Flipped For Murder (12 page)

Chapter 19

I stared at her. “Are you sure?”

She pointed to the screen. “See?”

I leaned over and read the words.
Stella. Huh.
Could there be a connection between that line of a decades-old hospital admittance form and Stella's death?

“Who's Stella, anyway?” Lou asked, sitting back in her chair.

“She was a friend of Don's. But she was murdered on Saturday. Shot.”

“She's the one? I saw that on the local news.” She whistled again.

“She's the one. Bad news is, they found her with one of my biscuits stuffed in her mouth and one of my mom's pens on the floor.” I hunched into my shoulders. “I didn't kill her, I promise you.”

Lou's laugh was deep and rolling. “Don't worry, I didn't think you did.”

“But the police do, or at least I'm one of those infamous ‘persons of interest,' and they don't seem to be making much progress on finding who actually did the deed.” I folded my arms. “It's weird I finally discover who my father was and he turns out to be somehow linked to the murder.”

“That's weird, all right. Isn't it kind of a stretch, though, to say he's linked to the murder?”

“I just mean that he knew Stella, and that she was there when he was hurt,” I said.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Heck if I know.” I gazed at the files beyond us. “Wait, can you help me with one more thing? Does it give Roberto's Italian address anywhere there?”

“You want to contact him.” She looked at me with surprisingly light blue eyes, or maybe they only looked light in her tanned face.

After I nodded, her fingers flew over the keyboard. I'd always been fascinated by watching people type. They all used their fingertips differently. Lou was touch-typing with all ten, but her pinkie flew up to the numbers row and even the function key row frequently, and she only pressed the
SHIFT
key with her left pinkie, never with her right. Others used two fingers and were surprisingly fast and accurate, while certain people laboriously pecked with only the thumb and first two fingers on each hand.

“Tuscany. A place called Montecatini Terme.” The words rolled off her tongue like she wasn't an American. “No street address.”

Tuscany. That made it real. Maybe I could find him now. If I wanted to. Maybe he could tell me what happened all those years ago.

Lou sat back again. “I've been there. Gorgeous corner of the universe. And the food? To die for.”

“I've never been anywhere. California and here. That's it. When were you there?”

“I was on a cycling tour of Tuscany after college. Montecatini Terme has hot springs and spas going back centuries. Perfect after a long day of riding. That's what
‘terme'
means. ‘Thermal,' you know, like
thermal baths.
”

“Just like South Lick, except here they were mineral baths,” I said. “Maybe that's why Roberto came here.”

“That area of Tuscany is super hilly for biking, too. Also like Brown County. He must have felt right at home, except for the language.”

I scrabbled in my purse for a minute. “Do you have a pen I can use? I can't find anything to write with.”

“Hang on.” Lou held up a hand and faced the computer again. A moment later a printer whirred to action at the end of the table. “Printed the whole record out for you. Just don't tell Marie.” She snorted and then laughed again. “As if.”

I'd just tucked the printout into my bag when the door to the office opened.

“I'm leaving, Louise,” Marie called. “Make sure you check the doors when you go.”

“I always do, Marie. Have a good evening,” Lou said. After the door closed again, she continued, “Close one! Almost caught me red-handed.” She examined her palms with a grin. “Nope, nothing there.”

“You're sure. . . .”

“Hey, I'm here with permission. I'm only teasing. I print stuff out all the time. How does she know what it is?”

“Well, thank you, Louise.” A giggle slipped out of me. This was like sneaking out back with a girlfriend in middle school and sharing an illicit cigarette.

“Hey!” She elbowed me. “Marie insists on calling me Louise. I can't train her out of it, even though nobody but my grandmother is allowed to call me that.” She glanced at the time on the computer. “Oh, what the hell. Want to go for a beer at Nick's? I don't really need to work here today.”

“Love to.” I could use a new friend about now. And it was too late to call Italy, anyway.

 

 

I didn't make it home until seven. I'd stuck to only one beer, nursing it along as I got to know Lou better over a plate of onion rings and crispy fries, while she demolished a stromboli, with bits of sausage and pizza sauce leaking out of the bun onto her plate. As always, Nick's English Hut was hopping with students and professors, being a block from Indiana University. The local institution, getting on for a century old, served up beer in Mason jars, featured a decent pub menu, and employed a fleet of no-nonsense, fast-moving waitpeople. Adele had taken me there for lunch once when I was out visiting during high school. A short waitress named Ruthie, on the far side of sixty, wearing a halter top, almost threw our menus at us. These days Ruthie's photo hung on the wall next to her framed obituary.

Chatting with my new friend had been a fun break from work and worry. But now that I was home, it all flooded back. I worked in the restaurant, getting the biscuit dough ready and premixing the dry ingredients for apple-spice muffins. As I did, I went over and over what Lou and I learned from the report. Stella called in the accident. Roberto presented with a contusion on the back of his head, but no spinal cord injury. He hailed from a hilly place with therapeutic springs, just like Brown County.

I set up five tables, laying the bundles of silverware wrapped in cloth napkins at each place. I pictured the opening morning, with Corrine striding in here like she was queen of the town and owned the joint, too. She'd later told me Stella was blackmailing men in town. But which ones? What if she'd been blackmailing Corrine about something, too? That could be part of the reason the mayor detested her assistant. Stella certainly could have been blackmailing Ed about being a womanizer, especially if he was going after young, even underage women. And the report of the bump on the back of Roberto's head bugged me. Maybe Don whacked him on the head from behind, making him fall into the quarry, and then lied about Roberto diving in. Stella could have seen the whole thing. But why was she killed now?

I frowned at the basket of silverware bundles, which was now empty. I needed to roll more. But first I needed to put the laundry to dry. Using cloth napkins was a little overboard, and meant more labor, but I hated thin paper napkins. Plus I thought the blue cloth brought a touch of class to my rustic restaurant. Hey, it was more environmental, wasn't it? I headed over to the laundry closet, transferred the load, and pressed
START
. I glanced around the store. Everything else was ready. If I could find Roberto, maybe he'd tell me the truth about the quarry. But would he want to talk with his long-lost daughter? It was possible he didn't even know about me.

Only one way to find out. After I freshened up Birdy's dry food, doled out a dollop of canned treat into a small dish, and refilled the water bowl, I sat at my laptop. At least now I knew a town to pair with his name. This time when I typed in
Montecatini Terme
after
Roberto Fracasso
and clicked
Images,
several versions of the silver-haired man appeared. In one of the photos, he beamed over the head of a tiny boy with dark curly hair who perched on his lap.
A grandchild, perhaps?
His hair was identical to mine at that age. I sat back.
That would make him my nephew. And it would mean I have a half sister or half brother out there. Maybe more than one. Wow.
I was so used to not having any family except Mom and Adele. And because Adele never had children, I didn't even have cousins.

I clicked on the picture to make it bigger and leaned in, gazing at it. Roberto was handsome for an older man. I liked the look around his dark eyes. Smile lines radiated out, but I detected a hint of sadness in there, too. Birdy jumped up on my lap and settled in, his head on his front paws. I stroked his soft head as I looked at my father. Maybe I could look up how to say “Dad” in Italian.

I went back to the Web tab. One link included the word
“Professore”
in front of his name. Even I could figure out that meant “professor.” The link included
“Università di Pisa,”
too. Which must be University of Pisa.
Gee, maybe he teaches next to the Leaning Tower.
I'd always wanted to see that.

I clicked the university link and then swallowed hard. I saw his e-mail address.
Damn.
It was too late to call Italy—it must be around midnight or something. But it was never too late to send an e-mail message. Composing one could take the rest of the night, though. If I was going to reach out to him, I needed to word it exactly right. And I didn't particularly like opening myself up to being hurt. What if he never answered? What if he denied being my father? What if . . . what if I drove myself crazy with wondering? I told myself in no uncertain terms to cut it out. Either write the thing or don't.

 

 

Folding napkins with a couple fingers of Four Roses in a glass at my side should have been a nice, meditative way to calm my mind. Instead, the task was rote enough to let my crazy brain roam at will. I'd clicked
SEND
on the short e-mail twenty minutes earlier and immediately regretted it. After much stewing and deleting, all I'd typed was:

I'd signed it, included my cell phone number, and attached the picture Phil took of me on opening morning, since his skill with a camera was on par with all his other talents, and it had come out halfway decent. I'd even taken my hat off for it, so my hair that matched Roberto's was evident. I figured framing the note to be about Mom and not my genetic connection to Roberto was safer. Once he took a look at my picture, he'd guess, anyway. I worked on the subject line longer than the actual message, finally settling with
Regarding Jeanine Jordan,
which ought to catch his attention and not look like junk mail.

But was it the right thing to do? What can of wriggly night-crawling fish food was I opening, one twist of the can opener at a time? Maybe he wouldn't open the e-mail. Maybe he didn't read English. Maybe it would go straight into his SPAM folder, or whatever they called it in Italian, despite Mom's name in the subject line.
Oh, well. Too late now.

I'd just brought the silverware tray to the table and started rolling bundles when my cell rang. My heart thudded to the floor and lay there beating up a storm. It couldn't be Roberto already, could it? If it was nine at night here, it must be dark o'clock in the morning over there. Did the man not sleep? Paralyzed, I stared at the phone. I always kept it on vibrate, and it jiggled its way over to a spoon on the varnished wooden table. I forced myself to check the display and then laughed with a nervous quaver as I picked it up and connected.

“Jim,” I said, “I'm so glad it's you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Well, you know. It's not that everything is right, what with Stella and all. But . . .” I couldn't go on. I couldn't tell him on the phone that it appeared I'd found my father. So much had happened in such a short period of time, but it just wasn't phone conversation material.

“You're confusing me.”

“I'm sorry. I thought someone else was calling me and I was glad it wasn't who I thought it was.”
Or am I?

He didn't speak for a moment.
Uh-oh, does he think I'm hanging out with another man?
I lined up a fork on a napkin and stacked a spoon on top of it.

He cleared his throat. “I called because I wondered if I could make you dinner tomorrow night at my place. But if you're busy—”

“No, I'm not busy. Not at all. I'd love dinner at your place, Jim. I . . .” I couldn't say I had a lot to tell him, because then, for sure he'd ask what it was. “What time, and what can I bring?”

Chapter 20

“Robbie,” Danna said, moving to my side as I flipped cakes during breakfast the next morning. We experienced our usual rush despite the weather having turned cold and stormy. The coatrack was full of dripping raincoats and the antique umbrella stand held a half-dozen soaked umbrellas.

I glanced up at her grim tone, one I'd never heard her use before. “What's going on?”

She tossed her head to indicate something behind her. “You have to trade places. I'm not talking to him.” She grabbed a clean apron from the box, threw it on, and started the sink water running a little too hard, scrubbing her hands like she was punishing them.

I twisted to see Ed Kowalski examining the menu at a table by himself.

“Gotcha.” I pointed to the orders. “The two specials platters are up next.” I also ditched the grease-stained apron I'd been wearing for a fresh one.
Poor Danna.
No woman should have to put up with harassment. He'd better not try anything on me.

I adjusted my hat and grabbed the order pad and pen. We could have gone hi-tech and used a digital ordering system, but a tablet for every table was expensive, and who needed a digital device mounted next to the grill? It'd be a wreck, full of grease splatters and flecks of batter in a week. Or a day, more likely.

I steered for Ed's table. “'Morning, Ed. Decided to eat out again today?”

“Thought I'd see how the competition was doing after a week.” His mouth smiled, but his little eyes didn't.

“Things are going pretty well.” I waved the order pad at the other nine tables, every one of them with at least two customers seated. A party of six men occupied the biggest table.

“Can you put together a small sample portion of everything you've got?” He frowned at the breakfast menu.

“Seriously?” I raised my eyebrows. “You
are
checking out the competition. You want five omelets?”

“No, of course not.” He blinked and stabbed at the menu. “Give me the Kitchen Sink, but with only one egg. And a couple of pancakes, bacon and sausage, white toast, biscuits, meat gravy. Like I said, one of everything, but small-sized. When I came in on opening day, all I tried were the biscuits, gravy, and eggs.”

“I can't do a Kitchen Sink omelet with one egg. It won't hold it.” I set my hands on my hips.

“Whatever.” Ed waved a hand. “And coffee, of course.”

“Of course,” I muttered as I headed toward the coffee station. “A ‘please' would have been nice.”

One of the white-haired men at the large table waylaid me with an “Oh, miss?” and a smile that could have lit up a dark night in January, so I changed course. Ed and his sampler breakfast would have to wait.

“How's everything?” I asked after introducing myself.

“Delicious.” The man patted his nicely rounded midsection with both hands, a plate of half-demolished pancakes in front of him. “Super delicious. Miss Jordan, we wondered”—he glanced at his tablemates, several of whom bobbed their heads in agreement—“we're a men's breakfast and Bible club, and we wondered if we could reserve this table for eight o'clock every Friday morning. If it wouldn't be too much trouble.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me.” Several paperback New Testaments lay on the table, along with a couple of well-thumbed black Bibles. “It's no trouble at all.”

He beckoned to me to lean in and lowered his voice. “We used to meet in Nashville at”—he tilted his head toward Ed across the room—“at another establishment, but we like it here better. Samuel recommended we give you a try.” He pointed at one of the men.

“I'm glad you're pleased with Pans ‘N Pancakes, and I'm happy to reserve the table for you all. I'll make up a special sign and put it out every week. How does that sound?”

“Perfect. We're much obliged.”

“Are you always six, or are there more? The table seats up to eight.”

“Never more than eight.”

“Perfect, then. I'll be right back with more coffee, gentlemen. Anything else I can get you?”

One man held up his juice glass, and another asked for a refresher on his tea, thanking me for my trouble. At the far end of the table, a slender man with dark skin and a full head of wiry grizzled hair waved me over.

“Is my grandson working today?” He smiled up at me. “You know, Philostrate?”

“Oh, Phil. No, he's not a regular employee, but he does make the desserts for lunch. And I'm sure you know he designed our logo and did a lot more to help me get started.” I smiled back. “He's a good friend.”

He extended his hand. “I'm Samuel MacDonald. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I'll tell Philostrate his recommendation was well-founded.”

I shook his hand and thanked him before I bustled away. I sure wasn't about to turn away a weekly group of polite and hungry Christians, especially one including Phil's grandfather. Ed might not like it, but fair was fair in the free-market economy.

I handed Ed's order to Danna. When she frowned at it, I added, “He said he wants a small portion of everything on the menu. Not every omelet, just the Kitchen Sink.”

“He'll never change his own menu, or the quality,” she said, sliding the spatula under a cheese omelet and flipping it with care. “I don't know what he thinks he's going to accomplish by tasting your much better breakfasts.”

“I don't, either. But he's a paying customer.” I wrinkled my nose. “Or not. He comped my breakfast at his place the other day. I guess I'll have to return the favor.” I leaned close to Danna. “Give him really small portions, okay?” A giggle slipped out.

She snorted. “You got it. He'll be lucky if I don't spit in it.”

“I wouldn't blame you, but let's not get carried away. I don't want to get sued.”

A few minutes later, after bringing Ed his coffee, topping up drinks at the Bible table, clearing another table, and making change for a third, I loaded up my arms with Ed's order.

“Here you go.” I set the plates on the table. I carried over a jam and syrup caddy from the table that just vacated, then turned to go.

“Any news about the murder case?” Ed asked, his eyes on his food. “I heard you've been asking a lot of questions around.”

“Not really. And I don't have any news.” I gazed at him. “They're way past the forty-eight-hour window, though.”

His gaze met mine for the first time.

“I read somewhere if they don't solve a crime in the first two days, they're unlikely to,” I added.

“I'm surprised you're still out walking free after they found your pen at Stella's place.” He forked a bite of omelet into his mouth.

“What? I sure didn't leave it there,” I said. “If I killed her, you think I'd be stupid enough to leave my own pen at the scene of the crime?”

“Any murderer can't be too smart in the first place, don't you think?” He looked at me, speaking with his mouth open as he chewed.

I barely kept myself from squeezing my eyes shut. “Enjoy your breakfast, Ed. It's on the house.”

I turned away and busied myself clearing dirty dishes and greeting a new group who walked in. The next time I heard the bell on the door jangle, I glanced over to see Ed's back passing through it. Talked with his mouth full and couldn't even be bothered to thank me after he shoveled in his samples. I strolled to the front window to see him climb into a shiny black car parked in the
HANDICAPPED
slot next to the ramp I'd built. I stared at the front license plate. Even through the downpour I could make out
KCSTOR.
That had to be for Kowalski's Country Store. The same plate and the same shiny black car that nearly ran me off the road on Sunday. Which had to be a coincidence. Because if it wasn't, trouble was seriously brewing right here in River City. Or Brown County, as the case may be.

 

 

I flipped through the e-mail in-box on my phone a couple of hours later. Nothing from Roberto, and refreshing the display didn't change the results. I'd checked first thing when I got up this morning—maybe he'd replied when he first checked his own e-mail—but my speeding pulse was disappointed when I couldn't see a single thing from Italy. My texts and voice mail were as empty then as they still were now.

The image of Ed's black car popped back into my brain like an evil jack-in-the-box. And about as creepy, too. He couldn't be so worried about his own restaurant he'd try to run me off the road.
Nah. Or could he?

A pan clattered onto the floor with a bang, breaking my reverie. Danna bent over to retrieve it, calling out, “Sorry.” One lone customer sat, nursing his coffee and paging through this week's
Sentinel,
which he must have brought in, since my copy still sat rolled up in a rubber band inside the plastic sleeve they used when it rained. I glanced at the big wall clock.

“Hey, we haven't gotten our delivery, have we?” I said, walking toward the desk. “It's already ten-thirty.”

Danna shook her head. She focused on scrubbing the pan she'd dropped.

“Seems late. We're in trouble for lunch if it doesn't come, right?”

“Buns, salad, cheese.”

“And the tuna I wanted. I'd better call them.”

“Yeah.”

I glanced at her. The delivery could wait a minute. I moved to her side and lowered my voice. “You okay?”

She gave a particularly vigorous swipe to the pan in the sudsy sink. “I wish there was a way to get back at Ed. He's abusive. He's an awful boss and he serves shi . . . um, garbage for food. He should be out of business. I hated having to even see him this morning.”

I reached up and patted her back. “I'm sorry you had to work for him. And glad you're out of there. I can't really forbid him from coming in here, but I doubt he'll be around much, if that's any help.”

She blew out a breath. “Thanks, Robbie.” Her usual competent and slightly cocky expression returned as she looked down her shoulder at me, the topaz stud in her nose sparkling. “Now go call the supplier or we'll be serving garbage for lunch, too. Or at least orphaned burgers.”

I laughed and headed for the desk. A minute later I said, “The truck's on its way, had to detour around a bridge that washed out in Beanblossom.”

The man reading the paper paid his ticket, giving me a funny look as he did so, and departed, leaving the
Sentinel,
as well as a tip, on the table. I cleared and wiped his table, tucking the
Sentinel
under my arm, and put the money in the jar. I was caught up until the supplies came, so I sat and straightened out the paper. The top story was about Stella's murder, of course, since she was killed after the last edition of the paper came out. I read through the article, not expecting to learn anything new, but curious about how they would report it.

Holy bovine.
No wonder that guy gave me a strange look. I squinted at the paper and reread the third paragraph:

This was a news story? I heard Mom's voice in my head:
“Consider the source, honey. Consider the source.”
Biased reporting in a small-town weekly notwithstanding, everybody in town read it. If residents hadn't heard of my involvement in the murder before, they certainly knew about it now. Maybe there wouldn't be any more breakfast rushes or lunch rushes, either. I set my forehead in my hand, elbow on the table, and stared at the paper.

When the truck rumbled up to the service door at the side of the building a few minutes later, I folded the paper so the sports section was on the outside and rose to receive my order, almost missing hearing the bell on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder, groaned, and then kept right on going. Buck Bird was the very last person in the universe I wanted to talk to, because I sincerely doubted that he'd dropped by only for a plate of pancakes.

 

 

By the time I put away the deliveries, Buck was settled at a table, his legs stretched out to Kentucky, a breakfast platter in front of him already half eaten. Maybe he was only here for food, after all. Fine with me.

After I waved to him, I washed my hands and rough chopped scallions. Then I cut the half-frozen tuna into cubes. Kind of unrealistic to expect fresh seafood smack in the middle of the country. Heck, the middle of the continent. But when tuna was flash frozen at sea, it kept fine for something like fish cakes or tuna burgers. I missed California red snapper fresh from the pier, though, or a creamy halibut steak. I fed the tuna into the institutional food processor, along with the scallions, a couple of lemons' worth of juice, mayo, capers, Dijon mustard, dried dill, and bread crumbs.

Damn. I hadn't gotten a chance to check my e-mail in a while. The more time that elapsed without an answer from Roberto, the less likely it was I'd ever get one. I pulsed the processor, whirring the mix together. His e-mail address could have been old. Maybe he didn't teach at Pisa University anymore. Or he was on sabbatical somewhere. Or he was married to a jealous wife, who didn't want him to reply. Or he just didn't care. I did want to know about Stella's involvement with Don, but I imagined they'd simply been friends.