The Fiesta Burger Murder (A Burger Bar Mystery Book 1)

by Rosie A. Point

  I zoomed over to the kitchen and picked up the burger order – if I delayed any longer, the hungry customer, skinny guy with a hand tattoo, would complain. I couldn’t stand whining and I hated bringing down the group average.

  “Thanks, Jarvis. By the by, that lady over there says hello. Missi.”

  Jarvis winced. “Tanks,” he said.

  “You want me to say hello back?”

  He shook his head. “You say hello to that old one and she gon’ come over here. No mon, no way. You tell her I busy with the burgers.”

  “Got it,” I said. Missi’s crush had gone too far, apparently. I whisked the burger over to tattoo-hand and delivered it without a smile. Not because I was crabby. I was more interested in malt-shake Missi and the tales she might tell.

  The regulars would have their ear to the ground. Their fingers on the languid pulse of the Creek. If anyone knew who’d killed Loopy Paul it’d be them. Truth be told, I couldn’t shake the itch to investigate, even if it was vicariously.

  Shoot, it wasn’t as if I’d actually go ahead and follow the leads. So what if I asked a few questions? This was for Grizzy.

  “Lies, all lies,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” Tattoo hand asked. The decoration etched onto his skin drew my attention –a depiction of a bug, spiked and swirled. He covered it and frowned at me.

  “Sorry, nothing. Enjoy your burger, sir.” I left him to his meat, jalapeno tower and fetched Mississippi’s shake from the counter. Jarvis had quit humming. The only sounds were the sizzle of meat and the occasional flick-thwack of the spatula.

  I delivered the shake with my best attempt at a customer-friendly smile.

  Missi ignored me and grabbed a straw from the dispenser at the end of the booth. She stripped back the paper, plopped the tube into the milky deliciousness, then gulped down half of it. “Ah, that’s better,” she said. “All right, now I’m in a better mood. Take a seat, dear.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to deliver the burgers.”

  “You’ve got time,” Missi replied. “George over there won’t be done with those jalapenos for another half hour.”

  It couldn’t hurt to mingle with the locals. It would smooth my transition from stranger to a mere out-of-towner. I plonked down opposite Missi and folded my hands on top of the table.

  The elderly woman took a break from her milkshake and fixed me with a crystal blue stare. “You saw the body, yes?”

  “What?”

  “Loopy Paul,” Mississippi hissed. “Rumor has it he was found dead in Griselda’s back yard last night, and you were the one who found him.” She ensured George wasn’t listening in on us.

  “News travels fast.”

  “Gossip is Sleepy Creek’s incarnation of the common cold, dear,” Missi replied. “So? Is it true?”

  “Yeah, it’s true,” I said. “He was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed. And in Grizzy’s back yard.” Missi looked ready to burst from frustration. “Why her yard? Everyone loves Grizzy. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe it was a fluke,” I said, but I didn’t believe that.

  “You’re supposed to be a detective. It’s your job to figure this out, you know. Grizzy’s been good to this town. Before she took over the Burger Bar there was nowhere good to eat, and we didn’t have any tourism to speak of. Now, we’re booming and the food here has never been better. Oh, no, we can’t let this slide. We can’t let this slide.”

  Who was ‘we?’ “It’s not my job to investigate this,” I said. “I’m on sabbatical. My only job is to bus tables and deliver food and drinks.”

  “Scintillating,” Missi said, and wriggled her eyebrows. She sighed and we fell into an uneasy silence.

  “Paul Whitmore had enemies,” Missi spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “He had so many of them that the cops will have their hands full tracking them all down, mark my words.”

  “Enemies? Like who?”

  Missi sniffed. “I shouldn’t say.”

  “Then why bring it up?”

  Clearly, Missi was desperate to spill the beans. “Enemies like his popular sister Frances Sarah,” she said. “Frances Sarah Dawkins. You remember that name. You remember it and you keep an eye out for her and her husband.”

  “I –”

  “They fought with Paul a lot.”

  “Why?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. There was no harm in chatting about it.

  “Rumor has it Paul had a lot of money and Frances Sarah wanted it. Weird thing is, both her and her husband are rich. They’re hosting the Spring Charity Ball tomorrow evening to raise money for their sleep apnea charity. Blegh. Sleep apnea, please.”

  “That’s nice of them,” I said.

  “Is it?” Missi asked. “Is it? I don’t think they’re as innocent as they seem. I’d bet my last mint they have a hidden agenda.”

  The glass front door – the smiling burger logo splashed across its front – opened and the purple-haired version of Missi entered. She spotted us and came over, swinging a tote bag large enough to hide several animals and, possibly, a murder weapon inside. “Is my sister giving you trouble, dear?”

  “No,” I said. “But I do have to get back to work.” I slipped out of the booth and made way for Virginia.

  “Remember what I told you, new girl,” Missi said. “The Dawkins’ Charity Ball.”

  “Do I want to know what this is about?” Virginia arranged herself on the seat and placed her bag on the tabletop. “More conspiracies?”

  “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s the search for truth.”

  Virginia huffed. “You shush and drink your milkshake.” She turned to me and smiled. “I’ll have what she’s having, dear. If you’d be so kind? But the vanilla version.”

  If that wasn’t a metaphor then I didn’t know what was. “Coming right up.”

  I collected George’s empty basket then headed to the counter to give Grizzy the shake order. We made small talk and I laughed through it all, but I couldn’t rid myself of the buzzing questions.

  Who had killed Loopy Paul? And why had they done it in my best friend’s back yard?

  Chapter 6

  The rest of the afternoon passed without much incident – apart from one customer who had to be rushed a glass of milk after biting into a particularly spicy jalapeno. The sight of his huffing, puffin’ red face had lodged itself in my brain – he’d smiled all through the glass of milk. Apparently, the burn made him happy. Or it was that crazy Sleepy Creek thing at work.

  Grizzy and I walked home after the shift, the purple hour settling on our shoulders, and a cold wind urging us onward.

  I’d spent the ‘choking-customer free’ portion of the day mulling over options. The name Frances-Sarah Dawkins had circled my mind, thought fin poking above the waters of my suspicion with the Jaws soundtrack playing on repeat in the background.

  What if she was the murderer? Money was a common motivation for it. Apart from passion or rage or – all the other motivations I’d encountered in my tenure as failing BPD homicide detective.

  The Charity Ball interested me but I couldn’t bring it up without rousing Grizzy’s suspicion. Eh, I should let the whole thing go, anyway. Keep my head down and focus on serving burgers while Jarvis rattled his maracas and unsuspecting Ohioans choked on the relish.

  But that tickle that’d first presented itself months after my mother’s death, wouldn’t relent.

  I raked my fingers through my hair, snagging a couple knots. I hadn’t heard from any of the detectives back home. None of them cared enough to call me, not Watkins or Jones. Not even the Doozey brothers.

  “I need to get cat food,” Grizzy said, and halted a couple houses down from her place. “Shoot, I totally forgot.”

  “Cat food? For what?”

  “For Curly,” Griselda replied, and wrinkled her nose. “She didn’t come in last night. It was probably because of the commotion outside.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.
Wait, you have a cat? When did you get a cat?” I asked. “You never told me about any Curly.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Grizzy gaped at me. “I talk about her all the darn time. Every time we Skype I tell you about her.”

  I clicked my fingers. “Curly, Curly. Wait, do you mean Carly?”

  “No. Curly.” Grizzy’s shoulders joggled up and down from the suppressed humor.

  “Oh. Oh, it’s not Carly? I assumed you were talking about one of your customers or a really annoying neighbor.”

  “An annoying neighbor who steals kibble?” Grizzy asked.

  “It’s Sleepy Creek.” I shrugged. “I’ll believe anything you say when it comes to this place.” We had discovered a dead body in her back yard last night, after all. I sucked my teeth – yeah, it was a good idea to hit the Charity Ball.

  “Grizzy, I –”

  “Oh. It’s Detective Balle,” my friend said.

  The man himself strolled toward us, the picture of control. “Good evening, Miss Lewis, Miss – Christie.”

  “I feel like Scarlett O’Hara when you do that,” I said. “A Southern Belle.”

  Balle blew past that comment. “How are you ladies this evening?”

  “Tired,” Grizzy said. “It’s been a rough day and neither of us got much sleep. What can we help you with, detective?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Liam said. He had a heart-melting smile. I refused to be touched by it. Why would the homicide detective have returned if not to assess the scene of the crime?

  They’d already cordoned off Grizzy’s back yard, and we weren’t allowed to go out there or break the seal they’d placed over the back door. It was only through the grace of detectives Cotton and Balle that we’d been permitted to remain in the house in the first place.

  “You need to speak with us again?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I scanned the street, the houses with lights on in their windows to combat the slow creep of darkness. “You were interviewing potential witnesses,” I said.

  “Ma’am, I’m not –”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know,” I replied. “My guess is you were interviewing Griselda’s neighbors. They would’ve had the most chance of witnessing the crime last night.” Strings connected, but there were plenty of loose ends wriggling around. I grasped at them, but they slipped from my fingers. I didn’t have enough information. I shouldn’t have any information.

  Ugh, why had this happened after –

  “Miss Lewis,” Liam said.

  I switched back to him, mind sluing to catch up.

  “I’m going to need to speak with you tomorrow morning,” he continued. “Detective Cotton will swing by to pick you up.”

  “This is highly unorthodox,” I said.

  “I want Miss Lewis to have forewarning. I understand she has a business to run and I don’t want to disturb her daily routine too much.” Nice guy, Balle. Huh, I wouldn’t have pegged him as a man who cared about inconveniencing others in the course of justice.

  We were polar opposites in that regard. Balle gave my friend forewarning about an interview. I crashed into witnesses’ homes to interview them unannounced. That was the reason Balle had a job, right now.

  “Thank you,” Grizzy said. “Thank you for the forewarning. I appreciate that. I’ll call Martin and ask him to take the shift tomorrow morning. How long will the interview take?”

  “I can’t say, ma’am,” Liam replied, formally.

  I had the urge to slap him silly. It had to be jealousy spurring me on.

  “All right. Well, thanks, Detective Balle,” Grizzy said, and started toward her house.

  “Have a good evening,” Liam said, and winked at me as I passed by. He actually winked.

  What was that about? One second he was the picture of cop goodness and the next he was –

  “Chris?” Griselda was already five steps ahead of me. “I’d like to get home and grab a bite to eat.”

  “Coming!” I glanced over my shoulder at the cop – his broad shoulders fading out of sight in the dusk – then hurried after my friend. I couldn’t help considering each house we passed, peering through their front windows wherever curtains had been left open.

  Someone must’ve seen something – why else would Balle have been in the area? He would’ve been honest if he’d been on Grizzy’s property. And now he wanted to speak with her again.

  It was a miracle I hadn’t been called down to the station for another questioning about the night of the murder. Unless they had strong reason to suspect Grizzy had done it. Surely, a brief argument over jalapenos couldn’t be considered motivation for murder.

  “Curly,” Grizzy said, and bent on the front path – I’d been so caught up in my thoughts I hadn’t realized we’d already arrived. Griselda cradled a cat in her arms, a squat, black creature with a sharp face, and cooed. “Are you hungry Curly Fries? Are you hungry, gorgeous?”

  “Curly Fries,” I said.

  “Of course,” Grizzy replied. “What else would I name her?”

  “It’s a girl?”

  The cat prrt-meowed at me and flicked its tail. Ah, another enemy to add to the list. The ill intent shone in its yellow eyes. Curly Fries had already sized me up for future ingestion. Missi’s kitty warning rang in my ears.

  “Don’t worry about her Curly. Come on, let’s get you a bite,” Grizzy said, and smooshed her lips onto the creature’s head.

  “Don’t forget me,” I said.

  “I’ll feed you once you’ve apologized to Curly. I want you two to make nice. If we have to live under the same roof we’re going to do it peacefully.”

  I puffed out my cheeks and followed her up the stairs. “Sleepy Creek has a motel, right?”

  Chapter 7

  Everywhere Grizzy went she carried that home-style warmth. Her small kitchen practically embraced me. I loved that about my friend. The cat was another story.

  Curly Fries crunched kibble in the corner and spat saliva-moist chunks in every direction. She was the messiest eater I’d ever seen, and I’d witnessed one of the Doozey brothers destroy a bag of Reese’s Pieces in under thirty seconds. The image had burned itself into my retinas.

  “She’s uh – cute,” I said, and took a seat at the dark wood table.

  “Be nice.” Grizzy opened the fridge and whipped out four eggs. “She’s my only company and I love her for it.”

  “Your only company? What about that strapping detective?”

  Grizzy placed the eggs on the granite countertop and pretended she hadn’t heard me. “How does an omelet sound? Grizzy’s Go-To Omelet. It’s my easy-peasy meal after a long day at work. Unless you want to order take out? Do you want Chinese?”

  “Don’t avoid the question, Griselda,” I said. “And yeah, an omelet sounds like heaven.”

  Grizzy busied herself in the cupboards. She hummed under her breath, and Curly Fries crunched on, cracking kibble between her vicious kitty teeth.

  “Grizzy,” I said.

  “What?” She asked, and finally produced a glass bowl and whisk.

  “You like him.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play dumb, woman. You know who I’m talking about.” I pierced her with my best investigative stare. “Arthur Cotton of Cotton and Balle. Those two should start a business together. That’s a killer tagline.”

  “I – he’s nice,” Grizzy said. She cracked two eggs into the bowl, one at a time, then whisked them up. “He’s a nice guy.”

  Griselda had been alone for a long time – her fiancé had left her and Sleepy Creek three years ago and she’d never quite recovered. She didn’t talk about him often. She didn’t talk about emotional stuff, but she’d always been there for me, and darn it if I wouldn’t return the favor.

  “You like him,” I said.

  “Chris, it’s not like that. I mean, it is but it isn’t. I’m not ready for anything serious. I’m still, ugh, I’m still beat up over what happened with Bryan. How ridiculous is that?” She aske
d, and retrieved the ham, cheese, and mushrooms next.

  “It’s not ridiculous.”

  “It is,” she said. “I’ve spent so much time recovering that I’ve forgotten how to live. This is all there is.” She opened one of the drawers and brought out a cutting board and a knife. “I wake up in the morning, feed Curly Fries, go to the Burger Bar, work and socialize with all the locals, go home, sleep.”

  I kept my silence. She needed to get this out.

  Griselda chopped up the ham. She grated the cheese. She cut the mushrooms and placed them in a separate bowl. “And I know I shouldn’t complain about my life. I have a better life than most people out there and I appreciate that. I appreciate how far my restaurant has come and how great that part of my life is, but sometimes… Sometimes I want more.” She gestured with her knife and a bit of ham flicked off the end and plopped onto the tiles.

  Curly Fries rushed forward and gobbled it up. She made the ham crunch too.

  “I want to go out and meet new people. I want to be the person I used to be.” She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “I’m silly. A man was murdered in my back garden last night and all I can talk about is not having a social life.”

  “That’s because it’s been building up for a long time,” I said. Her mention of Loopy Paul gave me a brilliant idea. I could smack two birds in the beak with one stone. That was such a horrible idiom. “I have an idea.”

  “Oh, no,” Grizzy replied, and adjusted the heat on her gas hob. “I don’t want to get involved in anything to do with this murder. I’ve got enough to worry about already with regards to that.” Grizzy hadn’t slept last night. Loopy Paul’s death had weighed on both our minds all day, and now she had a mysterious meeting with the cops to deal with in the morning.

  “It’s nothin’ like that,” I lied. “There’s a Charity Ball tomorrow night. You must’ve heard about it from the customers at the bar.”

  “Yeah,” Grizzy said, “I did, but I don’t have anything to wear to a ball. And you’re supposed to take a date.”

  “Tragedies abound,” I replied. “Let’s go together. I’ll pick up a couple dresses at one of the boutiques in town while you’re having a chat with Arthur Cotton.” I splashed his name in there as spice. “You know, he’ll probably be there. Cops are supposed to attend events like this. It makes the department appear caring – involved in the community.”