A Frying Shame

by Linda Reilly

  Martha shot her a doubtful look and then shuffled out the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said dully.

  Talia was wiping down the workstation when Prescott tapped at the door. “It’s open,” she called out, too depressed to even greet the detective at the door.

  Detective Patti Prescott stepped inside. She looked more than exhausted—she looked half dead. Her lovely nutmeg-colored eyes were slightly bloodshot, and her coffee-colored skin wore a light sheen of perspiration.

  “Glad your AC’s working,” she said. She grabbed a chair from one of the tables and sat down. “Anything I can do to help you clean up?”

  Talia bit off a smile. “While you’re on duty?”

  “Who says I’m on duty?”

  Prescott had the irritating habit of answering a question with another question. Most times Talia didn’t mind, but every so often it drove her crazy. Especially at a time like this, when she really wanted information.

  Talia wiped her hands on a towel, poured out two glasses of iced tea, and sat down opposite the detective.

  “Ah, you read my mind. Thanks.” Prescott took a long sip of the cool drink.

  “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Talia asked with a sigh. “More bad news?”

  Prescott curled her slender fingers around her glass. “I want you to listen to me, Talia. I have Sergeant O’Donnell’s permission to reveal a few critical details to you. But I can’t emphasize enough how confidential it is. You need to promise me first that you will not share this with a single soul, not even Martha. In fact, especially not Martha.”

  Talia felt her heart pound. “Okaaayy.”

  Prescott gave her a hard look. “Do I have your word?”

  “I swear I will not tell a solitary soul.” She crossed her heart with one finger, feeling more than a bit silly.

  “Item one,” Prescott said. “Right before Lucas was loaded into the ambulance, he said something we think might be important. So far, though, we haven’t been able to make any sense of it.”

  “Wait a minute. He was still conscious when they found him?” Talia gasped.

  Prescott nodded. “He was confused and disoriented, but he managed to mutter the word ‘mercury.’ Does that ring any bells with you?”

  Mercury. Didn’t it mean the obvious?

  “It has to be someone’s car that he saw,” Talia said. “The killer must have been driving a Mercury!”

  “Yeah, sounds nice and pat, doesn’t it? Problem is, we’ve checked out every single participant in that cooking competition, and not a single one drives a Mercury.”

  “But the killer isn’t necessarily one of the contest finalists,” Talia said, feeling a bit miffed at being included in the suspect pool. “I’m not seeing the logic.”

  Prescott took another sip of her drink. “Maybe not, but it was a starting point. We’re expanding the search to some of the other players in the competition, but so far nothing looks promising.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” Talia thought about the Ferringers, but then recalled that their car was an Avalon. Plus, they both seemed to have adored Norma. “Wait a minute. What about Norma’s car? Maybe that’s what Lucas saw!”

  Prescott shook her head. “Norma drove a Chevy, an old Cavalier. It’s been impounded, but so far it hasn’t turned up anything useful.”

  Talia sighed, and then another idea struck her. “Did anyone in the . . . suspect pool drive a Lincoln? That’s technically a Mercury, right?”

  Prescott gave her a flat smile. “You’ve hit the nail, as they say. Turns out Wesley Thurman’s rental—the one he picked up at Bradley when he flew in last week—is a brand-new Lincoln MKX. Prettiest shade of metallic gray I’ve ever seen on a car.” Prescott looked almost envious.

  Well, isn’t that interesting? Talia thought. Wesley Thurman was looking better and better as a suspect. In fact, she’d put him at the top of the list!

  “I hope you’re homing in on him as your primary suspect,” Talia said fiercely. “I’m telling you, Detective, he had the most hateful, awful look on his face when Norma first stepped onto that stage. There’s got to be some past history there!”

  Prescott nodded. “Mr. Thurman has been very cooperative. He has allowed us to search both his car and his room at the Wiltshire Inn. Discreetly, of course.”

  Oh, sure—of course he was being cooperative. He wanted to put the authorities at ease to throw them off his trail. Talia sensed he was a smooth talker.

  “How does he know Norma? Did he tell you?” Talia demanded.

  Prescott leaned one arm over the back of her chair. “I’m surprised your friend Audrey hasn’t already told you. Thurman spent his senior year in high school in Wrensdale. He graduated the same year she did.”

  Talia felt her stomach do a backflip. Now things were beginning to tumble into place. It wasn’t only Norma who had a history with Thurman. Audrey did, too. She must have. Something tickled Talia’s brain like a tiny, annoying feather, but she couldn’t quite grab onto it.

  “I assume, then, that you’ve already talked to Audrey?”

  “Talia, the only reason I asked you about the word ‘mercury’ is to see if it jingled any chimes with you. I’m not here to discuss the investigation. Is there any other reason why that word could mean something? Something Lucas might have mentioned in the past?”

  Talia thought for a moment, but then shook her head. “Well, at this time of year, people are always talking about tipping the mercury, temperature-wise. He might have said something like that when we suffered through that heat wave in July. But even if he did, I can’t see how it would help.”

  Prescott furrowed her brow. “I can’t, either.” She sighed. “Well, it was a long shot, anyway.”

  “For what it’s worth, Detective, it’s not like Lucas to be cryptic . . . well, except when he was keeping the new big wheels on his skateboard a secret. But that’s because he wanted to surprise us all.”

  Prescott smiled. “That came in handy, didn’t it?” She reached over and gave Talia’s wrist a gentle squeeze.

  “Yes,” Talia said in a strangled voice. She felt tears push at her eyelids. “Weren’t there any surveillance cameras in the parking lot? I thought every place had them nowadays.”

  “Every public place should have them,” Prescott said. “But this is a quiet little town, with almost no serious crime. Well, at least until . . .” She gave Talia a pointed look.

  “Yeah, I get it. Until I showed up in town like a bad dream.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Anyway, there’ve been a number of proposals to install cameras in that parking lot, but the Select Board turned them down every time. Funny thing about taxpayers—most of them don’t want to spend money on things that don’t affect them directly. Besides, other than the occasional beer brawl after a ball game, nothing bad ever really happened at the park.”

  Talia pressed her fingers to her forehead. Another bout of depression was beginning to sweep over her. “Can you at least tell me what the murder weapon was?”

  “No, I can’t.” Prescott folded her long fingers in front of her. “Talia,” she said quietly. “I have one more thing to tell you, but it’s big. When I say big, I mean huge.”

  Talia’s ears perked. “What is it?”

  “First, you have to understand that if you were to reveal this to anyone, you would be risking the life of someone you care very deeply about, and possibly others, as well. You have to swear that you will not, under any circumstances, tell this to anyone. Not even your cat.”

  Talia held up her right hand, although she was fairly sure Bo would never murmur a meow. “I swear.”

  Prescott leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Talia, Lucas is not in critical condition. He’s actually recovering pretty nicely, all things considered. He’s still confused. He doesn’t remember anything about what happened to him yesterday. The last thing he recalls is leaving the game to get a sweater for Molly, and even that’s fuzzy.”

  Ta
lia felt her heart nearly leap out of her chest. “Oh dear God, but he’s okay? I mean, he’s really going to be all right?”

  “Looks that way, but we have to keep up the charade. We want the killer to be completely at ease with the knowledge that Lucas will never be able to identify him . . . or her.”

  Or her.

  Why did Audrey suddenly flit through Talia’s mind? She’d left without a word after the winner of the competition had been announced yesterday. She could have been anywhere when Norma was murdered.

  Never mind that. Right now all that mattered was that Lucas was going to be okay.

  “His dad’s been staying in his room and refuses to leave. Kid’s got a nice family, for sure. The mom’s a sweetheart.”

  “If there’s anything I can send them or do for them—”

  “You can’t. Just let us handle things our way and stay out of it.”

  “I will,” Talia agreed. She was so relieved about Lucas she’d agree to anything right now. She’d run across the plaza at high noon in her undies. She’d paint her bungalow neon purple. She’d—

  Wait a minute.

  “Detective,” Talia said, “did you ask him why he said ‘mercury’?”

  “Of course we did, but he has no memory of it. His mom told us he was never much of a car aficionado, so we think it must mean something else. Or the more likely scenario is that it means nothing.”

  Talia jiggled her fists. “Oh gosh, I’m so happy. I mean . . . I know there’s still a killer out there, but the thought that Lucas is okay—”

  “Stop it,” Prescott said sharply. “From this point on, you have to act and look and feel as if you know Lucas isn’t going to make it. Do you hear me? One slip from you and this could all fall apart.”

  “I hear you, and I promise I will not utter a word.”

  Prescott let out a breath. “I’m already beginning to think I made a terrible mistake.”

  “Patti, you didn’t. I swear by all that is dear to me. My lips are sealed with Gorilla Glue.” Talia made a zipping motion over her mouth.

  Prescott gave her an odd look. Talia suddenly realized that it was the first time she’d addressed the detective by her first name. How had she let that slip out? But honestly, why shouldn’t she? She’d known the woman long enough. And they were kinda sorta friends, weren’t they?

  She focused on calming her heartbeat. “Detective,” she said slowly, “I will not let you down. I will not breathe a word to anyone.”

  “Martha can’t know, either, Talia.”

  Talia concentrated on keeping her expression blank. “No one will ever hear it from my lips, not even Martha. Now please go out there and find Norma’s murderer.”

  7

  “Morning, Martha.” Talia was wiping down the tables with lime-scented cleaner when Martha shuffled through the front door. An old expression—you look like something the cat dragged in—came to mind. Talia instantly felt terrible for thinking it.

  “Morning” was all Martha said. She plodded around the side of the speckled counter and headed for her locker. As part of the renovations that were done in the spring, Talia had installed four wood-front lockers discreetly out of sight. Each employee had their own. It was a vast improvement over the old system of tossing their things over the hooks that were attached to the kitchen’s rear door.

  Talia finished up the last table and went back to the kitchen. She put away the cleaning supplies and went over to Martha, who was pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Did you manage to get some sleep?” she asked.

  “Some, but I kept waking up. I couldn’t stop—” She sucked in a long sniffle. “Let’s not talk about it, okay? Right now I need to keep my brain focused in one direction—food prep.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” Talia said. Sure, easy for her to sound chipper. She knew about Lucas and Martha didn’t. Oh Lord, if only she could tell her.

  The morning seemed to drag by. It was right before eleven when Talia heard a hesitant knock on the eatery’s front door. She peeked out through one of the diamond-shaped windows and saw Molly standing there.

  Talia opened the door. “Hey. What are you doing here so early?” She greeted Molly with a smile.

  Molly lifted her arms and then dropped them to her sides. Today she wore a candy-cane-striped tee and cutoff denim shorts. “I’m going a little nutso over there. Crystal sent me over to see if you needed any help. Yesterday was totally dead—oops, sorry—I mean, we barely saw a customer. With Lucas on, um, temporary leave, she thought you might need an extra hand. ’Course, I don’t know how to do anything, so you’d have to show me . . .”

  Talia smiled at her. “We could definitely use a hand here, but I should warn you—it’s mostly grunt work.”

  “No problem,” Molly said. “It’ll help keep my mind occupied. Plus, I love kitchen stuff. You don’t even have to pay me.”

  “Of course I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you the same salary I—”

  “Don’t say it,” Molly said soberly. “Things are still bad, aren’t they?”

  “Nothing’s changed, as far as I know. Come on in and scrub your hands, and I’ll give you an apron. Then Martha and I will give you a brief introduction to the world of deep-fry.”

  Martha nodded at Molly and mumbled a hello. She didn’t seem to care if Molly lent them a hand or not.

  Talia, however, was grateful to have the extra help—and a friendly face. She set Molly up with a mountain of spuds and a heavy-duty potato peeler. She looked adorable in the blue Fry Me a Sliver apron that could probably have been wrapped twice around her slender figure.

  “When I was a kid,” Molly said, “Mom always made me peel the potatoes for supper. My dad loved scalloped potatoes like you wouldn’t believe. He could eat a whole casserole by himself! Mom wasn’t much of a cook, but that was one thing she always made for him. Anyway, I used to set the peels aside and make them into different shapes. Sometimes I’d spell out ‘I love you, Daddy’ in peels and leave them on his napkin.” Tears formed on her long lashes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I know you lost him when you were pretty young.”

  “I was twelve,” Molly said.

  “That must have been so hard. Something congenital, your mom said?”

  “Heart disease, on his dad’s side. I always wonder if I’ll end up with the same fate, but Mom says I get my genes from her side, so I shouldn’t worry.” Molly flipped a peeled potato into a steel pot filled with cold water.

  “Speaking of your mom, how is she today? She seemed out of sorts yesterday.” Talia knew she was prying, but couldn’t stop herself. Audrey had bailed on everyone Sunday without even a good-bye. Norma’s body was found shortly thereafter. Talia couldn’t imagine her as a killer, but then, weirder things had happened.

  Molly shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Still acting a little cray-cray, if you ask me. She and Crystal barely speak now, and I don’t know why.” Molly’s face collapsed. “Oh God, I can’t stand it anymore, Talia. The tension over there is horrible.”

  Talia went over to Molly and slipped an arm over her shoulder. “I know things are bad right now, Mol, but it will get better. Give it some time, okay?”

  Molly nodded. “I know. I’m acting like a baby, aren’t I?”

  “Not at all. Your feelings are perfectly normal.” Talia smiled at her. “Hey, I’m glad you’re here helping Martha and me. We all need a little moral support right now.”

  Martha, who’d been quiet until then, spoke kindly to Molly. “I’ll show you how to batter and fry the fish once the orders start to come in. It’ll take a while to get the hang of it, but you’ll be a pro before you know it.”

  “Thanks, Martha.” Molly blinked. “You guys are so great. I already love working here.”

  Martha turned away quickly. Talia knew she was thinking of Lucas, wondering if he would ever return. Oh, how she wanted to share what she knew! But unless she wanted to put Lucas in danger and be drawn and quartered on the cobblestone plaza by one Detective
Patti Prescott, she’d have to keep her lips zipped and her mind on frying for the masses.

  • • •

  A few minutes after the eatery opened, a youngish man lugging a boxy, oversized briefcase strode in. Lanky with curly carrot-colored hair, he looked distinctly uncomfortable in his khaki blazer and green-and-white-striped shirt. Talia suspected he’d have preferred wearing cutoffs and a tee, but he looked the part of a salesman, which he was.

  “Are you the owner?” he said to Talia as she came out from behind the counter.

  Talia smiled at him, already feeling her impatience creep to the surface. Lunch orders would start coming in at any moment. The man’s timing was terrible. “I am. I’m Talia Marby. What can I do for you?”

  The man plunked his briefcase onto the nearest chair he could find and then stuck out his hand. “I’m Larry Jefferson, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

  Talia briefly shook his hand, hoping that whatever his spiel was, he would make it short and snappy. He dug a business card out of his jacket pocket and gave it to her.

  “Ma’am, I know you’re very busy,” he said politely, “but I wonder if I could show you just a few things I think might interest you. I feel they’re perfect for your charming restaurant.” Talia started to ask if he could come back at a better time, but the man barreled on with his practiced pitch. “My company, Nifty Squeezables, has developed a line of vintage-style condiment containers that your customers will fall in love with. I guarantee it!” He lifted his case onto the table, snapped the latches, and opened the case wide.

  Resigned to enduring his pitch, Talia moved in for a closer look. Lined up on one side of the briefcase—which was more like a suitcase—were red, yellow, and white condiment containers. Some had whimsical faces molded into the plastic. Others were textured and somewhat barrel-shaped, with snap-close caps designed to protect the contents. She had to admit, they were kind of nifty.

  “Now, this is just a small sample of our entire line,” Jefferson said cheerily. He whipped a glossy brochure out of a pocket on the other side of the case and unfolded it for her. “As you can see—”