Crème Brûlée To Slay

by CeeCee James

  “Frank?” I called. I crept toward my van. After checking one final time into the trees, I darted out and around the front of the vehicle.

  “I’m right here,” he said from the driver’s side.

  I practically ran into him and let out a frightened squeal. “What the heck are you doing?”

  “I was doing some surveillance,” he muttered. He stared at the slingshot in my hand and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even want to know what you were doing. Now let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You’re not going to believe it. I have to show you what I found.”

  He stared back at me, not with his normal expression of impatience, but one of fear. His lips tightened, and then he gave a stiff nod.

  “I found the bullet,” I said, this time feeling excited. Staying stooped over, I led him to the spot.

  “Stooping over is just going to give them a lower target with that orange hat on your head,” he noted.

  I pulled it off, and then didn’t know where to put it. Finally, I stuffed it down my shirt to hide it.

  Frank wasn’t paying attention. He’d found the spot I’d cleared and was bending down to the bullet. He whistled in amazement as he pulled out a knife and carefully pried it out of the dirt. With a plastic baggy, he scooped it up.

  He stood, flashing me a smile. “You are amazing. Now let’s get out of here.”

  We hurried to the van, with me fiercely whispering all about my bullet-finding techniques. He nodded the entire time. Before I finished my story, he opened the driver’s door.

  “Just get in. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Your place,” he said.

  I climbed in and he shut the door behind me. I watched him walk to his car. The entire time he stared warily into the woods.

  He followed me to my apartment and trekked up the four stories to my floor. The hallway smelled of old onions from one of my neighbor’s dinner the night before. I unlocked the door and we went inside.

  He sank down in the kitchen chair like he was feeling old. I flipped the phone onto speaker mode and slid it across the table toward him. He stared at the triangle and then hit play on the message.

  “Well?” I asked, when it was finished. “What do you think?”

  “I think the sound matches the bullet you found. Sounded like a high-powered rifle.” He lifted the baggy and shook it slightly, eyeing the bullet. “I can’t believe you found this. One in a million, I know exactly what kind of rifle shot it.”

  “You can? How?” I leaned to look closer.

  He licked the corner of his lip as he held the baggy up to get more light. “You see how little damage is on it?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s because it’s 32 Winchester Special. They’re made to not break apart and mushroom on impact. And, unlike a 30-30, a 32 caliber is not common. This came from a Winchester Special model 94 rifle. I’ll get forensics on it right away.”

  “There was something else,” I thought, remembering. I scrolled to my pictures and found the one with the tire tracks. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you about it after I got shot at.”

  He zoomed in on the picture and then sent me a wry look.

  “I’m sorry.” I shrugged.

  With a sigh, he forwarded the picture to his phone, which gave a ding as it received it. Then, he studied it again.

  “Tire tracks look sporty.” He zoomed in some more. “But, I think I see some siping on them.”

  “Siping?” I asked. I thought about it. “Oh, is that when they make little cuts in your tire to help grip during rain storms?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

  “It seems unusual they aren’t snow tires.”

  “Some people chose to do this instead, especially for a car they aren’t driving in the snow.” He zoomed in on the side of the track. “And the track mark is firm. These look like fairly new tires.”

  “New, or on a car not driven very often.”

  “Exactly.” He shut the screen and pushed the phone in my direction. My painting on the table caught his attention.

  “Nice. That’s the empty lot by the old hardware store?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled.

  “I remember that. Before the Marshall’s bought it.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten that. Gayle and her husband then sold it to a developer who made the business complex.”

  He hummed in agreement glancing around the kitchen. “Yep. Well I have to get back to my shift.” His gaze stopped cold. “What on earth is that? You trying to make diamonds?”

  I turned to follow his look. The stacked ramekins by the sink and betrayed me. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. I’m super bummed they didn’t turn out as expected.” I walked over and sadly scraped at the crusty brûlée remnants with my fingernail.

  “It’s what I expected.” His face was so serious that I gasped, and then he relaxed into a small grin.

  I swatted at him with the dish towel. “Oh my gosh! What’s gotten into you? You’re cracking jokes off left and right nowadays. I guess you’ll be quitting your day job and taking your act out onto the road.” I set the dish into the sink. “Of course, you’ll starve.”

  He chuckled softly and then stood up and stretched. “That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you, Georgie.”

  “Admired about me? Do tell.” I was all about hearing admiration.

  “You’re smart, you’re determined, and you don’t quit. I fully expect you’ll be opening your own bakery before the year’s out.” He wrapped me in his arms. “And I’ll be your best customer.”

  “Seriously?”

  He spent the next few minutes showing me how serious he was. I had a big smile on my face when I told him goodnight.

  That bit of joy stayed with me as I made some dinner and then settled down for a spree of baking shows. I could do it, couldn’t I?

  Right around eleven, as I was brushing my teeth, the phone rang. I spit out the toothpaste and ran for it.

  Unlisted number.

  I clicked the button, feeling nervous. “Hello?”

  No answer.

  I hung up and immediately dialed Frank. “He's called back!” I said, trying to sound brave and not at all like I was freaking out like a chicken laying her first egg.

  He went straight to the point. “Who’s your phone carrier?”

  I let him know.

  “Okay, I’m on it,” he said. “Don’t answer it again.”

  “All right, I won’t. And there’s one more thing. Mr. Miquel told me that if I thought of anything else, for me to go to him, and not the police. He was not happy about the cookie.”

  “Not happy about us asking about the cookie?”

  “No. I guess the detective showing up upset both Mr. Miquel and his wife.”

  “All right. Noted. Don’t worry about the phone calls. I’ll get him.” he said to reassure me, and then hung up.

  I finished brushing my teeth and cleaning my face, and then went to bed. It was a very uneasy night’s rest.

  Chapter 18

  The next morning I woke to a text from Frank. —I pulled some strings. The calls have been made at the four hundred block, down by the Jack Knife. It’s a bar.

  I sat up in bed and thought about that. I knew what it was, although I’d never been there before. But something wasn’t adding up. My first phone call came before six am. The bar closed long before that. How could the calls have come from the bar?

  With Cecelia not needing me, I spent the day doing some chores. I changed the bed, cleaned the bathrooms, and spent an hour saving the ramekins.

  The rest of the day was spent folding clean laundry in front of my cooking shows. They inspired me once again, and it was about seven-thirty that night when I decided to head down to the store to get some more cream. I had to try to make the crème brûlée again. I couldn’t let it conquer me.

  But first, I wanted to figure out who exactly owned
the Jack Knife. I typed the name of the bar in the search box. GreenLeaf Incorporated was the name that came up. I frowned in surprise. I’d never heard of it before, and I honestly thought it would have belonged to the Marshall’s company.

  I searched up GreenLeaf. The only other thing that came up under that name was a shipping company by the name of Bickford Enterprises in the next town over. A huge drug bust went down there about five months earlier. I closed the laptop, more puzzled than ever.

  On my way to the store, I saw the Jack Knife’s sign up in the distance. My curiosity was building, and by the time I came back out of the store with my cream, I’d made up my mind.

  It was still early yet. The hardcore crowd didn’t even start until nine or ten, at least in the movies. Didn’t seem like there could possibly be anything that could go wrong.

  I drove to the bar and walked in. Wow, it had been a long time since I’d gone to a bar alone.

  It was dark inside, with fly-trap strips hanging from the ceiling. I eyed them suspiciously. It being winter, I hadn’t seen too many flies. I didn’t know if this meant the strips were never changed, or this place was maggot infested.

  A sharp crack drew my gaze to the far corner where a pool game was going on. Several men in jeans and torn t-shirts laughed at whomever had just made the last shot. Their laughter was loud and raucous.

  I glanced at the bar. The stools were half-filled with customers who looked like they called that place home.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for. What was I thinking? That I’d find someone sitting in a dimly-lit corner booth, wearing a shirt with the word “Killer” on it? I must have been nuts.

  Just as I was chiding myself for acting like this was some TV show, I saw him. And he was sitting in a booth in a dark corner.

  With wild hair and a grizzly beard, he squinted at me suspiciously. I felt a chill run up my neck, and I hurried to look away, but not before I caught his sneer as he took a long drink from his beer.

  I walked over to the bartender, who wiped the bar with a rag that looked like it’d been used to clean the floor. After eyeing the floor, I realized that’d probably never happened.

  “Hey,” I said, resting my fingers on the counter. I quickly removed them. The counter was greasy and covered in crumbs.

  “What would you like?” he asked with a bored expression.

  Something hard, I figured. Look like I know what I’m doing. I remembered what the attorney I used to work for always ordered. “A highball?”

  He rolled his eyes, and I thought he was going to say something, but instead he pulled out a glass and mixed the drink. Wow. That’s a lot of whiskey. And just that tiny splash of soda? Okay, then.

  He slid the drink toward me and went to help the customers at the other end. Fingerprint marks marred the outside of the glass. I set a ten on the counter and took a small sip. Whoa. Feeling like flames were flying out my nose, I tried to look casual as I glanced down the bar.

  Three phone calls had come from here. Each one at a different time. And at least two had come when the bar wasn’t open. How was that possible?

  A few minutes later, the bartender moseyed back my way. He set down a bowl of peanuts and his meaty hands gripped the edge of the bar. “Now what will you really be having?”

  “How’d you know I wouldn’t like this?” I asked.

  “I’ve been doing this for thirty years. You don’t belong in a place like this.”

  The group of men playing pool shouted, causing me to jump, underscoring what the bartender was saying.

  “I just have a question,” I said.

  He pulled a terry cloth rag from his apron pocket and wiped his hands. “Of course you do. Let me guess. You want to know if I’d seen a man in here with a girl. Your husband?”

  I shook my head. “No—”

  “Boyfriend then. Lady, if you’re worrying about him, you’re probably right. Drop him.” His eyes dipped to take in my chest. “A woman like you could have your choice of men.” He smiled at me then, revealing a gold cap on one of his eye teeth.

  I repressed a shiver. “No, actually I keep getting phone calls from here.”

  “Phone calls?” His crazy eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Only phone we have here is in the back. Trust me, no one’s been using it.” He glanced out at the crowd. “Half these guys wouldn’t know what to do with a cell phone. Must be some weird fluke. Sorry, lady. I think your luck’s run out.”

  “Okay.” I reached for a peanut, stopping as soon as my fingers touched the bowl. Who knows how many other hands had dipped into there. I pulled away, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my pants. The bartender started to drift away.

  “Hey, just one more thing!”

  He turned back with a bored expression.

  “Is there an apartment or something upstairs?”

  He came back and his brows lowered. “You know, lady, I don’t normally answer questions for free.”

  “Oh. Of course.” I reached into my purse, hoping I had more cash on me. Ahh, there it was, my emergency ten. I pulled out the wrinkled bill and smoothed it out on the bar. With a smile, I slid it over.

  He shot it a look of disgust. “Seriously, lady?” With a roll of his eyes he pocketed it. “There’s a locked room upstairs. Sometimes the owners use it, but usually it’s empty. Now, I suggest you beat it.” He glanced at the pool table. “Because those boys over there are thinking you’re starting to look a mite interesting.”

  I followed his gaze and felt my blood run cold. The men were indeed staring at me with leers on their face. Okay, then.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said and stood to go.

  A hard hand clapped onto my shoulder from somebody behind me. I squealed and spun around, ready to give someone a poke in the eye.

  Frank stood there, his lips thin and pressed together. He was still in his police garb. The chatter in the bar quieted.

  “How in the world?” I was shocked.

  “I was driving by and saw your car. What are you doing here?”

  “Uhh…” I didn’t know how to answer.

  “Well, now you found her. Can I suggest you take her and both go?” the bartender said. Frank narrowed his eyes, and the bartender raised his hands and backed away.

  “Come on,” Frank said between clenched teeth. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We headed out and Frank walked me to my van.

  “Honestly, I was fine,” I said.

  “You looked fine. Cozy even.” He opened my door and then crossed his arms.

  I took a deep breath. Time to address this. “Listen, I get that you worry about me. But you need to realize I’m a grown woman, not the same teenaged kid you used to hang out with. I’m independent and have been doing stuff like this”—I motioned to the bar behind me—“all of my life. I’m fine, really.”

  His gaze flicked to the door where two men busted through to the outside. They squared off as if about to deck each other. Frank gave a whistle, and they glanced over. They took in his uniform, and each got on their bikes and took off.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “So, you were saying? All of your life?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well, there was a bit more dancing at the ones I went to.”

  Another man stumbled out. He wore greasy overalls and old boots. We watched as he wandered down the side of the building, pausing at the corner to throw up. I grimaced, but then stood up straighter. Because what he’d thrown up against was a pay phone.

  What? A phone booth? We still have those in this day and age?

  “Frank,” I said. “I think I know how all the phone calls were made from here.”

  He noticed it too, and then turned and studied across the street. “I doubt any of those places have security cameras trained this way. But I’ll search into it tomorrow. And you might be all big and tough and independent, but don’t forget the last few times I’ve found you, you’ve either been shot at, or about to get jumped in a bar. So don’t make me sound li
ke some over-protective twit over here.”

  “Okay. How about just a regular twit?” I gently teased him, hoping to get him out of his bad mood.

  It didn’t work. He lowered his brows, and I quickly held up my hands. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding.” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?” I climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Tomorrow then. And stay out of trouble.” He shut the door behind me.

  Wow, I must have really made him mad. I sighed and turned on my blinker. I’d think about it later. Right now, I needed to get home and do my own searching.

  Chapter 19

  Instead of doing anything productive, I went straight to bed. I had to be at the B&B early the next morning and I was wiped out.

  I arrived after breakfast to take the guests on a tour of several Amish markets in the Gainesville area. Cecelia had a luncheon planned, so I had them back by noon. Lunch wasn’t quite ready, so, after a quick handwashing, I got to work preparing a salad.

  The front door slammed, and a few moments later Frank poked his head into the kitchen.

  “Hey guys. Am I in time for some food?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “You’re in time to set the table,” Cecelia quipped, nodding her white head toward the serving basket. Her perfect bun didn’t so much as wiggle.

  Frank rolled his eyes, but wandered to the sink to wash his hands. I smiled as I continued to chop lettuce.

  “What’s so funny, chuckles?” he muttered, catching my grin.

  “Nothing delights me more than to see you do some of your favorite chores.” I remembered how he’d used every excuse possible as a kid to get out of setting the table. The only thing worse than that for him was washing dishes. “Do you have a cutlery phobia that I should be aware of?”

  “I don’t get why we don’t just use plastic silverware and paper plates.” He jerked up the basket, causing the silverware to jangle against each other and the plates to rattle.

  “You be careful with that, young man. And come here and give your grandma a kiss.”

  He walked over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. Then he stomped into the living room, clutching the basket in his over-sized hands.