Clues List…
Text conversation on Michael’s phone. Trisha and Michael were dating, there was a stalker ex, and the end of the relationship with Michael was messy.
The poisoning happened in the café. So, it had to be someone there at the time. It couldn’t have happened before because no one else was poisoned, so it’s not like the killer poisoned a specific ingredient alone and that was fed to multiple people.
Michael’s boots at his mother’s house.
Notes:
Could multiple people have conspired together to murder Trisha? Was she that big of a problem? Or was this a solo killer?
A solo killer seems more plausible…
I took a massive bite of my pizza slice after all that writing. From what I could gather, the most likely suspects were those who had been in the café at the time of the murder. So there had to be a cross-section of people who had motive to get rid of Trisha, and who were in proximity to the crime scene.
But how close was close enough?
Could they have been next door like Mildred or at the table with Trisha like Bebe?
I tapped my pen on the notepad, considering it. The only people who had been in the café and were on the list, that I had seen, were Bebe, Nick, and myself. I was ruled out, obviously, which left Bebe and Nick.
But what if I’d missed something?
What if someone else had been there, and I hadn’t realized it? Or seen them? What if they’d left some piece of evidence in the café I’d missed?
“No, the cops would have found it,” I muttered, and finished my slice.
But with all my clues written down, and my options thinning for evidence, I had nothing else to do except go back to the café and check it out.
There had to be something there, right? I’d scour the place from top to bottom if I had to.
33
I parked outside the Sunny Side Up at around 8:30pm, anticipation brewing in my belly. Or maybe that was the second slice of pizza I’d devoured before I’d taken the drive out here. I so desperately wanted to find some tangible evidence of the crime, or even the barest hint of who might’ve done it. But the closer I’d drawn to the café, the more convinced I’d become that I wouldn’t find a thing.
Not only had the police gone over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb, but I’d also spring cleaned the place afterward to get rid of any potential remnants of poison. And it had been weeks since the murder had taken place.
But I couldn’t just sit at home and do nothing. And writing down my evidence, clues, and my suspect list had gotten me riled up. I wanted to believe there was something here that would help the investigation.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I muttered, and exited the car.
The night air was saturated with the scents of delicious food from the restaurants along the boardwalk. It was a heady scent that reminded me of good times and vacations, hours spent on the beach as a younger woman with friends or with my aunt.
I let myself into the café, clicked on the lights and looked around. The interior was spotless, the scent of coffee still hovering, even though I hadn’t served anyone in days. Hopefully, that would change soon.
Either way, if I didn’t solve the murder, Aunt Rita would be back to take over.
I kind of wanted her here, but I didn’t want to fail, and she deserved her time to relax after years of putting up with my shenanigans.
I shut the café’s door then scanned the interior, considering my next steps. I’d found the phone in the cushions of a booth, so I started there, swiping my fingers between the cushions of each booth, and finding nothing but a collection of coins and lint.
Hey, at least I was a couple pennies richer.
I checked under tables, then went through the office, and finally, I entered the kitchen and switched on the lights.
The gleaming empty steel counters stared back at me. I could picture Nick’s friendly smile from behind the stove on the day the murder had taken place.
“OK,” I whispered. “Think back. What happened that day?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. I had come into the kitchen and told Nick I had to make eggs over easy for Trisha. He’d directed me to look after the bacon while he ran to the bathroom. I hadn’t seen him do anything suspicious with the food, and he hadn’t been around when I’d started making the eggs.
“I got out the pan, and then I went to the pantry to fetch the oil. I think?”
I entered the pantry and clicked the light on in there. Everything was stored beautifully in labeled Tupperware containers on the shelves, and the fridges that held the fresh produce for each day were empty. I frowned, studying the interior of the pantry.
Everything was in its place. There was plenty of room to move around, and at the back of the pantry was an old window that was… rusted shut? No, that didn’t seem like something my Aunt Rita would allow.
I walked over to the window, skirting around a couple boxes that stacked in front of it. I hadn’t noticed this window on the day I’d come in here for ingredients, but that might’ve been because I was distracted. Making eggs over easy for a food vlogger had been a high-pressure scenario. Funny how easy that seemed now.
“What do we have here?” My eyes widened.
The back window was closed, not rusted shut, but the hint of rusty red I’d noticed had been from something caught between the sill and the window’s edge.
“What is that?” I muttered and leaned in.
I touched my fingers to the piece of red, then gasped. It was a swatch of cloth caught in the frame, and it didn’t look like any dishcloth I’d seen in the café. All of them were checked yellow and white.
My fingers crept toward the latch that opened the window. I hesitated, then opened it outward. Cool night air rushed in, and the piece of fabric fluttered to the pantry floor. I picked it up.
It was clearly torn free of something.
Someone’s shirt?
That had to be it!
I gasped a second time. It had to be a piece of the killer’s shirt. And Nick hadn’t been wearing anything red on the morning of the murder. Neither had any of the servers.
Relief shuddered through me.
Though I’d apologized to Nick, I had withheld a little of my trust from him. After all my experiences, I’d learned to expect the worst from people, men in particular. This little piece of evidence, that had to be what it was, had cleared him in my mind. It was tangible proof that someone else had been in the pantry on that day.
I peeked out the window and got a darkened view of the alleyway that flanked the café. There was nothing in it except for the dumpster, but the alley itself led out to the street. This was the perfect method of accessing the café!
“It’s got to be…” I shut the window and latched it, then slipped the material into my pocket. It was evidence, and I could give Detective Garcia what I had later. Though, would he believe me? If I gave it to him, he’d probably think I’d made it up or ripped the cloth from a piece of my clothing.
I should’ve called him right away.
But it was too late now.
I whipped out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Nick’s number. If I couldn’t talk to Garcia about this without getting in trouble, then I’d contact Nick. He’d know if anyone had been wearing a rusty red shirt. And after him, I could speak to Didi.
Besides, it would be good to get hold of Nick and tell him what I’d found. Maybe it would help fix things?
I dialed his number and waited. Five rings later, and the phone clicked to his message. Nothing. He wasn’t answering his phone.
Come on, Nick. This is important.
I tried two more times, but nothing. That was fine, I could go over there. Jasmine would be mad, but I’d explain everything to her too. I wanted them to be my friends, to fix the fractured relationship. Heck, I’d even talk to Aunt Rita about the whole makeup in the café thing. That ought to help, right?
Just do it.
&
nbsp; And if Nick wasn’t home, I’d cave and call Detective Garcia, give him the information I had. Simple as that.
At least, I hoped so.
34
The closer I drew to Aunt Rita’s cottage, the more excited I grew.
I didn’t understand why, but it seemed important to tell Nick that I’d found this evidence. Surely, it would cheer him up. Could it potentially mend bridges between us and encourage him to reconsider the offer to work at the Sunny Side Up? Boy, I hoped so. Or it would backfire horribly, and he’d tell me I should’ve trusted him from the start.
Honestly, I would deserve that, but I had to try.
I pulled up outside my aunt’s cottage and parked in front of it rather than pulling the Beetle into the driveway.
I leaped out, my hand flying to my pocket to check that the swatch of cloth was still there, then ran down the sidewalk and to the cute front gate that led to Nick’s yard. I opened it and started up the pathway but stopped after just two steps.
A figure lay on the porch. The lights in the house were off, porch lights, included.
I stood there, stunned, blinking, then finally came forward.
“Nick?” I climbed the first two steps. “Nick, is that—?” I bent and touched the person lying on their side, I turned them over, and dark hair fell across a tan, pretty face.
Jasmine Talbott was unconscious on her front porch, a knot on her forehead where she’d either fallen.
“Jasmine!” I cried. “Jasmine, wake up.” I pressed two fingers to her throat, but her pulse was steady. Her chest rose and fell, but she didn’t open her eyes. “Oh, no. Nick? Nick! Are you home?” But there was no car in the driveway and no answer from the darkened cottage. “Nick!”
My panic reached its peak, and my breaths came in short, quick gasps.
Get it together! Call 911.
I tugged my phone out of my pocket and unlocked the screen. “Hold on, Jasmine, I’ll get you help.” I didn’t dare move her more than I already had in case she was seriously injured. I tapped out the three numbers and moved to hit dial.
A police siren whooped behind me, and a cruiser pulled up outside the house. Two police officers in uniform emerged from the vehicle.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I cried. “I was about to call 911. There’s been a terrible accident. Can you call an ambulance, please? My friend’s wife has—”
“Put your hands in the air!” An officer yelled, taking a defensive stance, his weapon out and trained on me.
“What?!”
“Hands in the air. Now! Hands in the air!” the officer repeated, the other one joining in the cacophony of shouted commands.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. I dropped my phone, my hands went up, they approached me and pinned me to the ground, tucked my hands behind my back, then escorted me to the cruiser, saying things I couldn’t make out in the dull thread of panic.
An ambulance pulled up and men ran toward Jasmine, rolling a stretcher. At least, they were here. She would be fine.
“I didn’t—” I managed before they thrust me into the back of the car. The door shut, and I was alone, the handcuffs biting into my wrists.
“I swear, I didn’t do anything,” I said, massaging my wrists. The cuffs hadn’t hurt me, but it felt as if they were still there, seated against my skin, even though Detective Garcia had already removed them.
I was back in the interrogation room, with its circular table and chairs, the detective across from me, his back to the door, and the camera in the corner trained on us.
This time, Detective Garcia hadn’t asked me if I was comfortable. He’d simply entered the room, placed a closed manila folder on the table, then removed my cuffs and taken a seat opposite me, expression serious.
“You want to walk me through what happened tonight?” he asked.
I struggled to find the right words and worked moisture back into my mouth. They had taken the swatch of rusty red cloth from my pocket when they had processed me and my personal effects at the police station.
“Detective,” I said, meeting his gaze, “there’s something very important I have to tell you. The piece of cloth in my pocket, that’s evidence.”
“Huh?”
“For Trisha’s murder.” I broke into a quick explanation of what I’d done this evening, from my frustration at having to ask my Aunt Rita to return to Parfait, to my decision to find evidence that proved both my innocence and Nick’s or at least narrowed down the suspect pool. “So that piece of cloth is evidence. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t thrown away because that would be a terrible mistake.”
Detective Garcia considered me, his dark eyebrows raised. “One moment.” He got up and walked to the interrogation room’s door, then stuck his head into the hall beyond and had a hushed conversation with someone. He returned to the table.
“All right,” he said. “Now, walk me through what happened when you returned home this evening.”
“There’s not much to say. I arrived at my aunt’s cottage and wanted to go next door to speak to Nick about what I found at the restaurant.”
“What exactly was that?”
“The piece of cloth in the pantry window,” I said. “I thought Nick would be encouraged that I had found a clue that showed it wasn’t just us and the servers in the kitchen.”
Detective Garcia released a slow breath. “You realize that the cloth might’ve gotten caught in the window before or after the murder?”
I hesitated. “Yes. But it seems like too much of coincidence. Anyway, when I got to Nick’s cottage, I saw Jasmine lying on the porch. You’ve got to believe me here, I didn’t hurt her. I turned her over to check she was all right, then started dialing 911. That’s when the police arrived.”
Detective Garcia nodded. “Right. And did you see anyone else at the house?”
“No, it was totally dark. I called out for Nick, but he wasn’t there either. I just… don’t know who could’ve done this or why.” The officer who had brought me in had indicated someone had hit Jasmine. They thought that person was me.
Detective Garcia remained silent.
“Detective, is Jasmine OK?”
“She’s woken up,” he said. “And she told us what happened to her.”
“Good. What happened?”
“A masked man attacked her.”
“A masked man? That’s terrible.” A man, most likely the murderer, had attacked Jasmine. That cleared me of the attack. But… why would he have attacked her? And who was it? It couldn’t be a random guy—there was crime in Parfait, but nothing like this. It felt sinister, much like Trisha’s murder.
“Detective,” I said. “It’s got to be the guy who killed Trisha.”
“How do you figure that?” Detective Garcia sat back in his chair, tilted his head to one side and studied me.
“Nick and Jasmine were working on building up an influencer profile for Nick, from what I heard. And Trisha was an influencer. What if the person who’s doing this is involved in that type of work?”
Detective Garcia said nothing again.
I picked over the details, nervously chewing on my index fingernail. A bad habit.
It could be anyone, but there were suspects. Nick wouldn’t randomly attack his own wife. But Tom had been talking to Nick a lot. Could it be him? What if it was someone else? Someone from my past who had come to town? I had felt as if someone was following me the other day, but… no, that made little sense.
“We’ve spoken to Miss Talbott, and based on what she told us, you’re free to go,” Detective Garcia said. “But, Miss Charles, I’m expecting you to report anything you hear, see or find that is related to my investigation right away. And not go running off to your friends to share it with them instead.”
“I will, I promise.”
“That said,” Garcia continued, raising a palm, “I want you to stay out of the case.”
But it was too late. I was in too deep, and I felt I was on the cusp of something big. A discovery that
would lead to the arrest. “OK,” I said, but crossed my fingers under the table.
35
I got home at 10:15pm, exhausted and ready for the night to be over. My brain was utter mush. I hovered halfway between defeat and determination, but I wouldn’t give up. Not when I was so sure things were about to go my way.
I couldn’t explain the feeling. A little voice in my mind whispered for me to keep going, not give up. Then again, that same voice had been the one that’d told me not to give up on my marriage, and that had been a total loss. Was I just stubborn?
The Beetle’s engine ticked and cooled after I put it in park, and I looked up at the cottage, its porch lights on, and the solitary black shape of Bodger on the porch, waiting for my return, the only greeting.
I got out of the car and went up to him, my hand in my pocket for the front door key—now free of the only clue I’d had. The rusty red piece of shirt. Or pants. Who knew at this point?
“Hey, Bodger,” I said.
He didn’t hiss at me this time, but looked up at me with those all-knowing yellow eyes.
“Did you see anything weird tonight?”
A flick of the tail.
He wasn’t unsettled like he’d been after the break-in at the cottage. Did that mean he hadn’t seen anything? Or was the person who had attacked Jasmine familiar to him?
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you some food.” I unlocked the front door and let us inside, then input the alarm code.
In the kitchen, Bodger prowled back and forth, waiting for his kitty nibbles. I put them in his cheerful yellow bowl with its paw print pattern, then poured myself a glass of white wine. I needed it after a day like today.
“Cheers to us figuring this out, eh, Bodger?” I raised the glass.
Murder Over Easy (A Sunny Side Up Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 14
