Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “We touched on the fact that Damien knows he’s on the suspect list for the murders at the station. But, he has a solid alibi. The traffic ticket you photographed, proves he had gone to an early morning Gamblers Anon meeting. When Damien arrived, he was told the meeting was canceled and rescheduled for later in the morning because the leader of the group had fallen ill. Damien returned to the station, later went back to the rescheduled meeting, during the time the murder took place, and was promptly called out of that second meeting to return to the station to attend to the crisis. His attendance was documented. He’s had to tell the News Twelve employees about his personal struggles because the details would be going public, in a matter of time, during the investigation. He’s surprised at the positive effect on morale the disclosure has made over there, he said.”

  “A small silver lining to all the workplace unrest.” Sherry lowered her gaze. “Rehabilitating his destructive habits may be too little too late if funds are drying up, though.”

  “At least he’s cleared of any suspicion involving the murder. He’s not a bad guy. His heart is breaking for the employees, he said, but there is a way out. We didn’t get into what that would be, though. There’s also a glimmer of a decent date potential in the future if I can get him to put down that darn cell device. By the way, which recipe won tonight?”

  Chapter 13

  “A tie, a dead heat. Four votes for the Peanut Butter Chicken Curry and four votes for the Spinach Lentil Curry.” Sherry kicked a pebble toward the river.

  “I guess I would have been the deciding vote.” Ray tugged at his hat as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. He pulled his sunglasses from his blazer’s breast pocket.

  Sherry and the detective continued down the woodchip trail that ran beside the Silty Pretzel River. The half-mile path had been worn down to the topsoil in spots from years of hosting bikers, joggers, and dog walkers. Tall ornamental grasses bordering the banks of the river served as a dynamic golden barrier between the trail and the gently flowing water. The breezes picked up the dried fronds and tossed them about at will. Giant swans and mallard ducks cohabited the stretch of water and dry land between Augustin’s library and the town center. The waterfowl’s graceful majesty provided a shock of white on the sparkling dark blue water.

  When a foraging bird caught Chutney’s eye, the dog strained at the leash, but Sherry was content to keep her distance. The swans had been known to take offense to nosy canines that got too close to their goslings, so she took no chances.

  “Actually, I decided to count my own vote. Yes, my opinion counts, so there was a five to four majority, but I’m keeping the results hush-hush.” Sherry kicked another pebble. The pebble took flight and landed in the water. The splash alarmed the swan, whose long neck was buried deep in the grasses. Big Bird whipped his head in the direction of the disturbed water before taking flight. Chutney sank down on his haunches and refused to move forward until Sherry coaxed him with the promise of a treat.

  “That bird could do some damage with those massive wings,” Ray said. “Good thing your dog has the sense to stay away from trouble like that.”

  “Why didn’t you stop by last night?” Sherry kept her eyes on Chutney, who had resumed his determined terrier pace.

  “When I’m on a case, I have no shut-off valve. I eat, sleep, and breathe the investigation. I had to make a trip back to News Twelve for a follow-up.”

  “The visit couldn’t have waited until this morning?” Sherry shot Ray a fleeting side eye.

  “You, of all people, should be fully invested in my working overtime to hasten the outcome. Besides, you don’t think there would have been the slightest degree of awkwardness with my being included on the guest list with your father and Damien Castle in attendance?”

  Sherry ignored the question. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket to check the time. “We’ve gotten off track, and I have to get back to the store. I haven’t even eaten lunch yet. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Your father called me this morning,” Ray said in a near whisper.

  Sherry stopped and jerked her body to face the detective. “What did he say? You didn’t upset him, did you? He’s doing so well; I don’t want any setbacks.”

  “He said he received a threat.”

  “What do you mean a threat?” Sherry choked on the word “threat.” “He didn’t mention a threat.”

  “He said he got up early this morning and checked his e-mail. He says it’s a habit every day to see when his coffee is going to be delivered, whatever that means. I wish I had a morning coffee delivery system.” Ray raised his eyebrows and turned up the edges of his mouth. “Anyway, he read the e-mail without his glasses because he said he has set his phone to display in an enlarged font. Well, the single new e-mail he had received had the word contest in the subject line, so he assumed the message was from you. Problem was, the e-mail came through in a smaller font, and he strained to make out the words. When he couldn’t decipher the content, he replied, asking ‘cooking?’, thinking he was corresponding with you. He received an immediate reply to his reply. By this time he’d found his reading glasses and could make out the word confess not contest in the subject line. The body of the return e-mail simply read ‘Confess or you’ll be next.’”

  Sherry tightened her grip on Chutney’s leash. The dog coughed when his collar pinched his neck too tightly.

  “Sorr y, boy.” She loosened the tension. “Is Dad okay? Can an e-mail be traced easily?”

  “I had him forward it, and our techies are working on it. As a matter of fact, my old partner Cody Diamond is working on identifying the e-mail’s origin. This sort of thing is right up his alley. In the meantime, your father has been advised to be alert, lock his doors, and double-check every detail of his surroundings. Your father knows I’m meeting with you, and he asked me to tell you he’s fine.”

  “One more reason to get this crime unraveled. Some lunatic is having his or her way, and my Dad is taking the brunt of it. What aren’t we seeing?” Sherry slapped her thigh with her free hand.

  “There’s no ‘we’ in this scenario. This is a murder investigation being conducted by the proper authorities,” Ray said. “This was news I wanted to deliver in person because I respect your integrity, not for any other reason. Outside interference is not beneficial. Do I make myself clear? This case will be solved in due time, I assure you.”

  “I’m not feeling at all assured, I assure you.” Sherry spiced the word “you” with extra zing. “I’ve got to get going.” She turned back toward the town center. “I appreciate your contacting me, Ray. Tell Detective Diamond to hurry, will you?” Sherry trotted off with Chutney in tow.

  “Wait. I’m really curious which recipe you’re going with.”

  Sherry heard the question, but chose not to respond. If all her questions weren’t answered, his needn’t be either.

  When she reached the Ruggery, Sherry was breathing hard, and her empty stomach was churning. She wiped a drip of perspiration from her forehead before it reached her brow. “Whew. I’m out of shape. I need to get back to yoga or maybe tennis.”

  “Hey, Sherry. You returned in the nick of time.” Amber held the door open.

  “What’s going on?” Sherry scanned the surroundings, but saw no one else in the store. “You wouldn’t happen to have any leftover lunch, would you? I never got a chance to stop at the deli. My meeting with the detective went a bit long.”

  “I have half a turkey avocado wrap, as a matter of fact. I’ll get it for you. First, let me explain those mugs on the counter.”

  Sherry peered over her shoulder at three lidded travel cups lined up next to the cash register. A step closer and she got a perfect view of the unmistakable logo on the cups. “Were the Van Ardans in by any chance?”

  Amber opened her mouth to respond, but all Sherry heard was the angriest clang she had ever heard the doorbell make, followed by a dull clink. The door had swung completely open, hitting the fallen br
ass bell so hard the instrument catapulted across the room, only coming to a rest after hitting the demonstration table. The dogs were left cowering in the corner.

  “I’m so sorry. The Ruggery is better off without that ding-dong devil anyway. But I’ll have the charming bell repaired if you’d like.” Beverly Van Ardan closed the door with an exaggerated slow motion.

  “Dad is pretty attached to that bell. He says ‘an entrance without music is no entrance at all.’”

  “It’ll be back to its old self soon enough. Your father needn’t know anything’s changed. I know how set in his ways he is. Seems to be a strong trait in this town.” Beverly collected the disabled ringer off the floor. “Sherry, the reason I rushed in was we were pulling away when I saw you come in, and I had to make sure you got the message I left with lovely Amber.”

  Sherry’s gaze rolled in the direction of Amber. “Amber gives me all messages, have no doubt about that.”

  Amber’s pinched faced smoothed out.

  “So, do you agree?” Beverly asked.

  Sherry inspected her shoe, which was garnished with some grass and mud from the walk along the river. “Actually, she hasn’t had a chance to give me any messages I got while I was out.”

  “I dropped off these travel mugs, and I was hoping you’d keep them by the checkout counter. It was something Erno and I had discussed before his illness.” Beverly put air quotes around the word “illness.”

  “And he agreed to that? We have a policy against solicitations and outside advertisers. We want clean and simple inside the store. I’m very surprised he would okay displaying a company’s logo that has no bearing on his product.” Sherry tiptoed over to the door and took off her soiled shoe. She opened the door and tapped the shoe on the side of the building until the casual leather flat was spotless. “Clean and simple, that’s what we’re all about. I think I’ll double-check with Dad when we talk later.”

  “Whatever you say, dear. You’re in charge while he’s out.” Beverly smoothed out a fold on her skirt.

  The door opened in silence, and in walked a man with a blue blazer slung over his arm. His distinctive flattop hairstyle complemented the serious expression he wore. Sherry’s usual customer greeting stuck in her throat.

  “Ms. Oliveri, nice to see you again.” In one hand the man held a shopping bag. He presented his empty hand. “Truman Fletcher. And Mrs. Van Ardan, this is a surprise to see you.”

  “A not too unpleasant one, I hope,” Beverly said.

  Sherry shook Truman’s hand. “You remember Amber Sherman?”

  Truman nodded in Amber’s direction. “Of course, hello.”

  “You two know each other?” Sherry pointed from Beverly to Truman.

  “Beverly works tirelessly promoting her husband’s MediaPie venture. I met her when she and Erik came to the station for a pitch meeting with Damien, Carmell, and myself. I guess nothing ever came of it because Damien still owns the station and, of course, Carmell no longer has any input. I was there as a third set of ears. Isn’t that accurate, Beverly?” Truman ran his hand from the neck upward through his hair, providing a pronounced lift. He tamped down the flat top to ensure a level plane.

  “I’m curious.” Sherry hurled a glance from Amber to Truman. “I was watching a replay of the appetizer cook-off, and there was some footage of Carmell and Brett at their anchor desk as the morning show opened. There was a MediaPie mug exactly like those.” Sherry pointed to the three tall, cream-colored beverage holders with the globe imprint on the counter. “Seems odd that what amounts to another media company’s advertisement can be seen during the broadcast. That would be like me showing up at the National Chicken Cooking Contest with a beef stir-fry recipe. I find it hard to believe management was okay with that.”

  “You have a good eye for details, Sherry. Maybe that’s why you do so well in competition,” Truman said. “You would always see that mug on set when Carmell was on camera. Steele had the bright idea one day soon after the mugs arrived at the studio to conceal her tubes of lipstick in them. The deal was, though, the logo must always face away from the camera. I’m surprised that mistake was made.”

  “Maybe mistake is the wrong word,” Amber said.

  “That mistake was our good fortune,” Beverly sang out. “It’s only a matter of time until it won’t matter which way the cup faces. Interesting use of the mug, may I add, to hold lipstick. To each his or her own, I suppose.” Beverly grabbed Sherry’s arm. “Watch out, dear. You’re about to be hit.” She guided Sherry away from the door as it flung open. “I guess that’s why you need that warning bell contraption.”

  “My goodness. What a crowd.” Leila, in a royal blue blazer and skirt, wedged herself between Sherry and Mrs. Van Ardan in order to get the door shut properly. “The fancy limousine outside is now sporting a ticket I’m hoping doesn’t belong to anyone in here. It’s parked over the line. New York plates.”

  Leila closed her ticket pad and curled up the side of her mouth. Sherry sent her a wink that Leila acknowledged with a head bob.

  Beverly sighed. “This town is run by fools. Handing out parking tickets is no way to fill the coffers. Handing out violations only serves to deter those who would otherwise be spending money at your quaint stores. Anybody with a brain knows that.” Beverly spun on her heels and, in the process, collided with Leila. “I’ll fight this ticket. You can be sure of that. Sherry, please tell your father I’ve been in. He’ll know what that means.”

  Leila stepped aside, and Beverly marched out the door, leaving it ajar for someone else to close.

  “Sir, does the sedan in front of the store belong to you?”

  Truman patted his pants pocket before pulling out his car key set. He dangled the collection of metal in front of Leila’s face. “Yes. I thought there was enough time on the meter, but I can run out and put a quarter in.”

  “No problem. Done and done.” Leila held up a shiny quarter. Her grin warmed Sherry’s heart as quickly as a spoonful of her slow-cooker chicken soup. “Have a good day, ladies and gentleman.” Leila let herself out.

  “Mr. Fletcher, what can I help you with? And, by the way, welcome to the Ruggery. Is this your first visit?” Sherry walked a few steps beyond the counter to move him away from the door.

  “Please, call me Truman. I was in maybe two weeks ago. Your father helped me. You must not have been working that day. It was the lunch hour, but I don’t recall the exact day.”

  “No problem. I’m surprised my father didn’t mention knowing you after we saw you at the cook-off, but that’s beside the point. What can I help you with?”

  Amber walked to the Rolodex file.

  “Over there. That’s what I need.” Truman pointed to the demonstration table.

  “That’s very exciting that you hook your own rugs. Such a wonderful hobby,” Amber said.

  “No, no. As much as I’d like to say I’m that creative, the metal tool is what I’m interested in.”

  Sherry trotted over to the frame on which a canvas was tacked. Nearly half of the canvas was hooked with colorful yarns depicting an idyllic scene of grasses and summer flowers intertwined with patterned trim. A feast for the eyes. The portion of the canvas that sat in wait for completion held only an imposing punch tool that was fed with an inviting daffodil-yellow ball of yarn. Customers were tempted to poke the tool through the canvas then pull back slightly, to create a loop. More pokes equaled more loops until eventually a rug was created Sherry had seen everyone from instant experts to the total incompetents attempt a stitch or two, and she enjoyed every moment, every time.

  Sherry picked up the punch tool and unthreaded the yarn. “This one?”

  “Exactly,” Truman said. “I bought one from your father, lost that, borrowed a second with every intention of returning it, and promptly misplaced that one. The problem is, I take the thing back and forth with me to work, and sometimes I lose track of it. Let me pay. I can’t ask you to lend me another. Your father insisted on lending not selling,
but I’ve made a mess of his kindness.” Truman’s lips curled up on one side.

  Sherry’s hand trembled as she held up the tool. “If you don’t mind it saying, ‘do not remove from O.R.,’ this one’s all yours.” She put her hand back down by her side to quell the shaking.

  “Not a problem. That’s what was written on the one I lost. If I lose this one, strike three, I’m out.”

  “What do you use the tool for if you don’t hook rugs?” Amber asked in a near whisper.

  Sherry sucked in a breath. She sank her hand into her pants pocket and gripped her phone.

  “If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have answered you, but I’m ready to share because I’m so fully invested that there’s no turning back,” Truman explained.

  Sherry pulled her phone from her pocket and hovered her finger over the number nine on the keypad. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, Mr. Fletcher. No one is forcing you.”

  Truman plunged his empty hand inside his blazer. Sherry tapped her phone’s keys. Truman’s hand surfaced clutching a cylindrical contraption that was not unlike a policeman’s bully stick.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Truman waved his hand. “This is what I’ve been working on.” He held up his hand. “It’s a prototype of an invention to get kids to eat their vegetables. This is the eighth reincarnation, and I think I’m finally at the stage where I can apply for a patent. Truth be told, you were my inspiration, Sherry.”

  Sherry placed her phone next to her ear. “I’m sorry. I pocket dialed you. All’s safe and well here. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “Your creative recipes have inspired me to get my nieces and nephews to eat better, so I invented what I lovingly call The Peas and Corn Rolling Pin. Your father’s punch tool was key to getting the perfect holes into the roller. That spells the difference between success and failure. Let me demonstrate.” He pinched each of the two handles on either side of the roller. He unscrewed one of the handles. “A hungry child puts some melted butter or cheese sauce in the core of the roller. He replaces the handle and rolls the pin over his peas, carrots, or corn niblets. They get trapped in the meshy screen. The butter seasons the veggies by drizzling out of the punched holes. The child eats the veggies like a corn on the cob. No fork required and lots more fun.”