Small Town Spooky (Cozy Mystery Anthology)

by Anisa Claire West

  “I wondered the same thing, actually. But Rolf is a very good chef. Maybe when Baron was in business in the city, he didn’t have very good talent working for him,” Dottie reasoned.

  “It’s possible,” I said, feeling unsettled each time I uncovered another glowing 5 star review. “These reviews seem excessive, though.”

  I continued scanning the internet for a smoking gun bit of information but found none. Within a few minutes, Dottie was passing by Baron’s Bistro en route to the French café. In unison, we stared at the empty parking lot and dark interior of the restaurant. At closer examination, I could detect a wave of movement from inside the restaurant. “Slow down!” I urged.

  “Did you see what I saw?” Dottie asked as she swerved into the parking lot.

  “Someone moving inside the restaurant? Yes, I saw that.” My heart beat a few paces faster as I contemplated who it could be. “Maybe it’s Detective Feldman searching for clues?”

  “Let’s find out!” Dottie exclaimed, jerking the car to a stop as we flew outside together and raced towards the front door.

  Baron’s grim profile immediately came into view as we reached the door. Turning the handle, I was met with firm resistance. “It’s locked. What is he doing in there?”

  Rather than replying, Dottie banged on the door with both fists as Baron approached with a sneer on his face. “What are you doing here?” He demanded, opening the door a crack.

  Thinking on my toes, I replied, “Oh stupid me! I forgot we don’t have work today.”

  “You weren’t on the schedule today, Charlotte. And since when do you ladies carpool anyway?” Baron was blatantly suspicious and didn’t buy my lame excuse for a second.

  Audaciously, Dottie announced, “I know about the bad review Neil wrote on your old restaurant in the city.”

  “Yes, I was the one who told you about that. What’s your point?” Baron gritted through yellow teeth.

  Dottie stared down at the ground and didn’t answer his question, but her silence spoke volumes. Angrily, Baron burst out, “You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with that fool’s death, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Dottie replied, but her conviction about Baron’s guilt was obvious.

  “I wouldn’t waste my time on that fool! I came to this country 27 years ago with a dream and I’m not going to let it be shattered by some fraud!” Baron gritted.

  “Fraud?” I echoed in confusion.

  “That’s right! He accepted bribes to write 5 star reviews! When I refused to pay him, he gave my restaurant an abominable review while he gave 5 stars to places that should have been boarded shut by the Health Department!” Veritable steam was shooting from his red hot ears.

  Stunned, I exchanged a knowing glance with Dottie. “That’s why he could afford the mansion in Dobbs Ferry! I knew he couldn’t have bought that place on a writer’s salary even if it was from the New York Times!”

  Impatiently, Baron started to shut the door in our faces. “I have business to attend to, ladies,” he sneered as the door clicked definitively.

  “Maybe we should go back to the police station and tell Detective Feldman that we made a huge boo-boo,” Dottie said sheepishly.

  Regarding the old lady incredulously, I squeaked, “We made a huge boo-boo?”

  “Okay, I’m the one who messed up. I really don’t think Baron had anything to do with the food critic’s death. Who knows? Any number of other disgruntled restaurant owners could have been responsible if it was murder,” Dottie surmised.

  “But the death occurred at Baron’s Bistro when the restaurant was practically empty. Which of the restaurant owners could have had access to Neil O’Grady? None of them. If he was murdered, then the culprit had to be somewhere in the restaurant…someone on the staff,” I said with a chill as we boarded her huffing and puffing Chevy.

  “You know, you could at least let Bryant buy you a new car,” I sighed, changing the subject. “He could easily afford it.”

  “Absolutely not. I won’t have my son taking care of me. It’s the other way around. I take care of him! Besides, he needs to keep that piggy bank full for his first dinner date with you,” she winked pleasantly as I smiled briefly.

  “Anyway Dottie, I don’t think we should snoop anymore until the autopsy results come back. Why don’t you just drop me off at my car? Detective Feldman can figure things out on his own,” I said as Dottie nodded slowly.

  “I suppose you’re right, Charlotte dear. And Baron isn’t really worth sticking up for, is he?” She snorted.

  “Not at all,” I agreed coldly.

  Sighing heavily, I closed my eyes and wondered how I was going to make it through the next few days of painful suspense. Would the autopsy results let me off the hook…or would they hook, line and sinker me like the catch of the day at a Dobbs Ferry seafood restaurant?

  Chapter 7

  Agonizing would be an understatement to describe the next few days of my life. Without a job to keep me occupied, I spent nearly every waking moment obsessing about the autopsy results. Every time my phone rang, I was afraid that I would hear Detective Feldman’s gruff voice on the line, demanding that I come down to the station for Spanish Inquisition style questioning.

  Tuesday was the first of June and I had strung together just enough money to cover my $1,000 rent. (A thousand dollars a month for a phone booth sized studio apartment? Shockingly high priced? Yeah, welcome to New York). After begrudgingly signing my rent check, I had little money left over for essentials like groceries and gasoline. On Wednesday, with the autopsy results still a baffling mystery, I switched on my computer and began the arduous process of looking for another job.

  If Neil O’Grady’s death turned out to be natural (which I hoped with all my heart it would) then Baron’s Bistro might be able to get back on its feet. But I didn’t want to stand with Baron LeFort anymore regardless of what the medical examiner had to report. It was high time that I found a restaurant job to utilize my real skills---and my passions---even if it meant moving to a different part of the state. With $53 in my checking account, I was so desperate that I was willing to move to another part of the country and start fresh as apples picked from the tree.

  I was skimming a list of available chef jobs on Wednesday afternoon when the sound of my door buzzer made my heart stop. Nervously, I crept over to the window and craned my neck to see who was outside. From the vantage point of the high rise, it was impossible to see anything but tiny little specks on the ground. I almost chewed one of my nails off as I feared that a police squad car was in the parking lot with a pair of officers eager to handcuff me for the murder of Neil O’Grady. Clearing my throat, I pressed the button on my security system and gasped, “Yes?”

  “Charlotte, it’s me! Buzz me in!”

  “Dottie?” I squealed as my heart rate slowed to normal.

  “Yes dear, buzz me in!” She urged as I obeyed, jittery again to hear the urgency in her voice.

  Ten minutes passed until Dottie finally arrived at my apartment, knocking feebly at the door. “What took you so long?” I asked as she struggled to breathe.

  “Elevator. Broken. Stairs,” she wheezed.

  “Oh that stupid elevator! It’s always breaking down. I can’t believe you walked up nine flights of stairs! Are you okay?”

  Dottie nodded as a reply and hobbled over to the couch.

  “It’s going to be rush hour soon. Why did you drive here? Now I’m going to be worried about you driving home,” I pouted in earnest.

  Catching her breath as I rushed to the refrigerator to pour her a glass of iced tea, Dottie scoffed, “You don’t give me enough credit! It’s a beautiful sunny day. I could drive all the way to California! Besides, don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

  Handing her the glass, I whispered, “Yes. Of course I do.”

  Dottie took a long swig of iced tea like she had just hiked through the Gobi Desert. “The autopsy results were published in the newspaper this mor
ning,” she revealed as every muscle in my body contracted with fear.

  “There’s a whole article about it,” she said solemnly as I knew instantly that the news was not good.

  Unfolding the clipping from the Sleepy Hollow Register, I glued my eyes to the page and read each word with dread:

  PROMINENT FOOD CRITIC DEAD IN APPARENT POISONING

  Neil James O’Grady died Saturday evening at Baron’s Bistro of Sleepy Hollow, New York. Following an autopsy, the medical examiner has determined the nature of the death to be poisoning. A cocktail of noxious substances, including barbiturates, antifreeze, and cyanide, was found to be the cause of death. Led by Detective Paul Feldman, Sleepy Hollow Police are currently seeking answers in the unsolved mystery. The death has not yet been ruled a homicide, but police are “exploring all avenues” according to Detective Feldman. Anyone with any information is urged to contact the Sleepy Hollow Police Department under condition of anonymity.

  Neil O’Grady was born in Queens, New York and moved to Westchester County in 2001. He attained modest fame during his 30+ year career as a restaurant critic for the New York Times. In late 2014, O’Grady’s position at the newspaper was abruptly terminated following widespread accusations of bribery. Criminal charges were never filed. O’Grady is survived by a younger brother, Gordon O’Grady, as well as several nieces and nephews.

  Speechless, I turned to Dottie as she blurted out, “The article packs a wallop, doesn’t it?”

  “You can say that again. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Try starting with the fact that the death hasn’t been ruled a homicide! That’s good news for you, dear.”

  “But it’s eventually going to be ruled a homicide, don’t you think? Look at all those drugs they found in his system!” I pointed to the sickening list on the smeared black and white page.

  “It could have been suicide. Neil could have easily mixed up that ‘cocktail’ as they call it, all by himself. And it wouldn’t be surprising considering the fact that he was fired from the New York Times after such a long and illustrious career. The man was probably ashamed and depressed, maybe even to the point of suicide,” Dottie spoke animatedly as I wondered if the sock-knitting grandmother was really a rogue private detective underneath that tousled mop of white hair.

  “But the article said that criminal charges were never filed. How depressed could he really have been? It’s not like he was facing jail time.”

  Dottie looked at me as though I were very naïve. “Dear, don’t you know that a man’s work is his identity? Without a career to be proud of, the male ego simply can’t survive. I’ll never forget how terrible it was when my husband got laid off from his job in 1979. The kids were little and we were barely making ends meet. His ego was shattered. He didn’t even feel like a man anymore and we almost got divorced over it!” Dottie exhaled and drained the glass of iced tea. “Anyway, since Neil didn’t have a wife or kids, his job was probably even more important to him. And criminal charges could have been on the way. They just hadn’t been filed yet.”

  “Believe me, I want you to be right, Dottie,” I said wearily. “I can’t tell you how stressed I’ve been the past few days.”

  “Looking for a new job?”

  “Looking for a new job, worrying about being arrested for murder, yeah, you know, the usual stuff,” I said sarcastically.

  As Dottie parted her lips to respond, my cell phone beeped with a new text message. Reaching for the phone, I frowned as I recognized the name from my contacts. “Rolf just texted me. What does he want?” I quickly read the message out loud as Dottie listened.

  “Hey Charlotte, did you see the paper? Need to talk. Meet me outside Baron’s Bistro in 25?”

  “That’s weird!” I exclaimed. “Why does he want to meet me?”

  “I always thought that boy had a thing for you,” Dottie said disapprovingly.

  Brushing aside her comment, I said, “He wants to talk about the newspaper article. But why? Does he know something?” Renewed fear lurched in the pit of my stomach as I recalled the chef’s not so subtle threat.

  “Maybe. Let’s find out! I’ll go with you!” Dottie stood up eagerly.

  “It’s kind of presumptuous of him to think I’ll just drop everything and meet him,” I reflected as Dottie hurried to the door and stepped into the hallway.

  Grabbing my keys and meeting Dottie in the hall, I placed a hand over her shoulder and stopped the geriatric Energizer Bunny. “I think Rolf could have had something to do with Neil’s poisoning,” I gulped.

  “What?!” Dottie was flabbergasted.

  Quickly, I filled her in on the gourmet’s bitter behavior in the kitchen on Saturday. “So you see, he was angry that night.”

  “But why would he poison Neil O’Grady? The man wasn’t even working as a food critic anymore. He was powerless. And how would Rolf have known that Neil would be there that night anyway?” Dottie’s understanding was hazy like Los Angeles smog.

  “That’s what I thought at first too. But now I’m thinking that maybe Rolf was just angry and he didn’t care who he hurt. He could have poisoned the salad just to kill any random person and vent his anger,” I explained.

  “Are you telling me that Rolf carried barbiturates, antifreeze, and cyanide on him? And that the poisoning was just a spur of the moment whim because he was mad? That’s quite a hissy fit! Isn’t that beyond ridiculous?” Dottie argued as I decided that she would not only make a successful detective but also an excellent defense attorney.

  “When you say it like that, it does sound pretty dumb,” I admitted, feeling rosy-cheeked.

  “I’m telling you this death was planned. Whether it was suicide or homicide, someone spent time and effort mixing together the fatal brew,” Dottie declared.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Of course I am,” Dottie vaunted. “Now let’s go to Baron’s Bistro and see what Rolf has to say!”

  ***

  Sunset was descending as we crossed the town line into Sleepy Hollow. The sky was alight with electric shades of red, orange, and purple. The last rays of sun glinted off the Hudson River before vanishing beyond the horizon as a half moon came into clearer view.

  Dottie and I remained in expectant silence for the last leg of the ride to our former place of employment. It felt surreal to be returning there so soon after the ugly altercation with Baron. Dressed in a stretchy pair of stonewashed jeans and a threadbare tee-shirt, I felt triumphant to be going to the place that had caused me so much angst and frustration. I didn’t have to wear an apron, didn’t have to listen to post-adolescent Kristin’s razor edged tongue, and I especially didn’t have to mix up salads when I was capable of so much more. What I did have to do was face Rolf and deal with whatever information he had to share.

  Parking on the street in front of the restaurant, I blew out a big breath like I was trying to extinguish trick candles on a birthday cake. “Are you ready?” I asked.

  “Very!” She chirped as we got out of the car and walked around to the back of the restaurant.

  Strangely, I didn’t notice any cars parked and wondered if Rolf had arrived yet. From the urgent tone of his message, it seemed that he would have been restlessly pacing the parking lot waiting for me. He would be surprised to see Dottie, no doubt, but I didn’t care. This was most certainly not a social call. Ever since Rolf made those jaded comments about poisoning his cooking, I felt differently about the man. He wasn’t the chivalrous knight I had supposed him to be.

  “I guess Rolf isn’t here yet,” Dottie shrugged as we circled the entire perimeter of the restaurant.

  “I guess not,” I said as unnaturally heavy footsteps suddenly approached from behind. Before I had a chance to react, a baritone voice shouted:

  “BOO!”

  Chapter 8

  Giving myself whiplash as I jerked around to see who had shouted at me, I frowned as I looked up at Rolf’s smirking face. There was a menacing quality to his expressio
n and his smirk was humorless. No, Rolf was definitely not a chivalrous knight. He was more like a gawky teenager playing an April Fool’s joke on his unsuspecting teacher.

  “Why did you shout at us?” Dottie demanded shrilly.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked roughly.

  “That’s none of your business!” Dottie said with a tangy punch of oomph.

  “I need to talk to you alone, Charlotte,” Rolf said huskily.

  “What is this all about?” I asked pointedly.

  “If you’ll just step aside with me for a few minutes, I’ll tell you.” He shoved his massive hands into his pockets.

  “Dottie, would you excuse us for a moment?” I asked tightly as she regarded him with the ferocity of a pitbull.

  “I’ll be right over there,” Dottie said reluctantly. “Right under that elm tree, just a few feet away.”

  “Thanks,” Rolf gritted, staring after her as she walked away.

  “Now what is this all about?”

  “I just want to clear something up. Remember when I joked about poisoning the food on Saturday?”

  “It didn’t sound like you were joking.”

  “Of course I was!” Rolf exclaimed with a gurgle of nervous laughter. “Did you really think I was serious?”

  “You seemed angry when you said it. But if you say it was just a joke, then I believe you,” I lied. At that point, I wouldn’t believe anything the immature prankster said.

  “See, this is what I was afraid of,” he groaned as my fib was as transparent as glass.

  “What?” I asked apprehensively, afraid that I had woken the beast. Suddenly, I felt immensely vulnerable and foolish for meeting Rolf in an empty parking lot. How much did I really know about the man? We were just co-workers and had never interacted outside of work. Even though Dottie was keeping a hawkeye on us, the frail old lady would be of little help if Rolf lost his temper and lashed out physically.

  “You need to promise me that you’re not going to tell the police what I said,” Rolf said as he grinded his teeth.