Grilled for Murder

by Maddie Day

  “I heard Erica had plenty of enemies. Or at least people she rubbed the wrong way.”

  Adele tapped the table with a gnarled finger. “I might have heard tell about that, myself.”

  “Jim and I were wondering if someone from her life in Chicago might have snuck into town and killed her. You haven’t seen any strangers around South Lick, have you? It’s not tourist season anymore.” The fall leaf-peeping season was huge around here, but all the leaves had lost their color and hit the ground by now.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “I don’t know why they’d leave her in my store, though.” I shook my head. “Well, I don’t know why anybody left her there, no matter where they came from.”

  “Trying to remove suspicion from themselves, I’d wager.”

  I finished the last bite of bread. “I’d better go work off these calories. Thanks, Adele.” I stood.

  She stood too, handing me my water bottle and then pulling me in for a hug. “Love you, honey.”

  “Love you, too.” I clomped out and mounted my wheeled steed. I rode off not seeing the pasture, the fence, or the fat, furry sheep now crowding behind it next to the road. All I saw was my broken door, Erica’s body, and the blank spot on my wall of cookware.

  Chapter 11

  Holding my covered aluminum pans full of food, I rang the doorbell of the Berry home at a few minutes past four thirty. I’d had exactly the long ride I’d wanted, and taken a quick shower before driving over here.

  The couple lived on the other side of town, on Beanblossom Road, and I realized I’d ridden past it this afternoon. The house was a well-maintained single-story house with a sun-room between the house and the attached garage at the left side. I knew Glen owned a couple of liquor stores in the county, and it appeared he was doing pretty well, judging by the fresh paint and what looked like a professionally landscaped yard. The front door sported a huge fresh wreath. Pinecones and gold ribbons wove through it, with orangey-red bunches of bittersweet berries popping out here and there. The day was still mild, but with only an hour until sunset, the sun had already sunk behind a band of tall trees across the road.

  A pale, slight man with thin, reddish hair opened the door. “Can I help you?” His right hand tapped his leg with a fast flutter.

  “I’m Robbie Jordan, a friend of the family, and I brought food.”

  “Okay.” He held out his arms.

  “Um, I’d like to come in and pay my respects.” I tried to peer past him. Maybe the family was too upset by Erica’s death and had asked him to play gatekeeper.

  Max loomed behind the man. “Who is it, Vince? Oh, Robbie. Come on the heck in.”

  “But I thought . . .” The man’s voice trailed off.

  “It’s fine, Vince.” Max, who towered over the man, put his hand on the door above Vince’s head and pulled it open wide.

  Vince backed up until he bumped into Max. “Sorry.” He scurried out of the way.

  “Robbie, this is Erica and Jon’s friend, Vincent Pytzynska, down from Chicago. Vince, Robbie.” Max moved to the side.

  “Nice to meet you, Vince. I’m sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.” I stepped into the front hall. From Chicago. When had he arrived?

  Vince stuck out his hand and I extended my right hand under the pans to shake it. He had a remarkably strong grip for someone so thin and nervous. “Likewise,” he said. “When I heard about poor Erica, I just had to come down. Jon and I were good friends, and now they’re both gone.” His voice shook a little as he talked.

  “I won’t stay long, but I wanted to deliver some food, and my sympathies to Sue and Glen,” I said, gazing up at Max. “And to Paula, of course. To all of you.”

  “Good of you,” Max said in a somber tone.

  “How’s Paula doing?” I asked. “Being pregnant and all.”

  His eyes softened. “My wife is beside herself with grief, but the baby seems fine. She hasn’t gone into early labor or anything like that.”

  “Paula slept over at Erica’s house, right? Did she say if she heard Erica leave the night of . . .” What was I doing, bringing up the murder? I inwardly scolded myself.

  Max shook his head, fast. “Paula’s a very sound sleeper. She doesn’t hear a thing all night.” He turned. “Follow me.”

  Vince stood back. “After you.”

  The three of us walked single file down a hall wallpapered in a floral print. Max paused at a door open to a room with a neatly made double bed and a crib in the corner.

  “Look,” Max said softly, pointing. “The guest room here is all ready for our baby.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, and Vince cleared his throat behind me.

  “Sorry.” Max laughed. “I can’t wait to be a daddy.” He turned back to the hall.

  This side of Max was very different from the irate husband and brother-in-law I’d seen on Saturday. Good for him for wanting to be a father. I hoped he’d be able to keep a handle on his temper once the baby arrived.

  In a minute we emerged into a big kitchen with a family room beyond. The kitchen island was full of dishes covered with plastic wrap and two half-demolished platters of cold cuts and breads. Three walls of windows showed leafless trees at the back border of a neat lawn, with a rectangular fenced-in vegetable garden to one side. Sue sat in the middle of a long sofa with an arm over Paula’s shoulder, and Glen paced back and forth in front of the back wall holding a small glass of something amber-colored. He whirled when I walked in, then hurried toward me.

  “Robbie. Thank you for coming by.” Glen patted my shoulder.

  “I brought meatloaf and scalloped potatoes.” I glanced around until Max shoved something over to make room for the pans on the island. I set the pans down and took Glen’s hand in both of mine. “I’m so sorry, Glen.”

  He squeezed my hand. “You found our Erica, didn’t you?” His mouth turned down under haunted eyes.

  “Yes, I did.” Sue and Paula gazed at me, too. I swallowed. Several fat, lit candles sat on a hutch in the dining room. Their scent was cloying and threatened to close up my throat. I couldn’t stand scented candles, and these exuded a thick, fruity aroma mixed with sandalwood. “I did find her, and wish I hadn’t. I mean, I wish she were still alive.”

  “She was my baby.” Glen dropped his hand, his eyes welling.

  Max took Glen gently by the shoulders and led him to an overstuffed easy chair.

  “Come on and sit down, hon,” Sue called to me from the sofa, patting the seat on the other side of her. “And bless your heart for bringing us some comfort.”

  “I don’t want to bother you all.”

  “I insist,” Sue said with a wan smile.

  I obliged. As the one who’d first seen Erica dead, it wasn’t exactly comfortable to be in the company of her family, but I’d brought it on myself by coming over. I hadn’t planned on staying longer than it took to extend my sympathies.

  “Can we get you something to drink? A can of pop, or a glass of wine?” Sue asked, patting my knee.

  “No, thanks.” Pop was another localism, what we’d called soda in California.

  Paula didn’t smile at all. She glared at me with red-rimmed eyes. Vince remained standing in the kitchen, rearranging the things on the island with quick little moves.

  “Now,” Sue said, “please tell me our Erica didn’t look like she’d suffered.” She tilted her head with pleading eyes.

  I took a deep breath. “No, she looked peaceful.” What was I supposed to say? That she’d appeared anything but? That her eyes were open, her body grotesque, her expression one of terror?

  Paula held a hand out toward Max. “Help me up, babe, would you?”

  In three steps he was in front of her, holding out his hand to her. After she stood, he put a protective arm around her waist and stroked her belly with his other hand, a tender look on his face.

  She flung off his hand. She glowered at me. “For all we know, you killed her yourself.”

  Chapter 12r />
  Sue gasped. I opened my mouth, then shut it, having no idea what to do or say. I blinked and stood. It seemed Paula and Max had exchanged roles.

  “Now, hon, don’t you be talking nonsense,” Sue said, tugging at Paula’s hand. “Robbie here wouldn’t hurt our Erica. Sit on down, now.”

  “No, Mama. I mean it. All this stuff about somebody breaking in. It was Robbie’s store. She could have broken the glass herself.”

  I shook my head. “I should go.”

  “Hang on a sec, Robbie,” Glen said, standing and holding up his hand. “Paulie, she wouldn’t have any reason to do away with Erica. She didn’t even know her.”

  “Well, who would?” Paula’s voice turned into a wail. “Who’d kill my little sister?” After she turned, sobbing, into Max’s chest, he led her out of the room.

  Sue and Glen exchanged a glance at the sound of a door clicking shut down the hall. “Robbie, we’re so sorry. We ain’t holding up too well, none of us,” Sue said.

  “But that’s the question, isn’t it?” Vince spoke up. “Who would have wanted Erica dead?”

  Glen sank down on a stool at the island and set his forehead in his hand. He glanced up, rubbing his hand all the way over his head, landing it on his neck. “Fact is, our girl made a lot of waves in this world, and they weren’t nice smooth ones, either. She sure had a knack of rubbing folks the wrong way. Right, Sue?”

  “Right.” Sue’s eyes were drawn down at their outer edges. “I don’t know what I done wrong raising her up. Paulie ain’t that way. Even as a little girl, Erica would say things to hurt people’s feelings, bless her heart. She’d manipulate situations so it was always somebody else’s fault, and she didn’t hold back none getting the news out. You must have seen her in action, Vince, being friends with her and Jon up there in Chicago.”

  “I did.” Vince took one of the stools, too. He jiggled his knee up and down with a fast movement.

  “And then in high school, whoo boy. That girl made trouble like nobody’s business.” Sue shook her head. “We thought, once she met Jon and married him, she’d smooth out, like. He was such a calm, sweet man.” She glanced at me. “Like his brother, Jim.”

  “She didn’t seem so smooth to me,” Vince said. “I was friends with Jon, you know. We worked in the same firm. But I’d go out with them sometimes. Erica was so smart, and so pretty. Jon was her slave, really. He adored her.”

  “We were so proud of her getting her master’s degree in design up there,” Glen said, a wistful note in his voice.

  “She worked hard at it. But, well . . . I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.” Vince gazed at the floor.

  But you’re going to anyway, I thought. The phrase invariably led to a negative comment about the deceased.

  “Go ahead,” Glen urged.

  “I’m afraid she flirted with me. All the time,” Vince said. “I could see it hurt Jon, so I pretty much stopped seeing them as a couple. I’d get a beer with Jon once in a while after work, but I didn’t want to go near Erica.”

  I watched Vince as he fidgeted. Why had he come down here after her death, then, if he didn’t even like Erica? It was a five-hour drive and he must have had to take time off from work.

  “We’re awful glad you came down to pay your respects, anyway, Vince,” Sue said. “You’re the only person we’re aware of who knew her up there.”

  “Jim told me his parents wanted to come down, but his mom isn’t well enough,” I said.

  Sue pushed her lips out. “I meant besides the Shermers. They called us, Robbie, and expressed their sympathies. She was their daughter-in-law, after all.”

  “Do you think someone from her past, like from high school, still held a grudge against Erica?” I asked.

  Glen spread his hands. “It’s possible. South Lick is a pretty small town. I guess I’d better let the lady detective know about Erica’s ways.”

  * * *

  I flipped on the Christmas lights in the store once I got home, a little past sunset. Their twinkling spots of cheer lightened my mood after my very unsettling visit. Paula accusing me of killing Erica. The odd, jittery Vince. Erica’s own parents saying how difficult she was.

  Shaking it off, I got busy prepping for tomorrow. First up, assemble the gingerbread dough, so it could chill for a couple of hours before I baked it. After I scrubbed my hands and pulled on an apron, I mixed up the stiff dough, marveling at the small quantities necessary to make only a single recipe. I wasn’t used to cooking regular portions anymore. I set it in the cooler, then measured out the flour for the biscuits, half whole wheat and half unbleached white, into my big stainless bowl, mixing in baking powder and salt. I sliced butter into the mix with the oversized vintage pastry cutter, pressing the U-shaped wires down again and again until the flour was the texture of coarse meal. Why would Paula have thought I might have murdered Erica? I didn’t have a reason in the world to kill her. To kill anybody, for that matter.

  Making a well in the flour, I cracked in eggs and stirred them with a fork before adding milk and grated cheddar. And then there was Vince. He said himself he didn’t care for Erica and had stopped spending time with her. So why drive all the way from Chicago after she was killed? It didn’t seem like he knew Sue and Glen previously. Wait. Jim had described someone like Vince from Jon and Erica’s wedding, so he’d at least met the family.

  I floured the big marble pastry slab and kneaded the dough only enough to bring it all together, then slid it into a clean plastic bag, sealed it, and set it in the walk-in cooler. I carried out two heads of cabbage, one green and one purple, and a bag of carrots to make a fresh batch of coleslaw for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. As I trimmed the carrots and peeled them one by one, I wondered if Octavia would check out Erica’s history back to her high school days. Abe’s story about how Erica treated people absolutely jibed with Sue and Glen’s.

  I chopped the cabbage into chunks and fitted the grater attachment onto the industrial-sized food processor. I fed the carrots in, switched to the slicing plate, and stuffed in the cabbage, watching the satisfying process of a machine shredding it all in seconds instead of me chopping it for half an hour. After scooping the mix out into a wide bowl, I assembled the dressing, adding the dollop of prepared horseradish key to the flavor of the dish. Hands were the best way to combine it all, so I scrubbed my hands again, then pushed up my sleeves, poured the dressing on, and dug both hands into the cool, mayonnaisey mix of slaw bits.

  My cell rang in my bag where I’d dropped it on the desk. Naturally, someone chose this very minute to call me. I debated for only a moment whether I should rush to wipe my hands off and answer it. Nah. If it was important, whoever it was would leave a message. Or better, text me. I scooped and tossed the salad until it was evenly coated, wishing the puzzle of who killed Erica was so easily dealt with.

  After I covered the slaw and carried it into the walk-in, I checked the wire shelves. Bacon and sausage for the morning? Check. Gallons of orange juice? Yes. I knew I had plenty of syrup, and the gravy I’d made for yesterday would still be good, both the meat gravy and the version I offered with a base of miso for vegetarians like Jim. I had fruit for the fruit salad Danna would prepare as soon as she got in tomorrow. I shivered from the cold, but kept visualizing the menu. I’d grate potatoes for hash browns in the morning. What about lunch? I had lettuce, pre-sliced cheese, veggie burger patties.... My eyes widened. I’d forgotten to order more meat for the burgers. And it had to be at least six o’clock by now, so I couldn’t call the supplier.

  I hurried out and clicked the heavy door shut after me. My stomach complained bitterly of emptiness. I’d had only a quick protein bar after my ride, and it’d been a while since my sandwich with Phil, but I made myself turn on the digital tablet and bring up the restaurant inventory app before I let myself find dinner. With such short notice, I decided to order both pre-formed beef and turkey patties as well as the five-pound amounts I usually bought, and prayed the supplier would be able to deliver
tomorrow. I preferred to form the patties myself, adding my special herb mix to the meat, which came from a local farm. Was there anything else I needed to order? I tapped in an order for a few dozen buns, just to be sure, and added a half-dozen avocados. They always arrived rock hard and needed time to ripen for next weekend’s brunch offerings. I added a rush request for delivery by eleven the next morning, even though they’d charge me extra for it. One of these days I’d get more organized.

  The ordering done, I wiped down the counters and cleaned everything I’d used, then I grabbed my bag and headed into my apartment. I decided to keep the holiday lights on all night. They looked so pretty and festive, and they might signal to the town things were back to normal at Pans ’N Pancakes.

  “Hey, Birdy,” I said to my little, uncomplicated friend. He ran to his empty food dish, and then wove through my legs, mewing his request: Please give me my dinner, already. I scooped his food into his dish and made sure he had clean water.

  But what was I going to have for dinner? I pulled open the fridge to see pretty slim pickings. The older coleslaw. A carton of eggs. The dregs of ajar of pesto. Half a container of goat cheese. And a loaf of sourdough bread. The chef didn’t seem to be taking very good care of herself on the home front. I rubbed my forehead. It was hard to manage a restaurant and a half-decent personal life, too. I pulled it all out and resolved to go to the grocery store tomorrow afternoon.

  One pesto-goat-cheese-omelet with toast and coleslaw later, I sipped a glass of Pinot Grigio and played with Birdy. I swung a toy mouse I’d hung on a string from a dowel, like a fishing rod. Birdy watched it, then sprang up over and over trying to catch the mouse, which I kept just out of reach. When he grew tired of the game, I pulled out my phone. The image of Vince kept jumping into my brain just like Birdy’s leaps, and I wanted to know more about him. Max had told me his last name, and as I recalled it was something like Pitsinski. I started searching, but it definitely wasn’t that spelling, so I started subbing in other likely vowels and consonants. I’d entered Vincent Pytzynski Chicago when Google asked me if I meant Pytzynska. Aha.