“Daddy, what are you doing here?” Arlena asked, hugging him tighter. They stood in the doorway, Randall filling the space with his wide shoulders.
“I can’t believe we found you out here in the middle of nowhere,” said another voice from the hallway.
Arlena broke off the hug and pulled her father inside the room by his hand. “Max is here too?” Max Madison, Arlena’s half-brother, strode into the room and crushed her to his chest.
Arlena hugged him back, the stunned expression remaining on her face. Randall caught Penelope’s eye and gave her a knowing wink, which caused her cheeks to redden. Arlena took a step back to look at them and almost tripped over her skirt, her feet getting caught in the too-long hem brushing the floor. “Seriously, what are you guys doing here?”
“You think I’d miss your birthday?” Randall asked. “My little girl only turns thirty once. There’s no way I’d miss that.”
“Shh,” Arlena said, throwing a glance at the bedroom door. “I’m trying to stay in my twenties a little longer, Daddy.”
“You can’t hide your age these days. Everything is on the internet. Not that you need to,” Max added hastily, ducking from Arlena’s scolding look. He dropped his duffle bag on the floor. “Good to see you too, Penelope.”
Penelope gave him a quick smile. “Hi, Mr. Madison,” she added shyly.
“How many times is it going to take, Penelope?” Randall asked. “If you can’t remember to call me Randall, just call me Dad.”
Penelope blushed when she smelled the sweet cherry cigar smoke on his heavy leather jacket as he stepped toward her. She had grown to love the Madison family over the past couple of years and considered them an extension of her own family. Not having siblings of her own, Arlena had become like a sister to her, and the thought of Randall as a surrogate father warmed her heart and brought an unexpected prick of tears behind her eyes. She wondered for a moment why she was so prone to crying lately, then gave herself a pass when she thought about the day she’d had so far.
Penelope cleared her throat. “Okay, Pops,” she said jokingly.
“Atta girl.” Randall brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with his thumb.
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Arlena asked again.
“We’re on a road trip. Heading west.” Max slipped off his ski jacket and draped it across the back of a chair. “We thought we’d stop and visit a few days.”
“A trip, since when?” Arlena asked. “Aren’t you working?” Max’s job was starring as one of the featured regulars on a reality show that followed the exploits of the children of the rich and famous. He lived in lower Manhattan in the same apartment building where they filmed the show.
Randall paced carefully around the room, his motorcycle boots squeaking dully on the hardwood floor. He eyed the antique furniture, all of which appeared too fragile for him to use. He looked like a bear wandering around inside a dollhouse.
“We just filmed the last episode of the season. I have a couple of months off. I’m going out to LA to audition for a few parts,” Max said. “Film roles. And not just bit parts either.”
“So you thought you’d drive all the way from New York to Los Angeles?” Arlena asked, laughing with surprise.
“Why not?” Randall asked. “You can’t see the countryside from the window of an airplane. Both of you should slow down, set aside more time to appreciate the people and things around you. Life goes by quickly.”
Randall’s adult children gaped at him after the unexpected life lesson from their free-spirited father.
“Besides, I don’t start work on my next movie for a month,” Randall continued. “Me and the kid will get some quality time together, see the sights, wander around a while.”
“We are going to California though, right, Dad?” Max straightened his spine in alarm.
“Sure, kid.” Randall chuckled. “I’ll get you there eventually.”
“I don’t think there are any empty rooms here to stay,” Penelope said. “There’s a hotel the next town over, about twenty minutes north on the highway.”
“We’re going to camp in the woods.” Randall squinted out the frosted window pane at the forest behind the restaurant.
“Camp?” Arlena said. “Daddy, it’s freezing outside.”
“Exactly,” Randall said, turning back around to face them and rubbing his hands together. “My next movie takes place on Mount Kosciuszko. It’s about the guys who discovered it, trekked to the summit. I have to prepare. Me and Max are going to find out what it’s like to set up camp in the snow, the unforgiving tundra.”
Max’s face fell. “When you said camping, I thought you meant somewhere on the beach. You know, cooking over a fire, frosty drinks. In California.”
Randall smiled, amused.
“You don’t have to do this with me, but I hope you decide it’s worth it.”
Max started answering before he could finish. “I want to do it with you, Dad. But…you have a heater for the tent, right?”
Randall shook his head and grinned. “Of course I do. I won’t let you freeze to death. You do need some toughening up though. You’re too used to Thai takeout at three in the morning in the city.”
“You’re close enough to the inn you can come inside and warm up when you need to,” Arlena said. “And take showers. There’s plenty of room in here, a spare bed and a rollaway. I’m not sharing with anyone.” She glanced at the closed door next to the fireplace.
The phone on the desk rang once before it was answered by one of the girls in the next room with a muffled “hello.”
“Thanks, sweetie. You know, those guys on Kosciuszko didn’t have an inn to warm up in,” Randall said, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. “We might have to stick it out to maintain the authenticity of my research.”
Max dropped his head in his hands and said in a serious voice, “Dad, there’s no mountain here either. And we’re in the middle of the United States. Let’s take showers and fall back on your acting skills.”
Sarah poked her head through the bedroom door. “Excuse me, Miss Madison?”
“Yes?” Arlena said, suppressing a grin at her brother’s discomfort.
“The police are looking for Penelope.” Sarah’s voice tended to lilt up at the end of sentences, but it was more pronounced when she was nervous. Her eyes widened behind her glasses when she saw Max sitting in the chair, gazing at her with his long arm draped lazily over the back.
Penelope’s phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out and read the message from Jennifer. The letters shouted in all caps: “NEED YOUR TEAM IN GREAT ROOM NOW.” She turned the phone over and rubbed the fingerprint smudges onto her jeans.
“I’m being summoned,” Penelope said.
“What have you been up to?” Max asked. “Got caught cow tipping?”
Arlena set her mouth in a line and looked at Penelope.
“The police are investigating a suspicious death that happened this morning,” Penelope said, the words drying her mouth. “The owner of this inn might have been murdered.”
Chapter 13
After the tech held her fingers against the small screen on the bar and she watched a sketch of her fingerprints fill the tiny monitor, Sheriff Bryson ushered Penelope into the inn’s cramped office under the main staircase. He looked out of place behind the vintage metal secretary desk, which had been built many years earlier and designed for a much smaller person. He looked more like a teacher from the 1950s than a modern-day police officer. A coffee cup sat at the edge of the desk, Indiana baked into the side, painted in a child’s handwriting. It held a collection of pens, and Penelope counted them while the sheriff shuffled a few papers inside a brown folder on the desk.
“Penelope Sutherland,” he muttered under his breath, choosing one of the sheets and jotting her name at the top.
Th
is was the first time Penelope had seen Sheriff Bryson out of his bulky leather jacket. His brown uniform shirt was freshly pressed, the seams perfectly lined down his sleeves, and his collar crisp. His hair wasn’t fully gray, just his sideburns, the rest sandy brown, and his face was smooth from a recent shave. He was orderly perfection personified.
“Tell me again everything you remember about this morning,” Sheriff Bryson began, bouncing the ball of his pen on the form.
Penelope recounted entering the refrigerator, bumping into Jordan’s dangling legs, and stumbling back out. “That’s it. Then you were here.”
He nodded at her, watching her mouth as she spoke. “And you spoke to Mrs. Foster this morning. Afterwards, I mean.”
Penelope nodded and watched him jot something down.
“What did you talk about?” Sheriff Bryson asked.
“Restaurant business. She and Ava want to find a new chef quickly,” Penelope said.
The sheriff smiled tightly and bent his head toward the desk, scribbling.
“Did she seem upset to you?” he asked, brushing his lip and watching her intently.
Penelope paused, deciding to tread carefully into the rest of the conversation. “Of course. In shock, really. I think we all are. Why do you ask?”
Sheriff Bryson leaned back in his chair. “I’m trying to find out what happened to her husband is all. Just gathering information.”
Penelope sat up straighter. “Where were Jordan’s boots? He always wore his hiking boots in the kitchen. Zamberlans. He was barefoot when he died.”
He folded his hands and gazed at her. “Yet to be located,” he said matter-of-factly. “Those are pretty fancy shoes for cooking.”
“He said they saved his feet, and his back, from the hours standing in the kitchen. Those floors are hard. I don’t think he’d walk barefoot through his own kitchen. It’s a health-code violation.”
“What makes you think he’d be wearing them near the time he died? He wasn’t working in the middle of the night, when we’ve determined it happened.”
“But he was wearing his chef coat and pants. It makes sense he’d also be wearing his work boots,” Penelope said.
“Do you remember if he was wearing the same clothes from earlier in the day?” he asked.
“I think so, but I can’t be completely sure. His uniforms were all similar.”
Sheriff Bryson mumbled something in response, his expression a mask of disdain, or possibly defeat.
“Can I ask you about the bruises you mentioned?”
He eyed her for a moment, considering. “I shouldn’t have shared that with you.” He crossed his arms at his chest and leaned back in the chair.
“But you must think Jordan was murdered or you wouldn’t be going through all of this,” Penelope said.
“I do. Terrible thing, and I hate to admit it, but yes,” Sheriff Bryson said.
“I get the impression that doesn’t happen around here too often,” Penelope said, prodding.
“Forrestville is a nice place to live. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Sorry,” Penelope said. “I really just want to help.”
“Then let’s get back to the point. Did Jordan do a lot of drinking at the restaurant?” His tone softened a tad but maintained its authoritative sharpness.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t characterize his drinking as excessive,” Penelope said. “He drank wine on occasion in the kitchen while he was cooking, and sometimes at the bar with his favorite customers. But he always stayed focused while working.”
“Okay. Did he seem particularly close with any of his employees?”
Penelope paused a moment to think. “I’d say he was close to most of the staff. He always said they were his extended family. I heard him mention more than once that the young people he hired were all known to him through their parents in town. He was very protective of everyone working on the floor and in the back of the house.”
“Did he seem particularly close to anyone from the movie crew?”
“I guess. He said he really liked working with all of us. Jennifer, obviously.”
“And the other chefs?”
“Jordan was friendly with everyone, Sheriff Bryson,” Penelope said, feeling a bit hopeless.
Sheriff Bryson sighed. “From what you’re telling me, and from what I’ve heard around town, Jordan Foster was the perfect man. Happy family, successful business, well-liked by everyone, generous, a regular guy with lots of friends…”
Penelope nodded in agreement. “That’s what I think of him too. Granted I’ve only known him a little over a month, but I wouldn’t disagree.”
“And yet, someone may have killed him. A man with no clear enemies ends up hanging in his own freezer. I think he came across the wrong out-of-towner, someone who thinks they’re smart enough to throw us off track, make it look like a suicide.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t?” Penelope asked.
Sheriff Bryson ran his finger along the edge of the pile of papers on the desk and dropped his voice a level. “Certain facts have come to light.”
“So he was definitely murdered.” Penelope lowered her voice too.
“Yes.” His mood shifted abruptly and he straightened up in his chair. “That’s all the questions I have for now, Miss Sutherland. If you wouldn’t mind, please send in the next person…” He eyed a short list of names on his pad. “Francis Moretti.”
“Sure. He’s my sous chef,” Penelope said, standing up. She glanced at the list, noticing it was less than ten names long, far from the entire film crew. She didn’t see any of the actors’ names, but every one of her chefs was listed. “You’re not questioning everyone from the movie?”
Sheriff Bryson scooted a piece of paper over the names. “That’s not your concern.”
Penelope stifled a nervous laugh and straightened the hem of her sweater at her waist. Seeing her name at the top of Sheriff Bryson’s list had unnerved her. When she’d come into the office, she felt like she was there to help. Now she felt like she was on the top of a short list of suspects.
“Don’t you normally take witness statements at the police station?” she asked.
He shot her an irritated glance.
“Not that I need to explain, but it doesn’t make sense to shuttle people back and forth to the department when everyone I’d like to talk to is right here.”
Penelope thought about the small police station next to the diner on Main Street. “I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t doing things correctly.”
“Well, I’m sure they do things differently in New York. We’ll try to keep up, not trip over ourselves.”
Penelope stared at him from across the desk. “New Jersey.”
Sheriff Bryson sighed, and some of the color drained from his cheeks. “Please send in Mr. Moretti. Thank you for your statement.”
Penelope stepped through the office door and closed it behind her, giving Francis a warning glance. She pulled him by the elbow away from the door and lowered her voice. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Francis said. “What’s he asking about in there?”
“I don’t know. Questions about Jordan. Just answer the best you can. Don’t guess anything, and only say things that you know are true.”
“Yeah, of course.” Francis slipped inside and closed the office door behind him.
Penelope walked to the end of the hallway and peered into the kitchen, craning her neck in the entryway. Officer Collins was talking with the female technician Penelope had seen at Festa. Both of them had on latex gloves and were looking at a diagram of the kitchen in Edie’s hands. The doorway was sectioned off with yellow tape, and many of the counters, doorknobs, and handles had a fine mist of black dust on them.
Edie glanced up and saw Penelope in the doorway. “Help you?”
Edie said something to the tech, who nodded and went inside the walk-in, before approaching the doorway. “You can’t come in here.”
“I know,” Penelope said quickly. “I wanted to see...”
“You’re curious what we’re doing in here,” Edie said, not unkindly.
“A little,” Penelope said. “Have you found anything?”
Edie set her lips in a line and looked at a spot on the wall next to Penelope’s head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Sorry,” Penelope said, turning to go, then pausing. “Hey, I forgot to mention.” She pointed at the walk-in. “I never saw Jordan without his necklace, even when he was running. It was silver, made out of a real knife from Jordan’s first restaurant. He had it melted down and soldered together like this.” She crossed her fingers together to make an X.
Edie turned on her heel and went to the kitchen counter, then picked up a manila envelope marked with a black grid covered in scribbled handwriting. Pulling out a small plastic bag, she held it up for Penelope to see. “This the one?”
“Yes!” Penelope said. “Was it on the floor in the freezer? I didn’t remember seeing it when I found him, but with the rope around his neck...”
“Funny you ask,” Edie said, her expression neutral. “It was found outside in the parking lot. One of the techs found it wedged under the front tire of your truck. That is your truck, right? The one with Red Carpet Catering painted on the side?”
Penelope’s knees weakened slightly. “That’s weird,” she said.
“We thought so,” Edie said. The woman emerged from the walk-in, her eyes boring into Penelope from beneath her baseball hat. “It’s also weird that we found a partial print on it, and it wasn’t Jordan’s.”
Murder Is the Main Course Page 8
