Chapter 8

“My love’s more ponderous than my tongue”

 

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, we’re half-brothers. We have different dads.” He tilted his head, and his already crooked hat nearly came off. Daniel grabbed at it to keep it in place. “How do you know Mate?”

“We worked together at Tipsy Louie’s,” she said. Did her voice sound wooden? 

Oh, my voice sounds so wooden!

She asked, “Have you seen him recently?”

“No,” he said —woodenly. 

“But you were with Chu-Hua?” Her chest beat so hard that her blouse pounded with it. She could see the material moving beneath her chin. 

“We just met up,” Daniel said, his pale eyes holding her. Then he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to the pub.” Turning, he made for the back door.

“Right,” she said, following him and then shutting the door after him. Spinning around with eyes wide, she gazed at Becca and Bogart. Then she tiptoe-ran to the workroom window to see if Daniel really did go back to the Stove and Keg.

There he was, rounding the corner and ready to walk right past the window. 

Delia ducked beneath the table.

Bogart and Becca ducked with her.

She gazed at each of them, on her left and right. “What are you two doing?”

“What are you doing?” Bogart asked. He reeked of bleach.

Delia wrinkled her nose and stared out the window beneath the table. “There go his legs.”

As the legs went beyond the window, all three of them rose slowly until their noses were even with the tabletop. “Who’s he calling?” Becca wanted to know. She smelled lovely, by the way, all musky and vanilla-like. 

“Chu-Hua, I imagine.”

All three stood straight again but leaned over the table to keep Daniel in their sights. Becca said, “I don’t like him.”

“Neither do I,” Delia said. 

“I think he’s pretty cute,” Bogart added and then gave them a double-look. “What?”

Delia leaned toward him. “Do you remember our conversation on the phone last night, and I told you about Mate? Do you remember screaming Mate’s name on Sunday morning when we thought there was an intruder?”

He gasped long and loud. “That Mate? That’s his brother?” He pointed out the window toward the Stove and Keg.

Delia left them both and went into the outer bakery area. Four arched windows overlooked the courtyard and the pub. 

Again, Bogart and Becca followed her —nearly bowled her over. Becca whispered, “He may be a murderer, too.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Delia told her. “But that woman Chu Hua. She was a part of Mate’s murder club for sure.”

“Murder club?” Bogart breathed out. “That sounds so sexy.”

Both Delia and Becca stared at him with their brows wrinkled. Becca said, “Do you know what murder means?”

“I don’t mean the act of murder is sexy. I mean, the name is sexy. I’m going to use it for my bowling team.”

Someone rapped a knuckle on the window near the Dutch door. 

Delia’s soul jumped out of her body and shivered on the ceiling for an entire second.

Bogart and Becca seemed to respond similarly because they both went stiff and stared at the window.

Nicolo Montague was in a light brown leather jacket, staring back at them with his squinty blue eyes. He looked rather concerned, as though he’d caught them all having a mild heart attack.

With her soul back intact, Delia hurried to the Dutch door and opened it for him. 

“Sorry,” he said, “Did I scare you?”

“Nooo,” Delia poo-pooed, standing to the side and then shutting the door when Nicolo walked through it.

“Hell yeah, you scared us,” Bogart said, coming around the food case. “You must have a big knuckle there, pal.”

Delia blinked and shook her head. What was anyone supposed to say to that statement, Bogart?

Nicolo didn’t seem bothered by it and gazed from Delia to Becca. “I’d like to speak to you again, Rebecca.”

Becca hadn’t put her hair up into a net, and it hung on either side of her face. She tucked one brown tendril behind her ear and frowned. “Sure,” she said and then came around the food cases.

“Maybe somewhere private,” Nicolo suggested, turning to Delia again. He’d dressed casually again, in jeans and a beige shirt beneath the leather jacket. His hair was short again, as though he’d just had it cut. Even his jawline was clear of stubble —which was a shame; not that Nicolo wasn’t entirely perfect without stubble, but still.

Delia gazed at Bogart and nodded her head toward the back room. She started to move in that direction, too. 

Becca said, “It’s okay.” She gazed at Delia and then Bogart. “They can stay.” The widened eyes suggested that she really preferred them to stick around.

Delia stepped around from the register area and leaned on the counter. “Sure, we’ll be right here.” She turned her attention to Bogart. “Come stand with me, and we’ll go over the cleaning list.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, moving back around the corner.

Nicolo nodded and moved toward a café table. 

Becca wiped her hands on her jeans in a nervous way and followed him. 

Once they were both seated, Nicolo pulled out a notebook from his shirt pocket. Delia had a good look at his face from her position behind the counter. They were only ten feet away, after all. And, he was doing that thing where he kept his eyes right on the person he interviewed, with unblinking calm. Yes, old feelings stirred inside of Delia. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d looked at her the same way when Reg died in her apartment. She supposed it was standard equipment on a detective: staring in an emotionally devoid manner. “You knew Jeanette before you came to work here?” 

Say what?

Becca’s eyes darted to Delia and Bogart. “Yes, and no,” she said, wiping the palms of her hand on her thighs again. She gazed at Montague. “I mean, I saw her here during my interview.”

“You probably didn’t like her much.”

“No one liked her much.”

Truth, Delia thought, her eyes glued to Becca and Nicolo. 

Bogart had pressed his elbow into hers and hadn’t moved away. Not that he gazed in Delia’s direction; it was just his way of saying, what the crap, what the crap, what the crap?

Nicolo asked, “Do you live with your parents?”

“No, my dad lives in Florida.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“In prison.”

…um. I need to be more thorough in an interview, I suppose.

Nicolo nodded. “Yes, it was attempted murder, right? She tried to kill your father.” He sounded so congenial right then, as though to say, you can tell me. I’m your pal.

Becca kept her eyes on the tabletop. “He’d had an affair. She didn’t take it well.” 

“Did she try to kill his mistress as well?”

“No.” She lifted her eyes. “Well, I don’t think so. She lit her trashcan on fire.”

“You were there?”

“My brothers and sisters were in the car. I was the oldest.”

“How old?”

“Twelve.”

Delia gasped. She couldn’t help it. Clearing her throat, she grabbed a cloth from beneath the counter and wiped the counter with it.

Bogart opened the first display case and straightened the parsley strands between the Cornish pasties.

Nicolo asked, “So, your mother tried to set Jeanette Loring’s trashcan on fire?”

Delia gasped.

Pale blue eyes shot across the room.

“Sorry,” she whispered and went back to scrubbing the spotless counter.

Becca sat back in the café seat, seemingly defeated. “Yes, it was Jeanette Loring’s trashcan.”

“You still wanted to work here?”

The girl shrugged. “She didn’t know me, and I wanted to work with Delia. Delia’s teaching me to bake. I’d like to own a bakery someday.”

“That won’t happen if you kill people.”

“Amen,” Bogart whispered. 

Becca stood straight up, nearly knocking over her chair. “I didn’t kill her!”

“You prepared the blueberries with poison.”

On her feet, Becca shook her head. Her voice came out high and creaky, “Poison? I never put poison in anything!”

“Sit down,” Montague said, his eyes going to the chair and back to Becca.

She sat. Her breathing came out loud and fast. “I didn’t kill her.”

“What sort of poison?” Delia asked, leaning against the counter.

“That’s confidential,” he said and asked Becca, “Where were you Saturday night?”

“Home.”

“Anybody with you?”

“No.” Becca sat sideways in the seat. Keeping her face turned, she stared at the floor.

“You’re not married?”

“Divorced.”

“You were married to Staff Sergeant Langston,” Nicolo said, reading from his notebook. “Samuel Loring’s nephew?”

Bogart turned his face toward Delia. His eyes were as round as the beef and cheddar pies he straightened now.

Nicolo drove home the point, “You’re Jeanette Loring’s niece, and you didn’t tell anyone?”

“No, God no,” Becca said, spinning in the seat and facing the detective. “When I married Dillon, I had no idea he was a part of their family. Once I found out, I never went around Sam and Jeanette.”

“Jeanette didn’t know you?”

“No. I mean … no, she never said she did.”

Nicolo shifted in his seat and put his elbows against the edge of the table. “I have two witnesses who said they saw you here Saturday night.”

Becca seemed to be holding her breath because it all came out at once. “I was here.”

Delia glanced at Bogart.

Bogart stared wide-eyed at Delia.

Nicolo asked, “What time?”

“I don’t know, six o’clock?”

Delia blurted out, “Why, Becca?” 

The girl spun in her chair. “I wanted to try to make sticky buns.” She turned toward the detective again. “I didn’t kill Jeanette. I never saw her after we were all in the walk-in together.”

Montague stared at Becca for a long moment. “You’ve got a motive and opportunity, Becca.” 

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not today.” He put the notebook into his top pocket and got to his feet. “Don’t go on a long vacation.”

Becca jumped to her feet and moved toward the counter. Her eyes were round and scared. 

Nicolo nodded to Delia and then left the shop.

They watched him through the window, waiting for him to disappear around the corner.

And then they all stared at each other.

Bogart closed the display case with a snap. “Tell us if you killed her. Tell us now.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“We’ll help you hide the poison.”

“She didn’t kill her,” Delia said, narrowing her eyes on Bogart. “If Detective Montague thought she’d killed Jeanette, he would’ve arrested her.” 

“Because of motive and opportunity,” Bogart said, nodding. “I think she did it.”

“Stop teasing her! Obviously, the detective isn’t sure Becca could poison Jeanette.”

“He said the poison was in the blueberries.”

Delia thought about that. “Right, it was added to the blueberries …it must be an unusual poison. Like methanol. And that would lead to Mate again, and that’s why the detective didn’t arrest you.” Then, stepping around the counter, she took Becca’s hands. “He thinks it’s Mate Oswald who killed Jeanette, but he’s following through with all his leads.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her being a part of Dillon’s family. Jeanette didn’t seem to know who I was, and I just let things be.”

Bogart shouted over the display case, “Yeah, but she did have an affair with your dad and caused your mom to go to prison.”

“The affair was just as much my father’s fault as Jeanette’s.” She stared at the floor and shook her head. “Not that I liked her, but I wouldn’t kill her for it. I know what that sort of revenge causes firsthand.”

Delia rubbed Becca’s upper arm. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“What am I going to do?” Becca squeezed Delia’s hands. “I can’t go to prison. My mom … I visit her. It’s awful there.”

Delia understood how Becca felt. She’d felt the same after Montague interrogated her, too. Sitting around makes you a fool of fortune. She said, “We must take action,” feeling braver suddenly. Finding a murderer by herself was off the table, but having people to help solve a murder seemed much less scary.

You said you wouldn’t investigate, Delia darling, what are you doing?

Well darling, Delia told herself, you’re good at figuring things out. You’re the Pink Panther. You can do this. Up high, girl.

She said, “Let’s think this through. Becca, you said you were here around six o’clock to make sticky buns. Did you?” Releasing the girl’s hands, she moved back around the corner.

Becca followed her. “I started to, but the recipe wasn’t here. It wasn’t in the box you keep on the counter.”

“Right,” she said, going through the swinging doors with Becca and Bogart trailing her. “I don’t keep all the recipes here. If I’m testing it, I have it at home. I’ve only made sticky buns once.” In the kitchen, she turned to face them.

Becca said, “I ate one, trying to figure out the ingredients.”

“Then what?”

The girl shrugged and shook her head. “Nothing. I didn’t know what the brown fruit was. I knew the basic dough recipe and some of the filling. I’d tasted orange zest, butter, cinnamon, and cranberries….”

“Sultanas,” Delia told her. “They’re dried grapes, sort of. So you just left?”

“Yes, I didn’t feel so good. I had a headache.”

Delia walked to the back door and turned the knob. “Which way did you leave, the front or back?”

Becca pointed toward the swinging door. “The front.”

“What time?” Bogart asked. He’d grabbed a piece of paper from the opposite counter and wrote something down.

“I don’t know, six-thirty? It was already dark, and I didn’t want to take the alley.”

“Right,” Delia said, returning to the center island. The chrome caught the overhead lights and left muted halos on the surface. She glanced at Becca again. “You didn’t see Jeanette come back?”

“No … although, I did hear something just as I turned the lock. When I get a migraine, my hearing turns super-sonic.” She nodded toward the workroom and the table and window there. “At first, I thought it came from the car park across the street, but it could’ve come from the alley.”

“What did it sound like?”

“It’s hard to describe. It was a thunk like someone fell. I didn’t go look because it was dark at the end of the sidewalk.”

“Are you sure the noise came from the outside, not from upstairs?” As soon as Delia asked the question, she felt a tiptoe of uneasiness run across her shoulders. 

Becca and Bogart both looked at the ceiling. Then they looked at each other and frowned.

She really hadn’t counted on being the brave one in this group. To counter the creepiness, Delia gave them a logical explanation for asking the question. “I thought Jeanette may have come back and that she meant to sleep here.” Delia gazed at Bogart. “Jeanette was leaving her husband. She didn’t know what to do. I suggested she stay with her sister but maybe she decided to hang out here. She and Sanya didn’t get along.”

Bogart wrote something on the paper again. “Suspect two.”

Delia brought her chin up. “Two?”

“Becca,” he said, pointing the pencil eraser at the girl. 

“I DIDN’T KILL HER!”

“Calm yourself,” Bogart recommended. “I’m just thinking like the gorgeous detective Montague. He came back to question you, Becca. You’re on his list of suspects.” He tapped the eraser against his chin and looked at Delia. “If Jeanette came back here, then she brought someone with her.”

“Or someone was already here.”

Everyone glanced at the ceiling again. 

“Will you stop that,” Becca asked. “You’re creeping me out.”

“I’m creeping me out too.”

Bogart nodded and wrote something else on his paper. “Mate.”

Delia nodded. “Mate. Was he here, waiting for me, and by mistake killed Jeanette instead?” That was the worst solution of all, and another chill ran across her shoulders.

“She looked nothing like you.”

“I know,” she said, her jeans feeling extra snug at the comparison.

Bogart said, “She was older and not nearly as pretty as you.”

Her insides turned to melted chocolate gooeyness. 

I’m going to give him a raise!

She said, “Maybe he figured it out too late and just killed her so she wouldn’t call the police.”

Bogart’s eyes darted to the ceiling again. “Do you think he’s still here?”

All three of them took a step toward the backdoor as if meaning to run out screaming —but then Delia remembered, “I was up there earlier. No one is here except us. There was no one there … no luggage, or even a purse.” She stood straighter. “If Jeanette was here to sleep, where are her things?”

“Mate stole them?” Becca asked.

“No, I think the killer brought her here already dead, and then poisoned the blueberries to make it look like she died here.”

Bogart picked up his paper and turned toward the island. “Maybe, but the person might’ve followed her in, killed her, and gone out the kitchen door —since it was unlocked, remember?”

Delia glanced around at the shiny surfaces and the stone floors. “Nothing was knocked over. Everything was the same as when we’d left Saturday afternoon.”

“Then she was already dead,” Becca summed up. “Poisoned and dumped here.”

Delia placed her hand on the counter and leaned her weight against it. “Poisoned, right. The detective wasn’t giving that information away. So… it was methanol again.” She nodded, glancing at her co-workers. “Methanol killed Reg Ashbury and Alfie Clemmons two months ago. It was Mate’s favorite way to kill.”

“I have no idea what that is,” Becca said, leaning on the table, too, but with her hands resting on the top and her fingers interlaced. 

“It’s a chemical to speed up the beer-crafting process. It’s formaldehyde, basically. Detective Montague wouldn’t name the poison. That’s how he is figuring out who murdered Jeanette. That’s why he didn’t arrest you, Becca. You might have motive and opportunity, but not the means to kill. You have no access to the poison.”

“How does Mate have access to it?” Bogart wanted to know. 

“Eddie said he saw Mate at Tipsy Louie’s the other day. That’s how Mate got the chemical the first time around. Then he injected it into his victims.”

“But, the poison was in the blueberries,” Becca said. “That’s what the detective said.”

Good point.

“And, does Mate know Jeanette? If it wasn’t a surprise killing, why would Mate kill her?”

Another good point. 

“I don’t know if he knew her. Jeanette was only at our apartment building to see her sister and cousin … she was at Alfie’s funeral, too, but she and Mate didn’t act as though they knew each other.” She bit her lip, thinking it through. “Of course, he could’ve been faking the not knowing her department. He pretended not to know Chu Hua, too, but she’s his girlfriend. Mate is a good liar.”

Bogart leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “All of this sounds like a long shot to me.”

Delia shrugged. “We’re just talking it through. Who are our suspects again?”

Bogart grabbed the paper. “Becca, Sanya someone or other, Jeanette’s husband, this Mate person, Chu Hua….”

“Add Daniel Curran to the list because he was here asking about the death. He’s Mate’s brother and that shoots him to the top of the list. With a bullet.”

“Being his brother doesn’t make Daniel a suspect,” Bogart said.

“Just because you think he’s cute doesn’t make him innocent,” Becca reminded him.

Delia waved her hand. “He’s a person of interest, that’s all. And, don’t forget Eddie. Put him down.”

Becca asked, “Who’s Eddie again?”

“Sanya and Jeanette’s cousin. Jeanette might have asked him to let her move in.”

Bogart shook his head. “Why would he kill her, and does he have access to formaldehyde?”

Delia slumped forward. “I don’t know why Eddie would kill her.” Then she straightened. “But, he does have access to formaldehyde. He’s been to Tipsy Louie’s recently.”

“Did they get along?” Becca asked. 

“Actually, he was the only one who seemed to care that Jeanette died.”

“Other than her husband,” Bogart said. 

Becca stood straighter. “But they were divorcing. He might’ve killed her.”

Delia turned toward the girl. “You knew Sam, didn’t you? Is he a killer?”

“I don’t know. I only met the guy once. After I’d realized he was that Loring and Jeanette’s husband, I stayed away from them. But he was nice, I suppose. He seemed kind to Jeanette.”

“Right,” Delia said. “Well, I think we can solve this case. We’ve got a lot of suspects and motives.” She nodded and glanced toward Bogart. 

“Right, right,” he said. “How do we do that?” 

“I believe Mate is the number one suspect. We need to find him.”

It was Bogart’s time to come around the counter. “Mate, as in a murderer-out-for-revenge Mate?”

“Yes, but all we need to do is find him and then call Montague, don’t you see?” Delia asked, eyes bright and waiting for a positive response.

Anybody?

Bogart nodded his head —only slightly —but then more vigorously. “Let’s do it.”

Becca gave them a ghost of a smile. Tears had formed at the corners of her eyes.

“We’ll call ourselves the Murder Club,” Bogart announced.

Delia shook her head. “We’re not a bowling team.”

“Where do you think this Mate person is?” Becca asked. She took a deep breath, probably to calm her nerves.

“I think he’s either with Chu Hua or Daniel Curran.”

“Daniel across the street?” This from Bogart, his eyes darting toward the window at the Stove and Keg.

“I don’t think Mate is at the pub. My guess is that he’s at his girlfriend’s out by the lighthouse.”

“Should we go there now?” Becca asked, her gaze sweeping between them.

Delia nodded. “We’re done for today. Tomorrow morning we’ll do all the baking.”

“And we’ll need a new Jeanette,” Bogart added.

Delia frowned at him. “What?”

“You need to hire someone to take Jeanette’s place.”

Oh yeah.

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow. In the meanwhile, we need to find Mate.” Walking into the back room, she found her purse on a kitchen shelf. But then she stopped. “We can’t take Freddy. Mate knows my car. He’ll recognize it.”

Becca removed the apron from around her waist. “We can take mine.”

“I have a sidecar.”

Both of them gazed at Bogart. “No,” Becca said.

Delia shook her head. “No way.”

That was their definite opinion until they reached the parking lot, and Becca’s blue Chevy Sonic wouldn’t start.

“What’s wrong with your car?” Delia asked Becca.

“The battery,” she said, popping the hood open. “If I just shove it to the side, sometimes it works.” She reached into the engine compartment and pulled up on the hood prop. She’d left a wrench on the side of the charger, pulled it out, and whacked the cable connectors a couple of times. Then she shoved the piece to the left. “Okay, let’s try it again.” She reached in through the open driver’s side window and turned the key.

Click, click, click.

Bogart threw out his hands. “I have a sidecar.”

“No!”

“No way,” Delia told him.