Southern Discomfort

by Caroline Fardig

  “He ruined high school for her. And darn near ruined it for me, too. It’s not something you just get over.”

  “Frank says you should cut the guy some slack.”

  I crossed my arms. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. He also says he saw the whole incident that’s got such a bee in your bonnet. If you’d actually sit down and talk to Frank sometime he’d tell you what happened.”

  Seeing as how “the incident” happened after Frank had died, it was impossible for him to have witnessed it. Plus, let’s not forget the fact that there’s no way for a live person to sit down and have a conversation with a dead person. And I had been there, so I knew firsthand what had happened, anyway.

  “Right. Okay, see you later.” I headed out the door, back toward the room where I’d been working.

  Papa Sal’s voice called, “The stairs are the other way, Quinnie! You can’t just leave the poor boy hanging. Your grandmama would roll over in her grave.”

  Grumbling the entire way, I shuffled downstairs and up to Delilah and Tucker. “Sal said you came over to talk to me,” I said flatly.

  “I did,” Tucker replied.

  Delilah fought to keep a grin from her face. “You two go out on the guest porch. I’ll bring you some sweet tea.”

  While she hurried to the kitchen, Tucker made an “after you” gesture. I grudgingly went ahead of him, out the side door and onto the porch usually reserved for our guests. Around noon, it was pretty quiet at the B&B. It was in between check-out and check-in times, and any guests who were staying through were normally out sightseeing or lunching. Tucker and I were alone on the porch, to my dismay.

  I sat on one of the wicker chairs with the fluffy cushions, and he sat in the adjacent one, so close his knee was practically touching mine. I scooted a couple of inches away from him, hoping to be discreet enough he wouldn’t notice.

  He noticed. “I don’t bite, Quinn.”

  Sure he didn’t. Ignoring his comment, I asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  A frown marring his face, he replied, “I wanted to come over and see how you were doing today. After…you know…”

  Between the late visit from Officer Morrel last night and the front-page news article this morning, he could piece together enough to know I’d had some sort of questionable excitement last night. It figured that he would want to know the inside scoop, no doubt assuming he was entitled to it since he’d provided me with a much-needed alibi.

  Well, if he wanted gory details, he wasn’t getting them out of me. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine. I appreciate your truthfulness with Officer Morrel last night.” I stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m behind on my work. It was polite of you to come over to check on me.”

  Tucker stood and caught my arm as I tried to leave. He must have scuffed his shoes on the rug beneath us as he did so, because a tingle shot through me when his hand made contact with my arm. “You don’t seem okay, Quinn. I’m worried about you.”

  Worried? I highly doubted that. He barely knew me, so why was he even pretending to care? My best guess was that he was a gossip who was only interested in sticking his nose into my business, which I neither understood nor appreciated.

  He continued, “If you want to talk about it with someone, I’d be happy to—”

  I cut him off. “No thank you, Tucker. As I said, I’m fine.”

  Delilah breezed onto the porch with a pitcher of sweet tea and two glasses. “Who wants tea?”

  “You two go ahead,” I said, hurrying away before anyone could stop me.

  * * *

  —

  I hid upstairs, tidying rooms until Drew returned. Then we went back to the stuffy office to continue our discussion.

  Drew was looking pale, so I asked, “Did things go okay at the funeral home?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I guess as well as could be expected. Quinn, it was even harder than I’d imagined to pick out a box to put my brother in.”

  I put my arms around him and gave him a hug. He held on to me tightly, shaking slightly as I was sure he was trying to hold in the tears. After a minute or so, he sniffed and pulled away.

  “I need to think about something else. Did you happen to come up with any strokes of genius about suspects while I was gone?”

  I wondered if discussing our suspect list for his brother’s murder would fall into the “think about something else” category, but at least it was a productive use of our time.

  I said, “Well, I decided to do a little cyberstalking. I went over Jason’s social media profiles to find out if he had any enemies we didn’t know about.”

  Smiling, Drew said, “Thanks, Quinn. Although I’m sure that wasn’t a pleasant way to spend your morning.”

  “Not especially, but it was worth it.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “For one thing, I learned that Jason never backed down from a good social media fight.”

  “You’re right, unfortunately.”

  “I also noticed that Jason regularly had online arguments with CJ McLeod and Mark Potter. Do you know either of them?”

  Drew groaned. “CJ is an idiot, but for some reason my brother befriended him. They met at a community basketball league, but then decided that they liked boozing a lot more than playing basketball. So they became drinking buddies.”

  “Lovely. Were they at odds?”

  “Not that I knew of. I wouldn’t put CJ on our list, at least not as a suspect. He’s a pretty chill dude. I don’t see him caring about anything enough to expend the effort to kill someone.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough. But if he and Jason were friends, he might be worth talking to, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  I made a note about speaking to CJ. “And Mark?”

  He blew out a breath. “Mark would probably slit someone’s throat for telling him he overcooked a steak.”

  “Ooh. Another chef with a bad attitude.”

  “He and Jason were two peas in a pod. I guess that’s why they were such rivals.”

  “Mark’s restaurant is nowhere near Green geographically, and they don’t have similar menus. Why be rivals?”

  Shrugging, Drew said, “Chefs,” as if that explained everything.

  “So put Mark on the list?”

  “Yes. Fun fact: after Jason fired him, Ross Cline went to work at Abercorn Bistro.”

  “Mark Potter scooped up Green’s newly fired employee? I’m sure that angered your brother.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I also saw your manager, Ava, popping up a lot to let Jason know how much she disagreed with him on pretty much every topic under the sun. Was their relationship so toxic that she might have had enough and decided to hurt him?”

  “Yes, but I doubt she’d go that far. She talks tough, but she’s not. I can’t imagine her going after anyone physically. At least not with a knife.”

  “Okay, so who else? Firings and business rivalries and Facebook wars aside, what else could spark enough hatred inside a person to end a man’s life?”

  Drew thought for a moment. “Well, I don’t know if this is pertinent or not, but you remember a few months ago when Jason got hauled in for disorderly conduct?”

  “Yes, for a scuffle he got into with that nasty restaurant reviewer.”

  “That’s the one. What if that guy—Brian Tuttle—decided to retaliate?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “After three months?”

  Shaking his head, Drew turned my laptop toward himself and pulled up the website for Lowcountry Buzz, the area’s largest travel and dining review site. He clicked through a couple of pages and found the one he was looking for. “Here.” Turning the laptop so I could see the screen, he pointed at the comments section for the review of Green. “This fight is o
ngoing. Jason just couldn’t keep his mouth shut about the bad review.”

  Jason had made several angry comments about the review Brian Tuttle had done of Green. Granted, it was a scathing review—two out of five stars—with numerous cheap shots taken at the chefs, but it wasn’t as if a bunch of rude pushback from Jason would miraculously change Tuttle’s mind and cause him to retract his post.

  I read his latest comment, dated only a week ago, aloud. “ ‘Tuttle is the worst reviewer out there. He doesn’t know gumbo from goulash, and he has no clue about wine pairings. His palate is like a child’s. So’s his right hook.’ ” I looked at Drew. “Disparaging a man’s job, his taste buds, and his fighting skills in only a few words. Jason didn’t pull any punches.”

  “Maybe Tuttle got tired of Jason’s nonsense and came after him.”

  “Maybe. Write him down?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wrote Brian Tuttle’s name on our list, briefly wondering why Drew hadn’t put a stop to Jason’s cyberbullying of a fairly influential reviewer, since he’d clearly known about it. But then I thought about how impossible it would be to try to put a muzzle on outspoken Jason Green. It wouldn’t have been worth Drew’s breath. Jason was an adult, so it wasn’t as if Drew could control anything he did or said.

  Drew said, “So Green is closed today because it’s a…crime scene.” He grimaced but went on, “And I don’t want to traumatize my employees any more than they already are by asking them a bunch of prying questions. What do you say we start our investigation with Tuttle?”

  My stomach lurched. The reality of actually going out and speaking to people on our suspect list hadn’t hit home for me until this moment. Cyberstalking was one thing, but in-person confrontation was quite another. One of them could have killed Jason, so what was to say they would take kindly to Drew and me coming and asking them a bunch of prying questions about a murder they wanted to keep quiet? Wouldn’t the guilty party (who clearly had no problem taking one human life) stop at nothing to make sure no one found out about the crime?

  “Quinn?” Drew said quietly, laying his hand on my shoulder.

  I snapped out of my thoughts, a bit shaken. “Um…yes?”

  “I know you’re scared. I am, too. The last thing I want to do is come face-to-face with my brother’s killer, but what choice do we have? If we can’t find someone with a motive to kill Jason, either one or both of us could end up in jail forever. And that scares me more than anything.”

  Blowing out a breath, I said, “You’re right. Only one person out there is the killer, so most of our list will be fairly safe people to talk to.” My mind started turning over that idea, and my words came tumbling out unchecked. “Well, it was probably only one person who killed Jason. I mean, I doubt if two people had their hands on the knife, although I suppose it could be some kind of odd conspiracy against Jason that required two people to—”

  Drew cut in, “You’re freaking out again, Quinn.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  He smiled. “It’s okay. We’re new to this. I’m sure we’ll get the hang of it.”

  I hoped so—especially before we got into trouble we couldn’t get out of.

  Chapter 9

  Drew and I walked over to Green (going around the back way to avoid several reporters camped out on the front steps) to get Drew’s car. He’d had his head down, his attention on his phone as we walked. It was just as well that he couldn’t see me—my hands were shaking so hard I had to cross my arms tightly to keep them still. Once we were in his car, he headed us toward downtown, still off in his own little world.

  I couldn’t imagine having to deal with sudden notoriety on top of the death of a family member. At least I had Delilah and Papa Sal to keep the reporters at bay for me, but Drew seemed to have no one. I knew Drew and Jason’s parents had died in an automobile accident years ago, but I knew little about the rest of the family.

  I ventured, “Have you or Valerie made calls to family members about Jason’s passing?”

  Drew frowned. “I called Aunt June and Uncle Rodney, who offered to call the rest of the family, which is tiny. They’re coming down today from Philly. Val called some of her family, I think.”

  “I’m happy to hear your aunt and uncle are coming down. Are you close with them?”

  Shrugging, he said, “Pretty close.”

  It didn’t seem like Drew wanted to continue the conversation, so I let it go. We drove the rest of the way to the Lowcountry Buzz office in silence.

  The office was located in a small space on Bull Street near Wright Square, tucked in between a couple of shops. We walked through the front door, which deposited us into the middle of a bustling mess. Employees sat at desks scattered haphazardly around the room, with no cubicles for any kind of privacy or sound barrier. Employees on their phones spoke loudly to be heard over the din of music, clicking keyboards, and across-the-room conversations. I didn’t think I could work in such a raucous environment.

  Drew approached the person at the closest desk and asked, “Where can I find Brian Tuttle?” His phone rang in his pocket. After pulling it out and looking at the screen, he silenced the ringer.

  The young man glanced around the office and shrugged. “Looks like he’s out.”

  Drew replied, “Do you know where I might find him, or if not, can you give me his number?”

  “I can give you his email.”

  Sighing, Drew said, “Never mind.” Shaking his head, he headed back outside.

  I followed. I hated to point it out, but if Drew was going to give up this easily during our investigation, we were toast. Not that I relished the thought, but we were going to have to be insistent and not take no for an answer. We might even have to be impolite at times to get the job done.

  “Um, Drew?”

  He stopped on the sidewalk, his attention buried in his phone. “Yes?”

  “Do you have a plan for what comes next?”

  After a moment, he put his phone back in his pocket and addressed me. “I guess we contact Tuttle through his work and try to convince him to meet with us.”

  I frowned. “I know it might take up more time, but I think as many in-person surprise visits we can make—”

  “You mean ambushes?”

  “You say potato…” I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, but Drew didn’t join in. I continued, “I’m saying if we call people up and try to make appointments to see them, that will give them time to wonder why we want to speak with them or even give them time to formulate a story or an alibi. What we’re looking for are people’s raw reactions to the questions we’re asking. I think the way people react to our questions can tell us more than their verbal answers.”

  Drew’s face softened as he looked at me. “You’re a pretty smart cookie, you know that?

  I blushed. “Not really. I just read a lot of mystery fiction.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, I’m happy for your help. What would one of your mystery fiction detectives do in this situation?”

  Before I could answer, Drew’s phone rang again, and he walked a few feet away from me to answer it. I tried not to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t hard to notice how agitated Drew was becoming. After hanging up, he walked over to me, frowning.

  “I hate to do this but I have to return to the funeral home. There’s an issue with getting the casket we initially chose, and we’re going to have to go back and pick out another one.”

  My face fell. “I know it had to have been hard enough the first time. I’m sorry you have to go back and make another choice.”

  “I’ll drop you at the B&B.”

  I thought for a moment. “No, I’ll stay and try to work on the Tuttle angle.”

  “Are you sure? It wasn’t my intention to abandon you on our first mission.”

  “I know. You go do what you need to do.” />
  “Okay. Thanks, Quinn. I guess we’ll have to pick up our investigation again tomorrow. I don’t know how long this thing at the funeral home will take, and I’ve got to pick up Aunt June and Uncle Rodney from the airport this evening.”

  “No problem. I have a gig anyway, so I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

  When Drew got in his car and zoomed away, I headed back into the Lowcountry Buzz office. I walked up to the same young man we’d spoken to before.

  “Back already?” he asked.

  I put on my brightest smile. “Yes. You know, it’s really important that I speak with Brian as soon as possible. Is there any way you can help me find him?”

  He thought for a moment. “Well, you might try stalking his Twitter account. Tuttle often live tweets during a meal he’s critiquing. He’ll take photos of his food throughout the meal—without giving his opinion—and post them to his Twitter feed to build interest in his upcoming review. Once he writes his review, he’ll use the same photos and then tell the world what he thought of the dishes.” He picked up his phone and made a few swipes and taps, then showed me his screen. It showed a tweet Tuttle had posted ten minutes ago, saying he was having an afternoon snack at the Sunshine Bakery, which was only a few blocks away. “There you go. He’s at Sunshine Bakery.”

  I exclaimed, “Thank you!”

  The young man’s expression turned uneasy. “I’ll warn you, though. He doesn’t like to be bothered during a meal.”

  I understood that. After all, eating was a major part of his job. Also, Grandmama Hattie had taught me that it was impolite to interrupt another person while he or she was eating. But as I’d realized earlier, good manners were not the important thing here. Staying out of jail was—manners be danged!

  “I’ll be discreet,” I replied.

  My spirits lifted, I took off down the street toward the Sunshine Bakery.

  As I walked, I wondered how I was going to start my conversation with Tuttle. Should I come right out and demand he tell me whether or not he’d had something to do with Jason’s death, or should I be a bit more subtle about it? I should probably have some kind of game plan.