by Valerie Tate
But were you alone, Alicia wondered. And if not, did Fiona leave the room and go to the Community Centre to meet Davina?
The chef’s flash of temper was quickly suppressed and the professional mask of bonhomie took its place. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have to get Fiona to her room.”
“Yes, I have my packing still to do,” Fiona agreed stiffly.
Alicia pasted a fatuous smile on her face. “It was nice meeting you both. Good luck with your new job, Fiona, and I’ll be watching Chef in the House.”
Fiona and Mike quickly left the restaurant. Alicia and Chris followed more slowly. As they stopped to pick up Alicia’s coat from the rack, Chris said softly, “Did you notice they didn’t leave the hotel?”
She nodded and glanced behind her. “Yes, they got on the elevator.”
“This isn’t the hotel the staff and crew stayed in, is it.”
“No. I wonder when she changed.”
“If I were to guess,” he said, looking speculatively at the elevator doors, “I would say it was right after Davina’s murder.”
“Or right before?” she wondered.
“Marcus will know. They checked everyone’s alibi.”
“I wonder what her alibi was.”
“Or who?”
Chapter 16
Back at home, while Chris called Marcus to let him know what they’d learned about Fiona and Mike Manning, Alicia changed into jeans and a sweater and then took the dogs and hurried out to the barn. It was snug and warm inside with the heat from the horses’ bodies. Once she’d checked water buckets, picked out the stalls and thrown them more hay, she tucked them up for the night and ran back across the yard to the house.
When she got back inside, they sat drinking coffee while Chris filled her in on his phone conversation with Samuel.
“He said to say thanks. They’ve had questions about Fiona’s alibi. At first, she claimed to have been in her hotel room from eight o’clock on but when they checked, the key card showed she hadn’t returned until after ten. When they questioned her about the discrepancy, she said she’d forgotten that she’d taken a drive around town to see the Christmas lights after dinner, before returning to the hotel.”
“Hmph! There aren’t enough Christmas lights in all of Dunbarton to take that long,” Alicia scoffed.
“Marcus said Mike Manning was in his hotel from eight o’clock on. The key card record shows that it was used just before eight and not again until the next morning.”
He went to the cupboard and pulled out a box of chocolate marshmallow cookies. He took one out and then held out the box to Alicia.
Thinking about what he’d just said, she took one absentmindedly and after taking a bite said, “But now we know that he and Fiona are a couple. She could have used his card to go in his room and then let him in later giving him an alibi. And if the police later questioned her too closely, they could say she was with him.”
“So neither of them has an alibi. With the new information, Marcus is going to be questioning both of them again tomorrow.”
“He’d better hurry or they’ll have left town.” She popped the last bit of cookie in her mouth and then seemed surprised to find she’d eaten it.
“Oh, and he told me they’ve confirmed Eric Braxton’s alibi. He was at The Stockyard all evening.”
Remembering the Silver Hair Brigade ladies’ comment, she said, “Drowning his sorrows.”
He nodded sadly. “It sounds like it. Ben Stone remembers him sitting at the bar most of the evening.”
“So we can cross him off the list. I’m glad. I like him.”
“Fiona and Mike are at the top of the list?” he asked. They were running out of suspects, at least those they knew about.
“As far as I’m concerned, Fiona’s always been there and now Mike Manning is joining her at the top. But there’s no proof that they did it,” she said in frustration. “They both have oodles of motives but we can’t place them at the scene at the time of the murder. It’s all circumstantial.” She put her mug down and threw her hands in the air in a dramatic fashion, her theatre training showing through. “If only the police could find the murder weapon!”
“I asked Marcus about that, too. He said they’ve searched the community centre and the grounds and all along the street but it’s hard when they don’t know what they’re looking for.”
“Something rectangular and flat with a smooth surface.” She had spent a lot of time puzzling over that herself.
“And Magnus Wolff?” Chris asked. “Where does that leave him?”
“Well, we can’t take him off the list because he doesn’t have an alibi,” she said, although reluctant to leave him on, “but he’s staying at the bottom.”
“Because?”
“Because the police haven’t been able to find a motive and Fiona and Mike have several.”
“Fair point,” he admitted grudgingly.
“You don’t sound convinced,” she said.
“Marcus thinks he did it and he’s a good detective,” he said stubbornly.
“He’s been wrong before.” About me, she thought.
“True, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong this time.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said intently, “Magnus had a loud argument with Davina the afternoon of the murder and has no alibi. He could have done it.”
Surprised at how determined he was about it, Alicia said, “That’s why he’s staying on the list.”
When they’d finished their coffee, Chris went to watch the hockey game on television and Alicia went to the murder board to cross Eric Braxton off and to add the new information about Fiona and Mike. When she was done, she stood back to analyze what they had. It was pathetically thin, she decided, lots of motives and weak alibis but no hard evidence. She’d never felt this discouraged in an investigation before. She threw up her hands in disgust, deciding she’d had enough for one night. It would still be there in the morning.
She went to join Chris in the living room, collapsing onto the sofa beside him. The dogs were content to flop down in front of the fireplace and even Horace joined them, curling up in his bed. Since Chris was engrossed in the game, Alicia decided to put their real-life murder mystery out of her mind for a while and took up the novel she’d just started reading.
“I love this series of mysteries by Carola Dunn,” she said, when the game stopped for a commercial. “It’s set in the 1920s – The Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries. The characters are ‘Flappers’ and ‘Bright Young Things’ after the First World War. They say things like ‘spiffing’ and ‘Old Bean’. The Honourable Daisy Dalrymple is the daughter of a Viscount who died of the Spanish Flu without having made provision for her in his will, so she has begun a career writing magazine articles. She gets involved with solving murders and meets and marries a Detective Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard which is just ‘not done’ in her set. It’s a fun series.” She closed the book with a sigh. “Solving murders is much easier in books,” she declared.
Chris looked over at her and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She thought for a moment, debating, before blurting out. “All of those suspects with their stories and their motives and their alibis and I still can’t figure out who the murderer is. Everything they say is plausible, reasonable. They way things stand right now, none of them is guilty.”
“That’s because you’re assuming that all these people are telling you the truth,” he said patiently, “but you can be sure that at least one of them is lying – the murderer.”
“But how do I figure out who is lying and who is telling the truth?”
“You can’t. That’s why you are going to give all of this information to Marcus and let the police deal with it. They have ways and means to check things out that we don’t have.”
Thinking back to the murder board’s lack of substance, she hated to admit it but he was right.
“You’ve found out a lot more from the suspects and witnesses than Marcus could have,”
Chris went on. “You can be proud of that. But it’s time to let it go. Time to start concentrating on Christmas.”
With a big sigh, she decided something previously unthinkable. She decided to admit defeat. “You’re right.”
Chris schooled his face not to show the shock he felt. He couldn’t believe it. He never actually thought she’d give up. She never had before.
“I’ll call Marcus tomorrow and give him everything we’ve learned. It’s his job and I’m just going to have to leave it up to him to find the killer. I just hope we have enough to make him look at someone besides Magnus Wolff.”
“Marcus is a fair man. He won’t railroad anyone,” Chris declared.
“I know. I just wish…” She really hated leaving a case unsolved.
She snuggled closer into his side and dropped her head onto his shoulder. “Don’t you wish it could always be just like this?” she asked suddenly. “Just you and me, hanging out together.”
“You’d get bored,” he said with conviction.
“Maybe, but not for a long time.”
*****
The next morning, Alicia called and made an appointment to meet with Marcus Samuel. She was told he was out of the office but would be back later that afternoon so she said she’d be there at four.
When the time came, it was quite galling to admit she was giving up on the investigation, but his expression of appreciation for what she and Chris had learned went a long way to smoothing her ruffled feathers. All the same, she could tell he was relieved that she was giving up. She suspected that, despite what she had been able to learn, he had regretted allowing her to help with the investigation. She doubted it would ever happen again.
She had to admit though, as she walked out of the police station, that a great weight had been lifted from her. She felt a sense of freedom that had been missing since the day she had agreed to help Saanvi run the gingerbread competition. It was December the twenty-first and all she now had to worry about was cooking the dreaded turkey. It was a good time to head to The Kitchen Cupboard to get what she needed to do the deed.
She drove down the main street which was crowded with shoppers. Luckily, she found a parking spot only a couple of stores down from the kitchenware shop and pulled the truck in.
When she walked into The Kitchen Cupboard, a bell above the door jangled cheerily. The shop was a foodie’s dream. The walls were covered with shelves containing an eclectic array of pots and pans, kettles, coffee pots and casserole dishes as well as dinnerware, tablecloths and placemats. There was a variety of styles of aprons hanging from an antique coat rack in one corner and they came complete with matching oven mitts. If décor was on your mind, signs with cooking slogans and food-oriented framed prints vied for shelf space with scented candles, bunches of dried herbs and flowers, and ceramic bowls and cannisters.
Alicia would have been happy to have poked around for a while on her own but a middle-aged woman with short, grey hair, wearing a simple, navy blue sheath dress with a pink, floral print silk scarf around her neck, came out of the back room and walked towards her. She was relieved to see that the clerk looked old enough to know about cooking a turkey.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you?” the woman asked with a friendly smile.
“I have to cook a turkey for Christmas,” Alicia said, trying not to sound as overwhelmed as she felt. She looked at the clerk a little dubiously and added, “You know how to do that, right?”
The woman bobbed her head sympathetically. “First time?”
Alicia smiled sheepishly and nodded.
“Okay, dear, don’t you worry,” the clerk said in a motherly manner, as if she might pat her on the head to calm her fears. “We’ll get you fitted out with everything you need. First, do you have a large roasting pan?”
Alicia looked at the pans the woman was pointing to on a rack attached to the wall.
“I have one that size,” she said, indicating the middle-sized one.
“How big is the turkey?” the woman asked.
She obviously knew what she was talking about. Alicia hadn’t even considered whether the pan was big enough for the bird.
“Twenty pounds,” she replied, humbled by her own ignorance.
“That one should be big enough. But don’t get anything bigger,” the clerk added with a stern look.
Alicia crossed her heart with her finger and assured her she wouldn’t.
“Next you need a wire rack to put the bird on to keep it up off the bottom of the pan.”
Alicia was relieved to be able to say, “I have a couple of those.”
“Good. Skewers?”
“Those are the little pointy things, right?” Alicia said in all seriousness.
The clerk looked like she was struggling not to laugh but she said merely, “Yes, the little pointy things.”
“I have a couple of those from roasting chickens but I’d better get some more. A turkey is a lot bigger than a chicken.”
The clerk put a package of six skewers in a shopping basket.
“What about a turkey baster?”
“What’s that?” Alicia asked. Every question the clerk asked confirmed her feelings of culinary inadequacy.
Walking to a stack of bins in the corner, the clerk pulled out a long, plastic cylinder with a rubber bulb at one end.
“This is it. You put the one end in the juices and then squeeze the bulb to suck them up into the tube. Then you release the pressure, point the end at the bird and then squeeze the bulb again to squirt the juice over the bird. It’s called basting and you have to do it so the skin doesn’t dry out.” Seeing Alicia’s blank look she smiled kindly and said, “You could always just use a large, long-handled spoon.”
“No, I’ll take the baster.” Maybe her mom would know how to use it.
It was added to the basket.
“Now, the last thing you should have is a meat thermometer. It will make it easier to judge when the turkey is properly cooked.”
“I don’t have one of those,” Alicia admitted and then wondered if her meat had ever been properly cooked without one.
The clerk showed her a few different kinds and explained how to use them. Alicia chose a basic one that was easy to read.
“And that’s everything!” the clerk said heartily.
“You’re sure?” Alicia glanced at the baskets of utensils, seeing many that she knew weren’t to be found in her kitchen. In fact, many that she’d never seen before and had no idea what they were for. “Would I need any of these?” she asked, waving her hand over them, sounding vague and uncertain.
“Not to cook a turkey, dear. So long as you have a platter to put it on and a sharp knife for carving you should be fine.” This time she did pat her on the arm in a reassuring way.
“I do have a platter and a sharp knife,” Alicia said, relieved to have something she’d need. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a final look at things to be sure.
With the clerk following her with the basket, Alicia poked through bins of wooden spoons, cheese graters, sieves and mashers until she spotted something that seemed vaguely familiar, something that reminded her of… the flat, rectangular wound on Davina Dove’s forehead. With a buzz like an electric current running through her body, she picked up the device. It was eight or nice inches long and quite heavy, made of metal, with a handle at one end and a two-sided head at the other, almost like a hammer, except one side was ridged while the other side was smooth and flat.
Trying not to let the excitement she was feeling show, Alicia asked with forced calmness, “What is this?”
“It’s a meat tenderizer,” the clerk replied. “You won’t need one of those for your turkey.” She pointed to the head of the utensil. “You use the side with the sharp ridges to pound a cheap cut of meat to make it more tender and the smooth side to flatten meat. I use it to make chicken cutlets. You pound them flat between sheets of wax paper, then dip them in a mixture of beaten egg and water and then into seasoned breadcrumbs. Fry
them up and they melt in your mouth.”
The clerk was going on about the tomato and wine sauce she served over the cutlets, but Alicia had stopped listening. She was remembering where she’d seen one of these before – in the kitchen at the community centre. It had been on the counter with the other utensils that had all borne the Divine Dove logo. She now knew what the murderer had used to kill Davina Dove. And she knew who had done it, too.
“Now make sure you pound them really flat and use the ridged side if they seem at all tough,” the clerk was saying.
Alicia winced as she thought about the heavy metal utensil hitting Davina’s head.
The woman noticed Alicia’s face and said kindly, “Squeamish, dear? So is my daughter. She became a vegetarian. We’re going to her house for Christmas dinner. She’s serving cassoulet and ratatouille. I’m taking a stuffed turkey breast, already cooked. Her dad’s not keen on casseroles, or vegetables for that matter. And it just doesn’t seem like Christmas dinner without a turkey, but you know that, don’t you, dear.” She looked approvingly at Alicia, who didn’t notice.
In a daze, Alicia paid for her purchases and thanked the clerk for her help. Then she walked calmly from the store, stopping outside on the sidewalk to decide what she should do next. She could go back to the police station and tell Marcus what she had discovered. That was what she should do. It was the sensible thing.
Or, she could go to the community centre and look through the cooking utensils there and see if there was a meat tenderizer. The Davina Dove ones would still be there because the crew hadn’t yet been given the go ahead to pack up their equipment. And there might also be one amongst all of the utensils belonging to the banquet facility. Even if the murder weapon had been washed, it might still have traces of blood because it was notoriously difficult to remove.
The thought of presenting Marcus with the murder weapon, and with it the murderer, was irresistible. Saanvi would still have the key to the community centre and the kitchen. She could borrow those, go to the centre and search for the meat tenderizer. There was a chance that the killer had simply washed it and put it away, but if it wasn’t there, that was proof of a sort, as well, because she had seen it there before the murder. There would be only one reason for it to be gone. The murderer had used it to kill Davina Dove.
