“You booked an event?” PopPop said. “When did that happen?”
“While the two of you were missing in action,” I said. “The guy who followed me over from Zoup! yesterday recommended us.”
“O?” my grandfather asked. “He did tell me he was a law professor over there.”
“A law professor?” my mother said. That caught her attention.
“Said before that he used to be a police officer,” PopPop added.
“A police officer,” I mumbled. No wonder he wanted to get inside my head.
“Is that the one who likes you?” my mother asked.
“He doesn’t like me,” I told her. “That’s just Maisie’s craziness.” I turned to my grandfather. “I didn’t know that about him. Not until Clara came in. How did you know?”
“I asked him,” PopPop said. “That’s how I know. Had a little conversation with the fellow. You could have, too.”
“Who is Clara?” my mother asked.
“Clara Blackwell.” Like she knew who that was.
“Is that who booked the event?” Mom asked.
“Yes. Actually, she booked two,” I said.
“Two!” My mother screeched and threw up her hands. “Two events! Oh my.”
“And I want you to help me with it, please.” I looked at PopPop. “Both of you.”
“We will,” she said, and gave a nod as confirmation. “It’s a good thing you hired help. Candy and Wilhelmina can take care of the store while we plan the event.”
I heard PopPop grunt.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know if I like that Wilhelmina woman.”
“Why not?” my mother asked.
He grunted again.
“She has a crush on PopPop. She even winked at him,” I whispered. “I think she makes him nervous.”
My mother giggled. “Never too old for love. He’s pushing eighty and still has women gushing over him.”
“It’s the Crewse Curse,” PopPop said, without looking up from his game. “All the men have it. We’re charming without even trying.”
We laughed at that, including PopPop.
“So tell us more about this event we’re catering,” my mother said. “We need to get brainstorming.”
“It’s Monday.”
“Monday?” my mother said. “Today’s not Monday. Oh wait.” Her mouth dropped open and she put her hands on her hips. “Are you saying that’s when . . . Do you mean this event is . . .” She counted on her fingers. “Five days from now, Monday?”
“Yes.” I nodded.
“Good heavens!” she said. “How would anyone wait until a week before their event to get the menu together?”
“She didn’t wait,” I said. “She had another caterer, but there was a problem . . .”
I didn’t finish that sentence. I couldn’t. Clara Blackwell said that the other caterers had exhibited behavior that wasn’t conducive with the school. Wycliffe was a Christian-based college.
I was sure they wouldn’t give a second thought about dumping us if she learned that we were an establishment where one of the owners was suspected of being a murderer.
There was no telling what kind of scathing review would accompany that one-star rating they’d be sure to give us.
chapter
TWENTY-ONE
PopPop, Mom and I brainstormed about what to prepare for Clara Blackwell’s events. For the ice cream social, we were the main event. As the chaplain for the sorority, she had pretty much mapped out what she wanted. That one would be easy. I’d serve the usual-flavored ice creams—vanilla, strawberry and chocolate. But I’d make something different for the sundae and banana split toppings, and a few specialty flavors to serve as single scoops.
For her President’s Dinner we only needed to supply dessert, but what should have been a simple decision turned out to be the hardest for us to decide.
PopPop wanted me to serve Grandma Kay’s chocolate cherry and almond ice cream cake. It was luscious, with sliced, frosty dark cherries covering the top and slivers of almonds sprinkled about. Inside were alternate layers of chocolate crumble, thinly sliced vanilla cake and a smooth cherry ice cream made from puree and almond extract. A short-stacked cake, one spoonful filled the palate with tangy and sweet, smooth and crunchy, rich and salty all at the same time. It was elegant and sophisticated and probably the best fit for the occasion.
I thought we should do individual cakes. Raspberry java ice cream cake. A chocolate-espresso mocha-flavored frozen delight, I’d use a moist flourless chocolate cake for the base, but the one-and-a-half-inch-diameter desserts would only have ice cream inside. I’d pile it two inches high, and cover it with a thin satiny chocolate ganache glaze dripped over the top and down the sides, with tons of raspberries scattered atop and a shard of pressed chocolate as a garnish.
My mother pooh-poohed the suggestions PopPop and I came up with, saying that both included chocolate, the usual fare for dessert, and we should do something different. She wanted me to do a seven-layer strawberry tart ice cream cake. Between the four layers of soft, spongy and fluffy cake that had an almondy back note was strawberry ice cream chock-full of the sweet berries. A vanilla rosette-patterned buttercream frosting topped it, and then it was adorned with whole, plump, juicy red strawberries. The dessert was one she’d created when she first started working in the store.
In the end, after much debate—um, discussion—about where we’d find ripe fruit, which one would keep better, how well it paired with the main course being served, and a quick check of Grandma Kay’s recipe box, we decided to serve all three. I was in charge of finding strawberries and cherries so late in the year. Something I’d have to get right on if I was going to have them shipped to me and arrive in five days.
We got it all settled and Wilhelmina came in the door at two thirty, batting her eyes at PopPop in time for my three o’clock rendezvous with Maisie.
I left the car parked and strolled toward Molta’s. I said a little prayer as I walked. It was twofold—one, that we wouldn’t get caught, and two, that I wasn’t doing something stupid. I had nothing to go on that Ari was the murderer other than Maisie’s harebrained conclusion. But if she was right, he could be dangerous.
I stuck my hands in my gloves and pulled the collar up on my coat. Molta’s wasn’t far. It was located on West Orange Street—down the street and around the corner—about a half mile away. The restaurant looked like someone had taken two squares and attached them together. One, smaller, was the entryway. It had big dark wood double doors with huge wrought-iron handles. The larger square was attached to the back and right of that one and was where the restaurant was housed. The building was stucco with a whitewash covering. It had black accents—the trim and the wrought-iron fence that delineated the porch eating area.
It was new and modern and chic. Nothing like the restaurant it had replaced. It reminded me of Riya’s comment that the village was going upscale. Something most of the community resisted. She’d even said that Crewse Creamery was taking a part in the gentrification. I didn’t know if I thought that was a bad thing, but if moving our quaint little village up to the twenty-first century meant that murder was invading our boundaries, my family’s ice cream shop and I wanted no part of it.
I saw Maisie walking up from the other side of the parking lot, waving. Her red hair stuck out from under a blue hat that matched the blue in the dress that hung from under a purple jacket speckled with yellow stars. Her feet and legs were covered in red-striped leggings and navy galoshes. She looked like a box of Skittles. I wondered if she had on lucky socks underneath.
“Hi,” she said as she arrived by my side, pulling her backpack off. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, still not completely happy with my decision of spying on people.
“It’ll
be easy,” she said, recognizing my hesitation. She dangled keys in front of me. “Don’t feel guilty, Win.” She tugged on my arm and we headed for the door. “I have permission to go in early and to go into the office.”
“Not to find out if Ari murdered anyone,” I said. I stepped inside and waited for her to turn on the lights.
“If we get caught we could just plead ignorance,” she said, heading off toward the back. “Act as if we didn’t know we were doing anything wrong.”
“Or we could call O to come and bail us out of jail,” I said, following her. “Come to find out he teaches law over at Wycliffe.”
“He’s a lawyer?” she asked. “You go, girl! He’s turning out to be one fine catch.”
“One fine stalker is what he is,” I said. “Although I’m not going to balk about him sending me Clara Blackwell. That was one market I hadn’t thought to explore yet.”
“This is the office,” she said, lowering her voice. We’d gone through the kitchen and down a short hallway and stood at a locked door. She found the key she needed, slid it into the lock and turned it with ease.
Once inside, she shut the door behind us. The windowless room was pitch black. It took her a minute to find the switch and flick on the lights.
“Oh!” I said. “That’s bright.”
“Shhh!” she said.
“Don’t shush me,” I said, but still, I lowered my voice. “Why are we whispering, anyway? No one’s here.”
Maisie shrugged. “It just seems appropriate.”
I blew out a breath. “Then we probably shouldn’t have the lights on.”
“How else are we going to see?”
I pulled out my phone. “Flashlight,” I said.
“Oh, okay.” She nodded. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket, then went over to the wall and turned off the lights.
“Now what?” I asked, turning on my light and shining it at her.
“Let’s look for the folder with applications in it. Or the time sheets,” she said. “Maybe we can find him.”
“You’re not sure of his name.”
“Yeah, but I know everyone else who works here. He’d be the only new name.”
“Well, I don’t know everyone else’s name.”
“If you find the sheet,” she said, “just show it to me.”
“Okay,” I said, and started looking. “So with the guy only working here a short time, per you, he might be on only one sheet of paper.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “I had a couple of days off. Maybe he started before and I didn’t know about it. But either way, there should be some record of him being hired.”
“Unless he was working under the table.”
“Yeah,” Maisie said. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take that stack of folders over there on the credenza.”
“Yep. And I’ll check out the file cabinet. Maybe he filled out a W-2 or something.”
“We’ll just look though any papers and file folders to see what we come up with,” I said.
“Got it,” she said.
We went to our designated areas in the small room. There wasn’t much in the room. One file cabinet, a desk, a couple of chairs and the wooden credenza. I flipped through some multicolored folders, and inside they looked like the folders I kept for the store. They were filled with invoices and receipts. One with a legal notepad with what must have been Ari’s notes of what seemed like ideas he had for the restaurant.
“Nothing here,” I said, and turned around to face Maisie. “What are you doing?” I went over to her. “I thought you were going to go through the file cabinet?”
Maisie had turned on the computer that sat on the desk and had the mouse scurrying across the pad like it was after cheese.
“I’m going through the files, like you told me,” she said.
“I never told you to go through electronic files,” I said. “I meant paper files. In the file cabinet.” I pointed to it. “How did you get into his computer anyway? Isn’t it password protected?”
“I saw him put in the password once.” All I could hear were clicking sounds of the mouse.
I slapped a hand across my forehead. “We’re going to jail.”
“Look at this,” she said. “This email is from the Pink Panther.”
“Email?” I said. “Don’t go through his email!”
“I’ll bet that’s Peter Sellers,” she said, giving me a knowing head nod.
“We’ve had this conversation,” I said, going behind the desk to stand next to her. “His name is Stephen Bayard. And we should probably go. There’s nothing here.”
“Don’t you want to know what it says?”
“No!” I said.
“Oops,” she said as I heard the click of the printer starting.
“Maisie!”
“What?” She clicked a few more times, turning off the computer. Then, standing up straight, she looked at me.
“What are you two doing in here?” The woman’s words came out as she swung the door open. A flick of the switch flooded the room with light again.
“Nothing,” I answered her question reflexively. I turned off my flashlight and readjusted my eyes to see her.
“Looking,” Maisie said at the same time.
“Looking for nothing,” I said, and tugged on Maisie’s arm, pulling her close to me. My eyes glanced over at the printer, which had just pushed up the printed copy of the email.
The woman raised an eyebrow and tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. “There’s nothing in here to take,” she said.
Maisie furrowed her brow. “We’re not looking for anything to take.”
“And we were just leaving,” I said, giving Maisie’s arm a tug.
“You don’t have to run on my account,” she said, a small smile forming on her thin, shiny, lip-gloss-covered lips. “And you didn’t have to go snooping around in the dark either. That is, if you’re not trying to take anything.”
“We’re not trying to take anything,” I said. “And we’re not snooping.” I let my eyes meet with hers, partly to show her I meant what I said, but mostly so I wouldn’t let them stray over to the printer, that one sheet of white paper ready to reveal what we’d done.
“I don’t have to run,” Maisie said with bravado I didn’t know she possessed. “As a manager, I come into his office all the time.”
“When there is business to be taken care of,” the woman said, raising a brow to suggest we were not doing anything official. “And with the lights on.” Then she shrugged and looked at Maisie, a smirk on her face. “No worry. I won’t tell Ari.”
“Are you working today, Althea?” Maisie asked. There was a snooty quality to her voice like she had some authority.
“Are you?” she asked in return. Then she turned and looked at me. “I’m sure she isn’t.”
Althea, as Maisie called her, was smart-looking. She was dressed in a pair of nice gray slacks, a cable-knit sweater and flats. She had her coat over her arm like she’d come in to hang it up.
“Why are you here?” Maisie said. “And how did you get in? Doors aren’t opened yet.”
I was going to have to come visit Maisie at her job more often. She was a completely different person.
“Why are you in here?” Again Althea answered Maisie’s question with one of her own.
No time for them to go another round, though. We all diverted our attention to the voice that came from the door.
It was Ari.
Oh shoot!
chapter
TWENTY-TWO
Ari Terrain was of Middle Eastern or North African descent. I didn’t know for sure which, and had never felt a need to ask or felt comfortable doing so. One thing I did know for sure was that he was handsome. And
fit. Brown-skinned, he had big almond-brown eyes, his dark eyebrows were thick and naturally arched, and his lashes were dense and long. He sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache that shaped his perfectly formed lips—defined cupid bow, even and full. And it was easy to see his muscular definition through the fitted button-down shirts he wore. He had an easy smile and his scent reminded me of a cool breeze.
“I came to check on the schedules,” Maisie said, not missing a beat in addressing Ari’s surprise visit to the office. I didn’t know she could lie so quickly or easily. She grabbed the paper off the printer. “Got everything I need.” She waved the paper in the air.
Ari looked around the room at us, and his eyes settled on me. I knew I was the odd man out, and his looking at me—which made everyone else turn their attention my way—made me nervous. I stood behind the desk with Maisie, locked in, no foreseeable easy way out. But before he could say anything, Maisie added, “And Win walked over with me. To keep me company.”
“Are you scheduled for tonight?” he asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” she answered, not even blinking. She had a new look on her face. Not determination like when she spoke to the woman she called Althea, but defiance. Maybe even disdain.
Ari looked at me again with narrowed eyes. I lowered mine and tried to slow my breathing. I was sure my heart palpitations were evident even through my coat.
“Your last name Crewse?”
I nodded. “Yep,” I said, barely getting the word past the knot in my throat.
“You’re in charge of the ice cream store now, right?”
I nodded again.
“I saw yesterday that it was open.” I nodded again. I felt like a bobblehead doll. “I said I was going to stop by. I used to go there, years ago. When your grandparents—?” He stopped mid-sentence, making his words into a question, to check he had it right.
“Yep. My grandparents owned it.”
“Right. When they owned it. Wow. I loved that ice cream. Even back then they had it right. Making it from scratch right in the store. You still doing it that way?”
A Deadly Inside Scoop Page 14
