Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I gasped. The photograph was old, dated. Sylvia’s hair had been much longer back then. An exotic silver hair stick secured her hair high on her head. I imagined the weapon used to kill Sylvia. She couldn’t have been wearing it; her hair was too short. In fact, I had surmised that she hadn’t owned such a thing and decided the murderer must have brought it along. Could the hair stick used to kill Sylvia have been hers? The one featured in the photograph?

  I felt eyes on me and looked around. Ronald wasn’t engaged with his prospective buyer, who was texting someone; he was staring at me. He beckoned me inside.

  My gaze moved from him to the photograph of Sylvia to the customer with her cell phone, and I had an aha moment. I realized what was bugging me about my chat with Rosie. Ronald claimed someone had invited Sylvia to the plateau that morning by sending her a text message on a burner phone. Did the police know about that, or did Ronald reveal that tip to Rosie, hoping she would impart the information to me? Rumors breed more rumors.

  Wait! Did Sylvia even own a burner phone? Was that a lie?

  No, I was being cynical. The police must have possession of the cell phone; Cinnamon simply hadn’t told me about it. Why would she?

  Did Shane text Sylvia? During their liaison, did they meet on the plateau? What if Tina, aware of that tidbit, contacted her aunt while pretending to be Shane? What if Emily did?

  The dowager snared Ronald’s attention. As he sauntered toward her without benefit of cane, another aha moment hit me. I glimpsed his eagle-headed cane, hanging as it had the other day behind the counter. Did he really need it, or was he completely healed and keeping up the pretense with the cane to make it seem that he was incapable of murder? Maybe acting befuddled was part of his ploy, too. Rosie said he was as sharp as ever. Tina did, as well.

  Ronald runs rings around Rosie.

  What if Ronald had known about Sylvia’s affair with Shane before last weekend? Let’s say he decided it was time to kill his wife, but he wasn’t quite sure how to do so. With premeditation, he purchased a burner phone just in case he wanted to generate a text message at some point to cover his tracks. At the crime scene, Cinnamon revealed that an anonymous caller had contacted 911 to report the fire, which compelled the fire department to act quickly. Did Ronald, after killing Sylvia, realize that if he didn’t alert the fire department ASAP, the blaze could take out the entire neighborhood?

  Ronald loves his barbecue.

  Over the previous weekend Ronald and Sylvia had argued about his niece’s relationship with Shane. Ronald pressed the point that Shane was young and energetic, and he flaunted Shane’s entrepreneurial skills. Sylvia went ballistic. She and Ronald struggled over a bottle of Shane’s steak sauce. The cap flew off and sauce drenched Sylvia. Defiantly Ronald chugged down the sauce. Outraged, Sylvia blurted that if she couldn’t have Shane, no one could.

  The following Monday, Shane overheard Ronald and Sylvia quarreling. Ronald warned his wife to put down the canister of propane. Did that set-to inspire Ronald to roast her?

  I peeked at the lingerie shop, and a series of images scudded through my mind in rapid succession: red robe; red brick; red fabric sticking out from the brick. Tina said her uncle was wearing a robe when he drank the steak sauce. Was it red? When the cap flew off the sauce, did Ronald retrieve it and put it in his pocket like Bailey had when the cap of her water bottle flew off? The morning of the murder, when I saw Ronald, he was clad in his pajamas. Was that because he had stabbed Sylvia while in his robe? He knew blood spatter wouldn’t come out, so he ditched the robe. Did he bury it beneath the rubble of brick? Was that when the bottle cap fell out of the pocket?

  I envisioned the scenario step by step:

  Before dawn, Sylvia and Ronald went at it. Why? Maybe because he hadn’t gone for his walk and she called him a lazy good-for-nothing. Did she lash out and slug him in the face? Rosie thought Ronald was wearing makeup. Had he put it on to cover up a fresh bruise?

  No matter what, that was the last straw for Ronald. It was time for him to put his plan into action. Enough with the belittlement, he told her. Enough with the bullying. He ran at her. Sylvia, realizing he was no longer an invalid, fled out the back of the house. He grabbed a weapon from the dresser—Sylvia’s exotic hair stick—and chased her down the steps.

  But he was barefoot, so he squeezed his feet into a pair of Sylvia’s gardening boots that were sitting on the back stairs and continued on. I’d noticed debris on them but hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Did it matter? I doubted the police could prove Ronald had worn them, and whatever fresh shoe prints they had found at the crime scene would have matched Sylvia’s, not Ronald’s. Besides, Cinnamon had probably ruled him out as a suspect because she didn’t think that he, in his condition, could have managed the treacherous trek to the plateau.

  But if he was fully mobile . . .

  I glimpsed into the store again. Ronald was prodding the dowager toward the door. Was he trying to get rid of her so he could confront me?

  As the woman dug in her heels, I bolted away. I caught sight of Cinnamon and my father climbing into Cinnamon’s teal Camry, which was parked at a meter down the street. I yelled, but neither heard me. I raced toward them while stabbing in my father’s telephone number on my cell phone. He didn’t answer. Shoot. I tried Cinnamon’s number. Also no answer. What was wrong with reception in Crystal Cove? There were no clouds. Were tourists using the same cell tower signal all at once?

  Cinnamon and Dad drove north on Buena Vista; neither spotted me even though I was frantically waving my arms. At the crossroad where the dolphins were tucked into the stagecoach, they veered right, up the hill. Aunt Vera said Dad was giving Cinnamon a tutorial in home renovation. Cinnamon’s house was located in the flats. Maybe they were headed to my father’s house; he had a veritable treasure trove of tools.

  While fishing my keys out of my purse, I sprinted to the lot at Fisherman’s Village. I scrambled into my VW.

  My aunt ran out of the shop yelling, “Jenna? What’s wrong?”

  “Call Dad.” I switched on the ignition. The car sputtered to life. “I can’t reach him. He’s not answering his cell phone, and I can’t call while driving; my Bluetooth isn’t working. He’s with Cinnamon. Ronald!” I shouted as I tore out of the parking lot. “He did it.”

  I had to catch up to Cinnamon, had to convince her to view the crime scene again. If she found Ronald’s bathrobe stuffed beneath the pile of brick, she could arrest him.

  * * *

  Cinnamon’s car was standing in my father’s driveway. The garage door was open, but my father and Cinnamon were not chatting in his workspace.

  I pulled in behind the Camry and hopped out. “Dad!” I yelled as I sprinted to the garage. “Cinnamon!”

  No answer. I tried the doorknob leading into the house. Locked. I pounded on it and called again. Still no answer. I whipped around, ready to climb down through the chimney if necessary, but I didn’t get far. Ronald appeared in the garage, cane in one hand, a silver-hilted dagger in the other. His car blocked the driveway. Talk about stealthy!

  “Hello, Jenna,” he said, his voice soft and steady . . . lethal. “You ran off in a hurry. What did you see in the store window that transfixed you? Was it the jewelry in Sylvia’s hair? Did that trigger a memory?” I must have blinked because he said, “Yes, I thought so. It was brazen of me to display it. Almost as bald-faced as lighting the fire outside your cottage. Oh, but the rush, the thrill. There’s nothing like it.”

  Crazy. He was certifiably crazy.

  He raised the hand holding the knife. I flinched. I had to defend myself. I glanced around the garage. Like Nuts and Bolts, the space was spotless. A pegboard affixed to one wall held a tool bench, a two-foot step stool, and a three-legged folding chair. Nothing I could wield easily. The vise on the six-foot-long tool bench was clamped down tight. All my father’s man-sized tools were locked inside
his floor-to-ceiling cabinets. Dang!

  Stall, I urged myself. I needed to give my father and Cinnamon time to figure out I was here. “Nice cane, Ronald.”

  “I’m not here to exchange pleasantries, Jenna.”

  He hit the garage door button. The door cranked down fast. Dad must keep it well oiled with WD-40. At least darkness didn’t consume us. Sunlight spilled through the side windows.

  “Do you want to know what I think, Ronald?”

  He leered. “I always like to know what my students think.”

  “You and Sylvia argued the morning she died.”

  “We always argued.” He moved toward me, slowly, greedily, like a cat that had cornered its mouse and wanted to take all the time in the world to savor the moment. “What else do you know?”

  “Sylvia abused you. Not just that morning. For a long time.”

  “That’s putting it mildly, but there’s more. Continue. C’mon, girl, use your brain.”

  A lightbulb clicked on in my head. The steak sauce! “You knew she had cuckolded you with Shane,” I said, uttering the theory I’d come up with outside Sterling Sylvia.

  “Cuckolded. A good choice of word.”

  “You knew way before last weekend when Sylvia made her declaration that only she could have him.”

  “Tina told you about that.”

  I nodded.

  “Let’s just say my wife was not discreet.”

  I snapped my fingers. “You touted Shane to Tina. You made it seem like you liked him, but in truth, you wanted to get back at both Sylvia and him. The steak sauce bottle cap didn’t accidentally fall out of your pocket. You placed it at the scene of the crime to frame Shane for killing Sylvia. Two birds, one stone. My father in his red coat was a decoy.”

  “Aha. I knew you had it in you.”

  “A month ago, when you fell—”

  “She pushed me.”

  “You recovered quickly. That’s when you dreamed up your plan. When the Wild West Extravaganza came to town, you would make your move. You would pretend to be crippled, and no one would ever suspect that you were capable of murder.”

  “Very clever.”

  I wasn’t sure whether he was complimenting me or himself.

  “That morning,” I went on, “you did something to taunt her. You wanted to be able to claim self-defense if necessary. What did you do? Eat something in bed and spill it on yourself?” I remembered seeing him that morning, trying to wipe something off his pajama collar while at the same time attempting to appear distressed about his wife’s death. “Did she pop you in the eye? Did the bruise leak into your cheek? Is that why you’re wearing rouge?”

  His lips pulled back. His teeth were really white and really straight. He breathed heavily through his nose.

  “To her surprise, you hit back,” I went on, “and suddenly she realized you weren’t going to take it anymore. She ran.” I repeated the scenario I had envisioned moments ago: he grabbed the hair stick; he chased her; he realized he was barefoot and slipped into her garden boots. “When did you catch up to her?”

  “At the fountain. She whirled around, fists raised. Too late. I plunged the stick into her cheating heart.”

  “You set the fire, except the fire department, which you called using a burner phone, showed up too fast, and the robe that you’d been wearing when you killed her and buried beneath the rubble of brick didn’t go up in smoke.”

  Ronald grinned. “Ah, I get it now. I see why you came here. You want to show the police where I hid my robe. Too bad you won’t get that chance.” He lunged and lashed out with the dagger.

  I dodged the thrust. He tried again. I dropped to the ground and, with my right leg, kicked the heel of his cane. It flew from his hand. He spun around and jabbed the dagger toward my head. In the nick of time, I rolled to the side, grabbed the cane, and whacked the backside of his calves. He pitched forward but didn’t fall. I let go of the cane, scrambled to my feet, and shoved him.

  Ronald reeled into the tool bench. The dagger slipped from his grasp and skidded beneath the lower edge of a cabinet. Growling, he reached for it.

  Using the momentary distraction to my advantage, I hit the garage door opener and scooted out before it fully opened. I dashed to my car.

  Seconds later, Ronald was chasing after me.

  Remembering the spurs and rope that I had stored in the VW’s trunk, I fished the car key from my pocket and popped the automatic button. The trunk’s lid rose.

  I glanced inside. The spurs were trapped beneath the rope. Drat! I cut a look over my shoulder. Ronald was on me. He swung his cane. The metal caught me in the hollow of my knees. My legs buckled. I slumped forward over the rim of the trunk.

  “Get up!” Ronald ordered.

  “Sure,” I said, but not until I’d gripped the strap of the spurs. I yanked the pair free and, as I swiveled to face him, swung up. The seven-pointed rowels struck Ronald beneath the jaw.

  He screamed in pain and careened to the right. He tried to grip the rim of the trunk but missed. His body skidded along the rear-wheel fender; he banged on the door handle, which sent him spiraling to the left, giving me just enough time to knee him in the rump.

  He toppled to the ground and howled in pain.

  I raised the spurs to strike again.

  He glanced over his shoulder and cried, “Don’t hurt me! Please.” His voice was pitiful, the look in his eyes that of a wounded, beaten animal.

  Holding the spurs overhead, I said, “On your feet! Walk to the trunk of my car.”

  He obeyed. “Are you going to lock me in there?”

  “No, sir.” I reached for the rope, unwieldy and heavy, and tossed it on the ground. “Sit,” I ordered.

  Ronald did.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  He was so readily submissive that I wondered what else Sylvia had subjected him to during their marriage.

  I looped the end of the rope in a figure eight around his hands and tugged. The knot wouldn’t hold a flea in place, but Ronald didn’t seem to realize that. “Don’t move,” I ordered.

  As I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, I heard footsteps.

  “Jenna!” my father bellowed. In seconds, he materialized at my side.

  Cinnamon showed up a second later and gauged the situation. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  I beamed. “Ronald is your killer.”

  Chapter 30

  After I’d gone to the precinct to give my statement, my nerves were spent. I canceled dinner with Rhett, but he insisted that he come to the cottage. We watched reruns of cooking shows. Neither of us ate. Tigger settled onto my lap. He didn’t budge until bedtime.

  At seven the next morning, Dad called to check in on me. He had an update. Ronald had secured a lawyer, and the lawyer was trying to claim Ronald was mentally unstable, but Dad assured me he would be tried for murder. Cinnamon wouldn’t relent.

  At half past seven, David’s mother called. She said she realized it was last minute, but she was having a memorial service for David later in the day. Could I attend? Of course I told her yes.

  I ate sparingly, dressed in a black sheath and pink hairband—a small tribute to David’s and my past—and Tigger and I headed to work.

  For an hour, I straightened the children’s corner. Afterward, I moved back to the sales counter, where Katie had set a two-tiered crystal dessert stand filled with a variety of chocolates: truffles, buttery caramels, chocolate-covered nuts, and more. All taste testers. She’d had the brilliant idea to start offering a chocolate-making demonstration on the last Saturday of each month. It would be a nice treat for adults and could become a regular event for the Chocolate Cookbook Club. In anticipation, I ordered dozens more chocolate-themed cookbooks and fiction. We already had many set out for the town’s book club–themed week, but I liked to be prepare
d.

  Aunt Vera approached me. “Jenna, dear, why the black dress?”

  “David’s mother.” I sighed. “She can’t plan anything too far in advance or she gets headaches.” I would grieve for David; I would not miss Helen.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.

  “Very well, but don’t say I didn’t offer.” Aunt Vera took a chocolate caramel and bit into it. “Mmm. Scrumptious. By the way, I have a bit of news. Are you up for it?”

  Bailey flew through the door, the skirt of her aqua-blue dress billowing. She skidded to a stop by the counter. “Sorry I’m late. You won’t believe what I heard at Latte Luck Café.”

  “Me first,” Aunt Vera said. “I was getting ready to tell Jenna that Shane lost his job with the Wild West Extravaganza group, and he and Emily aren’t getting married. Emily doesn’t want to move from city to city, wherever he might roam.”

  “Roam,” Bailey snorted. “That’s funny, seeing as Shane was a rover.”

  “What about the house they were buying?” I asked.

  “Emily saw it and fell in love with it, spiders or no spiders. She’s buying it with help from her parents.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  “Okay, my turn!” Bailey cried.

  “Not yet.” Aunt Vera held up a finger. “As for Tina Gump, she slipped in before you all arrived and announced that she, too, is dumping Shane.”

  “Woot!” I chimed. Bailey echoed me.

  “Poor girl,” Aunt Vera said. “She’s so upset with the news about her uncle. She loved him dearly, but she realizes she must plant both feet on the ground. I gave her a quick reading, and she made a big life decision. Knowing she has to take care of herself, and there will be no money coming her way any time soon, certainly not from Sylvia’s will—Sylvia didn’t appreciate Tina in the least—she’s taking on two jobs so she can apply to culinary college. I asked her to work here part-time. Is that okay?”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “She’ll get the hang of it right away, and none of us will feel guilty when we need to take an extra day off.” I hesitated. “What about Sylvia’s funeral?”