“What kind of rumors?” I asked, dreading where this was going.
“Well…” Anne stalled, squirming some more.
“Miss Doe, do you have any response about the news of a body being found last night?” came a voice I had hoped not to hear again, at least not for a while. The voice belonged to Tim Foyle as he came up to the register from another part of the store. I really hope he hadn’t come looking for me!
“Now you wait just a minute!” Anne yelled at him sternly, pointing a finger at him. “Jane has nothing to do with that!”
“Why…” I started slowly, not understanding anything that was happening.
“Don’t tell him anything!” Anne snapped at me, sending me reeling. “He’ll take what you say and twist it to make you look guilty!”
“I’m just here to report the facts,” Tim sneered, trying to look like a wounded innocent.
“Would somebody please tell me what is going on?” I demanded, raising my voice more than a little.
“Jane…” Anne started, sounding sympathetic.
“They found a fresh body in the cemetery with weird, possibly satanic, markings burned into the skin last night!” Tim interrupted. “Any comment on that?”
Okay, I hadn’t heard about anything being burned into the body, so that was news to me. The very idea was shocking to me!
“I still don’t see why you’re asking me…” I told him, still utterly confused.
“Well, you’ve gained somewhat of a reputation…” Tim started, trying to sound professional and utterly failing.
“What kind of reputation?” I asked, almost grinding my teeth.
“Well you live in a mansion that everyone believes is haunted,” he started, ticking off the points one-by-one. “You’ve managed to live there for more than a year when the longest anyone has ever lasted was a week-and-a-half, according to my research. You also recently held a séance in said mansion.”
“My house is not haunted,” I lied, almost snarling at him. “People just think it is because it’s old and looks creepy. I’ve been able to stay there because I don’t jump at every creak or moan as the house settles for the night. As for the séance…”
By this time, I was panting with the righteous indignation I was feeling. Anne saved me from passing out by inserting, “The séance was Beth’s idea, not Jane’s.”
“Miss Doe still agreed to it,” Tim countered, unfazed.
“That’s… because…” I started, too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know how to say no to that woman.
“Because nobody says no to Beth!” Anne huffed, saving me once again, bless her heart.
“So, if you’re not involved, who was that man that came by your house after the party?” Tim Foyle asked, looking like he had just sprung his trap.
“Have you been spying on me?” I gasped, appalled at the implications.
“I came back to get your side of the story after getting some of the details of the crime,” Tim countered. “I saw a black car in the driveway and a man climbing out and entering your house. I waited until after he left before knocking, but you didn’t answer your door.”
He had been spying on me, the rat bastard!
“That man was a friend of mine,” I told him, my mind spinning up the lie I was about to tell. “He came for the party, but got mixed up on the times.”
“So why did he stay?” Tim asked, looking like he wasn’t entirely buying my story.
“To chat with me!” I snarled. “He’s my friend and wanted to catch up!”
“I see…” he told me as he jotted something down in his notebook. “Why didn’t you answer your door after he left, then?”
“Because I was tired,” I admitted, my voice sounding like it. “By the time he left, I was beat and went right to bed. I didn’t hear anyone knocking…”
“Which means that none of this is any of your business,” Anne growled at him. “Which also means that none of it had better appear in the paper!”
“I can’t make any promises,” Tim shrugged, putting his notebook away.
“Then I demand that you leave. Now!” Anne commanded him in no uncertain tones.
“Just doing my job!” Tim smiled, not the least bit disturbed at seeing Anne looking royally pissed off.
“Your job shouldn’t include smearing a good person’s reputation over rumors!” she hissed at his back.
I wanted to go hide in the basement, but it was my turn at the register. Besides, I needed to sit down to catch my breath over what had just happened. With how public that scene had been, now people were openly staring at me and not bothering to whisper as they spread even more rumors about me…
I tried to ignore it as best as I could, but it wasn’t easy. Mr. Roadkill wasn’t helping matters, either…
What the hell was he anchored to?
Chapter 7
Dinner for Sheriff
When I got home from that stressful shift, I saw a large black SUV parked in my drive that I recognized as sheriff Carter’s civilian vehicle, the one she uses when she’s not officially acting as sheriff. I suspected I knew why she was here, so I prepared myself for what I figured was coming next. Even so, it’s important to act out the part, the better to avoid suspicion…
“Sheriff!” I called to her, walking my bike to my house. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to ask you some questions,” she informed me as she stepped out of her vehicle. I hoped she wasn’t waiting long…
“About the body?” I asked hesitantly.
“I’m afraid so,” she told me, confirming my suspicions.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggested with a sigh.
I nodded to Peter, whispering, “She’s a friend. Be nice, okay?”
“Okay!” Peter nearly shouted before flying off inside, probably to tell Wendy. My whisper was soft enough that I doubted the sheriff heard me, but Peter didn’t need to keep quiet, since I was the only one here that could hear him.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked the sheriff as I set my lunchbox down and took off my coat.
“It’s not that kind of a visit,” she told me, sounding grim.
“I’m a suspect, aren’t I?” I asked with a sigh.
“Not officially,” she answered, her tone completely professional.
“I was going to make some dinner; did you want some?” I asked. “We can talk while we eat!” I added.
“I shouldn’t stay long…” she hesitated.
“Come on!” I chided. “A home-cooked meal is bound to be better than that fast-food junk I’ve seen you eat!”
“Okay, you’ve talked me into it,” she chuckled.
I led her into the dining room, then into the kitchen. The kitchen is large with a lot of counterspace and cupboards and a huge stove. It was originally designed to be used with a personal chef and their staff, so with just me and the sheriff it seemed even larger than it would have back in the day.
I pull out the steaks from the fridge to get them warming to room temperature. They are some lovely T-bone steaks that have been aged to enhance their savory flavor. I also pull out some bacon fat I keep stored in a metal ice-cube tray that I keep for the sole purpose of storing this precious cooking oil. Bacon drippings have some serious culinary mojo and should never be wasted! Bacon fat even has the power to make salads edible! Salads! Can you believe it?
Along with the steaks and bacon fat, I also pull out some sliced mushrooms and a few herbs from the fridge, along with some leftover crispy bacon. All these will need some time to warm up to room temperature, so I leave them on the counter while I prepare a couple cast-iron skillets. One is fairly shallow, so I’ll use that for the steaks, while the other is considerably deeper, which I’ll use for the potatoes. I turn two gas stove burners to high heat and put the skillets on. In the deeper one I put a dollop or two of the bacon fat to render it out while in the shallow one, I pour some olive oil to get it heating up.
From the pantry I pull a bag of po
tatoes I keep in a paper bag and start scrubbing a few of them before using a mandolin to slice them thin. I use some paper towels to dry them off as well as I can before dropping them in the large skillet with the bacon fat. I toss them to coat all the slices with the bacon-y goodness then deposit all this into the oven, where it will bake. If it had been just me, I would have sautéed the potato slices individually, but that would take too long with the two of us here.
“How do you want your steak?” I ask the sheriff who, I think, was talking to me before now, though I didn’t hear her. For me, cooking has become something of a sacred ritual that demands my full attention and is not to be rushed.
“Well-done, please,” she answers with a small sigh as she realizes I haven’t heard a word she’s said.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” I scold her. “Medium is as far as I’m willing to take these steaks! If you want well-done, you might as well eat shoe leather!”
“You take cooking really seriously, don’t you?” the sheriff observed, sounding wry.
“I learned how to cook from my dad,” I told her as I patted the steaks dry before adding a little salt and placing one gently into the hot pan, giving a lovely sizzle as meat meets hot oil.
“He sounds like a cool dad,” the sheriff remarked innocently.
“He was a miserable excuse for a human-being,” I respond coldly, not wanting to remember the sheer torture Jack Offerson made me endure as I was literally starving while he cooked foods that smelled like heaven, of which I would have none.
“Oh, come on!” the sheriff chided, sounding bewildered. “He couldn’t have been all bad if he taught you how to cook!”
“I said I learned how to cook from him,” I responded icily, testing her steak with my tongs and readying a plate and some foil. “Not that he taught me,” I added.
The sheriff went silent at this, seeming to consider me. I haven’t really told anyone in town about my past and I didn’t really intend to, so they didn’t know what I had suffered, growing up. I think the sheriff suspected, but I’ve never told her anything definite.
“I’m cooking your steak to medium-rare,” I told her as my mental clock counted down the time her steak had left to go. “I’ll let carry-over heat bring it to medium,” I added as I prodded the meat gently with a clean finger, feeling that it was almost there. I gave it another thirty seconds then removed it to the plate and covered it with foil before I got to work on my own steak, which I would bring to just this side of medium-rare, since it was going to sit for less time than the sheriff’s.
Once my steak was done, I added it to the plate holding the sheriff’s steak, covered both of them in foil, then added a little more oil to the pan. Once the oil was rippling with the heat, I added the sliced mushrooms, letting them sauté with the juices from the steaks. Once the mushrooms were done, I added some beef stock, deglazing the pan, and scraped the bottom with a metal spatula. I added a few herbs and let the sauce reduce.
While the sauce was reducing, I checked on the potatoes in the oven. The smell as I opened the door was enough to bring a smile to my face. I carefully pulled out the potatoes and set them on an unused burner. I took some of the crunchy leftover bacon and gave it a quick chop before adding it to the potatoes. On the same cutting-board I chopped a little fresh parsley and added this as well, letting the heat of the potatoes wilt the herb. I finished this off with a little fresh-cracked pepper and gave it a final stir.
By this time, the sauce had reduced nicely and it was time to plate. I’m not really big on presentation, figuring that the flavor of the food takes priority, so I got out a couple large plates and deposited the steaks, then potatoes, and finally pouring the sauce, mushrooms and all, over the steaks.
“If you’ll grab the silverware, I’ll set the table,” I told the sheriff, leading the way back to the dining room.
She dutifully did as asked, and I set the two plates across from each other. “This one’s yours,” I told her, indicating the plate that had the steak cooked to medium.
She sat and I set down the napkins, forks, and steak knives. I had forgotten the drinks, but the aroma of the steak, potatoes, and bacon were driving all other thoughts out of my head. I sat and cut into the steak, the juices flowing and mixing with the light mushroom sauce, and took a bite.
Oh bliss!
This, right here, is the best part of the day! Hands-down! This is the reason you make friends with your local butcher so you can get steaks aged to perfection!
“Oh! Wow!” the sheriff exclaimed, chewing her piece of meat. “This is really good!”
“Thank you,” I smiled, enjoying the compliment. I’ve only ever really cooked for one other person like this, my foster mother, Sarah Foxx. It was kind of nice sharing this experience with another friend.
“Now, I suppose we should get down to business,” I sighed, sad that I was ruining this meal with accusations and suspicions to come.
“You’re not officially a suspect,” the sheriff reminded me.
“But you still need to talk to me…” I reminded her.
“Only because I’m getting shit for not talking to you earlier today,” she countered.
“People think I killed somebody, don’t they?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Only one person, so far,” the sheriff told me, “but he’s been quite vocal about it and has been bothering the station all day.”
“Look, let’s get right down to it,” I intoned bluntly. “I didn’t kill anybody and a cemetery would be the last place I’d leave a body, especially this close to Halloween.”
“What do you mean?” the sheriff asked, taking a bite of the potatoes and sighing with pleasure.
“I don’t like cemeteries,” I told her, shivering a little. “They creep me out.”
At this, the sheriff nearly choked in surprise! “You’re scared of cemeteries?” she asked in disbelief. “Why?”
“I just am,” I fidgeted, not wanting to tell her the real reason, just yet.
At that moment, there was a loud crash that came from upstairs, making the sheriff nearly jump out of her seat. I glanced up, hearing the voices of the kids giggling, and paid it no mind.
“What was that?” the sheriff asked, looking alarmed.
“It sounded like a book falling off a shelf,” I answered calmly, taking a bite of potatoes. They were tender and flavorful and the bacon gave it a delicious crunch.
“So…” the sheriff started, sitting back in her seat. “So, that didn’t bother you, but cemeteries do?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” I shrugged.
“That’s… a little weird,” she informed me, giving me a strange look.
“So everyone keeps telling me,” I sighed.
“Tell me about the man that came after the séance,” she commanded.
“Tim Foyle has a big mouth!” I groaned angrily.
“I know, but I have to look into it,” she shrugged.
“He’s a friend that got the times mixed up for the party,” I told her, repeating the lie I had told earlier.
“Why was he carrying a large bag?” she asked like this was a perfectly innocent question.
Hell and blast! I swear! If I ever got my hands on Tim ever again, I’d make him pay!
“Why does everyone seem to think I did it?” I moaned.
“Not everyone,” the sheriff corrected. “Just one.”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Jane…” she warned. “You know I can’t divulge that!”
“If I knew who was accusing me, I might be able to tell you why!” I nearly growled.
“Let’s try this,” she redirected. “What is your relationship with Mr. Boday?”
“Who?” I asked, not recognizing the name.
“The victim,” she clarified.
“Never heard of him,” I remarked, still searching my memory for the name.
“I have a report that you ran into him, covered your ears, and ran screaming from him,�
�� the sheriff informed me.
That… began to explain things…
A while ago, maybe last spring or summer, I ran into a man on the street that was being followed by a shrieking ghost, named Harriett according to her. The ghost was livid and shouting to anyone that could hear, namely me, that the man, Mr. Boday I guess, had killed her, then testified against someone else, who was convicted of the crime. I had covered my ears in a vain attempt to block her out, and ran from him before Harriett could get stronger and do something permanent.
“Um…” I hesitated as I struggled to think of a believable lie. Well, when in doubt, be vague! “I sort-of recall something like that happening… I think the guy just creeped me out…”
“Okay, how about this?” she asked, looking a little exasperated. “Where were you two nights ago?”
“This would have been the night before the séance, right?” I asked, wanting to be clear.
“Correct,” she nodded.
“I was home,” I told her, feeling miserable that I didn’t have a better alibi. “I was making jerky for the party.”
“Was anyone here with you?” she asked, her tone still businesslike.
In my head, I answered with ‘nobody living’ but out loud I answered, “No, nobody…”
I gave a sigh of pure frustration then vented, “Look, I have trouble lifting some of the heavier objects in the store. I get winded walking down the street! Walking to my front gate is grounds for a breather! I’m not physically capable of killing anyone and dumping their body in a graveyard!”
“Jane,” the sheriff consoled. “I understand. Again, I don’t think you did this, but I need to ask.”
“I know…” I mumbled, feeling rotten for doing that to her. “I’m sorry, I’m just so… frustrated after Tim came to the shop, plus everyone staring at me and whispering about me, not to mention the kids from this morning!”
“What kids?” the sheriff asked, sounding concerned.
“Oh, some kids were throwing rocks at my house this morning…” I explained, finishing the last of my dinner and wishing I could have enjoyed it in peace instead of ruining it with talk of suspicions…
Call Me Dreamer Page 5