Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Devon Delaney

  “That should be full by Tuesday.” Erno picked up the canister and peeked inside. “Love that nothing goes to waste around here.”

  “The kids at the Kid’s Klub Daycare Center make the coolest projects out of the bits of yarn we donate. Honestly, the gratitude alone of the group over there makes the twice-a-month trip something I really look forward to.”

  Erno nodded and stirred the basket contents with a loving hand.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come out with Amber and me? I’m not positive Pep will join us, but I’m hopeful.” Sherry lifted her jean jacket from the coatrack beside the door. “If not, we’ll see you tomorrow when we get some plans made. No one plans too far ahead around here.”

  Amber sidled up to Sherry.

  “I think not for tonight,” Erno replied. “Ruth and I might paint the town red on our own. I haven’t seen her since lunchtime. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Have fun, Dad. Amber, I’ll meet you at the Taproom in a few.”

  Erno exited through the back door, as did Amber. Sherry took one more look around the store. When she was satisfied everything was in its proper place, she turned off the lights, with the exception of one hallway light, which remained on twenty-four seven.

  On a whim, Sherry decided to take the longer route across town and drive past the Augustin Inn. A truck parked under the inn’s columned overhang caught her eye. She slowed her car to a crawl. Two muscular men were loading a large tabletop into the back of the truck.

  “There goes the appetizer table,” Sherry commented to herself. “Must have been a rental.”

  “Sherry? Is that you?” the woman standing by the driver’s side door of the truck called out. Ginger. She motioned Sherry to pull into the inn’s driveway. “Over here.”

  “Doesn’t pay to be nosey.” Sherry sighed. She parked her car behind the truck and opened her window. “Hi, Ginger. I was on my way to meet some people down at the Taproom. How’re you doing? Thank you so much again for hosting the contestant gathering.”

  “My pleasure. It was certainly a plus to be booked to capacity during the event. Wish business was always this brisk.” Ginger’s lower lip protruded as the sentiment left her mouth.

  Sherry leaned out her window. “I was so sorry to hear about what happened to one of the party attendees.”

  “The occurrence certainly isn’t helping business. I hope the mess gets resolved quickly and my potential customers have short memories.”

  “Excuse me, lady. The set of chairs is ready to be packed in the truck,” a burly man barked from the inn’s entrance.

  Ginger cupped her hands around her mouth. “Yes, all twelve, please.”

  Sherry watched the man hoist two wooden dining room chairs up with each arm and make his way to the truck. He was joined by Ginger’s brother, Addison. “Those are the same chairs we had at the wedding party table at my reception. I remember admiring the intricate carving detail. Are you storing them offsite for some reason?”

  “Unfortunately, I had to find a buyer for the set and the matching antique table. Got bills to pay, and business isn’t what it used to be. Since two new inns have opened up closer to the water, we only get the spillover. More events like the cook-off would help, as long as there are no more murders.” Ginger twisted her mouth into a frown.

  “I’m sorry, Ginger. I didn’t realize.” Sherry paused. “Well, maybe I heard some rumblings of you closing the doors after the holidays. That can’t be true, right?”

  “Lady, this seat cover has a tear in it. I’ll photograph it so we can discount the cost accordingly,” Burly Man called out.

  “Thanks for announcing that to the world,” Ginger snapped at the man. “Addison, can you grab my phone for me?” Ginger backed away from Sherry’s car. “I have to go. Thanks for stopping by.”

  Sherry watched Ginger make a beeline for the truck, and then she shifted the car into reverse. Her attention darted to the back-up camera sounding an ominous warning beep. Two people were crossing behind her car, one she recognized right away even from the grainy image on the camera’s screen.

  Ray tapped on her car’s back window.

  Sherry leaned back out her window. “Afternoon, Ray.” She strained to get a better look at the young lady by Ray’s side. “Hi.”

  The woman was dressed in a sweatshirt and blue jeans. She had a large purse slung over her shoulder.

  “Hello, Sherry,” Ray replied.

  The woman beside him stayed silent, gaze fixed on her ankle-high sneakers.

  Ray spoke to the woman, who then resumed walking toward the outer parking lot. She never looked back.

  “I know you’re going to ask, so I’ll just save you the question. Oxana is the nights and weekend cleaner for the Augustin Inn and, unfortunately, she was the one who found Frye’s body. She doesn’t speak English fluently, so it’s been difficult, to say the least, trying to get her side of the story. Not many Russian translators are available at short notice.”

  “How terrible. Traumatic for her.”

  “And yes, she has an alibi. She didn’t do it. Oxana was making her rounds one room at a time. She took a full ninety minutes cleaning the party room after the ice sculpture was removed, during which time Frye met his end. She found the body when she went into the barn. She takes her breaks in a space set up for her in there. Frye had already been dead at least one hour, by the coroner’s estimates. Oxana said she’d been in and out of the barn half a dozen times, before she saw the body in the water.”

  “Awful for the girl.” Sherry checked the clock on the dashboard. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to get a move on. Meeting some new cook-off friends at the Taproom.” She squared herself up to her car’s steering wheel before one last look at the detective. “There’s a Russian reporter named Vilma Pitney sniffing around. Normally, I’d say that’s no big deal except, she seems very invested in the developing details of your investigation.”

  “Unless she’s interfering and impeding the process, you just have to accept the fact there will always be interest in murder investigations. I wouldn’t give her a second thought.” He stepped back and tipped his hat before heading toward the parking lot.

  Chapter 11

  “We’re meeting two people. Don Johnstone and Day Paulson. I hope they made a reservation under one of those names,” Sherry told the hostess. “There may be five of us in total.”

  “Wait right here.” The woman wore a dress printed with tiny lobsters.

  “The décor is a bit overstated.” Sherry scanned the fishing nets, lobster pots, and giant plastic lobsters that lined the dark wood walls. Party lights were strung throughout the display.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Amber laughed. “Once, I waitressed at a restaurant called The Unbridled Unicorn. Everything unicorn, pink, sparkly, overly lit. I would have worn sunglasses while working, if they let me. That’s how bright it was. No accounting for people’s taste. This place says coastal New England, and I like that.”

  The hostess returned with a frown. “Your party’s not here yet, and you don’t have a reservation, but I’m letting you take the table, despite.” She collected some menus from her desk and marched away.

  “I guess we’re supposed to follow her,” Amber suggested.

  Sherry surveyed the dark restaurant. “It’s five-thirty. I don’t see crowds clamoring for the early-bird special. She should be happy we’re filling an empty table.”

  Sherry followed Amber toward the back of the restaurant.

  “Sherry? Is that you?”

  Sherry jerked her head to the right. There, seated at a small table for four, were Vilma and two men. Sherry reached forward to stop Amber’s progress by snagging her coattail, but her friend was out of reach. “Hi, Vilma. We keep bumping into each other.”

  “My good fortune. You remember Uri Veshlage and Roe Trembley?”

  “Of course. Hi.” Sherry nodded in the men’s direction.

  “We’re grabbing an early bite to eat. We’d lov
e for you to join us.” If there was any sincerity in Vilma’s voice, Sherry couldn’t detect it.

  “Thanks anyway, but—” Sherry began.

  Amber tapped Sherry’s arm. “Sherry, there you are. Turns out the table’s not quite ready after all.”

  “Please, take the empty seat. Uri, would you mind pulling that extra chair over?” Vilma stood and extended her hand to Amber. “Vilma Pitney, journalist.”

  “Amber Sherman, friend and coworker of Sherry. Nice to meet you.” Amber acknowledged the men with a smile.

  “Please, don’t stop eating.” Sherry eyed Roe’s dinner plate. “It looks too good to let it get cold. Doesn’t look like lobsta’, which I assume is the specialty.”

  “Fish. Beer battered. Not sure what kind.” Roe crunched down on a bite.

  “Tilapia is often used as a generic white fish for fish sticks and fish fingers,” Amber commented.

  “Then, tilapia it is.” Roe smiled and took another bite.

  “Isn’t Roe a fishing expert?” Sherry asked.

  “Technically, a sustainable fishing expert. The lighting’s dim in here. You can’t expect him to see subtle varietal differences of the cooked fish on his plate when we can barely read the menu without a flashlight,” Uri added. “Rest assured, my company counts on him to ensure we sell the finest local and sustainable product, and he does just that. You’re putting that in the cook-off article, aren’t you, my dear Vilma.” The once-over Uri gave Vilma was intense enough to propel Sherry’s eyebrows into a high arch.

  Amber pulled her chair up beside Sherry’s. “From what I’ve read about tilapia, you might want to be certain you’re not eating it. Most tilapia comes from overseas, and it’s grown in unregulated farms that put a premium on how quickly the fish can be raised and sent off to market. Forced growth involves sketchy practices.”

  Roe kept his sights on his plate and made no effort to prolong the conversation.

  “We’ll ask the waitress when she comes around.” Vilma’s smile could melt ice cream.

  “I ran into Ginger on my way here,” Sherry said. “She’s recovering from the ups and downs of last night’s get-together.”

  “She’s got rough seas ahead of her and her establishment, from what I’ve heard,” Vilma added. “She should be thrilled to have had the party held at her inn. Despite the outcome.”

  Uri shifted in his chair. “Ginger is a lovely woman. Mr. Frye’s death is a tragedy for his family and the Constable family.” He poked at his baked potato with his fork. “I imagine the investigation into Fitz’s murder will be ramping up very soon. Whoever’s in charge should find that guy who was hawking spices.”

  Sherry softened her tone. “Any particular reason?”

  Vilma dropped her forkful of kale with a clang. “Uri has a crazy notion Lyman had it out for Fitz and was stalking him.”

  Uri picked up his napkin and wiped a kale leaf from the tablecloth. “Me? Those are your words, not mine. But, Vilma’s right. I saw the tail end of an argument between the two, and later, one ended up dead. Worth a second look, in my opinion.” He set his napkin down and smoothed his wavy hair with his fingertips. He winked at Vilma. “We agree on that, don’t we?”

  “Lyman’s not the only one who had words with Fitz. There seemed to be a line of people giving him the what for.” Vilma cleared her throat. “I think you should tell Sherry what we discussed, Uri.” She batted her unusually thick and lengthy eyelashes.

  “I love the way you roll your r’s when you say my name,” Uri commented.

  Sherry winced when Amber kicked her leg under the table.

  Uri leaned forward until his shirt scraped his plate. “Not many people know, Fitz got into this year’s cook-off on a technicality rather than skill, like the rest of you cooks.”

  Vilma flashed a sly smile. “I’m trying to decide whether to include that fact in my article.”

  “Depends on how you spin it, my dear,” Uri added. “I don’t want Maine Course to suffer any repercussions backing a cook-off that bends the rules.”

  Amber leaned forward. “How did it come about that he got in on a technicality?”

  “I’ll tell her, Uri. I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Vilma answered. “Last year, Fitz did indeed make it into the Fall Fest Cook-off, which was not sponsored by Maine Course Foods or Shrimply Amazing, but by another seafood company. Do you remember, Sherry?”

  “I didn’t compete last year because the timing was off for me, so I really don’t recall.”

  “I’ll explain. Last year, Fitz made the cook-off finals. Unfortunately, he had to suddenly withdraw, stating personal reasons. The organizer offered him a spot in the following year’s finals. As this year’s cook-off neared, it took a while for Fitz to prove he was verbally extended the offer, but he persisted and was successful,” Vilma explained. “The Hands-On category took on an extra cook as a result.”

  “That’s unusual, but may explain why our similar recipes made it to the finals. That isn’t usually the case,” Sherry said. “Judges prefer a lot of variety amongst the finalist recipes. Shows the versatility of the sponsor’s products.”

  “Be that as it may,” Vilma continued, “as soon as Lyman had a dust-up with Fitz at the party, over who knows what, Lyman brought up Fitz’s unusual circumstances. He spun it in such a way as to insinuate Fitz was given preferential treatment. A little underhanded by Lyman, in my opinion. Word circulated at the party that Fitz may have also stolen Sherry’s idea for shrimp wraps. But, if you know the story, you’d know that wasn’t the case.”

  Sherry raised both hands to her temples and rubbed. “No, no, no. People might think I believe he would steal a recipe idea from me. I certainly don’t. I didn’t invent the idea of shrimp wraps. Only my original take on them. There are plenty of other good ideas for serving shrimp in wraps.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vilma was quick to offer. “Pep came to your defense, stating you would never start such a rumor and that you welcomed the challenge.”

  “Pep didn’t tell me he did that.”

  “Probably best he didn’t tell you before the cook-off,” Amber said.

  “Lyman didn’t mention any of that this afternoon when we talked,” Sherry added.

  “Ma’am, your table is ready. The rest of your party has arrived.” The hostess waited, menus clutched to her chest.

  Amber stood. “Enjoy your meals.”

  As they made their way to their table, Sherry said, “Vilma really has it out for Lyman. If it were up to her, he’d be on trial for Fitz’s murder already. At the same time, I’m afraid she has it out for Pep, too. She just can’t decide between the two.”

  “And does she have a thing for Uri?” Amber snickered.

  “Hi, guys.” Sherry waved to Day and Don as she approached the table. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  Day waved back. “Hi. Long time no see. Pep’s outside, sitting in his car. I tapped on his window. He signaled he was finishing up a phone call.”

  Don patted the seat cushion next to him, inviting Sherry to sit.

  “Wonder what he’s been up to for the last couple hours,” Sherry added. “Or most any time he’s not in sight, for that matter.” She took the seat next to Don and smiled in his direction. He rewarded her with a warm grin.

  Amber was left standing behind Sherry.

  “I have a seat over here for you, Amber,” Day announced.

  Amber grinned at her friend as she sat. “Mother hens are necessary when the chicks are babies, Sher, but soon they leave the nest. Your bro might be testing his wings and needs a little space.”

  “You caught me.” Sherry addressed Day and Don. “Amber practiced family therapy until recently.” Then back to Amber. “Feel free to use the Oliveri example of dysfunctional family dynamics in your advice column. Problem is, your advice is easier heard than put into action. I regress to protective-older-sister mode when he’s here.” Sherry turned to face Day. “Before we knew you were here, we were chatting with Uri f
rom Maine Course Foods, Roe Trembley, and a reporter named Vilma Pitney. Over there, sitting near the kitchen.” Sherry pointed the way. “They have some theories about what may have happened to Fitz.”

  “Have you solved the case?” Day asked. “Amber was telling us what a great detective you are.”

  “It’s a very intriguing quality,” Don said in a soft voice.

  “Amber! You’re going to get me in big trouble with Detective Bease.” Sherry turned back to Day. “As for solving the case, not even close. But to hear it from that group, the man at the party passing out spice samples should be locked up immediately.”

  “Hmmm. I’d never have guessed he was capable of murder,” Don said. “But I’m no expert, and I’m kinda glad about that.”

  “Is anyone else having something to eat? I’d love to try the fish and chips,” Day asked. “Should be good at a place like this, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Amber weighed in. “We were just discussing that at the other table. I’ve read bad things about the mystery white fish used to make them.”

  “Ha, we should ask Roe,” Don added.

  “I did,” Amber replied. “He wasn’t an expert on tilapia. As a matter of fact, he had no information to offer about what kind of fish was in his fish and chips.”

  “Well, I’m throwing caution to the wind and ordering it,” laughed Don.

  “Proceed at your own risk.” Amber peered behind Sherry. “Here comes the waitress.”

  “Hi, my name is Fuchsia. I’m your server today.” The robust woman smiled. She was holding a tray balancing four full wineglasses. “The owner, who happens to be my husband, has sent the table a round of drinks.” She set down a glass in front of each person.

  “Attention, everyone,” a man shouted as he approached the table. The restaurant went silent. “Let’s raise a glass to our local star cook who just won the New England Fall Fest Cook-off.” He heightened the volume of his announcement. “Sherry Oliveri.”

  Sherry’s mouth dropped open as all heads rotated to face her. She raised her arm and waved a shaky hand. “Thank you,” she said in the direction of Fuchsia’s husband.