by Maddie Day
“Of course.” I wandered over and studied the wall.
“I’ll get evidence techs out there today. You’ll be in the store?”
“I’m leaving at five, but I’ll be here until then.”
“Hang on a sec, Robbie.”
I heard a voice in the background and Octavia’s muffled voice. I waited.
“Sorry,” Octavia said when she came back on. “I’ll get someone over there before five, then.” She cleared her throat. “Lieutenant Bird wants me to let you know we have Philostrate MacDonald here for questioning. I’m telling you against my better judgment, as a favor to the local force.” The tension in her voice was as taut as a new blade on a coping saw.
“Phil? Why in the world? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“He was seen leaving the store late last night.” She clipped her words, pronouncing each word separately, articulating every final T.
“I told Wanda he’d offered to clean up after I went to bed, didn’t I?” This was outrageous.
“I’m not sure that was in Officer Bird’s report, no. But you did tell her Phil was upset by a racist remark the victim made to him.”
“Sure. Wouldn’t you be? He wouldn’t kill her for that, though. And besides, he has a key. Why would he break the glass in the door to get in?”
“To throw us off his trail could be a reason. Anyway, I have to go.” She disconnected the call.
I stared at the phone. Not Phil. Never Phil. What could I do to help him? I was suddenly not much in the mood for cheerful holiday decorations. I pressed Adele’s number, and after several rings she answered in a breathless voice.
“Sorry, I was outside,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Phil is at the police station being questioned by the detective. About the murder.” I paced to the boarded-up door and back to my pile of decorations.
“That’s just plumb wrong.” She made a tsking sound. “I’ll tell Samuel. He’s right here.”
“Think Phil needs a lawyer?”
“He might could. Don’t you worry a whit, hon. We’ll take care of him, Samuel and me.”
“Okay.” I thanked her and disconnected. I paced some more, the length of the store and back. I hated feeling helpless, but I’d done all I could, so I might as well decorate. Having busy hands sometimes let puzzle-solving thoughts into my brain, too. And if ever there was a puzzle that needed to be solved, it was the question of who really killed Erica Berry Shermer. Because I knew as sure as I was a Californian that Phil didn’t. I called and left him a message on his cell, asked him to call me back. I almost said more, but disconnected. We’d talk later.
Wincing at the sight of the plywood, I dragged over the stepladder and looped the first string of lights over the front door. I’d asked at the store if I could order new glass today, but they’d said Don, the owner, had to do the ordering and he didn’t come in on Sundays.
I plugged another string into the first one and stretched it between the windows and on top of the window frames, adding more strings as I went, until I reached the end of the front wall. I knew Phil hadn’t killed Erica—didn’t I? I was as sure as I could be. He was a gentle, generous, fun-loving soul. So who was the real murderer? Erica and Tiffany had argued, but it wouldn’t make sense for Tiffany to kill someone she’d accused of stealing, not if she wanted to get her jewelry back.
I started stringing lights on the other side of the door until I got to the cookware area. That part would have to wait to be decorated until the evidence people were done with it. Max had seemed angry with Erica for taking Paula’s side. Surely not mad enough to kill her, though. Maybe the murderer was somebody in Erica’s past. Or someone who’d followed her here from Chicago. I’d ask Jim tonight if he knew anyone in Erica and Jon’s group of friends or business associates. I couldn’t remember what Jim had said his brother did for work, if he even had. Jim had spoken only once to me about his brother’s suicide. He’d said losing his twin was like losing a chunk of himself, and that he’d had no idea Jon was that despondent. Or why he would be.
I inserted the last plug for the lights into a wireless device and plugged the device into the wall. I stepped back and flipped on the switch. The sight of all the little white lights did, in fact, cheer me. I turned to the kitchen area and hung green garlands under the counter and over the door to the walk-in, adding a red bow here and there to brighten them. All I needed was a model train set running around an oval in the front window, with tiny snow-covered houses and a miniature Pans ’N Pancakes in the center of town.
I wasn’t particularly religious, but I loved the Christmas season, especially here in the Midwest where the days were short and the temperatures chilly. Christmas in Santa Barbara, where I’d grown up, was a different experience altogether. Mom and I had usually taken a Christmas brunch picnic to the beach and soaked up some cool sunshine while we celebrated. Once, when I was eight, we’d come to Indiana to spend Christmas with Adele. It had snowed on Christmas Eve, and I couldn’t believe I was seeing the winter wonderland I’d only read about in books. At home the winter air smelled of orange blossoms and sea breezes. Out here? The crisp taste of apples and the sharp smell of snow were more the order of the day.
* * *
After I finished decorating, it was still only two o’clock. I looked around the store. Normally at this time of day on a Sunday the restaurant would be full of hungry folks taking a late lunch or even brunch, since I served breakfast all day. I always tried to include something brunchy like Santa Barbara-Style Eggs Benedict or Herbed Waffles with Cheese Sauce on the Sunday Specials chalkboard. But now, with no customers and with yellow police tape keeping them away, I was too antsy thinking of Phil down at the station to simply sit and read. I’d been meaning to clean the walk-in cooler, though, and there was no time like the present.
I turned the temperature to Off and propped open the heavy door. The cold air flowing out from the cooler was going to chill the store, so I also turned the store thermostat down to fifty-five, and then grabbed a heavy sweater from my apartment. Who was going to care if it was cold? The evidence team were the only people I expected, and they probably worked in all kinds of conditions. I ran a bucket of warm water, dissolved baking soda in it, grabbed a big sponge, and headed in.
The metal shelves were wire racks, not solid, so they were easy to swab off. I worked vertically, shifting boxes and containers to the side so I could clean the racks from top to bottom. Poor Phil, I thought as I worked. Hadn’t I told Wanda about him offering to clean up and getting the guys to help him, Abe and the harmonica dude? I thought I had. And who would have reported seeing Phil leave the store at midnight? South Lick wasn’t exactly known for being a hotbed of nightlife, having only one establishment that stayed open past ten at night, and that was a bar across town. Cars going by my store at midnight were as rare as a decent tomato in November.
Frustrated, I shifted a box with a little too much force and it fell onto the floor, spilling the green and red peppers I used for omelets onto the concrete floor. I cursed as I knelt to pick them up. The non-melodious doorbell at the service door made its two-toned sound before I was finished. I hurried to it and then paused. I knew the team was supposed to be coming. But there wasn’t a window or even a peephole to look out at whoever pressed the bell. And a killer was out there somewhere. I hurried to the front window to see a state police car parked outside. I laughed and shook my head. Like a murderer was going to ring a doorbell. I pulled open the service door to see two of the blue-uniformed guys who had been here this morning.
“State police evidence team, ma’am.”
“Come on in,” I said. “I’ll show you where I found the tool missing.” I led them to the wall and pointed. “That’s where the sandwich press was. You can see the mark on the wall.”
“You haven’t touched the wall or the shelving?” the taller one asked.
“Not since I hung the press up there last summer. I ran a duster over it a few times since I opened in ea
rly October, but I didn’t touch any of it today.”
“When’s the last time you saw the object?”
“Actually, last evening. I know because someone asked me what it was.”
“Name?”
“My name? I’m Robbie Jordan. I thought you knew—”
“No, ma’am. The name of the person who asked you about the press.” He drew out a notebook and a pen.
“It was Tiffany Porter. She loves antique cookware as much as I do.”
He looked down his nose at me, and then jotted her name in his book. “She a local?”
“She owns a gift shop in town. I don’t know if she lives right in South Lick or not, though.”
“Got it. We’ll get to work now. I understand you have to leave in two hours, at seventeen hundred?”
“No, at . . .” I cocked my head. Oh. Military time. I did the math. “Yes, that’s right.”
“We’ll be done by then.” He turned away.
I thanked him and got back to my job in the cooler. I finished at about the same time the officers did, and managed not to groan at all the new fingerprint powder they’d left. I locked the service door after them, put away my bucket, and headed into my apartment to figure out what I owned to wear that was suitable for contra dancing. As I stared into my closet, my cell rang from the other room. I dashed in and connected.
“Robbie, hon,” Adele said. “Phil’s home again. Samuel got him the best lawyer in town. They didn’t arrest him or anything.”
“What a relief. Thanks for letting me know. So they didn’t have any real evidence against him, right?”
“Not that they told us. Now, what are you doing tonight? Want to come by for a bite of dinner?” she asked.
“I actually have a date for dinner and contra dancing.”
“With your Jim, I assume?” Adele’s voice held the sound of a smile.
“You got it. He said contra is fun, that I’ll be able to learn how to do it, and that I don’t need a special outfit.”
“I’ve been plenty of times. You’ll love it.” She blew me an audible kiss and hung up.
It would take a lot of fun to get my brain off the puzzle of an unsolved murder, but if anybody could do it, it would be the green-eyed dancer. Jim and I were still figuring out our relationship. I liked him, and he was cute to the point of hot. But I’d been so burned by my rotten ex-husband in California, I still wasn’t quite sure how entwined I wanted my life and Jim’s to be. Luckily, he wasn’t pushing me to commit to anything.
Now for my closet. I dug around, finally locating a knit dress in a bright flowered print, with short sleeves and a flared skirt that flattered both my slender waist and my ample hips. I could pair it with leggings and a light sweater I could always shed if, indeed, I grew hot contra-ing. Dancing with Jim usually heated me up, anyway, so his caution about wearing layers hadn’t really been necessary.
Chapter 8
I studied the menu at the Uptown Cafe. After Jim had picked me up, he’d admired my swingy dress. Guess I nailed that one.
“Ever eaten here?” Jim asked. We were there early before the dinner rush, and it was Sunday, but all the barstools behind us were full and other customers clustered standing around it, holding drinks, talking, laughing. I’d never been to Bloomington on a Sunday at happy hour.
“No. What do you recommend?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. I’d chosen to wear it down, since I never got to at work, and I loved the feeling of my full-bodied curls hanging loose and bouncy. It was kind of a pain to keep it long, what with how much time it took to shampoo and comb it out. I gladly spent the time for evenings like this, letting my hair do as it willed and being able to savor the sensation.
“Check out the section called Cajun-Creole Cuisine.” He pointed to my menu. “That’s my favorite. In fact, I already know I’m going to have the gumbo.”
“Ooh, shrimp and grits sounds yummy.” I read from the menu, “Jumbo shrimp and andouille sausage, atop cheddar cheese jalapeño grits. That’s what I’m having.”
“The grits are pretty spicy.” Jim closed his menu and smiled. His pale green long-sleeved shirt matched his eyes, which also smiled.
“I can do spicy. I’m a California girl, remember? I grew up on chilies.”
The waiter wandered over looking very much like a college student, with a pierced eyebrow and bleached-blond hair slicked to a kind of Mohawk peak atop his head.
“What can I get you tonight?” he asked.
I told him I wanted the shrimp and grits.
“I’ll have the gumbo,” Jim said, handing him his menu.
“Want that Hoosier style?” the waiter asked.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Jim laughed. “It means with mashed potatoes instead of rice. No,” he said to the waiter. “I’ll take it Louisiana style. And can we get some bread to start?”
The waiter gave a thumbs-up as he collected my menu, then turned away.
I leaned in toward Jim. “Who ever heard of mashed potatoes and gumbo?” I asked him.
He grinned. “People from Indiana, that’s who.” He tasted the beer in a full pint glass. “Man, this is good. Want a taste?”
“No, thanks. Beer doesn’t go so well with Pinot Noir.” I sipped my wine. “I’m surprised I’ve never been to this restaurant before. Although I think I might have met one of the chefs when I cooked at the Nashville Inn.” I’d been chef at the inn for three years, cooking and saving as much money as I could to open my own place. I gazed at him. “I heard some bad news this afternoon. The police took Phil in for questioning about the murder.”
“Phil?” His eyebrows went halfway up to his red hair.
“My reaction, exactly.” I shook my head. “They totally have it wrong. Luckily, Adele called later on and told me Samuel had hired a really good lawyer. The police let Phil go. Or Octavia did, more likely.”
Jim looked away as if studying the bar running the length of the room behind me. He rubbed his thumb over his fingernails as he always did when he was thinking.
I watched him, my radar activated. “So how do you know Octavia?”
He looked at me. “We dated for a while. In our twenties, so ten years ago or so.”
Aha. “Nothing wrong with that. But you seem kind of, I don’t know, like there’s more to the story.”
“There is.” He sipped his beer, looking anywhere but at me. “But I don’t want to talk about it now, if it’s okay with you.”
The waiter returned with a basket holding a sliced baguette and a little dish of butter. I buttered a piece and took a bite, savoring the crusty, chewy loaf. What had gone on with him and Octavia he didn’t want to talk about?
“So who do you think would have killed Erica?” I asked after a couple of minutes of neither of us speaking, only chewing and sipping in silence.
Jim finally glanced at me with a look of relief like he’d been rescued from circling sharks. “Good question. There was the flare-up with Tiffany Porter, but I don’t know why she would have killed Erica for stealing from her.”
“What about somebody from Chicago? I was thinking about Jon,” I said, reaching across the table for his hand. “Maybe somebody from their life up there had a grudge against Erica.”
He gazed across the room and then back at me. He squeezed my hand before letting it go. “Interesting idea. I’m not sure how to find out. I was at their wedding, of course, but so were two hundred other people. They held it at the Story Inn, four years ago.” He smiled as if at the memory. “What a day that was. Perfect June weather. Her family rented the whole place for the weekend. Have you ever been there?”
“I’ve eaten in the restaurant a couple of times but never stayed in one of the rooms.” The Story General Store, now an inn, was in the little town of Story, south of Nashville, and the business had bought up all the buildings in the town center.
“They also rent out the cottages on the property, not only the ones above the dining room,” Jim said. “I heard it
was a couple of dropped-out grad students who originally bought the store and fixed it up, and then gradually turned it into an inn serving gourmet dinners.”
“That’s right. The decor inside gave me some ideas for my store and restaurant. I’m actually hoping to renovate the upstairs rooms in my building for my own bed-and-breakfast. If I ever find the time.”
“That’s a good idea. I remember you said that when you made the offer on the property. Anyway, some of Jon and Erica’s Chicago friends came down and stayed in a couple of the cottages. Erica was high on being a bride, of course. I didn’t see anybody not getting along. I suppose someone with a grudge against Erica might not have been invited, though.”
“You must have visited Erica and Jon in Chicago.”
“A couple of times. Not enough. That reminds me. I spoke with my folks. They wanted to come down for whatever services the family holds, but my mom isn’t well enough. She’s still healing from breaking her hip last month.” He drank from his beer, then set it down. “I’ll have to think back on who I met at the wedding. There was one guy, kind of pale and nervous, but I can’t remember his name. He and Jon were friends. I can ask Paula, too, what she knows about their acquaintances.”
“How about a work conflict? What did Jon do for a living, by the way?”
Gloom settled on his face. “We both went to law school. I chose real-estate law, but he was a criminal lawyer.”
“Being a criminal lawyer must be a hard occupation, whether prosecuting a criminal or defending one.” It suddenly occurred to me that maybe someone from one of Jon’s cases had killed Erica to get revenge on Jon, even though he’d been dead for a year.
“He was just getting established when . . .” Jim fell silent.
“I’m so sorry, Jim.”
He gave me a wan smile. “It still seems so fresh. And so confusing. He had a great life, loved his work, doted on Erica even though she could be a handful, as you saw last night.” He shook his head. “And then he shot himself. I didn’t get it then and I don’t get it now.”
