A Frying Shame

by Linda Reilly

  Martha snorted. “Flirting, my—”

  “Martha.”

  Molly grinned. “Talia’s afraid you’ll forget one of these days and say it in front of customers. Aren’t you, Talia?”

  “I’m afraid,” Talia said carefully, “that once the horse is out of the barn, Martha’s delightful turns of phrase might devolve into something a bit too spicy for some of our patrons.”

  “And she’ll start cursing like a longshoreman!” Molly roared.

  “None of that makes an ounce of sense,” Martha said. She snatched her apron from her locker and looped it over her head. Molly darted over and tied it for her in the back.

  “Martha, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be teasing you,” Talia said. “Stop it, Molly.”

  Molly giggled.

  Martha gave them both a grudging smirk. “Yeah, I know. I’m just a big ole pill these days, aren’t I?”

  Molly instantly sobered. “It’s because of Lucas,” she offered quietly. “None of us can stop thinking about him.”

  A horrible wave of guilt washed over Talia. She had the power to ease their pain, and yet she was sworn to keep her lips zipped. Any leak could put Lucas at risk, plus Detective Patti Prescott would kill her.

  Neither prospect was very attractive.

  While the two were gone, Talia had taken a few minutes to scribble out her thoughts on a chart she’d been working on. The chart reminded her of that silly flavor wheel—or whatever it was called—that she’d received from Steeltop Foods. On a sheet of paper she’d sketched a circle, with Norma’s name in the center. She hadn’t gotten very far with it, but tonight, after she got home, she planned to give it some serious attention.

  “What’s that?” Molly asked, noting Talia slip the sheet of paper into her locker.

  “Nothing, really. Just some thoughts I was writing out.”

  Molly chewed her lip. “I still need to show you something.” She glanced over at Martha, who was wiping down the already spotless worktable. “You know what? There’s no reason I can’t show Martha, too. I trust both of you.”

  Martha looked up. Talia signaled her toward the table at the back of the kitchen. “Have a seat. Molly has something to show us.”

  Her face pale, Molly fetched her iPad from her locker. “I brought in my iPad so you can see it better. It’s harder to view it on my cell. Anyway, I don’t know what to make of this, but it seriously creeps me out.” After a few quick swipes of her nimble fingers, Molly brought up her Facebook page.

  Talia glanced over at it. Molly’s profile picture was a shot of Molly sporting a huge grin, her sunglasses propped atop her head. “Cute pic,” Talia said.

  “Thanks. Now look at this.” She frowned at the iPad. “Like, seven months ago, this old dude tries to friend me. I thought, ‘What a perv,’ and deleted the request.”

  Talia peeked over her shoulder and gave a start. “Molly, that’s Wesley Thurman.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Molly said darkly.

  Talia poked Molly’s arm playfully. “Just for the record, he’s only about five years older than I am.”

  Molly blushed. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “What does ‘friend me’ mean?” Martha asked. “I don’t do Facebook.”

  “It just means that someone wants to be added to your list of”—Molly made air quotes with her fingers—“‘friends’ on your page. Some people think it’s a big deal to have hundreds of friends, but I think it’s just silly. I want my Facebook friends to be my real friends, too.”

  “I’m with you, Molly,” Talia said. Her own Facebook page was still in its infancy. So far she had about five friends, and one of them was her dad. Plus, she hadn’t taken the time to post very much, mostly because she didn’t have much free time to spare.

  “Plus, like I said,” Molly continued, “I definitely don’t want some weirdo I don’t even know friending me. The world is scary enough without having strange men trying to be Facebook friends.”

  Things were getting curiouser, Talia thought. Why had Thurman tried to friend Molly long before he set up the Steeltop Foods contest in Wrensdale? It wouldn’t have been so strange if he’d tried to friend Audrey, but why Molly?

  “So get this,” Molly went on. “About three weeks ago, I got another friend request from him. His profile shows him as COO of Steeltop Foods, so I knew he had a connection to the contest Crystal was entering.”

  “Persistent, isn’t he?” Martha said, her eyes hard with suspicion.

  Molly swallowed. “I didn’t want to tell Mom. I was afraid she’d think some lech was after me. But I did show it to Crystal.” Her voice grew soft. “It’s . . . so much easier to talk to her.” Her fingers flitted over the iPad, and for a long moment she was silent.

  “So what did Crystal think?” Talia finally asked her.

  Molly heaved a sigh. “She’s never had kids, so I don’t think she has the same protective sensibilities a mom has. I’m not knocking her. Don’t get me wrong. I just think she sees it from a different perspective, you know? She didn’t think there was anything wrong with my friending him.”

  Talia chewed this over in her head. She had the feeling Molly didn’t know that her mom and Wesley had been an “item” in high school. Even now, she wondered how much Audrey had told her daughter about Wes.

  “So, Molly, did you friend him?” she asked her. The suspense was making her skin itch.

  Molly slowly shook her head. “I just couldn’t. Some little voice in my head told me to stay clear of the guy. I can’t explain it—it was just something I felt. He gives me the willies.” She gave a slight shudder.

  “Always go with your gut,” Martha said firmly. “Look, Molly, I’m not a mom, either, but I wouldn’t have given you the advice Crystal did. My antennae would have been zinging in every direction if I knew he tried to friend you right before the contest.” She clenched her fists in front of her on the table. “I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he killed Norma, or that he hurt Lucas. My advice is to stay away from him—on Facebook or otherwise.”

  Talia looked over at Martha and saw pain radiating from her eyes. Martha might never have been a mom, but before she’d moved to the Berkshires she’d had a foster child—a teenager named Dakota, whom she adored. After Martha lost her corporate job for speaking her mind, she gave up fostering. The child went to live with a family who could better care for her—in Martha’s opinion anyway. Talia knew that a big part of Martha still mourned the loss.

  Molly looked relieved. “Thanks. I’m glad I talked to you guys about it. But don’t tell my mom, okay? She’ll get all—”

  “Cray-cray,” Martha finished, giving them all a chuckle.

  Talia glanced at the clock. It was already 3:52. Detective Prescott had agreed to meet her outside on the plaza at four o’clock on the dot.

  “I have a quick errand to do,” Talia informed them. “But first I have to whip up an order of deep-fried hot dogs to go.”

  “I’ll do it!” Molly offered.

  Talia smiled. “Great. That’ll give me a few minutes to run to the restroom.”

  “Some mysterious meeting?” Molly said, a grin spreading over her face.

  Talia coughed. Had Molly guessed something? “No, nothing too mysterious. Just a little information gathering, I guess you could call it.”

  Molly widened her eyes and gave Talia an exaggerated wink. “Gotcha.”

  Seven minutes later, Talia was sitting on one of the new stone benches outside on the plaza, her brown take-out bag resting beside her.

  • • •

  Thirteen past the hour. Prescott still hadn’t arrived.

  Talia had wanted to surprise the detective with her favorite take-out snack, but it now looked as if Prescott would be forced to eat the meal cold. If she ate it at all.

  So much for good deeds.

  The temp was in the high seventies today, but the graying clouds hinted at the wetter weather that was predicted to roll toward the Berkshires. By t
omorrow they’d be getting a good soaking, along with some high winds.

  In truth, Talia didn’t mind taking a short breather outside on the cobblestone plaza. The Wrensdale Arcade had been designed to resemble a scene out of sixteenth-century England. The storefronts were Tudor in style, boasting herringbone brickwork painted white, its upper sections graced with cross timberwork. It really did resemble something out of Dickens, Talia thought. She’d never been to the UK herself, but from the photos she’d seen of the tiny villages that dotted the countryside, she could easily believe she was there right at this very moment.

  She sighed. Thinking of England reminded her of how much she missed Bea and Howie Lambert, the couple from whom she’d bought the eatery. The Lamberts had emigrated from the UK when they were both in their thirties, and during the 1990s they’d opened the fish-and-chips shop on the plaza.

  When Talia was in high school, Bea had been like a second mom to her. Talia’s folks had been going through a rough patch back then, and her home life had turned topsy-turvy. She couldn’t imagine how she would have coped if Bea and Howie hadn’t given her the after-school job at the eatery. She’d loved the job and quickly caught on to the various tasks—and perils—associated with frying food. Ah, luv, you’ve got vegetable oil flowing through your veins, Bea used to tease her.

  Last year, when Talia had met her landlord for the first time, she’d asked him why he’d never set out some benches on the plaza, where shoppers could rest their feet or meet up with friends. He’d taken her suggestion to heart. One day early in the summer, four curved granite benches mysteriously arrived, along with a landscaping truck. Three men jumped off the truck and immediately went to work. By the end of the day, the benches formed a square of sorts around a central area in which clusters of colorful petunias had been planted. The town even agreed to place a covered trash bin nearby, and it was emptied on a regular schedule.

  Talia turned slightly on the bench she was occupying. She gazed at the gorgeous petunias that had spread out over the summer in a lush wave. Pinks and purples with a touch of white graced the area that would soon be replaced, she surmised, by an explosion of mums. For now she was happy to cling to the last shreds of summer.

  When she swung back around, she saw Detective Patti Prescott jogging toward her.

  “Hey,” Prescott said, blowing out a breath. “Sorry to be late. Got stuck behind a minor accident over on Oriole Road.”

  “Not a problem,” Talia said. She held up the brown bag, as if she were teasing a dog with a bone. “Except that your deep-fried mini-dogs are now cold.”

  “Whoa. Didn’t expect that.” Prescott relieved her of the take-out bag. “Never fear. I’ll zap these bad boys as soon as I get home. It’ll be the best supper I’ve had all week.” She opened the bag and peeked inside. “So, what’s the big yank? Why did you need to see me so urgently? And by the way, I got your text. We need to talk about that, too.”

  Talia glanced around to be sure no one could hear them. Deeming the coast clear, she patted the bench next to her. “Sit, so we can talk. I started thinking about Crystal’s arrest, and then I started thinking of you-know-who in the hospital.”

  “You’re not supposed to talk about that,” Prescott said tightly. “Do you even listen—”

  “I listen, and I heard you,” Talia said, trying to keep her cool. “But now that you have someone in custody for the murder—the wrong person, I might add—what are you going to do about that . . . other person?”

  Prescott stared at her for a moment, those nutmeg-colored eyes homing in on her like twin high beams. Then she spoke in a low, quiet voice. “So far, status quo. But it’s not easy to maintain this kind of deception, Talia. The hospital wants to release him as soon as they can. He’s well enough to—”

  “You can’t let them do that, Patti! The real killer is still out there. If Lucas gets sent home, he won’t be safe.”

  Prescott cast a swift glance around their immediate surroundings, then met Talia’s gaze with her own. “Listen to me. I agree that the evidence against Crystal is extremely shaky. But at least one of her prints, plus a partial, is on that rolling pin, and she can’t explain why. The DA is willing to run with what we’ve got. There’s a lot of pressure on him right now to get this case solved quickly. Elections are coming up, and, like most politicians, the man has delusions of grandeur. Plus, think about it, Talia—three murders in one year, in the same little town? It’s not sitting well with a lot of people.” She paused to let that sink in.

  Talia looked off into the distance, her brain trawling for an answer. “What about Dylan’s car?” she said pointedly. “Don’t you think it’s the least bit weird?”

  Prescott had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. “We missed that,” she said, with a sheepish look. “That’s what I get for trusting the task to the wrong officer. The guy’s a patrolman, but he wants to get promoted to detective in the worst way. Passed the written test by the skin of his teeth.” She shook her head. “As far as I’m concerned, he’ll make detective after I’m elected pope.”

  “So what you’re saying is, the cop you assigned to the job of finding out who drove what messed up.”

  Prescott nodded. “Big-time. All he gave me were the manufacturers, not the models. It didn’t even occur to me that Lucas might have seen a Merkur. Who even drives one of those clunkers anymore? That model goes back to the late 1980s. It was one of Ford’s biggest flops. I’m amazed there’s one still on the road.”

  “Well, this one is not only on the road,” Talia said, “but it’s in very fine condition. Dylan obviously takes good care of it.”

  Prescott narrowed her gaze at Talia. “Seems you caught more than a glimpse of it,” she said. “You want to tell me what really went down? Why were you at the diner in the first place?”

  Averting her eyes from Prescott’s piercing stare, Talia brushed an imaginary speck off the stone bench. “I stopped there, if you must know, to have breakfast. I don’t get much of a chance to buy groceries these days, and my cupboard was pretty bare.”

  “Yes, Mother Hubbard, I’ll just bet it was.”

  “Anyway, after I sampled one of Dylan’s delicious cinnamon chip muffins, I decided it might be a good time to have a chat with him.”

  Prescott’s expression went taut. “Go on.”

  Feeling a blush creep up her neck, Talia told the detective everything, from the radio blasting in Norma’s cooking station, to the nearly invisible mark on Dylan’s trunk that had sent him into such a snit.

  For one long, scary moment Prescott was silent. She looked toward the main drag, then back at Talia. “First off,” she said in a frighteningly soft voice, “you did exactly what I warned you not to do.”

  “I know,” Talia said, feeling the skin on her neck itch. Prescott’s tone reminded her of her own mom’s the time she tried to get oil paint—which she’d been forbidden to use without supervision—out of her clothes by adding a cup of pure bleach to an entire load of laundry. Needless to say, Talia wasn’t allowed to do laundry again for quite a long time. Or to do any painting without a terry-cloth smock.

  “That said, I understand why you did it.” Prescott smiled, and her features softened. Did Talia detect a hint of camaraderie in those nutmeg-colored eyes?

  Talia swallowed back a batch of tears that threatened to erupt. “Thank you for understanding,” she said. “For what it’s worth, Dylan also said he has plans for the car. What he meant by that, I have no idea.”

  Prescott tapped her fingers on the stone bench. Talia could almost see the conflicting thoughts chasing one another around in her head.

  “This is all making me hungry,” Prescott said. She unraveled the paper bag Talia had given her and stuck her hand inside. A moment later, her mouth was filled with a miniature relish-coated, deep-fried hot dog in a cold toasted bun.

  “How can you eat that cold?” Talia said, with a slight laugh.

  Prescott chewed for a minute and then swallowed. “In my jo
b, I eat cold food all the time. I’m used to it. I’ll take it over starving anytime.”

  Talia let her finish her mini-dog and then got serious. “Patti, this isn’t just about Lucas. Someone killed that poor old woman, and he—or she—can’t be allowed to get away with it!”

  The detective wiped crumbs from her fingers with the napkin Talia had provided. “He, or she, will not get away with it, Talia. But it’s none of your business, and it’s not your case to solve.”

  “But you’ve got the wrong person in custody!”

  Prescott blew out a breath. “It seems we’re at an impasse, aren’t we? The old ‘rock meets a hard place.’”

  “Which one are you?” Talia said tartly. Then something popped to the surface of her brain. “Detective, did you check to see if Crystal could’ve sold the rolling pin to Norma? I know she sells them in the shop. I’ve seen them.”

  “Gee willikers! I never thought of that. But then, I’ve been so busy lately, what with spending my days eating bonbons and watching old episodes of Cagney and Lacey . . .”

  “All right, all right. You don’t have to go all sarcastic on me.” Talia glared at her.

  “To answer your question, of course we checked into it,” Prescott said. “Norma’s rolling pin was an old wooden thing, practically an antique. There was no way it came from the Fork and Dish. But there was something else. I didn’t mention this before, but a pot holder that belonged to Norma was in the Dumpster, too—one of those woven types kids make on a loom.”

  “How do you know it was Norma’s?” Talia asked.

  “We know because we did our job, Talia.” The edge to Prescott’s tone was growing sharper. “We spoke to one of her neighbors, a woman she played Bingo with on occasion. The neighbor recognized the pot holder immediately, because her little grandkid sold it to Norma for some fund-raiser at the school.”

  Talia felt tears of frustration pushing at her eyelids. There was no way Crystal committed that awful murder, or hurt Lucas. There had to be another explanation—if only she could figure out what it was.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Detective, but what about Lucas? He’s going to be in danger if you let the hospital release him.”