“I guess I’m almost on.” Sherry adjusted two jars of pickles that were out of alignment with the others. She angled her head toward the detective as he stepped aside. Ray greeted Damien Castle and gave lengthy admiration to the handheld camera Kirin was balancing on her shoulder.
Brett sidled up next to Sherry, and the light on the camera glowed red. “Brett Paladin here at the Augustin Farmer’s Market. We have flown south from Chessie’s Chick-Inn Custom Birdhouses and joined Sherry and her Dumont Farm Perfect Storm Pickles. Guess you could say everyone’s in good spear-its here today.” Brett tilted his head toward Sherry, who in turn recoiled. “Our faithful viewers may remember Sherry recently won News Twelve’s Appetizer Roast. It’s dill-iteful to see you, Sherry.”
Sherry put her hand on the stem of the mic. “Appetizer cook-off. It was a cook-off not roast.”
“My mistake. Sherry is Augustin’s top home cook and possibly top pickler, too. She’s a busy lady.” Brett uncurled his fingers and dropped his hand to his side, leaving Sherry the sole bearer of the microphone.
“I’m helping out a friend who’s considering retirement from the pickle business. I do jar my own pickles at home, but here at the farmer’s market, we sell the Dumont family’s heirloom organic pickle. Would you like a sample?” Sherry used the butt of the microphone to point out the paper plate showcasing the pickle spears.
Brett helped himself to one. He studied the dark green vegetable while flipping the briny cucumber from front to back. He snapped it in half, and the force of the crisp break sent up a shower of tart juice. He took a few bites, chewing with such enthusiasm his jaw muscles bulged. “This very well may be the perfect pickle, as the name suggests. Folks, you’ve got to come down and buy ajar. Any cooking competitions in your future, or is that a secret?”
Sherry let a robust laugh escape that she immediately wanted to recapture. “There’s one coming up, yes.”
“And how do you get your culinary muscles primed for the big day, Sherry?” Brett’s voice took on a voluminous quality. A small crowd was beginning to form behind the camerawoman.
“After I’ve chosen a couple of recipes I’d consider entering, I host a tasting party. My guests provide the feedback to help me narrow down the choices. I think my track record of wins proves the idea behind the party’s been a success. I’m having one tomorrow night, as a matter of fact.” Sherry’s gaze followed a young family as they bypassed her table. “I better get back to work.” She placed the mic in Brett’s hand.
“Well, folks, there you have it. The secret to a cook-off champion’s success. After the commercial break we’ll be visiting the Norman family, whose farm, aptly named Berried Alive, supplies the market with the freshest berries around. We’ll return in two minutes.” Brett lowered the mic. “Thanks, Sherry. Have a good day.” Brett backed up a few steps, where Damien Castle joined him.
They exchanged words before Damien moved forward.
The man, who was a head taller than Sherry, thrust his hand out. “Ms. Oliveri, nice to see you again.”
“We’ll see you at the berry stand, boss.” Brett left with Kirin.
Sherry grimaced as another potential customer circumvented her pickle display. “Of course, good to see you again. Would you be interested in a jar of pickles? They make a great hostess gift for your next night out.” Sherry’s words were cushioned in a pillow of breathy urgency.
“I’m interested in giving your friend Amber a call to see if maybe she might join me for a bite to eat sometime soon. I would ask you for her number, but I don’t want to put you on the spot, so I’d be grateful if you would pass along my business card with the invitation to give me a call.” Damien located the wallet in his pants pocket from which he produced a business card. He set the small rectangle of information on the table. “Thank you so much. Good to see you.” Damien stowed away his wallet and checked his phone that was embedded in his other hand. He scanned the card on the table before trailing his colleagues on to the next location site.
“He could have at least bought a jar as a token of appreciation.” Sherry sighed.
Sherry spent the warmer side of the morning and sun-kissed afternoon answering pickle inquiries, managing inventory, and keeping her confined area tidy and inviting. With thirty minutes until closing, and the barrage of people thinning to a sparse few, she squashed a developing yawn before her growing weariness was publicly advertised. Piercing the sleepy fog that was beginning to build in Sherry’s brain, a voice jarred Sherry’s half-opened mouth shut.
“Long day?”
Shifting her gaze left, Sherry met the gaze of a woman in a beige barn coat and navy slacks. She was carrying a notepad and a recording device. “Patti Mellitt. Nice to see you again.”
“Equally nice to see you, Sherry. You spread yourself thin, don’t you? Cook-offs, working at your father’s store, pickle purveyor. How do you find the time?” Patti set down her ever-present notepad on Sherry’s table, spun ajar of pickles around to the non-label side, and studied the contents through the clear thermal glass.
“Good question. I feel like I don’t get most things accomplished to the degree I’m satisfied with. More quantity than quality. I’m on autopilot, trying to chip away at the minimum daily requirements of all the day’s activities.”
Patti picked up the glass jar. “You must be doing something right. Looks like you had a lucrative day. Three jars left? Make that two; I’d like this one, please.”
“The Dumonts had a lucrative day. I don’t make a cent because, if I did, I couldn’t enter any more amateur cooking competitions. I can’t earn money from any food-related entity or I’m considered a professional. But that’s all right. I’m dipping my toe into entrepreneurship to see if I like it.” Sherry took Patti’s money. At the same time, she eyeballed Patti’s notepad. “Were you covering a story here?”
“Yes. The pre-winter pop-up table, Holly Daze, began today. The holiday-themed knickknacks like peppermint soaps and decorated pinecones are selling like hot cakes. I don’t usually write non-food-related articles, but I made an exception this time because it’s my cousin Bella’s operation. That’s what makes Augustin such a special place. The small town sensibility of protecting your friends and relatives has deep roots here.”
“Mrs. Dumont,” Sherry whispered.
“I’m sorry?” Patti leaned in. “What did you say?”
“Just mumbling.” Sherry cast her gaze on her hands. “I was thinking about a friend who may be going through a tough time soon.”
Patti lowered her voice. “Sounded like you said ‘Mrs. Dumont.’ So, you must have heard the news. Another characteristic of a small town: word gets around in supersonic speed.”
“News?”
“I heard it from the News Twelve crew as they were rushing out of here. Their intern, Steele Dumont, was found dead.”
Chapter 11
Sherry covered one of the baking dishes with foil and pushed it back from the edge of the counter. She let the scent of the curry spices lull her into the dreamy state of contentment over a recipe well constructed. In the other baking dish was a luscious, peanut-buttery chicken curry boasting toasted spices and a touch of mango chutney for a sweet note that married well with the West African inspired flavors. She tore off a second piece of foil and covered the dish. The casseroles would be put in the oven when the first of the guests arrived. The food was ready for the party.
In an attempt to accommodate her somber mood, Sherry had scaled down the routinely larger number of guests to the smaller core group she could count on to understand her muted enthusiasm about the night’s task. She would ply them with wine and whet their appetites with a layered goat cheese dip and toasted pita chips before the taste-testing began, but after that she couldn’t guarantee maintaining a light atmosphere.
Sherry wiped her hands on her blue apron. She balled the cloth up before carrying it upstairs to the laundry room. She tossed her version of a superhero cape in the washing machine. Her stom
ach dropped as her favorite garment left her sight and fell to the bottom of the drum. She sighed and made her way to her bedroom. She opened the door to her closet. Green. She felt like dusty green was the color of one of her curry dishes. Her eyes shifted over to the grays and browns, where they lingered until she willed them back to the brighter colors. She caught sight of a green linen shirt. She didn’t want to influence her guests’ votes, though, because she herself was unsure which dish she preferred. A burnt orange scarf tied loosely around her neck would serve as a nod to the chutney that rounded out the chicken dish.
Sherry gathered the pieces for her outfit and tossed them on her bed. She checked her wall clock for the time. When she saw the hour, her legs collapsed, planting her backside on the edge of the bed. She could change into her party clothes at leisure on this occasion because Amber had both dogs at her apartment, so no last-minute dog walk was necessary. The canines were invited to the party, just not the pre-party prep. Time was, for once, on Sherry’s side.
As she removed her shirt and took aim to slip on another, her phone reverberated from the kitchen. She speared her arms through the shirt sleeves and sprinted down the steps. In a feat worthy of the senior Olympics, she skidded across the floor on her stocking feet and snagged the cell phone with a swing of her arm.
“Hello?” Sherry’s voice was dripping with a blend of curiosity and exasperation at the fact that the caller identification read “Blocked.” If it was a sales call, her gymnastic move had been for naught.
“Detective Ray Bease here.” The man’s voice was hard-hitting. “The murder investigation of Carmell Gordy has taken a turn. We’re now linking a second murder at the News Twelve station to Ms. Gordy’s.”
“I was wondering if that would be the case.” Sherry pinched the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she worked on buttoning up the shirt. “I’m conflicted because I was so relieved when Dad told me the body found in the station’s storage closet wasn’t Steele Dumont, but I’m still sad for that young man, Lucky. I don’t know if Frances Dumont would have survived news of her grandson’s death. But, of course, my deepest sympathy goes out to the family of the deceased.”
“Be that as it may, I’m abiding by your wishes and asking you a question regarding your father, rather than asking him directly.”
Sherry shuddered. “This is ridiculous. Dad had nothing to do with Carmell’s murder. He certainly had nothing to do with Lucky’s.”
“Who said your father was involved with the second murder? I certainly didn’t, and I advise you not to put words in my mouth.”
Sherry lowered the phone and tilted her head left and right. The neck kink that was developing dispersed with a resounding click. She raised the phone back to her ear. “Can you tell me why one murder may be linked to the other?”
“I believe I was asking the questions,” Ray said.
Sherry heaved a sigh.
“If I may continue.”
“Please do.”
“It’s evident the shelf in the storage room that toppled onto Lucky Pannell’s head had all but one supportive screw loosened. Not the typical loosening that occurs over time. The shelf that hung over the equipment Lucky was in there to gather was secured with heavy-duty three-inch screws that wouldn’t have come undone to the degree they did unless they were tampered with. They were dangling by mere threads. That can only be achieved deliberately with the use of a screwdriver. Only took a tap on the shelf, and its heavy load came crashing down. Lucky was found holding the camera battery he had gone in to get.”
“How awful.” Sherry squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of Lucky’s tragic ending lingered.
“I’m obligated to ask where your father was yesterday.”
The words Sherry’s father had used to praise the versatility of the punch tool flooded Sherry’s brain. Erno had extolled the virtues of the tool for every function from unclogging a drain to unscrewing a screw. Unscrewing a screw. Come to think of it, he hadn’t actually specified that particular function, but Sherry imagined it was one of the punch tool’s many attributes.
“Dad was home. I talked to him as I was arriving at the farmer’s market. I didn’t ask him how he planned to spend the day, but I can assure you, loosening storage shelves wasn’t on his to-do list. What about Damien Castle? He and Truman Fletcher should have been on top of the situation over there. Wouldn’t they know who comes and goes to that closet?”
“Those I interviewed at the station corroborated that the storage closet was entered by Lucky, in the early morning,” Ray said. “He went in to collect supplies for the shoot at the farmer’s market. Damien Castle is the only person, besides Steele Dumont, who has the key, and the closet is always kept locked. The second key, which is usually in Steele Dumont’s possession, was in the door keyhole when the body was discovered by the security guard, on his rounds.”
“I have to ask, where was Steele Dumont yesterday morning, and why wasn’t he in possession of his key? He wasn’t at the farmer’s market shoot, as far I saw. Only Brett Paladin, Castle, Fletcher, and Kirin, the camerawoman, were there.”
“Lucky was doing Steele a favor by covering for him because Steele was running an early morning errand outside the station,” Ray said. “Steele said he passed the key on to Lucky so he could get in and asked for the key to be returned as soon as Steele returned from his errand. When he did return, he couldn’t find Lucky anywhere in the building. Steele eventually confessed to the security guard that he needed help locating Lucky. Steele didn’t want anyone to know he’d lent out the storage room key because that’s strictly prohibited. Steele admitted he had Lucky wear his sweater so if he was spotted from a distance, or from behind, Lucky would be mistaken for Steele. That’s why, when the body was discovered, the word quickly circulated it was Steele’s because the sweater was all that was visible. It took so long to excavate the body from under the debris that, for a full hour, Steele was the presumed victim.” The detective paused.
“Poor Lucky.” Sherry’s tone softened. “Can’t the deduction be made that Damien Castle saw Steele Dumont as a Carmell ally? And possibly that Steele knew too much about Damien’s growing animosity toward his anchorwoman? As the holder of the only other copy of the key, couldn’t Damien have made an earlier visit to the closet to loosen the shelf? On the other hand, why would Steele Dumont be the intended target when he’s the one who had every reason to have committed Carmell Gordy’s murder?”
“Points taken, though you may be overthinking this. I do want to share a disturbing piece of information. At the scene, a note on the back of the storage room door read, ‘Why is a hooked rug like an intern? Because they’re both so fun to wipe my feet on.’ Sounds certain to me Steele was the target.”
“In the time you’ve spent with my father, have you ever known him to make such a bad joke? Never. Why is someone trying to pin Dad as the murderer? Twice now. That note might have been left to pile on the evidence against Dad, but it’s not valid because Dad doesn’t make bad jokes. He makes good Erno-isms.”
“I have to continue to gather the facts, Sherry. You’re saying your father’s whereabouts that morning are documented on your cell phone?”
“When I spoke to Dad on the phone, he had finished his morning coffee get-together with Ruth and Frances, and they had left. The ladies will happily attest to keeping him occupied around the time. Lucky got unlucky in the worst way.” Sherry powered on. “Were there no security cameras trained on that area of the building that would show whomever it was who fiddled with the shelving?”
“The station canceled their video security contract two months ago, according to their financial documents,” Ray said. “Cost-cutting measures.”
“Or part of the plan.” Sherry checked the clock on the upper right of her phone. The tiny numbers blurred as a thought crossed her mind. She wrestled with the idea in silence before blurting out, “I need to get moving, but I’m having a very casual taste-testing dinner this evening, in about sixty mi
nutes actually. If you’d like to stop by, you can get an idea as to how I choose which recipe to enter into my next recipe contest. No business allowed, though, except when it comes to judging my food.”
Sherry thought she heard tapping as if the detective were drumming a pen on a desk. The noise stopped. “I’ll check my schedule. Thank you for the invitation.” The phone called ended.
“What’s the expression? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’” Sherry double-checked her phone to ensure the phone call had indeed ended. A shiver of embarrassment traveled through her core at the possibility that Detective Bease might have overheard her musing.
Sherry carried the phone upstairs and returned to her bedroom. She couldn’t resist leaning back against her favorite pillow and letting the familiar cushiness caress her head.
Sherry’s eyes were jarred open by a noise. She patted the comforter in hopes of locating her phone. “You’re kidding me. How could I have fallen asleep?” As she raced down the stairs, her bulging shirt collar scratched the underside of her chin and she realized something was amiss with her buttons. She peered out the front entry sidelights and saw three familiar faces. She had no choice but to open the door rather than keep them waiting.
“Hi. The gang has returned,” Amber said as Chutney and Bean scooted inside. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Amber pointed to the misaligned buttons on Sherry’s shirt.
Sherry pulled the corners of her mouth up. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but, hardly. You caught me changing for dinner. It was my second attempt. I thought I had plenty of time to get ready, and now I’m running late. How does that keep happening to me?” Sherry eyed Amber’s shirtdress. “Do you think my pants are dressy enough?”
“Remember, it’s your party. You’re in charge.” Amber extended a broad smile as Sherry rebuttoned her shirt. “Do you mind if I give these two some water? I can fill the bowls in the kitchen while you finish getting ready.”
Final Roasting Place Page 13
