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

by Rosie A. Point

  “I found something important,” I said. I filled her in on the letter between Paul and my mom.

  Grizzy listened in silence. “I don’t know what to tell you, Chris. I’m not going to report you to the cops if you continue investigating but I – I don’t know what to do anymore. You’re putting yourself in difficult situations.”

  “Just trust that I know what I’m doing.”

  Griselda sighed. “I think we should stop talking now,” she said. “I need room to breathe. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “I understand.”

  We marched home in silence, and when we got there Grizzy went straight to bed, Curly Fries in tow. I had to be the worst house guest Griselda had ever had. She’d expected us to have slumber parties, watch movies, and eat popcorn. Instead, I’d taken up a case that wasn’t mine and endangered our friendship, and my future, as a result.

  I touched my back pocket and fingered the outline of the letter. I couldn’t stop now. Not when I was this close to discovering the truth.

  Chapter 16

  I lifted Grizzy’s note off the kitchen table and used my free hand to rub the sleep from my eyes. I gave the clock a bleary once over. It was 7 am and while I’d never been much of a morning person, I’d overslept. Last night’s dreams had been more nightmares and they’d kept me in that horrible limbo zone.

  I squinted at Griselda’s neat handwriting.

  Stay home today and get some rest. Martin is taking the shifts in the Burger Bar. G.

  That was it. The decision had been made for me. I wanted to believe Grizzy had only my best interests at heart, but I was sure she needed space from me and my antics. I didn’t blame her.

  No doubt, the bar would be alive with gossip this morning, and I’d catch plenty of dirty stares if I turned up. Not that they scared me or anything, but that atmosphere wasn’t optimal for a place like Grizzy’s.

  I sighed and crumpled up the note, dropped it in the trash can.

  Curly Fries meowed and paced in front of her empty kibble bowl. I would’ve refilled it for her but she’d already crunched through an entire morning’s worth of the stuff. She was a piggy in cat’s clothing.

  I paced to the coffee pot to make a fresh brew, working everything over in my mind. I couldn’t stay home all day – I’d lose it worrying about my mother’s murder and the leads. The letter. Paul and how well he must’ve known her to have been concerned for her safety.

  The same Loopy Paul who’d clambered over the back fence with her picture tucked in his coat. Was it possible he’d been on his way to give me information about my mom’s case? But that would mean whoever had killed him had a stake in it too.

  I poured myself a cup of Joe, slurped it, then winced. I’d forgotten the sugar. I spooned some in and stirred it, then tried again.

  “Better,” I grunted.

  My mother was involved. I’d established that. It’d clouded my vision and endangered my best friend, but there wasn’t a chance on this good earth that I’d stop trying to figure out what’d happened to her now that I’d taken it up.

  I could head out and talk to Pete, but he hadn’t seemed all that stable both times I’d snuck around his house unseen. Ha, look who was talking.

  And that left Paul’s blood relative. Frances Sarah. The Charity Queen herself, who drove a red Lamborghini down a dirt road without any concern for the car’s paint job or undercarriage. Sacrilege. Jeremy Clarkson was in tears somewhere.

  If Paul had been close to my mother years ago, when he’d been younger, in his early twenties, it stood to reason that Frances Sarah might’ve been connected to her too. And that made her priority number one on my investigation list.

  I slapped back the rest of my coffee. Spared a quick pat for pig-cat, then went upstairs to change.

  I Googled Frances Sarah on my smartphone, and the address for her office at Sleepy Charity for Apnea Disorders, blinked at the entendre, then sprang to action.

  Ten minutes later, I was ensconced in a cushy armchair that would’ve put an insomniac to sleep, while the receptionist behind a matt-black desk droned on the phone.

  “Sleepy Charity for Apnea Disorders,” she said. “Yes. No. Mrs. Dawkins is in a meeting, currently. Yes. And who may I say is calling?” She frowned and drew the phone from her ear. “Rude.”

  “Hang up on you there?” I asked.

  The receptionist, Megan, gave me a gaze as empty as the Grand Canyon. “Mrs. Dawkins will be with you presently.”

  Tough crowd. I twiddled my thumbs and checked the time on my leather-strapped watch every couple seconds. I needed to do something, even if it was as simple as lifting my wrist and glaring at it – it wasn’t as if I had anywhere to be other than Grizzy’s place contemplating my bad life choices.

  “Miss Watson?”

  I jerked upright and came face-to-face with the spindly sister herself. “Hi,” I said. “Call me Christie.”

  “Frances Sarah Dawkins,” she said, and extended her hand.

  Another shake – I’d been treated to plenty this week, if ‘treat’ was the appropriate term for it. “It’s nice to meet you, at last.”

  Frances Sarah wasn’t as pleased to see me. “Megan tells me you have an important matter to discuss with me? About … about Paul.”

  “That’s correct. I didn’t want to alarm you. I didn’t want my visit confused with anything, uh, sleep related.”

  “Let’s talk in my office,” Frances said, and gestured to the misted glass door on the right.

  I followed her into a space organized to perfection. The desk pad was centered and a pen holder placed at an angle, exactly two inches from the corner of the desk. The effect was replicated by a miniature Zen sand garden and rake.

  “Please, take a seat.”

  I did as I was told and observed in silence, mentally cataloging all the oddities in Frances’ office. An image of the Eiffel tower behind her petite leather chair. A potted cactus near the door. Cream drapes which fell to the floor and obscured most of the light streaming through the window.

  Everything about Frances Sarah was at odds with itself. She clicked across the hardwood floor and took her position. She waited for me to talk, her forearms resting on the desk.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

  “I’m not sure I can say it’s a pleasure yet. The only people I’ve spoken to about Paul are the police.”

  Not technically true. She’d screamed about him over at Pete’s place earlier in the week. At least, Balle had done his job properly and taken her statement, or considered her as a suspect? That was a bit of stretch.

  “I’m in a unique position,” I said. “I’ve just come back to town and the night I arrived, Paul was found in my best friend’s back garden. And to make matters even stranger, and sadder, your brother was found with a picture on his person.”

  Frances perked up. “A picture?”

  “Yeah. It was my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “That’s correct. My mother who was murdered twelve years ago,” I replied. I pushed back the memories before they could rise. “And normally I don’t discuss this kind of thing with anyone, but I figured if anyone would know why Paul had that picture it would be you.”

  Silence followed that statement.

  “This is a discussion better left for law enforcement.”

  “I am law enforcement.” I whipped that ‘card’ out and instantly regretted it. Ugh, Christie, you’re doing it again. Anything to get answers. Anything to solve a case.

  “You’re a detective?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But not in Sleepy Creek. I’m from Boston.” Balle would have kittens if he caught wind of this. No, he’d have Curly Fries. Millions of Curly Fries sized cats with ugly, squat faces. “I’m not technically investigating your brother’s murder, but it directly involves me and my family, and another murder which I am keenly interested in solving. Any information you could offer me would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Is it
legal for us to have this discussion?” Frances asked. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

  And Lamborghini repayments to make. “Let’s put it this way, I’m only asking from a place of interest. Personal interest. If you refuse me the information there’s nothing I can do, but please, I – this is my mother. It’s – you understand what it’s like to lose someone. It’s –” I cut off. None of it was an act. I couldn’t put this into words properly. I’d lost her years ago, but I had never let it go.

  Frances didn’t get up, but those sharp eyes flicked from side-to-side in their sockets. I was weighed and sorted. Cataloged, even. “All right,” she said. “Who was your mother?”

  Bingo. I was in. “Lillian Watson.”

  Frances paled.

  “Are you all right?”

  She exhaled. “Fine. Just that name brings back unpleasant memories from my childhood. Your mother was the officer who helped my brother and I relocate to Sleepy Creek years ago.”

  “She – what?” My mind was blown. If that was the case, it meant they’d–

  “I was in my late twenties when it happened,” she said. “Paul and I lived in Boston. We got in trouble with a bad crowd. It was my fault. I fell in love with a man who wasn’t good for either of us. Paul was out of work at the time, and Connor offered him a job. Before we knew it we were in too deep. They asked Paul to do things he wouldn’t do.”

  “Like what?”

  Frances’ jaw worked. “Things. Evil things.”

  “Was Connor part of an organized crime family?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Frances said, “and your mother busted Paul on the way back from a job. He became an informant, and she helped us extricate ourselves from the group. I don’t know all the details but I think she moved to Sleepy Creek to watch over us or it was because Connor found out about her helping us out.”

  My heart rate had skyrocketed. This was news to me. “What happened to Connor and the family?”

  “The Somerville Spiders,” Frances said. “They were wiped out. Your mother helped bring all the bosses to justice, as far as I know.”

  Then there had been a lot of angry men in jail, itching to off the woman who’d destroyed them. Could this be it? Could this be the link I’d searched for all along? But if that was the case, surely the detective on my mom’s case would’ve investigated that avenue? I needed more information, evidence. A lead.

  “Paul wrote my mother a letter,” I said, and removed it from my pocket. I handed it over, trembling.

  Frances took her time reading it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have no idea what he’s referring to here. After we came here, everything settled. Paul had nightmares and sleep apnea but that was about it.”

  “The letter refers to a case,” I said. A case my mother must’ve been investigating in this town itself. “Any idea what that was about?”

  “None at all.”

  A dead end there, but I had one lead to follow. The Somerville Spiders.

  “Can you tell me anything about your brother? Are there any enemies he might’ve had? Anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”

  Frances puffed out her cheeks. “Let’s face it, Paul wasn’t the easiest guy to get along with. He had his quirks.”

  Like hating on jalapenos.

  “But honestly, no. I don’t think anyone would go so far as to do this. I – no. It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, I guess it might be something. Paul stayed with my ex-husband after we separated. He preferred Pete’s company to mine, but Paul was a burden only family should carry.”

  A burden. That was a harsh way to talk about a blood relative.

  “Paul blamed me for what happened in Boston. He believed that if I’d never gotten involved with Connor, he would never have been in the Somerville Spiders. We fought a lot because of it, and he had a myriad of ticks and disorders, as well. Needless to say, he was difficult to live with.”

  “So he stayed with Pete.”

  “Yes. About two weeks ago, Pete approached me about him. He told me that Paul had been behaving differently. Staying up late. Sneaking around.” Frances lifted the mini-rake and dragged it through the sand of the Zen garden, leaving three shallow tracks. “Honestly, that’s all I know. And I’m only telling you this because I understand that you’ve got a stake in what happens. I lost my brother, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose a parent.”

  I rose from my seat. “Thank you for speaking with me, Mrs. Dawkins.”

  Frances nodded. “Stay safe.”

  That sounded ominous rather than comforting.

  Chapter 17

  “The Somerville Spiders,” I muttered and strode down the sidewalk, past cute storefronts decorated with flowers for the upcoming spring festival. “Spiders.” I had to find out more about them.

  They were Boston based but I’d never heard of them, which meant they’d been eradicated years ago or had dissolved and joined the other gangs now prevalent in the city. Mobsters were notoriously difficult to bust, and I’d always been glad that wasn’t my job.

  Only a handful of the murders which had crossed my desk had been linked back to one of the crime families, and that’d led to a swift arrest and conviction. The men had ended up in prison, the family had been untouched, distanced themselves from their actions.

  I turned the corner and continued down the road, traveling the circuit I’d chosen out subconsciously.

  If my mother had led to the Spiders’ end, perhaps it was a Spider who’d murdered her. But would a Spider stay around this many years to kill Paul? What if Paul’s death wasn’t linked to my mom’s murder? What if it was a coincidence?

  “No, no. Has to be linked. Has to be.”

  I halted in front of Grizzy’s Burger Bar and peeked through the front windows.

  Virginia and Missi sat in their usual booth, slurping down milkshakes and people-watching. Grizzy chatted with Martin across the counter, dark half-moons beneath her eyes.

  A wave of guilt crashed over me. I gripped my forehead.

  Ugh, I needed to apologize to Grizzy, then go home and figure this out in silence. I’d flip open my laptop and research the Spiders to my heart’s content.

  Come on, Chris. Get it together.

  I entered the restaurant and ignored the hard stares from the two elderly woman in the corner. Yeah, they’d heard about what’d happened. Everyone in Sleepy Creek had heard by now, and they sure weren’t happy with me.

  I sidled between the tables, feigning calm, and hit the counter after what seemed an eternity. “I’ll take a choc shake to go, please.”

  “What are you doing here?” Grizzy asked.

  Martin winced and backed off slowly, a magician in the middle of a disappearing act. Jarvis glared out of the kitchen window, one maraca raised and a Mexican Fiesta Burger in a basket in his other hand.

  “Just thought I’d drop by and see how things are going in my favorite restaurant.” Gosh, that’d come out cheesy. And I matched it with a smile too.

  “Everything’s fine,” Griselda said. She whipped out the ingredients for the choc shake and set about making it. “You didn’t have to, Chris.”

  “I know,” I replied, and glanced back at the terrible twins.

  Both of them ogled me. Missi with downright anger, all pruned up, and Virginia with a blank expression which hid her feelings. Neither gave me any comfort.

  “Listen,” I said, facing my friend again. “I feel real bad about what happened yesterday, Griz. I didn’t want you to get involved.”

  “I could say the same thing about you.”

  I’d explained this to her. She knew that my mother’s involvement in this had changed everything. She’d even hinted I’d investigate the cold case when I’d first arrived. But there was a big difference between a closed case and an ongoing investigation.

  “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. I know you think I shouldn’t stick my neck out but this is my –”


  Grizzy switched on the blender and muffled me out. She concentrated on the silver cylinder and the wand, nothing else.

  Had I lost the trust of my best friend because of this? She was the only person I had. I could afford to stay in one of Sleepy Creek’s rundown motels, even if Grizzy claimed she wanted me to bunk in her guest room, but I didn’t want to lose her after years of friendship.

  Finally, the machine clicked off. She grabbed a takeaway cup and poured the shake into it. Popped the lid on top. Grabbed a straw and slid both across the counter toward me. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and grimaced.

  I was a wax doll, a shadow of the person I’d known in Boston. This case had taken it out of me.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Griz. Okay?”

  “I need time to be alone.” Griselda sighed. “That’s all. You’re not losing me, and I’m not angry. I need to work and be on my own. I’ve got more to think about than just you, Chris. The universe doesn’t revolve around you and your cases.”

  That wasn’t fair. And it was a little mean too.

  “Just space, Chris. That’s all. I’ll speak to you this evening when I get home.”

  “This evening? You’re going to work a full day?”

  “Yeah, I need to.”

  I took the milkshake and patted my back pocket, grazing the outline of my wallet.

  “On the house,” Grizzy said.

  “Thanks.” Though, the only reason she’d given it to me was to get me out of the Burger Bar quicker, I didn’t doubt that for a second. “Thanks for everything, Griz.” I headed for the exit, cheeks burning from the attention I’d garnered – the twins in the corner, specifically. Missi let out a low hiss.

  This had to be what the hunchback of Notre Dame felt like, minus the pitchforks.

  I entered the brisk early afternoon and trudged off, milkshake icy against my palm.

  I had to be the worst houseguest in history. I’d turned up after years of avoiding Sleepy Creek, and Grizzy by extension, then promptly done what I’d sworn I wouldn’t do – investigated a case that wasn’t mine.