Zoey’s lips tightened and thinned. “No,” she said. “I don’t know.” She looked at the group. “We had dinner on Friday night at the Saucy Dog.” It was a trendy restaurant about a third of a mile down Main Street from my café. “Then we went on a walk, a long walk. It was nice. It was great.” She looked at all of us. There was desperation in her eyes. “He’s a great guy! I mean it. One of the good ones. It couldn’t have been him. He’s… he’s… decent. And there’s no hope of there ever being anything between us, so I’m not just saying that because I want to date him or something.” She sagged a little. “He’s got a girl. Somebody he hasn’t told anybody about. He wouldn’t tell me why it’s a secret, but it’s a secret.”
A secret…
A girl nobody knows about…
A girl nobody can know about…
My mouth fell open and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. “It’s Lara!” I had to fight the urge to get on top of the table, stamp my feet, and yell it at them. “His girlfriend is Lara, Ollie’s fiancée! That’s why they had to keep it a secret! And that’s why Sebastian killed him!”
The look Zoey shot me had me shrinking away, and I immediately changed course. I cleared my throat and slapped the table. “That’s why Lara killed him!”
I looked at everyone while simultaneously nodding my head. I was hoping that everyone magically switched courses with me.
“Catch me up. Who’s Sebastian?” Joel asked.
“He’s Ollie’s son,” Agatha said.
“And he’s been in training to take over the company for a number of years,” Jack added. “I’ve met him a few times, and I’m with Zoey. Nothing about him ever made me question his integrity. He does seem like a genuinely good guy.”
“But until we can prove that he couldn’t have done it, Sebastian has to remain a suspect,” Brad said.
I felt the same way, but I was thankful he’d said it and not me. There were only so many times I could insist that the guy could be guilty of murder without it potentially damaging my relationship with Zoey. That was the last thing I ever wanted to happen.
“Sweetheart,” Agatha said to Zoey, “run us through your evening.”
“We had dinner at the Saucy Dog, walked around, then he walked me back to my apartment. That was it,” Zoey said. “I was inside and on my own by midnight.”
“That puts him across the street from here at the earliest time that it’s estimated Ollie could have been killed,” I said. It wasn’t looking good for Sebastian.
“Any idea where he went after your place, dear?” Agatha asked.
Zoey shook her head.
“Did he have a car?” she asked.
“Not that I know of,” Zoey answered. “We did everything on foot.”
Brad spoke next. “He’s attending that packaging conference you got going on upstairs, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Makes sense if he’s got a car that he had it parked in the back parking lot… near where Ollie was found.”
What had not been looking good for Sebastian was starting to look bad. A little more surmising on our parts, and it could turn downright bleak.
Zoey had gone from pale to green.
“Zoey,” I said, “do you know where Sebastian is staying?”
“At Piper’s Point Inn. It’s a B&B a few miles away.”
A few miles. That wasn’t exactly a short distance, but it wasn’t a marathon either. It was possible that he walked, or he might have called a taxi. Getting a taxi so late at night might have been hard, but it wasn’t impossible.
“Think you could…” My voice trailed off as I looked around at who we were sitting with. I was pretty sure everyone at the table already knew the tidbit I was about to mention, but it was Zoey’s life. I didn’t feel right about outing her more nefarious activities. “Uh, you could do that thing you sometimes do.” I wiggled my fingers in the air.
Cryptic, much? But it worked.
“Tap into the traffic cameras and see where he went? Definitely. I could do that.”
Nobody at the table so much as blinked at her confession.
Brad spoke up. “If you could keep eyes on him all the way back to his B&B—assuming that’s where he went after leaving you—that would let us take him off the suspect list.”
Zoey shook her head. “The cameras don’t cover all the distance between here and there.”
Brad shrugged. “Still. If we come up with a timeline that doesn’t leave room for him to knock his old man off, we can cross him off our list.”
We’d spent so much time focusing on the suspect we most wanted to be innocent that we hadn’t spent any time discussing other possibilities.
“Besides Sebastian and Lara”—the latter still being at the top of my list—“who else might have done it?” I asked.
“Who had a reason to do it?” Agatha asked, narrowing the question for us.
“I haven’t spent a lot of time at the conference,” Jack said, “but I do like to have a familiarity with the business conferences that come to town. Connections are how most business happens. So I’ve been in and out, and there is one person who comes to mind who hated Oliver Drysdale.”
“Who?” I asked.
Jack sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. “A fellow by the name of Robert Cornish. He owns PaperMore, Oliver Drysdale’s chief competition. Word is that Robert and Oliver had been roommates in college. They talked about going into business together. They did research together. But somewhere along the line, they decided to go it alone—both in the same business. Two men who used to be friends became bitter—and I do mean bitter—rivals.”
“You think Robert finally snapped and killed Oliver?” I asked.
Jack shrugged. “Could have.”
“But after all these years? Why now?”
Oliver had not been a young man. College would have been a long time ago. The two would have had a lot of practice at hating each other and not killing each other. Something would have had to change to trigger taking all of that pent-up hate and putting it into a moment of action.
“Maybe that’s something you two can ferret out,” Jack said.
I wished I had my notepad with me. I didn’t want to overlook any of the possibilities.
I saw Chef John step from inside the kitchen to behind the grill’s bar. Sam pointed in our direction, and Chef John disappeared again. He materialized a moment later with a serving tray balanced on his hand and shoulder. When he reached our table, he lowered the tray so that one edge of it balanced on the edge of the table.
“Compliments of the kitchen,” he said with a smile. “A thank you to my gracious hostess.”
I leaned forward and stared at the tray’s contents.
I licked my lips without even thinking about it. There were six bowls of creamy white goodness that smelled like heaven.
“Clam chowder?” I asked a half-second before my stomach growled.
Chef John chuckled and nodded. It was one of his restaurant’s signature dishes.
“Oh, gimmie!” I didn’t care what the others thought about my manners. It had been ages since I’d had anything as good as his chowder! To heck with the untouched eggs and other stuff I’d cooked up.
Chef John passed out the bowls. There were chunks of potato, onions, and clams swimming in a creamy broth. On top of it all sat perfectly crisped bacon and chives.
I stuck my nose deep within my bowl, breathed in its wonderful aroma, then lifted my head and sighed dreamily.
“This really is the perfect comfort food,” I told Chef John. “You nailed it.”
“Have you been able to spend much time up in the banquet hall?” Jack asked him.
“A little. Most of my focus has been cooking, but catered guests seem to appreciate an appearance by the chef.”
He was being modest, I knew. While he wasn’t a household name yet, he was on his way. I had no doubt that the memoir he was writing would put him over the top. That meant an appearance from hi
m carried as much cache as getting to claim to have eaten his food before he got super famous.
The people attending the conference would have been sorely disappointed if Chef John had not made an appearance.
“Did you meet Oliver Drysdale, by any chance?” Jack asked.
“The man who died?” Chef John asked.
“The man who was killed,” Jack corrected. “He was attending the conference. He was the owner of Paperworx. Heavy set fellow. Not very tall.”
“Yes, I’d met him several times. Poor man.” Chef John shook his head.
“Yes,” Jack agreed.
“It’s hard to believe he’s gone. Just like that. In a blink. Here one day, gone the next. Has a way of putting things in perspective.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Actually, I have a confession. My memory of him is a bit blurry. Anytime I meet someone casually, half my mind is usually constructing my next menu. I tend to go on autopilot through all the conventional niceties.” He'd been smiling, but it faltered, seeming to have realized what he’d just said. “Present company excluded, of course,” he covered with a self-deprecating grin.
Jack returned the grin with warmth. “Of course. Do you mind telling us how you spent your evening on Friday night?”
“Oh, I taught a cooking class. Kylie and this beautiful young lady right here”—he said, smiling at Agatha—“were there with me.”
“What time did the class end?” Jack asked Agatha.
“I’d say ten-thirty.”
“What did you do after the class?” Jack asked, his eyes back on Chef John.
I wanted to hide under the table in embarrassment. I couldn’t believe Jack was so blatantly questioning my culinary idol.
“I’ve actually already been over all this with the police.” He gave Brad a nod. “But I’m happy to go over it again. The more minds, the better. Except for in a kitchen. You get a bunch of chefs together and they’ll make the worst stew. Doesn’t matter what they started out making, it will end up as a stew and it will be awful!”
Jack’s expression remained deadpan as we all waited for an answer to the question he’d asked.
Chef John took a deep breath and blew it out. “Well, let’s see.” He put his hands on his hips. “I led the cooking class. Went out drinking with a couple of ladies from said cooking class. Got completely soused. Called my fiancée and begged forgiveness for getting soused without her, then took a cab back to the Garland Hotel. I’ve been told that they have the best wifi in town, and I need those kinds of amenities for uploading my food vlog.”
“A couple of uniformed officers were tasked with verifying his alibi,” Brad said. “It checked out.”
After that, Chef John escaped to the kitchen, and our sleuthing hit a lull as we lost ourselves in the delicious clam chowder. Zoey took the tiniest of nibbles at first, but the delicate, layered flavor of the chowder must have spurred her appetite, because she scarfed it down with the rest of us. I was glad to see it, and her color was looking better and better.
The steaming pile of eggs that I’d made had cooled and had taken on the look of yellow styrofoam packing nuggets.
“That gives us two solid suspects,” Joel said, putting his empty bowl on the table. He leaned back in his chair with a hand flat on his equally flat stomach. “Sebastian—sorry, Zoey—and Lara. I don’t see what Lara would have to gain, but she was his fiancée and that makes her a suspect on principle. Oliver’s rival, Robert Cornish, is a possibility, too, not that we have any evidence against him either. Statistically, they’re the most likely killers.”
“Sounds like a great place to start,” Brad said.
I pictured a bunch of ants scattering in every direction. “The conference ends tomorrow at noon. That doesn’t give us much time to figure this out. Everyone will get in their cars or planes and go home.” We wouldn’t be able to solve the murder before everyone left.
“Naw, don’t worry about that,” Brad said. “They’ve been told to stay in town until this gets figured out. Either the police investigation will build a case strong enough to indict Sebastian for his father’s murder—sorry, Zoey—or the two of you will figure out who actually did it, assuming it wasn’t Sebastian. That means that the people you’re racing against is, well, me. The police. The conference people will stay put.” Brad looked at his watch. “Kylie, got a minute?” He stood up and adjusted the position of his gun holster.
He didn’t say anything more, and the insinuation was that he wanted me to go somewhere more private with him.
I looked at the others. We were all sitting here together. Brad had our rapt attention. We’d already been sharing tidbits we weren’t interested in anyone else overhearing. On top of that, Joel’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He was not liking this change, but he wasn’t saying anything either.
I hesitated, and that’s when Brad dropped the bomb that had me on my feet.
“It’s about Jonathan.”
Chapter 9
I couldn’t have gotten to my feet any faster.
“You’ve heard something about Jonathan?” My heart was in my throat.
Jonathan was a bit of a free-spirit hippie dude who Patty had brought into my life. During the first weeks that he’d worked for me, he’d practically lived in the café. He’d spent more hours working than me. I’d been in a desperate, exhausted place, and he’d showed up and saved me.
In what had felt like a blink of an eye, Jonathan had gone from washing dishes to being a far better cook than me. People passed up other restaurants so that they could come to my café in order to eat his cooking. His pancakes were fast becoming a local favorite. Jack had taught Jonathan how to make them, and no matter how many times Jack had tried to teach me, I couldn’t get them right. Not like Jonathan. He’d taken what Jack had taught him and had raised it to the next level.
But in the last couple of weeks, Jonathan had worked here at the café less and less. I was worried about the café and its future—a future without his talented skills—but I was even more worried about him. I needed to know if he was okay.
Brad cocked his head to the side and then stepped away from the table. I followed, and we ended up outside the café on the street. It was a warm sunny morning, and the day was feeling as though it might turn hot.
“Have you found anything out? Is Jonathan okay?” All manner of fears traipsed their way through my imagination. While he hadn’t told me anything about it, I was sure Jonathan had a colorful past of a nature not always smiled upon by those in law enforcement.
“He’s fine… I think. Word is that somebody he used to know is in town and he’s been doing some work for them.” He made air quotes with his fingers when he said work. “Berry, if he gets busted for drug trafficking, there’s no way I can protect him from the system. And,” he shrugged, “I wouldn’t want to. He’s a nice guy. I like him. Good food. But if he chooses that life, I’ll have to take him down. It’s not just my job. I owe it to the people who live here. I need to keep the townspeople safe from drug dealers.”
My stomach ached from what I was hearing. Chef John’s clam chowder seemed to be curdling inside of me.
“I’ll talk to him,” I promised. “I’ll help him figure things out. I’ll… I’ll…”
“You won’t drown with him. Say it, Berry. I need to hear you say it.” There was more than a little bit of worry in Brad’s soft blue eyes.
“I’ll do what I can, and then I’ll stop.” I wasn’t sure what that meant or where the line was, but it was the best reassurance I could offer Brad without outright lying to him.
Brad gave my arm a rub with his hand, then turned and headed for where his police cruiser was parallel parked several spots away. I watched him go, sad for so many reasons. He wanted me to be safe. He wanted me to limit the risks I took for others. I wasn’t sure I could do either: I needed to make sure Jonathan was safe.
I opened the door to head back into the café just in time for Jack to step through on his way out. He tipped his ha
t to me. He was the only man I knew who wore one, and it looked good on him.
“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said, but I appreciated the offer.
Inside, the gang had dispersed. Zoey shuffled out and back across the street. My guess was that she’d be heading back to bed, which would give me time to regroup. If I was going to get yanked this way and that while investigating Oliver’s murder, then I was going to need more reliable help than Jonathan was being at the moment.
It was time to put in a call to an old friend.
Chapter 10
Sunday gave way to Monday without incident. I hadn’t heard from or seen Zoey since we’d all caught up over breakfast, and I gave her the space she seemed to need.
Chef John was in the home stretch of solo-catering the packaging conference. He only had to make it to noon to be able to claim that he’d catered the whole thing on his own. As far as I was concerned, though, he had the easy part. I had the hard part.
He’d made pastry after pastry for the conference’s final hours, and I was forced to walk past mixed berry tarts, French macarons, three different kinds of beignets, baklava, four kinds of cannoli, and three kinds of danish.
Despite his airtight alibi, Chef John was definitely a killer—with all his delicious desserts. I didn’t know what he had against all of the conference members, but he was determined to send them to the hospital in a diabetic coma. My fear was, the way each pastry called out my name, I’d be at the head of that line.
“Berry, how is this an omelet?” Brad asked as he stared at the lump of mangled eggs sitting on his plate. His toast was a deep, dark brown, and his bacon was charred in some spots and floppy in others.
“I’m sorry. I’m not charging you. I know it’s awful.”
Brad forked up a bite of eggs, but half of it oozed off.
“You haven’t served me eggs this bad since the first week you took over the place. What’s workin’ on you? Did you hear something?”
A Berry Baffling Businessman Page 6
