Grilled for Murder

by Maddie Day

  * * *

  The first customer to walk in the door the next morning, at seven sharp, was Octavia. Just my luck. Danna was about to wait on her when I held up my hand.

  “I’ve got it.” Maybe I could slip some poison in her coffee. I grabbed the coffee pot in one hand and a menu in the other, and headed for the small table where she’d taken a seat. Octavia removed her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. The first pan of French toast had finished baking and the warm cinnamon-spiced air smelled like anything but poison.

  “Good morning, Octavia.” I handed her the menu. “Coffee?” I could rise above petty feelings with the best of them. At least for a while, and certainly for the sake of my business.

  “Please.” She returned the menu. As with every time I’d seen her, her hair was a perfect cap, and she wore the same sensible slacks and blazer with her sensible black sneakers. Sure didn’t look like a passionate package to me. “Can I get two poached eggs with whole wheat toast, no butter? And a bowl of fruit, whatever you have.” She gave me a half smile.

  “Of course.” I poured her coffee and headed for the cookware shelves. Poached eggs. First customer ever to ask for that. Good thing I had a vintage egg poacher somewhere around here. I spotted it and carried it to the kitchen area. After I scrubbed it, I set the eggs to poaching, grumbling in my mind about prissy people who didn’t think eating fat was good for them.

  A couple of minutes later I set her order in front of her. She was focused on her phone, but I stood there until she glanced up and thanked me.

  “How’s the case going?” I asked.

  “I can’t discuss it with you, Robbie.”

  I glanced around the store. Nobody else had come in yet. I sat opposite her. She gave me a disapproving look before dipping a corner of toast into one of the eggs.

  “I learned something I think you should check into.” I rested my forearms on the table and leaned forward. “There’s a corrupt police officer in Chicago who might have been having an affair with Erica. And they might have killed Jim Shermer’s brother together.”

  She blinked fast several times. Jim’s name got her attention. “The brother who committed suicide. That’s a lot of mights. How would it relate to Erica’s murder?”

  “What if Erica was blackmailing the cop about the murder, and he came down here and killed her?” I sat back, wondering how she knew about Jon’s suicide if she hadn’t been in touch with Jim for a decade. Wondering if Jim had lied to me about that, too. But no, of course she’d know. Because of Erica.

  “How did you learn about this officer who might have known Erica and might have killed her husband?” Nothing seemed to ruffle this woman.

  I stood. “There’s an investigative reporter in Chicago looking into it. Ask Jim.” I headed back to the kitchen area glad I hadn’t throttled her. Which would be wrong and illogical, of course. Jim wanting to be with her wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. But the heart is rarely logical. For example, hadn’t I doubted my feelings for him only yesterday? So why was I taking this thing so hard?

  Abe pushed open the door and breezed in, followed by three other men. “Hey, Robbie,” he called with a big smile. He removed his white hard hat and waved it at me.

  I blew out a breath. Time to focus on my livelihood. Customers. Food. Even handsome workmen. “Hey, yourself. Hi, guys. Sit wherever you want.”

  The men, all electric company employees in work boots and green uniform shirts with the REA logo on the pockets, pulled out chairs, setting their hard hats on the floor next to them. Octavia glanced up from her phone and then looked away. I brought the coffee pot over to the guys along with four menus.

  “Got the early shift today?” I asked as I poured.

  “Sure do. Pole over in Gnaw Bone got hit by a car.” Abe shook his head. “Driving drunk on a Wednesday night. Go figure.” He glanced up at the Specials board. “French toast bake sounds perfect.” He wiped the corner of his mouth and grinned. “Got to clean up the drool. I’ll take the special with two fried eggs and sausage. Please.”

  I smiled right back. “You got it. How about the rest of you?”

  Two of them ordered the same, except with bacon. The fourth, a gray-haired man with a sizable belly, slumped in his chair.

  “I’ll have the granola with fruit and skim milk, please. Doctor’s orders.”

  Abe leaned over and elbowed the man’s arm. “You’re a good man, pal. Always do what the doc says.”

  The man groaned in return. “I pretty much have to. My health needs fixed. I sure don’t want to have a heart attack. And he said if I keep up with the meats and fried foods, it’d be like I scheduled one.”

  “Breakfast coming right up.” I walked the orders over to Danna.

  A flood of customers kept us busy for the next half hour. Octavia paid and left, and a couple who’d been waiting occupied her table as soon as I wiped it down. The place was full when Abe’s group finished and pushed back their chairs. Abe brought the bill with a handful of dollars up to the register.

  “How was the bake?” I asked.

  He rubbed his stomach. “It was out-freaking-standing. Probably too sweet and rich to have every day, but once in a while?” He whistled. “Really hit the spot.”

  “You’re not paying for your breakfast. I owe you from yesterday.” I handed him back the cost of his meal. “Here’s the change for the other guys.”

  He promptly deposited all of it in the Tips jar.

  I shook my head. “Now come on, Abe.”

  “You split it with Danna. I want, we all want, this place to succeed.” He stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “Well, thanks.” I took a deep breath. “So, uh, about that dinner.” Now I’d done it. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head warning me about rebound dates.

  “Yes?” His eyes twinkled.

  “I’d like to take you up on it. If the offer still stands.”

  “Of course it does. I thought you’d never ask.” He turned serious, studying me. “This mean things are off with Shermer?”

  “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to dinner with you.” I smiled.

  “Pick you up at six, then. I want to take you to the new place in town, Hoosier Hollow.”

  “Today?” The word ended on a little screech.

  “I like to carpe the hell out of the diem. So to speak.” His dimple was back as he slid his hard hat on.

  “Carpe diem, it is. See you at six.” I watched him saunter out. What was I getting myself into?

  Chapter 22

  Danna cried out and swore as she jumped back from the griddle an hour later, slapping her hand. I hurried over, trying to ignore the scowls and pursed lips of two carefully coiffed matrons sitting closest to the kitchen area. I could tell they thought swearing was bad form at any time, but especially coming from a young woman.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Grease burn. One of the sausages exploded onto my hand.” She uncupped her left hand from the back of her right. A nasty red mark streaked across the back of her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Ouch. Sorry you got burned,” I said. “Go run it under cool water until it stops hurting. You know where the first aid kit is, right?”

  She headed for the sink. “At least I’m left-handed.”

  “Pat it dry and put antibiotic ointment on it. We have some big bandages in there, I think.” I hoped. “But cover it loosely, okay?”

  I glanced back at the griddle and did my own swearing, except silently. The bacon was burning and so were a half-dozen pancakes. A customer waved one hand at me and pointed to his coffee mug with the other. A party of four appeared through the front door. And something else smelled burnt, too. Damn. The last pan of French toast bake. I’d forgotten to set the timer.

  Our morning rush had turned into morning disaster. I scurried as fast as I could. I tossed the burned items and laid fresh bacon on the griddle, followed by six new scoops of pancake batter, then quickly pulled
out the casserole and set it on the counter. It looked like the middle pieces would be fine but the edges were all blackened. As I carried the coffee pot to the man who’d waved, I almost burst out in a panicked giggle. Maybe I could pass off the dish as Blackened Jamaican Toast.

  When Danna approached the griddle again with a big rectangular bandage on the back of her hand, I shook my head. “I’ll do the cooking. You okay to serve and bus?”

  “Yeah. It hurts, but I’m okay.”

  “If you’re sure. I’m awfully glad it didn’t splash into your eye or something. We both have to remember to pierce the sausages before putting them on the griddle.” I was once again grateful Danna was neither a wimp nor a complainer. “Let me know if it gets too bad. You can go home any time, okay?”

  She bobbed her head as she grabbed menus for the newcomers.

  By the time Buck ambled in at around nine thirty, hat in hands, the breakfast crowd had mostly gone. I’d never gotten around to calling him, so he was a welcome sight. He kept his uniform jacket on but unzipped it.

  “Sit anywhere, Buck,” I called out. “Or, actually, can you come over here for a minute? There’s something I want to talk with you about, but I can’t leave the griddle.”

  Buck obliged. As he passed Danna, he said, “What happened there?” He pointed to her hand.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Grease burn. Hurts like he . . .” She shifted her eyes to a table of white-haired ladies. “Like heck.”

  “Sorry to hear it, girl. You might should be careful. Grease is hotter than a hooker’s doorknob on payday.”

  Danna snorted, then headed over to clear a table.

  Buck approached the griddle and leaned against the counter to my left. “What’s up?” he asked, stretching up into nearly three syllables, as usual. He folded his arms and crossed one foot over the other.

  I glanced around to make sure nobody was seated near enough to hear. “I was wondering if the investigation has ever looked into Jim as a suspect.” I kept my voice as low as I could, not quite believing I’d even said the words Jim and suspect in the same sentence.

  “Shermer?” Buck scratched his head. “Why do you ask that, now?”

  I lifted a shoulder, then flipped a couple of pancakes. “Jim’s kind of like family with the Berrys, isn’t he? Aren’t they always the first people you look at?” I straightened four strips of bacon, questioning why I’d even brought it up. Was I trying to exact revenge on Jim for dumping me?

  “Now, Robbie. Thinking Shermer killed Erica makes about as much sense as a trapdoor on a canoe. Thought you two were sweet on each other, too. And anywho, you know I can’t talk about what Octavia thinks or doesn’t think. It’s her show this time around.”

  “That’s another problem.” I cleared my throat while I tried to figure out the best way to say it.

  “What is? That we got a statie in here telling us what all to do?” Buck matched my soft voice.

  “Not that, so much. But if Jim is a suspect, Octavia has a conflict of interest. She and Jim are involved. Romantically.”

  “They . . . what’d you say?” He stared at me.

  I squared my shoulders. “They used to go out, like ten years ago, and now they are again. He told me last night.” I was horrified to hear my voice wobble and feel hot tears fill my eyes. I blinked fast and took a deep breath. I would not cry about Jim Shermer. I would not.

  “Well, tie me to an anthill and fill my ears with jam. Don’t that just take all? So he’s left you high and dry?” He reached over and rubbed my shoulder for a second. “You poor little thing.”

  I swallowed. “It appears so. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Or would be. One of these days. Eventually.

  * * *

  In a bit of a lull, I glanced at the entrance to see Tiffany slide in without jangling the bell on the door. How’d she do that? The cowbell, which hung from a little cast-iron hand and muscled forearm, always rang when the door moved.

  Tiffany pulled out a chair at one of the only empty tables, a small one near the cookware shelves, and lowered herself into it with a fluid motion.

  I headed in her direction, since nothing was on the grill at the moment. “How’s it going, Tiffany?” I handed her a menu, flipping it over to the side with the lunch offerings.

  “Fine.” She didn’t look up at me.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Hot tea. And a veggie burger, no bun, with a small salad, no onions, vinaigrette on the side.” She handed the menu back, still not meeting my eyes.

  “Coming right up.” No “how are you?” and no “Please.” All righty, then. Be that way.

  I relayed the order to Danna and watched Tiffany as I assembled the carafe of hot water and a cup and saucer with a tea bag on the saucer. Chin on her palm, she was staring into space. I followed her gaze to the area where the pickle barrel had been. And where Erica’s body had lain, now covered by the bench. This had to be coincidence. Didn’t it? She couldn’t know where I’d found Erica. Unless she’d killed her. I shook my head. It was more likely one of the local cops had talked about the crime scene to a family member and the information spread from there. Word gets around in a town like this. Or maybe Tiffany had learned about where Erica had been found when she was questioned by the police.

  As I set down the tea fixings, I said, “Interested in any cookware today?”

  She finally glanced up. “Not today, Robbie.” Her usually silky skin looked blotchy and her eyelids drooped as if they’d rather be closed.

  “Is everything all right?” She might not want to answer—we didn’t really know each other, after all—but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  Her faint smile only barely lit up her face. “I’m okay. But thanks for asking.”

  “Hey, Adele really loved the kite-flying angel I gave her.”

  Now Tiffany put on a real smile. “I’m so glad. I thought she would.” Her gaze drifted back to where I’d found the body for a moment, the smile sliding off. Then, as if wrestling her focus away to something else, anything else, her gaze finally landed on the display of Adele’s yarn. “How beautiful. Is that Adele’s?”

  “Right. I’m hoping to sell some for the holidays.”

  “If anyone comes into my store and asks where they can buy the yarn that goes into the hats I sell, I’ll be sure to send them over here,” she said.

  “Great idea, thanks.”

  A buzzing sound came from a phone encased in a stylish black and white sleeve on the table. “Excuse me.” She turned away, crossing her legs, and picked up the phone.

  I headed over to clear a just-vacated table of four, but paused when the cowbell jangled again. A uniformed Wanda sauntered in. She set her hands on her hefty hips and surveyed the room.

  “Good morning,” I called out, heading her way with a menu. “Take any table.”

  When Wanda’s gaze landed on Tiffany, she bobbed her head once, like she was agreeing with herself. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” she said, almost too softly for me to hear. She stood near the wall across the room, elbows out and hands on her hips, facing Tiffany’s back.

  Oh, dear. She’d better not scare customers away. Or arrest Tiffany right here in my restaurant. It didn’t look like Tiffany had noticed Wanda’s entrance, as involved as she was with her phone. I shook off the thought. No. Wanda wouldn’t arrest Tiffany for the murder. That would be Octavia’s job. Then why was Wanda so interested in Tiffany? I shook my head again.

  “What can I get you, Wanda?” I said, handing her the menu. “You don’t want to sit down?”

  She shook her head. “Only got time for takeout today. Coffee, cream and sugar, and a couple of your Sloppy Joe hot dogs with everything. To go.” She looked around the full restaurant. “You got time? You look busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.”

  I laughed. “I have time. Want coleslaw with your lunch?”

  “Nah. Too healthy.” She barked out a laugh, but didn’t stop looking at Ti
ffany. “But I’m going to go whole hog today and have some of your French fries.”

  “Got it. You can sit on the bench to wait, if you want.”

  “No need.” Wanda pointed at Tiffany with her chin. “She been in here long?”

  “A few minutes. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Danna dinged the bell. I’d turned to go when Wanda laid a hand on my arm.

  “Appreciate it if you don’t let Ms. Porter know I’m here.” She pursed her lips and blinked officiously.

  Huh? “Why? Is she a suspect or something?”

  “I’d appreciate the favor.”

  “Well, okay. But I can’t help it if she happens to look behind her.” What a crazy request in a big, open, public space, with Wanda not concealing herself at all. Not that there would be anywhere to hide except maybe by crouching down behind the kitchen counter, which would only get in Danna’s way.

  I hurried to the range, handed Wanda’s takeout order to Danna, and brought Tiffany her lunch. She hadn’t even poured her tea water. She looked up from the phone, which she’d been thumbing with both hands despite her long nails, now painted in a deep turquoise that matched her long-sleeved knit dress.

  “Thank you so much, Robbie.” She drew out a ten and a five and handed them to me. “That’ll cover it, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll get your change.” I perversely wanted to blow Wanda’s cover. I glanced over at her, but she gave her head a little warning shake.

  Tiffany’s phone buzzed again and took her attention away from me.

  “Thanks. Enjoy your lunch.” I waited for her reply, but she only nodded, eyes and thumbs on her phone.

  It took more than our usual quick turnaround before Wanda’s meal was ready, since we’d had to start a new batch of fries. When a table opened up near where she’d been standing, Wanda waved me over.

  “Any skin off your back if I eat here after all?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Your lunch should be right up.” And it was, so I carried it over to her.