A Frying Shame

by Linda Reilly

  “Ethel, it doesn’t matter if someone doesn’t have a lot of nice things,” Talia said. “If she was happy here, that’s all that counts.”

  For a long moment Ethel was silent. Then, very quietly, she said, “I don’t think my sister was ever happy. If she had been, she wouldn’t have tried to make everyone else’s lives so miserable.”

  Ethel’s defeated tone tore at Talia’s heart. She felt so bad for this woman. Again she wondered why someone, maybe another family member or a friend, hadn’t offered to pitch in and help her remove her sister’s belongings from this dreary apartment. Why did an elderly woman have to do this alone?

  “Ethel, you mentioned that Norma had a son?” Talia asked her.

  Ethel nodded and took a sip from her glass. “Yes, my nephew, Bill Taylor. He works at one of the gas stations on the turnpike. For now, at least.” She pursed her lips. “Never keeps any job for very long. We’ll see how long this one lasts.”

  “Bill Taylor. So his dad would’ve been Norma’s first husband?”

  “That’s right. His father was such a nice man. Nothing to look at, but he had a generous heart. I think Norma married him just to say she had a husband. She treated him like something you’d step in on the sidewalk, if you know what I mean.”

  Talia shook her head. “That’s a shame,” she said. “Did he die fairly young?”

  “Late forties,” Ethel said. “Poor man was killed by a snowplow. He trekked out in a horrible storm one night to get Norma some ice cream, and the plow driver didn’t see him. Killed him instantly.”

  “Oh, wow,” Talia said softly. “That’s so sad. Norma must have been devastated.”

  Ethel shrugged. “Not so’s you’d notice. Norma took care of Norma, I’m afraid. That’s just the way she was. It was only seven months later she hooked up with Freddy Ferguson. Freddy owned a machine shop in Housatonic. I suspect Norma thought he had a bit of money, but she got fooled. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. He died a pauper and left Norma with nothing.”

  Talia pressed her fingers to her forehead. Even with the wall unit in the living room chugging out cool air, the room felt stifling. “So she pretty much subsisted on Social Security?”

  “That’s right,” Ethel confirmed.

  “What about her son, Bill? Did he get along with his mom? I mean, were they close?”

  Ethel pushed her glass aside and stared off into the distance. “No, they weren’t. Norma never paid much attention to him when he was growing up. I guess he just returned the favor.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ethel. It all sounds very sad.”

  Ethel scratched at the mosquito bite on her arm. “I don’t like talking about my sister this way, Talia. Especially now that she’s gone. But the fact is, she was a bitter, unhappy woman. She was so jealous of anyone who might have a better life than she did that she always looked for ways to cause trouble.”

  It sounded to Talia as if Norma could have had a better life if she’d wanted to. She’d apparently enjoyed being contrary. In the end, what had she gained?

  A cosh on the head, that’s what. It was a word Talia had read once in an Agatha Christie book. She thought it fit the manner of Norma’s death perfectly.

  Talia now understood why no one had cheered for Norma at the festival. The woman probably had zero friends. Well, except for Jodie Ferringer. And that was a strange friendship, too, Talia mused. She couldn’t imagine what the two had in common. With the exception of the obvious—their goal of getting Bruce Ferringer elected—why had a fashion maven like Jodie bonded with her?

  “Talia,” Ethel said, “I understand it was the young man who worked for you who was attacked the day Norma was killed. I am so very sorry.”

  Talia felt her stomach roll. Even though she knew Lucas was recovering, the thought that he could easily have died still stuck with her, like the gluey aftermath of a nightmare. “Thank you,” she said. “We’re all praying for him.”

  “I will, too,” Ethel said, crossing herself. She looked around the apartment with a weary expression. “I think we should get out of here now. Why don’t we start packing up my car? I’ve kept you here long enough, and you have a lovely restaurant to run.”

  “I was happy to do it,” Talia said, relieved that Ethel suggested leaving. Martha and Molly had been alone for more than an hour, and it was the time of day when things started getting super busy at Fry Me. “Ethel, can I ask you one last question?” They headed into the kitchen.

  “Of course you can.”

  “Did Norma get involved much in political issues? It seemed she was very keen on helping Bruce Ferringer get elected.”

  Ethel smiled and shook her head. “Funny that you ask. Not once have I ever known Norma to care about what was going on in the world—except to herself.” Her smile faded to a puzzled frown. “Lately, when I talked to her, though, I had the impression she was feeling remorse about some of the things she’d done. Like the way she’d ignored her own son when he needed her most. Things like that.”

  “Did you chat with her often?” Talia lifted one of the boxes and set it on the scarred counter.

  “No, and only when I called her. Except—” Ethel stared off at a spot on the wall. “Well, she did call me one day, about three weeks ago. That was odd in itself, her calling me. I chalked it up to her feeling lonely in her old age. Anyway, I was so glad she reached out to me. We chatted for quite a while, much longer than usual. And it might’ve been my imagination, but I sensed that something had her very worried.”

  “Did she say what it was?” Whatever had been troubling Norma could have been the reason someone wanted to get rid of her!

  “No, she didn’t.” Ethel tapped a finger to her lips. “I didn’t press her. I figured she’d tell me eventually, if she wanted to. And then . . .” Ethel’s eyes grew damp again.

  “I know,” Talia said gently.

  Talia looked around one last time. She couldn’t wrap her brain around the sparseness of Norma’s kitchen. “Ethel, what are you doing about the furniture? That TV looks pretty new.”

  “The landlord is taking care of that for me. I told him he could do what he liked with it. I certainly have no use for it, and I don’t need another television.”

  “Well, then,” Talia said, “I guess we’re done packing.”

  They loaded two of the boxes into Ethel’s SUV and then returned for the others. That’s as when Talia saw something she hadn’t noticed before. On the side of Norma’s fridge, a glossy brochure had been tacked there beneath a GO FAR WITH FERRINGER magnet.

  “Before I get on the road, I want to use the bathroom one more time,” Ethel said. She trudged off in that direction.

  Talia slipped the brochure out from under the magnet. She briefly read it over, shaking her head at the clichéd rhetoric Ferringer was famous for spouting. How anyone could think of voting for him boggled her mind.

  She flipped over the brochure. The word volunteer jumped out at her in huge black letters. Beneath that, someone had scribbled a phone number. Only seven numbers, so she assumed it was the local area code of the Berkshires.

  “There, that’s better,” Ethel said, stepping back into the kitchen. She smoothed her pink blouse over her waist.

  Talia held up the brochure. “Ethel, do you mind if I take this? It was stuck on the side of Norma’s fridge.”

  Ethel squinted hard at it, then waved a wrinkled hand. “Of course, dear. I certainly have no use for it.”

  The last trip to Ethel’s SUV completed, Talia bade her good-bye. “If there’s anything else you need, please give me a call at the eatery,” she told the elder woman. “It’s my home away from home.”

  Ethel’s faded eyes watered. “You’ve been so kind, dear. I haven’t set a date yet for Norma’s memorial service, but I do hope you’ll attend.”

  “Of course I will,” Talia said. “Once you know the details, give me a ring.”

  Talia watched Ethel start her SUV and back slowly out of the parking spot. With a final wav
e at Talia, Ethel drove out of the lot.

  Talia couldn’t help feeling bad for the woman, who now had to drive her sister’s belongings all the way to Maine. She wondered if Ethel was going to keep Norma’s meager possessions, or if she’d donate most of them to charity.

  She hopped inside her Fiat. Before starting her engine, she wanted to call the contact number someone had scribbled on the Ferringer brochure.

  Talia fished her cell out of her purse and punched in the numbers. After four rings, it sounded as if someone had answered. The person on the other end remained silent, but Talia was almost positive that he—or she—was listening. “Hello? Is someone there?” she said.

  Nothing. Whoever answered had disconnected.

  Exasperated, Talia blew a stray lock of hair out of her eye. She tried the number again. Her heart jumped when a voice said sharply, “Jodie here.”

  Jodie. It was Jodie Ferringer! The only time Talia had really talked to her was in the parking lot after Norma’s murder. At the time Jodie had been blubbering so much that it was tough to tell what her regular voice actually sounded like. But, Talia reasoned, this had to be her personal cell number. And it was handwritten on the brochure.

  Think fast, Talia told herself, before she hangs up again.

  “Oh, I am, like, really sorry,” Talia said, injecting a slight giggle into her tone. “I thought this was the . . . gas station.”

  Once again, Jodie cut off the call.

  Talia shoved her phone back into her purse and started her engine, her head whirling with questions. Why did Norma have Jodie Ferringer’s private cell number? Did Jodie hand it out willy-nilly to anyone who expressed an interest in volunteering?

  Maybe.

  But the way Jodie had cheered for Norma at the competition on Sunday had been way over-the-top. Something strange had been going on between those two. If only Talia could dredge up an excuse to have a little chat with Jodie Ferringer.

  Of course she could always feign an interest in volunteering to work on her husband’s campaign. Jodie would leap at a chance to talk to her then.

  Ugh. There was no way. Talia wouldn’t have been able to fake any enthusiasm for that. Especially after the kerfuffle she’d had with the big phony over having a campaign strategy meeting at the eatery on a Sunday.

  Talia breathed out a sigh and checked her texts. There was nothing from Molly, which she took as a good sign. If anything had been wrong, Molly would have let her know right away.

  She headed back toward Fry Me, aware that something else was bugging her. Something she’d shoved to the back of her mind but that now crawled to the surface.

  Ryan hadn’t called or texted her since early last evening. And she still hadn’t gotten the anticipated row of pink hearts that he texted every night, without fail, before shutting off his light. She knew he was on an important business trip—a trip he’d been dreading—but it wasn’t like him to be incommunicado.

  An invisible weight pressed on her chest, making her insides ache. She tried to push it out of her mind, but it was useless.

  By now Martha and Molly were probably elbow-deep in food orders and cursing her for being absent.

  Pink hearts or no pink hearts, she had to get back to work.

  17

  By the time Talia turned onto the main drag, the image of the pink hearts was still marching in her head. Distracted, she almost failed to see the portly woman who was crossing the street against the light. By the time the woman entered Talia’s line of vision, she was barely ten feet away. Talia braked hard, her heart pounding, and simultaneously flicked a glance at her rearview mirror. Fortunately, the car behind her was pretty far back, so she’d avoided what might have been a nasty fender bender.

  The other side of the street was a different story. The woman, who looked quite elderly, had dropped one of her bags. Two oranges rolled toward the centerline. A blue package of a familiar brand of chocolate-chip cookies rested on the pavement. The poor woman was valiantly trying to stuff everything back inside the plastic grocery bag.

  Talia checked her mirror again, then zipped her little car over to the side of the road. Luckily, she spied a space just big enough for her Fiat—which was probably why it was unoccupied. She parked, shoved the gearshift into Park, and shut off her engine.

  Swiftly, she exited the car. She held up one hand to stop the traffic coming at her, then hustled over to help the woman. By that time, the traffic on the opposite side was backed up several car lengths. Horns honked. Someone yelled a rather rude suggestion, which he embellished with an even ruder gesture.

  Talia glared at the driver who’d flashed the wayward finger. What on earth was the matter with people?

  She bent low and scooped up the two oranges, which had strayed in different directions. Together, she and the woman managed to get everything stowed back into the shopping bag. Talia snatched up both bags, looped her arm through the elder woman’s, and propelled her over to the sidewalk.

  “Are you okay?” Talia asked her.

  The woman’s faded brown eyes filled with tears. “Yes . . . I think so.”

  A car screeched past them, and the driver yelled, “Next time use the crosswalk, lady!”

  “It really was my fault.” The woman’s voice rattled. “I should have crossed at the light, but my legs are just so worn-out from lugging these bags. The police won’t let my daughter leave the house, and I wanted to make her something special.”

  The police? Then it dawned on Talia. She slipped her arm around the woman’s sagging shoulders. “Are you Crystal’s mom?” she asked kindly.

  “Yes, I’m Rhonda Flaherty.” The woman’s eyes, which were a tad bloodshot, widened. “Do you know my daughter?”

  “I do,” Talia said. She explained how she knew Crystal and then said, “Mrs. Flaherty, I know that your daughter did not kill or harm anyone. The police are way off base on this one. I’m trying hard to figure out who had reason to want Norma Ferguson dead.” Talia looked around, afraid that Detective Prescott might be spying on her. She wouldn’t be surprised if the woman had installed webcams on drones programmed to follow her. “Can I drive you home?”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” the woman said. Her shoulders drooped in relief. “Are you sure you have time?”

  Talia did not have time. She’d already been away from Fry Me longer than she should have. “Of course I’m sure. Stay right here. I’ll swing my car around and pick you up.”

  Once inside her Fiat, Talia sent a quick text to Molly: Slight delay. Be back shortly.

  Rhonda and Crystal lived in a two-family home on Posner Street, only three town blocks behind the Wrensdale Arcade. Talia knew Crystal usually walked to and from work, and now she understood why. At best, it was a ten-minute stroll, at least for someone relatively fit. For an elderly woman hauling two bags laden with groceries, the walk probably felt five miles long.

  A bag in each hand, Talia followed Rhonda up the wide front steps. One of her dad’s favorite songs—“Help Me, Rhonda”—flitted through her head. She shook it away, remembering that it was Rhonda who needed help.

  Fortunately, Rhonda and Crystal’s apartment was on the first level. A narrow foyer covered by a worn runner led directly into a parlor that was surprisingly open and airy. The furnishings were tidy but worn. In one corner sat a Bentwood rocker, a colorful crocheted afghan folded over its cane seat. In the bay window that faced the street hung a lush philodendron. A small fan resting on a side table sent a weak stream of air wafting through the room.

  Rhonda heaved a sigh and waved a hand at the hardwood floor. “You can leave those anywhere,” she said. “I’ll put it all away later. I do appreciate you helping me, though.”

  Talia glanced around the parlor. She wondered where Crystal was.

  She’d learned from a customer that Crystal had been released after the preliminary hearing, but with a tracking device on her ankle. Burdened with that, how far away could she be? Talia set down the two plastic grocery bags and th
en peeked into one of them. Among its contents were a container of cottage cheese and a package of hot dogs. “Are you sure I can’t at least put away the perishables for you?” she asked Rhonda.

  Rhonda looked relieved. She plopped down onto a flowered armchair and pushed a loose strand of straggly gray hair behind her ear. “Actually, that would be helpful,” she said. She pointed in the general direction of the kitchen.

  The kitchen was another surprise. With all the newfangled appliances Crystal sold at the Fork and Dish, not one of them seemed to have found its way into the 1960s-style kitchen. Talia would swear the two-slot toaster resting on the counter had been around since Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon. A set of vintage metal canisters rested against the backboard, and the sink was the old-style porcelain white. Still, the kitchen had a homey, comfortable feel. It reminded her of the kitchen in her own bungalow, which still had the original glass-front cupboards.

  Talia opened the fridge—a throwback to the eighties—and put away all the perishable items. The rest she set on the kitchen table.

  “Mom?” The shaky voice came from the end of the hallway adjacent to the parlor.

  Talia knew that voice—it was Crystal’s. Should she say anything? Let Crystal know she was there?

  All at once, Crystal emerged from her bedroom. Her feet bare, she started down the hallway toward the kitchen. Her face was milky white and her blond hair uncombed. Her hands were free of rings, which for some reason made Talia’s heart hurt. Clad in a flowered muumuu that floated around her ankles, she frowned when she saw Talia. Talia noticed she wasn’t wearing her usual spectacles. Had Crystal even recognized her?

  “Talia? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  For a split second, Talia’s mind went blank. Then she sputtered, “Oh, I, um—”

  “She helped me get the groceries home, dear,” Rhonda said. She’d sidled quietly into the kitchen and now stood behind Talia.