by Maddie Day
Glen glanced at the Specials board, where I’d written Sugar Cream Pie after the breakfast rush was over. He gave a long whistle. “I haven’t had me a piece of sugar cream pie in years. I think I’ve died and gone to my heavenly reward.” He rubbed his hands together.
I smiled. “I hope you like it. I used my friend Jane’s tried-and-true recipe.”
“How have you been, Robbie?” Don asked as I led them toward a four-top at the back.
“I’m good, thanks. Did you hear my father is here visiting?”
Don went pale. Shoot. I’d forgotten he’d had a role in the reason my father had to leave the country before his fellowship was over. A role in the reason Roberto had been hospitalized. My father hadn’t mentioned Don since he’d been here.
Don paused, gripping the back of a chair.
“Take the square table over there,” I said to Glen, pointing at the four-top I had in mind for their meeting. “I’ll be with you in a second.” I turned to Don. “I’m sorry, Don. It totally slipped my mind that you, um, knew him.”
“Have you talked about what . . . what happened?” he whispered, rubbing his head and disturbing his carefully arranged but wispy comb-over.
I shook my head. “No. He hasn’t mentioned it.” Roberto and I had hashed over the past when I visited him in Italy after Christmas but so far not during this visit. “He’s out today, won’t be back until afternoon. I truly don’t believe he’s angry. It was almost three decades ago, after all. But if he does bring you up in conversation, are you willing to meet with him?”
He swallowed hard, some of the color coming back into his face. “I guess. But I’d rather not.”
I smiled sympathetically at him. “Go sit down and have your meeting. I doubt you’ll run into Roberto. They’re leaving tomorrow, anyway.”
Don rejoined his group, but he glanced at the door every few minutes as if afraid Roberto would walk in.
Instead, it was Buck who pushed through the door twenty minutes later, with Wanda close behind, both in uniform. Buck’s expression was somber as he ambled toward me in front of the cookware shelves, where I had shown a customer the Dover rotary beaters.
“Can we have a word, Robbie?” Buck murmured, surveying the restaurant. When his gaze lit on Glen and his group, Buck pressed his lips together and gave a little shake of his head.
“Of course. What’s up?” I gestured for him and Wanda to move down to the end of the area so the shopper wouldn’t overhear.
Buck turned his back on the hungry diners, on Danna at the stove, on Turner taking orders.
Wanda began. “We got us another suspicious death this morning.”
I stopped smiling. “Another murder?” I whispered.
“Pretty much, from the looks of it,” Buck chimed in. “It was on unincorporated county land, but real close to the South Lick line, so I got called in.”
“What happened?” I asked, looking from him to Wanda and back. “And how do you know it was murder?”
“When a couple out for their morning walk finds a body by the side of Scarce O’ Fat Ridge Road,” Buck lowered his voice even further, “and it’s got a dang wahr around its—well, her—neck, you might as well call it a homicide right from the get-go.”
Wahr. In Buck-speak, that would be a wire. That must have been the incident Turner had had to detour around. I was almost afraid to ask who her was, but I was getting a bad feeling about this. About why Buck had come here in the middle of an investigation. About the look he’d given Glen Berry.
“Was it Sue?” I whispered.
All Wanda had to do was nod once. I inhaled sharply, bringing my hand to my mouth. Sue. Perky sweet Sue. Mother, grandmother, wife. Sister probably, too, and well-loved in the community. My eyes filled with tears at the unfairness, the injustice of it all. And then . . . “Do you think it’s the same person who—”
“Killed Pia?” Wanda broke in. “‘Course we don’t know yet, but it’s a possibility. Maybe Ms. Berry was going around asking too many questions and poof, she meets the same fate.” In a totally uncharacteristic gesture, Wanda patted my upper arm. “I’m sorry. You musta been friends with the deceased.”
“I didn’t know her well, but she and Glen are, were, regulars in here. And then there was the business last year with Erica and all. I liked Sue a lot. She didn’t deserve to die.” I wiped my eyes with my sleeve as Buck’s gaze returned to Glen. I thought for a second more. “Wait. You said the same fate. Do you mean the string around Sue’s neck was also a banjo string?” Garroted.
“I am sorry to say the answer is yes.” Buck sighed. “Might coulda been done by Ms. Bianchi’s killer. Or maybe it was one of them copycat murders.”
My heart sank. Another murder. The same method. This was terrible news any way you looked at it. “What does copycat mean?” I asked.
“A different bad guy uses the same murder method to try and throw further suspicion on the first killer,” Wanda explained.
I nodded. It was a clever thing to do, I supposed. Horrid, evil, despicable—but clever.
Buck cleared his throat. “Right now I have to inform the husband. Not my favorite part of the job, I’ll tell you.” He looked at me again. “When’d he get here today, by the way?”
“I’d say it was ten after eleven.” Of course Glen would be one of the first suspects. But why would he have killed his wife, who by all public appearances, he seemed to adore? Except, what had he told me? His 1950s-throwback remark? Something about how he couldn’t understand why she needed to take a job at all. I imagined most, if not all, marriages had hidden private conflicts. “He asked if he and his friends could reserve a weekly lunch table to talk business.”
Wanda hauled out her little notebook and pencil once again and jotted something down. I watched as she and Buck made their way to Glen’s table, hats in hand. I watched as Buck leaned over and murmured to Glen, beckoning for him stand. As Glen spread his hands, palms up, in a classic But why? gesture. As Buck finally delivered the news right there at the table.
And I watched as Glen leapt to his feet, his face a mask of horror.
Chapter Twenty-one
I hurried up to Wanda as she escorted a slump-shouldered Glen toward the door. I didn’t know if she was taking him on the thankless journey to formally identify the body or into an interview room for questioning. Maybe both, in that order. I didn’t envy Wanda the task, nor Glen, even more, for what lay ahead. Don had stood, as if wanting to accompany his friend, but Buck had waved him into his seat again.
“I’m so, so sorry, Glen.” I laid my hand on his shoulder, my eyes moist anew. He wouldn’t be enjoying a piece of sugar cream pie after all.
He blinked as if he’d forgotten where he was. “I do appreciate it, Robbie. Truly I do.” His neatly shorn hair, dark brown interlaced with silver, was mussed, like he’d run a hand through it without smoothing it down afterward. His face was ashen.
If Glen had killed Sue and then calmly gathered his colleagues and come in for their first lunch meeting, he was an accomplished actor.
Wanda gestured toward the door. “Mr. Berry?”
He followed her, shaking his head and muttering, “My Susie. My sweet Sue.”
I turned to see everyone in the restaurant watching. Oh, boy. I cleared my throat. “Everybody? The wife of one of my customers was in a serious accident. These officers came to tell Mr. Berry. That’s it. Please don’t worry.”
Next I approached Turner and Danna. “Glen’s received some bad news,”
“Was it Ms. Berry who was hurt?” Danna asked, her eyes wide.
I nodded and made sure my voice was barely above a whisper when I replied. “She was found killed exactly like Pia Bianchi was, is what Buck said.”
“The poor thing,” Danna said.
Turner swore softly. “That must have been the slowdown this morning.”
“I think so,” I said. “Until the news goes public, if any customers ask you, please simply say she was in an accident and that�
�s all you know. We wouldn’t want the word spreading to her daughter Paula before she hears it from her dad.”
“You got it,” Danna said.
“No probs,” Turner agreed.
I carried Buck’s full lunch order over to him twenty minutes later. Double cheeseburger, chips, and my secret-ingredient coleslaw.
“Thank you kindly, Robbie,” Buck said, looking up from the phone he’d been jabbing at with one bony forefinger. “Can I get me a double serving of sugar cream pie, too, when you get a minute, please?”
“Of course.”
“If I loved sugar cream pie any more, I’d have to get a divorce.”
I snorted. “I wouldn’t advise it.” I knew how fond he was of his wife.
“Sorry for the disturbance,” Buck said.
Word travels fast in a small town, and the restaurant was buzzing with customers leaning toward one another, talking about the accident, about Sue, about the grieving widower. I thought I’d caught the word murder floating on the airwaves more than once, too. The remaining three businessmen at Glen’s table huddled talking.
“You did what you had to do.” I tilted my head. “How did you know Glen was here?”
“He left word with one of his staff.” Buck took a huge bite of his hamburger, leaving ketchup drizzling down his fingers.
“I’m so sad for Sue, and puzzled,” I said. “Who in the world would want to kill her? She’s one of the sweetest people in South Lick.”
I was grateful Buck swallowed his mouthful before answering me.
“Search me. We know she’d had herself an issue with the first victim. Maybe Ms. Berry got a little too close to the murderer.”
I studied him. “You guys questioned Sue. She could still be Pia’s killer and somebody else murdered her. Right?” I added when his expression turned skeptical.
“Might coulda happened that way. But rule number one is the old Keep it Simple. Don’t help none to fabricate a second killer when the first coulda done both.”
“Except you’re the one who mentioned a copycat murder,” I pointed out.
“That I did. It could be a copycat.”
“And Detective Henderson isn’t any closer to finding Pia’s murderer?”
“You’d have to ask her, Robbie. It ain’t my news to share.” He pointed his fork at me to reinforce the statement.
“Why do I get the feeling the detective wouldn’t share with me, either?”
Buck snorted before taking another impossibly large bite of burger. “You could be right,” he mumbled through his food. “Matter of fact, I think you just won the jackpot.”
A customer across the room waved his hand at me. I left Buck’s table and headed toward the diner, but my brain was at the side of a rural road. A rural road and a finished life.
Chapter Twenty-two
As I turned the sign on the door to CLOSED, wishing I were outside on this lovely pre-summer day, a tinted-window, black SUV drove up and parked. The vehicle featured the star-shaped Sheriff’s Department logo on the door, and sure enough, Detective Henderson climbed out. I waved and waited on the porch for her.
“I’ve been having some difficulty connecting with several of your guests,” she said once she’d reached my side and we’d exchanged greetings.
“Two of them are inside having lunch,” I offered. Ed and Beth, the fiddler and the clogger, had once again emerged to eat at the last minute before I closed.
A silver sedan pulled up next to the SUV. “And there’s my father’s rental car,” I added, pointing. “They’ve been at my Aunt Adele’s farm since morning. Cell reception can get a little sketchy out there.” Adele had hung on to her landline for exactly that reason.
“Excellent,” the detective said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll introduce you.” After Roberto and Maria came up the steps, I made the introductions. Maria once again paled at the sight of a uniform. Had she been in trouble with the cops in the past? Roberto had mentioned the polizia. I hoped I could squeeze in a moment alone with him to ask what had happened.
“I’d like to ask you each a few questions, if you don’t mind. Separately.” Henderson removed her hat.
“My wife, her English is not good,” Roberto said. “I will interpret for you.”
Henderson pressed her lips together, but nodded. “Ms. Jordan, is there a quiet corner inside we can use?”
“Sure. Come on in. The only customers left are the B&B guests and one other table.” I held the door open. Once inside I said, “Why don’t you sit in my office corner there.” I pointed to the desk. The light buzz of conversation in the room stilled at the sight of a uniform, and the contrast between the fresh air outside and the aromas of grilled beef and ham inside made the food scents that much stronger. In a good way.
“Mr. and Ms. Fracasso, if you don’t mind?” The detective gestured toward the corner.
Roberto took Maria’s elbow and murmured to her in Italian as they went.
Henderson focused on Danna before looking at me. “I’d like to tell your other guests of my intentions. And I’ll need to speak to Ms. Beedle while I’m here.”
Danna wasn’t going to enjoy that any more than the rest of them, but I said, “Follow me.” I led the detective to where Ed and Beth were eating—her a cheeseburger and him a Bluegrass omelet—and introduced them.
Beth’s eyes widened at the detective.
“I need to interview both of you while I am here,” Henderson told them. “It’s regarding this week’s homicides.”
Beth flinched as if she’d been struck. Maybe it was the effect of the word homicide, one most of us heard only on television or in the movies.
“We don’t know anything about those deaths,” Ed said.
“I understand you are in town for the music festival in Beanblossom?” Henderson looked from Ed to Beth, who didn’t meet her gaze, and back.
“Yes,” Ed said.
“We didn’t do anything,” Beth protested. “We don’t know those people!”
The detective was unfazed. “I have questions for both of you separately. I’ll be with you shortly. Please don’t leave the premises until we have finished.”
“Ohh-kay,” Ed said. He patted Beth’s hand, murmuring, “It’s fine, babe.”
Beth didn’t look like it was fine, and snatched her hand away as if it wasn’t fine to call her babe, either.
Henderson walked briskly toward Roberto and Maria.
“Some B&B,” Beth muttered. “We come to play music, rent a room, mind our own business, and the cops want to grill us.”
I decided to ignore what she’d said. As if the B&B and the murders had any connection. At least, I hoped they didn’t. I realized I’d protected Roberto and Maria from being questioned during their meal earlier, but I wasn’t doing the same for these guests. I chalked it up to the difference between family and paying guests, or maybe it was the difference between Wanda and the more professional Detective Henderson.
I headed for the stove, which Danna was cleaning quietly while appearing to listen as hard as she could. By prearrangement, Turner had left at one o’clock for a doctor’s appointment. He suffered badly from seasonal pollens and molds and had a standing appointment with an allergist.
“What was that all about?” Danna asked. “And who’s the lady with the braid, other than some kind of police?”
I’d opened my mouth to answer when one of the local ladies at the four-top raised a finger, catching my eye. “Tell you in a minute,” I said to Danna.
After their check was delivered, money was exchanged, and thanks were expressed all around, the ladies headed for the exit. I glanced over at where the detective was seated across from my father and his wife. Maria shook her head vehemently and spoke to Roberto, hands flying as she punctuated her words. I returned to Danna.
“Her name is Anne Henderson.”
Danna narrowed her eyes. “I feel like I’ve seen her before. Does she ever eat in the restaurant?”
“I hav
en’t seen her here. She’s the sheriff’s detective heading up the investigations into Pia’s and Sue’s murders.”
“That’s it.” Danna snapped her fingers. “She came into the high school years ago and warned us against drugs and alcohol. I knew she looked familiar.”
“She apparently has questions for everybody in the room right now, including you and me.”
“Wonderful. About Isaac’s ‘whereabouts,’ I’m sure.” She surrounded the word with finger quotes as the side of her mouth pulled down. “Whatevs.” Danna shook her head like she was shaking water out of her dreadlocks after a swim in Lake Lemon.
“Were you at Isaac’s place last night?” I asked as I rinsed dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher.
“No. He said he had to go see his dad.”
“Where does his father live?”
Danna tilted her head and gazed at me. “He’s in a, like, halfway house in Nashville. He got out of prison a month ago on early release, so he has to live in this place and stay out of trouble for a year. But they’re helping him get a job and stuff. It could be a lot worse. Didn’t I tell you?”
In prison? Did Anne Henderson know this? She must. Or maybe not. “No, you didn’t tell me. Can I ask, what was he incarcerated for?”
“It ended up being a stupid reason,” Danna went on. “He helped a guy rob a music store. All Isaac’s dad did was watch the exit so the other dude could rip off the expensive guitars and all. But they were both convicted of the crime.” She shrugged. “Isaac would never do something like that.”
Burgle a music store. Stick a few packs of banjo strings in your pocket? Leave them at your son’s house? That, added to Pia not paying Isaac what she owed for his work? No wonder the police were interested in Danna’s guy. Who, as far as I knew, had zero alibi for the time of Sue’s death or for Pia’s, depending on if he’d been lying about the body being cold.
At a string of upset Italian words, I turned toward my desk. Maria stood, threw her dark hair back, and stalked to the stairs leading up to the rooms. She tossed a hand in the air in what was almost a caricature of an Italian gesture, uttered something, and stepped heavily on each tread, slamming the door at the top.