Chapter 6
“It's just that I noticed it was missing off the wall,” I said to Octavia after I'd reached her by phone.
“How big is it again?”
I described the press. “So it's long, and it's kind of heavy because of the cast-iron disks. With the right leverage, I guess. Wait a minute.” I looked at Adele, who waved at me.
“She can look at mine if she wants,” Adele said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Octavia, my aunt Adele has one exactly like it at home. She says you can look at it.”
Octavia blew out a breath. “All right. Give me her number, and I'll send someone out to pick it up.”
“She's still here. I'll have her call you when she gets home, okay?”
She agreed and I disconnected the call, staring at Adele.
“Could someone have used the press to kill Erica? The police did find what they called a contusion on the back of her head. It's totally horrible even thinking about it.” My voice shook, and I swallowed. “If the killer used the press on Erica, he took it away with him, or else the police would have found it.”
Adele dried her hands on a blue-and-white-striped towel. “Guess you're lucky they didn't use the chopper.” She pointed to the two-handled curved blade, which fit exactly in a shallow wooden bowl.
“
Ack.
You're right. I don't even want to think about that.”
“I'm heading back to the farm now, hon. Left Sloopy out.”
“How's he doing?” I liked her energetic border collie.
“Good. Loves his job, rounding up the flock. And Samuel's coming over a little later on.” A blush tinted Adele's deeply lined cheeks.
Phil's grandfather was Adele's main squeeze, and good for them, finding full-blown romance in their seventies.
“Sounds like a nice afternoon.” I remembered something I'd been meaning to ask her. “Adele, I want to add some new gift items for the holidays. You know, local crafts and such. You've got yarn from your sheep that you sell. Could you bring some over? We can set up a special display, maybe bring in more shoppers before Christmas.”
“That's a great idea, hon. I have a decent supply, and in the most gorgeous colors. I'll bring it by next time I come to town.”
“Thanks. Now go home to your dog and your man. I'll be fine.” I held out my arms for a hug from the only relative I'd ever known besides my mom. Mom had died suddenly last January at only fifty-three, and the taste of missing her was still bitter. She'd taught me cabinet making and how to love life, and she'd left me enough money so that, combined with my savings, I could buy this country store and make it over into a restaurant.
She hugged me. “Any word from Roberto?”
“His foot is healing up well. I Skyped with him on Friday, and we're planning my trip.” Last month I'd discovered my absent father was a professor in Italy who'd never even known of my existence. Mom had never told him about me, or me about him. After I contacted him, he'd welcomed me into his heart and invited me to come to Tuscany for Christmas to meet him and the half-siblings I wasn't even aware I had.
“That's just ducky, hon,” Adele said. “All righty, I'm out of here. Now don't you worry about having to be closed. Folks are going to come on back as soon as you reopen, you'll see. People around here have gotten used to your tasty meals.”
“I hope so.” I mustered a smile as I saw her out the side door. I closed the door and thought for a moment, and opened it again. I needed to board up the top part of my door. Cardboard wasn't secure at all, and with a murderer out there, being secure was high on my list. I knew I had some plywood left over from the store renovation out in the old barn that'd come with the property.
Half an hour later, I shot in the last screw with my power drill and stepped back to examine it. I hated to have to put screws into an antique door, and it wasn't pretty, but the door was as secure as it was going to get for today. I'd order replacement glass tomorrow. It was too bad, because the antique glass had made lovely wavy patterns on the floor when late-day sunlight streamed through it. I thought they made unbreakable glass for doors now, so perhaps having it broken was a blessing, as long as it didn't set me back too far financially.
Now that that chore was finished, I didn't know what to do with myself on a Sunday morning at eleven thirty. I hadn't had a Sunday off since before I opened in early October. I puttered around, returning the uncooked bacon and sausage to the walk-in, stashing the clean dishes, sweeping up. At least I hadn't made a big batch of pancake batter I'd have to throw out. A batter made with baking powder wouldn't freeze well or keep in the cooler, either. The coleslaw I'd made yesterday for today's lunch would probably keep, although by Tuesday it might be too wilted to serve. I might as well chip away at it for my own lunches. I drew out the bowl full of the colorful saladâa cheerful mix of green and red cabbages and carrotsâfrom the walk-in and headed for my apartment.
At the door, I turned back to look at the cookware wall. That empty space where the press had been bugged me. I wanted to hang something over it, move a frying pan or a popcorn popper into its place. But the detective would certainly want to check out the wall for prints or DNA or something. I turned into my apartment and locked up tight behind me.
After I let Birdy out of the bedroom, he sauntered after me into the kitchen and rubbed against my leg.
“Hey, kittycat.” I rubbed his head and picked him up, putting my face close to his until I got one little scratchy lick on the nose, then he squirmed out of my hands and jumped into the sink. A dutiful cat mom, I turned the faucet on low and watched him lap up the running water, an H
2
O source apparently much preferable to fresh water in a bowl on the floor.
But I kept picturing Erica. Wondering who'd killed her, who'd broken into my store. I'd never seen a dead body before. It'd been an upsetting, terrible sight. I knew some funerals included an open casket, but I'd never been to one. And in that case I was sure they prettied up the dead.
It was Sunday, so maybe the puzzle would distract me. I downloaded and printed out the
New York Times
Sunday puzzle from my subscription, clamped it onto my puzzle clipboard, and found my special pen, which Buck had returned to me after it was found at the scene of the crime in October. It was one of the pens my mom had had printed with the logo for her cabinetry business, a long table inscribed with J
EANINE'S
C
ABINETS
. I put my feet up on the futon sofa and got to work.
After I'd filled in the top left corner, though, my mind drifted back to the Who Killed Erica puzzle. Even though she wasn't well liked, she didn't deserve to die at the hands of another. And I sure didn't deserve to have a dead woman dumped on the floor of my store. I couldn't figure out the connection. Why kill Erica? Why leave her here?
I watched Birdy perform feats even the best yogi couldn't master as he bathed his lithe black-and-white self in a spot of sunlight on the floor. Solving this murder wasn't my job, of course. But it might require the same kinds of contortions, except of the mental variety.
* * *
After I finished the puzzle, it wasn't even noon. I stretched my arms as I wandered through the kitchen to the back door, pushing it open. The sunshine was already melting the couple of inches of white stuff. Early snows this far south never lasted long.
I still wanted to distract myself from the deeply disturbing events of the morning. But there was too much snow on the ground for me to want to take my nice road cycle out for a long ride. Good thing I'd ordered a bike trainer I could click my cycle into. I set it up in the living room, changed into biking shorts and a tank top, and put on a collection of arias sung by Luciano Pavarotti. I was the only twenty-something I knew who liked opera. It was one more thing I'd picked up from Mom, and after I learned my father Roberto was Italian, I realized why the Italian baritones were her favorites.
I'd been pedaling for about half an hour, getting into the zone of exercise where my mind switched off and the endorphins flowed, exactly where I wanted to be, when my phone rang. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to interrupt the Zen. But with a dead woman found in my store this morning, I needed to reset my priorities. I hopped off the bike and grabbed the phone from the sleek maple coffee table my mother had crafted, then resumed riding at a slower pace.
“Robbie, I heard what happened,” Jim said without preamble. “Poor Erica. The family is devastated. I was just over there.”
“I'm sure they are.” Unease twinged through me. I hadn't even thought of calling Jim and talking about the murder. Shouldn't he have been the first person I'd want to share the news with, and my confusion and distress about it? At some point I'd need to ponder why calling him hadn't occurred to me.
“And poor you,” he continued. “They said you found her body. How are you?”
“I'm okay, but it was awful to see her dead right there on my floor.” I rocked in my seat, twisting my silver pinky ring, the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder.
“I can imagine. It's terrible you had to go through that.”
“And the store's closed. Until Tuesday, if not longer, according to the detective assigned to the case.”
“Well, that's no good,” he said. “I'm sure they're only doing what they have to, though.”
“I guess.”
“I'll have to let my parents know,” he said. “Erica was their daughter-in-law, even though they didn't get along so well with her.”
I stopped pedaling. “I wonder what else the police think they're going to find in my store. It was swarming with both the local police and the staties for several hours, although they're all gone now.”
“Not sure,” Jim said. “Who is the detective on the case?”
“Her name is Octavia Slade.”
“Really?” His voice rose higher than usual at the end of the question.
“Why, do you know her?” I asked. He was a lawyer, after all, but he practiced real estate law, not criminal. His reaction to hearing Octavia's name was oddly similar to hers hearing his.
He didn't speak for a minute, then he said, “I do. Or I did.”
I didn't ask what he meant. He'd tell me when he was ready to. Maybe it didn't mean anything.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, I also called to see if you wanted to go dancing with me tonight.”
“That sounds like a perfect way to get my mind off finding Erica. But you just lost your sister-in-law. Are you up for dancing?”
“We were never close, although I wouldn't mind getting my thoughts off her death, either.”
“So I guess your migraine didn't happen last night?”
“I caught it just in time.”
“Okay, then. Dancing it is,” I said.
“We could go back to the roadhouse where we went line dancing. Or, if you want, there's a special contra dance in Bloomington tonight, and we could get dinner beforehand.”
“I've never been to a contra dance. It's like square dancing, right?”
Jim laughed. “Square dancing is different. Contra is usually done in lines with people facing each other.”
“Will I be able to figure out what to do? And do I need an outfit?” I knew for sure I didn't have a full skirt and a matching Western shirt in my closet.
“I think you'll be able to pick it up. There's a caller who tells you what to do. And I'll help. It's really a lot of fun.”
“What about the outfit?” I asked.
“You can wear anything, but mostly women wear skirts. Actually, there are a couple of guys who wear skirts, too.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you?” I asked.
“Definitely not,” he said. “But don't wear a heavy sweaterâit gets pretty warm in there. Layers are good.”
“It's a date, then.”
“I'll pick you up at five, so we have plenty of time to eat and get to the newcomer instruction starting at seven thirty.” He said goodbye and disconnected.
I loved dancing, but Jim preferred dances with steps and moves, dances that actually needed instruction. I, on the other hand, liked to work it out, move to the music however my body wanted to.
What was I getting myself into?
Chapter 7
I headed over to Shamrock Hardware, a few blocks away, after my exercise, a shower, and a sandwich. By one o'clock I was back at the store unloading a couple of big bags bursting with Christmas decorations and new extension cords from my old Dodge mini-van. Might as well take the opportunity of the store being closed to make it look cheery for the holidays. And Shamrock had had everything I needed except fresh greens. For that I'd drive out to one of the local Christmas tree farms tomorrow. I set the bags on the floor and looked around, eyes narrowed, planning it all out. Strings of tiny white lights over the door and around the windows. Garlands here and there. Twenty silver balls. A dozen red bows and . . . my gaze fell on the empty spot on the wall again. Shoot.
Digging my phone out of my back pocket, I strode to the desk where I'd left Octavia's card and pressed her number.
“Slade,” she said in a crisp voice right when I thought the call was about to go to voice mail.
“Octavia, it's Robbie Jordan. I wondered when you'd be done with my store. I mean, I wanted to decorate it for the holidays. Is that all right? I don't want to impede the investigation or anything.”
She sighed audibly. “I suppose you can go ahead. We've already printed the place and checked for other evidence. But leave the area alone around where you said the item was missing. Can you do that?”
“Of course.” I wandered over and studied the wall.
“I'll get evidence techs out there today. You'll be in the store?”
“I'm leaving at five, but I'll be here until then.”
“Hang on a sec, Robbie.”
I heard a voice in the background and Octavia's muffled voice. I waited.
“Sorry,” Octavia said when she came back on. “I'll get someone over there before five, then.” She cleared her throat. “Lieutenant Bird wants me to let you know we have Philostrate MacDonald here for questioning. I'm telling you against my better judgment, as a favor to the local force.” The tension in her voice was as taut as a new blade on a coping saw.
“Phil? Why in the world? He wouldn't hurt a fly.”
“He was seen leaving the store late last night.” She clipped her words, pronouncing each word separately, articulating every final
T
.
“I told Wanda he'd offered to clean up after I went to bed, didn't I?” This was outrageous.
“I'm not sure that was in Officer Bird's report, no. But you did tell her Phil was upset by a racist remark the victim made to him.”
“Sure. Wouldn't you be? He wouldn't kill her for that, though. And besides, he has a key. Why would he break the glass in the door to get in?”
“To throw us off his trail could be a reason. Anyway, I have to go.” She disconnected the call.
I stared at the phone. Not Phil. Never Phil. What could I do to help him? I was suddenly not much in the mood for cheerful holiday decorations. I pressed Adele's number, and after several rings she answered in a breathless voice.
“Sorry, I was outside,” she said. “What's up?”
“Phil is at the police station being questioned by the detective. About the murder.” I paced to the boarded-up door and back to my pile of decorations.
“That's just plumb wrong.” She made a
tsking
sound. “I'll tell Samuel. He's right here.”
“Think Phil needs a lawyer?”
“He might could. Don't you worry a whit, hon. We'll take care of him, Samuel and me.”
“Okay.” I thanked her and disconnected. I paced some more, the length of the store and back. I hated feeling helpless, but I'd done all I could, so I might as well decorate. Having busy hands sometimes let puzzle-solving thoughts into my brain, too. And if ever there was a puzzle that needed to be solved, it was the question of who really killed Erica Berry Shermer. Because I knew as sure as I was a Californian that Phil didn't. I called and left him a message on his cell, asked him to call me back. I almost said more, but disconnected. We'd talk later.
Wincing at the sight of the plywood, I dragged over the stepladder and looped the first string of lights over the front door. I'd asked at the store if I could order new glass today, but they'd said Don, the owner, had to do the ordering and he didn't come in on Sundays.
I plugged another string into the first one and stretched it between the windows and on top of the window frames, adding more strings as I went, until I reached the end of the front wall. I knew Phil hadn't killed Ericaâdidn't I? I was as sure as I could be. He was a gentle, generous, fun-loving soul. So who was the real murderer? Erica and Tiffany had argued, but it wouldn't make sense for Tiffany to kill someone she'd accused of stealing, not if she wanted to get her jewelry back.
I started stringing lights on the other side of the door until I got to the cookware area. That part would have to wait to be decorated until the evidence people were done with it. Max had seemed angry with Erica for taking Paula's side. Surely not mad enough to kill her, though. Maybe the murderer was somebody in Erica's past. Or someone who'd followed her here from Chicago. I'd ask Jim tonight if he knew anyone in Erica and Jon's group of friends or business associates. I couldn't remember what Jim had said his brother did for work, if he even had. Jim had spoken only once to me about his brother's suicide. He'd said losing his twin was like losing a chunk of himself, and that he'd had no idea Jon was that despondent. Or why he would be.
I inserted the last plug for the lights into a wireless device and plugged the device into the wall. I stepped back and flipped on the switch. The sight of all the little white lights did, in fact, cheer me. I turned to the kitchen area and hung green garlands under the counter and over the door to the walk-in, adding a red bow here and there to brighten them. All I needed was a model train set running around an oval in the front window, with tiny snow-covered houses and a miniature Pans 'N Pancakes in the center of town.
I wasn't particularly religious, but I loved the Christmas season, especially here in the Midwest where the days were short and the temperatures chilly. Christmas in Santa Barbara, where I'd grown up, was a different experience altogether. Mom and I had usually taken a Christmas brunch picnic to the beach and soaked up some cool sunshine while we celebrated. Once, when I was eight, we'd come to Indiana to spend Christmas with Adele. It had snowed on Christmas Eve, and I couldn't believe I was seeing the winter wonderland I'd only read about in books. At home the winter air smelled of orange blossoms and sea breezes. Out here? The crisp taste of apples and the sharp smell of snow were more the order of the day.
* * *
After I finished decorating, it was still only two o'clock. I looked around the store. Normally at this time of day on a Sunday the restaurant would be full of hungry folks taking a late lunch or even brunch, since I served breakfast all day. I always tried to include something brunchy like Santa Barbara-Style Eggs Benedict or Herbed Waffles with Cheese Sauce on the Sunday Specials chalkboard. But now, with no customers and with yellow police tape keeping them away, I was too antsy thinking of Phil down at the station to simply sit and read. I'd been meaning to clean the walk-in cooler, though, and there was no time like the present.
I turned the temperature to
Off
and propped open the heavy door. The cold air flowing out from the cooler was going to chill the store, so I also turned the store thermostat down to fifty-five, and then grabbed a heavy sweater from my apartment. Who was going to care if it was cold? The evidence team were the only people I expected, and they probably worked in all kinds of conditions. I ran a bucket of warm water, dissolved baking soda in it, grabbed a big sponge, and headed in.
The metal shelves were wire racks, not solid, so they were easy to swab off. I worked vertically, shifting boxes and containers to the side so I could clean the racks from top to bottom. Poor Phil, I thought as I worked. Hadn't I told Wanda about him offering to clean up and getting the guys to help him, Abe and the harmonica dude? I thought I had. And who would have reported seeing Phil leave the store at midnight? South Lick wasn't exactly known for being a hotbed of nightlife, having only one establishment that stayed open past ten at night, and that was a bar across town. Cars going by my store at midnight were as rare as a decent tomato in November.
Frustrated, I shifted a box with a little too much force and it fell onto the floor, spilling the green and red peppers I used for omelets onto the concrete floor. I cursed as I knelt to pick them up. The non-melodious doorbell at the service door made its two-toned sound before I was finished. I hurried to it and then paused. I knew the team was supposed to be coming. But there wasn't a window or even a peephole to look out at whoever pressed the bell. And a killer was out there somewhere. I hurried to the front window to see a state police car parked outside. I laughed and shook my head. Like a murderer was going to ring a doorbell. I pulled open the service door to see two of the blue-uniformed guys who had been here this morning.
“State police evidence team, ma'am.”
“Come on in,” I said. “I'll show you where I found the tool missing.” I led them to the wall and pointed. “That's where the sandwich press was. You can see the mark on the wall.”
“You haven't touched the wall or the shelving?” the taller one asked.
“Not since I hung the press up there last summer. I ran a duster over it a few times since I opened in early October, but I didn't touch any of it today.”
“When's the last time you saw the object?”
“Actually, last evening. I know because someone asked me what it was.”
“Name?”
“My name? I'm Robbie Jordan. I thought you knewâ”
“No, ma'am. The name of the person who asked you about the press.” He drew out a notebook and a pen.
“It was Tiffany Porter. She loves antique cookware as much as I do.”
He looked down his nose at me, and then jotted her name in his book. “She a local?”
“She owns a gift shop in town. I don't know if she lives right in South Lick or not, though.”
“Got it. We'll get to work now. I understand you have to leave in two hours, at seventeen hundred?”
“No, at . . .” I cocked my head.
Oh. Military time.
I did the math. “Yes, that's right.”
“We'll be done by then.” He turned away.
I thanked him and got back to my job in the cooler. I finished at about the same time the officers did, and managed not to groan at all the new fingerprint powder they'd left. I locked the service door after them, put away my bucket, and headed into my apartment to figure out what I owned to wear that was suitable for contra dancing. As I stared into my closet, my cell rang from the other room. I dashed in and connected.
“Robbie, hon,” Adele said. “Phil's home again. Samuel got him the best lawyer in town. They didn't arrest him or anything.”
“What a relief. Thanks for letting me know. So they didn't have any real evidence against him, right?”
“Not that they told us. Now, what are you doing tonight? Want to come by for a bite of dinner?” she asked.
“I actually have a date for dinner and contra dancing.”
“With your Jim, I assume?” Adele's voice held the sound of a smile.
“You got it. He said contra is fun, that I'll be able to learn how to do it, and that I don't need a special outfit.”
“I've been plenty of times. You'll love it.” She blew me an audible kiss and hung up.
It would take a lot of fun to get my brain off the puzzle of an unsolved murder, but if anybody could do it, it would be the green-eyed dancer. Jim and I were still figuring out our relationship. I liked him, and he was cute to the point of hot. But I'd been so burned by my rotten ex-husband in California, I still wasn't quite sure how entwined I wanted my life and Jim's to be. Luckily, he wasn't pushing me to commit to anything.
Now for my closet. I dug around, finally locating a knit dress in a bright flowered print, with short sleeves and a flared skirt that flattered both my slender waist and my ample hips. I could pair it with leggings and a light sweater I could always shed if, indeed, I grew hot contra-ing. Dancing with Jim usually heated me up, anyway, so his caution about wearing layers hadn't really been necessary.