When the Grits Hit the Fan

by Maddie Day

  It would be a pain unlocking the barn door every time I needed to get to my tools and paint, but for now the inconvenience was one I didn’t mind enduring.

  I slid the wide door shut, its antique wheels complaining in their tracks overhead. The snick of the padlock closing was a more comforting sound than I ever would have imagined.

  Chapter 25

  Back in my apartment, I jabbed END on my cell. I’d left Buck a message about the scrap of cloth I’d seen on the splinter of wood, since he didn’t pick up. I doubted the whole tunnel discovery was connected to the murder, so I didn’t want to bother Octavia. It wasn’t really police business. At least I hoped it wasn’t, but I wanted to let Buck know. Just in case.

  I stuck the phone in my back pocket. Since finding the hidden passageway, I definitely didn’t want to be without my cell.

  I grabbed a quick sandwich and a glass of milk. When I returned to the demolition project, I realized I didn’t have another padlock to go with the hasp and staple for the second-floor passageway door. But with the outer doors locked tight, including the barn’s, and the heavy table saw against the entry door on the second floor, I should be safe. Mostly.

  After I’d been prying lath off the front wall for an hour, I thought about that sound I’d heard while I was making the soup. That it was possibly caused by an intruder raised the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. I stopped and dropped my tool. Why would someone want to poke around on my second floor, anyway? It was awfully brazen to do it while I was in the building.

  Was all this connected to the murder? The timing seemed way too coincidental. The sooner I figured out who the intruder was, and if it was the same person who killed Charles, the sooner I could focus on my work. My gaze fell on the newspapers I’d discovered.

  I hurried over to the artifact table. Where was that article about underground tunnels? I found it and scanned the text. It turned out to be an instructional piece on shoring up passageways that had been built, as I thought, to connect houses and barns, including those that had also been used to hide slaves on their way north. Great. I had a hundred-and-fifty-year-old tunnel that might collapse. Unless a previous owner had shored it up. I was pretty sure Jo hadn’t. If she hadn’t mentioned the tunnel at the time of sale, I doubted she even knew about it.

  The other newspaper was the one I wanted to donate to the library—the one from a hundred years ago, the one with the library inauguration. And I wanted to talk with Georgia, anyway.

  I showered off the plaster dust and dressed, then took twenty minutes to shovel off the porch and front stairs. The snow was light and the work was a breeze compared to shoveling rubble. I walked the few blocks to the library carrying the newspaper, which I’d carefully inserted into a flat paper bag. Georgia wasn’t at the front counter. Damn. Double damn.

  A young man in a bow tie and a pink Oxford shirt tucked into tight jeans glanced up and raised his eyebrows with his lips slightly pursed. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Ma’am? He was at most five years younger than me. Or maybe ten. Well, probably not ten or he’d still be in high school.

  “Where’s Georgia?” I asked, glancing around. I didn’t add, Where the heck did they get you?

  “She’s on her lunch break, ma’am. Can I help you with anything in her absence?”

  “Do you know where she usually goes for lunch?”

  “Over to that pancake place, I think. You know, the one where the body was found.” His lips were now totally pursed, plus a bit of a curl on the left side.

  Yeah, my pancake-and-dead-body restaurant, which he’d apparently never frequented or he’d know who I was. Wonderful.

  The big clock on the wall read one-fifteen.

  “Never mind, I’ll see if I can find her around town. Thanks, anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. Good luck.”

  I turned away without responding and a moment later wandered the downtown streets looking for Georgia. For all I knew she’d gone home for lunch to visit with Orville. Or maybe she was taking some respite time for herself. With a husband with Alzheimer’s, she could well use a break. Although the sun shone, it didn’t warm the air much, but it was helping the snow melt, at least along the shoveled sidewalks.

  I approached the Jupiter Spring gazebo. Its columns, set in limestone blocks, held up an octagonal covered structure that supported a domed top. Ornate metal grillwork included the word Jupiter. The town had recently cleaned and repainted the whole thing, giving it a flavor of how it looked when it was built at the turn of the last century.

  I squinted at the figure seated on a bench outside the gazebo with her back to me. “Okay if I join you?” I asked when I got close.

  Georgia glanced up with a start. “Sure, Robbie. Plant yourself.” She scooted over to make room. “What are you doing out and about?”

  “Looking for you. I found this old newspaper in the wall of my upstairs yesterday. I thought the library might like to have it.” I sat and extracted the paper from the bag.

  She took the paper and peered at the date. “Nineteen thirteen? Nice find. You know I’m only a library aide, but I think the reference department would be happy to have the paper.”

  “And see.” I pointed. “It has an article about the founding of the library.”

  Georgia scanned the front page and smiled. “Don’t you just love the clothes back then? I’d much rather wear a shirtwaist and a long skirt. And the hats are so gorgeous.”

  “I agree.” About the hats, anyway. “Why aren’t you a regular librarian? I don’t think I’ve ever asked you.”

  “It’s called education. I went to a community college for a couple years, but I don’t have a degree in library science.” She lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “It’s okay. I love the work, and I get benefits, which Orville and I need.”

  I focused in front of us at the spot where the spring had been. The middle of the circle featured a metal sculpture with silvery cables rising up and spilling over instead of actual water. I pulled my scarf closer around my neck and turned on the bench to face Georgia. “I keep thinking about the murder.”

  She winced and averted her eyes.

  “I wanted to ask if you knew about any other people, locals, who had a beef with Charles. I can’t picture any of the so-called persons of interest actually killing him—my friend Lou, her department chair Zen Brown, Maude, Ron. None of those makes any sense. And definitely not you.”

  “You know, Chuck was very charming in public. From a distance. I think a lot of folks liked him, thought he was smart and a nice guy, but if you had any close dealings with him, whoa. Watch out. He’d stab you in the back.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “I’d seen him in action.” She glanced at me. “Not a pretty picture. Actually I think he was worse to women. Back when my Orville still was in possession of his mind, he told me he saw Chuck chewing out a lady electrician who’d done work for him, saying she charged too much. This is a well-respected lady in town, mind you. Electricians get a pretty penny for their services because they deserve it. Orville said Chuck couldn’t get away with treating a man that way or he might get slugged in the face.”

  “Interesting.” It was true. Most women I knew might argue at the time or silently stew later about such an interaction, but they wouldn’t confront a man physically. “So have the police been to see you recently?”

  She nodded slowly, looking at the sculpture in front of us. “Sounds like you know they had.”

  “Buck stopped by the store this morning and mentioned what Maude said yesterday.”

  “That woman,” Georgia said, facing me, eyes flashing. “She has the nerve. Listen, you know her. Think you could convince her to go back to the police and tell them she didn’t mean it, that she was just upset?”

  “I don’t really know her that well, Georgia.”

  She slapped her hands on her thighs. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “I’ll guess I’ll try.” I though
t about the rest of my afternoon. “I should have time to take some food by for her and Ron later. I’ll see if she’ll back off from thinking you killed her husband. The police don’t believe her, do they? That you would kill Charles to get back at her?”

  “They’re not telling me what they believe or don’t believe.” Georgia rubbed her forehead with a gloved hand. “They asked me to go down to the station after work last night, and made me meet with the lady detective. Wanda was there, too.” Georgia watched me. “I told them I didn’t kill Chuck Stilton. But I was home alone during the period when they say he died. Orville was home with me, of course, but he doesn’t have a clue what’s happening, and there weren’t any caregivers at the house Friday night. Saturday morning after the caregiver showed up I went out for a walk alone. I didn’t see nobody, so it’s my word against Maude’s.”

  “It’s a pretty outrageous claim from her,” I said. “They can’t have any evidence against you.”

  “Of course not. It’s an outright lie. But I’ll tell you, I’m not surprised. The woman has zero scruples about anything. She and Chuck were pretty well matched.” Georgia peered into the gazebo as if it was an oracle holding answers. “If I was going to kill someone? It would be Maude herself.”

  Chapter 26

  By three o’clock I was back in the store. I’d meant to buy a padlock for upstairs, but Georgia’s final comment had been so unsettling I totally forgot. At least the padlock on the barn door was still locked and secure, and I knew I’d blocked the upstairs access.

  My supplier had just dropped off the delivery. I put it way and went to work peeling garlic for tomorrow’s soup. I threw a collection of arias on the speakers at a pretty good volume and sang along, pretending I knew Italian as I worked. I was heading out to Abe’s house at six for dinner and wanted to get the soup done before I left. I was making extra to drop off a container for Maude and Ron on my way as a semblance of a condolence gesture. And maybe have a word with her about Georgia while I was there, not that I thought it would do much good.

  I minced the garlic and set it aside, then chopped the rosemary. Poor Georgia. The police interest in her couldn’t progress any further unless the real killer faked evidence, but I knew well the icky feeling of being suspected, even falsely, of a crime like murder. I still didn’t know much about the crime itself. What would evidence even be? Buck had said Charles was dead before he was put into the lake, but he hadn’t said how he died. Bashed over the head? Poisoned? Stabbed or shot? I doubted I could get Buck to tell me. Octavia was going to have to find the murder weapon, or traces of blood in somebody’s car—actual evidence. I narrowed my eyes. Was there blood on the ice near where I’d found him? No, I was sure I hadn’t seen any.

  I set the garlic to warm in olive oil and butter in the big soup pot, then added a huge can of Roma tomatoes with basil, another mega can of chick peas, the rosemary, and a bunch of stock. I put the lid on the pot and stretched my arms to the ceiling, feeling a few construction muscles I’d forgotten I had. Cooking breakfast and lunch used an entirely different set of body parts than ripping out walls and shoveling debris.

  A new sound crept into the music. I finally realized the antique wall phone was ringing. The bell gave off a harmonious analog sound, the sort of thing cell phone ring tones try to duplicate digitally but never quite get right.

  I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried to answer it. “Pans ’N Pancakes, Robbie Jordan speaking.”

  “Robbie, it’s—”

  “Hang on a sec,” I yelled. I couldn’t hear over the aria and dashed over to turn down the music. When I got back to the phone, I said, “What was that again?”

  “It’s Zen Brown. I’m on the front porch. Can I come in?”

  I heard the knock on the glass in the front door and saw her face peering in. I laughed. “Be right there.” I hung up and unlocked the door.

  “Thanks. I kept knocking, but you couldn’t hear me, so I found the store number online.” Zen’s hair, which had been gelled and spiked when I’d seen her before, lay flat on her head. While she hadn’t worn glasses on Friday or Sunday, today she sported a pair with rectangular black frames.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked. “I’m closed today, but . . .” I took a closer look at her tense face. “Just come in.”

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m making soup and it’s basically done.” I stepped back until she was inside, then I closed and locked the door. “Let’s sit down. Glass of wine or coffee?”

  Her shoulders dropped like she’d been hunching them and finally relaxed. “I’d love a glass of wine, thanks. There’s a matter I want to talk to you about.” She sank into a chair at the nearest table.

  “I’ll get the wine from my apartment. Be right back.” A minute later I poured Pinot Noir into two restaurant mugs and pushed one toward her. “Salute.” I held mine up before taking a sip.

  “That’s right. Lou told me you went to Italy recently,” Zen said after she sipped from her mug. “You found your birth father didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I mean, I wasn’t adopted, but I’d never known about my father until a few months ago.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “How’d that go? Meeting him in person.”

  Why is she asking me about my personal life? “It was pretty nice. He and I connected really well, and I have the cutest little half nephew who is three. His Italian is already better than mine.”

  “Interesting.” She lowered her head and stared into her mug like it was another universe.

  “I met my half brother and half sister, too,” I went on. “She didn’t seem particularly happy to have me there. I tried to be nice but never got through her shell.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Graciela,” I said.

  “Pretty name.”

  “I know. We share hair and skin color from our father, but she’s slimmer and taller than me, and three years younger. Maybe she’s simply used to being the only daughter. Even though she’s an adult, she wasn’t a bit friendly to me.” I was rambling. Zen surely hadn’t come to ask about my family.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “At least Alessandro—my half brother—seemed to like me. I’d never been out of the States before, and the trip kind of gave me a travel bug.”

  “Really?” Zen glanced up.

  “Really. I’m dying to see other places now,” I said. “Not that I have the luxury of closing the store and traveling again any time soon, mind you.”

  “So you’d never been to Europe.”

  I shook my head. “It didn’t happen. California was my world, with occasional trips to see my aunt out here.”

  “I’m such an academic, I travel all over the world for conferences and such.” Zen stared into her mug again. She raised her head and shook it. “I stopped by to chat with you about this murder business.”

  I’d been curious about the reason for her visit. “Kind of a scary time, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I hope I’m not imposing. I hardly even know you. Lou told me you’d solved a couple crimes in the past.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I swirled a finger around the top of my mug. “But I did find a body in my store a few months back. Not the greatest of experiences.”

  “I just came from the police station. A Detective Slade asked to interview me, and this was the first opening I had in my schedule. She wasn’t too happy about that, believe me.”

  “I can imagine. I’ve worked with her in the past. She’s tough, but in my experience I’d say she’s fair. On Sunday, Buck said they’d had trouble reaching you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I have an IU e-mail account and office phone, which are listed on the department Web site. Because I took a couple days of personal time and turned off my cell, it’s like a national emergency with these people.”

  “If Octavia was willing to wait until today, that must mean they don’t suspect you of killing Charles.” I watched her
. “Right?”

  “Of course they’re not going to tell me what they think and don’t think, but the detective certainly asked a lot of questions about my dealings with Stilton. What his performance reviews were like, how long I’d known him, what other conflicts we’d had. The works. I just left there and my appointment began at one o’clock.”

  My wall clock obligingly chimed once for three-thirty. “She was probably also asking about where you were Friday night and early Saturday, right?”

  Zen didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “And what if I don’t want to tell them?” She didn’t meet my eyes.

  “Zen, you have to. They need independent verification that you weren’t, couldn’t have been, on the lake that morning helping Charles go for one last swim in a million gallons of ice water. You might want to get a lawyer.”

  Zen swore with some emphasis.

  “You don’t want to be arrested for his murder, do you?” I asked in a soft voice.

  Her eyes wide, she finally looked at me. “Of course not.”

  “Then you have to tell them where you were.”

  “You don’t understand.” She drained the last swallow of her wine and stood. “I can’t.”

  Chapter 27

  I rang the doorbell at the Stilton house several minutes after five, my container of soup in a handled bag, along with a sack of biscuits that were still warm. It wasn’t much, but if Maude was feeling like no one in town cared about Charles’ death, it might help soothe her. The house, in a new development south of town, didn’t match its more conventionally built neighbors. It featured sleek windows and unusual convergences of roof lines. The walkway hadn’t been shoveled and I’d struggled over frozen bumps and icy patches.