Chapter 13

  

After the tech held her fingers against the small screen on the bar and she watched a sketch of her fingerprints fill the tiny monitor, Sheriff Bryson ushered Penelope into the inn’s cramped office under the main staircase. He looked out of place behind the vintage metal secretary desk, which had been built many years earlier and designed for a much smaller person. He looked more like a teacher from the 1950s than a modern-day police officer. A coffee cup sat at the edge of the desk, Indiana baked into the side, painted in a child’s handwriting. It held a collection of pens, and Penelope counted them while the sheriff shuffled a few papers inside a brown folder on the desk.

“Penelope Sutherland,” he muttered under his breath, choosing one of the sheets and jotting her name at the top.

This was the first time Penelope had seen Sheriff Bryson out of his bulky leather jacket. His brown uniform shirt was freshly pressed, the seams perfectly lined down his sleeves, and his collar crisp. His hair wasn’t fully gray, just his sideburns, the rest sandy brown, and his face was smooth from a recent shave. He was orderly perfection personified.

“Tell me again everything you remember about this morning,” Sheriff Bryson began, bouncing the ball of his pen on the form.

Penelope recounted entering the refrigerator, bumping into Jordan’s dangling legs, and stumbling back out. “That’s it. Then you were here.”

He nodded at her, watching her mouth as she spoke. “And you spoke to Mrs. Foster this morning. Afterwards, I mean.”

Penelope nodded and watched him jot something down.

“What did you talk about?” Sheriff Bryson asked.

“Restaurant business. She and Ava want to find a new chef quickly,” Penelope said.

The sheriff smiled tightly and bent his head toward the desk, scribbling.

“Did she seem upset to you?” he asked, brushing his lip and watching her intently.

Penelope paused, deciding to tread carefully into the rest of the conversation. “Of course. In shock, really. I think we all are. Why do you ask?”

Sheriff Bryson leaned back in his chair. “I’m trying to find out what happened to her husband is all. Just gathering information.”

Penelope sat up straighter. “Where were Jordan’s boots? He always wore his hiking boots in the kitchen. Zamberlans. He was barefoot when he died.”

He folded his hands and gazed at her. “Yet to be located,” he said matter-of-factly. “Those are pretty fancy shoes for cooking.”

“He said they saved his feet, and his back, from the hours standing in the kitchen. Those floors are hard. I don’t think he’d walk barefoot through his own kitchen. It’s a health-code violation.”

“What makes you think he’d be wearing them near the time he died? He wasn’t working in the middle of the night, when we’ve determined it happened.”

“But he was wearing his chef coat and pants. It makes sense he’d also be wearing his work boots,” Penelope said.

“Do you remember if he was wearing the same clothes from earlier in the day?” he asked.

“I think so, but I can’t be completely sure. His uniforms were all similar.”

Sheriff Bryson mumbled something in response, his expression a mask of disdain, or possibly defeat.

“Can I ask you about the bruises you mentioned?”

He eyed her for a moment, considering. “I shouldn’t have shared that with you.” He crossed his arms at his chest and leaned back in the chair.

“But you must think Jordan was murdered or you wouldn’t be going through all of this,” Penelope said.

“I do. Terrible thing, and I hate to admit it, but yes,” Sheriff Bryson said.

“I get the impression that doesn’t happen around here too often,” Penelope said, prodding.

“Forrestville is a nice place to live. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Sorry,” Penelope said. “I really just want to help.”

“Then let’s get back to the point. Did Jordan do a lot of drinking at the restaurant?” His tone softened a tad but maintained its authoritative sharpness.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t characterize his drinking as excessive,” Penelope said. “He drank wine on occasion in the kitchen while he was cooking, and sometimes at the bar with his favorite customers. But he always stayed focused while working.”

“Okay. Did he seem particularly close with any of his employees?”

Penelope paused a moment to think. “I’d say he was close to most of the staff. He always said they were his extended family. I heard him mention more than once that the young people he hired were all known to him through their parents in town. He was very protective of everyone working on the floor and in the back of the house.”

“Did he seem particularly close to anyone from the movie crew?”

“I guess. He said he really liked working with all of us. Jennifer, obviously.”

“And the other chefs?”

“Jordan was friendly with everyone, Sheriff Bryson,” Penelope said, feeling a bit hopeless.

Sheriff Bryson sighed. “From what you’re telling me, and from what I’ve heard around town, Jordan Foster was the perfect man. Happy family, successful business, well-liked by everyone, generous, a regular guy with lots of friends…”

Penelope nodded in agreement. “That’s what I think of him too. Granted I’ve only known him a little over a month, but I wouldn’t disagree.”

“And yet, someone may have killed him. A man with no clear enemies ends up hanging in his own freezer. I think he came across the wrong out-of-towner, someone who thinks they’re smart enough to throw us off track, make it look like a suicide.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t?” Penelope asked.

Sheriff Bryson ran his finger along the edge of the pile of papers on the desk and dropped his voice a level. “Certain facts have come to light.”

“So he was definitely murdered.” Penelope lowered her voice too.

“Yes.” His mood shifted abruptly and he straightened up in his chair. “That’s all the questions I have for now, Miss Sutherland. If you wouldn’t mind, please send in the next person…” He eyed a short list of names on his pad. “Francis Moretti.”

“Sure. He’s my sous chef,” Penelope said, standing up. She glanced at the list, noticing it was less than ten names long, far from the entire film crew. She didn’t see any of the actors’ names, but every one of her chefs was listed. “You’re not questioning everyone from the movie?”

Sheriff Bryson scooted a piece of paper over the names. “That’s not your concern.”

Penelope stifled a nervous laugh and straightened the hem of her sweater at her waist. Seeing her name at the top of Sheriff Bryson’s list had unnerved her. When she’d come into the office, she felt like she was there to help. Now she felt like she was on the top of a short list of suspects.

“Don’t you normally take witness statements at the police station?” she asked.

He shot her an irritated glance.

“Not that I need to explain, but it doesn’t make sense to shuttle people back and forth to the department when everyone I’d like to talk to is right here.”

Penelope thought about the small police station next to the diner on Main Street. “I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t doing things correctly.”

“Well, I’m sure they do things differently in New York. We’ll try to keep up, not trip over ourselves.”

Penelope stared at him from across the desk. “New Jersey.”

Sheriff Bryson sighed, and some of the color drained from his cheeks. “Please send in Mr. Moretti. Thank you for your statement.”

Penelope stepped through the office door and closed it behind her, giving Francis a warning glance. She pulled him by the elbow away from the door and lowered her voice. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Francis said. “What’s he asking about in there?”

“I don’t know. Questions about Jordan. Just answer the best you can. Don’t guess anything, and only say things that you know are true.”

“Yeah, of course.” Francis slipped inside and closed the office door behind him.

Penelope walked to the end of the hallway and peered into the kitchen, craning her neck in the entryway. Officer Collins was talking with the female technician Penelope had seen at Festa. Both of them had on latex gloves and were looking at a diagram of the kitchen in Edie’s hands. The doorway was sectioned off with yellow tape, and many of the counters, doorknobs, and handles had a fine mist of black dust on them.

Edie glanced up and saw Penelope in the doorway. “Help you?”

Penelope stuck her hands in her back pockets. “No, I was just checking in. Just finished giving another statement to the sheriff.”

Edie said something to the tech, who nodded and went inside the walk-in, before approaching the doorway. “You can’t come in here.”

“I know,” Penelope said quickly. “I wanted to see...”

“You’re curious what we’re doing in here,” Edie said, not unkindly.

“A little,” Penelope said. “Have you found anything?”

Edie set her lips in a line and looked at a spot on the wall next to Penelope’s head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Sorry,” Penelope said, turning to go, then pausing. “Hey, I forgot to mention.” She pointed at the walk-in. “I never saw Jordan without his necklace, even when he was running. It was silver, made out of a real knife from Jordan’s first restaurant. He had it melted down and soldered together like this.” She crossed her fingers together to make an X.

Edie turned on her heel and went to the kitchen counter, then picked up a manila envelope marked with a black grid covered in scribbled handwriting. Pulling out a small plastic bag, she held it up for Penelope to see. “This the one?”

“Yes!” Penelope said. “Was it on the floor in the freezer? I didn’t remember seeing it when I found him, but with the rope around his neck...”

“Funny you ask,” Edie said, her expression neutral. “It was found outside in the parking lot. One of the techs found it wedged under the front tire of your truck. That is your truck, right? The one with Red Carpet Catering painted on the side?”

Penelope’s knees weakened slightly. “That’s weird,” she said.

“We thought so,” Edie said. The woman emerged from the walk-in, her eyes boring into Penelope from beneath her baseball hat. “It’s also weird that we found a partial print on it, and it wasn’t Jordan’s.”

Penelope’s mind reeled, spinning back over the past weeks, trying to remember if she ever had occasion to touch Jordan’s necklace. She couldn’t think of anything, although it was possible she had. She’d hugged him a few times. Had she touched it while admiring it or by accident?

“The print is a match to one of your employees, Francis Moretti.”

“No, it’s not,” Penelope said instinctively. “That’s a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake,” Edie said, her expression remaining neutral. “His prints were already on record in the system.”

“Excuse me,” Penelope said. She hurried back down the hall to the office and knocked on the door rapidly, then opened it. Sheriff Bryson stared at her from behind the desk as Francis swiveled around in his chair. “Don’t say anything else, Francis.”

“Ms. Sutherland, excuse us please,” the sheriff began.

“No, come out with me,” she urged. “They think we’re responsible for what happened to Jordan.”

“Close the door,” Sheriff Bryson ordered. When Penelope hesitated he repeated himself, in a much louder voice. She reluctantly pulled the door closed and stood next to Francis, grasping his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Sheriff Bryson asked.

“If you’re zeroing in on me or a member of my team, trying to say one of us killed Jordan, we have rights,” Penelope said. “You can’t question him without a lawyer.”

“Yes, I can, if he doesn’t ask for one,” Sheriff Bryson said.

“I saw your list,” Penelope said. “It’s only my team and some of the restaurant staff,” Penelope said. Francis’s shoulder shrank beneath her grip.

“You’re the ones who had the most contact with the deceased,” Sheriff Bryson said. “It’s natural we’d start with you.”

A thought suddenly came to her. “Jordan had an argument last night. One of the sales reps, Denis Billings, saw it out behind the restaurant. You should find out about that,” she said excitedly.

Sheriff Bryson eyed her with interest, then made a note on her statement. “Any other convenient memories you’d like to add?”

“No one from my crew could have done this. That’s the truth,” Penelope said firmly.

“So you say,” he said, his eyes dropping back down to Francis.

“What is the motive, then? Why would we want to hurt Jordan? I’ll tell you this, you won’t find anything. We all respected him very much,” Penelope said. She felt a small shudder go through Francis.

“We’ll see,” the sheriff said. “You’re both excused.” He waved them off and went back to studying his reports.

  

Penelope pulled Francis by the elbow into the powder room down the hall, closing the door behind him.

“What did he ask you about in there?”

Francis swept his gaze along the tin ceiling tiles. “Nothing. Regular stuff, what was Jordan doing the last time I saw him, how did he seem...why?”

“Did he ask you about the necklace?” Penelope urged.

“Yeah, Jordan’s.”

“What did you tell him?”

Francis shrugged.

“I said I knew the one he meant, and that I hadn’t seen it around anywhere. What’s the big deal about it?”

“They found it outside by our truck,” Penelope said.

“So he dropped it?” Francis shrugged, palms in the air.

“They say your fingerprint is on it, Francis,” Penelope whispered. “Do you remember touching it?”

Some of the color drained from Francis’s face. “I don’t know...yeah, I did. Now they think I killed Jordan and stole his necklace?”

“When did you touch it?” Penelope urged.

“It fell off one time and I picked it up off the floor mat, handed it back to him. The chain broke. He said it was getting old, that he needed to replace the chain,” Francis said.

“Good,” Penelope said. “There’s a reason your fingerprints were there.”

Francis shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Yeah, but it was just me and Jordan who saw it. They’re not going to believe me. They just want to make the quickest arrest.”

Penelope shook her head and put her palm to her forehead. “It does put you in contact with him, physical contact.”

“We were all in close physical contact with him in the kitchen. I worked close to him a couple of times, and he came out to see the truck now and then. We shook hands, slapped shoulders.”

“If they had hard evidence you killed Jordan they would have arrested you already. I’ve heard that fingerprints can stay on surfaces for a long time. It’s not enough.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and texted Joey a question about fingerprints to confirm what she thought.

“I can’t have this happening again,” Francis said. “I haven’t been in trouble in a long time, Boss.”

Penelope looked up from her phone at his pleading expression. “I know. And that stuff before...you were just a kid.”

“I was a stupid kid. I got caught shoplifting twice, and that’s on my record. They’re going to find out,” Francis said helplessly.

“You’re a different person now. I’ve got your back. Just don’t answer any more questions without me or a lawyer with you.”

  

“I’ve managed to land at the top of Sheriff Bryson’s suspect list. And insult him on top of it,” Penelope said in a low voice after taking a seat next to Ava at the bar. She swept a glance at the tables behind her, half of them full of crew members, a few of them eyeing her with interest. She decided it was best to keep the information about the necklace to herself for now. “Big city versus small town, something like that.”

Ava smiled wearily. “He’s a good guy, just inexperienced. This is the first murder in Forrestville for something like ten years, which would make it his only one as sheriff. He used to be a park ranger until he took over after the previous sheriff died. People don’t bother locking their doors around here.”

“Really?” Penelope asked. Unfortunately, she had never lived anywhere where serious crime, even murder, wasn’t daily news. It was something she read about in a detached way in the papers that were left around the set. If bad things occurred in neighborhoods she didn’t frequent, she could somehow distance herself from the violence, like it wasn’t part of her world. She felt a rush of shame about that now. “I’m worried he might be focusing on the out-of-towners because we’re unfamiliar.”

Ava shrugged. “I don’t think he knows what to do. I hope he can handle it.”

“What’s happened in the past? I mean, how do they normally investigate serious crimes around here?”

“It hasn’t really come up, at least since I’ve lived here. I can’t say for sure, but the sheriff doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to turn things over to another department. That’s just a guess, but a pretty good one.”

“You’ve known Sheriff Bryson a long time?” Penelope asked.

“It feels like I’ve known everyone around here for a long time,” Ava said. “Maybe too long.” She got up and walked behind the bar, gazing at the wine bottles below the mirror-backed shelves and selecting a red. She poured herself a glass and glanced at Penelope.

“Sure,” Penelope said, eyeing at the cuckoo clock on the wall and seeing it was just past six.

Jennifer came up to them. “I think that’s everyone they wanted to talk to.” She held a notepad in her hand and glanced down at the list. “Now it’s just the restaurant people.” She wandered over to talk to another group at a nearby table.

Penelope put her chin in her palm and closed her eyes. “Did you get that list started?”

Ava squinted at her as she took a sip. “What list?”

“Of people who come in and out of the kitchen,” Penelope said. She looked around for a pad of paper and a pen as Jennifer moved through the room, stopping at each table to talk to her crew.

Ava sighed. “It’s not going to be anyone like that,” she said. “It had to be a complete stranger, someone who happened upon Jordan, maybe someone who was trying to rob the inn.”

“Really? Why would a random robber go to the trouble of making Jordan’s death look like a suicide? Also, what is there to steal in here?”

Ava looked up at the ceiling. “Lots of things of value up in those rooms.” She took another healthy gulp from her glass. “Whoever killed him probably assumed Jordan’s death wouldn’t be questioned, that it would be ruled a suicide and they would get away with murder.”

“But nothing was stolen,” Penelope reminded her gently. “It doesn’t seem like a random act, Ava.”

Ava’s eyes flashed. “Someone came in. Jordan was always leaving the doors unlocked, propping them open even, both here and over at Festa. I told him he shouldn’t, especially when he was alone. There was a struggle, and the robber choked Jordan to death. He panicked and tried to cover it up by staging a suicide. Then he ran out without taking anything to cover his tracks.”

Penelope considered her theory. “I guess it could have happened that way.” The scenario was highly improbable, but she was tired and didn’t want another contentious conversation.

Ava nodded quickly. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. Because everyone loved Jordan.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “It had to have been a transient. Someone who didn’t know him, or any of us.”

Penelope gently placed a hand on Ava’s forearm then picked up her glass, swirling the liquid inside. “We’re going to find out who did this.”