by Liz Turner
“How are you?” Ray asked.
“My wife is dead; how do you think I am?”
“Given what the whole town of Bristol has been whispering, you’ve been quite happy.”
Carlton huffed, making Margie wince from the stench of his breath. “People would say that. Martha and I have been separated for years; not because we hated each other, but because I could no longer watch her drink herself to death.” He stared down at his glass. “Now that she’s gone, I’m getting why she used to do this; it’s numbing,” Calton slurred, pressing his forehead against the cool, dirty bartop. Margie winced.
Ray looked down at his notes. “The state of New York still says you’re married.”
“Indeed; we’re Catholic. We don’t get divorces, even in the city. So we just started living apart. No legal or spiritual action required. So yes, according to God, country, and the good old state of New York, we’re still married.” Something broke on his face, and his lips started to quiver. “Up until a couple of days ago.”
Margie’s face remained impassive, but her heart was breaking into pieces at this poor man’s story. If it were true, which she believed it was, he had nothing to do with Martha’s murder. Ray continued, his voice gentle. “Did your wife show any signs of suicidal tendencies in your marriage, or in the last few days you’ve seen her leading up to the wedding?”
“Only the drinking yourself dead kind,” Carlton said, waving at the bartender. The slimy looking man behind the bar got him a dirty looking glass and poured another round. Margie made a face.
“Was your wife seeing anyone else?” Margie asked, coldly. Ray looked up at her with a raised eyebrow, his face slack with surprise at her tone.
Carlton made a choking noise in the back of his throat. “No, she was not,” Carlton answered quickly. He put his head down on the bar and sobbed, drunken and loud.
Ray handed the barkeep a $20 bill and ordered him to grab the man a cab back to his hotel. The barkeep nodded, turning to call a taxi company. Ray gave him the address to Carlton’s Hotel and then left, walking back to the police car in silence. Margie followed, her eyes roving over the pavement to watch out for more booby traps for her white pumps. They’d managed to get out of the bar mostly unscathed, but would need a good cleaning before the day was out. And so would Margie; she smelled like an ashtray that someone dumped beer into.
When they sat down in the car, Margie cracked the window to get some fresh air.
“Why did you ask him that?”
Margie winced. She’d hurt the poor man, but it hadn’t been for nothing. “It was proof he was still emotionally invested in his wife. Also, he was lying. There was someone else, and he’s been denying it so long, he almost reflexively said no.”
Ray was staring at her and shook his head. “That was still a terrible thing to ask.”
Margie’s heart throbbed in her chest. “Don’t I know it. Hopefully, he’ll be able to cry himself out and get back to his life now. Poor guy.”
Ray started the car and backed out of the parking space, his eyes lost in the thought. Margie turned to look out the window, watching as the decrepit bar disappeared out of sight. Martha Justice had left a string of broken and unhappy people behind her; her daughter, son-in-law, husband, and presumably her lover. There were probably more Margie hadn’t encountered yet, and any one of them could have killed her. So who was the culprit?
Chapter 7
Margie chopped the carrots at an angle, pushing them to the side of the cutting board for inspection before dumping them into the pot of chicken noodle soup. It was something she was particularly fond of and was good at making, and it was easy to make enormous servings of it. Fall was coming along swiftly, and the nights were starting to get cold. People would like a little something to warm their bellies and hands when the sun set.
Mr. Leroy Bevins had okayed her soup after a taste test, and Marlin oversaw her preparation. The large, pale man looked sunburnt in the face as he hovered over the pot, watching with something like anger in his eyes as he watched her work. “Why are you cutting the carrots at an angle?”
“It increases cooking surface so the carrots cook faster.”
Marlin made a face. “But this is a long cooking dish, so the angle isn’t necessary.”
“Well, I think it looks prettier.”
A few of the men who were listening in on their conversation howled with laughter. Margie’s face turned almost as bright a red as Marlin’s, but she pretended not to hear them.
“Alright, we’ll do it your way, but you better hope the carrots don’t overcook, Miss Margie.”
“Of course,” she answered, her hands shaking as she continued chopping.
“Ignore them; they’re idiots,” Marlin whispered. He was a harsh teacher, vicious and direct, but not because she was a girl. It was because she had to learn. Margie didn’t particularly like his teaching style, but she was picking things up better from him than she did from those who coddled her. Perhaps he knew what he was doing after all. “Direct me on these onions, please.”
“We need to pan sear them for flavor, before throwing them in to cook. Can you cut them about...” she sliced off a hunk of the already peeled white onions, “like this and cook them in small batches to keep them from burning?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Marlin got to work, his blade nearly invisible he was chopping so fast. Margie had to fight to keep her attention on the carrots on her own cutting board.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Bevins?” she asked, unable to keep silent for long.
“About four years now. Olive oil or something else?”
“Olive oil is fine, just make sure to drain the onions before adding them to the soup,” Marlin smiled and winked at her. That meant she’d done something right. She took a deep breath and a little of tension leeched from her shoulders. Finally. “Make sure the heat’s up high, but not high enough to burn the oil.”
“It’s called the smoke point.”
Margie blushed again; she knew that! “Yes, sir.”
The high-tech kitchen was abuzz again, this time in preparation for some kind of parent and teacher get together at a local elementary school. She’d been in shock when Leroy had asked her to prepare a dish for this event. While both honored and humbled by his attention, she also felt the pressure. If she messed this up, she’d be out on her backside. Several of the cooks had already tried to sabotage her dish; accidentally knocking her ingredients to the floor and turning the temperature up. She had even caught one dumping salt into her broth. It had taken several potatoes to pull the salt back out of the soup, but she kept at it. She didn't let the guy who had done it see the tears in her eyes as she dropped in another potato half.
She would successfully complete this apprenticeship if it killed her.
At least Marlin didn’t seem to be in on it. If he were, she would have been fired by now. She couldn’t take sabotage from the one who had been asked to train her; it would have been too hard to fend off. Squaring her shoulders, she kept an eye on all of her ingredients and kept hard at work. It was best to keep everything close, to avoid further trouble.
Margie finally got the soup mixed together and got it simmering. She stayed close to it, stirring the pot and preparing to defend it from anyone who came too close.
“Margie!” Mr. Bevins called, from his office. Margie looked around, her shoulders slumping; she wouldn’t ask Marlin to watch her pot, but she couldn’t leave it unattended. It would be ruined in seconds. So she did the only thing she could.
“Yes, Mr. Bevins?” Margie said, walking into his office. She smiled at him, hoping he wouldn’t be able to see the tear stains on her face. She’d do this on her own, no matter what.
Leroy looked shocked for a second, staring at her as she carried the full pot of soup into the office and set it down on a hot pad she’d set on the floor next to her. “Margie, what are you...” he stopped, frowned. “Is someone messing with your food?”
“Of course not, sir. I merely was trying to share the lovely smell of homemade soup in your office; I thought it could use a touch of homeliness.”
Leroy raised a dark eyebrow, staring at the pot as Margie took a seat. He didn’t believe her for a second. “Of course. Well, I was about to ask you how things are going, but I can see you have it all well in hand. Will it be ready in ten minutes?”
“It will indeed; do we have a few chaffers we can send the soup in?”
“Of course; they are in the closet above the pans. You can...” he paused, looking down at the soup on the floor. “I mean, I’ll grab them for you. You look like you have your hands full.”
“I appreciate the help, sir!” Margie picked up her soup and kicked the hot pad out the door in front of her. Leroy brought her the chaffers as the rest of the cooks eyed her suspiciously. She began ladling the soup into each chaffer, making sure to distribute the chunky goodness between each of the soupwells as evenly as possible. She and Marlin loaded the chaffers onto the truck themselves; now if the men wanted to sabotage her, they would have to jump in after it.
Margie washed up after herself, feeling like her neck was on fire. Every single person inside the building was watching her. Her antagonists were trying to figure out if she had told betrayed them to Mr. Bevins. Margie finished up and got out as quickly as possible, unable to bear their staring any longer.
When she finally escaped, Ray was sitting outside in his cop car, waiting for her.
The air was much cooler today than it had been; it was the first icy breath of autumn. It felt amazing after the stifling, uncomfortable kitchen. A breeze tore Margie’s shoulder-length hair from its ponytail, whipping pieces of her curls into her face. It was a good night for soup; she’d chosen well. Hopefully, it got to the school unmolested.
Although the day left her battered and exhausted, she was happy knowing she hadn’t given up. She shuffled over to Ray’s car, pressing her face against the glass on his side. He was reading a case file as he waited, a thick pair of black-rimmed glasses on his nose. Since when did Ray need glasses?
He jumped a little when she tapped on the glass. Ray’s surprise quickly turned to a smile as he leaned forward to roll the window down. “How was your day, Margie? You got time for a little more sleuthing?”
She laughed. “I don’t have the energy left for anything.” And it was true. Her whole body, from her toes all the way up to her knotted shoulders, throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
“What if there was coffee involved?”
“All right, Ray, you win. Give me coffee and I’ll tag along.” She held out her hand expectantly. Ray handed over a paper cup that instantly warmed her fingers and made her feel better. Walking around the car, she stepped into the passenger's side. A few of the men from her work stared at her as they drove off. They didn’t know what to make of her ride.
“What happened today?” Ray asked as though he were bracing himself for something.
“Nothing more than I expected. It’s only my third day there, and everyone is already trying to sabotage me. Pouring salt in my soups and knocking things to the floor. It’s like culinary school all over again.” Feeling deflated, Margie pushed herself down further into the seat; at least there was some cushioning on the chair to help ease a little bit of the throbbing in her back and legs.
“Is that how they treated you in culinary school?”
She stared down at her hands, wrinkled from the dishwater. “You’d think I was born a leper with how they try and drive me out.”
Ray was silent for a long time, the only sound was his car running. “Why did you stay?”
“If I leave,” Margie said, staring out the window and watching the street lights fly by, “it proves them right. If I leave, they win. And I don’t like losing.”
He laughed, the sound cutting up the solemn silence of the car ride. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lose to anyone, Margie.”
“It doesn’t matter, Ray. I’m not going to stop, and they aren’t either. So what’s the visit for? More murder stuff?”
Ray nodded, his brow still furrowed. It was nice to know that he still cared about her, even after everything they’d gone through together. Even though he didn’t want her as a girlfriend anymore, they still got along swimmingly. Ray was her constant, and she was heartily glad he was still around.
“Yes, more murder stuff. The team had done another sweep of the building when they reopened the crime scene again. It turns out, Mrs. Martha Justice was trying to serve her husband some divorce papers.” Ray reached into and notebook on the dashboard without taking his eyes off the road and handing them to her. Margie glanced down at the papers, her face going white.
“You think she handed these to Carlton, and he killed her?”
Making a face, Ray turned into a little neighborhood off of the main drag. The tiny little houses were surrounded by white picket fences and weeping willows. Margie hated little neighborhoods like this; they reminded her of everything her parents wanted for her. A husband, no culinary school, 2.5 children, and an entire lifetime of laundry. “No; I didn’t see Carlton’s fingerprints anywhere; but do you know whose I did find?”
“Don’t leave me in suspense, Ray,” Margie said with irritation.
“Mrs. Kitty Rattcliffe, formerly Miss Kitty Justice.”
Margie gaped at him. “You don’t honestly think Kitty would have killed her mother, do you?”
“Jacob Ratcliffe's family is in a slightly different social strata than the rest of us. If Kitty’s mother and father divorced, the Rattcliffes might have forbidden their son to marry her. Scandal is best kept out of the family if possible.”
“Would she murder for it, though?”
Ray made a face. “I used to work the beat in a bigger city, Margie. I’ve seen people kill for a lot less.” They pulled in front of a small, white cottage. The trees were huge, overhanging the front yard in a sort of romantic way. The house had an old-world feel like it was built to be part of a sprawling family farm. The gravel driveway crunched under the tires. A young woman who was sitting on the porch, sipping coffee from a mug, looked over at their car. She was wrapped in a heavy sweater and white pants. She was barefoot.
“Let me talk to her, okay, Ray?”
That would have caused an argument between them a year or two ago, but he just nodded now. When had so much trust built up between them? They both got out of the car and Margie walked up to Kitty, who was wiping away tears with the back of her hand. Was this the face of a woman who had killed her mother in a fit of emotion and now regretted it? Margie wasn’t sure. After all of her time working with Ray, she’d realized that everyone was a potential criminal.
“Hello, Kitty. Do you have a few minutes to talk about your mother?”
She nodded silently, her lip quivering. Margie sat down on the porch next to her and hooked her hands together. Ray took a chair on the porch. After a moment of silence, Kitty started without any prompting. “I know it sounds stupid; my mother and I didn’t get along because of her drinking and we didn’t talk much. But I miss her. I keep expecting her to call me. Or get a letter from her in the mail.”
“We talked to your father too; he seems unhappy about the whole thing.”
Kitty made a face. “Mother was going to divorce him, you know. After Jacob and I were safely married.” She twisted a tissue between her hands. Margie glanced up at Ray, who was making a face. “She’s wanted to be free for so long, but she didn’t want to do it until after I was married. It’s a shame she never got to feel that freedom.”
Margie noticed the pained tone of Kitty’s voice. Before this, she’d always avoided talking about her family; Margie had always assumed she’d been on bad terms with both of her parents. “Your father didn’t seem to be a fan of the idea.”
“My father would have been devastated, but he would have signed the papers. And in time, he would have looked around and found that there was someone waiting for him to give her up.”
Ray leaned forward, looking at Margie intently, but he didn’t have to signal her. She knew just what to ask next. “Who was waiting around for Carlton to get a divorce?”
“Mother’s cousin, Julia. She’s been waiting around for twenty years for my father to come around,” Kitty said smiling sadly. “I guess now she’ll get her chance.” Kitty put her pretty face into her hands and sobbed, her shoulders shaking violently as though she were cold. Margie’s heart broke into pieces, and she rubbed Kitty’s shoulders gently.
“You should get inside, make yourself some warm tea and get to sleep. It’s getting late you know.”
