By now, the entire parking lot was full, so I carefully backed out of my space when I reached Ringo, and then I turned onto the surface road that would take me to Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. Thank goodness the restaurant was close by, because otherwise I’d have to pass some of the town’s other landmarks, like Dippin’ Donuts, which Grady owned.
Grady. Even the thought of passing by his doughnut shop now took my breath away.
Yesterday, when he asked me out to dinner, I happily accepted. But that was then. That was before Ambrose propped me up this morning as we surveyed my ruined door. He seemed more upset about the crime than I was; as if the assault happened to him and not me.
Not only that, but then he arranged to fix the damage and even cleaned off my front stoop for good measure. How could I betray him like this? I felt horrible, and I hadn’t even done anything wrong yet.
Lost in thought, I almost missed the entrance to Miss Odilia’s parking lot. A quick twist of the wrist corrected that, and I pulled up alongside Lance’s grimy Oldsmobile in the first row. One day I’d convince him to visit Sparkle N’ Shine for a full-service car wash, but not today. Today, we had other, more important things to discuss.
I parked the car and hopped out, and that’s when I spied Lance waiting for me by the front door, a thick notebook in his hand.
“Hey, there,” he called out, as soon as I approached him.
“Hi, Lance. Thanks for meeting me.”
“This is the second time today I’ve seen you. People are gonna talk.”
“Don’t start up with me. You have no idea where I’ve been.”
I led him into the restaurant and over to the hostess stand. Unlike later in the day, when a line of customers would wind from the stand to the parking lot, only a few people milled around this early in the morning.
The restaurant began its life as a 1930s bungalow. While Odilia LaPorte replaced most of the plumbing and electrical fixtures when she converted it to a restaurant, she left other details alone, like the old Baldwin piano in the front room and an oil painting of the original owners on the fireplace mantle. Even the crossbeams in the dining room were original, including ones that teepeed over a certain table where Ambrose and I had dined.
A freckle-faced hostess led us to a different table now.
“Thank you,” Lance told her, as he pulled out a chair for me.
“Would you like some coffee?” She set two paper coasters on the table in front of us.
“Please,” I said. “I’ll take mine black, and Lance here likes his with cream.”
“Yes, ma’am. Zach will be your server today.”
Lance tossed his notebook on the table as she walked away. He chose the chair next to mine and settled into it. “So, what’s all this about?”
“I found out some new things with Charlotte’s death.” I glanced at the notebook and spied her name and the date she died on its cover. “What’s that?”
“This? It’s my murder book. I use it to record everything about the investigation.”
“Everything?” Although I’d discovered Charlotte’s body only two days ago, the book already bulged with bits of paper and neon sticky notes.
“Yep. We’re talking witness statements, preliminary autopsy results, crime-scene photos. You name it—it’s all in there.”
I touched the cover, which was cool and nubby. “That must be helpful. Otherwise, how would you keep all those teeny-tiny details straight?”
He gave a raspy chuckle. “Those ‘teeny-tiny details,’ as you put it, are what’s gonna solve this crime. My job is to figure out which ones are important and which ones aren’t.” He shrugged, as if he was talking about how to solve the Sunday crossword puzzle and not a murder, for goodness sakes.
“Where do you even start?”
“I do a timeline first. It helps me keep the chronology straight. That way, if people come back and try to change their location, I know they’re lying.”
“See . . . that’s what would kill me. I’d hate to think people would lie to my face. Do you ever get used to it?”
“Not really. But it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. I’ve seen what happens when people lie to a cop. It eats away at them. It might take a while, but eventually they’ll come back and tell me what they really saw.”
I thought about that for a moment. “But couldn’t that take years? By then a case would be cold. At least, that’s what they say on TV.”
He shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you see on those shows. There’s no such thing as a ‘cold case.’ Not as long as there’s a cop who has a murder book like this. As a matter of fact . . .” He flipped it open to reveal a sketch of what looked like a parking lot, with wheel stops, dotted lines, and a caution sign. “I’m going to re-create the crime later today. Go over the position of the whiskey barrel, the victim’s body . . . that kind of thing.”
Just then, Odilia LaPorte, who wore a chef’s coat, appeared at our table, and Lance quickly flipped the book closed. Odilia wore a snowy chignon, like always, which she’d tucked under a black hairnet. Her round face split in two the moment she spied her son.
“Shut my mouth and call me Shirley!” She swallowed Lance in a bear hug. “My hostess told me you were here.”
“Hey, Mom.” Lance threw me a sheepish grin. “Don’t forget about Missy.”
She turned and wrapped her arms around me next, the smells of cooking oil, fried bread crumbs, and fresh garlic wafting up from her coat.
“Hello, Mrs. LaPorte.”
She immediately released me. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Odilia? Gah-lee, you’re making me feel as old as dirt.”
“Sorry, Miss Odilia. No disrespect intended. It’s just how I was raised.”
“I understand that.” She clucked her tongue. “Now, what brings you two into my little restaurant? And there’s only one right answer, you know.”
“Why, the food, of course.” I feigned innocence. “Why else would we come?”
“Good girl.”
“But we also have a lot to discuss,” Lance said.
Leave it to him to steamroll right over the pleasantries and get down to business. No wonder Lance made such a good cop.
“That right?” Odilia said. “What’re you working on?”
“Missy here is helping me with the Charlotte Devereaux investigation. She’s the one who found the body, you know.”
“I heard about that.” Odilia clucked her tongue again. “Terrible tragedy. Just awful. And especially since I saw Charlotte the other night.”
I quickly eyed the empty chair across the way. Odds were good Odilia would say no, but it couldn’t hurt to offer it. “Can you join us for a few minutes? Lance here told me Charlotte came to your restaurant on New Year’s Eve.”
She glanced around the dining room, which was only half full, before pulling out the chair and sitting down. “Guess a few minutes won’t hurt.” The cooking smells reemerged as she settled into it. “We don’t get crowded until lunchtime. But I already told Lance what I saw that night.”
“You did,” he said. “Apparently the victim met up with Bettina Leblanc in the hallway, by the kitchen.”
“Um, hm. I could hear the two of them fussin’ from clear across the room. You know it’s bad when you can hear something over the grease cookin’.”
“But wasn’t the whole restaurant loud that night?” I asked. “I imagine you were packed, it being New Year’s Eve.”
“Well, it wasn’t quiet,” she admitted. “But those two caught my ear. I had to leave my stove just to see what all the fuss was about.”
Bits and pieces of my earlier conversation with Lance bubbled up now. Apparently, Bettina blamed the dustup on too much alcohol, although the coroner’s report didn’t agree with her.
Odilia pointed to a spot over Lance’s shoulder. “The two of ’em got into it right over there, in that hallway. That’s one of the most public places ’round here you can fight with someone.�
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I nodded, even though I wished the fight would’ve happened in the dining room where we sat, since a video camera captured everything that took place here. “I’m sure you told Lance what you know, but I still think it’s strange Bettina blamed their fight on too much wine.”
“Well, she was half right.” Odilia glanced from me to Lance. “I told you about that, son. Bettina was drunker than a skunk. Almost thought she was gonna topple right over onto the floor when I came outta my kitchen to shush ’em.”
“But what about Charlotte?” I asked. “Was she sober?”
“As a judge.” Odilia pursed his lips now. “I think that was part of the problem. When Bettina started laying into her, Charlotte didn’t have much choice but to hear her out. She looked afraid of Bettina, to tell you the truth.”
“What were they fighting about?” Although I didn’t want to hog the conversation, Lance had heard most of this before, while I hadn’t. And I couldn’t understand why two women would fight in one of the town’s most popular restaurants, and on its busiest night of the year.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that,” Odilia said. “At first I thought it was about business. You know, since they both worked around here. I figured maybe one of ’em bad-mouthed the other to a client.”
As Odilia spoke, Lance slowly edged the notebook away from his elbow, flipped it open, and withdrew a Bic from the book’s spine, all nonchalance. “You’ve changed your mind about that, Mom? Sounds like you don’t think the argument was about work, after all.”
“I have changed my mind. I was gonna call you about it when I had a chance.” A cloud passed over Odilia’s face. “I think it was more personal than that. Bettina didn’t like something Charlotte had done. She wagged her finger at her so much, I thought for sure it was gonna fly right off her hand.”
“Interesting.” Lance scribbled something or other into his notebook. “Did you hear the actual words?”
“Not really. I could barely understand Bettina. She’s a sloppy drunk, you know.”
Lance’s pen stalled. “Anything else?”
“Just what I already told you. Bettina wanted her to make amends for something. Said it was the Christian thing to do. Her face got all red and puffy when she said that.”
I was about to pose another question when a figure appeared behind Lance’s shoulder. It was the hostess, who’d returned with our coffees.
“Here you go,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” Apparently, she didn’t expect to see Odilia at our table, because she almost dropped the cups when she noticed her boss. “The pot was empty and I couldn’t find the filters. I’ll run back and get you some cream.”
The girl somehow managed to right the cups and set them on the table before she hurried away.
“Well, guess it’s time for me to get back to the kitchen.” Odilia pushed her chair back and rose. “Those filters are right on top of the shelf, plain as day. I swaney, sometimes I wonder how we get anything done around here.”
Once she moved away from our table, I turned to Lance. “Was any of that news to you?’
“Only the part about her changing her mind. And that’s the first time she said anything about making amends.”
“Seems like she just remembered that part.” I took a sip of coffee, which was hot and strong, just like my earlier cup at the Starbucks kiosk. “I’m sure she had a lot going on in her kitchen that night. I’m surprised she caught as much as she did.”
“My mom’s a good witness. She doesn’t miss a trick. Maybe because she had to put up with me for so long.”
I chuckled. “Good point. You definitely kept her on her toes.”
“Now . . . where were we?” He leaned back and lifted his mug. “You said something about new details. Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
Once I’d told Lance about my conversations at the Factory—especially my time with Paxton Haney and his paper shredder—our meal drew to a close.
By now, he’d written more notes in his murder book, and I’d polished off a full plate of chicken and waffles.
“I’m stuffed as a tick.” I pushed the plate away. “That’s what my grandpa would say.”
Lance did the same. “No, that’s not right. He’d say ‘stuffed as a tick on a hound dog.’ Every one of your grandpa’s sayings had a hound dog in it.”
I grinned. “Whaddya know. You actually paid attention to him all those times you came around to my house.”
“Didn’t think I had much of a choice. Look, this has been great and all, but I’ve gotta get back to the police station. I told the medical examiner I’d call him at ten, and we’re past that now.” He scooped up his notebook and rose.
I began to get ready to leave, but he motioned for me to stay put.
“No . . . don’t get up on my account. You still have some coffee left. And don’t even think about trying to pay the bill. My mom won’t let either of us do that.”
“At least let me leave a tip.” I started to reach for some bills in my pocket, but he beat me to the punch and tossed five dollars on the table.
“That should do it,” he said. “I’ll call you later, especially if the ME tells me anything new.”
He swung the notebook to his side and began to walk away. Once he disappeared, I pulled out my cell to check the time. The screen showed three new texts. One was from Ambrose, who asked for a breakfast burrito instead of a sandwich. The second was from Beatrice, who wrote something about another bride canceling her appointment.
Ouch. Just when I thought things were beginning to settle down, it looked like my clients still didn’t trust me. Why else would a bride up and cancel like that?
I numbly reached for the coffee cup. Guess I had no choice but to do damage control once I returned to the Factory. At this rate, I’d never be able to pay my bills, and I needed every single penny in January to make up for the holidays. It was the only way I could keep the lights on, the storeroom supplied, and Beatrice’s paychecks coming until the wedding season kicked in again.
I debated calling Beatrice right then and there. Maybe we could put our heads together and figure out a way to stop the downward spiral.
Before I could do that, though, the last message on the screen caught my eye.
Someone had texted only a few minutes before. Unlike the first two messages, this one was preceded by the words No Caller ID. How strange. My cell always gave the person’s name, or, if not a name, at least a telephone number.
But this person had deliberately blocked the information. The message they sent was brief:
Did you like your door? Hope you learned a lesson. We all know CD wasn’t worth spit.
My fingers gripped the coffee cup’s handle. The text was only three sentences long. Really just a scattering of vowels and consonants. But the tone . . . I could almost hear someone crow in the background.
After an eternity, I dredged my gaze away from it. Everything around me seemed so normal. A couple of businesswomen sat at the next table over, their perfectly coiffed heads bent together. Across from them was a mom and her toddler, who faced a giant pile of Cheerios on the tray of his high chair. Even farther back stood the hostess, who twirled a strand of hair while she surveyed the dining room.
Just another normal breakfast at Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. I reluctantly returned my gaze to the phone, unable to resist the pull of it. Obviously, CD stood for Charlotte Devereaux. But why would someone tell me she wasn’t “worth spit”? And why was I being punished for something?
If only Lance hadn’t left already. He’d know what to do.
Speaking of which . . . am I being watched? Lance always told me about thugs who liked to hang around afterward to watch their victim’s faces. Was my texter sitting somewhere nearby, hoping to see the startled look on my face?
I pushed the coffee cup away and wobbled to my feet. The industrial carpet blurred underneath as I dashed through the dining room with the cell phone in my hand.
I moved on autopilot all the way to the parking lot. There wasn’t time to think; time to do much of anything but breathe . . . and even that wasn’t easy. I scrambled over to Ringo and hopped in, and then I instinctively pointed the car toward the Factory. Since Lance was tied up with the medical examiner, I needed to find Ambrose. He’d help me make sense of the message.
Chapter 17
Nothing registered as I drove away from the restaurant and pulled onto the feeder road. At one point someone honked—at least I thought it was intended for me—but the sound was muffled, vague. I didn’t notice anything else until I arrived at the Factory and pulled into a parking space directly in front of my studio.
Someone was already there. It was a woman, who’d curled her finger around an edge of the plywood and pulled it back a bit. There was no mistaking the teal Chanel suit. Why-ever would Suzi Wan want to peek inside my empty studio?
I practically fell out of the car and moved over to her. “Excuse me. Can I help you?”
She startled and the plywood snapped back into place. “Missy . . . you scared me to death! You shouldn’t go around sneaking up on people like that. It’s not polite.”
Polite? By all rights, she stood in front of my studio, inspecting my property, but I was supposed to apologize? “I’m not sneaking around. You’re standing on my welcome mat.”
“What?” Her gaze fell to the ground. “So I am. Silly me. And it’s such a lovely mat too. Wherever did you find it?”
I glanced at the plain rush mat, which was faded and frayed. Talk about changing the subject. “Homestyle Hardware. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I only wanted to see what happened to your studio, since you told me about it this morning.”
“Yes, well . . . There’s nothing much to see. Ambrose cleaned up the mess.”
“I thought I’d stop by and take a peek anyway, since I got called back for a client meeting. Unfortunately, it’s a new client and she’s very high maintenance.”
Her mention of a new client reminded me of something. Hadn’t Trudi Whidbee casually announced she’d hired Suzi to plan her wedding? She’d tossed off the comment as if it meant nothing to her. “By the way, I ran into Trudi Whidbee this morning. She told me she hired you as her new wedding planner.”
Someone's Mad at the Hatter Page 13
