Up to no gouda, p.6
Up to No Gouda, page 6
“Thank you. That’s good to hear. Did you find the dog’s owner?”
“I’m afraid not. I checked around, and no one’s put out an APB on him. He’s been fed, he had a bath, and I treated him for fleas and other nasties, although he didn’t seem to have any. Right now he’s sleeping like a baby in his cage.”
Cage. Carly swallowed. “Thank you, Dr. Anne. Do I owe you anything?” The least she could do was offer to pay.
“Nah, don’t worry about that. One of the shelters is going to pick him up tomorrow, unless…” She paused.
“Unless?” Carly prodded.
“Unless you’d like to adopt him?”
“Me?”
Dr. Anne laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. Dad told me you already named him Havarti. With lots of love, he’ll make a great companion.”
“But I’m gone all day, and I work in a restaurant.” If I still have a restaurant.
The veterinarian sighed into the phone. “I was afraid you’d say that. But keep in mind, a lot of working folks have dogs. There are ways to make it work.”
“Dr. Anne,” Carly said before they disconnected, “do you know what kind of dog he is?”
“I’m glad you asked,” the veterinarian replied, a smile widening her voice. “The little guy you rescued is a Morkie!”
After ending the call, Carly Googled Morkie. The breed, or crossbreed, was a blend of Maltese and Yorkshire Terrier. The article she pulled up described them as sociable and energetic. They adapted nicely to apartment life and did especially well in one-person homes.
But I still can’t adopt him. Especially not now, not with my life turned upside down.
Carly was putting her cereal bowl in the kitchen sink when she heard two sharp knocks at her door. Were the police back with more questions? It could also be Arlene returning with another slab of birthday cake. Except that Carly’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so it wasn’t obvious she was home.
She padded over to her door and opened it, then took in a sharp breath. Standing on her doormat was the man with the auburn goatee she’d seen in the parking lot. A faint odor of perspiration drifted from him. His camera dangled from a cord around his neck—a very sunburned neck, Carly noticed.
“Yes?” she said, her hand on the doorknob.
He flashed a mouthful of crooked teeth at her in a lopsided grin. “Carly? Carly Hale?”
A sliver of fear trickled down Carly’s spine. Not that he looked threatening. But after the horrible events of the day, the sight of anyone she didn’t recognize hovering in her doorway made her nerves jumpy.
“Why don’t you tell me who you are,” she said, gripping the doorknob tighter.
“Aw, come on, Carly. You’re kidding me, right? I can’t believe you don’t remember me.” He pushed out his lower lip in a childish pout.
Carly stared at him. A spark of recognition tripped through her brain. But no, she still couldn’t place him. While he looked to be in his late twenties, something about his mannerisms made him seem younger.
She pushed the door closed slightly, leaving about a foot of space between them. “I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t. You need to either identify yourself or leave. This is a private residence.” She tried to sound braver than she felt.
His grin collapsed and he placed one hand on the door. “That’s no way to treat an old friend, now, is it, Carly? No way to treat one at all.”
Chapter Seven
That did it.
In a tone she hoped proved that she meant business, Carly said, “Either remove your hand from my door or I’ll be forced to call the police.”
The hand, tipped with five chewed fingernails, dropped like a lead weight. The man’s lower lip pushed out to almost caricature size. “You know, Carly, I’m really insulted. I can’t believe you don’t remember me, a kid you used to babysit.”
Carly stepped back slightly and stared at him. Then light dawned on the man’s titian-colored hair, which stuck out at odd angles from his head. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “You’re little Donny Frasco, aren’t you?”
His lips widened into a grin. “In the flesh!”
“I did babysit you, but only once.” A shudder ripped through her at the memory.
Donny Frasco had been the most overactive, rambunctious kid Carly had ever babysat. It had only been the one time, but it was memorable, and not in a good way. She could still picture him, tromping across his mom’s dining room table in his cowboy boots—a stunt for which Carly got blamed. She’d thanked whatever angels were listening that day that his mom never called her again.
“By the way, no one calls me Donny anymore. It’s just Don.” He puffed out his skinny chest. “Um, anyway, can I come in? I want to interview you for the Balsam Dell Weekly. I heard you were right in the thick of things when Lyle Bagley was murdered.”
Carly groaned. She knew the editor of the town’s weekly free paper was a Donald Frasco, but she never connected him with that antsy little kid she sat for. “First of all, that’s not true. And second, how did you know where I lived?”
“Easy. When your restaurant first opened, you paid for an ad, remember? I got it off your check.”
Carly sighed. “Let’s talk outside on the porch instead, and only for a minute. I’ve had a very long day.”
With a disappointed droop of his shoulders, Don turned and loped back down the stairs, the rubber soles of his sneakers loudly slapping the risers. Another image of the goofy, bright-eyed little monster she babysat flashed into her head. His mom had instructed Carly to give Donny his lunch. When Carly began preparing a grilled cheese for him, he’d howled as if she’d stuck hot pins into his head. He didn’t stop screaming until a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk were placed before him on the table.
With a wrinkle of his freckled nose, Donny pulled out his cell phone from his shirt pocket. “Sure is hot out here.” He swiped a hand across his forehead.
All the faster to get rid of you, Carly thought.
He pushed a few buttons on his phone, held it up, and began peppering her with questions. “So, how did you happen to find the body? Did you see a murder weapon anywhere? Did you notice any peculiar odors?”
“Wait a minute. Put that phone away. I never said I’d give you an interview.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Donny. Don,” she said, eking out her last ounce of patience, “I only took pity because you helped me with my advertising when I first opened. Right now, you need to turn off the recorder on your phone. Either that or I go back inside. Alone.”
Don looked deflated. He tapped a few buttons on his phone and stuck it back in his pocket. “I’m disappointed in you, Carly. You’re not looking at the big picture here. Think of it. If you and I teamed up, we could solve the murder before the cops do. We’d be local heroes!”
Carly looked him straight in the eye. “Listen to me carefully. We’re not going to team up, and the police will solve the murder. And now I think it’s time for you to leave.”
She knew her mom would be appalled at her bad manners, but Carly was already dealing with more than she could handle. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d have a fresher outlook, but today, not one thing had gone right. Except, possibly, the rescue of a little dog—a dog who was now stuck in a cage waiting to be sent to a shelter.
Don’s face hardened. “You might change your mind when you see yourself on the news tonight,” he said slyly.
“I’m in the news?”
“Your restaurant is. Same thing,” he said with a shrug. “There’s a TV van parked right in front of your grilled cheese place. That reporter with the helmet hair is having a field day, blathering on about the grisly murder and how the police are questioning a person of interest.”
A person of interest. Carly swallowed. “Did they say who it was?”
“No, but everyone knows it’s Suzanne Rivers. Besides, I have a cop friend who gave me the lowdown.”
Carly’s thoughts swam. Between the stifling heat and Don’s tidbit about Suzanne, she felt as if her head was going to float off into space. “Don, I’m sorry, but you really do have to go now. I need to make some calls.”
It was a fib, but she wanted to get rid of him so she could gather her thoughts and figure out what to do next. Someone murdered Lyle, and it wasn’t Suzanne. If Carly had to find the murderer herself to prove Suzanne innocent, then that’s what she’d do.
After some coaxing, Don left. Carly went back inside her apartment. Almost instantly, her cell phone rang.
“Oh my God, honey! Are you all right?”
Carly turned the fan toward her rocking chair and dropped onto the padded seat. “I’m fine, Mom. Nothing happened to me.” Except for finding a dead body in my parking lot. “How did you hear what happened, anyway?”
Rhonda exhaled loudly. “From Fred Holloway’s sister, Deirdre. Remember, she was in my book club? Fred’s wife was in it, too, poor dear, before she passed. Anyway, Deirdre didn’t have my phone number so she got a hold of me through Facebook. She told me that…that Lyle Bagley creature was found dead behind your restaurant and that you’re the one who found him!”
Her mom obviously remembered Lyle from Carly’s high school days. Her “creature” comment reminded Carly that her mom had never approved of him.
As calmly as she could, Carly went through the events of the day, backtracking to her eviction by Lyle the day before.
“Oh, my poor darling,” Rhonda said, sounding distraught. “And here I am, over a thousand miles away, just when you need me most!”
Carly wished her mom were there, too, but she had no intention of dumping a guilt trip on her. “Honestly, Mom, I’m safe and I’m okay. The police are handling it. I’m sure they’ll find Lyle’s killer very soon.” That last part was a slight fib. She wasn’t sure at all, but she didn’t want her mom to worry.
“Do you want me to fly up there?” Rhonda sounded breathless now.
“No, of course not. Isn’t Gary still having physical therapy on his elbow?” Her mom’s husband had broken his elbow on a friend’s sailboat.
Her mom took a breath. “He is. It’s coming along, though. It’ll be a few more weeks before he can drive.”
“You stay right there with Gary,” Carly insisted, “and give him my best.”
They chatted for a while longer, and Carly promised to keep her mom posted on developments.
After she disconnected, she felt tears filling her eyes. A day like this made her miss her mom way more than usual.
When Daniel died unexpectedly on that awful winter night, her mom and Gary had immediately flown up from Florida to be with her. They’d stayed for nearly three weeks, helping with funeral arrangements and other sad tasks Carly hadn’t even thought about. Norah had helped, too, in her own flighty way, but she was never a constant.
Which reminded Carly: Norah didn’t know about the murder.
Carly debated texting her sister, then decided against it. Norah was on vacation, exploring a budding relationship with a new beau. Carly didn’t want to spoil her fun, assuming she was having any. In the next instant, her phone buzzed with a text from the chief.
I’m in your driveway.
She felt her heart pound. Was he here to tell her Suzanne had been arrested?
Carly went to the front window and peeked outside. A patrol car was idling in the driveway behind Carly’s green Corolla. The chief was leaning against her car. He waved at her and motioned her outside.
She hurried down the stairs. “Hey, you brought my wheels back. Thanks.” She tried to sound grateful, but the words came out flat.
“I insisted your car be searched first,” Holloway said. “You’ll be happy to know nothing was removed. The key’s in the ignition.” He handed her a sheet of paper to sign, along with a pen. “If you’ll give the inside a quick look-see and sign this, I can get out of your hair.”
Carly slid onto the front seat and glanced all around. She first checked the glove compartment, then turned and scanned the rear seating area. Nothing seemed to be missing. She got out and closed the door, signed the paper, and gave it to him. “Chief,” she said, nearly choking on the words, “is Suzanne being held?”
“No. We don’t have enough evidence to hold her. Yet. We’re getting a warrant to search her mom’s home tomorrow, as well as her ex’s. Plus, her car’s been impounded. She’s been warned not to leave the house, for any reason. We’ll have a patrol car parked in front, just in case.”
Carly shook her head. The situation was going south on a fast track. She wanted to proclaim Suzanne’s innocence, but what could she offer as proof? Nothing, except for her firm conviction that Suzanne was not a killer.
“Carly,” Holloway said wearily, “I think you need to prepare yourself. It’s likely Suzanne will be arrested for murder some time over the next few days.”
“Then they’ll be arresting an innocent person,” Carly said fiercely.
After he climbed into the patrol car, she turned to go back inside. Standing on the front porch staring at her was Arlene, her hands cupped around her elbows.
“Oh, honey,” Arlene blurted. “We heard on the news. We’re both so, so sorry. Is it true they have a, you know, a person of interest?”
“They have a suspect in mind, but it’s the wrong one.” Carly’s voice wobbled, and without warning she burst into tears. She allowed Arlene to fold her into her arms, where she cried on the woman’s shoulder for at least a full minute.
Arlene patted her hair. “Come on, now. No more tears. Besides, it’s too hot out here. Let’s go inside and have some iced tea and a slice of birthday cake. After all, we can’t let it go to waste, can we?”
Carly shook her head. Arlene was so motherly. “No, we can’t. Besides, I’ll need to fortify myself if I’m going to find Lyle’s killer and save my restaurant. But no wine this time, okay?”
Arlene’s smile faltered. “No wine this time, I promise. Just a good old-fashioned chocolate fix.”
Chapter Eight
Thursday morning dawned hot and muggy. Carly padded over to her bedroom window and lifted the shade, squinting at the already blazing sunshine.
After taking a tepid shower, she threw on shorts and a jersey tee and slid her feet into her flip-flops. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she was ravenously hungry.
Today is going to feel strange, totally weird, Carly thought. She wasn’t accustomed to being home on a weekday.
Supposedly the police were going to execute a warrant and search her eatery, but when? Would she be able to return after they were done? The idea of investigators pawing through her utensils and handling her appliances made her stomach do cartwheels.
First things first: food and coffee. After starting the coffee pot, she pulled eggs, butter, precooked bacon, and cheddar out of her fridge, and two slices of sourdough bread from a loaf in her freezer. Since she was accustomed to working quickly, it took only a few minutes to grill it all up. Depending on how things went, it might be the best meal she’d have all day.
Munching on her breakfast sandwich, she mulled over what to do next. If she had to stay home this morning, she’d probably go crazy. All she’d do was worry. She knew in her heart Lyle’s murderer was still out there, even if the police were putting all their investigative eggs in the Suzanne basket. The question was, who disliked Lyle enough to want him dead? Carly was willing to bet there was more than one candidate for that position.
She pulled her cell phone over in front of her. In the Google search box, she typed Lyle’s name. A short list of links popped up, the most recent being those related to his untimely demise.
She skimmed past those, looking for links with earlier dates. The farther down she scrolled, the more discouraged she became. Lyle certainly didn’t have much of an online presence. A brief mention of him appeared in his dad’s 2014 obituary. Other than that, the only other link was related to a small claims court case, several months earlier, in which Lyle was named the defendant. The plaintiff was—Oh good gravy on a gadfly. It was Sara Hardy!
Sara was one half of the Colm and Sara team, the bakers who supplied the fabulous breads for Carly’s eatery. While Colm handled the deliveries and the sales, it was Sara’s artisan breads that kept the bakery’s orders flooding in.
Carly clicked on the link. The article was a short post about a claim against Lyle Bagley d/b/a Pine Grove Mobile Homes, by Sara Hardy. Lyle had apparently refused to refund a security deposit to Sara on one of his mobile home rentals. The judge ruled against Sara, to the tune of sixteen hundred dollars. According to the article, Sara failed to prove that the property had been left clean and undamaged, and Lyle had produced photos showing the place had been left a mess. As the article stated, the judge had no choice but to “find for the defendant.”
Strange, Carly thought. Why would Sara rent a mobile home? Didn’t she live with Colm in their nineteenth-century farmhouse?
With a sigh, Carly closed the link. In any case, Sara wouldn’t commit murder. She was a peace-loving bread baker with a heart of gold.
Although…what harm would it do to talk to Sara? She might have some insight into who else at the mobile home park had run-ins with Lyle. Carly mentally added “chat with Sara” to her agenda for the day.
After cleaning up the few dishes in the sink, she slung her tote over her shoulder, exchanged her flip-flops for her denim flats, and headed out to her car. Five minutes later, she was driving past her restaurant. The crime scene tape remained stretched along the sidewalk to the front of the building, an ugly reminder of Lyle’s brutal death.
With the eatery off limits, at least until early afternoon, she decided it was the perfect time to look for an air conditioner. Quayle’s Hardware, only a few streets past the downtown intersection, had been advertising them in the Balsam Dell Weekly.
