“Yeah… Then, when the lady and her husband went running out of the shop in search for a bathroom, Clara called the cops on them for not paying their bill.”
“She didn’t!” I was aghast.
“She did! And, when Terrance at the Saucy Dog hired one of her waitresses away, Clara went in there in the middle of the lunch crowd and claimed that she’d gotten food poisoning from his food. Said she’d been in the hospital for a week from it and was going to sue him if he didn’t pay the medical bill.”
“Um, did she get food poisoning from him?” I knew it was silly to ask, but I didn’t know what had happened and needed to be sure. I wanted to know just how vile and devious a person Clara was.
“No, she didn’t get food poisoning from him. I don’t think she’d ever eaten there in her life. But she didn’t care. She ruined his business for that day and then told him that if he ever stole another one of her waitresses again, she’d make sure the place went out of business.”
“So, Clara’s kind of big on revenge.” I shot Zoey a look. It didn’t go unnoticed by Susie. She gasped.
“Yes! Yes, that’s right! She does like revenge! Maybe she killed him!”
Zoey cracked her knuckles. “Know of anything she had against him?”
Susie’s eyes got big and round, and she started wagging her finger at the adjoining wall between her shop and Clara’s. “Yes, I do. Her body.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Had we stumbled onto figuring out who Mike had been seeing when he died?
“I think that they had an affair.”
“Oh…” Susie’s “I think” kind of ruined the moment for me. “But you don’t know?”
“Well, no… But, I’ve heard rumors. And I’ve been over there when Mr. Pratt was there. She’d coo at him.”
“Coo at him?”
“Yeah, she’d make like he was some sweet little boy or something. She’d pinch his cheeks and talk all sweet to him. She’d stand up close to him, loop her arm through his, and press herself against him. I saw him blush once!”
“Wow…” That information certainly did put a new spin on things. “Has she ever bragged about having an affair with him or did you ever hear about them going out together?”
“Nooo,” Susie said, losing some of her enthusiasm for her argument.
That’s when a thought occurred to me. Clara was a beautiful woman. She had an elegant charm about her that I wasn’t sure she could turn off if she wanted to. I imagined that if she was standing alone in a corner at some party, the party would eventually congregate to her. She had a vivacious magnetism.
As for Susie, she was no slouch. She’d been head cheerleader and the “it” girl in high school. Even now in her late thirties, she would have been able to hold her head up with pride even when wearing a string bikini while standing next to a high school gymnast. She was gorgeous.
“Do you know if Clara ever had any contract issues with her rent?”
Susie’s face scrunched up in thought. “When I started to get concerned about my situation, I tried to ask Clara about her contract, but I didn’t want to be too obvious about it. I don’t trust Clara. She makes me think that if she had something to use against me, something that made me vulnerable, that she would. So, I didn’t want her to know what Mr. Pratt was doing to me by drastically increasing my rent. But I talked to her, tried to feel her out. Asked her if Mr. Pratt had ever acted like a bully to her.”
“What’d she say?” I asked.
“She just laughed, said that Mr. Pratt—she called him Mike—was a big pushover and that you just had to know how to handle him.” She shook her head. “I walked away from that conversation with the impression that he hadn’t jacked her rent up, and I know that her business is doing well. I mean, that’s what he did to me. My business started doing well—had been doing well—and he increased my rent by almost three hundred percent.”
I latched on to what she’d said about how her business was doing. I’d guessed that she hadn’t had much business when Zoey and I walked in, but I wanted to hear it from her. “Things aren’t going well now?” I asked.
Susie shook her head. Scowling, she said, “No.” Then her eyes cut to her front windows to stare across the street. “Betty’s telling everyone not to trust me. It’s nothing new, not exactly, but since Mr. Pratt… well, it’s gotten worse.”
“How so?” Zoey asked.
“Used to be she told people that I’d burn up their hair and make it brittle from my perms. Told people I’d botch the color job. I’d heard she was even telling people that I’d given people bald spots.” She looked at me. “That’s why I did that ad campaign using real customers. I’d wanted people to see what I could do and to know that they could trust me. I figured that my work would speak louder than Betty’s lies.”
It had only been a couple of weeks since I’d sat in Susie’s salon chair for a free cut and highlight in exchange for her taking before and after pictures of me to use on her Facebook page. And she had a twelve-by-nine poster board of the results sitting in her shop window, right next to several other posters. I assumed that the other posters were of other local townsfolk, the same as me.
“And your business was growing before… but now it’s not?” I asked.
“It’s gone dead,” Susie said and then grimaced, presumably at her choice of words.
“So what’s changed?”
“Mr. Pratt’s dead and Betty’s telling everyone I did it, at least I think that’s what’s happening. Clara jumping on that bandwagon sure doesn’t help. She really told you that I killed him?”
“With absolute certainty,” Zoey answered.
Behind us, Susie’s shop door opened.
“Come on in!” Susie said with an eager excitement. “I’ve just had a time slot open up and I can take care of you right now.”
I turned around to see a mother with her pre-teen daughter. The daughter had curly red hair that had yet to be tamed. I felt her pain, given my own red locks. My hair wasn’t nearly as curly as the little girl’s, but it had still taken me years to figure out how to make it look its best.
Zoey and I made a quiet exit and left Susie to fawn over her new customers.
Back in the car, Zoey asked, “You need to get back for the dinner rush?”
“I do, but let’s go by Mike’s place first.”
“We breaking in? I want to wait until nightfall if we’re breaking in.”
“Nooo, no. This is something much more important than Mike’s place. I want to swing by the park next door to Mike’s. I want to know who made those cookies!”
Chapter 19
Finding my homeless sleepover crew was a bust. By the time I got back to the café, I’d been to three different parks, two homeless shelters, five churches, and had been yelled at by a man because I hadn’t wanted to buy his used sneakers, covered in what I really, really hoped was paint. But walking back into the café reminded me that the effort had been worth it even if it hadn’t panned out. The place smelled of vanilla, peanut butter, and sugar, and I stopped and stared at all the customers I had. I was sure that the turnout was because of the cookies. There were as many people in my café as there had been at Clara’s coffee shop. Of course, my café was way, way bigger, but still. I had more customers than her!
My head filled with a sing-song nanny-nanny-boo-boo, and I had to remind myself that I was no longer five years old. But having so many customers was amazing to see. There were a whole sixteen of them! Yet the sight instantly filled me with guilt. I was the chef, and I’d been gone for well over two and a half hours.
Melanie was rushing by, and I quickly beckoned her over. “What’s everyone been eating?” I asked.
“The cookies. They’re loving them! I’ve been baking small batches ever since I got in, and they’ve been selling just as fast as I bake them.”
I had to find out who made them!
“Great job!” I told Melanie. “You keep doing what you’ve been doing, and I�
��ll get some food started.”
I rushed into the kitchen. I grabbed one of the casserole trays of stuffed pasta shells, took off the cellophane, and popped it into the oven. Then, after checking my notes that Brenda had given me about how to fix them, I took the tray back out and pre-heated the oven. Then I put in the tray!
It was going to be a while, though. I had sixteen paying customers in my café—and it wasn’t even lunch! In fact, it wasn’t even quite full-fledged dinner. It was more pre-dinner. Yet they were here, drinking my coffee… and eating somebody else’s cookies.
If I ran out of that cookie dough, people were going to ask for more cookies and I wasn’t going to have any for them. It was a thought that made my heart race in my chest. I had to find out how to make those cookies! My life as I knew it would end and the café would go under if I didn’t!
“Plan B,” I said and forced myself to take a deep, calming breath. “Buy more cookies from the store.” Who was I kidding? My customers would revolt. They’d carry pitchforks and light torches. I’d be run out of town! Disgraced. All because of a freaking cookie.
I was starting to hate those cookies.
Pushing all cookie thoughts out of my head, I waved Melanie over to the kitchen.
“Let all of the customers know that an entree of steak salad is now available at an Oops Board discount and that stuffed shells will be available in an hour, at full price.”
She nodded and was off, and I added the steak salad to the Oops board and the stuffed shells to the regular menu board. This was a rare night indeed. Tonight’s customers would actually have a choice between entrees.
Back in the kitchen, I was a flurry of activity and was able to fill six orders for steak salad a half an hour later.
Outside in the café, I heard the sound of a jet taking off. It was the forced air heater. Somebody was messing with it and it didn’t need to be messed with. Out front, the temperature was cool but comfortable, and back in the kitchen, I was having to wipe perspiration off my forehead.
I hurried out the kitchen door to chase off whatever hooligan thought it was time to have some fun but stopped in my tracks. Joel was squatting next to the contraption, playing with it, but as soon as he saw me, he turned it off.
“Hi!” I said, heading over to him. “Thank you so much for arranging this.”
“It’s done okay for you?”
“It’s done great. Amazing, actually. I’m pretty sure that this place would be empty right now without this thing.” Even with the siren call of magic cookies. “Is your friend needing it back yet?”
“No, he said keep it as long as you need. Hey, while I’ve got you with, um, nobody else around”—I was sure he was referring to Brad—“I wanted to ask you about that date we never got to have. How ‘bout you let me take you out Tuesday night?”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but Susie’s image flashed in my mind. I hesitated, and Joel saw the hesitation. His smile faltered.
“Unless you don’t want to,” he said.
“I want to!” Okay, I said that waaayyyy too eagerly. I made myself pause a beat to regain some composure. “It’s just that—”
“You’re investigating Mike Pratt’s murder, aren’t you?” He dipped his chin, and I saw the twinkle in his eye. “You found anything out? Able to give a guy an exclusive news scoop?”
This time I thought of Brad and how furious he’d be if I did find new evidence but then leaked the existence of that evidence to the press instead of giving the information exclusively to him. It was the type of thing that could really mess up his investigation.
I decided to sidestep the question. “About that date, next Sunday night, a week from now?”
Joel did a slow nod of his head. “So… by that timeline, you believe that you will have the murder solved by the end of the week?”
I opened my mouth and squeaked before I managed to regain control of my voice. “That’s not what I said.”
Joel’s smile grew big. “Sure it is. It’s just not the words you used.”
That sneaky ba—
“Hey, Joel!” a man’s voice called as he walked in the café’s front door along with what looked like ten other people. “We’re here.”
“Hey!” Joel waved. “I’ll be right there.” He turned back to me. “Employee monthly meeting. Decided to have it here tonight. Bring in some extra business for you.”
I leaned to the side to see past Joel in order to do a head count. Twelve people! With Joel, that would make thirteen. On one hand, the café was set to turn the biggest profit it had ever made since I’d taken over. On the other hand, Joel had sprung on me the task of serving dinner to thirteen customers all at once! I could handle thirteen customers… if each came in half an hour apart, maybe!
What had the man done to me?
Whatever he’d done, he didn’t seem to notice. I got a shoulder squeeze from him and then off he went to join his colleagues.
I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry, but neither one would feed these people. On top of that, we hadn’t finalized our date plans. Were we on or not?
I hurried into the kitchen and got to work prepping the ingredients for the steak salad, a simple tossed salad to go with the pasta shells, and I called Melanie into the kitchen to cook up a fresh batch of cookies. When Melanie got done, she left but then stuck her head back in.
“You’ve got a customer at the grill’s bar. It’s one of your regulars. Want me to get them?”
My mind raced through the possible list. Joel was already here. Zoey was doing Zoey stuff. Brad was more of a morning guy. That left Angela and Jack.
“No, I’ve got them. Thanks, Melanie.” I headed out to the grill and there found a stoic-as-ever Jack. Behind him, the café was teeming with life, and there was a soft murmur of voices that I was unused to hearing. The place was usually so quiet.
“Hi, Jack!” I said, abandoning the kitchen. The various ingredients were prepped, and all that was left was to assemble the entrees as the orders came in.
“Hi yourself,” Jack said. He glanced behind himself and then turned back around to look at me. “I see you’re well.”
“In more ways than one.” I could feel myself beaming like a proud mama. My baby—the café—was doing great.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, glancing around us. Nobody else was around. This was my chance. I could be bold. I could finally ask the question that had been burning a hole in my mind every time I’d seen Jack.
“Jack, I’ve got a question. Two questions, actually.”
“Yes?”
“Would you be able to tell me what properties Mike Pratt owned?”
“No.”
“It’s confidential?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I can’t tell you. I’m not involved at that level of detail, so I simply don’t know the answer. But in addition to that, that it’s confidential information is why I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”
I wondered if Zoey could hack the bank’s records… then wondered if Jack could read my expression that I was wondering if Zoey could hack the bank’s records.
“And your second question?” Jack asked.
“I was considering getting a loan.”
“Oh, that’s a bad idea.”
“It is?”
“Yes, borrowing money at the cost of money is always a bad idea. It’s making your money work against you instead of for you. Your money should make you money, not cost you money.”
I couldn’t stop my mouth. I couldn’t get my foot up there fast enough. “But your bank offers loans?”
“Yes, it does.”
“And,”—I was operating purely on a hunch—“did you get a loan to start your bank?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But I shouldn’t get a loan?”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Because it’s a bad idea…”
“No. Because it is a terrible idea.”
I was
having trouble wrapping my head around this, and decided that my best option was to blindly accept what he was telling me. The richest man I knew was giving me money advice. The least I could do was listen.
“If you need money,” Jack continued, “you could get a job.”
I glanced around me again, at all of the people in my café, people I was preparing food for.
“A side job,” Jack amended. “Something on the side to bring in the extra money you need. I do know some people.”
I was scared. Jack knew people, and I wasn’t sure if those people were the moguls of industry or the mafia’s elite. The man was gravitas incarnate. He could have made Vito Corleone, the Godfather, look away in a staring contest. I could see him rubbing elbows with the kings and queens of nations. Yet these people, whoever they were, were people Jack wanted to introduce me to.
It could be good, or it could be very, very bad.
“So, what do you say?” he asked.
“Yes, definitely yes,” I said, not meaning a word of it. But no way was I going to tell the man no.
“Good!” His face lit up in a rare smile. “Now tell me about these cookies.”
The damn cookies! I refrained from hitting my forehead on the counter.
“They’re wonderful, aren’t they?” I said. I was not ready to admit to Jack that I’d had nothing to do with them.
“Who made them?”
That time I did hit my head on the counter.
“Now, now. I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he consoled.
“I’m not sure who made them,” I confessed. “I’ve been looking everywhere to find out.”
“Good. Executing a plan is good.”
“Can I get you anything for dinner? Want some cookies? Coffee?”
“Actually, I need to be able to feed my whole family and the business associates that I am hosting for dinner. The food needs to be excellent, and I want to save my wife the trouble of having to do so much cooking. I’d much rather have her by my side as we entertain our guests. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Oh, wow… Well, there’s an amazing Italian place on the other side of town, and I’ve heard great things about the Greek restaurant near the interstate.”
A Berry Clever Corpse Page 12