Death Over Easy

by Maddie Day

“It was actually a metal wire. We’re looking into whether it was an instrument string, and if so, designed for which instrument.”

  “Wow. With thousands of musicians in the county this week.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded slowly, frowning. “It won’t be an easy case, but most homicides aren’t. I will ask that you keep this information to yourself. We’re trying to keep it from disseminating to the public.”

  “Not a problem.” I worked for a minute, measuring baking powder for pancakes and adding it to the flour already in the bowl. “Here’s something you haven’t asked me. It happened after Buck left here this morning.”

  “Yes?”

  I added the salt to the flour. “When you called Sue Berry into the station, she phoned asking me to contact Glen, her husband. I got through to him eventually, and he didn’t seem to like Pia at all.”

  “Oh?” The detective’s long, smooth-skinned fingers paused above the keyboard on her tablet.

  “Yes. Glen even called her a slut.”

  The detective’s eyebrows went way up.

  I set the pancake mix aside and measured out flour for biscuits. “He said Pia and Sue sang in choir together. Or no, maybe they went to the same church? Anyway, he thought Pia should sing in the choir with Sue instead of spending a lot of money on the IU music department. Something like that. Whatever, it’s more information for you. I know by now every little fact can help, even if people don’t think it’s important.”

  She nodded. “You got that right. Now, to confirm. You have no knowledge of Abraham O’Neill’s whereabouts late last night or before dawn this morning?”

  Gah. “No, I’m afraid not. He went to his house last night and I slept here.”

  “He said as much. Pity no one can vouch for him. Considering his public altercation with the victim.”

  I set floury fists on my waist. “I was in the audience, Detective. It was hardly an altercation. More like a disagreement over a playlist. You don’t murder people over something like a song.”

  “You and I don’t. Some might.” Her expression was calm. This woman was indeed all business.

  “Not Abe O’Neill. Never.” I headed toward the walk-in. “Hang on a sec, I have to get a few things.” I returned, arms full holding a pound of butter, a dozen eggs, and a gallon of milk.

  “Now tell me more about your guest Chase Broward. Your”—she checked her notes—“friend Philostrate MacDonald is a classmate of the victim, and he said Mr. Broward had a romantic relationship with the deceased, his marriage notwithstanding. Is this correct?”

  I nodded as I cut butter into the biscuit flour. The detective had pronounced Phil’s name the same way Phil and his grandfather Samuel did. They both said it in four syllables, with stra being the next to last followed by tay. In my mind, I did, too, although of course I just called him Phil.

  Detective Henderson cocked her head and scrunched up her nose. “Off the record, what in the world kind of name is Philostrate? Sounds like Greek pastry or something.”

  I laughed and started to crack eggs into a well in the biscuit mix. “It’s a Greek name. Shakespeare used it, and I think other writers did, too. But we call him Phil. Have you talked to him yet?”

  “Still trying to reach him. Speaking of that, I’d better get on the road.” She stood. “I have an appointment in Bloomington in an hour, and I’m sure you have things to do, too.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Even though, thanks to her not minding that I worked while we talked, much of my prep was done.

  “Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any new information. Ms. Jordan, Lieutenant Bird as well as Oscar Thompson have informed me of your role in several homicides over the last year. I trust by now you know to leave the detection to the professionals, correct?”

  I felt like using Danna and Turner’s favorite affectionate phrase, “You’re the boss, boss,” but I restrained myself. “Absolutely. And Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck.”

  She nodded her head an inch in acknowledgment. “I appreciate that. Thanks for the coffee.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I held the door until she left, then double locked it again. I couldn’t be too careful with a murderer at large. I unlocked and opened the door to my apartment so Birdy could keep me company as I worked and thought. He streaked into the restaurant, then began a serious cleaning atop a butter churn in the vintage cookware area. I quick-kneaded the biscuit dough and stored it, tightly wrapped, in the walk-in.

  After I cleaned up, I pondered what to do next. I could go into my own private space, put my feet up, enjoy a glass of an adult beverage, and play with my kitty. Definitely a good plan for the next fifty minutes until Abe picked me up.

  But for the first time since I’d opened my B&B four days ago, none of my guests were in their rooms and none were expected back for hours. I had the master key, of course, even though they each held individual room keys. And what if Chase Broward had killed his erstwhile lover? Shouldn’t I look for clues and let the police know? My inner nag scolded me that I could have invited the detective to check the room ten minutes ago when she was right here in my store. But surely she’d need a search warrant or something to make it legal. Whereas little old innkeeper me? I had the key and I owned the building.

  I retrieved the master key from the back of my desk drawer where it lived in an envelope cleverly labeled Key to Shed—even though I didn’t actually have a shed—and off I trotted. Upstairs I first peeked into the Rose room, where I’d put my father and his wife. I didn’t know if this was Roberto or Maria’s doing—maybe both—but the bed was neatly made and the room was almost tidier than before they’d arrived. One closed suitcase rested on the vintage luggage rack I’d rescued and refurbished, and only a tidy stack of tourism folders and maps sat on the edge of the desk. Their house in Italy had always been neat, too, when I’d gone to visit in late December.

  The Rose room was a lovely one, if I did say so myself. I’d decided it was easiest to name each room after its color scheme. Rose print wallpaper, an antique four-poster bed, and simple muslin curtains with rose-colored tiebacks were the main decorations. I’d found and had sent to be cleaned a muted purple and blue braided rug to sit atop the finished wide-pine floors, original to the building. A wooden rocker in the corner featured a cushion covered in the same fabric as the quilted coverlet.

  But I wasn’t here to admire my interior-decorating prowess. I backed out, locked the door, and glanced into Ed and Beth’s room. The Sapphire room I’d done in a blue theme, but you could hardly tell. Clothes, books, and shoes were scattered everywhere. The bedcover hung half on the floor. The blinds were down and I could tell the windows were closed by the musky scent within. Yeah, I knew what they’d been doing all morning. Once again I backed out and locked the door, feeling for underpaid hotel maids everywhere who had to tidy up such messes as part of their daily work.

  Only the Emerald room to go. As I eased open Chase’s door, a business card fell to the floor. He must have wedged it in the gap between the door and the jamb so he could tell if anyone intruded. I shivered. If that didn’t seem like the mark of a guilty person, I don’t know what did. I examined the card. Maybe one of the other musicians had left it for him. But no, it was one of his own.

  I took one step into the Emerald room and heard a creak behind me. I froze. Had someone broken into the store? Maybe I hadn’t locked the service door. Had Chase come home early with the aim of catching me going through his things? I whirled, heart thudding against my ribs.

  And laughed out loud. Birdy, sitting on a rather frail hall table, was furiously bathing, one hind leg up next to his head. The table creaked with every movement. I scooped up my cat and deposited him onto the stairs, stepping back up and closing the door to the upstairs so he couldn’t sneak up here again. I firmly admonished my heart to calm down before resuming my quest.

  Chase’s green-decorated room was a middle ground between the other tw
o. His bed was unmade but nothing littered the floor. I spied a couple bumper of stickers on the desk. One blared DON’T BE A COWARD, VOTE FOR BROWARD with US Senate below in smaller letters. The other read CUT TO THE CHASE WITH BROWARD FOR SENATE. He must be trying out slogans for the Senate run. I pulled open the closet door and found no surprises there. A western-style shirt with musical clefs and guitars in the print. A pair of tennis shoes. Creased jeans on a hanger. Huh? Who ironed their jeans? I shut the door.

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find in here. A little stylized hand pointing to a certain spot, lettered with Evidence Here? I turned to leave. I didn’t want to waste any more of my precious relaxation time. Still—why had he wedged his card in the door if he wasn’t expecting an intruder? And if he was, why? I stood in the middle of the room and closed my eyes, letting the feeling of the room wash over me. I was normally a logic-driven kind of girl, but I’d discovered over the last couple months that a moment of mindfulness could do wonders for quieting the busy brain and letting solutions find their way in.

  When I opened my eyes, my gaze landed on the schoolroom desk I’d refurbished. And the white wicker wastebasket on the floor next to it. I glimpsed the word Gibson sticking out and I stepped over to see what it was. Gibson Signature Series headed a square piece of paper the size of a piece of toast. I stared at a picture of Earl Scruggs playing a banjo, and at the words Banjo Strings. Except Chase played the guitar, not the banjo.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I sat holding Abe’s hand facing the music park’s main stage a couple hours later. We perched in his matching folding camp chairs, the arms of which included drink holders. His held a big cup of hard cider, mine a cold Pilsner. At least you could buy alcohol at the park; in fact it featured an entire beer pavilion. We’d demolished the picnic supper he’d brought. You couldn’t go wrong with cold chicken drumsticks and skewers of cherry tomatoes, small mozzarella balls, and pitted kalamata olives, plus a sliced sourdough baguette. All finger food, all delicious. And I hadn’t had to prepare any of it, or clean up, for that matter. He’d promised dessert once we’d digested our dinner. By dessert I couldn’t tell if he meant a stop at the ice cream stand or a roll in the hay—or both.

  The group onstage, a rollicking jug band, had finished. Everywhere around us I could still hear music. A jug band off to the left, the thrum of dueling banjos behind us, a lilting fiddle tune to our right. Live music was definitely not confined to the stage. A cool breeze gave a welcome respite from the day’s warm air, and wafted the scent of some sweet blooming flower past us.

  “Who’s up next?” I asked.

  He pulled out a program. “Looks like they’re called Corrine Pie and Spice.” He extended the program for me to see.

  My eyes widened. Could it be? “Don’t tell me Danna’s mom has a bluegrass band. The mayor of South Lick also plays music?”

  A little smile played with his mouth but he kept it under control. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

  I batted his arm with the program and settled in to let the flow of the crowd and the music from the sidelines wash over me, grateful for no more demands on my time than just being. New musicians filed onto the stage and started tuning up.

  I pictured the banjo string package in Chase’s wastebasket. “Hey, Abe?”

  “Hey, Robbie.”

  “What’s the difference between guitar strings and banjo strings?”

  “That’s a topic of much debate in these circles. Some say music wire is music wire and that they’re interchangeable. Both instruments can use either plain steel wire or wrapped-wire strings, and some use a mix of both.”

  “But don’t they have different, um, tunings or something?”

  Abe laughed at me and I elbowed him.

  “I don’t know anything about music,” I protested.

  “I realize that, sweetheart. I’m just ribbing you. To answer your question, the strings are always packaged separately and some say that’s for a reason. But if I happened to wreck all my banjo strings and the only replacements were for guitar, I’d use the guitar strings.”

  Huh. So that wrapper in Chase’s room could be perfectly innocent. Maybe he had run out of guitar strings and the only ones available were for the banjo. Then I pictured the business card he had wedged in his door and I sucked air in through a grimace. I never put it back. Gah. He could be a hundred percent crime-free and still not want anyone in his room. What if he noticed the card was gone? Except by invitation, nobody could have gone in his room except him and me unless he’d left his door unlocked. If he asked, I’d bluff through it, saying I was emptying wastebaskets. Except that I hadn’t emptied his. I’d just have to hope he was the nonobservant type.

  At the strum of a guitar and a banjo arpeggio, Corrine Beedle, the mayor of South Lick, strode onto the stage, guitar slung across her red satin shirt tucked into black leather pants. Her red high-heeled cowboy boots boosted her height to at least six foot two. Corrine never did anything halfway.

  She adjusted the standing mike up to her level. “Howdy, everybody! How y’all doing?”

  A few shouts of “Awesome” and “Howdy” floated up.

  “I can’t hear you.” Corrine broadcast her wide toothy smile as she drew out the hear. “I said, how y’all doing?”

  This time nearly everybody shouted, “Great!”

  “Now that’s more like it. I’m Corrine Pie, and this here’s my all-girl band, Spice. Let’s give the girls a big ol’ welcome.” She started the applause as three female musicians holding instruments—a fiddle, a mandolin, and a banjo—trooped onstage. Sue Berry followed them, bringing up the rear.

  “Before we get some tunes rolling for y’all, our fabulous organizer, Ms. Sue Berry, has something sad to share.”

  The crowd quieted while Corrine slid the mike down a foot for Sue, who was even shorter than me.

  “You may have heard,” Sue began with a quaver in her voice, “we lost one of our fine local musicians and friends last night. Let’s all hold a moment of silence for Pia Bianchi, may she rest in peace in God’s arms.” Sue pressed her lips together as she bowed her head.

  Judging from what Glen had told me, Pia and Sue had been friends before the loan came between them. Despite her anger at Pia last night, Sue seemed to be suffering the loss. It couldn’t have helped to be hauled into the police station in the middle of it, but at least they’d let her go. I hoped I’d have a minute to talk with her tonight.

  Abe squeezed my hand and closed his eyes. I kept the silence, but gazed around the crowd. Most in the audience had bowed their heads, too. A woman near me moved her lips in silent prayer. A man crossed himself. Off to my right, leaning against a tall fir tree, stood Chase Broward, eyes also open. He spotted me looking at him and raised his chin in acknowledgment. No silent prayer for Pia from him. I had snapped a couple of cell phone pictures of the banjo string wrapper in his wastebasket without touching it and texted them to Detective Henderson. It could be something perfectly innocent. For all I knew he also played banjo and had left it in his car.

  Sue murmured, “Thank you, and God bless,” before walking with shoulders bowed into the wings.

  “All righty,” Corrine leaned down to say, bringing the microphone back up to her level. “I want to ask one of our good friends to come up onstage to help us ladies get this set underway. Mister Chase Broward, you out there?” She shielded her eyes from the lights and perused the crowd. A minute later, my guest bounded up the steps holding his guitar, waved to the audience, and gave Corrine a big hug.

  “This gentleman’s gonna be our next United States Senator, y’all. Let’s give him a big ol’ hand!”

  The audience roared their approval, and the applause only died down when the strumming started up.

  I stretched my legs out. “That was interesting.”

  “Which part?” Abe asked.

  “All of it. Corrine having an all-female band. You knew, didn’t you?”

  He smiled, nodding. “Y
ou know, Brown County is a village. All the musicians know each other.”

  “I’m also a bit surprised Sue was looking torn up over Pia’s death. She was pretty angry at Pia yesterday.”

  “Doesn’t mean she isn’t grieving the loss of a friend.”

  “I guess. And then Corrine introducing Chase as the next senator. I didn’t think he had started his campaign yet, but apparently he has.”

  “Politicians.” Abe gave a little eye roll, but his foot was tapping to the music.

  “You should be up there playing.” I nudged his elbow. “You’re better than Senator Broward.” Chase was playing well, but from what I could hear, it was a pretty simple tune.

  “Nah. I’m taking the night off to be with my best girl.” He leaned over and planted a lazy kiss on my cheek.

  “Without Pia,” I said softly.

  “May she rest in peace in God’s arms, as Sue said.”

  I squeezed his hand. He wasn’t any more attached to an organized religion than I was, but I knew he harbored a strong faith in kindness and generosity of spirit. It showed in everything he did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Onstage the music flowed into a slower number. Chase gave a salute to Corrine and slipped into the wings. Off to the left of the seating area I spied Sue standing with Danna and somebody else in the long shadows of the end of the day.

  “I’m going to run say hi to Sue,” I said to Abe. “I want to see how she’s doing. Okay?”

  “Of course.” Abe lifted his cider cup. “A refill on your way back?”

  “You bet.” I wove through the sea of chairs and legs until I reached a roped-off passageway, then made my way toward Sue and Danna. Clipboard in hand again, Sue looked somber but her eyes weren’t red or puffy. Maybe I’d been mistaken about the depth of her grief. Or maybe she’d swallowed it down because running the show had a more urgent priority.

  “Hey, Robbie,” Danna said when I walked up. “I want you to meet someone.”

  The small group included a big man with a full beard, shaved head, and a gentle expression. His arm lay across Danna’s back, a tattoo of an anvil decorating his forearm.