French Fried

by Kylie Logan

“He’s not exactly in the past,” Tony said.

  He was right. “But maybe something to do with the Statue of Liberty . . .” Even I knew it was a stretch and I dismissed the train of thought with a shake of my shoulders. “Then how about the symposium at Youngstown State?” I suggested. “Rocky was going to talk about her past in the peace movement.”

  “It’s possible,” he said. “But to me, her death has the feeling of something more personal than that.”

  “You mean Minnie Greenway.”

  Tony had just taken another sip of wine and he looked at me over the rim of his glass. He was a nice-looking guy—I mean, not nice-looking like Declan, but then who is?—and the gleam in his eye told me this was not a conversation he’d be having with just anybody. I suppose I had Declan to thank for that. Or maybe Detective Gus Oberlin back in Hubbard, who’d never come right out and said it to me (and never would), but who might have confided in a fellow professional about how I’d helped with that investigation a few months earlier?

  “Minnie Greenway.” Tony’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “Did I say anything about Minnie Greenway?”

  “You didn’t,” I admitted. “But there’s no denying she’s—”

  “We’re plenty familiar with Mrs. Greenway,” Tony said, and I knew the we referred to the entire Cortland Police Department. “She’s got a reputation.”

  “For threats.” I realized at the last second that I might have betrayed a confidence and figured I might as well fess up. “Declan told me. He said that you said that Minnie Greenway—”

  “Has made some threats against her neighbors. It’s true. Some guy down the road, she didn’t like the way he kept his cows out later than Minnie thought he should. She told him that if someone burned down his barn, that would teach him a lesson. And one of the store owners in town, well, Minnie didn’t like the way he packed her grocery bags. She told him it would serve him right if word went around that he was selling spoiled food.”

  “So she’s perfectly capable of being the one who made those harassing phone calls,” I said. “And she did say she did something to Rocky. She could have—”

  “But here’s the thing . . .” When Ben Newcomb stepped forward for wine for both himself and Muriel, Tony clamped his mouth shut.

  “Lovely affair,” Ben told me with a smile. “And what a beautiful setting! I hear the Terminal handled all the arrangements.”

  I told him he’d heard right.

  Ben gave me a smile. “Muriel’s looking for someone to cater a fund-raiser in a couple of months, ahead of next year’s election. She’ll give you a call.”

  A couple of months.

  I didn’t tell him that with any luck, I wouldn’t be the one he’d be dealing with.

  But I couldn’t help to think it and take heart.

  That is, until Tony reminded me that we had other, more important things to think about. At least for now.

  “Minnie likes to cause trouble,” Tony said once he was sure Ben Newcomb was well out of hearing range. “She likes to spout off about how she’s going to get even with people she thinks have offended her. But she’s never carried through. Not with any of it.”

  “Not that you know of,” I said.

  He acknowledged the possibility with a curt nod.

  “And she did tell me she’d done something to Rocky,” I reminded him.

  “I don’t doubt for a minute that’s what she said. But I’ve talked to her since then, and she didn’t say a thing about it to me, not even when I came right out and asked her. It was like she had no memory of ever saying that to you, and you know what?—I don’t doubt that, either. Minnie’s got problems.”

  I was almost afraid to ask. “So where does that leave us?”

  If Tony was offended by my use of us, he didn’t show it. “Now that we know about the note and the prowler and the possible burglar, we’re not going to let it go,” he said. “Declan said he found some letters.”

  “From Marie Daigneau. They’re in French.”

  “And we’re pathetically understaffed,” he admitted. “If you could help us out and find someone who might be able to translate them . . .”

  When he held it out to me, I refilled his glass and stepped back and away from the bar when Sophie made the announcement to tell our guests to find a seat.

  I had helped her plan what there would be of a formal program, and I knew that Father Frank from St. Robert’s would make some comments first. After that, Declan was scheduled to say a few words, then members of the crowd who wanted to could step forward and share their memories of Rocky. I’d put aside a chair for myself just at the spot where the tent ended and Rocky’s herb garden began, and I sat down and like the rest of the people in attendance, bowed my head when Father Frank said a prayer. Unlike the rest of the crowd, I had the added advantage of being able to breathe deep and catch the fragrance of rosemary and thyme and the wonderful and very French scent of lavender.

  No sooner had Father Frank finished and the last muffled amen faded into the autumn air than I raised my head, opened my eyes, and saw something curious back behind the barn.

  Or I should say more accurately, someone curious.

  It wasn’t one of Declan’s nephews. Now that all the guests were here, the two boys who’d been parking cars had joined us under the tent, and just to be sure, I double-checked and saw them sitting where I’d last seen them, beside their grandparents.

  It wasn’t George. I knew that for sure. Even though I suppose he could have been taking a break while the quiches baked, the man I saw prowling the edges of the memorial service wasn’t as tall as George and not nearly as bulky.

  I squinted for a better look.

  It was a man, surely. A slim man with a beard.

  I sat up like a shot, but by that time, the person I’d seen had slipped completely behind the barn and out of my range of vision.

  I inched out of my seat and thanked my lucky stars that the bar was at the back of the crowd. The way I figured it, the only ones who saw me get up and head out were Father Frank, Sophie, and Declan.

  As quickly as I could, I headed for the barn, making a wide circle around the tent so that I wouldn’t distract from the story Father Frank was telling. Declan, waiting in the proverbial wings, caught sight of me and raised his eyebrows, and I waved a hand as a way of telling him he had nothing to worry about because nothing was wrong.

  Now all I had to do was convince myself.

  Behind the barn, I glanced around, but since the Fury boys had done their work and done it efficiently, there wasn’t much to see except row after row of perfectly parked cars.

  I stood on tiptoe and scanned the area, past the cars and over to the plot of land Rocky used for her griselles, and that’s when I saw him again.

  “Andrew MacLain,” I told myself, though from this distance, I really couldn’t be sure.

  As much to prove my theory to myself as to catch up to the man and find out what he was doing there, I took off running, darting through the lines of cars, but before I ever made it to the griselle garden, the man looked over his shoulder, caught sight of me, and took off.

  Lurking at a memorial service and running when seen?

  My curiosity ratcheted up a notch and I took off, too, running for all I was worth through the endives and the shallots and the last of the year’s leeks and fennel that Rocky would never have a chance to pick.

  I’d just negotiated my way through the pumpkin patch near the border of her property when the man ducked into the thick woods that marked the boundary of Rocky’s farm and I lost him.

  Hands on my knees, I bent to catch my breath, looking right and left as I did, hoping for some clue as to which direction the man went.

  Andrew MacLain.

  It sure looked like him.

  Which left me with only one question to ask as I made my
way back to the service, my heart beating double time and my breaths ragged.

  Why would Andrew MacLain lurk in the background of Rocky’s memorial service?

  • • •

  I BARELY HAD a chance to think about it. I’d run farther than I thought and it took me a while to make my way back to the tent, and by the time I got there, Declan was already done speaking and a woman who introduced herself as Jo was telling us how Rocky had once tried to teach French to a group of women who met each week at the library.

  “We didn’t learn a whole lot of French,” Jo said with a smile. “But we sure always had a good time.”

  Jo took her seat and as we planned, we allowed a minute for the next speaker to come forward.

  This time it was a man named Greg, a restaurant owner all the way from Cleveland, who told us that for the last three years, he’d tried to talk Rocky into moving closer to the big city so that he could get all his produce from her.

  “She wouldn’t hear of it,” Greg said. “She said her home was here at Pacifique. That this was her love. And, you know, I couldn’t argue with her. Once a week, I drove all the way out here for whatever Rocky would sell to me. It was worth every mile of the trip.”

  Greg went back to his seat and again, we waited to see if anyone else would step up and share a memory. Sophie and I had already agreed that neither of us wanted to speak. Me, because let’s face it, I was a relative newcomer to the area and I didn’t have nearly the relationship with Rocky that many in attendance did, and Sophie, because she said she’d dissolve into a puddle of mush and she didn’t want to put a damper on the spirits of the crowd. We all felt the loss of Rocky in our own way, Sophie had said. There was no use making everyone feel even worse.

  I’d asked Declan to keep an eye out, and if it looked as if no one else in the crowd was going to come up to the podium, to step forward and let everyone know that lunch would be served in just a minute. He’d just stood up to do that when Minnie Greenway hotfooted into the tent like the Road Runner on speed.

  “I’ve got something to say!” she announced even before she made her way up to the microphone, and I guess more than a few of the people there knew who she was because a buzz started up in the crowd. A little bit of excitement, a little bit of nervousness. People looked around at one another and pointed at Minnie in her ragged jeans and that maroon sweater of hers. Her hair was a fright and she wasn’t wearing shoes.

  It took Otis a minute to catch on and really, who could blame him? By the time he was on his feet, his forehead sweatier than ever, Minnie had grabbed the mike.

  “You’re talking about that Frenchy? Well, I’ve got plenty to say about her!”

  Declan stepped up behind Minnie, and Tony materialized out of the crowd, too, and walked up to her side.

  “Just the man I wanted to see,” Minnie growled, and looked at Tony. “You’re going to want to hear this.”

  “I’m sure we are.” How Tony made himself sound so calm and so completely unabashed when the rest of us were watching the scene with our mouths hanging open was a mystery, but then, I guess that sort of thing is second nature to a cop. “Come on, Mrs. Greenway.” He gave her a tiny tug. “Let’s talk over here where we won’t interrupt everyone’s lunch.”

  She yanked her arm away from him. “Oh, we’re going to talk, all right,” she told him, and raised her chin to glare at the crowd. “But before we do, there’s something I need to say. That Rocky? You need to know something about her. You need to know I killed her.”

  Chapter 11

  A couple of things happened all at once—

  Our guests sat frozen for a few, stunned seconds, then erupted, leaping out of their seats. Some of them shouted, a few of them cried, more of them stood there with their mouths hanging open, staring at Minnie, pointing fingers, some of them whispered among themselves, and I heard the hissed words.

  “Crazy.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “Told you so.”

  And Minnie?

  It was hard to see over the crowd that spilled into the aisle way at the center of the tent, and believe me when I say I desperately wanted to know what was going on, so I pushed my way through to the front just in time to see Tony put a firm hold on Minnie’s arm. She was wiry, and apparently a lot stronger than she looked. Minnie squirmed, she spat, she kicked, and she wormed her way out of Tony’s hold. She took off, straight down the aisle, and she didn’t care who she bumped into or who she ran down.

  Until she saw me and froze like a deer in headlights.

  In that split second, I wondered if she recognized me from the times I found her lurking at Pacifique.

  Or if maybe I reminded her of someone else.

  I never did find out. I only know that when her eyes locked with mine, Minnie somehow saw her salvation. She raced forward, threw her arms around my neck, and hung on like a limpet, and not even Tony and Declan coming to my rescue could help. When she realized they were trying to pull her away from me, Minnie dug her bony fingers into my skin. She held on hard and refused to let go, even when (believe me!) I tried to push her away.

  “You have to help me! You have to help me!” she cried out above the buzz of noise coming from the people who crowded around us to see what was going to happen next. “I won’t go with them,” she insisted when Tony took hold of her once again, and just to prove it, she slid behind me, her chest to my back, and kicked him in the knee.

  “I won’t go!” Minnie screamed when Declan moved in to take Tony’s place so Tony could take a moment to wince in pain. “I won’t come with you and tell you what I did to Frenchy.” She gave me a series of rough shakes that made my head bob. “Not . . . unless . . . she . . . comes . . . with . . . me.”

  At that point, neither Tony nor Declan was going to argue, and I wasn’t sure fighting about it would get me anywhere. I nodded my consent, though how Minnie could see me, considering she was dodging left to right, right to left behind me in order to evade first Declan, then Tony, I don’t know. I finally managed to plant my feet and spin around so that my back was to them and they had a better chance of grabbing hold of Minnie.

  Tony pried her fingers off my neck one by one, and slapped the cuffs on Minnie (he carried handcuffs even when he wasn’t on duty?). Declan held back Otis, who fought his way through the crowd, both arms flailing, like a swimmer trapped underwater and desperate for air. He watched the proceedings in horror, his face ashen and his whole body shaking like a plate of aspic. Once Tony had Minnie firmly in hand, Declan rushed over to see how I was. Truth be told, aside from shaken, mashed, and bruised, I wasn’t really sure.

  I waved him off and fought to catch my breath. In spite of my rubbery knees and my insides that swooped a time or two before they tied themselves into about a million knots and because I said I would, I walked along at Minnie’s side when Tony escorted her out to his car. Sophie hobbled over and I assured her I was fine, then reminded myself she’d never believe it if I didn’t stop massaging the spots on my neck I knew would be black and blue by morning. On my way out of the tent, I gave Inez and Misti last-minute instructions about serving the quiche. Heck, murder suspect or no murder suspect, I wasn’t wasting good food, and now our guests would have plenty to talk about over lunch.

  “You uncomfortable sitting in back with her?” Tony asked me when we found his car.

  I was about to say that any person with a brain would be uncomfortable being that close to Minnie when she looked my way. Her bottom lip quivered, and she burst into tears.

  I rode to the Cortland Police station in the back seat with Minnie. Declan and Otis followed in the car behind us.

  Never having been in a police station with a murder suspect, I can’t really say what normal procedure might be. I had the feeling that maybe the Cortland cops bent the rules just a little, considering how fragile Minnie was, how upset her husband was, and how the suspect i
n question absolutely, positively refused to do anything or say anything or move a step from inside the front door unless I was with her.

  Go figure.

  After I pinkie swore (Minnie’s idea) that I wouldn’t leave her side, we found ourselves in a utilitarian room that contained nothing but a metal table and four chairs. Minnie and I sat down on one side of the table. Tony took the seat opposite hers. Otis stayed in the outer office to talk to another of the officers, and Declan said since he was an attorney—and definitely not Minnie’s representative—he should stay well out of it. No one argued with him and he offered to call legal aid on her behalf.

  “So . . .” I knew there was a video camera running because Tony had explained all that to Minnie when we sat down. It would record everything she said and every move she made, and later, would be used as evidence against her. Still, Tony was all set to jot down notes. His pen poised over a yellow legal pad, he gave Minnie a soft smile. “You need to tell us more, Minnie. About what you said back at the memorial service.”

  The sound she made was half sniff, half snort. “Ain’t no memorial service unless you have it in a church,” she grumbled. “And they were drinking wine. You saw that, right? Write that down.” Tony had removed the handcuffs once we were in the room, and Minnie pointed to his legal pad with one bony and not very clean finger. “Write down that they were drinking wine.”

  Tony pretended to do just that.

  “So while they were drinking the wine . . .” He glanced up at her, his look as placid as the proceedings at Pacifique had been before Minnie showed up and dropped the mother of all bombshells. “You said something to everyone who was there, Minnie. You walked up to the front and you said—”

  “Said I killed that Frenchy.” She narrowed her eyes and gave him a laser stare. “That’s what I said ’cause that’s what I did.”

  “You’re telling me you killed Raquel Arnaud.”

  Minnie glanced my way and spoke to me out of the corner of her mouth. “He’s cute, but he must be hard of hearing.”

  Before I said anything, I looked at Tony to make sure it was all right. He gave his permission with a nod.