The soup of the day was a creamy leek and lima bean soup that she had been eager to try for some time. First she lay thin strips of bacon on one of the cast iron skillets and turned the burner on. That could cook while she prepared the leeks, which needed to be washed and chopped.
With almost perfect timing, the bacon was ready to be moved to a paper towel-covered cookie grid by the time the leeks were ready to start cooking. She carefully dumped most of the bacon grease into an old metal can that she kept for that purpose, but left enough in the pan to flavor the leeks, and dumped the chopped veggies into the pan to cook. Once those were tender, she stirred in a few cups of baby lima beans and chicken broth. As the soup simmered, she crumbled the bacon, which she then put in a container for easy access when it was time to top individual bowls of soup with it.
Once the soup was ready, she added salt and pepper, then pureed it. The light, creamy green soup that she would keep warm in a large Dutch oven. It smelled delicious, and tasted almost like a mild version of pea soup. She hoped her customers would enjoy it as much as she did, but if they didn’t—well, that just meant extra leftovers for her.
Next she seated herself behind the register and pulled out her tablet. With the binder that Paul the web designer had given her close at hand, she carefully logged on and updated the soup and sandwich combo of the day on the deli’s website. Once she completed the task and had double-checked it by going to the website on her phone, she shut down her electronics, reheated her cup of coffee, and settled herself down to wait for the rest of the town to wake up and, she hoped, wander in for some quiches, coffee, and freshly squeezed juice. It was a nice feeling to have accomplished so much so early in the morning.
A few hours later, her stockpile of quiches was nearly depleted, and she had had to refill the coffee pot twice. Luckily people would start ordering lunch soon, and in just under an hour Allison would arrive to help with the normal lunch rush.
When the bells on the deli’s door jingled once again, she looked up with a smile ready for her next customers. Instead of some of her regulars, she was surprised to see Jimmy and Daisha Hamel. She nearly choked on her greeting, but managed to turn it into a cough.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she managed.
“You too,” said Daisha. “I’m glad that we ran into you. We just stopped in to get some breakfast before we hit the road—we’re on our way out of town—but I was just telling Jimmy how nice it would be if we ran into you again. How are you liking the house?”
“Oh, I love it,” Moira managed. She wished that she hadn’t left her cell phone in her purse in the kitchen, but after getting upset at Darrin for being on his, she had tried to follow her own rules and only use her cell phone at work for things that couldn’t wait.
“We heard about what happened.” The wife traded a glance with her husband. “I feel terrible that you had to go through that, but I’m also glad that we never got around to cleaning out the basement ourselves. I would never have been able to get a good night’s rest again if I had been the one to find the body.”
The deli owner was beginning to wonder if she should make some sort of excuse and leave through the kitchen. These people were almost certainly the ones that had killed that young woman. Had they come here to gloat before doing the same to her?
“How did you hear about the body?” she asked, hoping to keep the conversation going until another customer wandered in. Surely they wouldn’t try anything with someone else there? “I thought the police were keeping it quiet for now.”
“Oh, they are,” said Jimmy. He walked over to one of the refrigerated cases and gazed down at the meat inside. “Since we lived there previously, they brought us in for questioning. Say, do you sell bigger bags of this venison jerky?”
“There should be a few twelve-ounce bags to the right of the smaller ones,” she said automatically. Turning to Daisha, she added, “That must have been frightening. I’ve been questioned by the police before too, and it isn’t fun.”
She glanced out the window in hopes that she would see another car pulling into the parking lot, but had no such luck.
“They were pretty unfriendly at first,” the other woman admitted. “See, apparently they think that the murder happened after we bought the house. I think they thought that one of us was the killer!” She laughed, as if the whole idea was ludicrous.
“They were just asking us questions, dear,” Jimmy said to his wife. “They were perfectly polite.”
“Oh sure, they were perfectly polite… after we told them that we rented the house out for at least a decade after we bought it. Jimmy thought that getting into real estate was a good idea, and then the recession happened and we ended up stuck with the place. At least moving here let us be closer to my Great Aunt Thelma for a while, back when her mind was still clear.”
The woman sobered, and Jimmy laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“The doctor at that old folks’ home doesn’t think Thelma has much longer,” he explained to Moira. “We hate to leave her like this, but I have to work, and she doesn’t really recognize us anymore anyway.”
Moira nodded, trying to digest this flood of information from the friendly pair. Either they were good liars, or they were actually innocent. She didn’t want to let her guard down in case she was wrong, but considering their open expressions and the fact that neither of them had made a single threatening move towards her, she was leaning towards the latter.
“So have the police tracked down the person you rented the house to?” she asked.
“They’re trying to,” said Jimmy. “But we rented to a few different people over the years and, well, most of them wanted to pay in cash, and it was easier for me to do it off the books anyway…” He looked embarrassed. “So we don’t actually have any records of who lived there, and it was so long ago I can’t remember any names.”
The deli owner relaxed on the stool. She no longer worried that these two might have had something to do with the murders. Everything they had said made sense, and she was certain the police would have verified it. As she packed up the last of the quiches for them and rang up the venison jerky for Jimmy, she realized that all of her guesswork had led to nothing. Who had really murdered the girl in her basement?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You’ve really turned out to be useful,” Moira said, patting the refrigerated truck fondly. “You’ve also practically paid for yourself already, too.” It was nice to not have to worry about renting a truck whenever they had a catering gig, and having their own truck helped keep the cost of catering down. Besides, whenever she drove the thing around town, it was basically free advertising.
“All set?” she asked Meg, her helper for the day. She had been trying to give each of her employees a chance to go on catering jobs with her to give them all a chance to see what it was like, and to learn the basics. If they ever had a really big catering job to do, one where they needed all hands on deck, it would go much more smoothly if she didn’t have to worry about training her employees while also handling thousands of dollars’ worth of food.
“I sure am,” said the young woman brightly. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
As she eased the refrigerated truck into the parking lot of Misty Pines half an hour later, she was surprised to see that the outside of the building had been decorated with balloons, flowers, and even a banner wishing happy birthday to the woman who had created the assisted-living home. This really was a big event for the residents, and she was glad that she had put her all into developing the dishes. She might have had only limited ingredients to work with, but she could proudly claim that none of the food was boring. Hopefully the residents would enjoy a change of pace from their usual chef’s cooking—she had done what she could to make the food as tasty as possible while using only the mildest of spices and ensuring that all the food was low in sodium.
“Thanks again, so much,” Mrs. Radisson said to Moira. “I can’t tell you what this means
to me. Everyone is already excited to try your cooking. Reginald has been telling everybody who will listen how great your deli is.”
“Well I hope I live up to your expectations,” Moira said with a laugh. “I think everyone will be happy, though. I have to be honest, the low-sodium requirement was the hardest one for me. It made me realize how much salt I usually use, which can’t be good for me in the long run.”
“Too much sodium isn’t good for anyone,” the director agreed. “But it’s a special concern for the residents here, since many of them already struggle with high blood pressure and heart conditions. But this isn’t the time for medical talk. Come on in and get set up. I’ll run you two over a pair of mocktails—no alcohol here—and try to help how I can.”
The dining room had been set up like a ballroom, with round tables circling a clear space in the middle of the floor and a portable wooden stage at one end for the live band. The other end of the room held a long buffet table for the soups and bite-sized sandwiches that Moira had brought, and the cafeteria window into the kitchen served as a bar for the mocktails.
“This is a nice setup,” said Moira as the director gave them a tour of the kitchen, which she was free to use if she needed. “It must take you a while to get everything arranged and get all of the decorations up.”
“We change it up a bit every year,” the other woman said. “Some of the residents like painting or sewing, and they usually make most of the decorations. Some of their children or grandchildren donate their time to help us set up, as well. Though of course never as many of them come as I would like.”
The deli owner felt a surge of sadness for the residents of Misty Pines whose children rarely or never visited. She sure hoped that Candice would visit her when she was older. At least Reggie had Eli, who came to see him very often from what she could tell.
“Where is Reggie?” she asked the director, eager to see the elderly man after his stint in the hospital.
“He’s still resting in his room,” Mrs. Radisson replied. “He was pretty tired after breakfast. He’ll come out in time for the party, I’m sure.”
With energetic and cheerful Meg helping her, setting up the buffet table was easy. They got done just as the party was officially beginning, and their table was immediately popular with both the residents and the staff. After a few minutes when she was certain that everything was running smoothly, she left Meg in charge of the table and went to find Reggie.
She searched the dining room for him, but didn’t see him among the groups of people. Frowning to herself, she tried to remember where exactly his room was. She set off down one of the long hallways hoping that she had his room number right.
She was passing a closed door with the word MEDICATION on it in big, brass letters when the knob turned and it swung open in front of her. An elderly man with a balding grey head and round spectacles walked out. He had a pill bottle clenched in his hand, and wore a surprised look on his face. He looked familiar, but it took her a second to place him. Then she remembered—this was Clint, Reggie’s friend.
“What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly.
“I’m looking for Reggie,” she told him. “He’s a friend of mine. I’m not sure if you remember, but we had dinner together a couple of weeks ago.”
The man frowned at her for a moment, then pointed back the way she had come.
“Go down the hallway, turn right, and his room is the third on your left.”
“Thanks.” She gave him a bright smile, hoping to elicit one in return, but his face had settled into an annoyed expression that did not change.
She turned and walked back the way that she had come, feeling completely turned around by the maze of hallways. She could have sworn that Reginald’s room was in the other direction, but obviously her own sense of direction had been off.
Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, and she paused to check it in case it was Meg calling for backup. It wasn’t her employee, but rather David, which was odd since he knew she was busy catering that day. Knowing that he would only interrupt her for something important, she hit the green button and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Moira,” came his urgent voice. “Where are you?”
“At Misty Pines,” she told him. “I thought you knew that?”
“Are you near people?”
“Um, no. I’m looking for Reggie. Meg is watching the table.”
She heard him curse, which was rare. Alarm bells began to go off in her head.
“David?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“You need to get out of there right now. If you see Reginald, bring him with you, but don’t go looking for him. Wait in the parking lot. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“What’s going on?” she asked again, her voice sharper this time.
“I know who the killer is,” said David. “And he’s a resident there.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Clint Easterling,” he said. The name sent chills up her spine. Clint… the man that had just given her directions to Reggie’s room, and then had walked the opposite direction himself. What had she done?
“Are you sure?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Yes, and you need to get out of there right now, Moira. You might be in danger.” His voice was tense.
What should she do? If she left like David wanted her to, Clint might escape. He could be anywhere by now. No, that wasn’t true. He would be going to finish the job that he had already failed at twice. She was certain that, using whatever drugs had been in that pill bottle, he meant to kill Reggie.
Feeling bad for David, but knowing that he would only try to talk her out of what she was about to do if she stayed on the phone with him, she took the cell phone away from her ear and pressed the red button to end the call without even saying goodbye. He would guess that she was about to do something reckless, she was sure, and would likely call in the cavalry. Good, she thought. Because I very well may need rescuing.
Retracing her steps, she followed the hallway that she originally thought led to Reggie’s room. It turned out that her memory had been right, and Clint had indeed been trying to lead her wrong. She stared at Reggie’s brass nameplate on the door for a moment, gathering her courage, and then pushed it open.
“Reggie,” she gasped when she saw the elderly man lying as still as stone on his bed. For a moment she thought he was dead, then she saw his eyelids flutter and realized he was near unconsciousness.
“You’re in the wrong room,” a voice growled to her right. She jumped backwards. Clint was sitting in an armchair in the corner, glaring at her.
“What did you do to him?” Moira asked angrily.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a flat voice. His gaze was steely.
“Is he dying?” she rushed over to Reggie’s bedside and felt for his pulse. She was no doctor, but at least she could tell that he had a pulse, and it was relatively regular, if weak. He looked up at her, his eyes hazy. He was obviously drugged, but seemed to recognize her.
“Of course.” She heard the groan of springs as the man behind her stood up. She edged around to the other side of the bed, keeping one eye on him and the other on Reggie, whose eyes had blinked slowly open for a moment, then closed again.
“So am I, so are you,” continued Clint. “Everyone dies; I’m just helping him along.”
“What did you give him?” she asked. “Why can’t he wake up?”
“You’re the lady who found Meredith, aren’t you?” he said, ignoring her question.
“Yes. Now tell me what’s going on with Reginald.”
He ignored her again, only to approach the bed with a water-filled paper cup in his hand. Moira took a step backwards, wishing she wasn’t trapped between the bed and the wall, and watched him warily.
“Meredith was such a pretty girl,” he said softly as he stared down at the sleeping man in the bed. “I really do miss her. You should have let her rest in
peace.”
With surprising suddenness, he tilted Reginald’s head back and opened his mouth with his thumb. Moira realized what he was about to do a moment before he did it, and slapped the cup full of water out of his hand before he could pour it into Reggie’s mouth.
“Stupid woman,” Clint hissed as the water spilled all over the bed.
“You poisoned it, didn’t you?” she said, her voice shaking. “You poisoned the water.”
“It’s none of your business what I did, or what I’m going to do. Why do you keep asking questions? You’re all the same, you women. Talk, talk, talk. Meredith wouldn’t shut up either.”
He was getting angry, the first real reaction she had gotten out of him, and the hate rising in his eyes was frightening. Moira was beginning to think that she had made a big mistake. She had assumed that she would easily be able to overpower such an old man, but Clint was far from feeble.
“Is… is that why you killed all of those young women?” she asked as she looked around frantically for something she could use to defend herself. “Did they talk too much, too?”
He frowned at her, the mention of his murder victims distracting him temporarily from his rage towards her.
“What do you know about them?” he asked her sharply. “My poor, sweet girls. I hope you didn’t go digging more of them up.”
“How many were there?” she asked, her voice strengthening as she realized that she may just have the upper hand here. The man wasn’t exactly in his right mind, and talk about the murdered girls seemed to throw him off track. “Five, was it? What did you do, hang around their high schools, follow them home, and pull them into a van?”
“More than five,” croaked Reggie from the bed. Whatever haze he was in seemed to be wearing off. He struggled into a seated position, wiping his chin where some of the poisoned water that Clint had been attempting to give him had dribbled. “He was in high school when he killed the first one. I saw it in the papers. Old papers, I found ‘em in Sylvia Tinmen’s room.” He blinked, confused again, and settled himself back down on the pillow.
Beef Brisket Murder: Book 11 in The Darling Deli Series Page 8