“We’re happy you’re here for as long as you want,” Erno added. “Any hand at the store is a welcome hand.”
Ruth fished in her purse for something. She pulled out folded papers. “Getting back to the cook-off, I was looking at the recipes you cooks prepared.” She unfolded the contest recipes booklet. “The contestant two stoves down from you, who never showed up, had a remarkable recipe I’d have loved to have seen prepared. When I took my first break, I stopped by for a gander, but the spot was empty. Wonder why the man didn’t show up? Did he fall ill, do you know?”
“He passed away after the party last night,” Sherry offered in a hushed tone.
“Heavens! Dead?” Ruth sounded incredulous.
“Now I’m not as sorry I couldn’t make the cook-off,” Erno commented. “I’ve been to one too many cook-offs that involved a death.”
The bell over the store’s door tinkled, and heads rotated in that direction. Detective Ray Bease, wearing a battered tan hat, entered the store. As he approached the sales counter, his rubber-soled shoes screeched across the floor.
“Hello, Sherry. How have you been? Mr. Oliveri. Mrs. Gadabee. Mrs. Van Ardan. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” He removed his hat and tucked it under his armpit. His short-sleeved shirt was in need of a steam iron, as were his khaki pants.
No one spoke. The store, full of people, was as quiet as if it were after hours. Sherry’s gaze bounced from person to person until it landed on the detective. His face was expressionless. She knew it was his job to make her feel as if she couldn’t respond fast enough.
“Ray. It’s been a while. How have you been?” Sherry’s words were cautious. She studied the Hillsboro County detective, hoping to read his mood. As in the past, it was an impossible task. “In the market for a colorful rug to brighten up your home?” Sherry laughed. “Imagine after all we’ve been through; I’m helping you decorate your home. I’d never have considered we’d be friends, or even share a pleasant conversation, for that matter. Our first meeting had you suspecting me of murder. If that wasn’t enough to tarnish any potential relationship, you followed up with putting my father on top of a murder investigation suspect list.”
“Just doing my job,” Ray said.
Sherry knew Ray well enough to know he wasn’t going to elaborate. He was a man of few words when the subject was not of his own choosing.
“I have a bit of business to attend to first, but sure, I’ll take a look at a few rugs while I’m in here.” Ray peered toward the rug showroom. On display were autumnal-themed hooked rugs in various shapes and sizes, blooming with reds, browns, oranges, and moss-colored lamb’s wool yarn. Rug designs ranged from root vegetable cornucopias to antlered deer roaming through dramatic fall foliage. He returned his focus to Sherry. “Very nice.”
“What sort of business?” Sherry’s words rolled off her tongue faster than she intended. “Does this involve all of us, or would you like to step into the other room?”
“Actually, some, not all.” Ray reached around to the backside of his wrinkled pants and his hand returned holding a small spiral notepad. He flipped it open with a jerk of his wrist. He scanned his notes. “Is there a Josep Primo Oliveri in your family?” Ray kept his focus on the page.
Sherry grinned at Ray’s method of note taking. “Done away with your computer tablet?”
“It’s in the car. Notepad’s still my preferred field-recording device. More of those metal contraptions come back soaked from rain, shot up by perpetrators’ bullets, or run over in a car chase than the department would like to admit. I think I’m onto something with my three-dollar-fifty-cent notepad.” Ray waved his notepad. “Josep Primo Oliveri?”
“That would be me,” Pep answered. “And you are?”
“Pep, this is Detective Ray Bea . . .” Sherry’s voice trailed off, making Ray’s last name indiscernible.
“Nice to meet you. What can I do for you?” Pep stood and set Bean down on the floor. His hand launched toward the detective.
“So you prefer Pep, not Josep?” Ray asked.
“Pep’s been my name since I began walking at fourteen months. I’ve been in constant motion since then, or so the story goes. Right, Dad?”
Erno’s eyes lost focus. Sherry imagined he was visualizing baby Pep toddling through his memories.
“Yep. You were a Pep, not a Josep. Name still sticks. Always on the go.” Erno lifted his vision skyward. “No offense, Grandpa Josep, your namesake.”
“Got it. Pep, were you at the Augustin Inn the night of the New England Fall Food Fest contestant cocktail party, which was last night?” Ray flipped his notepad shut and stored it back in his pocket.
“Of course he was, Ray. He was my sous chef at the cook-off. We’re a team,” Sherry said before Pep had a chance to respond. “What’s this all about?”
Ray ignored Sherry’s interjection.
Ruth and Beverly edged closer to Erno, sandwiching him as they hooked their arms through his elbows.
“You seem awfully serious, Detective Bease,” Erno commented. “You’re not here to congratulate Team Oliveri on their win, are you?”
“Ray?” Sherry implored.
Pep stepped to the side. “I’ll answer his question. I was at the cocktail party, yes.”
Sherry studied Ray, who was studying Pep.
“Pep, did you have any interaction with another partygoer? A man named Fitz Frye?” Ray asked.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sherry waved her hands, as if she were attempting to stop traffic on a busy freeway. “Ray, please explain. You don’t just show up out of the blue and start asking questions about someone who has passed away unless you’re gathering information. If anyone knows that, it’s me. Poor Fitz died of a heart attack or something like that. Why are you involved?”
“Sherry, take it easy. He asked a simple question.” Pep put his arm on his sister’s shoulder. “Fitz and I know each other. I haven’t seen him for a while, so we caught up on current events. Believe me, I was horrified to find out he had passed away hours after I had spoken to him.”
“I see,” remarked Ray. “How did you find out he was deceased?”
“Sherry told me when she got home from the cook-off.”
“Sherry, how did you find out Mr. Frye was deceased?” Ray asked.
“I found out from Patti, who was covering the cook-off for the newspaper. She said word was only getting out after the competition ended, which was a calculated move by organizers for obvious reasons,” Sherry replied.
Ray’s attention landed back on Pep. “Why did your sister wait until she got home to tell you about the death of another contestant?”
“We left the cook-off at different times. Sherry stayed to do some interviews, and I took off. I got a ride home with Amber. I knew Sherry would be in hot demand from media and well-wishers. I was exhausted, and she didn’t need me to hang around with her. She heard about Fitz after I left.”
“That begs the question, did you ride together to the cook-off party last night?”
Pep sucked in a hefty breath. Before he could exhale, Sherry broke in. “He took his own car last night in case I was obligated to spend more time there than he wanted to.”
Ray curled up one side of his mouth. “So, Pep came right home after the party, which I’ve been told by the Augustin Inn’s owner was cleaned up after its last attendee exited at ten?”
Sherry held her breath.
“I arrived home sometime after midnight. Maybe a bit later,” Pep answered in a voice so soft Sherry could barely understand the words he spoke.
“I was wondering what had Chutney all in a bunch last night,” Sherry commented. “His barking woke me. I didn’t even bother looking at the clock. I was so tired, I turned over and fell back asleep.” She tried to assume a nonchalant tone, but the pitch of her voice stung her own ears. “Glad I didn’t know you were out so late the night before the cook-off.”
“The boy’s young. He can stay out late and not be pha
sed, like us old folks,” Erno said.
“Dad, I’m not much older than the young boy.” Sherry shrugged. “But, I admit, I get tired. By the way, he wouldn’t be so exhausted now if he’d gotten more sleep last night.”
“We’re getting off track here,” Ray said.
“What track? Are we on a track?” Ruth asked.
“Really, this is becoming a riddle with no answer,” Beverly added. “Pep went out after the party, and Sherry got tired and went to bed. What of it?”
Ray glared at Sherry. “That doesn’t bother you, knowing he went out late the night before one of your important events?”
“I thought he was home when Chutney was barking. This is the first I’ve heard of him being out so late. Dad’s right. Pep’s a grown man with more stamina than me. As long as he brought his A game to the cook-off, that’s all I’m concerned with. And, obviously, he did, or we wouldn’t have won.”
“The way he was slumped in that chair when I came in the store doesn’t exactly boast a young man with stamina. Probably wishes he wasn’t out so late now,” Ray commented.
“I’m fine,” Pep explained. “Staying up late requires a certain type of stamina. Cooking in a timed competition requires another. Sherry’s used to the latter, and I’m not. I did the job required of me this morning, and that’s what counts. Yes, next time getting to bed earlier would make more sense. Why are we talking about my sleep habits? This is getting ridiculous.”
Ray looked at everyone gathered around him. “Fitz Frye was murdered. I’m gathering information about anyone who may have had a conflict with the man.” His gaze stalled on Pep. “You were seen having a heated discussion with Mr. Frye. A discussion more than one partygoer described as contentious.”
“Murdered?” Sherry gasped.
“Frye was found with his head submerged in the pool of water that had collected under a massive ice sculpture. An ice sculpture of seafood. Shrimp, lobster, a swimming salmon.”
“The sculpture was in the inn’s big gathering room. Wouldn’t someone have noticed him in there as soon as he fell, or however he landed in the pool?” Sherry asked.
“The sculpture was on a wheeled base. After the party, it was rolled into a barn in the back of the Augustin Inn. Apparently, the owner had neglected to turn off the newly installed space heater in the barn and the warm temperature made fast work of destroying the icy artwork. By the time Frye was found, shortly after midnight, three quarters of the sculpture had melted into the tub below, providing a deep enough pool for a man to drown in. Or more accurately, be drowned in.” Ray lifted his gaze to meet Sherry’s.
“Tragic accident. He didn’t appear intoxicated during the party, but he must have had a few more cocktails after the party ended. I’m guessing he wandered around the inn’s grounds, found his way into the barn, tripped, hit his head, and fell in. So sad.” Sherry reinforced her version of the accident with a nod of her head.
“Sherry’s right,” Ruth agreed. “The grounds of the inn aren’t well lit. I can see how someone unfamiliar with the layout could get disoriented.”
“Why would it matter if he had words with other guests? It has to have been an accident with no one at fault but Fitz himself,” Sherry said.
“Sherry, you may fancy yourself an accomplished amateur sleuth, due to past successes at finding a killer or two, but right now your guesses about Frye wandering the grounds, tumbling into a pool of cold water, and drowning are way off base.”
“Enlighten us, will you, Detective?” Erno said.
“Frye had blunt force trauma to the back of the head, inconsistent with someone accidentally falling forward into a hard object, which is the way he was found. There was also a calling card left at the scene. A fishhook, a multiple-barbed, bait-holder hook, to be specific, that was meticulously maneuvered into the back of Frye’s neck in such a way that the man could not have possibly managed it on his own, even if he had fallen backwards onto it in a mishap. He was also clutching a handful of illegible soaked papers.”
“Sounds like murder to me,” Erno surmised.
Sherry shot a side-eye glare toward her father.
“And an eyewitness has come forward with word she saw Pep submerge his hand in the ice sculpture’s base toward the end of the party,” Ray added.
Sherry studied her silent brother, who was analyzing his shoes. “So? What eyewitness?”
“Some might believe he was measuring the depth,” Ray said with a hint of provocation.
“Their guess would be wrong.” Sherry forced her statement on the detective, and he winced.
Pep shrugged his shoulders. “I had cocktail sauce on my hand and a dip in what little water there was under the ice sculpture was enough to wash it away.”
“We have to get back to work. Is there anything else?” Sherry rubbed her pounding temple.
Ray turned to Pep. “Where you went after the party is the difference between you becoming a suspect in the murder investigation of Fitz Frye and my preliminary research moving in a different direction. Can you answer the question as to where you were between the hours of nine and midnight last night?”
Pep kept his head down. “I left the Augustin Inn sometime after midnight and came right home.”
“After midnight?” Sherry exclaimed before she could censor the question.
Chapter 8
“You realize your answer puts you squarely in the crosshairs on the suspect list, unless you can prove exactly what you were doing at the Augustin Inn.” Ray spoke as if he were addressing a child. “Witnesses are a plus.”
“I had nothing to do with Fitz’s murder. Dad, I’ll be in the stockroom separating the new shipment of yellows.” Pep shimmied through the circle of people and out of the room.
Bean accompanied his friend.
“Ray, can I see you in private for a moment?” Sherry wasn’t presenting Ray with an option to decline. “Right now.” She poked Ray’s forearm. “Excuse us.” She shouldered past Beverly and Ruth.
When Sherry and Ray reached the display table, which was covered with the latest collection of small oval fireplace rugs, Sherry spun around to face Ray. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“My job. You know the drill. There’s been a murder. My department is investigating. The process begins with building a list of suspects.”
“Pep talked to the man. That’s it. I talked to him, too. Am I a suspect?” Sherry regretted her spontaneous question the moment the words passed her lips.
“Not at this time. If someone were to offer up credible evidence that Frye and you had a beef, well, then you would be. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. Killing every cook-off contestant you compete against would take a lifetime, and you’re getting an awfully late start, if this is your first murder.”
“Not a good time for bad jokes.” Sherry backed up against the table and used it to steady herself.
“The investigation has to begin somewhere.”
Sherry began to fidget with a rug decorated with puppies playing on a checkered pillow. Her breathing slowed as she manipulated the soft wool loops between her fingers. She raised her gaze and caught Ray squinting at her.
Ray tilted his head and softened his tone. “Your brother hasn’t said much that assures me he wasn’t anywhere near the murder scene last night. Do you know of any reason he won’t speak up in his own defense?”
Sherry sighed. “Pep’s going through something. He’s been very guarded since he arrived. I imagine he’s reached the age where his wanderlust way of life needs to come to an end. He’s having trouble embracing the idea of a grown-up world. He’ll come around. The moment he does, I’ll give you a call.”
“I can’t grant special favors just because we have a past,” Ray whispered. “I don’t mean a past, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m fully aware of how you operate, Detective Bease,” Sherry huffed. “You had no trouble putting me, and then Dad, at the top of the suspect lists in your prior murder investigati
ons. Why should my brother be any different?”
“It’s early days, but I would advise Pep not to leave the area for a while. Until he’s willing to cooperate, I’ll give him some space. If I have to chase him down, things could go from bad to worse very quickly.” Ray topped his head with his hat before taking a final look at Sherry. “I’ve got some stuff of my own I’m going through, so I feel for Pep. But it’s not enough to keep me from doing my job as best as I know how. I’ll be in touch.” Ray headed to the front of the store. Sherry shadowed him until he reached the door.
“Have a nice day,” Ray offered as he left the store.
“Pleasant fellow,” Beverly said.
“Not that pleasant,” Sherry replied.
“Could be a tad more updated on his fashion sense,” Beverly added.
“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Sherry said.
“Are we going to get any work out of you today, Sherry?” Erno laughed. “Or are you off to solve another murder?”
“Very funny, Dad. But”—Sherry paused and Erno groaned—“there are a few folks who were at the cook-off party that I wouldn’t mind having a chat with. You know, just to clear the air and get Pep off the detective’s radar.”
“Uh-oh,” Ruth said. “Sounds like Sherry’s got a plan.”
“Not at all,” Sherry said. “Pardon me, I’m going to have a word with little bro while I help him sort inventory.”
Before she could leave the room, the bell over the front door sounded, and a woman pushed her way inside. The amount of vibrantly colored makeup the woman wore made it difficult for Sherry to estimate her age. She always liked to fit her new customers into appropriate demographics in order to best fill their needs. This woman might be as young as late thirties or as old as late forties, give or take. Sherry wasn’t feeling confident enough to guide the potential customer to the modern rug design section, so popular with the younger crowd. If her heavily applied makeup were doing its job of disguising a decade or two and the woman was nearing fifty, Sherry would show her the retro rugs first. Better not to risk judging this book by its cover. As the woman neared, Sherry realized she knew her.
Eat, Drink and Be Wary Page 6