“I hope your father’s doing okay. I heard he was under the weather. I did get a quick word with him the day of the cook-off. He seemed healthy at the time. I was telling the detective, coincidentally, that I thought Carmell had upset your father that morning because I saw them having an animated discussion. The girl can be fierce, you know. Or she used to be, I should say.”
Sherry’s temple began to pound in unison with the quickened beat of her heart. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. Dad’s delivery can come off harsh, but he’s a sweetheart.” Sherry wasn’t sure Damien heard her reply because he was thumb typing on his phone again. She hoped her words hadn’t registered with him after she reconsidered how they could be misinterpreted. “Such a tragic loss. Carmell Gordy was a rising star.”
“There are lots of people who might disagree with you, maybe even your father, but I tried to make her stay with us memorable, not knowing the time would be so short. Her budding career was going places, I believe. We’re small potatoes here at News Twelve, but I take our viewership seriously, and I want to provide the audience with the best on-air talent. Signing Carmell was quite a coup, if I do say so myself.” With a sudden jerk of his hand, Damien put his phone on the desk and gave it a shove so it slid across the table, just beyond his reach. He curled his hands into balls. His knuckles turned white.
“I’m surprised there weren’t any eyewitnesses to Carmell’s murder. But the place was pitch-black.” Sherry’s scalp prickled. “In the corner, where the camerawoman, Kirin, I think her name was, and I were, it was impossible to see a thing. But when the lights came up, I remember Kirin was horrified at what she saw through her camera viewfinder. I’m curious. Did you see or hear anything? Were you in the room at the time of the blackout?”
Damien massaged the back of his neck with both hands.
“I left the building on a personal emergency. I didn’t even have time to sign out. The storm was so bad, I had to make a mad dash for the parking lot. Unfortunately, when I got to my car, I realized I had left the top down on my convertible. What a mess the storm made of my car’s interior. Would have been nice if Brett’s forecast had been a little more precise.” Damien’s phone began to vibrate. “Please don’t be strangers.” He reached in his wallet and pulled out a business card. He slid it across the desk toward Amber, who picked up the card.
Sherry gave Amber a sideways glance before standing. “I was asked to deliver this while I’m here.” Sherry pulled the jewelry pouch from her purse. “This is for Brett Paladin from his stepmother, Ruth Gadabee.”
The color drained from Damien’s face. “Now there’s a name from the past.” Damien shook his head, and the color returned.
“You know her?” Amber asked.
“Her husband owned the station before me. George Gadabee, I think was his name. When he died, the family was in the process of attracting investors, and I stepped in.”
“Makes sense you would know the Gadabee family then. So interesting Brett is the son of the station’s previous owner.” Sherry swiveled her head from Damien to Amber and back again. “Is that how he got his job here?”
“Yes and no. He worked here part-time, off-camera, behind the scenes, before his father died. Shortly after, he applied for a permanent job here. When I read the application, I didn’t know it was the same young man. He was using the surname Paladin instead of Gadabee by that time. I liked his résumé. He was interviewed, impressed everyone, and got the job. Fair and square. You’re full of questions, Ms. Oliveri. I’d think your interest would lie in finding out why the murder weapon used originated in your father’s store.”
Sherry wiped her brow with her knuckles. “That’s the detective’s job.”
Damien inflated his cheeks.
Sherry held up the jewelry pouch. “Ruth Gadabee would like me to personally see that Brett gets this. Would that be possible?”
There was a knock on the door. Steele stepped inside. “All set?”
“Steele, these ladies need one minute of Brett’s time.” Damien eyeballed his phone. “He should be done with rehearsal. Would you mind escorting them to see him? He’s usually in the kitchen on his break about now.” Damien walked to the door.
“No problem.” After a forceful exhale, Steele took off down the hallway, followed by Sherry and Amber scrambling to keep up.
It wasn’t long before they stopped in front of another door. At eye level on the front panel there was an off-color rectangle and two holes where something clearly had been removed.
“I’m sorry. I need to check inside before we find Brett.” Steele turned the doorknob. When the door was halfway open, he squatted on his haunches. There he encountered a yapping ball of fur that scampered over to investigate the intruders. “Hey, Bean, you doing okay?”
“Is he yours?” Sherry pushed in through the doorway and knelt next to the wriggling creature, beckoning him closer with her fingers. “He’s so cute. I’m partial to Jack Russells. I have one myself.”
“Bean is, was, Carmell’s dog.” Steele explained.
“Is that the dog I heard barking behind closed doors the day of the cook-off?” Sherry asked.
“That’s right. Carmell has no family in town, so I’m taking him in until I figure out what to do with him. He basically hates me and everyone else besides Carmell. Strange, I once had a theoretical conversation with her about what would happen to the dog if she wasn’t able to care for him, being as busy as she was, and, like an idiot, I said of course I’d take him. So, here I am with a new dog but same old tricks. Guilty conscience, I guess.”
“I think he’s sweet.” Amber lowered herself down beside Sherry and made kissing noises. “He doesn’t know who he belongs to anymore.”
“I need to fill his water bowl. Give me a minute.” Steele scooped up the empty bowl in the corner and hustled out of the room.
Sherry stood and flexed her knees. She walked over to the one stick of furniture in the room, a tiny metal desk, and sat on the edge. “Hard to bend that low anymore. I better get back to yoga, if I ever have any free time. That was quite a significant detail Ruth Gadabee left out about her husband’s owning News Twelve before he died, don’t you think?”
Amber nodded and let out a soft laugh. “This town is getting smaller by the minute.”
Sherry scooted her bottom back across the desk surface and, in the process, knocked a paper to the floor. She retrieved it and examined the typewritten sheet before remarking, “Definitely Leila’s handiwork.”
“Leila?”
“Augustin’s finest meter maid. This is a parking ticket. Dated the day of the cook-off and . . . oh my God.” Sherry fumbled in her purse for her phone. With shaky hands, she squared up the parking ticket to the edge of the desk and tapped the camera icon. She grazed the shutter button and heard a satisfying click. She leapt up when the door opened, bulldozing the paper behind her.
Bean began barking.
“Here you go, Bean. Don’t be so ungrateful.” Steele clanged the bowl on the hard floor as he set it down.
Bean retreated under the desk.
“He’s fine, so let’s keep moving.”
“Bye, Bean,” Sherry sang out as Bean peeked out from his hiding place.
“Bye, cutie,” Amber called out.
Steele closed the door behind them, and they proceeded to the kitchen. They entered the modest-sized room, furnished with a rectangular table and wooden chairs and outfitted with all the necessary kitchen appliances. Toward the back of the room, Brett and Truman were engaged in a conversation.
“Sorry to interrupt, but these ladies need a quick word with Brett,” Steele said.
Truman backed up and leaned against the microwave, crossing one ankle over the other.
“Sherry, you must be here picking up your trophy. I saw it in Damien’s office.” Brett thrust his hand forward.
Sherry rocked back on her heels.
“While you’re here, can I get you to taste this? When last we spoke, you had a few
suggestions, and I took them to heart. I think this breakfast cookie is new and improved and ready for mass market. Your friend can try a bite, too.”
Sherry broke the cookie in half and handed a share to Amber.
“Is this what your taste-testing parties are like?” Amber nudged Sherry.
“Taste-testing party?” Brett and Truman said in unison.
Brett’s eyes widened.
Sherry studied the cookie half. She bit off a chunk, moved it around in her mouth, and then swallowed. “I host a dinner once in a while to get recipe feedback from friends. I make a few of my newest recipes and serve them up for suggestions and constructive criticism. I give each guest a ballot so he or she can vote on his or her favorite recipe. It brings out the inner cook-off judge in my guests, and they seem to have fun.” She tipped her head toward Amber. “This is Amber Sherman. Amber, this is Brett Paladin, and, I’m sorry, your name escapes me.”
“Truman Fletcher.” The man in the gray suit put his hands on his hips. He rubbed the flat surface of hair at the top of his head.
“First, I wanted to tell you again how saddened we were when we learned of Ms. Gordy’s passing.” Sherry paused, half expecting a response, but none was forthcoming.
Brett’s vision was locked on the remaining cookie portion in Sherry’s hand. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but stayed mute. Truman tapped his toe to a slow, deliberate beat.
“And second, I ran into your stepmother, and she entrusted this to me to pass along to you when she found out I was on my way here.” Sherry presented the pouch.
Brett’s face bloomed a reddish hue Sherry hadn’t seen the likes of since her last attempt at making borscht. “This is my dad’s.” He opened the tiny sack and peered inside. An extended, low hum resonated from his nose. “Thought she’d never give this up. Thank you.”
“Ruth is a friend of my father. They spend a lot of time together, I’m learning.” Sherry smiled. The smile was not returned. “Seems as if you know my father. I saw you talking to him the day of the cook-off. As a matter of fact, Dad seemed to know Carmell, too.”
“Turns out that might not be such a good thing.” Truman rubbed his palms together, creating a chafing sound that gave Sherry goose bumps.
Sherry recoiled at the caustic noise. “Why’s that?”
“A detective was here for the second time asking lots of questions about your father and who he knew here at the station. If I was presented with the facts, I would be a little curious as to why the murder weapon was from the Oliveri Ruggery. If you put two and two together, the potential outcome of the investigation reads like a poorly written mystery lacking even an ounce of suspense.” Truman walked to the table and picked up a clipboard.
“You’re not reading good enough mysteries then, Mr. Fletcher, because while it may appear my dad left a trail of evidence, looks can be deceiving. Detective Bease is hard at work getting to the truth. No one should jump to conclusions. The facts are definitely not all in, rest assured.”
“Time will tell.” Truman gave a royal wave and left the room.
“I’m on my way out too.” Brett shoved the pouch in his blazer pocket. “Thanks for the delivery. If you see Ruth, will you send her my best?”
“You wouldn’t want to thank her yourself?” Sherry winced when Brett shot a harsh glare her way.
“She knows how I feel.” Brett left the room.
Sherry twisted her mouth to steer her words in Amber’s direction. “I wish I got the chance to ask Brett where he was during the murder, but I couldn’t think of a natural segue.” She flipped what was left of the cookie around in her hand. “I’m glad he forgot to ask my opinion of his cookie.” Sherry grimaced and surveyed the room for the trash can.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Steele pressed the pedal of the flip-top garbage can.
“I’ll join you.” Amber brought her cookie remains over with Sherry.
Brett charged through the kitchen door. “Ms. Oliveri, I forgot to get your opinion.”
Sherry retracted her hovering hand so fast from the garbage receptacle grazed Amber’s arm, causing cookie bits to take flight.
“Let’s see.” Sherry took a second bite. “This batch is moister than the last, but not necessarily in the most desirable way. The texture is more on the gummy side now. You might have over-mixed the flour. That causes the glutens to get pretty rubbery. At the same time, I think you used too much liquid sweetener, I’m guessing maple syrup, and you may have overbaked them in an attempt to firm them up. Did they spread out too much on the baking sheet? I’m guessing you reformed them halfway through the baking time because the edges are so ragged and the top is very uneven.”
Brett rubbed a red patch on his cheek. “You know what? This wasn’t a good batch. I had a sinus headache yesterday when I made them.” He pivoted and left the room.
“It’s gonna be a long day for me now.” Steele frowned. “Brett takes constructive criticism about as well as I take a loss by the Patriots. The effects could last a long time, or at least until he gets back in his kitchen to make a new batch.”
“Sorry about that. I had no idea.” Sherry tossed the cookie in the trash. She checked the time on her phone. “I think all our business here is complete. Time to get back to the store.”
They followed Steele’s lead out of the kitchen.
“I’m running into a bit of a time crunch.” Steele waved his arms at a figure down near the studio entrance. A young man dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt sprinted over. “Lucky, would you mind showing these ladies back to the front lobby? I have to run.”
“No problem. Ladies, you’re in good hands. They don’t call me Lucky because I’m cursed,” the young man said.
“Wow, you two really could be twins,” Amber noted. “You and Steele share an amazing resemblance.”
“I’m certainly a better dresser.” Steele punched Lucky in the arm.
“Thanks to the addition of my sweater,” Lucky added. “Are you ever planning on returning it?”
Steele shrugged and pivoted toward the women. “Have a great day and keep watching News Twelve. We need every viewer we can muster.”
Sherry stuck out her hand. Steele hustled over to reciprocate, during which time Sherry leaned in and whispered in his ear.
Chapter 8
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Sherry used a backward heel kick to shut the door behind her. She freed the wriggling dog clutched in her arms. Chutney dashed to Bean’s side. “We’re in deep now.”
The sides of Amber’s mouth curled up. “Can you keep him at your house for the night, while I have a chat with my rental agent? I’m sure she and I can work out an arrangement, and I’ll be able to keep him. I’ll have to pay for extra cleaning service visits, but that doesn’t bother me. I have the advantage because she let it slip that she and her husband are newly separated. She may be in need of some free family therapy, so I think we can strike up a deal.”
“You may get some content for your advice column, too.”
“All side benefits, plus Bean gets a new home.” Amber performed a short victory dance. “A win-win. Bean wasn’t Mr. Popularity at the station. I’m afraid he was heading for the pound. Steele seemed more than a bit stressed and not at all in the position to have more responsibility dumped in his lap.”
The two terriers disappeared under the hooking demonstration table.
“I didn’t trust anyone there had Bean’s best interests at heart,” Amber commented.
“Because they didn’t. Steele literally squealed with delight when I asked if we could adopt Bean. I’m sure it’s a load off his shoulders. Did you see the mock salute Brett gave Bean when we left? ‘Good riddance’ was written all over it.” Sherry hung the two leashes on a hook by the door. “We’ll alternate dog-walking duty. Except, of course, on farmer’s market day. You’re on your own that day. We’ve got this covered.” Sherry offered Amber a high five, and the ensuing clap enticed the dogs to bring
their roughhousing out from under cover.
“I’m going to the back room to finish matching canvases to yarn bundles. Give a shout if you need me.” Amber dragged a wooden Shaker-style stool inside the small storeroom. Her dangling legs were visible kicking in time as she hummed a tune Sherry couldn’t identify.
Sherry took a seat behind the sales counter. “Hey, Amber. What did you think of the characters at News Twelve? Are any of them capable of murdering their colleague?”
Amber leaned through the doorway, holding balls of yarn over her ears.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell so loud. I didn’t know if you could hear me. Was that overkill? Oops, overkill is not the right word.”
“I’m pretty sure the whole block heard your question.” Amber laughed.
Sherry lowered her voice. “Is this better?”
“Perfect.” Amber leaned back out of sight, with the exception of her bouncing legs. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
“Let’s start with Brett Paladin. Seems a bit uptight, but there’s heavy pressure on the anchors to represent the station in every capacity, I’m sure. When the cameras stop rolling, that’s when his persona as a trustworthy and unbiased community reporter can turn off, but I think that’s really who he is. Not much of a sense of humor that I could detect, but understandable as the news he reports these days can be pretty dismal. Plus he has such a strong connection to the station’s history. Honestly, if Brett wanted to murder anyone, it would be me.”
“You?” Amber exclaimed.
Sherry let out a puff of air. “He didn’t take kindly to my comments about his cookie recipe, but if he didn’t want the truth, he shouldn’t have asked me for advice, twice. I’m not going to sugarcoat what I know best in order to make friends. Ask me about another topic and I’ll give you a fluff answer to keep the peace, but, with any cooking concerns, I shoot straight from the hip. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Amber purred in agreement.
“It’s hard to assess what Brett’s relationship with his morning show co-anchor was like. He seemed to genuinely care for Carmell. I only saw them together briefly, and the rest of what I know is hearsay. I did notice the name of their morning show is written one way on the cook-off apron they gave me and another way on the show’s credits. Before Carmell joined News Twelve, the morning show was all Brett’s. The name of the show was Sunny Side Up with Brett. Fast-forward and Carmell is on board. The name of the show becomes Sunny Side Up with Carmell and Brett. The apron I wore at the cook-off read Sunny Side Up with Brett and Carmell, so obviously there was a short phase when Brett got top billing. That name change ping-pong game is more confusing than the idea behind Baked Alaska. I mean, think about it. You bake ice cream topped with whipped egg whites until they’re browned, and somehow that’s reminiscent of our forty-ninth state?”
Final Roasting Place Page 9
