“You’re incorrigible.” Grizzy didn’t say no, though. She poured the eggs into the pan and they sizzled. She drew the mixture back, again and again.
“That smells great,” I said. “But you didn’t put milk in the mixture.”
“Milk,” she said. “Milk? Sacrilege. If you ever suggest that again I’ll throw you out of my house. Do you hear me, Watson?”
“Loud and clear.” I slurped back saliva. Gosh, I was starved. A day serving burgers and enjoying the scents from the kitchen hadn’t helped.
Grizzy finished up my omelet, fed it into a plate, then placed it on the table in front of me. “All right,” she said. “We can do the charity ball thing. It might be fun.”
“And it’s for a good cause,” I replied, and cut into my omelet. The melted cheese oozed out of it, dotted with ham and mushrooms.
I speared a slice with my fork, then gulped it down, savoring the heat, the flavors, everything. It was almost too good. “Divine,” I said, and ate another bite. “You’re the best, Grizzy.”
She set to work on her own and didn’t answer me. There were too many things bothering my friend. Tomorrow I’d get to the bottom of them, but for now, I’d enjoy the omelet and ignore Curly Fries’ hungry glare from the corner.
Chapter 8
The cat was a plague.
She’d jumped on my bed at 5 am and kneaded the duvet, purring loud enough to rouse the dead – or me for that matter. By the time I’d gotten down to the kitchen in full-on ‘need coffee zombie’ mode I’d progressed from grumpy to bad mood.
I whipped up a pot of coffee, poured myself a mug, then headed out to Grizzy’s front porch to enjoy the icy breeze and sunrise.
Morning coffee had to involve scenery, and the colder the temperature, the better – barring snow, of course. The atmosphere helped awaken the senses.
Time ticked by and the sun rose, showing its orange face in increments. The neighborhood woke up too. Cars started, exhausts steamed, and children yelled or were commanded by their parents. Happy, suburban sounds which didn’t suit the usual view from my apartment back home.
I didn’t miss the smog and horns and rush of cars that much. Or the arguments from my downstairs neighbors Mr. - and Mrs. O’Malley. Those two were worse than Grizzy’s purring beast.
Speak of the devil, Curly Fries meandered out of the cat flap at around 6:30 am, after my second mug of the good stuff, and curled between my legs. She gave a terrific sneeze and splattered my bare feet with kitty spit.
“That’s just lovely,” I said. “Such a charmer.” I waggled my foot.
“You know what they say about people who talk to themselves, right?” Grizzy had appeared in the doorway behind me, wrapped in her fluffy white robe.
“Don’t start.”
“Still not a morning person, then? At least, that hasn’t changed,” she replied, and hid a yawn behind her mug. “How long have you been up?”
“You should ask Curly Fries that,” I said, and nudged the cat with my big toe. “She purred me awake. What about you, are you ready for the day? How are you feeling?”
Dark circles dominated the soft skin beneath my friend’s eyes. “I’m as ready as I can be. I know the detectives need to get to the bottom of what happened but it makes me nervous. I already gave my statement, and they asked me questions when they were here the last time.”
The last time being the night we’d found Paul face down in the back yard. “What questions?” I asked, keeping the tone casual.
“No, you don’t,” Grizzy replied. “I’m not falling for that one, Christie Watson. You’re not allowed to investigate anything or get involved in this stuff so you keep that to yourself.”
“I wasn’t –”
“Hush. I’m going upstairs to get dressed. Detective Cotton will be here soon.”
“Don’t forget to shave your legs,” I replied.
“Cheap shot.” Grizzy scooted off to get changed and I studied the neighbors’ houses instead, clasping the mug between my palms.
The two on either side were similar to Grizzy’s, though one had a wraparound porch and an annoying wind chime which click-clocked with every breath of air.
I’d have to do reconnaissance if I planned on figuring out who Detective Balle had spoken with yesterday. And what they’d seen.
A police cruiser pulled up and Detective Cotton got out. I scanned his neat uniform. Clean shaven, a blob of what might’ve been shaving cream on his collar, and freshly ironed pants – someone wanted to impress Griselda.
Did these two realize that they both had a crush on each other? I’d have to bring that up.
“Morning,” I said. “Care for some coffee, detective?” Care to give me some information? That was what I really meant.
“Hi there, Miss Watson,” he said.
“Good memory. Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Arthur replied, and brushed his palms down the front of his shirt. He chuckled. “I wish I could but I’ve got to get Griselda down to the station for –”
The front door opened and Grizzy clattered onto the porch, cheeks pink. She’d gussied up too: a pair of jeans and a smart, silk shirt. “Hello, Arthur.”
“Griselda.”
I hid the lower half of my face with my coffee cup. This was direct from the pages of Wuthering Heights. “I’ll catch up with you later, Griz.” After I’d done our dress shopping for the charity event that night.
“Yeah,” Grizzy breathed. She didn’t make contact as she zoomed to meet Arthur.
The two non-lovebirds drove off a minute later, leaving behind exhaust fumes and the mix of Arthur’s cologne and Grizzy’s Issy Miyake perfume – I’d bought that for her last birthday and had it shipped to her.
“Another day,” I said. My coffee had gone cold so I placed the mug next to my foot and interlaced my fingers instead.
Curly Fries tinkled down into the yard. She wormed between the bushes which hedged the fence separating Grizzy’s property from the neighbor’s, and disappeared as only cats could.
I fixated on that spot, but not because I cared where she’d gone. My vision had already hazed over. I’d wandered into the dark mess of Loopy Paul’s death.
The man had obviously had enemies. But was his sister one of them? The charity ball tonight made me nervous. I didn’t want to discover that Frances Sarah had been involved because that would mean I’d want to investigate wholeheartedly, and the potential for a mess up was on the cards.
But Grizzy, she was down at -
A bang brought me back, immediately.
“You darn, cursed creature! Get out of here! Get out!”
I lurched out of my seat. The shouts had echoed from the house on the left. I leaned against the wooden column and craned my neck for a proper view of the man who’d yelled.
He didn’t let me wonder for long. He jogged down the front stairs of his home, waving a broom– one of those old witchy kinds. If not for the puffed out cheeks and lack of clothing, he would’ve fit in at a Quidditch match.
Bald spot on his crown, black, short hair around it. No shirt and a mess of chest hair above a distended belly. Holes in the knees of his pants. Messy dude. Might’ve been a recluse.
I followed his path into the garden.
“Get out!” The neighbor whisked down the straw brush and whapped the ground. “I’ll –”
Curly Fries leaped over the fence, tail bottle-brush thick, and skedaddled into the bushes below.
“Hey!” I charged up to the border between no-cat zone and home. “What the heck are you doing?”
Sweat streaked the neighbor dude’s puffy face. “Who the heck are you?”
“I’m one of Griselda’s guests.”
“One of them?”
“Her only guest,” I corrected. “Why are you attacking her cat?”
“The darn thing is a nuisance. It jumped on my kitchen table and tried to eat the scrambled eggs right off my plate.” Neighbor guy wobbled the broom at Curly Fries, who’d settl
ed on the porch behind us, licking her paws, unconcerned now the excitement had passed.
She’d caused the trouble and now she’d leave it to me to fix up. Typical God-cat syndrome.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know she did stuff like that.” Not that it was any excuse to swipe at her with a broom.
“Where’s her master? She should be here to make sure that cat doesn’t start terrorizing the neighborhood again.”
Terrorizing was a strong word to use. Clearly, Curly had a record in Sleepy Creek. “She’s out.”
“Out, huh? I saw that police car pass by. Did they arrest her for the murder of Loopy Paul? They’re out of their minds if they think she did it,” the guy said. “Hasn’t got enough backbone.”
“Griselda has plenty of backbone,” I said. “But she’s not a murderer.” This was the perfect segue for a little probing. “It’s bad business though, that murder. I’ve only been in town a couple days and I didn’t expect to see that.” I faked a shudder.
“Bad business,” the neighbor agreed. He propped the broom against his hip and extended a hand. “Ray Tolentino.”
I shook it. “Christie Watson.” We parted and I managed to wipe the sweat off my palm on my PJ pants, unseen. It was a struggle, though. “Tell me somethin’, Ray, did you see anything on the night it, uh, you know. The night Loopy Paul –”
“Got knifed,” Ray replied. “Go ahead and say it. That was what happened.”
“Did you see anything?” I repeated.
“Why are you asking? You a cop?”
Yeah, technically. “No,” I said. “I’m curious. I mean, it happened in my best friend’s back yard. Obviously, I’m going to be alarmed. What if the killer comes back?” That same question rose – why had it happened in Grizzy’s back yard? Why there? The location couldn’t be coincidental. It wasn’t as if it was a back alley in a busy city.
Her house was flanked by two others and a row of houses at the back.
Ray leaned his chin on the top point of the broom’s shaft, he wriggled his nose. “I might’ve seen something,” he said. “But I’m not the kind who gossips about that.”
“Oh my gosh.” I pressed my palm to my chest – typical damsel in distress reaction. “Did you tell the police? What did you see?”
“I discussed it with them, yeah,” Ray said. He glanced over his left shoulder, his right, then leaned in. “It was a man.”
“What?” I whispered. “How do you know?”
“Saw it with my own two peepers. See, I was up late for Letterman and I figured, why not make it a party? I have a stash of Mars Bars in my bedside table, so I went upstairs and I heard this really weird noise.”
“A thump and a crash?”
Ray clicked his fingers. “Exactly, yeah. So I took a gander outside and he ran past my back fence.”
“How do you know it’s a guy?” I fought to maintain the terror as my curiosity took over.
“Because he was taller than my back fence. And my back fence is six feet. And don’t bring your equality jabber here, lady, you name one six foot woman in town and I’ll eat my broom.”
Now, that would be a feat to witness. “I guess,” I said. But I’d seen enough things in my career to warrant the belief that anything was possible.
“I gotta get going,” Ray said. “My eggs are probably ice cold by now. And that dumb cat is trying to drink your coffee.”
“Shoot!” I spun around and groaned.
Curly Fries had managed to ram her too broad face into the mug in the interim. By the time I’d wrested her free and washed off her whiskers, it was past 8 am and high time for breakfast and a shopping spree.
I’d never had the opportunity to shop dresses for pleasure in Boston, I should’ve been excited about it, but I was too preoccupied with the puzzle at hand and nerves for the charity ball that evening.
Hopefully, Paul’s sister would make it easy and be ridiculously tall.
Chapter 9
"I feel like a pig in silk." Griselda ran her fingers down the length of the silky cocktail dress I'd picked out for her.
"You're in silk," I said. "But you're certainly not a pig." Grizzy was skinnier than me, but she was one of those women who'd always had low self-esteem when it came to her weight and appearance. It sprang from her mother, who'd been a model, and who'd had a negative self-image herself.
I sat at the table on the edge of the dance floor and people-watched at leisure. Folks in fancy suits, tuxedoes, ball gowns, cocktail dresses, swept around the dance floor in time to a waltz. There were plenty of slow songs to sway to, but the overly-enthusiastic DJ behind the booth in the corner had already played pop songs which had perplexed the older folks.
"This is... nice," Grizzy said.
"You don't sound so sure," I replied, but didn't stop scanning the attendees of the event.
The DJ scratched the track and switched it over to Drop It Like It's Hot by Snoop Dogg. The tick-tock of the song induced a mass exodus of the 70s plus seniors from the dancefloor and left a couple young adults jiving around in their place.
"Check it out," Grizzy said, and chuckled. She pointed to the DJ booth.
A middle-aged woman with a sharp nose, spindly legs, and a mauve velvet dress which clung to her bones, stood in front of the DJ, gesticulating wildly.
The DJ whipped off his lumo green headphones and gave the woman two thumbs up, oblivious to her displeasure.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"The DJ? I don't know, some dude from the big city. They brought him in. Seems they're having second thoughts now," Griselda replied.
"No, the woman. Skin and bones lady. Who's she?"
"That's Frances Sarah." Grizzy gave me the side eye. "She's the one hosting the ball."
"Paul's sister."
"Don't get any smart ideas, Chris. You stay right here with me," Grizzy replied, and patted my arm.
Another man approached the argument and the booth, tall, chin-length hair, messy. Reminded me of Aragorn from the Lord of the Rings trilogy I’d binge-watched and read. I spent most nights reading fantasy back home in Boston. It was a great escape from the reality of hard crime.
Mr. Aragorn tapped Frances Sarah on the shoulder. She rolled her eyes at him with so much meaning they should've fallen out of her head, then continued berating Over Enthusiastic DJ.
"And the man?" I asked. "Who's that guy?"
"This is why you should've stuck around for the last twelve years," Griselda said. "If you had, I wouldn't be your people tour guide. And on your right, you'll see an exceptionally bored Griselda trying to work out what she'd like from the buffet table."
"Don't worry, it won't be for long. The minute I'm off sabbatical I'll be out of your hair and back in Boston." I longed for the thrill of solving another case, but I couldn't be sure what awaited me back in the city.
"Oh," Grizzy said. "Okay."
I tore myself from the disagreement. "I - Griz, it's a vacation for me. You know that."
"No, I know," she said. "I know. Ha, I'm being silly. It's nice to have another human being in the house with me, you know? Lovely company."
"I love it there too," I said. "Besides, my whole sabbatical thing will only end months from now. We've got plenty of time together." I didn't want to leave Grizzy behind either - I missed having a friend like her - but that didn't change the fact that I had a job to get back to. A job I loved because every time I caught a killer it brought me closer to absolution.
"Good evening." Man's voice, right in front of our table. Hadn't even seen him approach. Shoot, had I lost my touch?
Grizzy and I both flinched and looked up.
Arthur Cotton had parted his hair in a style right out of the 20s. It would've been cute if it hadn't made me want to bust my dress laughing. And my dress wasn't all that tight - I'd opted for a loose shift, cut just below the knee and cinched at the waist.
"Arthur," Grizzy said, and her attitude did a three-sixty.
"Hello, Griselda," he replied.
"You look beautiful this evening. And you do too, Miss Watson."
"Christie or Chris. Every time you call me Miss Watson I sprout a gray hair."
Arthur wasn't quite sure how to react to that. He turned to Griz instead. "Are you enjoying your evening?"
"So far, yes," she said.
Gosh, this was the most awkward conversation I'd had to endure in years. These two liked each other so much they didn't know how to deal.
"Yes, it's pleasant," Arthur said.
Pleasant? It was as boring as a snail's snooze fest. Apart from the argument which had finally dispersed. Frances Sarah strode back to the other side of the hall, tailed by the lanky dude.
"Hey, Arthur, would you keep my seat warm?" I asked. "I'm going to go get a couple drinks. Cosmopolitans. How does that sound, Griz?"
"Like heaven." Laser-focused on the detective and nothing else.
"I could get the drinks for you ladies." Arthur shifted around to my side of the table.
"Please," I said. "It's the 21st Century." Even if his hair was straight outta the Great Gatsby. "Take a seat, relax. You're tired from all that investigating. Be right back." I scooched out of my chair and meandered off, making out as if I didn't have a care in the world.
I'd already homed in on my target. Or targets. Frances Sarah and Mr. Aragorn had left the booth behind - the DJ had switched back to and old-timey oompa-doompa song - and stood near the bar. Neither of them was happy.
I sat on a stool closest to their position and placed my silver clutch on the bar top.
"This is not the time," Frances Sarah said. She placed emphasis on the same syllables Paul had. She didn't move like a spider, though. Her gait was sinuous.
"Then when is the right time?" Aragorn guy asked. "We've been putting this off forever and I'm tired, so tired, of waiting for you to wake up and realize that what we've done together -"
The Fiesta Burger Murder (A Burger Bar Mystery Book 1) Page 4