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

by Rosie A. Point

  "Together?" Frances snapped. "Together. You've got to be kidding me."

  "I was there too. I helped plan all of it and if you think I'm going to let you leave with all the glory you've got another thing coming, honey."

  "Perfidious wretch. You’re nothing, Pete," Frances replied, and it came out a hiss to match her snakey ambulation.

  "Don't use that smart speak with me, woman," Pete said.

  Pete. That triggered a memory - hadn't Missi said that Pete was Frances' husband? And what glory were they after? Glory wasn't a term I'd associate with murder, but anything was possible.

  "We are at a charity ball, Peter. A CHARITY BALL," she thundered.

  "Don't cause a scene," Pete said, and glanced back at the bar. I shifted my gaze over the dance floor, back to our table where Grizzy and Arthur sat side-by-side, staring off in alternate directions, both blushing. I blocked them out and sharpened my peripheral view of the two suspects.

  "This isn't about us. It's about the people," Frances said, and moderated her tone. "We can discuss our personal problems later. Right now, I need you to stay out of the way. I have to announce the raffle winner in fifteen minutes."

  "We have to announce it."

  "No. You stay here. Do what you do best," she said, and flicked her fingers toward the bar. Frances click-clacked off on her high heels and Pete glared at her, hatred burning from him. He could've lit all the candles in the world with that heat.

  He didn't approach the bar. He looked at me one last time, then made for the exit.

  I chewed my bottom lip. The one thing that'd struck me throughout the argument, apart from the glory comment, was Frances' lack of grief. Everyone handled death and sadness differently, but she hadn't mentioned it once. Not one note of Paul's death.

  Unless that was what they'd been referring to all along.

  Chapter 10

  The rest of the evening had passed uneventfully unless Grizzy and Arthur refusing to make eye contact after an initial show of interest counted as ‘eventful.’ It definitely did not.

  Jarvis tinged the bell in the Burger Bar, and I went to it wielding my tray. The morning rush in the restaurant had helped take my mind off what I’d heard at the ball last night.

  I’d hoped to speak to Frances, but she’d disappeared right after the raffle announcement, and Pete hadn’t been any easier to find. The only information I had was that they were unhappy with each other, and marital problems didn’t exactly scream murder.

  Between the countless baskets of fries, Mexican Fiesta Burgers, and glasses of milkshake, I’d almost forgotten about the case.

  The case which was not my case.

  I retrieved another Mexican Fiesta Burger and fries, nestled on a red-checked napkin in a basket. “Thanks, Jarvis.”

  He gave me thumbs up but didn’t speak. He’d been quiet this morning too. Perhaps, it was because Missi had swept up to the window before we’d been able to stop her, and flirted relentlessly. She was near 80 years old, and more wrinkle than human at this point, but she sure had a strong constitution.

  I took the food to a table and placed it in front of one of the regulars. It was the guy with the tribal hand tattoo – George Brighton. “Here you go, George,” I said, and put up my brightest, best customer smile.

  George grunted and picked up the Mexican Fiesta. He bit into it and one of the chilies dropped out of the bun and plopped into his basket.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  A grunt again, to the negative this time. He was the least talkative twenty-something-year-old I’d ever met. Maybe he’d spent up all his energy on social media.

  “Enjoy,” I said.

  Missi and Virginia sat in their booth against the wall and waved me over. They’d been in the bar since it’d opened at 8 am – Grizzy believed there wasn’t a clock on burger cravings – and summoned me fifty times since then.

  “What can I get you, ladies?” I pulled up in front of their table, tray wobbling on my palm.

  “The dirt,” Missi said.

  “Stop.” Virginia balanced her chin on her fist. “But yes, dear, we’d appreciate it if you could tell us about what happened at the ball last night.”

  “Wh-what?” They couldn’t know about the fight between Pete and Frances, could they? No one was that nosy, even two old biddies who had thumbs in every pie.

  “I told you she’s slow for a detective,” Missi said.

  “It’s rude to talk about people when they’re standing right in front of you. Learn manners.” Virginia’s counter remark.

  “I call a spade a spade, woman. You’ve known that about me since we were children. I’m too old to change now.”

  “There’s a difference between being down-to-earth and plain rude. I think if you moderated your tone you might –”

  “What about last night?” I cut them off – that argument could go on for hours with these two. It’d taken me less than a week to cotton on to that fact. Cotton. Ha. Cotton Balle.

  Focus, Christie. My inner voice sounded like my mother and always had. It had a sobering effect on me no matter the situation.

  Missi tut-tutted. “Last night was the charity ball, yes?”

  “Yeah, you were the one who told me about,” I said. “So you should know that.”

  “Ah ha, another one who calls a spade a spade,” Virginia said, lips a-twitchin’.

  “There’s no need to be rude.” Missi pursed her lips.

  “What about the ball?”

  Missi and Virginia shared a glance, sisterly secrets passing between them at a rate of twenty billion gossip parts per minute. “You haven’t noticed?” Virginia asked.

  “What?”

  “Grizzy,” Missi said, and tipped her chin toward the milkshake machine.

  My friend had taken up residence there this morning. She hadn’t stirred since, unless it was to refill napkin dispensers or ring up an order on the computer.

  “She’s not in her right mind, dear,” Virginia said. “She’s been acting strangely all morning and we wondered if it was because of the – oh, the – how do I put this?”

  “The corpse in the garden,” Missi suggested. “The stabbing in the yard? Mr. Dead in the flowerbed.”

  “Stop.” Virginia raised her palm. “You have no respect for the deceased.”

  “The deceased had no respect for anyone when he was alive,” Missi said. “Why should I start respecting him now when he called me an old spinster maid twenty times a week? Respect is earned, and he lost his opportunity with me.”

  I studied Grizzy, brow wrinkling up. She had been quiet this morning, but I’d been so busy with the breakfast burger rush I’d barely noticed. Now, it’d quieted down a little her beleaguered sighs were more obvious.

  “I don’t think it’s about Mr. Dead in the flowerbed,” I said. There was a certain ring to that.

  Virginia huffed and puffed. “Paul,” she said. “His name was Paul.”

  “Right. Although, I know she’s struggling to sleep after all of that. We both are.” It was one thing to investigate murders off the clock, but when it happened in the backyard and there was nothing I could do to solve it…

  “Then what’s the problem?” Missi asked.

  It struck me front and center in the forehead. “I think it’s that detective. Arthur Cotton.” I kept my voice low. “He was at the ball last night and yeah, they sat at the table together, but it was so darn awkward I wanted to pluck my eyeballs out.”

  “Heavens to Murgatroyd,” Virginia said.

  “Here we go again,” Missi replied.

  “What do you mean, again?”

  “It’s the same thing every month. Grizzy and Arthur get a little closer, they both freeze up, a period of abject awkwardity –”

  “Awk-what?”

  “It’s a word!” Missi clicked her tongue. “Fine. A period of total awkwardness. Does that suit you? So, that awkwardness follows, they slowly start to mellow toward each other and get all sweet-eyed and honey-glaze
d, and then bam!” Missi slapped the table.

  George Brighton jumped and dropped his burger.

  “Bam, what?” I asked.

  “They freeze up again,” Missi replied. “The cycle continues. That’s self-explanatory.”

  “You’re not so great at storytelling,” Virginia said.

  “Says the Queen of redundancy.”

  “Ladies, please,” I said, and patted the air. “Grizzy will figure something’s up if we make too much fuss. I’ll talk to her about it, all right? I’ve already discussed it with her.”

  “You’ve got a lot of experience in love, then?” Missi asked, and looked me up and down. It was the doubtful gaze of a woman who’d seen people from all walks of life. “Really? You’re all split ends and chewed up nails.”

  “She’s got a lovely face and figure, though,” Virginia put in.

  “But she’s not taking care of herself. I’d bet anything it’s been years since she’s been near a man in a romantic fashion. Let alone in a relationship with one.” Missi wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t dated since I’d first arrived in Boston and that’d ended horribly. My partner had left me for another woman. My literal partner, as in police partner and boyfriend in one.

  “Oh, I bet she’s seen her fair share of action. Relationship wise, I mean. Not that she’s loose.”

  I wasn’t much of a blusher but this conversation pushed me to the limits. Another customer entered the Burger Bar, granting me a reprieve from the scrutiny.

  Pete, Frances Sarah’s husband – the supposed alcoholic and Aragorn wannabe – strolled up to the front counter. “Takeaway Double Thick Choc Malt Milkshake,” he said, no ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’

  Grizzy gave him a wan smile and set to work on the order.

  Pete. Fancy him promenading back into my mind. He was tall, too. But was he tall enough to match Ray’s description from the night of Loopy Paul’s murder? What had Frances and Pete meant last night – all that talk about planning and glory. Could it be that they’d murdered the brother for money? Or even, power?

  No, no, ridiculous. I didn’t know enough about either of them to make that judgment and I certainly didn’t have evidence to –

  “Strange,” Virginia said.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “It’s Pete. He usually sits down for a burger and a shake at this time. I wonder why he needs a takeaway.” Virginia scratched jaw with those neatly clipped nails.

  “Maybe he’s got somewhere to be,” Missi replied.

  My curiosity had reached peak levels already. I had to speak to Pete about what I’d witnessed last night or about his deceased brother in law.

  “Make it snappy.” Pete clicked his fingers at Griselda. “I’ve got an appointment to get to.”

  “What appointment?” Missi whispered.

  I stripped off my apron. It was time for my mid-morning break. And my mid-morning sleuthing adventure.

  Chapter 11

  Whatever it was, the man was up to no good. He hunched over and darted glances left and right as he weaved around corners and down side-streets, into the suburbia of Sleepy Creek.

  I kept my head down, my phone out as if I’d stumbled upon one of those viral articles, 10 Ways Your Cat Is Killing You, but tracked his actions. He greeted people he passed, avoided dogs on the ends of leashes at all costs, and maintained a brisk pace.

  Griselda had barely registered my request for a little time out of the bar. Something was off with her and that story of awkward cycles didn’t fit. I’d have to give her the ol’ flashlight in the eyes trick when I got home. Get to the bottom of it.

  Pete Dawkins took a left onto Old Dirt Road. It was a literal dirt road, but no one in Sleepy Creek had ever renamed it. As kids, Grizzy and I had camped out in the woods around here and harassed the friendly log cabin neighbors with our girly midnight squeals after ghost stories by the campfire.

  Pete didn’t leave for our old camping spot. He took one of the trails which led deeper into the woods.

  “That’s not creepy,” I muttered, but followed him, anyway. What important meeting did Pete have in the woods? A horror theme song tinkled through my mind but I ignored it.

  I’d been in far worse situations than a dirt track in the woods.

  I tucked my cell phone into the front pocket of my jeans, braced myself against a trunk.

  Pete walked toward a cabin at a path’s end. I couldn’t follow him along the path without getting caught, so I slipped between the trees, wincing each time my clumsy feet snapped a twig or rustled a leaf.

  Spring’s shoots had poked out but there weren’t enough tender green leaves to provide real cover. I traveled further into the woods and caught glimpses of my target. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. It wasn’t hot or close, but the pressure of this, of the possibility of being caught doing exactly what I shouldn’t do, set me on edge.

  The Captain had told me I had the self-control of a chipmunk locked in a room full of nuts and he wasn’t wrong. I had discipline when it came to a case, but when it came to a lead… shoot, I couldn’t stop myself.

  Pete Dawkins trooped up the stairs of the cabin and I stalled, watching, waiting. He opened the front door, it creaked, and he entered, then banged it shut behind him.

  An old Ford truck, blue and rusted around the doors, sat in front of the house, and a flashy Chevrolet Suburban was parked next to that. Sheesh, who was he meeting with? The mafia?

  I crouched and darted from my cover and right up to the side of the house. I kept low next to the porch, listening. Nothing.

  I circled the house slowly, close to the wall, my palms brushing the rough wood.

  Voices traveled from a window near the back.

  “You’re late,” a man said. Not Pete. This one had a gravelly voice, too many cigarettes.

  Pete grunted. “You work for me. I can’t be late.”

  “I won’t be working for you much longer at this rate, Pete.” The second guy’s voice softened a little. “I know times are tough, buddy, but I’m not into pro bono work, understand?”

  A lawyer. Had to be. But why did Pete need a lawyer? I scanned my surroundings and the tree line. Anyone could be watching from that point, yet I couldn’t do much to hide.

  There was long grass, sure, but unless I transformed into a master of camouflage I wouldn’t achieve much.

  “I’m not asking you to do this for free,” Pete said, at last. “Do you want a drink? A glass of water, coffee or somethin’?”

  “No. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Fine,” Pete said. “Fine by me, Sawyer. I want to get all of this over with. The sooner that uppity, mean –”

  “Let’s not go down that road,” Sawyer said. Sawyer the lawyer, huh. Fancy that. “I know you’re reluctant to sign the divorce papers but –”

  “Ha, reluctant? I don’t want a divorce. I want my piece of the meal ticket. She’s all about the money behind the scenes. Did you know that, Sawyer?” Pete said ‘Sawyer’ like the ‘Soya’ in Soya Sauce. “Frances acts all high and mighty in front of everyone around here but behind the scenes, she’s a miser. Why shouldn’t I get my take? She doesn’t want to be with me anymore, fine, but I’ll be darn sure that I’m well fed for the rest of my life.”

  The lawyer sighed. Apparently, this topic had been rehashed. “If I’m going to represent you in proceedings I need to know what you want out of the divorce.”

  “I want money,” Pete said. “And I want to keep the cabin. She’s had me staying here for weeks. Even when her brother got scared he lived here with me instead of with her. Did you know that? Did you?”

  “Money and the cabin,” Sawyer replied, and hummed under his breath –taking notes? He ignored all the peripheral stuff. “Anything else you’d like to discuss with Mrs. Dawkins and her lawyer?”

  “She’s not Mrs. Dawkins anymore. Or she won’t be once these papers are signed. I – man, how did this happen? How did it all fall apart?”

  “I’m sorry Pete.
I don’t know what to say.” Poor Sawyer hadn’t been trained for this in shark school.

  “I’ll tell you how it fell apart. It was that brother of hers. We never got a moment’s peace. He was always coming around and complaining. And then a couple weeks ago he –”

  The crunch of tires on dirt distracted me from my eavesdropping. I froze.

  A car approached the parking area, and here I was surrounded by open space and the certainty of discovery. That would mean a call to the local police, and then to the ones in Boston and the Captain himself.

  My brain screamed silent commands and my body obeyed.

  Stay low. Move forward. Faster than that. Get to the corner. Around the back. What type of car is it? Who’s in the car?

  I crouched-ran down the side of the cabin, back of my neck prickling. A car door slammed. Footsteps advanced. I should’ve been too far for them to have seen me but I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

  I reached the corner, rounded it, and used the back porch for cover. I licked my lips and tasted salt.

  Noises in the house. I peeked back from whence I’d come and the right headlight of a sports car looked right back at me. Another bang and I darted back. I squirmed my cellphone out of my pocket. I had ten minutes to get back to the Burger Bar before Grizzy got suspicious.

  She might be distracted but she’d reprimand me if she suspected I’d decided to investigate Paul’s murder.

  Another bang, this time closer to the back porch.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, Pete,” a woman said. “Don’t you dare.”

  The lawyer’s gravelly tones interjected. “Frances, I don’t think now is a good time to talk about –”

  The back door slapped open and I almost lost bladder control. A hysterical laugh built in my belly. I’d run right into the new hotspot of activity. My training kicked in again.

  Run back down the side of the house.

  I followed the order and slapped my back against the porch wall, sank low, just as footsteps clunked onto the wooden boards. Worst stakeout ever.

  “I don’t want to speak to her. Get her out of here,” Pete said.