“Oh? Did you recognize him?”
“No,” Nick said. “But he had dark hair and eyes, he was young and tan. I’ve never seen him before in my life. That’s why he stood out to me, I think. I know a lot of people in Parfait, even if it’s just by sight, so running into someone new usually stands out.”
“Right,” I nodded.
That didn’t give me much, but it was something. A stranger hanging around outside the restaurant on the morning of the murder. If only I could track him down and ask him a few questions. Or find out who he was.
“Thanks for the soda,” Nick said, rising. “And for your understanding. I can come back to work tomorrow if you’ll still have me.”
“Absolutely!” I got up too. “I understand you’re going through a rough time. Just let me know if anything changes before tomorrow, OK?”
“I will. I’ll make more of an effort to keep in contact with you.” There was an awkward moment where he looked as if he wanted to step in for a hug but thought better of it. “Take care, Sunny. See you in the morning.”
17
The following day…
If I’d thought the café was dead in the water thanks to it being a crime scene, boy had I been wrong. News had spread of Nick’s return to the kitchen, and just about everyone in Parfait had turned up hoping to catch a glimpse of the suspect. The air was rife with gossip and suspicion. Gone was the friendly, cozy atmosphere, and the servers were on edge as they put in orders or prepared drinks and delivered them to tables.
I sat behind the cash register, opting to hang back today. I couldn’t handle overhearing more gossip about Nick, so it was easier to deal with the drinks and ring up orders for people when they came to pay.
“Have you seen this?” Didi asked, placing a tray on the blue countertop. “Check it out.” She handed me a folded copy of the Parfait Platter, the local newspaper, and tapped a column on the front page. “That might cheer you up.” She pranced off again before I could ask her why.
I lifted the paper.
A Stirling Day’s Breakfast at the Sunny Side Up Café
By Tom Miller, Food Critic
Though the Sunny Side Up Café has had a dip in its operating hours of late, I headed out to the acclaimed dining spot this week. I wanted to get a feel for how things run under new management, while the town-beloved Rita Jackson is on a much-needed vacation.
When I arrive, the place is half-full, but the smells are divine, the staff are friendly, and the drinks are excellent as always. A plate of eggs over easy goes down a treat, perfectly prepared by the chef at the establishment. The only downside of my experience is the lack of air-conditioning in the café.
Overall, a pleasant way to spend the morning. Eight out of ten stars from me! Keep it up, Sunny Side Up Café.
My cheeks flushed, and a smile parted my lips. This was great! It was just the publicity we needed, assuming anyone in town read Tom’s reviews. Gosh, I hoped they did. And if he had a social media presence, even better.
I set the newspaper aside and brought out my phone.
A quick search for ‘Tom Miller food critic Parfait, Florida,’ brought up a list of search results. He had a few social media pages and had posted his most recent review, but… it didn’t have any pictures, and there was only one ‘like’ on the post.
So, OK, the review wouldn’t be shared far and wide, but this was still a good thing. I could be assured that things were running as smoothly as they could be under my ‘leadership’ while my aunt was gone. And given the circumstances, that was all I could ask for.
Curious, I searched the phrase ‘Sunny Side Up Café, Parfait, Florida, reviews.’
The first search result was an image from none other than Trisha Williams’ social media page. And it was tagged with a title: If you’re looking for the worst meal you’ll have, come to the Sunny Side Up Café. 1 out of 10 stars.
“Oh no,” I whispered, my finger hovering over the result. I tapped, hesitantly, and it opened on my screen. My insides squirmed.
Unlike Tom, Trisha had a fantastic online following. She had over a million followers, and the review, which was from several months ago, had over five thousand likes and one hundred and sixty-seven comments. Trisha had posted a picture of the signature eggs over easy dish.
If you’re looking to induce vomiting, come eat at this place. It’s supposed to be the best café in Parfait, but it’s totally gross. I asked for eggs over easy, and my server made them herself and they were hard! Just look at that. Don’t come here!!! Ever!!
A long list of hashtags followed the caption.
This was bad. Not only because it reflected poorly on the café, but because the victim had written this well before her death. And if people knew that Nick was in financial dire straits… well, it would seem like motive.
If Nick lost his job or felt his job was under threat, he would have a reason to get rid of Trisha. He wouldn’t have wanted her to write another negative review of the café because it might’ve put him at risk of losing money.
My mind whirled, and I set my phone down, the pleasure that had come with Tom’s review slowly ebbing away to nothing.
The café was still under threat, and there was nothing I could do to help. Not really.
Chin up, Sunny. You can do this. Aunt Rita will be back soon.
But I had no idea if that was true. What if my aunt decided to continue her vacation? Could I really blame her for wanting to when she’d spent so much of her time working? I’d have to keep on keeping on, but the longer this investigation dragged on, the worse I felt. The more uncertain.
What if Nick really had done it?
After a long lunch service, I retreated into the office for a few moments of privacy before the final evening push. I had put in my umpteenth call to the repair company, only to be told they had no record of Aunt Rita ever having asked them to come out.
Covered in sweat, angry about the review from Trisha and my confusion over the murder, I’d raised my voice on the line and wound up getting hung up on. Not my proudest moment.
A knock came at the door and Didi opened it. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Of course,” I said.
The K-Pop fan entered and plopped down in the chair in front of my aunt’s desk. “Thanks.”
“What happened? Is something wrong?”
“No,” Didi laughed. “But I can tell you’re stressed out about the café. I came to ask if you’d like to join us for our weekend getaway. I didn’t want to invite you earlier because I wasn’t sure it was still on. Nick usually organizes these sort of team-building events for us.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we’re all going bird-watching in the Everglades this weekend. I guess Nick must’ve been too stressed to tell you about it.”
I dragged my teeth over my bottom lip. “Are you sure you want me there? I don’t want to intrude if I’m not welcome.”
“Of course, you’re welcome,” Didi said. “You’re the manager now. The boss. Rita always comes on the getaways. Come on, it will be fun. We’ll pick you up on Saturday morning, bright and early.”
“Sure. OK. Yeah, that sounds like fun.” It would be great to get away for the weekend, and I could ask Emilia from next-door to take care of Bodger while I was gone. She’d mentioned doing it for Rita in the past, and she didn’t seem that afraid of the cat. Maybe that was because she had a toddler. Everything paled in comparison to changing dirty diapers, was my guess.
“Great!” Didi left the office, and I abandoned my sweaty pursuit of the air-conditioning company as well.
I wound through the interior of the café, stopping at tables and sharing a few words with people to make them feel welcome. It was a trial, not because I was nervous about being in charge anymore, but because of the ‘Nick and murder’ gossip.
I moved to the corner table and had to stop myself from gasping. Bebe, Trisha’s newest assistant, sat at the table, messing around on her phone. She was completely alone, t
his time, no Tom in sight.
“Hello,” I said. “Enjoying everything so far?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Bebe said, and cast a quick smile my way. “Great, I mean. Sorry, I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
“Oh. What is it?”
Bebe glanced up at me. “I’m posting a picture of my meal,” she said.
“Are you a vlogger?”
“An influencer,” she said.
“You look super familiar. Have I seen you somewhere before?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. I was here with Trisha a while ago.” And that was it. She didn’t seem to want to give me more information.
I hovered by her table for another couple minutes to no avail. She was done talking to me.
Interesting that she’s an influencer now. The minute Trisha’s gone, she steps in to take her place? Can you smell the suspicion?
All I could smell was coffee, but I kept my eye on Bebe while she ate her food, took pictures, and recorded herself in the corner booth. Finally, she finished up, and Didi came to the counter with her money.
“Didi,” I said, “would you mind monitoring things for a few minutes? There’s something I need to do.”
“Sure,” she replied. “No prob.”
Bebe headed for the door, and I hesitated for only a moment before stripping off my apron and following her out into the sunset.
18
Bebe strode down the boardwalk into the purple dusk, the lampposts on the street flickering on as the evening darkened. I followed her, keeping as much distance as I could without losing her, my pulse racing, even though she hadn’t noticed me. And there was nothing ‘illegal’ about taking an evening stroll.
You’re crazy. This is crazy.
I wasn’t an investigator, shoot, I wasn’t anything, so why did I think it was OK to tail a woman who’d known the murder victim?
Bebe paused along the boardwalk and snapped a photo of the sun over the water—an orange glimmer on the horizon—then continued her walk.
I scooched past people on the boardwalk, some of whom were vaguely familiar thanks to their visits to the café, and others I didn’t recognize but who stared at me in passing. That was probably because they’d heard about Trisha’s death.
You can do this.
Bebe strolled across the road and down a side-street. This was it. If I went after her, I was committing to tailing her to her destination. I could turn back now, go to the café, close for the evening, go home, feed Bodger, and relax.
My feet carried me across the road, my gaze fixed on the back of Bebe’s head.
As Trisha’s assistant, she would’ve had direct access to the woman’s plate. Could she have slipped poison onto it just before Trisha had been about to take a bite? Or was that implausible?
Bebe turned the corner, and I followed. She walked for ten minutes, crossing streets, taking lefts and rights, while I trailed behind her, pretending I was on an evening stroll. My pulse-pounding anxiety over her looking back and finding me there was for nothing, though.
The new vlogger’s attention was consumed by her phone, the light from the screen illuminating her face and casting a blue hue in the fading night.
Her phone blipped, and she paused. I stopped too, pretending to tie my shoelace, even though I was in sandals.
“Ugh,” she murmured, then set off again, crossing the street quickly.
We were in a suburban area, further back from the beach. The houses here were larger than my aunt’s cottage, some of them with two or three stories, made of wood and brick, with neat fences bordering their properties.
Finally, Bebe dipped into a breezeway between two homes and stopped. A figure emerged from the house to the left of her, and I crouched down on the sidewalk, hiding from view behind a bush that pressed up against the perimeter fence. The person who’d come out to meet her was shrouded by darkness, their side profile hidden from view in the dusk. All I could make out was Bebe’s face, thanks to the blue light from her phone.
“—stupid reason to meet.”
“Just thought—busy with—Trisha anymore,” a deep male voice replied.
I didn’t recognize it, but sweat beaded on the back of my neck. They were talking about Trisha! And holding a clandestine meeting at night. Sure, that meeting was smack dab in the middle of suburbia in a quaint seaside town, but still! That had to count for something.
“—don’t understand why you think you—I told you no.”
“Bebe—if you would just listen to—I was the one who did this for you.”
What?
“—happy now?” the man continued. “You’re free!”
“—free then I wouldn’t have to worry about—”
Was I hearing this right? Or was I jumping to conclusions?
“Come inside,” the guy said, his voice softening. “Let’s talk about—?”
A hesitation, then Bebe’s shoulders relaxed. She followed the guy inside, and a door closed, the light that had spilled from it cutting off.
Oh my word. What was that?
I didn’t want to read too much into it, but it had sounded a lot like Bebe and the mystery guy had been talking about Trisha’s death. He’d said something about Trisha and that Bebe was free now. But free from what? From Trisha? Had Bebe grown so disgruntled with being Trisha’s assistant that she’d got rid of her and enlisted the help of this mystery man to do it?
My mind whirred.
Who was the guy? I hadn’t recognized his voice, but then, I wasn’t familiar with everyone who lived in Parfait. I’d seen Bebe with Tom the other day. Could it have been him? I cast back for a recollection of how his voice sounded, but no, he’d been more nasal, hadn’t he?
What if it was Michael?
A rush of excitement prickled through my veins. What if I’d overheard Michael and Bebe conspiring? They’d both hated Trisha and worked closely with her, so they knew her habits and schedule, and it would explain why Frances had had a pair of dirty boots at her front door that belonged to him. Could Frances be in on it too?
No, surely not. That many people conspiring… one of them would eventually break and—
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
19
I nearly jumped out of my skin at the light touch. I leaped up from my crouch, turning, and found Detective Garcia behind me, his lips drawn into a thin, unimpressed line.
“Is there a reason you’re hiding behind a bush, Miss Charles?” he asked.
“Huh?” Great. I couldn’t muster up a coherent answer fast enough, and if that reply didn’t make me sound guilty as sin, I didn’t know what would.
“Are you lost, Miss Charles?” Detective Garcia asked.
“No,” I said. “I was just taking an evening walk. I like to go on evening walks.”
“Ones that just happened to follow a suspect’s path.”
“Bebe’s a suspect?”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” the detective replied.
“Then why does it matter where I’m crouching?” I asked, shrewdly. “I mean, if everyone’s a suspect then you could be annoyed at me for being outside anyone’s house, even my own.”
“It was a figure of speech.”
“But Bebe’s a suspect.”
Detective Garcia’s nostrils flared. “Miss Charles, try not to make my job more difficult than it is already.”
“I wasn’t doing anything, detective. Like I said, just going for an evening walk.” The sweat that had gathered on my neck during my little eavesdropping stint had migrated to my forehead.
“Do you usually crouch when you walk?”
“It’s good for the glutes,” I replied. “Squatting while you walk.”
“You really expect me to believe that you just happened to be walking like a duck behind Bebe Rae?”
“You should try it sometime. It’s a good work out.”
“I’m not playing games, Miss Charles,” Detective Garcia said. “If I catch you doing anything that will h
inder my investigation, I’ll consider it obstruction.”
“I swear, detective, I wasn’t doing anything.” I put up my hands. What could he do? Arrest me for snooping? For listening in? I wasn’t on anyone’s property, but on the sidewalk, so he couldn’t even get me for trespassing.
Where is this defiance coming from?
Perhaps it was the seriousness of losing my aunt’s café that had gotten to me. Or maybe it was that I’d become annoyed with the entire investigation and law enforcement. Either way, I wouldn’t let the detective bully me.
Even if you were doing exactly what he thinks you were doing.
“I want to make something clear, Miss Charles. You’re not to interfere in an ongoing investigation. And you’re to stay away from persons of interest in this case, because, you are, in fact, a person of interest in this case. That hasn’t changed. I would expect you would try to stay out of trouble rather than drop yourself into more of it.”
“I—walking.” Great. Back to being incoherent.
“Then don’t let me stop you from doing exactly that.” He folded his arms, tilting his head to one side.
I dragged my teeth over my bottom lip. “Good evening, detective,” I said, then crossed the road and started my long walk back to the café. I glanced over my shoulder once I reached the corner and found Detective Garcia watching me from next to his police cruiser.
Shoot, I hadn’t even heard it pull up, I’d been so lost in thought. How ridiculous I must’ve looked, hunched over next to the fence in the gathering darkness.
I shook my head at myself, brought my cellphone out of the pocket of my shorts, and opened the maps app. I plotted a course back to the café, since I wasn’t familiar with Parfait’s winding streets and intersections.
The walk was brisk, my steps reflecting the pace of my thoughts.
My suspicions about Bebe’s involvement in Trisha’s murder had grown immeasurably after overhearing that conversation, but I had nothing that proved she’d done it. Or that she’d asked someone else to do it.
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