Nacho Usual Murder: Hawg Heaven Cozy Mysteries, Book 3

by Summer Prescott

  “How would you characterize your relationship with Jesse Nickerson?” he asked, watching her bristle.

  “I didn’t have no relationship with him, I told ya that already,” she blew out an exasperated sigh. Morgan desperately wanted to hand her a breath mint, but knew that the offer wouldn’t be well received. “I mean, sure, he hit on me from the minute he got sprung from jail and came to the house, but pretty much all of ’em do,” she rolled her eyes.

  “Did you ever respond to his… attentions?”

  “Heck no, I told him he better keep his hands and thoughts to himself or I’d kick…” she began to rant, and Officer Tyler interrupted, with a pained look on his face.

  “I get it,” he held up a hand to stem the flow of her wrath. “Was he paying his rent?”

  Eliza made a face. “Nope. Sucker was already two weeks late. I’d been on his case about it pretty hard. Told him that if he didn’t get it together, he was gonna get kicked out.”

  “Was he angry about that?”

  She gave him a look. “What do you think?”

  Morgan looked down at Eliza Bouchard’s hands, noting that her ragged nails were bitten down to the quick.

  “Do you normally wear nail polish?” he asked casually, as if making conversation.

  “Do I look like I wear nail polish?” she held up a hand, showing her nail nubs.

  “Some people like the look of it, from what I understand,” he lied.

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever tried it. I got too much work to do to be spending my time primpin’ and fussin’ with my nails,” she rolled her eyes.

  “Do you happen to like plants?” he tried again.

  Eliza stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Plants?”

  “Yes, you know… like house plants. Do you like to grow things?”

  “Canning vegetables from my garden helps keep me and the tenants alive during the winter, and I got plants on just about every tabletop in the house, why?”

  “My sister is interested in horticulture,” was the dismissive reply. “Do you know much about plants?”

  “Enough to feed myself, that’s about it. I ain’t got no fancy degree or nothin’, I’m just a hard workin’ woman,” she grumbled.

  “I understand. Do you happen to keep track of when the bed linens in the house are washed?”

  “Every Tuesday. I do the washing myself, cuz I don’t want them men messin’ up my machines. If they have an accident or something when it’s not Tuesday, they have to let me know about it, otherwise, they just set their bundle outside their door by ten A.M.”

  “So, you haven’t done linens since last Tuesday.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you allow the men to cook for themselves?”

  “Nope. They can have snacks in their room, but they don’t use my kitchen, no sir, and they only got a mini-fridge and a microwave in their rooms.”

  “Can they take food that you’ve prepared up to their rooms?”

  “Nope. They eat at my table or they don’t eat. Helps me keep track of ’em.”

  “I see. Do you know of anyone who might have reason to kill Mr. Nickerson?”

  “Nope, but if I were wantin’ to find out, I’d be lookin’ for his cellmates. These guys get mixed up with some pretty bad characters in jail.”

  “I’ll take it under consideration,” Morgan was mildly amused that she felt that he needed advice on investigating. “Did he have any visitors that you know of?”

  “Not that I recall. I try to stay on top of that stuff, but sometimes the guys try to sneak loose women in when I’m outside hangin’ up the laundry, or washin’ the car, or grocery shoppin’,” Eliza confided, with a disgusted look.

  “Do you know if he had any family or friends or a girlfriend around?”

  “Dunno. Last I heard, his mama moved back East somewhere after he was convicted. Poor thing couldn’t look anyone in the eye,” she shook her head. “Just up and left. Jesse grew up here, though, so there’s bound to be some folks around who know him. Are we done yet? I got things to do,” Eliza sighed and crossed her arms.

  Morgan closed his notepad in resignation, knowing that he’d gotten just about all that he was going to get out of Eliza Bouchard.

  “We’re done for now. I’m sure I’ll be contacting you for a follow-up conversation, though,” he warned, giving her a pointed look.

  “Well yippity skip, that’ll be somethin’ to look forward to,” she rolled her eyes again. “Can I go now?”

  “By all means, Ms. Bouchard,” Morgan sighed.

  ***

  It was a good thing that Rossalyn and Ryan no longer needed a guardian angel on a motorcycle to watch over them, because the dark-haired, cobalt-eyed veteran seemed to have vanished. Rossalyn went to his house to ask what had transpired during Morgan’s visit, hoping against hope that her neighbor hadn’t done something awful to Jesse Nickerson, even if he had been her stalker, but her knock went unanswered. She tried several more times over the next few days, and then just accepted that reality that he was apparently gone.

  Occupied with running the café and getting her ducks in a row for the school board meeting, Rossie got back into the swing of normal life, trying her best to forget her close brush with an apparently dangerous criminal. José and Garrett had become great friends after Garrett stayed at José’s house, with José’s mother and sisters making sure that he was comfortable and stuffed with delicious food; so the mood around the café had brightened considerably, despite the fact that Officer Morgan Tyler hadn’t yet ruled Rossalyn out as a person of interest.

  ***

  “Hey, Ms. Rossalyn,” José popped his head into her office as she bent over her collection of receipts in preparation for meeting with the accountant who would be doing her taxes this year.

  “Hey José, what’s up?” she asked, smiling at his obvious excitement, and glad for the respite from numbers.

  “There’s a guy out here who says he’s like some kind of food critic or something, and he wants to do a story on Hawg Heaven!”

  Rossie pursed her lips. “Hmm… I would think that someone like that would’ve called to set up an appointment or something,” she mused. Usually, when things sounded too good to be true, they were.

  “Can you come talk to him? I’ve seen him on TV, he’s legit,” José was practically hopping up and down.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be out in a minute, go cook something,” she laughed, shooing the star-struck young man out the door.

  Things had been looking up a bit lately, so maybe she was actually catching a lucky break for a change. Unconsciously smoothing back her hair, she tucked in her Hawg Heaven black-and-flame tee shirt, and headed for the eating area.

  A familiar male voice boomed, “Hey, you must be Rossalyn!” the moment that she stepped out of the hall.

  A larger-than-life caricature of a man magically materialized in front of her. His platinum hair was dramatically spiked, and he wore an expensive bowling shirt over a rather profound belly.

  “Look at you, just as pretty as a picture,” he beamed. “I’m Butch…” he stuck out his hand.

  “Clemmons,” she finished for him, shaking his hand.

  She had recognized him. Butch Clemmons had a very successful TV show which featured him traveling around the US, finding the best American eateries in out-of-the-way places.

  “The one and only,” he chuckled. “I tell you what, I travel all over, and I can guarantee you, the food that José back there is making is some of the best I’ve ever tasted. I didn’t even know this place existed, and you’ve got a great theme going. Hawg Heaven, I love it,” he enthused.

  “Thanks,” Rossie replied, a bit overwhelmed by his energy and enthusiasm. She wondered if he might be fueled by energy drinks.

  “I’d love to do a feature on your little place. Bring my crew out here, feed everybody. We’d pay for it, of course, and we’d want to get some footage of José and his helper working their magic. It’d be great adver
tising for you.”

  “So, what’s in it for you, exactly?” Rossalyn couldn’t help herself, she just had to be careful.

  “Aside from a heaping helping of some killer glazed pork? My audience loves to see places like this. Cute cafes in little towns. Some of my fans travel all over, trying every restaurant that we feature. It could really improve your bottom line. I also write my reviews in major newspapers and on my blog, so you’d be getting all kinds of exposure. Some people use the show as an opportunity to get to the next level.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve mastered the first level yet,” Rossie joked.

  “I’d say you have,” Butch nodded vehemently. “Why, yes, ma’am! You have indeed mastered the first level. Your place is clean, attractive, up-to-date, and serves amazing food—your bases are covered.”

  “Well, thank you. I owe so much to José and Garrett, they’re a huge part of what makes Hawg Heaven so special.”

  “Well, the publicity sure wouldn’t hurt them either. Being on TV seems to really boost a guy’s appeal to the ladies,” he joked.

  Rossie laughed. Butch just seemed so guileless and fun.

  “I’ll certainly give it some thought,” she agreed finally. “Do you have a card or something that you can leave with me?”

  “Yes ma’am, I sure do,” he whipped one out of his shirt pocket. “And if you email me, I’ll send you a copy of the contract and release forms for the show. Look ’em over as long as you’d like, and I’ll let you know when we might be able to fit you into the schedule, if you’re interested.”

  “That sounds great. Thanks for stopping by,” Rossalyn shook his hand again.

  “I can honestly say that it’s been my pleasure, ma’am,” Butch grinned. “In fact, I’m going to place a takeout order before I leave. Oh, and hey… do you sell those sweet tee shirts?”

  “Yes we do. Garrett can grab one for you when he bags up your order. Take care, Mr. Clemmons.”

  “Call me Butch,” he called out as Rossie moved toward the hall.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  “Mom! Did you really meet Butch Clemmons today?” Ryan demanded the moment that Rossalyn walked in the door.

  “Now, how on earth would you know that?” she chuckled, surprised.

  “Everybody knows,” he shrugged. “Are you gonna be on his show? I figured that was just a rumor,” Ryan asked, eyes round with excitement.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “What? You haven’t decided yet?” the teenager was practically hopping up and down in disbelief. “Mom, seriously, it’s Butch Clemmons!!”

  “How do you even know about Butch Clemmons?” Rossie cocked her head.

  “Oh puhleez… everyone knows about Butch Clemmons. He has this way cool old convertible that he travels in, and he eats the most awesome food, and he gives all of his money away to charity,” Ryan gushed.

  “Wait, he gives all of his money to charity?” Rossalyn raised her eyebrows.

  “Yup. You should check him out online. He seems really cool, was he really cool?”

  “He seemed very nice,” she chuckled at her son’s star-struck manner. “I’ll check it out, and if I think that the show is something that would be good for Hawg Heaven, I’ll contact him,” she promised.

  “This is so great,” Ryan grinned and headed back to his spot on the couch.

  The two shared a casual dinner in front of one of their favorite TV series. After Ryan hugged her goodnight, then went to bed, Rossalyn made her way upstairs to shower and do some reading. Turning off the shower, she heard a sound that made her think that the toilet was running, but when she jiggled the handle, the faint sound persisted. Frowning, she tried to place the source of the sound, quickly realizing that it must be the ice maker in the refrigerator.

  Rossie opened her book, a cozy mystery by one of her favorite authors, and soon became engrossed in the story. The book made her hungry for Key lime pie, and when she closed it and turned off her lamp, she made a mental note to ask José if he could come up with a killer bacon-Key lime recipe. She fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow and slept deeply.

  It was a fairly typical morning at the Channing household. Ryan slept, while Rossalyn quietly got ready to head out to work, long before the sunrise. José and Garrett always arrived before she did, but she didn’t feel right about the guys having to do everything themselves, so she always managed to get in at least half an hour before they opened at six A.M. She had dug out some of her favorite cookbooks and would be taking them in so that she and José could consider some new recipes when they had a break between the breakfast and lunch rush. José seemed to be able to work magic with whatever dish he touched, so she intended to let him have free rein with experimenting on new creations.

  Dangling her oversized purse from one arm, cookbooks clutched to her bosom and keys in her hand, Rossalyn stepped out of her side door to go to the garage, and knew she was in trouble when she felt her feet sliding out from under her. Time seemed to slow as she pinwheeled her arms, her treasured cookbooks flying in every direction. Her last moment of consciousness was consumed by a searing pain in her right elbow and the horrifying jolt of the back of her head smashing against an ice-covered sidewalk.

  ***

  Rossalyn’s head throbbed with pain, and the light behind her eyelids was too bright for her to even attempt to open her eyes. She was surrounded by dull, unfamiliar sounds as she desperately tried to swim up to consciousness. The more aware she became, the worse she hurt, feeling as though she’d been hit by a truck and was perhaps still beneath it.

  “Ms. Channing?” she heard a voice that sounded as though it had traveled a long distance and was shrouded in a heavy fog. “Ms. Channing, can you hear me?”

  More bright light. She’d have winced away from it if she’d had the strength and ability to move.

  “She may be coming around,” another faraway voice chimed in, this one female. “Ms. Channing? Can you open your eyes for me, please?”

  Try as she might, Rossie couldn’t comply with the simple request, and the effort of trying caused her to slip, once again, into dark, blissful unawareness. A jostling motion brought her to a vague awareness again, as white-hot pain jolted through her like a lightning strike. She gasped weakly, still unable to open her eyes, and her stomach rolled dangerously. Panic gripped her, as she wondered what would happen if she had to vomit and couldn’t move.

  “There was a response,” one of the voices came from above her head.

  “Sorry about that, Ms. Channing, we’re being as careful as we can, hang tight,” the female voice said, sounding as if she were sitting at Rossalyn’s feet.

  A teardrop that burned trailed down her cheek and across her ear. There was a cold blast of air on her face, more jostling, then the cold was gone, replaced by a faint acrid smell.

  “Almost there,” the female promised, now beside and above her somehow.

  There was another round of jostling, during which Rossie succumbed to the darkness yet again.

  ***

  Someone was speaking in low tones, in Spanish, and a cool, soft hand stroked her face. Rossalyn’s head pounded like a three-day hangover, and she slowly opened her eyes, blinking in the bright light that surrounded her. Her vision was blurred, but she thought she recognized the kind face of José’s mother Consuela. She tried to speak, but her throat was parched. When she attempted to move her head, the room swam, and she had to swallow hard against the bile that rose.

  “Oh no, mija. You just rest,” Consuela said softly, seeing Rossalyn wince. “I’ll get you some agua.”

  Rossie couldn’t bring herself to nod, so she just closed her eyes, trying not to panic. What had happened to her? Why couldn’t she see? Where was she and why was José’s mother here? The pain was far too real for all of this to just be a dream. A plastic straw was placed gently against her lips, and she slowly opened her mouth to accept it. The water on her tongue felt like heaven, and seemed to ease her sto
mach cramps a bit, too. After taking a few sips, she cleared her throat, cringing at the pain in her head, and was able to whisper.

  “What’s happening?”

  She heard footsteps approaching. Apparently someone had come to stand beside Consuela.

  “Ms. Channing, this is Dr. Sorenson. Can you try to open your eyes for me, please?” a warm, professional voice requested.

  Rossie slowly opened her eyes, blinking in the light again, and found that her vision was still as blurry as it had been the first time.

  “Can’t see,” she whispered, wishing she had another drink.

  As if reading her mind, Consuela pressed the straw to her lips again and she took a small sip.

  “That’s not terribly surprising, but it should clear up in a while,” the doctor murmured, right before flashing a penlight in her eyes, making her tear up and shut them. “I need you to try really hard to keep your eyes open, please, Ms. Channing.”

  Blinking rapidly, Rossie opened her eyes again, and he hit her with the death ray penlight again, but this time, though her eyes watered and her head felt like someone had dropped a piano on it, she held them open.

  “Good… good,” he mused, leaning over her, close enough for her to smell the coffee on his breath, which did nothing to help her queasy stomach.

  “Nauseated,” she whispered, licking her lips.

  “That’s understandable,” the doctor clicked off the light, and Consuela dabbed Rossie’s tears with a tissue. “Now that you’re awake, we can start you on some meds for that.”

  “What happened?” she whispered again.

  “You don’t remember at all?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You slipped on some ice and fell. Your left elbow is broken, your tailbone is badly bruised, and you have a simple hairline skull fracture. You also managed to get yourself quite a concussion, but it doesn’t look like there’s any evidence of brain injury, other than some slight swelling that we’re keeping an eye on,” he explained.

  Rossalyn took it all in, and a terrifying thought dawned on her.