Flipped For Murder

by Maddie Day

  “Hey, good luck. Let me know how it goes, okay?” She pushed open the restroom door.

  I told her I would and headed toward Danna. The next hour got crazy—cooking, delivering, making change, wiping down, and trying to keep up with the dishes. I might have to start serving on paper soon, myself. I gave a quick call to Adele to see if she could come by to rescue us, but she didn’t pick up. When I tried Phil, he said he was too busy, that Corrine had roped him into baking dozens of desserts for the fund-raiser. And that was the extent of my emergency help list.

  But we made it through alive. I sold more corn fritter pans, managed to calm down a couple of hunters whose orders we mixed up, and nearly sold out of Phil’s Kahlúa brownies. By one-thirty my stomach was complaining something fierce, as usual, and only a couple of tables were occupied.

  “Danna, take a break and eat, why don’t you?” I tried to elbow her away from the sink.

  “Nah, I’m good. I ate during the lull, and I’m playing volleyball this afternoon. Don’t want to have a full stomach.” She adjusted the yellow bandana she wore tied in back under her dreads, which today she’d braided into a fat plait.

  “You’re going to play volleyball after working like a maniac since before the sun came up?”

  “Sure. My friends and me? We play every Saturday.”

  I whistled and threw a turkey patty onto the grill. “Well, I’m going to eat. And I’m not playing volleyball at two-thirty, I’ll tell you. Although, I wish I could get out for a long ride one of these afternoons.”

  “See? Same thing. We both need to stretch it out, get the heart rate up. We just do it in different ways.”

  “You got that right.” A couple minutes later I sank into a chair with my lunch. I was halfway through it, munching on a crispy pickle, when Abe appeared in the doorway, this time wearing old jeans and a plaid shirt. I waved at him and he approached my table.

  “Corrine roped me into hanging a banner across Main Street.” He shook his head.

  “For the fund-raiser?”

  “With the company’s cherry picker. Seems a little late, seeing as how it’s tonight.”

  “No kidding. Right here in this restaurant, too.” I yawned. “I have work to do later. Will you be there?”

  “Of course. It’s for a good cause, right? Hey, got any of those left?” He sat across from me and pointed at my burger.

  “Sure. Turkey, beef, or veggie?”

  “Beef, of course, with cheese on top. Where do I look like I’m from, California?” He laughed.

  I laughed, too. He looked every bit the picture of a healthy Midwestern man, especially with that dimple going on.

  “Back in a flash.” I grabbed one more bite of my burger, ignoring his plea as I walked away for me to sit and finish my own lunch first. It didn’t take long to fry up a beef patty, melt a slice of cheddar, and assemble the plate. After I laid on a dill, and scooped hot fries out of the fryer, I carried it over to him.

  He thanked me and tucked in. I sat and did the same. When I finished my lunch, I said, “Can I ask you a question? You said something about Roy’s shotgun this morning. That’s what you use to go hunting with?”

  “Sure is, at least for grouse. For deer you use a rifle.”

  “What kind of gauge is the shotgun? Or maybe that’s the wrong way to say it.”

  “His is twenty. So’s mine. So are most grouse shotguns.” He looked at me sideways, neatly wiping a drip of ketchup from the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Why are you asking?”

  “Somebody shot at me last night in an alley downtown.”

  “That sucks. You’re all right, I assume, since you’re working and all.” Abe gazed at me.

  “I’m fine. They missed. But Buck recovered what he called a slug from the wall. Said it came from a twenty-gauge shotgun.”

  “Not a grouse gun, then. Those spray out shot pellets.”

  “Oh. But another kind of shotgun would shoot slugs?”

  “That’s right. You’re thinking Roy might have shot at you?”

  I nodded as if molasses had a hold of my head. “When I saw him standing in the doorway this morning before we were even open, with a big old gun hanging from his shoulder, it did not give me a warm and fuzzy feeling, I’ll tell you.”

  “He’s a bit odd, but I think he’s harmless. He’s been expressing a few unhappy thoughts about you, for sure, with regard to the store and all.” Abe narrowed his eyes. “An alley. Was it the alley behind the bank, the one near Walnut?”

  “That’s it. Did you hear about it at the station this morning?”

  “No, afraid not.” He selected a fry and slowly swished it in a figure eight through his ketchup.

  “Then how did you know where I was shot at?”

  He pointed the fry at me. Drops of red dripped one by one onto the table. “Those flats above the bank? That’s where Roy lives.”

  Chapter 26

  After Abe finished eating and left, I took a minute to call Buck. At least this time he was at the station.

  “You have to find Roy Rogers,” I said.

  “And why would that be?” he drawled.

  “Abe told me Roy lives in one of the apartments over the alley. And he was in here this morning with a shotgun.”

  “I’m actually way ahead of you. We know where he lives, and everybody knows he hunts. Has three more guns where that one came from, probably.” His tongue smoothed over the middle syllable, making it sound like “prahlly.”

  “So, are you going to question him?” I cleared my throat to try to settle myself.

  “We will, when we can find him.”

  “Oh, that’s just awesome. So a guy who might have shot at me last night is out wandering around with one of his many guns. Maybe he shot his own mother, too. He was the one who found her. Maybe he shot her himself and then claimed somebody else did.”

  “Robbie, we’re looking for him, okay? You just calm down there. You’re safe. I’ll try to send a patrol by the store every hour or so. That help?”

  “I guess.” Not really.

  “Don’t rightly think he killed his own mother, though.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You take care now. Thanks for being an alert citizen.” He disconnected.

  ROBERTA JORDAN, ALERT CITIZEN. Maybe I should add that to the sign out front. I glanced over when the cowbell jangled.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Adele called with a wave. Vera followed her in.

  I walked over to greet them, giving Adele a hug, and when Vera held out her arms, her too.

  “I just couldn’t stay away,” Vera said, “from the food or the pots and the pans. When I was home, I realized I needed a couple four additions to my kitchen.” She gestured to the cookware shelves.

  “Hungry?” I smiled at this welcome change in my world. Things couldn’t be all bad when two cheery, healthy, energetic senior citizens came to call.

  “Boy, howdy, are we ever,” Adele said. “I made Vera help me on the farm after she drove down this morning.”

  Vera whistled. “Those sheep are something. Stupid as all get-out.”

  “I was almost forced to use one of them kicks we learned when the ram wouldn’t leave me alone,” Adele said. At Vera’s look of confusion, she went on to explain. “Robbie and I took a self-defense class together last year. Learned how to break out of a hold, hit the eyes and the kneecap, and run fast.”

  “We sure did,” I said. “Hope I’ll never have to use what I learned, though.”

  “Always better to be prepared,” Vera said.

  “Well, sit down and tell me what you want.” I pointed to the board. “Danna whipped up an Asian soba-noodle salad as a special if you want that. With veggies and tofu.”

  “I want a big juicy turkey burger with all the fixings,” Adele said, patting her stomach. “Got any beer to go with?”

  I laughed. “I wish.” I checked the clock and the rest of the tables, which were empty, and it was almost closing time. “Oh, heck, I have be
er in my personal fridge. Vera, you too?”

  “Why not? And I’ll take the Asian noodle salad. Sounds yummy.”

  “Deal.” I walked over to Danna and gave her the orders, thanking her. Then I fetched three beers from my apartment. When I was back in the restaurant, I poured them into the heavy plastic glasses we used for pop. Danna looked at me with a raised eyebrow pierced with a tiny silver ring.

  “Don’t tell anybody.” I gave her a mock frown before carrying the drinks to the table. “Cheers.” I sat and lifted my beer. We clinked, although it was more like a dull tap, then I took a long swig. That first one always tasted the best.

  “Any news about Roberto?” Adele asked. “And yes, I took the liberty of telling Vera about your history.”

  Vera nodded encouragingly.

  “I heard from his daughter.” I told them about his hospitalization. “I haven’t had a free minute to call yet. Hoping to this afternoon. Like between now and when this crazy fund-raiser gets under way.”

  “Shee-it, I hope he’s okay.” Adele pulled her eyebrows together. “After all that.”

  “Me too.” I swallowed, more to get rid of the lump in my throat than the beer in my mouth. “So, are you both supporting Corrine tonight and coming for this gala?”

  They looked at each other. “Of course,” Vera said at the same time as Adele said, “I guess.”

  I laughed. I told them about the arrangements for the Nashville Inn appetizers and how Jim was going to help set up. Danna brought over the plates, Adele’s burger sending up little heat waves, and Vera’s light brown noodles glistening in their sesame-soy dressing with carrot and pea pod slivers mixed in.

  “Take a load off, honey,” Adele said to her.

  “Okay,” Danna said, and pulled out the fourth chair.

  “Good for you for taking a break,” I said. “I wish I could give you tomorrow off, but judging from today and last Sunday, I’m afraid I’m going to need you.”

  “No probs.” Danna waved her hand. “I like the work. And if I hadn’t been here today, you know my mom would have roped me into doing her errands for tonight.”

  The place was finally empty. I almost had to push Danna out the door, telling her I’d finish the cleanup after Adele and Vera left. Vera bought the meat grinder and a couple of tin pie pans stamped with MRS. WAGNER’S PIES. She was looking longingly at a pastry wheel and a vintage lemon press, but said her husband would kill her if she brought anything else home. I’d turned the sign to CLOSED, making sure the door was securely locked, trying it three times to make sure. Then the appliance truck pulled up to the wide service door and I needed to postpone calling Italy even longer while two burly guys disconnected and carted away the old dishwasher, then hooked up the new one.

  When they’d tested the connections by starting a cycle and nothing leaked, I about hugged them for showing up so soon. I gave them each a tip, instead, along with my thanks. This time I made sure the service door was securely locked before heading to my computer. And my father’s telephone number.

  Instead of my brain, it was now my heart clacking as fast as the Wabash Cannonball coming down the tracks. I stared at Graciela’s last message on the laptop and drew my phone out. I pressed the numbers as carefully as my shaking finger would let me. A three-part tone rang, however, telling me it was necessary to add the country code to dial outside the United States.

  I swore, then sank into the desk chair. After a minute of searching yielded up 39 for Italy, I dialed again.

  It rang. And rang. I wasn’t going to give up, not now. I kept listening.

  “Pronto.” The man’s voice was faint.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Alo?”

  “Is this Roberto Fracasso?” I managed to get out.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Robbie Jordan.” I couldn’t go on.

  “You are Jeanine’s daughter?” His speech sounded Italian, whatever that meant.

  “I am.” Now what?

  “And she is dead. I am very sorry.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask, what is your father’s name?”

  Ahh. “I never knew him. Or his name.”

  “Ahh.” He laughed, but it was a weak sound.

  “You look like me. Your mother and I, we were sweethearts.”

  “I saw your picture.”

  “Jeanine, she didn’t tell to you about me?”

  “No. I wish she had.”

  “I think maybe I am that father of yours. But she never wrote to me about you.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. My breath rushed in and out, heavy and fast.

  “Robbie, you are there?”

  I sniffed away the tears. “I’m here. I wondered if it was true, that you might be my father.”

  “I wish she’d let me know. So you are twenty-seven?”

  “Yes. I wish she had told you about me, too.”

  “I have missed all these years of knowing you.”

  “We both have. Your daughter told me you’re sick, in the hospital. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you improving?”

  “I hope so, but they are not sure. It’s a bad infection in my foot. They might have to cut it off.”

  I cringed and sucked a breath in. “I hope not.”

  “Tell me, Robbie, how did you find me?”

  “I was looking for information on my mom and a man named Don O’Neill. I think you lived with his family?”

  He said something in Italian that sounded a lot like a person swearing. “He did something very bad to me.”

  I waited. Sounded like my guess was true. I finally spoke. “Did it have to do with the accident at the quarry?”

  “It was not an accident, cara. Donald was angry I was loving your mother, Jeanine. He hit me on the head and pushed me in. I was lucky I did not die or become paralizzato.”

  “Paralyzed. Was my mom there?”

  “No, no. It was that Stella. She’s a bad one, too. She must have seen him do it. Or convinced him to push me.”

  “She was killed last week. Murdered.” I heard his quick intake of breath.

  “I am not surprised. You ask Donald what happened. I make a bet he still lies about it.” I heard a noise in the background, and Roberto conversed in Italian with someone. He came back on the line. “Robbie, I must go. More examinations.”

  “Okay. Please get better.”

  “I will do my best. I am full in my heart to talk with you. When I am better, you will come to visit me, yes?”

  “Yes.” He disconnected. I stared at the computer in front of me, not seeing it. My heart quieted as I stroked the edge of the desk with one finger. I had a father. He wanted to see me. I had a half sister and nephew, too, and maybe other siblings. I hoped they’d want to get to know me.

  And Don O’Neill was a lying bastard.

  A knock on the door startled me out of my reverie. Who in the world? The knock became more insistent. I turned my head. Oh. Christina. Appetizers. Fund-raiser. The real world raised its insistent head, but somehow I knew I could handle whatever it threw my way. I had a father.

  Chapter 27

  “How about a glass of wine?” I asked after I helped Christina unload the boxes of frozen appetizers.

  She gave me a wistful look. “I wish. But it is Saturday, after all. And that wedding is coming right up. I expect I’ve messed up the schedule even bringing these by. Rain check?”

  “Of course. Thanks bunches for taking the time. And tell the management we’ll give them full credit.”

  “Way ahead of you, girlfriend. That envelope”—she pointed with her car keys—“contains stand-up labels with the name of each appetizer, ingredients in microscopic print for the allergic and paranoid, and ‘Donated by the Nashville Inn’ in bigger letters than the name of the food. The boss does not mess around when it comes to publicity.”

  I laughed. “Do I ever know that. I should take a lesson from her.”

  She headed for the door. “See you soon.” The bell cla
nged and she was gone.

  I laid the boxes out in a single layer and checked them. Dozens and dozens of finger foods, exactly as Christina had described them. Mini quiches. Buffalo mini drumsticks. Tiny, spicy meatballs. All I needed to do was heat them up and arrange them on serving trays. But I figured I really ought to contribute something from my kitchen, too, for my own reputation, if nothing else. Christina had suggested mini tuna sliders. I didn’t have any more tuna, but I could whip up tiny hamburgers and turkey burgers, and that would connect with my lunch menu. The vegetarians in the crowd, if there were any others besides Jim, would just have to settle for mini quiches.

  What to use for slider buns, though? Biscuits would likely crumble. I checked the clock, which read three forty-five, and ran a couple cups of warm water into a stainless-steel mixing bowl. In five minutes I’d assembled a simple yeasted dough, with olive oil and a few snips of fresh rosemary, which came from the pot out front, added for smoothness and flavor. I gave the dough a quick knead until it was shiny and slid it back into the bowl, which I’d rubbed with oil. After I turned the soft, warm mass over, leaving a sheen of oil on top, I covered the bowl with a clean, damp tea towel. The dough wouldn’t need more than an hour to rise, and less to bake. If I baked the buns in muffin tins, they’d be uniform little puffs, perfect for slicing and throwing a slider into.

  In the name of saving time later, I decided to cook the small patties now. I could keep them in the warmer and assemble the sliders right before the guests arrived. Which was supposed to be when? I glanced at the poster that Corrine’s flunky—I mean, intern—had taped to the wall, and groaned. In three hours is when. Nothing for it but to knuckle down, even though what I longed to do was return to my Stella Murder puzzle and see what else I could figure out. Instead, I switched on the opera, jacked up the volume, and began to roll golf balls of meat between my hands, pressing them flat onto a baking sheet.

  But you can’t keep a puzzler’s brain down on the farm for long. Ed. Don. Roy. Corrine. Their images popped up and down in my brain like an old-fashioned arcade game, and Stella was the name written in bright neon lights on top, the unifying force. Ed, who’d been friendly with her in the past, but denied it, and was now having trouble with his own restaurant on a bunch of fronts. Don, who’d tried to kill my own father—with Stella looking on. The same Don, now arrested for the murder he claimed he didn’t commit. Corrine, who owned guns. Corrine, who’d been investigated for killing her own husband and admitted to hating her difficult administrative assistant. And Roy. Was he off-balance enough to shoot his own mother? Why, to get her house? And if it was he who shot at me in the alley, why in the world? Did he really think knocking me off would finally get him my store? There was no way he’d be able to organize himself to run a place like this, I was pretty sure, unless he wanted to turn it into a gun shop or something.