Chapter 9
Rolling slowly up Van Buren Street, I tried to avoid tourists wandering diagonally across the main drag without looking. Tourists had much to be distracted by: dozens of shops featuring quirky lawn ornaments out front, advertising fudge and salt water taffy, or offering hand crafts from purses to pillows to picnic baskets. I passed the Hobnob Corner Restaurant, which I knew served decent food all day long. The building had formerly housed a general store, and then a pharmacy. I glanced at the delightful Melchior Marionette Theatre, a brightly painted space open to the sidewalk. It advertised free popcorn and delightful entertainment. I’d wandered in one time and read a sign painted on an old board: AN ACT TO PREVENT CERTAIN IMMORAL PRACTICES. It referenced a law enacted by the second session of the state general assembly in 1817. Section 7 prohibited staging puppet shows for money, with every person so offending to be fined three dollars for each offense.
After I reached the Nashville Inn, I parked my bike and knocked on the service door around the back. The big kitchen exhaust fan thrummed as loudly as usual, so I finally just pulled the screen door open and entered my former workplace. While I loved my new gig, I kind of missed the inn.
“Christina?” I called. I turned from the hall into the kitchen. “Anybody home?” Christina had been my assistant, and she snagged the job of chef when I left.
Nobody occupied the big industrial kitchen, but lunch prep was clearly under way. Stock simmered on the stove, and squash and carrots in the process of being chopped lay on the wide stainless-steel worktable.
Christina emerged from the front, a big smile erupting when she saw me. “Robert! You’re back.” She always played with my name.
“I was in town, thought I’d stop by.” We exchanged a hug, and I watched as she washed her hands. “How’s being head honcho treating you?”
She rolled her eyes and resumed chopping carrots. “You know. It’s crazy. But I love it. How about you? You’re both head honcho and owner now. Is it good? I hear you opened on the weekend.” A straight blond ponytail hung down her back from a white baseball cap with the inn’s logo on the front. Her slender hands were like machines with the knife, the carrots rapidly transformed into tiny cubes. “Sorry I couldn’t make it over. Things were nuts here with the foliage fanatics.”
“No worries. If you ever get a Monday off, come by and we can hang out.” I plopped onto a metal stool.
“I’ll do that.”
“The opening weekend was pretty good. Nothing burned up, and it was solid customers the whole time. Which reminds me . . . I have to get to the bank sometime today.”
“Money to put in the bank’s always a good thing. But what about this murder over in South Lick?”
I grimaced. “Stella Rogers. She came into my place for breakfast. The bad thing is, she was found with one of my special biscuits stuffed in her mouth. So the police think I might have done it.”
“You kidding me? One of your signature cheesy biscuits?” She paused and looked up. “But you wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
“Of course not.” I tapped my finger on the counter. “I have a question for you. Do you ever hear anything about Ed Kowalski’s restaurant?”
“Other than that it’s a plain-wrap, low-quality breakfast-and-lunch joint? Not really. Although people seem to love it. I’m only glad we don’t do breakfast, other than the continental spread we put out for paying guests. Why do you ask?”
“I hired a local teenager yesterday to help out. She was working for Ed, but she didn’t seem too happy about him. When I asked Ed how she was as a worker, he put on a big old frown and said she was standoffish.”
Christina laughed. “That lech? He’ll feel up anything with boobs. It doesn’t matter how old or how young. He has a hard time keeping female employees.”
“That must be it. How disgusting. Danna isn’t even twenty and he’s gotta be fifty.”
She rolled her eyes. “Way of the world, kiddo. Way of the world.”
“Is he married?”
“Not sure. Betsy told me he grew up in South Lick, though.”
“I saw a picture of him from a few years back with Stella, the woman who was killed,” I said. “In the photo they were both smiling, but he claimed they weren’t friends.”
“He probably went to kindergarten with her or something.”
“So maybe Ed grew up in South Lick. He came into the store Saturday with Don, the guy who owns the hardware store.”
“Well, married or not, Ed’s sure not my type.”
I laughed. “Well, duh.” I knew Christina’s type was Betsy, a lean welder.
“Speaking of type, you found anybody your type lately?” She waggled her eyebrows. “It’s time to get over Will, you know.”
I nodded slowly. Even though I’d left Will behind in California, I’d poured out the whole story to Christina when we worked together. “Funny you should ask.” I told her about my date with Jim. “I’m making him dinner tonight, actually.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Get out of here, now. I have work to do.”
“Same here.” We exchanged another hug and promised to see each other soon, somehow.
I checked the wall clock in my store and then my list. Three o’clock and many of my errands and chores were checked off. I was such a list person—if I forgot to add a task, but I’d already done it, I wrote it down simply to have the satisfaction of crossing it off.
I’d deposited the weekend’s cash at the bank, picked up frozen shrimp at the market and local produce from the farm stand for dinner, bought a litter box and litter, and cleaned the kitchen and living room. Working in the restaurant, I’d made tomorrow’s miso gravy, prepped the biscuit dough, and cut up pineapple, melon, and grapes for a fruit salad I’d add to the Specials menu on the chalkboard. I was pretty sure business on weekdays would be slower, but I still wanted to be ready. As I was washing up, someone knocked on the store’s front door. Walking over as I dried my hands on a towel, I spied Phil.
“Hey, feeling better?” I opened the door and stood back. He wore an old red IU sweatshirt with ratty jeans, and he held two wide trays stacked on top of each other.
“I am, thank the blessed Lord.” He handed me the trays, which were sealed with plastic wrap. “Take these. Be right back.” He turned, leaned into the back of his old Volvo station wagon, and drew out two more, then followed me into the store, setting them on the counter next to where I’d put the first two.
“Sit down for a minute?” I asked. “You must have taken a sick day.”
“I did. Whew,” he said, shaking his head as he sat. “I don’t recommend the twenty-four-hour stomach bug to anyone.” Somehow his dark skin looked pale and his eyes watered.
“Thanks for baking. Are you sure—”
“That I didn’t infect the brownies?” At least his wicked grin was his usual. “Yes, ma’am. I was over it by this morning. I wiped down my kitchen with disinfectant just in case, and I washed my hands about every two minutes as I was cooking.”
“Well, I appreciate it. We missed you Sunday, but by some miracle a competent young woman answered my ad and I hired her on the spot. Madam Mayor’s teenaged daughter, Danna.”
Phil laughed. “I used to babysit her, even though I’m only a few years older. She was a handful. Smart, but a bit too adventurous sometimes.”
“That’s funny.” Then reality dawned and I felt the smile drain off my face. “You heard about the murder, I assume. Hard to believe.”
“Stella. She never seemed happy, anytime I saw her.”
“You seem about the same age as her son, Roy. Did you go to school with him?”
He nodded. “That one donated his brain to science before he was done with it. He’d lose a debate with a doorknob.”
“That’s not very nice, Phil. But Roy’s odd, for sure. I ran into him in the hardware store this morning. What was it Don said to him? Something about being nice, like Don had tried to help him before.”
“Don coached his Little League team and he’s kind of looked after Roy ever since.”
“Roy didn’t seem too broken up about his mother being killed.”
“I don’t know if he’s got Asperger’s or if he simply has different reactions than most people.” Phil shook his head. “His dad died when he was a kid, and that was tough on him.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I never even thought about Stella having a husband. What did he die of?”
“I don’t remember. I was a kid, too.” He raised his eyebrows and stood. “I’m off. Rehearsal tonight.”
I stood as well. “What’s the show this time?”
“It’s Copeland’s The Tender Land. Absolutely gorgeous. And I have the male lead.” He grinned.
“Get out. Really? That’s awesome.” I knew he aspired to a career in opera. “Thanks again for the desserts, Phil. You’ll do more on Thursday for the weekend?”
“You bet.” He left, humming as he went.