The Fiesta Burger Murder (A Burger Bar Mystery Book 1)

by Rosie A. Point

  “But why?” I asked. Pete wasn’t technically involved in the case. Granted, his innocence hadn’t been proven yet, and he had a potential motive for Paul’s murder.

  “I don’t know. Okay, I do. That’s why I came,” Pete said, and scanned the cat in the corner as if he expected Curly Fries to morph into a secret agent and pounce on him. “It happened about a month ago.”

  “What did?”

  “The meeting. Paul was staying with me at the time because he didn’t want to stay with Frances. They fought a lot. Everybody fought with Frances a lot.” Pete snorted. “Anyway, Paul was a fine house guest. He didn’t pry into my private business, you know? So, I was surprised when he came to me on a Friday and asked for my help.”

  “What help?”

  “He wanted a ride to a specific place. Down by the old tracks on Herbert Road.”

  I arched an eyebrow. Herbert Road was the ‘bad’ part of town – mom had warned me about the place when we’d first relocated to Sleepy Creek, and Griz had told me tales of the illegal dealings down by the tracks.

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “Yeah. Naturally, I was dubious. I didn’t want to go down there and get myself shot. And it was colder than a witch’s behind too. Aint nobody got time for that.”

  “But you took him?”

  “I did. I felt bad for Paul. He’d been acting strange all week, and I figured I’d help him out this once. You know, wouldn’t want him thinking he could take advantage of me whenever the fancy took him. But I had questions. I think I had too many questions. I asked him who he was meeting with, and why, and he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

  “What happened when you arrived?” I asked.

  “He shot out of the car faster than a bullet leaves a gun. If you knew Paul it was quite a sight to behold, those arms and legs flailing around.” Pete illustrated with his limbs. “I didn’t see who he was meeting with because he made me park around the corner, but I did find this on his seat. I think he dropped it.” Pete slid a slip of paper across the table.

  “You’ve kept this an entire month?” I picked it up.

  G. B. – spot the tat. A handwritten note. What on earth did it mean?

  “I forgot about it until all this happened.”

  I descended into a fugue, mind swirling like a whirlpool above a plughole. G.B. What was G.B? No, who was G.B?

  “Hello?” Pete rapped his knuckles on the table. “Can I get that back, please? I should speak to Detective Balle about this.”

  “Yeah, you should,” I said, and handed it over. Liam couldn’t blame me for this, surely. The man had trespassed on private property and practically hunted me down to give me evidence in the case. So what if I’d egged him on a little? “And if you’re concerned that someone’s watching you, you should report that to him too and ask for protection.”

  “You’re right,” Pete said. “I’ll do that. I should’ve done that first but – I, uh, I don’t have the best history with the cops.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing serious,” he said, quickly, and snatched the paper from me. “Just minor infractions when I was younger. Got to go.” He scraped his chair back and stumbled toward the back door.

  “Not that way,” I said. “I’ll let you out the front.”

  “I don’t want him to see me.”

  “No one’s watching except my nosy neighbor Ray, and he already knows you’re here.” I escorted him to the exit, Curly Fries tinkling along behind us, and unlocked the door. “You take care.”

  “You too.” Pete scurried down the stairs and garden path, into the night.

  Why would Pete have approached an undercover police officer if he was afraid of the cops? Or wary of them? Had he run into trouble with Liam, specifically? And who or what was G.B.?

  Plots drifted up from the depths. Loopy Paul involved with the mafia again. His sister funneling money through the Sleep Apnea charity – it’d explain the expensive car and clothes. “No,” I whispered. Too much conjecture. The night had marched on and I’d been left to my own devices for too long. What worried me the most about all of this was the fact that Griselda still hadn’t arrived.

  Curly Fries prrt-meowed at me.

  “I know,” I said. “I know, I’m an idiot. I should put all of this Paul and mom stuff aside but I can’t.” The cat gave me a yellow-eyed stare which pierced my soul. Missi’s tease about kitty cannibalistic tendencies came back to me. I bent and patted her on the head. “See you later. Don’t poop in your kibble.”

  Waiting for Grizzy to get home would drive me crazy. We had to talk this out.

  Chapter 21

  I rat-tatted my knuckles on the glass door of the Burger Bar, then let myself in. Missi and Virginia were still at their booth, and a couple other regulars finished up the remains of their burgers.

  I ignored them all and spotlighted Griselda. She’d already taken out the register’s tray and packed the money into plastic bags which would go in the safe. It was a sign of Sleepy Creek’s supposed level of safety that she did it with customers still in the store.

  It helped she had a couple cameras in the corners too. I smooshed onto one of the puffy 50s diner-style stools. “Hey,” I said. “How’s the day treated you?”

  Grizzy shrugged. “Fine, I guess. I haven’t had much time to think. It was super busy today, which I suppose is a good thing.”

  “Night, Griselda!”

  The two elderly women twiddled their fingers at my friend. Missi regarded me with suspicion. “You take care,” she said, directing it at Griz.

  What, did my own friend need protection from me? That made me feel as big as an ant.

  “Night ladies,” Griselda replied.

  They swept out the door and clanged it shut behind them. Only two regulars remained at tables on opposite ends of the room. The kitchen was dark and empty – Jarvis had already left for the night.

  “I don’t suppose it will help if I apologize again,” I said.

  “No.”

  “You’re never open this late. I was worried about you.”

  Griselda had a no burgers after 7 pm rule. Partly because it was a small town and she could get away with it as the only supplier of delicious meaty treats, and partly because most people avoided going out in the cold after the sun had set.

  “You didn’t need to worry. Like I said, I needed time to be alone. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  “What else is bothering you?”

  “Just that stuff we spoke about this week.”

  I lowered my voice. “Arthur?”

  “Yeah. And the fact that there was a murder on my property. You arrived and a storm of strangeness hit Sleepy Creek. And not the regular strangeness you get around here.”

  I resisted the urge to apologize. My arrival may or may not have sparked off Loopy Paul’s actions, but that didn’t make me directly responsible. Did it? That wasn’t a concept I wanted to pursue, right now.

  “You realize that’s why I did everything I’ve done? There’s a murderer out there, still haven’t been brought to justice, and from what I’ve heard, they might be closer than we realize.”

  “Meaning?” Griselda placed the plastic bags of cash neatly in the tray, then made for the office.

  I followed along – finally, Grizzy wanted to hear what I had to say about the case instead of lecturing me about how I shouldn’t get involved. This had to be a breakthrough moment.

  We entered Griselda’s tiny office, decorated with furniture I recognize from the house, the pieces her mom had kept in the guest room when we’d been high school kids.

  “I had a visit this evening,” I said. “It was technically an almost break-in. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get you a new rolling pin. I loosened the handle on your one at home.”

  “What?” Grizzy fiddled with the dial on the safe in the corner. “But you don’t cook.”

  “I wasn’t cooking when I loosened it. Anyway, Pete Dawkins came to see me. He thought I was investigating the case a
s an undercover cop. That’s a rumor that’s going around town.”

  “Wow,” Grizzy said, and gave a doleful sigh. “Small town syndrome.”

  I cleared my throat, raised my hands like an orchestra conductor and launched into the details of Pete’s visit. Grizzy shut the safe and led me back into the restaurant proper, gasping or ‘oohing’ at the appropriate parts of my story.

  “And then he gave me this note,” I said. “And get this – wait, should I even tell you about this when you’re still mad at me for investigating?”

  Griselda laughed. “I was never mad at you, not really. Just disappointed that you don’t look out for your own best interests. So yeah, you can talk to me about it, but on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t get involved in any other investigations while you’re in Sleepy Creek.”

  “What about my mo-”

  “Apart from that,” she said. “Deal?”

  I didn’t have to consider it. “Deal,” I said. It wasn’t as if there was a murder a week in Sleepy Creek. Hey, that rhymed.

  “Right, so what did Pete give you?” Grizzy asked.

  I took a second to admire my friend’s pragmatism. If Arthur couldn’t see what an awesome person she was, he had to be blind. “He gave me a slip of paper which Paul dropped in his car.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said, G.B. – spot the tat.”

  “Huh?”

  “Exactly.” I sat down on my stool again. “It’s either a person or a place. I’ve thought it over, and I haven’t come up with anything except that it has to be someone’s initials.”

  “A tat. Like a tattoo?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A tattoo.” The skin of the back of my neck prickled, and I lurched off my seat. “A tattoo! G.B. No, it can’t be.” George Brighton. The hand tattoo guy. And the tattoo on his hand had been a bug or a… a… “Spider.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grizzy asked.

  “Griz, there’s a guy that’s been coming in here for the past week or so. He eats a Mexican Fiesta Burger every day and sits at the table in the center of the room. He’s a regular.”

  “What? No. That guy’s new. In fact, I don’t think he came in before the start of this week,” she said, and her eyes went burger bun round. “Wait a second, you don’t think –”

  A chair clattered to the linoleum behind me. I froze. We’d been so caught up in the moment we’d forgotten about the two others in the store and now, we’d either started a wildfire rumor about the youngster who’d eaten in here all week, or we’d scared the pants off of some old burger-loving lady.

  “Chris,” Grizzy whispered, and the color faded from her cheeks. “C-Christie.”

  “Don’t move a muscle.” Breath whistled in my ear and pain pricked at the base of my spine. Pressure against my cotton shirt – a knife?

  Grizzy glanced at the cameras.

  “If you do anything stupid, I’ll slice her, understand?”

  Griselda nodded, frantically.

  I turned my head ever so slightly and caught sight of the man in my peripherals. George Brighton had been in the store all along. The one time I let my cop instincts slide and this happened.

  Certainty gathered in my core. If I didn’t figure this out, it would be the end for me and Griselda.

  Chapter 22

  “You’re too young,” I said.

  “What?” George increased the pressure of the blade against my back. He’d pierced shirt and skin already. “What did you say?”

  “You killed Paul because of the picture. You’re part of the Somerville Spiders,” I said, “but you’re too young to have killed my mother.”

  “Shut up.” George grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back. “You shut up or I’ll give you an extra hole to breathe out of.”

  I didn’t doubt he would, under the right circumstances, but this wasn’t a dark back yard. Griselda was here as a witness. There were cameras in here, which George had to know about since he’d eaten here all week.

  Why then? Did he plan on holding us hostage? Making demands? That had to be it.

  He wanted a plea deal, no doubt. He wanted the D.A. to go easy on him, and murdering two women wouldn’t get him that.

  “Who paid you?” I asked.

  “Chris, stop,” Grizzy whimpered. “He’s got a knife.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, Griselda.” It was pressed against me after all. An icy calm washed over me – the same I’d experienced out on the streets in Boston when confronted with the worst of the worst.

  “Who paid you?” I repeated. George jerked me around and led me to one of the booths. He flung me into it, then pointed at Grizzy, who’d shifted an inch to her right, toward the kitchen.

  “Get over here,” he said, and pressed the knife to my throat this time. “Now.”

  Griselda scooted toward us but tripped and caught herself on the counter. “Oomph!”

  “Hurry up,” George snapped.

  “Easy,” I said. “Easy, man, she fell.”

  “You shut your trap!” The guy trembled, adrenaline driving him closer to the edge. I had to get him back before he crossed over and decided we weren’t worth the trouble. Or that he didn’t care what those cameras recorded. Or that he could kill us and take the tapes, wherever they might be.

  Griselda streaked across the restaurant and sat down opposite me in the booth.

  Brighton finally lifted the knife from my neck but didn’t stow it. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “You two ladies are going to sit nice and quiet like ladies should, and I’m going to take what I need from the register and leave.”

  “I’ve already emptied the register,” Grizzy said. “It’s all in the safe.”

  George ground his teeth. “What’s the safe code?”

  “I – well, it’s a little complicated. You have to wiggle the dial to get it to work,” she said. “I could do it for you.”

  “No,” he said. “You might have a gun in there or somethin’. I don’t trust you.”

  “Who do you trust?” I asked. “I know you killed Paul. But why? Because he was about to tell me about my mother? Why would you care?” And how could he be a part of the Somerville Spiders? He had to have been twelve-years-old when they’d disbanded.

  “I told you to shut up,” George replied.

  “It’s a Spider isn’t it?” I asked, and nodded to the tattoo on his knife-wielding hand. I’d already figured out the answer, but I wanted him to talk, lose the adrenaline rush. The minute he relaxed I’d have a shot at disarming him.

  Neither of us could call the cops on the guy.

  George scratched his tattoo. “Quiet.”

  I scanned him from head to toe. Slight lean to the left. He favored that side. An old injury? He had to have been paid off to get rid of Paul. Paid off by the Spiders. Except the mafia hadn’t officially been linked to my mother’s death. That would’ve made the news.

  None of the information burbling through me mattered as much as making sure that we got out of this safe. That we lived another day of burger-eating in Sleepy Creek.

  I latched onto the only option I had left. “George, you’re not to blame here. I know that you were paid to kill Paul.”

  He didn’t speak, but he didn’t tell me to shut up either.

  “And, if you did it on someone else’s dime, there’s a chance the cops will want to talk to you about that before they have you arraigned. You might be able to strike a deal, here, understand?”

  “What would you know?” George asked, and the first sign of weakness showed through. He ran grubby fingers through his orange, tufty hair. “You’re a waitress.”

  “I’m a police officer,” I replied, coolly. “From Boston.” If he ended up reporting back to whoever must’ve hired him he’d let them know these facts, and that was exactly what I wanted. To send a warning. I was here, and I was on it.

  It would up the pressure, make the person who’d done i
t more likely to slip up.

  “You’re –”

  “That’s right. I know what’s going to happen to you, George. And I know that you’ll only make things worse for yourself if you harm either of us, understand?”

  Sirens screamed in the distance, shrill whoops chased by the reflection of flashing blue and red lights in the windows of the store opposite. The cavalry had arrived. But how?

  George shifted his weight and winced. “You called the cops,” he said.

  “No,” I replied. “But it’s over now, Mr. Brighton. You have to realize that.”

  “It’s not over until I say so.” He dove for me, knife outstretched, lips peeled back over yellowed teeth, and a clarion wailed in my mind.

  Flashes of people I’d known. Faces and places. I raised my forearm and deflected the blow. Hit him on the wrist. I launched myself out of the booth and tackled him to the ground, tugging left.

  He landed on his sore side. I rolled onto his knife-wielding arm. “Stop right there,” I yelled.

  George wheezed and raised his right fist.

  I had nothing to protect from the blow, my left arm pinned his to the ground. My right scrabbling with his fingers, trying to pry the knife free. My stomach knotted up – this was it.

  The murderer’s face contorted, freeing the rage which’d been trapped beneath the surface.

  “Freeze, scumbag.” A strong, tanned hand closed around Brighton’s wrist.

  I squinted up at my savior, Detective Liam Balle. The fear drained from my limbs.

  “George Brighton, you’re under arrest for the murder of Paul Whitmore. You have the right to remain silent,” he said, his standard issue gun aimed right at George’s head. “Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to –”

  I sat up, dragged my butt from the scene, then rested my back against the side of the booth’s cushy chair.

  That was that. George had been arrested for the murder. He’d done all but admitted it in front of Grizzy and me before –