MURDER WITH A CHEESE BISCUIT

A green-and-white town police car sat idling in one of the diagonal parking spots, its lights reflecting garishly off the grinning stack of pancakes painted in blue and white on the front window. Buck opened the door and stood up. I hurried around the hybrid to greet him.

“Is something wrong? Somebody didn’t break into the store, did they?”

“I need to know where you were at this afternoon and evening, Ms. Jordan.”

“Why?”

Jim strode up. “What’s going on? Was there an accident?”

“You might say that. Robbie?”

“I was cleaning here from the end of the lunch crowd pretty much until Jim picked me up for dinner at seven.”

“What time did the last customer leave?” Buck asked.

“Around two-thirty. I sent Adele and Phil home at three.”

Buck turned to Jim. “You can vouch for her whereabouts from seven o’clock until now?”

“I can.” Jim frowned. “Tell us what happened.”

Buck let out a mournful sigh. “Stella Rogers’s son Roy found her dead in her house tonight.”

“What does her death have to do with me?” I heard my voice rise and swallowed hard.

“She did not die of natural causes,” Buck said.

“Oh, no. That’s awful,” I said.

“Do you mean she was murdered?” Jim’s voice came out low and slow.

“Yup. And then somebody stuffed a cheesy biscuit in her mouth.”

Buck stared at me.

A cheesy biscuit. One of my cheesy biscuits . . .