Small Town Spooky (Cozy Mystery Anthology)

by Anisa Claire West

  Within seconds, the man’s breathing and moving completely ceased and he lay crouched on the floor, still clutching his heart. “You incompetent idiots! You killed him!” The brother was inconsolable as he paced the length of the restaurant, gazing up at the ceiling with tears of rage and grief filling his eyes.

  Everyone else stood immobilized, unsure of what to do in the wake of such an unexpected tragedy. Paramedics soon stormed through the door and hurried over to the victim, who they promptly declared as dead. “What happened here?” One of the EMT workers asked to no one in particular.

  The bereaved brother shouted, “These idiots killed him! That woman over there…” he pointed accusingly at me, “she didn’t cut his salad right and he choked.”

  Instinctively defending myself, I said, “I’m sorry, but that’s ridiculous. With all due respect, I’m not responsible for spoon feeding customers. Not even children. Customers have to cut up their food into portions that they can manage.”

  “And he wasn’t choking anyway,” Rolf, who had been standing quietly in the background, suddenly interjected. “The man was breathing, but he did seem to be having some kind of seizure. It could have even been a stroke.”

  “Or a heart attack,” Baron added quickly, eager to save his precious business from a lawsuit.

  “I’m getting conflicting stories here,” the EMT technician said as a couple of police officers swaggered into the restaurant and surveyed the scene.

  Chaos erupted along with relentless thunder and lightning as the officers ordered for backup assistance and then dispersed to interview each witness individually. I couldn’t stop biting my fingernails while a young, fresh-faced police officer asked me to spill everything I had seen.

  “And how about your preparation of the salad? Were you paying attention when you were making it?” The russet haired cop asked as I furrowed my eyebrows in perplexity.

  “Well yes, I guess so. Salads don’t really require much attention. They’re pretty straightforward,” I replied, refraining from telling the cop how I had actually been quite distracted during my preparation of the fateful Blood Red Strawberry & Beet Salad and snuck out of the kitchen to steal a glance at the customer who ordered it.

  “So it’s not possible that you accidentally poured a noxious substance on the salad rather than dressing?” The officer pressed.

  “A noxious substance? You mean poison?” I asked in shock as the officer nodded. “No, of course it’s not possible!”

  “Unfortunately, I think it is. We’re going to need to order a full autopsy, but I can tell you right now that poisoning is a clear possibility.”

  Chapter 3

  I nearly chomped my pinky nail off as the officer revealed his theory that the diner had been poisoned to death. My mind raced with disturbing questions: had Rolf lost his cool and poisoned the salad when I wasn’t looking? Or had someone else sprinkled sudden death into the salad when I foolishly crept into the dining room instead of minding my own business?

  “Officer, if you think poison is a possibility, I should tell you that I left the salad unattended for a couple of minutes…”

  The policeman looked at me warily through glassy hazel eyes. “Why are you telling me this now? I asked you before if you were paying attention when you prepped the salad, and you said yes.”

  “I know, but I just didn’t think it was important. I didn’t think murder was a possibility.”

  The officer’s eyes darkened from green to brown as he stared at me with even greater suspicion. “Who said anything about murder? I only said poisoning. Maybe someone inadvertently mixed dishwasher detergent in with the dressing or something like that.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly, feeling myself backed into a corner where I didn’t belong. “But a little dishwasher detergent wouldn’t kill someone, would it?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t know what the victim’s general state of health was and I don’t know what killed him either. I’m just covering all the bases.” The officer shrugged his broad shoulders and kept his eyes locked on my twitching face.

  “I see. Well, as I told you, I did leave the kitchen for a little while, so it’s possible that someone else accidentally spilled something toxic into it,” I tried to temper my voice, which sounded shaky to my own ears.

  “Why did you leave the salad unattended?”

  Feeling foolish, I replied, “I was curious about who ordered it. It’s called the Blood Red Strawberry & Beet Salad,” I explained as the officer flinched at the macabre description. “It’s not a very popular item on our menu and I was just curious who ordered it. So I stepped out into the dining room to see who wanted it.”

  The officer stroked his chin thoughtfully as though mulling over my sincerity. Apparently satisfied that I was being honest, he commented, “Kind of nosy, don’t you think?”

  Blushing, I replied, “Yes, it was nosy. I should have just done my job.”

  Nodding his agreement, the police officer circled to the other side of the dining room where the devastated sibling was falling apart. I tiptoed towards that corner of the room and eavesdropped on the emotion-charged conversation that followed.

  “I’m Detective Feldman. Very sorry for your loss, sir,” the policeman tipped his hat respectfully. “What was your brother’s name?”

  “Neil O’Grady,” he said in a barely audible whisper. “He was my only brother.”

  “And what is your name, sir?”

  “Gordon O’Grady,” he replied in a monotone.

  “Did Neil have any food allergies or preexisting medical conditions of which you were aware?” Detective Feldman inquired as Gordon immediately shook his head.

  “No,” he answered, turning away as the paramedics wheeled the body out of the restaurant and into the rainy evening. “Neil was as healthy as a horse and he was about to turn 60 in August. This is just unbelievable.”

  “Can you get us in touch with his next of kin?” Detective Feldman asked.

  “I am his next of kin. Neil never married and he didn’t have any kids. He traveled too much for work to ever settle down,” Gordon explained sadly. “But he would have made a great dad. He’s always been the best uncle to my kids.”

  “What did Neil do for a living that required so much travel?” Officer Feldman asked as Gordon cast me an accusatory glare.

  Inhaling a sharp breath, Gordon replied, “He was a food critic for the New York Times.”

  Chapter 4

  Was I going crazy? I couldn’t believe I had heard the man correctly. A food critic?! A food critic who dropped dead inexplicably in a restaurant? It seemed too far-fetched of a coincidence. No, Neil O’Grady’s death couldn’t have been accidental or a result of poor health. The man was murdered! The room spun around me as I fixed my gaze on Baron, Billy, Rolf, Jed, and even the bad-mannered hostess, Kristin. Any one of those people could have had a reason to want a prominent New York Times food critic dead. Rolf’s sinister threat to poison the Hollandaise sauce swirled sickeningly in my mind.

  There was no doubt that the chef was disgruntled, but would he go far enough to poison the salad of a food critic just to avoid the possibility of receiving a nasty review? And how would Rolf have known that Neil O’Grady was in the restaurant anyway? Rolf had been holed up in the kitchen all day. Only Baron and Billy would have seen the food critic walk through the door. They seemed like much more likely culprits as they were more invested in the business. Not only did they have a motive, but they also had the opportunity. I gulped uncomfortably as I remembered how everyone was congregating in the kitchen when I left the salad vulnerably alone. How easy would it have been for the owner or manager to sprinkle a lethal seasoning into the salad? It wouldn’t have taken more than a split second. Then again, how would Baron or Billy have known that tonight was the night a food writer was going to critique the restaurant? Did one of the shady fellows carry a bottle of poison on them at all times “just in case?” This theory, too, seemed utterly preposterous.

/>   “Oh my goodness! What’s happening here? There are police cars and ambulances everywhere!” Dottie exclaimed as she clamored into the restaurant. The snow haired lady untied a home-knit periwinkle scarf and made a beeline for me. “Charlotte! Dear, what happened?”

  Discreetly pulling Dottie aside, I whispered in her ear, “A man died in here while eating a salad.”

  Dottie gasped and covered her magenta painted lips with a wrinkled hand. “Oh no! How terrible!”

  “I don’t think we’re going to be needing you tonight after all, Dottie,” Billy said solemnly. “There’s no way we can open for business tonight after a man died in here. The sanitation department will run us out of town.”

  “And so will the police,” Detective Feldman said firmly. “Until we know the cause of death, this restaurant needs to be treated as a crime scene, which means that no business can be transacted here.”

  “What?!” Baron boomed furiously. “You can’t shut my business down!”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice,” Officer Feldman said without a shred of apology in his tone.

  “I’m sure it will only be temporary, Baron,” Billy said. “We’ll be back in business by next Saturday night, I’m sure.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Officer Feldman retorted.

  “Either way, I’m ruined.” Baron threw his hands up in the air. “Who will want to eat in this restaurant after a man croaked at one of the tables? People will avoid my restaurant like the plague. Damn that Neil O’Grady!”

  I cringed at Baron’s insensitive outburst, unable to believe he had just cursed a dead man. “Can the employees leave if we’re not going to be serving dinner tonight?” I asked timidly. Even my lousy, cramped studio seemed like a luxurious penthouse suite in that moment.

  “The employees may leave,” Detective Feldman said cautiously. “For now. Everyone who was here tonight could be considered a witness should this death turn out to be a homicide. Further questioning may be required in the very near future.”

  Dottie’s weathered hands shook anxiously. “But I just got here. I’m not considered a witness, am I?”

  “No, ma’am,” the detective assured.

  Sighing with undisguised relief, I collected my purse and jacket from the kitchen, waving a curt goodbye to my colleagues who seemed equally eager to leave. Only Baron stayed behind, pacing the length of the restaurant and cursing under his breath.

  Outside the air was damp, but the rain had finally stopped. Dottie rushed to walk abreast of me as I dashed to my car. “What in the world happened? Was it some kind of practical joke that Billy called me to come in? That man really does have a sick sense of humor.”

  “What?” I asked, surprised. “No, he called you because he fired that new girl, Miranda. The man died right after Billy called you. And I’m really scared, Dottie.”

  “Why dear?”

  “Because I’m the one who made the salad. The police will definitely come back to grill me if the autopsy reveals murder,” I said glumly, acknowledging for the first time how grave the situation truly was.

  “Oh but I’m sure it wasn’t murder!” Dottie said optimistically. “The man probably had a weak heart.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said uneasily. “But the really scary thing is that if he was murdered, then someone on the staff did it. Right before you came in, the victim’s brother told the detective how he was a food critic for the New York Times.”

  Dottie looked aghast as her naturally pale face turned even whiter. “Food critic? Oh my, oh dear.”

  “See what I mean? Everyone who worked there could have a motive to kill a food critic.”

  “Yes, but some may have more motive than others,” Dottie said mysteriously.

  My heart leapt and jerked at her enigmatic comment. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh nothing, dear,” she said hurriedly. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions when we don’t even know if it was murder at all!” Glancing at her wristwatch, she said, “I should get home. I might have just enough time before bed to finish knitting that pair of booties for my grandson.”

  “But Dottie…” I began as the old lady shuffled away from me towards her old Chevrolet Lumina sedan.

  Baffled, I watched as Dottie cranked up the noisy engine and threw the car into reverse in a blatant effort to get away fast. What did she know? My gut screamed at me that Dottie was clinging to a crucial piece of information, but I couldn’t press the elderly lady and risk upsetting her. The poor woman hadn’t even witnessed the incident; I had no right to toss her in the middle of the rough waters without a lifeboat. Still, I had to find out what she was hiding…

  ***

  The next morning, I awoke on my flapjack thin mattress, immediately massaging a crick in my neck and stumbling towards the galley kitchen for coffee. Man, I wish I lived somewhere else. At my age, I should at least have a decent one bedroom apartment…and a viable career. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that Baron’s Bistro was going to be shuttered. Maybe it would light a much needed fire under my lazy bum and force me to chase the dreams that had been burning inside me for so long.

  Fixing myself an unsatisfying cup of instant coffee, I threw a frozen cinnamon raisin bagel into the microwave and retrieved a tub of sweet cream butter from the fridge. Ironically, I detested cooking for myself and subsisted on frozen junk at nearly every meal. As a chef, I only derived pleasure from cooking for others and sharing my joy of cuisine. Cooking for one was beyond drudgery, not only for the fact that it reminded me of my single status but also because it reminded me of how at 32 I still didn’t have the job of my dreams.

  Slathering the butter on thick, I bit into the bland bagel and contemplated the drama that had exploded last night like botched 4th of July fireworks. A man had died while eating a salad I prepared. The reality struck me brutally. Regardless of the fact that I wasn’t personally responsible for Neil O’Grady’s death, I couldn’t help but feel a tremendous amount of guilt. Restlessly, I stood up and walked to the tiny window in my living room/bedroom. Dense fog enshrouded the high rise buildings of White Plains with silver gray clouds predicting another round of thunderstorms. Gloomily, I walked away from the window, wishing I could shut my eyes and magically transport myself to a sun-kissed Greek island.

  As I sat down on a wobbly kitchen stool, my cell phone rang. Rushing to my nightstand, I picked up the phone, surprised to see Dottie’s phone number on the screen. Other than to ask me to cover one of her shifts, the woman never called me. Heart palpitating, I realized that she must have something to say about the murderously motivated person she had alluded to last night.

  “Dottie?” I said expectantly as morning grogginess seeped through my voice.

  “Sorry to bother you so early, dear! Did I wake you?” Her voice sounded high pitch and nervous.

  “Not at all. I was just having breakfast. Is everything okay?”

  “No, it isn’t!” She blurted out. “You didn’t tell me it was Neil O’Grady that died last night!”

  “Huh? Maybe I didn’t mention his name, but other people did. You didn’t hear them?” I asked, quickly realizing that the old lady may actually not have heard. Dottie once told me how her daughter was constantly trying to convince her to get a hearing aid while she patently refused. “Did you know Neil O’Grady? And how did you find out his name if you didn’t hear anyone say it?” I asked.

  “Because it’s printed in the newspaper this morning!” Dottie replied.

  “Did you know him?” I repeated.

  “No, but I knew of him,” Dottie said meaningfully. “Now I’m more sure than ever of who had the motive to do this…” Again she trailed off uncertainly as though she were afraid to incriminate an innocent party.

  “Who are you talking about, Dottie?” I gripped my cell phone a little tighter in anticipation of her response, but all I heard was dead air like a local radio station fading out across state lines. “Dottie? Are you there?”

 
A gush of breath whooshed over the line as she replied, “I’m here. We shouldn’t talk about this over the phone. I’ll take a drive to your place in White Plains and…”

  “No, I’ll come to you in Sleepy Hollow,” I insisted. “It’s such a foggy day and I wouldn’t want you driving on the Thruway to come here.”

  “You’re such a sweet girl,” Dottie sighed. “One of these days you’re going to let me fix you up with Bryant!”

  My lips twisted into a grin at the mention of Dottie’s youngest son. Bryant was a 37 year old human rights attorney with a posh Park Avenue office. He was also perpetually single and, according to his concerned mother, in dire need of a woman like me to marry. Even though Bryant could easily afford to solve all his mother’s financial woes so that she would never have to wait tables again, Dottie preferred to stay active and refused to accept his assistance.

  “But this isn’t the time to talk about that, is it?” Dottie said wistfully. “No, we have a murder to solve.”

  Her words sent new chills down my spine. How did I go from working a dead end job one day to playing homicide detective the next day? “Where would you like me to meet you? Should I come by your apartment?”

  “No, I need to get out a little. I’m going stir crazy in this apartment!”

  “I know what you mean,” I groaned, glancing around at my bleak landscape.

  “Meet me at that little French coffeehouse by the river. Chez Georges, you know the one,” Dottie said.

  “I do. They have the most amazing croissants,” I salivated at the mere thought of buttering up one of those flaky bliss bites.

  “Okay, I think I can get there in about half an hour. Sound good?”

  “No dear, it doesn’t sound good at all, but it sounds like what we need to do…” Dottie trailed off as the dial tone hummed in my ears.

  Chapter 5

  Traversing the Headless Horseman Bridge, I contemplated the rich literary history of Sleepy Hollow. Made famous by Washington Irving’s frightful tale, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and its eccentric protagonist, Ichabod Crane, the town is a gateway to the swanky mansions of Westchester County. Breathtaking views of the Hudson River place a distant second to the thrills and chills of stomping on the same ground as the Gothic author’s peculiar characters. Growing up a few miles away in White Plains, I had never been very interested in Sleepy Hollow or its cultural history. But as a child every year on Halloween, I would convince my mother to let me go trick or treating among the winding, foliage strewn roads of Sleepy Hollow rather than the concrete jungle of White Plains. Other than for those childhood trick or treating jaunts, Sleepy Hollow had been my place of employment, but never a place of intrigue.