by Maddie Day
With Turner back at the grill, albeit an upset Turner, we slowly got the rush under control. When I delivered Buck’s double cheeseburger, slaw, chips, and pizza, I was able to pause for a moment. I kept my back to the room.
“What were you thinking, implying to Turner his mom is a drug addict?” I murmured, folding my arms on my chest.
“Those weren’t my words, now. Don’t dig up more snakes than you can kill. I only asked the boy if his ma had been acting funny lately. You know, different than usual. He like to blew up on me, saying her pa was sick and his own pa had been accused of murder and naturally she’d been acting different-like lately.” He spread his hands.
I stared at him. All I knew was that Turner’s take on the conversation wasn’t so benign. “Did you let the drug task force know about Mona?”
“Yup. They’re making me communicate by ‘texting’ ’em.” He made finger quotes around the word texting. “Only thing I hate worse than texting is walking barefoot on hot coals at old Orville’s Greasy Hollow Bee-Bee-Queue.” He pronounced the s in greasy with a z sound, just like everybody else did around here.
I laughed in spite of myself, then sobered. “He’s really upset with me.” I glanced over at Turner.
“Could be he’s upset his own mama didn’t tell him the truth about where she was getting grandpappy’s medicine. Or he’s worried about her.”
“True.” A woman caught my gaze and signaled she needed something at the same time as Turner made the ready sign we used, drawing a couple of circles in the air with the index finger. “I gotta run. You have everything you need here?”
Ketchup drizzled down his chin as he bit into an impossibly large bite of burger. I was grateful he only nodded and didn’t open his mouth to speak. Half-chewed food was a sight I didn’t need to see.
* * *
Buck sat at his table well after he finished his lunch. We weren’t so crowded I needed the spot, so I let him stay. He let his gaze roam across the patrons enjoying their meals, talking, and reading, then peered at his phone, texting away with his index finger. Head up in surveillance, head down in difficult communication. He wasn’t exactly the poster boy for a smooth transition to hi-tech.
During a mini-lull I brought him his ticket and the coffeepot, but he laid his hand atop his cup.
“I drank aplenty, thanks.” He held his hand level. “Any more and I’d be shaking worser than a baby aspen leaf in a hurricane.”
I glanced around. Turner was busy. Everything seemed under control and nobody else sat in the immediate vicinity. I leaned in. “Have you heard how the search for evidence in the suspects’ vehicles is going? Because, you know, the killer had to have transported Connolly to the Raos’ farm.”
He shook his head with a baleful look. “They thought they found something and it turned out to be nothing at all to speak of. They’re still searching, but I’ll tell you, Thompson’s about to give birth to a bovine about now.”
“I’m not surprised.” I folded my arms and tapped my fingers on one arm. “How is he ever going to find the killer?”
“Search me. Sometimes they jest don’t, you know.” He raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together.
The bell jangled again bringing in a crowd of four couples, followed by three college-age women. I was kept busy for the next hour, but even as I poured water and coffee, delivered burgers and brownies, and bussed tables, the case kept my brain busy. Sonia. Sajit. Nick. Who else seemed to be both acting oddly and with perceived cause to kill Connolly? Mona, I supposed. And certainly a stranger out there could be the killer, someone I had no contact with or knowledge of. At this point I kind of hoped a stranger-as-villain would be the eventual resolution, that Thompson and his team would ferret out the truth and clear all the locals of blame.
Turner was working well, but he kept his communications with me terse and as brief as possible. I hoped neither of his parents was a murderer, but odder things had happened. Buck slipped out with a wave at one point. So much for getting information from my one inside source.
The next time the bell rang it was nearly one o’clock and the lunch rush had ebbed. My eyes widened to see Abe usher in the very woman he’d been talking to in Nashville. The very friendly blonde.
I pressed my eyes shut for a moment. I had nowhere to go but toward them. I opened my eyes again. “Sit anywhere you’d like.” I grabbed a couple of menus and headed toward the small table they’d chosen. The woman had sat but Abe remained on his feet.
“Robbie, I’d like you to meet my old friend, Elise. Elise, this is my girlfriend, Robbie Jordan.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed.
What? It almost squeezed a couple of tears out of me, too. He was claiming me. Surely he wouldn’t do that if he was starting something up with this Elise. But had I imagined his odd looks on several occasions and her gesture the other day?
She extended her hand. “I’m really pleased to meet you, Robbie. Abe has told me so much about you.” Her big smile made it look like she was, in fact, pleased.
I swallowed and shook her hand. “Any friend of Abe’s is a friend of mine.”
“I came back to town to announce my engagement.” With a shy look she extended her left hand, which featured a big honking diamond. “And I knew Abe would be happy for me, so I wanted to be sure he knew, too.”
I glanced at Abe. He kissed my cheek and sat at the table. “We used to go out for a little while, long time ago, me and Elise. You bet I’m happy for her.” He beamed.
Another of Buck’s quirky sayings sprang to mind—“Well, Christ on a cracker”—but I kept it to myself. “Congratulations, Elise.” And I meant it. I owed myself a lot more introspection on why I’d ever imagined my relationship with Abe was even susceptible to an imagined threat.
“We’re going to celebrate with the best lunch in the county.” Abe picked up a menu.
“Let me know when you’re ready to order.” I aimed myself at a table needing clearing. Another minor mystery solved.
Chapter 33
I dangled an old bootlace with a jingle bell tied to the end over Chloe’s head as Adele’s kitchen clock ticked past three-thirty. The cat batted at the lace, jingling the bell, and leapt up when I raised it higher. After a few minutes she sniffed and waltzed onto a sun-splashed spot on the floor to studiously and thoroughly bathe. Playtime was over.
“Chloe looks like she’s settling in just fine,” I said.
“She sure enough is. Caught her a mouse just this morning,” Adele said from across the kitchen table, which was today covered with a vintage tablecloth decorated with strawberries and teapots. “Left it next to her food bowl, I’m happy to say, instead of on my pillow or somewheres worse. Hey, thanks for bringing by my clothes, Robbie. I plum forgot to pick them up last time I was over to your place.”
I’d found Adele’s discarded outfit from Saturday morning. I’d washed the clothes and had been meaning to drop them by. This gave me a chance to talk through a few things with her, too. I buttered a slab of fresh bread and savored the bite before speaking. As I chewed, I considered sharing my self-created emotional angst of this week. Why not? Adele might have valuable insights for me. She often did, being one of the wisest people I knew.
“I had a little scare, kind of, this week.”
Her eyebrows knit in a look of alarm. “Tell me the murderer didn’t come after you, hon.”
I laughed. “No, nothing like that. But I had the idea ever so briefly that Abe might be seeing another woman.”
She set her fists on her waist. “Why, he wouldn’t dare! Besides, I can see how much he loves you.”
“You can?” She could? I’d dared to think the word love a few times, and he and I had even exchanged it once. It had been under the extreme stress of being attacked by a murderer. Still, the happy rosy feeling I got when I was with him couldn’t be anything else. But was it safe to feel it?
Adele continued. “What ever on God’s green earth gave you the idea Abraham might be having himse
lf a wandering eye?”
I shrank into my shoulders a little. “A couple of times this week he got phone calls he seemed sort of odd about. Then Tuesday, or Monday? One of those days I saw him talking with a woman in Nashville. She seemed to be getting a little too cozy with him.”
“I hope you marched up and told her where she could up and stick her coziness.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just left. Luckily Abe didn’t see me. Anyway, it turned out to be nothing. He brought her in for lunch today. They’d dated years ago and she’s over the moon with being engaged to someone. A guy who is not Abe. That’s all it was. She just wanted to tell him.”
Adele studied me, then laid her gnarled hand atop mine. “And you were worried you were going to lose one more person you care about. Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right. I was.” I resecured my hair clip on the side. I mostly let my full head of curls fall down and loose after work, since I always had to tie it neatly back when I cooked, and wear a hat, too. “Why am I so insecure about love, Adele?”
“’Cause you’ve had three big important losses. Your ma being primary, but also those clueless, heartless, idiot men you thought were minted from a high-carat gold instead of being only gold-plate.” She smiled. “You’ll see. Abe O’Neill’s a keeper. I know it in my old bones. And these bones have been around the track a time or two.” She slapped her hands on the table, dismissing the discussion. “What else is new? Any tidbits on the murder?” Her eyes sparkled.
“Unfortunately, no.” I munched another bite of bread. “This isn’t really murder-related—at least I believe it isn’t—but do you know Mona’s father?”
“Old Earle? ’Course I do. He’s doing pretty darn poorly, last I heard. Used to farm up to Lolbolly Creek but the farm went under.”
“Well, it looks like Mona has been buying contraband prescription drugs for him. I made the connection and told Buck, and now Turner’s super mad at me. Mona already was.”
“This must be connected with the big drug bust I heard about.”
I nodded, my mouth once again full of bread.
“You did what you believed was the right thing. And it was. Them Raos’ll get over it. Long as Mona herself wasn’t doing the smuggling.”
“It didn’t seem like it.”
“Good,” Adele said.
“But Turner left today without saying good-bye. I’m not sure he’ll be back.”
“Tell you what, I’ll bring the family a hot dish. Shoulda done it earlier. Maybe I can pick up a little more info for you, like.”
“Thanks, Adele. And I’ll call him and apologize.”
“Taking the high road never hurts, hon.” She peered at my head. “You’ve got yourself some kind of barrette there.”
I laughed, taking out the Leatherdos. “I know. Never without a basic toolkit. It’s Abe’s doing, of course.” I passed it over to her to examine.
“Fancy. I mean, it’s simple. Just a hair clip, but with that little serrated edge. Hey, and here’s a screwdriver end. What else does it got?” She turned it over, holding it up to the light. “You could even turn a bolt with it, with that hole. What is it, a half inch?”
“Five-sixteenths.”
“And a little ruler, too. I like it. Handy.” She slid it back across the table. “I’d wear one, too, except it’d fall plum out of this hair of mine.” She tossed her fine, straight hair. “Don’t need no clip, anyhow. When my hair starts getting in my face, why, it just means it’s time for me to hit the barber.”
I pushed around a couple of crumbs on the table. “Back to the murder for a minute? Did I ever ask you if there was blood under Connolly? There would have to be if he was killed there where you found him, but not if he was murdered somewhere else.”
“You did ask me, remember? I don’t remember seeing nothing like that, no.”
“Also, I still can’t figure out how Christina’s knife got in the hands of the killer.”
“The one I saw with my own blue eyes. Sure wish I could unsee that, Robbie, I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t blame you.” I made a decision and stood. “I’m going to pop by Christina’s restaurant. Somebody must have seen a person come into the kitchen who didn’t have any business being there. One of Christina’s people, or the bartender, or someone on the waitstaff had to have seen. Right?”
“You bet. And if anybody can figure out this puzzle, it’ll be you, Roberta Jordan, or I’ll eat my hat and swallow the feather whole.”
Chapter 34
As I drove back into South Lick, I giggled a little. Buck wasn’t the only one with interesting turns of phrase. “‘Or I’ll eat my hat and swallow the feather whole,’” I said out loud. Where did that phrase come from? I supposed it meant if you weren’t right, you should have to stomach, so to speak, an unpleasant consequence. I remembered visiting Adele once when I was a girl. She’d taught me how to make a perfect pie crust. When we slid a mounded-high apple pie into the oven, she said with a note of satisfaction, “And Bob’s your uncle.” She only guffawed when I complained, “But I don’t have any uncles, Auntie Adele.”
I angled into one of what Buck called the slaunch-wise spots on the street in front of Hoosier Hollow and shut off the engine. The day had been fairly mild until now, but as I climbed down from my van a bitter wind cut through my clothes, and the low sky pressed down with a threatening gray smelling suspiciously of snow. One hour it was winter, the next spring, and then back to winter. At least we were on the warming side of the year’s cycle and not a hundred eighty degrees off into fall. Cold weather was tough on a California girl, no matter how long I’d lived here. No wonder Mom had uprooted and moved to sunny Santa Barbara, where the only natural-world issues were occasional winter rains, wildfires, and the ever-present possibility of an earthquake.
I took a minute to call Turner, but his number went to voice mail.
“Turner, I’m sorry for what happened earlier,” I said into the device. “Sometimes it’s hard to know the right thing to do, at least for me. I hope your grandpa can get his medicine and that your mother will be all right. Your father, too. And I hope to see you back on the grill tomorrow. You’re a real asset to the restaurant. To me.” I fell silent. Had I said enough? Too much? Having no idea, I jabbed END, stashed my phone, and climbed out of the van.
I stood still for a moment. Was I even up for going in and asking a lot of people I didn’t know questions the police surely had already been over, and over, and over with them? I could just slide back into the driver’s seat, fire up the van, and head home. To my cat, a nice glass of an adult beverage, today’s puzzle, and the solace of silence. But what if I did and the murderer struck again? How would I feel then, if I hadn’t done my utmost to solve this most important of puzzles?
I was almost to the front door when it pushed open. Nick Mendes let it shut softly behind him. Then he saw me.
He blinked a few times before his mouth smiled. “Good afternoon, Robbie. Come to get an early-bird special?”
Huh. The rest of his face wasn’t smiling.
“No,” I said. “I have something I need to talk with Christina about.”
“Listen, I wanted to talk with you more about your vintage cookware. You know, take a look at the selection, maybe pick up a few pieces.”
He did? True, he had been browsing those shelves before the contest had gotten going last week. “Sure. Stop by anytime.”
“Will do.” He gave a little mock salute and strode down the sidewalk.
I watched him go. He came off as a nice, normal guy. But there was something about him that bugged me. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. I pulled open the door. What had he been doing in the restaurant? Shouldn’t he be back in Nashville doing his own meal prep?
Inside, the dining room was hopping with normal pre-opening-time hustle and bustle. With a half hour until their opening time of five-thirty, the bartender wiped glasses and straightened bottles. A waiter set tables with flatware
while another distributed stacks of plates. One table was covered by a plastic sheet and dozens of carnation stems, which a woman snipped and arranged in small vases. I smiled and strolled through all of it into the kitchen. The brothy, meaty umami aromas made me want to sit down and order one of everything.
“Yo, Robbie,” Christina called from the far end. “Come on in. Gang, this is Robbie Jordan. Formerly chef at Nashville Inn, now proprietor of Pans ’N Pancakes down the road half a mile.”
I waved, seeing a few familiar faces look up from their tasks, folks who had been in for breakfast or lunch over the past half year. Others whom I didn’t know smiled and gave a wave, too. I carefully avoided getting in the way of flashing knives prepping vegetables and several pots steaming on the ten-burner industrial stove as I slid over to my friend. She dipped a ladle in a deep pot, then extracted a spoonful from the ladle, blowing on it to cool the hot liquid.
“How does this taste?” She offered me the spoon. Today she’d tucked her blond ponytail through a dark green hat featuring a Minnesota moose and the words YA, YOU BETCHA.
I sipped the broth and swirled it in my mouth. “Yum. Curry. A touch of anchovy. Cilantro. A few drops of habanero? Delicious,” I declared, handing the spoon back to her.
“You’re good. Plus potato water and a little soy. My special broth.”
“It’s a good one.”
“What brings you by, my friend?” She kept her eyes on the pot as she added a sprinkle of salt and stirred again.
I glanced around before taking one step closer to her. “I’m still really bugged about your knife.”
“You and me both.”
“Okay with you if I ask around a little, check with your staff? Not about the knife, just about who they remember seeing go in and out on Friday.”
“We’ve been over all of it, but be my guest. All I request is you don’t get in the way of their work. We’re cutting it a little close today. The order came in late.”