Flipped For Murder

by Maddie Day

  “Dispatch. What’s your emergency?”

  My ears were ringing, but I could hear her through it. “Someone just took two shots at me. I was in the alley behind Main between Walnut and North Streets.”

  “Are you safe now?” she asked.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  She asked for my name and address, which I supplied. “Where are you at now?” she asked.

  “I’m walking to my friend’s condo, 180 Walnut. I’m almost there.” My voice wobbled as I walked, but I didn’t care. My legs wobbled, too.

  “We’ll send someone to check out the area. Did you see the shooter?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea who it might be?”

  “No!” How could I have an idea when I didn’t even . . . Oh. Stella was shot dead. Was I meant to be murder number two? No, I wasn’t about to get into a discussion of Stella’s murder with a dispatcher. “At least one of the shots went into the brick wall, though.”

  “The officer will call you at this number with further questions. You’re sure you’re safe now, Ms. Jordan?”

  “I’m not going into any more alleys, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Wise decision. Thank you for your call.” She disconnected.

  I’d never been so happy to see a building as when I arrived at number 180, although the two stores flanking the lit entrance were closed and dark, of course. I located Jim’s buzzer on the panel in the doorway and pressed it, leaning my shoulder against the wall.

  His tinny voice crept out of the speaker. “Robbie?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll buzz you in. Third floor, back.”

  A buzzer rasped and the door clicked. I pulled it open and hurried down a hallway with black-and-white tiles in a diagonal pattern on the floor. A large potted plant sat at the base of a well-lit marble stairway leading up. The walls were a clean white and the whole thing projected an airy, spacious feel, which helped me finally breathe again. When I hit the landing on the second floor, I glanced up to see Jim hanging over the railing one floor up.

  “Welcome to Hollywood,” he called.

  I kept climbing, my boots clacking on the marble. I hung on to the banister in case my legs gave way. When I reached the third and top floor, I said, “It does kind of remind me of Hollywood.” I handed him the wine, which miraculously I didn’t drop in my desperation to escape the shooter.

  “It’s the Art Deco period, the new modernism. This building was constructed in 1939 and I love it.” He took my hand, padded along the hall in his socks to an open doorway, and extended his other arm. “Mi casa.”

  I walked in ahead of him, letting go of his hand. When I spied a leather couch, I sank down onto it and let out a big breath.

  “Are you all right?” Jim hurried to my side. He peered down at me. “You look pale. Did something happen?”

  “Somebody took a couple of shots at me.”

  “What?” He plopped down next to me. “Are you hurt? Did you call the police? Where were you?” He stroked my forehead and ran his hand along the back of my head. That should have been a heavenly sensation, but I could barely feel it.

  “Hey, one question at a time. I’m not hurt. If they were aiming for me, they missed. Not by much, but that’s all that counts, right?” I smiled, but it didn’t have much strength behind it. “Yes, I reported it to a dispatcher. An officer might call me back.”

  “Was it at the store?” His pale eyebrows drew so close in the middle they almost merged.

  “No, the alley. I was cutting over to Walnut, behind Main. Not the best idea after hours, I realize.”

  “Oh, Robbie. If you’d been hurt, I—” He extended an arm behind me and wrapped the other one around me, hugging so tight I could hardly breathe.

  I finally managed to wriggle free. “But I wasn’t hurt. I sure want to know who took aim at me, though.”

  Forty minutes later I sat catty-corner from Jim at a small dining table near the window with the last, weak rays of daylight slanting through the trees above South Lick Creek. Candlelight reflected off our wineglasses as we dug into salmon steaks he’d gas grilled on the small deck cantilevered out from the building. A dish of roasted sweet potatoes with a curry treatment sat in the middle of the table next to a wooden bowl filled with salad. Goat cheese and dried cranberries peeked out of the greens. The beige place mats and forest-green napkins matched the simple masculine decor of the room.

  “This is super, Jim. Thank you.” I lifted my glass of Pinot Grigio.

  “Makes me nervous cooking for a chef, but I gave it my best effort.” He laughed as he matched my lift. “Here’s to you, Robbie.”

  “Here’s to not getting shot at.” I took a sip and set the glass down. I was recovering from the wobblies, but I couldn’t shake the shock of being someone’s target. “The shots angled downward and there aren’t any windows on the street level. Whoever it was must have been on one of the upper floors.”

  “I wonder who it was. The top floors of those buildings have flats in them.”

  “Any idea who lives there?” I savored a bite of the sweet potato. I’d never thought to use Indian flavors on the deep orange root, but it was a perfect match. For a moment the food took my thoughts away from the alley.

  “Well, they’re not fancy penthouses, I can tell you. More like bare-bones low rent.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.

  “More so, the question is, who would want to aim a gun at me? And then fire it.” I glanced at my phone, which lay still and dark on the far side of the table. “I’m surprised the police haven’t called me back yet.”

  “Could take them a while to check things out.”

  “Yeah, they might be busy with something else. I forgot to tell you I saw Wanda driving Don in a cruiser earlier today. And he was in the back. Does that mean they arrested him?”

  “Interesting. Yes, it might. I’m assuming it’s in connection to the murder.” He gazed at the now-dark window, running the thumb of his left hand over his fingernails.

  “If they arrested Don for the murder, then it wasn’t Stella’s murderer who shot at me.”

  “Unless . . .” He cocked his head.

  “Unless they got the wrong guy, I know. This afternoon I thought I was getting shot at, too.”

  “Really?”

  “I took a quick walk in the state park, and all of a sudden, I heard shots. I was out in the woods and I didn’t know if it was hunters or some lunatic aiming at me. My walk turned into a run trying to get back to my van. And then a ranger said it was only a youth target practice I heard. I felt pretty stupid.”

  “You couldn’t have known it was target practice.”

  “Too bad what happened on my way here wasn’t as innocent.” My phone lit up and vibrated, so I grabbed it and connected. I said “hello” and heard Buck’s voice in return. “Did you find my shooter?” I kept my gaze on Jim.

  “Nope. We checked out the apartments above the bank, though, and didn’t pick up any suspects, although a couple of the apartments are either empty or nobody answered the door. Did you get a sense of what kind of firearm they used?”

  “What? How would I know that? I don’t know the first thing about guns, remember? Can’t you, like, figure it out from the bullet hole in the wall?”

  “What bullet hole?”

  I slumped a little. “You didn’t look at the walls of the alley? I told the dispatcher one shot went into the brick wall.”

  “It’s a pretty long alley.” Static crept around the edge of his voice.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s only one block long. And I was down near Walnut. Maybe twenty yards away.” I tapped my fork against the side of my plate.

  “We’ll take a look in the morning.”

  “In the morning.” I rolled my eyes at Jim.

  “Yup. If you think of anything else you might have seen or heard, you call the station.”

  “I will. Hey, I saw Wanda driving Don O’Neill in a cruiser today. Did you arrest him for the
murder?”

  Jim leaned forward, forearms folded on the table.

  Buck didn’t speak for a minute. When he did, it was in a mournful tone. “Can you imagine for just a little minute why I can’t talk to you about that, Robbie?”

  “I have a valid reason for asking. If he’s the killer, then I’m not, right? I can put a sign on my door that says, ‘Okay to Eat Here. She’s Not Going to Murder You.’ I’ve been losing customers because I was a person of interest, at least according to the Sentinel.”

  He blew out a big, noisy breath. “Yes. We’re holding Don for the murder. But we have a long ways to go.”

  “Was he the person reported to have gone into Stella’s the day she was killed?”

  “That’s right. He says he didn’t kill her, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “That he simply went over to visit her.” Background noise flowed out of the phone. “Gotta go. We’ll look into your shooter as we can, Robbie. I’d advise—”

  “Staying out of alleys. I promise.”

  He disconnected and I filled Jim in on what Buck told me.

  “So they’re holding Don,” Jim said. “Interesting.”

  I gazed at the remnants of my interrupted dinner. “You wouldn’t even believe what Corrine cooked up for tomorrow.” I told him about the fund-raiser.

  “Poor timing,” Jim said. “I can’t believe she’s going to get much of a turnout.”

  “There was no stopping her. I don’t mind hosting the event. It’ll be good publicity.” I finished my last bite of salad and gazed at him. “Do you think Don would kill Stella?”

  “No idea. It’s hard to imagine why anyone would kill another being—you know me, I don’t even believe in killing animals for food—but we all know murder happens. I wonder if she was threatening him somehow.”

  I tapped my fork on the side of my plate and narrowed my eyes.

  Jim reached out and waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Robbie, come in, please.”

  I looked at him. “I found out something very interesting this week. Well, yesterday and the day before. Remember when I said I was going to the library? Well, I found a picture of Mom and Don, all right. And I think I also found my father.”

  His eyes went as wide as the Ohio River. “No kidding.”

  “No kidding.” I shook my head. “He’s an Italian named Roberto Fracasso. I look exactly like him. He was a Rotary scholar who stayed with Don’s family the spring before my mom moved to Santa Barbara—the year before I was born. And then I read about an accident at a quarry, where he was injured. A news article said Don jumped in and saved him.”

  “Amazing. This Roberto survived the accident, though? Quarries are awfully dangerous.”

  “He did. I kept digging, and found out he’s a professor in Tuscany. I sent him an e-mail, but he hasn’t responded.” I raised a shoulder and let it drop. “Last night when you called me? I thought it might have been him. Believe me, I wasn’t disappointed you called.” I laid my hand on Jim’s.

  “You were disappointed it wasn’t him.”

  I swallowed hard. I nodded, then took a sip of wine. “But back to the murder for a minute. I went over to the hospital in Bloomington and ran into a friend who works in the records department. She and I searched online until we found the information about his admission. I was sure it would have been Mom who called for help, but I was wrong. It was Stella. She’s the one who called the ambulance and came in with Roberto and Don.”

  He cocked his head. “I don’t get how that connects to Stella’s murder.”

  “I’m not sure. What if there was something fishy about the quarry accident? I think Don was dating Mom. Then this handsome Italian blows into town and she falls in love with him. Maybe Don pushed him in or whacked him on the back of the head. And Stella saw him do it. And she was blackmailing him all this time.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs and maybes, Robbie.”

  “You got that right. And it was all so long ago. I’m not sure how I’ll ever find out.”

  He turned his hand so our palms were facing and squeezed. “Do you have to?”

  “I guess not. None of my business, right? Buck has Don. Presumably, he has evidence. And it’s starting to look like Roberto doesn’t want to talk to me.” I blew out air. “I’ll just get back to what I’m supposed to be doing. Which is running a business. And speaking of that, tomorrow’s breakfast customers are going to be pretty unhappy unless I get home and get stuff ready.”

  Jim looked down. He pursed his lips and tapped the table, then he looked out into the dark, avoiding my eyes.

  Now I’d put a big old damper on his hopes for the evening. “I’m sorry. I’m not much of a dinner guest, talking about murder and the past the whole time. Plus I’m going to turn into a pumpkin any night when I have to open the next day. I think Sunday’s going to be a better date night, all things considered.”

  He looked back up and raised his eyebrows. “Did you just invite me out for Sunday?”

  “If you’re free.” I raised my eyebrows and smiled.

  “I believe I am. But I did make my special super-creamy coffee ice cream for you tonight. Sure you can’t stay a few more minutes? Then I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh, twist my Santa Barbara arm.” I smiled back. At least something was right in the world.

  Jim pulled up his Prius in front of the store and reached his right hand over to rub my shoulder. “Let me come in with you and make sure everything is okay.”

  “‘Okay,’ as in no murderers lying in wait? Or snipers?” I gave a little laugh, then frowned. “You don’t think . . .” I gazed at the dark building, lit from within only by the red glow from the EXIT sign that was always on and the pale light from the drinks cooler. I gave a quick glance at the street behind me, too.

  “No, I don’t think. But let’s make sure.”

  After I switched on the lights, we checked out the cooler, the restrooms, and my apartment.

  “Thank you,” I said as we walked back to the front door. “You were right. That does make me feel better.”

  “Good. You might think about motion-activated lights for the porch, too, and even one inside.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’ll put it on my to-do list.” We moved out onto the porch. “So, will you be coming to this crazy fund-raiser tomorrow?”

  “Why not? As long as Corrine doesn’t make me donate a day of lawyering or anything. How about I come over early and help out?”

  “I’d love that. Five o’clock?”

  He nodded, then he planted a long, delicious kiss on me before clattering down the steps.

  Smiling to myself, I locked up tight and puttered around the store, getting things ready. I set the tables, mixed up the perennial biscuit dough, and rummaged in the cooler. The tuna burgers hadn’t sold out, so I wiped the Specials chalkboard clean. I wrote: Spicy Tuna Hash. I could mix the fish with sautéed onions and garlic, use the potatoes that were getting soft, and add a bit of jalapeño. Not too much, though. This part of the country wasn’t known for a love of peppers, unlike where I’d grown up. I smiled, remembering when I’d challenged my friend Mike, a guy almost twice my size, to a pickled jalapeño contest in college. We sat across from each other, with a half-gallon jar of the pickled peppers between us. I looked him in the eyes, fished one out, and ate it. He returned the look and ate one. I ate one. Back and forth, until he finally caved right before I was about to. Then we went out for huge bowls of cool, soothing ice cream.

  I set my hands on my waist and looked around the store. If Corrine thought she was going to draw in a big crowd tomorrow, we’d have to make an open space where people could mingle. Jim and I could push all the tables to the periphery and serve the food on them. Or maybe Corrine would need them for the donations. The cabinet held a supply of white-and-blue paper tablecloths I’d ordered, just in case. Speaking of donations, I should donate a Pans ‘N Pancakes gift certificate. Whoever bid on it could use it either to buy cook
ware or a meal. I moseyed over to my office corner and fired up the computer and the printer. I’d created a gift certificate with our logo and a fancy border before the store opened, so now all I needed to do was print it out on half-sheet card stock.

  As the printer zoo-zooed its print heads, I took a deep breath and opened my e-mail. I stared at the in-box. Right up top was Regarding Jeanine Jordan, the subject line of the e-mail I’d sent to Roberto. But this one included a RE: in front of it.

  “Be still, my heart,” I said out loud, and patted my chest. I clicked open the message.

  Ms. Robbie Jordan.

  My father is Roberto Fracasso. He was in Indiana many years ago, yes. I do not know anything about your mother. My father is quite ill in hospital now with infection. We do not know if he gets better. He told to me if you want to call him he will talk with you. Write back to me for the number if you will telephone.

  Graciela Fracasso Molteni

  Graciela. My half sister. I read the message over and over, my eyes filling with hot tears, my heart thudding. My father ill with an infection in the hospital, an illness he might not survive. I’d just found him and now I might lose him. But he said he would talk with me. The words blurred on the screen until I tore my sleeve across my eyes. I stood and paced around the store. I wanted to get in my van, drive to Indianapolis, buy a plane ticket (no matter the cost), and fly to that hospital in Tuscany. Or get Scotty to beam me up and plop me down there now, right now. Infections were bad. And hospitals could make them worse. What if I never got to meet him?

  Instead, I sat and read the message again. And again. Finally, fumbling with the keys, I typed a short reply: Please send me the hospital name and number. And his room number. As soon as possible.

  I went back and added Thank you, Graciela to the beginning. I wanted to stay on this woman’s good side. On a new line I started to type, And tell him, but then I shook my head and erased it.

  Tell him what? That he was my father? That I love him? I’ve never even met him. Graciela would think I was crazy and I’d never get his phone number. The time in the corner of the monitor read 10:10. She’d sent it at six, late at night in Italy. And right after I’d left for Jim’s.