Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “I think I’ll pass for now, but I can sure see how that tool could leave a serious puncture wound.” Ray held out his finger painted with a drop of blood. “You have to be careful handling it.” He favored the wounded finger as he collected his hat. He adjusted the brim over his forehead. “Thank you, ladies.”

  “Ray?”

  “Yes, Ms. Oliveri.”

  “I’m asking you the following, and I’m not addressing Detective Ray Bease, but rather a person I have reached a certain level of familiarity with who hopefully cares about the well-being of one of my family members. May I have your word you’ll not approach my father with questions that will upset him and that you’ll contact me first, if need be?”

  “I have a job to perform, and I’ll do it with the utmost professionalism. I don’t make deals.” Detective Bease pulled the door open and slipped out of the store.

  “I should’ve had lunch with him when he asked me months ago.” Sherry leaned her elbows on the checkout counter and cradled her head in her hands.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, store traffic subsided. Sherry savored a moment of inactivity. “Amber, I’m going to give Dad a quick call. And I’ll give these pups their afternoon meal.” Sherry clapped her hands and whistled. Chutney and Bean scampered over. Before heading to the back room, Sherry pulled out the Rolodex of customer cards.

  “Oh, and while we were out, Beverly Van Ardan left a message that she might stop by before closing time, so if you wouldn’t mind reading her purchase history, I think the knowledge would be valuable in guiding her. She has a tendency to get carried away with her projects, while at the same time losing sight of the big decorating picture. She’s tried to return gorgeous custom rugs because she chose the wrong green or brown, and we can’t do that. The important tip to remember about her is her motto: ‘always give me colors that can be found on the food pyramid.’ Dad had to bring in a cantaloupe, a mango, a steak, rare not medium, and lobster shells to match her color choices to our yarn dye. She does keep us on our toes. She’s one of our best customers, so she requires the velvet-glove treatment.”

  “I look forward to meeting her. She sounds intriguing. I’ll tap into my best therapy etiquette, firm and soft at the same time.” Amber laughed.

  “Think hard-boiled egg. Firm touch, soft delivery.”

  “Being around you makes me so hungry, for some reason. Has anyone ever mentioned that?” Amber made her way to the index card collection and began sifting through.

  Sherry carried her phone to the back room, where she prepared two bowls of dry food for the dogs. Each canine attacked his nuggets with vigorous conviction when she set down the bowls. A symphony of crunches filled the air. Sherry took a seat at the small table.

  “Hi, Dad. Are you taking it easy today?” Sherry watched the dogs lick their bowls spotless. “Hope you’re not going stir-crazy.”

  “Hi, Sher. I thought I would enjoy the rest, but, yes, I’m getting a bit antsy. You know what I always say, ‘taking a seat at the table doesn’t mean you’ll enjoy the meal.’”

  Sherry reached down and tickled Bean’s neck. “I’ve never heard you say that, but I’ll give your words full consideration.” She scooted forward on the stark wooden chair. “Detective Bease was here earlier.” She paused when a low grumble came through the phone. Sherry arched her aching back, causing her to nearly slide off the edge of the seat. “He said he spoke to you again. Dad, if you could pinpoint where you were at the exact time Carmell Gordy was murdered and identify someone who can confirm what you say, that will help your cause. We need to figure out how the Ruggery’s hook tool found its way into Carmell’s neck. Wouldn’t hurt to offer an explanation of why you seemed to be having words with Carmell and Brett, which was witnessed by a number of people.” Sherry’s tongue caught on the roof of her mouth as she forced the last words out.

  “I was in the men’s room. When I left you, that’s exactly where I went, although I did open a few doors that weren’t the bathroom before I found the right one. There was no one else with me. I passed no one, and the men’s room was empty. What’s the chance the one time you would ever want someone listening to your business in the lavatory, not a soul? I passed Steele Dumont as I was leaving the men’s room, now that I think about it. He was moving at breakneck speed, which is probably not the best choice of words, and nearly knocked me over when we met head on. I bet he won’t remember that. He was fiercely in pursuit of something. His eyes were cloudy with distraction.”

  Sherry stood, causing a canine tsunami of excitement. The dogs pranced around Sherry’s feet. “Do you think Steele was involved with the murder? There’s plenty of concrete evidence that Carmell and he had a contentious relationship. I don’t suppose Frances Dumont has ever mentioned her grandson’s personal life, has she?”

  “Steele has a loyalty to the station, she has often commented. Yes, he was involved with Carmell Gordy for a time, but his internship was more important to him. He’s not an angry young fellow, like a lot of kids today. He’s a hard worker, who may suffer from an overeagerness to please. He’s the light of Frances’s life. You can’t suspect my friend’s grandson. You can’t.”

  Sherry put her phone on speaker and clicked the photo library icon. She scrolled through her recent photos and found the one she had taken at the television station. “One more question about Steele.”

  “I don’t know him beyond the picture Frances paints of his genuine character. I met him one time when he drove my gals over to the store to bring me some coffee. Frances usually does the driving, but had cut her hand splitting a bagel. The boy didn’t even come through the front door. He said ‘hi’ as he held the door open for the ladies. He waited for them in the car.”

  Sherry swiped the phone screen. She clicked the photo library icon and scrolled to the picture of the parking ticket. With a swipe of her fingers, she zeroed in on the ticket date. “The morning of the cook-off, did you go out at all before I picked you up?”

  Erno let out a hum. “I stopped by the store that morning. That’s when I picked up the punch tool. I know that fact sounds incriminating, but that’s the truth.”

  “Why did you bother to bring a punch tool with you?”

  “I was going to show you my new brainchild. I had the greatest idea of using the tool to carve a canyon down the length of your pickles so you can stuff them. Don’t you love stuffed olives? But how in the world do they get the tiny stuffing in the tiny hole? Well, I’ve got the answer. I think it’s an idea whose time has come.” Erno sighed. “I’m beginning to get a headache. Do you mind if I cut this conversation short and go lie down?”

  “Of course. Take care and love you.” Sherry put down the phone and stared at the dogs that were transfixed on her. “Amber?” She sidestepped the small mascots and found Amber working with index cards. “Any sign of Mrs. Van Ardan?”

  “Judging by your description of the woman, I definitely would know if she was in the store, even without ever having met her. But no. No sign of her.” Amber squared up the index cards. “Good news. I got a text from my rental agent, and she has convinced the landlord to allow Bean to stay with me. So, I can take him home after work tomorrow hopefully. My bank wired an amended security deposit to cover the extra cleaning, and, when I get the go-ahead, Bean comes with me. But it’s worth every extra penny. I’m so excited.”

  A young woman entered the store, holding a toddler’s hand. Bean scooted under the table, leaving Chutney as official greeter.

  “What a sweet dog.” The customer picked up her child. “Are you Sherry Frazzelle, or, I’m sorry, Oliveri? I’ve seen the name listed both ways in our committee notes.”

  Sherry waved her hand. “I am, both, I mean. But more of the latter. No, only the latter. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m on the Augustin Founder’s Day oversight committee, and I understand you accepted our invitation to stand on the podium along with other town dignitaries.”

  “I’m not a dignitary of
any sort, Mrs. . . .”

  “Kristi Cornell, and this is my daughter, Kayla. You’re our home cook extraordinaire. I’m here in hopes of persuading you to bring your signature dish for the local talent display table.” The woman lifted her little girl and tipped the youngster toward Sherry, as if offering up a pitcher of margaritas. The toddler reached out her gherkin-size fingers and rubbed Sherry’s arm.

  Sherry’s skin tingled under the toddler’s gentle touch. “Sure.”

  “Perfect,” Kristi cooed. “Mission accomplished.”

  Heads turned as the singular note of the bell pierced the air. Beverly Van Ardan in an all-white pantsuit sauntered through the door. She tightened the knot in her peach and green scarf and adjusted the cuffs of her white gloves. “Hello, Kristi. Your daughter is as adorable as ever. Hello, Sherry.” Beverly turned to face Amber. “Who do we have here?”

  Sherry nudged closer to Amber. “Mrs. Van Ardan, glad you could make it. This is Amber Sherman. She’s working here until my father feels up to returning.”

  “Nice to meet you, dear.” Beverly reached out and cradled Amber’s hand.

  Sherry rolled down her shirtsleeves to warm her chilled arms. “I’m finishing up with Kristi, but Amber is free to assist you, Mrs. Van Ardan.”

  Beverly dropped Amber’s hand and transferred her gaze to Kristi. “How are preparations going for Founder’s Day? And, more important, are you giving all who wish to have a say equal opportunity to be heard?”

  “When you say ‘all who wish,’ I presume you mean your family? In the spirit of Andre August Dahlback, who was open to all opinions when he laid down the plans for our great town, our committee has decided to give a representative from your family a reasonable amount of time to present his or her findings during the opening ceremonies. We will be contacting you shortly with details. Have a good day.” Kristi Cornell cradled her little girl’s head, turned, and left the store. “Thank you again, Sherry.”

  “Finally, someone with a grasp on reality,” Beverly huffed. “Now, let’s map out my rug design, shall we?”

  Chapter 9

  Sherry led the dog parade through the patio doors. In one hand she held shriveled string bean pods that contained the seeds for next year’s crop. In the other were four jalapeno peppers. She released her grip and let the contents cascade onto the kitchen counter. Sherry tore off sheets of paper towels, lined a spot on the counter with them, and began removing the beans from their shells. The wrinkled, chipped, or otherwise unusable seeds were tossed out. The remaining beans were laid in a single layer on the paper. Sherry found a clear storage bag that would hold the beans when they were dry. She labeled the bag with the day’s date and “string beans” and placed it beside the paper towel. She washed her hands, found her to-do list, and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Sherry showed the list to her four-legged shadows. “I can cross off ‘put garden to bed for the winter.’ One more season come and gone. ‘Collect and dry bean seeds’—done and done.” Sherry dropped the list. She examined the jalapenos. “I’m going to see if I can make myself a pest spray with these peppers, a little soap, mint oil, and vinegar. Who knows, maybe I have the makings of the next great garden-critter repellent right here in my kitchen.”

  Sherry checked the time on the wall clock. The minutes were ticking by faster than she hoped. The morning sun had risen with the sluggishness of the looming autumn season, and she had lost the inspiration to get out to her garden early. The ripple effect of procrastination left her short of time prior to dropping the dogs with Amber and continuing on to the farmer’s market.

  Sherry rummaged for a blank sheet of paper and pen and took them to the refrigerator. She surveyed the chilly contents of the door shelves. The momentum of the door opening must have spun a jar around because the label wasn’t facing her as she had left it. The offender that dared to be different was easily spotted among the conformers. She repositioned the condiment and nodded in satisfaction that all was in order. As she pulled her hand away from the mustard jar, her phone rang. In an effort to catch the call, she jettisoned the door shut with such force that glass rattled inside. Her shoulders arched up with the clatter.

  The phone on the counter sat in silence. She moved over to her desk and lifted the lid of her laptop. She accepted the incoming video call. “Hi, Marla. You got my text. Thanks for getting back to me so soon. You’re just the person I need to talk to.” Sherry carried her computer to the living room sofa and settled in. Seated in front of the window, she caught sight of Eileen picking up her paper across the street.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to finish my breakfast while we chat. I wasn’t going to call until later because I thought today was your day at the farmer’s market. Usually you’re out early at the Dumont farm picking up your jars to sell. It’s unlike you to be running late. What’s up?”

  Sherry shifted on the soft seat cushion. She sank her fingers into a tangle in her hair that her image in the upper right of the computer screen reflected. “There’s so much going on I thought I’d pick up the pickles last night to save time. They’re all in my car ready to go. I’m glad I did because I’m already running behind schedule.” Sherry adjusted the laptop lid until she got the desired lighting. She inclined her head, in hopes of reducing the shadows under her eyes. “I need more sleep.”

  “Speak up. I didn’t hear that.” Marla leaned into her computer screen. “Stop fussing with yourself.”

  “Guess what? I’ve got a new mouth to feed, but not for too much longer.” Sherry tipped her laptop camera toward the floor. “Say hi to Amber’s new dog.”

  “He’s precious,” Marla cooed. “I was thinking about you last night when I was watching Pressure Cooker on the Oven Lovin’ Network. That show cracks me up. The host makes the cooks do the craziest tasks for the sake of a new blender. It’s not even about being a skilled cook. Made me think that it must be about time for your next taste-test party.”

  Sherry laughed as she reframed herself on the computer’s camera. “You know me too well. It’s tomorrow night.”

  “Any cute guys invited?” Marla winked.

  Sherry hurled a glance to the ceiling. “My neighbor Eileen’s husband is pretty cute. He’ll most likely be here.”

  “What am I going to do with you, my dear sister? I meant eligible men.” Marla clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head. “What’s the theme of the party, besides ‘help Sherry get her social life together’?”

  “I don’t have time for a social life. This is as good as it gets.” Sherry watched Marla take a bite of a pancake oozing with syrup. “The theme is Judge’n Curry. I’m making my Peanut Butter Chicken Curry and Spinach Lentil Curry. The winning dish voted on by my guests gets submitted to the Hurry Up, Curry Sup recipe contest that’s run by Modern Renaissance magazine.”

  “Sounds like you can pull the evening off. Cool as a cucumber as usual, everything under control.” Marla didn’t bother swallowing her bite before she spoke.

  “To be honest with you, I’m thinking of canceling the evening because Dad is in a tough spot, and that’s deflating my already weak party spirit.” Sherry’s attention drifted to the window, where she spotted Eileen at the bottom of the driveway waving her newspaper in an effort to get Sherry’s attention. Sherry waggled her fingers toward her neighbor.

  “Are you there?” Marla thrust her face toward the computer, distorting her image as she closed in on the camera.

  “Sorr y, Eileen’s performing her morning happy dance outside my window.” Sherry turned her attention back to the window. “Dad’s not doing much to get himself out of Detective Bease’s crosshairs. And the detective isn’t happy I’ve begun sniffing around his territory. If by under control you mean total fiasco, you’ve hit the nail on the head.”

  “Forget about Dad’s aiding in his own defense. You’ve got to step in. No hesitation. The correct outcome’s in your hands because you were at the cook-off together; you invited Dad to ac
company you in the first place.” Marla pumped her fist. “You have no choice.”

  Sherry squeezed a gravelly groan out of the top of her throat.

  “Do you have any notion of who might have killed Carmell Gordy?” Marla asked.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d join the crowd and be on board with Dad’s being the prime suspect. Beyond the evidence left at the scene, I’m having trouble piecing missing segments of time together. Dad doesn’t have much of an alibi.” Sherry rested her chin in her hand. “The problem is the cast of characters there is as complex as a cioppino. To make matters worse, the person I suspect might have committed the murder is closely related to Mrs. Dumont, the pickle lady and a close friend of Dad’s. The runner-up on my suspect list is someone who has put a twinkle in Amber’s eye, and she’s not happy I’m considering him. How can I even think of having a party when no one is in a festive mood? I feel like crawling back in bed and pulling the covers over my head.”

  Marla put down her fork with a sharp clank. “I’ll take a stab in the dark and assume you recorded the cook-off?”

  Sherry gasped. “Marla, don’t say stab in the dark.”

  “Poor choice of words, but you know what I mean. If you taped it, you have to watch it. Maybe there’s a detail you missed in real time that could provide a clue. Could be worthwhile to pinpoint Carmell’s mood that day. Did she have fear in her eyes? Was she projecting anger as she read her lines? Did she act anxious and twitchy on camera? Body language is a real science. Maybe you should read up on that.”

  “I did tape the show. I haven’t had the inclination to watch it yet. Besides, Carmell wasn’t even involved in the cook-off. The other anchor, Brett Paladin, introduced us, interviewed us while we cooked, and gave out the winning trophy. Carmell made an appearance at the end to do a short promo for the next segment, but didn’t even try a bite of anyone’s food. She couldn’t get off the set fast enough. She said the lights were too hot and her makeup was beginning to run. The reason the room was hot was because it was a small set and we were roasting our appetizers at high heat in portable mini ovens to save time. There wasn’t any ventilation in there either. Must have been a fire hazard, come to think of it. But that’s beside the point.” Sherry paused and wiped the back of her hand across her chin. “I did set the recording for eight that morning because we weren’t given an exact time of the cook-off, only a ballpark estimate. I might have caught Carmell before and even after the cook-off. So, tell me, what would I be looking for if I watched the tape?”