A Crusty Murder Page 6

  “You called in the crime?” he asked, slipping his notebook from his pocket.

  “I-I did,” BettyJo stammered.

  His eyes flicked toward me and Graham asked what I was doing there.

  Not to be accused of murder, I said, “BettyJo asked me to come over. I just closed the shop.”

  “Right, can you prove that?” he wanted to know.

  “Uh, sure. Seanmhair will attest to that and Mr. Weinberg was my last costumer,” I checked my watch, “about ten minutes ago.”

  “All right. I’ll speak with them later,” Graham assured me. “I’ll look at the scene. You two stay here, understand? Did you touch anything, Ms. Seever?”

  “No, I saw her color and the muf . . .” BettyJo clamped her lips closed and shook her head.

  Detective Graham stepped closer to BettyJo, his eyes cool, his face determined. “The what?” he asked.

  “Sh-she h-has something stuffed in her mouth.” BettyJo glanced at me and then admitted it looked like a muffin.

  Hell and damnation, why did somebody have to drag me into another murder? One wasn’t enough?

  He turned his eyes to me, holding my own like a pinned butterfly on display. My blood ran cold, I started to tremble, and hefted a deep sigh.

  “Before you ask, the answer is emphatically no. I didn’t kill Sondra and had no reason to. She was a fellow tenant. I had little to do with her other than an occasional purchase from her shop. Now, go do your job, Detective.”

  He harrumphed at my answer.

  I paced the sidewalk as he entered the building. I saw him close the front door of Sondra’s store and continued to pace like a woman ready to run a marathon.

  The crime scene techs left, the rescuers had bundled the body into a black bag, and zipped it closed before they left. Police officers followed and only Graham remained. He talked on his cell phone, ended the call, and motioned BettyJo and me inside.

  “Did you enter through the front or rear entry?” Graham asked BettyJo.

  “I’d been out for a walk and saw the sale sign in the window, so I came in through the front door,” BettyJo answered. “I saw her there, on the floor.” Pointing with a shaky finger to the spot where the crime scene crew had taped an outline of Sondra’s body position, BettyJo gazed at Graham. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her body shook. The woman was in shock.

  I placed my arm around her shoulders, gave her a squeeze, and murmured, “Now, now, take a deep breath and let it out slowly. You’ve done well to this point, don’t fall apart on us.”

  Her tension lessened as she drew in a couple of deep breaths and let them out. The tears stopped. BettyJo brushed a hand across her face and sniffed.

  “Thanks, Melina,” she said with a tremulous smile.

  “Melina, did Ms. Greenfield have any enemies that you’re aware of?” Graham asked.

  “As I said, we weren’t friends, so I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” I turned toward BettyJo. “You knew her fairly well, didn’t you?”

  “She and I talked on occasion, but to say we were friends, well, we weren’t,” BettyJo admitted. “Sondra was a snob, a sophisticated woman, who thought she was better than the rest of us. The only reason she spoke to me at all was due to the fact that I shopped here.”

  Detective Graham nodded. “I see.” He gave the shop the once over and then turned back to us. “You can go now, but I’ll be back after the medical examiner makes a final decision on Ms. Greenfield’s death.” Tucking the notepad out of sight, Graham started to walk away. He stopped, turned to me, and asked, “Do you have any muffins left? You do make them daily?”

  “Y-yes, I have a few left from today’s menu. I was going to take them to the homeless shelter when this came up. Why?”

  Detective Graham smiled. “I’m starving. No breakfast, no lunch, and probably no dinner, either. Could I cadge one off you before you give them away?”

  Not completely trusting the man, I gave him a nod. The three of us left the shop by way of the back door after Detective Graham secured the shop, and placed the sign in the window to the closed position.

  We traipsed along the railed walk that went the length of the building. I noticed whose cars were parked in the lot and which ones were absent. Helena’s car sat next to Mutt and Mack’s cars. George Carly and Kristina Papien’s vehicles were also present. Seanmhair’s car was parked at the end of the row, beside mine and BettyJo’s. The only person missing was Charlie Franklin. I flicked a quick glance toward Graham and saw him study the cars, as well.

  “Is everyone about today, Melina?” Detective Graham asked.

  “Charlie Franklin isn’t here. Otherwise, we’re all present.”

  “Mmm, thanks,” he replied.

  We entered the bakery kitchen. Seanmhair stood at the ready, her spring coat on and buttoned, her handbag dangling from the crook of her elbow.

  “What’s the story?” Seanmhair asked.

  Detective Graham acknowledged my grandmother with a slight nod and waited for my answer. I explained the situation as briefly as possible.

  “Well, isn’t that just ducky?” Seanmhair glanced at each of us in turn.

  I took the bag of muffins, BettyJo set the kettle to boil, and I informed Seanmhair we were going to feed Detective Graham. In a mere second, Seanmhair removed her coat, set a serving dish and mug on the table and went in search of butter and eating utensils. I smiled at her sudden turn from running off to her card game to playing hostess.

  “You sit right there, and we’ll get you straightened away,” Seanmhair instructed Graham.

  He smiled, pleased by her fussing, and settled into the folding chair she’d put out for him.

  “Did you happen to see anyone suspicious near Ms. Greenfield’s shop today, Seanmhair?” he asked.

  I hid my grin at Graham’s use of her name and glanced at BettyJo, who did the same. Seanmhair, on the other hand, warmed to the man as though he wasn’t a wolf howling at the door.

  “I came in around nine this morning and was here all day, so no, I didn’t,” Seanmhair answered. “Snotty Sondra’s shop is farther down the street. We can’t see who enters and leaves her business.”

  His eyebrows hiked a tad and Graham smirked. “Snotty Sondra?”

  Seanmhair snickered. Undaunted by the fact she was conversing with a policeman, a detective no less, she continued, “Not to speak ill of the dead,” Seanmhair made the sign of the cross on her chest, “the woman was a snob. A snotty snob.”

  Detective Graham chuckled softly and thanked me as I set a plate of muffins in front of him, followed by a cup of steaming Earl Grey. “Blueberry, cranberry nut, and lemon poppy seed are the muffin choices you have,” I said. “Which one do you want to take and use for evidence, Detective?”

  “Mmm, none of them. They look delicious. I meant what I said earlier, about not having eaten today. Things at the station have kept me running. I haven’t had a break, until now. Join me, ladies, won’t you?”

  Too affable, way too friendly, and too sweet, for sure. Those thoughts skittered through my mind. Why should I trust this lawman? He’d arrest my ass in a New York second if he thought he could prove I’d broken any laws.

  Seanmhair had no such misgivings. She drew up a chair, plunked her bottom onto it, and began chatting him up. I gave BettyJo a rueful glance and poured us all mugs of tea.

  We sat and listened as Seanmhair asked Graham about his life and family. He answered her with a smile and even seemed genuine. He’d been born and raised in Rhode Island, he said. Married to his job, Graham had no siblings, only his parents. No wife or children, either.

  Seanmhair gave me a nod when Graham mentioned his marital status. I gave her a wicked glare. The twinkle in her eyes grew ever brighter. First, she wanted me to become involved with Aidan Sinclair and now, the good detective. Hell, I’d be married off in no time if Seanmhair had her way. I shook my head, gulped my tea, and removed the muffins from the table. It was time for Detective Graham to leave, and Seanmhair c
ould leave right behind him. Did the woman have no shame?

  The loss of food was a broad hint. One that Graham took with alacrity. He brushed crumbs from his jacket, answered his phone, and waved goodbye with a whispered thank you before he sauntered out the door.

  “Seanmhair, you should be ashamed of yourself. I’m not looking for a husband, so stop this nonsense immediately,” I implored. “You have no idea what this man is capable of. If he thought for one minute that any one of us was guilty of a crime, we’d be tossed in jail.”

  Seanmhair smiled, waved my words away like a bothersome gnat, and said, “He’s a nice man. You should get to know him.”

  “Not now, not ever, understand?” I blustered.

  BettyJo laughed, gave Seanmhair’s shoulders a light squeeze, and told us both to lighten up. “Life is too short for disagreements, so smile and get over it, both of you. Melina, your gran is just trying to look out for you. Seanmhair, you really shouldn’t be a matchmaker.”

  “Fine, fine,” Seanmhair said with a slight chuckle. “Find your own man, then.” She slipped her coat on and said she’d be at the card game until later in the evening.

  As Seanmhair opened the rear door, I called after her, “Stay out of the strip club, I mean it.”

  A chortle was her only response before she shut the door with a loud click.

  “Your grandmother goes to a strip club?” BettyJo asked with wide eyes and a shocked expression.

  “One of her card playing men friends convinced her to join him at the strip joint on Allens Avenue. He got a lap dance and she watched. She’s quite taken with the place,” I said. “My God, what am I going to do with her?”

  BettyJo laughed so hard at the visual I’d just handed her, tears streamed from her eyes, and she held her sides.

  Catching her breath, BettyJo admitted, “Glad she’s not my problem. This must be a phase she’s going through.”

  “Hell, she’s not a teenager, you know,” I shot back. “What if the place gets raided and she’s arrested?”

  BettyJo looked away and then said, on a sober note, that the strip club was raided about every two months. With an abrupt change of subject, she offered to go with me to deliver the leftovers to the homeless shelter. I thanked her, and we packed up and headed out.

  Chapter 9

  The homeless shelter, taxed beyond reason by the huge number of displaced people, was always bustling. We entered the building by way of the back entrance, where deliveries were made. I could see young children waiting in line for a meal and my heart squeezed tight in my chest.

  I looked at my meager offerings and apologized to the manager, “Sales were so good today that this is all I have left. It seems you’re overloaded with people, or is it that I’ve arrived at the busiest time?”

  “We get a larger than usual crowd at this time of day. Don’t feel bad. We appreciate everything you bring us, Melina. I wish all the food shops and restaurants would be so kind,” the manager said. “The numbers are growing, space for sleeping is at a premium, and I have no doubt it’ll get worse with this economy.”

  I nodded, glanced at the long line at the food table, and said I’d try to bring extra next time. I got a smile and thanks for the offer. As I turned to go, I caught sight of BettyJo’s face. Her expression, one of horror, was only matched by her pallor. Sickly white, BettyJo gaped at the line of displaced people. Some wore dirty clothes, others were more kempt, but wore sad looking attire.

  “What’s the matter?” I whispered to BettyJo.

  “I think that’s my mother in line for food.” BettyJo pointed to a woman who resembled her so greatly. There would be no mistaking the two were related. “Holy shit, I can’t believe it. My father said she’d died when I was away at school. That lying bastard,” BettyJo murmured.

  I nudged BettyJo and said, “Let’s get out of here, before you make a scene. We’ll wait out front for her to come out. You can talk to her then.”

  We exited the building and I drove around to the front. I found a place to park not far from the front door where we could wait.

  “Are you sure that’s your mother?” I insisted on knowing.

  “I haven’t seen her since I was twelve, but yeah, it certainly looks like her, with many a year added, of course.” BettyJo turned in the seat. Looking me straight in the eye, she asked, “How could my father, damn him, do that to us? How could he allow my mother to become a homeless, poor, bedraggled, and downtrodden woman?”

  Her wide eyes, pale face, and angry countenance, left me edgy and fearful of a scene. Could the woman be her mother? Maybe she just looked like her. I hoped for the latter, rather than the former, for BettyJo’s sake, if nothing else.

  The shelter door opened a while later. People wandered onto the sidewalk, going in various directions. We left the car and stood near the exit, waiting for the woman to appear. When she came out, BettyJo approached her.

  “Hi, my name is BettyJo. I was wondering if I know you from somewhere. You look awfully familiar.”

  The woman stopped, peered at BettyJo, taking in her attire in one glance. BettyJo’s couture and panache had always impressed me, so I knew it would do the same to this woman. Especially, if she was on the take or if she was a scammer.

  “Sweetheart, I can be anyone you want me to be. Otherwise, get lost.” The woman dragged a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, lit one, and blew the smoke into BettyJo’s face.

  Coughing and choking, BettyJo stepped back, waving away from the offending smoke fumes. “What’s your name?” she asked again.

  “Linda Spear. What’s it to ya?” the woman snapped as she exhaled another lungful of smoke.

  Not to be put off, BettyJo asked, “Do you know a woman named Marion Seever?”

  The woman gave the impression she was searching her memory. Then she answered, “Nope, never knew of her. Would you like me to be Marion what’s-her-name, deary?”

  “N-no, thanks, though.” BettyJo backed away, grabbed my arm, and said it was time to go.

  The woman’s throaty laughter followed us to the car. We got in and I drove away as fast as I could. At the end of Market Street, I took a left and headed toward Wickendon Street.

  I’d parked the car and mentioned we should stop in at Mack & Mutt’s. BettyJo said she wasn’t hungry, but I insisted. She thought about it for a second and then agreed.

  We ordered calzones, got our drinks, and took a seat in the tight quartered eatery. We were nestled at the last table in the corner of the room, bordered by two huge windows at both corners of the building. Sunlight brightened the room, and the street was busy with shoppers on foot. It was a perfect people-watching spot.

  Our number was called. I assured BettyJo that I’d retrieve the sandwiches from the counter. There were no waiters here, just order and pick-up. It reminded me of Panera Bread, where you order and wait to pick up the food from the other end of the counter.

  When I lifted the tray with our lunch on it, Bill, the second half of Mack & Mutt’s, asked in a whisper if I’d heard that Sondra was dead. I nodded and said I’d come by later when he closed up for the day. He grinned and said, “That’ll be around nine tonight. We don’t have the luxury of your shop hours, Mel. Come to the back door. We’ll talk then.”

  I nodded and scurried back to our table. All ears and eyes, BettyJo waited anxiously for me to share what Bill had said.

  “Our businesses are either going to tank or we’ll be swamped with gawkers if we have one more murder,” BettyJo murmured softly.

  I nodded. “You’re right. The media will be all over us in no time flat. I’m surprised they aren’t here already. I’m nervous about that, aren’t you?”

  As BettyJo agreed, she pointed to a recent entrant to the pizzeria. I glanced up to see Aidan wending his way to our table.

  He dipped his head towards us and said, “Lassies, it’s good to see you both. Would you share your table?”

  I nodded and BettyJo pushed a chair out using her foot. Aidan smiled, sai
d he’d order and be back in a second. I watched him amble through the crowded room and wished he was on my menu. Hastily, I pushed the thought from my head and munched the warm, delicious calzone.

  Once Aidan had his pizza, he settled at the table with us. Around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, he mentioned hearing of Sondra on the news. “Poor lass, it’s a terrible event. Have the police any leads?”

  Our heads shook in unison, and we finished our meal. BettyJo spoke first.

  “I found her. It was terrible, Aidan. She’d been strangled and a muffin was stuffed in her mouth,” BettyJo whispered with a shiver.

  Aidan laid his hand on BettyJo’s arm. “How terrifying for you to have to witness that.” He turned to me. “And a muffin? Isn’t that like the bit of bread from Mrs. Peterson? Somebody has it in for you, Melina.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “What brings you to Wickendon Street today?”

  “The food and company, of course,” Aidan answered with a grin. “I wanted to know if you’d be having another class soon.”

  Surprised, I asked, “I thought you were returning to Scotland for a while?”

  “I’ve had to put it off for a bit, so I’ll be here for another week. Business, you know. Besides, I’d enjoy learning more bread making recipes, so I can impress my cook when I get back.” Aidan chuckled, his white teeth bright, and his smile armed and dangerous.

  “Right, the cook,” I mumbled. Who the heck could afford to have a live-in cook?

  “Does your cook live at your house?” I had to know. It was bugging the crap out of me.

  “Aye, she does. I have a small staff on the estate. I don’t live a fancy, sophisticated life, but I do keep the family home up to date. It’s a fulltime job, ya ken?”

  Ya ken? Ah, that must mean you understand. Okay, I was getting better at figuring out the Scottish lingo. I grinned at my newfound ability and watched his eyes sparkle with mischief.

  “Are you teasing us, Aidan Sinclair?”

  “No, lass, I just realized you understood what I said. You’re making progress. I’m impressed.” He glanced around and asked, “Where’s Seanmhair today?”