by Maddie Day
“And they’re checking for bloodstains in cars?”
“Yes, Robbie,” he said with slow patience in a singsong why-do-you-even-ask? tone. He lowered his chin and peered at me from under his eyebrows with an exasperated look “They’re checking everywhere for everything.”
Turner rang the Ready bell. “It doesn’t hurt to ask,” I muttered as I headed for the waiting plates.
I brought Buck’s order to him and paused to ask, “Is Noreen still pressing charges against his father”—I gestured toward Turner at the grill with my head—“for the assault on hers?”
“Nope. Decided to drop it.” He tucked his napkin into his neck. Staring at his plate, he let out a sigh sounding like a groan of ecstasy. The man did enjoy his food.
“Glad to hear it. I’ll bet the Rao family is, too.”
He mumbled around a bite of pancake. “Still haven’t figured out how the bad guy stole the chef knife.”
I had a flash. “Are you guys a hundred percent sure it belongs to Christina? I mean, it’s a popular brand, because it’s such high quality. Not popular among amateurs, because it’s too expensive. But with chefs? It’s a biggie.” My voice sped up as I grew excited about the idea it could be any other chef’s knife. Even Nick’s. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
He swallowed his bite, and dabbed a dribble of syrup off his chin with his napkin. “Sorry, hon. The knife belongs to Christina James. She got some kinda mark burned into the handles of her knives. Like a brand on a cow. Guess she don’t want none of her under-cooks walking off with one.
I stared. Oh. So much for that theory.
Chapter 31
Abe came in at around eight with two of his fellow linemen. I hurried to their table and explained the specials.
“I’ll have all the specials,” Abe said, his brown eyes smiling at me. One of his coworkers ordered the same, while the other reluctantly asked for his usual healthy breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, and non-fat milk. He’d mentioned in the fall his breakfast choice was on his doctor’s orders. I noticed today he had, in fact, slimmed down considerably. I assumed his other health numbers had improved in a similar way.
After I delivered their food a few minutes later, Abe thanked me as his phone buzzed. He shot me an odd look, and excused himself from the table, pulling his phone out and retreating to a quiet corner of the store. My nervous insecurity raised its head again. What was his look? The same one as when he hadn’t answered his phone a couple of days ago. Who was he talking to? Did the call come from a blonde being a little too friendly?
I swore silently, making my way back to the grill. And here I’d imagined everything was fine and dandy between us. I’d thought the universe was all done making people I loved desert me. I guess I was wrong. I knew it was an extreme reaction but I couldn’t help it. Or maybe I could. I could pull my socks up and just talk to him about it. We’d been building a strong foundation to a relationship, Abe and me. Surely I could just ask him about the woman.
After the three linemen finished eating, on his way out Abe stopped me. “I really liked those specials, Robbie. Nice job.”
I did not give him my biggest smile. I got a quizzical look from him in return. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to ask him, but somehow I couldn’t find the words.
“Robbie, there’s something I want to share with you,” he said, his voice hesitant.
Oh, great. A customer across the room raised her hand, needing coffee or her check or more syrup, who knew? I couldn’t talk to him right now. “It’s going to have to be later. I’m too busy here.” I turned my back and set to clearing the men’s table, and when I was done they were gone.
Even with Turner’s help I ran my tush off for the next three hours. My Italian plan didn’t backfire, after all. The biscotti were particularly popular, but so was the rest of it. A group of antique cookware collectors burst in, more excited than five-year olds on Christmas morning. By the time they’d shopped and eaten, too, my bank account was in a lot better shape than it had been an hour earlier. I was going to have to find time to go antiquing to pick up more pieces. A big antiques show took place in Indy in the fall, but spring would bring plenty of flea markets and yard sales, often better bets for finding good deals on unusual century-old cookware. Or maybe I’d just do it on eBay.
During the rest of the rush, I did my best not to dwell on Abe. What would be would be, and I had a store to run. I fended off more than a few questions and innuendos from diners about Sajit, however. What was his son doing back in the restaurant? Wasn’t I worried his father was a killer? One woman hinted I’d better get an alibi out of Turner, because if he didn’t have one, maybe he killed the professor to do his father a favor. And more. Several comments were not made in the quietest of voices, either. To Turner’s credit—and infinite wisdom—he ignored them all and just kept flipping pancakes, ladling gravy onto the savory biscuits, and folding fillings into Italian omelets. He took the initiative to whip up a few more batches of biscuits when we started running low.
The unbroken biscotti ran out just when the lull hit. After the last customer left at ten-thirty, I snatched a leftover piece of biscotti and sank into a chair, exhausted. I really ought to make another batch of biscotti for lunch, but they could wait a few minutes. “Grab food and sit down, Turner. You did great this morning.”
“Split an omelet?” he asked.
“Sure, thanks.”
A couple of minutes later we each tucked into half a hearty omelet. I was right. The Italian sausage and Parm went perfect together. We ate in silence, me scarfing it down, him looking pensive and eating at a more normal pace. When I was done, I sat back and wiped my mouth. “That hit the spot. But wait, you’re eating sausage?”
He shrugged. “It’s pork, not beef. And I was hungry. Don’t worry about it.” He set his fork down with a quarter of the omelet still on the plate, crumbs of sausage and cheese easing out the sides. “Robbie, I heard so many people talking about me. I know you need help here, but are you sure—”
I held up my hand. “Don’t even go there. Of course I want you to stay. Those were local gossips and busybodies, nothing more. How are things at home, by the way?”
“Awful.” He made an expression like he’d tasted spoiled fruit. “My dad is shaky and will hardly talk. My mom’s nervous about everything. Su has classes and papers, so she’s spending most of her time in Bloomington. Frankly, it was great for me to get away this morning.”
“Did your mom try to keep you from coming?” I picked up both our plates. If I wanted to get those biscotti done in time, I needed to start now.
“She tried, sort of. But by this morning she was pretty much out of steam. She’s so worried about my grandfather. Peepaw’s medicine ran out and he’s in a lot of pain.”
“You can’t just refill his prescription at the pharmacy?”
“Mom says it’s a special thing you can’t get in this country, so she orders it online and has it sent to her post office box in Nashville.”
I pulled out the butter, flour, cocoa, almonds, and the other biscotti ingredients. I’d begun to repeat my steps of the night before when it hit me.
Turning slowly, I gazed at him. Mona had to be lying about ordering drugs online for her father. I’d bet my last vintage frying pan she bought medicine for her father locally, probably from someone in the gang importing stuff from Canada. The gang now out of business from being busted, according to the paper, or at least a half dozen of them were. This was bad on several counts. The first being Turner’s poor grandfather, suffering from pain. Another was Mona buying illegal drugs. But at least she wasn’t an addict, wasn’t using them herself. I hoped.
“What are you staring at?” Turner tilted his head, a mask of confusion on his face. “Did I do something wrong? You look like you saw a pishacha. You know, a ghost.”
Uh-oh. Should I tell him? I resumed assembling the dough. I decided to stall for time. “It’s nothing. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s n
othing. If you don’t mind, clean up the grill first. Then you could get the pizza dough out of the cooler and make a bunch of golf-ball-sized balls. We’ll flatten them into pizzas when we’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He still looked confused but went about his tasks.
My task clearly was to figure out who to tell. Buck, I supposed. This wasn’t a murder-related piece of news. I didn’t want to get Mona into trouble. But she might be able to help the drug agency find another dealer, unless the one I’d heard her talking to was also part of last night’s roundup. I hadn’t started working with flour yet, so I wiped off my hands and texted Buck.
Need to talk w you in priv. News about drug gang. Come by? Let me know when.
I’d figure out a way to break the news to Turner before Buck came, in case the officer wanted to question him. Meanwhile, I had chocolate biscotti to get in the oven.
Chapter 32
“Here’s the lunch crowd,” I said, hearing the bell jangle behind me an hour later. I turned to see it was a crowd of one: Buck. He might well be here for lunch, but I’d bet he had come in because of my text, too. And I hadn’t figured out how to broach the topic with Turner. Darn it all.
“Hey there, Robbie, Turner.” Buck lifted his hat.
“Good morning, Officer Buck.” Turner raised a tomato-stained hand before resuming his pizza assembly. He spread a thin layer of sauce on each six-inch disk, added a spoonful of chopped Kalamata olives since I couldn’t find any Italian olives, and sprinkled a mozzarella-Parmesan mix on top.
I hurried toward Buck. “You said you were going to tell me when you were coming,” I murmured.
“Why?” The way Buck said the word left his mouth wide open. And he didn’t murmur by any means, asking the question in a too-loud voice.
“Because I said I wanted to talk with you in private.” I kept my voice low and urgent, and almost pushed him back out the door, closing it behind us. Whew. Except it was pouring rain out here, and the wind was blowing, too. I hadn’t had time to even glance out the window since the sky had lightened after we opened.
“What’s the big secret?” Buck wrinkled his nose as he gazed down at me. “Today Turner’s birthday or something? Or did you discover he killed the professor?”
“No! It’s because I didn’t tell him yet.”
“Tell him what? You’re starting to sound like one of them mystery shows.”
“Can you be quiet and let me talk, please? Let’s sit down.” I looked down at the rocking chairs. Nope. Sitting out here wasn’t going to work. The chairs were wet through and through. We were starting to get drenched from the sideways-slanting precipitation, too.
“Robbie Jordan, you’re making less sense than you can slap on a gnat’s ass with a butter paddle.” He wrinkled his nose. “Let’s just go inside and you tell me what’s what. It’s raining harder than a blind mule pissing on a flat rock out here.”
“I can’t. I haven’t told Turner yet.”
“Told him what?” His tone had turned to one of exasperation.
“Listen to me. Turner’s mother is buying illegal prescriptions for her father’s pain. He’s quite ill.” My story poured out in a flood. “She’s not an addict herself, I don’t believe. But I overheard her in the state park yesterday saying she couldn’t make the swap. She said she thought she was being watched because of the murder, and that the shed in the woods was out of the question. Today Turner said his sick grandfather’s pain meds have run out and his mom gets them in the mail. She must have lied to him about where she obtained them. I’d bet anything she meets a dealer in person to get them.”
He nodded slowly.
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. “I wanted you to know, but I didn’t know how to tell Turner what I learned.”
“This is dang inneresting. Them drug task force guys are going to want to know they got them another customer to talk to. Although, just between you and me and the wallpaper, one of them agent’s more useless than a fart in a windsock. ”
Jeez. Sometimes his colorful Buckisms went a little too far. “What do I tell Turner?”
He formed his hands into a steeple. “All righty then. Here’s what we’re gonna go ahead and do. You got you any customers in there?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. Trust me on this. We’re both going to tell him. You let me take the lead, though. Believe it or not, I know how to handle these situations. I’ll be gentle. Okey-dokey?”
I considered his proposal. I didn’t much like it, but now the cat was out of the bag, what could I do? “Okay.” I held the door for him. “After you.”
Turner scrunched up his face after Buck said we wanted to talk to him. “Both of you?” He looked from Buck to me and back. Turner’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. What’s happened now? You didn’t find evidence against—”
Buck shook his head slower than a tortoise would. “Let’s not jump the gun, son. We got something we want to discuss with you. Let’s us three set ourselves down and talk.”
Except the cowbell jangled again, and again. This time it was the real lunch crowd, a big group of silver-haired women and two construction workers, also both women.
“You two talk,” I said to Buck and Turner. “I’ll get these under way.” I watched out of the corner of my eye as Buck ushered a stunned-looking Turner off to the antique cookware area of the store, behind the shelves where it would be quiet and they could talk in peace. This was not how I’d planned it. Yeah, Jordan. Since when did life ever go as planned?
* * *
Buck and Turner were back there maybe ten minutes but it seemed like a really long hour as I scribbled down orders, poured water and coffee, and slid a pan of pizzas into the preheated oven. I kept glancing over at the shelves but the two didn’t emerge. Instead a bunch more people flowed through the front door. Sheesh. A full house and it wasn’t even noon. I got the construction workers’ burgers done and delivered, along with a soda for one and a chocolate milk for the other, then just kept working my way through the orders. I was, as Buck would say in his only inoffensive phrase for my situation, busier than a one-eyed cat watching nine mouse holes.
I was madly flipping burgers when the pizza timer dinged. A woman waved, needing something or other. The noise level of conversation, chairs being adjusted, the clink of fork on plate kept rising along with, I imagined, my blood pressure. I pulled out the pizzas just in time and checked the order slip. Ack. Three orders of fries but I’d never started up the deep fryer. Bag of chips to the rescue and I’d comp their drinks or something. Maybe I could put a positive spin on the lack of fries. I could boast on the chalkboard we were celebrating National Grease-Free Day by not using the deep fryer. Or was that too silly by half?
I scooped out coleslaw into two small bowls, slid a pizza and a pickle onto two plates, and grabbed a couple of bags of chips. Buck and Turner emerged as I headed away from the grill, arms loaded. By the time I tended to the room and returned to the kitchen area, Turner was back at work, his mouth set in a grim line. Buck leaned against a post near the door since a couple had taken the small table in the back he preferred. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth and he was tapping out something on his phone with his long index finger. From the intense way he peered at the phone, his head stuck forward like a heron hunting fish, it looked like a laborious process. I was dying to talk with Buck but now wasn’t the time.
“How’d your conversation with Buck go?” I murmured to Turner even as I prepped the next four plates with pickles and slaw.
He kept his eyes on the hot grill. “Thanks a lot, Robbie.” His terse words came out like daggers aimed my way, his tone harsher than forty-grit sandpaper. “Calling my mother a liar. Saying she’s buying drugs from a shady dealer. Buck even implied she might even be buying them for herself because she’s an addict.”
I winced. Poor Turner. “I didn’t tell Buck anything of the kind! But if she’s buying illegal prescription drugs, she could get in trouble. And who
knows what the quality is if you don’t get them from a pharmacy. I overheard her yesterday on a phone call talking about how she couldn’t meet someone. She said the situation was too hot, in her words. And she said she needed them. After I heard about the big drug bust last night, I had to tell Buck. Don’t you see?”
His hand shook as he slid a browned turkey burger onto a grill-toasted bun and delivered it to its waiting plate. He faced me, his glowering expression mixing with pain. “And you couldn’t let me know first? Her getting those drugs is the only way we can afford them. You wouldn’t believe what they cost at the pharmacy and Peepaw has nothing. He was a dirt-poor farmer and now . . .” His voice broke. He cleared his throat hard and faced the grill again. “I can’t talk about this now.”
I wanted to touch his arm but I didn’t dare. “I’m really sorry.”
“I want to head out of here right this minute and never see you again.” He swore. “But I’m not leaving you in the lurch. Just don’t talk about it.”
His integrity wouldn’t let him leave. Turner was as much of a treasure as I’d thought. “I promise.” The timer dinged signaling more pizzas were ready. I took them, out, finished prepping the next plates, and waved at the construction workers. They’d wolfed down their meals and gestured to me they’d left the money for their meal on the table.
“You need three of those,” Turner said, gesturing with his chin to the hot disks.
“I’ munna take that there table if it’s all right with you,” Buck said, ambling by, pointing toward his customary spot.
Turner’s nostrils flared. He didn’t waver his gaze from the grill. How was I ever going to smooth this over? What drug did his grandfather need, anyway, that would be so expensive from a pharmacy? If he was so poor, surely he’d be on Medicare and Medicaid by now, not that I really knew anything about either. Didn’t they pay for prescription drugs?