A Crusty Murder (6 page)

I leaned against the window frame. My mind raced with thoughts and questions that tumbled over one another.

Another day, another loaf of bread sold. Keeping track of sales and supplies was enough to make my tired brain swim. The murder of my landlady, the man of my dreams lurking about in the dark, and Detective Graham stopping by at the least opportune moment, left my head pounding and my temper short.

“Mr. Denman wants to place an order for finger rolls and croissants, Melina,” Seanmhair called into the kitchen.

Up to my armpits in dough, I snapped, “Can you take the order? I’m busy.”

Seanmhair stepped through the door and stared at me in silence. She fetched the order pad from the shelf and went on her way. I blew a hefty sigh and shook my head. Never had I spoken to my grandmother in that tone. Shame rolled over me as I cleaned my hands of dough and flour.

The bell over the front door tinkled. Mr. Denman had left the shop. I rounded the work table and went out to apologize to Seanmhair. She wiped the glass counter with a damp cloth and then looked up at me.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. It was rude of me,” I said.

“No apologies necessary,” Seanmhair answered. “You have a lot on your mind. Did you not sleep well? Do you wish to speak of it?”

“Not really. There’s so much going on right now and Detective Graham stopped by last night with more questions. Then Aidan came by, which is another issue in and of itself.” I beckoned Seanmhair to the kitchen. While I worked, I explained the evening before.

She listened, brewed a pot of tea, and gathered muffins from the bakery case. Then she set it all down on a clean table. When Seanmhair cajoled me into joining her, I did willingly.

“This situation has gotten under your skin,” Seanmhair noted. “It’s not like you to react like this. What can I do to help?”

“There isn’t much
I
can do, so I have nothing to ask of you,” I responded. “All the tenants plan to meet tonight. If you’d like to stay and be an extra pair of eyes for me, I’d be grateful for that. We’re meeting at five in BettyJo’s shop.”

Seanmhair nodded and left the table when the entry bell sounded. She assured me that she’d be happy to stay for the get together. Relieved at her willingness to observe the group, I cleared away our snack remains and finished the job at hand.

*    *    *

Five o’clock rolled around quicker than I’d anticipated. My days were crazy and seemingly shorter. How had my life gotten so far out of control? Why would anyone want to incriminate me? I had no enemies and from what I could tell, neither did BettyJo. Then Aidan’s face popped into my mind. Weary and worried, I straightened the shop for the night and headed upstairs to change.

I followed my fellow renters as they shuffled into the reading room. BettyJo had set out chairs and dragged the sofa in from the waiting room to accommodate all of us.

We greeted one another like long lost friends, though we hardly ever met, except over business concerns. This meeting was no different, other than we had one common goal, to find out what each of us knew about Mrs. Peterson’s demise.

Seanmhair had arrived early to take the best seat, one that offered her a view of everyone in the room. She threw me a smile and a wink.

Once everyone settled comfortably, George Carly and I stood together and explained about why we were here and how important it was to help one another.

“The transition to a new landlord doesn’t need to be difficult,” George said. “I’ve had a call from Cindy Peterson. She’ll temporarily collect the rents. Cindy’s not sure how long that’ll be. I guess she plans to move to New York City and would have done so within the next few weeks if her mother hadn’t died.”

George glanced at me and nodded. I picked up where he left off. “George, BettyJo, and I have been discussing the death of Mrs. Peterson. If anyone here has information to share about our landlady and who might want to harm her, this is your moment to talk about it. Even the smallest and least important detail can be helpful in the search for her murderer.”

Carl Mack poked his business partner, Bill Mutton, in the ribs. The two men operated Mack & Mutt’s Pizzeria in the end unit of our building. Carl’s blue eyes sparkled with humor as he said, “That list would be longer than Santa’s gift list, Melina. How are we to know who would or wouldn’t do such a thing?”

A murmur of agreement rustled around the room. Carl had a point, but in our businesses, we often hear more than we realize. I nodded at Carl and answered, “You have a point, but like it or not, you are in a position to hear more than the rest of us when it comes to gossip.” I pointed to the two men and said, “A business like yours, where people gather to eat, is generally ripe with conversational tidbits. You may not even know what you’ve heard is important. If you remember something, let me know. That’s all I ask. BettyJo and I are on the list of suspects at the moment. It’s an extremely uncomfortable place to be and we need your help.”

Stretching her long fingers out, Sondra Greenfield examined her dark red, painted, claw-like fingernails in a bored manner. Sondra’s high-end apparel store lay next door to BettyJo’s shop. Once she’d studied her manicure to her satisfaction, she glanced around the room.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but that Peterson woman was a nasty bitch who got what was coming to her. I’d like to know, though, just how your bread got into her mouth, Melina,” Sondra asked.

I heard a slight gasp and then Sondra said, “Sorry, Seanmhair. I didn’t mean to use rude language in your presence.”

Seanmhair nodded, winked at me, and leaned back on the sofa. Nobody knew, to my knowledge, anyway, that my grandmother had been to a strip joint with her man friend who’d had a lap dance. If they’d known, there’d have been no apology.

“To clarify that assumption for all of you, the bread wasn’t mine,” I remarked. “I have no idea where it came from, but it was certainly meant to incriminate me. Why Mrs. Peterson was left in this shop is another mystery.”

“So you’re planning to solve the crime instead of allowing the police department to earn their wages?” asked Kristina Papien, of the Pots & Plants Flower Shop situated next door to Mack & Mutt’s. Her unruly dark hair sprang out from her head and bobbed all over the place. It appeared as though she’d recently touched live electrical wires with a devastating effect. Oval shaped, artistic rimmed glasses perched on her small nose. Those piercing almond-shaped eyes missed nothing. Her athletic build, muscular runner’s legs, along with her height left me wishing I worked out more.

In a flash, I thought of what Detective Graham’s reaction would be to her words. I scowled. “I’m not about to interfere with their job. My intention is to ensure my name and BettyJo’s are clear. We don’t propose to spend one moment in jail for a crime neither of us committed.”

“I didn’t mean to be annoying. I only want public servants to earn their wages. We have to earn ours as business owners, so they should do so, as well,” Kristina asserted.

She’d been on a political rant since the first time she’d seen the news people following state workers around with their cameras, trying to catch someone in a wrongful situation. We all avoided that topic when Kristina was around.

Charlie Franklin stretched his long legs out in front of him. If he were more relaxed, he’d be asleep. He gave Kristina a smile and offered his opinion.

“Kristina, we’re aware of how you feel about public servants. It’s important that the police solve this crime, but truly, you must see that Melina and BettyJo are in a spot. We need to help them as much as possible.” He turned to the group, glanced at each person, smiled at Seanmhair, and then said to me, “We’ll do what we can. Mrs. Peterson was a wicked business woman who acted as though she was above us, but nobody should be murdered, especially like she was. If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know, Melina.”

“I agree with Charlie. We’ll do whatever we can for you both,” Helena Bentwood, cupcake maker extraordinaire, addressed BettyJo and me.

“Oh, and I brought cupcakes if anyone wants one.” Helena slipped the box from under her folding chair and opened it before she passed it to Seanmhair. The box made the rounds. Each of us took a cake and made sounds of pure enjoyment as we ate the lovely creations from The Crafty Cupcake. Helena’s shop was wedged between George Carly’s antique store and Charlie Franklin’s Fine Art Collectibles. While her shop was only two doors away from mine, I tried to stay away from the delightful cakes Helena sold. I had enough fluff and didn’t need to add to it.

BettyJo had remained quiet during the conversation and questions posed by our mutual shop owners. What ran through her head was anyone’s guess. From the relieved expression on her face, it was a sure bet she’d found the meeting more beneficial than I had.

One by one, each renter left with a promise to contact when, and if, they came up with anything they considered useful to our snooping. Seanmhair waited for George Carly, the last to leave, to close the door behind him. When he was gone, Seanmhair said, “That was fairly interesting, but not as revealing as I’d hoped.”

“You didn’t think the killer would step forth, did you?” I asked.

With a shake of her head, Seanmhair answered, “Not likely, but then, I did get the feeling Sondra knew more than she wanted to share. You’ll be smart to watch that one.” Seanmhair thanked BettyJo for her hospitality and then shrugged into her coat.

I said I’d walk her to her car and promised BettyJo that I’d return shortly. BettyJo nodded and watched us from the back door window as we made our way to Seanmhair’s car. I waited until my grandmother drove away and then went back to BettyJo’s shop, Tingly Tarots. I wasn’t feeling very tingly, but I did smile at the name BettyJo had given her business.

Two glasses of wine sat on the table. I slouched into a chair and studied the rich, burgundy liquid.

“Did you put a potion in here, by any chance?” I asked with a grin.

“No, but I can if you want one. How about a love potion for you and Mr. Sinclair?” BettyJo offered with a humorous snort.

I brushed her offer aside and said, “No, no, I’m fine. What did you think of the meeting? Nobody was very forthcoming. Why were you as quiet as a mouse?”

“I wanted to see who’d speak up, what we’d learn, and I wanted a chance to watch their faces and listen to the nuances of their voices. Seanmhair seemed to be doing the same thing. It all helps when reading people,” BettyJo said. “I focused on each person as they spoke. Two have secrets, one knows why Mrs. Peterson died, and
we
have to get to the bottom of it all. I’m sure Detective Graham won’t detect enough to find the culprit. Frankly, I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”

“Who has secrets?” I asked.

BettyJo gulped her wine, leaned both elbows on the table, and said, “Sondra knows more than she’s saying. She and Mrs. Peterson might have come from the same mold, you know.” She grunted her disgust and then murmured, “Kristina Papien and Bill Mutton have secrets. You don’t think they’re involved in this, do you?”

I opened my mouth when a knock came on the door. We jumped at the same time, looked at one another, and giggled over our nervousness. BettyJo sauntered to the front door.

I heard BettyJo say, “Come in, we were just having a glass of wine. Join us, Mr. Sinclair, please.”

My heart simultaneously raced and plummeted. First off, I was excited at seeing him, this man of my dreams. My second issue was the fact that he’d hovered in the shadowed parking area. That had sent my nerves jangling like old tin pots crashing together.

A smile plastered on my face, I greeted Aidan when he walked into the card reading area. He returned the greeting and sat on a nearby chair.

“How did your meeting go, lass?” Aidan asked me.

“We didn’t learn anything of value. The group has agreed to help in any way possible, but frankly, I’m not hopeful.”

BettyJo gave me a wide-eyed look, but kept her comments to herself. She poured a glass of wine for Aidan and handed it to him. He sniffed the bouquet and swirled the wine in the glass. I wondered if he thought it was a collector’s wine instead of a recent vintage. I hid my smile and waited.

“Good wine. Nice bouquet,” Aidan said teasingly.

“I only buy the best, Mr. Sinclair.” BettyJo laughed and asked if I wanted more. I shook my head and covered the glass with my hand when she attempted to refill it.

“Too bad you couldn’t get the information you so badly sought, lass. I did hope you’d have success, even though it could be dangerous for you both,” Aidan remarked.

I asked, “You didn’t happen to notice anything out of the ordinary the night I found Mrs. Peterson, did you, Aidan?”

His brows drew together. He considered the question, then shook his head. “No, sorry, I didn’t see anything. I was late for class, anyway, my business meeting lasted longer that I’d anticipated, and there wouldn’t have been the chance.”

My cell phone rang. With a nod at Aidan’s reply to my query, I answered the call.

“Do you want to talk about what I saw tonight while I have you on the phone?” Seanmhair asked. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Everything all right?”

“If you give me a second, I’ll answer your questions,” I said and chuckled at her rapid-fire questions. “BettyJo and I are having a chat, and Aidan just stopped by. Why don’t we talk in the morning?”

“Sure, if you want to wait that long. I noticed a couple things of interest, so if you’re not too much longer, call me back and we’ll talk. My old bones are tired, but there are things you need to know.”

“Right, well, I’ll be in touch, then,” I answered.

BettyJo and Aidan turned as I ended the call. I smiled, but didn’t offer an explanation concerning the caller. Instead, I stared at Aidan. A few things about him had started to bother me. Now was as good a time as any to find out more about him.

“The other day, Seanmhair said she saw you leaving Sharpner’s. Will you be doing business with them?” I wanted to know.

His eyes steady, Aidan never flicked an eyelash or blinked. Instead, he covered his yawn and then smiled.