Fillet of Murder

by Linda Reilly

  That painful boulder bobbed in her throat again. She couldn’t stop thinking about Bea. The poor woman had looked terrified when a pimple-faced, twentysomething officer had loaded her into the back of his patrol car and slammed the door. Even though he’d assured her that she wasn’t under arrest, she’d railed at him with all the fervor of a prisoner being wheeled to the Bastille.

  “It’ll be okay, Bea,” Talia had screamed to her. But the sight of her friend’s frightened face peering through the window of the cruiser had nearly wrenched Talia’s heart out of her chest.

  After her “interview,” Bea had headed home to change. She and her husband, Howie, lived in a quaint, older subdivision on the outskirts of Wrensdale, about a ten-minute ride from the arcade. Knowing Bea, she was probably standing under the shower at this very moment, scouring her body with a steel wool pad and a bar of industrial-strength soap.

  Talia slid her gaze over the stainless-steel work counter, still shiny and clean. An enormous colander of boiled peas sat beside a stainless-steel bowl, waiting to be whipped and creamed into Bea’s delectable mushy peas. Over the years, Bea had improved on her original recipe by cutting out the extras and keeping it simple. The result was a luscious and healthy side dish even the pickiest of eaters couldn’t resist.

  Okay, get to work. The fish isn’t going to batter and fry itself, is it?

  She wasn’t even sure if Bea planned to open for business today. After Bea’s interview was over, she’d texted Talia that she was heading home to change and instructed her to meet her back at Lambert’s. Maybe—

  Oh God, poor Bea. Any other boss would probably hold Talia responsible for this entire mess and fire her. Talia knew Bea would never do that, but still, she felt wracked with guilt.

  With a groan, she pulled a clean blue apron off the wooden shelf in the corner where Bea kept them neatly stacked. She slid it over her neck, then tied it in a bow at the back. The least she could do was look perky and ready to serve.

  She’d just started to open the commercial refrigerator when the back door crashed open. Bea charged into the kitchen, spewing a chain of inspired expletives she could only have learned from her stint as a cook in the navy in the UK. But what truly startled Talia was the color of Bea’s lips. Fluorescent green, they were smudged at the edges and gave off a weird, shimmery glint. Biting off a giggle, Talia decided not to mention it until Bea settled down a bit.

  Talia closed the back door and peered at her friend—possibly her ex-employer—with concern. “Bea, are you all right?”

  “No.” Eyes blazing, Bea snatched an apron off the shelf, sending the rest of the pile toppling to the floor. She’d changed into black trousers and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt—an ensemble that matched her current mood, to be sure. She slung the apron around her neck, twisting it into a hopeless tangle even as she struggled to tie it in the back.

  “Let me help,” Talia said. She grabbed the bottom edges of the apron and twirled them until they were right side up. She pulled the ties around Bea’s diminutive waist and secured the apron with a snug bow.

  “Flipping coppers,” Bea sputtered. “Who do they think they are?” She yanked open the door to the fridge, shoved a hand inside, and extracted a plastic bag filled with shredded cabbage. She turned to slap the bag down on her work area, and all at once, her shoulders sagged. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she threw herself at Talia. “Oh, Talia baby, I didn’t even ask how you were! What a dreadful, horrid woman I am. All I’ve been thinking about is how insufferable it was for me. I didn’t even ask about you. Did the cops hurt you? Did they interrogate you? Did they make you sit in a hot stuffy room that smelled like last year’s unwashed gym clothes?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Talia’s mouth. She patted Bea lightly on the back. “Bea, I’m fine. And the worst I can say about the interview room was that it screamed for a coat of paint and a squirt or three of Febreze.”

  “Oh, Talia, you are such a gem,” Bea said with a crooked green smile. “Whatever would I do without you?” Her neon smile faded. “What will I do without you?”

  “Bea, you’ll be just fine. But can I ask you a question? Why are your lips glowing green?”

  “They are? Oh for the love of God and England! I must have slapped on that silly stuff I was saving for Halloween. That’s what I get for putting on makeup without a mirror.”

  “It’ll be perfect for Halloween, but since that’s a few weeks away, why don’t you switch to something more subtle for today?”

  Bea scooted off to the bathroom. Since she hadn’t said otherwise, Talia assumed she intended to open for business. She hauled a bag of potatoes out of the storage closet, set them next to the work area, and began the peeling process. It was a mindless task, one that gave her too much time to think. She couldn’t stop obsessing about Bea. What if Howie didn’t recover fully from his knee operation? What if Bea couldn’t keep the fish and chips shop running on her own? She and Howie had always worked as a team, both in life and in business. What if—

  An abrupt tap at the back door made Talia jump. She blotted her hands on her apron, dashed over, and opened it. Whitnee stood there looking utterly perplexed, her book bag dangling from one bony shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Whitnee said, stepping inside. “I’ve been trying to get in for two hours, and the front door’s still locked. Plus there’s Staties all over Main Street taking up the best parking spots. And the lighting store has yellow tape around it!” She slid her bag off her shoulder, removed her windbreaker, and hung both on a hook next to Talia’s jacket. Normally she wore a spotless T-shirt or sweatshirt over crisp jeans that hugged her slim legs. Today’s wrinkled ensemble looked dredged from the bottom of the laundry basket.

  Talia instantly felt guilty. Amidst the hullabaloo over Turnbull, she’d completely forgotten about the girl. “Hi, Whitnee. I’m so sorry, we should have called you. Someone killed Phil Turnbull in his store.”

  “Wh … killed? Did you say killed?”

  “Bea and I”—Talia swallowed—“found him this morning, but the police think it happened last night.”

  That’s what Talia had gleaned, anyway, from the questions the police had chucked at her with rapid-fire speed. Her whereabouts between the hours of seven and midnight Wednesday evening had been of supreme interest to them.

  Whitnee teetered to the right, and for a moment Talia thought she might faint. Her face had gone milky pale. Tears spilled onto the girl’s cheeks. Then she shook her head, covered her eyes, and began to cry in earnest.

  “Oh, Whitnee, I’m so sorry,” Talia said. “I shouldn’t have blurted it like that.”

  Whitnee sobbed quietly into her hands for a minute, then sniffled loudly and wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said and cleared her throat. “You must think I’m a baby or something. It’s just … I never knew anyone who got murdered before. It took me by surprise.”

  “Of course. It’s very understandable.”

  “I mean, I didn’t even like Ph … Mr. Turnbull,” Whitnee went on. “He was nasty to everyone, and he—oh God, I didn’t mean it that way. Please don’t tell anyone I said that!”

  Talia smiled and squeezed Whitnee’s shoulder. “Believe me, the police will have to search far and wide if they’re looking for someone who did like Phil Turnbull.” She hated speaking ill of the dead, but she couldn’t ignore the truth. Nonetheless, he didn’t deserve to die, and for that Talia felt terrible.

  Bea stomped out of the washroom, her lips now free of their fluorescent shine. The moment she spied Whitnee’s puffy face, she hurried over and hugged her. “There, there, luvvy, it’ll all be okay. We’ll get through this and go on like before.” Bea sighed.

  Whitnee hugged her back, then looked down with an embarrassed flush at her stained sweatshirt and crinkled jeans. “Sorry to look, like, so messy today,” she told Bea. “My mom usually gets up early and does laundry, but she left work sick last night and she wasn’t feeling so good thi
s morning. By the time I realized I didn’t have anything clean to wear, it was too late to run a load through.”

  “Aw, luvvy, that’s okay,” Bea said. “Under a nice clean apron, no one will see it anyway.”

  Talia tilted her head toward the front of the eatery. “Whitnee said the front door is locked, Bea. Did you lock up before the … police took you to the station?”

  “I asked the copper to lock it for me,” she grumbled. “I have to admit, the chap was quite obliging. Not bad-looking, either, if you go for the baby-faced sort. So, shall we open up for business? If all three of us get hopping, we should be able to open by two, wouldn’t you say?” She looked far less sure than she sounded.

  “Let me take a peek outside,” Talia said. She slipped around the side of the counter and went to the front entrance. She opened the door and glanced out over the cobblestone plaza. The sun was bright, tempered by a chill wind. People had gathered in clusters, chattering to one another as they gawked and pointed in the direction of the lighting store.

  Only one thing marred the appeal of the faux sixteenth-century village. Stretched across the front of Turnbull’s lighting store was, as Whitnee had noticed, a length of yellow crime scene tape, punctuated by a series of orange cones. The tape fluttered in the stiff breeze.

  Talia turned to Bea. “I agree, Bea. Let’s open. People have to eat, right?”

  • • •

  “Bunch of looky-loos, all of them.” Bea slammed the entrance door. “Don’t these people ever eat? Has everyone gone crazy?”

  Talia had just bitten into a fat, crispy fry sprinkled with a dose of malt vinegar when she heard Bea erupt over the depressing lack of customers. In spite of the horrible day she’d had, she was ravenous. A bowl of Rice Krispies with a sliced banana were the only food she’d eaten all day. Nevertheless, she felt guilty for stuffing her face when business had been abysmal all afternoon. She swallowed and said, “It’s an aberration, Bea. It won’t last. By tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”

  She hoped.

  Wearing a dazed expression, Whitnee busied herself wiping down the work areas in the kitchen and putting away the condiments. She’d barely said a word all afternoon. In the tradition of Talia’s nana—the quintessential Italian grandmother—Talia had tried urging her to eat. But Whitnee had waved away any offer of food, refusing even the mushy peas she normally gobbled with gusto.

  Only three customers had come in for a meal all afternoon. Each one had taken their goodies outside so they could munch on deep-fried haddock and salty chips while they watched the crime scene technicians go about the tasks of photographing and collecting evidence. Judging from the number of people capturing it on video with their phones, it was quite the spectacle. It didn’t look to Talia as if the techs were doing anything exciting, but the looky-loos apparently thought otherwise.

  “I hope you’re right, luvvy,” Bea said wearily. “But since it’s almost six and we haven’t sold an ounce of food in over an hour, we might as well close early. How about we—”

  The door to the eatery abruptly flew open, dispensing a heavyset, fiftyish woman lugging an overstuffed canvas tote. Talia recognized her—it was Whitnee’s mom, Connie Parker. She’d been coming in every week or so to see her daughter, each time thundering through the eatery as if she owned the place. She always devised some dire excuse why she needed to talk to Whitnee, who kept her cell turned off during working hours.

  Today the woman’s gray-streaked hair stuck out from her head like the tines of an old rake. Beneath an open peacoat that had seen better decades, she wore a uniform-style polyester top that matched her pink polyester pants. Connie moved across the dining area, her thighs making a swish sound with each stride. “Where’s my Whitnee?” she bleated. “Is she okay? I heard somebody got murdered right here in this plaza!”

  Not in time, Talia moved toward the dining area with the intention of cutting her off at the pass. Connie edged around the aquamarine counter and bumped past her as if she were a gnat, her gargantuan tote leading the way.

  Whitnee’s face reddened. “Ma, what are you doing here? I told you, you can’t keep coming in here. You’re gonna get me fired!”

  “Then why didn’t you call me? Didn’t you get the messages I left on your phone?” Connie dropped her tote and threw both arms around her daughter. “There’s a murderer loose. You coulda been killed!”

  “I’m fine, and I told you, Ma, I can’t talk on the phone when I’m working.” Whitnee wriggled out of her mom’s grasp. “You gotta go now, okay? You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Okay, okay, so long as you’re all right.” Connie sent an exasperated glance in Talia’s direction. “I guess it’s a crime to worry about my daughter now,” she huffed.

  “You have every right to worry,” Talia said kindly but with a firm undertone. “But I assure you that Bea, Whitnee, and I all look out for one another. We’ll be sure Whitnee gets to her car safely. You have my word.” She moved closer to Connie to encourage a swift departure.

  “Yeah, yeah, all right. I can take a hint.” Connie squeezed around the edge of the counter and trekked back into the dining area. Talia followed close behind to be sure she didn’t try an end run back into the kitchen.

  “Kids,” Connie muttered. “I popped out three, and only one of ’em turned out decent. That would be Whitnee, in case you’re wondering which one, and today even she’s givin’ me grief. She’s a good girl, though, most of the time.” She swiveled and shot a hard look at her daughter. “My other two—the both of ’em ought to join Deadbeats Anonymous. Can you believe my youngest never worked a day in his life? He sits in his room playin’ with his a-Pad all day. God knows where him and his brother go at night, but at least they go.”

  Talia went to the door to open it for her, but Connie hadn’t quite finished her monologue.

  “Well, at least Whitnee’s going to school,” Connie burbled on. “If she can keep comin’ up with the tuition, that is. ’Course I heard some bosses repay their employees for the money they spend on college.” Her small brown eyes homed in on Bea, who’d stood speechless during the entire Connie invasion. “I don’t suppose you have any sort of deal like that?” she said sourly.

  Bea shook herself out of her stunned silence. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Parker. We’re just a small—”

  “Hey, never mind that Mrs. Parker stuff. It’s Connie, okay? Anyhoo, I gotta go. Time to go clean the zoo. Night shift is a bee-yotch, if you catch my drift. No rest for the weary, huh? You just make sure my girl gets to her car like you promised.”

  Talia saw Bea let out a quiet breath of relief after Connie left. Whitnee looked as if she wanted the floor to swallow her in one giant gulp. Talia felt for the girl.

  “I’m really sorry,” Whitnee said in a tiny voice. “She’s, like, a major worrywart, but she means well.”

  “Aw, that’s okay, luvvy,” Bea said. Fatigue had etched dark lines around her eyes. “She’s a mum. She has a right to worry. Look, we’re going to close up shop now. It’s been a terrible day, a simply horrid one. I think we’re all entitled to an early night.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Talia said. After closing, she planned to head straight next door to Sage & Seaweed—the specialty bath and body shop adjacent to Lambert’s. The owner, Suzy Sato, imported most of her products from England, and the selection of scented bath salts was mind-blowing. The prices made Talia a little light-headed, too, but she reminded herself that every woman deserved a bit of luxury on occasion. A long soak in a scented tub later would go a long way toward soothing her frazzled nerves. The day she’d had would surely warm the chambers of the devil’s heart.

  They all pitched in to finish putting away the perishables. After Talia wiped down all the surfaces with lime-scented cleaner, Bea locked the door and they left. In keeping with her promise to Connie, Talia walked both Bea and Whitnee to their cars, which were parked in the town lot adjacent to Peggy’s Bakery. The cold breeze of late afternoon had turned i
nto a biting wind, but the sky was clear and scattered with stars.

  “You watch who’s around you,” Bea admonished, sliding into her mud-brown vintage Datsun. “Until the coppers catch the killer, we could all be in danger. Where’s your car?”

  “I parked behind the lighting shop this morning, remember?”

  “Dear God, luvvy, you’re not walking back there alone. Hop in.”

  Knowing it would be futile to protest, Talia accepted the ride. She hadn’t told Bea she planned to visit the bath and body shop—it would only worry her needlessly to think Talia was tromping around the arcade alone.

  It was freezing inside the Datsun. Talia rubbed the arms of her jacket. The clunker didn’t heat up very quickly, but Bea loved the old car. She’d bought it when she first immigrated to Massachusetts from the UK, and she refused to give it up.

  Bea drove around the block and stopped behind the Fiat, the headlights of the Datsun illuminating the quiet, darkened street. “Flash your lights when you get in your car,” she told Talia. “And please be careful, luv, okay? There’s a killer out there.”

  Talia leaned over and gave her friend a quick hug. She started the Fiat and flashed her headlamps, and Bea tooted and pulled away. Warm air blew out of the vents almost instantly. She rubbed her hands together to squeeze some warmth into them. All at once, she realized that Turnbull’s Caddy was still parked beside her. Had the police realized it belonged to him? How long would they leave it there?

  She drove around the block, this time snaring a spot on Main Street, only a pebble’s throw from the arcade. Sage & Seaweed was one of the two shops closest to Main. A fast walk would take her there in less than a minute.

  Talia locked the Fiat and scooted across the cobblestone to the bath shop. A shiver raced up her arms. She told herself it was from the cold. She didn’t believe for a moment that she was in any danger.

  Someone had wanted Phil Turnbull dead. It was as simple as that.

  Wasn’t it?