by Maddie Day
A call came in, of course, right when my hands were all floured up and ready to do the quick knead of the biscuit dough. It wasn’t yeasted and didn’t need much kneading, only enough to pull the flour, butter, milk, and eggs together. I decided to finish the chore and didn’t call back until the dough was wrapped and stored in the walk-in cooler. I washed and dried my hands and checked the display. Yep, Octavia. I pressed the phone icon without listening to the message.
When she picked up, she omitted a greeting and asked, “What do you have?”.
“My assistant Danna talked to a gaming friend of Ron’s.”
“Name?”
“Jacob Brunelle. He says he was playing a violent game all night and into the morning with Ron. And that Ron didn’t tell you because a condition of his probation is that he not play that type of game.”
“Interesting. How does Danna knows these guys?”
“They all went to high school together.” Should I tell her about Zen’s alibi? I knew two secrets about her, or thought I did. Her possible relationship to Jo wasn’t relevant. But her alibi for the night of the murder certainly was.
“Octavia, I talked with Zenobia Brown this afternoon.”
The police detective swore under her breath. “Haven’t I asked you to stay out of murder investigations?”
“Listen, we were talking bicycles, okay? Zen ended up telling me about the night Charles was killed.”
“Oh?” Octavia was finally paying attention.
“Yes. She was with her lover, a woman named Karinde. Zen hasn’t come out publicly and she’s worried about her homophobic parents finding out. That’s why she didn’t tell you.”
Octavia didn’t speak for a moment, but I could hear tapping, like she was typing information. “Last name of this Karinde?”
“I didn’t get that. Zen said she left for a three-month Buddhist retreat in Massachusetts and can’t be reached.”
“Ms. Brown should have told me. I assume they have telephones in New England.”
I’d never heard Octavia so exasperated.
“I assume you’re going to tell Zen I told you. She’ll be upset, but I thought you should know.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Octavia cleared her throat. “Everything okay there at your store? You got a lock on the barn, I heard.”
“All seems secure. Thanks for asking.” I thought about my conversation with Zen. “Um, Octavia?”
“Yes?”
“If it’s possible to reassure Zen that you’ll keep her . . . you know, preferences confidential, I think she’d be grateful.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“So both Zen and Ron have alibis,” I ventured. I doubted the detective would talk with me about the case any further, but it was worth a try.
“Possibly. Depends on if they check out.”
“Any leads on the red thread from the tunnel?” I felt like I’d been seeing red everywhere since I found the scrap of cloth.
She didn’t speak for a moment. “It’s a common fabric. And a very common color, I’m afraid.”
True. Especially near a university whose colors were red and white. “Georgia told me you were going to question her husband. How did that go?”
Octavia groaned. “Nice talking to you, Robbie. Thanks for the tips.” She disconnected.
As I’d expected. My thoughts raced as I assembled the dry ingredients for the pancake batter. Zen was going to be really unhappy with me. But justice needed to come first.
I headed into the walk-in and pulled out cabbage and carrots to make a fresh batch of coleslaw, but my brain kept churning. If, in fact, Ron’s and Zen’s alibis checked out—and I didn’t see why they wouldn’t—they were out of the suspect pool. But Lou wasn’t. She had been on the lake by her own admission. Georgia wasn’t cleared, either. If anything, Ron and Zen having alibis made it look even worse for my friends.
Chapter 48
By eight o’clock I’d done all the prep I could and was back in my apartment. I ate a peanut butter sandwich, then made a cup of apple spice tea, adding a spoonful of honey and a couple glugs of bourbon. I puttered around my rooms, straightening a picture here, swiping dust off an end table there. I sat down to read the latest Louise Penny novel, but my mind was on real murder, not a fictional one in Canada.
Time to create a crossword. I’d crafted one in the fall and it’d helped my brain get organized. Working with a puzzle was the thing my mind did best. A minute later I was at my kitchen table with a couple sharp pencils, a pad of graph paper, and a ruler. On a separate sheet I wrote list headings labeled ACROSS and DOWN, and set to work. I penciled ORVILLE into the grid, wrote Georgia’s only chance at an alibi in the DOWN list, and realized I’d never talked to her after the threatened questioning of her husband. Did I even have her phone number? And did I want to interrupt my puzzling? I pulled my phone out, deciding that talking to her was more important, and ran a search on her.
I didn’t find her phone number, but I found her e-mail address on the Web site for the local chapter of an Alzheimer’s support group. I thumbed a message asking her to call if she could, or at least let me know how the questioning went. Then I added GEORGIA to the grid, too, and penciled in RON as a connector even though I knew he’d been cleared.
Hating to do it, I connected LOU going across with one of the Ls in ORVILLE, and then used the E for ZEN.
An incoming text dinged on my phone. Speaking of Lou, there she was.
Got your message. Glad all was OK.
I thumbed back. Yep. Sorry for alarm.
No worries, she responded.
You’re good?
Totally.
Hey, do you know of Legal Aid in B’ton or on campus? I tapped in. Friend here needs cheap law advice.
Will check into it.
Thx. CU.
Bye. I set my phone down. Nice of her to get back to me. I’d been fine at Zen’s, of course, but it didn’t hurt to be prudent.
I added REVENGE in the grid with an ACROSS clue of Common motive and then bisected it with ICE FISHING going down. Ice fishing. Why had Maude lied about Ron being out on the ice that morning? Surely someone would have seen him if he’d been out there. Since he hadn’t been home, maybe she was afraid he’d killed his father, and made up the ice fishing story to protect him.
MAUDE connected with the other E in REVENGE. Was revenge even the motive? The killer could have struck out of hurt, anger, or jealousy. Or the myriad other human emotions that pushed people to commit crimes. I jotted down several of those. I guessed I’d have to add JO to the puzzle, too, despite her diminutive size and advanced age. She clearly hadn’t liked Charles and knew how badly he’d treated her daughter and grandson. I stuck in OCTAVIA and connected her to JO, then added ADOPTION, too. It seemed to be integral to the lives of three of the suspects—Jo, Zen, and Maude.
What about people’s alibis? I added ALIBI hanging off ADOPTION. Ron and Zen were the only ones who could prove where they were when Charles was killed. Speaking of when he was killed, I still didn’t know exactly when it had been. If it had been in the night, wouldn’t Maude have reported him missing? Unless, as I had mused earlier, she was used to him not coming home. She’d admitted they didn’t get along well, something Jo certainly confirmed, so maybe Maude didn’t care if her husband stayed out all night. Who could I ask about it?
As I thought about that, I added CHARLES off the A of ALIBI. Seeing the A brought my thoughts to Adele. That’s who would know. It was eight-thirty. What time did that make it in India?
I tapped out a quick e-mail to her and was astonished to get a reply almost immediately. She wrote that she was up early, and that everyone knew Charles Stilton had had a series of women he’d spent time with. Unfortunately, she didn’t know of a particular one lately. Wow. What a resource she was. I thanked her and sent back a cyber hug to her and to Samuel.
I sat back and stared at my work. Interesting. Ron was the only male name in the pool of original suspects
. Other men must have been in conflict with Charles—maybe the husband of one of those women Adele referred to. How to find them? Had I asked Lou about others in the sociology department? I thought I had and she’d responded along the lines of, “Who didn’t Charles rub the wrong way?”
If I were to publish the crossword, of course, I’d have to make every word connect in two directions. The grid would need to be a standard square size. I’d add more words not part of the theme, or only tangentially, like the names of the lake and the town, and work on making the clues cryptic or indirect. Palindromes were fun to add, like PUTUP with a clue of Advance in either direction. Then I’d do the numbering, which could get tricky.
But this puzzle was only for me. And it was guaranteed to be incomplete, since I had no way of knowing who else Octavia and her team had talked to or were looking into. I laid down my pencil and finished my tea right before my phone buzzed with a call from Abe.
“Whatcha up to?” he asked after greeting me.
“I’m making up a crossword puzzle.”
He laughed. “Just for kicks? I can’t even solve puzzles and you can write them. You’re amazing, Robbie.”
“Actually I’m trying to sort out the facts of Charles’s murder. For me, seeing it all on a grid helps. Or I thought it would, anyway. I’m not coming up with any answers so far.”
“Bring it with you tomorrow. Maybe two heads will be better than one.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on the weather,” Abe said. “It looked like we were going to get more snow, but now they’re forecasting rising temperatures and rain. The driving will be a bit sloppy, but I think we’ll be okay. My parents hire a guy to plow the road after every new snowfall.”
“I’ll bring my raincoat, then.”
“Great. Pick you up at six-thirty?”
“I’ll be on the front porch. Can I bring food or drink?”
“No, I’ve got it all planned. Just bring your gorgeous self.”
I laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I am looking forward to seeing you.”
“Me, too, honey. Me, too.”
Chapter 49
Danna and I were doing our usual busy dance the next morning, me waiting tables, her cooking for the moment. Buck was in early for breakfast, as were the usual regulars and a couple of parties I’d never seen before. It was Friday, so maybe folks were starting a weekend getaway early.
Buck sat at the table closest to the grill. “Where’s me some breakfast?” he asked with a slow grin as I bustled by.
“Coming right up.”
I delivered his order of grits, pancakes, sausages, and two eggs over easy, and stopped to chat for a moment. “Any news?”
With a baleful look, he shook his head real slow as always. “Afraid not. You okay over here?”
“Thankfully, yes. The new lock is holding and I haven’t heard any strange noises.” I hadn’t checked the upstairs this morning. I’d do it later if we had our usual lull.
“That’s good,” he mumbled through a mouthful of eggs.
Zen burst through the door of the restaurant at several minutes before eight. I was on the grill by then, managing four orders of pancakes, three omelets, a row of plump sausages, and an oven full of the second batch of biscuits. She hurried to my side, fists on her waist, cheeks blazing with what looked more like anger than the effect of the cold outdoors.
“Please step back, Zen.” I glanced at her. Was that smoke coming from her ears? I guess she heard from Octavia. “You can’t be in the cook space. Board of Health says so.” I saw Buck turn his head toward us with a calm but alert look on his face.
She obliged, but angled to the side so she could see me. “Why did you have to tell her?” she asked with a hiss.
“I’m sorry Zen, but a man was killed. Don’t you think helping the detective learn the truth is more important than who you choose to spend time with in private?” The timer dinged and I pulled the pan of biscuits out, sliding them onto a rack.
Nostrils flaring, she folded her arms over her chest. “Once it’s out, it’s out. My reputation is shot and my parents will be here in person giving me hell. You have no idea how this kind of thing spreads.”
“I suppose. I’m sorry I upset you.” I wanted to shout, ‘Don’t you see clearing your name of murder is for your own good?’ but I kept my mouth shut and flipped pancakes, instead.
She tapped her hand on her arm. “Karinde is going to be furious at having her retreat interrupted, too.”
Again I felt like saying, ‘Isn’t she going to be there for three months? Will one phone call ruin it?’ But I didn’t. Maybe Zen was more afraid of angering her lover than of ruining her period of silence. As I recalled, they weren’t getting along that well when they came for lunch last Sunday.
Zen looked at the big wall clock. “Crap. I’ve got to teach at eight-thirty.”
I watched as she headed for the door. It swung open right before she got there, the cowbell announcing a new set of hungry customers. Jo Schultz walked in, followed by three other women. The four were a group of artists who occasionally came for breakfast. Jo nearly collided with Zen.
Zen reached out her arms. “Sorry. Are you all right?”
Jo nodded slowly. Zen pushed out through the door. Jo stood as if made of granite, her face toward Zen’s exit as the cowbell jangled.
“There’s a table free in the corner there, ladies,” I called to them. Had Jo recognized herself in Zen?
One of Jo’s companions elbowed her gently, and she followed them to the square table. I filled the waiting plates with orders and rang the little Ready bell.
When Danna bustled up, I said, “Swap?”
“Sure.”
“The omelets are almost ready.” I threw on a clean apron, grabbed an order pad and pen, and took the pancakes and sausages to their destination, the men’s Bible study group that usually included Samuel. We chatted for a moment about Samuel and Adele’s trip and when they’d be home, then I headed for Jo’s table.
I greeted the foursome.
“It sure enough smells good in here,” said a thin woman with a long brown braid hanging down her back. She sniffed. “Fresh baked something-or-other, meat, maple, coffee. I could live on the scents alone.” She flashed a toothy smile.
“Thanks,” I said. “We have two specials today. One is a French omelet with a mild local goat cheese, rosemary, mushrooms, and leeks, served with a croissant.”
Danna’s idea again, although we’d used frozen croissants. At least they were made by a local bakery.
“The other special is grits with cheese. Can I get you all coffee to start?”
Three of them ordered coffee, then shed their outerwear. Jo remained silent, staring at the exit. She still wore her red coat.
“I swear, Josephine, you look like you seen a ghost,” said the woman next to her, a square-jawed older woman with cropped battleship-gray hair and paint under her fingernails.
Jo swallowed and rubbed her forehead, looking up at me. “I’ll have coffee too, Robbie. Thanks.” She glanced at the door again. “Do you know who that was? The person who just left, I mean.”
“Her name is Zenobia Brown. She’s a professor at IU. In fact, she was Charles’s department chair.”
Jo must have recognized a part of herself in Zen. She’d only seen her baby for a few days, she’d said, and that was over fifty years ago. But heck, if I’d noticed the similarity, Jo certainly could have.
Jo nodded slowly. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Let me get the coffee and I’ll be back to take your orders.” As I passed Buck’s table, he held up his hand in a stopping gesture. “What was up with Ms. Brown?” he asked even as Danna slapped the bell.
“Can you hang on a sec? I have three things I have to do right this minute.” When he bobbed his head down and up once, I rushed off. I managed to juggle three omelet plates and the coffeepot. I nearly tripped on an uneven part of the old wooden floor but caught my
self. I dropped off the check for a man who’d eaten while playing chess against himself, then poured coffee for the artists.
“Do you know what you’d like to eat?” I held pen to order pad. I’d seen waitstaff who relied on memory, but I never wanted to chance that. Plus, if I wrote it down, all Danna needed to do was read it. We were definitely not part of the computerized order trend. I jotted down two French omelets with bacon and one oatmeal with fruit.
Jo hadn’t spoken.
“Jo? What would you like for breakfast today?”
She drew her head up, eyes following, like it hurt. Her eyes were moist and the corners of her mouth turned down. “I’m not particularly hungry, as it turns out.” She stood. “Girls, I’ll see you next time. Robbie, do you have a minute to talk?”
I glanced around the restaurant and gave Buck, still watching, a wait-a-minute index finger. “Sure.” I followed her out.
After the front door closed behind us, she turned to me. “That was my baby. This Zenobia is my daughter. She looks like me, walks like I used to. I know it, Robbie. I know it in my bones, in my heart.”
What was I supposed to do? It wasn’t a question of catching a murderer. Zen had confided in me about being adopted, about not feeling the need to continue searching for her birth mother, even though she’d tried to find her when she was younger. Jo had also shared with me her longing for her lost baby girl. I’d been so happy to find my own birth father last fall, so I knew the feeling.
I thought as fast and furious as I could. “That’s amazing. After fifty-some years. Are you sure?”
“I think so.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Her name is so beautiful, isn’t it? Zenobia. Zen. I named her Grace, but Zenobia is much stronger. I like that.” Jo’s smile was wan, but it was still a smile. “Do you know how I can reach her?”
I made up my mind. “She’s the chair of the sociology department at IU. I’m sure you can find her there.” I swallowed. “She was upset with me about another matter just now. If you call her, would you mind not telling her right off the bat that I gave you her contact info?”
