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

by Liz Turner

  Disappointed, Margie gave a round of smiles to everyone. Once the crowd around them had died down, Margie got to work, pointedly ignoring the unmarked vehicle parked across the street. Camelia did the same; she seemed to be avoiding looking out the front window as well.

  The evening passed by so slowly. Margie gave up after an hour of trying to catch the each of the waiters writing down customer’s orders to see if any of them was left-handed.

  There was a crowd at for the dinner rush, but not as many as Margie remembered during the initial rush after the murder. She made decent tips, however, and had little else to complain about. Some of the customers were a little too curious about the bandages on Camelia’s left hand, and she told them all sorts of wild, made up stories ranging from saving kittens from fire to a knife juggling accident. It became a game of sorts, trying to come up with new ways she could have obtained her injuries and seeing if customers would buy it.

  It kept their minds off of the fact that someone in their restaurant had tried to kill one of them.

  Margie went to clean the windows after the evening was over, realizing that will all of the excitement; they had forgotten to talk to Lee about keeping an eye on them. At least, the night was over, and Margie wouldn’t have to worry about it much longer.

  Despite her resolution not to, Margie found herself glancing out of the window to see if the two policemen were still there, watching her. Much to her surprise, they were both out of the car and running towards the restaurant; their guns clutched between their hands. She stared at them, wide-eyed, watching as they ran toward her in slow motion. Their faces contorted with something close to controlled panic; Margie couldn’t imagine what had gotten into them.

  Chapter 19

  She spun around, coming face to face with young Jacob.

  His hand clasped a knife.

  His left hand clasped around a knife.

  The two police officers barreled into the restaurant, ordering Jacob to drop the weapon, drop the weapon. They yelled, and Margie screamed, the noise reverberating through her skull like thunder. Everything was too loud; people were panicking, and Margie wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

  Jacob dropped the knife, looking dumbfounded. There was something close to confusion displayed on the lines of his face, but that quickly was overrun by terror. For a split second, Margie felt sorry for him.

  The two officers cuffed Jacob. When they stood him up, Margie noticed for the first time that he was the same height, the same build as the man she’d hit with her umbrella that night. Camelia ran over to her as soon as the police exited the building, and they stared together out of the window at the man that had jumped them in that dark alleyway. Someone neither of them had suspected. Jacob. Seventeen years old. He had murdered someone and tried to murder another.

  Even watching him walk away in cuffs, somehow, Margie didn’t feel any safer.

  Ray offered her a cup of coffee. She took it, noticing it was mostly creamer, just the way she liked it. Strange that he thought so much of her to memorize how she took her coffee. Not even Keith had bothered to do that. Margie took the cup with a smile and sipped, hoping the coffee would warm her chilled insides.

  “He still hasn’t confessed; we’re curious to see what his connection is to our potential mob man, Mr. McCarthy.” Ray frowned. “He seems young for such a thing, but you never know these days.”

  “Are you sure he did it?” Margie asked, pressing her hands to the ceramic mug Ray had given her, trying to leech out all of its warmth into her hands.

  “He came up behind you with a knife, Margie. What do you think?”

  “I had dismissed him as a suspect in my head,” Margie answered. “I guess he just seems like a child to me. He reminds me of my little brother, Carson.”

  Something softened in Ray’s face. “Do you miss your family?”

  “Sometimes. My siblings are all much younger; I feel like I’m going to miss pieces of them growing up and discovering things. Betty is barely seven; she’s still has a lot of growing to do. And Carson is sixteen; soon he’ll be thinking about college or serving maybe. He’ll be thinking about settling down, getting a job and his own place. I want to be there when he decides.” She sighed. “But at the same time, I don’t.”

  Nodding, Ray gently patted her arm. “It isn’t easy being away from family, but it is certainly freeing. My parents live in the city. I see them on two major holidays a year. We don’t fight anymore. I don’t regret my decision to go to the academy and get my badge.”

  “A little distance never hurt anyone,” Camelia added, sitting down next to Margie. “Can I get a coffee too?” She asked, her face lighting up like Christmas. Ray stood up to grab her coffee too, leaving them in silence. Margie glanced around the police station, staring ugly linoleum floor under her feet.

  “Do you ever see your family?”

  “Every Thanksgiving and every Christmas. My mom makes the most amazing goose you’ve ever tried.” Camelia’s eyes lit up, glowing like emeralds. “Being this far away makes us remember how much we love each other, and how much we hate being too close. How are you holding up?”

  Margie’s head drooped a little further. “Not well. Jacob-”

  Camelia was silent while Margie gathered up her thoughts.

  “He reminds me of my little brother, Carson. They are about the same age,” she said, shaking her head. “What would make him do such a thing?”

  Camelia shook her head; she looked haggard. Grabbing a chunk of hair, Camelia began twirling and tugging on it so violently; Margie was pretty sure she would rip it right out of her skull. “He won’t say. He doesn’t know where he got the knife, or where his gloves went.” She put her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

  Margie placed her right hand on Camelia’s left shoulder. “I know; I think no matter who it was who had done it, I would have been shocked, but Jacob-”

  The silence stretched long and wide between them, their minds grinding fine the grains of what had happened. But neither seemed to be up to speaking about it. Ray came back after a few moments, handing Camelia a cup of coffee. She took it, but Margie was pretty sure she wasn’t going to drink any of it.

  Chapter 20

  When they returned to the restaurant later that day, Mr. Carter was crossing himself over and over again. “Great Mother of God, this restaurant can’t handle any more criminal activity. We’re cursed! The police have been here three times in less than a month!” Sweat beaded on the bald dome of his head, his fingers touching his shoulders, then his forehead. A rosary tangled between the fingers of his left. “No one will ever eat here again!”

  After a few moments of reciting every line he’d memorized from the Bible, Mr. Carter locked himself in the office, probably counting how many days remaining for his business.

  Margie and Camelia, gloomy as they were, still managed to smile at his antics. When they opened again for dinner, a smallish crowd still came in the door. Marc and the kitchen staff put in extra effort to make the dishes amazing, and the platings were above reproach. The waiters made an extra effort to be as accommodating as possible, and Margie and Camelia both rolled their skirts up at the waist to make them a little shorter, bringing in some extra male customers from the street.

  Margie blushed a little at the trick, but they did seem to draw a little more attention from outside the building than they usually did. The evening ended rather better than anyone expected, bring in modest earnings; Camelia and Margie both had enough tip money in their pockets to ensure they could make another trip to the diner that evening.

  Mr. Carter came out of the back office to better news than he was expecting, and he offered to buy everyone working a drink. Marc, Pierre, Camelia, Margie, Keith, Lee, and Jeffrey all took him up on it; they sat around one of the bigger tables as Mr. Carter opened a bottle of wine he’d been saving “for a special occasion, eh? We all need some cheering.” Margie got up and grabbed glasses for everyone from behind the bar, filling up a
few of them with water from the sink.

  They all drank together, everyone’s smile tinged with sadness. Especially Camelia’s. “I guess you’ll be leaving us now, hmm?” She said, a little too casually. She pulled at the label of the bottle of beer she had found behind the bar, stating that the wine was a little too high brow for her earthly tastes.

  Margie’s heart plummeted into her stomach. “That’s right; yes. I will be leaving for the city tomorrow.” Her whole body felt cold, then hot. She would be leaving tomorrow. For the city.

  The whole table blinked at her, except for Mr. Carter, who sighed dramatically and wiped the sweat off of his head. “After all the excitement, I’d nearly forgotten. We should square up your pay tonight then, eh? Before you go home.”

  Margie’s stomach tightened, and the wine seemed to turn to vinegar in her mouth. But she swallowed it and smiled. “Of course.”

  Marc looked a little confused. “Why’s that now, lass?”

  Everyone else in the restaurant turned to her, curiosity in their eyes. “I was just a witness; the police wanted me to stay in town until they solved Mr. McCarthy’s murder.” Margie looked down. “I guess I’m free to leave now, though.”

  “What kind of witness?” Pierre asked, his voice low.

  “The killer-” Margie hesitated, then decided against using Jacob’s name, “bumped my foot and spoke that night when the lights went out. I was the only one to hear his voice; I guess if they had a suspect, they were going to try and recreate the sound-” Everyone’s face around the table was falling, their shoulders contracting as they thought about Jacob, so Margie shut up. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll be free to leave now that it’s all over.”

  “That’s why you stuck around,” Lee said, his eyes running back and forth over the ceiling tiles. She could see him slowly putting the pieces together.

  “I gave her a job, so she had something to do while she waited,” Mr. Carter said, smiling. “And what a wonderful little investment you turned out to be! If the city doesn’t suit you, Margie, you come right back here, and I’ll hire you again in a second, eh?”

  Margie blushed at the attention. Everyone seemed to be both surprised and saddened by the news that she was leaving. It made her happy that so many of them would miss her, but also sad that she would also miss so many of them. Somehow, in the last week and a half, she had become part of the culture here. How had that happened so quickly?

  Her eyes traveled over the table, staring through the objects they found there, most of them barely registering. Pierre fidgeting nervously with his too big waiter’s gloves. Marc’s huge hands wrapped around his wine glass. There was a tiny, pink stain in the white tablecloth that no one had yet been able to get out. Her eyes stung a little as they passed over the familiar table settings, her ears over the familiar sounds of her friends, and her nose scenting the now-familiar smell of French cooking. All of it was amazing. She would never forget this place.

  Camelia reached out and touched her hand, holding her glass up to Margie’s in a toast. “To Margie in the big city!”

  “To Margie in the big city!” Everyone cried in unison, and Margie blushed harder. They all raised their glasses and drank deeply. Margie flustered under all of the attention, kept her eyes down.

  Pierre continued to fidget with his gloves. Margie stared at his hands as he slid them in and out of the too big gloves, his small hands nearly lost in the fabric. They might have been too big for Pierre’s small, nervous hands, but they would have been the right size for Jacob’s.

  The right size for Jacob’s hands.

  Pierre’s had been the nervous hands that cleaned the bar over and over again that night Mr. McCarthy had died. Pierre’s hands were the ones who had been without gloves that whole evening, rubbing his hands together until she thought his skin might fall off. Pierre was the one to bring water back and forth from the kitchen for everyone, even though there was a working sink behind the bar where he had been standing.

  Pierre. Pierre. Pierre.

  Chapter 21

  Margie stood up after a few moments, trying not to look nervous. “Well, thank you very much for the wine, Mr. Carter, and the work. I can’t thank you enough for everything you all have done.” She glanced around the table, not having to feign the tears that touched the edges of her eyes. “I’ll come back in the morning to clear up any last bits of business; I need my beauty sleep to make sure I can get a bright and early start to the city.”

  Everyone wanted to shake her hand; it took a good twenty minutes before she was able to leave. Camelia, after a few curious glances, went along with Margie’s insistence on leaving.

  Margie’s whole body shook when she took Pierre’s hand; she prayed he didn’t notice how fake her smile was. Hopefully, he would mistake her nervousness for something else entirely. She was pretty sure she was sweating through her uniform. Pierre was staring at her, as though he could read her thoughts. His black, beady eyes narrowed and Margie glanced down at her shoes and blushed. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, trying to sound as awkward as possible. She held onto his gloved hand for as long as he let her, then blushed even harder when he took it back.

  Hopefully, he fell for her act.

  Still blushing, Margie and Camelia waved goodbye to the crew, leaving them behind to clean up the mess. Hooking arms with Camelia, she tried to keep her gait slow and natural and tried to keep her smile in place until they were out of sight of the restaurant windows. Camelia, seemingly able to read her thoughts, smiled and waved back into the restaurant at whoever was there, a smile on her pretty face.

  The air was delightfully chilly outside; it cooled some of her nervousness. Being away from the restaurant, Margie was finally able to catch her breath. Ice formed along each and every one of her veins, burning its way to her heart, which felt like it could shudder to a halt at any moment.

  Once they out of easy sight of the front door, Camelia yanked Margie’s arm, pulling her close enough to whisper to her. “What happened?”

  “Keep walking naturally, Camelia. Keep your feet slow.” Margie had to fight not to turn her head and look behind her. “They got the wrong guy. It wasn’t Jacob,” she whispered, her voice wobbling. “It was Pierre.”

  “The gloves-” Slowly, as if coming to the same conclusions Margie had, every muscle in Camelia’s body slowly tensed until she was gripping Margie’s arm so hard, she started to lose feeling in her hand. “What do we do?” She whispered, also seemingly fighting the urge to look around. “If it wasn’t Jacob, why did he come after you with a knife?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure he did come after me with a knife, Camelia.” Margie looked around frantically for somewhere with a phone she could use. She had to call Ray. He could get down here and sort the whole thing out. But most of the little shops along the main road were closed for the night; nothing except the occasional restaurant stayed open longer than 8 PM. “That knife you were carrying around with you, in your uniform.”

  “It disappeared.” Camelia cursed violently under her breath. “I didn’t think a second about it after I put it on under my skirt. It must have fallen out-”

  “Where Jacob would have picked it up, noticed it didn’t match with the expensive knives of the store, and would have tried to ask someone about it. Like me.”

  Camelia and Margie continued down the street at a slow pace, trying to keep their hearts from pounding right out of their chests. “We’ll head for that little convenience store with the payphone and call Ray. He’ll know what to do.”

  Camelia nodded, her emerald eyes too wide and dark in the low lighting. It was only a four blocks away. It felt like it took an hour to get through each block, every dark corner or alleyway seemed like a hiding place for something nefarious. Even though since coming to Bristol, Margie had been a witness to murder, assaulted in the street and had even found out a drug dealer, never before had she ever felt so unsafe in her life.

  It was thrilling.

  They
turned into the parking lot, making a B-line for the payphone. The store was still slightly lit, even though they were closed for the evening, a small convenience for pay phone customers late at night. The parking lot looked like a pit of snakes in the chilly darkness. Every shadow was a murderer; every movement was a hand with a knife. Margie fumbled in her pockets for a nickel, dropping it on the asphalt and having to bend to pick it up. She managed to get her shivering fingers to put the coin into the slot after two tries. By this time, she’d memorized Ray’s number, and typed it in slowly. She was pretty sure she didn’t have another nickel.

  An unfamiliar voice picked up. “Officer Brighton’s desk.” Whoever it was had a thick, city accent. He sounded bored.

  Of course, Ray wouldn’t still be there; it was after midnight. Margie pressed her forehead against the dirty box around the payphone. “Hi, this is Margie; he’s been handling a case about a murder.”