Grilled for Murder (23 page)

2 eggs

½ cup brown sugar

½ cup milk

2 cups chopped apples (about three small), any variety

1 tsp vanilla

2 cups whole-wheat flour

1 Tbsp baking powder

½ tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

1 tsp ground cinnamon

½ tsp nutmeg

½ cup finely chopped walnuts

6 cups shredded red and green cabbage

2 carrots, peeled and shredded

⅔ cup mayonnaise

2 Tbsps vinegar (cider vinegar or white vinegar)

2 Tbsps vegetable oil

1 Tbsp fresh prepared horseradish

2 Tbsps sugar, or to taste

¼ tsp ground celery seed

¼ tsp salt, or to taste

Chopped fresh dill

2 whole wheat English muffins

1 ripe avocado

1 egg

½ cup butter

1 ½ Tbsp lime juice

¼ tsp salt

tsp ground chipotle pepper

1 loaf French bread (13 to 16 ounces)

½ cup Grand Marnier

8 large eggs

2 cups half-and-half

1 cup milk

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp ground nutmeg

½ tsp salt

1 cup chopped pecans

Sour cream

Maple syrup

Chapter 1

Who knew people could be so nasty to each other? While I cleared plates, I watched and listened as a mix of grad students and professors from Indiana University discuss medical sociology during their weekly dinner meeting at my restaurant, Pans 'N Pancakes. This week I'd served Chicken Ezekiel on rotini to fifteen of them, with garlic bread and a salad with winter greens from a local farmer who was harvesting even in February. From the empty plates, it sure looked like the meal had been a success.

The conversation? Not so much. Some of the terminology went right over my head. But when Charles Stilton glared at my friend Lou Perlman, the meaning was unmistakable.

“It was unethical of you to take the ideas in my paper and present them as your own,” Lou went on, the silver rings on her fingers flashing as much as her eyes as she pointed at him across the wide table. “You agreed to sponsor me, but I sure didn't agree to give up my original research.”

“You're a doctoral student,” the diminutive professor said, his bright green shirt a spot of color in the room. He picked up his glass of red wine and sipped. “I'm a tenured professor in the same field. I can't help it if our research is pursuing parallel ideas. I didn't steal a thing.” He gazed at my shelves of vintage cookware and blinked, as if the conversation was over.

I'd met Professor Stilton in the preceding weeks. He'd been polite and friendly to me but had gotten into tiffs at a few of the gatherings. I'd have to ask Lou what was up between them.

A woman I hadn't seen before pushed back her chair. She stood and set her hands on the table. “That's enough, you two. These meetings were supposed to be a congenial intellectual gathering, not some mudslinging session.”

Charles stroked his tidy black goatee. Ignoring the woman, he turned to the man on his right. “How about them Pacers?”

I watched Lou fume, nostrils flared, lips pressed together. She pushed her chair back and stalked to the restroom.

The woman who'd admonished them had come in late and I hadn't been introduced to her. Shaking her head, she picked up her plate and brought it to where I stood at the sink in the kitchen area that adjoined the rest of the space.

“Thanks,” I said. I extended my hand. “I'm Robbie Jordan, proprietor here.”

She set down the plate and silverware and shook hands with a firm, vigorous touch. “I'm Professor Zenobia Brown. But just call me Zen.” A wiry woman, she stood a couple of inches shorter than my five foot four, and was at least a couple of decades older than my 27 years, with salt-and-pepper hair cut in a no-nonsense short do with the top a little bit spiked. She smiled. “My mom thought with a last name like Brown I needed a unique first name. Anyway, I'm a professor in the department. I live halfway between South Lick and Bloomington and I've been meaning to get over here for one of your famous breakfasts. Still want to.”

“Not so sure they're famous, but you're welcome to come and sample what we serve.”

“Whole-wheat banana walnut flapjacks? That's my kind of breakfast.” She glanced back at the group. “Sorry about the commotion. I'm chair of the department now, and it's like wrangling cats sometimes to get these people to act civilly.”

“It's okay. As long as I get paid and people don't start a food fight, I don't really care how they get along.” I'd happily agreed to Lou's idea of the dinner meetings. I'd only opened my country store breakfast-and-lunch place in October and hadn't realized how slow business would be during the winter. It was cold and often snowy here in the hills of southern Indiana, but most years not snowy enough to bring a winter tourist trade. Even the locals seemed to be staying home instead of eating out. I'd reduced the days I stayed open to Thursday through Sunday to save money on my assistant Danna's pay and to keep from ordering food that spoiled because it didn't get used. So the boost of a nice flat sum every Friday night was definitely helping the bottom line. I served the same dinner to everybody and so far no one had complained.

I loaded up two platters of brownies and took them to the table, which I'd created by shoving together smaller tables into a conference table–sized surface they could all sit around. “Coffee or tea, anyone? Or decaf?”

“I'm sticking with wine,” Charles said, pouring the last of his bottle of Merlot into his glass. “Which I can because I'm walking home,” he added in a defensive tone.

I knew he lived half a mile away right here in South Lick. I thought most of the other students and faculty, like Lou, resided nearer the sprawling flagship Indiana University campus fifteen miles away in Bloomington.

“So great you got permission for us to do the BYOB thing, Robbie,” Lou said, now back in her chair, pouring a half glass for herself from a bottle of white. “Dinner's not really civilized unless you can drink wine with it. And I'm having more because I caught a ride with teetotaler Tom over there.”

Tom, a fellow grad student with Lou, ginned and waved.

“As long as I'm not a licensed alcohol establishment, which I'm not, it's apparently legal. And as long as you also pour your own.” I'd laid in a supply of stemless wineglasses and a few corkscrews when I'd learned I could allow customers to bring bottles of wine. Nobody had asked yet if they could carry in beer or hard alcohol, which was good, because my research hadn't extended that far. I didn't advertise the option, and I wasn't usually open for dinner, anyway, but several times a group of ladies had brought their own wine for a special luncheon, as had an elderly local couple celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary with lunch out instead of dinner.

Lou tilted the bottle at Zen's glass. “More?”

I noticed Lou was carefully avoiding any interaction with Charles, wisely so. He was still deep in conversation with the man next to him, and Lou had been talking with Zen and Tom.

Zen covered the glass with her hand. “Not for me, thanks. One glass is my limit. I'm training for a marathon. But I'd love some decaf, Robbie.”

So that was why she was so wiry. I was a serious cyclist, myself. It was how I'd met Lou and Tom, in fact, who also loved riding for miles up and down the scenic hills of Brown County. But my cycling habit was offset by my love of eating. Nobody would ever call me wiry and I didn't care. I was healthy, and I did have a nicely defined waist to offset my generous hips.

I took the rest of the hot drinks orders. After I delivered the mugs, I busied myself cleaning up. It was already eight-thirty and I still had prep to do for tomorrow. We'd agreed on a finish time of nine o'clock for these gatherings. I was up every morning by five-thirty to open the doors by seven, so I didn't want Friday nights to turn into an open-ended session of wine sippers sitting around talking abstractions.

The discussion had turned to the topic of public health, which apparently wasn't as controversial as the conversation between Lou and Charles had been, and didn't seem abstract at all. Snippets of talk about social change in women's paid and unpaid work and the consequences of these changes for women's health floated my way. Zen seemed to be leading the discussion, while Charles sat back with his arms folded, a little smirk on his face. I carried the remains of the rotini and the salad into the walk-in cooler. When I came out, eggs and milk in my arms for tomorrow's pancake batter, the mood had changed.

Zen stood with her hands on her hips. “How dare you say that to me?” Her eyes narrowed and nearly shot daggers at Charles.

He shrugged, then grabbed his coat. “You can take it. You're our esteemed
chair
, aren't you?” He sauntered toward the front door. “Have a nice night, fellow sociologists.”

The cowbell on the door jangled his exit, but it looked like Zen's nerves were a lot more jangled.

* * *

By nine the next morning the restaurant was blessedly not in a slump. For once every table was full and a party of three women browsed the antique cookware shelves as they waited for seats to open up. Good. I'd much rather be too busy than sitting around waiting for customers.

Between hurrying from table to table, taking orders and clearing, I glanced at Danna, the best nineteen-year-old co-chef I could imagine. Her titian dreadlocks hung down her back, today tied with an orange band, as she flipped pancakes, turned sausages, and expertly ladled meat gravy on hot biscuits. The girl was tireless, nearly always cheerful, and had contributed some innovative ideas for extras to accompany our usual menu. She'd made grits with cheese last Saturday and we'd sold out. Today the Specials chalkboard read, “Warm Up Your Tootsies Omelet: roasted red peppers and pepper jack cheese, served on a warm corn tortilla and topped with fresh jalapeno salsa.” It was Danna's invention, even though as a native Californian, I might have thought of it myself.

“You good?” I called to her.

She returned a thumbs up, so I continued on my trajectory to three men with the ruddy faces of those who spend a lot of time outdoors. I didn't know if they were farmers, construction workers, or even electrical linemen like my new sweetie, Abe.

“Refill, gentlemen?” I held out the coffee pot. One covered his mug with his hand, but another smiled and nodded. The third had pushed aside a plate empty except for a small pool of gravy and was engrossed in the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. He was doing it in ink. My radar went up, since crosswording, in ink, was my favorite down-time occupation, bar none, even more than cycling.

“Today's?” I asked him, sidling around to his side of the table. “I haven't gotten to it yet.” I smiled when he glanced up.

“Know what the biggest Channel Island is?” He frowned at the paper. “I don't even know what channel they're talking about.”

“How many letters?”

“Nine. Could be the British Channel. How do you spell brek-how?”

“You mean Brecqhou? That's only eight letters. I'll bet it's Santa Cruz. Try that.”

He added those letters, nodding as he did. “That's it.” He gazed up at me. “So it must be the California Channel Islands. How did you know?”

I laughed. “I grew up across from Santa Cruz Island, in Santa Barbara. It's definitely the biggest one of the archipelago, and it's gorgeous on a clear day, like seeing the top of a mountain range pushed up from the ocean. Which I suppose it is. They're all gorgeous: Anacapa, Santa Rosa, San Miguel, even tiny Santa Barbara Island.”

“Sounds like you miss them. Well, thanks, Ms. Jordan. I appreciate the help.” He chuckled. “Thought I was just coming in for biscuits, gravy, and bacon.”

“My pleasure. Will that be all today, guys?”

When they each nodded, I slid their ticket onto the table facedown and headed for another table. The cowbell on the door jangled and I turned my head to see Maude Stilton holding the door for her tiny mother, Jo Schultz. I'd bet Jo was all of five feet when she stood up real straight, although Maude was a good five or six inches taller.

“Come on in, ladies,” I called, and headed that way, instead.

Jo, the former owner of my building, handed her red wool coat to Maude and sank onto the bench. “Hi there, Robbie,” she said. “How's my store?” She smiled, further creasing her deeply lined face. She always wore her white hair in a bun on top of her hair, giving her an even more old-fashioned look than her almost seventy years would suggest.

“It's good. And busy this morning, as you can see.” I gestured behind me. “I'm sorry you'll have a little wait, Jo, but I'm glad to see you.” I greeted Maude, too. “There are two parties before you. Breakfast usually turns over pretty fast, though.”

“Not a problem, Robbie,” Maude said. “Glad you're busy.” Maude, a successful local architect and Professor Stilton's wife, didn't look a bit old-fashioned. I thought she was probably over forty. Barely a line showed in her face, though, and every time I'd seen her, her streaked chestnut hair was freshly colored and cut in an elegant layered style that fell between her ears and her shoulders. She slid out of a stylish electric blue coat and hung it on the coat tree with Jo's.

“It's looking real good in here,” Jo said. She might look like an older lady, but both her mind and her eyes were clear and sharp. My aunt Adele was only a few years older, and she was certainly sharp, too. “You done a good job with the renovations. And I'll bet you're glad not to be involved in any more murders.”

“You can say that again.” I shuddered inwardly at the memory of being face to face with a killer right here in my store at the end of November. “It's been nice and quiet for three months, and I'm planning on it staying that way.”

“Say, you ever get a chance to work on the upstairs like you said you were wanting to?”

Danna dinged the little bell indicating an order was up. I swiveled my head in her direction and caught an annoyed look. Busy like we were, I had no business standing here chatting up an old lady.

“Gotta run, Jo,” I told her. “I'll catch up with you later.”

I ran my butt off for the next half hour, clearing, taking orders, and serving up platters of tasty, filling breakfasts. By the time I delivered an egg white omelet, with dry toast and a bowl of fruit for Maude and a half order of banana-walnut pancakes for Jo, it was almost thirty minutes later and the crush was over. Three tables were empty and four others already had their checks.

“Whew. Sorry that took so long,” I said, setting down their food. “Can I top up your coffees?”

“No thanks,” Jo said.

Maude nodded. “Please. And I ought to bring some to Ronnie. He's out ice fishing all day, and being nineteen, did he think to bring a thermos of something warm to drink? No, he did not.”