Grilled for Murder

by Maddie Day

  “Perfect tree, where are you?” I called out, since I was pretty sure nobody else was around to hear me. As I ran my hand over a branch of the tree next to me, something rustled nearby. Uh-oh. Maybe there was another tree customer out here who’d heard me talking to inanimate objects. I glanced behind me but saw only trees. I stepped into the next row. Same result. Then I heard the rustling again.

  I froze, my heart thudding. Despite this pretty weather, there was a murderer out here somewhere, a killer who’d broken into my store. What if they’d followed me? What if they thought I knew something? Kill once, kill twice, what’s the difference? At least I held a big lethal weapon in my now-sweaty hand. Would I be able to use it? At five feet four I was shorter than most other adults, although I was strong from all my carpentry work and my cycling.

  The heck with finding the perfect tree. I turned in the direction of the store and safety, trying to walk without making any noise, avoiding stray branches on the ground. I was hurrying as fast as I could without actually breaking into a run when there was another rustle the next row over. I brought the saw up in front of me with extended arms, trying without success to keep them from trembling. A branch cracked.

  Abe stepped out a yard in front of me. I let out a yell.

  “Boo!” he said with a big grin, his dimple creasing his cheek.

  I swore. I dropped my arms and the saw, too. “Geez, Abe. You scared the life out of me.” I let out a big breath and patted my chest with one hand. “I thought Erica’s killer was out here stalking me. You’re lucky I didn’t swing the saw at you.”

  He held up both palms. “Sorry to scare you, Robbie. I sure didn’t mean to. I saw your van here and thought I’d see if you needed any help with your tree. Which I guess you haven’t cut yet.”

  “You scared me, all right, but I’m glad it’s you and not someone with worse intentions. There is an unsolved murder in town, you realize.”

  His expression sobered. “True. I should have thought of that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I picked up the saw. “You’re looking for a tree, too?”

  “Yep. I always get one for my grandma. Just a small little bitty one, that’s all she has room for. She’s in assisted living.”

  “Aw, how sweet.” I gazed at him. What a nice guy. I glanced around. “Hey, there it is.” I pointed.

  “There what is?”

  “My perfect tree.” And it was. About eight feet tall, of the variety I liked, with a classic cone shape. I strode over and knelt, bringing the saw to the trunk.

  “Want me to cut it for you?” Abe asked.

  I laughed. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’m a carpenter, remember?”

  “Doh. Of course.”

  “But you can hang onto the top, if you would, to make sure the trunk doesn’t bind.” The saw went through like butter. Abe kept the tree upright so the blade didn’t get stuck in the last inch, and a moment later I was standing next to my brand-new Christmas tree.

  “Let me help you walk it back, at least,” he said.

  “Cool. You take the trunk, I’ll keep the rest of it off the ground.” We headed toward the store side by side, with me gripping the slender trunk near the top. “You don’t work today, then?”

  “Nope. I was on yesterday. You know, there’s always weekend work with an electric company.” He cast me a sideways look. “Terrible news about Erica.”

  “It is. For her, for the whole family.”

  “And for you, having to find her,” Abe said in a sympathetic voice.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  “No. Buck told me the detective is talking to anyone who might have had a problem with Erica.”

  “Hope they reserved an auditorium.” Abe whistled. “I went to high school with Erica. She was always picking up a boy and then dropping him, and she backstabbed any girl who came near her. Who didn’t have a problem with Erica?”

  Chapter 10

  After I strung the garlands of greens on the railing out front of my store an hour later, I intertwined a few strings of white lights in them. Each side of the door got a wreath decorated with a fat red bow, and I stuck the tree in a bucket of water outside the service door. When I came back in, I gazed at the spot where the pickle barrel had been, and where Erica had lain.

  I ran a bucket of hot soapy water and took a scrub brush to the floor. It was a mess, with spilled pickle juice, fingerprint powder, and muddy footprints. I scrubbed until the entire area was clean, then rubbed an old towel over it. Too bad I couldn’t also scrub away the thought of someone killing Erica. The old wide pine floorboards had soaked up some of the water, but it would dry.

  The spot was clean, but it looked empty, almost forlorn. I pulled the bench that’d been next to the front door over the area, then set a wooden box on end next to it like a kind of table. I glanced around the store. What could I spread on top of the box to make it seem homey? I grabbed one of the store’s blue-and-white-striped dishtowels and spread it over the box, setting an antique cookbook on top. There. It definitely no longer looked like a murder scene.

  I took a minute to clean and rearrange the cookware wall, too, covering the spot where the sandwich press had hung and wiping off all the new fingerprint powder. As I did, I noticed something on the floor glinting in the light. I reached for the object, which was nearly hidden behind an old metal bread box, and straightened, examining it in my palm. The thing was a small brass-colored metal stick about as long as my pinky, with a little bump at the end. I picked it up with my other hand and saw it was really two things joined by a kind of hinge at their broad, flat ends so you could fold them together or extend one or the other. It looked like a tool, but I’d never seen anything like it. And I sure didn’t have the slightest idea where it’d come from, or how it got on my floor. It could be anybody’s. I wasn’t the only person who’d walked around this area.

  Or maybe the killer had dropped it. I stared at it and shook my head. This little thing couldn’t have made a wound on Erica’s head. My imagination was getting away from me. But I needed to let the police know about it, regardless. They could figure out if it was important. I slid the object into my front pocket and retrieved my phone from the back pocket.

  First, I called Octavia’s number but she didn’t pick up. Rather than leave a vague message, I called the South Lick police, instead. After I was connected with the department and identified myself, I said, “I found an object not far from where a body was discovered here yesterday.” I heard rustling and voices in the background.

  “Excuse me, what’s that you said?” the dispatcher asked. “You found a body?” The connection made her voice both tinny and rasping, and she wasn’t one of the dispatchers I’d talked to before.

  “Yes, but that was yesterday. I said I found an unfamiliar object.” I found myself slowing and raising my voice like certain people did when they addressed someone not fluent in English. “I just wanted to let the detective know.”

  “Is it the murder weapon?”

  “I don’t think so. Please let her know I have it, will you?”

  I was answered with more voices in the background, a beeping, a different tinny sound, and more rustling.

  “Sure, sure. Will do. Thank you, Ms. Jordan.” The dispatcher hung up abruptly.

  My responsibility discharged for reporting something that probably wasn’t even related to the murder, now it was time to get cooking for the Berrys. Normally I did personal cooking in my own kitchen, but today I decided to use the commercial kitchen. My own space was too small to really spread out in. After I switched on the oven, I minced an onion. I took out a bowl and used one hand to mush together the ground beef and ground lamb with some oatmeal, an egg, half ajar of salsa, and the onions. Easy peasy. I pressed it into a disposable aluminum loaf pan so the Berrys wouldn’t have to worry about returning it, covered the top with ketchup, and slid it into the oven to bake.

  As I scrubbed potatoes, I thought about wha
t Abe had said about Erica. He’d made it sound like she was disliked by everyone in the high school. Jim hadn’t said anything about going to school with Erica. Maybe his family had already moved to Chicago by then. I knew his parents lived there now. All I had to do was call him. But cheese-scalloped potatoes came first.

  I sliced the potatoes thinly and buttered another aluminum pan, this one flat and rectangular. I layered in half the slices. I minced another half onion and sautéed it in butter, then stirred in flour. I was adding the milk bit by bit to make a cream sauce when the front door opened, the cowbell jangling like an alarm. I must not have locked it again after I came in from hanging the wreaths. I whipped my head over to see Phil holding two flat, covered pans. Whew. But it was stupid of me not to have locked the door.

  “Phil, I’m glad to see you. And the brownies. Come on in. I’m making a cream sauce so I have to keep stirring.” Phil baked all the desserts for the restaurant lunches, including a killer brownie. Oops. Bad choice of words.

  Phil didn’t look his usual bright self. He set the pans down on a table and leaned his arms on the counter facing me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Sometimes the world just gets me down. First Erica slurs me, and then they suspect me of killing her.”

  “Adele told me the detective had you in for questioning.”

  “The esteemed Detective Slade. Same questions, over and over. Did anybody see you leave? No. Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts between midnight and five a.m.? No. Did you kill Erica Shermer and leave her body in the store? No. And on and on.”

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” I stirred grated sharp cheddar into the sauce, then poured half of it over the first layer of potatoes, smoothing it with a spatula. “They must not have any evidence against you or they wouldn’t have let you go, right?”

  “Right.”

  I sprinkled chopped green onions on top, then layered on the rest of the potatoes, topped it with the rest of the sauce, and sprinkled some more cheese on top. I slid it in the oven, set the timer, and glanced up at Phil, who gazed at the oven with longing written all over his face.

  “Are you drooling?” I asked with a laugh.

  “That looked so, so good.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m making it to take to the Berry family. Got a meatloaf in there, too. But I can make us sandwiches.”

  Phil whistled, his usual enthusiasm for life returning. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, I think. But seeing you put the dish together suddenly made me ravenous.” He pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing me while I worked.

  “I’m hungry, too, and it’s noon, after all.” I fired up the griddle. As I sliced cheese, I said, “So everybody is urging me to enter the Nashville Gingerbread Log Cabin Competition. What do you think? Should I?”

  “Make a gingerbread Pans ’N Pancakes? What a totally awesome idea. Want me to help?”

  “Would you? I can bake the walls tonight, but I’ll need some help assembling it. All the parts have to be edible.”

  Phil rubbed his hands together. “We can make the rocking chairs on the front porch out of black licorice.”

  “And a pickle barrel out of something, with green mini jelly beans in it.”

  “You could have a person in the doorway holding a take-out sack of biscuits. Made of real tiny biscuits.” His eyes gleamed. “We’ll have to make a template for the walls and roof. Got some paper?”

  “Of course. Over in the desk drawer. The base can be no bigger than eighteen inches square, but the house should be smaller, of course.” I watched as he brought paper, ruler, scissors, and a pencil to a table and bent over it. “The cabins are due Saturday. Think it will be too late to assemble it on Friday night?” I flipped the sandwiches.

  “Should be okay. Gives us time to get stuff together, candy and whatnot. I went to the display of all the entries last year. I have some ideas.”

  A few minutes later I set two plates of grilled ham and cheese on the table, with a pickle next to each sandwich. Pickles from ajar in the walk-in, not ones from the confiscated barrel. Octavia had insisted those be trashed, since they might have been contaminated. Which had made my stomach roil again.

  Phil pushed the patterns toward me. “See? I’ve got the front porch overhang and everything.” He pointed to a set of shapes he’d cut out.

  I leaned over and checked them out. “I love it. Exactly the right size, too.” I sank into a chair.

  Phil bit into his sandwich. “Mmmm,” he murmured as he chewed.

  I picked up mine and then laid it down again.

  “What’s wrong?” Phil asked.

  “Grilled sandwiches. Yesterday morning I realized my sandwich press was missing from the wall over there.” I pointed.

  Phil swiped a thread of cheese off his cheek. “So?”

  “It’s heavy. It has long handles. I’m afraid it was used to bash in Erica’s head. And these sandwiches reminded me of it.”

  “Ick.” He made a face.

  “Agree.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “This whole mess is like trying to work a crossword and having only half the clues. And it’s not even my puzzle to work.”

  * * *

  By one o’clock the food was cooling in the walk-in and I wore my medium-cold-weather riding clothes: long-sleeved jersey in hot pink with a wicking shirt under it, good gloves, and calf-length riding pants. It was about fifty-five degrees and the sun still shone, but cycling created its own wind chill. I promised Birdy I’d play with him when I got back. He’d probably be snoozing in a patch of sunlight outside the whole time I was gone, or doing whatever kitties do.

  After I popped my phone into the back pocket of the shirt, and added a twenty-dollar bill and my house key, I clicked my helmet onto my head and my shoes into the pedals, and headed out on the road to Beanblossom, a small town north of Nashville. I could pop in at Adele’s farm and touch base, then do a loop out to Gnaw Bone and back through Nashville.

  I wanted a good couple of hours of hard cycling. Lucky for me, it was hilly around here, and half the trip would be pumping uphill. This was not the Midwest most people imagined, with its flat plains of grain. Northern Indiana was certainly mostly flat. But lore had it the glacier had stopped moving southward at Martinsville, a small city south of Indianapolis, so the weight of the massive ice river hadn’t flattened out the hills in the bottom third of the state. Which was fine with me. My Santa Barbara upbringing always had the backdrop of the Santa Ynez mountain range rising up to the east behind the city, and the world wouldn’t seem right without contrast on the horizon.

  It took me about thirty minutes to arrive at the gravel road leading to Adele’s sheep farm. I bumped slowly along the edge of the road so my wheels wouldn’t catch in a rut. Listening to the drone of a small plane in the distance, I inhaled fresh clean air. The woods opened up to an iconic vista of a gentle sloping pasture dotted by rocks in the foreground and sheep in the distance. As I neared the cottage and modest barn behind, I spied Adele in the kitchen garden next to the house.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I called out, climbing off my cycle. I leaned it against her old Nissan pickup, unclipped my water bottle, and clomped over to the garden.

  Adele straightened, a length of white material in her hand, a Colts cap shading her eyes. “Hey howdy, favorite niece.”

  “I thought I was your only niece.” I kissed her soft cheek before stretching my arms to the sky, my muscles warmed and energized by the ride.

  “Yep.” She stretched the word out into two syllables, one going down and the next going up. “And you are. Out for a ride on the last nice day of fall?”

  Sloopy trotted up and gave me a friendly bark.

  “I hope it’s not the last one.” I leaned down and petted his head. “Hey, Sloops.”

  “Might could be. And it’s why I’m covering up my greens.” She gestured to a row of plants with half hoops of wire stuck in above them every foot or so. “I put this row cover over
and it keeps them a tad warmer. Like tucking them into bed. Won’t do anything once it gets real cold, but I’ll have eaten them all by then.”

  “Good idea.” I took a swig of water.

  “What are you up to this fine day?” she asked.

  “I just thought I’d ride over and say hi. And tell you the detective said I can go ahead and reopen tomorrow.”

  Adele pursed her lips. “I don’t like this business at all. It was plain wrong of that Octavia to haul poor Phil in there yesterday. Good thing Samuel’s on the ball. He called up a lawyer who got the boy out in a flash.”

  “Samuel’s not here?”

  “No. I don’t know where he’s at today. Probably off with those Bible buddies of his. He sure takes studying scripture serious.” She spread her hands. “Not my personal idea of a fun retirement, but he likes it. And if there’s one thing you learn about falling in love with somebody at our age, you gotta accept the other person, warts, weird hobbies, and all.”

  I nodded. “Probably wise advice for any age.”

  “You bet. Now, can I get you a snack or anything?”

  “No, but I’d take a refill on my water.” I followed her into the kitchen, which—as it often did—smelled alluringly like a bakery.

  “Got fresh bread.” Adele pointed to a loaf sitting on a board on the table.

  “Apparently. I can’t turn down a slice of your bread, can I?” I filled my water bottle and sat at the table as Adele sliced and buttered a thick slab for me.

  “Did the detective say anything else about finding the murderer?” she asked.

  I held my hand in front of my mouth. “I didn’t talk to her,” I mumbled around a mouthful of chewy, crunchy, yeasty bread, my favorite kind. I swallowed. “Buck came over to take down the yellow police tape and told me I could reopen. I only hope I don’t lose customers tomorrow because a body was found in the store. I can see how that might freak people out.”

  “Don’t worry your head. We’ll fix it if the time comes.”