Foodie Files Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Christine Zane Thomas

  Now, I just needed more information to put in the piece about George’s death—without bringing up the mystery party. I knew at least one person that was good at digging up info.

  I hadn’t heard from Kate since her texts from this morning. She’d complained that she was reporting from the bitter cold outside Bentley’s while I was still sleeping. Even though her job was tough, I knew she loved it. I sent her a friendly text.

  Hey! Can we meet tomorrow for coffee?

  Dots showing that she was typing appeared on my screen.

  Sounds good. You know your “friend” has been on the early shift? Is 7:45 too early for Sleeping Beauty?

  I like where your head’s at… No, Sleeping Beauty got enough sleep last night. I’ll see ya at 7:45.

  I did a few searches for more details of George’s life. Then I typed what I could about the circumstances surrounding his death. It wasn’t much. By the time I looked at the clock, I found I’d been typing around ten words per hour.

  Exhausted, I put everything away, and turned on Mister Netflix. Settling into bed, I turned on a movie I knew by heart.

  Some nights I counted sheep. Other nights I counted blessings. Tonight, I counted the poisons that may’ve killed George Wilson.

  11

  The crisp cool weather made it the perfect morning for staying cuddled up in bed. So, I cursed myself for agreeing to meet Kate so early—even the potential of bumping into Javier couldn’t beat the warm comfort of a king-sized bed with heavy blankets and lots of pillows.

  But thinking of the blue-eyed detective somehow roused me enough to tiptoe to the bathroom and apply a bit of makeup. Then I bundled up in a long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan. I wrapped a scarf around my neck—the proper way—and donned my favorite navy blue peacoat. The matching beanie atop my head was as much as I was willing to do with my hair at this ungodly hour.

  Clear blue skies and the morning temperature hovering around freezing might make Lanai seem picturesque for those that experience real winter cold. But to me and my gooseflesh, it was cold enough.

  “Allie?” Gertie, the barista, gave me a quizzical look and checked her watch. She smiled in relief. “I thought the day had gotten away from me. I’m guessing the usual at this unusual hour?”

  “And Kate’s usual,” I told her. Then I situated myself at a table near the counter with a good view of the door. While I waited, I played the social media game on my phone—the one where I picked and chose whose posts to like or comment on. Most of my likes were sprinkled upon my Avocado Post gals, the small group of bloggers I teamed up with for weekly posts and social media boosts.

  The bell jingled. It wasn’t Kate.

  Javier stifled a yawn with his fist as he entered the warm shop. He didn’t know he was invited to this coffee meet up, and he didn’t seem to notice me as he ordered with his back to me, chatting with Gertie about the beautiful weather.

  I tried to look as casual as was possible as he backed toward me, his coffee in hand. I was going to offer him a seat… If he’d just look my way. But he refused. I thought for sure he was leaving when he backed his way awkwardly into the seat across from me.

  “A bit early for you, isn’t it?” he said coolly, smiling pearly white teeth my way.

  “I have a date.” The words escaped my mouth without my brain filtering.

  “Oh… really?” Javier stood up as quickly as his brief smile faltered.

  “It’s just with Kate.” I put my hand up and gestured for him to sit down again.

  “Oh, okay.” He fidgeted back into the seat. “I just—I just know you have a boyfriend now…”

  “No, not a boyfriend. It was our first date the other night.”

  “And another tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah.” I sipped my macchiato. This conversation wasn’t going very well. Our easy banter had disappeared as if it never existed at all.

  The bell jingled again. Thankfully, this time it was Kate. I lifted up her coffee, signaling for her not to order.

  “This was a trap all along, wasn’t it?” Javier said, chuckling. Kate slid into the chair beside him, literally pinning him between herself and the wall.

  “You’re caught in a trap.” Kate sneered in a mock-Elvis impersonation. “And while you’re so conveniently stuck here, Detective Portillo, I have a few questions.”

  “You can ask,” he chided. “But as always, I might not be able to answer everything you throw at me.”

  “The investigation into George Wilson’s death is now a murder investigation, correct?” Kate asked the obvious question.

  “Yes, it is. But I think you two already knew that much.”

  “I just wanted to be sure. I mean, he could’ve been poisoned accidentally, right?”

  “Right,” Javier said slowly. “But he wasn’t.”

  “True or false,” Kate posed. “The remnants of George Wilson’s cocktail glass are under examination.”

  “True. But next time let’s play truth or dare. I’ve only got time for one more question. I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon.”

  “All right. Do you have a suspect?”

  “We have a person of interest, yes.”

  “Is it someone from our list?”

  “That’s cheating, Miss McAllister. But yes, he’s on the list.”

  “He?” Both of us perked up. My mind went to Suzi. Had she been cleared?

  “I’ve already said too much.” Javier scooted his chair back. Kate made no effort of getting out of his way, so he squeezed himself between Kate and the table. I was only a little jealous of her view.

  “It was nice seeing both of you,” Javier said. “And Allie, good luck on your date tomorrow. Luke’s a lucky guy.” He winked and was gone.

  “Wait… You told him about your date?”

  “He overheard Luke asking.”

  “Ah, that’s interesting. He seems to have taken it well.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I think he likes you,” Kate said, giving me her own flirtatious wink. “By the way, Luke was wondering where to take you. I suggested Sadie’s, but he says he doesn’t do seafood.”

  “They have more than—”

  “I know,” she said reassuringly, “but I told him he can’t go wrong with Piggies.”

  “Oh gosh,” I said smiling. “I guess I can’t wear white.” I’d never been to Piggies without coming back home with a barbecue stain.

  “You shouldn’t wear white anyway.”

  I took a sip of coffee. It was already cold. I’d need a refill for the road. “So, if the suspect is a man, then Suzi—do you think she’s in the clear?”

  Kate shrugged. “Maybe not the clear, but I think they’re looking pretty hard at George’s son Blake.”

  “Blake?” I asked. “How do you know it’s Blake?”

  She showed me the screen of her phone where a text read that a judge had just signed a search warrant for Blake Wilson’s apartment and car.

  “I also know the preliminary toxicology report should be released tomorrow morning,” Kate said. “At that point, we will all know what poison was used to kill him.”

  I was usually happy to have answers. But this case confused me. Why would Blake want to kill his dad? His motive was as much a mystery to me as my next question: When did he have the opportunity to commit the crime?

  12

  With the caffeine and sugar flowing through my veins and the sun high over head, I was ready to attack the day. I opened and shut my laptop. The blinking cursor was still taunting me. I opted for a nice long run to clear my head. Then I could get down to business and write the piece about George.

  A ratty old long-sleeve shirt and leggings were just warm enough to get me out in the front yard and stretch. My neighbor, Jeanie, was out on her front porch, sipping coffee with an afghan wrapped around her legs.

  “Mornin’,” I called to her, waving. I crouched into a squat and stretched my hamstrings deeply.

  “Good
morning, Allie, dear. I hope you do enough laps for the both of us. My old knees aren’t feeling up to much today.”

  “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 sch
ool. Seeing her now, so grown up and beautiful with her auburn hair in loose curls, made my head spin.

  “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.