That’s ridiculous. It’s not like you murdered Trisha.
“We’re here,” Nick said, clearing his throat.
I jerked upright, blinking at the sight of my aunt’s cottage through the passenger window of his car.
“Sorry.” Nick smiled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You were kind of staring into space there.”
“Oh.” I blushed. “Yeah, it’s been a strange morning. And afternoon.”
“Do you need help with anything?” Nick asked. “I visit Rita pretty often, so I know the lay of the land.”
“No, thank you. You’ve been too kind.” That was a silly turn of phrase. “I can take it from here.” I thanked the incredibly handsome, and incredibly married chef one last time, then got out of the car and made my way up the cute steppingstone path that led to the cottage steps.
The evil cat was nowhere to be seen. I should’ve called out for him, but I was afraid this was merely an employment of guerrilla warfare, and he’d leap out of the bushes, claws angled for my throat.
I hurried up the front steps and fished my aunt’s front door key out of my pocket.
It was still hot as hades, and I fanned myself as I entered the cottage. Thankfully, my aunt had air-conditioning that worked. I found the remote and switched it on, then relished the cool.
But the relief was short-lived. I had to tell Aunt Rita about what had happened. While I was at it, I could ask her about the letter and the cat.
I fetched myself a bottle of water from the fridge, drank from it, then fished out my phone and dialed the number on the letter Aunt Rita had left me.
“Hello?” Aunt Rita yelled down the line. “Hello, can you hear me, sweetheart?”
“Hi auntie,” I said back, raising my voice even though there was no interference on my side.
“Hold on a minute. I’m at a deck party. One second.” The noise grew louder than fainter. “Ah, there, that’s better. Sunny! How are you, darling? Are you settling in all right? How’s the café? Did you feed Bodger? What about Nick?”
“I fed Bodger,” I said, checking the cat’s food tray. It was empty, but his water bowl was still full. “But I didn’t feed Nick.”
“Hilarious,” Aunt Rita said. “And the café?”
I sucked in a breath, crossing my fingers. “I, uh, well, uh…”
“What did you do?” Aunt Rita sighed. “Start a fire? Health inspector? Come on, I don’t have all day. They’re serving cocktails in five minutes, and Marjorie wants us to compete in a wet shoe contest.”
“What’s a wet shoe contest?” I asked.
“Don’t change the subject, Sunny.”
“There’s been an accident,” I said, and then filled her in on the gritty details of what’d happened. “I’m sorry, auntie, but I don’t know what to do. I did my best, but that Detective Garcia says we can’t open again until he gives us the go ahead.”
“That’s not ideal,” Aunt Rita said. “But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“What?” I squawked. “How might I be fine? I’ve just—I need help! Look, auntie, I think you should come back. I know you want a break, but I’m just not fit to deal with these types of problems. I didn’t even finish my business degree. I—”
“You’ve got Nick to help you,” Rita said, firmly. “And I think you underestimate yourself, Sunny. You’ll be fine. Just don’t lose the café.”
“But—”
“Have fun!” And then she hung up.
I stared at the phone, eyes wide. Was she serious? My aunt had always been a free spirit, but this was unheard of. She was entrusting me with the fate of her beloved café so she could take part in wet shoe contests and drink Cosmopolitans on a cruise out in the Bahamas?
I lowered myself into a rickety chair at her kitchen table.
Bodger’s yellow eyes appeared in the doorway that led into the living area.
It was going to be a long day. Shoot, make that a long week.
5
I had never been inside an interrogation room before, but if I believed most of the TV shows I’d watched, they were always gray, with a steel table and two uncomfortable chairs. Of course, there’d have to be a two-way mirror, and a door that slammed ominously as the questioning officers exited or entered.
The interrogation room down at the Parfait Police Station, or the ‘precinct’ as Detective Garcia had referred to it, defied expectation. It was a well-lit room, walls colored duck’s egg blue, with two comfortable chairs, a circular table, and no windows. A camera sat in the corner of the room, and I glanced at it once in a while, rubbing my arms at the cold temperature in here. Still, it beat the humidity that I’d woken up to this morning.
Detective Garcia entered. “Good morning, Miss Charles,” he said. “How are you?”
“A little out of sorts,” I said, “but OK, and you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?” He set down two bottles of water on the table, then took a seat, his caramel brown eyes focused on my face.
“Water is great, thanks.” I took the bottle, opened it, and drank some.
“Glad to see you found this place OK,” he said. “Thanks for coming down.”
“No problem.” I’d discovered my grandmother’s old VW Beetle in the garage—painted a sunny yellow, with an egg decal on the side—and puttered down here, my heart thundering against the inside of my ribcage.
Detective Garcia place a folder on the table between us, his back to the door. “You understand why I’ve asked you to come down here today, right?”
“To talk about… to talk about what happened to Trisha,” I said.
This was silly. I had nothing to be nervous about. I hadn’t hurt Trisha. I’d merely given her a plate of eggs. For all I knew, she might’ve choked on them. If that was the case, I doubted Detective Garcia would’ve asked me to come to the station to talk to him.
“That’s correct,” Detective Garcia said, in a mild tone. “Now, I want you to understand that you’re here of your own free will. You can leave at any time. You’re not under arrest. Do you understand that, Miss Charles?”
“Yes, thank you. I understand.”
“Great. We need as much information as we can get about what happened to Trisha yesterday. I appreciate your cooperation.”
I shifted in the chair. “I’m happy to help in any way I can.” I wasn’t just concerned about my aunt’s café. A woman had died yesterday. Right in front of me. It had been so traumatic I’d struggled to fall asleep last night and had raided my aunt’s medicine cabinet for a sleeping pill.
“Great,” Detective Garcia said, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Great. So, let’s begin by talking about what happened yesterday. I took your statement, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you regarding the kitchen and your staff.”
“Uh, OK?”
“When you prepared the dish for Trisha yesterday, were you alone in the kitchen at any point?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, I was. Nick, that’s the chef, went to the bathroom.”
“And you were watching over the food while he was gone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you leave the kitchen at any point during that time?” Detective Garcia asked.
“No,” I said. “Oh wait, yes, yes I did. I went into the pantry to get ingredients for the eggs.”
“How long would you say you were in there?”
“A couple minutes at most.”
“All right. Is there more than one entrance to the kitchen?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” I said. “But I’ve only just started working at the café.”
“Why is that?”
“What? The entrances?”
“No, why have you only just started working at the café, yet you’re the one managing the place?”
Hadn’t I told him this yesterday? I took a sip of my water to still my nerves, then cleared my throat. “Well, my aunt owns the café, and she left me in char
ge while she takes a vacation. It was kind of a shock. I expected to come down and stay with her for a while, but she’d already left for her cruise.”
“Where did you come from?” Garcia asked.
“Chicago,” I replied.
“And what made you come down here? Just a vacation?” He leaned in.
I angled myself away from him. “Uh, well, I’ve come to stay for a while until I get back on my feet.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think that applies to the case, detective,” I said.
I wasn’t about to go into my sordid history with my disappearing ex-husband.
“I think it’s very relevant,” Detective Garcia said, tapping the case file on the table. “In fact, I think it’s crucial to this investigation, and I’d appreciate it if you answered my questions, ma’am.”
I didn’t like his tone.
Keep it together. Just answer the questions for Aunt Rita. For the café.
“OK,” I said. “Fine. I came out here, if you really must know, because I’ve just been through an incredibly messy divorce, I’m broke, and I need a place to stay.”
“A divorce,” Garcia said. “With Mr. Damon Stokes.”
“How did you—?”
Detective Garcia opened the file on his desk and removed several pictures from it. He turned them around and slid them over to me. He tapped a figure on one of them. “Is that your ex-husband, Miss Charles?”
“Yes, that’s Damon.” My stomach twisted at the sight of my handsome, low-life of an ex. He was with a burly man with a hooked nose, seated at a table at a restaurant I didn’t recognize. A suitcase was on the floor at Damon’s feet.
“Do you recognize the man with him?”
“No,” I said, trying to take even breaths so I wouldn’t start hyperventilating. Damon had caused me nothing but trouble over the past six months.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But I assume he’s a criminal.”
“Why do you assume that?” Detective Garcia asked, tilting his head to one side.
“Because,” I sighed, “as I recently discovered, Damon had been dealing with criminals. As far as I know, most of them were Russian. I understand you’re probably suspicious of me, but I already went over this with the FBI.” They’d been kind enough not to drag me into an interrogation room, but had spoken to me in my home. “Damon was living a double-life. I didn’t question where our money came from.” A point of which I was ashamed. “All I knew was that we were doing great, and that we could afford to have lavish Christmases and parties.”
“Tell me more,” Detective Garcia said.
“There’s not much to tell, except Damon lied to me, and by the time I figured it out, he was already long gone, and I had a bunch of unsavory debtors knocking on my door. The men he had been dealing with. I had to sell everything to pay the banks and them, and it still wasn’t enough.”
“What happened?”
“The FBI stepped in and scared off or arrested most of the criminals squeezing me for money and information,” I said. “And they gave me a new last name to use.”
“You’re giving me this information freely.”
“What choice do I have? You can just contact them and find out all of this yourself.” I’d come to my aunt’s place because Rita had moved away from my original ‘childhood’ home to start the café, and I hadn’t been to Parfait since then. No one knew where she stayed. I’d assumed I’d be safe here. Had my assumption been wrong?
All I wanted was a new start to my life, and the FBI agents who had handled the many cases connected to my disappearing husband had assured me I would be fine. That Damon’s illegal contacts had been dealt with.
“Why do you want to know all of this?” I asked, after a long silence from him. “Do you think I had something to do with the murder because of my past?”
“I’m merely looking for the information I need to solve this case, Miss Charles,” Detective Garcia said. “This is relevant information.”
“I can’t speak for my ex-husband,” I said, “but I haven’t done anything illegal. I’m a law-abiding citizen.” Strangely, talking about Damon made me angry enough to banish the nerves I’d had when I’d first sat down at the table. “I’m happy to cooperate and answer any of your questions.”
“I think that will be all for today, Miss Charles,” Garcia said, no smiles now. “But like I said, don’t leave town.” He got up.
I followed him out of the interrogation room and down a long hall toward a reception area. He bid me a good day before walking off, and I was left to exit the building by myself. Probably a good thing. I needed the time to think, and Detective Garcia had given me a lot to ponder.
My feet carried me out into the sunshine, down a set of steps and to my aunt’s VW Beetle. I leaned against it for a moment, soaking in the sun, my eyes closed and my head tilted back to catch the faint whisper of a salty breeze off the ocean that was only a few blocks over.
“You OK?” A man spoke next to me.
I squeaked and opened my eyes. “Nick,” I breathed. “What are you doing here?”
“Detective Garcia asked me to come down. His partner interviewed me,” the chef said, out of his uniform today and wearing a pair of shorts and a collared t-shirt. His dark hair was messy, his eyes shimmering blue.
“How did it go?”
“On a scale of one to Disneyland, I’d say it was a minus ten,” he replied, grimacing. “What about you?”
“About the same,” I said, because I wasn’t about to go into detail with anybody about Damon or my past. No one in Parfait needed to know my business. It would only make them look at me strangely, and this was meant to be a clean slate.
“Sorry this happened to you on your first day in Parfait,” Nick said, then laughed, deprecatorily. “Sorry it happened on any day.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m frustrated,” I said. “I wanted to help Aunt Rita out, but I can’t be of much use if the café is closed.”
“Look,” Nick said, “don’t worry about that. It will all work out. I promise.”
He was sweet. “Thanks, Nick,” I replied, smiling.
A car door slammed nearby, and a brunette woman, about the same age as me, pranced over. She wore yoga pants, a loose shirt, and a scowl. “Nick! We’re going to be late for class!”
“Oh hey, honey,” Nick said, and welcomed her with an arm around the waist and a kiss on the cheek. “I was catching up with Sunny. She’s the manager of the café while Rita’s taking her vacation.”
“Oh.” The woman eyed me, green eyes narrowed. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I said, wiping my hand surreptitiously on my shorts then putting it out. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sunny, this is my wife, Jasmine,” Nick said.
We shook hands. Janine’s grip was firm—maybe a little too firm—and she gave an extra squeeze before letting go of my hand. “It’s a pleasure,” she said, her face telling a different tale. “Nick didn’t mention you.”
“I did.” Nick scratched his brow, frowning. “Yesterday, remember? I even asked you to make coffee for her?”
“Oh. Oh! OK. I was picturing someone different when you said Rita’s niece was in town.” Jasmine gave me a suspicious once-over. “Anyway, we’re going to be late. We’d better hit the road.”
“Right. I’ll see you around, Sunny. Don’t stress about the café too much. I’m sure everything will work out.” And off they went together, Jasmine stiff-backed, even as Nick loped alongside her, his arm around her waist.
That was interesting. But inconsequential. Jasmine didn’t have to guard Nick. I had no interest in romantic relationships, and I certainly wasn’t the type of woman who meddled with a married man. Besides, I had more important things to worry about.
Like Aunt Rita’s café and whether we’d ever open again.
6
I opted for a drive along the beachfront in my aunt’s old car, the windows rolled down to let in the br
eeze off the ocean. The view was beautiful, the boardwalk packed with people walking, talking, and enjoying food from the various stalls set up along it. The ocean sparkled underneath the morning light, and I smiled.
It would’ve been perfect if the café wasn’t in trouble.
I drove past the Sunny Side Up, my heart sinking at the sight of the yellow police tape strung across the door. There were no officers poking around in there, but I wouldn’t be getting permission to go back in soon.
Was it a bad thing that I was relieved about that?
While I desperately wanted to do my aunt’s café justice and look after it properly, the first day working there had been intimidating even without the murder.
I’d been out of my depth, afraid, and sure I’d mess it all up.
It was a challenge. You’re supposed to rise to challenges. Still, I couldn’t help feeling under-equipped and embarrassed. Maybe if I’d finished my degree…
But it was too late to go back now. I was pushing forty, and I couldn’t picture myself sitting in a lecture hall with young classmates. Moot point. I couldn’t afford to go back to school, even if I’d wanted to.
The sunshine and wind seemed a little less fresh, and I turned down a street then back up another, circling back to the road that held the café.
I drove down it again, frowning at the police line, my thoughts on a negativity rampage.
“Hey!” The shout came a second before the bump on the car’s hood.
I hit the brakes, my gaze snapping to the road ahead just as a man fell across the front of the sun-yellow hood of the Beetle.
I gasped, pulled up my handbrake, then bolted out of the car.
“Oh my word! Oh my word, are you OK? I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” The words came out in a flustered rush.
The man, chubby, wearing a bowtie with a short-sleeved buttoned shirt and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, looked up at me. He pressed his palms to the hood and lifted himself upright. “Y-you hit me,” he stammered. “You—you hit me.”
“I’m so sorry!” I helped him along, waving at the cars gathering behind mine. They started streaming past, a few of the drivers craning their necks to get a good look at us.
Murder Over Easy (A Sunny Side Up Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 3