Chapter 20
After I’d let Birdy out and prepped the biscuit dough, I paused before I tried to accomplish anything else in the kitchen. I needed to let Oscar know about the corner of paper I’d spied upstairs. Sure, it was Friday night, but it was only eight o’clock. Search as I might, I couldn’t find either his number in my phone or his card in my desk from last spring. Rats. I didn’t want to call the state police barracks in Bloomington. I gave up and speed dialed Buck.
“Bird,” he answered more tersely than I’d ever heard him, but his voice also sounded hollow.
“Buck, it’s me, Robbie.”
“I’m kind of tied up here. What is it?”
All righty, then. “I wanted to call Oscar, but I couldn’t find his number.”
Buck read me Oscar’s number, and I jotted it down.
“Thanks. Anyway, I went up into Gregory’s room to make sure the windows weren’t open during the storm a little while ago.”
“You observed the police tape across the door, I assume? The tape that clearly states ‘Do Not Cross’?”
“Of course. Should I have let my brand-new woodwork and paint be ruined because you guys didn’t finish in there?” I heard voices and noises that sounded like furniture moving in the background. Oh. The hollow sound was because Buck was on speaker phone. He probably had at least Oscar, if not others, in the room with him. He’d had to react as he did.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I happened to see something the team seems to have missed. The corner of a piece of white paper is sticking out from behind the bedside table on the right side of the bed as you face it. I did not touch the paper. I am duly reporting it. All right?”
“Thank you, Ms. Jordan. Was there anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Wait, yes, there is. When will I have the room returned to my control? It’ll be cleaned and restored to its previous state, I assume.” If he could get all formal on me, I could sure dish it right back at him. And if Oscar heard me, so much the better.
“I will inform you of that date as soon as possible. Thank you for being a keen-eyed and responsible citizen.”
“You’re wel—” I stopped speaking because he had disconnected. Another giggle burbled up. As a keen-eyed and responsible citizen, I wished I’d had the chance to give him the Star Trek salute and utter the words, “Live long and prosper.”
In lieu of that, I got going on that cake. I was only half old school when it came to recipes. Lots of my standbys I kept in a cloud-based file I could access on my tablet. But a handwritten recipe from Adele like the Southern Jam Cake one she’d given me earlier? I hauled out my recipe binder and turned the plastic sleeves behind the CAKES tab until I found where I’d filed it.
I already had the white flour and butter out on the counter. I took the flashlight with me into the walk-in cooler, closing the door behind me, and loaded eggs and buttermilk, as well as a big jar of seedless blackberry jam, into an empty milk crate. I hurried out and made sure it was well closed again. I didn’t think the quick loss of cool would affect what was inside. It was a well-insulated room with a heavy weather-stripped door.
Before I started assembling, I opened the oven door and lit a match. Turning the temperature knob to Low, I carefully held the match down to the small lighting hole, just like my great-grandmother must have done, unless maybe she’d baked in a wood-fired oven. It worked like a charm. The burner whooshed into flame. I adjusted the knob to 350 degrees and closed the door to preheat. Thank heavens for simple analog devices, and for the stove refurbisher I’d found, who was willing to take on this old six-burner treasure that had come with the store when I bought it. The stove was now a gem of cast iron, steel, and chrome.
When I cooked solo, like now, I often listened to Italian operas, a musical taste my mom had instilled in me many years before I learned my father was Italian. Tonight, since I didn’t have electricity, I whistled the arias from those operas instead of playing a CD or using up phone battery by streaming music.
I buttered and floured my two biggest rectangular baking dishes. I’d mixed the dry ingredients, doubling the recipe, and was beating sugar into the softened butter with a big hand whisk, as women had done for centuries before electricity came along. The sound of footsteps followed by banging on the front door startled me. This time it definitely wasn’t from Birdy being locked in anywhere. The racket and my resultant fear made my heart rate zoom back up to an entirely unhealthy pace. The whisk in my hand kept pace with my heart. At the same time my phone trilled from my pocket. Huh?
I grabbed the phone. I let out a relieved breath. Buck. I connected.
“You wanna open the door, or what?” he asked.
What happened to, “May I come in, please?” I shook my head, restored the phone to my pocket, and unbolted the door.
Buck faced me, thin hair plastered to his head, with a bonus visitor of Oscar close behind. The latter still wore his Colts cap, although his glasses were spattered with drops. The rain falling beyond the porch’s reach had slowed to a light shower, and the storm had cooled the temperature outside by at least twenty degrees. The air was a delicious dive into a cool pond.
“Good evening, gentlemen. That was fast.” Even though the police station was only a few blocks away, I truly hadn’t expected either of them to drop everything and hustle over here. “Do you want to come in?”
“No, Robbie,” Buck said. “We thought we’d stand out here in the blowing rain and make polite conversation.”
Was Buck on drugs? He’d never been snide or sarcastic with me for as long as I’d known him. Or was his attitude due to Oscar’s lurking influence? Either way, I didn’t like it. I mentally rolled my eyes, but stood back and gestured for the two to enter.
“Thank you, Ms. Jordan,” Oscar said. “We’d like to see the slip of paper you discovered, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I said, turning back to my batter.
Buck cleared his throat. “Uh, excuse me, Robbie. We hadn’t lost power at the station. Didn’t know you had. You didn’t say nothing about it.”
“I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t what I called about.”
“Think maybe we could borrow that there flashlight for a couple few minutes?” Buck asked, entreaty in his voice.
Weren’t cops supposed to be sort of like Boy Scouts? Always prepared? Not these two, apparently. I let out a breath and turned to face them. The whisk somehow came with my hand. It spattered pellets of sweetened butter over both Buck’s and Oscar’s dark pants.
“Oops, sorry. There’s a cloth under the counter there if you want it.” I gestured with my elbow. “Yeah, take the flashlight.” I grabbed the key out of my pocket and handed it to him. I pointed up. “As I told Buck fewer than three minutes ago, it’s behind the bedside table on the right side of the bed as you face it. Help yourselves.” I turned my back on them again, washed my hands, and picked up the abandoned whisk.
Buck grabbed the cloth and dusted off his pants. Oscar declined, but picked up the keys and the flashlight before the two trouped upstairs. Me, I kept beating the butter and sugar until the mixture was creamy. I whisked in the eggs, one at a time, then peered at the recipe in the warm candlelight. When did the jam go in? Aha. The recipe said to fold that in after I added the dry ingredients and the buttermilk.
As I worked, I mused on the scrap of note, or whatever it was. Had Gregory torn it out of a notebook to remind himself of a date, an obligation, an idea? Or maybe it had been a threatening note someone conveyed to him, meant for Gregory’s eyes only. On the other hand, it could be simply an errant receipt from a store.
Oscar clomped down the stairs in those boots, with Buck close behind. Buck held a clear plastic bag labeled EVIDENCE, with a piece of paper in it. He set the flashlight on the counter away from the food.
“You got it.” I stated the obvious. “Can I see?”
Buck checked with Oscar, who gave the slightest nod of his head. Buck extended it into the light, so I leaned over and peered. My eyes widened at reading the words written in block capitals: BUTT OUT NOW OR YOU WILL REGRET IT.
“So it was a threat,” I said. “No signature, no envelope?”
“Not that we could find,” Buck answered. “We’ll take and bring it to the county evidence lab. They might could find somethin’ to identify the author.”
“Thank you for reporting it promptly,” Oscar said.
“So,” I paused, thinking. “Someone could have slipped it to him. Or”—I searched their faces—“gotten into his room and left it.” My mouth pulled down. I did not want to think about a murderer tiptoeing around my B&B rooms.
“But you got you some better security last year, didn’t you?” Buck asked. “Nobody could just sneak up there, could they?”
I shook my head slowly. “Not during business hours. If somebody slipped away from eating or shopping and headed up the inside stairs, the door isn’t locked from this side. Of course, the outside door is locked.”
“The door might not have closed properly. Alternatively, one of your guests could have left the note,” Oscar chimed in. “Or let someone in.”
“I kind of doubt it,” I said. “I guess it’s possible. The only guests here are Emily and Wayne Babson. They said you were going to talk with them.”
Oscar nodded. “Now, you had mentioned your video surveillance system. I’d like a look at that now, if possible.”
“Hang on a sec while I get this into the oven.”
Oscar tapped the pointy toe of his cowboy boot. I ignored his impatience. I folded in the jam, spread the batter in the prepared pans, and slid them into the oven. I washed my hands and set a timer.
“It’s over here.” I led the way to my desk and powered up the laptop. I could have showed him on my phone, but it was a lot easier to see on a bigger screen. I found the app. Good thing I’d downloaded the video to my hard drive. “What time of day do you want to look at?” I twisted in the chair to gaze at Oscar.
“Any time yesterday when you weren’t aware of DeGraaf’s whereabouts.”
I tapped the desk with my index finger. “He was in the restaurant in the morning until about ten, eleven, I think. I don’t think I saw him again. I noticed a light on in his room last night at about eight, but I don’t know if he was in there or not.” I typed in the range of time but cringed at what popped up. “Darn.”
“Darn what?” Buck asked, craning his neck to peer over my shoulder.
“I got the low-end version of the software, and it only saves twenty-four hours of video. You need major storage to save more than that. I didn’t think to save the footage from yesterday morning.”
“And?” Oscar asked, arms folded.
“And it’s eight thirty now. So, the same time last night is the furthest back I can go.”
He rolled his eyes. “And what might you be waiting for?”
I didn’t say anything, but pushed Play, then sped it up a little so we wouldn’t be here all night. The footage showed Gregory climbing the outdoor stairs and putting a key in the lock at nine thirty. So, he had left a light on in the room for himself. I sped through the next seven hours then slowed the playback. “Doesn’t look like he went out overnight, at least.”
Oscar grunted. The three of us watched closely, finally seeing Gregory jog down the stairs in the predawn darkness at five thirty.
I pointed at the screen. “Looks like he got an early start on his ride.” His last ride, ever. I shook my head at the sadness of it, the unnecessary violence, the waste of a human life.
“Thank you, Ms. Jordan. Good night.” Oscar headed for the door.
“See you in the mornin’,” Buck drawled, back to his usual relaxed self. “I can’t wait to try some of that, whatever you’re cooking up.”
“Southern Jam Cake.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“Gol darn it, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven in a chariot,” Buck said in wonder. “That’s one of my favorites, Robbie. My mama used to bake it most every week. How’s come you never made it before?”
I opened my mouth to answer when Oscar spoke curtly from the open door.
“Bird?”
Buck picked up his normal ambling pace and off they went, leaving me here to wait for the cakes and muse about the writer of the threatening note.