Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “You mean to say you don’t exclusively eat pickles at every meal?”

  Sherry peered up from the table. Mrs. Dumont was repositioning a misaligned pickle jar on the table in front of her.

  “Frances, hi.” Sherry popped the lid back on her lunch.

  “Two lunches?” Frances pointed to both containers. “Are you expecting someone to join you? And, if that person doesn’t show up, I’d be happy to eat whatever remarkable edible you’ve concocted.”

  Sherry’s cheeks tingled as a warm breeze wafted across them. “I brought my two recipes from the taste-testing party. The guests’ votes came up dead even, so I’m performing my own tasting to make a final decision. I’m having a devil of a time with this contest.”

  Frances stepped to the edge of the table and leaned in. “You do have trouble making up your mind on a number of matters, dear. The Peanut Butter Chicken Curry was the better of the two. I have no doubt about that. There wasn’t quite enough going on in the Spinach Lentil Curry. Maybe adding some chickpeas would elevate the dish if you want to stay meatless.”

  “Thanks. I take all comments to heart.”

  “Please, go ahead and eat before the crowd wakes up from their lunchtime food coma.” Frances pushed a pickle jar a smidge to the left.

  Sherry pulled the lid off both containers. She forked a bite of the chicken curry.

  “While you eat, can we talk?” Frances lifted the end curl of her hair with the palm of her hand. With a toss, she let the locks bounce back in place. “Your party reinforced the idea that I miss this place. The work you put into your cooking contesting hobby is truly inspirational. I’m not happy with all the free time I have. I think I want my hobby and work back.”

  Sherry chewed her chicken until every poultry fiber was obliterated. On the last chomp, she bit the edge of her tongue. “Ah!” Her eyes filled with tears, and her nose dripped until she was able to subdue the leak with the back of her hand. “Funny. People keep telling me I inspire them, but I think I’m the one who needs inspiring.”

  “What I’m asking is, after this season, would you be willing to give up the Perfect Storm pickle table?”

  “Frances, it’s rightfully yours in every way. I don’t even have to finish out the season if you’d like to take over immediately.” Sherry plunged a scoop of Spinach Lentil Curry in her mouth.

  “No, no. I’m busy for the immediate future, so please finish out this season,” Frances said with an airy tone. “That’s settled. Now I’d also like to discuss my grandson, Steele.” Frances paused and waved her finger at Sherry. “You have some spinach in your teeth, dear.”

  Sherry bowed her head and ran her tongue around her mouth. “A hazard of the hobby.”

  “It’s no secret there’s most likely a connection between the two deaths, Carmell Gordy and Steele’s friend Lucky, over at News Twelve. What I was told, much to my horror, was that Steele was the intended target, not his friend. When Steele was a suspect, I was in shock. Now I’m in a constant state of worry that whoever did this will try again and won’t make a mistake the second time around. And to compound my worry, your father has been on the receiving end of a threat. Good lord!”

  “Of course, I understand your concern, Frances. Detective Bease is doing his best to solve the case.”

  “Steele continues to tell me how chaotic the situation at the TV station is.”

  After a few slow, deliberate bites of food, being careful to avoid irritating her tender tongue, Sherry set down her fork. “I’ve seen it for myself. The atmosphere is rough over there. I met with Brett, Damien Castle, and Truman Fletcher to firm up the TV coverage for Founder’s Day, and the takeaway was that two of them seem to have one foot out the door and the third says he wouldn’t leave what seems to be a sinking ship for all the tea in China.”

  “You’re referring to Brett Paladin as the one who’d go down with the ship.”

  “I have a question. Has Steele ever mentioned Brett’s obsession with his breakfast cookie recipe?” Sherry watched the woman who brined one of the most delicious pickles in the region let her usually perky cheeks sag like a bulldog’s.

  “As a matter of fact, he has. Why in the world would you ask that?”

  “Frances Dumont. What a coincidence of the highest magnitude to see you here today. Perfect timing because I have a burning question to ask you.”

  Sherry jerked her head around and came face-to-face with Beverly Van Ardan in a quilted barn coat and tall English garden boots, with the largest tote bag Sherry had ever seen. The carryall had a stitched monogram across the face.

  “Beverly Van Ardan. What brings you so far out of your urban oasis?” Frances asked.

  “There’s a good chance I’ll be spending a lot more time in this town, and I’m trying to familiarize myself with its intricacies. The farmer’s market is on the not-to-be-missed list I got from the chamber of commerce. The Perfect Storm pickles were listed as a must buy.” She cradled a jar of dilly delights. “I couldn’t help but overhear Brett Paladin’s name mentioned a moment ago. Do either of you know what some of his favorite pastimes are? Frances, you must, being as close to his stepmother as you are. Where is your partner in crime? Quite unusual to see one of you without the other.”

  “Ruth is shopping with Erno.” Frances smiled at Sherry. “He needs a new television. You’re right, though. I feel as if a part of me is missing when we’re not together. To answer your question about Brett Paladin, I remember Ruth’s mentioning that, when they were living together, and granted that was many years ago, he loved reading history books, biographies, and cookbooks. She said he didn’t really have hobbies, but he once helped her finish a rug she was hooking.”

  Sherry took a step back and caught her heel on a tuft of grass. She steadied her balance by grasping the edge of the table. “Why do you want to know what some of Brett’s favorite pastimes are?”

  Beverly’s hand disappeared into her bottomless tote bag. Her arm was swallowed up to her bicep. A MediaPie mug emerged in her grip. “I want him onboard with my husband’s buyout offer, and he’s rebutted every attempt made thus far to win him over. I thought of appealing to a yet undiscovered softer side of the man.”

  Sherry held her gaze on the mug. “Did you give other employees at News Twelve mugs similar to that one?” She knew the answer, but hoped for the specifics, much like knowing how a recipe should end up tasting before figuring out how to get the ingredients to cooperate.

  “At the meeting where the contracts were presented, we encouraged people to accept a mug. Carmell, bless her heart, was the first taker that day. She did seem to live on smoothies, so I’m sure she made good use of our gift.”

  “Is the sale of the station a done deal?” Sherry scanned the shoppers milling about behind Beverly. Many were disposing of their recyclable lunch containers in the collection bins. Others were dispersing toward the vendor tables.

  “Hardly. There are holdouts, and we’re respectful of that, but I think the chips will fall the right way eventually. The promise of timely, appropriate paychecks and an updated, improved working environment will be too alluring to turn down. Now, if we could clear up the murder mystery that’s casting such a dark shadow over the place, moods would elevate. I have a theory about who may be behind all that.”

  “Beverly, since when did you become a detective?” Frances’s tone was as sharp as Vermont cheddar. “Why don’t you let the professionals do their job and stop muddying the water? The only amateur qualified to give advice on the matter is our Sherry. She’s been solving the town’s murders for years.”

  Sherry’s cheeks burned. “That’s not exactly the case. I gave a bit of information that led to a conviction in one murder, but I appreciate your confidence in me. Let’s hear what Beverly has to say.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Beverly set her mug on the table next to the pickle jars. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the camera operator, Kirin, I believe her name was, was behind all the shenanigans. She had such an attit
ude when I was there. Everyone bothered her, and her temper seemed hair-trigger. When Brett was doing a weather forecast, he made a slight error, and they had to reshoot. She slammed her soiled baseball cap to the floor. She tripped on the camera cable when she went to collect her hat, hitting the camera and knocking the rubber grip off the controls. She had to ask Steele to go to the supply closet and find her a new one. The entire incident cost them so much time Brett couldn’t finish the weather. The poor man’s closing words were ‘for today’s forecast, check back in a few hours.’ The camera’s red light was only off for a second before Kirin announced, ‘You all are making me look so bad. Why didn’t I accept that job offer in San Francisco?’”

  “You have to go on more than the appearance of anger to convict someone for murder, Beverly. Motives, lack of alibis, etcetera. But if I talk to Detective Bease, I’ll mention what you’ve told us. Or you could contact him yourself.” Sherry separated the MediaPie mug from the pickle jars and slid the cup a substantial distance away. “Would you like a sample of our spears?”

  “Yes, please.” Beverly pinched a toothpick and pierced a pickle. She held the green-dimpled chunk in front of her face. “Swedes are famous for pickled herring. My ancestor Knut Eklind was said to have eaten the sour fermented fish six out of seven days of the week. On the seventh day lore says he drank a lot of water, thirsty from a week’s worth of high salt consumption.” She sucked the pickle off the tiny wooden stick. “Fantastic. I’ll take a jar.”

  “From what I hear, your ancestor Knut Eklind pickled himself with plenty of alcohol. You know that’s not the reputation the citizens of Augustin want for their founder, so why don’t you give up that fight?” Frances’s tone was firm but respectful.

  Beverly handed Sherry some bills and gathered up her pickles. She placed the jar in her bag. “Come by my exhibit table tomorrow and judge for yourself. I think the items displayed will be eye-openers. Which way to The Spice Trap? I need some Italian blend for dinner.”

  Sherry pointed across the market.

  Beverly hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and strutted away.

  A woman with an infant in a sling filled the spot left vacant by Beverly. She picked up ajar of Perfect Storm whole baby pickles. “I love anything associated with ‘baby.’” She stroked the only body part of her child that was visible, the crown of her head. “I’ll take this jar, please.”

  “Your baby’s precious,” Frances cooed as the woman and her bundle left the table. “Dear, why did you ask me about Brett Paladin’s breakfast cookie recipe?”

  Sherry set out ajar of petite pickles to replace the one purchased by the woman with the baby. “The three times I’ve set foot in the station, he’s been after me to taste-test his baked good. He solicits my opinion and makes the changes I suggest. But the baked good is becoming my cookie, not his, and I’d like to get out of the role of his personal cookie designer. In the contesting world, I’ve learned to keep my recipe secrets to myself or I’m more than likely to see my ideas with someone else’s name attached to them in the next contest I enter.”

  “Oh my. That’s a quandary,” Frances said.

  “I don’t like the position I’m put in. His success or failure shouldn’t be dependent on my tips. But he’s so insistent, and I have some sympathy for the spot he’s in over there. Hard to say no.”

  A group of mothers and infants in strollers wheeled toward Sherry. One of the babies was crying so hard a woman had to park her wheels and scramble to get a cuddle under way as quickly as possible. As she cajoled the squirming screamer, Sherry’s gaze locked with hers. “My friend was right. The one over there with the baby sac. She told me you’re the woman who won the News Twelve appetizer contest. We watched you compete on TV. It was such an exciting event. Would you mind holding my baby, and I’ll take a picture?”

  Before Sherry could open her mouth to respond, the hyperventilating wriggler was in her arms.

  “Can you stand close to your Perfect Storm sign, please?”

  Sherry took two steps toward the large banner draped behind her table.

  “Great. Hold still.” The woman snapped some shots with her cell phone. Leaving the baby in Sherry’s arms, the woman proceeded to peruse the items on the table.

  “I’m going to move along, dear.” Frances stroked the gurgling baby’s scalp fuzz. “You may have found your calling. She’s very happy now. Bye, bye. I’ll be in touch.”

  One of the women slid two jars across the table toward Sherry. “Excuse me. I’d like these two jars please.”

  The woman with the empty stroller reached across the pickle table for the baby. Peering at Sherry’s name tag, she asked, “May I call you Sherry? Or do you prefer Ms. Oliveri?”

  “Sherry, please. Ms. Oliveri makes me sound ancient.”

  “Sherry, I was wondering why investigators are taking so long to unravel the murders,” the young mother said. “You must have been there for at least one of them. It was right after the cook-off. I’m the same age as Carmell Gordy, and the incident disturbs me to no end. I didn’t know her, but I did go to school with Lucky Pannell, and what happened to him is even more disturbing. I know you were involved in gathering clues in a murder that occurred at a recent cook-off, so I had an idea I wanted to share with you.”

  The baby’s eyelids fluttered before drifting shut. The pint-sized human began to purr as sleep blanketed him.

  Contentment tugged at the corners of Sherry’s mouth. There was an aura so peaceful and innocent around an infant napping. “What’s your idea?”

  “This may seem farfetched and straight out of the movies, but can a trap be set to catch the murderer? I mean, maybe bait him or her somehow? It’s obviously either someone who works at the TV station, has full access to the facility, or is able to clear security because presumably he or she is a frequent visitor. I was there recently when I was interviewed about my book Life Improvement Through Veganism. I know there’s a procedure to getting past security, and, unless you’re on the appointment book, you’re going to run into a roadblock.” The woman snuggled her baby nose to nose.

  “I’ve been watching the morning show on News Twelve since Brett Paladin was the sole anchor, so I feel like they’re my family over there, and I’m concerned.”

  “You and a lot of others.” Sherry shook her head. “Everyone has an opinion; that’s for sure. The culprit could be anyone at this point. Just when I think I’ve narrowed down the options, the person I have in mind comes up with an alibi.”

  “I’d think recipe invention is a little like gathering evidence in an investigation. Once you start second-guessing yourself, details can get overworked and watered down.” The woman kissed her baby’s porcelain white cheek.

  “That’s exactly where I am right now, in second-guess mode. But my main concern is I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, and that especially means my father.”

  Chapter 19

  “When we set up the Ruggery exhibit table, why not put a few jars of Perfect Storm pickles out?” Amber asked. “More proof of your family’s industrious entrepreneurial fortitude.”

  Sherry lowered her phone and grinned. She raised the phone back to chin level. “You’re overselling us a bit, but I understand what you’re getting at. I’ll bring some with me. I should be there in a half hour after I make a quick trip to the bank. It’s about time I cash the check I won at the appetizer cook-off. I hope I can find the envelope in the equipment carryall I brought to the cook-off, otherwise I have no idea where the darn thing is.” Sherry put down her blush brush, checked her made-up face in the bathroom mirror, and picked up her phone. “Did Dad do a good job of picking which rugs to display today? If not, feel free to substitute your favorite.”

  “You know I can hear you, right?” Erno called from a distance.

  “Oops, didn’t know I was on speaker.” Sherry lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “Amber, seriously, feel free. You’re the one manning the Founder’s Day table today, so we should represent your
tastes as well.” She raised her voice again. “I’ll see you two in a bit down at the town center. And bring Bean because Chutney’s coming.”

  Sherry went to the closet in search of her small suitcase on wheels that served as her easy-driving cook-off supply locker. She rolled it out and lifted the flap. Chutney bounded from the bedroom and stuck his nose in the case’s empty hollows while Sherry examined the crevices for the envelope containing the check. On the brink of abandoning the search, Sherry tried pulling back the stitched seam of a pocket. There, wedged deep inside, was the bent, but recoverable, envelope. As she fondled the paper, Chutney recoiled with a yelp.

  “What’s the matter, boy? I hope you didn’t surprise a spider with an attitude in there.” Sherry put down the envelope, grabbed Chutney’s collar with one hand, and pushed his backside down with the other. “Just sit. You’re okay.” She removed her hands and stared at the glistening red spot on her thumb. “Are you bleeding?”

  Sherry lifted her dog’s snout and saw a streak of blood on his nose. She reached inside the suitcase and felt around the pocket. She ferried a cold, hard object to eye level. “Dad’s tool. He didn’t misplace it at the station. It was lost in my bag all this time. That’ll teach you to blindly follow your nose, right, boy?”

  Sherry held the punch tool up to her face. The image of Truman Fletcher’s Peas and Corn Rolling Pin invaded Sherry’s brain. “Dad wasn’t the murderer because, well, because he’s my dad and I know he couldn’t do such a heinous act. And when I prove who did, Dad’ll be solidly in the clear. I need to connect the dots between Truman Fletcher’s punch tool leaving his possession and eventually landing in the hands of the killer.”