COZY MYSTERY: French Cuisine Murder: A Margie Lauderdale Cozy Mystery (Book 1) Page 4

  But Margie’s guilt at staying without at least helping with the utilities lead them to comprise; half of her week’s earnings would go to clothes, one-quarter of it help with rent, and one-quarter Margie would save. They shook on it, before decking themselves to the nines for a shopping trip.

  There were six clothing shops in the small town of Bristol, and Margie and Camelia visited every last one of them. Margie found a few items she needed. They tried on nearly everything in every store; it was nearly dark when they finished up, loaded down and giggling. By the end of the shopping, her feet throbbed in time with her heartbeat and her wallet was much lighter, but so was her mood. They were laughing as they slid into the same booth in the same 1950s style diner as a few days ago. They barely fit in the booth with all of their purchases, both of them loaded down with their parcels and bags and boxes.

  “So why did you leave Lakeshore?” Camelia asked signaling the waitress for more coffee.

  “I couldn’t stay in Lakeshore,” Margie answered, looking down at her plate of french fries. “I just-” She took a deep breath. “I just couldn’t.”

  “Guy?” Camelia took a big bite of her burger, watching Margie carefully.

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean? Either it was a guy or it wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” Margie wrinkled her nose. “It was a guy, but it’s probably not what you’re thinking.”

  “So what was it then?”

  Taking a second to collect her thoughts, Margie glanced out the window. A young couple walked by, both smiling. They pushed a baby stroller. They looked happy. It was a kind of happiness that Margie had always wanted for herself, but had never been able to find in Lakeshore. But she wasn’t sure what she wanted for herself at all anymore.

  “When I was tiny, my parents and the Collins’ were real close next door neighbors. Our farms had a long shared border, and we shared everything: milk from the cows, eggs, even the land sometimes when we needed to.

  “They have a boy named Keith; we have the same birthday. September 14th, 1944. We did everything as kids together. We played together and grew up together, shared birthday parties too. We built a fort on the trees that straddle our shared property line. We were friends. I don’t remember ever doing anything without him. When we hit about thirteen or so, though, it got a little awkward.” Margie smiled, remembering. “I found some girls my age to be friends with at school, and he did the same with boys. We were just discovering dating and romance, and we everything we had done as kids seemed uncomfortable all of the sudden.

  “Both of our parents always joked about us getting married and buying the farm across the street when Old Lady Martha finally kicked the bucket. It was funny until it wasn’t funny anymore.”

  Camelia tilted her head. She didn’t say anything; Margie could feel her hanging on every word she spoke. “They started talking about it seriously. And when we turned seventeen, Keith started talking about it seriously too. Every conversation every Sunday was marriage and kids until I wanted to scream.”

  “Seventeen is too young to marry,” Camelia said dismissively, sipping her coffee.

  “Not in Lakeshore.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t sound like my kind of town.”

  “I thought I was safe for a while when Keith’s parents insisted that he enlist for the war.” Margie snorted a little, pushing fries around on her plate. “I was happy; for the first time in my life, I could walk around without constantly being asked about marrying Keith and having babies and future this and weddings that. I don’t even remember being that happy before. But when Keith was discharged from the Army for an injury to his leg, he came expecting me to marry him right then and there. He suffers from his memories of the war. He was different when he came home, but that’s not what made me run.” She sighed, the weight of her memories pressing against her bones. “It was the thought of caring for my children like Mom took care of us; it was her whole life. She’s never out of Lakeshore. Not a single time. She gets up early, cooks, cleans, washes, feeds, cleans, cleans, cleans. There’s no end to her work. To her, it was what she wanted; kids and a home and a loving husband, but to me, it looked like a prison. When Keith came back, I could no longer smile. There was nothing left in Lakeshore that made me happy at all.”

  Camelia was silent for a long time as Margie stirred her coffee over and over and over again. “You are the most sensible woman I think I’ve ever met.”

  Margie laughed. “My father would disagree with you.”

  “Well, there’s not many places in the world for women like us, independent and working for a living, without husbands or children, but we can carve the way. Maybe the next generation of Margie's and Camelia's will be allowed to run off without getting married, and no one will even blink an eye.” Camelia laughed, pulling a cigarette out of her purse. After a second, she held up her mug of coffee. “To girls like us,” she said.

  Margie clanked her mug to Camelia’s, grinning. “To girls like us.”

  Chapter 10

  Friday came and went, and so did the weekend. Margie got into the flow of things at her new job, cleaning, and buffing and on occasion bringing plates to customers. On Saturday, Marc asked Margie to help out in the kitchen; to make a roux for the sauces and to help with seasoning stock. She knew how to cook, and even if the French food smelled and looked entirely foreign, it had the same principals as more familiar dishes. She learned what mirepoix was and showed off her mincing skills to the staff.

  Marc was a kindly older man; he walked with a limp. His limp, along with his gentle temperament, made Margie cross him off of her ongoing list of possible murder suspects. His black hair had just a touch of gray, but his skin had lots of wrinkles. As often as he laughed and smiled, Margie was sure all of the creases on his skin were laugh lines; each one of them looks like they had been a pleasure to earn. He hobbled about the kitchen with the practiced ease of someone who had been working kitchens most of his life. He was gruff and told stories that always started with “back where I come from,” in his heavy Irish accent. Margie once asked about his leg; it was raining that day, and it seemed to be giving him more trouble than usual. He rubbed at it and though he was still smiling, there was a touch of sadness in him when he said, “Now, lass, that’s not a story I wish to tell.”

  On Sunday, both Pierre and Jacob showed her a little bit of what they had learned about plating and food display; Margie gobbled up the new information. She received praise from both as they walked her through the steps. Pierre was a nervous man, but despite his shaking fingers and how he was always jumping at noises, his hands were always steady when it came to precise placement of food.

  Jacob was so very young compared to everyone else; he’d not graduated from high school yet. Somehow, Mr. Carter had gotten his mother's permission to let him work in the kitchen when he wasn’t at school. He looked after plating and serving meals. For a seventeen-year-old, he was fairly mature and well-mannered. He reminded Margie of Carson, her little brother, who had turned sixteen right before Margie left home. Being around Jacob made her miss her siblings, but just a little.

  But even though she missed it, Margie thought less and less of the city and Lakeshore. This place, Camelia’s apartment, and the Bonne Table felt less and less like a step toward the city and more and more like a home.

  “So,” Camelia said, sitting down in their favorite booth in the same old diner. It was an after work ritual almost three nights a week now. Without asking, the waitress brought them both decaffeinated coffees and a whole bottle of creamer. “Has your detective boyfriend found any more clues in the case?”

  Margie blushed, her skin burning. “He’s not my boyfriend. Also, I’m not sure. He wasn’t in the office when I called last.”

  “So what do we know?”

  “I supposed we can presume that a short in the crepe griddle caused the power to go off. We can also guess that the police didn’t find any fingerprints on it, or else they woul
d have been down at work, getting people’s fingerprints by now to match.”

  “Oh, clever girl, I didn’t think of that.” Camelia twirled that same lock of hair from behind her ear with her thumb and index finger, pulling on the strand once it curled around her fingers.

  “So how can you not leave fingerprints on things?” Margie asked, her mind spinning over the details again. It was familiar territory; she’d been mulling over the case since she’d arrived in Bristol. Not even Ray’s warning to stay away could keep her curiosity at bay. There was no harm in thinking about it; no one would know if she were thinking about the case. She had no urge to play detective, but she couldn’t keep her mind out of police business.

  “Wipe it down after or- wear gloves?” Camelia asked, drinking her entire coffee down in one, huge gulp. She slammed her coffee mug back on the table and pushed it to the edge. The waitress swung by almost immediately, refilling the mug from her endless coffee pot without seeming to slow down.

  Margie nodded. “Same as I thought. So if you’re wearing gloves-”

  “The wait staff was wearing white cotton gloves to serve; they always do. The kitchen staff wears those disposable rubber gloves sometimes when they are cooking to keep their hands out of the food. They also wear them when they are cleaning to keep their skin out of the bleach.”

  Margie nodded, sipping her ice water through a straw. “So if the waitstaff and some of the kitchen staff wear gloves, we can probably assume it’s on one of them. It doesn’t discount the others completely; the gloves aren’t exactly on lockdown. But we can guess they found a pair with ease, which leads me to lean towards someone who is used to wearing them. What else do we know?”

  “Killed with a knife to the neck.” Camelia looked a little queasy.

  Margie made a face. “Indeed, This is a messy business; if you’ve ever killed anything, you would know what I mean.”

  Camelia nodded. “My family keeps chickens. I remember the blood.”

  “So does mine.” Margie pressed her chin into her hands, contemplating her coffee. “So you have to assume that whoever it was got blood all over his gloves and had to throw them away.”

  “Or burn them.”

  Margie had a mental list of everyone who was working that night; she’d memorized it. But every single one of the waitstaff and each of the kitchen members, all of whom had remained at their jobs after the murder, had distinct voices. Not a single one sounded like the curse from that night when a man in the dark bumped into her shoe. The accent had been Southern, not like anyone she had come to know at the Bonne Table.

  “And that’s all we have.”

  Margie went over the list of waiters and kitchen staff on that night again in her head. The waiters Pierre, Kevin, and Jacob. The male kitchen staff Jeffrey, Larry, John, Marc, and Lee. Margie was hoping it wasn’t Marc; he seemed like such a nice man.

  “I think it’s time for you to get coffee with our Officer Brighton then, Ms. Lauderdale.”

  Margie laughed at Camelia’s imitation of Ray, shaking her head. “I don’t want to lead him on; I’m leaving for the city as soon as they don’t need me anymore.”

  A shadow passed over Camelia’s face for a second before returning to the subject at hand. “Oh, come on Margie. Just tell him you want to talk about the case over coffee. He won’t take it the wrong way; he’s smitten with your pretty face. He’ll take whatever he can get.”

  Margie turned a brilliant, hot red from her eyebrows down to her collarbones. “Camelia!”

  “It’s true. He can’t keep his eyes off of you.”

  Sighing, Margie looked away. There was a glass display filled with that evening’s desserts. Margie’s eyes wandered over the pies, cakes, and the meringues, all wrapped in plastic wrap.

  “Besides, you don’t want to go to the city, Margie.” Her eyes were sad. All of the teasing gaiety that usually lived there was gone replaced by a chasm of despair. “It’s filled with rioting and drugs. The war has lead to an influx of civil rights protesters to the city and hippies moving against the war in Vietnam. There’s all that violence and craziness in the city, Margie. And from what everyone says, it’s only going to get worse.”

  Margie swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. Camelia cared about her, didn’t she? “Civil rights?”

  Camelia nodded, looking down at her plate. “Protesting the segregation of the black people, just because their skin is different. They are just people who want fair treatment, Margie. There’s no harm in that, but every time they ask, there’s a police officer there to beat them down.”

  All of the blood leeched from Margie’s skin, leaving nothing but cold behind. Did she mean Ray, or- “I didn’t know that- We don’t- Lakeshore is a very small town- I’ve never-”

  Camelia shook her head, the smile returning to her face. It looked a little forced. She twirled a few strands of her hair. “But none of that matters here; no one cares about Bristol. It’s too small a town to need segregated anything.”

  Lakeshore had been the same way. “If you say so,” Margie said, doubtfully. She looked out of the diner windows into the darkness, her mind reeling with everything Camelia had said. They were quiet for a long time. The waitress brought their food, and they ate in silence, each trapped in their thoughts.

  Chapter 11

  The next day, Margie asked Ray to coffee.

  They met up at a soda jerk near the Bonne Table before her shift started. Margie had a hard time looking at him in the face, so she stared at the cream-colored collar of his jacket instead. She cleared her throat as the waiter brought them coffees. “How is the case?”

  “Not much to go on without a murder weapon or any suspects with criminal records. Almost everyone in that restaurant I’ve checked out so far is clean as a spring shower.” Ray was staring at her again, and Margie glanced around. They sat at the bar. The little shop boasted old ice cream posters and a variety of different flavors of drinks to choose. It too had a 1950s retro feel, just like everything in this town did. It seemed comfortably familiar, even though she’d never been here before.

  “Does this town have anything built in the last decade?” Margie asked, taking a sip of her coffee. She added a little more cream and sipped again. “Everything looks like it got to the fifties and froze there.”

  Ray laughed, drawing the whispering attentions of the two women behind the bar. They seemed to be a little too interested in knowing who the girl with Officer Brighton was. Margie had a feeling there would be rumors all over Bristol by the time she got to work. Sighing, Margie warmed her hands on the ceramic of the mug.

  “When it ain’t broke, we don’t fix it, Margie.”

  “So you do have people you suspect killed Mr. McCarthy, then?” Margie asked, staring down into her coffee mug.

  Ray looked a little confused for a second, trying to keep up with her changing subjects. “I did, but none of them are panning out.”

  “What did you know of Mr. McCarthy?”

  “Not much, yet. We’re still waiting on the paperwork on him. All we have is what was on him: his ID was from Michigan and was fake.”

  Margie frowned. “Is that all he had on him?”

  Ray looked at her sharply. “I can’t discuss an open case with you like this, Margie.”

  Margie’s heart fluttered in her chest. “We’re already discussing it,” she said, desperately. She just had to keep his mind on the case. She had to know what he did.

  “Margie, please. I want you to stay out of this. This case is dangerous.”

  Margie sipped her coffee, trying to stay calm. “I assume most criminal cases are.” She was silent for a moment before she said, “I want to help. This murder has been haunting me. I can’t get it out of my thoughts. I can’t stop looking around at the wait and kitchen staff and wondering which one did it.”

  Ray’s eyes narrowed. “How do you figure it was the wait or kitchen staff?”

  “You didn’t fingerprint anyone at the restaurant,” Margie
said, explaining her theory.

  Ray shook his head, a confounded look in his steel gray eyes. “Where do you get such ideas?”

  “I’m sorry,” she answered, gripping her coffee mug so tight, it was a wonder it didn’t break.

  Ray was watching her, the gray color of his eyes softening for a moment as he studied her face. Perhaps he did like her. Margie sighed; not a single emotion stirred in her when he looked at her that way. For his sake, she almost wished she did like him.