by Maddie Day
“Unfortunately I argued publicly with Charles during dinner last night.” Lou pressed her lips into a line.
“It’ll be fine, Lou,” I said. “They’ll find who did it. I’m sure they will.”
“You guys are thinking it wasn’t an accidental death.” Frowning, he looked from Lou to me and back.
“That’s what Buck said after he showed up. There were two sets of tracks, so it wasn’t suicide, and he didn’t think somebody could simply fall into an ice fishing hole that size.”
“Ouch,” Abe said.
My phone trilled on the table, with SOUTH LICK POLICE registering as the caller. I groaned. “Guess I’d better get that.”
Chapter 7
Lou and I bolted our stew after Buck told me we were needed at the station to give our reports. I asked him if we could do the interviews in my kitchen, but he said the detective wanted us down there right away. Detective Octavia, that is.
“Do we need lawyers?” I asked
“Up to you,” Buck replied.
Lou looked worried, but we decided to just go in and get it over with.
* * *
I was glad I’d eaten, because I’d been sitting in an interview room for half an hour with nothing happening. The last time I’d been here was early October. I’d been under suspicion for a brief time, and Jim had come with me. Green-eyed real estate lawyer Jim Shermer. Dancer Jim, and my former beau, my first since my divorce in California almost five years ago. He’d decided to resume a decade-old relationship with Octavia when she’d been sent to work on the murder in late November. Being dropped had stung, but truthfully, I’d started to question our relationship even before he’d rejected me.
I’d kept my head up and moved on, which turned out to be a very pleasant path, since Abe and I started hanging out. I ran into Jim around town occasionally, although we never really talked. I hoped he was doing well.
What a depressing space the room was. Painted a mustard yellow, the lower half had a glossy finish so they could hose down the walls if a prisoner threw a cup of coffee or punched the wall and bled, probably. Despite the glossy paint, scuff marks and a few dents marred the walls, and the table in front of me had seen better days. The air smelled of spilled soda and tired plastic. A camera lens poked out of the wall, aiming straight at me. It was almost enough to make me feel guilty, even though all I’d done was almost literally stumble over a body.
I glanced at my phone, but there wasn’t any reception. It was seven-thirty. I had prep to do for tomorrow’s breakfast. Was I ever going to get out of here?
Finally the door swung open, and Octavia strolled in carrying a tablet device as well as a paper notebook. A uniformed Wanda followed her in and stood by the door.
Octavia was dressed the same way she’d been almost every time I’d seen her—knit top, a muted blazer, dark pants, and black sneakers. Her silvering hair was cut in the same no-nonsense short cap. It was her look and she was sticking to it. She extended her hand. “Good to see you again, Ms. Jordan.”
She was going all official on me. She’d called me Robbie in the fall.
I shook her hand and murmured something polite in return. It wasn’t exactly good to see her. “Is this going to take long? I have work I still need to do at my restaurant tonight to get ready for tomorrow.”
“I hope it won’t,” Octavia replied as she sat across from me. “We will be recording the interview.” She tapped something into the tablet and set it between us then stated her rank and the date and time. “Officer Wanda Bird is also present. Roberta Jordan, do you agree to this voice recording?”
I nodded.
“Excuse me. You need to state it verbally for the record.”
I sighed. “I agree to the recording.”
She asked me to state my name and address, which I did.
“Please take us through the events of this afternoon at Crooked Lake,” Octavia said. “Describe who you were with and exactly what transpired.”
“It was about four o’clock and I was snowshoeing in the woods around the lake with Lou Perlman.”
“Is that Ms. Perlman’s full name?” Octavia looked up from the small notebook she’d been writing in and peered at me over dark-rimmed glasses.
“It’s Louise.” Surely they already knew that, but I humored her. I continued telling her about our tramping through the woods, finding the path that led to the lake, and taking it.
“Did Ms. Perlman suggest taking the path to the lake?”
I thought back. “No, I did.” Why did she ask that?
Octavia narrowed her eyes at me as if she didn’t believe it. “Go on.”
“So we got down to the lake and headed across.”
“Did you stay together?”
“She was often ahead of me. Her legs are a lot longer and she walks faster.”
“Did you see anyone else on the ice?”
“Only a guy fishing over by the parking lot.”
“Then what happened?”
“I came to the ice fishing hole and was curious if I could see any fish down there. I bent over to look. I saw Charles Stilton, instead.”
“Ms. Perlman didn’t look into the hole, too?”
“No, she’d gone right by it.” I folded my arms and regarded Octavia. She’d probably already asked Lou the same questions and was trying to see if we would relate identical stories. Not that it was a story. I was only telling the truth.
“What happened when you glimpsed the deceased?”
“I called out to Lou to come and see. She turned around and joined me.”
It was Octavia’s turn to gaze back at me. “I’d like you to think carefully now. Exactly what did Ms. Perlman say when she saw the body? How did she act? No detail is too small.”
“Let’s see.” I pictured the scene again, unpleasant as it was. “Lou recognized him. She said something like, ‘That’s Charles.’ We both agreed he was beyond help and that we needed to call the police.”
“And did you?”
“Well, obviously.” She must already know that Lou had called. “Right, Wanda?”
She didn’t meet my eyes, instead examining a corner of the ceiling. Nice Wanda had reverted to officious Wanda.
“Just answer the questions, please,” Octavia said. “Did you call from out on the lake?”
I waited a moment to get my suddenly flared temper under control. “There was no reception out there. Lou is faster than I am, as I said, so we agreed she would go for help. She took off for the shore and I stayed near the hole. It was about twenty minutes before she came back with Buck on a snowmobile. And Wanda on another one.” I glanced at Wanda but she still avoided my eyes.
“Did you remain at the scene?” Octavia asked.
“Essentially. I walked around a bit to try to stay warm, but the ice fishing hole was always in sight. Then Buck and Wanda showed up and you must know the rest.”
“Tell me what happened last night in your store.”
I went through the evening until I came to the part where Lou accused Charles. “She said something like he essentially had stolen her work and published it as his own.”
“What was his response?”
“He said he was pursuing parallel research. That he was a professor and she was a lowly graduate student.”
“Did he use that word? Lowly?” Octavia asked.
“No. It was in his tone of voice, though. You know, like he was better than her.”
“How did the evening go after that?”
I pictured the gathering in the restaurant for a moment. “Lou and Charles didn’t interact again as far as I saw. It went fine. Well, until Zen—”
Octavia held up her hand. “Hang on.” She flipped through her notebook. “That would be Professor Zenobia Brown, chair of the sociology department?”
“Yes. Charles apparently said something offensive to her. I didn’t hear what it was. He added that she could take it because she was the chair. The way he said the word chair made me think there was conflict behin
d it.”
“What happened next?”
“Charles left. The event wound down after that.”
“How did Professor Stilton leave? Did he drive, get a ride?” Octavia tapped on the tablet.
“I didn’t see him after he went out the door, but he’d said he could finish his bottle of wine because he was walking home.”
She glanced up sharply. “I didn’t know you had a liquor license.”
“I don’t. And because I don’t, customers are allowed to bring in their own wine. Don’t worry, it’s legal. I checked.”
“All right.” Octavia looked reluctant to accept my story, but she didn’t press me. “What time did Ms. Perlman leave your store?”
“Everybody was gone by nine. Lou caught a ride with a guy named Tom, but I don’t know his last name. Are we almost done?” My rear end was not appreciating the hard chair seat and my breakfast prep was calling me.
“One last question. You’re Ms. Perlman’s friend. Do you think she is psychologically capable of murder?”
I stared at her. “Are you kidding? No, of course not. She’s not a suspect, is she?”
“Do you have anything else to tell us?”
Of course she wasn’t going to answer me. I thought for a second. “Charles’s wife Maude was in the restaurant with her mother this morning. She said her son Ron was out ice fishing.” I closed my mouth before I started speculating. Octavia could do whatever she wanted with that piece of information. Come to think of it, if Charles hadn’t gone home last night, Maude wouldn’t have been calmly having breakfast out. Would she? Maybe he made a practice of not going home.
Octavia nodded and made a note before she pushed back her chair. She dictated the time into the tablet, said, “This interview is concluded,” and tapped something. “Thank you for your time, Robbie. I appreciate your cooperation. If you think of anything else, no detail too small, you know where to find me. I ask you not to discuss the specifics of your discovery on the lake with anyone until further notice.”
“Fine.”
We’d already talked about it with Abe, but Octavia didn’t need to know that. What harm could it do? Besides, he and the rest of the town already knew most of the story.
I stood, too. “You can’t think that Lou would have killed Charles. All they had was an academic disagreement. And why would she go out on the lake with me if she knew he was dead right there?”
Wanda opened the door.
“Thank you, Ms. Jordan,” Octavia said. “Officer Bird will show you out.”
“I’m assuming you’re done with Lou, too,” I said. “I need to give her a ride back to her car at my store.” I followed Wanda into the hall.
“We have not concluded our interview with her, no,” Octavia said. “We’ll be responsible for returning her to her vehicle. You are free to leave.”
“You’re not keeping her here.” I was about to continue my protest with, “You can’t,” but of course they could do whatever they wanted.
“You’re free to leave, Ms. Jordan.” Octavia turned away, her sensible shoes taking her silently down the hall.
“Wanda.” I faced her, setting my hands on my hips. “How long is she going to keep Lou? Does she need a lawyer?”
“Not at liberty to say.” Wanda gestured toward the door leading to the front. “After you, Robbie.”
Chapter 8
I got back to the store before nine, but barely. Lou’s car sat forlorn in one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of Pans ’N Pancakes. I drove my van past it, around the left side of the building, and into the barn where I kept it in the winter. After slamming the car door, I kicked the nearest tire. For my good friend to be suspected of murder, even for a minute, was ridiculous. Outrageous. And frustrating.
I let myself into my apartment, locking up tight after myself, and then went through to the store. I flipped on the lights. I hated the thought that once again a murderer walked free at the same time the detective was questioning my bright, funny, loyal friend.
“Come on, Birdy. Keep me company tonight, okay?” I called, leaving the door ajar. He raced in. Any normally closed door was a magnet to him when it was open. He always seemed delighted to get away with sneaking in where he wasn’t allowed. The health inspector would have a cow if Birdy was in here during operating hours, but I occasionally let him prowl the place at night as long as he stayed off the counters and tabletops. He was a lot more interested in the old part of the space and the artifacts Jo had left in the store—an antique scale, an old icebox, a hundred-year-old red metal tricycle. Jo had volunteered to junk it all, but I’d insisted I wanted to keep the flavor of the country store, which included the somewhat dusty fixtures like the vintage cash register I used for cash transactions and a treadle sewing machine I’d repurposed as a display table.
Birdy also loved exploring the vintage cookware, some of which I’d acquired but much of which had come with the store. Nesting metal canisters sat on the shelves alongside an antique corn popper, and cast-iron muffin pans rested next to a heavy meat grinder. There were cake pans, a red-handled beater, whisks galore, and a few objects even I wasn’t sure what they were used for. As long as I ran the duster over the shelves after Birdy had been exploring, I figured I was safe from violating health regulations. It wasn’t like these were gleaming new objects, anyway.
Before I got to work, I wrote a note for Lou. Stop in if you want to talk. No time too late. Hugs.
I went out and slid the note under her windshield wiper. I stood in the cold for a minute, arms wrapped around myself. Stars glittered in the sky like silver celestial sequins on a black velvet gown. I hoped Lou would get out tonight. They had to let her go. Didn’t they?
By now I could prep biscuit dough for a hundred in my sleep, so I set to work back inside. My busy hands let my mind wander free. How can I find out who Charles’s real enemies were? I measured flour into my industrial-sized food processor and added a bit of salt, then dropped in cubed butter and mixed until it resembled peas. Maybe someone had seen Charles go out on the lake. I quickly stirred in the eggs, poured in the milk, and pulsed until it just came together on the blades. He must have been killed either late last night or early this morning. He couldn’t have been shoved into that hole in broad daylight with a dozen ice fishermen on the lake. I patted the dough into three big disks, wrapped them, and stored them in the walk-in.
Charles’s own son Ron was ice fishing yesterday morning. Maude had said he was nineteen, so maybe Danna had gone to high school with him. She might know of a mutual friend who could ask him if he’d seen anything. It would be hurtful to quiz either Maude or Ron about Charles’s death while they’re grieving. Octavia surely would, no matter what.
Pancakes were next on my list. I assembled the dry ingredients for the whole wheat batter so it would be ready to mix up in the morning. Or maybe we’d do waffles instead. I used the same essential recipe, only varying the amount of milk. I’d acquired a big vintage waffle iron that cooked eight waffles at once. Unfortunately it had come with old and frayed wiring. I was a skilled carpenter, but rewiring wasn’t among my talents, so I’d asked Abe for help and luckily he’d been happy to oblige. I could serve waffles with a choice of vanilla yogurt or sour cream, and maple syrup or a frozen fresh strawberry sauce I knew was in the freezer.
All this cooking brought my seventy-one-year-old Aunt Adele to mind. She’d brought me here a year ago to see all the vintage cookware to console and distract me after my mom, her little sister, had died suddenly. When we’d found the store was for sale, Adele had encouraged and supported me every step in my project to buy and renovate the property. In October, I’d realized my dream of opening my own restaurant, due in no small part to her enthusiasm. She was currently helping set up a school library in India with her eighty-something boyfriend Samuel MacDonald. She was to be gone for a month, and I missed her.
Since Mom’s death, during tough times the first person I thought to talk with was always Adele. I couldn’
t do that now, but I could send her an e-mail. As former mayor (and fire chief) of South Lick, she would want to hear about the murder. Maybe she’d even send back some tidbit of information about Charles that would prove useful. I washed my hands and headed to the store computer at my desk tucked in a corner behind the open kitchen area. I used my phone for plenty of Internet surfing, but there was something satisfying about typing on a real keyboard and reading on a screen bigger than ten square inches. Using a big laptop set me apart from most of my peers, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t see any messages from Adele, although a new one from my father sat in the In-box. I smiled. It was still strange to think those words—my father. For twenty-seven years I’d thought I didn’t have a father. My mom had never told me about him. It was soon after I opened the store when I’d learned about Roberto, and Lou had helped me find him. I’d nervously contacted him in Italy and discovered he hadn’t known about me, either. What a joy it was when he welcomed me into his life.
We’d shared a wonderful visit at his home in Pisa after Christmas, although his daughter Graciela, my half sister, had not been as welcoming as my father, his wife, and my teenaged half brother. It must have been shocking for Graciela to learn that her father had an American child. I hoped someday I could develop a closer relationship with her.
First, I typed my message to Adele and sent it, then I opened Roberto’s e-mail. He sent news of a trip he and his wife, Maria, had taken to Greece, and asked about my business and about Adele. I frowned reading the next part.
I tried to make Graciela see she should love you, but she is still angry with me. I apologize for her childish behavior when you were here, cara.
I couldn’t do anything about my half sister. I’d never had a sibling and had been looking forward to getting to know her and my half brother, Alessandro. He’d been fun, but Graciela not so much. It certainly wasn’t Roberto’s fault. Graciela was twenty-four, a mother to a darling little boy, and wife to a very nice man who didn’t speak a word of English, unlike Graciela.
