Flipped For Murder

by Maddie Day

  I stood as well. “What’s the show this time?”

  “It’s Copeland’s The Tender Land. Absolutely gorgeous. And I have the male lead.” He grinned.

  “Get out. Really? That’s awesome.” I knew he aspired to a career in opera. “Thanks again for the desserts, Phil. You’ll do more on Thursday for the weekend?”

  “You bet.” He left, humming as he went.

  Chapter 10

  Yikes. It was five-thirty already and I still hadn’t changed for dinner. I finished whisking the rosemary vinaigrette together, fussed once more with the silverware and cloth napkins I’d laid on a vintage floral tablecloth, and turned the shrimp kabobs in their marinade one last time. I rummaged in a drawer, coming up with two red candles left over from Christmas. I stuck them in glass candleholders and decided they’d do just fine.

  I ripped off my jeans and T-shirt and raced through a super-high-speed shower without washing my hair, to rinse off the sweat of biking, cleaning, and cooking. But now what to wear? I slipped on a pair of black leggings and searched my crowded bedroom closet, finally grabbing a long silk shirt in fuchsia from a hanger, since bright colors lit up my Mediterranean skin. I brushed my hair out loose on my shoulders and added silver earrings, a chunky silver necklace, and a touch of lip gloss. Satisfied, I left it at that.

  Back in my apartment kitchen, I ruined the look by adding an apron over the silk top. Better that than stains. I poured a half glass of wine from the open bottle on the counter, sipping it as I thought of what was left to prepare. I sliced a couple of the last heirloom tomatoes of the season onto the salad and had just put pasta water on to boil when I heard a knock at the back door, the only door to the apartment besides the one leading into the store.

  When I pulled the door open, Birdy streaked in ahead of Jim, who carried a bottle of wine in one hand and a fat paper-wrapped bunch of flowers in the other. He was wearing a pressed pink button-down shirt untucked over jeans and once again looked good enough to devour.

  “Whoa, what was that?” he asked.

  “I just adopted a cat. Actually, he just adopted me. His name’s Birdy.” I smiled back, trying to keep my nervousness from showing. Or maybe it was my lust I was trying to hide. “Come on in.”

  “First this.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for inviting me over.” He smelled like fresh air and rainwater, with undertones of healthy male.

  Flustered, I said, “You’re welcome.” I stood there for a second, looking at him.

  “Are we having a standing meal?” he asked with a laugh.

  I whacked my forehead and turned, leading him into the kitchen, where Birdy posed at one of his bowls and gave me a quizzical look. I tore open the cat food sack and scooped a cupful of dry kibble into his bowl. He fell to crunching.

  “Looks like he was hungry,” Jim said as he extended his offerings. “Flowers for the lady, and red wine, as per your expert recommendation. It’s a very fine Cabernet, if I may say so.”

  I thanked him and set the wine on the table. When I unwrapped the flowers, I looked up in astonishment.

  “How did you know I love yellow alstroemeria?”

  “Just a hunch.” Jim stuck his hands in his pockets, his eyes taking me in like a couple of thirsty emeralds. “You look really nice, Robbie. That color is stunning on you.”

  Now I was blushing. “Thanks.” I cleared my throat. “How about if I open the wine?”

  “Looks like you got a head start.” He tilted his head at my half-full glass. “Just pour me a glass of whatever that is and hand me the opener. This one can breathe until we’re ready for it.”

  I filled a glass and handed it to him, along with the folding corkscrew, then dug out my best vase, a trumpet-shaped heavy crystal that had been my grandmother’s. Clipping off the bottoms of the stems, I said, “How was your Monday?”

  “Unh.” The cork popped out. “It was a Monday. Had a closing. Wrote a will. Ate lunch with Buck.”

  I’d been half listening as I clipped. “That’s nice.... Wait, what? You had lunch with Buck?”

  “Yup.” He poured wine into his glass and topped mine up, too. “I ran into him at the courthouse in Nashville and we grabbed lunch at the Chili Shack.”

  I finished arranging the flowers before I spoke. I was dying to know what they’d talked about, but did I want this date to turn into a discussion of murder?

  “How was the chili?”

  “Great. Triple alarm.” He fanned his open mouth, then took off his glasses and polished them on a corner of his shirt. “Poor old Buck can’t eat spicy chili unless he gets heartburn.”

  I took a sip of my wine. “You mean he can’t eat chili because it gives him heartburn, right? You’re talking like a Hoosier.” I laughed.

  “Hey, I am a Hoosier. I grew up here. You’ll pick it up, you just watch.”

  “You don’t usually talk that much like a local.”

  “It’s because I’m a lawyer. Plus my folks are from Chicago and I was back East for law school. I kind of trained it out of me.”

  I glanced at the clock. “Time to start the coals.” I grabbed my wine and a box of matches and headed out the door. I stuffed newspaper in the bottom of the cylindrical chimney and poured coals in the top. As I lit the papers, Jim strolled out, glass in hand, and leaned against the wall.

  “You know what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah. I like grilling.” I dusted my hands of charcoal dust before I sat on the bench, patting the seat next to me. The low sunlight slanted through the half-clad swamp maple. The air brushed softly on my arms, but I knew the temperature would drop as soon as the sun did.

  Jim joined me. “What were you up to today?”

  I told him about my encounters of the morning: Don and Roy at Shamrock Hardware. Ed, his picture with Stella, his reaction to my asking, and what Christina said about Ed’s habits. Phil’s assessment of Roy.

  “I’ve heard similar things about Ed. So far, nobody’s brought charges.”

  I cocked my head and listened. “Water’s boiling. Be right back.” I hurried inside, poured a box of orzo into the steaming pot, stirred it, and turned down the heat. The coals would be ready soon, so I brought the long, narrow dish of marinating kebabs outside and set them on a little table I kept next to the kettle grill.

  Unable to resist, I said, “Want to tell me about lunch with Buck? Has he locked up Stella’s killer yet?”

  Jim looked at the old barn behind the store, which I used for storage, then at me. “He asked me not to talk about it.”

  “But I’m your client. Or . . . maybe I’m not? I guess we haven’t talked about what happens if they actually arrest me.”

  “If you’re arrested, which you shouldn’t be, you need a criminal lawyer, not a real estate and probate lawyer. And I’d recommend someone I know.” He stared at the barn again.

  Frustrated, I stood and dumped the hot coals onto the bottom rack of the grill with a bit more vigor than they needed, jumping back to avoid a spark landing on my shirt. I set the top grill rack on to heat and headed for the kitchen.

  An hour later our plates were empty and the candles on the kitchen table were half the size from when I’d lit them. A half-dozen empty skewers attested to some pretty tasty grilled shrimp with crimini mushrooms, Vidalia onions, and sweet yellow peppers. A limp lettuce leaf hung off the edge of Jim’s plate. On mine a few green-specked torpedoes of orzo vied with an errant translucent pink shell I missed when I prepped the seafood.

  I’d managed to get a handle on my mood as I threw together the orzo and my special basil pesto. If Buck asked Jim not to share a secret, then I should be admiring his integrity. I’d closed my eyes and taken three slow breaths in and three slow breaths out. Calmer, I’d gone back out to grill the kebabs, and we’d been chatting about everything except murder since then.

  Now I said, “How can you call yourself a vegetarian if you eat seafood?” I set my chin on my hand. The room had darkened as we ate, and we sat in a circle of ca
ndlelight, the rest of the world lost to the night. Jim’s skin glowed and the light flickered in the wineglasses.

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been a vegetarian since college. But a few years ago I was feeling kind of meh. I consulted a nutritionist, who told me I needed more high-quality protein. So I eat fish and other seafood on occasion. I prefer wild rather than farm raised, but when I’m out”—he gestured at the table—“I get off my high horse and eat what I’m served. Which was delicious.”

  “Thanks. I thought it was pretty good, too. It’s a marinade I developed when I was cooking at the inn.” I felt Birdy rubbing my ankles. I reached down to stroke him, which produced his chirping purr again.

  “Lime, soy, maybe wine?” Jim raised his eyebrows.

  “Good detective work. Plus ginger and sesame oil. But I can’t figure out why eating fish doesn’t disqualify you from being a vegetarian.”

  “You’re right—it should. Somehow the fact that fish are wild and don’t have legs seems an important distinction.” He gazed at me. “You’re kind of wonderful, you know that?” He leaned forward now, folding his arms on the table, gazing at me. “You can cook. You can build things. You can dance and solve puzzles. You bike all over the place. What can’t you do?”

  “Don’t ask.” I laughed to soften my answer. I couldn’t hold on to a first husband, for one. “I’m miserable at foreign languages. I didn’t even catch on to Spanish. In California.” I shook my head. “My eyes glaze over at talk of the stock market, and I hate writing. I can’t type for beans and I don’t even like writing thank-you notes or birthday cards. There’s more, but I don’t want to spoil my reputation.”

  Jim topped up my wineglass. After holding the bottle up to the light, he drained the rest into his glass. He took a sip, then set his glass down.

  “You’re a successful lawyer,” I said. “You can dance. I’m sure there’s lots more you’re good at. So what are your failings?”

  He laughed. “I hate reading fiction. My brain just can’t suspend disbelief and stop analyzing why the people in a story would never, ever do something like that. And I bit my nails until a year ago.”

  I glanced at his hands. Sure enough. His nails were short, but they were trimmed rather than ragged. “That’s not so bad. Nothing else?”

  A cloud scudded over his eyes. “You don’t want to hear the rest.” He cleared his throat and mustered a smile.

  “Gotcha.” I stood and collected our plates. “Apple crisp?”

  “Absolutely.” While I cleared the rest of the dinner things, Jim wandered into the living room. “Okay if I put on music?” he called in. Soft light shone in from the doorway.

  “Sure. Help yourself.” I cut two pieces of crisp, adding a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream to each before I set them on the table.

  The tune of “Ya Gotta Dance” filled the room. Jim appeared next to me and pulled me into a close dance position. “Shall we?”

  “The ice cream is going to melt,” I murmured into his shoulder.

  “Let it.”

  Chapter 11

  Sure enough, Tuesday morning wasn’t quite as busy as the weekend. But Danna showed up on time and ready to work, her dreads neatly tied back with a turquoise scarf, and a steady stream of customers came through, despite the rain that began to fall right when we opened. The two of us were shaping up to be a good team. Locals who came in seemed pleased to see Danna, and she knew every one of them, of course. She even pulled an empty half-gallon Mason jar out and hand lettered a TIPS sign she taped onto it, setting it next to the cash register. I’d had a few requests for take-out orders, so the jar could come in handy.

  Cooking and greeting kept me too occupied to dwell on last evening’s delicious end, but a rosy feeling still held me. Jim and I had danced and, well, just plain made out. We never did get to our dessert. And then I’d reluctantly sent him along home. I knew I had to get up early. But Jim said he’d see me this week and I believed him.

  Corrine Beedle sailed through the door during the nine o’clock lull. Stella’s death hit me again. Last time the mayor was here, Stella walked in right behind her. I waved from the sink and called out a greeting.

  “You got somewhere I can put my umbrella?” She stressed the first syllable like it was a dignitary.

  I pointed at the umbrella stand right next to her.

  Corrine deposited the flaming red but soaking wet umbrella, hung her raincoat on the wrought-iron coat tree near the door, and sauntered to a table, this time clicking on blue heels matching her suit. Danna was at the grill, so I pulled an order pad out of my apron pocket.

  “Thanks for coming back,” I said. “What can we get you today?”

  “I’m just spying on my baby there. Hey, baby,” she called to Danna.

  A couple of customers who were tucked into their omelets looked up and smiled. Danna didn’t turn from the grill, but she lifted a spatula and waved with it. I expected she was used to being embarrassed in public by her bigger-than-life mom.

  “But I am just a touch hungry,” Corrine said. “Why don’t you give me two eggs over easy with bacon and hash browns. You got any fried biscuits with apple butter?”

  “’Fraid not. You’re not the first person who’s asked, though.” Deep-fried biscuits might be a local delicacy, but my hands were full enough keeping up with the regular old nonfried version. I took the order over to Danna and carried the coffeepot back to Corrine.

  After I poured, she gestured at the chair across from her. “Take a load off, honey.”

  “Just for a minute, but thanks.” After I eased into the chair, my feet expressed their extreme gratitude. I was going to have to build in break time. “Danna’s been a godsend. She works hard, knows how to cook, and is easy to be around.”

  Corrine smiled like she knew what I was talking about. “Always been her own person, that girl.”

  “I should offer my condolences on the death of your assistant. Her shoes will be hard to fill.” I wasn’t sure about that, but I thought it sounded like the right thing to say.

  Apparently, it wasn’t, because Corrine snorted. “Stella? I’m sorry she’s dead, but she was a real bitch.”

  I must have looked surprised, because she went on. “Well, she was. And somehow she’d gotten her job written into the town bylaws so she’d have it in perpetuity.” She shook her head. “Doncha think a new mayor might ought to be able to bring along her own admin? Couldn’t believe it when Stella told me I couldn’t. I’m glad to be rid of her, frankly.” She drummed long blue fingernails on the table, over and over.

  “She was a little difficult to deal with,” I said.

  “‘Difficult’ is kind of an understatement. I heard tell she was blackmailing half the men in town.”

  My eyes flew wide open like little strings pulled them up. “Really? For what?”

  “Oh, this and that.” She patted her hair, today done up in a kind of twist, the front swooping low across her forehead. “Is there a man alive who don’t have something nasty in his past? Stella knew everybody’s secrets.”

  I hummed to myself as I did final cleanup. I’d sent Danna home a little while ago after a good day of working together, and had flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED, since it was after two-thirty. I emptied the compost bucket in the bin outside the service door on the left side of the store beyond the kitchen area. I made sure the door was locked when I went back in.

  Corrine’s gossip about Stella blackmailing town residents didn’t sit well, but I’d been too busy to dwell on it. And it wasn’t my business, anyway. Let Buck and his cohort weasel out which among her victims might have been the one to turn the tables on Stella.

  I whirled when I heard the door bell jangle, and then lit up inside as I saw my visitor was Jim, even though I was tired and a day’s worth of cooking odors clogged my pores. I wiped my hands on a towel as I strolled toward him.

  I smiled. “Nice to see you.”

  He sank into a chair and didn’t speak. He didn�
��t smile back, either.

  Uh-oh. I sat, too, and waited.

  He brushed raindrops up off his forehead and into his hair. “I have some bad news. Did you happen to lose a pen recently?” He gazed over at the shelves of cookware.

  I nodded, as slow as a bobblehead in a slo-mo video.

  “A pen with ‘Jeanine’s Cabinets’ printed on it? Your mother’s shop logo?”

  “Yes. Did you find it?” I did not have a good feeling about this.

  “Buck did. In Stella’s apartment. They’re testing it for DNA and prints now.” He finally looked at me.

  Astonished, I sat back and let his news sink in. I shook my head, hard. “But it’s my pen. Of course it’ll have my identity all over it. Plus I taped a red plastic flower to the end so nobody would walk off with it. What Buck should be doing is figuring out who stole it and left it there.” I stood and paced to the cookware area and back. “Somebody really is trying to make it look like I killed Stella.”

  “Appears that way. When’s the last time you used the pen? Or noticed it was missing?”

  I thought for a minute. “I remember missing it when I wanted it for my crossword.”

  “You do crosswords in pen?” Jim’s voice lost its edge and he smiled a little.

  “Of course. Even though I’m a leftie. But I’m careful. Anyway, that was Sunday night. I must have been using the pen to take orders Saturday morning. Mom would have loved this place, and I remember putting the pen in my apron before we opened, so she’d be part of it. Anyone could have taken it on Saturday . . . and then planted it in Stella’s house.” I gripped the back of the chair I’d been sitting in. I was steaming at the thought of Mom’s pen being defiled. First stolen, then used to deflect guilt for a horrible crime.

  “Pretty much the whole town came through here the first day,” Jim said with a grimace.

  I sat again and fixed my gaze on an antique meat grinder on a shelf across the room, next to its little box holding disks with various-sized holes. The cast-iron device, with a conical hopper, a long grinding handle, and a vise at the bottom to attach it to a table, was a silvery color and looked comfortingly substantial. Way more substantial than my life felt at the moment.