“You got the lot across from ours?” I asked, as Griz headed toward the kitchen window to deliver the order to Jarvis.
“Now, I have it. I went to see the mayor this morning, and I managed to snag Sal’s lot,” she said, and gave a triumphant laugh.
I kept my expression blank, collected my tray, and walked off to serve my tables instead of commenting further. The suspicion had gathered in my gut, along with the question: what if this wasn’t a case of too much cheese? What if Sal had been murdered after all?
If so, I already had my prime suspect.
Behind me, Dolores gave a cackle that would have suited a witch.
5
Curly Fries was terrible company at the best of times. She had a penchant for lashing out with scratches and bites when I got too close, and would try stealing food from the kitchen when no one was looking. I suspected she might have found another food provider somewhere in the neighborhood, since she hadn’t stopped gaining weight, even though we’d put her on a diet and started taking her for obligatory walks.
But her worst habit, by far, was the staring.
Every single time I sat down to read one of my mystery adventures, or watched a show on TV, or even did a little research on a case, she was there. Watching. Waiting. Biding her time until the night, when I’d fall asleep, only to wake up with her lying across my forehead.
Either the black cat liked me and had a terrible way of showing it, or had decided it was her mission in life to punish me for daring to enter Griselda’s home.
I lowered my paperback and spied her over the edge of it.
She sat upright on my too-pink comforter, her yellow eyes focused on me, her pupils large.
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to ruin my night.” This was the first chance I’d had to tuck into one of my favorite books, another Agatha Christie, in days.
There had been the murder last week, and then there had been work, now the Spring Food Fair coming up, and, when were weren’t busy with those things, Griz and I would hang out or chat or watch TV.
Tonight, Griz was preoccupied with Mr. Arthur Cotton. The two had a pizza and movie date in the living room downstairs that Grizzy insisted was not a date. She got all flustered whenever I mentioned it.
I tried bowing my head and returning to my book, but Curly Fries flicked her tail and gave a prrt-meow.
“What?” I asked. “Is it food again?”
Another flick of the tail.
“You know I can’t give you food, Curly.” I checked my watch. The pizza was due in a few minutes—Griz had insisted that I order a pie too, so I wouldn’t be left out. I’d have to guard the pizza from Curly with my life.
Another meow, this one more indignant than the last, and Curly Fries pranced across the bed and planted her furry butt on my pillow.
“Really?” I asked.
She kept staring. It was impossible to concentrate like this. It was bad enough that Missi and Vee had planted the seeds of doubt in my mind this afternoon—Sal’s death had been a fixture in my thoughts since then.
Weirdly, it was part of the reason I’d offered to call the pizzeria tonight. Sal’s was still open—the news around Sleepy Creek was that his long-lost cousin had decided to run his restaurant for the next week or two, in his honor.
An intriguing thing to do. Surely, the family would want some time to grieve? Why keep the pizza place open?
The doorbell rang, and I heaved a sigh, put my bookmark between the age-yellowed pages of my paperback, and rose from the bed.
I headed downstairs. “I’ll get it,” I called out, so Grizzy wouldn’t have to interrupt her date by paying for pizza.
“Are you sure?” Griz yelled back. “I can—oh.”
I entered the living room from the kitchen and grinned at her. She was seated next to Arthur on the sofa that faced the TV looking mighty uncomfortable.
“Having fun?” I asked, and winked at her.
Arthur, whose blond hair was slick with gel, cleared his throat and shifted his arm on the back of the sofa. He’d clearly been trying to put it around Griz before I’d interrupted them.
I grabbed my purse off the coffee table then opened the front door and smiled at the delivery woman.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello.” The thin woman with thick, dark hair, held three pizza boxes piled on top of each other. “Three fully-loaded pizzas, hold the capers on the one.”
“Sacrilege,” I said. “I love the capers in the sauce. Gives the dish a real zing.”
The woman nodded and swallowed, swaying on the spot.
“Are you all right?” I asked, and took the pizzas from her then placed them on the side table next to one of the armchairs. “You look pale.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”
I fished a few bills out of my purse and handed them over. “Do I know you from somewhere?” I asked. “Sorry, you look really familiar.”
“Francesca Russo,” she said, as she tucked the money away into a pouch around her waist, her fingers trembling and slipping on the zipper.
Francesca? This was Sal’s wife. Well, his widow, now. What on earth was she doing out on deliveries?
“Is everything OK?” Griz asked from the sofa.
“Fine,” Francesca repeated.
“You look sick,” I said. “Why don’t you come in and rest for a second? I can get you a glass of water?”
“I have other deliveries to make.” She gestured over her shoulder, back down the path. A beat up Honda was parked out front, the worn sign for Sal’s Pizzeria painted along its side in reds and greens. “Don’t want to be late.”
Francesca made to turn, but stumbled and nearly fell. She caught herself on the balustrade next to Grizzy’s front step.
“You need medical attention,” I said, then looked back at Grizzy. “Can you call the hospital? An ambulance?”
“Right away.” Griz grabbed her phone off the coffee table. Arthur rose from the sofa, a frown wrinkling his forehead, and walked over.
“I told you,” Francesca croaked. “I’m fine.” But she hadn’t let go of the railing, and her knuckles were white. Her back had gone stiff. “I just need a moment. I think I ate something that was wrong… just a case of stomach—” she coughed and tipped forward.
Arthur brushed past me and caught her as she collapsed.
I clamped my jaw. Not another one. Please, let her be all right.
“What’s going on?” Grizzy appeared next to me, her cellphone against her ear.
“She’s collapsed,” I said. “Arthur, is she—?”
The detective pressed to fingers to her throat, his expression grave. “No,” he said. “She’s got a pulse. I think she’s just passed out. But we should still get her to a hospital.”
“The ambulance is on its way,” Grizzy said.
It was a relief to hear, but my mind whirred to action anyway. Was it any coincidence that Francesca, Sal’s wife, had also taken ill, so shortly after he’d died? What if there was more to this than met the eye? Heavens knew, I didn’t want anything to happen to her or anyone else in Sleepy Creek.
The ambulance arrived shortly after, its sirens whooping and lights flashing. Francesca hadn’t stirred, and Arthur had kept her still in case there was an internal injury. The medics took her away on a stretcher.
“Oh, Chris,” Grizzy said, “I hope she’s going to be OK.”
“Me too.”
The medics surrounded the stretcher, wheeled it to the back of the ambulance, but stopped before placing her in it. One of them said something, just out of earshot, and a flurry of activity broke out. Arthur approached the van and spoke to a medic that wasn’t busy. Finally, he came back to the house, opening the gate to let himself in, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong?” Grizzy asked. “Is she going to be OK?”
Arthur didn’t reply.
I peered past him at the stretcher Francesca lay upon. The medic standing next to it pulled a sheet over her
body.
“I need you two to go back inside. I’m calling Detective Balle out here.”
And that was it. Another murder in Sleepy Creek, right on our front doorstep.
6
I had never put too much stock in coincidences. What were the chances that lightning would strike twice or three times or even four times in exactly the same spot? Slim to none. I’d have to look it up later to see if I was wrong about that, but, for now, the analogy would have to do.
Three murders in Sleepy Creek since I’d arrived. Four, if I counted Sal and dismissed the cholesterol claims. What did that mean? That something was up in this town, and it wasn’t the sky.
I sat next to Grizzy on the sofa in the living room, staring at the images that flashed on the muted TV.
The detectives were outside doing what they did best. Surveying the scene, speaking to a forensic specialist who’d likely had to drive in from Logan’s Rest for this, and generally attracting far too much attention.
“Everyone’s going to be talking about this tomorrow,” Grizzy said, craning her neck to peek out of the living room windows.
The curtains were open, the streetlamps on as usual and casting light over the gathering crowd of Sleepy Creekers. One after the other, they had arrived, whether by car or on foot, and they stood around, shaking their heads and pointing at the front of the house, chattering, gossiping behind their hands.
“Mona’s out there,” Grizzy groaned.
Mona was the biggest and most vitriolic gossip in the whole town. If she was out there, the story of Francesca’s death would have spread like wildfire through the Sleepy Creek within the next hour. And with embellishments too. Likely, I’d be the one who somehow took the blame, or Grizzy even. Mona didn’t like either of us.
“Oh boy.” I scraped my hand over my forehead.
Detective Balle entered the living room from outside and nodded to us. “I’m going to need to take some statements, and then I’m going to ask you ladies to pack a bag each and leave the house.”
“What?” Grizzy and I lurched forward in unison.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “She died on the front porch. It wasn’t like—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Watson, Miss Lewis, but given the history of murders on this property, we’re going to have to close this place off and do a thorough search.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why did this kind of thing always happen to us? For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t like Francesca had been stabbed or shot on our front step. She’d collapsed. Still, I understood that the handsome detective—I had to stop thinking of him like that—needed to do this.
“This is so bad,” Grizzy said.
“Where are we going to stay?” I asked. “And don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say. Because that’s just—”
“Curly can’t go to any of the motels. And I don’t think the Sleepy Dreams Guesthouse accepts pets.”
“Don’t you say it, Griselda Lewis.”
“We’ll have to ask Missi and Vee.”
I groaned. Missi and Vee would be kind enough to take us in, of course, but it would mean dealing with Missi’s scrutiny, strange comments, and her clear disdain for my lack of energy in the mornings. Lord knew I loved the woman, but there was only so much a girl could take.
“But, but…” I struggled to find an excuse. There was none.
“That settles it then. I’ll call them,” Grizzy said.
Arthur entered the living room and came over, looking strangely out of place in his plain cloths and neat slicked hair. He cleared his throat twice, in rapid succession, then beckoned to Griselda. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
Griselda walked over to him, and they stepped into the kitchen and out of earshot, leaving me and the hand—no, the detective, alone.
Liam Balle, the man who’d reported me to the Chief back in Boston for my overzealous investigation of the last murder in Sleepy Creek, gave me a look that would curdled milk. It helped diminish how attractive he was.
“Do I need to tell you that you’re not supposed to get involved in this, Miss Watson?” Liam asked.
“Hmm, do you think it will matter if you do?” I countered. It was his attitude that got to me. He wasn’t usually this hostile, and I didn’t understand why he had to be this way now. It wasn’t like he’d just witnessed a stranger dying on his front porch.
“Don’t do that, Watson. Don’t give me your snark and sarcasm now. This is serious.”
“I know that,” I said, and frowned at him. “Are you…? Liam.”
“What?” He had been faffing with his pocket, struggling to draw a notebook and pen out of it.
“Are you OK? You seem tenser than usual.”
He clicked his ballpoint frenetically. Finally, his demeanor softened. He walked over and took a seat on the sofa. Not close enough that we touched, but certainly close enough that his cologne washed over me.
I tried blocking my nose from the inside against that warm, woodsy scent, but it didn’t work. My stomach betrayed me by sprouting several swarms of roving butterflies.
Liam ran his fingers through his thick dark hair, and I swallowed.
What was wrong with me? I couldn’t think of anything other than the fact that I hadn’t run a brush through my hair since this morning and that my mascara was probably smudged. Curse Detective Balle and his natural animal magnetism.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” Liam said, at last.
“Has it got to do with work?”
“Yeah.” He clicked his ballpoint again. “I’ve been taking some heat from the captain at the station. He’s not happy about what’s going on in Sleepy Creek. Apparently, Mayor Samson has been putting pressure on him to keep the town clean for the upcoming Spring Food Fair.”
“Clean, huh? Clean of trash or murder?”
“Murder.” Balle turned his head and our gazes met. His was sharp and strong, and a caramel brown. “We’ve never had this many cases in rapid succession. No town is completely free of trouble, but this is… the captain thinks the cases might be connected. But I can’t see it.”
I happened to agree with the captain, then. But I was biased. My mother had died in Sleepy Creek years ago, and her case had gone cold. The fact that the death of Loopy Paul, just three weeks ago, had been tenuously linked to her death was yet another lead I had pursued. And l hadn’t come up with any real answers.
And what were the chances that all of these murders had happened so close at hand? Right in front of me on all four occasions. It wasn’t like I was a trouble magnet. No, I usually caused the trouble through my impulsive investigation. It was what had landed me on sabbatical in the first place.
“You can’t see it?” I asked.
“No, not really. Not yet. There are leads, but no connections. For instance, Haley Combes’ death and the—” he cut off, and his eyes narrowed, as if he’d only just realized who he was talking to. “Never mind. We’re not here to talk about my problems. I need to take your statement and ask you a few questions, Miss Watson.”
I was more than happy to cooperate. But the truth was, already, my mind was aflame with possibilities—aflame, indeed, like a delicious Chicken Burger. Francesca was dead, Detective Balle clearly thought it was a murder or we wouldn’t have been having this conversation, and Sal? That remained to be seen.
Liam shot questions my way, and I answered them, nothing the state of his hair—messed, fingers he’d run through it too many times—and the dark circles under his eyes. His skin was paler too, eyes bloodshot. Too much time in front of the PC at his desk?
“And what about Francesca?” he asked. “How well did you know her?”
“Not well at all.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because we found a letter on her person addressed to you. It seemed she was trying to slip it into your pizza box, but didn’t manage before she collapsed,” Liam said.
“A lette
r? Where is it? What did it say?”
The detective hesitated.
“It directly involves me, Balle. I deserve to know.”
“It was vague. She wanted to meet with you to talk about something. Any idea what it was?”
“None. I didn’t know her. Are you sure the letter was addressed to me?”
“Positive.”
“I don’t know what that’s about.”
Balle stared at me for a long moment. “That’s all I need,” he said, at last, and rose from the sofa. “I’ll escort you upstairs so you can pack a bag before you leave.”
“That’s OK.” I couldn’t get the words out quick enough. The last thing I needed was for him to see the inside of the frilly pink guestroom.
“I have to, Christie,” he said, softly. “You know that.”
“Of course you do.” I barely kept the groan at bay. He had to ensure I didn’t tamper with any evidence. So here we were again, at the start of another murder investigation in Sleepy Creek, with the prospect of a night at Missi and Virginia’s place ahead.
Could things in Sleepy Creek get more complicated? I had the feeling I didn’t want the answer to that.
7
The following day was a Saturday, and I had the morning and afternoon off for a change. Spending it at home with a good book would have been my number one choice, if that book hadn’t also been a murder mystery and reminded me of exactly what was going on in Sleepy Creek.
Or what wasn’t going on. What if the detectives couldn’t figure out what had happen?
There was also the fact that I was now relegated to the futon in Missi and Vee’s apartment, and that Missi had promised to beat the God into me if I so much as messed a crumb in here. Had to love the woman.
Curly, for what it was worth, had stayed in her kitty carry case overnight, peering out of the opening and refusing to step out until food had been placed directly in front of her.
I paced back and forth in the living room, my hands tucked behind my back, drawn to the window and the street outside. I’d already had my morning coffee, but the smells from the bakery next door were a consistent temptation.
The Chicken Burger Murder Page 3
