Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “You’re so humble,” Mrs. Bornstead commented.

  “Does the flyer mention some people are trying to undermine the festivities by claiming their relative was the actual founder of Augustin?” Frances broke through the gathering around the register. “Hi, I’m Frances Dumont, and this is Ruth Gadabee.”

  “I didn’t see what you’re referring to.” Mrs. Bornstead backed away from Frances. “There’s mention of a Swedish onion farmer, who I believe had the middle name August.”

  “It won’t be long until the other side of the so-called controversy hits the airwaves with their version of who founded our town, so buckle up. They’re a force to be reckoned with,” Frances said.

  “We have to excuse ourselves. We’re trying to get to Boston before rush hour.” Mr. Bornstead collected his purchase, put his arm around his wife and guided her out the door.

  “You scared them off, Frances. Some people shy away from conflict, unlike you.” Ruth’s laugh was as sweet as port wine and equally as full-bodied. “Let’s make like a tree and leave, too.”

  “That joke never gets old,” Frances giggled, “unlike us.” She hooked her friend’s arm in hers, and they promenaded out the door.

  “I want to be them when I grow up.” Amber pulled out a clean index card from under the counter and began recording the Bornsteads’ purchase information. “I think I hear your phone ringing.”

  Sherry circled the counter and found her phone in her purse. “Missed it. It says ‘unknown caller.’” She played the voice mail message. “My trophy’s ready. What do you say we close up at lunchtime and pay News Twelve a visit?”

  Chapter 7

  “Sorry about the mess in here.”

  “That’s a joke, right?” Amber ran her finger across the door panel. Her digit came up spotless. “I’ve never seen a car this clean, except in the dealer showroom.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.” Sherry slowed the car to merge onto the parkway. “I can hardly keep my eyes off the gorgeous fall colors on the trees.” Sherry pressed harder on the gas pedal. “I could’ve used a second pair of eyes when I was driving yesterday. I was so distracted by the gorgeous fall leaves on the trees, I almost missed my exit.”

  “Do you need help now?” Amber gripped her armrest.

  “No. Don’t worry. My full attention is on the road.” Sherry’s peripheral vision caught Amber bracing herself. “I can’t help but notice that ever since yesterday there are so many more reds on the trees. That’s my favorite fall color.” Sherry saw her opportunity to slide between two cars and gunned the accelerator. “Hold on!”

  “Would you ever like to be on one of those competitive cooking shows on TV? I don’t mean a mild-mannered cook-off. I’m talking about the high stress, fast-paced shows where they systematically eliminate cooks round by round. You’re so good at keeping your ducks in a row, I bet you’d win.”

  Sherry laughed. “I tried out for one once. I was interviewed to be a contestant on the show Double Boiler, but they didn’t choose me. Those shows aren’t just about cooking skills. For entertainment value, they want a good backstory for each contestant. That makes good TV. I’m plain boring, too orderly, I guess.” Sherry squirted the windshield with wiper fluid to remove some bug sashimi.

  “I’d think they’d like you to be a bit devious, too. It’s not too late to change your nice ways, Sherry Oliveri. You could drop your sweet persona like you dropped your husband’s last name, hot-potato style.” Amber belted out an evil snicker.

  “I’ll give that consideration.”

  “That’s got to be it. Telltale huge tower and satellite dishes.” Amber pointed her finger across Sherry’s line of vision.

  “That’s it. And there’s the Doppler Ten Thousand Weather On The Go truck. They advertise it’s the most accurate forecasting tool around besides the acorn.”

  “Did you say acorn?” Amber asked.

  “Local lore says that variables, like the acorn’s size, the amount the trees produce, their shape, when they fall from the trees, and the quantity the animals forage, are the best predictors of what the New England weather will deliver.”

  “And a lot cheaper than the cost of that truck with the catchy name, I’m guessing.” Amber laughed so hard Chutney uncurled, stood up on wobbly legs, and popped his head through the center console.

  The car turned into the driveway, where Sherry located a large parking lot by the sprawling one-story building. As they neared the front entrance, Sherry kept her eye out for a convenient short-term parking spot. She crept the car past a gray sedan sadly in need of a wash. “I wonder if Detective Bease is here.”

  “I think we should proceed with caution if he is,” Amber said.

  “We’re here to pick up my trophy and to deliver his father’s money clip to Brett. If we happen to get a few questions answered along the way, that’s frosting on the cake.”

  “Can you park there?” Amber pointed to an empty spot within steps of the building’s entrance. “Wait, we can’t. Sign says ‘Reserved for Carmell Gordy.’ I guess that’s why the spot’s empty.”

  “I see one. ‘Thirty-Minute Parking.’” Sherry guided the car into the parking spot. “You stay in the car, boy. We won’t be long.” Sherry and Amber grabbed their purses and unloaded. Sherry locked the car.

  “Someone grabbed Carmell’s spot.” Amber pointed in the direction of what had been the vacant slot, now filled by a blue sports car.

  The car door was wide-open, and someone in the driver’s seat was pulling off a long-sleeved garment. After the figure emerged from the front seat, she leaned down and retrieved a small item from outside the car. She gathered her long locks in one hand and twirled them into a sphere. She secured the hairdo with whatever item she had picked up off the ground.

  “Wait a minute. I thought the driver was a female, but now I think that’s Steele Dumont. The hair fooled me.” Sherry mumbled the information behind a shielding hand. “Interesting that he would park there.”

  Sherry watched Steele slam the car door shut and sprint the short distance to the building. She and Amber crossed the parking lot before stopping at the sports car.

  “Have you ever seen someone do this before? Charlie used to put his ceramic mug on top of the car while he loaded in his briefcase and computer. He was good about not forgetting it, though.” Sherry wrapped her hand around the pearl-white travel mug perched on the car’s soft convertible top. The beverage container was adorned with a detailed design.

  Sherry studied the circular drawing on the mug. “Let’s return the mug to its rightful owner.”

  They reached the News Twelve building and made their way to the metal detector, feet from the receptionist’s desk. The woman next to the hulking security guard took her eyes off her computer screen and scanned Sherry.

  “May I help you?” The woman removed her reading glasses. “Oh, I know you. You were at our cook-off, and you won. You don’t have to pass through the detector. We’re expecting you.”

  The man in uniform moved a step closer to the receptionist, never taking his hand off a bulge at his waist. “Please state your name.”

  “Sherry Frazzelle.” Sherry felt a sharp elbow in her side. “I mean, Sherry Oliveri. And this is Amber Sherman.”

  “These ladies are invited guests.” The receptionist pushed the visitor sign-in book toward the women. Sherry doodled her name and handed the pen to Amber.

  “I wanted to say how sorry I was about the death of Carmell Gordy. That was so awful. I can’t imagine returning to a sense of normalcy any time soon.” Sherry’s tongue felt as dry as an overcooked chicken breast. She swallowed hard to drum up some saliva.

  “I got a call saying my cook-off trophy had been engraved and that I could come pick it up. I think they said it was in Damien Castle’s office.”

  “Of course. I’ll call for our intern to accompany you to Mr. Castle’s office.” The receptionist put her glasses back on and typed on her keyboard. She stared at the screen as if she
were a hungry diner reading a four-star menu. She looked up. “He’ll be right over. Please have a seat. Oh, and please power down all cell phones. We can’t have them ringing or even lighting up during production.”

  Sherry and Amber retrieved their phones from their purses and shut them off.

  “Who’s Damien Castle?” Amber whispered.

  “I guess you didn’t hear when Dad’s lady friends were describing the situation over here at the station, as reported by Frances Dumont’s grandson. He works as an intern here. Long story short, Damien Castle is the owner of the station, its majority investor. But there might be trouble simmering between him and the employees. Frances mentioned there are some hard feelings about the star-status treatment Carmell Gordy had been receiving. Seems Damien’s not been seeing the forest for the trees.”

  Before Sherry was able to continue, Steele Dumont walked up to the seated women. “Hi, I’m Steele Dumont. We met at the appetizer cook-off.” Steele took Sherry’s hand as she stood and shook vigorously. “And you are Amber Sherman, I’m told.” He shook Amber’s hand. “Let me take you to Mr. Castle’s office where he’s holding your trophy.”

  Sherry sidled up to Steele and motioned Amber in tight. Amber put her hand over her mouth to steer a comment Sherry’s way. Sherry dropped back and leaned her ear in close.

  “Isn’t he the guy we saw taking the best parking spot? He’s an intern. How does he finagle that privilege?”

  Sherry put her finger to her lips. She picked up her pace and caught up to Steele. “Is this, by any chance, yours?” Sherry lifted the white travel mug up to Steele’s face. “We noticed it resting on the roof of the car you got out of.”

  Steele accepted the mug and brought it down to his side. “Thank you. Bad habit I need to break. One day I’m going to drive away with a full cup of coffee up there.”

  “Nice car, too, if you don’t mind my saying.” Amber crossed her arms, hugging her purse in tight to her chest.

  “Fun to drive, but it’s not mine.” Steele turned and resumed his walk

  “Not his car,” Sherry muttered.

  Sherry and Amber made their way through a set of double doors after Steele waved his badge across a sensor. They entered a windowless hallway.

  “Steele, I run into your grandmother quite often. Just this morning, as a matter of fact. Sure is a small world.”

  “Where was that?” Steele peered back over his shoulder at Sherry.

  “She came into my father’s store, the Oliveri Ruggery.”

  “I’m guessing she was with her partner in crime, Ruth Gadabee?” Steele let out a laugh. “Talk about small worlds. They’re best friends, and now I work with Mrs. Gadabee’s stepson, Brett. Let that be a lesson. You can’t get away with a thing in this town. Too many eyes and ears monitoring your every move.”

  Sherry felt a tug from behind. She checked back and received a return wink from Amber. “In passing, your grandma mentioned you dated Carmell Gordy. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  A moment later, he turned to face Sherry. At the same time, Amber bumped into her friend when she abruptly came to a stop. Sherry noted Steele’s expression was as serious as sriracha sauce.

  “Carmell and I dated for a while, but it was never heading anywhere. She had much bigger aspirations than to be Augustin’s local News Twelve anchor, and I was a brief stopover on her journey.” He studied the floor. “She wasn’t making many friends here, which is too bad. But the question is, who would murder her? I can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind when her last to-do list for me was more about picking up dry cleaning and dog food than work-related. She had a way of making me feel stepped on, like a doormat.” Steele stomped his boot on the floor with a dull thud.

  Sherry took a step back. “I can’t imagine how shocked you were when you found out. You wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  “Were you in the studio when the mur . . . the mur . . . her death happened?” Amber asked.

  “I was probably in the supply closet sorting out her wardrobe. That room’s like my second home, I spend so much time in there. At least I don’t have that fun task hanging over my head anymore.” He spun on his heels and took off. “Keep your voices down. They’re rehearsing.” Steele opened the thick metal door to the studio. After Sherry and Amber passed through, Sherry watched him shut it with noiseless precision.

  When Steele reached one of the camera operators, he slowed his pace. “Hey, Lucky, thanks for the sweater loan. I owe you one. I’ll bring it by later,” he whispered.

  Lucky removed his face from the camera viewfinder and lifted his thumb high in the air. The circular collection of hair on top of his head wriggled in unison with his hand gesture.

  “You two could be twins,” Amber remarked in a hushed tone. “I can’t be the first to say that.”

  “We get that all the time. He’s a good dude.” Steele put his thumb up and waggled it. “Stole my flavor, though.”

  “Flavor?” Sherry asked.

  “You know, my style, my look,” Steele answered.

  “Imitation is a form of flattery,” Amber added softly.

  “Wonder if I can ever find my flavor,” Sherry considered.

  From her vantage point at the back of the room, Sherry could make out Brett in front of a green screen. When she closed in on a monitor, Sherry could see, from the enhanced shot, Brett was pointing out a weather situation in Connecticut. She took a step closer to Steele and leaned toward his ear. “Is Brett a weatherman too?” She watched Brett’s arms sweep across his body, simulating the movement of a passing cold front.

  Steele cupped his hands around his mouth. “Budget cuts. Our meteorologist, Blitz Gale, got the axe last week, and Brett got the assignment. He tapes the weather twice a day, and the station loops the segment throughout a twenty-four-hour period. If he directed people to look out the window, they’d get a more accurate report.”

  “Or if they studied the local acorn population,” Amber whispered as she reached her hand over her shoulder and patted herself on the back.

  Steele led the ladies through the studio exit. He knocked on the next door they came to. The plaque secured to the door read “Damien Castle.” Steele turned the knob and pushed. He wedged his head into the sliver of an opening. He mumbled some words before shutting the door. “He needs a minute.”

  Sherry positioned her body to face Steele. “Do you enjoy working for Mr. Castle? Do you think he’s a good leader?”

  Steele glanced at Damien’s office door and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “This place is hanging on by a thread. A really weak thread. Mr. Castle was under so much pressure to serve Carmell a fat paycheck on a silver platter, he left his longstanding employees starving. Granted, I don’t make a dime here, but if I were a paid employee, there would be another reason to be enraged with the girl. To me, Mr. Castle gives off a shady vibe. He seems to have his own agenda, with total disregard for the big picture. Doesn’t seem to be a team player. Best guess is someone is constantly in his ear, like a puppet master. Even when you’re talking to him, he doesn’t seem engaged with what you’re saying. Like he’s waiting for confirmation from another source that whatever point you’re trying to make is valid. Middleman would best describe him, even though he’s supposed to be the head honcho.”

  The door opened and out stepped Detective Bease. Damien Castle was behind him with his hand on the doorknob. Sherry caught a gasp as it attempted to escape her chest. Only a mousey squeak left her lips.

  “Ms. Frazz . . .” Ray whacked his palm on his forehead. “Forgive me. I mean Ms. Oliveri and Ms. Sherman, so nice to see you here. This is quite a surprise.”

  Sherry detected a note of contempt in the detective’s words.

  “Ray, I mean, Detective Bease, I assume you’re on official business, as are we.” Sherry wasn’t sure she delivered her words with authority, so once they left her lips, she longed for a second try. “We’re picking up my cook-off trophy.”

  “Ah, very good.” Ra
y shimmied to the side to let Sherry, Amber, and Steele pass. “Sherry, I’ll be contacting you shortly about a certain matter, if that’s convenient. And do you still have my hat?”

  “That would be fine, and, yes, your chapeau is safe and waiting to be picked up at your convenience.”

  “Right this way, ladies.” Damien pointed toward his office. “Dumont, give us five minutes before you escort these ladies back to the lobby.” He waved Sherry and Amber through and shut the door, leaving Steele in the hall with Ray.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Oliveri.” Damien’s vision lingered on Amber. He smiled and pulled out his phone.

  The ladies took seats facing Damien’s desk. Damien sat in a leather captain’s chair at the head of the desk. He typed on the phone’s tiny keypad before revisiting Amber. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  “This is my friend, Amber Sherman. She’s helping me at my father’s store while he recuperates from a health scare.” Sherry scanned the room and located her spatula trophy perched on a box in the corner. “Is that mine?”

  “Yes.” Damien collected the trophy and handed it to Sherry. His gaze darted to Amber. “I wish I had one for you, too.” He tugged at his shirt collar.

  Amber shifted in her chair.

  Sherry sighed. She turned the trophy over to check the engraving. Her name without the Frazzelle surname sent a ripple of imbalance through her core. Sherry had begun cooking contesting on a whim soon after she married Charlie Frazzelle, the man she had tutored in organizational skills through his law school days and fallen in love with. Competitive cooking was a hobby she excelled at, and her ex-husband was always so supportive of her culinary experiments, for better or worse. She considered his stamp of approval her good luck charm when it came to her recipes. The trophy she held was the first she’d won under her maiden name. Considering her aversion to change, the sight was going to take some getting used to.