Flipped For Murder

by Maddie Day

  “Would anyone else have one of those pens?” Jim folded his arms. “Adele maybe?”

  “She might. Mom might have sent her one and the killer could have stolen it. I can ask her.” I scrabbled in the apron for my cell phone.

  Jim held up his hand. “Later. No one else?”

  “Hmm. Don at the hardware store said he was friends with Mom long ago, but he made it sound like it was more than just friends. He gave her our cat, Butch, too. I never knew that. I don’t think they’d been in touch, but maybe they were. Maybe she sent him a pen. For all I know, he’d been out to visit her in the years since I left home.”

  We sat in our bubbles of thought for a few moments. Mine was filled with both angst and ire. My happy new life as restaurateur and proprietor was exploding in my face. My exciting new romantic life seemed to have gone up in a puff of smoke, too.

  I looked up and swallowed. “So now what? Am I going to be arrested?”

  “No, but Buck wants to talk with you.” He cleared his throat. “I told him I’d bring you down. And I’ll stay there until we learn if you need a criminal lawyer or not.”

  “Buck wants to talk with me now?” My voice angled up.

  “This afternoon.”

  “I need to clean up.” I glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll be ready in an hour.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back at four.”

  I untied my apron and started toward my apartment. Then I stopped. “Wait a minute.” I turned back.

  Jim rested a hand on the door. He looked at me.

  “You knew about this last night. That was what Buck told you yesterday, about my pen.” I couldn’t believe it. “And you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He blew air out through his lips. “I didn’t want to spoil our dinner.”

  “Well, you’ve spoiled it now.”

  Chapter 12

  I tapped my fingers on the metal table in the police station interview room. Jim sat catty-corner from me doing something with his phone. I didn’t want to be here, and I sure didn’t want to be here with him. Knowing he was aware last night of me being under suspicion and not telling me left the taste of spoiled lemonade in my mouth. You want it to be sweet, but instead it’s acrid and half fermented.

  All the time while I’d showered and dressed, my mind was a boiling pot of thoughts. I searched the little I knew about Saturday’s customers for who’d had the chance to steal my pen, and then who had reason to leave it at Stella’s house before killing her, but I came up with almost nothing. Possible suspects included Corrine, because Stella was a bitch. Don, because he hated Stella for blocking his election. Ed, because I was his competition. But then why kill Stella? Why not murder me? For all I knew, Stella herself took the pen out of spite.

  After stewing about what to wear to a police interview, I’d pulled my hair back in a severe knot and dressed in a dark sweater, skirt, and boots. A kindly female professor had told me once, when I was worried about presenting a paper, it was always better to be overdressed when you were nervous. This pretty much fit the bill.

  Now, though, I was even more nervous, because we’d been sitting here for half an hour. My stomach was a winter nesting ground for butterflies. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jim look up at me, but I didn’t look back.

  “Robbie, I know you’re upset with me,” he said. “But when Buck comes in, try to stay calm. Answer questions as simply as you can. A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ will suffice, and don’t elaborate if you don’t have to. Okay?”

  “Yes.” I clasped my hands on the table and willed them not to fidget.

  Finally the door pushed open. Buck sauntered in, followed by a female police officer.

  “Robbie, Jim. You know Wanda, right? I mean, Officer Wanda.” He gestured at her.

  He spoke so slow I thought maybe he was about to nod off midsentence. Wanda stood in front of the door without looking at us, her hands behind her back and her feet apart. Her distinctly female body was stuffed into the male-cut uniform like a sausage, and her hairdo matched mine, except hers was gelled into submission.

  Buck sat across from me, stretching his legs out, as always, and laid his tablet on the table. Scratching the back of his neck, he checked the corners of the ceiling.

  “All righty, then.” He pressed something on the tablet, spoke his name and rank, and stated the date. “Roberta Jordan, do I have your permission to record this interview?”

  I glanced at Jim. I hated to admit it, but I needed his help now. When he nodded, I said, “Yes.”

  Buck asked me to state my name and address.

  “Roberta Jordan, 19 Main Street, South Lick, Indiana.”

  He went through the same questions as Saturday night: Where had you been? Did you kill Stella? I answered him the exact same way.

  “Do you own a pin with a picture of a table and the words ‘Jeanine’s Cabinets’ on it?” He looked me in the eyes.

  I sat up straight. “I own a pen like that. Not a pin.” That was how he’d said it, even though it was rude of me to point it out.

  He gave an exasperated sound. “Don’t get fresh with me, now. Do you currently know where your pen is at?” He stressed the word, but it still sounded like “pin” to my ears.

  “No. I—” I cut myself off. Jim had said not to elaborate.

  “When was the last time you’re aware you were in possession of the pen?”

  “I put it in my apron pocket before the store opened Saturday morning.”

  “Did you have it Saturday night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you realize it was missing?”

  “Sunday night.”

  “Do you agree to let us test your DNA?”

  “Of course.” I opened my palms and leaned forward. “But listen, Buck. If it is my pen, my DNA will be all over it. Fingerprints, too. Which doesn’t prove . . . anything.” I thought it would be prudent not to let loose with a string of obscenities, but my anger had taken over for my nerves. “You need to find the DNA of the idiot who thought they could frame me for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  Buck sighed with a deep, mournful sound. “Do you know of anyone else who owns such a pen?”

  “No.” I glanced at Jim. The heck with his instructions. “You should ask Don O’Neill if he has one. He used to be friendly with my mother.” I wasn’t going to suggest Adele might have one, though. Let them figure that out. The murderer could be trying to frame her instead of me, and she’d been baking biscuits all morning Saturday.

  Buck raised his eyebrows all the way up to Canada. “I’ll ask you not to talk to anyone about this pen business,” he said. “Do I have your word?”

  “Of course, whatever. But there’s another thing.” Now I was on a roll. “Yesterday Corrine Beedle told me she heard Stella was ‘blackmailing half the men in town.’ Her words. There’s gotta be people around here with an actual reason to kill Stella. I sure didn’t have one.”

  Buck cleared his throat. “You might not know this, Robbie, since you’re still a newcomer to the state and all like that.”

  “I’ve lived here for three years.”

  Buck ignored me and went on. “We have a law against spiteful gossip.”

  Jim stared at him, swallowing as if he was trying not to laugh. He looked at me. “It’s true.”

  “You’d better tell Madam Mayor, then.” My breath was coming fast and furious now, with “furious” being the key word. “I’m just passing on what she said. She’s the gossiper, not me.”

  Chapter 13

  By the time Jim dropped me at home, the earlier gentle rain had turned into a real storm. I longed to head out on my bike, and let some sweat and some hills make me forget about the mess my life had become. But no way I was riding in this wind and rain, plus it was getting dark. I sat at the laptop in my apartment and prowled the Internet until I found a bike trainer that transformed a road bike into a stationary model. I’d seen the simple stands that the back wheel clicked into, with selectable
resistance levels, and I ordered one on the spot. It’d be useful all winter, and was way cheaper than a gym membership. Nashville had a YMCA, but I preferred exercising alone.

  I heard a scratching at the back door and froze. Someone trying to get in? Or maybe a branch in the wind? I was sure I’d locked it, but it only had a simple lock in the doorknob. If somebody really wanted to get in, I had no doubt they could. I reached out and switched off the lamp on the desk so I couldn’t be seen. The motion-activated light outside was lit up, although that could be from the branches waving in the wind. Or maybe from a murderer skulking around my windows. I shivered and grabbed for my bag, scrabbling in its depths for my phone.

  I heard the sound again. The loud meow that followed made me laugh at myself. I turned the light back on before I got up and let Birdy in, who gave the expression “as wet as a drowned rat” new meaning. His fluffy black fur was soaked and made him look about half the size he usually did. I found an old towel and rubbed him as dry as I could get him. I made sure I locked the door again, just in case the next sound wasn’t so innocent. Maybe my next purchase should be a dead bolt. And a cat door.

  I was still restless. I hated having to go to the police station. I couldn’t stand that I was living under even a hint of suspicion. Buck hadn’t given my ideas much credence, either. I was still upset with Jim at having withheld his knowledge of my pen’s discovery. And a killer was out there somewhere, a person who’d found it within himself or herself to take another person’s life.

  I paced my apartment, then went into the store. Wielding a feather duster, I wandered among the shelves of cookware. While everything was vintage, that didn’t mean it should be covered with dust. Reaching up, I dusted the top shelf, where I’d arrayed colorful cookie tins and trays. I straightened a collection of pastry cutters and another of choppers. I moved a couple of tart pans from the measuring-spoon section back to the shelves of baking pans. When I came to the meat grinder, I paused. I wanted to insert the Find the Murderer disk, pour all the information I’d learned into the hopper, and grind out the answer. Too bad life didn’t work that way. And so far, my puzzle master hat wasn’t really working, either.

  When my stomach notified me in no uncertain terms it was time for dinner, I put away the duster and returned to my personal kitchen. Birdy ran to his food bowl and gazed up at me with hopeful eyes. Looked like it was his dinnertime, too. I scooped out a cupful of dry food, but he bumped my hand as I poured it into the dish and half of it scattered on the floor.

  “Silly cat,” I said, kneeling to gather up the food and get it back into the bowl, where it belonged. I heated up the rest of the orzo for my own supper, then I grabbed the grater and added Parmesan on top. That and a glass of red was plenty. I brought the crossword I was working on to the table, but it didn’t feel right to do it without Mom’s pen. I should have asked Buck if I’d ever get the pen back.

  I took a bite of the orzo. Even though the basil in the pesto was still fragrant and the mouthfeel of the slippery little pasta shapes was usually something I loved, I barely tasted it. Despite the delicious ending to last night’s dinner with Jim, the about-to-sprout romance looked like it’d dried up and withered away. I shook my head. I’d lived without love in my life for more than three years. I knew how, whether I liked it or not.

  As I ate, I stared at the grid of squares on my clipboard. Some empty, some black, some I’d filled in. I looked at the clues, 110 of them in the Across list, and 114 in the Down.

  Clues. What about the Stella Murder puzzle? What would that one look like? I snapped my fingers and rose to dig a pad of graph paper out of my desk drawer. I’d bought it when I was designing the layout for the restaurant and store. I brought the paper back to the table, along with a sharp number two pencil and a clear blue ruler. I supposed there was an interactive puzzle design website out there somewhere. Wasn’t there an app for everything? But for me, using my hands with something more tactile than a keyboard engaged my brain in a different way than using my eyes on a screen.

  I drew a grid. I started jotting down what I knew under the clues section. Corrine disliked Stella intensely. Don hated Corrine for beating him in the mayoral race and, by extension, hated Stella. Ed’s restaurant now faced competition from mine. Someone either had access to Stella’s house, or was a local she knew well enough to let in. Roy Rogers was an odd bird.

  Then I added what I didn’t know: Who did Stella blackmail? Was Ed sexually harassing his female employees? Who stole my pen? Who killed Stella?

  By the time I ran out of facts and questions, my plate was empty and my glass was, too. No answers were apparent, but my mind was more at ease for laying it out in a format that was as familiar to me as my own name. I stood and headed back into the store to do prep for tomorrow. I had tables to set, biscuit dough to prep, gravy to make, and my alarm was going to ring loud and early. At least now I thought I’d be able to sleep.

  I unlocked the front door of the store at a few minutes before seven, turning the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Danna had arrived promptly again, and we’d been working together for half an hour. I pushed the door open wide and took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. The storm had blown through, leaving a chilly but sparkling clean fall morning. The trees looked cleaner, too, since last night’s wind had blown off half their leaves. We might have just slid past peak leaf-peeking. Adele’s old Ford Explorer rattled up, the sides streaked with mud. She climbed out of one side, while Vera emerged from the other.

  Adele and I exchanged a hug. “Couldn’t stay away?” I smiled at her and greeted Vera.

  “We’re hungry,” Adele said. “We’ve been out birding already. Thought we’d better fill up the tanks before we head back out.”

  They both wore sturdy outdoor boots and warm coats. Vera’s neck was wrapped in a brilliant purple scarf and I spied a field guide stuffed in her coat pocket.

  “See anything good?” I asked.

  “We got the Wilson’s warbler, and a Savannah sparrow.” Vera patted her pocket. “That one’s a life bird for me.”

  “I’m happy for you. No idea what either of those birds is, but come on in.” I gestured them in ahead of me. “You’re the first customers of the day.”

  Vera headed for the restroom as Adele strolled to the grill. “’Morning, Danna.” She smiled at the young woman busy turning sausages. “You the new kitchen help?”

  “Hey, Ms. Jordan.” Danna gave her a big smile. “Robbie’s trying me out.”

  “Of course you know each other.” I shook my head. “Does anybody in this town not know everyone else?”

  “Nope. Danna’s school used to bring the kids out to see my lambs every spring.” Adele snitched a hot sausage and tossed it back and forth between her hands before biting off half of it.

  “Hey, sit down and order, lady.” I shooed her over to a table, then brought the freshly brewed coffee and poured. “Vera too?”

  Adele pointed to Vera’s cup as she chewed the sausage. I looked over. Vera still hadn’t emerged, so I leaned closer to the table.

  “Did my mom ever send you one of her pens? You know, from the shop?”

  She cocked her head. “That’s a funny question. But yes, she did.”

  I must have looked interested, because she went on. “Don’t get your hopes up. It got run over once and I threw it away. Why do you ask?”

  I gazed at her for a minute. “My ‘Jeanine’s Cabinets’ pen was found in Stella’s house. Somebody stole it and planted it there.”

  The door pushed open with a jangle and three workmen clomped in. Bacon sizzled on the grill, and the timer dinged, telling me the biscuits were done.

  Adele shook her head, looking as somber as a funeral director. “That’s bad news, honey.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I headed over to the new customers. I called over my shoulder to Adele, “Come back during the morning lull if you can? I need to talk to you, but I can’t now.”

  “Will do.”

  “’Morning, g
entlemen.” I mustered my inner cheery proprietor and came up with a smile for the workmen, who wore the green-and-white REA logo on their shirts. I’d had great service from the Brown County Rural Electrical Association. “I’m glad you’ve stopped in for breakfast. Can I start you off with coffee?” After they nodded, I poured from the pot I still held in my hand, emptying it. I took their orders and headed back to the grill area.

  So the only pen in town was mine. Damn. Unless Don owned one, of course. But how could I find out?

  Danna took the biscuits out and slid them into the shallow warming oven. I clipped the new orders to the wheel, started a fresh pot of coffee, threw a waiting pan of biscuits into the oven, and finished slicing the mushrooms I’d been working on when seven o’clock had rolled around. My brain was as busy as my hands, though, and it wasn’t thinking about breakfast.

  In a couple of minutes, the three orders were done and I carried two platters to the table. “Pancakes and sausage,” I said, setting it in front of one man. “And the Kitchen Sink omelet with biscuits, gravy, and bacon?”

  “Mine,” said the heftiest one of the three.

  I left his order and brought over the final breakfast, two scrambled eggs, with home fries and fruit salad.

  “Looks super, miss,” said the recipient. “This is George, and Ray, and I’m Abe. Abe O’Neill.” He smiled with big brown eyes, a dimple creasing his right cheek. Looking to be in his thirties, he was lean and tan with wavy hair the color of walnuts, and his left hand was bare of gold. A little flutter of attraction in my midsection shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as it was.

  “Nice to meet you all. I’m Robbie Jordan. And I love REA. You all were really helpful when I was setting up here over the last few months.”

  “We’re a cooperative. Being helpful is part of our mission,” Abe said. When George rolled his eyes, Abe said, “It is, truly.”