Grilled for Murder

by Maddie Day

  I snapped my fingers, headed to the desk, and brought up a selection of Christmas carols done in a swing style by Postmodern Jukebox. I cranked up the volume on the speakers. Now it seemed like Christmas. As I sat there, I felt the tool or whatever it was in my pocket. I laid it on the desk to study it. Maybe I could simply Google its image. I’d never tried doing that, but thought I’d read about it somewhere. I snapped a picture of the object with my phone, then plopped the image directly onto a Google Images search bar.

  I swore as I stared at the result. Max had to have known what it was when I asked him. The object was a lock pick. Max lied to me. Who has lock picks besides burglars? A locksmith, that’s who. Now it made sense. Each of the two prongs looked like a skinny key, with only the little bump at the end instead of all the ins and outs cut into most keys. I thought a lock pick would have looked like an ice pick. Clearly wrong.

  Someone must have entered my apartment to tamper with my bike by picking the lock. Max? But I’d found this pick early in the week. A lump of ice settled in my gut and my pulse beat fast in my neck. I shook my head. If Max had left a dead Erica on my floor and dropped his lock pick, why had he broken the door in? Or maybe it wasn’t Max. Maybe Vince was the killer and he stole the pick from Max. Vince definitely had had a beef with Erica.

  Or the two of them could be a team. They seemed to be friendly enough. Vince might have some kind of hold over Max. Maybe he knew a scandal or a crime from Max’s past that Max didn’t want made public. Max was certainly a volatile, unpredictable guy with a military past, the kind of person who well might have gotten out of control at some earlier point in his life. He and Vince were both local. Vince could have forced Max to open my door to get the bike. And the broken glass in the door could have been a ruse to make it look like a locksmith couldn’t be the killer. I had no idea how the pick got in my store. Either way, Max had lied to me in the hardware store. But I was going to let Octavia figure out this business.

  I stood, sliding the pick back into my pocket, and pressed Octavia’s number as I glanced at the wall clock. It was already almost seven. The odds weren’t good she’d be at work. Much more likely to be having a romantic dinner with my now-former boyfriend. Sure enough, she didn’t pick up. After the tone, I spoke.

  “I found a lock pick near where Erica’s body was. Someone tried to kill me by tampering with the brakes on my bike. Ask Buck, or Jim for that matter. I think maybe Max and Vince are in this together. Please call back as soon . . .” I froze. A shadow passed the side window. A shadow heading back to my apartment. I swore as the hair lifted on the nape of my neck.

  “Someone’s sneaking around the side of my building! I’m calling nine-one-one.” My clammy finger shook as I disconnected. Nobody, seeing all the store lights on, would go to my back door even if it was a friend dropping in. Phil was due later, but he would come in the front. This had to be Vince or Max. Whichever one of them had let himself in unasked last time. And they probably carried another lock pick.

  I jabbed nine-one-one and identified myself. “19 Main Street. Someone is sneaking around to the back of my building. There might be two of them. Please send help. Quick.” I heard my shrill voice as if from a distance.

  “Is that the country store?” The dispatcher’s voice came across scratchy and tinny.

  “Yes!” My throat was almost too thick to speak.

  “Are you hurt, ma’am?”

  “No,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “But I don’t know what to do.” If it was both Max and Vince, one could be waiting at the front. Or opening its lock right now. I stared at the door. If he was there, he was crouching, because I hadn’t turned off the porch light and couldn’t see anyone through the new door glass. At least I’d locked the door after I came in with the decorations. “Should I go out the front door?”

  “I can’t say,” the dispatcher said. “Please don’t disconnect this call. Officers are on the way.”

  I could barely swallow. My knees felt like rubbery overcooked sausages. As ex-military, Max surely carried a gun. I was positive he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Vince probably knew guns, too, since he grew up here.

  I didn’t want to die. I hadn’t even met my father yet. The speakers played “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” in a garish counterpoint to my fear.

  “I’m heading out the front,” I told her.

  “Afraid not,” a deep voice boomed.

  I whirled. Max stood inside the service door. The gun in his left hand was aimed straight at me.

  Chapter 33

  “Toss me the phone,” Max demanded. A greasy strand of his hair hung over his face, and his jutting brow shaded narrowed eyes.

  “Max,” I said as loud as I could. I had to clue in the dispatcher. “Could you put your gun down, please?” My voice quavered. Under my sweatshirt I was covered in a cold sweat. The music must have masked the sound of him picking the lock on the service door.

  “Throw me the phone, Robbie.” The words came out slow and threatening.

  I held onto it. What would he do if I kept it? He clicked something on the gun, his eyes burning into mine. I tossed him the phone. My hand wobbled so much the phone hit the door he’d shut behind him and clattered onto the floor. With barely a glance down, he slammed his heel onto my lifeline. The crunch sickened me. But I’d already called, and dispatch had to have heard what I’d said: both Max’s name and the fact he held a gun.

  “Who were you talking to?” He glared at me. A tic beat next to his right eye.

  “The police. They’re going to be here in a minute.” I needed to stay alive until help arrived. “Why are you pointing that gun at me?”

  “You’ve been snooping around all week. And you were asking about that shlagga pick over to Don’s hardware. I knew it wouldn’t be long before you figured out it was a pick. And hooked it up with me.”

  “What’s a shlagga?” My heart was a jackhammer and my eyes felt fuzzy. I resisted the urge to wipe my clammy hands on my jeans.

  “Women.” He snorted, curling his lip. “Don’t you know anything? It’s the lock company. Schlage. Like the worthless locks on your own doors.”

  I glanced at the door. “If you leave right now, you can get away before the cops arrive.”

  He moved toward me, the gun never sagging from a straight line to my heart. Several tables stood between us. He pushed one out of his way so hard it tipped over and crashed into the kitchen counter. I backed up and scooted around another table. I had to keep obstacles between us. My fear was an icy thrumming presence that threatened to paralyze me if I didn’t keep moving.

  “So you found the pick,” he said. “I wondered where I’d dropped it.”

  “I didn’t think it was a lock pick.” I thought for a split second. He hadn’t shot me yet. What was his plan? “Want me to show you where I found it?” I took a couple of steps toward the cookware shelves. Maybe I could show him and then whack him on the head with a cast iron skillet. Yeah, and pigs can fly.

  “We’re going to go for a little ride, me and you. But sure, show me.” A humorless laugh slid out of him.

  I was not going for a ride with this man. He stood almost a foot taller than me and weighed a good hundred pounds heavier. Plus he had military training. And a weapon.

  “So did you kill Erica here?” I sidled across the store, trying to keep at least one table between us. I took a deep breath.

  In three long strides he was at my side. “I didn’t mean to kill her, you know. She was relentless.” He grabbed my left arm. “Forget showing me where you found the pick.” His breath reeked of alcohol. He forced me to take a couple of steps back toward the side door until we were in the kitchen area. “And no. I didn’t kill her here.”

  “I thought Vince killed Erica,” I said. “Or you were in it together.”

  “You kidding? That wuss Pytzynska doesn’t even kill spiders.”

  So much for that theory. When I slid my hand into my pocket, it hit the lock pick. Maybe, just maybe. In
the pocket, I slowly separated the halves of the pick, keeping my hand as flat as I could and my eyes on Max. I curled my middle finger into the V, so the two prongs stuck out between my fingers with the hinge in my palm. The music coming from the speakers changed to “Jingle Bells,” an even worse contrast to my current situation.

  “Reminds me of Iraq.” He glanced around at the stainless steel counters, the griddle, the deep sink. “They made me work KP after I didn’t follow their idiotic rules to the letter.” His mouth turned down. “I was the guy they’d trained to open up all kinds of places the military wanted to snoop in. Instead, the only thing I was unlocking was the skin on potatoes.”

  I swallowed. “If you didn’t mean to kill Erica, why did you?”

  He stared at me. “She—my own sister-in-law—came over to the house in the middle of the night after the party. I went out to talk to her and she tried to seduce me. Her sister is bearing my child, Erica’s nephew! I couldn’t stand it. She shouldn’t have been flirting with me. It’s wrong.” He shook his head, his mouth turned down.

  “What happened?”

  “I slapped her across the face. But I’ve always been too big for my own good. And she was only a little speck of a thing.” He glanced at the floor. “She fell down the front steps. Brick steps. Hit her head something bad.” The barrel of the gun now pointed at the floor, too.

  My chance. I’d started to slide my hand out of my pocket when he looked up. I froze.

  “I’ve wanted to be a father for as long as I can remember.” Anguish ripped his face for a brief moment, until it was replaced by a set jaw and flared nostrils. “I couldn’t let Erica’s death get in the way of that.” He tightened his grip on my arm, raised the gun to my chest again, and pulled me around the corner of the counter toward the door.

  “You should have told the police she fell.” I tried to keep my own jaw set. This was no time to show weakness. “No crime in that, right?”

  “They would have seen the mark on her face where I hit her. I’d have been locked up for a long time.” He pursed his lips. “Me, the locksmith.”

  “Why’d you leave her here in my store?”

  “I wasn’t thinking too clearly by then. Brought her back and dumped her. Dragged her in here and left her on the floor.”

  “Did you hit her head with my sandwich press?” I had to wait for my chance.

  “Why not? That’s a damn good weapon you had hanging on the wall. I broke the glass in the door after the fact, too, so they wouldn’t blame the whole mess on me. Because why would a locksmith break down a door when he could slide in unannounced?” He turned his head and gazed at me like he’d just come back to the present. “And now we’re going for our ride.” His smile was mirthless. “I know a nice swamp outside of town where they’ll never find your body. There’s no way I’m missing my baby’s birth. Or . . .” He looked around the room.

  I clamped my teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter from fear.

  “Or maybe you don’t want to leave your precious store,” he said in a soft voice. It scared me more than the loud version. “Maybe you’d rather stay all cozy in there with your eggs and cabbages.” He pointed with his chin to the walk-in.

  I heard the keening of a siren over the music. Finally.

  “Listen.” I gestured with my chin to the service door. “You’d better get out of here quick. It’s the police. Run out through my apartment.” My heartbeat thrashed in my ears.

  He glanced at the door. He swung the gun toward it and loosened his hold on my left arm.

  Now. I reached up and grabbed his hair with my left hand. I swung my right fist up and jabbed the points of the pick into his eyes. I twisted and pressed, hanging on despite how terrible it felt.

  I dropped the tool when Max screamed. The gun crashed to the floor and he brought both hands to his eyes. I kicked the gun as far away from him as I could, wincing, hoping it wouldn’t go off. Birdy raced for the front door. I scooped him up and ran out, down the steps, onto the sidewalk.

  The best thing I’d ever seen in my entire twenty-seven years were the flashing lights of a South Lick green and white screeching to a stop in front of me, siren awail.

  Chapter 34

  I sank to sitting on the bottom step as Buck and Wanda leapt out of the car, wearing vests and helmets, weapons extended.

  “He’s inside,” I called, except my voice came out a squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I, um, jabbed something in his eyes. He’s hurt.” I held Birdy on my lap with both arms, one hand in his scruff to make sure he couldn’t get away.

  Buck rushed around the back of the cruiser, clearing it in two giant steps. He peered at my face. “You’re not hurt, Robbie?” He leaned down and laid a hand on my shoulder. More sirens approached.

  I shook my head. “I’m not, but it was close. His gun is on the floor somewhere, so be careful.”

  “Got it.”

  I hugged Birdy to my chest. After the chill and adrenaline of the last few minutes, the cold of the night now pressed in.

  Two state police cars and another South Lick cruiser roared up, sirens cutting out abruptly, blue and red lights continuing to strobe into the darkness. More uniformed officers poured out. Buck directed two officers to the service door and two to the back of the building, warning them all that Max was large, armed, and possibly wounded in his eyes.

  A green Prius drove up. Just what I wanted to top off my evening. Octavia, wearing a skirt, ankle boots, and a very undate-like bulletproof vest over a sweater, emerged and hurried to Buck. Jim approached me, his brow furrowed, his eyes looking pained.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  Buck called to us. “Jim, Robbie—get in the car and move down the block, will you? Those stairs ain’t a safe place right now. And you’ll be warmer.”

  Birdy tried to jump down, but I kept hold of his scruff and petted him all the way into Jim’s car. A car that held a faint sweet smell like the one I’d detected on Jim the night of Adele’s birthday party. I let Birdy go after we were inside with all the doors closed.

  Jim drove a few doors down. He hung a U-turn and parked across the street so we could still see the front of the store. He twisted in his seat to look at me. I glanced back to see Birdy perched on the top of the back seat, then met Jim’s gaze.

  “Max killed Erica,” I said. “I’m not sure, but I think he picked the locks on my apartment and jimmied with my bike brakes, too.” The warm air in the car barely dented the chill that permeated me. I was so cold I felt like I’d been left to die in the walk-in after all.

  “So that’s how your bike went out.”

  “He knew I’d been asking around about the murder. In fact, I told Max earlier in the week I was trying to figure it out. And I’d found this weird tool kind of thing earlier in the week.” I told Jim about asking Don at the hardware store, and Don querying Max. “After I got home, I finally thought to Google a picture of the object and saw it was a lock pick. Then I saw a shadow go by the window and was on the phone to the police when Max picked his way in. He was about to shoot me and shut me in the walk-in.” Prickles swarmed up the backs of my legs at the memory.

  Jim reached out and patted my hand. I let him. An ambulance sped up and stopped in the street with its lights flashing. The front door to my store burst open. Buck walked Max down the steps. Max’s hands were cuffed behind his back and Octavia grasped his other elbow. One of my blue aprons was tied around Max’s eyes. The paramedics hurried a wheeled stretcher over. I looked away.

  “What’s up with the apron on his eyes?” Jim asked.

  “It was awful, but I had to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  I blew out a breath, terribly glad I was sitting down. “I stabbed him in the eyes with his own lock pick.”

  Jim hunched his shoulders. “Aah.”

  “I know. I was going to aim for up his nose, but I might have missed, and it could have made him angrier. Can’t tell you how glad I was
to have taken that self-defense class with Adele last year.”

  I gazed back at the store. Max now lay on the stretcher, with both of his hands handcuffed to the sides. An officer held his weapon ready even as paramedics bandaged Max’s eyes. The colored lights on the Christmas tree in the front window made a bizarre backdrop to the scene. And also promised a return to normalcy.

  When Buck ambled up, I opened the door and stood.

  “You’re clear to go back inside, Robbie. But Octavia there’s bringing in the teams again, just so’s you know.” He leaned down and peered into the car. “Thanks for sheltering her, Jim.”

  After Buck stepped away, I stuck my head into the car, too. “Yes, thanks. You’ve helped me twice today, and I appreciate it.”

  He gazed at me with those green eyes. “I’d do anything for you.”

  Right. Everything except stay with me. “Come on, Birdy,” I called. When the cat jumped out of the car, I picked him up, straightened, and turned toward home.

  Chapter 35

  It was nine o’clock by the time the state police teams left. They’d collected the lock pick and gun, taken pictures, and dusted the service door and other areas for prints, leaving the place a mess again. Octavia went away with them, leaving Buck sitting at a table with me. I’d put Birdy back in my apartment and given him an extra treat.

  “Boy, am I glad that’s all done,” I said. I stood and set my bottle of Four Roses on the table. “You off duty?”

  “I am, in fact.” Buck grinned.

  I brought two small juice glasses. “One for the road?” At his nod, I poured a little for each of us and sat. The air smelled of fresh fir, and all the holiday lights lit up my heart.