A Crouton Murder Read online

  She nodded, ordered a spinach calzone, and I ordered a pizza for one. When he’d disappeared into the kitchen, we settled at a corner table, which offered a view of both ends of Wickendon Street. I noticed BettyJo glance up and down the street off and on while we waited. I wondered what she was looking for, but didn’t ask.

  Carl brought our meals over and took a seat opposite us. “How was Scotland, Melina? Did you get married while you were there?”

  I’d recently returned from visiting Scotland with my grandmother, Seanmhair (pronounced shen-u-ver). I’d met Aidan Sinclair, a handsome Scot, when he took a bread making class from me. The time we’d spent together had turned to friendship and a bit more, which culminated in an invitation to visit his home in the Highlands. With a snort, I said, “Hardly. Seanmhair was in her glory and didn’t want to leave. I had a good time, loved the hospitality shown us by Aidan and his household staff, but thoughts of getting my business back up and running worried me. Aidan is a great host, his family tree is impressive, and the home he lives in is amazing.” I picked a slice of pizza off the plate and gobbled it up.

  “Did Aidan stay in Scotland, or did he return to the States with you?”

  “He had business at home, so we came back alone. How have you two been doing since Kristina was arrested?” I murmured softly. Carl’s business partner, Bill Mutton, had been dating Kristina when she was found to be involved in Mrs. Peterson’s death.

  “Bill moped around for a while, mostly because he was so shocked over Kristina’s actions. He seems to be perking up. We’ve been real busy, so that’s kept his mind occupied.” Carl glanced at BettyJo and remarked, “I hear somebody will soon move into the shop next to yours. Do you know what business it’ll be?”

  “I don’t know. A few people have looked at it while Melina was away, but no one has signed a lease as yet that I’m aware of. A couple came to check it out today. They were in there with the attorney’s secretary for quite a while.”

  “It’s not good for a building like ours to have an empty shop. It points to signs of economic stress and shines a poor light on all of our businesses,” Carl said. “I was hoping George would encourage one of his friends to rent the store. It’s a corner, so it costs more to rent than an inner shop does.”

  “It’s a perfect place for just about any enterprise,” I added and finished off another slice of pizza.

  We’d nearly finished eating when Detective Porter Anderson strode through the door. He glanced at me, nodded, and then read the overhead menu. Carl left us and took his place behind the counter. After Porter ordered, he came toward us, taking in the shop and us in one sharp look. His gray-eyed stare, all serious and nerve wracking, rested on me. I pushed a chair out for him and finished my pizza before his questions caused me to lose my appetite.

  “Evening, ladies,” Porter greeted us softly.

  Chapter 2

  I chewed a mouthful of pizza and dipped my head in acknowledgment of his arrival. BettyJo leaned back in her chair and gawked at him. Once I’d swallowed, I asked, “What brings you to the neighborhood, Porter?” As if I didn’t know.

  “I’ve been assigned the investigation into your father’s poisoning, BettyJo.” He turned that light-eyed gaze on me and continued, “According to Bailey, you’re my main suspect. I have other ideas, but would like to talk to you privately anyway, Melina.”

  “Can it wait until morning? I’m beat, and I have to prepare dough for tomorrow,” I griped.

  “I’ll be brief. I’ll meet you at the bakery after I’ve eaten, how’s that?”

  BettyJo jumped into the conversation. “Should I be there, too?”

  “No, I’ll see you afterward,” he answered with a slight smile.

  It occurred to me that he might think BettyJo and I were partners in crime. Good grief, just what I didn’t need was another law enforcement issue. I agreed to his request, dumped a couple of leftover pizza crusts into the bin near the table, and stacked the plate on the tray atop others. I sauntered from the pizzeria just as Carl slid a calzone in front of Porter. BettyJo hurried to catch up once I’d hit the sidewalk.

  “He’s adorable, isn’t he? He has eyes for you, Melina,” BettyJo said with a wide grin. “After all, you’re curvaceous, pretty, and smart, and to top it off, you’re a wicked good cook. Just what any guy would want in a woman.”

  “The only thing he has for me is a pair of handcuffs,” I retorted.

  With a giggle, she murmured, “That could be fun.”

  Open-mouthed, I gawked at her and then laughed at her expression. Had she just said what I thought she said? “You’re not into that, are you?” I asked with a snicker.

  “No, but think of him in his birthday suit, all sweaty and . . .”

  “Wait, wait, don’t even go there,” I said with a grin and shook my head. “The things that pop out of your mouth sometimes leave me speechless. Holy shit, woman, do you need to get laid or what?”

  Her laughter ricocheted off the walls as we entered my bakery. I glanced at the clock, quickly figured the time needed to create and work the bread dough, and then turned to BettyJo.

  She idly wandered the two rooms that made up the bakery store-front and my work area, and then peered out the front windows, and viewed the street in both directions as she had done from Mack & Mutt’s earlier.

  My shop had been a wreck after having been torn apart by two angry criminals. After giving instructions to the builder, I’d taken a few weeks off to gather my senses and visited Aidan in Scotland. Spending time with the man of my dreams had been the topping on my cake. Seanmhair came along with me since our family hails from Scotland. To my amusement, and sometimes astonishment, I found our lineage filled with Scottish lore.

  “Are you looking for someone out there?” I asked pointing to the front window as BettyJo strolled back into the kitchen.

  “Uh, no. I thought I recognized someone, is all.” BettyJo glanced away from me and asked, “The builder did a great job, didn’t he?”

  I watched her, wondering why she’d turned to this new subject rather than discuss what was truly on her mind. I agreed on the builder’s splendid work, and his crew of painters had followed my instructions to the letter. I’d mapped out exactly what I wanted before I’d left. Aidan had also added his two cents worth of advice. Memories of his kindness and consideration led to thoughts of heather laden fields, walks on the moors, warm bread from his cook’s kitchen with hearty stews eaten near a blazing, cavernous fireplace. We’d become closer during my stay, though Aidan tended to blow hot and cold, which left me to wonder if he was interested in a serious relationship. Our lips had met on more than one occasion that always seemed to be interrupted by someone or other, and left me wanting more from him.

  “Tell me, what has you so bothered?” I asked and tucked my own thoughts away as I stacked ingredients on two stainless steel work tables.

  Hedging, she asked, “We’re in serious trouble, aren’t we?”

  I glanced up and then measured flour into the huge floor mixer. “You could say that. I’m not jumping to conclusions just yet, though. Why don’t we wait and see what Detective Anderson wants to know?”

  “You’re right, of course. No sense in getting ahead of ourselves.” She glanced at her watch, made the rounds of the two rooms once again, and then walked toward the rear door. “I’ll be at my place whenever he’s ready to come over. I’ll call you after he leaves, so we can compare notes.”

  I chuckled and said that worked for me. When she’d closed the door, I turned to the job of making bread dough. I worked on dough for baguettes, then mixed wheat batard dough, both of which are in the French bread family and popular with my customers. I’d begun a mix for black Russian pumpernickel when a light tap came at my back door. Porter Anderson stepped inside.

  “Wow, you’ve been busy while I had supper,” he said with a disarming grin.

  I set the machine timer, flipped the mixer on, and then sat across from him at a clean table near the
wall. He’d more than likely interviewed Bill and Carl while he ate. I was sure of it.

  I ignored his light banter and asked, “What would you like to know, Detective?”

  His expression grew serious as he stared into my eyes. “To be honest, Melina, I never thought I’d be back here so soon, or ever for that matter. I take no pleasure in having to investigate you or BettyJo over this incident.” He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve checked into BettyJo’s relationship with her father. They don’t get along very well, do they?” He’d flipped open the notebook it seemed every cop I met was determined to carry. Maybe it was part of the rules or they had poor memories, hard to say.

  “They’ve made great strides in that department. BettyJo has tried to be understanding and her father has done likewise. It’s difficult when parents try to run your life, and you don’t fit into the niche they’ve chosen for you.” I walked away, checked the dough, and returned to my seat.

  “That’s true. So, you’re telling me they don’t have issues with one another, then?”

  I hesitated while I thought of how to answer him.

  “I wouldn’t say they agree on everything, but Franklin has been better about seeing BettyJo’s side of things than he’s ever been before. He can be quite autocratic,” I said thoughtfully, as the buzzer sounded. “Could you come over here while I work?”

  He stood aside as I dumped dough onto the floured table and kneaded it. I placed it in a huge bowl and covered the mound with a floured cloth before I cleaned the mixer and began the next round of bread ingredients. Porter watched in silence.

  Finally, the mixer whirred and I wiped my hands on my apron. A snicker brought my eyes to his and I asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “You have flour on your cheek.” Porter reached out, wiped the flour smudge away, and then dusted his fingers off as he nervously glanced away.

  Yikes, had his actions become instantly personal? I hadn’t thought so, but Porter might have. Was BettyJo right? Could he be interested in me? If so, life was about to become more complicated, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “Thanks. Any other questions?”

  A slight smile teetered at the corners of his lips before he said, “A few.”

  I nodded, went back to the clean table, and sat down, waiting for him to hit me with the bad stuff. He’d used his first questions as a lead-in for the hard questions he was bound to ask. Unfortunately, I’d been down this road before.

  “How well do you know the others who attended BettyJo’s dinner?” he asked.

  I explained George and Helena as shop owners and business associates. When I spoke of Ezra and Corinda, I wasn’t evasive but said we weren’t friends, and that I knew little about them. They were Franklin’s friends.

  His nod could have meant a number of things. He finished jotting in his booklet and then asked, “Who would have reason to poison Mr. Seever?”

  With a shrug, I said, “What makes you think he was the intended victim?” Why I’d said that aloud was anybody’s guess. I clamped my lips tight and studied my fingernails.

  His silence went on and on until I looked up to find his narrow-eyed gaze glued to my face.

  “Who do you think the victim was supposed to be? You? BettyJo? Who, Melina, and don’t sidestep the question.”

  “I-I have no idea. The words just popped out of my mouth, honest.” I tipped my head to the side and thought about the scene at BettyJo’s before I came to get the focaccia bread.

  His patient voice broke into my thoughts. “Tell me what went on before and after Mr. Seever became ill.”

  “We had drinks in the front room of BettyJo’s shop. There were hors d’oeuvres on her dining table and some in the front room. We all wandered about. As everyone took a seat at the table, BettyJo left to bring the main course down from her apartment. The salad bowl was there on the table the entire time, along with a bowl of croutons. I suddenly remembered that I’d left the bread here and said I’d be right back. When I returned, Franklin was choking. BettyJo had set the entrée on the table and was ministering to her father. I can’t say what the others were doing since I was busy calling for a rescue.”

  A spark of interest gleamed in his eyes as he asked, “Did you make the salad?”

  “No,” I said with a headshake. “BettyJo made it. I made the croutons earlier in the day and left them on BettyJo’s table.”

  “Tell me where everyone was situated,” Porter urged.

  “George and Helena arrived, by way of the back door, a few minutes after Ezra and Corinda did. As you know, the shop is laid out similar to this one with front and back rooms. BettyJo does her readings in the back room. She and I had set up a table in that room for dining since it’s the larger of the two.” I stopped and thought hard.

  “Go on.”

  “Ezra and Corinda were out front with Franklin and then everyone moved around, chatting to one another. I can’t place them for you, sorry, Porter.”

  His smile lightened my consternation at being unable to be more helpful. “Don’t worry. You’ve given me more to work with than you think. If anything else comes to mind, call me.” He handed me a business card after he’d jotted down a phone number on the back of it. “This is my cell number. Don’t give it out, but call me if you need to.”

  “I will, thanks. BettyJo is waiting for you,” I said and walked him out the back door. I inhaled a few deep breaths of cool night air and returned to finish making bread.

  Time flew past without my realizing it until BettyJo popped through the door as though she’d run a mile without stopping. Her breathlessness, gave me a start. I stopped tucking and smoothing dough into rolls and asked, “What’s going on?”

  I glanced over her shoulder, but while the door was still open, no one was outside that I could see. I dusted my floured hands, wiped remaining residue on a towel tucked into the string of my apron, and waited.

  “I was just over at George’s place,” BettyJo said as she shut the door. “Anderson is there interviewing him. George looked mad. I didn’t go in but watched through a window. He gestured with his arms and nearly knocked over one of those expensive vases he goes on about all the time. I gotta say Anderson is a pretty cool guy. He was calmer than calm, and nodded every now and then while he scribbled in that notebook of his.” BettyJo stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know what he’s written in there?”

  I nodded, snickered at her wide-eyed expression, and motioned for her to take a seat while I finished making dough balls for brioche.

  “What did he ask you?” I wanted to know if she’d said the same things I had.

  “He was interested in everyone’s whereabouts in your shop. As if I could remember that with my father on the floor gasping for air. Cripes, I couldn’t remember my own name right about then.”

  “He asked me the same thing. Porter also wants to speak with all the others before long. He’s hot on the trail of this who-done-it, if you ask me. Bailey was quick to point out I was the most promising of all of us and should be labeled suspect number one. I’ll be sure to thank him for that next time I see him,” I remarked with a sniff.

  “He was probably looking at you as a suspect to make himself look better in his captain’s eyes. Porter pointed out he doesn’t have anyone specific in mind as the culprit, not yet anyway. Like I said, he’s one cool customer.” BettyJo leaned back on the stool and watched while I put the last touches on the brioche.

  “Those look good now, never mind when they’re baked,” BettyJo snickered. “You never did tell me about Aidan and your visit. Did you two have a pajama party?”

  “Would that mean did we sleep together? No, we didn’t. I would have, but he was the epitome of gentlemanly behavior. Mores the pity, but he might have figured that if one of us was unhappy with the other after . . . you know, it would have been awkward.”

  “That’s true, but would you be disappointed with a body like his?” BettyJo asked with a wide grin.

  �
��My thoughts exactly. Maybe I didn’t give him enough of a signal. Sometimes men are obtuse when it comes to reading women.” I tapped the brioche and said, “Aidan can be my brioche anytime he wants, ’cause I’d happily have him for a snack.”

  With a chuckle, BettyJo asked, “Seanmhair wasn’t upset at returning home, was she?”

  I pressed the last ball of dough into the top of a roll and popped several pans of them into the oven. The timer was set and I turned to BettyJo. “She probably would have stayed longer if we could have, but I was anxious to get home and open up again. People have short memories and find new places to shop when their regular stores are closed.”

  “True,” BettyJo murmured and then asked if I had any wine hanging about.

  “Sure, in the fridge. I’ll get some glasses.” I headed into the alcove where my desk, a microwave, and some cabinets were crammed together. I found the two wine glasses tucked into the back of a shelf and returned to find BettyJo on her cell phone. I listened to the one-sided conversation with interest.

  “Definitely not,” BettyJo insisted. A few seconds later I watched as her eyes grew angry and she pressed her lips together tightly.

  “It won’t be a problem. I’ll take care of it in the morning. Thanks for calling,” BettyJo replied and then hung up.

  She swung toward me, grabbed the glasses from my hand, and poured the wine. “Can you believe this? The hospital said my father’s medical insurance won’t pay for the room he’s in. He’s being moved to a semi-private. Imagine? He’ll have a cow. He’s the friggin’ CEO of the bank.”

  I glanced at the clock, saw how late it had gotten, and sipped wine from the glass she’d shoved into my hand.

  “It’s a bit late to be moving a patient from one room to another, don’t you think? And, why would his medical insurance be insufficient for a private room? Your father earns seven figures a year, doesn’t he? His insurance would surely be of premium quality,” I observed.

  With a nod, a huge swallow, followed by a heavy sigh, BettyJo sank onto the stool she’d been using. The oven buzzer sounded and I removed the lightly browned brioches and set them to cool on racks.