Deep fried death, p.1
Deep Fried Death, page 1
THE PRIME SUSPECTS
Fred faced us. He wore a stern expression as he stared. There was no way he or the women at his table could hear our conversation. Maybe he didn’t like seeing me talk to the police. Too bad. I turned away.
“Who else does Isabelle donate to?” I kept my voice soft.
“Still working on that,” Wanda said.
She’d been forthcoming about Isabelle’s past. Maybe I could learn a bit more about the case, things I doubted Harris or Octavia would tell me.
“Wanda, what do you know about alibis?” I asked. “For people like Zeke, Wendy Corbett, and Isabelle?”
“Zeke and his lady love claim they were with each other. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Ms. Cooper lives alone. I’m afraid old Don’s a problem, too. His wife was out of town. As was . . .” She glanced at the slim gold band on my ring finger.
“Yeah, as was Abe.” Should I challenge her about suspecting me? No. I didn’t think she was serious. I sure hoped she wasn’t. “Sorry I asked . . .”
Books by Maddie Day
Country Store Mysteries
FLIPPED FOR MURDER
GRILLED FOR MURDER
WHEN THE GRITS HIT THE FAN
BISCUITS AND SLASHED BROWNS
DEATH OVER EASY
STRANGLED EGGS AND HAM
NACHO AVERAGE MURDER
CANDY SLAIN MURDER
NO GRATER CRIME
BATTER OFF DEAD
FOUR LEAF CLEAVER
DEEP FRIED DEATH
CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER
(with Carlene O’Connor and Alex Erickson)
CHRISTMAS SCARF MURDER
(with Carlene O’Connor and Peggy Ehrhart)
Cozy Capers Book Group Mysteries
MURDER ON CAPE COD
MURDER AT THE TAFFY SHOP
MURDER AT THE LOBSTAH SHACK
MURDER IN A CAPE COTTAGE
MURDER AT A CAPE BOOKSTORE
Local Foods Mysteries
A TINE TO LIVE, A TINE TO DIE
’TIL DIRT DO US PART
FARMED AND DANGEROUS
MURDER MOST FOWL
MULCH ADO ABOUT MURDER
Cece Barton Mysteries
MURDER UNCORKED
CHRISTMAS MITTENS MURDER
(with Lee Hollis and Lynn Cahoon)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
A Country Store Mystery
Deep Fried Death
MADDIE DAY
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
THE PRIME SUSPECTS
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
Recipes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2024 by Edith Maxwell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
KENSINGTON and the KENSINGTON COZIES teapot logo Reg US Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4226-1
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4227-8 (ebook)
For my two brilliant and beautiful daughters-in-law, Alison Bliss Russell and Alexandra Santiago Llegus. Thank you for making my boys happy.
Acknowledgments
Apologies to the real Abe Martin Festival and “Nashcar” Outhouse Race in Nashville, Indiana. When I read about it, I couldn’t resist staging a body in a fake outhouse. As far as I know, no murders have ever occurred during the Abe Martin celebrations.
Many thanks to Nashville Chief of Police Heather Burris, who seemed delighted to answer my many questions. I’ve modeled my Chief Haley Harris on her but kept Harris fictional, so I could make her say things and act in ways the real chief likely never would.
Once again I’m pleased to feature a recipe from Jane Deichler Carter. Her mother-in-law was Hoosier Rosemary Carter, an intrepid Quaker farmer, who passed along the apple dumplings recipe—albeit a bit scant on details—to Jane. Jane’s husband Max Carter is the professor I refer to in the book. They are both also Quakers and delightful people, and Jane is a big fan of cozy mysteries. The no-fail pie crust recipe is in From Julia Child’s Kitchen (1975).
I stole the name for the accountant mentioned in the book from my expert tax person, Ann O’Sullivan. Thank you to Hoosier Jeff Danielson for spring flora and fauna details. Thanks also to longtime grad-school friend Guta Ribeiro, who has returned to live in Bloomington, for other local touches.
Alert readers will notice the murder has nothing to do with deep-frying. We loved the title so much we had to use it.
My versions of the Indiana University women’s (and men’s) basketball teams, their playing records, and their personal lives are entirely fictional. As someone whose grandfather (Allan B. Maxwell) was captain of the IU basketball team in 1916, I would never cast aspersions on a Hoosier netter.
Gratitude, always, to Jennifer McKee, who relieves me from having to create my own social media graphics (mine wouldn’t be pretty, just saying) and who helps me behind the scenes with all kinds of authorly tasks.
I’ve been blogging and hanging out with my talented Wicked Author pals—Barb Ross, Liz Mu-gavero, Julie Hennrikus, Sherry Harris, and Jessie Crockett—for eleven years. I couldn’t have navigated this path without them. Readers, please find us at wickedauthors.com.
Thank you, always, to my agent, John Talbot, and to John Scognamiglio, Larissa Ackerman, and the rest of the amazing and hardworking crew at Kensington Publishing. I love my publishing home.
Blessings go out to all my (so many!) devoted fans of this series. You were thrilled by the news at the end of Four Leaf Cleaver, as was I, and I hope you enjoy this story just as much.
Finally, love and fierce hugs to my sons Allan and John David and their wives, Alison and Alex, to my sisters, Janet and Barbara, and to my Hugh. You are my world.
CHAPTER 1
Whoever thought a parking lot full of brightly painted outhouses was a good idea had too much time on their hands. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty.
“What did we get ourselves into?” I asked my co-chef Danna Beedle from the back seat of the pickup truck we’d borrowed as Turner Rao, my other full-time employee, drove the truck into the lot at the top of the hill.
“Hey, you’re the one who filled out the application form,” she said.
“It’s good publicity for Pans ’N Pancakes,” Turner added. “Now let’s get this baby unloaded so we can all enjoy our Friday evening.”
The baby he referred to was our themed rustic outhouse, which of course wasn’t a real outhouse at all. Kitted out with two small window boxes planted with real geraniums, the outhouse rested on a four-wheel base. It had a Dutch door in the front and a wide handle on the back for pushing or pulling it. Inside was a bench seat and a steering lever. The top Dutch door had the classic cresce nt moon cut out of it, and my country store restaurant’s logo of a grinning stack of pancakes holding a skillet was painted on the back.
This parking lot was on the highest hill in Nashville, the county seat for Brown County, Indiana. All the outhouses would race down the hill tomorrow morning, powered only by gravity, as part of the Abe Martin Festival. I didn’t care if we won, but, as Turner pointed out, it was good publicity.
After we successfully slid the outhouse down the portable ramps Turner’s dad had included in the truck loan, I glanced around for direction. Camilla Kalb stood not far away. She owned Cammie’s Kitchen here in Nashville, a popular home-style eatery. Her entry resembled the restaurant, painted red and white with lace curtains at the fake windows. A cast-iron skillet hung from a hook on one side and a muffin tin on the other.
“I’ll be right back,” I told my team and headed her way.
“Hey, Camilla,” I said. “Do you know who’s in charge?”
She greeted me. “Zeke Martin is, Robbie, but he’s being his usual pedantic self.” She gestured across the lot. A man held a clipboard and was talking to a woman quite a bit shorter than he.
“Thanks. I’ll check with him.” I’d heard of Zeke, but I hadn’t realized he was the one organizing the race.
“Good luck.” She raised a penciled-on eyebrow.
I made my way past the Nashville Library outhouse, the walls of which held real books on shelves. I passed the Step Up Thrift store outhouse and the South Lick Bikes entry, which had bike wheels in many sizes fixed to the sides. The Nashville Fire Department’s was painted bright red.
I slowed, blinking, at the sight of the person standing next to the entry for Hickory Fine Art Gallery. What was Jim Shermer doing here?
“Jim?” I asked the man who had thrown over our budding romance a few years ago for a former lover, whom he was now married to. I no longer cared, being happily married, myself.
He turned, then took a step back. “Robbie Jordan.” His gaze shifted anywhere but at my face, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his khakis as if to hide an onset of nerves. Jim’s eyes were as green as ever, but the dark red hair, now tied back in a thin ponytail, had mostly disappeared from his brow.
“I thought you were living in Indianapolis,” I said.
“We, ah, moved back to Brown County.”
“It looks like you work at an art gallery.” I didn’t get to Nashville that often. Even if I’d been browsing the shops, acquiring fine art wasn’t something I made a practice of.
“I actually own it.” He gestured at the outhouse walls, which were adorned with folk art in the style of Grandma Moses.
I blinked again. He owned the gallery?
He flipped his hands open. “It’s more interesting than real estate law.”
“I suppose. Is Octavia still with the state police?” I’d met the detective after the body of a murdered woman had been deposited in my restaurant. It was during that case that she and Jim had reconnected in the fullest sense of the word.
“She is.”
He glanced at my Pans ’N Pancakes t-shirt, my daily uniform, albeit one that fit more snugly by the day. It was a bit early for much of a baby bump, but I could already feel my pregnant body growing fuller.
A commotion drew my attention away. The woman Zeke had been speaking to threw a hand in the air and turned her back. Now that I was closer, I could see it was Evermina Martin, the proprietor of the new Miss South Lick Diner, a breakfast and lunch restaurant in direct competition with my own, or at least that was how she’d positioned it. I’d heard she was also Zeke’s ex-wife.
“Uh-oh,” Jim murmured.
CHAPTER 2
Zeke Martin blustered his way toward us. In his forties, he looked trim in a blue polo shirt and linen Bermuda shorts. Unlike Jim’s, his hairline was intact, his dark hair neatly styled. His features were anything but neatly arranged. He’d pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. The pale skin of his neck was mottled with red.
He opened his mouth. I didn’t need anger in my life, not today, not ever.
I preempted him. “I’m Robbie Jordan. Where do you want the Pans ’N Pancakes entry?” I pointed behind me, vaguely in the direction of our outhouse.
He tapped his pen on the clipboard. “You were supposed to have it here at four o’clock.”
“I run a business.” I kept my cool. “We loaded up after we closed and cleaned the restaurant. We made it over here as soon as we could.”
“It’s only four thirty, Zeke,” Jim said.
“As long as your outhouse is in the lot, you can leave it anywhere.” He checked off my entry on his list. “We’ll line everybody up in the morning. But don’t be here any later than eight. Race gets going at nine sharp.”
“Do you have overnight security?” I asked.
Zeke performed a classic eye-and-head roll. “You think somebody’s going to steal a makeshift outhouse on wheels?”
“It’s a valid question. The business owners and organizations put a lot of work into these things.” Jim gave me a tentative smile. “People might have plans for them afterward. Plus, there’s a big prize at stake.”
Yeah, the big pot of fame and fortune, which was no more than an aluminum Abe Martin outhouse trophy and a picture in the Brown County Democrat. I smiled back.
“The lot’s entrance and exit will be roped off after everybody clears out. I’ll see you both in the morning.” Zeke strode away.
“Much ado about nothing, I’d say.” Jim shook his head.
“Everybody has to have their fiefdom.” I watched as Zeke gave the next entrants his officious treatment.
A movement near the Miss South Lick Diner outhouse nearby caught my attention. A woman I’d never seen before squatted and peered at the wheel. Her sleeveless top showed off tanned and toned biceps. She looked about my age and had dark hair that fell in that way that expertly cut and styled locks do. Maybe she was a friend of Evermina’s.
I turned back to Jim. “If running a fun festival makes Zeke feel powerful, so be it. Do you know what he does for a living?”
“He’s a commercial illustrator, but he fancies himself a fine artist. Judging from the work he’s tried to convince me to sell, he either doesn’t work very hard at it or doesn’t have a lick of talent.” He glanced behind me.
“Hey, Jimmy,” a woman’s voice said.
I turned, but not before I saw Jim cringe.
“Can you give me a hand, hon?” Evermina stroked the corner of her green outhouse with one hand as she set her other hand on a cocked hip. The name of her diner was lettered on the side of the outhouse. A sign mounted on the roof read, Best Eats in South Lick. The other woman had disappeared. “Hi there, Robbie. Do you know Jimmy?”
“I do,” I said.
Her snug V-neck top was the same color as the outhouse. Evermina’s tight jeans looked hot and uncomfortable to me, but they definitely showed off her curves. Her bouffant blond hair and heavily made-up eyes seemed out of the previous century and made her look as much of a caricature as the folksy comic strip guy the festival celebrated.
“Good luck tomorrow to you both,” I said. “See you later, Jim.”
He gave me a desperate look, which I ignored. Jim was an adult. He could handle Evermina’s come-hither look—or he couldn’t. It wasn’t my problem. I didn’t need to spend any more time with either of them.
I made my way back to my staff. Pans ’N Pancakes offered good eats in South Lick. We were a popular restaurant, and I was confident we could withstand competition from a new diner. As long as I got tomorrow’s breakfast prep done.
CHAPTER 3
They weren’t kidding when they called it “morning” sickness. I usually felt fine later in the day. But beginning at about four AM, I was just plain nauseous.
I’d gone early to the restaurant Saturday morning to get the first batches of biscuits cut and into the oven. I mixed up the pancake batter and started the first pots of coffee. Too bad the smell of the brewing java, an aroma I loved and usually inhaled on purpose, made me feel even sicker. Still, I had a business to run.
