by Linda Reilly
Talia’s senses went on red alert. “What are they saying?”
“Well, I overheard this one guy saying he wondered why the same person found two dead bodies in such a short span of time.”
That would be me.
“I know it seems crazy, Martha, but it really was a coincidence.”
Martha grinned. “Ah, so it’s true what they were saying. You did find the first body.”
“It wasn’t anything to smile about.” Talia shook her head. “It was one of the worst days of my life.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I can dig that.”
A crash, followed by a yelp, exploded from the cobblestone plaza.
“He’s gonna kill himself, you know that?” Martha bleated with a shake of her gray bob.
Talia ran to the front door and whipped it open. “Lucas, are you all right?”
“Yup. No worries. I’m cool.” Lucas flashed a thumbs-up and leaped to his feet, wincing as he rubbed his left knee.
He limped into the eatery, his skateboard tucked under his arm. He propped it against the back wall in the kitchen and then scrubbed his hands in the sink. “Okay if I grab a cup of java, Ms. Marby?”
Talia smiled. “Of course it’s okay. And from this point on, you never have to ask, okay?”
Lucas dried his hands on a paper towel. “Oh, okay. Cool. Want me to get started on potato duty?”
“If you would,” Talia said. “That would be great.”
“I, um …” Lucas stammered. He swallowed, and his blue eyes clouded. “I almost wasn’t able to come to work today. My mom’s really freaked about the murder. She’s afraid the killer might come in here looking for witnesses and blow everyone away.”
“Well, she’s your mom,” Talia said, although she didn’t agree with her. “She has a right to worry.”
Lucas shrugged. “Anyway, it was no prob. I convinced her it was highly unlikely I’d be in any danger. Razzle-dazzled her with all kinds of complicated stats I knew she wouldn’t take the time to unravel.”
“What kind of stats? Real ones?”
“Well, yeah … they were, but I was actually comparing the Patriots’ third down conversions this season to their fourth down conversions, only I didn’t use the words Patriots or football, and I changed the word conversions to assault. Plus, like I pointed out, I’m nineteen. Technically I’m an adult.”
Technically being the operative word, Talia thought, although she couldn’t help admiring his ingenuity.
Martha chuckled and pointed her spray bottle at him. “I like you, kid. You think for yourself. What you did to your mom was a little sneaky, though. You ever think about going into politics?”
Lucas flushed. “Um, no. I don’t like politics. I’m into computers and sports. And skateboarding.”
The threesome went about their assigned tasks, and at eleven thirty, Talia officially opened for business. By twelve, they’d served only one customer in the dining room. The day wore on with only three more sit-down customers, and takeout orders at an all-time low.
By two thirty, Talia knew it wasn’t simply the usual Monday lull taking hold. Customers were staying away, in droves. It clearly had something to do with Ria’s murder, but what? Were people afraid that Talia was the killer and might poison them with tainted food? Or were they just wary of tumbling into Talia’s sticky web of excruciatingly bad luck?
With glum faces, they all sat at the tiny table for a quickie lunch. Lucas munched on a slab of deep-fried haddock. A napkin scrunched in his hand, he swiped his long fingers over his phone.
“Um, Ms. Marby? Did you look at our Facebook page today?”
“No.” Talia’s stomach tumbled. “Why?”
Lucas frowned. “Um, someone posted a really bad review a couple days ago. Listen to this: If you value your stomach, stay away from the old fish and chips joint in the Wrensdale Arcade. The chef, if you can call her that, serves bad fish, soggy coleslaw, and fries that have been floating in rancid oil for a year. Health department, take note! Shut this dive down before the chef—she put chef in quotes—sends someone to the morgue with her revolting food.”
Talia felt the blood drain from her face. None of that was true. Who would write such things?
“Oh, my. That is a bad review. I know every restaurant gets them, but … wait a minute. Who wrote that?”
Lucas squinted at his phone. “Um, it says OB Cottontail.” He made a face. “What a weird name.”
OB. Oriana Butterforth. Cottontail obviously meant rabbit.
“Well, I guess that explains our dismal lack of business today.” Talia’s voice shook. “What day was that posted?”
“Let’s see. Um, it says forty-one hours ago.”
Of course. That was Saturday, the same day Ria had snubbed her when Talia went into the vintage clothing shop to introduce herself. Had Ria created the Facebook profile just so she could torment Talia?
Lucas’s face fell. “Ms. Marby, I feel like I’m responsible for this. I’m the one who asked if I could create a Facebook page for the restaurant.”
“You are not responsible,” Talia assured him. “The Facebook page was an excellent idea. You did a great job with it, too.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I know who posted that.”
Light suddenly dawned on Lucas. “It was that lady who was murdered, wasn’t it?” His eyes went wide. “I saw it on the news last night. Her name was Oriana Butterball. OB.”
“Butterforth,” Martha corrected, focusing her gaze at a spot on the table. “Look, kid, that’s the risk you take with social media. I read this article once that said there are all sorts of trolls out there looking to trash people just for the perverse thrill they get.”
Lucas looked unconvinced. “Yeah, but—”
“Lucas, even if she hadn’t posted her vile comments on our Facebook page,” Talia said gently, “she’d have done it on one of those review sites. I don’t want you blaming yourself, okay? You can delete the post, right?”
Lucas nodded. “I can, but …”
“But what?” Talia said, feeling her stomach curdle.
“What if the cops already saw it?” he said. “If we delete it now, they’ll probably think you’re trying to hide your motive for killing OB.”
“What I want to know is,” Martha piped in, “why OB hated you so much.”
*
Lucas left at his normal four o’clock, still stressing over the Facebook page.
“Why don’t you leave, too, Martha,” Talia said with a sigh. She slid the near full container of coleslaw into the commercial fridge. “There’s not much point in your staying if we’re not going to have any more customers. You might as well go home and read, or whatever you like to do. And don’t worry about the lost hours. I’ll pay you for the full day.”
Martha angled her gray eyebrows toward the door. “You might want to rethink that. Looks like we got ourselves a customer.”
Talia turned and saw a man step through the door and into the dining area. She instantly recognized the Burberry scarf and the full head of salt-and-pepper hair. It was the same elegantly dressed man who’d swept Ria into his arms at the fund-raiser.
Smoothing her blue apron, she stepped around the side of the speckled turquoise counter and into the dining area to greet him. Something told her she needed to find out more about this dapper gent. “Hello, again,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Talia Marby, the proprietor.”
The man smiled and accepted her handshake. His eyes looked puffy, as if he’d been crying, but his tone was kind and gracious. “Yes, my dear, I know. You are Howie and Bea’s successor, are you not?”
“I took over the lease, yes,” Talia said. “May I ask how you know?”
Despite the pain etched into his face, his emerald eyes twinkled a bit. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Will Claiborne, your landlord.”
Talia’s eyes popped wide. “Oh my Lord, you’re … you’re Claiborne Properties? I sent my first rent check to you a few w
eeks ago! I wanted to be sure it got there by the first.”
“Oh, good,” he said with a touch of humor. “I love tenants who pay on time.”
Bea Lambert had always told Talia that the owner of the Wrensdale Arcade was a mystery man. If the eatery experienced a problem or needed a repair that was covered by the lease, she simply sent an e-mail to Claiborne Properties and the matter was fixed the next day—and to perfection.
“I understand,” he said, “that you are the young woman who solved the murder of one of my tenants not too long ago. I was out of the country at the time. I didn’t realize what had happened until I got back.”
“I didn’t really solve it,” Talia said. “I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess you could say.”
“With a deadly killer,” he emphasized. “You are most brave, Talia. I commend you.” Claiborne glanced around the eatery and his face brightened. “This is the same charming place I remember.”
Talia opened her mouth in surprise. “Wait a minute. You’ve eaten here before?”
“Oh my, yes, more than a few times. Bea and Howie didn’t know who I was, of course, and I didn’t enlighten them. I was afraid they’d give me special treatment, and I didn’t want that.”
The more Will Claiborne spoke, the more Talia liked him.
“This project was my first love, you know,” he said wistfully. “I designed it after a charming village in England, in the county of Hertfordshire. I wanted people to experience the allure of an earlier era.”
“I’ve always loved the cobblestone plaza,” Talia said. “Though I have to say, it’s not the easiest surface to walk on.”
Will Claiborne’s emerald eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “Yes, it slows you down, doesn’t it? Forces you to take time to savor the beauty.”
Talia smiled and said, “Mr. Claiborne, may I get you something? No special treatment. I promise.”
“Thank you for the offer, Talia, and please call me Will.” His eyes grew watery. “Normally I would relish a hearty fish and chips meal, but I’m afraid I’m not myself today.”
“You loved Ria, didn’t you?” she said quietly, prodding him a little.
Will removed a linen hankie from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “I adored Ria. I knew from the moment I met her that I wanted to marry her. I believe she loved me, too, though perhaps not with the same passion I felt for her.”
Talia remembered the way Ria’s hard edges had softened the moment she saw him, how she’d thrown herself into his arms. “From what I saw, Will, I’d say she loved you very much.”
“Thank you,” he croaked. He blotted his eyes again, and that’s when Talia noticed his right hand. His ring finger was graced with a large jade ring set in gold.
He smiled sadly when he caught her glance. “Do you like it?” he said, holding out his hand to give her a closer look. “I had it hand-crafted for me right here in Wrensdale, at LaFleur Jewelers. I picked it up yesterday, right before I saw …” His eyes grew moist again. He closed them and tipped his head back to stanch the flow of tears.
Talia attempted to distract him by studying the ring. An unusual figure or animal of some sort was engraved into the jade, but Talia wasn’t sure what it was. “Is that a … snake?” she asked, peering at the design.
He sniffed. “Yes, a two-headed snake wrapped around the stem of a tulip. It’s my family crest—it goes back to the fifteen hundreds. Before this I had a different ring with the same design, but the jeweler who created it didn’t have the artistic talent this fellow at LaFleur has.”
Talia couldn’t exactly say she admired it. Even the suggestion of a snake made her skin break out into goose bumps. A two-headed one doubled the horror. “It’s intriguing,” was all she could say with any honesty.
Will smoothed the forefinger of his left hand over the jade. “I was going to have a pendant made for my Ria with the same design. I planned to give it to her as … as an engagement gift.” His eyes grew moist again.
“Will, I’m so sorry for your loss. Are you sure I can’t get you a coffee or anything?”
“You’re so kind, but no,” he said. “I’m headed over to Ria’s shop. I want to be sure everything is secure.”
“I understand.”
“It was at my urging, you know, that she opened the vintage clothing shop. I wanted something more for her than being a hostess at a restaurant.” His handsome face clouded. “She was so smart, so beautiful. One of the few women I’ve met who could truly embrace the finer accoutrements of an earlier era. I even gave her six months’ free rent to give her a leg up, as it were.” His smile was weary, and hopelessly sad. “Not that it would’ve mattered. If she agreed to marry me, everything I have would have been hers, as well.”
Talia turned to see if Martha was lurking in the kitchen so that she could introduce her to Will, but she didn’t see her anywhere.
“I’ll stop in again, when things are more … settled,” he promised. “I want to be sure Ria has a proper memorial service and burial. I know her mother must also be devastated.”
Talia thought about the skinny woman with the yellowed fingernails who’d had the tiff with Ria the afternoon of the fund-raiser. How awful she must feel, knowing her last conversation with her daughter had been a kerfuffle. Talia made a mental note to pay her respects to Ria’s mom when the time was right.
After Will left, Martha reappeared. “Martha, are you okay?” Talia asked her. She didn’t add the obvious, that she’d been in the bathroom a long time.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Feeling my age, I guess.”
With Martha it was always about her age—it was her standing excuse for everything. Yet she seemed strong as an ox, and in the kitchen she churned out meals quickly and efficiently.
“Really, Martha, I wouldn’t mind if you left early. The way things are going, I’m sure I won’t be too overwhelmed.”
Martha shrugged. “Well, so long as you don’t mind.” Within seconds she had her coat and smelly scarf on, and was out the door.
Talia spent the next few hours tidying and cleaning. Only a few orders trickled in, all takeouts. By six thirty she was worn to a frazzle, but the eatery sparkled.
She was looking forward to closing when a tall, dark-skinned woman with close-cropped curls and exquisite cheekbones stepped into the eatery. Wearing a navy overcoat and black slacks, she glanced all around and then strode up to the counter. “Talia Marby?” Her expression was serious, but a glint of humor shone in her nutmeg-colored eyes.
Talia wiped her hands on a towel and smiled at her. “That’s me. What can I get for you?”
The woman pulled a notepad from her pocket and peered at it. “Let’s see. I’d like an order of bad fish, soggy coleslaw, and fries that have been floating in rancid oil for a year.”
Talia froze for a moment. “I … I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The woman reached into her jacket and flashed a silver badge. “Detective Patti Prescott, Wrensdale Police.”
Talia felt her legs wobble. “Oh.” The woman had to be the investigator Rachel had warned her about. Talia forced back a lump of dread and held her chin high. “Our food is fresh, crisp, and delicious, Detective Prescott. I’d be pleased to prepare something for you. If that’s why you’re here.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Then maybe you should tell me why you are here. You … obviously saw the post on our Facebook page. A post written by someone who had never eaten here,” she added quietly.
Prescott moved a tad closer. She studied Talia with shrewd eyes. If she smiled, she’d be lovely. Talia suspected she didn’t smile much. At least not while she was on duty.
“Why do you suppose she did that?”
Talia debated whether to tell her the rabbit story. So far, she hadn’t told any of the investigators. It had nothing to do with Ria’s murder. Then she sighed. Maybe now was the time to tell all.
She gave Prescott a brief summa
tion of the ages-old tale of the stolen rabbit.
Prescott looked dubious. She scribbled something on her notepad. “So you’re saying that Ms. Butterforth was carrying a thirty-year-old grudge against you? All because of a rabbit?”
Talia nodded. “Almost thirty years, yes. It’s the only reason I can think of for why she seemed to despise me.”
More scribbling on the notepad. “Ms. Marby, you spoke at length yesterday with Sergeant O’Donnell of the state police. Although they’re officially in charge, I’m going to be working behind the scenes as the local liaison.” She pronounced liaison with a French flair.
“I see.” Talia peeked at the detective’s note pad. She would have sworn she saw a rough drawing of a rabbit on it.
“Earlier today I listened to the interview you had with him. I don’t recall you giving an adequate explanation of how Ms. Butterforth got possession of your grandmother’s scarf.”
She had to be kidding.
“Detective Prescott, I think I said, at least three times, that I have no idea how Ria ended up with my nana’s scarf. I was shocked to see it hanging on her rack.”
“Shocked in an angry way?”
Talia gripped the turquoise counter. “No! Shocked in a baffled way.” Of course she had been seriously miffed, but that was between her and the deep fryer.
Prescott narrowed her eyes. “Prior to the fund-raiser, when was the last time you saw the scarf?”
“I … I’m not sure. Nana died this past spring. I guess it was some time before then.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Anyway, I probably hadn’t seen it since last winter.” Her voice lowered, and she felt a lump forming. “I knitted it for Nana many years ago. She wore it all the time in cold weather.” Talia glanced at the wall clock. Twelve minutes to closing.
“I won’t keep you, Ms. Marby, at least for now. It’s almost time for my supper break anyway.” Talia detected a touch of humor in her tone.
Prescott closed her notebook. “But I urge you to give serious thought to the last time you saw that scarf. Since we believe it was the murder weapon, it’s important that we determine its provenance.” Another perfect French pronunciation.
