by Jeff Shelby
“Um, no. I am not.” I cleared my throat. “Ted and I are friends.”
“Many workplace friendships turn sexual,” she said with a surprising amount of authority. “I can feel the tension.”
I wasn't sure what she was feeling, but the only tension in the room was being created by her and her accusations.
“Ted is a good friend,” I said firmly. “That is all. I am happily married. He confided in me his frustrations. That's it.”
She whipped her head back to Ted. “I'll bet she's not like me in the sack.”
“That is enough!” Ted said, slapping his hands on the desk and standing up. His belly hit the desk and coffee sloshed out of his mug and on to the file positioned next to it. “I will not have you stand here accusing Daisy and me of such lunacy! There is nothing going on! And if you would just open up your ears, you would hear me saying that I've told no one that you poisoned me! No one!”
Elsa clutched her purse and took a step back, surprised by his outburst.
I was surprised, too. I didn't know Ted had that kind of anger, that kind of conviction, in him. But it was nice to see for a change.
“I'm going to ask you to leave now,” Ted said. His tone had returned to normal. “Please. Before you embarrass yourself any further.”
She lifted her chin and clutched the straps of her purse tighter. “If you insist. I'm sure you just want me out of here so you and Daisy can get on that desk and—”
“OUT!” Ted yelled. “NOW!”
Elsa Ahlberg gave me one more dirty look before turning on her heels, shoving the door open, and leaving Officer Ted and me to have our imaginary tryst.
TWENTY FIVE
Ted's hands were shaking as he sat down behind his desk, his face still the color of a tomato.
I sat there in the silence, wondering if I'd ever been in a more awkward situation.
After three seconds of thinking, I could not recall one.
“I am so sorry for that, Daisy,” he finally said. “I am so sorry for that.”
“There's nothing for you to apologize for,” I said. “That wasn't your fault. In any way.”
His shoulders drooped. “It feels like my fault.”
“It isn't.”
He placed a hand over his forehead, like he could feel a headache coming on. “I don't know what's come over her.”
“I think she's hurting,” I told him. “You broke up with her and she apparently wasn't ready for it. So she's still...working through it.”
“You're being far more charitable than you should be,” he said, still clutching at his forehead.
I was. But I also knew a thing or two about people, especially women.
“Ted, I'm not sure if you know this, but sometimes, we women can be just slightly irrational. About nearly anything.” And then, because I didn’t want to sound sexist against my own gender, “Men can, too. They just manifest it in different ways.”
He pulled the hand away from his forehead and chuckled, finally letting himself relax. “You are too kind, Daisy. Thank you for being so understanding of all this.”
I nodded. Ted was a good man and a good friend. The last few days had probably been the most turbulent of his life, and it was evident that he was not a fan of turbulence. I wasn’t, either. I felt badly for him.
But I felt badly for Elsa, too. She clearly was still smarting from their breakup, so much so that she was willing to throw out wild accusations that didn't make much sense and had no basis in fact. Despite her over-the-top behavior, I did believe that she loved Ted, even if it was in a psychotic kind of way.
“I'll talk to her later tonight,” he said, sighing. “Calm her down. I don't want her spreading that kind of stuff around town.”
“I'm fairly certain worse has been said about me, Ted,” I told him, thinking about the gossip that had been spread during the body in the basement episode. “Don't worry about it.”
He made a face and looked away, sipping what was left of his coffee.
The door to the station opened and Arnold Eck walked in, a small box in his hands. He was wearing a restaurant polo, a red one this time, and had on freshly pressed khakis.
He nodded at me, then at Ted. “Hello there,” he said. He held the box up. “I...I brought you some tacos.”
I wasn't exactly sure why Arnold brought us tacos, but the smell from the box immediately got my mouth watering.
“Oh,” Ted said, a puzzled look on his face. It was evident that he had not been expecting a taco delivery. “Alright. Thank you, I guess?”
Arnold winced. “Sorry, I’m not very good at this kind of thing. I brought some tacos over because I wanted to apologize.” He set the small white box down on the edge of my desk. Grease stains lined the edges and the smell emanating from inside made me want to rip the top open. “For all of the trouble.”
I resisted the urge to grab the box and keep the tacos for myself. “For all of the trouble?”
Arnold shoved his hands in his pockets and directed his gaze downward so that he was staring at the floor. “I know that a lot has been going on around here lately, and I know that my fighting with my old friend Bjorn has not helped things.” He dipped his chin. “I don't feel good about that and I wanted to apologize.”
“You don't owe us an apology,” Ted said, waving a hand in the air. “You haven't done anything wrong.”
“That is kind of you to say, Ted,” Arnold replied. He gave him a small smile. “But I know that at the very least, I’m not making things much easier. So I wanted to say that I’m sorry and that I won’t argue with Bjorn any longer.” He nodded his head, like he was trying to convince himself of this statement. “Ever again, no matter what.”
That felt like a promise he might not have the ability to fulfill, and I wondered if he was simply setting himself up for failure by saying it.
“Well, thank you, Arnold,” Ted said. “It's not necessary. But thank you.”
“You are feeling better?” he asked. His hands were still in his pockets and he now wore a hopeful expression.
“Very much so,” Ted answered, nodding vigorously. “Good enough to probably eat one of those tacos.”
Arnold smiled. “I hope so.” He turned his attention to me. “And you seemed to enjoy the food the other evening with your husband, so I hope you, too, will enjoy.”
“Oh, I will,” I assured him. Jake was going to be so jealous. “You can bring me tacos anytime.”
Arnold smiled. “That is good to know.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to go. I just wanted to stop by and...well, I just hope you enjoy the tacos.” He held up a hand, turned and left.
I eyed the greasy box on my desk. “That was...odd.”
Ted shrugged. “Arnold and I have been friends for a number of years. He's better with food than with people, sometimes. Means well, though. And he makes a great taco.”
“That he does,” I said, lifting the lid on the box. Each taco was wrapped in wax paper. Warm seasoned meat, onions, fresh tortillas, the spicy tang of salsa.
I looked at Ted. “Are you going to have one?” I didn’t want to eat one if he wasn’t going to.
“After you,” he said, smiling.
I breathed a sigh of relief and lifted one out. I set it on my desktop, then brought him the box.
“Not sure these are the best things for my belly in the morning, but I'll tempt fate,” he said.
I sat back down and picked up the taco. “It's always good to tempt fate.”
And then I froze.
What if Arnold had been the culprit to begin with? What if this was a box of poisoned tacos that he'd just delivered? What if he really did have some nefarious reason to want to poison people?
I stared at the taco halfway to my mouth, possibilities racing through my mind as the seconds ticked by.
Ted broke the silence. “I'm thinking the same thing.”
“What?”
He gestured at the taco in my hand. “You're worried about what might be in it. I had to stop for a
minute and think the same thing.”
I set the taco down, my stomach protesting my mind’s decision.
“But I'd bet every dollar I have that Arnold had nothing to do with what happened to me,” Ted said. “He has no reason to harm me and no matter his problems with Bjorn, I really don't think he'd do anything purposefully like that. It's just not in his nature.”
He seemed confident in his statements. I wanted to believe him. My stomach wanted me to believe him.
“So...we should be okay eating these?”
Ted laughed, picked one out of the box, and took a bite. He swallowed, then washed it down with a sip of coffee. Tacos and coffee were not something I would have paired together, but what did I know?
He shrugged. “I'm still here.”
I sighed. He was right, of course. Paranoia was trying to get the better of me.
The more I'd thought about Arnold as a suspect, the less sense it made that he would've done anything to either Bjorn or Ted. And if he and Ted were friends, which was what Ted had told me, then he had no cause to do him any harm. Even though he was frustrated with Bjorn and how he had reacted to the opening of Arnold’s restaurant, he still didn’t strike me as the type to sabotage Bjorn in any way other than making better food.
As I took a bite of the taco, savoring the flavor, I had to admit that Arnold was definitely winning that war.
TWENTY SIX
“I don't want to take off too much,” Emily said. “Maybe two inches. And I don't necessarily need it styled any particular way. I usually straighten it. So I don't want anything too different.”
It was later in the afternoon and Emily had walked over to meet me at the salon after I was done with work. She wanted to get her hair cut and she wanted me to go with her. I wasn't entirely sure why she wanted me there, especially since she thought I knew nothing about hair or style or other things she was obsessed with, but I obliged, reminding myself that it was nice that my teenage daughter still wanted me around on occasion.
Wilma ran her fingers lightly through Emily's hair, examining it closely. The appointment was with her today, not one of the other stylists. I was hoping her beehive hairdo wouldn’t turn Emily off.
“We can definitely take care of those dead ends you've got here,” Wilma told her. “And I think we can give you a little more body here without going crazy. We'll keep it straight, but it make it look a little fuller.” She smiled at Emily in the mirror. “Does that sound like what you're looking for?”
Emily nodded and smiled back. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”
Wilma looked at me. “Works for you?”
“It's her hair,” I said. “She can shave it all off if she wants.”
“Mom!”
Wilma patted her on the shoulder. “Don't worry, honey. I won't even turn on the clippers.”
Emily gave me the death stare in the mirror.
“I'm gonna have Miss Betsy take you back and get your hair washed up before we start with cutting,” Wilma said, waving to another woman at the far end of the salon. “She'll get you all cleaned up and then I'll take care of you myself.”
Miss Betsy was a young woman in her late twenties with a nose ring and blonde hair dyed purple at the tips. She gestured for Emily to follow her. Emily scooted out of the chair, the cape flapping around her, and followed Miss Betsy back to the room with the sinks.
“She's a beautiful girl,” Wilma said, pulling a pack of scissors from a drawer and laying them out on the counter. “And she has lovely hair.”
“Well, we haven't kicked her out of the house yet, but you never know,” I said.
She chuckled.
“But thank you for saying that. She's a good kid.” I thought about her predisposition toward drama and her tendency to be self-absorbed. “Mostly.”
“Most kids are,” Wilma said, selecting the scissors she wanted, then folding the packet back up. “And if she ends up looking for a new job, I might be able to use a hand here or at the nail salon.”
The offer took me by surprise, and I wasn’t sure if she meant it or if she was just making small talk and trying to be polite. “That's kind of you. I guess it's looking more likely that this might be a possibility.”
She frowned and set her hands on the back of the chair. “Bjorn does not sound too positive. I know that I've heard rumors about him closing and selling and all that, but I just can't believe it.” She let out a long breath, shaking her head as she did so. “I wish people would give it a chance to die down.”
I nodded. “I agree.”
“And selfishly, I don't know what we'll do for lunches around here,” she said.
“Lunches?”
“At least three times a week, I go next door and pick up lunch for the girls working here,” she explained. “Tacos, burritos, sometimes salads. He always throws in something extra for us. Dessert or something like that.” Another sigh. “I would miss having that next door.”
“It would be very strange to not have him there,” I said, voicing what Jake and I had discussed. “The restaurant is a part of Main Street. It would seem odd to not see the sign as you drive by.”
“I know,” Wilma said. She leaned against the counter, thinking. “And you never know what might move in there. It could be something no one wants, you know? A motorcycle shop or an auto parts store, or one of those weird electronic cigarette stores.” She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “That would make me extremely unhappy.”
“Hopefully, he'd be able to use some discretion in who he sells to,” I said, sympathizing with her concerns. “If he sells. I'd think another restaurant owner might be intrigued, given that it already has an operating kitchen and is set up to function that way. Anyone else coming in would have a lot of interior refurbishment to do and that could get expensive.”
She thought about that for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I suppose you're right. I can't think of anything else that might make sense in that location.” She sighed, a troubled expression lingering. “I just hope he can hang on.”
Miss Betsy and Emily returned. Emily's wet hair hung over her face, and her fluttering cape made her look like some sort of bedraggled superhero. She made her way to the chair and sat down.
“You said six inches right, Emily?” I asked.
She whipped in my direction, inadvertently showering me with water from the wet strands of hair. “Mom! That's not funny! No!”
Wilma patted her on the shoulder. “There, there. Your mom's just playing with you. Don't you worry about a thing. I've got you all taken care of.”
As Wilma went to work on Emily's hair, I sat there watching, my mind wandering.
I wondered what might go into the space if Bjorn did actually leave. A restaurant truly did make the most sense, if only because it was already equipped. But nearly anyone would be able to make use of that space because it was such a prime piece of real estate. I had no doubt he wouldn't lack for takers if Bjorn did close down Big Mama's and decide to sell.
I just didn't know who the final taker would be.
TWENTY SEVEN
Emily's hair, two inches shorter, fabulously styled and dry, was finally done and I had to admit it looked terrific. After we paid and walked outside, she asked if we could go next door to see about her schedule. I agreed; not just so she could find out if she was working, but to see if I could learn anything more.
Bjorn was behind the front counter rolling silverware in paper napkins when we walked in. The buck mounted above him greeted us with his piercing stare. This never failed to creep me out, but Emily didn’t even seem to notice him and the other stuffed creatures taking up permanent residence in the restaurant. I wondered where they might go if Bjorn sold. Would he take them with him? Would the new owner want them? Would they be auctioned off?
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Bjorn said, and I peeled my eyes away from the deer.
“Uh, hi,” Emily said. She flipped her hair and I didn’t know if this was a subconscious move or if she wanted him to no
tice her new hairstyle. “I was wondering if the schedule is done yet?”
He nodded and walked back to the kitchen, returning with a piece of paper. “I didn't type it up this week. Just handwrote it.”
Emily scanned the paper and seemed relieved. “Okay, great. Same as normal.”
Bjorn forced a smile. “Same as normal. For now.”
If Emily noticed the extra two words, she didn’t indicate it. She was stuffing the sheet in her purse while simultaneously looking at her phone.
“So you're hanging in there?” I asked.
He shrugged. “As I told you, I know what we can do and what we cannot do. Right now, I am only trying to focus on what we can do.”
I looked around the interior of the restaurant: not at the taxidermy creatures but at the tables. Every single one was empty. It was late in the afternoon, sandwiched right between lunch and dinner, but I didn’t think everyone in Moose River prescribed to rigid dining schedules. I wouldn’t think the restaurant would be full at this time of day, but seeing it completely empty was unnerving.
And telling.
“Why don't we get lunch?” I suggested to Emily. “We've got time.”
She immediately glanced up from her phone, her eyes narrowed, a frown on her face. I knew where it was coming from. She wasn't crazy about eating where she worked. She thought it was weird.
I didn't much care at that moment.
Bjorn raised an eyebrow, and I couldn’t tell if he was skeptic or hopeful. “Yes? You would like lunch?”
I walked over to the table nearest the window and sat down. “Yes. We would.”
Emily reluctantly followed me over, her eyes locked on me. Bjorn brought us a couple of menus.
“I canceled the daytime serving staff,” he explained. “I didn’t see much point in paying them to be here.” He left the menus with us and said he'd be right back with water.
“What are we doing?” Emily whispered.
“Having lunch,” I whispered back.
“I know that! I mean, why are we having lunch here?”
