Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “My choice is the Peanut Butter Chicken Curry. Pros: flavor that never quits. Cons: sticky on the tongue. Made me thirsty. Had a sip of Ruth’s Merlot. Hard to hold a conversation while eating it. Food aside, Steele is no longer a suspect, right? Someone tried to kill him, so he can’t be guilty. Carmell needed a favor I wasn’t willing to do for her; that’s why she was angry with me. What about that Truman Fletcher fellow? He seemed kind of peculiar. Like I always say, ‘odd plus odd only evens out for numbers.’”

  Sherry shook her head. “Not exactly an anonymous ballot, Dad.” She licked the excess sauce off her fork and plunged the prongs toward a sweet potato. She put Erno’s ballot at the bottom of the pile and reached for her phone. She crafted a short text and sent it. Setting the phone aside, she studied the next paper.

  “Both so good! Do I really have to choose? I have two graduate degrees and years of helping others out of dire circumstances, but I can’t seem to make this simple choice. . . . Okay, Peanut Butter Chicken Curry. Ahhh!”

  “I would’ve thought Amber would go for the lentils.” Sherry tucked the ballot under Erno’s and raised the next one to eye level.

  “Spinach Lentil Curry wins. Reasons: unusual, healthy, saucy, spicy, luscious. The other curry was good too, dear, but this one spoke to me. And have you noticed the new neighbors three houses down aren’t cleaning up after their designer pooch? I mean, the pup must have cost a pretty penny. Maybe the owners can’t afford bags now? Don’t they know rescue dogs are only the cost of a donation?” The comment was illustrated with a heart.

  Sherry filed Eileen’s ballot at the bottom of the pile. She picked up the next ballot in the pile. Sherry squinted and rotated the paper. The words she hadn’t been able to decipher last night were still open to interpretation, but the brighter kitchen light made them somewhat clearer.

  “Spinach Lentil Curry wins by a slight margin.”

  Sherry tried but she could only make out two out of five words in the short phrase that followed.

  “. . . Rich, scrumptious . . .”

  Sherry smiled. There was a blank space that separated an additional section of comments at the bottom of the paper, as difficult to read as a doctor’s handwriting. Sherry could put two blocks of words together.

  “Your father should proceed with caution” and “relationship with Van Ardans will blow up in his face.”

  Sherry shuddered. She noted Ruth’s, or was it Frances’s, pen stroke had torn through the paper in what seemed an attempt to punctuate with an exclamation point. Sherry handled the ballot as if it were the flesh of a Scotch bonnet chili pepper, discarding it as soon as she was done reading so the burn wouldn’t linger. She filed it at the bottom of the pile.

  Sherry poked a hefty portion of chicken and sweet potato. She dragged them across the mire of curry sauce on her plate. Her gaze settled on the next ballot. The first word was “Spinach,” slashed by a diagonal line. Below the stricken word, “Peanut Butter Chicken” was written with a light touch. Sherry pursed her lips. Her brow rose and fell.

  “Reason—loved both but big fan of sweet potatoes. The deciding factor.”

  Sherry cocked her head to the side.

  “Great pickle sales numbers this week. Ruth knows more than she’s letting on.”

  Sherry’s attempt to swallow her last chew failed, and she coughed until Chutney appeared at her side with a twitching nose.

  “Sorr y, boy. I forgot I’m not good at multitasking.” She slipped Frances’s ballot underneath the previous one she deduced had to be Ruth’s.

  The next ballot simply read “Spinach Lentil Curry is the winner; it’s what I want for dinner. And if Eileen can’t make the recipe as well as you, the delicious memory on my taste buds will have to do.”

  A low-pitched warble emanated from Sherry’s throat.

  “Peanut Butter Chicken Curry” headlined the next ballot, written in all capital letters, no less. “Best meal I’ve ever eaten!”

  The corners of Sherry’s mouth curled up before she continued reading.

  “Trivselbit means leave the last crumb on the plate for comfort and security. If Augustinians don’t trivselbit, no one is safe. All we hold dear is vulnerable.”

  Sherry sighed. Larson was still on his soapbox. She straightened the pile of papers and read the final sheet. “Brett” was dead center in the middle of the otherwise blank sheet of paper.

  Sherry squared the papers up and laid them on top of the two recipes. She gave Chutney a pat on the head. “Here’s the final tally. Out of the eight voters, four votes for Peanut Butter Chicken, four votes for Spinach Lentil. In non-recipe-related election results, one vote for Brett Paladin and one for the Van Ardans. One for trivselbit and one for Truman Fletcher. Seems to have gotten a bit off track, but I’m grateful for the opinions on every topic.”

  As Sherry rose to bring her plate to the dishwasher, her phone rang. “Hi, Dad. How’re you doing?”

  “Very well, sweetie. I’m dangerously close to returning to work. I’m getting a bit stir-crazy here. You texted me a message. What can I do for you?”

  “What was the favor Carmell asked of you?”

  “All I can say is she wanted me to use my influence on some of my dearest friends, and I refused. Case closed.”

  Sherry rocked on her heels before sitting back down. “Truman Fletcher bought a punch tool from you.”

  “That’s right. And when he lost it, I lent him a store model.”

  “He was in yesterday asking about another replacement because he lost the loaner. That all adds up to things look pretty bad for him.”

  Erno sniffed. “I sense a ‘but’ lurking.”

  “But, he has an alibi. Truman spelled it all out when I called him to offer the punch tool with the extra long handle. As delicately as I could I mentioned the detective had questioned me about who might have recently purchased a punch tool. As the conversation progressed Ray told me he had solid proof Truman was not in the studio when Carmell was murdered.” Sherry sighed when she heard her father’s prolonged exhale. “Truman’s made an invention, inspired by me, no less, and he’s using the punch tool to engineer it. He’s even applied for a patent. He was submitting his patent application at the moment of the crime. He couldn’t get an Internet connection while the power was out, which was lucky for him, because he was forced to save his e-mail attempts as drafts, offline, and they were time-stamped. Can’t get any more concrete an alibi than that.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. And Damien Castle? Is he still on your suspect list?”

  “Nope. He’s off the list, too. Damien was at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting at the time of the murder and can prove it. That’s a whole other story, but it boils down to everyone has his or her vices, and betting was his.” Sherry heard an extended puff of air crackle through the phone. “Steele Dumont is no longer on Detective Bease’s radar because he was Damien’s driver, plus it’s evident he was the intended target of the unscrewed falling shelves that took Lucky’s life.”

  Erno moaned, reminiscent of the time he had eaten one too many slices of his mother’s decadent pecan pie at Thanksgiving when Sherry was very young. She let the subsequent silence linger until Erno began clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

  “Dad, do you have something you want to tell me?”

  Chapter 15

  “Charlie, I watched the video of the cook-off, and I have a few concerns.” Sherry punched on her phone’s speaker setting so she could better hear her ex-husband as she continued getting dressed for her meeting.

  Chutney jumped up on her bed and curled up next to her pillows.

  “Wait a minute! You said we could watch together.”

  “Check your facts, counselor.” Sherry slipped a pink blouse over her head. “You’re the one who said we should watch the tape together. I made no such statement.”

  “Okay. Duly noted. What are your concerns? Before you proceed, may I remind you, I don’t know anything more about cook-offs t
han what you taught me.”

  Sherry fastened her skirt, sat on the bed, and stared inside the open closet door. “No cook-off issues. My first question is about something I saw before the event started. The video caught a shot of Carmell Gordy seated at her set desk. She had a travel mug to the side of her notes. The cup had the logo ‘MediaPie’ on it. I was surprised the station would allow such blatant branding in the camera shot. Is that legal?”

  “Ah, yes. The Van Ardan enterprise. I’m familiar with a branch of the company because they bought a radio station in the neighboring county, and our office did the legal work on the environmental impact of the upgrades they applied for. As for the cup, displaying a company logo most certainly is legal. MediaPie might pay a good price for that product placement. If they didn’t, News Twelve is doing a disservice to themselves by being the cow that gives away the milk for free.”

  “So MediaPie has its fingers in lots of pies, so to speak? No pun intended. Well, maybe some intention.” Sherry lifted the corners of her mouth.

  “They’re a growing media company in the Northeast and recently have begun acquiring small television and radio stations with key audience demographics.”

  “What do they do with the stations after they acquire them?” Sherry stood and put the phone in the palm of her hand.

  Chutney jumped off the bed and parked himself by the bedroom door.

  “I can only speak about the radio station we represented. The papers we filed for them indicated MediaPie wanted to bring the station under their broadcast umbrella, which would broaden their listening audience but, on the flip side, the outcome is that any local feel the station was known and loved for may get phased out. I assume that’s their plan for the other stations, both radio and television, they’re targeting to purchase. Sounds like News Twelve is in their crosshairs.”

  “Did you know Brett Paladin’s father owned the station at one point?” Sherry stepped inside her closet and slipped her feet in a pair of flats the color of butternut squash pulp. A moment later, she kicked them off and shimmied her feet into brown suede driving shoes.

  “A man named Damien Castle is the majority shareholder now, if I recall correctly. He uses a lawyer in the firm for business dealings, but I’m not at liberty to go into detail. I can tell you, the man has his work cut out for him trying to salvage the station on his own. May not be the worst thing to sell out while he can.”

  “Was the station on solid footing when Damien bought it from the Gadabees? Did you know that’s Brett Paladin’s real last name. He took on Paladin when he applied for the job at the station.”

  Charlie exhaled at length, an indication she was over-probing him. “The station was very successful for a local cable channel. That was evident in the substantial amount Damien Castle had to pay to Ruth Gadabee. But that number, too, is confidential. I didn’t have any idea the Gadabees had a son, namely Brett Paladin. He was never part of the purchase agreement. If I remember correctly, Ruth Gadabee was a second wife, so I’m guessing, because of his age and hers not being too far apart, Brett is Ruth’s stepson, not biological son.”

  “That’s right.” Sherry lifted the phone to eye level and checked the time. “One more question before I leave. This one is going in a completely different direction.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Charlie responded.

  “I’m off to a final Founder’s Day organization meeting, and I want to arm myself with some knowledge.” Sherry shut the closet door with her knee. “If there isn’t a public record of a town’s founder, but instead, hearsay and/or folklore passed down through the generations, is that strong enough evidence to be irrefutable?”

  “There are settlers, founders, town incorporators, and more, any number of whom can lay claim to being a town’s founder. Depends on the fine-tooth comb you’re using to pinpoint the exact person. I would think there would be, at the very least, a diary artifact, a travel log, or a financial transaction record book that verified the answer. Sometimes it boils down to the largest landholder wins. Which individual held multiple jobs when the town was in its infancy? Important question. That person was often considered the founder because he put himself in those jobs before anyone else was in residence to claim them. Not unheard of that the same person was the mayor, the town realtor, the general store proprietor, the justice of the peace all at once. On the other hand, bear in mind, it’s rare one single person is credited with founding, rather than a few families or a religious group of some sort, with reasons to make the effort to found a new settlement. Very unusual that no records would remain, even if they were simply in a trunk in someone’s attic. Does that help? And yes, you’ve gone in a lot of different directions in one phone call.”

  Sherry clicked her phone off speaker mode and held it up to her ear. “Thanks, Charlie. Next cook-off I promise we’ll watch the replay together if it’s televised. Bye, bye.” Sherry ended the call.

  Trailed by Chutney, Sherry bounded down the stairs. She dropped her phone in her purse and gave her dog a pat on the head. “I hope this won’t take long, boy. I’ll be back to get you, and we’ll join your friend Bean at the store this afternoon. Keep an eye out until I get back.” The soothing tone of voice Sherry used seemed to reassure Chutney his owner would return soon because he plopped down by the sofa without any prodding.

  The drive along the shoreline to the town beach clubhouse remained one of Sherry’s favorites. She might have paid a premium for her small house and tiny parcel of land, but she never regretted her choice. For the same price she could have gotten twice the square footage and double the acreage in a location farther from the Long Island Sound, but that wasn’t an option, in her mind. The proximity to the town center, the natural beauty of the serene salt water, a river snaking through the county and hills to the north, all within a two-mile radius, made living where she did priceless. Overhead were hawks, sea birds, and the state bird, the robin, along with dozens of other winged creatures of every color. Prowling around covertly through the neighborhoods, hills, and riverbanks were otters, coyotes, bear, and wild turkeys, to name a few of the animal inhabitants. Unless the season was midwinter, whenever Sherry drove, she insisted the windows of her car be cracked open to invite fresh air to brush her cheeks and paint them with a radiant glow. Augustin was a town worth fighting for. She gripped the wheel so hard her nails dug into the palm of her hands.

  Sherry arrived at the town beach with a jaw sore from clenching. She checked her face in the rearview mirror, but was distracted by the reflection of a car maneuvering into a parking spot behind hers. A moment later, Larson Anderson was at her window. She waved to him in hopes he’d step away from the door so she could wedge herself out of the car.

  He pulled the door handle and bowed from the waist. “Welcome, Ms. Oliveri. I’m happy you could attend.”

  Sherry smoothed her skirt and swung her legs out of the car, while keeping a hand on the hem so as not to flash anyone. “Thank you, sir.” She shimmied out of the car, locking it behind her. “Another glorious autumn day. Such a nice idea to have the meeting down at the beach. Everyone’s mood will be sky-high.”

  “I’m not too sure about that,” Larson said as they strolled down the wooden walkway to the town beach clubhouse. A few yards away, the gentle waves lapped against the sandy shore, providing a steady, churning murmur. “The ambiance may be serene, but we’re having a visit from someone who insisted on showing up and stirring the pot, so the slop might be hitting the fan very soon.”

  “I hope you’re not talking about me?” Beverly Van Ardan caught up to the duo from behind.

  Sherry spun her head around. “Mrs. Van Ardan, so nice to see you.”

  “Yes, Beverly, I was talking about you.” Larson turned to face the woman wrapped in an oversized silver silk scarf. Without waiting for a response, he picked up his stride until he reached the weathered wooden building.

  Sherry pumped her arms to keep pace. Once inside, they found others from the organization committee
seated at a round table in a small room with no windows. The serenity Mother Nature provided outside the doors was walled out.

  “Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,” Larson said before Sherry was able to sit. “I’m happy all eight of us could make it here.” He eyed Beverly, who was descending onto a chair along the wall. “Mrs. Van Ardan will be joining us for the first few minutes as she wishes to address the committee.”

  Chatter began amongst the attendees, with the exception of Sherry, who lowered her head and studied the backs of her hands.

  “What is it you would like to say to the committee, Beverly?” Larson asked.

  As she stood, Beverly’s extensive scarf caught under the leg of the chair and unfurled in its entirety from around her shoulders. The silk rectangle cascaded to the floor. She scanned the room. Sherry detected a blush on the woman’s cheeks that boiled up through her thick concealer. Sherry stood, gathered the scarf, as well as the glares of everyone in the room, and handed the garment to Beverly, before returning to her seat.

  “Thank you, dear. You are your father’s daughter. So kind and generous.” Beverly tied herself up in the scarf and fluffed the underside of her hair with her fingers. “And thank you, Larson, for giving me a moment of your committee’s time. I wanted to address you all concerning my time to speak at the event. I have been advised that we can give a ten-minute presentation during the Trivselbit presentations. That extremely brief time will give the family a chance to present concrete evidence of my great-great-great, I think it is, grandfather’s role in founding this town. If it weren’t for Knut Eklind’s selflessness, this town most likely wouldn’t exist.”

  A robust man with blood-red, bulging cheeks lifted from his seat. “Dirty money. He exploited people’s weakness for alcohol and nearly ruined the community. If it weren’t for Andre August Dahlback, this town’s history would be a black hole of debauchery.”