“Not even BINGO?” I questioned.
“Oh, there’s no BINGO on Mondays, so I just piddle around the house.”
“It could be worse,” I said. You could have an article to write about a man you hardly knew. “I hope your knees feel better.”
“Thank you, dear.” She waved goodbye as I started across the street.
My usual route took me toward Main Street, past Broad Street and the railroad tracks to where I helped solved a real murder mystery—the murder of Jessica Hayes by their food delivery driver. Ronnie had been skimming from his uncle’s business, overcharging Miller and Jessica, the owners of The Southern Depot restaurant. When Jessica had figured it out, he had taken her life. And he had almost gotten away with it.
Things were different with George’s death. At least I hoped they were. But curiosity was getting the better of me. And then there was this article to write. How could I write it without doing my homework? Somewhere in the middle of the run I decided my next move. It wasn’t going back home to stare at a blank document with a spiteful blinking cursor. No, I needed to find out more about George before his death. And the best place to find those answers was at Bentley’s Estate.
There was a stitch in my side by the time I made it to the porch steps outside my house. I’d picked up the pace in anticipation of heading to Bentley’s as soon as I got home. No shower. No change of clothes. The sweat turned to salt on my forehead.
The drive felt like it took forever compared to when Marcus drove us the other night. And the wrought iron gate at the front was open, so I drove on in and parked in the gravel lot.
There was no police presence, no crime tape, or anything to indicate what had happened only two nights before. But in the light of day, there was also nothing warding me away. It looked like the stately wedding venue it had always been. The type of venue I’d always wanted as a girl dreaming of herself in a white dress.
Despite its appearance, I began to doubt this decision of mine. Should I even be here? Who or what am I expecting to find?
There were three other vehicles parked in the lot with mine. One was an upscale SUV, one that I knew well. It belonged to Mara Murdock. I still had questions about her email. Mara always liked to play the part of Southern belle. But it was her lawyer husband who paid for her toys. Her role at the estate—so my mother gossiped—was so she had an outlet to boss people around from time to time—even brides on their wedding days might meet with Mara’s wrath.
The other two vehicles were a rundown old green truck and a beat-up Civic, built at least a decade before my own.
I took a few deep breaths as I walked up to the porch. Even in the dead of winter, the house, the land, it was a gorgeous setting. It was hard for me to come to grips with the fact that a murder had taken place here a few days prior.
The front door was unlocked. I knocked on it politely, anyway, sticking my head inside, but no one near enough to the door to hear me. I wondered if maybe they were prepping for a wedding or a rehearsal dinner. Not a soul was in the front two rooms. I hesitantly made my way toward the ballroom. And just outside it, I picked up the sound of voices, but not from the ballroom. They were from a room just past it. The photo booth had blocked this area from view the night of the party. This had to be Mara’s office.
Whether it was the hushed tone of their voices or just the idea of being back where it had all happened, something sent a shiver down my back. The hair on my arms stood on end.
“I guess I am a bit relieved we don't have to deal with him anymore,” Mara said casually.
“Yeah, me too,” a man said. I recognized the voice but couldn’t place it. “Ever since he got this Murder Mystery idea in his head, it was all he ever wanted to talk about.”
“Well, it was a good idea, I’ll admit,” Mara countered. “But he had no clue what he was doing. It was me who took the ideas and put them into action. Appeasing George was more trouble than it was worth. I told him to just trust me. But he had to have his fingers into everything. Poor George. It was that more than anything that got him killed, I’m sure of it.”
“What’d’ya mean?” the man asked.
“I mean he probably pissed off the wrong person.”
“They’re sayin’ it’s his son.”
“Are they?” Mara inquired. “That’s—”
I stepped closer to the door. In doing so, I’d bumped into a table. A vase went tumbling. Luckily, I was able to capture it with two hands before it fell over. Still, the water at the bottom sloshed around, adding to the other noises I’d just made.
“What was that?” Mara asked. The door opened to answer her question. I knew I knew that voice. It was Johnny, the bartender.
“Can I help you?” His eyebrows raised in my direction.
“Who is it?” Mara could see me before Johnny could answer. Not that Johnny would know me from anyone, we’d only met at the party. “Oh, Allison. What are you doing here? I assume you got my email?”
“I did.” I fumbled, setting the vase where I’d found it. “I thought I’d come by and ask a few follow-up questions. I hope that’s all right.”
Mara acted a little put out.
“Sure. It’s fine. I’d prefer you email or call beforehand. I have an appointment in about ten minutes. There’s a wedding here this weekend. So, you have me until then.”
Mara gave Johnny a look he seemed to recognize. He slipped out of the office without another word. She sat down behind her desk. Like her, it was in order, clean, with only a small desktop and keyboard set out in-front of her.
I took a seat across from her—the one where Johnny had just been. The cushion was still warm.
“Well, ask away. You’re down to eight minutes.”
“Right,” I nodded. What did I want to ask her? “So, how long did you know George?”
“Eight years,” Mara said flatly. “He hired me just after he poured his money into this place. My husband, of course, knew him before then. They were golfing buddies.”
“I didn’t realize George played golf.”
“Played isn’t the right word. Doug says George hacked at the ball. His true passion was running, which I’m sure you knew.”
“I did,” I nodded.
“What happens to Bentley’s now that George is dead?” I asked her.
“That sort of depends on a lot of things,” Mara said. “Right now, it’s business as usual. My stake in the company is around forty percent. So, there’s a chance I might be able to buy the rest of the stock from Blake, George’s son.”
“Forty percent?”
Mara smiled curtly. It was almost like she had wanted me to ask her about the co-ownership. “Yes. See, there were some lean years. When the economy took a downswing, there were less weddings, less retirement parties. We really struggled. I offered my services for no salary in exchange for a stake in the company. George’s company owns the estate. It’s all a bit complicated, you understand?”
I nodded, understanding enough. I wondered what would happen to Blake’s share of his father’s company if he was found guilty. Would the estate go to Mara? Would it be that easy? Something about her words and her demeanor didn’t sit right. Mara had said George had pissed off the wrong person. Was that person her?
“And that is time.” Mara pointed to the clock that hung on her office wall.
“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said quickly.
“Next time, make an appointment.”
She showed me to the door where sure enough, two women were waiting by the door.
“Allie?” the older of the two asked.
I recognized her at once. The college-aged girl at her side, less so. “Mrs. Crawford,” I said, smiling. “This can’t be—”
“Hey, Allie.” Gracie smiled shyly and gave me a hug. The Crawfords had lived next door to my mom. I’d babysat Gracie, ten years my junior, when I was in high school. Seeing her now, so grown up and beautiful with her auburn hair in loose curls, made my head spin.
&nb
sp; “I hope you don’t mind we sent your invitation to your mother’s address. I think we got her RSVP. You are coming, right? We already have a list of five or six who’ve backed out.”
“Mom,” Gracie protested. She could see the impatience in Mara’s eyes the same as I could do.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I told them. “See you then.”
I got to my car wondering if Mom had told me about the wedding. Or if this was one of those spur of the moment “oh, Allie, you aren’t busy anyway” type of events that she liked to sign me up to attend. Racking my memory for any such conversation, I figured out which it was. Sometimes my mother did make me want to kill her. But I was still left questioning, had Blake’s father really forced him down that path?
13
I returned home with every intention of writing the piece about George. After all, I’d fed my curiosity. The problem though—I hadn’t fed my stomach.
Since I’d promised a few cold weather classics to my devoted Foodie File fans, I thought it best to use this time for work instead of making a sad sandwich.
Today’s dish was the all-time winner of winter cuisine: chili with cornbread. Before I could really get started, I needed the ingredients mise en place. I began prepping the vegetables, setting the cans of beans, tomatoes, and Rotel out on display. I had to photograph every step of the process. Well, every step except the ten minutes I spent hand cranking each can open. Electric can openers are just an eye-sore in the back of photos. I’d gotten rid of mine a year before after many a photobomb.
The cornbread was simple. Sometimes, I’d make it from scratch, but today I wanted things done fast. So, it was a box of Jiffy to the rescue. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t lowering my standards that badly. Jiffy is a convenient way to get the dry ingredients necessary. I added some sour cream and cream corn to the mix, which makes the normally dry cornbread a velvety and sweet delicacy.
The cornbread finished a few minutes early. The chili still simmered on the stove. I ate a few slices, waiting for the real deal.
While I rested idly with my back on the counter, my eyes found the crime board. I studied it like a high schooler might study for an exam. Then I added the information about Mara and moved Blake to the top suspect—just as I’d learned the police had done.
I heard footsteps on the porch and the screen door creak open.
Knock. Knock.
“Just use your key!” I called to the one-and-only person I knew would show up unannounced this early in the afternoon. I had just enough time to hide the board as my mother fiddled with her keys.
She shuffled inside, slid off her shoes, and scowled at me. “One day I hope it’s a man out there—one without a key.”
“You’re hoping I get burglarized?”
“No. I’m hoping you get a date!”
“Then you’re in luck,” I told her. “I have a date, tomorrow night, as a matter of fact.”
“Really?” she said, gushing. “Who’s this fellow, and why haven’t I met him?”
“His name is Luke. He’s a pharmaceutical sales rep. And you haven’t met him because this will only be our second date.”
“I like the name Luke,” Mom said. “It’s biblical. You should invite him over to Sunday supper.”
“Second date,” I said again, rolling my eyes. “I’m not inviting him to meet the whole family until I’m good and ready.” A few years sounded about the right amount of time.
“Jack’s been coming with Melanie since around their second or third date. We haven’t scared him away yet.”
“With comments like the one you made last week, you’re bound to,” I told her.
“Hogswallop. He knows it’s come time to put a ring on that finger. A little light ribbing will do them both some good.”
“And that’s the reason you’re not going to meet Luke.”
“Oh, Allie.” Mom made her way to the kitchen. She peeked into the large pot on the stove and stirred it around. “It smells like you didn’t use enough cumin.”
“I used the perfect amount of cumin. That’s an overpowering flavor. Taste it if you don’t believe me.”
Mom didn’t taste it with the spoon, but instead, she dipped herself a bowl. Then she cut a thin slice of cornbread.
“Do you want cheese or sour cream?” I asked her, opening the fridge.
“Only cheese. I’m trying to watch my girlish figure.”
I laughed. Like me and my grandmother, my mom was graced with bird-like legs and thin arms. I was pretty sure the numbers on her scale hadn’t changed in at least twenty years, from right around the time my father left us.
She took a seat on a stool at the butcher block counter.
“Well, how’s work going today?” she asked.
“You’re looking at it,” I said, but my heart skipped a beat. I checked the time. “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I still have an article to write.”
When it became apparent the piece on George just wasn’t going to get done on time, I called Kinsey at the Gazette. Like always, she was understanding. She told me there were some other things they could run with, but that I had to have something for the Wednesday paper, which I assured her I would.
With the extension, I did feel tempted to call it quits for the night. But I continued to trudge on anyway, pecking away at the keyboard late into the night. With tired eyes but a wound-up brain, I called Mister Netflix, and he rushed right over.
The next morning, I was greeted with a puddle of drool on my pillow and the black screen of a dead laptop. I went to the living room to plug in the computer, flipped on the TV, and was greeted with the sound of Kate’s voice.
I listened as I brewed a full pot of coffee. After all, today was a writing day. Not only did I have to finish the piece about George, but I also had to write up the chili post for The Foodie Files.
This morning, Kate was in the studio. She sat to the side of the two morning anchors before the camera panned over, and she took over the screen. On a good day, there was no way I could ever manage to look as gorgeous as Kate, but sometimes what she was able to accomplish so early in the morning turned my envy to full-on resentment. Today was one of those days. Her straight blonde hair was parted crisply to the left. Her makeup highlighted the natural blush of her upper cheeks. It wasn’t globbed on like the female news anchor. Her pale eyes looked directly into the camera.
“Thanks, Toni,” Kate said. “I have more news this morning on the murder of George Wilson in Lanai. The coroner’s office has released a preliminary toxicology report. It states that Mr. Wilson died of nicotine poisoning.
“Of course, most of us are aware of the harmful effects of tobacco and nicotine over the course of years, but our viewers might not know that when ingested or even touched, nicotine can act quickly.”
“I’ve heard of similar stories.” They cut to Jim and Toni, the anchors, who shook their heads grimly.
“What makes this case different?” Jim asked.
“Most deaths involving nicotine are accidental,” Kate said. “The police don’t believe that’s the case this time. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Wilson’s son, Blake, was served a warrant. His apartment and car were searched, and then Blake was taken into custody. That’s all the news we have at this time.”
In the background, while Kate spoke, they showed Javier and a crime scene unit inspecting the same old black Honda civic I’d seen at Bentley’s Estate.
I wondered if they found anything inside it. They’d had to have found something on Blake, otherwise, why would they take him into custody?
I texted Kate to ask her if she knew anything more—anything she couldn’t tell the public at large. She replied thirty minutes later.
They found a bottle of orange flavored nicotine. Ya know, the kind used for vaping?… Well, Blake doesn’t smoke or vape…
14
By five o’clock, I’d managed to write almost a thousand words in total. I was just getting ready to hit send on an email to Kinsey when her face appeared o
n the screen of my phone. Her assigned ringtone, Money by Pink Floyd, ka-chinged twice before I answered.
“Kinsey. Hey. I was just about to email you the article.” I was afraid she may’ve worked herself into a tizzy wondering if I’d make her deadline.
“Allie, you answered,” she said, surprised. “I was just calling to tell you not to worry about the article. I’m extending your deadline. The thing is, I’ll need another five or six hundred more words. Get some quotes from his friends or relatives, if you can. We’re going to run a report on the murder investigation tomorrow. I just had a chat with your friend Kate. I got all the scoop.”
“But she reported that this morning,” I said. “Won’t that be old news?”
“It’s a developing story. Plus, she told me what they found in Blake Wilson’s car. Tomorrow’s paper is going to fly off the rack!”
“That’s good.” I was getting a little flustered. I wanted to hit send and start getting ready for my date. Luke had texted earlier that he might be running late. He wanted to meet at Piggies. Having spent the entirety of the day in my pajamas without showering, this conversation needed to end soon to ensure I didn’t show up there smelling like a pig.
“I’ll let you go,” Kinsey said. “Just make sure you have the finished piece to me by Friday evening at the latest. Kisses.”
“Buh-bye.” Kinsey’s usual unusual farewell always sent a shiver down my back.
Thirty minutes later, I was rushing out of the house with my hair still wet and my makeup applied about as well as Toni, the morning news anchor. I stepped on the gas, skidding to a halt in the dirt lot outside Piggies only ten minutes late.
Being late was one of those things that made my skin crawl. I tried not to make a habit of it. The saying “If you’re on time you’re late” was something so engrained into me by my mother that a part of me wanted to cancel on those grounds alone. I didn’t want to give Luke that impression of me.
So, I rushed inside the dilapidated pink shack that was Piggies. It was the type of place that only passed a health inspection by knowing the inspector was coming weeks ahead of time. They were probably tipped off by the man himself, Albert Grundy, who I knew ate at Piggies on a weekly basis. It didn’t hurt that they’d catered both of his daughters’ weddings.
A Choice Cocktail of Death (A Foodie Files Mystery Book 2) Page 6