Irish Stewed (An Ethnic Eats Mystery)

by Kylie Logan

  “He doesn’t know me.”

  “Not well. Not yet. But when he does, he’ll like you even more.”

  Chances were, once he really got to know me, he wouldn’t. Especially since I wasn’t Irish. And he, apparently, wasn’t totally on the up-and-up.

  “I’m not talking about Declan,” I said.

  “The others. Sure. You mean like Carrie at the art gallery. And Myra and Bill and Barb over at Caf-Fiends. Oh, don’t look so embarrassed.”

  I was pretty sure I didn’t, but that didn’t matter, because Sophie went right on. “It makes sense that you’d talk to them. They’re our biggest competition. It’s just too bad, that’s what it is. They seem like nice enough people. It’s too bad their coffee shop will never be able to compete with the Terminal.”

  “It wasn’t business we were talking about,” I mentioned again. “It was the murder.”

  “Well, I imagine it was. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened in the old Traintown neighborhood in as long as anyone can remember. Well, at least since back in the 1930s. You know there was a serial killer working along the railroad lines then. All the way from Cleveland to Pittsburgh. And there are people who say—”

  “Someone saw you.” I didn’t mean to be impolite, but if I just sat there and listened to Sophie avoid the subject and if I held my tongue and didn’t get to the bottom of what was going on, I was going to pop like a champagne cork. “The night of the murder. Someone saw you at the Terminal, Sophie. Before you and I showed up and found the body.”

  Except for her right hand picking at her blue and white hospital gown, Sophie went perfectly still for so long, I was able to tune into the click, click, click of the second hand as it swept around the clock on the wall.

  She cleared her throat and looked up at the ceiling. “Who says?” she asked.

  “What difference does it make? Someone said you were there.”

  She blinked. “They’re wrong.”

  “You let yourself in through the front door.”

  “That’s not possible and you know it. I was home when you stopped by to collect me.”

  “That doesn’t mean you weren’t out earlier.”

  “I was out earlier. To the pet store for food for Muffin. And to the grocery store so I could make sure the refrigerator was stocked for you. I stopped at church, too. You know, just in case. The night before surgery, I figured it couldn’t hurt to light a candle.”

  “Then you weren’t at the Terminal?”

  When she shifted her gaze to me, her eyes were wide. “Why would I be?”

  “I was hoping that’s what you’d tell me.”

  “Well, of course I would tell you.” Sophie offered me a smile that could have melted butter. “If there was anything to tell.”

  “So you weren’t at the Terminal?”

  “I was. With you.”

  “But not before that.”

  “My goodness, Laurel!” Her laugh sounded as fatigued as Sophie looked. “I don’t know why you’re going on about this and I don’t know . . .” She winced and grabbed her right leg and when I hurried over to see what was wrong, she put out a hand to tell me to keep my distance. “I’m fine,” she assured me after a moment. “I’m just a little tired.”

  I offered to call the nurse but Sophie refused. “I just need to put my mind to feeling better,” she told me. “I just need to concentrate on getting well again. Once I’m out of this place and in Serenity Oaks, I’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”

  We’d had this conversation more than once before I ever agreed to come to Hubbard. “You don’t have to go to a long-term care facility to recuperate,” I told her. “You can come home as soon as you’re discharged on Saturday. I can help take care of you and—”

  “And who will take care of the Terminal if you’re home fussing over me?” Her lips pressed together, she shook her head in a way that told me the subject was closed for discussion. “Besides,” she added, “Vi and Margaret are over at Serenity Oaks. They’re my old bowling buddies. Not to worry.” She gave me a wink. “Me and Vi and Margaret, we’re planning to get in all sorts of trouble once I get there.”

  I had no doubt of it. Just like I had no doubts that I was getting nowhere with my questions. That didn’t stop me from asking another one.

  “Do you know why Jack Lancer had been hanging around the Terminal?”

  Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “The food is mighty good.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why he’d come in every day.”

  “Dale and Phil and Ruben and Stan do.”

  “Dale and Phil and Ruben and Stan . . . they’re not investigative reporters with jobs at a TV station. They stop in to pass the time. I think . . .” There was no use holding back, not now that I’d committed myself, so I forged on. “I think maybe Jack Lancer was there because he was doing a story and the Terminal was the only place he could find the information he wanted.”

  Sophie’s laugh would have been a good sign that she was feeling better if it were even half-convincing. “What kind of information could he possibly find at the Terminal?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me that.”

  “Well . . .” She picked at her hospital gown again. “There’s certainly nothing going on at the restaurant that the Lance of Justice would have been investigating.”

  “So, maybe he was trying to pull what he pulled with George. George, he says that the Lance wanted free meals and when George wouldn’t provide them, that’s when the Lance of Justice trashed his restaurant on TV.” Just thinking about it made me choke on my words. “He wasn’t trying to pull something like that on you, was he? Because if that was the case—”

  “It wasn’t.” Sophie reached over and patted my hand. “But thank you for caring.”

  Caring wasn’t part of my makeup, but before I could remind Sophie, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I think I’ll take a bit of a nap.”

  “Of course.” I gathered my things and resigned myself to the fact that though I’d satisfied myself in terms of Sophie’s recovery, I was still left with plenty of questions and the suspicions that went along with them.

  I stopped at the door. “Does anyone else but you have a key to the Terminal?” I asked.

  “Nina had one.”

  “In California?”

  “Well, yes. I thought if I ever lost mine . . .” I guess even Sophie realized how crazy this sounded, because she grinned. “Well, I guess it wasn’t the best plan, but it made me feel more comfortable knowing I had a backup. I suppose if I ever did lose my key, Nina could have sent the duplicate in the overnight mail.”

  Apparently, the smile I gave her in response to this convoluted plan was not as wide or as convincing as I hoped, because she said, “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong. Not with me. Not with the Terminal. The police, they’ll find out what happened, and then everything will go back to being normal. Now, tell me, how’s my sweet little Muffin doing?”

  My smile was as painful as the still-red scratches on my hand and foot. “She’s eating every bite I give her.”

  “Good. She’s such a sweet little thing. Always so quiet and pleasant and wonderful.”

  What else could I do besides get out of there before the words cat from hell escaped my lips?

  Muffin was sweet and pleasant, huh?

  It wasn’t the first thing Sophie said that night that I didn’t believe for one instant.

  * * *

  I was already in the Terminal kitchen Friday morning making the day’s first pot of coffee when I heard George call out from the front door, “You’d better get back to the parking lot!”

  I was just about to loop an apron over my head, and I set it on the counter and trailed outside. I’d parked my car at the side of the building, but I found George all the way around back, standing about four feet from our Dumpster and surrounded with what looked like everything we’d thrown away in the last week.

  “What on earth?” My gaze roamed over used paper nap
kins, coffee stirrers, crumpled wax paper, and empty cans of everything from diced tomatoes (the meat loaf special) to bread crumbs (that would be on account of the chicken fried steak). “What happened?”

  George scraped a hand along the back of his neck. “Darned if I know, but it sure is a mess. If you get me the push broom from in the kitchen . . .”

  I not only got the broom, but since Denice and Inez were just on their way in, I told them what was up and headed out to help.

  “Dumpster’s practically empty.” George peered down into it. “What crazy fool would tear through the garbage like that?”

  “Cats?” Since my only experience with cats was sweet and wonderful Muffin, I can be excused from having less than a good opinion of felines. “Dogs?”

  “Dogs and cats don’t get down into the Dumpster and toss things out left and right. And they might lick out a can of green beans, but they sure don’t finish up and haul the empty can out and drag it halfway across the parking lot.” To emphasize his point, George kicked one of the cans and it skittered across the blacktop. “And they sure as heck don’t take every garbage bag out of the Dumpster, rip them open, and scoop every last little thing out. Look at this mess. It had to be done by people.”

  I couldn’t help but slide a look toward the front of the restaurant. This morning, like every morning since we found Jack Lancer’s cold and lifeless body, the street was filled with news vans and reporters, eager to dig up the latest on the murder. “You don’t suppose . . .”

  George must have been thinking what I was thinking. His eyes narrowed, he tossed a look out front, and grumbled a single word under his breath. “They’re all alike. Bottom-feeders. Looking for something sensational, I bet.”

  “In our garbage?” It shouldn’t have surprised me. Back when I worked for Meghan, we’d had more than one incident of too-enthusiastic paparazzi who’d been found going through the trash. At least in their case, I could understand. Sort of. Anything they found was fair game since they’d take the information and sell it to the tabloids. In fact, I was convinced that something Meghan had tossed away without thinking was what led to the media finding out about her teenage son’s drug addiction.

  My mouth soured.

  But maybe that had more to do with the odor rising off the sea of trash than it did my memories of my last days in Meghan’s employment.

  Maybe.

  “Well, they sure didn’t find anything here,” I told George and reminded myself. “Not unless one of them has psychic powers and can figure out what happened to Jack Lancer from the vibes coming off used coffee grounds.” I looked at where they were scattered across the parking lot in gritty little mounds and groaned.

  “I’ll start sweeping,” I told George. “You go inside and get some garbage bags.”

  “And if you bring out a couple of cups of coffee, too, we’d appreciate it.”

  I tossed a look over my shoulder just in time to see George go inside and Declan close in on me. “Somebody’s idea of a joke,” I said.

  Since it was warm, he was wearing a gray T-shirt with the words Property of CWRU Law School printed on the front, and when he crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles in his arms bunched. “Maybe, but it’s not exactly funny,” he said.

  The look I gave him should have told him this wasn’t news to me.

  His nose wrinkled, Declan glanced around. “Is it all from your Dumpster?”

  “Every last crumb.”

  “What do you suppose someone was looking for?”

  “Trouble?” I hoped he caught the edge of sarcasm in my voice, but something told me he didn’t even notice. George showed up with the garbage bags and the coffee and Declan grabbed one cup, handed it to me, and kept the other for himself. Since he kept his voice down, I don’t know what he said to George, but George nodded in response, left the roll of garbage bags on the ground, and went back inside.

  “Hey, you might get busy and you’ll need your cook in there, not out here,” Declan said in response to my quizzical look. “So finish your coffee.” He encouraged me with a lift of his own cup. “And let’s get to work.”

  I did, and we did. I swept up mounds of garbage and Declan shook out bag after bag and held them open so I push the garbage into them. He tied each bag and tossed them back into the Dumpster they’d come out of.

  After fifteen minutes, we could actually see the blacktop again.

  After thirty, my arm muscles protested.

  “My turn to sweep.” Declan grabbed the broom and we traded tasks.

  I watched him cover a wide swath of parking lot in four efficient swipes. “I saw you on the news,” I told him.

  It should be illegal to smile when you’re standing ankle-deep in garbage. “I hope they showed my good side.”

  I refused to let him know that I thought every side was his good side because number one, it would make me look as pathetic as Myra, and number two, something told me he already knew that. It would explain the attitude. And his cocky self-assurance. And maybe the fact that he thought that smile that had a way of tickling its way inside me and igniting all sorts of fantasies I hadn’t had the time or the energy for of late was his ticket to information.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were representing Owen?” I asked him.

  As if he actually had to think about it, he pursed his lips. “You never asked.” He moved effortlessly and swept up another long, straggling line of paper napkins and paper towels toward the bag I held open.

  “I thought you were a gift shop manager.”

  “I am a gift shop manager.”

  “And you practice law on the side.”

  “Actually, the gift shop is my side job.”

  “Because keeping your family out of trouble is your full-time job.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been talking to Carrie over at the art gallery.”

  “She doesn’t like your family.”

  “Believe me, she’s made that perfectly clear. She thinks we’re some kind of Irish version of the Mafia, who travel from hit to hit in Gypsy wagons and tell fortunes on the side.”

  “She says your uncle Pat—”

  “Oh, come on!” Declan’s groan was overdramatic. “You don’t actually believe that kind of nonsense, do you?”

  “I’m new in town. I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Then believe me when I tell you not to believe everything you hear.”

  “Even everything I hear from you?”

  He had the good grace to smile and keep on sweeping.

  When he was done with that particular mound of gunk, I scooped, tapped, and tied the bag, and when I was done, I realized he was watching me carefully. “What?”

  “I didn’t expect you to be the type who’d get down and dirty.”

  “I didn’t expect you to try and bribe me with pastrami.”

  “Because I bought you dinner? You think it was a bribe?”

  Could I still smile now that my shoulders ached and the stench of garbage had settled into my pores? I tried. “I think you want to find out what I know so you can help your cousin get out of trouble.”

  “What’s wrong with that? It’s my job. He’s my client.”

  “And you never mentioned it.” He opened his mouth but I beat him to the line. “Because I never asked.”

  “Exactly.” He started in on the last of the scraps, sweeping across the parking lot and closer to where I waited, bag in hand. “What we really need to figure out was what Jack was doing here,” he said once he’d closed in.

  I couldn’t agree more, but I didn’t bother to mention it. If we did find out why the Lance of Justice had been hanging around and that discovery somehow led back to Sophie . . .

  I swallowed the sudden panic that filled my throat.

  “Maybe it would help if you let me talk to your cousin.”

  He stopped midsweep. “Why?”

  “Why not? He might be able to tell us something that will help.”

  He gave the br
oom two quick pokes forward. “He says he doesn’t know anything about the murder and I believe him.”

  “Come on!” I threw my hands in the air. “I’m the one who figured out that Owen couldn’t have come upstairs from the basement. The least you can do is let me talk to the kid.”

  “Just to satisfy your curiosity about who killed Jack Lancer.”

  “Absolutely.” I didn’t bother to add that whatever Owen had to say, there was an off-chance that it might also shed light on what Sophie was up to and what she was trying to hide.

  I wasn’t exactly lying, just telling a half-truth.

  But I wasn’t about to take chances.

  Under the folds of the black garbage bag, my fingers were crossed.

  Chapter 12

  Since it was a little early in the morning for a motorcycle ride and in lizard-patterned leggings and a silk chiffon henley, I wasn’t dressed for it anyway, I drove. On the way across town Declan explained that because Owen was from out of town, he needed someone to vouch for him while he was awaiting a hearing on breaking and entering charges. No one—and Declan emphasized this point—was more well respected in these parts than his parents, Malachi and Ellen Fury, so Owen was staying with them.

  After what Carrie at the art gallery told me, I was expecting brightly painted Gypsy wagons and a booth out front where various and sundry Fury and Sheedy relations told fortunes. What I found instead was a tasteful blue colonial with understated cream trim. The lawn was neat and as green as the shamrocks that decorated the mugs over at the Irish store, and tulips in every color of the rainbow lined the walk to the front door.

  “Party tomorrow,” Declan said when he saw that I was checking out the three cars parked in the driveway and the people—women, men, and children—who scurried from those cars to the front door and back again, their arms filled with serving bowls and chafing dishes, loaves of bread and fifty-pound bags of potatoes. “My niece Caitlin is making her first holy communion.”

  “You have siblings.” I don’t know why it surprised me; Declan had talked about the importance of family in his life.