Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  Sherry thought she saw tears welling up in Truman’s eyes. “That’s genius. What a sweet idea.” Sherry secured her phone in her pocket and handed Truman the punch tool.

  “I asked your father not to mention I purchased the tool until I had a model I was proud to show you. I wasn’t sure I could get it completed, what with all the turmoil over at the station. I’ve been very distracted.”

  “I’m so impressed. I’m sure it’ll be a big hit with kids and parents. Wouldn’t you agree, Amber?” Sherry noted Amber’s stunned expression. I’m not the only one in shock here, she thought. “Please, take this store model. I’ll bag it for you. The point is very sharp, as you probably know.”

  “I would also like to buy this oval rug for my mother. Her birthday is next week, and she adores squirrels, so this would be perfect by her back door. Did you know acorns can help predict weather?” Truman picked up a rug depicting two squirrels foraging for acorns on a beige background trimmed in green. “This is for sale, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll have to check the price.” Sherry put the punch tool in her pocket and rolled the rug up as tight as a beef roulade. “Come over to the register, Truman. Amber, maybe you can find me some twine to tie the rug up.”

  Amber went to the back room in search of rope cord. Sherry placed the rug on the counter and bent forward to spin the Rolodex to r, where she hoped to find the price of a small, oval area rug. Erno had yet to type up a price sheet, so the trusty Rolodex was the only point of reference. Judging by the time-ravaged index card and absence of any price strikeouts, Sherry was certain prices hadn’t changed in forever.

  The scream Sherry let out brought Amber racing from the back room. Truman braced Sherry’s bent torso with both hands.

  “What’s going on? Get your hands off her.” Amber pounded Truman’s arm with her fists. Her voice was as shrill as a fire alarm.

  “It’s okay; it’s okay. I stabbed myself with the punch tool. When I leaned over to read the tiny letters on the index card, that sharp point went right into my thigh.” Sherry straightened up and plucked the punch tool from her pocket.

  “My apologies, Mr. Fletcher. I might have overreacted.” Amber reduced her voice to a soothing apologetic tone.

  Truman rubbed his forearm where Amber had pummeled him. “If I could pay, I need to get going. Don’t bother with the twine.” He reached for his wallet while keeping an eye on Amber. “I’m getting out my credit card. No need to panic.”

  “Message received.” Amber turned and headed to the back room. A moment later she returned.

  Truman backed up against the counter.

  “Sherry, I found a protective sheath for the punch tool back there. Maybe Mr. Fletcher would like one.”

  “No thanks,” Truman said. “That’s one too many things I’d have to keep track of. I only need the tool for a few days. After that, you’ll see it right back here. Thank you anyway.”

  “I’ll take the covering. We should have one by the table. Thanks, Amber.” Sherry put the clear plastic liner in her pocket. She finished ringing Truman’s purchase up and opened the door for him to exit through.

  Chutney and Bean bounded over and sat under their leashes, which hung at the ready by the door.

  “Thank you again. Come back soon.”

  “I bet he’s not itching for a return visit anytime soon.” Amber pointed to the base of the door. “You dropped something.”

  There, on the wooden floor, rested the protective punch tool covering. “How did that . . .” Sherry stuck her hand in her pocket only to have her finger leak through the hole in the bottom. “These are brand-new pants.”

  “There’s the culprit.” Amber pointed to a punch tool propped up on the side of the register. “You had the punch tool that you were lending Truman Fletcher in your pocket.”

  “The point tore through the fabric before it went straight into my leg. No wonder it hurt so much.” Sherry inspected the hole further. “A clean tear, easily fixable.”

  The dogs eyed Sherry.

  “I’ll note Truman Fletcher’s purchase on his card, and then I’d like to give these guys a short walk.”

  Sherry spun the Rolodex to f and found the sparsely filled index card bearing the man’s name. His only purchase was indeed a punch tool. In the lower left “notes and preferences” section Erno had written “emergency tool replacement—no charge. Requires extra-large handle.” The date was two days before Sherry had prepared her appetizer for the cook-off at News Twelve. Sherry added the day’s date to the card and noted his oval squirrel rug purchase along with a “second emergency punch tool replacement.”

  “What happened to the first replacement?” Sherry muttered before replacing the card. “Maybe I’ll give Truman a call, just to tell him we didn’t give him the extra-large handle he prefers and see if he wants to make an exchange. And I’ll throw in a question or two about his whereabouts during the blackout. He’s in need of a solid alibi.”

  Chapter 14

  “How do I let you talk me into these things, Amber?” Sherry tugged at her tennis skirt. “Why do these outfits have to be so revealing?”

  “Helps you get to the ball faster,” Amber laughed. “You don’t want to get tripped up by excess clothing, do you?”

  “First you try to convert me to yoga, and now you’re thinking whacking a hairy yellow ball with metal and strings while I’m nearly naked is the way to go. I can’t remember the last time I played this game. You’re not getting me confused with my sister, Marla, are you? She’s the real sports enthusiast in the family. I’m more of a referee than an athlete.”

  Sherry twirled the bright blue graphite racket she’d borrowed from the pro shop with such force it spun out of her hand and landed on the floor of the locker room.

  “A one-hour lesson will get your sporty juices flowing. You’ll be on the tennis tour in no time. Plus, have you seen the teaching pro here? He’s cute.” Amber winked at Sherry’s reflection in the full-length mirror.

  “If you’re talking about the guy hanging around the check-in desk, he’s a good ten years younger than me. But I appreciate your attempt to inspire me to expand my horizons. I’m going to need a hair clip if I’m supposed to see the ball.” Sherry extended her open hand, and Amber dropped a hair clip in her palm. “Not sure this is my look, but if it’s good enough for Chris Evert, it’s good enough for me.”

  “You do know she’s retired, right?” Amber asked.

  Sherry shrugged and turned away from the mirror. “All set. If I’m slowing you down during the hour, say so. I don’t want to hold you back from your greatest potential.”

  “I might have played more times than you, but you’re such a good competitor in the kitchen I know instinct will propel you to great heights on the court. I’m not worried in the least about your holding me back. Only a lesson, by the way. No scoring involved. Think of it as an hour of adventure after work. If you lose focus, pretend it’s a tennis cook-off and you’re in the finals. Not sure how that would work, but sounds fun.”

  Sherry glanced at the clock over the mirror. “We better get out there. Time is money.” Sherry unzipped her sweatshirt and tied the fleecy cotton garment around her waist. They trotted out of the locker room and met up with their instructor at the tennis facility’s front desk.

  “Ladies, my name is Kris, and, in the next sixty minutes, I’m going to transform you from a capable wielder of the weapon they call a racket to a magician whose wand performs feats others will admire and fear simultaneously. Let’s not waste a moment. Follow me.” The young man picked up a basket of balls and his neon-orange racket and led the ladies to the court.

  “Who knew we were going to make magic!” Sherry waved her racket over her head.

  When the hour was up, Sherry’s shirt was soaked with liquid effort. She collected the sweatshirt she had flung over the mid-court bench and tied it around her waist.

  “That was the best,” Amber said. “Wasn’t Kris great? I learned so much from him
.”

  “I admit I think I improved. I may have found my sport.” Sherry paused. “Did those words come out of my mouth?”

  “My work here is complete.” Amber dusted her palms against each other.

  “It was good fun, but after the first ten minutes, I was thinking about the hole in my pocket on and off for the remainder of our time on court.” Sherry held the tennis facility’s double doors open for Amber.

  The new and improved tennis players made their way to the car for the short trip back to Sherry’s house. Sherry unlocked her car, and they climbed in, tossing their purses in the back seat.

  “So were you talking about the hole in your pocket you made at work today?” Amber took her seat on the passenger side. “I guess the pointy edge of the punch tool has to be that sharp to punch through the canvas, but it really could be harmful.” Amber lifted her hand to her mouth. “That was the tool used to kill the woman at the TV station. Now I understand how lethal it could be if it can pass through tough fabric so easily.”

  “Exactly. As you were crushing killer forehands and backhands, I was reminded of the cook-off at News Twelve, and that led to the memory of something I witnessed as Dad and I were getting set to leave the station.” Sherry backed out of the parking lot and left the many high-end vehicles still waiting for their owners to finish playing their matches. Sherry checked her side mirrors. At the all clear, she merged onto the two-lane road that would take them back to her house, where Amber had left her car.

  “You’re losing me. You said you were thinking about the hole in your pocket while we were on the court. What does that have to do with the cook-off? And, by the way, tennis is a game of focus. If you let all those other thoughts creep into your brain, you might not have been playing at your best.”

  Sherry nodded in agreement. She put on her turn signal and made the turn onto her street. “No doubt about that. But now I fully appreciate how exercise can make a clearer thinker out of you. I’ve been wrestling with where I’ve seen a hole like that before, and the answer dawned on me, along with what the missing ingredient in my Spinach Lentil Curry was. I’d have thought that recipe would have won the taste-testing party vote, but now I realize it was missing a key ingredient.”

  Amber shifted in her seat. “Holes, pants, curry, ingredients. I’m trying to follow along. Keep going.”

  “You know how Kris said if you’re playing your best tennis, you see the ball as the size of a watermelon? It’s so easy to hit an object that size. You’re completely in the zone. On the other hand, today I saw the ball as being as small as one of the roasted chickpeas in my cook-off appetizer recipe. Needless to say, that could have been one of the reasons I wasn’t as good as you.” Sherry threw her hands up in the air for a split second before returning them to the steering wheel. “Hold that thought. We’ve arrived. To be continued.” Sherry parked the car, retrieved her purse from the back seat, and got out.

  “Want to come in for a bit?” Sherry asked as Amber emerged from the car.

  “Of course. I’ve got to see where you’re going with those roasted chickpeas.”

  Once inside, they tossed their purses on the front hall table and went to the kitchen for water. Chutney waited by his water bowl with a suggestive posture that Sherry knew all too well meant he was thirsty.

  After thoroughly rehydrating, Sherry continued. “When the tennis ball reminded me of chickpeas that would have made my Spinach Lentil Curry perfect, that, in turn, reminded me of the cook-off. It was held on live TV. If the contest lasted for more than thirty minutes, Truman Fletcher felt he’d lose audience interest. Most of us had recipes that required more time than that, but since the cooking process is the least camera friendly, we were asked to accelerate the time in the oven if possible. There wasn’t much choice. We either roasted at high heat or risked not completing our recipes in thirty minutes and suffering probable elimination.”

  “Okay, but the hole?”

  “Stay tuned. I’m almost there.” Sherry drained the last sip of her water. “Roasting my chickpeas was beneficial for me in the short term because the spices took on an intense, smoky quality that baking at a lower temperature can’t bring out. The judges got a nice burst of flavor, along with a satisfying crunch when they were served. By the time the judging was over, I noticed the chickpeas were drying out. Still edible, mind you, but, as time passed, they approached the consistency of BB pellets. Potential tooth breakers. I didn’t want to be seen throwing my food in the garbage. That might send the wrong message. So I was bound and determined to get them home before I disposed of them.”

  Amber relocated a few steps toward the chairs and set herself down in one. “Sorr y, but my legs are giving out. I didn’t want Kris to think I wasn’t putting forth my best effort, so I went a little overboard trying to get every ball he hit.”

  Sherry followed Amber’s cue and sat down. “Problem came when I was on my way out of the building. I was trying to balance my equipment bag in one hand and the tray of leftover goodies in the other. With every gyration I made, the almonds stayed put, but those hardening chickpeas jostled for position like football fans around a tray of buffalo wings. Turns out they’d been raining down in the studio like a hailstorm. Walking over them would have been like trying to keep your balance on a floor covered with ball bearings.”

  Sherry promenaded her index and middle finger across the table surface. She flung the same fingers forward and landed them flat on the table, splayed out and motionless. “I watched Brett Paladin go down hard after stepping on the chickpeas I spilled. When he got back up, I was embarrassed to see he had ripped his pants. Completely my fault.”

  “So, you’re saying Brett had a rip that was similar to yours?”

  “The hole was more than similar. It was the exact match. A very clean tear in the fabric that could only be made by a sharp edge.” Sherry made a fist and punched downward. “A fast clean tear, not a slow, yanking one you might get if your car key caught on the pocket lining. No jagged, frayed edges. Those kind of rips are the devil to mend.”

  “I think I know what you’re getting at, but you said Brett fell as you were on your way out of the building. By that time Carmell Gordy was already dead, and the murder weapon was on the scene. Brett must have had scissors or something with a cutting edge in his pocket when he went down in front of you. That was a good correlation you made, though. Details just don’t add up to his being involved in the murder, in my opinion.” Amber shrugged. “I’m going to head home. I need to walk my little Bean. Thanks again for splitting the tennis lesson. I think I’ll continue at least once a week, no matter where I end up living. I really enjoyed myself.”

  Sherry blinked hard to sort her racing thoughts. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said I had a good time today.”

  “Whether I continue or not is yet to be determined, but, me too.”

  “Time to call it a night. Don’t get up. I can let myself out. I’ll see you Monday morning.” Amber asked as she rose to her feet. “Have anything exciting planned for tomorrow on your day off?”

  “I have a Founder’s Day volunteers meeting. I’ll be assigned my tasks for the big day.”

  Amber laughed as she headed toward the door. “Good luck.”

  After Amber left, Sherry took a much-needed shower, walked Chutney, and set about planning her dinner. As often happened, she was sidetracked by a reconsideration of how to improve her recipes. The ballot vote from her dinner party had come out a tie amongst her guests, but the Peanut Butter Chicken Curry had won the most enthusiastic praise in the written comments. She agreed the rich, luscious sauce the chicken was bathed in was complex with its many layers of flavors. The cubed sweet potatoes swimming alongside the chicken bites played perfectly off the toasted coriander and smoky cumin. The addition of mango chutney countered the spices and challenged them to complement the gingery condiment. The final presentation in a royal-blue casserole dish with a sprinkle of chopped peanuts and a shower of f
resh cilantro leaves as garnish was a knockout. A warm blanket of satisfaction wrapped itself around Sherry, only to be usurped by prickly discomfort when her next thought drifted to the losing dish.

  Sherry picked up the pile of papers she’d set aside from that night. What else had gone wrong with the Spinach Lentil Curry? If the recipe wasn’t a clear winner with her friends, her ingredients and preparation were failures. She should have included chickpeas to give the dish more substance, but her father had expressed his dislike for the legume. She had let that sway her decision to leave them out. As a result, the consistency had been as uninviting as that of a refrigerated tomato. The flavors were nice, but the feel was lackluster. Of course, her guests’ comments had been much more diplomatic than her self-criticism, but what Sherry read between the lines was the need for recipe rehab.

  “I’m putting all this aside until after dinner.” She waved the printed recipe copies and ballots at Chutney, who wagged his tail with such vigor he lost his balance. She set the pile on the counter and opened the refrigerator. She pulled out the covered container of Peanut Butter Chicken Curry and proceeded to the microwave. With a punch of a button, the tiny food molecules were zapped by magical heat energy, and seconds later the proper level of warmth was reached.

  Even eating alone, Sherry would never consider eating directly from the container. As was her nightly ritual, she arranged a floral place mat and silverware for herself. She plated the food, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat down. A moment later, Sherry rose from her seat. She gathered the stack of papers and laid them beside her plate. She separated out the recipes and moved them to the bottom of the pile. She picked up the first ballot. The looping, freestyle letters written with a noticeable tremor in the penmanship were a dead giveaway as to the author. With a forkful of curry in her mouth, she ran her eyes over her father’s comments.