by Maddie Day
“Glen, it’s Robbie Jordan.”
“Robbie, nice to talk to you. What can I help you with?”
“Did you speak with Sue yet?” I waited while he gave instructions to someone in the background.
“Sorry about that.” His voice lowered. “I got her message, and the lawyer should oughta be there by now. I told her not to lend that woman money, but she wasn’t having it. Pia Bianchi was another way to spell trouble, no mistake about it.”
“Why did Pia need money? And how did Sue know her?”
“For corn sake, Pia wanted to go be an opera singer. Costs an arm and a leg to take classes over there at the U. Pia could have been satisfied with singing in the church choir like Sue was. No, that Italian was your common slut who thought she was better than she ever would be. And that’s all I’ll say on the subject.”
Ouch. Tell me how you really feel, Glen.
“So Sue met her at church?”
“Yep. Brought her home for dinner one time, then had the nerve to ask me to drive the lady home.”
“Were you at the festival last night, too?”
“Me?” he scoffed. “Can’t stand that kind of music. Give me a good mellow jazz, not plucking and fiddling. Just plain hurts my ears. No, I was right here at home, but Susie was there real late.”
Uh-oh. Another lack of alibi. Unless Pia had been killed early enough in the evening Sue would still have been at the festival. I didn’t envy the detective on the case.
“Don’t know why she took on the dang fool job, anyways,” Glen went on. “We got plenty of money. I make enough for both of us. She used to be happy taking care of the kids and the house and whatnot.”
I could almost hear him roll his eyes. I rolled mine, too, because he’d confirmed what Paula had said. Talk about a dinosaur. What century was he living in, anyway?
Danna dinged the food-ready bell twice, and Turner cast me a frantic look. “I have to get back to work, Glen. Sue asked me to help find you, so I’m glad you got connected.”
“All righty then, Robbie. You have a good day, now.”
All righty. He didn’t much like Pia, that was clear. One of the only things that was clear right now.
Chapter Ten
At two-twenty, Ed and Beth clattered down the stairs. It was quiet enough that I’d finally cooked up a turkey burger for myself and was in the process of inhaling it. Only one other couple occupied a table.
“Are we too late to eat?” she asked.
Tired though I was, I mustered a smile. “You made it down in time. Sit anywhere.” I’d told my guests they could cash in the breakfast part of B&B during any of the hours I was open. These two were either serious night owls or had been having a lot of fun up there all day. At least I hadn’t heard a thing, not a footstep nor a bed squeak. My soundproofing of the ceiling had been successful. I hadn’t been sure it would be in such an old building.
“Thanks,” Ed said. “Would you happen to still be serving breakfast?” The sides and back of his black hair were cut short, and the rest was pulled up in a man-bun like the fiddler’s in Abe’s group. A stupid term, really. It was simply a bun. On a man. His was wet, like he’d just gotten out of a shower, and he smelled like he’d used the little bottle of apple-scented shampoo I stocked in the bathrooms.
“You’re welcome to anything on the breakfast menu, but we’ve run out of our special today, the fried mush,” I said.
Danna had already erased the mush from the Specials blackboard and replaced it with Kahlua Brownie Ice Cream Sandwich.
“Not a problem,” Ed assured me.
Beth was again wearing the kind of Depression-era outfit Danna sometimes did. Her worn cotton-print dress looked like it was Dust Bowl vintage, and her dark socks and heavy-soled leather shoes were no-nonsense, too.
“Your clogging was pretty amazing yesterday,” I said with a smile.
She returned the smile. “Thanks. I love it.”
“Have you been clogging long?”
“I’ve been doing some kind of dance my whole life. And when I saw cloggers, I knew I had to try it.” Beth’s face lit up. “It’s cool to free-style. That’s what we were doing last night. It’s like you become another instrument and you start clogging rhythmically off what the other clogger and the other musicians are doing.”
Ed spoke up. “Exactly. We’re all jamming off each other.”
“What’s awesome is when you’re driving home after a dance session,” Beth continued. “Suddenly you hear a rhythm in your head and you start imagining new steps. It can make it very hard to go to bed at night.”
“No kidding.” Ed rolled his eyes, but in an affectionate way.
“Robbie, we’ll be out until late again, so you can do up the room any time,” Beth said.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. We don’t service the rooms unless you stay more than a week. It’s posted in the room and on our Web site.” I was a new innkeeper. Adele had suggested a policy of no room freshening when I’d been wondering how I could afford to hire someone to do it for me. With only three rooms, I could have managed, but I was interested in having a life, too. As it was, I still had to do the cleaning and laundry when rooms turned over. Half the time I was hard pressed just to get my ordering and restaurant prep done for the next day, so I hadn’t been quite sure how to fit in B&B-necessary work, too. “It’s one way I keep my costs down.” And speaking of costs, I hoped they’d been telling Sue the truth yesterday and would pay up what they owed the festival today.
“That’s fine,” Ed said, nudging his partner/ girlfriend/wife, whatever she was.
“Sure,” Beth said, although it didn’t really seem fine, judging from the expression on her face.
I hailed Turner and asked him to take their order. After I finished my burger, I flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED at exactly two-thirty. I wasn’t letting anybody else in today. We’d made a boatload of money and then some. Now was the time to clean and regroup.
“I was thinking to whip up some sugar cream pies for lunch tomorrow,” Danna said when I returned to the kitchen area. “You good with that?”
Sugar cream pies? A signature dessert in these parts, one that made diners of almost any age think fondly of their grandmothers, and a pie a lot of restaurants no longer offered. “Of course. Great idea. But let me make them later today. It’ll relax me to bake when it’s quiet.” After I squeezed in a bike ride, that is.
“You’re the boss, boss.” Danna grabbed a damp rag and started wiping down tables.
Turner handed me Beth and Ed’s order. “Want me to cook?”
“I can do it. Can you start cleanup?”
“Sure.” Turner immersed his arms in a sink full of soapy water. “I’ll do the grill when you’re done.”
“Thanks,” I checked the order slip, then slapped two patties on the grill, one veggie and one beef, and set up two plates. I scooted over to a two-top who looked like they’d finished. “Can I get you all anything else?”
“No, thank you. But everything was perfect.” The woman had a whimsical floating musical staff on her T-shirt. “Them ice cream sandwiches were pure heaven on a plate.”
“Glad you liked them. Looks like you’re heading over to the festival.” I fished their check out of my apron pocket and laid it facedown on the table before I picked up their plates.
“You bet,” the man said, sporting a grinning fiddle on his own shirt. “We have jam sessions all afternoon today.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Heared y’all had a murder around these parts.” She made a tsking sound. “Do you think it’s safe for us to go back to Beanblossom?”
“I’m sure it is,” I replied. “The county sheriffs are excellent at their job.” That is, I hoped they were. None of the murders I’d had the bad luck to be associated with had taken place in unincorporated areas, so the South Lick police had been assisted by state police detectives.
“Hon, I told you we’ll be fine.” The man winked at me. “We’ll on
ly be with a few thousand other musicians.”
“Well, I ain’t going into no covered bridge, I’ll tell you that much.” She stood. “They make me nervous even when some lady hasn’t upped and got herself killed in one.”
“I know what you mean. Thanks for coming in,” I said. “I hope you’ll come back.”
“Say, you ever cook up some sugar cream pies?” the man asked with a hopeful look.
“Funny you asked. They’re our special for tomorrow.” I smiled. Now I was sure they’d be back.
Chapter Eleven
Two hours later I’d gotten out for a hard half-hour ride on my bike, and was back, showered, fed, and ready to bake. Riding the scenic hills of the county restored my equilibrium better than anything. Oxygen in, muscles stretched and worked, brain cleared. It did all of that, and more.
As I rolled out piecrust after piecrust, though, all the events of the day, all the conversations and theories about the murder flooded back into my mind. Glen expressing his dislike for Pia, and Beth doing the same. Sue’s anger and frustration at not having her loan repaid. Chase saying he’d had a one-night stand with the victim, but Phil indicating it had been more than that. Even Roberto and Maria acknowledging they knew the Bianchi family back in Italy. Abe’s lack of alibi. Heck, everybody’s lack of alibi, as far as I could tell.
What was the county sheriff’s detective going to do with the information Buck had gathered? Surely the department had a team out gathering even more. They had to be checking alibis at the very least. They were probably looking into Pia’s movements and finances. A crime scene team must have searched the bridge and the surrounding area for evidence as to the murderer’s identity. I wished I knew more. What time was she killed? Was she killed there or taken to the bridge? What time had Isaac found her? And did he have any association with Pia?
By now I’d filled ten pie pans. I pricked the crusts, laid a circle of parchment paper on each, weighted them down with the ceramic marbles I used as pie weights, then popped half of them into my superwide preheated oven for a quick bake. The others I carried into the walk-in to stay cool. Now for the filling, a recipe I’d gotten from Jane Carter, a customer who was from around here but had moved out of state. She came in every time she returned to Indiana, though, to say hi, eat, and shop for more cookware, especially pie pans. I took a moment to try Sue’s number, since I’d promised to check in with her. I reached only her voice-mail, so I left a quick message saying I was thinking of her.
I melted butter, sugar, and cornstarch in a saucepan, then added half-and-half, milk, vanilla, and salt. I turned down the temperature and stirred, waiting for the filling to thicken. I did some thinking, too. When the timer dinged, I pulled out the piecrusts and slid the others in.
Twenty minutes later all the crusts were filled, all the pies dusted with cinnamon on top. Was there anything more satisfying than seeing ten pies lined up cooling? Solving a crossword came close. Solving a murder did, too, but that was a dangerous job best left to the professionals, no matter how much my brain was suited to the work. I didn’t have all the other training and wasn’t really interested in signing up for it. How to shoot a gun, how to analyze fingerprints, how to safely take down someone who presented a threat, even how to use a Taser. My strengths lay elsewhere and I was the first to acknowledge it.
My mom had taught me that. I could still hear her voice echoing in my head. “Nobody’s good at everything, honey,” she’d said when I was a perfectionist fourteen-year-old bemoaning another girl besting me on debate team. “We each have our strengths. And I’m willing to bet that other girl doesn’t know the first thing about beveling a corner or driving a straight nail.” At that I’d smiled, because I’d been learning carpentry from Mom since I was little.
I sighed, missing her all over again. Her death from an aneurysm had been sudden, unexpected, and deeply unsettling, tossing my whole world into a tumble. She and I had been so close, and I’d thought she’d always be there for me.
But this—I gazed around my beloved store and restaurant, which I’d renovated using every skill Mom had taught me and then some—this business for which I had a passion was made possible in large part because of the money I inherited after her death. She’d taken good care of her finances, for her cabinetry business and her personal life. She’d had all her affairs in order when she died, despite being only in her fifties, an age when most healthy people don’t expect to shuffle off this mortal coil.
My cell rang with Abe’s ringtone. “Hey, sweet cheeks.” I could hear the smile in my voice.
He growled. “I love it when you talk sugar to me. I’d prefer dirty, but a man takes what he’s given.”
I laughed. “What’s up, Mr. O’Neill?”
“Just got done talking with the sheriff’s detective. I think, and I qualify that with think, I convinced her I didn’t have any past rancorous history with Pia and no way would I have killed her because of a silly—”
“But public,” I interjected.
“But public, argument about a gig playlist.”
“Lack of alibi notwithstanding.”
“Yes. It’s early days, no, early hours yet in their investigation, so I’m sure she could drum up something and ask me to come back in.”
“The detective is a woman, then.” Buck had said she or her, too, come to think of it.
“Yep. Anne Henderson. Seems competent, straightforward. All business.”
“I hope she won’t ask you back,” I said.
“You and me both, Ms. Jordan. I called to see if you wanted to grab some dinner and head back to the festival tonight.” He lowered his voice to a sexy husky timbre. “And I don’t have my son tonight, so . . .”
“I thought you’d never ask. Roberto and Maria went to Bloomington and are staying out for dinner, so I happen to be free. I just finished baking pies, and—” A loud knock on the front door interrupted me. “Hang on, somebody’s here. I should be able to get rid of them. The restaurant sign is turned to CLOSED, and the B&B sign has FULL hanging below it.” I spoke as I walked toward the door. “Oh, nuts,” I muttered.
“What is it?” Abe asked.
“It’s somebody in a brown and tan uniform, that’s what.”
“The county sheriff’s department uniform.”
“Then she’s either the detective conducting the investigation into Pia’s murder or one of her helpers. I’d better talk to her. What time are you picking me up?”
“Six-thirty give you enough time?”
“Sure, thanks.” I lowered my own voice. “But I’ll tell her five-thirty.” I disconnected to the sound of Abe’s laugh and unlocked the double bolts.
Chapter Twelve
The officer, a slender woman with a long black braid hanging down her back, had introduced herself as Detective Sergeant Anne Henderson, the lead detective in the sheriff’s department. Her flat-brimmed hat looked like the ones the National Park Service rangers wore, and the tan necktie and epaulets contrasting with her dark brown shirt matched her tan pants. All of which looked crisp and freshly pressed, despite it being near the end of what had to have been a long day for her.
I’d put on a fresh pot of coffee, and we’d already been through two rounds of the same questions while I did prep for tomorrow morning. I’d told her what time Roberto and Maria and I had come home yesterday and what time they’d left. Same for Chase, at least as far as I knew. I’d said—at least twice—I’d only seen Abe onstage yesterday, and no, I didn’t think his minor quarrel with Pia, amplified though it was, was anything he’d commit murder over. I repeated—again, twice—what I’d told Buck of Sue and the money she’d said Pia owed her.
“Lieutenant Bird said you aren’t aware of your guests’ comings and goings,” Detective Henderson said. Her deep brown eyes were almond shaped and her high cheekbones made me think she was part Shawnee or descended from the Miami tribe farther to the north in Indiana, despite the very British-sounding surname of Henderson. “It doesn’t seem like a pa
rticularly secure situation. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Ack. I cocked my head. “I hadn’t thought about it. This is the first week the bed-and-breakfast rooms have been occupied, actually. I don’t know what else I could do other than hire someone to be awake all night, or sleep upstairs myself.”
“I might recommend you install a camera on the outside egress. That way you can at least monitor your guests’ movements.”
A camera. Why hadn’t I considered a camera? Installing one might not be a bad idea, and they probably sold ones you could access through an app. “Good idea. I hadn’t thought of a camera. Thanks.”
She bobbed her head in acknowledgment. “But since you don’t have one, we’re going to need to interview all your guests regarding what they heard in the night. Lieutenant Bird neglected to ask all the questions I would have liked him to. Let’s see.” She checked her tablet. “I have the Italians’ names and Mr. Fracasso’s number, and Mr. Broward’s contact information. Who else is staying in your rooms?”
I told her Beth’s and Ed’s names, and extracted their cell phone numbers from my own phone.
“Thank you. Lieutenant Bird mentioned that you overheard Ms. Ferguson expressing dislike of the victim.”
“I did. But just briefly. Detective, how was Pia killed? I know Isaac found her body, but was she shot? Poisoned? Stabbed?” I paused in my assembly of the dry ingredients for pancake batter.
She tapped her hand on the end of the counter where she’d laid her tablet. “I hear you’ve acted as an amateur detective previously.”
“Not exactly. I simply kept getting drawn into murder cases.” I shrugged.
“I’ll tell you the method, but first I’d like your word that this time you won’t get ‘drawn into’ my investigation.” She surrounded the words in finger quotes.
“Fine with me,” I answered. But was it?
“Ms. Bianchi was choked. Garroted, actually.”
Garroted? “You mean with a rope or something?” A shudder rippled through me at the thought.