Murder on the Ol' Bunions (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery)

by S. Dionne Moore

  That’s when I finally noticed the red light blinking on the answering machine. I leaned forward to press the play button.

  Hi, Momma.

  The voice of my youngest girl, Lela.

  Just got in from a late class and wanted to tell you I can’t come home during Easter vacation. There’s some Algebra I need help with and the tutor is willing to work through the holiday with me. It’s free, too, so I can’t pass this up. I’ll miss you, Momma. Tell Pop to stay out of trouble.

  She wasn’t coming home for the holiday.

  My eyes locked on the bevy of pictures on the dresser across the room as the answering machine beeped its conclusion. Two wedding pictures—Tyrone and Cora, Bryton and Fredlynn. Seven high school graduations—all seven of my babies. Five college—Tyrone, Bryton, Shakespeare, Mason, and Shayna. Lela’s picture would be there in three and a half more years. Mason, our second youngest son, would graduate in a year.

  Mine would be there soon, too. Hardy had encouraged me to fulfil my dream and get my degree. Dear, dear man. His selflessness made it possible, scholarships made it feasible, and my job at Marion’s had covered the rest. Until I’d quit. . . Been fired. . . Whatever.

  But even the fulfillment of my dream didn’t cover the throb of my disappointment. Lela wouldn’t be home for the holiday. For the first time I could remember, not all my babies would share the Easter holiday with Hardy and me. I forced the disappointment away. After all, the others would be here, plus Cora and Fredlynn, so that would make eight. Still . . .

  My eyes drifted to the pictures again and the burn of tears threatened. But I had no time for all that, my latest college assignment needed to be completed before tomorrow morning, when I would meet with my virtual professor and classmates. An essay on the intricacies of photographing a murder scene. And what good timing.

  The textbook would tell me what I needed to know, sure, but. . .

  Chief Conrad’s photographer would be the best source. Other than the newly hired Mac Simpson, “Tank” Nelson was the only other officer employed by Maple Gap, and he had been a photography enthusiast for years.

  On my walk back from Dana’s, the presence of two state police cars and yellow crime scene ribbon let me know that the state police had arrived from Denver. One of the uniformed men had been taking pictures, “Tank” Nelson at his side.

  I gave a little bounce on the mattress that helped jettison me to my feet. Starting the paper wouldn’t be a problem, just get me in my kitchen. I worked best there. Plucking up my books and papers, I made myself a good cup of mocha, and settled at the sturdy oak dining table to sip and compose an introductory paragraph.

  I scratched out a rough paragraph, rolling the words through my mind as I rose to cook. My best thinking happens when I cook. Dragging out a huge pot, I began mentally checking off the list of ingredients needed for a good, hearty stew. I chopped vegetables, then jotted a few notes for my paper and wrote a couple of paragraphs. Next break, I pressure-cooked chicken while I mixed and rolled dumplings, then wrote for an hour as the stew and chicken and dumplings simmered.

  The tantalizing smells energized me and the words formed in my mind. I gulped my cooled mocha and visualized the photographer taking pictures from every angle of Marion’s body. The height of the camera, aperture, weather conditions, everything needed to be documented. My essay became a mini crime scene on paper.

  Finally I set my pen aside and read over the report. It read well with a few corrections, but all that work had given me a powerful hankering for pecan cake with caramel icing, so I left the essay and mixed together the ingredients. Within thirty minutes, I was sliding two round cake pans into the oven.

  I reviewed the day’s events. The shock of seeing Marion’s body, crumpled and broken, superimposed over the images of my days working as her employee. My eyes burned and grief began to take small nibbles from my spirit. Marion might not have been overly kind or easy to get along with, always shoving inventory lists and packing slips into my hands wanting me to read them to her because she’d “forgot my glasses again.” But we’d shared a few laughs and, in our own way, we’d respected each other. I expect most felt that way about her.

  Hmm. One person didn’t.

  Dana hadn’t appeared shaken by the news .

  Make that two people.

  Payton.

  I made a mental note to try to figure out what Chief had meant by saying he wanted to question Payton again. I know for sure he’d only questioned Hardy and me at the scene of the crime.

  Maybe Payton’s anxiety stemmed from the idea that Chief might wonder why he and Marion fought so much. Most of the time, truth be told. Either Marion was barking at Payton for being late on his rent payment or he was nagging her not to sell the shop, reiterating its importance as a piece of Maple Gap’s history. But Chief’s pointed look at Payton when Hardy observed out loud that Payton had rearranged the pieces in his shop got me to wondering.

  I got up and tugged a package of cornmeal from the pantry and began preparing cornbread to accompany the simmering stew. As I mixed in an egg, my mind churned over Marion’s conversation with Dana. The young gal seemed a strange mix. She catches a student red-handed in the middle of cheating, but doesn't flinch when the mother of that student turns up dead. I’d give anything to know what Chief Conrad thought of the possibility of Dana doing the dreaded deed.

  And that letter bothered me, too. Dana’s great-grandfather’s letter would be a prized possession in light of his status as town legend, just as the house that had always belonged to the Letzburgs would remain a comfort to future ancestors. I’d have to ask Mark Hamm if he knew anything about the Letzburgs or the assayer, Jackson Hughes. Being that he wrote articles on the history of the town for Maple Gap’s paper, he must know some of the details of the legend.

  I slid the cake pans over and made room for the cornbread, then lifted the lid of the dumplings and inhaled the rich scent. Comfort food. I closed my eyes and inhaled, imagining the sounds of doors slamming and childish laughter. “What’s for dinner, Momma?”

  Where had the time gone?

  I whipped up a piecrust, spooned in cherry pie filling, topped it with another crust and sprinkled sugar and cinnamon on top. I pulled out the pecan cakes and slid the cherry pie in. The cornbread needed a bit longer, so I put together the caramel frosting as I waited for the cornbread to finish and the pecan cakes to cool.

  As a young mother, I’d thought the children being gone would be a relief. Now my mind reeled backward to the days of trying to keep up with the raging appetites of the growing boys. The memory made me laugh out loud. If I could bottle the smell in the kitchen at this moment and send it to them, there would be five grown men standing on the front porch, drooling.

  With an ache, I realized I’d made all their favorites. From cherry pie to cornbread and caramel-pecan cake. Lela favored the chicken and dumplings. I hoped no one else canceled for Easter supper.

  After stirring the stew, I replaced the lid and adjusted the heat. The timer on the oven went off. I snatched up the potholders, rescued the cornbread, then plopped a dab more softened butter into the frosting being stirred by the stand mixer.

  Hardy chose that moment to enter the side door beside the stove. He came to an abrupt halt as he stared at the dishes in the sink and the food in various stages of preparation.

  “You cookin’ for the funeral already?”

  I pointed my spatula at a chair. “Doin’ school work, now sit and eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.” He dragged a chair out and sat. “Mark’s fried chicken is almost as good as yours.”

  I glanced at the wall clock, its face a picture of all our children. A Christmas gift from son number four. I looked away from the beloved faces real quick and glanced outside the kitchen window. Pinks and oranges streaked the western sky. “You’re late.”

  “Had a tune running through my head so I hopped over to Payton’s to run my fingers through it.”

  “You’ve be
en there a long time.”

  “Payton had closed the store.” Hardy hopped up and lifted a lid. A cloud of steam rose from the pot of beef stew. “He let me in though.”

  “I think that boy still grieves over losing his last chance to play professionally.”

  “Yeah. His hand’s been bugging him a lot lately, too.”

  “Maybe he should have it looked at again.”

  “Too much money. He’d like it, but the shop doesn’t make him rich. I told him he needed to stop scooting those pianos around by himself. That metal sheet music display made a mess of the hardwood floors.”

  “He should try flipping a rug over and sliding the piano around on that.”

  Hardy rolled his eyes. “Too late now.” He scrunched up his face and looked at the calendar on the refrigerator. “When is he scheduled to tune our upright? It sure is needin’ it.”

  “Said he couldn’t get to it until Friday.”

  Hardy jerked his head back and made a face. “What’d you say? He got a call from Dana and practically ran me out of the store so he could go tune her piano. Didn’t know she even had one.”

  “A Steinway, Model D. She offered to let you play it.” It was my turn to be puzzled. Odd that the boy would run to do Dana’s tuning and then tell us we had to wait almost a week. “You think he’s sweet on her?”

  “Payton? Naw. He loves himself too much. Maybe they’re gonna compare notes about Marion’s death.”

  That made me rub at my forehead. My brain was on overload with all the cooking and fretting and essaying I’d been doing. But Payton and Dana comparing notes. . .? Maybe I'd find out something more if I hauled Hardy over there to play the Steinway. “I’ll make sure to get you over there.”

  I began to feel the exhaustion creeping up my body and released a tired sigh. I cast a glance over the food, then at the clock on the wall, feeling Hardy’s eyes on me.

  I turned off the mixer and took out the pie, then busied myself with the dirty dishes. “Did you ask Mark those questions like I told you?”

  “Nope.”

  “What you mean, ‘nope?’ You want me to go to jail?”

  “Tisha.”

  There it was. That tone. Whenever Hardy calls me Tisha, I know he’s onto my game. I gripped the spatula tighter and scraped down the sides of the bowl.

  “Why don’t you come sit yourself down while you frost this naked cake?”

  I didn’t dare look at him. “You just want to lick the bowl.”

  “No,” he said, his voice low. “I want to knows what’s got you cooking enough for our entire family when it ain’t but the two of us. You knew I’d come home stuffed with chicken.”

  That made me bite my lip and ponder an answer. “I came home to an empty house.” There. I said it.

  “You missing our babies?”

  That did it. The faucets started flowing, and I turned my head away. Hardy’s chair scraped along the floor, then I felt the warmth of his body behind me. His arms slipped around my waist—well, as far around as they could reach. He laid his head against my back and squeezed me tight as I started to drip tears onto the counter.

  “They’re making their way, sugar,” he whispered. “It’s what you raised them to do. Lela’ll be home during spring break.”

  “No.”

  His head lifted. “What you mean, no?”

  “When I got home,” I said, dabbing my eyes with a green-striped dishtowel, “Lela’d left a message. She’s struggling with math so she’s getting a tutor and working over the holiday.”

  Hardy’s hand on my back massaged in little circles. “It’s all right, Tisha. Some of them are still coming over. I’ll get them all to help me cook up a huge meal and we’ll deliver it straight to you there at jail.”

  I should have known! I snatched that dishtowel off my shoulder and whipped it around into a tight, lethal twist as I rounded on Hardy. He flashed his insufferable grin and leaped away as I let go with the damp towel. He managed to dodge my first snap, but, lightning quick, I wound the towel again and finally landed a slap along on his wrist.

  He howled.

  “Serves you right tormenting me.”

  He rubbed his arm and collapsed in the chair, laughing. The man needed to be taught a lesson.

  “You went into that restaurant and stuffed yourself silly and didn’t even bother trying to help me find the culprit, and now you’re talking about me going to jail.” I nailed him with my eyes. “What you smiling at?”

  “You didn’t let me finish. I didn’t have to ask any questions. Valorie came into the restaurant while I was biting into my first chicken leg.”

  I lowered my brows at him in warning and picked up the frosting. “You best be telling me everything.” With that, I settled myself in the chair opposite and scraped up a big glob of the frosting to begin dressing the cake.

  When Hardy didn’t continue, I raised my eyes to see him looking with longing at the frosting. A tinge of guilt at the blow I’d landed made me soften. Pushing to my feet, I got a big serving spoon out of the utensil drawer and scooped up a spoonful. His eyes lit up, reminding me of the days when the children would wait in line as I baked for a taste of my homemade caramel frosting.

  “No more,” I told him as I handed over the spoon. “I’ve got to have enough to cover the cake with. Now talk.”

  He took a good lick of the icing. “Valorie looked upset. Over what I don’t know, because she didn’t know about her momma yet. Tammy, that waitress you like so well, she and Valorie whispered, then Tammy disappeared. Mark came out.”

  He gulped down another bite and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’ll take your cooking over Mark’s any day.”

  Now how can I be sore for long with such sweet talk?

  Ever since Mark Hamm opened his restaurant over two years ago, the man kept mostly to himself. When I worked at Out of Time, on the occasions when Valorie would drop in to see her mother, she would talk about Mark, and Marion would grow sullen. I rolled the situation around in my mind.

  The spoon was almost clean of frosting and Hardy didn’t look too inclined to come up for air, so I prompted him. “What did Mark do?”

  “He gave her a huge hug.”

  “Was it a fatherly hug? A boyfriend type of hug?”

  One last lick and he plunked the spoon down. “Boyfriend!”

  “Those things happen all the time. She is eighteen,” I reminded him.

  “It seemed just a friendly hug.” A definite twinkle lit his eyes. “You know, like I’d give Leslie Monroe.”

  A young college friend Shayna had brought home years back. A pretty gal. “You keep talking like that and she’ll be spoon feeding you in intensive care. Now don’t get off subject, tell me what happened next.”

  “Nothing. Mark sat down across from her and they began talking so low I couldn’t hear a word they said.”

  I smoothed the frosting into amber ripples, disappointed Hardy hadn’t learned more.

  He held out his empty spoon. I raised my hand to smack the spoon away when a slow smile spread over his lips. I knew that smile.

  “You’d better not mess with me, boy. What you hiding?” I leaned back in the chair and slid open the utensil drawer to fetch a clean spoon. The chair hit the floor with a thwack, and I scooped up more frosting and surrendered it to Hardy.

  “Didn’t learn nothing else from Mark and Valorie. But when Chief Conrad came into the restaurant. He sat down and talked to Valorie for a good long while. Must have been telling her the news. She started really crying.”

  “Well, of course. It’s not every day a girl finds out her momma’s been murdered.”

  Hardy took another lick. “Yeah, but Mark went right over to her and gave her another one of them hugs. I’m thinking the chief was a little shocked by it, too.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Say? Nothing. He left.”

  Chapter Six

  Morning light assaulted my eyelids no matter which way I flopped in be
d. Surrendering to the silent call, I sat up and stretched, renewed, reinvigorated and ready to go. Hardy snored on, proof he was living and breathing. Aggravated at his ability to sleep so soundly, I jiggled the bed. He twitched, smacked his lips together, and rolled over. I heaved a sigh and decided to let him sleep. At least until I finished my morning online college course, then I’d rouse his old bones with the smells of bacon and ham.

  After Lela moved out, I had wasted no time converting her room into an office, maybe to erase the melancholy of her leaving. Now my computer and books graced the desk, and the walls soothed with a sage green, hiding Lela’s beloved periwinkle. But memories clung like wallpaper. The times, when, as a little girl, Lela’d pestered her brothers and sisters into playing hide-and-seek. And Lela, always thinking she had them outsmarted, would choose her favorite spot to hide. In her closet. No matter how many times we tried to explain to her she needed to use another place, Lela went back to the closet.

  Such memories never failed to bring the burn to my throat. I even went so far as to open the closet door and imagine her bright, joyful brown eyes, staring up at me. She’d make a mad dash for home base, knowing all along she would be caught and tickled.

  My, how things change. I sucked in a deep breath and shut the closet door and its current mess of school material, printer paper, and books.

  Switching on the computer and establishing a connection, I forced away the melancholy and began the process of typing and uploading my essay. For the first few minutes after I’d signed on, I chatted with my classmates, sentences popping up on the screen full-force until the professor entered the virtual classroom for our Wednesday morning class.

  He reviewed information from the last class—aperture, weather conditions, shutter speed—and began a comparison of the differences between photographing a crime scene versus everyday picture taking. He ended by announcing the next assignment.