by Maddie Day
Lifting my lightweight Cannondale bike from where it hung on the wall in the back entryway—it was way too expensive to keep it in the barn and risk theft or weather damage—I wheeled it out the door, stopping to lock up after myself. I fastened on my helmet and was about to throw a leg over the cycle when I heard a plaintive sound from the antique lilac a long-dead shopkeeper must have planted a century earlier. I heard the sound again. It was coming from under the bush, whose leaves had turned a winey deep red. I leaned the bike against the wall and squatted to look.
A forlorn cat huddled there, its long-haired black coat lightened by a white face with one black eye patch. I’d never seen it before.
“Hey, kitty cat. Come here.” I scratched the ground in front of me. “It’s okay.”
The cat made its way slowly toward me. But when I reached out to pet it, it retreated under the bush again, keeping its eyes on me with a hungry look. I stood, watching it.
“Whose kitty are you? And why are you afraid?” When I got no response, I unlocked the door and filled two small dishes, one with milk and one with water. I set them on the ground near the bush, made sure I locked up again, and set off down Main Street.
As I pedaled past Shamrock Hardware, I remembered what the proprietor had said—What was his name? Denny? No, Don. Don said he’d been friends with my mom. He implied it might have been a bit more than that. Maybe Adele knew the story. Mom had never mentioned him, but why should she? She’d left Indiana before I was born, after all. And who hasn’t had a high-school fling? Don hadn’t seemed any too happy with Corrine, that was for damn sure, or with Stella, either.
I thought I’d head out toward the village of Gnaw Bone, which would give me hill work. By the time I got back, I’d have done a strenuous twenty. I rode past the gazebo on my way out of town. What a treat it would be to head for a soak in a hot springs after this ride, after this weekend. Far as I knew, there weren’t any still operating in town, though. As I cycled along the country lane, passing a sign for HAPPY COW DAIRY FARM, I felt my stress lowering even as my heart rate rose. The slanting light was particularly lovely on the leaves in shades of red and gold, and the cooling air smelled of cut grass and wood smoke, overlaid with a hint of manure. Maybe I’d even stop at the Gnaw Mart and indulge in a wet tenderloin. My stomach growled out loud at the prospect. The little store, the only one in town, mostly sold snacks and drinks, but their deli counter specialized in deep-fried breaded tenderloin dipped in gravy. Even though this ride wouldn’t anywhere near burn up so many calories, it was okay once in a while.
But my plans took a big honking detour when a sleek black car sped past me on the two-lane road. “Hey, look out,” I yelled as it veered way too close to my left side and forced me onto the gravel-strewn shoulder. My front wheel skidded. I struggled to control the bike, to stay upright. Instead, we both went down in a pile sideways. The brush growing just beyond the shoulder scratched my hands. My knee scraped on the gravel and then twisted, caught under the bike until my shoe released from the pedal.
I raised my head and caught a glimpse of the vehicle vanishing down the road, but I could only make out the last few letters of the vanity plate: TOR. After I extricated myself from the bike and stood, I assessed the damage. Thank goodness I’d worn long sleeves; scratches and scrapes seemed to be the extent of it. When I lifted my road cycle, it seemed intact, too, apart from its own scratches. I took a few steps, testing my knee, and was relieved when it wasn’t damaged. Damn that car. It was almost like it sideswiped me on purpose.
I could no longer muster the energy for a vigorous ride. I’d create my own spa at home. I’d run a hot bath and take a long, hot soak in the tub with, yes, that glass of wine.
Chapter 7
Much refreshed by my bath, I sat at the kitchen table with a cheese omelet, a round-bowled glass of red wine, and the crossword. Mom had crafted the drop-leaf table out of a cherry that shone, with simple Shaker-style legs. I missed her when I sat there, but it was a perfect size for the small room, and I could expand it if I ever had more than one guest over. So far, I’d been too busy to invite anyone for a meal. I flashed on an image of Jim sitting across from me, candles glowing, a vase full of yellow alstroemeria behind them. That’d be nice. Maybe I’d see what he was doing for dinner tomorrow.
I was a bit out of sorts, though, because I couldn’t find my puzzle pen. I always used the same pen when I did the crossword, the pen from Mom’s shop. It was a gel pen I could get refills for, and the ink flowed out really nice. But the best part was the logo from her business, the one featuring the outline of a long table with JEANINE’S CABINETS written inside it. I’d looked everywhere. In the kitchen drawer, in my handbag, in the store. With the flurry of getting the store ready, I wasn’t sure when I’d last had it, but I thought it was in the restaurant. I must have written down breakfast or lunch orders with it over the last two days. Oh well. I dug another pen out of my purse and set to work. It was tricky, being left-handed, not to smudge the letters, but I’d had plenty of practice.
I’d finished a quadrant on the crossword, filling in “strippers” for the clue ECDYSIASTS, when I heard a sound from outside. I cocked my head and listened, then realized it must be the kitty. The dishes I’d left had been empty when I returned, but the little creature had been nowhere in sight.
When I flipped on the porch light and looked out the door, there the cat was again, not quite cowering this time, but crouching in a wary stance. I grabbed the bowls and refilled one with water. I glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock was too late to go out and find dry cat food on a Sunday night, but I located a can of tuna in the cupboard and emptied that into the other bowl. When I set them outside the door, the cat came running up. It started scarfing down the tuna, which gave me the chance to see it was a he. He then proceeded to purr so loudly, he chirped as I petted his head.
“I guess you were just hungry, little guy. Where’d you come from, anyway?”
He didn’t answer. When I switched off the porch light, I glimpsed a full moon rising above the trees and walked back out to get a better eyeful. I supposed it was the harvest moon, not that I was much up on farming lore. It was gorgeous, no matter what it was called. A wisp of cloud floated across the front of the golden orb and I half expected a witch on a broom to follow.
The kitty rubbed up against my leg. I reached down to pet him, which only produced more chirping.
“You sound like a bird, not a cat,” I told him. Should I invite him in? I couldn’t have him in the restaurant, for sure. Board of Health would shut me down in a New York minute. But I didn’t see why he couldn’t share my apartment with me. What if he already had a home, though? It wasn’t cold out. I’d leave him alone for tonight and see if he was still around in the morning.
I locked the door behind me, smiling. I hadn’t had a pet since I was sixteen and the old cat we’d had all my life died. Butch had been an affectionate curmudgeon, deciding on his own terms when he wanted to sit on your lap and letting you know quite vocally when he didn’t. Now I heard another sound and cast my gaze around the apartment for the source. I dashed for the bedroom when I realized it was my cell phone, likely still in the pocket of the bike shirt. By the time I dug it out, the ringing had stopped, but I saw Jim’s number on the display, which made me smile all over again.
I rang him back. “I was just thinking about you,” I said after greeting him.
“Is that so?”
“Yup.” I took the plunge. “How about coming over for dinner tomorrow?” When he didn’t respond, I added, “If you want to.” Damn. Did I misinterpret his interest? It seemed like a week ago, but I realized it was only last night he told me he only kidded people he liked. Maybe that meant people he liked as friends. Why do I feel like I’m back in high school?
“I want to. Thanks, Robbie.”
Whew.
He cleared his throat. “I called to say hello, but I also wanted to share something I learned today.”
“Oh?” I
was only half listening, already planning what I wanted to cook for him.
“It might be connected to the murder.”
I thudded off my romantic cloud and back to earth. “Oh.” Now he had my complete attention.
“Well, I was in Nashville for a Rotary Club meeting this morning. Ed Kowalski was sitting across the room, and the woman sitting next to me mentioned he’s been having trouble keeping employees.”
“Huh. I hired Mayor Beedle’s daughter this afternoon to help in the store.”
“Danna?”
“The same. She’s been working for Ed, and when I asked her why she left, she wouldn’t really say. Only that the environment wasn’t so great. Were you thinking Ed’s employment problems mean his business is in bad shape, which would make mine seem like even more of a threat to him?”
“Exactly.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. It’s just such a stretch for Ed to kill Stella and then hope I’d be prosecuted for it. There’d never be evidence linking me to it, right?”
“Let’s hope not. Wait, that sounded bad.” He laughed. “What I meant was I hope the killer didn’t plant something of yours at Stella’s.”
“But—” An image of my lost pen flashed across my brain. No, I had to have just misplaced it.
“Robbie, don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Lawyer Man. I’ll tell you, it’s been the craziest weekend I’ve ever had.” I yawned.
“Get yourself some rest, then. What time should I come tomorrow, and should I bring red wine or white?”
“Come at six. We are in the Midwest, after all. I’m not sure what I’m making yet. Red wine goes with anything, in my opinion. But then, nobody would ever call me a wine snob.”
Jim laughed again.
“I should ask if you have any food allergies.”
“Not a one.”
“And even though you’re a vegetarian, you eat seafood, right?”
“I do. Thanks for the invite, and sweet dreams, Ms. Jordan.”
Sweet they would be. I was going to have my second date in a week. And for sure Buck and friends would nail the murderer soon.
With my digital tablet in hand, I checked the supplies in the walk-in in the morning, yawning out loud. I’d found an excellent restaurant inventory app linking me directly to my several purveyors. I clicked a couple of items that needed restocking and closed the door behind me.
I stood for a moment with my back to the door. Something felt out of place. I opened the cooler again. As the door clicked shut behind me, I surveyed the wire rack shelves. Dairy took up a big section in a restaurant like mine, with pound blocks of butter, several kinds of milk, bricks of cream cheese, and hefty chunks of cheese. I kept the meat in its own area, although I was still trying to figure out how much to use fresh and how much frozen. Bacon, ham, and sausages kept well, but I really needed to spend the afternoon making beef and turkey patties and freezing them. I’d created another section for fruit, and the last for vegetables, like green and red peppers, onions, and mushrooms for omelets, as well as lettuce and tomatoes for the burgers. The waxed boxes from the supplier lined up on the shelves like squat waiters ready to serve.
So, what was awry? I walked all the way in, checking every shelf, but I couldn’t find anything. The dairy didn’t seem quite as I’d left it, but then Adele and Vera had been helping all day yesterday. Either one could have rearranged things. A shudder ran through me and it wasn’t from the cold air. As far as I knew, a killer still roamed free in town. And I was shut in alone in an extremely cold place. I shook my head. The big red emergency button perched on the wall next to the door, after all, and I held an Internet-connected tablet that got a signal even in this thick-walled room. I made my way out and pushed the heavy door shut, the thick latch clicking shut with a satisfying clunk.
I felt at loose ends. I’d planned Mondays as my day off, to relax, to catch up. Ever since I bought the store, I’d been pushing with all my energy toward opening day. But that day had now come and gone. I wandered back into my apartment, where the morning light streamed into the kitchen. I’d had coffee and munched an apple, but my stomach now called out for more.
As did kitty’s, apparently. He mewed from outside, so I opened the door. After I picked up his bowls, I propped open the screen.
“Hey, little guy. Come on in.” I filled the bowls with milk and water and set them in the entryway.
He peered in, looked behind him, and moseyed in a few steps. Stopping, he gave a bite and a furious lick to his left shoulder, then licked his paw. With a little chirp, he continued in until he was lapping up the milk, purring like a tiny electric fan.
I watched him finish the milk and then give himself a bath all over. Finding a sack of dry cat food was apparently top on my list for my day off, and a few cans of wet food as well. Did I need to set up a litter box and all, too? As I turned toward where my purse hung from a hook, I jostled a chair, and kitty streaked out the still-open door. He could keep going to the bathroom wherever he’d been going up to now. At least until the ground froze.
I made and ate a piece of toast with peanut butter and honey, then grabbed my bag. I’d seen cat food in Shamrock Hardware. I could pick up a bag there, for starters. As I locked the door behind me, kitty sauntered up again, purring with his chirping noise.
“That’s it,” I told him. “Your name is Birdy.”
He eyed me with an inscrutable gaze as he crouched, paws in front of him, looking for all the world like a tiny black-and-white Sphinx. A Sphinx named Birdy.
Chapter 8
“It needs fixed.” The male voice one aisle over at Shamrock Hardware was insistent. “Don’t got no insurance.”
I cocked my head, but couldn’t place the speaker.
“I’m not talking about this,” he said. “I don’t want all of South Lick to know my bidness.”
I lowered my head again to stare at the array of cat treats. He was a local by the way he talked, but I hadn’t heard another voice. I guessed it was a domestic spat being conducted over the phone.
Having no idea what kind of food my new buddy, Birdy, liked, and suspecting he wouldn’t be picky, I threw a dozen little cans into the basket, then loaded up a sack of the most expensive dry food, the one saying it was made in the USA with organic ingredients. Only the best for my new family member. And from what I’d read about the dangers lurking in pet food made in China, the cost was worth it.
I wandered the narrow aisles, trying to think if I needed anything along the lines of actual hardware. It was an old-style store, with shelves to the ceiling, and a good deal of rather dusty inventory that could have been sitting there for a century: mousetraps, nasty chemical cleaners, cast-iron C-clamps. I added a few sponges and scrubbers to my cart, then searched out picture hangers. I hadn’t gotten around to hanging any of my framed art and that could be another easy task for today.
After adding a couple of packets of hangers to my shopping cart, I passed a wide locked glass cabinet and stopped to examine it. It was full of guns. Small ones, big ones. I didn’t know anything more about guns than the terms that were tossed around on the news and in books: rifle, shotgun, semiautomatic. Revolver, pistol, weapon. But it sure looked like they were all in there, and for sale, too, along with boxes of what looked like bullets. It gave me a chill to think the gun that killed Stella might have been bought here, and the ammo, too.
Heading over to Barb, the cashier, a trim older woman with perfect makeup and a short cap of salt-and-pepper hair, I spied the frowning proprietor emerging from a door labeled OFFICE: NO ADMITTANCE. I waved.
“’Morning, Don,” I called.
When he saw me, he plastered a fake smile over his frown and walked toward me. “Robbie. How were your first couple days?”
“Very good, thanks. We had a great crowd both Saturday and Sunday.”
“Heard about the biscuit.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You know. In Stella’s mouth. Bad
news for you.”
He had the nerve. I stood up as tall as I could. “Not at all. No one who ate in my store on Sunday seemed worried in the least that they’d die from one of my biscuits.”
“I just thought . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes got that worried look again.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Stella?”
“Who, me? Not a clue.” He cleared his throat and glanced into my cart. “So, did you find what you needed? Looks like you got you a cat.”
“Just acquired one. Or he adopted me, I guess is more accurate.”
A fond smile spread across Don’s face and he finally stopped frowning. “I have three.” He proceeded to tell me about each of his cats, their names, their habits. “Why, I gived your mom a little bitty kitten long, long ago. She took that guy on her drive cross-country when she moved out California way.”
“Butch? You gave Mom our cat, Butch?” I was astonished.
“If that’s what she went ahead and named him, why, then, yes, I did. So did you give this cat who adopted you a name yet?”
“I named him Birdy, because he almost chirps when he purrs.”
“Well, he’s yours now. You know what they say, once you name a stray, you ain’t never going to get rid of him.”
“So far, that’s not a problem. He seems very swee—” I stopped speaking when Don turned his head sharply to the right.
“Roy,” he said in a voice that would have put honey to shame. “Let me express my condolences on the death of your mother.” Hand outstretched, Don approached a man a few years younger than me who looked like he didn’t exercise much.
So this was Stella’s son. Inconveniently named Roy Rogers. Well, maybe he was more typical of his generation than I was, and had no idea who the old TV singing cowboy was.