“Step aside! Police business!” a pot-bellied man with a bushy mustache pushed and shoved his way through the people milling about.
“Hey!” Rossalyn exclaimed, as he shouldered his way past her, bruising her upper arm and almost knocking her over. “There’s no need to be rude.”
The sheriff stopped for a moment and glared at her.
“Keep it up, young lady and I’ll arrest you for obstruction,” he warned, not stopping.
“Now you just wait a minute,” she pursued him, irked by his manner. “I own this place and I demand to know what’s going on,” she yelled, her frustration bubbling over. She turned to her son, not wanting him to get caught up in the drama.
“Ryan, go inside and help José,” she said in a low voice, steering him back toward the building.
“But Mom, I…”
“Ryan, go,” she raised her eyebrows in a manner which clued him into the fact that she meant business. The young man rarely saw his mother show her temper and he knew when it was time to do what he was told, so he sighed and went inside.
“You wanna know what’s going on?” the sheriff said, advancing on her after having looked inside the dumpster. “There’s a murder weapon in that dumpster, and there’ll be an investigation going on. You shut this place down now, and nobody leaves until I say so. Now you know what’s going on, feel better?” he spat with contempt.
Speechless, Rossalyn stared at the sheriff, watching him walk away to bark orders at some deputies. She turned on her heel, still reeling from the revelation that there was apparently a murder weapon in her dumpster. Thankful that there were no customers inside, she flipped the sign on the door over to “Closed,” and sat down beside Ryan at the counter. José had made him a heaping plate of barbeque pork nachos, and he was wolfing down the sloppy, gloppy treat.
“José is the best,” he proclaimed, mouth full and sauce dribbling from his fingers.
“Yes, he is,” his mother murmured, rising from her stool and moving toward the kitchen.
“Hey,” she said, when she saw José wiping down the counters in the small commercial kitchen. “The police are outside. The sheriff said that there was a murder and they found the murder weapon in our dumpster, so he wants us all to stay here until he has a chance to talk to us,” she explained, watching the cook’s eyes grow larger.
“Should I make coffee?” he asked, seeming rattled.
“Yes, please. That would be great. Then just come out front with Ryan and me.”
“Okay, Miss Rossalyn,” he agreed, already reaching for the coffee grinder.
The ill-tempered sheriff came into the café nearly an hour later and refused the cup of coffee that he was offered. He sent José outside to talk with one of the deputies, and Ryan wandered off to the kitchen when his mother cast her eyes in that direction, not wanting him to have nightmares from hearing any gory details that the sheriff might want to discuss.
“There was a lightbulb in the dumpster…” the Sheriff began, referring to his notepad. He refused to sit down, so he loomed over Rossalyn during his questioning, making her exceedingly uncomfortable.
“You think the murder weapon was a lightbulb?” she interrupted, perplexed.
The sheriff raised an eyebrow at her and stared for a moment.
“No, the lightbulb was not the murder weapon, but it was the only other item in your dumpster aside from the murder weapon,” he drawled nastily.
“Right,” she replied, feeling foolish. “That’s because the trash pickup was early this morning, so the dumpster was empty.
“Why was there a lightbulb in the dumpster?”
“Oh, because it was bad. It got replaced.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not sure,” Rossalyn replied truthfully.
The sheriff stared at her in unpleasant disbelief.
“How can you not know who replaced your light bulb?” he challenged.
“Well, I know who did it, but I don’t know his name,” she tried again, hating how silly she sounded.
“So, a total stranger was replacing the bulb?” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Well, yes. No. Sort of,” she floundered, then related the story of the biker, leaving out the encounter that she’d had with him after closing in the parking lot.
“Tell me, Miss… ?”
“Channing, Rossalyn Channing. I already spoke with a couple of your deputies.”
“Miss Channing, why would a biker who had disrupted your lunch rush suddenly show up and change out a light bulb?” he asked, clearly skeptical.
“I have no idea,” she shook her head. “Maybe he was sorry?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that the big, bad biker was sorry,” the sheriff mocked her. “You didn’t think to ask his name while he was making improvements on your property?”
“No, I’m not in the habit of chatting with strangers,” she frowned, getting really tired of his attitude.
“Even when they’re helping you out because they’re sorry?”
When Rossalyn didn’t dignify his rudeness with a reply, he continued.
“Can you give me a description?”
“He was really tall, maybe six-four, and really big, probably over two hundred and fifty pounds, long dark hair, and a thick beard, blue eyes,” she recalled, feeling bad that it looked like the sheriff was going to consider him a suspect.
“Blue eyes, well, isn’t that sweet? Anything else?”
“He had black motorcycle boots on, they were pretty worn, like he’d had them for a while, and a leather vest with an eagle on the back of it,” she ignored his snarky tone.
The sheriff’s face changed for a moment, then his mask slipped back into place.
“Did you happen to see any type of lettering on the vest?” he asked, his tone much more subdued.
“There was lettering, but I don’t remember what it said. I was a little stressed out at the time.”
“Okay,” the sheriff sighed. “We’ll be continuing our investigation for a bit, but you should be able to be open for business tomorrow. I’ll send a deputy to let you know if that changes. My guys got your contact info, correct?”
“Yes, they did.”
“All right. We’ll let you know if we need anything further.”
Rossalyn nodded and watched him walk out. He’d tried to hide his reaction to the description of the biker, but she’d seen it and wondered what it meant. Hopefully it wouldn’t be an issue, hopefully she wouldn’t be seeing the rough-looking man again.
“Miss Rossalyn, I’m sorry. I can’t take out the trash because they said that they’re examining the dumpster.” José came out to the front once the officers had gone.
“Don’t worry about it, José,” she replied, lost in thought. “Go ahead and take the rest of the day off. The café is going to be closed for the rest of today.”
“Yep,” he nodded. “Everything okay?”
“As far as I know.”
José finished up with some prep work for the following day, then went home. Rossalyn and Ryan left a short time later, making sure to lock up tight. They stopped at the bank to deposit the day’s earnings, which were far less than they would have been if the café could’ve stayed open for the dinner rush, but something was better than nothing. When they stopped for gas at the station closest to her house, Rossie was surprised that when she pulled up to the pump, a young man seemed to magically appear at her window.
“Hi,” she said, lowering the window to see what he wanted.
“Evening, ma’am,” he replied with a perfunctory smile. “Which grade would you like?”
She was baffled for a moment, but quickly realized that he intended to fill up her tank for her.
“This is a full-service gas station?” she asked. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid.”
“Yes ma’am, just let me know how much of which kind you’d like and I’ll be happy to take car
e of it for you,” replied the young man, whose nametag said Jason.
“That’s so nice of you. Just regular unleaded, please,” she smiled, feeling a bit spoiled.
Will always used to fill up the gas tank for her. He used to do quite a few things for her when he wasn’t deployed to some awful part of the world, getting shot at. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do those things herself, it’s just that he was strong and capable and loved making her smile. She missed him so much most days that she could hardly stand it.
“That’ll be $27.95,” Jason popped back up, startling her.
“Oh, great, thanks,” she murmured, digging for her credit card. “Can I tip you or anything?”
“No ma’am, we’re not allowed to accept tips, it’s just part of the service. Would you like me to wash your windows as well?”
“Well, if it’s no trouble…” she began.
“No trouble at all,” he handed her back her receipt, after running her card through a portable reader, and went to work on the windows.
After he was finished, he gave her a brief wave and she went on her way, smiling at the niceness of life in a small town. It was beginning to transition from dusk to serious darkness outside, and Rossalyn yawned, looking forward to an unexpected quiet dinner at home with Ryan, maybe a movie on TV and a nice warm bath before bed. Since she was forced to leave the café early, she figured that she might as well make the most of her free time.
Parking in front of the garage door, Rossalyn reached around into the space behind her seat to grab her purse, while Ryan let himself into the house and bounded up the stairs to his room. When Rossie finally got out of the SUV, she froze, keys in her hand. She smelled smoke. Not smoke like the house was on fire, but like someone was smoking a cigarette nearby. Very nearby. None of her neighbors’ homes were close enough for her to smell smoke coming from them, and when she looked toward the garage, she thought she saw movement near the bushes which shielded the breezeway that ran from the detached garage to the cottage.
Standing right where she was, she reached into her purse slowly, keeping her eyes on the bushes, and closed her fingers around her can of pepper spray. She was a survivor, and now that Will was gone, she’d gotten into the habit of taking her pepper spray with her everywhere she went.
“Who’s there?” she said quietly, projecting her voice toward the bushes and hoping that Ryan wouldn’t come out to see what was taking her so long.
“You might as well put whatever you just took out of your purse down. You ain’t gonna need it and I could take it from you if I wanted to anyhow,” a familiar male voice drawled, as a figure stepped out of the shadows.
It was the biker who had changed her lightbulb earlier.
“You can’t be here,” Rossalyn had meant to sound threatening, but she kicked herself as her voice quavered a bit, revealing her actual state of mind. “You stay away from me. How did you even know where I lived?”
“There were three houses for sale in this backwater town, one of ’em sold just about the time that the Sugar Shack got bought. Didn’t take a genius to figure that one out,” he took a last drag from his cigarette, stubbed it out on his palm, and pocketed the butt.
“What do you want?” She realized that the muscles in the back of her neck were hard as a rock. This was not the way she had wanted her stressful day to end.
“I didn’t do it,” he said quietly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she avoided his eyes.
He stared at her for a moment then sighed. “Fine, whatever. If that’s the way you want to play it.”
He started to walk away, and the words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “The police were asking questions about you.”
“I’m sure they were,” he muttered. “Just thought I’d let you know that I had nothing to do with that mess. For what it’s worth.”
“Do you know who did?” Rossalyn asked, surprised at her own boldness, and kicking herself for talking to him rather than letting him just go on his way.
“What would make you think that?”
“Just wondering,” she shivered.
“Best get inside, it’s getting chilly.”
“Where’s your motorcycle?” Rossie asked, scanning the area.
“In my garage. I don’t like to bother folks with my loud pipes after dark. Ain’t polite,” he admitted, heading down the sidewalk.
“That’s good,” she replied, sounding lame even in her own estimation.
He didn’t reply.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Rossalyn’s mind was a million miles away when she pulled into the Hawg Heaven parking lot. Ryan had a slight cough, and his head had felt a bit warm this morning, but she left the decision as to whether he was sick enough to stay home from school up to him. He was a very responsible student, and would only stay home if he really felt awful, so she told him to rest until his alarm went off and then decide. If he stayed home, he’d call her so that she could call the school to report his absence.
She was pleased with the fact that he’d made a few friends and seemed to be enjoying life in Chatsworth, even if he still occasionally awoke with nightmares about his father being killed. Rather than being worried about whether or not he might have a cold or a slight fever, Rossie was feeling guilty that she couldn’t stay home with him and make chicken soup and bring him water and tissues while he watched game shows and reruns. José was standing out in front of the café when she parked the SUV, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
Rossalyn stopped short when she saw the young man. He was without a coat yet again this morning, and stood with his arms wrapped around himself, but he was also badly beaten, sporting a very swollen black eye, a puffy upper lip that was split on the left corner, and his nose was bleeding. Spots of blood spattered his torn shirt, and he had purpling bruises on his arms. The way he held his midsection, Rossie suspected that he might be bruised there too.
“Good heavens, what happened, José?” she rushed over to get a closer look at her battered cook.
“The Willis brothers were waiting here this morning when I got here. They said that I shouldn’t be taking jobs away from ‘real’ Americans. They started hitting me and they took my keys, so I couldn’t get inside,”
“That just makes me sick, José. I’m so sorry. Are you going to be okay? Do you need to go to the doctor or anything?” Rossalyn worried, fumbling with the lock on the door.
“No,” he shook his head, seeming embarrassed, and followed her inside. “Miss Rossalyn, my father was born in Cleveland. When he moved here, he worked for thirty years in the grain elevators before he died. My family never took nothing from no one. We all do our part,” his face colored with shame.
“I know, José. Don’t let those jerks get to you. I’m going to call the police and get to the bottom of this.”
“No, Miss Rossalyn, please don’t. The sheriff’s their cousin, and it will make things worse for my family,” he pleaded.
“Don’t you worry about it, I’ll take care of everything. Those Willis boys aren’t going to be able to get away with this.”
“I won’t make a complaint. I won’t identify them, Miss Rossalyn, I’m sorry,” José murmured, a muscle in his jaw working, as he stared at the floor.
“But if we don’t report it, they won’t stop.”
“They won’t stop anyway. Please, just let it go,” was the soft reply, and José turned away, headed for the kitchen.
“You sure you’re okay?” Rossie called after him, frowning.
“I’m okay. Might want to change your locks though,” he called back, sounding pained.
“Good idea,” she sighed, putting it on her mental to-do list. She had a thought and went back into the kitchen. “José? You can’t be cooking in a shirt that has blood on it, and you’re oozing from several cuts. Go in my office and get the first aid kit. You can clean up those cuts and scrapes before we get started. I’m going to run home re
ally quick and grab one of Ryan’s shirts for you. Just leave all of the lights out, except for the one in the office, and if anyone comes in, just pretend that you’re not here. Hide from them. I won’t be long, okay?”
“Okay,” he nodded, wincing as though the action hurt him.
“And there’s ibuprofen in the first aid kit too; you might want to take some.”
“Yes, Miss Rossalyn, thank you,” he replied, heading toward the office.
Although Rossalyn felt that it was risky leaving him there by himself, they only had a limited amount of time before opening, and this way they could kill two birds with one stone. She grabbed her pepper spray and kept it in her hand when she left the building, and was relieved, rather than upset, when she got outside and saw the biker who wouldn’t seem to leave her alone, pulling into the parking lot.
He parked beside her car, backing into the spot, cut the engine, and sat, straddling the monster bike, leaning casually on his handlebars. “Gonna yell at me again?” he smirked.
“No, actually, I’m glad you’re here,” Rossie sighed, not knowing whether or not she could trust this guy, but feeling that he was at least more honorable than the Willis brothers.
Somehow she didn’t think that he was the person who murdered whoever had died out by the highway. He just didn’t strike her as being a murderer. Knowing that she was potentially making one of the worst decisions of her life, she decided to trust this rough and often rude stranger.
Patriot's Passing: Hawg Heaven Cozy Culinary Mysteries, Book 1 Page 7