was staying in this tiny town, he would be in Bristol in a moment, all set to snatch her back home before she could say a word. Home, where she would be forced to die a very long, very painful, and very slow death.

  Shivering, Margie glanced around. The lobby of Camelia’s apartment building was homey; the red carpet looked a little worn but clean. Heavy couches that looked like fluffy maroon clouds sat in a friendly-looking circle, surrounding a heavy wooden center table, dappled with magazines and a vase of wilting pink roses. There were a couple of closed-door offices to the left of the entrance way within Margie’s line of sight from the phone booths. She’d wanted to call her father in the relative privacy of the little booths instead of inside of Camelia’s apartment, and she was certainly glad she did; this conversation was too heavy to have in front of the casual acquaintance. Margie desperately wanted to trust this Camelia, but a part of her worried. It was that part that sounded like her mother, always warning her away from girls in short skirts. It was the voice that whispered that smoking wasn’t for ladies in the back of her mind. The other part of her thought Camelia was hip; Margie had never had many friends. She wanted, for the first time in her life, to be hip too.

  Picking up her single suitcase off of the floor, Margie looked down at her shoes. She felt terrible for lying to her father. That tiny part of her that wanted to go back to her old life was still alive and well, a throbbing bit of pain just under her ribcage. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her way out of the phone booth and into the lobby.

  She started her way up the stairs in the back of the apartment building. Camelia lived on the fifth floor, but even after just one level, Margie was winded. Her suitcase was heavy so she couldn’t wait to put it down and rest. The stairs echoed her huffing and fumbling with the suitcase back at her. When she finally reached the top floor, Margie took a breather at the doorway to the stairs; it wouldn’t do for her new friend to see how out of breath she was.

  Down the hall, a right, another right, and to door 505. She passed several other doors, all of them closed and silent. A few puffs of scent from other people’s food wafted by, making Margie’s stomach growl. She’d never gotten to taste that French food she’d ordered; with all of the chaos, she hadn’t eaten anything at all. She still didn’t know what a Blanquette de Veau was. She’d still yet to try any French food.

  Finding the right door, Margie knocked, waited for a moment, then walked into the apartment. She gasped.

  The small front room was an open multi-purpose room. A countertop split off the little kitchen from the rest of the room. Heavy dining room furniture took up the left side of the room by the door. There were several comfortable looking couches, all surrounding a low, glass table. Low hanging artwork showed big, colorful impressions of red flowers framed in black. The decor was all in blacks and whites with splashes of reds, and it looked like Camelia pulled it right off of the shiny photographs in a magazine. Huge glass doors lay open onto the balcony, a sweet, spring breeze ruffling the curtains. There was a closed door to the right and a two closed doors to the left of this tiny, glorious room.

  Margie was in love with the place almost immediately.

  Camelia was on the balcony with a cigarette between her trembling fingers. She was tugging on a lock of hair with her other hand, twirling it around her fingers over and over again, yanking on it until Margie winced.

  Margie slid off her shoes and set her luggage down right in front of the doorway, sliding her gloves off as she headed toward the balcony. Camelia turned to look at her. There was something alluring about Camelia; she was the independent and clever woman that Margie aspired to be.

  “This is a beautiful home you have,” Margie said, suddenly nervous. “How long have you lived here?”

  “I moved in about two years ago with Katherine; she worked at a little hair salon on 3rd and Broad Street.” She waved a careless hand in the direction of what Margie presumed was 3rd and Broad. “She was talented; ended up winning some competition to go to beauty school in the city; took off about three days ago to make it big. She’s left a lot of her things. You can probably make due with whatever’s left. I’ve meant to put an ad in the paper for a new roommate, but I was beginning to enjoy it, you know? Being alone in this big place.”

  Margie smiled, but couldn’t think of a proper answer. She’d never been alone a minute of her life, with all of her brothers and sisters in their tiny house. It seemed incredibly quiet and peaceful here, in this wonderful little place.

  “So where are you going again?”

  “My cousin has a little place in the city. She got me a job with her taking letters down for some hot shot in some big old company. I was hoping for a change of scenery. My parent’s house is still very full.”

  Camelia laughed, smoke sliding out of her nostrils. “Of course; lots of siblings? I have seven.”

  “Seven? Oh dear. How did your mother handle it? My mom is exhausted after just the five of us, and that’s with my help.” Margie stopped for a minute, leaning over the edge of the balcony. “Well, it was with my help.” Squeezing her gloves in her left hand, she gripped the railing with the other. The view out here was pretty; this little balcony looked over a small hill. It pointed toward the city, too far away to hear the noise or see the light pollution. The lights around them that glittered in the night were all from this tiny town, none of them bright enough to blot out the stars.

  Camelia set her hand on Margie’s, a smile on her face. “Well, if it means anything, I’m sure glad you’re here. Let’s find something to eat and then hit the hay.”

  Margie laughed; she didn’t know anyone still said ‘hit the hay’ anymore. It sounded like something her father would say.

  Chapter 4

  The police had cleaned up most of the mess after a day or two, and Camelia finally got back to work on the third day. It was a Wednesday. Margie’s cousin had called twice that day, hoping Margie was ready to leave to see her.

  Listless, Margie wandered down the to police station after lunch, sporting a delightful new purple skirt with a crisp, white button-up. She looked rather dashing, even if the hemline again was a little shorter than her father would like.

  The tiny town of Bristol had but one police station; it stood on Main Street between a tiny bakery and a barber shop with candy-striped poles out front. The two-lane road was wide enough to allow car parking on either side of the street. All but one of the ten Bristol County Police vehicles parked out front. The whole street had huge glass windows standing proudly up against the sidewalk, displaying goods and services to the passers-by. Margie glanced around, watching as a teenage boy waved and greeted a crinkly old woman with a cane by her last name. This little town looked like a painting or a perfect nuclear family town from television.

  Margie walked into the station, feeling very much out of place; the secretary at the front desk offered her a cup of coffee and directed her. Officer Brighton was there, sipping coffee and pondering over a large chalkboard. His desk was covered from one end to the other with papers; several empty plates and food containers piled on top of the piles. Margie instantly felt an itch in her palms to clean up this place; it looked like a hurricane had crashed his desk after going out for pizza.

  “So you did stick around then, Ms. Lauderdale.” Officer Brighton smiled a little when she entered, hurriedly standing and trying to straighten the mess of a desk without success. He held out a hand, and Margie shook it. Margie sat down in a chair by his desk. She took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and then set it down.

  “I did. I’m staying with Camelia from the restaurant until you can get this case sorted out. I was coming by to see if there was anything else I could do to help, Officer Brighton.”

 
Officer Brighton smiled again, leaning his hand on his chin. “You can call me Ray, Ms. Lauderdale.” He was studying her a little too closely.

  Margie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Of course, Ray. You can call me Margie.”

  He was still staring at Margie when she shifted again, looking down at her shoes. “Can I help with any of it?”

  “Oh, right.” Ray suddenly seemed to remember where he was and with whom he was talking. “The case.” Shuffling through a stack on of papers and knocking a few to the ground, Officer Ray pulled out a pile of manilla folders and began looking through all of them. “We’ve covered everything from that evening with everyone who was there; we must be missing something.” Pulling a pair of spectacles from the front pocket of his shirt, he slid them on, still peering at the words as though they were illegible. “Can you go over again what you heard?”

  Margie went through it again. Her memory of that night was keen, engraved on the back of her mind. The feel of someone brushing up against her foot in the dark. “Who are you?” Thump.

  There was a kind of hope in Officer Ray’s ice blue eyes when he looked at her, hoping she had come up with something new. So she closed her eyes, running through the event again and again. Curse. “Who are you?” Hiss. Thump.

  “Oh!” Margie said, her eyes flying open as she remembered. “There was a hissing noise, right after the ‘Who are you?’ It sounded like something scrapping over something else.”

  “The murder weapon maybe?” Officer Ray asked.

  “I’m not sure. It sounded a bit like a knife pulled from a butcher’s block. Is that helpful?”

  He nodded, his fingers tangling in his short, dark hair. “It might just be; a knife is what killed poor Mr. McCarthy. Knowing it was stored in something might prove useful. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee, with me, Margie?”

  The offer was so sudden that Margie almost fell out of her chair. The busy police office buzzed around her, the sounds of shuffling papers and the low rumble of voices masked by the incredibly loud thundering of her heart. Pressing a gloved hand to her sternum, she opened her mouth and closed it several times before being able to speak. “I appreciate the offer, Officer Ray, but I would not like to get coffee with you.” She stood, a little dizzy from the sudden change in altitude. Ray stared up at her, his face unreadable. “Good day.”

  Spinning on her heel, Margie tried her best not to run out the door.

  Her face flushed; she’d never been asked to coffee before. Was he hoping for just coffee? Or a date? Not even Keith had ever asked her out to coffee, not even casually. I don’t want to think about Keith. She sighed, brushing the thought away. Margie was done with Lakeshore and certainly done with Keith.

  Chapter 5

  The stores and shops rushed by as Margie hurried past. The colors and bright bits and bobs in the store fronts flashed by, leaving tiny rainbow impressions. Breathless and flushed, Margie found herself in front of the French restaurant; the Bonne Table. She saw it every time she closed her eyes at night; it haunted her the back of her thoughts no matter what she was doing.

  After she pushed open the door, Margie’s eyes immediately jumped to the booth where Mr. McCarthy had died. The table was mostly clean, but closed off; the seat cushions and some of the trim were missing. Margie blanched.

  “Hey, Margie! What are you doing here?” Camelia walked by, carrying a very heavy looking bucket of soapy water. She looked quite handsome in her uniform with a black skirt with a white ruffled blouse and a black scarf around her neck. It was a nice uniform; it would have been scandalous back in Lakeshore. But the influence of the big city was thick here, and women were beginning to dress in ways Margie’s parents would always find scandalous. Margie liked the way it looked. She wanted desperately to try it on.

  Margie was admiring Camelia’s little black shoes when she realized that she still hadn’t answered Camelia’s question. “Oh, sorry. My brain was running away from me. I just had the strangest thing happen, and my feet just brought me here.”

  Camelia laughed, her voice like a bell. “Let me see if I can grab a break, and you can tell me all about it.” She lifted the heavy bucket to set it down on the bar before Margie held up her hands in protest.

  “Oh, don’t waste your break on me. There’s no one here,” Margie pulled off her gloves, “and no one to see me help you with your cleaning.”

  Camelia’s grin spread, the slightly bent profile of her pearly white teeth giving her a charming, impish look. After handing Margie a washcloth, Camelia got to work scrubbing down a booth. The place was empty; it was between lunch and dinner, the restaurant would have a few spare hours to breathe before the work picked up again. They scrubbed in silence for a little while, Margie gathering her thoughts.

  “So I went to the police station to see if there was anything else I could do,” Margie slid the washcloth over the red vinyl of the cushions until they shone. “Officer Brighton was in, so he asked me to go over that night again.” Margie dug some gunk out of the corner between two seats, falling into the rhythm of cleaning. Unlike everything else in this place, the movement was soothingly familiar.

  “Did something happen at the police station, then?” Camelia prompted when Margie had been silent a second too long.

  Blushing, Margie wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Officer Brighton asked me to call him ‘Ray.’ Then he asked me to get coffee with him!”

  Camelia giggled. “Did you get coffee with him?”

  “Of course not!” Margie blushed harder. She had to lean over to wipe the furthest corner, far enough that her shortened locks could cover her cherry-red cheeks. “That would have been unseemly.”

  “If you say so.” Camelia laughed again, stretching out her back before continuing to the next booth. “I think he’s handsome enough; I would have let him take me to coffee.”

  Margie scoffed at Camelia’s casual attitude toward dating, then laughed at herself. Margie was fast turning into her mother. “That doesn’t sound any fun at all to me. Men are barbaric.” Margie sighed, her fingers tangling around her washcloth. She set to work at the next booth.

  “Men aren’t all bad,” she answered, a little bit of a dreamy look in her emerald eyes.

  They worked easily together, dividing the work without a word. They seemed to work like two matching cogs of a machine. Once they had finsihed with the booths, they continued around to the bar. Margie couldn’t seem to get her mind off how strange life was in Bristol. It felt better to have her hands busy. Crashing at Camelia’s place was great until she was there alone with her thoughts. The murder haunted her. Just as bad, the fact that she was still not in the city felt like she was failing somehow. How did she get so off course from her plan?

  Her future had always been a straight line. Grow up, graduate high school, get a job as a typist at the school after graduating to help her parents with the bills, take care of her siblings, get married, have children, and spend the rest of her life cleaning, making dinner, and raising kids.

  Even though she had altered her plans, leaving town before her whole life slid down that line and into motherhood before she was ready, Margie still felt like she had exchanged one track for another. Perhaps stopping in Bristol had been a good thing for her. At least here, she didn’t know what would happen. Maybe- Well, nevermind “Maybe,” she thought, scrubbing the inside of a wine glass until it shown. How about I worry about everything else later, and just worry about right now?

  “Hey, ladies,” someone called from the back of the restaurant. Margie turned, surprised to see a stout older man in his fifties looking right at her. “We have a full house of reservations tonight; everyone wants to dine in the murder restaurant.” The man rolled his eyes. “Bunch ‘sickos if you ask me.” His accent was so thick that his sentences blurred together. Margie was fascinated with the way his words bent and slurred over one another. “You seem like a hard worker; you have any experience cleaning and all?”

  Margie grinned.
“I have four younger siblings, does that count?”

  The older man laughed, his deep voice nearly a growl in his lungs. “I think it does, young lady. I think it does. You want a job until this nonsense dies down?”

  “I’ll be heading to the city soon, but something to do until then would be welcome.”

  Camelia squealed, throwing her arms around Margie’s shoulders. “It’ll be way more fun with you here, Margie!”

  “Get yourself an apron. Dinner rush should be startin’ in an hour! Camelia here will show you the ropes,” Mr. Carter, as Margie found out was his name, got her some basic paperwork to fill out before she got started. Before long, people in fine clothing swarmed the tables like flies on roadkill, trying to catch a glimpse of blood or get a story out of one of the employees. The whole restaurant buzzed with the excitement of the gory details and policemen and murder.

  Margie watched them, sickened by their weird fascination with poor Mr. McCarthy’s death. She might not have personally known him, but all of this milling about hoping to get closer to his murder made her feel a little uncomfortable. Camelia felt it too, every time she cleaned a table, she came back with a slight green tinge to her skin. When the store closed for the night, there was a somber mood over the whole crowd of workers. They were silent as they cleaned up for the night.