Small Town Spooky (Cozy Mystery Anthology)

by Anisa Claire West

  As I parked my car outside the café, I gazed out towards the river at the lifting haze that revealed a peacock blue sky and buttercup sun. From the vantage point of the river, I could glimpse the Tappan Zee Bridge and charming morsels of other Hudson Valley towns. A breeze blew from the rippling waters, causing me to wrap my sweater a little more snugly around my waist.

  Peering through the window of the café, I saw that Dottie had already arrived. Sitting with her hands folded at a corner table, she appeared very nervous, like someone was going to force her to run barefoot through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery at midnight. Scurrying over to the trembling lady, I slid into the booth and said, “hi.”

  “Ooh! You scared me!” Dottie touched a hand to her heart.

  “I’m sorry. Let’s order some coffee. A nice French roast will make you feel better.”

  “No, coffee will make me even more jittery! I already ordered a cup of hot water with lemon.”

  “No dessert?” I quipped, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

  Dottie grinned momentarily and replied, “I ordered two croissants. With extra butter and jam, don’t you worry. I’ve got us covered!”

  I giggled for a moment and smiled as a waitress served us. “Thank you. Could I get a hot chocolate, please?”

  “Coming right up,” the waitress said perkily. Close to Dottie’s age, the woman looked like she should be the one enjoying java and a snack while someone waited on her. Feeling guilty, I silently vowed to leave her a 30% tip.

  “How was traffic?” Dottie asked absentmindedly as she split the croissant in two and filled it with orange marmalade.

  “Fine…look, I know you’re uncomfortable with this whole situation, but I need you to tell me what you know. If Neil O’Grady’s autopsy comes back with even a trace of poison in his system, the cops are going to come after me. I have a very personal stake in this.” I looked intently into her eyes as she swallowed a chunk of bread and nodded her understanding.

  “I know, dear. Believe me, I’m very worried about that. I couldn’t bear to see you framed for murder!” She reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping.

  “Is that Neil’s obituary?” I asked.

  “No, it’s one of his old restaurant reviews that was published in the New York Times,” she revealed, unfolding the tattered paper.

  “Why do you have one of his old reviews?” I asked curiously.

  “Dear, I’ve saved every restaurant review from the New York Times since 1986. I’ve been hired for more than one waitressing gig by showing owners how knowledgeable I am about the menu. Little did they know that I learned everything from the reviews!” She seemed proud of her little trick, but I was confused.

  “You’ve saved every restaurant review from the New York Times since 1986?” Was Dottie a secret hoarder? If she had saved all those reviews, wouldn’t the stack of them reach to the ceiling of her apartment like a miniature skyscraper?

  “Alright, you caught me. I guess I was exaggerating a little. I’ve saved every review from the Sunday edition since 1986. That’s only 52 from each year, you see,” Dottie explained.

  “Right and over about 30 years that would be more than 1,500. Okay, that’s not so many, I guess. But why did you do it?”

  “I told you, dear! They were my study tools for getting waitressing gigs! I’m talking about the days before the internet when menus weren’t available with the click of a button. Besides, food is my passion. I guess I always wanted to be a chef, just like you, but it never happened for me.”

  Startled, I looked at the fine lines on the old woman’s face and felt deeply saddened. Dottie had dreamed of being a chef? I never would have known. Suddenly, I felt the urgency of time slipping through my fingers. I didn’t want to reach Dottie’s age and muse about dreams never achieved. In the back of my mind, I heard MacDonald Carey’s haunting voice, ‘Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of Our Lives.’

  “Some people collect coins, model airplanes, porcelain dolls, Disney memorabilia, you name it. I collect restaurant reviews!” Dottie laughed as I forced a smile. “Anyway,” she lowered her voice dramatically. “I searched all morning to find this review from 1998. Take a look…”

  Narrowing my eyes, I scanned the article and noted Neil O’Grady’s byline in bold letters. Below the food critic’s name was a synopsis of the restaurant in review including hours, price range, and the shockingly low rating it had received: a mere 2 stars.

  “Two stars? How bad was this restaurant? Did they serve grilled cheese on Wonder Bread?” I wondered aloud.

  “Keep reading,” Dottie urged.

  The 2-star restaurant was actually a fine dining establishment specializing in nouveau French cuisine. The restaurant’s name stood out to me as I gasped: Maison LeFort.

  “LeFort?” My eyes bulged.

  “That’s right,” Dottie said knowingly. “As in Baron LeFort, slimy owner of Baron’s Bistro.” Satisfaction laced her voice and she no longer seemed anxious.

  “Okay, let me understand this. Neil gave Baron’s old restaurant in Manhattan a bad review. A really bad review,” I clarified, reading the insulting description of the décor as “unfit for a prison” and the appetizers as “perhaps a treat for deprived inmates like a pack of Twizzlers or can of Spam.”

  “Isn’t it awful? Every metaphor he used was about a prison! I bet Neil thought he was pretty clever,” Dottie clucked.

  “Well, I could see why Baron would hate Neil after this atrocious review, but how did you know about this?”

  “Baron mentioned it to me once, years ago. He said the review was responsible for shutting his restaurant down. And he was furious about being run out of the city. Sleepy Hollow was the only place he could go to start new, unless he went back with his tail between his legs to France of course,” Dottie laughed without humor.

  “But this review was written in 1998. That’s such a long time ago. Do you really think Baron held all this vengeance inside him for almost twenty years? Baron’s Bistro has been doing pretty well, sales-wise. Why would Baron care about a failure from so long ago?” I reasoned.

  “You’re underestimating the male ego,” Dottie said matter of factly.

  “Okay, let’s say that Baron did hold a grudge against Neil after so long. Why would Baron murder him in his restaurant? Wouldn’t it be too easy to point the finger at him like you’re doing right now?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Dottie admitted. “Still, though, I don’t think this can be ignored.”

  “No, you’re right. We should bring the article to the police station, although I’m sure they would be able to find it on their own in an internet database.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I agree that we should bring the article to the police,” Dottie said decisively. Stuffing the clipping into her purse, she wolfed down the rest of her croissant and chugged the lemon water. “Shall we go now?”

  “Dottie, the waitress hasn’t even brought my hot chocolate yet!”

  “This is not a social event, dear. This is business,” Dottie said importantly and I couldn’t help but feel endeared by her strict attitude. Decades of serving steak dinners to strangers must have been mind numbing; the woman was clearly craving a challenge, perhaps even an adventure.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I smiled, standing up. “I don’t need a cup of liquid sugar with a fattening blob of cream on top.” I pointed to my wide hips.

  Dottie rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Your figure is beautiful. Now let’s go! I’ll drive!”

  ***

  As soon as we pulled into the police station, I felt my stomach become queasy with reservations. Why was I planting myself in the center of an investigation when I could become the prime suspect at any moment? Would it make me look suspicious to be trying to solve a mystery that hadn’t even been officially declared a murder? Or could my nose-poking actually make me look cooperative and take some of the heat off me?

  Either way, Dottie was already marching in
to the police station, so I squared my shoulders with confidence I didn’t feel and followed her. Immediately, I spotted Detective Feldman behind the glass-partitioned intake desk, drinking from a can of Dr. Pepper.

  “Isn’t that the detective from last night?” Dottie whispered in my ear as I nodded. “Good! He’s just the one we need to see.”

  “Excuse us, we’re from Baron’s Bistro and we…” Dottie began.

  Detective Feldman swiftly cut her off. “Yeah, I remember you ladies. What can I do for you?”

  Boldly, Dottie leaned in towards the partition so her face was practically pressed up against the glass. In a grave tone, she said, “I have an important piece of evidence for you.”

  Chapter 6

  Detective Feldman regarded her like he was in the presence of a senile Miss Marple from Agatha Christie’s mystery books. “Oh you do?” Skepticism oozed from his voice like dark honey from a squirt bottle.

  “Yes Detective,” she said confidently, slipping the article through the small opening in the center of the window.

  With one thin eyebrow cocked, the detective picked up the paper and began reading. Before he had time to read more than a sentence or two, he glanced up in surprise and asked, “Why do you have this restaurant review?”

  I took a deep, patient breath as Dottie proceeded to explain the whole story she had conveyed to me in the café. Apparently satisfied by her explanation, Detective Feldman chuckled, “I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of Murder She Wrote.”

  Her feathers ruffled, Dottie replied, “Oh nonsense! Angela Lansbury is old enough to be my mother,” as the detective chuckled more heartily and resumed reading the article.

  The grin was effectively wiped off his face by the time he completed reading the article. “Baron LeFort is the owner of Baron’s Bistro now, right? He was the one who was so aggravated and inconvenienced by the victim’s death.”

  “That’s right,” Dottie said softly. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions…”

  “And we don’t even know if Neil O’Grady’s death was homicide yet either,” I interjected as the detective regarded me strangely.

  “No, we don’t know. Today is Sunday and the autopsy hasn’t been performed yet. But the autopsy should be completed by the end of the week. Aren’t you the one who prepared the salad?” He asked as I couldn’t suppress a gulp with my nod. “Yes, well we confiscated the salad bowl and it will be tested at the lab for any traces of toxic substances.”

  “I told you I wasn’t the only one who could have had access to the salad ingredients,” I reminded.

  “Yes, I know. You’ve said that several times already. Once would have been enough,” the detective said in a menacing tone that made me shake like a pile of leaves on a windy October night.

  “Are you going to arrest Baron?” Dottie asked pertly as the cop started laughing again.

  “You don’t know much about police procedures, do you ma’am?” He asked rhetorically through a snort of derisive laughter. Painting a serious expression on his freckled face, the detective asked with more politeness, “May I keep this article?”

  “Yes, of course,” Dottie replied.

  “Good. Thank you for being a concerned citizen. I appreciate your input. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any other information you think could be of assistance in this investigation.” The officer masked his real feelings under a veneer of professionalism. I had no idea whether he intended to pursue Baron as a person of interest…or if he had his sights set on me instead.

  Sensing that we had been dismissed, Dottie turned and walked towards the door as I gratefully followed her. Outside, the sun was finally peeking into the sky and a cool breeze had peeled away all the humidity. I sighed, wishing I could enjoy the lovely Sunday, maybe take a drive to the arts and crafts village of Sugar Loaf to browse in their little shops. But I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to enjoy a carefree day; my brain wouldn’t be able to rest until the autopsy results came back free and clear of any trace of poison.

  “I don’t think that detective took me seriously,” Dottie observed indignantly as we climbed into her car.

  “He’s a typical male,” I scoffed. “Always has to do things his own way.”

  Dottie giggled and said, “You’re right, dear. But you know, my Bryant isn’t like that at all. He’s a modern man, not a cave man.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I smiled at how sneaky she was to keep wiggling her eligible bachelor son into our conversations.

  “Should I drop you off at the café or do you have the energy to do a little more sleuthing with me?” Dottie asked expectantly.

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked cautiously.

  Smirking impishly, she replied, “This morning, I tracked down Neil O’Grady’s address on the internet. He has a house right on the water in Dobbs Ferry. We’re just a hop, skip, and a jump from there if you want to check it out.”

  I frowned thoughtfully. “What could going to his house possibly tell us about how…or if…he was murdered?”

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly, but seeing his house might give us a better idea of who he was as a man. Are you in? It’s only a 10 minute drive,” she coaxed, already heading north towards Dobbs Ferry.

  “Do I have a choice?” I asked wryly. “Or are you kidnapping me?”

  “Yes, I’m kidnapping you, but don’t tell Detective Feldman,” she joked as her old Chevy rattled along the road.

  Situated on the Hudson River, Dobbs Ferry was so named because of its role in transporting passengers by boat during the Revolutionary War. Today, the village is a popular spot for fishing or for going to a fancy seafood restaurant to dine on lobster tails. If I ever saved enough money to move out of my dumpy apartment in White Plains, then Dobbs Ferry would be first on my list of places to move. Well, other than for Malibu or Miami, but we’re talking about nearby places!

  Dottie cruised along until we reached a dead end street facing the vast river. She slowed her car down and said, “We’re looking for number 62. Oh there it is. That’s his house…”

  I glanced to the right of me and looked in astonishment at a multi story mansion with numerous front balconies, an ivy draped rooftop and flawlessly manicured rose gardens in every shade of the rainbow. “Are you sure this is his house? Or is it Donald Trump’s weekend home?” I asked doubtfully.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Dottie said as she gazed up in awe at the architectural spectacle.

  “From what I know, journalists don’t make a lot of money. I can’t believe a food critic could afford a palace like this!” I marveled, feeling deep in my gut that we were either at the wrong address…or there was much more to this story yet to be unveiled.

  “Well, he did work for the New York Times. It’s one of the most widely circulated newspapers in the world. Maybe he did receive a very high salary,” Dottie figured.

  “High enough to afford a million dollar mansion? Because that’s what this is. A house like this in one of the best towns in Westchester County has got to sell for about a million these days.”

  “Maybe he bought it years ago,” Dottie said. “It wouldn’t have cost a million dollars if he bought it back in the 1980’s and then spruced it up himself.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed. “And his brother Gordon did say that Neil never married or had children, so I guess he could afford to live large.”

  “Exactly. Should we go have a look around the property?”

  Warily, I replied, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. A house like this must have a state-of-the-art alarm system and video cameras too. I think we should go back on the internet to do our research,” I grabbed for my smart phone inside my purse and entered Neil O’Grady’s name into a search database as Dottie reluctantly merged back onto the road.

  “We at least could have explored a little. It’s not like we’re criminals,” she sniffed.

  “Trespassing is a crime, so technically we would have been criminals if we took our sweet
time walking around his property.”

  “You’re such a goody two shoes,” Dottie said in a way that sounded more complimentary than mocking. “Bryant needs a sweet young lady like you…”

  “Alright already!” I laughed, smacking my thigh. “I’ll go out with him. As soon as this whole ordeal is over, I promise you that I’ll meet Bryant for coffee, okay?”

  Dottie grinned triumphantly. “I was thinking dinner, but I guess coffee would be fine for starters.”

  Inwardly, I wondered what kind of mother-in-law Dottie would make if things worked out between her son and me. From her pushy comments, it seemed that she would be very involved, to put it mildly. “Great. It’s a date. Coffee it is,” I sighed and returned my attention to the mini computer in my hands.

  “Anything interesting coming up?” Dottie asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I didn’t think so. I did a pretty thorough search this morning.”

  “Dottie, the internet is like a bottomless pit. You couldn’t possibly have discovered everything there is to know about Neil O’Grady in an hour or two,” I lectured as she shrugged.

  “I’m telling you all that I could find were tons of restaurant reviews,” Dottie insisted.

  “Yes, I am seeing quite a few reviews here. Seems like he gave most of the restaurants 5 stars. How bad could Baron’s restaurant in Manhattan have been for Neil to slam it so hard?” I murmured.