Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  The tips of Sherry’s fingertips went numb as a cold shiver overtook her body. The arm Sherry had a death grip on was shaking.

  “She might have spilled her smoothie. Wasn’t her smoothie green, though?” Sherry jumped back when she caught sight of someone approaching her from the side. She released Kirin’s arm. “Dad, there you are. Thank goodness.”

  “Sherry.” Erno threw up his arms. “You could have picked a more visible spot to wait for me.”

  “This is where they told me to wait. I had no choice. What took you so long? I was really worried you wouldn’t be able to find your way back when the lights went out.”

  “Listen, I couldn’t make out what’s happening, but something terrible may have happened to Carmell Gordy,” Erno said.

  Sherry’s eyes darted back to the television monitor. People were crowding the periphery of the anchor desk, ignoring the directive being given to clear away. Sherry no longer saw any sign of what she thought were Carmell’s head and shoulders. She lifted her vision from the monitor to focus on the live commotion.

  “I can’t figure out what’s going on. One minute I’m waiting for you and watching the end of a report on the upcoming Founder’s Day celebration; the next I can’t see my hand in front of my face because all the power’s out. When the lights came back up, the scene was more panicked than the grocery store the day before a February blizzard. We’re obviously in the way here. Let’s get going.”

  Erno massaged his chin with one hand. “Reminds me of an old saying . . .”

  “This isn’t a good time for your pearls of wisdom, Dad. We need to get out of here.” Sherry huffed and squatted down to retrieve her trophy and plate of food. She regretted not finding plastic wrap to secure the spicy treats on the plate, but she hadn’t, so a steady hand was required to hold them in place.

  A clock on the wall caught Sherry’s eye. “Eleven forty. We’ve got to get to the store. You did leave a sign on the door saying you’d be opening late today, didn’t you?”

  “I might have forgotten that detail. But we’ll be there soon. The needs of the hooked rug community must be met.” Erno wagged his index finger in the air.

  “Let’s go. We’ll check back later and find out what happened.” Sherry headed toward the exit sign with Erno in tow. After two rocky steps, she turned. “Would you mind carrying this? It’s not going too far. We’re leaving the trophy at the receptionist’s desk to be engraved.” She tottered over to Erno and presented him with the trophy wedged in the crook of her elbow. “And watch your step.” She nudged a snakelike cord with her shoe.

  As the father-daughter duo reached the edge of the room, someone shouted, “Keep nine-one-one on the line until the ambulance gets here.”

  Sherry dodged the door as it swung open. A man and a woman in uniform raced in.

  The woman officer lowered her weapon and turned toward Sherry. “If you two wouldn’t mind staying outside in the main lobby, please. We need to collect your names and contact information. But I need you to exit this room without delay. EMTs are unloading their equipment.”

  Unable to will her legs to move, Sherry stood frozen in place. She managed a head rotation, following the officers bolting across the room.

  As they neared the anchor desk, one exclaimed, “Step back, people.” The small group of onlookers cleared away, revealing Carmell’s head resting on her desk. The overhead lighting picked up the glimmer of shiny metal sticking out of the back of her neck. In an instant, the thought of a pop-up timer embedded in a turkey breast danced through Sherry’s brain. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. No, not a pop-up timer. She gasped when she was struck with the familiarity of the wooden handle attached to the protruding silver object. She speared Erno in the ribs with the plate she was carrying.

  “Hey, what was that for?” Erno rubbed his core.

  “Carmell’s neck. How did that . . .” She spat out each word as if they were charred and bitter.

  “Sherry, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Don’t you recognize that?” She thrust her finger toward the scene.

  “No way, can’t be.” Erno covered his eyes with his hands. He lowered his head and moaned. “How in the world . . .”

  “Has anyone seen Damien?” Brett scurried through the studio doors propped open by the attending emergency personnel. He cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his question. “Damien’s gone, Truman’s gone, who’s running this place?” As Brett passed Sherry and Erno, he pulled up short. “Have you seen Damien Castle? We could use some leadership around here right about now. He and Truman have gone AWOL.”

  Brett rubbed his palms together. Sherry cringed at the rough scratching sound.

  “Damien was the one who brought me to the studio after the cook-off to wait for my dad before the lights went out, but I haven’t seen him since. He never came inside the room. He left me at the door because he said he had to check on the control room. He was concerned the storm might wreak havoc on the station’s power.” Sherry twisted her torso as tightness overtook her back muscles. “What’s going on?”

  Brett passed a glance Erno’s way before sighing. “Someone’s tried to kill Carmell.”

  Sherry’s elbow collapsed, and the remainder of her chickpeas and almonds landed on the floor. Erno grabbed her arm before the plate went down too. Sherry examined her father’s pinched eyebrows and tangled lips.

  “I’ve gotta keep moving. The police want your names. After that you’re free to go. Seems like a waste of time to me. It’s Steele they should arrest on the spot.” Brett turned and moved one loafered foot in front of the other before tumbling to the floor.

  “I’m sorry. Those darn chickpeas are slippery.” Sherry extended her hand to the fallen man.

  Brett turned his head away. He whimpered as he rubbed his backside. “Have you been dropping your appetizer all over the building?”

  “Maybe.” Sherry observed her plate, which was empty. “Dad, can you help him up?”

  Erno didn’t move.

  “I’m fine.” Brett stood and brushed off his backside. His face was the deepest hue of rose color Sherry had ever seen on human skin.

  “You’ve ripped your pants.” Sherry’s cheeks burned. “Let me pay for any repairs.”

  “It’s fine; it’s fine. Not important.” Brett smoothed his tussled hair and took off, his sight fixed on the floor beneath him.

  Sherry and Erno left the studio and headed toward the lobby.

  “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Oliveri?” A police officer with a notepad approached. The woman’s hair was tucked up inside her peaked hat. Her broad torso seemed enhanced to Sherry, as if she might be wearing a bulletproof vest.

  “You’re the officer who pulled me over once. We met again at the Hillsboro Cook-off awards dinner that went terribly wrong.” Sherry’s vision blurred as her mind drifted back to the events of her most memorable cooking contest to date.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The officer stood poised to write.

  “We’re not married. We’re father and daughter.” Erno braced his stance by locking his knees. He liked to appear statuesque and attentive when addressing uniformed personnel. Respectfulness was one of the old-fashioned qualities she loved about her father.

  “I see.” The officer made a notation. “Sherry Oliveri and Erno Oliveri. Correct? Sir, do you have a wife named Sherry Frazzelle? She is listed alongside you two.”

  “Sorry for the confusion, but, when I mailed in my recipe for the News Twelve appetizer cook-off a few months ago, I entered as Sherry Frazzelle. Now I go by Oliveri.” Sherry glanced at the unadorned spot on her left ring finger, which was the prior home to a sapphire and diamond wedding ring.

  “Ma’am, we need your legal name.” The officer tapped her pen on her pad.

  Sherry nodded. “Yes, Sherry Oliveri. Drop the Frazzelle.”

  “My daughter’s name is not yet legally Oliveri.” Her father tipped his head to the side.

  “In two days I’ll receive th
e court papers from my lawyer, and my name will legally be Sherry Oliveri, but yes, today, Frazzelle.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll check off all three names and add an asterisk on both of the Sherrys.” The policewoman scribbled on the paper. “And you are Augustin residents?” She peered over her paperwork and received a pair of nods. “The visitor logbook has these phone numbers recorded.” She flashed the numbers they had written down on their way into the TV station.

  “Those are correct.”

  “You’ll be contacted if need be. You’re free to go.” The officer marched away before any reply was made.

  Sherry and Erno continued down the hall before stopping at the “Visitors Must Sign Out Before Exiting” placard. The woman hunched over the sign-out book straightened up. She turned and offered Sherry the pen. “Signing out?”

  “If you’re done. Thank you.” Sherry’s mouth dropped open. “Patti Mellitt. What a surprise it was when I found out you were today’s cook-off judge. A nice surprise, I might add.”

  “The even bigger surprise was when I found out the appetizer I judged as the winner belonged to the one and only Sherry Frazzelle. I enjoy blind taste-testing the most because when the winner is crowned, I get to put a face with the chosen dish and see the spontaneous, happy reaction.” Patti smiled and eyed the trophy secured in Erno’s arms. “Not the grandest prize you’ve ever won, I’m sure.”

  “My daughter sees every win as her grandest win. That’s the mark of a true champion.” Erno peered around Sherry. “Hello, Ms. Mellitt.” He set the trophy on the receptionist’s desk.

  “Thank you, Patti. By the way, I go by my maiden name now, Oliveri.” Sherry kicked a dust ball with her foot. “I should tattoo the name on my forehead for all to see.”

  “Too bad, Frazzelle was a fun name to try to pronounce.” Patti flashed a sly grin. “We need to catch up sometime. We’ve been through some rough times together, you and me. There’s a kind of bond between us now and forever. Not a good time, though. I’m late. Always a deadline to meet. I’m going to check back and see what’s happened to Carmell, but my rumbling gut is warning of the worst.” Patti reached around to the back of her neck. “What was sticking out of her neck?”

  “If it’s what I think it was, we sell them at Dad’s store. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a punch tool that hobbyists use to make hooked rugs. They have extremely sharp tips, and I can imagine the damage one could cause when used as a weapon.” Sherry balled up her fist and mimed a plunging blow.

  “Can we please get out of here?” Erno was halfway out the door when he called out the request. “My head is killing me.”

  Chapter 3

  Sherry lugged herself through the front door, where she was welcomed by Chutney. She set down her load before scooping the dog up. With his advancing age, Chutney was losing the ability to hear activity at the front door, so he didn’t often greet her there, but she had been gone for hours, so he had most likely been camped out in anticipation of her return. Sherry was never sure who was more excited to see whom. The enthusiasm of his greeting was enough to temporarily reenergize her.

  “Let’s get you outside, buddy. I can’t wait to tell you about my morning.” Sherry hooked the leash to Chutney’s collar. On her way out, she made a quick check of her cell phone. There was one new voice mail. She must have missed the call as she had forgotten to turn her phone on after leaving the television station. Before she could play the message, Chutney yanked his end of the leash, and the phone was almost launched sky-high.

  “Okay, okay. Your message is more urgent than the one on my phone. I understand.” She plunged the phone in her pocket and slipped out the door. The furry twelve-pounder bypassed all the enticing smells he normally investigated and got down to business.

  “Hi, Eileen.” Sherry flashed a wave to her neighbor across the street.

  “Hey, Sherry. I watched you on News Twelve this morning. Great job!” Sherry’s silver-haired neighbor used her hands to form a makeshift megaphone, resulting in an over-amplification of her compliment.

  Sherry’s head bobbled in all directions as her eyes searched for disturbed onlookers. She put her finger up to her lips.

  “I’m still excited for you. Let me take a breath to calm myself.” Eileen raised her arms in an arch over her head and lowered them. “That’s better. Toward the end, I was afraid the crabby stuffers might overtake your spicy toasted whatchamacallits. I screamed at the television so loud when you won, the Tates next door thought I was being accosted. They barged in and scared me half to death.”

  “Sorry about that.” Sherry steered a reluctant Chutney in Eileen’s direction. “Thanks for watching, though.”

  “What happened right after your cook-off? I was in the middle of the segment on the Founder’s Day celebration, and the channel went black. After that, it never came back on the air. I figure it had to do with that crazy storm that blew through. It was a fast mover, but did some damage. With that channel out of commission, I was forced to come outside and pick up the branches that fell. You know I only watch local. National channels are always carrying such horrifying breaking news. Murder and mayhem and such. Gives me nightmares.” Eileen, bundled up in a fuzzy sweater, hugged her arms across her body as she swayed side to side.

  “Not sure what happened there. I’ll let you know if I hear any updates.” Sherry’s hand drifted up to her temple. She rubbed a tender spot, hoping it wasn’t the beginning of a headache. “I’ll see you later, Eileen.” Sherry let Chutney lead her past a few more houses before heading home.

  By now, Chutney had latched on to aromas transmitted to the surrounding shrubs by various animals. The dog’s pace slowed as his twitching snout dealt with each scent. Sherry’s sensitive nose detected a stagnant tang. The air, after the morning storm, was sour and heavy with residual moisture. The breezes whipped her hair into a frenzy. She tugged on Chutney’s leash to remind him the intention was to exercise his legs.

  A raven perched on a branch above them squawked out an ominous warning that they’d entered his territory. His black iridescent feathers were a sharp contrast to the colorful autumn leaves. The majestic maples and oaks that lined the neighborhood’s sidewalks were succumbing to the season’s near-freezing evening temperatures, and most had no green leaves remaining. It wouldn’t be long before the New England autumn suppressed the air temperature in the daytime, too. Time to put her vegetable garden to bed. Another chore to attack on her to-do list, only this year the task was unintentionally simpler. She’d had to replant her garden midseason after it was ravaged and stripped nearly bare by critters. She would save what plant seeds she could salvage from her surviving plants and hope for better success next season. When it came to the success or failure of her vegetable garden, Mother Nature was commandeering the ship, and Sherry could only go along for the ride.

  When Chutney’s mission was accomplished, Sherry headed back to her house. She gave her dog an early afternoon snack, which he gobbled up in nearly one mouthful. For herself, she made an almond butter and fig jam sandwich.

  “I’m sorry, boy. This is my afternoon at the Ruggery. You know I usually take you, but not today. I’ve got too much on my mind. I wish I had a pal for you so you wouldn’t get lonely.” She knelt down and scratched Chutney’s neck with vigor.

  His back leg flexed and flailed in the air, stopping the moment the massage did.

  “I’ll be back before dark.”

  The penetrating brown eyes beamed upward. A bitter note gurgled up in her throat.

  “Don’t give me the evil eye,” she scolded.

  Chutney made his way over to the hooked throw rug by the front stairs and curled up in a ball. His eyes were closed in an instant.

  “Your indifference only compounds my guilt.” Sherry sighed, collected her purse and keys off the front hall table, and closed the reclaimed wood door behind her.

  Once in her car, Sherry let curiosity get the best of her. She played the voice mail she’d been ignoring.
>
  “Detective Ray Bease here. I’ve contacted your father, and he has agreed to answer a few questions about . . .” The voice on the phone faded. There was a strong cough, followed by a throat clearing and a possible phlegm expulsion. “. . . the murder at the television station this morning. He explained that you will be at the Oliveri Ruggery by one-thirty p.m. and insisted you be present when I stop by. I’ll try to arrive before three.”

  The emotionless words battered Sherry’s ears harder than if the detective had screamed them. She flinched and dropped the phone on the passenger seat beside her.

  “Murder.”

  Sherry started the car and drove to her father’s store, oblivious to her increasing speed, until she saw a police car parked on the side of the road. She removed her lead foot from the gas pedal, flexed her rigid ankle, and let the car slow to the legal limit.

  Along the parkway, the continual shower of red and gold leaves, along with the bombardment of acorns, combined to distract Sherry from seeing the exit for Center Street. She swerved at the last second and made a traffic maneuver she hoped there were no witnesses to.

  Sherry steered the car up to the front of the symmetrical two-story building painted dove gray with burgundy trim. A raised wooden sign displayed the building’s “9” above the austere rectangular plaque bearing the name “The Oliveri Ruggery.” A pang of pride warmed her heart, as was the case each time she saw her family’s business establishment.

  The multi-paned windows were lined up in a perfect grid across the welcoming façade. The slate roof was shaded with varying darks and lights and put a regal cap on the Ruggery. The center entry boasted an intricate paneled door that always held Sherry at pause before she turned the knob. She enjoyed rubbing her fingers across the busy grain of the wood as she considered the majesty of the tree used to construct the store’s enviable entrance.

  Sherry turned her car into a narrow driveway that ran between her father’s store and an upscale pub named Wine One One. In the shared back lot, Erno’s well-loved car, normally parked with military precision, was parked askew, leaving her no choice but to pull in at an angle.