Berried Alive

by Chelsea Thomas

  “No,” Teeny said. “But it’s kind of a big coincidence. This Wallace guy shows up in town. A few weeks later, Rosenberg is dead.”

  Miss May sipped her water. “That’s a good point. But why would Wallace have waited a few weeks before killing Rosenberg?”

  “The creep-o Wallace probably needed time to hatch a plan,” Teeny said. “Seems to me, he studied Rosenberg’s habits. Knew when Rosenberg would be alone in the trailer. Waited for the right moment. And pounced!”

  “Not a bad theory,” Miss May said. “And I like that you didn’t steal it from an episode of North Port Diaries.”

  “Oh no, that theory is straight from NPD,” Teeny said. “Season nine, episode eleven. Number thirty-five of my top fifty episodes of all-time.”

  “Aren’t there only fifty episodes total?” I asked.

  “There are forty-four but I count a few of them twice because they’re so good,” Teeny said.

  “I think that’s the number of suspects we have on this case,” I said. “Everyone in town hated Rosenberg. And they hated that Massive Mart even more.”

  Miss May nodded. “But who had the most to lose if the store opened?”

  “We all did,” Teeny said. “Massive Mart would have put every small business owner in Pine Grove into the poor house.”

  “That might be a slight exaggeration,” I said. “But you’re right. And it would have been even worse for Big Dan and Master Skinner. Both their businesses are in the Rosenberg Building!”

  “Big Dan couldn’t care less,” Teeny said. “He’s already got one foot in the donut shop. Plus, he’s got a great beard.”

  Miss May shook her head. “Have you been checking out Big Dan’s beard?”

  Teeny shrugged. “The man has a well-groomed face.”

  I smirked. “Sounds like someone might have a crush.”

  “Oh hush up,” Teeny said. “I thought this was a murder investigation, not a water fountain.”

  I cocked my head. “Water fountain? What do you mean?”

  “Water fountain,” Teeny said. “That’s where people gossip. Everybody is always talking up a storm at the water fountain.”

  Miss May and I exchanged a confused look.

  “I think you mean a water cooler,” Miss May said.

  Teeny waved her off. “Oh you get what I mean. People drink water and talk trash. Now can we get back to the murder theories?”

  “Sure,” Miss May said. “I think you made a good point about Big Dan.”

  “You also love his beard?” I asked.

  “No, Chels, I’m talking about his motive,” Miss May said. “Big Dan didn’t care about the Rosenberg building. So he didn’t have much reason to kill Rosenberg.”

  “Master Skinner is no killer, either,” I said. “That was a fundamental tenet of his teachings. Martial arts are for not for violence.”

  Teeny gnawed on a fingernail. “That sounds like a nice philosophy. But Master Skinner has an inner darkness, if you ask me. And he was missing last night. How did you say Rosenberg died? Is it possible he had been karate chopped to death?”

  “It was hard to tell,” Miss May said. “Didn’t seem to be any signs of blunt force trauma but I guess an expert karate chop could have gone under my radar.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I said. “I’m telling you, Master Skinner has achieved inner peace through years of karate and meditation. He is one with the universe.”

  “There was evidence of a struggle in that trailer, Chelsea,” Miss May said. “Master Skinner is one of the only people I know who would be strong enough to dent that wall. And he could also fit through the window. He’s a lithe and compact man.”

  “But you said it seemed like Rosenberg made that mess by himself!”

  “And I still think that’s possible. But the facts—”

  I slammed my hand on the table. “Skinner didn’t do it! Trust me.”

  Miss May and Teeny looked at me like I was being obstinate.

  “Look,” I said. “I just... I looked up to Master Skinner a lot when I was a kid. And my instincts tell me he couldn’t have done this. If any real evidence points to him? Fine. We can go question him. But isn’t there anyone else we can talk to first?”

  “I think he’s guilty,” Teeny said. “But whatever. Who else is on the list?”

  “What about Flanagan?” I asked. “It’s odd she’s choosing not to investigate. There’s so much reason to suspect foul play.”

  “That’s a good point,” Miss May said. “Chief Flanagan may have had a hand in this.”

  “But do you think she could have sneaked out that window and gotten back to her cop car in time to drive away, get our call, and return to the scene of the crime in a few minutes?” I asked.

  Miss May shrugged. “It’s not likely. But it’s possible. And you’re right... It is odd that she’s chosen not to investigate this as a murder.”

  “Maybe Flanagan is working on the mayor’s orders,” I said. “Sounds like Delgado wants Flanagan to keep the murder numbers down.”

  “That would make sense,” Miss May said. “At the rate we’re going, Pine Grove will have more murders per capita than the south side of Chicago.”

  “But if Flanagan’s goal is to keep the stats low, I don’t think she’d kill Rosenberg in the first place. I’m not great at math, but even I know that doesn’t add up,” I said.

  “I think Flanagan is jealous of you and Wayne,” Teeny said.

  “How would jealousy of me and Wayne lead her to kill Rosenberg?” I asked. “Besides, there’s no reason for her to be jealous.”

  “You’re not kidding,” Miss May said. “Does the guy even call anymore? One dance and he disappears like that sensual sashay never happened.”

  “That’s a shame,” Teeny said. “Detective Hudson is a big slice of hunkberry pie with sprinkles on top. You can’t let that slip away, Chels!”

  “Can we stop with all of this water fountain chatter?” I said. “This is serious business.”

  “Chelsea’s right,” Miss May said. “Let’s focus on the case. Besides Teeny, I thought Big Dan was the only hunkberry pie you wanted to slice.”

  “Oh, stop,” Teeny said. “Big Dan is a good-looking man. So what? Moving on. Are we sure Rosenberg’s death wasn’t part of a political conspiracy?”

  “I don’t think we can rule it out,” I said. “Especially considering how close Chief Flanagan and Mayor Delgado have become. But the murder didn’t feel planned out or conspiratorial. It felt up-close and personal. Unplanned.”

  “Agreed,” Miss May said. “There were no signs of forced entry. So Rosenberg likely knew his killer. Plus, there are signs Rosenberg may have struggled with his assailants before being murdered.”

  “Or he had a fit and flipped the couch over himself,” I said.

  Miss May nodded. “Right. All that suggests the killing emerged from an argument or personal disagreement. Who have we learned might be the likely killer in that kind of scenario?”

  “Lover?” I said. “Scorned spouse?”

  “Russian secret agent with a thirst for violence that can’t be quenched?” Teeny asked.

  Miss May rolled her eyes.

  Teeny shrugged. “What? That’s just as likely as a scorned spouse.”

  “I think Chelsea may have gotten it right the first time,” Miss May said. “We already mentioned Master Skinner’s absence from the meeting. But someone else was absent, too. Someone who might have had even more motive to kill.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Susan Rosenberg,” Miss May said. “Hank’s wife.”

  I nodded. “Oh yeah! It is weird she wasn’t there.”

  “And then last night you two went by the Rosenberg house and no one was home, right?” Teeny asked.

  Miss May nodded. “Yup.”

  Teeny hesitated. “I don’t know though. Susan hosts some pretty great cookie parties at the country club. She makes a divine Madeleine.”

  “So that means she can’t b
e a killer?” Miss May asked.

  “I don’t know,” Teeny said. “I like her cookies.”

  “Either way, we should probably go talk to Susan now, right?” I asked.

  Miss May nodded. “We should offer our condolences. At least.”

  “Maybe we can bring her some pie.” I said.

  “Probably not,” Miss May said. “Considering how Hank died.”

  I nodded. “Right. Facedown in pie. That would be insensitive.”

  Miss May stood and pulled her coat on. She let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes for a moment. It looked like she might faint.

  I stood. “Miss May? Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” Miss May opened her eyes and looked at me. “I’m just getting ready. Are you ready?”

  I nodded.

  Miss May let out another deep exhale. “Here we go again.”

  11

  Oh Dear, Sudeer

  MISS MAY WANTED TO bring flowers to Susan instead of pie, so we stopped by Petunia’s flower shop after breakfast to pick up a nice bouquet.

  The walk down the hill to town was peaceful. But once we got back to Main Street we spotted a group of angry townspeople marching outside the Rosenberg Building.

  Tom Gigley, the town lawyer, led the protestors. Behind him stood Brian, the owner of the Brown Cow. Brian’s employees Rita and Willow brought up the rear along with Arthur, the owner of the gas station.

  Although the group didn’t quite manage to march or chant in unison, their faces were red and they shook their fists as they yelled.

  Big Dan watched the spectacle from about 100 feet away.

  Miss May crossed over to him. “What’s going on here, Big Dan? Rosenberg is dead. Why is everyone still protesting?”

  Big Dan had one eye on the crowd, and one eye on a vintage Indian motorcycle parked nearby.

  “Rosenberg’s people showed up this morning. Word is, they’re moving forward with the demolition.” Big Dan pointed to the motorcycle. “Check out the paint job on that bike. That thing’s probably older than I am, but it sure doesn’t look it.”

  My designer’s eye recognized that the motorcycle was indeed a masterwork of restoration. “Who owns it?”

  “Arthur,” Big Dan said. “He got it in a junkyard, spent years bringing it back to life. Did a great job, too.”

  Miss May shook her head. “I don’t care about the bike, Big Dan! Why would they still be going through with the demolition?”

  “Not sure,” Big Dan turned to Miss May. “Oh by the way, I was thinking I might do apple fritters at Big Dan’s Donuts. Is that OK with you? Don’t want to steal your business or anything. You’re the apple lady, so just say the word and I’ll steer clear.”

  Miss May stood on her tippy-toes to get a better look at the protesters. “Sure, yeah. Fritters. No problem. Excuse me.”

  Miss May strode over to the protesters. I hung back for a second, and against my better judgment, leaned in to Big Dan and asked, “Big Dan, uh, what do you think of Teeny?”

  Big Dan shrugged, “Well I did like that hashbrown lasagna she made.” I waited for him to continue, but Big Dan wasn’t a man of overflowing sentiment.

  “OK,” I said. And then before I could stop myself, I blurted, “She likes your beard!” Then I darted away and hurried toward Miss May.

  As I neared the chanting crowd, I noticed Sudeer and a few contractors huddled near the entrance to the Rosenberg Building.

  Miss May pushed her way through the crowd until she got to the front. “Sudeer. What’s going on here? Your partner just died. That doesn’t change anything? The Massive Mart is going forward as planned?”

  Sudeer rubbed his temples, then looked up at Miss May. “We’ve delayed the demolition by a few days, out of respect.”

  “And you think it’s smart to move forward with this Massive Mart?” Miss May asked. “Even after what happened to Rosenberg?”

  “According to Chief Flanagan, he suffered a heart attack in his trailer. Are you saying something else might have happened?” Sudeer asked.

  “I’m saying this town doesn’t want this building!” Miss May said.

  “Rosenberg’s parent company wants to move forward. It’s out of my hands.” Sudeer checked the text on his phone and fired off a quick response.

  I scratched my head. Parent company? What parent company? I took a step toward Sudeer.

  “Can you stay off your phone what we talk?” Miss May asked. “This is important to people.”

  Arthur pushed his way up toward Miss May. “This guy doesn’t care about anything but money, May. He’s worse than Rosenberg!”

  “I’m sorry. My little girl has a cold,” Sudeer said. “That was a text for my wife.”

  “Wait, Sudeer...what parent company are you talking about?” I asked.

  The chanting got louder. I repeated my question, but Sudeer couldn’t hear me.

  I yelled the question once more. Sudeer cupped his hand against his ear.

  I was about to scream the question at the top of my lungs when Master Skinner emerged from his dojo.

  “Quiet!”

  Everyone at the protest stop yelling and turned.

  Master Skinner was short and balding, with sharp brown eyes and a commanding presence. He was wearing his gi, fastened with his crisp black belt, as always. Even though I had just defended Master Skinner’s gentle nature and kind soul, the echo of his deep voice settled in my chest like a rock.

  “My students and I are deep in meditation. We are aligning our minds, bodies, and souls. Please. Be respectful.”

  Master Skinner cast a look across the crowd and the protestors shuffled away, many grumbling about how they were hungry for lunch anyway.

  As I watched the protestors go, I wondered... Could one of those people have killed Rosenberg? Miss May and I needed to find out, or Sudeer might be the killer’s next victim.

  ON THE WAY OVER TO Petunia’s flower shop, Miss May called KP to see if he’d had any luck opening the briefcase. Judging by the look on her face, the prognosis was “not open.”

  “Not open?” I said.

  “Not open now, not open ever,” my aunt said. “KP said ‘unless you can wake that Hankenstein fella from his eternal slumber’ the case is impossible to open without destroying everything inside.”

  “It’s not like KP to give up like that,” I said. “Especially when it involves tearing something apart.”

  “Sounds like he tried every trick in the book,” Miss May said. “Blow torch. Wrench. Crow bar. He didn’t want to do more because he didn’t want to risk damaging whatever’s inside.”

  “That’s thoughtful,” I said, with a heavy sigh.

  “Thoughtful and frustrating. But what can you do?”

  As Miss May and I stepped into Petunia’s, I couldn’t help but smile, too. The little flower shop, barely bigger than a walk-in closet, brimmed with flowers. Bright red roses lined the back wall. Buttercups danced on the windowsill. And there was even an enormous teddy bear sitting on the counter, leftover from Valentine’s Day.

  Miss May smiled as she entered. For Miss May, a smile was better armor than a bulletproof vest. And she’d need it. The owner of the flower store, Petunia, was a notorious curmudgeon. When she wasn’t at the flower shop she was running poker games at her retirement village. And she was five feet and one inch of fury, all wrapped up in a floral-print blouse.

  Petunia glared as we entered. “May. What are you doing here?”

  “Shopping for flowers,” Miss May said. “What else?”

  “Yeah I don’t buy it,” Petunia said.

  “Well I hope you’ll sell it,” Miss May said. “I’ll take an extra-large spring bouquet, please.”

  “Those bouquets are expensive. What do you want one for?”

  Miss May’s smile flickered. “Just taking flowers to a friend, Petunia.”

  Petunia narrowed her eyes. “Seems suspicious to me.”

  “Petunia. You sell flowers. I’m here to buy flowers. Wha
t’s with the interrogation?”

  “You know what? I’m right. I’m being rude. Pardon me for a second.” Petunia turned around. I could have sworn she took a swig from a bottle before she turned back. “The stress is ruining my brain, that’s all. Business is down from all this protesting. And I didn’t have a good night at the poker tables. I’m being too aggressive. Too jumpy. It’s because of this ridiculous Massive Mart. I’m telling you, that Rosenberg idiot will ruin our town from the grave!”

  I looked over at Miss May. Was it me or did Petunia sound a little defensive?

  Petunia groaned. “Don’t exchange a conspiratorial glance with your aunt, Chelsea. Didn’t we cover this last time? I’m not a killer.”

  “Sorry, Petunia,” I said. “We’re not here because we think you’re a killer. We actually want to buy flowers.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Petunia said. “Sharing those suspicious looks. The two of you ought to be ashamed. My psychological wounds from the last time you questioned me are still festering and green. Now you prance into my store with more accusations?”

  “Calm down, Petunia.” Miss May took a step toward the counter. “We don’t suspect you of anything. You’re not even on our list of suspects.”

  “Did you say your wounds are festering and green? You might want to get that looked at,” I said.

  Petunia ignored me. “I wish I could trust you, May. But you weren’t exactly forthright last time you questioned me.”

  Suddenly, Arthur exploded into the shop, shaking his fist. “Sudeer Patel is the biggest traitor this town has seen since—”

  “We’re all from Pine Grove, Arthur,” Petunia said. “We know all about how Benedict Arnold spent a night in the church.”

  “Sudeer is worse than Benedict Arnold. That’s what I’m trying to say. It smells wonderful in here, by the way. I love the bouquet of aromas you’ve cultivated in your place of business.”

  “As do I, Arthur,” Miss May said. “Chelsea and I are actually here to buy flowers. But Petunia won’t let us.”

  “I would let you buy flowers, if that’s what you wanted,” Petunia said. “But I know you’re actually here to accuse me of killing that stupid, hideous Rosenberg.”