Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “Think about it this way.” Marla picked up her fork and waggled the silverware in unison with her words. Bits of pancake sprayed in all directions. “When you’re initially writing a recipe for a contest, what’s the first step?”

  Sherry shut her eyes and envisioned an empty kitchen counter. “I begin with the theme of the contest. Let’s say, quick appetizer or best use of phyllo dough. That notion helps steer my direction right away. I go through my recipe collection to see if I have any recipes fitting the theme.”

  Marla thumped her fork on the table. “Exactly.”

  Sherry’s eyes popped open. “Exactly what?”

  “When you have to narrow down your choices, you do so according to the contest theme. You know how you take a tried and true recipe, come up with a magical spin on a classic, and suddenly it’s a Sherry original.” Marla skewered another bite of pancake.

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with the tape of the cook-off? I’m getting confused.”

  “I’ll leave you with this nugget. Tackle your investigation like you would a recipe contest. The motive of the murder is the theme, the recipe you have to create is made up of the clues you uncover, those are the ingredients, and the prize isn’t a trophy or a check; it’s much, much bigger. Clearing Dad’s name is the payoff. The recording you made might be able to help you put the Sherry spin on how things went down that morning. I’ve got to get moving, Sher. But I believe in you. Talk soon.” The last Sherry saw of her sister was her finger reaching for the keyboard.

  “Sometimes my family is harder to figure out than how to make mashed potatoes without lumps.” Sherry shut her laptop and faced her kitchen. “Let me see if I have all the ingredients for my curry recipes.”

  Sherry walked to her spice rack and pulled out the cumin, coriander, chili flakes, turmeric, and black pepper bottles for her curry blend. She set a new container of peanut butter, two sweet potatoes, and a large onion on the counter. She found the bag of bulk lentils in the cupboard, along with ajar of chutney, some olive oil, and the chicken stock. She broke the ingredients into groups, according to each recipe and length of time for preparation.

  “I’m set. All the other ingredients are in the refrigerator. I’ll start cooking after work.” Sherry reached down and stroked each dog on the head. “Thanks for being such a good audience, guys.” Sherry backed away from the kitchen counter and ran her eyes down her organized ingredients. “Okay, Marla, these are my recipe ingredients. Now if only I could be as clear when recognizing clues.”

  Chapter 10

  “Dad, I’m short on time. I can’t talk long. I have to unload the pickles.” Sherry peered over her shoulder at the boxes of brined cucumbers lining her car’s back seat. Outside her parked car other farmer’s market vendors were unloading their wares from their vehicles. She clicked the phone’s speaker setting and set the device on the dashboard. She retrieved her purse from the front passenger seat. “I’m running a bit late because I dropped the dogs off with Amber. Actually, I’ve been running late all morning.”

  “I called because Marla said she spoke to you. She hinted that you felt you weren’t getting much help from me where the investigation is concerned, but I don’t know what else I can offer. She also said you have a strong suspicion about someone in particular being the guilty party, but refused to spill the beans. I think I know who you suspect, though. Please prove yourself wrong, Sherry.”

  Sherry heard her father exhale a windstorm into the phone. As she waited for the squall to subside, she reached in her purse for her cashbox key. Erno wasn’t going to like what she had to say, but Sherry had to get the looming weight off her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth. “I’m convinced Steele Dumont’s guilty, but I’m having as hard a time wrapping my head around the idea of Frances Dumont’s grandson being a murderer as you are.”

  “I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.” Erno’s voice was no louder than a whisper. “Ruth and Frances were here this morning with my coffee and a breakfast burrito they made for me. It’ll break their hearts if what you’re saying is true. I’d rather the authorities arrest me and spare the ladies any pain.”

  “You don’t mean that. So many signs indicate Steele reached a breaking point after one too many personal requests from Carmell Gordy. His relationship with her ended on a sour note, her dog hates him, and I took a picture of a parking ticket on a desk in the room where Steele was keeping Bean down at the station. The ticket was dated the day of the murder.”

  “People get parking tickets. What’s the big deal?” The conviction in Erno’s voice came across as diluted as skim milk.

  “The location noted on the ticket was in front of your store, time stamped exactly when you would have been there before the cook-off. Seeming like the perfect opportunity for him to get in the store and help himself to a punch tool. I could send you the photo of the ticket with all that information if you want to see for yourself.”

  “I don’t want to see it. Besides, the murderer somehow got his hands on the punch tool when I misplaced the darn thing inside the station. If Steele did it, and he didn’t, he needn’t have made a special trip to the Ruggery. Seems I was amenable enough to bring the murder weapon right to the scene.”

  “Dad, you have to tell me if Steele was in your store that day.”

  “I told you. Prior to the cook-off, I met the young man one time when he drove Frances and Ruth over with my morning coffee. He was doing them a special favor. Yes, I admit I saw him again the morning of the cook-off through the window, by Wine One One, but he didn’t see me. He seemed to be waiting for someone. His arms were crossed, and he was leaning against the side of a snazzy sports car.” Erno paused.

  “You’re making that noise, Dad.” Sherry screwed up her brow. “I know that tongue-snapping habit you have when you have something you’re trying to say, but you can’t get the words out.”

  Erno sighed. “Maybe he was in my store for a minute that morning.”

  “Dad!”

  “Steele must have seen the lights on, even though the ‘Closed’ sign was on the door. He asked if he could use the restroom. I’m not running one of those hoity-toity establishments that turns people away if nature calls at an inopportune time. That’s uncivilized.”

  “So you must have seen him come and go, right? Was he carrying anything out when he left? Was his hand in his pocket?” Sherry’s voice took on more urgency than she had felt the time she had one minute left on the contest clock to plate four stuffed chicken breasts for the judges and she couldn’t find her spatula.

  Erno’s tongue castanet began again in earnest.

  “Dad?”

  “I didn’t want to be late for you, so I locked the door from the inside and asked Steele to close up when he was done with the restroom. Even if he had access to any number of punch tools while he was in the store, what does that prove?”

  Sherry gripped the dashboard with both hands, dropping the cashbox key in the process. She banged her forehead on the steering wheel when she leaned forward to find it. She wedged her finger in the back of the brake pedal to retrieve the small key and stuffed the metal piece in her pocket. “Did you just hear yourself ask that question? What would your answer be? By the way, you don’t just have one punch tool marked ‘do not remove from O.R.,’ do you? Amber and I have found at least two others in the last few days. Do you know how many you had on the day of the murder?”

  Erno hummed a descending scale of notes. “Definitely more than two, but less than eight. Or nine. Hard to say because even though I mark them ‘do not remove,’ if a customer who misplaced his or her tool comes in in an emergency situation, I lend them a store model. Like I always say, ‘If I have two of something, you have won. That’s won with a w.”

  “Right.” Sherry closed her eyes and smiled. Her smile morphed to a frown as her eyes popped open. “They all must have your fingerprints on them. But that’s not proof of much, because the tools are from the Ruggery, so, of cou
rse, you’ve touched them. Realistically, if Steele committed the crime, he could have used the tool you brought to the station, which somehow found its way out of my cook-off supply bag. Or, he might have brought in his own that he picked up at the store sometime. If he wanted someone else blamed for his dirty deed, he might have seen you as an easy fit. Maybe he has a vendetta against you, Dad. Does that make sense?”

  “Why would he have a vendetta against me? You’re making me feel guilty for being considerate.” Erno cleared his throat. “I don’t know what Steele was doing parked outside the store that morning. I think I need to use the restroom, sweetie. Didn’t you say you have to get to work?”

  Sherry set the phone down on the dashboard and removed her sunglasses. The rising autumn sun streaming in through the windshield stung her eyes. She dabbed the trail of a tear from her cheek.

  “Dad, I’m going to have a chat with Detective Bease later, so if you think of any more information to add, please call me.” Sherry heard a mumble, but didn’t attempt to interpret the meaning.

  Her phone was silent. Erno was gone.

  Sherry made four trips between her car and her vendor table, carrying the boxes of pickles. The “Dumont Farm Perfect Storm Pickle” banner was the final detail she wrestled with. The giant pickle sign hung behind her pickle-paraphernalia-laden table to entice people to purchase the briny spears and chips. She draped the cloth along the makeshift partition that defined one side of her space.

  Sherry filled her cashbox with twenty-five dollars’ worth of small bills and coins for making change. She organized the money by denomination, turning all the bills presidential face side up and squaring the edges in a stack as neat as the layers of a buttercream-filled Napoleon.

  A voice startled her as she closed the cashbox. “Sherry Oliveri? Would you permit me to interview you after we go on-air?”

  She raised her head.

  “We’re doing a live feed, so I want to make sure we don’t surprise you.” Brett Paladin approached with a microphone in one hand and his cell phone in the other. “We’re doing a remote from the market this morning to celebrate the fall harvest.” Brett turned around and called out to a group of three individuals huddled together behind him. “Hey, guys, could we get the camera over here?”

  “Sure. I’m here all day, so anytime, as long as I’m not involved with a customer. I love to talk about our product. Our pickles are the best in . . .” Sherry’s words drifted to silence as Brett turned and walked away.

  He joined Damien Castle, Truman Fletcher, and Kirin, the camera operator.

  Sherry surveyed the increasing number of potential shoppers trickling in.

  A little girl yanked her mother’s arm, directing her closer to Sherry’s table. “Mommy, over here. Pickles. My favorite.”

  “How much salt is in your pickles?” a woman in a fuzzy black fleece asked. “I get puffy if I so much as sniff a granule of sodium.” Her mini-me daughter dropped her mother’s hand and reached for a Perfect Storm jar. Sherry held her breath until the tiny exploring hand retreated.

  “We reduced the sea salt used in our secret recipe a smidge this year.” Sherry saw Salt Restrictive Woman’s mouth twist into a judgmental pucker. “The result is the bold brininess we are famous for, with a nod to customer preferences. Our pickles are so packed with perfectly balanced acidic fortitude that a spear or two is all that’s needed to perfectly complement whatever you’re serving. I recommend restricting the addition of salt on the rest of the meal, and let our pickle partner with your food and, not unlike a good marriage, the result will be a strong bond that brings out the best in both sides.”

  The woman’s mouth relaxed. “I’ll take two jars.”

  As the woman and child backed away from Sherry’s table with their purchases, a man with a telltale hat took their place. “That was quite a sales pitch. Pickles and marriage share a close bond. Who knew?”

  “Detective Bease. I’m a little surprised to see you here.” Sherry picked up a pickle jar and held it label-side out toward Ray. “This season’s batch is exceptional. You can’t leave without a jar.” The word “can’t” was punctuated by the jar’s being thrust toward the detective.

  “How can I resist if it also comes with the guarantee of a good marriage?” Ray’s lip curled upward enough to expose a dimple. He accepted the jar from Sherry’s hand. “Can you explain the pickling process to me?”

  Sherry inclined her head. “Are you serious?”

  “More serious than a bowl of my grandmother’s hand-churned espresso ice cream.”

  Before Sherry could begin her tutorial, a man as bald as an Ugli fruit and a woman with hair the color of champagne approached the Perfect Storm table. “We would also love to hear how your pickles are made, if you don’t mind.” The man picked up a tiny plastic fork and jabbed a sample pickle off a paper plate. “You’re right. These are fantastic.”

  “Happy to share.” Sherry sucked in a breath. “The magic starts at the Dumont farm located right here in Augustin, which is certified organic. Pickling cucumbers grow in raised beds there. From midsummer until early fall we harvest the little critters. The farm has a certified kitchen where this year it was up to me to sterilize hundreds of jars and lids. I mixed up huge amounts of hot brine using water, white vinegar, dill, dill seed, garlic, sea salt, and a pinch or two of red pepper flakes. Again, all organic.”

  “Do you do all that work solo or do you have a partner?” The hair-challenged man picked up ajar.

  “Anyone significant?” Ray asked.

  Sherry let her gaze fall to the table. She blinked hard before making eye contact again with Ray. “Mrs. Dumont occasionally pitches in because the operation is still in her name. I guess you could call her my significant other. But I’m really her intern.”

  “Sounds like the brine recipe is a secret,” the woman added.

  “When those thumb-size babies get in the hot water blend, it transforms them into flavor machines.” The man laughed from deep within his belly.

  “Getting into hot water.” The detective jutted his chin forward. “That can also happen to people, but more often than not it doesn’t end on a positive note.” Ray put the jar down in front of Sherry. “I’ll take this one, please.”

  “And we’ll take two, please.” The woman pushed two jars beside the one Ray had chosen.

  “You go right ahead. I’m in no hurry.” Ray picked up his jar and hugged it to his chest.

  Sherry rang up the two jars and collected the money. “Thank you so much. Enjoy.” Sherry reached her hand toward Ray’s potential purchase. “Are you ready for me to write that up now?”

  The detective fingered the brim of his hat. “Yes, thanks.” He slid the jar toward Sherry, along with a ten-dollar bill.

  Sherry counted out the change, but, instead of passing the money along, she curled her fingers tight. “Did you know Steele Dumont drives Damien Castle’s car to run errands?”

  “I was not aware of that.”

  “I realize Steele’s not a paid employee, but isn’t it unusual he would drive the boss’s car? That seems like a pretty nice perk.” Sherry checked the man’s expression.

  He was stone-faced.

  “Have you checked into what Steele’s daily duties are over at News Twelve? Maybe he wasn’t doing as many personal errands for Carmell Gordy as he said he was. Could it be that Steele had transferred his loyalty from team Carmell to team Damien? If Carmell wasn’t happy about that, she might have been punishing Steele. Another reason he was pushed to his limit.”

  “I’ve been to the station a number of times. I had an informative meeting with Damien Castle. I can’t go into details, you know that, but I can tell you Steele’s duties are in line with an intern’s. The job description is left extremely vague for a reason,” Ray said.

  “I think he’s the one all signs point to. Steele, that is. Maybe Damien Castle isn’t an innocent bystander, either. His kid-glove treatment of Carmell might have contributed to her diva behavi
or. I couldn’t help but notice the only reserved spot in the parking lot was for Carmell Gordy. Not even one for Damien or co-anchor Brett Paladin.”

  Sherry put the coins in Ray’s hand. “It might be time to act.”

  “I appreciate your insight, as always, but acting in haste fueled by sentiment is not a chapter in The Effective Detective. I can hear my fledgling ex-partner flipping through the pages of that textbook that served him so well, this very moment in search of a directive. But what’s not in the detective training manual is the role intuition plays in the investigative process. That’s what makes a veteran a veteran. Detective Ray Bease is a gut instinct–driven bloodhound from the mean streets.”

  Sherry raised her nose high in the air and, in doing so, misdirected some of the coins she was depositing in Ray’s hand. One rolled off the table and disappeared in the trampled grass.

  “Have you spoken to your father today?” Ray plunged his change in his pocket.

  Sherry’s gaze drifted to Ray’s pants. “A coin pouch would make organizing your change a snap.”

  “So would being able to use a credit card. Imagine that. I wouldn’t need any cash at all.” He stared at the “Cash Only” sign next to the register.

  “The credit card processing fees are prohibitive for an operation our size. Anyway, yes, I spoke to Dad, and I don’t wish to say any more about that.”

  The detective exhaled with heft.

  “Excuse me, Sherry. In two minutes the broadcast will be live. Oh, hey, Detective. Bease was it?” Brett Paladin hustled over to the edge of Sherry’s table and held the microphone up to his lips. “Testing, testing.”