A Frying Shame

by Linda Reilly

  “Mr. Jefferson, these really are quite nice,” Talia interjected. “I’m just not sure they’re right for us. We’re a small eatery, and we’ve always gotten by with the standard ketchup bottles. I suspect these require more work than they’re worth, what with filling and refilling, not to mention keeping them clean.”

  The man grinned. “Cleanup is so easy with these that you’ll be amazed. Simply amazed! They are dishwasher safe and free of BPAs. And they squeeze with ease, as we like to say in the biz.” Now he was getting animated, and Talia was beginning to fear she’d never get rid of him.

  The door opened and a young couple walked in, chattering about what they were going to order.

  “Okay, I know you’re starting to get busy in here,” the man said, in a slightly softer voice. “May I leave you with a sample pack? I feel confident that once you start using them, you’ll be hooked.” He winked at her as if he’d made a remarkably clever quip.

  Talia couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm. She’d once been in sales herself—commercial real estate sales—and knew how it felt to be dismissed. “Um, sure,” Talia said. “They really are kind of cute.”

  Jefferson whipped a prepackaged array of condiment holders out of another pocket of his briefcase, grinning as he deposited it in her hands. “Will you call me once you’ve had the chance to sample them?”

  The man looked so earnest Talia couldn’t say no. She promised to give them a test and then breathed a sigh of relief as he made his way out the door.

  By ten to twelve, lunch orders started flying in. The guys at the Wrensdale Fire Station called in a huge order. After a few mishaps with the fresh haddock, Molly really got into the swing. Martha handled the side goodies, and they managed to form a reasonably competent team.

  “Hey.” The voice came from Jay Ballard, one of the young firefighters. Talia noticed him send an appreciative glance Molly’s way.

  “Your order’s all set, Jay,” Talia said. She plunked two brown shopping bags onto the counter and rang it up.

  “Any news about our boy?” Jay said quietly.

  “I’m afraid not.” Averting her gaze, Talia shook her head. Lucas delivered orders to the fire station at least twice a week, and the firefighters all loved him.

  “Well, um, if you should happen to stumble over the creep who did that to him”—he flushed and looked her in the eye—“you know, like you did the last time? Well, just give a quick call to the firehouse. A few of us would like to, um, escort him to the police station, if you catch my meaning.” He winked at her.

  Talia nodded, biting off a smile. They wanted some “alone time” with the person who’d hurt Lucas. They also seemed positive the assailant was a man, but Talia wasn’t quite so sure.

  After Jay left, the dining room got even busier. By the time the last customer trickled out the door, it was nearly three. Talia prepared a huge helping of Molly’s favorite—deep-fried meatballs—while she and Martha settled for some slaw and a few hand-cut fries. At least Martha was eating, even if it was only a fraction of what she normally had. Molly played with her phone while she shoveled meatballs into her mouth at approximately the speed of light.

  Meanwhile, a million thoughts were scrambling around in Talia’s brain. The night before, buoyed by the knowledge that Lucas was going to recover, she’d tossed around some ideas.

  There were two contestants from the competition she knew almost nothing about: Dylan McPhee and Harry Summers. In her mind, she’d dubbed them the wild cards. No doubt the police had already questioned them. But while she didn’t doubt the interviewing skills of the authorities—been there, sweated through that—she understood how frightening it was to be treated like a suspect.

  Dylan worked at the Wrensdale Diner, and Harry worked for his wife, Sandra, at Summers Realty. The realty company had a storefront office on the main drag in Wrensdale. Talia was thinking about paying each of them a visit. Since it was getting late, she’d try to plan a time tomorrow to drop in on both men.

  “Hey, I took some pictures at the festival,” Molly said suddenly. “I just realized I never showed them to anyone.”

  “Anything interesting?” Talia peeked over Molly’s arm at the high-tech smartphone.

  “Not really.” She flipped through them slowly. In one photo Molly had captured the Wrensdale Arcade table, with everyone chattering and enjoying their food. Ryan looked adorable helping his dad tuck a napkin into his shirt. Talia sighed, realizing how much she missed him. Ryan had left early Monday morning for a software conference in Dallas he couldn’t get out of. He hated leaving her with things the way they were. They’d been texting each other every chance they got, but it wasn’t the same as being together.

  “Oh, look, Tal. Here’s you heading up to the stage when Mr. Thurman was introducing the contestants. From the look on your face, someone would think you were going to a hanging.”

  Talia chuckled. “I was pretty nervous. I didn’t realize I looked that scared, though.”

  “Ugh, how did I get Bruce Ferringer in one of my pictures?” Molly said. “Look at him, glad-handing the fire chief. He’s such a sleaze. How could anyone think of voting for him? Delete,” Molly said acidly, tapping her finger on the display.

  “I don’t get the attraction, either, but he seems to have quite a following,” Talia pointed out.

  Molly moved on to the other pics, some of which were rather fun. There was a good one of Rachel and Derek having batting practice with the local kids. Derek looked handsome in his softball jersey, his arms firm and muscular. Rachel looked fabulous, as usual, her dark ponytail dangling through the back of her ball cap. “Can you send me that one, Molly? Rachel will love it.”

  “Sure,” Molly said. “Do you think I should post some of these on the website?”

  “You mean our website?” Which hadn’t been updated in weeks, Talia thought guiltily.

  “No, the festival’s website. Haven’t you seen it? The town puts it up every year. They invite people to post their own pics. Most of them are sorta lame, but some are pretty funny.”

  “I’d like to check it out later. What’s the link?”

  “I’ll flick it to you,” Molly said, tapping at her phone. “When you get to the site, just click on the—” She stopped abruptly and grabbed Talia’s forearm. “Did you hear that?”

  Talia sat up in her chair. Her ears picked up the sound of a high-pitched wail coming from outside on the plaza.

  Talia and Molly leaped to their feet at the same time. Molly raced out the front door with Talia at her heels. A small crowd had collected in front of the Fork and Dish, the door to which was wide-open. A young uniformed officer was doing his best to keep the gawkers at bay, but heads were bobbing every which way in an attempt to see around him. “Move back, folks. There’s nothing to see,” he told them. “Move along, now.”

  Molly made an end run around the gathering onlookers. Talia followed close behind her. Even from thirty or so feet away, Talia could make out the imposing form of State Police Sergeant Liam O’Donnell. And the less imposing but equally intimidating outline of Detective Patti Prescott.

  Molly clapped her hands to her face. “Oh God, Talia, look—the cops’ve got Crystal in handcuffs!”

  Talia felt her insides do a somersault. She stared in horror at the sight of Crystal being tugged out onto the plaza by the two officers. Prescott caught Talia’s eye, gave her an odd look, and then shook her head and turned away.

  Behind Crystal, framed in the doorway with a stricken expression, Audrey stood with her hands folded around her arms.

  “You can’t take me to jail!” Crystal was shrieking. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Ignoring the uniform trying to hold her back, Molly raced around him and went over to where Crystal was being led out onto the plaza. Talia tried to follow, but the officer blocked her path. “Ma’am, you cannot go in there!”

  “I’m not trying to go in,” Talia said. She resisted stomping her foot on the sun-warmed cobblesto
ne. “Crystal is my friend and I want to know what’s happening.”

  The uniform, a fresh-faced young man with a smattering of acne, stuck his hands on his hips. “Ma’am, I said you cannot go in there. Capisce?”

  Talia bristled at his rudeness. “Io capisco,” she said, grateful for the tidbits of proper Italian her nana had taught her. Then, in one swift move, she darted to the side and went over to where Molly was gesturing wildly at the police.

  “Are you people crazy?” Molly shrieked at O’Donnell. “Why are you taking her away?”

  “Move aside, young lady,” O’Donnell barked at her. “Or you’ll be riding along with her in the van.”

  Molly’s face fell like a collapsed soufflé. Clutching each other, she and Talia watched as Crystal was led to a waiting state police van parked in front of the plaza on Main Street. When the door slid shut, Talia cringed.

  “This is terrible,” Talia said in a choked voice. “How could they—”

  “Talia.”

  Talia spun on her heel and saw Patti Prescott staring at her with an unreadable expression. “What’s happening, Detective? Where are they taking Crystal?”

  “We’re taking her in for questioning. Some evidence was found in the Dumpster behind her shop that ties her to the murder.”

  For a moment Talia was speechless. She swallowed back a lump of fear. “What . . . what kind of evidence?”

  “Fingerprint evidence,” Prescott went on. “We found what we believe is the murder weapon. Galardi’s prints are on it.”

  “That’s . . . that’s just impossible,” Talia sputtered.

  Prescott fixed her with a granite gaze, her nutmeg-colored eyes blazing. “Are you saying the fingerprint evidence is wrong?”

  “I didn’t say that. I—” Talia suddenly halted. “Murder weapon? You have the actual murder weapon?”

  “The lab is doing more tests, but we believe we have. It has traces of Norma’s blood and hair.”

  “May I ask what it is?”

  “You may, but I don’t have to tell you.”

  Talia let out an inward groan. Why hadn’t she learned to phrase her questions better with Prescott? “Will you tell me, then?”

  “At this time, no.” Prescott turned and shot a glance back at the police van, which was pulling out into the stream of traffic on Main Street.

  Talia blew out a breath. “Okay, but I have one more thing to say. Why would Crystal murder someone and then toss the weapon in her own Dumpster? With her prints on it?”

  “You’re asking the wrong question, Talia. What you should be asking is why Crystal’s prints are all over the murder weapon.”

  Talia felt the cartilage in her knees turn suddenly into mush. “I—”

  “You should also be asking,” Prescott added quietly, “if anyone else’s blood was found on the weapon.”

  And with that, Talia knew. Whoever murdered Norma had used the same weapon to attack Lucas. “Lucas,” she said in a near whisper. “His blood was on the weapon, too, wasn’t it?”

  Prescott nodded. “Now, stay out of this, Talia. I warned you once, and I’m warning you again. It’s one thing to be supportive of a friend, but it’s another to go digging around in people’s affairs.”

  “Don’t worry,” Talia said stiffly. “I have no interest in doing the jailhouse rock from behind bars. Threat received, loud and clear.”

  “It’s not a threat, Talia. It’s a promise.” Prescott’s face softened. “We will bring the killer to justice. I give you my word. Just let us do our jobs, okay?”

  Talia nodded. She wanted to believe Prescott. But how could she when the wrong person was being taken into custody? Crystal was innocent. Talia felt that down to her very bones. Yet the evidence seemed to be aimed straight in her direction. There had to be an explanation.

  The Dumpster. The one behind the Fork and Dish. Who else had access to it?

  “Detective,” she called out as Prescott was striding away. “Couldn’t someone else have thrown trash into that Dumpster? If it’s like the one behind my restaurant, there’s nothing to prevent a stranger from using it, right?”

  Prescott turned and narrowed her gaze at Talia. “Why would someone else use it to throw away a . . . weapon with Crystal’s prints on it? Wouldn’t the killer be more likely to throw away a weapon with his—or her—own prints on it?”

  Talia tried to make sense of that, but the words turned into one big jumble clogging her head.

  A loud cry erupted from the cooking shop, and then the door slammed shut. “Sorry, ma’am,” the young officer was muttering to Audrey. “Shop’s closed for the day. We’ll notify you when you can reopen.”

  “What’s that about?” Talia asked Prescott.

  “We have a warrant to search the cooking store. We’re closing it until further notice.”

  Talia felt her shoulders sag. “This . . . this can’t be happening.”

  Audrey hurried over to where Molly was standing. They threw their arms around each other. The two looked helplessly at Talia.

  Talia went over to them, her legs feeling like rubber. “The cops have a warrant,” she told them calmly. “They’re searching for more of their so-called evidence”—she sent a withering glare in Prescott’s direction—“so they can railroad Crystal into confessing.”

  Prescott rolled her eyes, waved a quick good-bye, and then hustled off toward her own unmarked car parked in front of the arcade.

  “Come on, let’s go over to Fry Me,” Talia said. She slipped one arm through Audrey’s and the other through Molly’s, and together the trio headed back to the eatery.

  8

  After two glasses of fresh iced coffee, Audrey’s color was looking a bit better. Martha’s, unfortunately, had morphed into a sickly shade of gray. Her angst over Lucas was taking its toll. Talia was worried about her friend, even more so because there was so little she could do to relieve her mind.

  Unless—

  No. She’d given her promise to Prescott that she would not utter a single word. As desperately as she wanted to divulge her secret to Martha about Lucas’s condition, she knew even the tiniest slip—by anyone—could put his life at risk.

  Customers were streaming in for the supper hour earlier than usual. The hullaballoo on the plaza over Crystal’s arrest had attracted a number of looky-loos, many of whom realized that fresh, delectable fried food was only a few steps away across the cobblestone.

  Molly dove right into frying mode, handling everything Martha had taught her with incredible ease. She was a quick learner, and Talia was grateful to have her as a temporary employee. Martha went about her usual tasks, but the grim expression never left her face.

  Audrey, meanwhile, sat huddled at the small table tucked out of sight at the back of the kitchen. The misery in her eyes was palpable. She’d spoken very little, except to offer the occasional compliment to Molly for being such a help in the kitchen.

  “Getting hungry yet?” Talia said quietly to Audrey. “It’s after six. You must feel like eating something.” She gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Maybe just a scoop of coleslaw?” Audrey finally agreed.

  It wasn’t much, but it was better than an empty stomach, Talia thought. She gave Audrey a large helping, hoping she would finish it all.

  “I’m sure you’ll hear from the police soon.” Talia tried to sound soothing as she slid onto the chair adjacent to Audrey’s. “I bet you’ll be able to open up shop tomorrow.”

  Audrey shook her head and shrugged. “Even if we can, we’ve barely had a customer in two days. I feel for Crystal. I really do. But if she hadn’t entered that stupid contest, none of this would’ve happened. We wouldn’t be in this horrible mess!”

  She was still blaming Crystal for her troubles, but Talia felt sure that wasn’t the origin of her anguish. Something had been eating away at Audrey for a while now. Even before the contest, she’d been jittery and irritable. Talia thought back to Sunday, to the way Wes Thurman’s gaze had homed in on Audre
y after the contest was over. When Audrey had caught him staring, she’d dashed off. No one had seen her after that. She’d blown off the softball game without a word to anyone.

  “Audrey, I know I’m prying here—yes, this time I freely admit it—but what was it that really bugged you about that contest? Did it have anything to do with Wes Thurman?”

  Audrey’s pale face flamed. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  Methinks thou doth protest . . .

  “I don’t think it, not really.” She crossed her fingers under the table. “Did you know Wes before he came to town for the contest?”

  For a long moment Audrey remained silent. Then she looked at a spot on the wall, her gaze distant. “He was in my high school class, senior year,” she finally said in the tiniest of voices.

  Talia sat back. “So . . . you did know him.”

  “You really are nosy—you know that?” Audrey shoved aside her coleslaw and rose abruptly from her chair. “Come on, Molly, we’re going home,” she called to her daughter.

  Spatula in hand, Molly turned and stared at her mother, her mouth hanging halfway to her collarbone.

  Audrey fixed her gaze on Talia. “Listen, I know you want to find the person who hurt Lucas, but if you’ll pardon the cliché, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I appreciate your hospitality, but it’s time we went home. Molly, did you hear me?” she said sharply.

  Molly looked stricken, as if she didn’t know which way to turn.

  “It’s okay, Molly,” Talia said. She went over and gave the girl a firm hug. “Things are pretty quiet right now, and you’ve already helped out so much. Why don’t you head home with your mom?”

  “Okay,” Molly said glumly. “But I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

  “Of course. Martha and I will be happy to have your help.”

  Molly scowled at her mother and stormed out the front door. Audrey followed without another word.

  “Wow. That was strange,” Talia said. She glanced at her watch—it was already twenty to seven. She began putting away the perishables and wiping down the work space in the kitchen.