Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  She slid out of the car and trotted to the back door. She yanked on the door’s brass knob. No movement. She tried again, this time pulling so hard her knuckles blanched. “We need to get this old guy fixed.” Sherry surveyed her surroundings for possible assistance. “Or is it locked? Can’t be. Dad never locks up during business hours.” She knocked on the door and waited. Silence. She threw up her hands and turned to begin the trek to the front of the building when she heard the ages-old hinges groan.

  Erno’s eye was visible through the narrow opening between the door and frame. “Sherry, thank goodness. Come in.”

  “Why is it locked?” Sherry pushed the door open wider and entered.

  As soon as she cleared the threshold, Erno slammed the door behind her and flipped the dead bolt. Sherry watched him test the knob. When the door refused to budge, his grip relaxed.

  Sherry’s father was quick to avert his gaze from Sherry’s probing stare. He turned and made a move away from the door. She followed him through two of the store’s arched doorways to the main showroom. Sherry’s nostrils flared as she was rushed by the distinctive smells of the store. The hint of oily lanolin combined with the musty odor emanating from the fibers of the rugs’ wool tantalized her senses.

  “Dad?” Sherry stepped behind Erno and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Talk of break-ins recently. Merely taking precautions. You know what I always say, easier to replace something that’s lost than something that’s stolen.”

  “Whatever you say, Dad.” The clock on the wall chimed. Detective Bease wasn’t expected for a while, so she wanted to get as much work done as possible in the meantime. She set her purse under the checkout counter. “I’m glad I brought my sweater. Why is the temperature so low in here?” She wrapped one arm around the other.

  “I guess I forgot to turn the heat up.” Erno went over to the thermostat in the corner and rotated the dial. The boiler in the basement rumbled to life, sending vibrations through the wide plank floorboards.

  “Dad, you okay?”

  “Fine.” Erno’s voice was bland and lifeless. “I guess the events of the morning shocked me some.”

  “I know what you mean. I haven’t had a chance to process what happened, or maybe I’ve been avoiding thinking about it altogether.”

  “Let’s not then. What are you working on today?” Erno asked.

  “For starters, I haven’t finished dividing the skeins of that beautiful robin’s egg-blue yarn we dyed last week. While there are no customers in the store, I’ll be in the yarn room finishing that. Sound good?”

  Erno was staring out the window, holding his wrists behind his back, shoulders rounded forward. Sherry sauntered toward her father. Not wanting to startle the man, she uttered in a near whisper, “I love the display.”

  On the wall near the window was a floor-to-ceiling latticework frame that supported many examples of the hooked rugs the Oliveri family was so passionate about. The room’s ten-foot ceilings provided abundant room to show off the store’s gems. Richly colored yarns were woven into designs ranging from simple to elaborate. Clients brought in a photo of their pet, their favorite flower, or a nature scene, wishing to have their fond recollections represented on an area rug, giving Erno and his craftsmen a starting point for their creative process. More ambitious hobbyists hooked their own rugs, with supplies purchased at the store. Prices were hefty, but the labor and supplies were of the highest quality, so customers, after recovering from the initial sticker shock, seldom complained when they saw the final result.

  Erno wheeled around with a slight blush. “Thanks, honey. This is one I had made for Marla, but your sister hasn’t been able to visit since the last cook-off you two were in.” He pointed to a small oval rug hanging at the top of the frame.

  Sherry walked over to the rug that depicted purple cabbage heads, orange carrot bunches and, butter-yellow summer squash. She ran her fingers across the yarn that was as soft as peach skin. “Gorgeous. If she doesn’t claim that beauty soon, guess who will?” Sherry smiled at the joke she made at her sister’s expense.

  Erno frowned and lowered his head.

  “Call me if a customer comes in. I’ll be out here.” Sherry stole one last glimpse of Erno and made her way to the room that housed the rainbow of beautiful wool.

  After spending a good amount of time separating various yarn bundles, she’d accomplished her quest. Sherry emerged from the yarn room with four bundles cradled in her arms.

  “Dad, I think this dye lot is closer to sea foam than robin’s egg. What do you think?” She halted midway across the worn wooden floor.

  A woman in white pants and an aqua silk shirt, with a multicolored scarf swaddled around her neck, was huddled with Erno near the checkout register. They gave themselves more distance when Sherry approached. A distinct flush swept onto her father’s face. The fold above the bridge of his nose deepened, and he hiked up the sleeves of his oxford shirt. All gazes converged on Sherry.

  “Excuse me, Dad. I had a quick question about . . .” The words fought one another as they left her mouth. When she lost track of what she was saying, Sherry held up the yarn as if the wool could better speak for itself.

  “Sherry, this is Beverly Van Ardan.”

  The woman with the golden updo put out her gloved hand, but retracted it when Sherry couldn’t free up her arms.

  “Sherry works for me twenty hours a week, in the afternoons, which is why you’ve never seen her here.”

  “How wonderful to have a daughter in business with you. We Van Ardans pride ourselves on promoting family values through business.” Beverly’s gaze lingered until Sherry severed the connection. “Of course, Sherry needs no introduction. She’s the most famous home cook in Hillsboro County.” Beverly paused, and silence settled in. “But you probably have no idea who I am.”

  Sherry decided the woman wasn’t expecting a reply.

  “I live in the city, but venture out for special visits to my favorite rug store when I have a room in the apartment that needs a facelift. Your father is a master craftsman, as you must well know, and I dropped off my specifications for his next great masterpiece.” Beverly gestured toward a pile of papers on the counter. “There’s a reason this is the oldest business establishment in Augustin and possibly all of New England. It’s called excellence.”

  Erno’s expression was stoic and unwavering, Sherry noted, odd for someone who a moment ago had received more compliments than a perfectly executed croquembouche.

  “Mrs. Van Ardan is one of our most loyal patrons.” Erno intertwined his fingers. “I appreciate her business as much as I appreciate all of my loyal customers.”

  “And, with that being said, I’m off before my driver leaves without me.” Beverly pulled her wallet from her purse. “How much of a deposit do you require?”

  Before Erno could respond, the brass bell over the front door tinkled. In walked a woman wearing a loose-fitting royal-blue blazer and matching skirt. On her cap was a gold badge.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Oliveri. I’m verifying the story the limousine driver parked outside gave me. His meter’s expired, and he claims his passenger is in your store.” The woman in uniform eyeballed Beverly. “I told him I wouldn’t give him a ticket if the story checked out.”

  “Thank you, Leila.” Erno waved the back of his hand toward Beverly. “Mrs. Van Ardan was leaving. No deposit required, Beverly. I trust you’ll be back.”

  “Thank you, sir. Don’t want to lose you any business by antagonizing your customers, but a meter’s there for a reason.” Leila spun on her rubber-soled pumpernickel-brown shoes. She offered a flip of her hand as she left the store.

  “Augustin’s finest parking enforcement officer. Actually, our only one. No one else wants that job, I can guarantee that.” Sherry snorted as she tried to suppress a giggle. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Van Ardan. Have a safe trip home.”

  “I’m known as Beverly, dear. I’ll be sure to visit on the days you’re here if you’ll sha
re your schedule with me. But I do hate driving in the afternoon, what with all the voluminous school buses, unwieldy delivery trucks, and whatnot. So, on second thought, unless you switch to mornings, I may not see you much.” The woman flowed through the door with her scarf wafting behind her.

  Before Sherry could comment, Erno plucked the yarn out of her hands for inspection. “You’re right; this isn’t robin’s egg blue. You have a good eye.” Erno winked at his daughter and handed back the soft wool strands. “Check to see if there’s enough in the batch; otherwise we can set a new dye lot in motion before the end of the day. I’m running to the men’s room. Can you watch the front end for a minute?”

  No sooner had Erno disappeared to the back of the store, but the doorbell tinkled again. Detective Ray Bease, in wrinkled, baggy khakis, lace-up dress shoes, an oversized blazer, and weather-beaten hat, sauntered through the door. Sherry’s heart rate quickened. She forced her eyes up to his after a head to toe assessment of the man’s outfit. Sherry clasped her hands together in a tight grip and stepped over to the register.

  “Detective Bease, it’s been a while.” Sherry lost her bearings as flashes of an award dinner, an interrogation, and a scolding flooded back and drowned her brain. “Not mentoring an up-and-coming detective these days?”

  “I’m always being threatened with that possibility, but, for now, I’m flying solo. I don’t have to tell you I prefer it that way.” The detective held a steady gaze on Sherry’s eyes.

  “What can I do for you?”

  The detective removed his hat and set it on the counter. “May we sit down? My legs are killing me.”

  He tilted his head toward a long wooden table near the rug display, where a half-drawn canvas lay on the table and photographs were strewn.

  “Please.” Sherry pulled two chairs across from each other, and they each took a seat.

  “Thank you. I do yoga in the morning before work now, but my legs haven’t adjusted to the increase in activity yet. My blood pressure’s down, so the torture’s been worthwhile. This is my first full caseload assignment since the doctor prescribed more downtime. Too much free time can make a man crazy.”

  “Funny, I did notice your posture is much straighter. You resembled the letter C last time I saw you. Now you’re closer to a D.

  “Not sure if that’s a compliment, so I’ll take it at face value.” Ray set down his briefcase and pulled a vibrant green pen from his breast pocket. Sherry made out the words “Green Mountain State” running along the edge.

  Sherry pointed to the pen. “I see you’re still collecting state pens. I have a cook-off coming up soon in Vermont. Maybe that’s a good omen.”

  “The verified existence of omens would make my job a lot easier. I wish I believed in them.” The edges of the detective’s lips curled up the tiniest amount. “First things first. Your name is on my list of those at the scene as Sherry Oliveri, not Frazzelle. Double-checking that.” He retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket.

  Sherry sat up a little straighter. “That’s right. Since last I saw you, my divorce is, for all intents and purposes, a done deal. I wanted to put the period on the end of my marriage, and that’s what the name change is about. I’m certainly not going to miss correcting people’s pronunciation of Frazzelle; that’s for sure. But, you know what that’s like.” She cocked her head. “Right? How many times have you said ‘Bease rhymes with grease not bees?’ I learned that about you the first day we met.”

  “Speaking of the last time I saw you, I guess you decided against my invitation for a bite out? That was months ago, and, as the country song says, ‘if my phone ain’t ringing it must be you who ain’t calling.’” Ray clicked his pen’s retractor multiple times.

  “You know the last we left off we had worked fairly well together to snag a murderer, but let’s face facts; getting past your flagging me as one of the main suspects in a murder investigation has been a process.”

  Ray nodded his head. “Duly noted.”

  “Why do you need to talk to Dad? There isn’t anything he knows that I don’t.”

  “Verification and corroboration. Sorting fact from fiction. My job is to reconstruct the incident, sift through clues and suspects, and identify the murderer.”

  “I understand, but that’s my dad we’re talking about. He doesn’t factor in beyond being at the scene and supporting me while I cooked.”

  The detective gave Sherry a side-eye glance and cleared his throat.

  Ray sighed. “I don’t want to say ‘here we go again,’ but if the phrase fits, there’s no denying. If he has any eyewitness accounts he can share, I would be appreciative.”

  “My dad’s in the restroom. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  Ray pulled his tablet computer from his briefcase. He aligned the bottom of the rectangular device to the edge of the table. He swiped his broad finger across the computer screen.

  Sherry’s mouth drew up into a smile. “Tech savvy, I see. That’s quite an accomplishment, given your inclination toward more antiquated methods of recording information.” Sherry studied the Vermont pen he set on the table.

  “You make it sound like I’d prefer using a quill and an inkwell. There’s no harm in putting pen to paper, but at work I’m howling in the wind on that point.” Ray poked at a button on his computer. He arched his back, groaned, and shook his head. “There we go. Temperamental little bugger. I also may have forgotten to charge this sucker. I never had to worry about that with my notepad and pen.” He scrolled to his document. “Carmell Gordy, age twenty-five. Cause of death: severed spinal cord, bled out. Pretty straightforward.”

  “That’s awful. So young, with what should have been a long life ahead of her. Who would do that to someone? And how did he or she get away with the crime with all those people around? Fact is, I was literally in the dark when whatever happened, happened. I guess that answers my ‘how did he or she get away with the crime with all those people around’ question. Under the cover of darkness.”

  “That has yet to be verified. You’re merely speculating at this point. Be careful with that. Is there someone to verify your whereabouts at the time of the murder?”

  “I was standing in the back of Studio A. I was waiting for Dad to return from the bathroom. There was a camera woman, Kirin, right next to me. We didn’t move a muscle while the lights were out. I was afraid of tripping over the miles of cables or crashing into the heavy equipment all around me.” Each word Sherry spoke crashed into the next as she sped the pace of her story up. Ray had yet to take notes.

  As her father entered the room, Sherry hoisted herself up with such force her chair toppled over. “Dad, do you remember Detective Bease?”

  Erno shuffled toward the detective’s outstretched hand.

  “Detective Bease, nice to see you.”

  “Name’s pronounced Bease, rhymes with grease not bees.” The detective’s hands hovered over the computer.

  “Right.” Erno peered over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “If you don’t need me, I’ll be in the back.”

  Ray stood and walked around the table and righted Sherry’s chair. “Sir, if I could ask you a few questions about this morning, please.”

  “Dad, you don’t have to answer any question you don’t want to.” Sherry joined Erno.

  “I have nothing to hide. Go right ahead. . . .” Erno’s voice trailed off to a whisper.

  “Would you like to have a seat?” Ray asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” Ray directed his attention to his computer and read aloud. “The murder weapon was identified as the sharp metal tool, which, when used as properly intended, is threaded with yarn and punches holes in canvas to create a hooked rug.”

  Sherry closed her stinging eyes and mashed her teeth together until her jaw ached. When she let the light in again, nothing had changed. It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare she could awaken from.

  “The Oliveri Ruggery is the sole retailer of these specialized t
ools within a one hundred and fifty-mile radius of Augustin,” the detective said. “The point is moot, though, because a punch tool can be mail ordered from purveyors in other locations without difficulty.”

  “Of course. Obviously, Dad has no connection to the murder weapon other than the mere coincidence of his line of work.”

  “But, the particular punch tool plunged in Carmell’s neck was labeled ‘do not remove from O.R.’ on the wooden handle. I’m going to hazard a guess that O.R. stands for Oliveri Ruggery.” Ray reached down the table and pulled a partially completed canvas closer to him. “For example, this piece of material has a sticker in the corner. Reads: ‘O.R. sample, do not sell.’”

  A barrage of sizzling hot needles pricked the back of Sherry’s neck. She reached around and kneaded the hotbed of irritation with both hands as if preparing bread dough.

  “I have questioned others who were at the station, trying to get an eyewitness as to your whereabouts prior to and during the time the lights in the TV studio went out. There’s a distinct gap as to your location at that time. Would you be able to tell me where you were between the time Sherry finished her cook-off and when you signed the logbook as you were exiting the station?” Ray flexed his fingers inches above the computer as if he were playing air piano.

  Sherry put her arm around her father’s lower back. “I’ll tell you. It’s no mystery. He went to the men’s room in the hallway between the studio where the cook-off was held, Studio B, I think, and the main studio, where the morning show originates. During the blackout Dad stayed put wherever he was. Thank goodness he didn’t go blindly searching for me in a building he was unfamiliar with. There are no windows in that place, just darkness. He didn’t have his phone with him, so no flashlight app. All phones were switched off anyway, mine included, per station rules. By the time we could get them powered up, the lights had returned.”

  “Mr. Oliveri, is your daughter’s statement accurate?” With no answer forthcoming, the detective took his gaze off his computer screen and zeroed in on Erno.