by Krista Davis
Between the two of us, Mars and I had cleaned our plate and managed to finish off the coffee. We thanked Bernie for breakfast and he promised to quietly put together a protest of Natasha’s firing. Mars and I left. We were walking home when Mars’s phone buzzed.
It was impossible not to overhear what was happening. Wolf had called him.
When he hung up, Mars said, “Wolf wants to speak with me again. That can’t be good.”
“Are you worried?”
“Not particularly. I didn’t murder Mia, and I have no idea where Abby went.”
* * *
Back in my kitchen, I pulled carrots and onions out of the refrigerator to cook Tilly’s carrot pumpkin soup. It wasn’t difficult to make, but when I had tasted it at her house, I definitely thought it needed herbs to perk it up.
While I sautéed the onions, I thought about Charlene and wondered where she had lived. The police must have checked out her home. What did Charlene do for a living?
The rich aroma of sauteed onions wafted up to me. I added thyme and sage, and the scent took on a new and delicious note. I spooned in mashed pumpkin and added chicken broth and sliced carrots. Now all it had to do was simmer.
I had so many questions about Charlene. How could I find out more about her? Charlene must have known other people in Old Town. So far Fred Conway was the only link.
I retreated to my office and made a few discreet phone calls. No one knew Fred Conway. That didn’t mean anything. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy who joined clubs and was involved in galas and events. I Googled his name and the street he lived on. By a complete fluke, I discovered Fred’s exact address in a small mention because he had attended a public meeting where he revealed his address to make a comment.
I couldn’t just show up at his doorstep, could I?
Chapter 20
Dear Sophie,
My husband and I have an ongoing battle about the refrigerator. Where does one store the meat? He says it goes into the vegetable crisper (which he learned from his wacky mother), and I say it goes in the main part of the refrigerator. What do you say?
Aggravated Wife in Defiance, Oklahoma
Dear Aggravated Wife,
Meats and highly perishable items go in the main section close to the rear and the walls, where it’s coldest. Greens and veggies are best off in the middle, where they won’t get too cold.
Sophie
Of course, I could visit Fred. His girlfriend was dying. There was nothing more appropriate than swinging by with food. The soup smelled heavenly, but I didn’t want to carry soup over to his house. I looked through Tilly’s recipes until I found the recipe for apple fritters. I had apples in the fridge and the recipe sounded delicious. The rest of the ingredients were basically pantry items. It was one of the recipes that had the strange code on it.
But first I phoned Natasha. To be honest, I was feeling very guilty for being so nosy. I reasoned that Fred’s girlfriend had been beaten and he was probably eager to find her assailant—unless of course, he had attacked her. Another excellent reason to involve Natasha. There was certainly safety in numbers. In addition, Natasha had every reason in the world to want to meet Fred and learn more about the woman who was so closely related to her.
When I told Natasha that I planned to pay Fred a visit, she immediately said she would like to come. We agreed to go around two in the afternoon.
I peeled and sliced the apples, thinking that the fritters probably needed a little something more. But I would reserve judgment until I tasted them. I dredged the apples through the batter. I made a note on the recipe: Add cinnamon. The oil was heating nicely. I checked the temperature with a thermometer. It was time to add the apples. They sank initially, but immediately rose to the surface. I turned them over as they became golden, then scooped them out and set them on a paper towel to absorb the oil.
As soon as one was cool enough to eat, I tasted it. Why hadn’t I tried making apple fritters before? They were delicious. But I thought they needed just a little something to dress them up. I placed them in an aluminum container that Fred wouldn’t have to return.
Then I pulled out a small pot and melted butter with dark brown sugar. When the sugar had melted, I turned down the heat and poured in some heavy cream and bourbon. I dipped a spoon into it. The sauce hit enticing autumn notes.
Quickly, before I forgot, I wrote down the ingredients and the amounts. We could add that to Tilly’s apple fritter recipe if she liked the sauce.
I poured some of the sauce into a disposable bowl with a lid and placed it in a bag with the apple fritters. I stashed the leftover fritters and sauce in the fridge.
Natasha arrived right on time carrying a big bag of her own. She had dressed head to toe in black. I was relieved she hadn’t worn a hat with a veil.
I grabbed my smaller bag. “What are you bringing him?”
“My Coca-Cola cake.”
“I hope someone else drops by with savory dishes.”
We walked over to Princess Street. Fred lived in a Federal-style house with a typical brick exterior and tall windows. It had a flat roof, as did many of the neighboring homes. I walked up the front steps and gently banged the door knocker in the shape of an owl.
I could hear footsteps coming toward the door. There were a couple moments of silence.
“Mr. Conway,” Natasha called out. “I would like to speak to you about Charlene. I’m her half sister.”
The door opened about four inches. Fred peered at us. We must have looked okay to him, because he swung the door wide to admit us.
But now I was hesitant. I couldn’t swear to it, after all it had been dark, but I thought he might be the man I saw leaving through Abby’s gate. I let Natasha take the lead.
She held out the cake to him. “I can’t tell you how brokenhearted I am about Charlene’s condition.”
Fred took the cake but appeared puzzled. I understood what Brittany meant when she said he was plain. I was short, but he only had me by five or six inches. Natasha towered over him. His waistline bulged over the belt he wore. He was bald in front. A horseshoe of mousey brown hair ringed his head.
“It’s a Coca-Cola cake to help you through this difficult time.”
I waved at him. “I’m Sophie Winston. I brought apple fritters with a bourbon sauce.”
“Are you from a church or something?” asked Fred.
“Didn’t Charlene mention that she had found her half sister?” asked Natasha.
“Uh, yeah. She did say something about that. Come in, please.” He showed us into the living room.
It was furnished nicely if somewhat sparsely and was immaculately clean. We sat on a blue sofa.
“Do you have any pictures of Charlene?” asked Natasha. “I’d love to see what she looks like under all those bruises.”
Fred’s shoulders sagged. He stared at the floor. “I hadn’t given it any thought before, but Charlene was the one who took photos on her phone. I don’t think I have any pictures of her. I wonder what happened to her phone. Maybe the police have it. Do you know what happened to her?”
Natasha coughed. “I hoped you knew.”
He shook his head, obviously not a big talker. “They asked me a lot of questions, but they didn’t tell me much.”
“What did Charlene do for a living?” Natasha asked.
“She had started a home business. She cooked for five families and delivered the food to them on weekdays. Sort of like having your own chef, except much cheaper.”
“She was a chef! Like me!” Natasha clasped her hands to her chest. “I bet we are a lot alike. What else can you tell me about her?”
Before he could speak, I said, “I’ll just pop the food into your refrigerator so it won’t go bad.” I was up on my feet and in the kitchen snooping before he could protest.
On a pad under a wall phone, someone had written Griselda Smith, Tacoma Park, Maryland.
I had the fridge door open when he rushed into the kitchen. “Um, I guess I sho
uld offer you something.”
“Oh no! Don’t be silly. I hope we’re not imposing. Natasha is devastated. She was looking forward to meeting her sister.”
“Yes, I see.”
I placed the items in his refrigerator, noting that he had an ample supply of cheeses and cold cuts. A bottle of milk looked lonely, but I expected that was for his breakfast cereal. Mustard, mayo, and an assortment of foreign beers filled the rest. No fruit. No veggies. I guessed that might be typical for a single man.
Like the living room, the kitchen was spotless. Not a dirty dish in the sink or a crumb on the floor. I followed him back to the living room, but not before catching a glance of the dining room, which was set up with a dining table and chairs. The crystal chandelier gave it an elegant touch. There was no hutch or buffet or painting on the wall.
When we returned to the living room, Natasha asked, “Is Charlene’s mother alive? I’d like to meet her.”
“Yes.” He didn’t offer any more information.
I tried to hide my surprise. Why did I think that Griselda was probably related to Charlene? Maybe he didn’t feel right giving out the mother’s information to a couple of nosy women he’d never met before.
A long-haired white cat with blue eyes sauntered toward us with the attitude of a feline who thought she owned the place.
“What a beautiful cat!” I exclaimed.
Natasha recoiled. “She won’t jump on me, will she?”
“No. She is a very well-mannered cat.”
The cat wound around my legs. I reached down and rubbed her ears. “And what do you do?” I asked.
“I work from home fixing people’s software problems.”
“That’s interesting. So I can call you if I run into a snag?” I asked.
“It doesn’t exactly work like that. I work for companies, and they send people my way.”
“Too bad. How did you meet Charlene?”
“In the grocery store. The guy in the cheese department didn’t know if they had smoked Gouda. Charlene was next in line. She saw it in the open case and handed it to me. We had coffee and . . .” He tailed off as if we knew the rest. Or maybe as if there was no more.
While Natasha peppered Fred with additional questions, I gazed around the room. It was remarkably devoid of knickknacks, which didn’t surprise me much. In my experience, a lot of single men spent their money on gadgets rather than decorative items. But there was something empty about his house. Almost as if it were a transitional place, not a home where he intended to stay.
“Natasha,” I said, “I think we’ve taken enough of Fred’s time. Again, I’m so terribly sorry about Charlene.”
He saw us to the door. After we stepped out, we heard a bolt lock snap closed inside.
Alma Riddenhauer was gardening across the street. She held a rake in one hand and motioned to us with the other. Alma and her husband had been fixtures in Old Town for a long time.
We crossed the street, and she hissed, “Fred is the quietest neighbor I’ve ever had. For a long time, I thought he was a hermit.”
“Do you know his girlfriend, Charlene?” I asked.
Alma nodded knowingly. “I think he clobbered her.”
Natasha gasped. “Really? Why?”
“First of all, I don’t know what a sweet thing like Charlene would be doing with Fred. Second, he’s just too quiet.”
That hardly pointed to violence. I sighed. Gossip. Sometimes there was a tinge of truth, but Alma’s reasoning wasn’t grounded in facts. “Why would he want to hurt Charlene?” I asked.
“He never says a word. He’s completely inhospitable. Honestly, I work outside all the time—”
“It looks beautiful,” Natasha interjected.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I don’t know what’s come over Old Town. It was always such a nice place. But we’ve had two bags of lime stolen from our yard. Now who would do that?”
“Lime?” asked Natasha.
“Yes, darling. Lime is the reason all our plants look so beautiful.”
“Are you saying Fred stole them?”
“I doubt it. Have you taken a close look at his yard? He could do with some lime. But he never comes over for a chat. He might wave or say hello, but that’s all. He’s definitely not from the South, I can tell you that for sure. He probably has a lovely mama, but she didn’t teach him a thing about manners.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” I suggested.
“Well how long do you get to be shy before you talk with your neighbor?” Alma asked. “It broke my heart to hear about Charlene. She sure didn’t deserve what he did to her.”
“I hope you’ve reported all this to Wolf,” said Natasha.
Alma snorted. “Ha! There’s another man with”—she drew an imaginary zipper across her lips—“a closed mouth. He wasn’t interested in what I know.”
“When did you see Charlene last?” I asked.
“On Friday evening. I saw her under the streetlights. She came running down the outside stairs of his house and dashed along the street that way.” Alma pointed in the direction of Abby’s house. “I said to my husband, I said, ‘She’s finally running away from him. Good for her. She deserves a nice man, not an ice man.’ He got a big kick out of that!”
Natasha looked at me, her eyes huge. “We were just talking to her assailant!”
I doubted that. He was cold and kind of odd, but that didn’t mean he had beaten her. Besides, she had suffered a serious attack. She was in no condition to run along the sidewalk. Whatever happened to Charlene had occurred after she left Fred’s house.
“Look at him,” whispered Alma. “He sits up there in that bedroom and watches people go by on the street. Gives me the chills every time I see him.”
Unless I missed my guess, that was a lot. “Do you keep an eye on him?” I whispered.
“Of course I do. I don’t know what will become of him now. Charlene was the only person I ever saw him with. He never puts out a Christmas wreath or anything for Halloween. I can’t imagine why he would want to harm Charlene, though. She was as sweet as she could be.”
I thanked Alma and tugged Natasha away.
“I can’t believe you let me go to see Fred today. He could have attacked me, too!” she complained.
When I thought we were out of earshot and Alma wouldn’t hear, I hissed, “Just because a guy is a weird loner doesn’t make him violent.”
“He didn’t seem very upset about what happened to her.”
That was certainly true. “Maybe he was numb. Or he’s torn up inside but doesn’t know how to show his feelings.”
“Or maybe he really doesn’t care because he’s the one who beat her!” Natasha ended her sentence in a shriek. “We cannot allow him to get away with the murder of my half sister. I never had a chance to know her or teach her how to cook—”
“In the first place, she’s not dead yet. And second, she cooked for a living, Natasha. One has to assume she was good at it.”
She ignored me. “I never babysat for her or celebrated a holiday with her or went to lunch or shopping with her.” Natasha stopped walking and grabbed me by the shoulders. “This is the only thing that I will ever be able to do for her. You have to find her assailant!”
Chapter 21
Dear Natasha,
Are there herbs that can bring me luck? I’ve hit a rough patch and need some good luck.
Sad Sack in Nowhere, Colorado
Dear Sad Sack,
Mint, poppy seeds, and cinnamon not only are good for your health but will bring luck your way!
Natasha
Idid not care for the way Natasha emphasized that I had to find Charlene’s killer. “Griselda Smith of Tacoma Park.”
“Who’s that?” she asked.
I shrugged. “He had written that name on a pad in the kitchen.”
“You were snooping?” She sounded aghast.
“It was right out in the open. It might be an aunt.”
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s
find Griselda.”
“Now?”
“Before he harms her, too!”
There wasn’t a good reason not to check out Griselda. We stopped by my house and Googled her. As soon as I saw the web page for her business, I wanted to shield Natasha from it, but it was too late.
In a deadpan voice, Natasha said, “She could be my mother.”
Griselda’s website was all about herbs and stones and how they could bring a person health, wealth, and luck. Even the photo of Griselda was eerily reminiscent of Natasha’s mom.
I jotted down the address, and we headed for my garage. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Sophie, there are few things that I have wanted more.” Natasha slid into the passenger seat. “Let’s go.”
We left Old Town behind and headed north to Tacoma Park. Before long we arrived at a funky store called Strawberry Moon. Someone had painted the building in a rainbow of colors.
“It’s making me dizzy,” Natasha muttered. “She may be worse than my mom.”
We stepped out of the car, and Natasha double-checked the address. “I know it’s not wrong, but a girl can hope.”
“It appears that your dad was attracted to free-spirited women.”
Natasha groaned. “Thank you for putting it so kindly.”
I hung back and let Natasha enter the store first. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. If the exterior was colorful, the interior was overwhelming. Like walking into a kaleidoscope. Gauzy, breezy clothes in bright colors hung on racks. Kites in the shapes of fish, birds, and bugs dangled from the ceiling. Bottles of herbs lined shelves behind a long counter.
A middle-aged woman wearing her hair in a long braid looked up. “May I—” She stopped speaking and whispered, “Who are you?”
“Natasha Smith. You’ve probably seen me on TV. I have a show—”
The woman with the braid opened a door and shouted, “Griselda! There’s someone you need to see out here.”
“Lonnie, I am not working today. How many times do I have to tell you that?” The woman who spoke was medium height with white hair that stood straight up from her head. It was at least three inches long. I wondered how much gel she had to use to get it to do that. She had styled it so that it looked tousled and unkempt. “Who are you?”