One thing about the North Country. You didn’t get between a man—or woman—and his hunting territory. “And that’s what Russ and Jim argued about?”
“Yup. The lawyer told him he was going to put up ‘Posted’ signs all around the property and he was going to enforce them. I admit it, Russ was madder than a wet bobcat.”
A sharp breeze stabbed at my cheeks, reminding me I was standing outside. “And someone overheard the argument and reported it to the police. Do we know who?”
“Yep, and nope. Don’t know who it was who ratted him out. But I wouldn’t want to be that person when Russ gets out of jail. I just hope that public defender knows what he’s doing.”
Me too. I had no idea what a private lawyer would charge to defend someone accused of murder. Did I have enough saved up to help if Dolly asked? That would make a big dent in my Buy-the-Bonaparte-House-Someday Fund. But I would do it for Dolly. Not for Russ, but for Dolly.
“And no,” she continued. “Don’t offer me money for a lawyer. He got himself into this mess. He can get himself out.”
I wished I could hug Dolly through the phone. She’d been a friend as well as an employee to me over the years. Despite her rough exterior and no-nonsense demeanor, she had to be upset. Having your son on probation, or fined for jacking deer, was one thing. Having him arrested for murder was quite another. And Russ had a temper. If he’d gotten angry enough—and make no mistake, his way of life had been threatened . . . Well, maybe I had to reconsider whether I thought he was capable of killing someone, even though I’d given him the benefit of the doubt.
“Call me if you need anything,” I said. “Oh, and I know this might not be the best time to tell you this.” I bit my lip. The idea had been kicking around in my head for a while now. “If the restrooms are finished, I was thinking about reopening the restaurant, just for one Thanksgiving seating. Of course I’ll find somebody else to cook. You already work all the warm-weather holidays.”
She cut me off. “Don’t you dare. I’d have to cook at home anyway, so we can all just eat at the restaurant.” She pronounced it rest-runt. “Turkey and all the trimmings. Prepping and cooking’ll keep my mind off Russ.”
We’d have to add a few Greek dishes. Some tiropita as an appetizer and a traditional Greek dessert or two, at the very least.
“I’ll let you know when we can go back into the kitchen. And I’m sorry about Russ,” I said, and rang off.
From where I stood on the porch, I could just see the Bonaparte House. I was at odds. What was I going to do with myself until I could go back to my home? Stay in my room at the Camelot? That had already gotten old. I was used to being busy. Take a walk? It was awfully cold and that couldn’t be healthy. I could go visit Liza and Melanie at the Spa, but that would require finding someone with a boat, or having Liza send someone over from the island to pick me up. And that just seemed like too much trouble. If the crime scene people would let me have my car, I could drive to Watertown and have an early lunch after my dismal breakfast, then do a little early holiday shopping. Maybe see a movie.
My heart clenched. It would be so much nicer if I had a friend to go with me. I missed Sophie, my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law, who was back in Greece for the winter. I missed my daughter, who was due back soon but hadn’t told me yet when she was flying from Europe.
And most of all, I missed Jack Conway. A Coast Guard captain, he was off doing . . . something. Something he wouldn’t, probably couldn’t, tell me about. After twenty years of a marriage of convenience with Spiro, I’d spent the last couple of months learning how to have a relationship with a man who preferred women. But Jack’s job took him away, sometimes for weeks at a time. And it wasn’t clear what exactly he did. And I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about that. I’d spent a lot of years with a man who was usually present, but not there for me. And now I’d taken up with a man who was there for me, but wasn’t always here.
I descended the steps and walked the few blocks to the parking lot behind the Bonaparte House. The building was barricaded with yellow crime scene tape, but my car sat all by its lonesome. I crossed the gravel, just as a New York state trooper’s car pulled in and rolled to a stop in front of me, cutting off my exit.
A man stepped out of the car, six-feet-plus of bulky muscle encased in a perfectly fitted jacket and crisp-pressed pants. He took off his mirrored aviator sunglasses and let his steely eyes come to rest on my face. I squirmed. This wasn’t my first rodeo with Detective Lieutenant Hawthorne, but it never got any easier. Nor did it matter that I was completely innocent. Given the chance, the man could intimidate the Pope.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he drawled, popping a cherry Life Saver into his mouth. He’d apparently eaten another one earlier, because his lips were a slightly unnatural shade of red. I pictured him interrogating suspects then sucking their blood. For fun.
“Isn’t there somebody else they can send to question me? People are going to start talking.” My attempt at flippancy was not nearly as successful as his had been and I wished I could take it back.
“I asked for this job,” he said with a grin that showed very white teeth. Possibly the first smile I’d ever seen on his face. If I wasn’t already, maybe, sort of in love with Jack, and if the detective wasn’t a little bit, uh, scary, I might have set my toque for this guy. “This address is preprogrammed into my GPS unit. Saves time.”
I unset my toque. “You think I like this? You think it’s my fault somebody died in my restaurant? Think again.” Despite the cold, I could feel heat rush to my cheeks and my blood pressure tick up.
“Settle down, Georgie. We know you didn’t have anything to do with this. At the time of the murder you were at the accountants’ office and then at the hair stylist. Who did a very good job, by the way.”
My knit hat was still on my head, so I knew he was just trying to soften me up. “Let’s just get this over with,” I snapped. “Can I use my car? When is this”—I swept my gloved hand in a semicircle toward the yellow tape—“going to be finished?” Then my ever-present guilt reflex kicked in. No matter what kind of a jerk Jim MacNamara had been in life, he still deserved justice in death.
A flicker of amusement crossed Lieutenant Hawthorne’s face.
“So glad you find this funny.” My guilt evaporated and annoyance came rushing back in to take its place.
The detective reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook. “Do you want to do this here, or shall we go inside where it’s warm?”
“Can we go in? We can use my office, I guess. It should be familiar to you since you’ve been here before.” I sincerely hoped this would be the last time he ever visited me.
He led the way to the door, then lifted the crime scene tape for me to duck under. Such a gentleman.
I’m not sure what I expected to find. A passel of white-suited technicians dusting for fingerprints and inspecting surfaces for hair and fiber samples maybe. But in fact, we passed only a couple of people and I didn’t even have to put on paper booties to get to my office.
Lieutenant Hawthorne explained without my asking. “We’re not really expecting to find much useful forensic evidence. This is a public business and it would be basically impossible to rule out every hair or fingerprint we find from every customer and employee who’s been here.”
They’d found Russ’s fingerprints, though, and that, along with the witness’s account of hearing Russ and Jim arguing, had been enough to make a very quick arrest. Maybe too quick? My gut was telling me there might have been a rush to judgment.
“Sorry I can’t offer you anything while we talk,” I said. “My kitchen’s not available to me.” My tone was probably a teeny bit snarkier than was strictly necessary. Why this man always irritated me so, I couldn’t say. It didn’t seem to bother him.
“No baklava? Then just tell me about the day of the murder and descri
be what you saw,” he said, pen poised over his notebook.
My eyes closed as I gave him an account of everything I could remember. Which wasn’t much. I hadn’t stayed very long once I saw Jim’s body lying on my ladies’ room floor. An image that was probably burned into my memory banks forever. “Did you look in the kitchen cabinet I told you about? Was it my gyro spit sticking out of Jim’s back?”
“It was. That’s where we got Russ Riley’s prints.” He consulted his notebook. “Anything else relevant?”
Should I tell him about Steve? He’d been pretty angry last night talking about Jim and the affair with Jennifer. I decided to go the indirect route.
“Have you interviewed Steve Murdoch and the guy working for him? Zach Brundage? They were the ones here with Russ.”
He tilted his head to one side, ever so slightly. “Yes, of course.”
Then there was no need for me to put any suspicions in his head about Steve. If the police had done their homework, they would have known about Jennifer’s affair with Jim and come to their own conclusions. It was all over town, even though I was apparently one of the last to learn about it.
“Then I can’t think of anything else.”
“Well, if you do, you’ll be sure to call.” It was an order, not a request. He rose, towering over me. “The techs should be done here by tomorrow morning, so you can come back then. In the meantime, if you need anything upstairs, I can accompany you to get it. And you can take your car.”
If I hadn’t needed clean clothes, I would have declined. “Come on, then,” I said, and led him through one of the three dining rooms, up and around the spiral staircase, and into our living quarters on the second floor.
“Wait here,” I told him, pointing to a couch in our little family room—really just an open landing at the top of the stairs with some seating and a coffee table.
“You’re not going to invite me in?” He folded up his bulky body and sat down on the couch, then picked up a magazine, which he began to thumb through. Funny, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be interested in recipes and housekeeping tips, but then again that was the only magazine available.
I twisted the doorknob. “Nope.” With those red lips from the cherry candy, it would be like inviting in a vampire. And we all know what happens when you do that.
Inside my room I threw fresh underwear, jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater into an overnight bag. If the crime scene techs had been in here, it didn’t show. Everything appeared to be in the not-quite-neat-as-a-pin state I’d left it.
Lieutenant Hawthorne followed me back downstairs and out to the kitchen. A glance at my prep counter showed Gladys Montgomery’s recipes still in piles on the stainless steel surface. I felt bad leaving them there unprotected, but had to think Gladys would understand. It wasn’t as though I had a choice.
A knock sounded at the kitchen door. The evidence techs both inclined their heads toward the sound, and Detective Hawthorne strode over. He opened the door and said to whoever was on the other side, “This is a crime scene.”
A tremulous voice said, “I know.”
The detective seemed to relent because he held the storm door open and stepped back to allow a young woman to cross the threshold.
“Don’t go any farther than where you are,” he ordered. “What’s your name and why are you here?”
SIX
I recognized her. It was the not-so-hot waitress who had served Brenda and me last night at the Casa di Pizza. She shook her head so her long, straight hair fell around her shoulders in a glossy wave. I wondered what kind of shampoo and conditioner she used. The cold dry winter air of the North Country always gave me staticky flyaways.
“Piper,” the woman said. “Piper Preston. I’m supposed to bring this to Georgie.” She reached into her bag and I saw the detective stiffen and put his hand automatically on his sidearm. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. This girl could barely serve up salad and pizza without help. She couldn’t possibly be dangerous.
You’ve been wrong about people before, that obnoxious little voice in my head piped up. Fine. A little caution wouldn’t hurt.
Piper reached farther into her giant purple Coach bag so that her entire arm disappeared into the depths—which was saying something, because she was quite tall and had correspondingly long appendages. What could a young woman of her age possibly need a bag that big for? At least it wasn’t carrying a little dog, that I could tell. It seemed to be mostly empty, but she finally came up with a piece of paper.
“I’ll take that,” Detective Hawthorne said in a voice that would scare the Crypt Keeper. Piper didn’t seem to notice, but handed him the paper. He scanned it, turned it over to examine the other side, then held it out to me. “Salad dressing,” he said in the same tone he might have said, “Murder.”
I reached for it and read the title. Ah. Franco’s Thousand Island dressing recipe, the one he’d found in one of the unused upper floors over his restaurant. I scanned the first couple ingredients. As I’d suspected when I’d tasted the dressing, this recipe was a little different from the one we served here. A little thrill ran though me. Was this it? The smoking gun of salad toppings? The Maltese Falcon of the Thousand Islands? The concoction that would force the tour boat guides to change their spiel?
“Thanks for bringing this over,” I said to Piper. “And thank Franco for me, will you?” It was all I could do to not pull out a stainless steel bowl and start mixing up a batch right then.
Piper gave her gorgeous hair another toss, then adjusted her creamy white hand-knit hat to the perfect slouchy angle. “No problem. It’s nice to get out of the restaurant for a while. I wish I could think of another errand to run.” She cut her heavily fringed eyes to Detective Hawthorne. “Uh, can I go now?”
A tiny muscle in his jaw twitched. “Yes,” was all he said. Piper threw the straps of her bag up over her shoulder and left.
I folded the photocopied recipe into quarters and put it in my pocket. It would be wrong of me to let it go public before Franco had a chance to take the credit for finding it. But tomorrow, when the Bonaparte House was turned back over to me, there was a salad on my personal menu.
Detective Hawthorne zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands into black leather gloves, then headed for the door. “Till next time,” he said.
Was it illegal to throw something at a state trooper? Probably. But he was outside before I could find anything within arm’s reach. I donned my jacket, grabbed my purse, and followed him out.
A few minutes later my little blue Honda and I were motoring out of town, headed toward Watertown, the North Country’s biggest city, population twenty-five thousand or so. Located just a few miles from Fort Drum, home to twelve thousand Army personnel and their families, Watertown was where most everybody, Army and civilian alike, came to shop. Most of the major retail and restaurant chains were here, but if you couldn’t find what you wanted, the next big stop was Syracuse fifty miles farther south. And if you couldn’t find it there, well, you’d probably just order online and have somebody else do the driving.
I pulled into a parking space at the Salmon Run Mall and shut off the engine, which also killed my 1980s music in the middle of a Bruce Springsteen song. In addition to doing some early holiday shopping, I needed to outfit my car for the upcoming winter. Jumper cables were in a plastic milk crate stored in the hatchback, along with deicer. I’d need to pick up a second can to store in the house. If my locks froze, the can in my car would be useless since I wouldn’t be able to get to it. My list also contained a case of water bottles. Half a dozen was a good number to keep in the car, opened and with some of the contents poured out so the bottles wouldn’t crack when the water inside froze and expanded. A box of protein bars, a new ice scraper and snow brush combination, a couple of bottles of dry gas, an extra hat and gloves, some cat litter—poured under a spinning tire, it would provide enough t
raction to get moving again on slick ice or snow if I got stuck. I already had a couple of blankets stored back there as well. Winter came early, hit hard, and stayed late this far north, and it paid to be prepared.
My shopping for essentials didn’t take long. Since I couldn’t go home, I stopped in at the department store, shopped for a while, and picked up a very cute pair of black leather dress boots, along with a cherry red cashmere sweater that was cut a little lower than my normal clothes. A look in the dressing room mirror told me the sweater was flattering and fit me perfectly, and the soft, delicate knitted fabric was darn near irresistible.
Cal would approve, I thought. She’d been trying to unfrump me for years. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about my appearance. It was just that during the spring and summer, my jobs were so varied at the Bonaparte House, from reservations clerk to supply orderer to line cook, that clothes had to be cool, practical, comfortable, and easily washable. And during the winter, well, clothes had to be warm in my drafty two-hundred-year-old home. So like most everyone else in northern climes, I wore a lot of fleece and flannel.
I paid for the boots and sweater, wincing only slightly at the price as the clerk ran my credit card. I loaded up my arms with bags and headed for the parking lot.
The air was cold, colder than before I’d gone into the mall. My breath came out in a frosty whoosh as I placed my bags in the car, then raced around to the driver’s side to turn on the engine and let it warm up. A thin layer of frost had formed on the windshield while I’d been inside. I could let the defroster melt it off, or I could scrape. Since my gloves were currently residing on the passenger seat, scraping was out. I shoved my hands in my pockets and got inside, even though it was no warmer in there yet than it was outside.
Shivers ran through me in waves as I waited. Finally, two circles of clear glass appeared on the windshield, fanning out slowly until a view of the parking lot presented itself. A woman in a long dark blue coat was walking briskly past my car, pulling a fur-trimmed hood up over her head as she did so. I’d only gotten a glimpse of her before the hood went up, but I thought I knew who she was. And I needed to talk to her.
A Killer Kebab Page 5