by Linda Reilly
“Another thing. I’d dust them with powdered sugar before serving them. They’ll look pretty and it’ll add a touch of sweetness.”
His passion for his chosen profession was admirable. Talia wondered if he’d learned it on the job or if he’d attended a culinary school. The powdered sugar would have been a no-brainer for her, but she didn’t want to sound ungrateful. “Another excellent idea. Thanks. Mind if I ask you something else? About Sunday?”
Dylan’s face went stone still, his dark eyes opaque. “Figured that’s why you wanted to talk to me. You’re the nosy girl I heard people talking about.”
Other people called her a nosy girl? Well, wasn’t that a kick in the can?
“Look,” Dylan said, “I told the cops everything I know, which is nada. That possession charge goes back three years. It was my first and only offense. I got a fine and community service. Big frickin’ deal. I smoked a little pot. Doesn’t make me a killer, does it?”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Talia agreed. “And your . . . possession charge is really none of my business.”
That was the first she’d heard of Dylan having a criminal record. She was also fairly sure that on the application for the Steeltop Foods competition, each contestant had had to swear under oath that they’d never been found guilty of a criminal offense. Had Dylan flat-out lied on his form?
“Got that right,” he snapped. “Look, my break’s almost over. Are you—”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m using up your break time. I only wanted to ask if you heard anything that day. When we were all in our separate cooking stations?”
He eyed her warily. “What would I have heard that you didn’t?”
“I’m not sure, but your cooking station was adjacent to Norma’s. Mine was on the other side, closest to the generator.”
The generator, Talia remembered, had been powered by the cables snaking from the appliance store’s truck. The sound it gave off was a low drone, but after a while it melded into the background, like white noise. Loud white noise.
Dylan blew out another puff of vapor. All at once he froze, his brow furrowed in concentration. “There was one weird thing,” he said. “But it has nothing to do with the murder. At one point I heard a radio—or maybe it was a CD player—come on from Norma’s side. I guess she brought it along with her and decided to turn it on. Nothing strange about that, except that she was listening to Led Zepp.” He shrugged. “No skin off my nose if the old bat liked to play heavy metal. When she first turned it on, it sort of blasted, but she lowered it right away. After a few minutes she turned it off. Guess she thought it might be disturbing the other contestants.”
Talia never heard any music from her own cooking station. “Did you hear any voices?” she asked him.
“Voices?” Dylan frowned. “No, nothing like that. But I had a fan on. Between that and the generator, any voices would’ve gotten drowned out. Why are you asking all this stuff?” He began edging toward the back door to the diner. Talia followed him.
“Crystal was arrested yesterday. The police think she murdered Norma. I know she didn’t do it, Dylan. I’m just trying to make sense of what happened that day.”
He stopped and looked at her, his face draining of color. “Arrested, huh? Geezum, I didn’t hear that. Crystal seemed like a real nice lady. Why do the cops think she did it?”
He apparently hadn’t heard the news this morning.
“The police found the murder weapon in the Dumpster behind her cooking store. It was a rolling pin, with Norma’s blood on it.”
“Huh.” He shook his head slowly. “I never would’ve pegged her for something like that. Just proves that anyone can snap. Hey, I gotta go before I get canned.” He turned and headed toward the building.
Talia couldn’t let him escape that easily. “You didn’t like Norma, did you, Dylan?” she said quietly to his retreating form.
Dylan stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly and faced her, his mouth pinched in anger. “What the frick are you talking about? I didn’t even know Norma Ferguson.”
Talia shook her head. “Well, you sure couldn’t prove it by me,” she said. “I saw the way you glared at her the day of the contest, when she stepped onto that stage. Poor Norma. She looked quite frightened at your expression. ‘There’s bad blood there,’ I told myself. Bad blood.” She knew she was fishing—and being a drama queen. But if she didn’t toss her line into the water, what chance did she have of catching anything?
Dylan’s jaw dropped. “I—”
“Come on, Dylan. You wear your feelings on your face. An actor, you are not.” Lord, where was she getting this stuff? “It was painfully obvious to anyone who saw you that you had some sort of beef with Norma.” Talia shrugged and held out her palms, as if it were no business of hers. Which, technically, it wasn’t—if you didn’t count the fact that she wanted to find Norma’s killer. “Well, anyway, whatever it was, I hope you told the police about it. They don’t seem to like it when they have to find out these things from other sources. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
Dylan swallowed. Talia would have sworn she saw beads of sweat populating his forehead. He took a sudden step forward, and a tiny squeak escaped her. She hated it when that happened. Made her look like a scaredy-cat.
“What’s the matter with you? I was only going to show you something.”
Now it was her turn to blush. “I know. I just . . . well . . .”
He swept past her, circling around to the rear of the old car he’d been leaning against. It was an odd-looking car, with a half window at the back that angled toward the trunk. In spite of the vehicle’s obvious age, it appeared to be in great condition.
Dylan crooked a finger at her. “Come here,” he said tightly. “Let me show you something.”
Talia hesitated. Dylan wasn’t very big, but he was wiry. And young. How easy would it be for him to open his trunk and shove her inside? Her folks would never see her again. Ryan would wonder why she’d never said good-bye. Bo would have to find a new home—
“Are you coming or not?” Dylan snapped at her. “I haven’t got all day, you know. I have to get back to work.”
Talia floated her gaze over the parking lot. Not a soul was in sight. On legs of clay, she hustled over to where Dylan was pointing at something on the back of the car.
“Look at this,” he said crossly.
From where Talia stood, which was six or seven feet away, she couldn’t see much of anything. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing,” she said, feeling a nerve jump in her neck.
“Yeah, no kidding. You’d need a telescope to see it from there.” With a flick of his wrist, he signaled to her to move closer.
She inched closer to the car’s rear bumper and her heart almost seized up.
“See that?” Dylan was saying, his finger aimed at a minuscule mark on the car’s trunk. “Norma did it with her shoe in the parking lot that day. She was trying to shake out some dirt. I caught her slamming the heel of her sandal repeatedly against my car. It made this mark. Look!” he screeched.
Talia nodded robotically. If there was a mark made by Norma’s sandal, it was smaller than a gnat because she definitely couldn’t see it. What she could see, however, was the silver tag displaying the model of the car.
MERKUR.
“Just because it’s an old car doesn’t mean people can treat it like garbage,” Dylan ranted on. He smoothed his hand lovingly over the rear bumper. “I have plans for this car. It needs to stay in pristine condition.”
Talia nodded mechanically. “I . . . see your point,” she managed to sputter. “That was thoughtless of Norma, wasn’t it?” She moved slowly backward, pretending to get a better angle from which to view the scratch. She was actually trying to calculate how far it was to her Fiat in case she had to make a run for it.
All at once, Dylan slumped. He looked like a sad little boy whose favorite toy had gotten stomped to pieces. Talia was tempted to feel sorry for him, but she knew better than to let
her guard down.
Somewhere during his tirade Dylan had dropped his e-cig. He glanced around, spotted it on the pavement behind the car, and then bent and scooped it up. “Okay, so the old bag ticked me off,” he admitted. “You think I’d kill over something so stupid?”
“Of course not,” Talia said, thinking that people had killed for less.
“So I’ve got a temper, okay? It’s the way I’ve always been. If you grew up in my household, you’d have a temper, too.”
Talia didn’t really want to go there—not unless it was connected to the murder.
Dylan’s gaze scraped the ground. “And don’t think I don’t know I’m the butt of jokes because I still live with my mother.” He pointed a finger at Talia. “Let me tell you something. My mother would be living on the street if she didn’t have me. All she’s got left is me and my brother, and he’s about as useful as a pimple on my backside.” His voice grew hoarse. “If it wasn’t for me, my mom’s house would’ve been foreclosed on. I’m not living with her by choice. I’m living with her by necessity.”
Oh, wow. Now Talia felt terrible. Dylan had some heavy-duty issues going on in his life.
Which led her to another thought—was Dylan feeling the pinch financially? If he was pitching in to help pay his mother’s mortgage, it was no doubt putting a strain on his wallet. After all, how much could his job at the diner pay? Not a whole lot, Talia guessed. She paid her own employees as much as she could afford and gave out bonuses if they’d had a particularly good month. But she knew that most restaurateurs paid minimum wage, or only slightly more. Definitely not enough to live on, at least for most people. A lot of restaurant workers took second jobs just to keep their heads above water.
Her thoughts circled back to the prize money from the Steeltop Foods contest. After Crystal, Dylan was next in line for the award. What if, by some horrible twist of fate, Crystal was found guilty of murdering Norma? Would Dylan succeed to the prize and collect the twenty-five thousand dollars? Could that have motivated him to kill Norma and then sabotage Crystal? It seemed way too far-fetched to be an actual plan. Too many things would have to fall into place. She couldn’t see it happening.
Unless Dylan was desperate.
“You look like you’re in outer space,” Dylan said testily.
Talia shook away her thoughts. “Sorry. I was thinking about all the things I have on my agenda today.” She plastered on a smile, but Dylan wasn’t fooled.
“Let me tell you something, lady.” He pointed his e-cig at her. “You’d better not be accusing me of murder. Because if you are, you’re gonna have a big problem. Get it?”
Dylan was clearly the one who didn’t get it. Didn’t he realize that he’d just issued the equivalent of a threat?
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Talia insisted, pulling her Fiat keys out of her purse. She gripped them tightly in one hand and took a tiny step backward. “And I’m sorry if it came out that way. I’m just so frustrated with all of this.”
“Why do you even care?” he said with obvious disgust.
“I care,” Talia said softly, “because an innocent woman is being accused of murder. And because my friend Lucas is still fighting for his life in the hospital.” Technically true, because the killer was no doubt monitoring his progress.
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Dylan said gruffly. “Tough break for the kid. Still, it’s got nothing to do with me.” He shook his head. “Now I know why everyone calls you the nosy girl. Good-bye. I’ve said everything I have to say.” He fled into the diner, the old wooden door slamming hard behind him.
Talia hurried toward her car, leaped into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door shut. She locked it immediately, then dug her cell out of her purse.
Dylan drove a Merkur. It was a Ford, not a Mercury, but the names were too similar to ignore.
If only Talia could think of how to alert Detective Prescott about the car without looking like she’d been investigating.
Yeah, right. She’d never fool a sharpie like Patti Prescott. Maybe she ought to simply tell the truth and deal with the consequences. Just come out with it and take her lumps—whatever those were.
Although . . . the more she thought about it, there was more than one way to tell the truth. She wasn’t under oath, right? She didn’t have to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, did she? A partial truth, as long as it got the point across, would serve just as nicely.
She found Prescott’s number and shot off a text.
Happened to see Dylan M taking a break in the diner prkg lot this morning when I stopped off for quick brkfst. Did you know he drives a MERKUR?
There. Not one single word was a lie. She hit Send before she could change her mind.
Oh, glory, who was she trying to fool? Prescott would know she’d been nosing around. But really, what could she do? That business about arresting her for interfering with an investigation was all a bluff.
She hoped.
That name, Merkur, kept racing through her head. It circled relentlessly, slamming to a stop only when it reached the obvious conclusion. Lucas must have seen Dylan’s car that day, right before he was found in the parking lot with that gash on his head. Had he tried to identify his attacker? Was that why he’d muttered the word “mercury”? Had he really been trying to say “Merkur”?
Talia knew the police would probably call it circumstantial. And unless they had real evidence to tie Dylan to the crime—to both crimes—it would probably be dismissed as such.
Talia started her car and whipped out of the lot. She’d have to think about it later. Right now she had a business to run, hungry customers to feed.
The day was only just starting.
12
By ten o’clock Talia had done an entire morning’s worth of work. Molly arrived early, eager to start peeling potatoes. She was such a joy to work with, Talia thought. Or she would be, if she didn’t have guilt weighting her mind like an anvil.
“I wish we’d get some positive news on Lucas,” Molly said, tossing a skinned potato into the vat of cold water. “I don’t suppose you heard anything new?”
Talia shook her head. “No, nothing new.” She cringed at the deception. Understanding the need for it was one thing. Pulling it off was another, especially when Lucas’s friends and loved ones were suffering over what they thought was his grave condition.
“I went to the Mass for him last night.” Molly sniffled. “Can you believe that blowhard Bruce Ferringer was there? He actually had the b—gall to glad-hand people as he was looking for a seat down front.”
“Not surprising,” Talia said wryly. “The man’s about as self-centered as they get. I was there, too. I got there a little late, so I sat in the back.”
“It’s wonderful how everyone’s pulling for Lucas,” Molly went on, “but I’m just so terrified he’ll stay in that coma.”
Talia slid a tray of meatballs out of the oven and set them on the work counter to cool. “Call me an optimist, but something tells me Lucas is going to be okay. We just have to keep praying for him, Mol, and have faith in the medical profession.”
“I know. It’s just so hard.” Molly gathered up the pile of potato peels she’d been collecting for the trash compactor. “Look at these peels. Wasted, every day. Did you ever think of making the French fries with the potato skins on?”
Talia smiled. “You trying to get out of peeling potatoes?”
“No, honestly! Look.” She waved a slender hand over Mount Potato Peels. “A lot of restaurants serve fries with the skins on. They’re delish!”
“I hear you, Molly. But Bea always did it the traditional way. I’m afraid our customers wouldn’t like it if we changed. People get very set in their ways, you know.”
Mired in the trauma of the past few days, Talia hadn’t given Bea and Howie Lambert so much as a momentary thought. Now she remembered how much she missed them. They’d always brought such joy into her life—especially Bea, who had been like a second mo
m to her.
After operating the restaurant as a fish-and-chips shop for more than twenty years, the Lamberts had sold it to Talia last December. In January they’d bought a condo in Myrtle Beach and moved there shortly thereafter. From some of the e-mails she’d gotten from Bea, Talia sensed the sixtysomething woman was missing the Berkshires in the worst way. As was her hubby.
“What if we tried it for a week?” Molly suggested. She was still gawping at the pile of peels she’d set aside to wrap up for the trash.
“What . . . ? Oh, you mean, offer skinned or nonskinned fries? I don’t know, Molly . . .”
Molly gave her a pleading puppy-dog look. “Pleeease. Let’s just try it. Instead of a week, we’ll pick one day. We’ll announce it ahead of time, like we’re having a contest.” She snapped her vinyl-clad fingers. “Yesss! I can set up a ballot box, and people can vote for their preference.”
One look at Molly’s imploring expression, and Talia couldn’t say no. “All right,” she said with a sigh, “but you’re in charge of setting it up and counting the ballots.”
Molly grinned. “Thanks, Tal. This will be fun. And I promise to count ballots the fair way, not the Ferringer way. Hey, that sounded like poetry, didn’t it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘Poe,’ but it does have a certain appeal.”
Molly rolled her eyes at the bad pun, then went over and gave Talia a quick hug. “I love working with you. I wish Mom could be as laid-back as you are.”
“Don’t judge her, Molly. She seems to have a lot on her mind these days. Plus, with Crystal being charged for Norma’s murder, this has to be really tough on her.”
Molly’s face fell, as if she’d suddenly remembered Crystal’s arrest. “I wonder if the police will let Mom open the shop today. They tore the place apart yesterday looking for evidence.” She glanced over in the direction of the plaza. A solitary tear perched on her left eyelid.
“We need to give your mom all the moral support we can,” Talia said softly. She plucked a massive pickle from the fridge and set it down on the cutting board.