Grilled for Murder

by Maddie Day

  “Not so sure they’re famous, but you’re welcome to come and sample what we serve.”

  “Whole-wheat banana walnut flapjacks? That’s my kind of breakfast.” She glanced back at the group. “Sorry about the commotion. I’m chair of the department now, and it’s like wrangling cats sometimes to get these people to act civilly.”

  “It’s okay. As long as I get paid and people don’t start a food fight, I don’t really care how they get along.” I’d happily agreed to Lou’s idea of the dinner meetings. I’d only opened my country store breakfast-and-lunch place in October and hadn’t realized how slow business would be during the winter. It was cold and often snowy here in the hills of southern Indiana, but most years not snowy enough to bring a winter tourist trade. Even the locals seemed to be staying home instead of eating out. I’d reduced the days I stayed open to Thursday through Sunday to save money on my assistant Danna’s pay and to keep from ordering food that spoiled because it didn’t get used. So the boost of a nice flat sum every Friday night was definitely helping the bottom line. I served the same dinner to everybody and so far no one had complained.

  I loaded up two platters of brownies and took them to the table, which I’d created by shoving together smaller tables into a conference table–sized surface they could all sit around. “Coffee or tea, anyone? Or decaf?”

  “I’m sticking with wine,” Charles said, pouring the last of his bottle of Merlot into his glass. “Which I can because I’m walking home,” he added in a defensive tone.

  I knew he lived half a mile away right here in South Lick. I thought most of the other students and faculty, like Lou, resided nearer the sprawling flagship Indiana University campus fifteen miles away in Bloomington.

  “So great you got permission for us to do the BYOB thing, Robbie,” Lou said, now back in her chair, pouring a half glass for herself from a bottle of white. “Dinner’s not really civilized unless you can drink wine with it. And I’m having more because I caught a ride with teetotaler Tom over there.”

  Tom, a fellow grad student with Lou, ginned and waved.

  “As long as I’m not a licensed alcohol establishment, which I’m not, it’s apparently legal. And as long as you also pour your own.” I’d laid in a supply of stemless wineglasses and a few corkscrews when I’d learned I could allow customers to bring bottles of wine. Nobody had asked yet if they could carry in beer or hard alcohol, which was good, because my research hadn’t extended that far. I didn’t advertise the option, and I wasn’t usually open for dinner, anyway, but several times a group of ladies had brought their own wine for a special luncheon, as had an elderly local couple celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary with lunch out instead of dinner.

  Lou tilted the bottle at Zen’s glass. “More?”

  I noticed Lou was carefully avoiding any interaction with Charles, wisely so. He was still deep in conversation with the man next to him, and Lou had been talking with Zen and Tom.

  Zen covered the glass with her hand. “Not for me, thanks. One glass is my limit. I’m training for a marathon. But I’d love some decaf, Robbie.”

  So that was why she was so wiry. I was a serious cyclist, myself. It was how I’d met Lou and Tom, in fact, who also loved riding for miles up and down the scenic hills of Brown County. But my cycling habit was offset by my love of eating. Nobody would ever call me wiry and I didn’t care. I was healthy, and I did have a nicely defined waist to offset my generous hips.

  I took the rest of the hot drinks orders. After I delivered the mugs, I busied myself cleaning up. It was already eight-thirty and I still had prep to do for tomorrow. We’d agreed on a finish time of nine o’clock for these gatherings. I was up every morning by five-thirty to open the doors by seven, so I didn’t want Friday nights to turn into an open-ended session of wine sippers sitting around talking abstractions.

  The discussion had turned to the topic of public health, which apparently wasn’t as controversial as the conversation between Lou and Charles had been, and didn’t seem abstract at all. Snippets of talk about social change in women’s paid and unpaid work and the consequences of these changes for women’s health floated my way. Zen seemed to be leading the discussion, while Charles sat back with his arms folded, a little smirk on his face. I carried the remains of the rotini and the salad into the walk-in cooler. When I came out, eggs and milk in my arms for tomorrow’s pancake batter, the mood had changed.

  Zen stood with her hands on her hips. “How dare you say that to me?” Her eyes narrowed and nearly shot daggers at Charles.

  He shrugged, then grabbed his coat. “You can take it. You’re our esteemed chair, aren’t you?” He sauntered toward the front door. “Have a nice night, fellow sociologists.”

  The cowbell on the door jangled his exit, but it looked like Zen’s nerves were a lot more jangled.

  * * *

  By nine the next morning the restaurant was blessedly not in a slump. For once every table was full and a party of three women browsed the antique cookware shelves as they waited for seats to open up. Good. I’d much rather be too busy than sitting around waiting for customers.

  Between hurrying from table to table, taking orders and clearing, I glanced at Danna, the best nineteen-year-old co-chef I could imagine. Her titian dreadlocks hung down her back, today tied with an orange band, as she flipped pancakes, turned sausages, and expertly ladled meat gravy on hot biscuits. The girl was tireless, nearly always cheerful, and had contributed some innovative ideas for extras to accompany our usual menu. She’d made grits with cheese last Saturday and we’d sold out. Today the Specials chalkboard read, “Warm Up Your Tootsies Omelet: roasted red peppers and pepper jack cheese, served on a warm corn tortilla and topped with fresh jalapeno salsa.” It was Danna’s invention, even though as a native Californian, I might have thought of it myself.

  “You good?” I called to her.

  She returned a thumbs up, so I continued on my trajectory to three men with the ruddy faces of those who spend a lot of time outdoors. I didn’t know if they were farmers, construction workers, or even electrical linemen like my new sweetie, Abe.

  “Refill, gentlemen?” I held out the coffee pot. One covered his mug with his hand, but another smiled and nodded. The third had pushed aside a plate empty except for a small pool of gravy and was engrossed in the New York Times crossword puzzle. He was doing it in ink. My radar went up, since crosswording, in ink, was my favorite down-time occupation, bar none, even more than cycling.

  “Today’s?” I asked him, sidling around to his side of the table. “I haven’t gotten to it yet.” I smiled when he glanced up.

  “Know what the biggest Channel Island is?” He frowned at the paper. “I don’t even know what channel they’re talking about.”

  “How many letters?”

  “Nine. Could be the British Channel. How do you spell brek-how?”

  “You mean Brecqhou? That’s only eight letters. I’ll bet it’s Santa Cruz. Try that.”

  He added those letters, nodding as he did. “That’s it.” He gazed up at me. “So it must be the California Channel Islands. How did you know?”

  I laughed. “I grew up across from Santa Cruz Island, in Santa Barbara. It’s definitely the biggest one of the archipelago, and it’s gorgeous on a clear day, like seeing the top of a mountain range pushed up from the ocean. Which I suppose it is. They’re all gorgeous: Anacapa, Santa Rosa, San Miguel, even tiny Santa Barbara Island.”

  “Sounds like you miss them. Well, thanks, Ms. Jordan. I appreciate the help.” He chuckled. “Thought I was just coming in for biscuits, gravy, and bacon.”

  “My pleasure. Will that be all today, guys?”

  When they each nodded, I slid their ticket onto the table facedown and headed for another table. The cowbell on the door jangled and I turned my head to see Maude Stilton holding the door for her tiny mother, Jo Schultz. I’d bet Jo was all of five feet when she stood up real straight, although Maude was a good five or six inches taller.
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  “Come on in, ladies,” I called, and headed that way, instead.

  Jo, the former owner of my building, handed her red wool coat to Maude and sank onto the bench. “Hi there, Robbie,” she said. “How’s my store?” She smiled, further creasing her deeply lined face. She always wore her white hair in a bun on top of her hair, giving her an even more old-fashioned look than her almost seventy years would suggest.

  “It’s good. And busy this morning, as you can see.” I gestured behind me. “I’m sorry you’ll have a little wait, Jo, but I’m glad to see you.” I greeted Maude, too. “There are two parties before you. Breakfast usually turns over pretty fast, though.”

  “Not a problem, Robbie,” Maude said. “Glad you’re busy.” Maude, a successful local architect and Professor Stilton’s wife, didn’t look a bit old-fashioned. I thought she was probably over forty. Barely a line showed in her face, though, and every time I’d seen her, her streaked chestnut hair was freshly colored and cut in an elegant layered style that fell between her ears and her shoulders. She slid out of a stylish electric blue coat and hung it on the coat tree with Jo’s.

  “It’s looking real good in here,” Jo said. She might look like an older lady, but both her mind and her eyes were clear and sharp. My aunt Adele was only a few years older, and she was certainly sharp, too. “You done a good job with the renovations. And I’ll bet you’re glad not to be involved in any more murders.”

  “You can say that again.” I shuddered inwardly at the memory of being face to face with a killer right here in my store at the end of November. “It’s been nice and quiet for three months, and I’m planning on it staying that way.”

  “Say, you ever get a chance to work on the upstairs like you said you were wanting to?”

  Danna dinged the little bell indicating an order was up. I swiveled my head in her direction and caught an annoyed look. Busy like we were, I had no business standing here chatting up an old lady.

  “Gotta run, Jo,” I told her. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I ran my butt off for the next half hour, clearing, taking orders, and serving up platters of tasty, filling breakfasts. By the time I delivered an egg white omelet, with dry toast and a bowl of fruit for Maude and a half order of banana-walnut pancakes for Jo, it was almost thirty minutes later and the crush was over. Three tables were empty and four others already had their checks.

  “Whew. Sorry that took so long,” I said, setting down their food. “Can I top up your coffees?”

  “No thanks,” Jo said.

  Maude nodded. “Please. And I ought to bring some to Ronnie. He’s out ice fishing all day, and being nineteen, did he think to bring a thermos of something warm to drink? No, he did not.”

  “That’s one cold way to have fun,” Jo said. “But he’s my grandson. I expect he has a mind of his own, and right that he should.”

  “I helped him bring his equipment onto the lake this morning when I dropped him off. You wouldn’t catch me sitting on a bucket all day long hoping to catch a couple of perch or bluegill.” Maude raised perfectly arched eyebrows and shook her head.

  I didn’t really want to get involved in a question of what a suitable day’s entertainment for someone Danna’s age was, but I was a little surprised Ron didn’t have a weekend job to go to. “Jo, you were asking about the upstairs,” I said. “I’ve been working on it this winter. So far I’m still in the demolition phase.”

  Jo seemed to shrink into herself a little, but she mustered a smile. “That’s nice. I know you want to make the place into an inn, like.”

  “I’m sorry.” I cringed at my thoughtlessness. “That’s not very nice of me to mention the demolition. You used to live up there. It’s just that I wanted a different configuration of walls than you had.” And insulation. And modern wiring. And a myriad of other improvements.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Maude said. “We knew you were going to renovate the second floor, didn’t we, Mom?”

  “Of course.” Jo’s smile brightened. “I’m glad you’re going to improve it. The place got pretty run down, I admit.”

  “If you need a consult on the new design, my office is just above the bank.” Maude’s mouth smiled, but not the rest of her face. “I’d be happy to take a look one of these days.” She kept smiling as she talked.

  I don’t know why it was, but people who smiled while they were talking had always struck me as insincere. “I’m finding some interesting things in the walls,” I said.

  Maude, who had a bite of omelet halfway to her mouth, halted her fork and tilted her head and eyes toward the ceiling.

  “I’ll bring them by for you to look at one of these days, shall I?” I asked Jo.

  “Please, dear. Please do.” She glanced at her plate. “Oh, don’t these flapjacks look yummy, Maude?”

  Maude blinked a few times, and stared at her own plate. “Absolutely, Mom. They sure do.”

  * * *

  Lou and I clipped our snowshoes onto our boots at the back of her little SUV in the Crooked Lake lot off Route 135. Only one pickup truck also sat in the lot, likely a late-day ice fisherman. I’d driven by in the morning on one of my days off last week and the lake had been full of guys sitting on low stools watching the flags they set up to indicate a nibble. Others were twisting giant augers to drill new holes or hauling up a wriggling fish. I ought to see if I could buy a supply of catfish or whatever they were catching for next week’s dinner, or even for a lunch special.

  Now we still had three hours of light before sunset at 6:30, and I needed to get out and stretch my legs in some fresh air. When I’d called Lou to propose an outing after the store closed, she was as eager as I was, and had picked me up. Winter can be a long season for cyclists when ice and snow make biking outdoors a real pain.

  “You can almost taste spring,” she said with a grin. “Look how much light is in the sky.” She wore a cone-shaped purple and pink knitted hat with ear flaps along with a breathable pink jacket and stretchy black pants

  “It’s only a month until the equinox.” I tugged my own striped knit cap down around my ears. My jacket was blue but my double-layer pants looked just like hers. “Funny how in late August this much light just seems sad, like summer is over. But now? It means the snow’s going to be gone one of these days.”

  The path down to the lake had been trampled flat by dog walkers and fishermen. We grabbed our poles and set out on the trail around the lake. Other hikers and snowshoers had broken trail, so we weren’t floundering through two feet of white stuff. We both wore modern metal and plastic snowshoes instead of the traditional ones made of wood with the long point at the back. I didn’t see any point in not having good gear.

  “You lead the way.” I pointed with a pole. “Your legs are a lot longer than mine and I don’t want to hold you up.” I followed her as we trudged into the woods. It was a little tricky not to step on your own shoe, especially if you had short legs. I had to adopt a wider stance than I normally walked with.

  “I already had one run through here early this morning,” Lou said over her shoulder. “It’s a great place to exercise.”

  “You went running in the woods?” I asked.

  “Sure. Didn’t see a soul except when I did a loop on the lake.”

  “It’s so pretty in here,” I said. “We don’t have snowy woods in California. At least not in my part of the state.” The sun filtered through the trees and scattered sparkling light on a set of tracks that paralleled our trail for a few yards.

  “Yeah, but you have the Pacific Ocean. And great wines.”

  “I’ll say.” Which I wouldn’t mind a glass of when we were done here.

  “Want to sprint?” Lou flipped a grin over her shoulder, then set off running, the snowshoes fwapping behind her.

  “Are you kidding?” This was only my second time out on the contraptions. But hey, I didn’t have strong cyclist’s quad muscles for nothing. I gave it a try, lifting my knees and pushing off. I been at it for on
ly a couple of minutes before I tripped. I yelled on the way down and nearly face-planted. “Yo, Perlman,” I called.

  Lou stopped, turned around, and fwapped back to me. She extended her pole. “Here, pull yourself up.” She clearly tried not to laugh, but a snort slipped out.

  “It’s not really that funny.” My own giggle made a liar out of me as I managed to get vertical again. I brushed the snow off my jacket and legs. Leaning on my poles, I shook the white stuff out of first one snowshoe then the other. “Okay if we just walk? My legs aren’t as long as yours.”

  “Wuss.” She stood there grinning.

  “Show-off.”

  “Scaredy-cat.”

  “Jock.” I tramped around her. “I’m going to lead now.”

  “Whatever you say, Shorty.”

  As we tramped along, I spied a pileated woodpecker through the trees and pointed out its tall black-and-white body with the distinctive red crest to Lou. She talked to me about her plans to attend an academic conference in Sweden in April. We continued in silence for a little longer, the only sounds the noise of our footwear and the crunch of the snow underneath.

  “What was up with you and Charles Stilton last night?” I asked.

  “He’s unscrupulous and unfair. When I came to IU, I thought I could work with him. He’s very charming on the surface. We collaborated on some research. That is, I researched my idea and wrote it up, but I met with him once a week to talk about it. He steered me in a particular direction, and that was fine. It was a good tip. But then I saw in the department newsletter that he’s about to publish my work under his own name.” Her voice was filled with disgust. “He outright stole it.”

  “That’s terrible. Can you do anything about it?”

  “Not really. I talked to Zen, but the paper has already been accepted by a major journal, and I can’t really prove that he robbed me. What I can do about my studies is change them. I’m switching topics. I’m never working with that jerk again, and my coursework is finished, so I won’t have to study with him, either.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”