Murder Over Easy (A Sunny Side Up Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Rosie A. Point

  “That’s neither here nor there, Nick.” I hesitated, letting out a frustrated breath. “Look, I’m not trying to upset you, I just… come on. That’s kind of suspicious, right? You see what I’m saying. One second the police are pulling you in for questioning, the next you’re receiving notes from Michael, who hated Trisha, and who lied about not being around his mother’s house.”

  Nick’s eyes grew wider and wider as I spoke until they looked liable to pop out of his head.

  “What?” I asked. “What? I’m just pointing out what I see. You can’t be mad at me for that.”

  “I very much can be mad at you for that,” Nick snapped. “You’re crossing a line here, Sunny. It’s not your place to make assumptions or ask questions like that. You’re not a detective. You’re not even my friend.”

  I recoiled, hurt although I’d only known him for a couple weeks.

  “I’ve been dragged over the coals over the last while and your solution is to make that worse?”

  “I—Nick—I—”

  “If you must know, the note was about our weekend away in the Everglades. I asked Michael to let me know when everything was organized so we could come out, but he didn’t so I drove us out there anyway, trusting that he would have set everything up. And he had,” Nick said, the words bubbling out of him like lava out of the mouth of a volcano.

  “Nick, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have just accused me of being involved in Trisha’s murder,” he replied. “Look, I—uh—yeah, I don’t want to work for you anymore.”

  I gasped. “Nick! No, don’t—I was just curious. I’m—”

  “Nah.” He lifted a hand. “I don’t need this. I’ve been under enough pressure as it is already. I’ll find a job at another restaurant. I quit.” And then he walked off down the steps and slammed the front gate behind him.

  Just like that, in the blink of an eye, I had lost my aunt’s long-term chef. What now?

  25

  Guilt had been my best friend over the last twelve hours. I’d spent the night tossing and turning, occasionally trying to call Nick, then texting him, until I’d received an irate phone call from his wife, Jasmine, instead. I didn’t even want to think about what she’d said. It was too embarrassing.

  Worse, I’d sent out a group text to the servers at the restaurant and told them we’d be closed indefinitely. The response had been as expected—sad, confused, questioning. And I’d had to tell them we needed to find a new chef because Nick had left.

  It had been difficult to keep my tone professional. And even worse, I couldn’t get hold of Aunt Rita either. Her phone was off, or she had no signal.

  I pulled myself out of bed at quarter past six in the morning, fixed myself a cup of coffee and put out Bodger’s food for the day. For once, he didn’t hiss at me about it or try to bat my legs as I passed by. Maybe he sensed that I was in a foul mood too and grudgingly respected that? Who knew?

  “What am I going to do, Bodger?” I asked, taking a seat at my aunt’s quaint square table in the center of her sun-yellow kitchen. “I haven’t got a chef, and nobody would want to work in a café that’s basically a glorified crime scene, would they? It’s hopeless.”

  Bodger flicked his tail, chewing noisily at his food bowl.

  “I’ve got nowhere to be, nothing to do, and I can’t afford to leave town. There’s got to be an answer to all of this.” I’d tried apologizing, but it seemed like Nick needed his space, and if I didn’t give it to him, Jasmine might beat me up. I wouldn’t put it past her. She did yoga and was spry and athletic.

  I was tall, thin, and hadn’t gone jogging in about five years. No muscle mass to speak of.

  “Well, I can’t sit around all day and mope.” I finished my coffee, deciding to forego breakfast—I didn’t have an appetite because guilt had filled me up. “See you later.”

  A flick of the tail was the reply.

  I set the alarm before letting myself out of my aunt’s cottage. Maybe today was the day I could drive out and convince the air-con guys to come fix the unit in the café. Or I could do a general spring cleaning and rearrange a few things, maybe print out a flyer that there was a vacancy for a new chef at the café.

  Rita had always treated her employees well, both emotionally and financially, so the café had an excellent reputation. A pity I’d gone and ruined that with Nick yesterday.

  I got into the Beetle and spent the drive down to the café mulling over my options. To be honest, there weren’t many.

  “Cleaning,” I said. “I’ll start with the cleaning.”

  I unlocked the café, the sun casting morning light into the interior, a cool breeze shifting the air, and let myself inside. I kept the doors open but put a ‘closed’ sign up in the window so people would know.

  One cup of coffee later—way better than the one at the cottage—and I set to work. Mopping first, then wiping down the counters, only taking a break to wipe sweat off my brow or snack on a piece of cake and place the money in the register.

  I wiped down the chairs in the booths, plastic squeaking underneath my cloth, and ran my hand between the cushions. The backs of my fingers bumped into something hard.

  “Huh?” I stopped wiping and dug my fingers a little deeper, feeling the item wedged between the cushions. It was flat and hard, maybe made of plastic? I pulled it out.

  “A phone,” I muttered.

  Someone’s phone had fallen out of their pocket and gotten wedged in the cushions. It had to belong to a customer. That was an easy enough fix.

  I abandoned my cleaning supplies and brought the cellphone to the counter, then pressed the power button on its side. The screen lit up, but it was on low battery. I’d have to figure out who’s phone it was quickly, then call them from the office.

  “Let’s see. Hmm.” I unlocked the screen with a swipe of my finger and sucked in a gasp.

  The background picture was of Trisha! And the man standing next to her, his arm around her shoulders, lips pressed to her cheek, was clearly Michael, Frances’ son, the man who had left Nick the note, and who had said he didn’t have a good relationship with the vlogger victim.

  “Wait a second…” But Michael hadn’t mentioned they’d been dating. No one had.

  Did no one except them know? Surely that was information that Detective Garcia would find interesting. And how on earth had this phone wound up in the cushions of the booth in the corner? Was this Michael’s phone or Trisha’s? Maybe she had a spare phone? Because she hadn’t let go of her phone when she’d been vlogging everything on the morning of her murder.

  I tapped on the message icon on the screen and opened the texts. There were several conversations open, but the most recent, dated a month back, was between Michael and Trisha. So, this was Michael’s phone, after all—the one he’d mentioned losing ages ago on the Everglades trip. Of course!

  Trisha: I feel like you don’t hear me when I talk to you, Michael. When I ask you for something, I expect you to just get it for me, not get annoyed because I’m asking. I get that it’s difficult to figure out the line between being my employee and my boyfriend, but something’s got to give. I don’t want things to end badly between us.

  Michael: End??

  Trisha: You know that it can’t go on like this.

  Michael: I just don’t get why you’re saying this now. We were fine this morning.

  Trisha: Maybe you’re fine, but I’m not. This situation is getting out of hand.

  Trisha: Answer me, Michael. You can’t ignore me for long. You know that.

  Trisha: Michael!

  Michael: I’m here.

  Trisha: And?

  Michael: I just think there’s more to this than meets the eye. You’re saying this stuff, but I don’t think that’s the real problem.

  Trisha: Oh yeah, then what’s the real problem?

  Michael: Your ex. You’re still into him. I see him around you all the time, Trisha, don’t think I’m blind or stup
id.

  Trisha: Yeah, he’s around all the time because he’s stalking me! I told you that!!!

  Michael: Sure.

  Trisha: Believe what you want to believe. I swear, the longer this goes on…

  And that was it. The last message from Trisha. There was no correspondence on the phone between them other than that one, but, boy, was it illuminating.

  Michael had been in a relationship with Trisha. Could it be that no one had known about it? A secret relationship between friends? Or could it be… hmm…

  It was pastime I had a serious conversation with Bebe Rae, and this time, I wouldn’t let roving detectives or strange dark figures stop me from drilling down to the truth.

  26

  A quick call to Didi had afforded me the information I needed: Bebe’s address. Though I’d followed her to the mystery house the other day, I couldn’t guarantee that it was her home. Turned out, it wasn’t, which made the fact that she’d gone there and met that stranger even more interesting.

  Who was he? Why had she spoken to him? Was it Michael? Had they agreed to get rid of Trisha together after things had gone sour? And who was the stalker ex that Trisha had mentioned in her earlier texts?

  The pondering had me on edge, excited, like I was closer than ever to sorting this out and proving my innocence, and maybe even Nick’s. That would be the perfect way to apologize for my brash accusations.

  I puttered down Seashell Road in quaint suburbia and parked outside number 1765. My resolve hardened, but my nerves hopping and skipping along, regardless. Just because I wanted to question Bebe, didn’t mean I wasn’t scared it would go poorly.

  Everything else had so far.

  The house was a single-story brick building without a fence, and with a paved driveway. A Honda Civic sat parked out front, blue and sparkling clean, reflecting the afternoon sun. I got out of the car, brushed off my blouse, and took the path up to the front door.

  You’ll be fine. Just be polite. Don’t accuse her of having murdered her friend, and everything will go to plan.

  I knocked. “Hello? Is anyone home?” I called.

  The door clicked open, and Bebe appeared, a phone in hand. Her caramel-colored hair swept in front of one eye, the other eye peered up at me, glittery with makeup. She was a gorgeous young woman. Could Michael have had an affair with her?

  “Yeah?” she asked, tapping on the screen idly.

  “Hi, Bebe, I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” she said. “The café owner, right? Or the new manager. Whatever.”

  “Sunny,” I nodded, extending a hand.

  Bebe pursed her lips, tucking her phone to her chest and giving me her full attention now. “Right. Sunny.”

  I dropped my hand. “Uh, I’m sorry to bother you, but I just, uh, needed to talk to you?” It came out like a question, and what was worse, my voice squeaked as I asked it.

  “OK…?”

  “Yeah, I, uh, may I come in?”

  “Depends what you want to talk about,” Bebe said.

  “I’m looking for a chef,” I replied, using the excuse I’d rehearsed in the car on the way over. “And I figured you’d know where I can find one since you’re always frequenting the restaurants in town.”

  Bebe’s expression shifted incrementally. “Ah, OK. Cool. Yeah, you can come in.” She opened the door wider, and I followed her into a well-lit, but exceptionally messy hallway. Old bills and newspapers, half-opened moving boxes, and even a few piles of clothes—it looked as if a mini-hurricane had swept through her house.

  “Excuse the mess,” Bebe said, “I just moved in and things have been pretty complicated lately. You know, Trisha’s murder.”

  “Oh, yeah, I can imagine.”

  She led me into her kitchen, and we sat down at a circular table that held two chairs. The whole thing rocked back and forth the minute I touched it, threatening to topple an empty glass sitting atop it.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No stress. So, what’s up? What happened to Nick? Isn’t he the guy that works there?”

  “He quit,” I said. “For, uh, personal reasons.” That was true, and while I was honest, I wasn’t about to give a potential murderer inside information about me. “So, I’m looking for someone who might be interested in working there. I thought maybe Michael?”

  “Michael.” Bebe frowned. “Trisha’s ex-assistant, Michael?”

  “Yeah. I heard he cooked in his spare time?” Maybe I wasn’t as honest as I claimed to be. That was an outright lie. But anything in the pursuit of truth, right?

  “No, that’s not true. Not as far as I know,” Bebe said. “Michael was acting as Trisha’s assistant while she looked for someone better. Then she found me.”

  “Oh OK. I must’ve gotten my wires crossed somehow. I don’t know why I thought he was a chef. He seems like a nice enough guy, though, pity.”

  “Ha.” Bebe’s brief laugh dripped with cynicism.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, just… it’s not relevant.”

  “No, go ahead. Tell me. Any information is good information, right?”

  She raised an eyebrow at that, and for a second, I was sure I’d messed up. “Just that Michael’s not as good of a person as everyone thinks he is. If you ask me, the cops should be knocking on his door asking him questions, rather than on mine.”

  So, Detective Garcia had been to visit her. That would explain why he’d found me tailing her. Maybe he’d been doing the same.

  “Oh yeah? Everyone’s been gossiping about Trisha’s murder lately. It’s the talk of the town. I figured it might be someone close to her who did it, but her ex-assistant? Eh.” I shrugged.

  “Not just ex-assistant.” Bebe said, her brown eyes lighting up. “They were dating. And no one knew except for me and like two other people.”

  “Wow, really?”

  “Oh yeah,” Bebe said. “And I find it mighty interesting that Michael didn’t tell anyone about their messy break-up either.”

  “Do you think he might’ve done it? Or could it be another of her exes?” Objection, your Honor, leading the witness.

  “You know what, I wouldn’t have put it past one of her exes to do something like this. She didn’t date the most stable guys.”

  “Uh oh.”

  Bebe pursed her lips and nodded. “The last guy she dated was a total nutcase.”

  “Does he live in Parfait?”

  “Nah, he was dating her in college before she came back here to start her career as an influencer.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that it makes sense she even wanted to be a food vlogger. Just between you and me, she didn’t even like food that much.”

  “Who doesn’t like food?” I affected a scandalized expression.

  “Psychopaths,” Bebe said.

  “You don’t think that the nutcase guy could’ve done something to her, do you?”

  “Who, Eddie? I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “His name is Eddie?”

  “Yeah. Eddie Martinez. And in case you’re thinking about telling the cops about him,” Bebe said, “don’t bother. I’ve already done that. You know, I gave them all the information I had, just in case. Trisha was difficult to get along with for most people, but I did like working for her. So… yeah, she didn’t deserve to die, especially not in the way she did. I swear, I’m totally scarred from it. Keep having nightmares and stuff.” She waved a hand in front of her eyes as if to ward off tears, but there were none in sight.

  Was she faking? Maybe, but she’d still given me a lot of useful information about Trisha and her stalker ex. And by some miracle, I hadn’t let on that I was super interested in it.

  “Well, that’s just crazy. The whole thing,” I said, “but, uh, could we talk about my chef problem?”

  “Oh, sure. Sheesh, I didn’t mean to blab like that.” Bebe laughed. “I guess I’ve just been holding it inside for so long that it had to come out.”

  Bebe walked me through a few options for a new chef for the Sunn
y Side Up, and I wrote them down, all the while thinking about what she’d told me. It would be an interesting week.

  27

  My chat with Bebe had made two things clear. First, I didn’t want to hire another chef. I wanted Nick back in the café because he was great at what he did, and Aunt Rita clearly trusted and liked him enough to leave him in charge of helping me.

  Second, I still had no idea who had killed Trisha, but at least I had more information about the potential ‘players’ so to speak. Whether that would wind up helping me was still to be decided.

  I returned to my aunt’s cottage in the lazy afternoon after my chat with Bebe and opted for a walk before going inside. I needed to clear my mind, and the weather was temperate today, the breeze uplifting and the humidity lower than it had been all week.

  The street was quiet, and I made my way to the end, smiling at the quaint cottages and the gardens I passed by before heading home.

  Nothing. I had nothing.

  Except a healthy dose of shame for accusing my chef of being involved.

  Even so, if I looked at the facts, plainly and without bias, Nick had a motivation for wanting Trisha out of the picture. He’d stood to lose his job. But he’d quit anyway, so didn’t that mean he’d never been worried about losing his job in the first place?

  Goodness, my mind had gone mulchy from all the worry.

  I stopped in front of the cute gate that led into my aunt’s front yard, studying the cottage with its white-washed walls, its blue front door. Bodger was out on the front step, studying me through narrowed yellow eyes.

  “What?” I asked. “You know me. You don’t need to look at me like I’m a piece of tuna.”

  He meowed at me, and it was less hostile than usual.

  “Is everything OK, Bodger?” I entered the garden and proceeded up the pathway toward him “Do you want a cuddle?” It was possibly the most ridiculous thing I’d ever suggested.

  Bodger agreed. He let out a hiss the moment I came within two steps of him.