Murder Over Easy (A Sunny Side Up Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Rosie A. Point

  I looked at the paper cup in my hand. “Yeah, why?”

  “What if it’s poisoned?”

  A cold rush passed over me, but my sense returned quickly. “Don’t be silly, Didi,” I said. “She wouldn’t poison me in broad daylight with you here. It would be too easy for it to be traced back to her. Loads of people saw her car pull up in front of the café.”

  “Oh. Right. OK.”

  “Are you suggesting that Frances is capable of murder?” I asked.

  “You never know with her,” Didi replied, and crossed herself. “I like to stay on her good side. The last person who crossed her was run out of town.”

  12

  A week later, we were finally prepared to open. The kitchen was fully stocked, cutlery, crockery and cookware included, and I’d spent many a late night pouring over the shift management sheet, and the accounts to ensure everything was in order.

  The old business savvy that I’d had in my first years of college had come back—including my love for working with numbers. Food and people were difficult, numbers were simple. They told you exactly what they meant and never lied.

  It was fifteen minutes to eight, and I stood in the dining area of the café, the servers ready for their shift, seated at the bar or leaning against the counter while they waited for the place to open. Everything was clean and ready for our customers.

  There was just one problem. Nick hadn’t arrived for work.

  He was usually the first one through the door—according to Didi and the other servers—and the fact that he hadn’t even replied to the message I’d left him had my stomach in knots.

  What if we didn’t have a chef today?

  Just as my anxiety reached its peak, Nick strode down the sidewalk and knocked on the glass front door.

  I opened it and let him in.

  He was pale, his cheeks almost gaunt, and his shoulders hunched with worry. Still handsome with his wavy brown hair and blue eyes, he was transformed compared to the man who’d driven me to the café on my first day in Parfait.

  “Nick,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I tried calling you to check in…”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t respond. Things have been complicated at home.” He walked past me, barely nodding a greeting to the servers, and entered the kitchen.

  Frustration and sympathy warred inside me. I asked Didi to open the doors and get ready for service before following Nick into the kitchen. He was already prepping vegetables at a frantic pace. The chop, chop, chop of his knife set me on edge.

  “Nick,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t want to get you down.”

  “I know I’m not the real boss around here,” I said, “but I would’ve liked it if you could have been here to help us clean this place up. Or if you’d just let me know what was going on. I was worried that you wouldn’t be around today.”

  “Yeah,” he said, without looking up. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t sound sorry.”

  “What do you want from me?” Nick gestured with his knife flinging a bit of mushroom onto the counter.

  “I just told you,” I said. “I want you to communicate with me so I’m not in the dark.”

  His anger faded, and he hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “Really, I am. I should’ve contacted you, but…”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Detective Garcia has had me in multiple interviews over the past week, squeezing me for information. He thinks I’m the one who poisoned Trisha,” he said. “And Jasmine is in a panic about it. We’ve been fighting more than usual. Shoot, I shouldn’t tell you any of this. It’s not your problem, and it’s inappropriate.”

  “No way, Nick,” I said. “It’s OK. You can tell me. I’m here to help.” After all, hadn’t he helped me when I’d been at my most confused? Reassured me that everything would be fine after the worst had happened last week?

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I don’t think you can help.”

  “Look, if Garcia was going to arrest you, he would’ve done it already. He doesn’t have enough evidence to go through with it, which means you’re fine. And if you didn’t kill her—” I lifted a hand to forestall his protest “—then you have nothing to worry about because he’ll never have the evidence to arrest you.”

  “Thanks.” Nick’s smile was tiny, but at least it was there. “But the folks in Parfait will not let this go. It’ll probably be for the best if you find another chef. They won’t want to eat here while I’m still—”

  “Don’t be silly,” I cut him off. “If my aunt believes in you, then so do I.” I left him to continue his prep work and entered the café.

  A few customers had trickled in, but it was nowhere near as busy as it had been on my first day. It seemed Nick was onto something—people were less inclined to eat at a café where someone had died of poisoning. Though, I was pretty sure that was more to do with the murder rather than them thinking he’d done it.

  By mid-morning, more of the tables had filled up and the Sunny Side Up bubbled with chatter, laughter, and the noises of cutlery on plates. The servers worked at a leisurely pace, with Didi occasionally stopping to fill me in on a tidbit of gossip.

  I was still shaky about being out on the floor, but it was much easier than it had been before. I spent my time stopping at tables to ask if people were happy with their meals or whipping up coffees and milkshakes to the best of my abilities. I messed up a lot, but people were forgiving because I was new.

  “—heard that he did it. I mean, we’re taking our lives into our hands by eating here.” The gossiping tone had come from the corner booth where two women sat on the cushy vinyl benches, sipping from striped straws.

  “I always said that Nick was a bad one. Can’t trust a man that handsome. It’s not natural.”

  Anger bubbled up to the surface, and I clapped my hands loudly.

  Everyone in the café turned to look at me.

  My cheeks grew hot from the extra attention, but I lifted my chin. “Sorry to interrupt your meals, everyone, but I want to make an announcement. I will not allow gossiping about our chef in this establishment. Anyone who wants to talk about him behind his back can kindly leave, right away.”

  A stunned silence followed.

  The women in the corner booth burst out laughing, and many of the customers seconded the mirth at the other tables.

  “Oh honey, no,” one of the women said, shaking her head. “You don’t get to tell people what to do in Rita’s café. She loves a good gossip about anything and everything.”

  “You’re just the manager,” another person called out.

  Cowed, I returned to the bar, hot all over.

  Didi grimaced at me from the coffee machine. “Maybe not a good idea?”

  “You don’t say.” If anyone ordered eggs over easy, they could cook them on my face. I was left alone at the register to fume, and I scanned the customers, gossiping and laughing but ignoring me completely now.

  It had taken courage to say that—I wasn’t about drawing extra attention to myself—but of course, it had fallen flat. What had I been thinking?

  The doors opened, and Jasmine entered the café, waving to a few of the people at the tables. She carried a sealed box and made for the coffee bar, her long strides sinuous. Jasmine stopped in front of me, barely acknowledging my presence, and placed the box on the countertop.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Mhmm.” She popped the box open to reveal a range of cosmetic products inside, then placed a stack of cards next to it.

  “What’s that?” I asked, frowning. “Makeup?”

  “Yes, it’s makeup,” Jasmine replied, waspishly.

  “Why are you putting it there?”

  “So that people can sample it and take a card to contact me if they want more.” Jasmine looked as if she was holding back an eye roll at my stupidity.

  “You can’t do that here,” I said. “T
his is a private business.” I doubted my Aunt Rita would want someone else hawking their goods in her café. Was it really hawking when Jasmine was giving things away for free? “Sorry.”

  “You don’t own this café.”

  “No, but my aunt does, and unless you have her express permission to do this…”

  Jasmine glared. “She would be fine with it. Rita’s a nice lady.” The implication of who wasn’t a nice lady was clear in her tone.

  “Sorry,” I repeated. “But you must get permission from her before you put your stuff here.” Or permission from me. And it was a solid ‘no’ on my account. Makeup and food didn’t connect well, and this clearly wasn’t a joint venture between the Sunny Side Up and Jasmine’s makeup business.

  Jasmine huffed and puffed, then snatched up her cards and thrust them into her handbag. She grabbed the box, a few of the makeup tubes and compacts falling out and cracking on the floor, spraying glittery powder everywhere.

  “You’re a horrible person,” she hissed.

  The customers in the café sat straighter, listening in.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t—”

  “Haven’t you harmed this town enough? Do you have to step on small business owners too? Is that what makes you happy? Hurting other people?”

  “Jasmine,” I said, in disbelief over her reaction. “Please, I can’t—”

  “Whatever,” the other woman said. “Whatever. Do what you want, but I’ll tell you one thing.” She came forward, leaning in. “You’d better stay away from Nick, or you’ll regret it.” Jasmine turned on her heel and marched from the café, leaving me jaw-dropped and humiliated for the second time in the last half hour.

  13

  Later that evening…

  It was good to be ‘home’ even though that home contained a cat that despised me and nothing but emptiness with the prospect of boxed macaroni for dinner. Anything beat being out in town—I’d noticed an increase in the number of stares when I’d gone for an evening walk. I wasn’t safe from the gossip in the café or in the suburbs. Reopening the Sunny Side Up and intensified the rumors.

  I’d caught snippets of them.

  “I bet she did it.”

  “It was Nick, the chef at the café.”

  “I can’t believe she opened up after what happened. Who wants to eat in a place where someone died?”

  With every whisper, my inside curdled, but I’d kept my back straight for the day, and only retreated into my shell upon arriving home.

  I stood in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of wine, watching Bodger feast on his cat food, his tail occasionally flicking when I made too much noise or looked in his direction. We had reached an uneasy peace. A truce that meant I could be in the same room as him, but I couldn’t leave my doors or windows open when I went to sleep. Thank heavens for the HVAC.

  My phone was on the counter, and I eyed it, but I hadn’t heard anything from my auntie since our last conversation. Chances were, she was having the time of her life, and she deserved it. I didn’t want to distract her when she was this happy.

  I grabbed my phone and wandered through to the living room, stepping up to the bookcase that contained her weathered collection of mystery books, and, on the bottom shelf, a stacked set of leather journals.

  “I remember these,” I whispered, a smile parting my lips.

  I picked one of them up and retreated to the sofa, then opened the journal. Inside, there was a mish-mash of newspaper clippings and notes, both in my auntie’s handwriting and in mine. They were our mystery books.

  We’d started out watching true crime shows and trying to figure out who’d done it before the end of the show. Then, we’d moved onto unsolved cases and muddled our way through those, trying to figure them out and failing, before finally ordering mystery magazines, and solving the cases they detailed inside.

  It had been our favorite pastime back in the day, and I paged through the journal, memories flooding back and bringing a wedge of emotion to my throat.

  Things had been simpler then.

  No cheating ex-husbands, no criminal activity, no murders, or hopeless futures. Just us trying to figure out the truth.

  My phone rang on the sofa, and I answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi!” Didi’s breathless voice came down the line. “It’s Didi. Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, why?” She was a conscientious young woman. I liked that about her.

  “Oh, I wanted to check because, you know… Nick.”

  “Wait, what about Nick?”

  “You don’t know?” Didi asked. “I thought everyone knew. News travels like crazy in Parfait, I—oh no.”

  “What? Didi, what’s wrong with Nick? Is he sick? Is he—?”

  “They’ve just taken him in for questioning. He’s being held from what Jasmine said, but not arrested.”

  I sank back into the sofa cushions, gripping my belly. “No. That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah,” Didi said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I think you might need to get a chef to stand-in for tomorrow.”

  On such short notice? Impossible. But that didn’t matter. Poor Nick was in trouble. And for a crime he surely hadn’t committed.

  Do you really know that for certain? Think rationally, Sunny. The cops wouldn’t take him in without cause.

  “Thanks for letting me know, Didi.”

  “Look, maybe you should close the café tomorrow? We can’t open without a chef.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.” I thanked her and said goodbye, trying for confidence that I didn’t feel. I studied the leatherback journal on my lap, the neatly written notes in my handwriting, the messy ones in Aunt Rita’s, my resolve strengthening.

  If I could prove Nick’s innocence...

  “Don’t be silly,” I whispered, and shut the journal, then returned it to the bookcase. “You’re not a detective, or even a private investigator.”

  But the idea was lodged in my mind, a strange sense of excitement building in my chest.

  14

  The following morning dawned as bright and humid as every day in the past week had been, but the ride to the café was occupied with anxiety. Would Nick show up for work? Just how long could Detective Garcia keep him down there without issuing an arrest warrant? Did Nick have a lawyer? Could he afford one? Why hadn’t he called, once again, to let me know what was going on?

  I was technically his boss, though I loathed that label. Perhaps he had gotten hold of Aunt Rita? But no, she would surely have called or messaged me to let me know what was up.

  I parked in front of the Sunny Side Up Café at 6:30am and found Mildred out on the sidewalk in front of her shelter, chatting to Tom, the food critic. They were all smiles and laughter, and a pang of envy at how easily their conversation went rose in me.

  Silly.

  I got out of my aunt’s VW Beetle and waved at them.

  “Oh, hello, dear,” Mildred said, abandoning Tom and coming over. She wore a flowery blouse and a matching pair of flowing slacks today. “It’s going to be a scorcher. Good thing we’re right by the ocean, eh?”

  “How are you today?” I asked.

  “Fine, fine, what about you?” Mildred asked, lifting her hand to shield her mouth. “I heard that Nick is down at the police station. Oh dear, people seem to think he was the one who… you know. But I don’t believe it. He’s always been such a lovely man.”

  “I’ll see you later, Milly,” Tom called from the shelter.

  The pair gave each other a merry wave, and he headed off, nodding to me as he passed.

  “Are you two good friends?” I asked, and then I remembered what Mildred had said the other day. “Oh, is he your nephew who’s going to take over once you retire?”

  “No,” Mildred laughed. “That’s Tom. He helps out at the shelter occasionally, mostly because he has free time in between writing his pieces for the Parfait Platter. The local newspaper.”

  I nodded. “Oh right
.”

  “Anyway, back to Nick,” Mildred said, taking hold of my arm and steering me toward the front of the café. “What are you going to do if he doesn’t show up for work this morning?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to cook.” I grimaced. “I’m not very good.”

  “That’s not ideal,” Mildred said. “You could buy cakes from the local bakery and serve that with some coffee?”

  “Maybe I should close for the day.”

  “That might be a good idea.” Mildred patted my arm. “On the bright side, if you close for the day, you can come spend time with me in the shelter. That ought to be fun. I’m always looking for the company, you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s kind of you.” I was afraid she’d give me another ancient chocolate chip cookie, but Mildred was sweet, and it was nice that I’d made at least one friend in town. Wait, two. Didi was lovely as well.

  I said goodbye to Mildred, then let myself into the heat of the café. Still no update on the repairmen for the air-conditioning unit. It was going to be a long and frustrating day, and while I probably should’ve closed the café, I didn’t have the heart to. The servers coming in for their shifts relied on their pay, and it felt wrong to take that away from them.

  The fact that Nick wasn’t here hadn’t really affected business. Hardly anyone had come to eat at the café, which meant most of the servers on duty had spent their time hanging out at the coffee bar or playing on their phones. I’d sent them home, all except for Didi, who’d insisted she’d hang around in case we got busy.

  We did not get busy.

  “It’s going to be OK,” Didi said, but even she sounded uncertain about it, as she tugged on her t-shirt, sporting another picture of her favorite K-Pop group. “This will work out.”

  “Sure,” I replied, just as concerned.

  The doors were open, and Didi had suggested we narrow the menu down to just the eggs that everyone knew how to make—and that had, in a horrible twist of fate, contained poison on that fateful day a week ago—and the cakes in the display case. Drinks were easy since Did could make every coffee and milkshake on the menu.