Flipped For Murder

by Maddie Day

  She tossed her head to indicate something behind her. “You have to trade places. I’m not talking to him.” She grabbed a clean apron from the box, threw it on, and started the sink water running a little too hard, scrubbing her hands like she was punishing them.

  I twisted to see Ed Kowalski examining the menu at a table by himself.

  “Gotcha.” I pointed to the orders. “The two specials platters are up next.” I also ditched the grease-stained apron I’d been wearing for a fresh one. Poor Danna. No woman should have to put up with harassment. He’d better not try anything on me.

  I adjusted my hat and grabbed the order pad and pen. We could have gone hi-tech and used a digital ordering system, but a tablet for every table was expensive, and who needed a digital device mounted next to the grill? It’d be a wreck, full of grease splatters and flecks of batter in a week. Or a day, more likely.

  I steered for Ed’s table. “’Morning, Ed. Decided to eat out again today?”

  “Thought I’d see how the competition was doing after a week.” His mouth smiled, but his little eyes didn’t.

  “Things are going pretty well.” I waved the order pad at the other nine tables, every one of them with at least two customers seated. A party of six men occupied the biggest table.

  “Can you put together a small sample portion of everything you’ve got?” He frowned at the breakfast menu.

  “Seriously?” I raised my eyebrows. “You are checking out the competition. You want five omelets?”

  “No, of course not.” He blinked and stabbed at the menu. “Give me the Kitchen Sink, but with only one egg. And a couple of pancakes, bacon and sausage, white toast, biscuits, meat gravy. Like I said, one of everything, but small-sized. When I came in on opening day, all I tried were the biscuits, gravy, and eggs.”

  “I can’t do a Kitchen Sink omelet with one egg. It won’t hold it.” I set my hands on my hips.

  “Whatever.” Ed waved a hand. “And coffee, of course.”

  “Of course,” I muttered as I headed toward the coffee station. “A ‘please’ would have been nice.”

  One of the white-haired men at the large table waylaid me with an “Oh, miss?” and a smile that could have lit up a dark night in January, so I changed course. Ed and his sampler breakfast would have to wait.

  “How’s everything?” I asked after introducing myself.

  “Delicious.” The man patted his nicely rounded midsection with both hands, a plate of half-demolished pancakes in front of him. “Super delicious. Miss Jordan, we wondered”—he glanced at his tablemates, several of whom bobbed their heads in agreement—“we’re a men’s breakfast and Bible club, and we wondered if we could reserve this table for eight o’clock every Friday morning. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “That sounds like a good idea to me.” Several paperback New Testaments lay on the table, along with a couple of well-thumbed black Bibles. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  He beckoned to me to lean in and lowered his voice. “We used to meet in Nashville at”—he tilted his head toward Ed across the room—“at another establishment, but we like it here better. Samuel recommended we give you a try.” He pointed at one of the men.

  “I’m glad you’re pleased with Pans ‘N Pancakes, and I’m happy to reserve the table for you all. I’ll make up a special sign and put it out every week. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect. We’re much obliged.”

  “Are you always six, or are there more? The table seats up to eight.”

  “Never more than eight.”

  “Perfect, then. I’ll be right back with more coffee, gentlemen. Anything else I can get you?”

  One man held up his juice glass, and another asked for a refresher on his tea, thanking me for my trouble. At the far end of the table, a slender man with dark skin and a full head of wiry grizzled hair waved me over.

  “Is my grandson working today?” He smiled up at me. “You know, Philostrate?”

  “Oh, Phil. No, he’s not a regular employee, but he does make the desserts for lunch. And I’m sure you know he designed our logo and did a lot more to help me get started.” I smiled back. “He’s a good friend.”

  He extended his hand. “I’m Samuel MacDonald. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ll tell Philostrate his recommendation was well-founded.”

  I shook his hand and thanked him before I bustled away. I sure wasn’t about to turn away a weekly group of polite and hungry Christians, especially one including Phil’s grandfather. Ed might not like it, but fair was fair in the free-market economy.

  I handed Ed’s order to Danna. When she frowned at it, I added, “He said he wants a small portion of everything on the menu. Not every omelet, just the Kitchen Sink.”

  “He’ll never change his own menu, or the quality,” she said, sliding the spatula under a cheese omelet and flipping it with care. “I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to accomplish by tasting your much better breakfasts.”

  “I don’t, either. But he’s a paying customer.” I wrinkled my nose. “Or not. He comped my breakfast at his place the other day. I guess I’ll have to return the favor.” I leaned close to Danna. “Give him really small portions, okay?” A giggle slipped out.

  She snorted. “You got it. He’ll be lucky if I don’t spit in it.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you, but let’s not get carried away. I don’t want to get sued.”

  A few minutes later, after bringing Ed his coffee, topping up drinks at the Bible table, clearing another table, and making change for a third, I loaded up my arms with Ed’s order.

  “Here you go.” I set the plates on the table. I carried over a jam and syrup caddy from the table that just vacated, then turned to go.

  “Any news about the murder case?” Ed asked, his eyes on his food. “I heard you’ve been asking a lot of questions around.”

  “Not really. And I don’t have any news.” I gazed at him. “They’re way past the forty-eight-hour window, though.”

  His gaze met mine for the first time.

  “I read somewhere if they don’t solve a crime in the first two days, they’re unlikely to,” I added.

  “I’m surprised you’re still out walking free after they found your pen at Stella’s place.” He forked a bite of omelet into his mouth.

  “What? I sure didn’t leave it there,” I said. “If I killed her, you think I’d be stupid enough to leave my own pen at the scene of the crime?”

  “Any murderer can’t be too smart in the first place, don’t you think?” He looked at me, speaking with his mouth open as he chewed.

  I barely kept myself from squeezing my eyes shut. “Enjoy your breakfast, Ed. It’s on the house.”

  I turned away and busied myself clearing dirty dishes and greeting a new group who walked in. The next time I heard the bell on the door jangle, I glanced over to see Ed’s back passing through it. Talked with his mouth full and couldn’t even be bothered to thank me after he shoveled in his samples. I strolled to the front window to see him climb into a shiny black car parked in the HANDICAPPED slot next to the ramp I’d built. I stared at the front license plate. Even through the downpour I could make out KCSTOR. That had to be for Kowalski’s Country Store. The same plate and the same shiny black car that nearly ran me off the road on Sunday. Which had to be a coincidence. Because if it wasn’t, trouble was seriously brewing right here in River City. Or Brown County, as the case may be.

  I flipped through the e-mail in-box on my phone a couple of hours later. Nothing from Roberto, and refreshing the display didn’t change the results. I’d checked first thing when I got up this morning—maybe he’d replied when he first checked his own e-mail—but my speeding pulse was disappointed when I couldn’t see a single thing from Italy. My texts and voice mail were as empty then as they still were now.

  The image of Ed’s black car popped back into my brain like an evil jack-in-the-box. And about as creepy, too. He couldn’t be so worried about his own r
estaurant he’d try to run me off the road. Nah. Or could he?

  A pan clattered onto the floor with a bang, breaking my reverie. Danna bent over to retrieve it, calling out, “Sorry.” One lone customer sat, nursing his coffee and paging through this week’s Sentinel, which he must have brought in, since my copy still sat rolled up in a rubber band inside the plastic sleeve they used when it rained. I glanced at the big wall clock.

  “Hey, we haven’t gotten our delivery, have we?” I said, walking toward the desk. “It’s already ten-thirty.”

  Danna shook her head. She focused on scrubbing the pan she’d dropped.

  “Seems late. We’re in trouble for lunch if it doesn’t come, right?”

  “Buns, salad, cheese.”

  “And the tuna I wanted. I’d better call them.”

  “Yeah.”

  I glanced at her. The delivery could wait a minute. I moved to her side and lowered my voice. “You okay?”

  She gave a particularly vigorous swipe to the pan in the sudsy sink. “I wish there was a way to get back at Ed. He’s abusive. He’s an awful boss and he serves shi . . . um, garbage for food. He should be out of business. I hated having to even see him this morning.”

  I reached up and patted her back. “I’m sorry you had to work for him. And glad you’re out of there. I can’t really forbid him from coming in here, but I doubt he’ll be around much, if that’s any help.”

  She blew out a breath. “Thanks, Robbie.” Her usual competent and slightly cocky expression returned as she looked down her shoulder at me, the topaz stud in her nose sparkling. “Now go call the supplier or we’ll be serving garbage for lunch, too. Or at least orphaned burgers.”

  I laughed and headed for the desk. A minute later I said, “The truck’s on its way, had to detour around a bridge that washed out in Beanblossom.”

  The man reading the paper paid his ticket, giving me a funny look as he did so, and departed, leaving the Sentinel, as well as a tip, on the table. I cleared and wiped his table, tucking the Sentinel under my arm, and put the money in the jar. I was caught up until the supplies came, so I sat and straightened out the paper. The top story was about Stella’s murder, of course, since she was killed after the last edition of the paper came out. I read through the article, not expecting to learn anything new, but curious about how they would report it.

  Holy bovine. No wonder that guy gave me a strange look. I squinted at the paper and reread the third paragraph:

  Police consider South Lick newcomer Roberta Jordan a person of extreme interest in the case. It was her biscuit in the victim’s mouth. It was Jordan who’d had ongoing conflict with Stella Rogers. And Officer Bird has hinted at other evidence implicating Jordan that he said he’s not at liberty to reveal. Jordan’s newly opened restaurant, quaintly named Pans ‘N Pancakes, might not be long for South Lick, after all.

  This was a news story? I heard Mom’s voice in my head: “Consider the source, honey. Consider the source.” Biased reporting in a small-town weekly notwithstanding, everybody in town read it. If residents hadn’t heard of my involvement in the murder before, they certainly knew about it now. Maybe there wouldn’t be any more breakfast rushes or lunch rushes, either. I set my forehead in my hand, elbow on the table, and stared at the paper.

  When the truck rumbled up to the service door at the side of the building a few minutes later, I folded the paper so the sports section was on the outside and rose to receive my order, almost missing hearing the bell on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder, groaned, and then kept right on going. Buck Bird was the very last person in the universe I wanted to talk to, because I sincerely doubted that he’d dropped by only for a plate of pancakes.

  By the time I put away the deliveries, Buck was settled at a table, his legs stretched out to Kentucky, a breakfast platter in front of him already half eaten. Maybe he was only here for food, after all. Fine with me.

  After I waved to him, I washed my hands and rough chopped scallions. Then I cut the half-frozen tuna into cubes. Kind of unrealistic to expect fresh seafood smack in the middle of the country. Heck, the middle of the continent. But when tuna was flash frozen at sea, it kept fine for something like fish cakes or tuna burgers. I missed California red snapper fresh from the pier, though, or a creamy halibut steak. I fed the tuna into the institutional food processor, along with the scallions, a couple of lemons’ worth of juice, mayo, capers, Dijon mustard, dried dill, and bread crumbs.

  Damn. I hadn’t gotten a chance to check my e-mail in a while. The more time that elapsed without an answer from Roberto, the less likely it was I’d ever get one. I pulsed the processor, whirring the mix together. His e-mail address could have been old. Maybe he didn’t teach at Pisa University anymore. Or he was on sabbatical somewhere. Or he was married to a jealous wife, who didn’t want him to reply. Or he just didn’t care. I did want to know about Stella’s involvement with Don, but I imagined they’d simply been friends.

  I pulsed a couple more times, merging the flavors, reducing the textures to an even mix, then stopped before it turned to mush. I could have used the meat grinder on the cookware shelves, but this was faster. A shadow fell over my work. A tall-enough shadow it could only be Buck. I twisted my head around and up.

  “Yes?” I turned my whole self to face him before I got a crick in my neck.

  “Guess you saw the story in the paper,” he drawled.

  “I sure did. Guess everybody else in town did, too. So you’ve been hinting at evidence, have you?”

  “Of course not. You know how reporters are. They twist every cussed thing you say.”

  “Seems to me you’d better find the person who killed Stella, and soon, or I’m going to lose business faster than green grass through a goose.”

  “I sure wouldn’t want you to have to close.” His tongue swiped at a crumb of biscuit at the edge of his mouth before he wiped it off with a brush of his hand. “Your breakfasts bring me in mind of my grandmama’s, God rest her soul. I used to spend summers with her down in Floyds Knobs. Just across the Ohio River from Louisville.”

  I might have acquired a few local expressions, but I sure as heck didn’t say the name of the biggest city to the south as “LOW-uh-vull” with the L sound swallowed at the end. But then again, this part of Indiana was almost Kentucky, so it made sense Buck sounded more Southern than Midwestern.

  “Are you making any progress on the murder?” I had the feeling there was something else I wanted to ask Buck, but I couldn’t think of what it was. I lined a deep rectangular container with a length of plastic wrap and reached for a spatula. Scraping the fish mixture into a bowl, I began to form patties, laying them side by side in the container. “Maybe you should, you know, call in the state police or something.” I filled the first layer and laid more wrap on top of it.

  “Don’t think we’re going to need them. We’re starting to get somewhere.”

  I glanced up from my work and rubbed the side of my forehead with the back of one hand. “Oh?” A caper fell off my hand to the floor.

  “Had a eyewitness place someone going into Stella’s house the afternoon she got herself killed.”

  “Who was it?” They needed to solve this case, and soon.

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “What about the DNA on my pen? Is that going to help?”

  “Ah, that’s a problem. State lab’s all backed up.” Buck shook his head. “Won’t get results for quite some time. Could take longer than a visit from my mother-in-law.”

  “Didn’t realize you were married.” I checked his left hand. Sure enough, a gold band encircled his finger. “Stella was shot, so you must be looking into the gun. What kind it was, size of the bullets, stuff like that.”

  He laughed. “You sure don’t know dang-all about firearms, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Answer my question.” I resumed working, but I formed the next patty with a little too much force and it squished out between my fingers. I swore and scraped the mix off my finge
rs and back into the bowl.

  “Yes, Robbie, we’re looking into the weapon.”

  I glanced across the room, where Danna moved from table to table. She hummed softly as she laid out fresh silverware packets and checked the salt and pepper shakers on each table, getting ready for lunch. Wires trailing out of her ears led to her apron pocket.

  “Danna said Corrine goes shooting regularly,” I said in a soft voice. “Sometimes with Ed Kowalski.”

  “Do you think Corrine killed Stella?” he asked softly. “It’s the odd person who don’t own a gun around here, you realize. Persons like you.”

  “Corrine sure as heck didn’t like Stella. Told me she should have been able to pick her own assistant.”

  “Well, we’re investigating all possibilities. I expect we’ll make a arrest any day now.”

  Whether he meant it or not, I still had lunch to prep. An arrest would be great—as long as it wasn’t my own. And from Buck’s comment about how he wouldn’t want me to have to close shop, I guessed he wasn’t expecting to arrest me, either.

  Chapter 21

  By noon the place was bustling. Every table held customers, and a party of four browsed the cookware shelves, waiting for seats to open up.

  “The sign must be doing the trick,” I said to Danna when she delivered an order to the grill. I’d posted a sandwich board out front an hour earlier with a notice about the tuna burger special.

  “You hooked that up,” she answered, offering a high five.

  I slapped her hand, but wrinkled my nose. “What does that mean?”

  She laughed. “It means you did a good job with it. How old are you, anyway?” She turned back to the tables.

  Twenty-seven, to be exact. But eight years made a big difference in knowing teenage slang. Plus I’d been working and supporting myself for a long time. Now that I owned a business, I felt a lot older than I might have if I were still in school, or out traveling and exploring the world, living carefree like there was no tomorrow.