At around noon, I’d resigned myself to the fact that we were done for the day. But this wasn’t over. I wasn’t about to let my aunt’s café go down. I had to figure out how I’d save it. If only I could prove that Nick was innocent. That I was innocent. People wouldn’t avoid the café then. They’d be reassured that we weren’t crazy murderers waiting to pounce.
“Ah! Someone’s just pulled up,” Didi said, leaping off the edge of her barstool.
Two women in their forties entered the café and looked around, frowning. “You’re still open,” the brunette in the pair said. “I heard you’d be closing today on account your chef being a murderer.”
I heated, but Didi cast a quick glance in my direction. “Uh, alleged murder,” she said. “And yeah, we’re open. Can we get you something to drink?”
“Sure,” the blonde woman said, and recognition sparked. These were the same women who’d been gossiping about Nick yesterday. The ones who had laughed at me because I’d told them they weren’t allowed to speak ill of him.
They walked over to a corner booth and sat down, fanning themselves with their hands.
“Sorry,” I said. “We’re waiting on the repairmen for the air-conditioning.”
“Yeah, Rita’s been trying to get them out here for weeks,” the blonde woman said. “Isn’t that right Cherry?”
The brunette nodded. “Weeks, Sienna, weeks.”
“What flavor milkshakes would you like?” Didi called from behind the coffee bar.
“Vanilla for me,” Sienna called, fluffing her blonde locks and readjusting the heart locket that rest on her chest.
“Chocolate,” Cherry put in.
Both women watched me like a hawk while they waited for their orders, and I did my best not to shift under their scrutiny.
“You know,” Cherry said, turning to her friend. “It’s a shame that Trisha died, but you’ve got to admit, she had it coming.”
“Too big for her boots,” Sienna agreed. “Thought she was the most popular woman to walk the face of the earth, let alone grace Parfait with her presence. No wonder someone killed her. I bet she stepped on Nick’s toes.”
“It wasn’t Nick,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Why?” Cherry turned to me, like she’d been expecting I’d join in on the conversation. “How do you know it wasn’t him? Were you watching him every minute of the morning?”
“No,” I said. “I just don’t think he would do it. He had no motive.”
“Huh.” Sienna tapped her chin. “I never thought of it like that before. Nick really didn’t have a motive. He didn’t fight with Trisha or even talk to her. Unless you heard something to the contrary, Cherry?”
“Not me, no. Never heard a thing about Nick and Trisha. Trisha and Frances, however…”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.” Sienna clicked her fingers and pointed at her friends. “Michael.”
“Who’s Michael?” I asked.
Didi delivered the women’s milkshakes, and they stripped their straws of the paper covering in near-identical motions.
“Michael,” Cherry said. “Is Frances’ son. Until about, oh, say, a month ago, he was working as Trisha’s assistant. Rumor has it she fired him because he was a slacker. Ever since then, no one has seen him. He just disappeared. Poof.” She gestured with both hands. “Like magic.”
“You think he’d kill her over a job?” Sienna asked, narrowing an eye.
“People do crazy things for money and revenge. And it might not be him who killed her, but his mother. You know how protective Frances was over him when he was in high school. No girl was ever good enough for him. Heavens, she packed his lunches even when he was a Senior.”
“Social suicide,” Cherry agreed. “You might be right.” She slurped noisily on her milkshake, bright blue eyes traveling sideways until she caught me in her stare. “Or it was someone else.”
15
Was I crazy? Or was I inspired?
No, just desperate.
After the conversation, I’d made several notes on my phone about Frances, Michael, Trisha, and even Nick, and I reviewed them now in the café's quiet—Cherry and Sienna long gone—my fingers itching to fill in the gaps. There were missing clues, things I could uncover, but it would mean taking the next step. Talking to people. Snooping around.
Could I do that?
“What are you writing?” Didi asked, stopping beside me at the bar.
We’d already closed the Sunny Side Up’s doors for the day, and she’d spent the last of her shift cleaning up the already spotless interior. I figured that was more out of nerves than anything else. Or maybe Didi felt like she had to work to earn her keep.
“Oh, it’s just me being silly,” I said, leaning back so she could get a better view of the page.
Didi picked up the notepad and read it. “Hey, this is great,” she said. “You’ve got a suspect list and notes about suspicious behavior and everything. Have you done this before?”
“Not like this,” I said. “My aunt and I used to do this type of thing in our spare time with stuff we saw on TV.”
“That’s so cool.” Didi chewed on the corner of her lip. “Say, why don’t we head out to visit Frances and talk to her? Maybe you can uncover more about Michael and where he went. No one’s seen him in ages, you know.”
“Cherry and Sienna mentioned as much.” I hesitated, though. “Should we really? Isn’t it silly?”
“No way,” Didi exclaimed, clapping her hands. “It’ll be fun. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“And, I suppose, if we found out something, we could tell Detective Garcia. It might help him arrest the murderer quicker, and then things would get back to normal in the café.” And I’d stop feeling like I’d let down Aunt Rita and everybody else.
“Exactly.” Didi grinned at me, buoyed up by the prospect of not sitting in the dead café for the rest of the afternoon.
“Do you know where she stays?”
“She’s got a cottage on the beach on the other side of Parfait. I’ll direct us,” Didi said, then faltered. “But, uh, you do the talking, OK? Because she scares me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. There’s just something about her I don’t like. It’s not even that she’s mean to everyone, it’s… I don’t trust her. And my gut feelings are usually right.” Didi twirled a strand of pink-streaked hair around her finger, then let it bounce free.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, we parked in front of Frances’ cottage. It was like my aunt’s place in appearance, but nowhere as near to the beach. Rather, it was hidden between the brush and trees further back from the road. Was it just me, or did this place have an ominous vibe?
How could a place be both summery and scary wrapped into one?
“Oh boy,” Didi said. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
“Sure you are,” I replied. “Everything will be fine.”
Didi didn’t comment.
We exited into the afternoon heat and trudged up the steps of the cottage to knock on the door.
“Just a moment,” Frances called from inside. “Just a—” The latch clacked, and she appeared. Her plum-colored hair was in disarray, but her slacks and loose blouse were both neatly pressed. “Oh hello!” Her smile brightened. “How lovely of you to stop by. I haven’t had any visitors in ages. Come in, come in.”
“Hi Frances,” I said, and entered, Didi stepping on my heels.
“How are things going?” Frances asked, shutting the door and us inside her home. “Did you close the café early today?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Unfortunately, business isn’t booming.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” Frances sighed. “Regrettable, but understandable. Don’t you worry, Sunny, this will pass. Once the police have caught the murderer, people will move on from this and business will get back to normal. Come through to the living room. I’l
l make us some lemonade.”
Didi paled at the mention of lemonade, but we followed Frances into a sunlit living room, her glass sliding doors open to allow the breeze in from her back yard. A sleepy dog lay on her back porch, his massive brown head on his paws. He opened one eye and peeked at us, snuffled, then let out a grunt of a sigh.
“It’s all right, Baxxy,” Frances said. “These are friendly people. Don’t mind him, he’s just sulking. I’ll get the lemonade.”
Didi and I sat down on Frances’ floral sofa, both of us on edge and scanning the room. A picture of Frances and a young man, had to be Michael, hung on the wall in a position of pride. The coffee table was cluttered with knitting and gardening magazines.
Frances returned with a silver tray of glasses and a lemonade pitcher and set it down carefully next to the magazine array, nudging them aside with her knuckles. “There,” she said. “Help yourselves.” She poured herself a glass of lemonade, then retreated to an armchair that faced the TV and the picture of her son on the wall next to it.
I poured a glass of lemonade for Didi and then for myself. “Thanks, Frances. This is great.” I took a sip of the sweet goodness.
“On a day like this, one needs refreshment. Even if it is on the sugary side.” Frances took a chaste sip of her drink.
Her dog groaned and huffed again.
“Oh, Baxxy, you silly boy,” Frances said. “You must excuse him. He’s been in a terrible mood for over a month now.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He misses my son. Michael and Baxxy are the best of friends and have been for years now, ever since I got him.”
“Oh, when did Michael leave?” What great serendipity that her son had come up in conversation like this. “Recently?”
“About a month ago. He got a job out of town, so he thought it would be best to move rather than commuting. We miss him terribly, but he set up this Skype thing on my computer so Baxxy can chat to him every day.” Frances gave a pleasant smile.
“Is that him?” I gestured to the picture.
“That’s my Mikey,” Frances replied. “He’s been my rock ever since his father passed. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him.”
“He worked for Trisha, didn’t he?” Didi squeaked it out, hiding her mouth behind her glass.
“Don’t even get me started on that trollop,” Frances said, her lips tugging down at the corners. “I don’t even want to think about how she treated Mikey. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. He’s doing bigger and better things.”
The conversation drifted away from her son, and we idly discussed the murder, which Frances didn’t seem fazed about or interested in, and then the weather. Finally, we finished our lemonades, thanked Frances for the visit, and headed out into the hall.
At the front door, my gaze landed on a pair of heavy-soled men’s boots, coated in sand and grit, and I tried not to let the surprise show on my face.
“Keep safe,” Frances said. “You must visit again.”
“That would be great. Thanks again for the lemonade and the company.”
“Oh, it’s me who should thank you. You definitely cheered up Baxxy.”
We headed off down the steps, then got into the sweltering interior of the Beetle and rolled down the windows with old-fashioned elbow grease. “Did you see the boots?” I asked Didi as I started the car.
“Boots?”
“By the door. There were a pair of men’s boots right there.” I drove down the short inlet road that led to Frances’ cottage. “If she hasn’t seen Michael in a month, then why are his dirty boots next to the front door?”
16
After dropping Didi off at her mom’s cottage, I headed back to Aunt Rita’s and let myself into the blessedly cool interior. Bodger swiped my ankles the minute I got through the door, as he did every day when I arrived home, and I preemptively dodged the strike.
“What is up with you?” I asked, sternly. “You know, I’ve done nothing but be nice to you since I’ve arrived. Do you have a thorn stuck in your paw or something?”
Bodger meowed at me balefully and pranced off without further contest. That was something at least. When I lectured him, he listened, but if I was too nice, he’d take a flying leap for my gullet.
Treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen, I guess.
I kicked off my shoes, undid the top button of my blouse and fetched a can of diet soda from the fridge, the prospect of many hours of boredom ahead. I could go down to the beach and dip my toes in the water, but it seemed wrong to relax.
What with Nick under investigation, the café under threat…
The doorbell rang, and I jumped, spilling a little soda on my blouse. “Ugh,” I murmured, and hurried through to the front hall. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Nick.”
My heart leaped—a combination of nerves and joy that he was OK—and I opened up.
Nick was even paler now. His hair stuck up at the back, cow-licked and untidy, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Are you OK? You look like… uh, you’re not.”
“May I come in?”
If you’re not the murderer, sure. That was a terrible thought. Of course, he wasn’t the murderer. “Sure. Do you want a soda? I’ve got diet.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
Nick followed me into the kitchen, so tired he didn’t even look out for a Bodger attack, and sat down at my aunt’s kitchen table. He rested his forearm on it, then plopped his head down and let out a breath.
“Here,” I said, popping the tab on the soda for him. “Would you like a glass?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt, so I took a chair too.
“What’s going on, Nick?” I didn’t want to be mad at him. He was in enough trouble as it was, and even though he’d dodged contact with me over the past while, I didn’t want to stress him out even more.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call again,” he said. “I thought it would be better to come over here rather than calling. Talk to you in person.”
I waited for more.
“They let me go because they don’t have evidence to hold me, but I’m still their prime suspect,” Nick said, slowly. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Pity rose in me. He wasn’t capable of murder, was he? You don’t know him. Remember that. Be impartial.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” I said. “I wish I could help you.”
“Me too,” he replied.
“I find it weird that they haven’t called me in yet,” I said. “I was the one who prepared the eggs that… killed her.”
“I think the plate had poison on it,” Nick said. “And since I was the one in the kitchen for most of the morning, they figure I ought to have seen something or done it. But I’ve got nothing for them. I really don’t know who did this.” He took a sip of his soda.
“Is there any way I can help? Do you need me to cook you a meal or—”
Nick smiled. “You, cook for me?”
“Ha, you’re probably right. That wouldn’t be helpful.” And he had a wife to cook for him. It was the only way I could think to help him, short of trying to figure out who the killer was. Which I was technically already doing, albeit more for fascination’s sake.
Nick continued drinking his soda, occasionally dragging his hand over his eyes or yawning.
“I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something, actually,” I said. “I don’t want to stress you out, but I—well, I had a run-in with your wife the other day.”
“Jasmine was at the café?”
“Yes. She came in to put makeup on the counter and I told her she couldn’t do that because I didn’t have permission from Rita, and neither did she.”
“Oh, right.” Nick shook his head. “I warned her not to do that without asking, but she’s stubborn. She thought Rita wouldn’t mind.”
“I could ask Rita if it’s OK, but I don’t know, I felt bad about telling Jasmine not to do it and she reacted badly,” I said, sheepishly.
“Uh oh. What did she do?”
“Nothing serious. Just a few verbal barbs.” No way would I tell him she’d said to stay away from him. That was an embarrassing line to cross, and definitely not my place to say. I wanted to keep Nick as an employee and a friend, not make him uncomfortable. “I wanted your advice on how to handle it. Should I apologize? We’re neighbors, and I’ll probably be seeing a lot more of both of you so…”
“Just let it blow over,” Nick said, waving a hand. “Trust me. Jasmine is all bark and no bite. She’ll get over it. She’s been super stressed lately because things haven’t been going that well for us financially. That’s made her irritable and probably a little desperate.” Shame settled around him and he shook his head. “My fault.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, because I had no idea what else to say. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“Just don’t fire me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I laughed.
We settled into a comfortable silence, Nick drinking his soda, and me scanning the kitchen for want of anything else to do. My thoughts were occupied, mind racing over what he’d said about the cops. The plate had been poisoned.
That made it seem like he’d have had the most access. But what if someone else had gotten into the kitchen beforehand? How would they have known which plate was going out to Trisha’s table? They would have had to have been in there while I was cooking the eggs over easy to know for sure.
Oh heavens. A killer in the kitchen, watching me cook, waiting for the opportune moment.
“Say, Nick.”
He started. “Yeah?”
“I was wondering, did you see anyone or anything weird on the morning it happened? In the kitchen or just in the café?”
“Hmm.” He wriggled his nose from side-to-side. “I don’t know if I’d say it was strange or not, but I saw a guy hanging around outside the café in the morning. Every time I came out to grab a cup of coffee or go to the bathroom, he was outside, sitting on a bench on the boardwalk.”
Murder Over Easy (A Sunny Side Up Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 7