Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights

by Susan Johnson

  What time was it? What day was it?

  Spotting my purse on the small table across the room in what Brooke calls a reading nook, I eased out of bed letting my feet sink into plush carpeting and crossed to get my cell phone. Had I really slept for twelve hours? My smart phone said that I had. My clothes looked freshly laundered and were folded and placed on one of the two upholstered wingback chairs on either side of the small table.

  I'm always amazed at how good a hot shower feels and stood under the warm spray for a long time. The heat felt good against my tight back.

  After dressing, muffled conversation drew me toward the kitchen. Holy crap. I must have made a noise because they turned to look at me. Brooke and Lee Hudson were shoulder to shoulder leaning over what looked like a letter, a page or pages. The three-ring binder she had taken from Henry's was closed and within their reach.

  “Jaymie. You're up,” Brooke said purposely not looking at me.

  I got the impression I wasn't expected. “What's going on?”

  I noticed Lee Hudson looked tired and needed a shave. At that moment, his cell phone rang. He stood and said, “Excuse me.” When he left the room, I also noticed he had changed clothes. Only a man secure in his own skin would wear a lilac polo shirt and black jeans. And on him the outfit looked more than good.

  Sidling up to the granite-topped island across from Brooke I asked, “What's going on? Why is he here?” I nodded in the direction of the other room.

  She just looked at me with a blank expression. I wasn't giving up until I got a proper answer, and I was skilled at staring people down. Months working behind the bar provided the perfect training ground.

  Finally, she gave in, “Look at this.” She handed me an envelope that was slit at the top. “Did you know that Henry was planning to drop out of the Cook-off?”

  “No way. Not in a million years.” I let the envelope slide from my fingers.

  Her serious expression scared me.

  “How do you...” We were cut off when Hudson came back into the room asking, “Do you know if Henry had a small safe?”

  “Yes. In the back room, under the cabinet next to the walk-in freezer.”

  He paused. “Any chance you'd know the combination?”

  Brooke blurted. “You've got to be kidding.”

  “Try 42312,” I said, surprising myself that I could even come up with a guess.

  They both looked at me with shock.

  The guy was a cook. A damn good cook. Not a techie. “That's the date he opened the cafe, April 23, 2012.” Their intense focus on me could melt ice. “That date was printed under the birds, in the shadow box.” They still looked confused. I added, “Origami Cranes, a symbol of good fortune and longevity. It was on the wall by his cash register.” I didn't see the advantage telling them I had what was left of the shadow box though the money cranes were missing.

  Hudson relayed the numbers, listened for a while and then said, “They found Henry's white van.” He said he had to leave and his parting words to Brooke hit me like a sledge hammer. “Keep her here until I get back.”

  “What's that mean?”

  A shrug didn't tell me anything. “What does he want with me?” A part of me wanted to run. No one was going to tell me to stay put. It was hard to breathe. “Were you guys talking about me?”

  For someone with an eclectic fashion style, she doesn't wear the look of guilt very well and went to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank it down before making eye contact.

  On a totally crazy idea, I blurted, “Am I a suspect?”

  “Honey, everyone is a suspect.”

  Had hell frozen over, and I didn't get the memo? “And you wanted me to date him?”

  No response this time, just a tight-lipped grin.

  “There is not going to be a second date,” I mumbled. No matter how enticing his body and sexy his voice was, I'll cut my losses now. Besides, no man was ordering me around. I headed for the door when she said, “You want a drink?”

  That comment stopped me mid-stride. “How dare you ask me that?” I held her daring gaze for several long seconds. I made a deal with myself yesterday. No matter how much the craving grabbed hold of me, I wasn't giving in. I shook my head.

  “I was talking about a Coke, you moron.” A sparkle hit her eyes. Then the giggle. “Okay. I'll tell you what we were doing.”

  I eased back into the kitchen and sat down. “Do you have chips?” I asked. Back in my dark days, my favorite breakfast was chips or cold pizza and Coke. Even though it was afternoon, my stomach was thinking morning.

  By the time we were on our second Cokes and another bag of potato chips, I said, “Now tell me what Hudson was doing here?”

  “I called him.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to tell him what I took from Henry's house.”

  A blush rose to her face.

  I pushed the chips away, had had enough. “Isn't stealing from a dead person a crime?”

  “Don't know about that.” Brooke got a third Coke and offered me another which I declined.

  “I had to have Lee see what I found.”

  “Well?”

  “First let me ask you. Is it possible that Henry would want to burn the restaurant?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Even a little bit?”

  “No.” He had an almost guaranteed win. “He didn't really need the prize money. He was excited to announce his cookbook, too. And he thought that an appearance on TV would bring more customers to his diner.” A perfect reason to participate.

  “Besides, if the building was destroyed, he could still cook. Use the food truck. Damaging his building makes no sense.”

  She took a deep breath. “Did he ever hint at withdrawing from the contest?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he was.” She drained her drink. And then held out the white envelope again. Only this time, I saw the stamp and address written in Henry's familiar scrawl addressed to the chairperson of the Northern Lights Chili Cook-off. Brooke said softly, “Open it. It was by his door along with the power bill he was paying.”

  Stunned was an understatement. “He had no reason to back out.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  I ran from her house, around the block, and to my house. Brooke's words rattled in my head the whole way and brought no insight to the questions rolling around in my head.

  At the bottom of my steps, I leaned over, panting. I'm too old to be jogging, and besides, I always hated running.

  I slogged up the stairs only to discover I had no way of getting into my house because my purse with my keys was back at Brooke's. I turned around and there at the bottom of the steps was a man looking up at me. A stranger. Slim, wearing a moss-green tee shirt, and khaki knee-length shorts. His red hair was short cropped. He raised his sunglasses to the top of his head and put out his hand as if wanting to shake mine. He took two steps up, I shuffled back and bumped into the railing.

  He retreated and dropped his hand. “I'm Carson Bell. Are you Jaymie? Henry Edmund's friend?”

  When I didn't move, he said, “Henry told me all about you.” His voice cracked. “Such a tragedy.”

  “What do you want?”

  “He hired me as his assistant. I was to start next week.”

  I shrugged my best “so what” shrug.

  “I suppose you heard, I left my previous position. Under bad ... circumstances.”

  I nodded.

  He said, “Henry's dead.”

  I repeated, “What do you want?”

  “To talk. I've a proposition.”

  What on earth would a chef from The Pier have to say to me?

  He rolled his head as if to work out a kink. “Can you come down? Or should I come up there?”

  I was surprised when I got down to his level that he was a hand taller than me. The comma-like scar hanging from his left cheek raised my curiosity. The lines on his face told me he laughed a lot.

  “You're prettier t
han Henry said you were.”

  Well, knock me out of my socks, will you. The way his eyes lit up let me know I was a pleasant surprise. But what do I say to that? Nothing.

  “Have a seat,” he said and pointed to the step.

  He sat next to me, not close, but near enough I could smell his earthy aftershave. I thought he was going to complain about working at The Pier, but I was pleasantly wrong. All he said was that he learned a lot from Dave Sheply despite their difficulties. He quickly changed the subject to how he met Henry and was looking forward to working at The Bent Fork.

  He told me to call him Carson. He talked about how much he loved living in Minnesota, much better than Arizona. He was glad his grandmother invited him to move in until he found his own place. I suggested a few places around town that he should visit. After a stretch of comfortable chatter, the conversation turned heavier when he said that he was thrilled that Henry called and offered him a job. I got the impression that the two of them had several conversations recently. “I accepted right away. Anyone would be a fool to pass up the opportunity.” Henry had an outstanding reputation. He told me why he left The Pier. How anyone would work under the circumstances he did, for as long as he did, bewildered me. Carson seemed nice, maybe a hard worker. I felt sorry for him, out of a job again.

  By the time he got to telling me of his proposal, I needed to pee. And when I said I needed to go to my friend's, he offered to walk me back to Brooke's. Along the way he told me that Henry had fired Star the day before the fire. He was sad about having to let her go, but he had no choice. He didn't elaborate, and knowing Henry, I didn't need to know the reason.

  We arrived at Brooke's and Carson surprised me by asking for my phone number. Why I gave it to him, I don't know. And he was gone before I had a chance to ask him why Henry might want to drop out of the Cook-off.

  A few hours later, the two detectives were back, and Brooke led us to her formal living room which reminded me of a picture I saw in Architecture Digest magazine in the library.

  Detective Hudson had changed out of his casual clothes into a black suit, cream colored shirt, mauve and cream striped tie. Oh my gosh, the man wore clothes well. He looked refreshed and had shaved. Detective Sams looked just as professional in a navy pantsuit, grey silk blouse, and sensible shoes.

  For a few moments, I wondered if he had told his partner about our breakfast meeting yet. They were all serious business-like so my guess was not yet.

  From a leather portfolio, Sams pulled a page and asked us if we recognized any of the people in the four pictures. Two of them looked like passport photos or maybe mugshots. Neither man looked happy. The other two were a bit fuzzy, action shots, like in a gas station, but clear enough to see the similarity to the mug shots.

  Neither of us recognized them.

  “Are they Henry's killers?” I asked.

  “Have either of you heard the name William Weston? Also known as Willy?”

  Simultaneously, we said, “No. Why?”

  “He was found dead near Henry's van,” Detective Hudson said as he glanced between Brooke and me. There was no way of telling what he was thinking. So many thoughts scrolled through my mind, I didn't know where to begin.

  Luckily Brooke broke the silence. “Where was it? The van?”

  Detective Sams said, “Behind an abandoned warehouse in Northeast Minneapolis.” She tilted her head making me think there was more she wanted to say. “On the ground near the van, we found a safe with gouge marks.”

  Detective Hudson held a plastic envelope that contained a folded sheet of paper and an envelope. “This is for you. It's a copy. The original note and envelope are with our lab team along with the safe.”

  I looked at him. “What is this?”

  Detective Sams said, “You were right about the safe combination. We found that addressed to you.”

  For the first time, I saw both detectives smile.

  “You got into the safe?”

  Hudson said, “Thanks to your help.”

  Sams said, “Took a few tries to get the breaks right in the numbers you gave us.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  Brooke asked, “So, did this Willy guy kill Henry?”

  When Hudson leaned back and crossed his ankles, I noticed his purple socks. Nice touch. Matches my favorite T-shirt.

  The smiles evaporated from both detectives. Hudson said, “Don't know yet.”

  Sams sitting forward, her back erect, cut in, “A skinny guy like William Weston could not move the safe alone. We are looking for a second man.” She pointed to one of the head shots. “We suspect this is Weston's cousin, Mason Carlyle.”

  Looking at their pictures made me sick. Did they even know Henry? And why kill him?

  Brooke nudged my arm. “Open it.”

  My eyes got watery when I saw Henry's signature at the bottom of the brief note that said: 'This is for you. Wishing you a long and healthy life.'

  “Oh my gosh!” I couldn't catch my breath at seeing a cashiers check made out to me. Twenty-five thousand dollars! Even though I was sitting, my knees shook. “You found this in Henry's safe?”

  Both detectives nodded.

  I looked at the check again. It was hard to count the zeros through my watery eyes. Brooke handed me a tissue. Then I saw the date on the check and gasped. He got it a few days after we started his cookbook project. It took three more tissues to wipe the new tears away.

  Brooke leaned in to me, wrapped her arm across my shoulders, and whispered, “Perfect.” She puffed. “Henry was the best.”

  After the detectives left, I gave into a sobbing jag while Brooke banged around her gourmet kitchen.

  By the time I was drained, she came back to the living room holding out a tumbler of ice tea. “Now you're going to have to finish the cookbook.”

  7

  After a light snack, and drained of tears, we went to my house. Along the way, I told Brooke of my meeting with Carson Bell and his proposal.

  “Super! That's a great idea. Call him.”

  Brooke helped me lay out the notes, pictures, and pages of the manuscript on my kitchen table and we had just finished when Carson showed up.

  He invited her to hang around as we might need a third-party referee he said with a wink.

  Hours later we were giggling and clapping each other on the back. Congratulations all around. We had finished Henry's book. The pictures I had taken of the fire along with a heart-wrenching tribute written by Carson topped off the last chapter.

  As we stood looking over the final product, Carson said, “Let's make this the first chapter.”

  We agreed. Even though there were sad moments, I enjoyed working with Brooke and Carson. He brought a light-hearted slant to our activity. To celebrate, he made us a mouth-watering pizza from ingredients he found in my kitchen.

  Before cleaning up, Brooke surprised us by presenting the 3-ring notebook she stole from Henry's. His recipes. She handed it to Carson, saying, “I'll bet you can find something useful here for the Chili Cook-off.” She looked at me for my approval.

  “Of course.”

  “We couldn't make heads or tails out of these. But you can,” she said.

  After we hugged good-bye to Carson, I told Brooke I was glad that Carson said he'd represent The Bent Fork Cafe at the Ninth Annual Northern Lights Chili Cook-off. I bet Henry smiled from above.

  The funeral at The Celebration of Life Center was well attended. Henry's daughter, Claire and I reconnected, but too much time and change of interests have distanced us. Our college days seemed like a lifetime ago. Her brother did not attend, and no one believed the reason he gave. I overheard Henry's ex-wife make a little stink about the cost. She was quickly silenced.

  I didn't stay for the meal.

  The Pioneer Press ran a long obituary. And four days later, after the funeral, they printed another tribute prompting Channel 5 TV station to change to a larger venue for the Chili Cook-off, the county fairgrounds, and increased the numbe
r of tickets.

  I can't say that I'm wild about large crowds, but the Cook-off was special. And since Carson asked me to meet him at the booth an hour before the doors opened, I could avoid the pack of people streaming in. Besides, I got a good parking place in the first row in the open grassy field.

  As I headed to the Horse arena, I saw men setting up band equipment for Blue Sox Skeezer on a flatbed trailer. In front was a makeshift dance floor, a place to work off extra calories. Then after dark, there would be a large fireworks display.

  I found the booth easily.

  “Try this.” Carson handed me a small bowl of chili. “I think Henry would be pleased.”

  “You get no argument from me.” It was tasty. Just the right amount of heat in my opinion. “Did you figure out his secret ingredient?”

  He shrugged with a wide grin.

  “You're not going to tell?”

  Another shrug and grin.

  Soon, Brooke and John came in. We claimed a table close to the podium where the winner would be announced. Carley Swain from Channel 5 was playing with the microphone, saying testing. Too many times for my taste. Maybe she had a desire to get into acting or singing.

  People started streaming in and after finding tables, headed for the cash bar. I sipped my Coke. Content.

  I almost choked when I heard a man's voice. “Is this seat taken?”

  “Lee. You made it,” Brooke said enthusiastically as she shot out of her chair to give him a hug. He and John shook hands. All I could do was smile at him. Among all the delectable aromas, he looked yummy.

  “Sit,” John said.

  Lee Hudson looked relaxed and handsome in a purple tee shirt. Did his socks match? I wondered. But there was no way I was going to crawl under the table for a close-up inspection.

  He and John talked for a bit while I reined in my jitters. Luckily the event started with a local minister giving a blessing and then we could circulate to the six stations for samples. Carley Swain reminded us of where to place our ballots and to have a good time.

  My nerves loosened but I couldn't tell if it was because I had a full belly or that the conversation was pleasant and interesting. Then the elephant entered the room when Brooke asked Lee, “Did you guys get Henry's killer yet?”