Crêpe Expectations

by Sarah Fox

  Brett and I shared a glance.

  “Most people are killed by someone they know,” I said. “But it’s always possible there was someone else out there in the woods that night.”

  “Demetra was better at making enemies than friends, though,” Brett reminded us.

  Chloe frowned. “So you think it was someone at the party. I can’t imagine any of my classmates murdering her. Not even Justin.”

  “There has to be a story there,” I said.

  “Not really. It’s just that he was a total loser. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time.”

  “Neither do I,” Brett said. “I was relieved when you broke up with him.”

  “Really? You never said you disapproved at the time.”

  “I figured that would make you stay with him longer.”

  A hint of a smiled appeared on her face. “At that age? You’re probably right.” Her expression became thoughtful. “Of course, Tyrone was ticked off that night, and he always had a temper. It got him in trouble on the field from time to time.”

  “Tyrone?” I said. “Field?”

  “The baseball field,” Brett filled me in. “Tyrone Phillips was the star of the team back then.”

  “And he was Demetra’s boyfriend,” Chloe added. “Until graduation, at least.”

  “What about at the time of the party?” I asked.

  “That’s why he was ticked off. Demetra dumped him a few days before that.”

  We were all quiet for a few seconds.

  “That doesn’t sound good, does it?” Chloe said, breaking the silence.

  “No,” I agreed.

  “But Tyrone was questioned several times years ago,” Brett said. “He was the obvious suspect when it was discovered that Demetra had gone missing. Nothing ever came of it.”

  “But back then they didn’t have the body,” I pointed out.

  “True.”

  We turned off Wildwood Road and followed the long driveway through a stand of fir trees toward the blue-and-white Victorian. I’d inherited the beachfront home the previous spring, and Brett had moved in with me a few months ago. It still put a big smile on my face to think of the house as our home rather than just mine.

  As soon as we opened the front door, a big ball of curly golden fur came barreling down the hall toward us.

  “Did you miss us or something, Bentley?” I asked with a smile as the dog wagged his tail so fast that it was almost a blur.

  We all took turns getting down on his level and giving him a hug and a pat, with Bentley doling out plenty of licks in return. When things had settled down, Flapjack wandered into the foyer. I scooped him up into my arms and kissed the top of his head.

  “How are you doing, Jack?”

  He purred in response, his eyes closing to mere slits. His engine revved up even more when Chloe gave him a scratch under the chin.

  We all headed for the family room and kitchen at the back of the house. I opened the French doors that led out to the back porch, and Bentley charged outside and down the steps. While he sniffed around the yard, looking for the best place to relieve himself, I set Flapjack on the porch railing and filled my lungs with fresh, salty air while my gaze roamed over the ocean view.

  As familiar as it was, I never got tired of the beautiful seascape that stretched out beyond the house. The tide was out at the moment, wet sandbars exposed to the sunshine that was fading as the evening headed toward nightfall. Now that spring had arrived in Wildwood Cove, I would soon resume one of my favorite pastimes—heading out at low tide to see all the creatures in the tidal pools.

  As I stood at the railing, Brett came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Enjoying the view without rain for a change?” he asked.

  I leaned back against him. “Yes. I’ll never get tired of it.”

  “Just like I’ll never get tired of the view I’ve got right now.”

  I tipped my head back to see him looking down at me.

  “That’s very sweet,” I said with a smile.

  “And very true.”

  Bentley bounded up the porch steps and nosed his way between us, forcing us apart.

  “I think he’s trying to tell us it’s time for dinner,” I said with a laugh.

  Bentley trotted into the house, and we followed close behind him. Flapjack hopped down from the porch railing and joined us inside before I shut the doors.

  “Are you two lovebirds ready to cook or what?” Chloe asked from the kitchen.

  “Definitely.” I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. “I’m getting hungry.”

  “Are you going to help?” Brett nudged his sister’s arm with his elbow.

  “Of course. It’s about time I learned to cook.”

  “Ivan wanted me to tell you that your chicken Parmesan was good.” I flipped through my file of recipes and pulled out the one for my favorite pizza dough.

  “Really?” Chloe’s skepticism was written all over her face.

  “I swear that’s what he said. And Ivan doesn’t hand out compliments easily.”

  “So I’m not a total disaster in the kitchen?” Hope had replaced her skepticism.

  “Not anymore, at least,” Brett said.

  Chloe gave him a shove that failed to knock him off balance.

  We got to work on the pizza dough and then focused on the toppings. Chloe grated cheese while I chopped up vegetables, and Brett rummaged through the cupboard for a can of pizza sauce. Sometimes I made my own sauce, but we were all too hungry to wait around for that tonight.

  Once the pizza was in the oven, we set the table and I got drinks for everyone. Even though we talked about other things while we prepared our dinner, Demetra’s death had remained on my mind. The crime had taken place a long time ago, but that didn’t mean I was any less curious about it. Unsolved mysteries had a way of preying on my mind until they had some closure. That had led me into trouble on a few occasions in the past, but it had also driven me to clear innocent people of suspicion.

  “Chloe, when you said Tyrone was ticked off on the night of the party, how mad are we talking about?” I asked.

  “I remember him sulking, just staring at the campfire and drinking beer. Somebody told him to cheer up or something, and he almost blew up. Hope managed to calm him down. But if looks could kill, Demetra and Justin would have dropped dead when they were flirting in front of everyone. I thought Tyrone would really lose it that time, but somehow he kept quiet. I was the one who lost it.”

  I handed her a can of soda and set another on the table for Brett. “And he was still at the party when you left?”

  “Yes.”

  Brett popped open his drink. “He left the party before Demetra, though, right?”

  “That’s what I heard from everyone else.”

  I poured a glass of sweet tea for myself as the oven timer went off. “Do you know how long it was between the time he left and when Demetra left?”

  “Not exactly,” Chloe said. “No one was a hundred percent sure about the timing of everything that night, but I think I remember someone saying it was no more than half an hour. And no one could confirm what time Tyrone got home.”

  Brett retrieved the pizza from the oven. “So he could have hung around in the woods and confronted Demetra after she left the party?”

  “It’s possible. And he probably would have had time to bury her body without anyone else coming along because all the others stayed at the party for another hour or so.”

  “Does he still live in Wildwood Cove?” I asked.

  “No. He’s in Seattle now. He got a baseball scholarship to some college back east, but he lost it after he flunked several classes. I don’t think he ever finished college or played baseball again. Last I heard he was working for a towing company.”

  I took three plat
es down from the cupboard while Brett sliced the steaming-hot pizza. “Did the sheriff focus on anyone else as a possible suspect during the original investigation?”

  “Not as far as I know.” Chloe took the plate Brett offered her. She drew in a deep breath of pizza-scented air as she headed for the table. “This smells so good.”

  “But Demetra’s best friend was questioned several times, wasn’t she?” Brett handed me a plate and then loaded up the last one for himself.

  “She was, but more to get information about Demetra. I don’t think anyone ever suspected her of anything.”

  “Demetra is a nice name,” I commented as I grabbed some napkins to take to the table.

  “It’s Greek,” Chloe said. “Demetra was born in Greece, but her family moved here when she was two or three. It is a nice name. Too bad she didn’t have a personality to match. Her mom was always such a nice lady, but her husband walked out on them when Demetra was seven or eight. Maybe that had something to do with how Demetra turned out.”

  “Some people must have liked her,” I said. “She had a best friend and a boyfriend.”

  “But even those relationships were rocky at times.”

  We sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Who was Demetra’s best friend?” I asked once we were settled.

  “Chrissy Mazurek. She owns a clothing boutique here in town.”

  I took a bite of hot pizza and quickly followed it with a sip of iced tea. “She and Demetra didn’t always get along?”

  “They were competitive with each other, although they pretended not to be. It’s not the sort of friendship I’d ever want with anyone.”

  “Maybe that competitiveness went too far?”

  “Maybe, but like Brett said before, Demetra was good at making enemies.” Chloe set down the remains of her pizza. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. It’s too awful. I was never good friends with Chrissy or Tyrone, but I don’t want to believe either of them could have hurt Demetra. I don’t want to believe anyone I went to school with is capable of murder.”

  I understood how difficult it was for Chloe to picture any of her former classmates as a killer, but from the sounds of things, Ray and his deputies would have plenty of suspects to investigate.

  Chapter 8

  However many suspects the sheriff’s department was looking into, Ray and his colleagues kept that information to themselves. Although the town was still preoccupied with the discovery of Demetra’s remains and the fact that she was most likely murdered, the talk about the case waned as the days passed. The subject still came up now and then at the pancake house later in the week, but by then most people were more focused on flood damage, the amateur chef competition, and the weather, which thankfully stayed nice throughout the week.

  On Saturday afternoon, Ivan left the pancake house at his usual time. Since there were fewer people taking part in the cooking competition this round, it was starting an hour later than the week before. I spent a few minutes wrapping up some tasks in the office, but then I too headed for the competition site.

  I wandered toward the tent, ducking out of the way as Amy Strudwick snapped some photos of the setup. I met up with Ivan and noticed Patricia speaking with Marielle and Quaid. She smiled and waved at us, but then she hurried off, a clipboard in hand. I admired her knack for organizing events and her dedication to the town. There were few community functions in Wildwood Cove that she wasn’t involved in.

  I met up with Ivan and Marielle said a cheery hello to us as she came over our way. Quaid, however, ignored us. I wasn’t bothered by that, and I didn’t think Ivan was either.

  “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” Marielle said, her gaze drifting toward the refreshments table where coffee and tea were once again available for the judges and contestants.

  Quaid held out a black travel mug. “Get me some while you’re at it.”

  Marielle frowned at his lack of politeness, but after a brief hesitation she took the travel mug and headed for the coffee urn.

  Quaid’s phone rang, and he stepped out from beneath the tent, putting the device to his ear.

  “Charming,” I said.

  Ivan heard me and gave a grunt of agreement. “He needs to learn some manners.”

  “That’s not likely to happen anytime soon.”

  I told Ivan I’d see him later and claimed a spot on the bleachers, where a dozen or so others had already gathered. I spent a few minutes on my phone, reading text messages from Lisa and smiling at the collection of adorable photos she’d sent me of Orion. The vet had declared him to be in good health, and he was settling into his new home, causing plenty of chaos and making Lisa fall more in love with him every day.

  After sending a message in reply, I returned my attention to the scene before me. It appeared as though most of the competitors had arrived now, several of them lingering near the refreshments table. Willard Kerwin was there with his wife, and Judith Shaw was hovering near Ellie, talking almost constantly. Mrs. Shaw stood out in the crowd of casually dressed people. She wore a gray pantsuit with a silk blouse and pearls. Her straight blond hair was sleek and perfectly styled. I didn’t know what she was saying to her daughter, but whatever it was only seemed to be making Ellie nervous. She kept tugging at her apron and retying it, as if she couldn’t keep her hands still. An African American man I guessed was her father settled a hand on her shoulder, and she smiled up at him, finally appearing to relax at least a bit.

  I smiled myself when I noticed that Marielle hadn’t made Quaid’s coffee a priority. She’d left his mug on the table while she mingled with a couple of people I recognized from the competition’s organizing committee.

  Amy was still snapping photos of the people hanging around inside the tent. Quaid finished up his phone call and turned around, bumping into Amy.

  “Watch it, would you?” he practically snarled before storming away.

  Amy shot a glare his way but then got back to taking pictures.

  “Could I have all the judges over here, please?” Patricia called out from the far side of the tent.

  Marielle handed Quaid his mug and they headed over to Patricia, Ivan falling into step behind them. Quaid took a big gulp of coffee and nearly choked when he swallowed it down.

  “This tastes like slop!” he groused, his complaint loud enough to be heard halfway across the parking lot. “Seriously, we volunteer our time for this and we can’t even get a decent cup of coffee?”

  Chloe sat down beside me as Quaid tossed the rest of his coffee into a bush growing at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Is he having a tantrum?” she asked, her eyes on Quaid.

  “Sounds like it.”

  Patricia was busy attempting to placate the judge. Quaid still had a scowl on his face, but he’d quit complaining. Patricia waved Amy over her way and soon had the judges gathered in front of a tree growing in a narrow strip of garden at the far edge of the parking lot. Amy took several photos of the judges, and then everyone returned to the tent.

  Bruce Hannigan conferred with Patricia for a moment and then approached the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the first round of competition will begin in fifteen minutes. If any competitors have not yet checked in with Patricia Murray, please do so now.”

  “What sport does he coach?” I asked Chloe.

  “High school baseball. Or he used to, anyway. He’s retired now, but everyone still calls him Coach Hannigan.” She picked up the purse she’d set between us on the bench. “Want to make a quick run to the Beach and Bean?”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  The trip there and back took less than fifteen minutes, and the competition had yet to get under way when we returned. The first round of competitors had assembled in the tent, and Amy was getting some shots of them as they took their places at their stations.

  For this round, the contestant
s would be making desserts. They’d all decided beforehand what they would make and—as with the first round—had been allowed to bring their own ingredients. Since there was only one group of competitors left in each division, both Ellie and Logan were participating in this round.

  The bleachers had grown more crowded so we decided to not waste any time grabbing a couple of seats. Before I could follow Chloe up to the third row, Patricia called out my name. As soon as I saw her face, I knew something was wrong.

  “What is it?” I asked when she hurried over to me. I’d never seen her so stressed.

  “The first round of competition is supposed to start right now, and Quaid’s in the grocery store’s washroom, vomiting.”

  I glanced toward the judges’ table. Sure enough, Ivan and Marielle were the only ones there.

  “Stomach flu?” I guessed.

  “That or food poisoning. I called his wife and she’s coming to pick him up, but now I’m short one judge. No one’s using any meat ingredients in this round, so would you be able to step in? Hopefully Quaid will be back next week.”

  “Sure, I can. I’m no expert, though.”

  “You don’t need to be. Let your taste buds guide you.”

  “All right. No problem.”

  Relief smoothed out the worry lines on Patricia’s face. “Thank you so much, Marley.”

  I took a few seconds to explain to Chloe what was happening, and then I walked with Patricia over to the judges’ table. She explained the scoring sheet to me as we went, and by the time I sat down next to Marielle I knew what I was supposed to do.

  “Looks like I’m joining you today,” I said to my fellow judges.

  “Quaid’s sick?” Ivan asked.

  “Apparently.” I scooted my chair closer to the table. “His wife’s going to pick him up and take him home.”

  “You mean somebody actually married the guy?” Marielle said.

  I shouldn’t have smiled, under the circumstances, but I couldn’t help myself. “Hard to believe, right?”

  When I glanced Ivan’s way, I thought I detected a hint of amusement on his face, though it was hard to tell with him. His expression never varied much from his intimidating glower.