A Crouton Murder Read online

  Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

  Rockland, Ontario, Canada

  Copyright © 2013 J.M. Griffin

  Exclusive cover © 2013 Laura Givens

  Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

  A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

  from the National Library of Canada

  Ebooks are available for purchase from

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  ISBN 978-1-927555-39-2

  Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

  Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my mother, who fed us all the best homemade bread ever.

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to Carolyn Sullivan, whose tarot card knowledge is simply amazing.

  Also Available

  Esposito Series:

  For Love of Livvy (Book 1)

  Dirty Trouble (Book 2)

  Dead Wrong (Book 3)

  Cold Moon Dead (Book 4)

  Season for Murder (Book 5)

  The Esposito Series Box Set (Books 1-3)

  Deadly Bakery Series:

  A Crusty Murder (Book 1)

  Coming Soon

  Focaccia Fatality

  (Deadly Bakery Series Book 3)

  A Crouton Murder

  Chapter 1

  Sounds of choking and gagging reached me as I entered BettyJo Seever’s shop. She’d set the tarot reading room up for an impromptu dinner. I gawked as her father grasped his throat, writhed on the floor, and suddenly lost consciousness. After I’d hurriedly called 9-1-1, rescue personnel soon rushed into the room to take over the scene. Alongside a police officer, I stood and watched paramedics finger sweep his mouth for an obstruction before they bundled Franklin Seever onto a stretcher and rolled him out the door followed by BettyJo.

  When she’d reached the door, BettyJo glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be at the hospital. You’ll be right along, won’t you?”

  I said I would as soon as I locked up for her. BettyJo glanced at the others before she hurried out. I turned to the officer and asked, “What can I do for you, Bailey?”

  Alan Bailey and I had taken college courses together before I realized I wanted to bake bread for a living. He was broad but physically fit. I noticed how Bailey’s brown eyes took in our surroundings without missing a beat. We hadn’t been close friends, but had attended the same parties, gone to the same Providence Bruins hockey games, and had even cheered for the same players.

  “Good to see you, Melina, even if it is under these circumstances. Tell me what happened.” His voice was rich, not baritone rich, but even and soothing. A coercing voice that encouraged a person to spill their secrets, so-to-speak. He glanced at the other guests who were waiting to give their accounts of the events, and then gave me his full attention.

  “Franklin is BettyJo’s father. She invited him and a few friends for dinner. I’m not sure what happened. I’d run over to my shop for a loaf of focaccia bread and found Franklin choking when I came back.” I tipped my head toward the guests and said, “They might be able to tell you more.”

  After he’d made notes, he asked me to stay and beckoned the others forward. “What happened?”

  Helena Bentwood, owner of The Crafty Cupcake Shop, wrung her hands with worry while Charlie Franklin, an antiques dealer, spoke up.

  “We’d settled at the table, Franklin helped himself to salad, and began eating. He’d popped a couple of croutons in his mouth and before you know it, he was choking to death. None of us touched any of the food,” George said.

  “Can you bag the salad for me, Melina?” Alan asked.

  “I’d be happy to,” I answered and went to the cabinet to get plastic bags. Assured by Helena Bentwood’s statement that George was right, he let the two of them leave. The only people who remained were Ezra Canter and Corinda Blake. They’d arrived just before Franklin. Franklin had introduced them as work associates. Ezra was a banker with nearly the same views and power as Franklin. I figured Corinda, who worked in the bank’s employee benefits department, had tagged along due to her fascination for BettyJo’s dad. It could have been romantic fascination or maybe she wanted to be counted on the power scale. Her avid interest in the man had been obvious to everyone in attendance.

  “So you arrived at the same time as Mr. Seever, then?” Alan asked.

  “Just a few minutes before,” Ezra answered.

  “What are your relationships to Mr. Seever?” Alan asked, giving them each a long look.

  Ezra cleared his throat and said, “I’m a fellow banker. Franklin and I have been friends since we attended private school together.”

  “I’m in charge of employee relations at Franklin’s banking headquarters in Providence,” Corinda replied. Her confident, steady gaze held Alan’s for a moment before she quickly glanced away.

  Cops don’t look away, instead, they stare you down. I believe it to be part of their training academy curriculum. I hid a smirk at Corinda’s first lesson in her police interrogation experience. I’d been down this road not long ago and knew better than to act mightier-than-thou when faced down by a cop. Confidence is fine, but entitlement pisses them off.

  A bag of salad awaited the trip to the police lab. If Mr. Seever was dead, God forbid, or he’d had a reaction to something he’d eaten, the lab would figure it out.

  “You’re sure Mr. Seever only ate the croutons?” Alan insisted.

  With a nod, Ezra said, “Franklin said he was hungry and helped himself to the salad. He ate a couple of croutons and maybe a chunk of tomato.”

  “Who brought the salad?” Alan asked me.

  “BettyJo put the salad together. I made the croutons for her and left them here earlier today. Other than that, BettyJo did all the cooking, uh, except for the dessert. Helena baked cupcakes for dessert.” I thumbed in the direction of her shop up the street. “She owns The Crafty Cupcake Shop.”

  Alan turned to Ezra and Corinda. “That’ll be all for now. I have your information should I need to reach either of you.”

  Looks of relief flooded their faces. I watched as they gathered their coats and strode out the door in silence. Once they’d reached street level, I noticed Corinda started talking. Ezra grabbed her arm and kept moving toward his BMW parked at the curb across the street.

  Alan watched them, a serious gleam in his eyes. I figured he considered them persons of interest, but then maybe we all were. Briefly, Alan glanced around the shop. He muttered, “Look at all those doodads.”

  I chuckled. He smirked and answered his jingling phone. He listened intently for a few moments, glanced at me, hung up, and then tucked the phone in the holder attached to his utility belt. His expression usually bland, the only way I could read him was by the look in his eyes. I always knew when he was about to blow-up, laugh, or any of the other feelings one has. His eyes told me all of it. I was in trouble, big trouble.

  With a grunt, Alan said, “That was the EMS crew chief. He’s at the hospital with Mr. Seever. Mr. Seever may have been poisoned. It seems he would have died if he’d eaten much more. I’ll take that salad along with the croutons, Melina.” His face impersonal, his eyes spoke volumes, saying he was sorry to have to tell me this
. “Don’t leave town without calling me first. You’re a suspect. Sorry.”

  “Wh-what? You think I poisoned Franklin? I hardly know the man. I have no reason to poison him or anyone, for that matter.” I drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried to gather my wits. Shut-up, Melina, just shut your mouth now. If I was suspect number one, then I’d better keep my own counsel and not share information concerning BettyJo’s relationship with her father. Or the fact that the man was a tyrant. Yeah, keeping my trap shut would be wise, for all of us.

  “I’ll be handing this over to the detective division. You’ll likely hear from them as soon as the poison has been identified.” Alan tucked the notebook into his breast pocket and took the bag I offered him before he left.

  Worry weighed heavily on me. The lock clicked as I closed BettyJo’s back door. Racing from the parking lot in my Fiat, I rushed to Rhode Island Hospital’s emergency department. BettyJo probably wondered if I planned to show up.

  Her brown eyes huge as saucers, BettyJo paced the floor of the waiting room, her dress flowing gently as she went. I envied her thin, willowy shape and the wavy curl of her chestnut-colored hair. She’d been crying. Her make-up had smudged in pools under her eyes where she’d wiped it away. I gave her a hug and murmured, “Officer Bailey said your father had been poisoned. Will he be all right?”

  She nodded and mumbled something that sounded like, “He could have died, and it’s all my fault.”

  “Your fault? Why would it be? You didn’t poison the food. I know you didn’t.” I handed her a wad of tissues from my purse.

  “The police will figure out we argued all the time, and they’ll blame me. You know that, don’t you?” BettyJo wiped away her new flow of tears and blew her nose.

  “Why aren’t you in the cubicle with him? I’m sure he’d want you there.”

  “The nurse said I was to wait here and they’d let me know when Dad was taken to a room. He’s being admitted for observation.” BettyJo slumped into a well-used waiting room chair. She rubbed her face, ran her hands through her hair, and heaved a sigh. “Will Bailey handle the investigation?”

  “No, the department will assign a detective to the case.” I patted BettyJo’s shoulder. “I’m so glad your father is going to be fine. I’ll be the main suspect, BettyJo, because the croutons came from me.”

  BettyJo adamantly shook her head. “Nope, not happening again. We just went through a murder investigation. We can’t go through an attempted murder. Hell, I’ll lose my mind.”

  “I feel the same way, so let’s get serious and figure out who the hell did this and why. Otherwise, we might be roomies at the big house for bad-asses.”

  She’d opened her mouth to speak when an orderly approached. “Your father is going upstairs now. Would you follow me, please?” the slight man asked.

  We both rose and walked quickly behind him as he entered the elevator. Soundlessly, the doors slid closed and seconds later they reopened. Having advised us to stop at the nurse’s station around the corner to the left, the orderly stepped back into the elevator and wished us well.

  Corridors stretched out in a couple of directions. We scuttled to the way our orderly had pointed and stopped short at the nurse’s station. A dark-haired woman with a name badge pinned to her uniform glanced up.

  “Can I help you?” Nurse Hadley asked.

  “Could you direct us to Franklin Seever’s room?” BettyJo asked.

  Checking a roster, Nurse Hadley asked, “And you are?”

  “We’re his family,” BettyJo said as she motioned to both of us.

  Nurse Hadley checked her computer and then said, “He’s been put in room 14. You won’t stay long, will you? He needs rest.”

  We nodded in unison and skirted the station to get to Franklin’s room. A policeman stood at attention at the door. The single bed in the dismal private room held BettyJo’s father. His pale features were drawn, he lay completely still while monitors beeped and his I.V. dripped. I assumed that I’d look that way or worse if someone had just pumped my stomach. I shivered at the idea.

  The cop put his hand out to waylay our entry. BettyJo gave him a sharp glare and said, “That’s my father, and I’ll be going in there, so step aside.”

  He asked for identification and told me I wasn’t allowed in. Only family could visit. I nodded, gave BettyJo’s arm a squeeze, and said I’d be right here, awaiting her return.

  Her angry glare directed at the cop, BettyJo said she’d be back directly. I leaned against the wall on the left side of the doorway. The cop took up the right. He didn’t try passing the time away with idle chitchat, nor did I.

  Visitors and staff passed by, glanced at me and then at the cop, curiosity on their faces. I didn’t speak or smile. I just waited. Before long, BettyJo joined me and we left.

  “He’ll be fine. His throat is sore from where they stuck the tube down his throat, other than that, he’s pretty chipper for someone in his circumstances,” BettyJo remarked.

  We walked across the hospital grounds. The car park was jammed with vehicles ranging from jalopies to luxury cars. My small car was nestled among the low end of the money chain, as was BettyJo’s. I’d turned to her when Ezra’s hurried figure caught my eye. He’d scanned the parking lot, and then rushed across a service road, meant for rescues, before he scooted through a private hospital entrance.

  “How much do you know about Ezra and Corinda?” I asked while we skipped down a flight of stone steps into the parking area.

  “Corinda’s worked for Dad for years. Ezra’s been around since I was a teenager. He and Dad often go on holidays together. Ezra likes to fish, my father, well, not so much, but he goes anyway. I think it’s his chance to kick back and chill. Why?”

  “Ezra couldn’t get out of your shop fast enough. When he and Corinda crossed the street, she said something. He grabbed her arm and pushed her toward his car. I thought his actions were strange. He could have been stressed over what happened, though.” I left out that I’d just seen him scurrying into the hospital.

  “That must be it. Ezra’s upset over Dad.”

  “See you back at the shop?” I asked.

  She agreed and we parted ways. I drove across the bridge toward India Point and veered toward the row of shops where a group of us lived and worked. Mrs. Peterson, my former landlady, had bequeathed the building and its shops to her daughter. Since her mother had been murdered by that very same daughter, the court hadn’t stripped her of ownership, but had given the building’s operation over to an attorney to handle while Cindy was doing time. I pictured the pretty young woman as ancient, with witchy gray hair, hunched over a walker as she tottered from the prison, a ragged shawl draped over boney shoulders and her toothless face grim when she finally got out. Good grief, my imagination had taken a severe left. I shook my head and sighed.

  The attorney never came around, but left our rent collection up to his secretary. If repairs needed to be done, they were addressed immediately. A sweet change from dealing with Mrs. Peterson.

  Traffic was next to none in this part of town once office and shop hours had ceased for the day. My bakery, The Hole in the Wall, was next to BettyJo’s shop, with an unrented shop on the corner. The long building filled one side of the block on Wickendon Street, a historical and famous neighborhood. South Main and Benefit Streets led off from our string of shops, which brought business both ways.

  I slipped into a parking space behind the row of shops and saw BettyJo drive in and park. She walked toward me, her expression one of worry. I suddenly felt the responsibility of an oncoming investigation settle on my shoulders. It seemed not long ago all of us tenants were faced with this sort of encumbrance. I heaved a hearty sigh and slipped my arm through BettyJo’s.

  “Let’s get a sandwich from Mack & Mutt’s,” I suggested. “I’m famished and had to throw out dinner on orders from Bailey. He took the salad to be analyzed and said I was a suspect. Imagine? I’ve been back from Scotland for a week and we’v
e already been implicated in poisoning your father? Sheesh!”

  Her eyes on me, BettyJo missed a step and tripped up the back stairs leading to the row of businesses. I grasped her arm, hauled her upright, and exclaimed, “You did realize that implication, didn’t you?”

  Her slight shrug baffled me. Had she or hadn’t she figured that out?

  “Just because my father had a reaction to the salad doesn’t mean either of us poisoned him. I had time to think while I waited for you to arrive at the hospital. It occurred to me that we were absent from the room off and on while everyone got seated. Before that, the salad sat on the table and could have been fiddled with while they had wine and chitchatted. I brought dinner down from my apartment and you went for bread, which also offered a window of opportunity. Do you think Ezra or Corinda dropped poison in the salad?”

  It was my turn to shrug. The whole thing didn’t make sense to me. Who was the intended target? Me, BettyJo, or one of the five others? We would all have likely eaten the salad, so which one of us was the killer after? I couldn’t picture George or Helena doing such a thing, but then I’d never have suspected Mrs. Peterson’s killer, either.

  “Good question,” I said. “For all we know, any one of us could have been targeted by one of the others. We should look into Corinda and Ezra. Dig up whatever we can find out about them and go from there. Until we have a plan, let’s eat and talk about something less depressing than attempted murder. I think it’s safe to say our fellow renters weren’t part of it, though if we don’t find anything of use on your father’s friends, we’ll have to look at Helena and George.”

  “Sound ideas, both of them. Let’s talk about your trip to Scotland while we eat.”

  We strolled into the pizzeria, where Carl Mack stood behind the counter, his pen poised over an order pad. He grinned and said, “Boy, it’s been really dull around here while you were gone, Melina. Glad you’re back.” He grinned and then said to BettyJo, “Sorry to hear about your father. You must have been scared out of your mind.”