Chapter 12
Sue gasped. I opened my mouth, then shut it, having no idea what to do or say. I blinked and stood. It seemed Paula and Max had exchanged roles.
“Now, hon, don’t you be talking nonsense,” Sue said, tugging at Paula’s hand. “Robbie here wouldn’t hurt our Erica. Sit on down, now.”
“No, Mama. I mean it. All this stuff about somebody breaking in. It was Robbie’s store. She could have broken the glass herself.”
I shook my head. “I should go.”
“Hang on a sec, Robbie,” Glen said, standing and holding up his hand. “Paulie, she wouldn’t have any reason to do away with Erica. She didn’t even know her.”
“Well, who would?” Paula’s voice turned into a wail. “Who’d kill my little sister?” After she turned, sobbing, into Max’s chest, he led her out of the room.
Sue and Glen exchanged a glance at the sound of a door clicking shut down the hall. “Robbie, we’re so sorry. We ain’t holding up too well, none of us,” Sue said.
“But that’s the question, isn’t it?” Vince spoke up. “Who would have wanted Erica dead?”
Glen sank down on a stool at the island and set his forehead in his hand. He glanced up, rubbing his hand all the way over his head, landing it on his neck. “Fact is, our girl made a lot of waves in this world, and they weren’t nice smooth ones, either. She sure had a knack of rubbing folks the wrong way. Right, Sue?”
“Right.” Sue’s eyes were drawn down at their outer edges. “I don’t know what I done wrong raising her up. Paulie ain’t that way. Even as a little girl, Erica would say things to hurt people’s feelings, bless her heart. She’d manipulate situations so it was always somebody else’s fault, and she didn’t hold back none getting the news out. You must have seen her in action, Vince, being friends with her and Jon up there in Chicago.”
“I did.” Vince took one of the stools, too. He jiggled his knee up and down with a fast movement.
“And then in high school, whoo boy. That girl made trouble like nobody’s business.” Sue shook her head. “We thought, once she met Jon and married him, she’d smooth out, like. He was such a calm, sweet man.” She glanced at me. “Like his brother, Jim.”
“She didn’t seem so smooth to me,” Vince said. “I was friends with Jon, you know. We worked in the same firm. But I’d go out with them sometimes. Erica was so smart, and so pretty. Jon was her slave, really. He adored her.”
“We were so proud of her getting her master’s degree in design up there,” Glen said, a wistful note in his voice.
“She worked hard at it. But, well . . . I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.” Vince gazed at the floor.
But you’re going to anyway, I thought. The phrase invariably led to a negative comment about the deceased.
“Go ahead,” Glen urged.
“I’m afraid she flirted with me. All the time,” Vince said. “I could see it hurt Jon, so I pretty much stopped seeing them as a couple. I’d get a beer with Jon once in a while after work, but I didn’t want to go near Erica.”
I watched Vince as he fidgeted. Why had he come down here after her death, then, if he didn’t even like Erica? It was a five-hour drive and he must have had to take time off from work.
“We’re awful glad you came down to pay your respects, anyway, Vince,” Sue said. “You’re the only person we’re aware of who knew her up there.”
“Jim told me his parents wanted to come down, but his mom isn’t well enough,” I said.
Sue pushed her lips out. “I meant besides the Shermers. They called us, Robbie, and expressed their sympathies. She was their daughter-in-law, after all.”
“Do you think someone from her past, like from high school, still held a grudge against Erica?” I asked.
Glen spread his hands. “It’s possible. South Lick is a pretty small town. I guess I’d better let the lady detective know about Erica’s ways.”
* * *
I flipped on the Christmas lights in the store once I got home, a little past sunset. Their twinkling spots of cheer lightened my mood after my very unsettling visit. Paula accusing me of killing Erica. The odd, jittery Vince. Erica’s own parents saying how difficult she was.
Shaking it off, I got busy prepping for tomorrow. First up, assemble the gingerbread dough, so it could chill for a couple of hours before I baked it. After I scrubbed my hands and pulled on an apron, I mixed up the stiff dough, marveling at the small quantities necessary to make only a single recipe. I wasn’t used to cooking regular portions anymore. I set it in the cooler, then measured out the flour for the biscuits, half whole wheat and half unbleached white, into my big stainless bowl, mixing in baking powder and salt. I sliced butter into the mix with the oversized vintage pastry cutter, pressing the U-shaped wires down again and again until the flour was the texture of coarse meal. Why would Paula have thought I might have murdered Erica? I didn’t have a reason in the world to kill her. To kill anybody, for that matter.
Making a well in the flour, I cracked in eggs and stirred them with a fork before adding milk and grated cheddar. And then there was Vince. He said himself he didn’t care for Erica and had stopped spending time with her. So why drive all the way from Chicago after she was killed? It didn’t seem like he knew Sue and Glen previously. Wait. Jim had described someone like Vince from Jon and Erica’s wedding, so he’d at least met the family.
I floured the big marble pastry slab and kneaded the dough only enough to bring it all together, then slid it into a clean plastic bag, sealed it, and set it in the walk-in cooler. I carried out two heads of cabbage, one green and one purple, and a bag of carrots to make a fresh batch of coleslaw for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. As I trimmed the carrots and peeled them one by one, I wondered if Octavia would check out Erica’s history back to her high school days. Abe’s story about how Erica treated people absolutely jibed with Sue and Glen’s.
I chopped the cabbage into chunks and fitted the grater attachment onto the industrial-sized food processor. I fed the carrots in, switched to the slicing plate, and stuffed in the cabbage, watching the satisfying process of a machine shredding it all in seconds instead of me chopping it for half an hour. After scooping the mix out into a wide bowl, I assembled the dressing, adding the dollop of prepared horseradish key to the flavor of the dish. Hands were the best way to combine it all, so I scrubbed my hands again, then pushed up my sleeves, poured the dressing on, and dug both hands into the cool, mayonnaisey mix of slaw bits.
My cell rang in my bag where I’d dropped it on the desk. Naturally, someone chose this very minute to call me. I debated for only a moment whether I should rush to wipe my hands off and answer it. Nah. If it was important, whoever it was would leave a message. Or better, text me. I scooped and tossed the salad until it was evenly coated, wishing the puzzle of who killed Erica was so easily dealt with.
After I covered the slaw and carried it into the walk-in, I checked the wire shelves. Bacon and sausage for the morning? Check. Gallons of orange juice? Yes. I knew I had plenty of syrup, and the gravy I’d made for yesterday would still be good, both the meat gravy and the version I offered with a base of miso for vegetarians like Jim. I had fruit for the fruit salad Danna would prepare as soon as she got in tomorrow. I shivered from the cold, but kept visualizing the menu. I’d grate potatoes for hash browns in the morning. What about lunch? I had lettuce, pre-sliced cheese, veggie burger patties.... My eyes widened. I’d forgotten to order more meat for the burgers. And it had to be at least six o’clock by now, so I couldn’t call the supplier.
I hurried out and clicked the heavy door shut after me. My stomach complained bitterly of emptiness. I’d had only a quick protein bar after my ride, and it’d been a while since my sandwich with Phil, but I made myself turn on the digital tablet and bring up the restaurant inventory app before I let myself find dinner. With such short notice, I decided to order both pre-formed beef and turkey patties as well as the five-pound amounts I usually bought, and prayed the supplier would be able to deliver tomorrow. I preferred to form the patties myself, adding my special herb mix to the meat, which came from a local farm. Was there anything else I needed to order? I tapped in an order for a few dozen buns, just to be sure, and added a half-dozen avocados. They always arrived rock hard and needed time to ripen for next weekend’s brunch offerings. I added a rush request for delivery by eleven the next morning, even though they’d charge me extra for it. One of these days I’d get more organized.
The ordering done, I wiped down the counters and cleaned everything I’d used, then I grabbed my bag and headed into my apartment. I decided to keep the holiday lights on all night. They looked so pretty and festive, and they might signal to the town things were back to normal at Pans ’N Pancakes.
“Hey, Birdy,” I said to my little, uncomplicated friend. He ran to his empty food dish, and then wove through my legs, mewing his request: Please give me my dinner, already. I scooped his food into his dish and made sure he had clean water.
But what was I going to have for dinner? I pulled open the fridge to see pretty slim pickings. The older coleslaw. A carton of eggs. The dregs of ajar of pesto. Half a container of goat cheese. And a loaf of sourdough bread. The chef didn’t seem to be taking very good care of herself on the home front. I rubbed my forehead. It was hard to manage a restaurant and a half-decent personal life, too. I pulled it all out and resolved to go to the grocery store tomorrow afternoon.
One pesto-goat-cheese-omelet with toast and coleslaw later, I sipped a glass of Pinot Grigio and played with Birdy. I swung a toy mouse I’d hung on a string from a dowel, like a fishing rod. Birdy watched it, then sprang up over and over trying to catch the mouse, which I kept just out of reach. When he grew tired of the game, I pulled out my phone. The image of Vince kept jumping into my brain just like Birdy’s leaps, and I wanted to know more about him. Max had told me his last name, and as I recalled it was something like Pitsinski. I started searching, but it definitely wasn’t that spelling, so I started subbing in other likely vowels and consonants. I’d entered Vincent Pytzynski Chicago when Google asked me if I meant Pytzynska. Aha.
I peered at the results. There was the law firm. There was him announced as Jon’s best man at the wedding. There was . . . what? I tapped the link. Vince had attended Brown County High School, only five miles from here, and had been president of the math club. So he wasn’t from Chicago, after all. And might well have known Erica, since South Lick High and Brown County played each other in sports and often combined other activities like dances and projects. Now wasn’t that interesting? Ms. Detective Octavia Slade might want to know this particular piece of information.
* * *
I headed back into the restaurant to bake the gingerbread walls. I’d read they needed to dry out for a couple of days before being assembled and decorated. I preheated the oven and rolled out the dough, then placed Phil’s templates on top, carefully cutting around them. After setting the timer for eight minutes, I wandered around the store tidying up the shelves, humming “The First Noel,” doing my best to simply be present in the moment.
Twenty minutes later, the gingerbread sat cooling on a rack under a light dishtowel, and I sat curled up on the couch in my apartment with a book of Sudoku puzzles, Birdy purring at my feet. I usually whizzed through Sudoku, except right now my focus was shot. I’d called Octavia and left a message, telling her what I knew about Vince. I told her I didn’t know if he was staying with the Berrys or not, and I spelled his name in the message. He was an odd dude. I didn’t know why he would have murdered Erica, but anything was possible.
The little light in the corner of the phone pulsed at me: the call that had come in while I was making coleslaw. After I checked and saw it’d been Jim, I called him back.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, yourself. Called you earlier.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I was literally up to my elbows mixing up coleslaw, and then I forgot to check my phone until right now. What’s up?”
“I was going to ask you over for a fancy omelet dinner. But I got too hungry and ate alone.”
I laughed. “I had exactly the same dinner. Also alone.”
“How was your day?”
“Pretty interesting.” I yawned. “And full.” I told him what I’d learned about Erica. “But you must have known all those details already. That she was difficult?”
“Some of it. I didn’t know about when she was a teenager, though. I always say I grew up here, but we moved to Chicago before I started high school. As I told you, I didn’t make the trip up to spend much time with Jon and Erica after I moved back here five years ago. I was too busy getting my practice going.” His voice grew soft. “Now I can’t spend time with either of them.”
“I know what you mean. After my mom died with no warning while I was already living in Indiana, I wished I’d gone back to visit more often. But we can’t change the past.”
He fell silent. Finally he said, “What’s the rest of your week look like?”
“The usual. Breakfast and lunch for the town. At least I hope customers will show up and not stay away because they’re freaked out I found a dead body on the floor.”
“I’ll see what I can do to talk it up. I’ll be in Nashville all day tomorrow, though, and I have a closing at six. Hey, did the Berrys say anything about a service for Erica?”
“No, they didn’t. Jim, remember you mentioned meeting a friend of Jon’s at the wedding, the pale nervous one? Was his name Vincent?”
“Right. How did you know?”
“He came down today to pay his respects, or at least that’s what Sue said. He was there at the house this afternoon.”
“Good of him,” Jim said.
“I keep thinking about him. He acts really odd. Anyway, I Googled him. One article said he went to Brown County High School. He might have known Erica here.”
“He never mentioned it at the wedding. But I didn’t spend much time talking with him.”
“I left a message about him for Octavia. In case she wants to check him out.” There, an opening for him to tell me the rest of the story of how he knew Octavia.
“You’re thinking this Vincent might have killed Erica?” Jim asked.
Opening ignored. “I don’t know. What if Erica wronged him and he held a grudge all these years? Who knows if he arrived today like he said—”
“Or came down Saturday? It seems a little far-fetched, Robbie.”
“Not as far-fetched as Paula accusing me of murdering Erica.”
“That’s crazy. She did, really?” he asked.
“Yep.” I yawned again. “Listen, I have an early day tomorrow. Let’s have dinner later in the week, okay?”
“I’d like that.” His voice lowered to a sexy rasp. “I think about you all the time, you know.”
“Same here, Jim. Same here.” I laughed. But did I think about him all the time? Not really.
“Good night, then.”
I said good night and disconnected. Jim was a really great guy. He was smart, fun to be with, sexy. And he cared about me. A lot. I liked him, too, also a lot. But I didn’t think about him all the time. Sometimes, sure. Was that going to be enough? I frowned and blew out a breath. Was I getting cold feet? I supposed I was still protecting myself from being dropped. When my mistake of a husband, Will, had abruptly left me for a hot California fighter pilot, I’d felt burned by more than jet fuel. My heart had a big sear mark on it and the scar was still tender. And yet I yearned for love, and Jim was a perfect candidate. Intelligent, attractive, healthy, successful—and interested in me.
Why did life have to be so complicated?