Officer Collins raised her pen in the air, cutting her off gently. “It’s okay, you’ve told me this part. When the sheriff gets here you’ll have to tell it again.” She placed her cool palm on the top of Penelope’s hand. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, that you had to see what you did.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Penelope said, taking comfort in her gesture.
“You can call me Edie.”
A man in a fleece-lined leather jacket stepped through the back door, gave Edie a quick nod, and strode to the walk-in. A star-shaped patch on his sleeve indicated he was the sheriff of Brown County, Indiana. He spoke quietly with the EMT, his shoulders rigid and his expression serious.
Edie squeezed Penelope’s hand once more before going over to speak with Jennifer, who stood with her thin hip propped against the countertop.
Penelope watched them talk in low voices, Edie taking more notes and Jennifer bobbing her head in response to the questions, flicking her eyes to Penelope a few times. When she was finished, Jennifer rejoined Penelope and Edie went to speak to the sheriff.
“When Jordan didn’t answer my text last night I should have known something was wrong,” Jennifer murmured. “He always responds right away.”
“When did you text him?” Penelope asked.
Jennifer pulled out her phone and checked the time on the message. “Just after midnight.”
Penelope thought for a moment. “The last time I saw him was late afternoon. He must have come back over here after he closed the restaurant last night. I was already in bed.”
“How did he seem to you?” Jennifer asked.
“Fine. He brought over some canapés for us, the ones we served before dinner. We talked briefly about this morning’s delivery, how he wanted his items put away. He wasn’t getting much. It was mostly stuff I’d gotten for us. Then he said something about a special table coming in for dinner, someone he had to prepare for.”
“Do you know who he was expecting?” Jennifer asked.
“He didn’t mention a name, but it was some kind of press. A reporter maybe?”
“There’s only one paper in Forrestville,” Jennifer said. “He could have been talking about someone from Indianapolis or Bloomington. Or any website anywhere, for that matter.”
“He wasn’t specific. He just said he wanted to be sure they had a memorable dinner,” Penelope said.
Jennifer nodded distractedly, then threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the sheriff. “Well, no one has contacted our publicity office from any local press, so whoever it was wasn’t here to see the set or cover the movie, as far as I know.”
Penelope watched the sheriff stick his head inside the walk-in, but he made no further move to go inside.
“Are you okay?” Penelope asked.
“Yeah,” Jennifer said automatically, then reconsidered. “I mean, no. Of course not. I’m having a hard time believing Jordan would hang himself in his own freezer.”
“It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that, especially a good friend,” Penelope agreed.
“No, I mean, I can’t believe Jordan would kill himself at all. He didn’t believe in suicide.”
“Well, under the worst circumstances, none of us can really be sure—”
“No, you don’t understand. There was this girl, a friend of ours, back in high school. She ran away, then committed suicide after her parents found her and brought her home. She made it all the way to Chicago, was crashing on someone’s couch. Jordan was really upset about the whole thing, started an anti-suicide campaign for the students.”
“Wow,” Penelope said. “Well, that was a long time ago now.”
Jennifer shook her head and folded her arms. “He wouldn’t do this. It’s hard to find a more upbeat person than Jordan.”
“Was he depressed? Worried about anything?” Penelope asked carefully.
“Not that I know of,” Jennifer said.
Penelope sat back down on the stool, her legs feeling heavy. “Jennifer, if you don’t think he could have killed himself, then the other answer is that someone came in here and killed Jordan.”
“I mean,” Jennifer considered, “I can’t believe that either.”
Penelope thought. “Who would want Jordan dead? What could he have done to make someone do that?”
“No one would. Everyone loved him,” Jennifer said, relenting.
Penelope thought for a moment, trying to piece together the answer. “There are lots of stresses that go along with owning a big business like this one,” she said, circling her finger in the air, indicating the inn and the adjoining buildings.
“Sure. We all have stress,” Jennifer agreed. “But things are good. The movie is financed. Jordan’s investment in the film is solid. No more crowd-funding or begging for production money from friends and family.”
“But that’s just your part. There could be family problems, money problems...maybe he had a health issue you didn’t know about,” Penelope said.
Jennifer shook her head. “He owns this beautiful newly renovated inn. This place and the restaurant are a dream come true for Jordan and his family. And business is good, from what I understand. It’s just...” Jennifer’s voice broke. “Why build your dream business and then kill yourself?”
Penelope shrugged and Jennifer turned to gaze at the framed photographs hanging in rows on the wall next to the back door. They were mostly of Jordan, a few from his culinary-school days, others in the various kitchens he’d worked. Penelope’s favorite was the one of him surrounded by his four kids, his long arms draped over his wife’s and oldest daughter’s shoulders. They’d just cut a velvet ribbon stretched across the courtyard, the opening day for his restaurant, Festa, and the Forrestville Inn. His expression was hopeful, happy.
As the sheriff and Edie finished conferring and approached Penelope from across the room, she sifted through the different conversations she’d had with Jordan over the past six weeks, searching for any clue to why he might have decided to take his own life, but she was unable to pinpoint anything.
The sheriff eyed her chef coat just below her shoulder where her name and Red Carpet Catering was stitched in red. “Ms. Sutherland, I’m Sheriff Bryson, Forrestville PD. Officer Collins has already asked you some questions, but I have a few more. You found Chef Jordan?”
Jennifer stopped gazing at the pictures and turned her attention to them.
“Yes,” Penelope said, taking in his tired expression and red-rimmed hazel eyes. He looked younger than she’d originally judged him to be now that he was up close. His cheeks were lean and rubbed red from the cold.
“And you’re part of the crew here from Los Angeles?” He directed his question at the top of Jennifer’s head as she studied her boots.
Jennifer nodded at the floor, then looked up. “That’s right. But I’m originally from Forrestville.”
“Hmm,” he said, giving Edie a quick glance before continuing. She scribbled in her notebook, her cheeks flushing.
“I’ve already told her all of this,” Jennifer said flatly. “Jordan and I are old friends.”
Sheriff Bryson grimaced. “How long since you’ve been a local?”
“I left after high school, moved to California to study filmmaking. I haven’t been back since, until two months ago. I take that back...I did visit twice before that briefly to scout locations. Why does any of this matter?”
“I’m just trying to get the full picture of what’s going on,” Sheriff Bryson said. “What’s the name of the movie?”
Jennifer looked at him incredulously. “The Turn of the Screw. Again, what does that—”
“Oh yeah, I remember that book. But why film a movie in Forrestville, Indiana? It’s not exactly Hollywood.”
“Movies are made all over, Sheriff. We’re saving a lot of money by working here, and there’s less oversight fr
om the studio. Creative freedom was a factor in the decision.”
“Uh huh,” he grunted. “What did Jordan have to do with all of this, besides letting you camp out here?”
“Jordan is one of the movie’s producers. He’s helping me achieve my vision for the film.” Jennifer dropped her eyes back to the floor.
“Chef Jordan opened up his inn to our cast and crew, let us stay, made us feel welcome. He even set up a space for a few more of us in the loft next door, right over the event space he uses for weddings,” Penelope said.
“That’s where we were going to get married, but it’s unavailable until you guys are finished here,” Edie offered.
“We’re in the middle of principal filming,” Jennifer said. “There’re a few sets over in the event space, and we’re also using exteriors around the property.”
“I’ve been hearing things around town about your project,” Sheriff Bryson said. “Haven’t been out to see for myself. What exactly does a producer do?” He glanced at the pair of EMTs as they wheeled Jordan’s body, zipped inside a grayish-white body bag, from the walk-in.
Jennifer followed his gaze and the question hung in the air. The EMTs made their way with the stretcher out the kitchen door to the parking lot behind the inn.
Sheriff Bryson swung his gaze back to Jennifer, taking in her frozen expression. “You were saying?”
Without looking at him, she said, “Finance. Jordan trusted me when it came to the creative, didn’t care to watch the dailies or have a say in the story or talent. He put up part of the money in exchange for a producer credit and a share of the profits after the movie is released.”
“So he was a money man.”
Jennifer shrugged in response, her eyes still on the kitchen door. “He was much more than that to me.”
Sheriff Bryson sighed. “I’m sorry. Of course he was.” He allowed a moment of silence to pass before asking, “How many folks did you say are here from out of town?”
When Jennifer didn’t answer, lost in her own thoughts, Penelope responded, “Sixty-seven cast and crew.”
“All staying here? How many rooms are upstairs?” Sheriff Bryson asked, looking at the ceiling.
“I’m not sure. I think six on each floor?” Penelope said.
“It’s close quarters, but it’s only temporary,” Jennifer added. “The crew can sleep two or three to a room for a couple of months. It’s not the hardest set I’ve run.”
“Now, I know you were close, and this is a tough question, but can you think of any reason Chef Jordan might end his life?” the sheriff asked.
“Jordan didn’t believe in suicide,” Jennifer said quickly. She related a brief version of the story she’d told Penelope about their friend.
“People change, Ms. Carr,” Sheriff Bryson said. “High-school boys and the men they become are hardly recognizable to each other sometimes.”
“People don’t change that much, Sheriff,” Jennifer said.
“Okay, then. Thank you all for your help. I’ll be in touch after I get Mr. Foster to the coroner’s office over in Bloomington and notify his family.”
He mumbled his goodbyes and pulled Edie aside.
“Poor Megan,” Jennifer said, watching them walk to the back door. “This is awful for her, not to mention the kids. Jordan’s whole family is going to be devastated.”
Penelope thought about Jordan’s wife and children, probably still asleep at this early hour, unaware that their lives had just been changed forever.
“We need to call an all-crew meeting this morning,” Jennifer said, shifting into professional mode. “I want them to hear about Jordan from me.”
“I’ll be attending that,” Edie said from the doorway. “We can’t have you discussing any specifics. We haven’t determined the cause of death.”
“Suicide by hanging, most likely,” the sheriff interjected. Penelope caught Edie’s glance at him and her uncertain expression.
“I have to tell the crew something,” Jennifer responded. “They’re going to want to know why we’re not working today, and it’s going to be obvious something’s happened with you here.”
“Of course,” Edie said. “Generally informing the crew of Jordan’s death is okay. But we’re going to ask everyone to stay close until we figure things out. A forensic crew is on the way. I’ll stay on the scene to greet them and answer any questions.”
Jennifer sighed at Penelope.
“What time do you want everyone to meet?” Penelope asked.
“Seven. In the great room.” Jennifer pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. “An hour should be enough for everyone get dressed. Can you put on some coffee?” Jennifer looked around the kitchen, as if seeing everything for the first time.
“You’ll have to stay out of here. Obviously,” Edie said. “The kitchen is off limits.”
“Probably not necessary. But to be abundantly cautious, that’s the right thing,” the sheriff said, straightening his hat. He gave Edie a tight smile then slipped out the back door.
“Can we still use Festa’s kitchen across the way?” Penelope asked, watching him go.
Edie nodded slowly, thinking. “Sure. And the rest of the inn. It’s just the kitchen we have to cordon off for now, to prevent contamination of any evidence, in the event the cause of death is determined to be a homicide. It’s procedure.”
“Evidence,” Penelope murmured, her heartbeat speeding up. She thought about how she’d touched Jordan’s arm, the doorknob to the walk-in, and almost every other object and surface in the kitchen they were standing in. And not just her—every member of her crew and countless other people coming in and out. “Do you think they’ll shut down the movie?” Penelope thought about the crew upstairs, including Arlena, her best friend and the lead actress on the movie, all of whom had put over a month’s work already.
Jennifer looked stricken, then recovered. “I hope not. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”
“If it turns out your friend was killed, that’s the least of your worries,” Edie said.
Chapter 3
Penelope stepped into her room upstairs and closed the door softly. She leaned against the door for a moment, then went over to the unmade bed, sitting down on the rumpled comforter and sliding her phone from her pocket.
She listened to a few rings as she stared at the early hour on the clock. Joey, her boyfriend back home in New Jersey, probably wouldn’t be up yet, but she had an urgent need to hear his voice.
“Penny?” Joey’s voice was thick with sleep, raspy and deep.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” Penelope said quietly. The walls of the old inn were thin and she didn’t want to disturb her slumbering neighbors.
“Is everything okay?” Joey asked, sounding more alert.
“No,” Penelope admitted, then hastened to add, “Yes, I’m okay, but something happened. Something awful.” Penelope told Joey about finding Chef Jordan, keeping her voice low and speaking in even tones.
“I’m so sorry, Penny,” Joey said. She could hear he was up and moving around. She pictured him walking through the different rooms of his apartment, the dark sky outside his big living-room windows, the lights of the New York City skyline in the distance. “What can I do to help?”
“Hearing your voice is helping,” Penelope said.
“Sure,” Joey said. “I’d have my arms around you right now if I could.”
“I know,” Penelope said. “So...I don’t want to hang up but I should go, I have to get some things together for the crew.”
“Okay. Look, call me when you get a break later. I’m here for you whenever you want to talk about anything.”
“Thanks,” Penelope said. “Love you.”
“I love you too,” Joey said.
Penelope stepped out in the hall, her coat over her arm, and pulled the door closed, l
istening to the click of the lock. When she turned around she jumped when she saw the shadow of a figure near the staircase.
“Oh,” Penelope whispered. “You startled me.”
Marla Fenton, the inn’s head housekeeper, stepped into the light and stood staring at her in the dimly lit hallway. She pulled off her knit hat and twisted it in her gloved hands. Her gray hair was short and wispy, static causing a few strands to stand on end. “Sorry. I just got in.” She pulled open a narrow utility closet in the hallway and peered inside, then closed it again. “Seeing how much wood to bring up for the day.”
The suites on either end of the floors had fireplaces, a cozy touch to the rooms that also provided much needed warmth on the coldest days. “Marla, have you heard about Jordan? You must have seen what’s happening in the kitchen.”
“Oh yes,” Marla said, nodding quickly. “We can’t go in there yet.”
“Are you okay?” Penelope asked gently.
“I’m fine,” Marla responded in a near whisper. “How are you?”
Penelope squinted at her, considering her response.
“Tragic thing,” Marla said, pulling her hat back on. “He was a good man.”
“Do you want to come in and sit down a minute?” Penelope asked, motioning to the door of her room. Marla’s expression was so flat, almost stunned, and Penelope worried the older woman might be experiencing some kind of shock.
“No, lots to do, thanks,” Marla said. She pulled her hat off again, causing more of her hair to stand on end.
“This has to be hard for you,” Penelope stalled, concerned. “You’ve worked here for how long?”
“Many years now. I was here before all the fixing up. That’s been my cabin out there twenty years at least,” Marla said. “Not sure who will run things now, but I’ll be staying. I’m going to get back downstairs and get started what work I can.”
“Marla, I’m sure if you need to take a day off—” Penelope stammered.
Murder Is the Main Course Page 2