COZY MYSTERY: French Cuisine Murder: A Margie Lauderdale Cozy Mystery (Book 1) Page 5

  But it was best she didn’t; what would be the point of escaping one cage of marriage only to fall into another?

  He was silent for a while longer. “No, your theories aren’t wrong. We couldn’t find any fingerprints. The wait staff and the kitchen hands all had access to gloves.”

  “Do you have a suspect you are looking into?”

  Frowning, Ray looked around to see if anyone was listening. “One of the boys has a record, it seems. A bar fight in Tulsa a year ago; I don’t have any details.”

  “There’s a big leap between ‘bar fight’ and ‘cold-blooded murder,’ Ray.”

  “I know, but I would be remiss if I didn’t, at least, look into it.”

  The waitress came by, refilling both their mugs. Margie added some creamer and stirred it gently. “I suppose not. So who is it?”

  “Why, so you can search their car for the murder weapon, Margie? I’m not stupid. I know this is more than just curiosity. But women can’t be homicide detectives in this state, Margie. Women can’t even be patrol officers; they can barely be police officers. We have rules against that sort of thing.”

  Margie’s slow anger was reaching a boiling point. “I don’t care what the rules are, Ray. I’m not trying to take your job. I just want to help solve this case so I can leave here,” she hissed under her breath, trying not to draw the attention of the nosy women just out of earshot. “I was supposed to be in the city days ago, and you stopped me from leaving. I’ve helped already, in this case, Ray. I need this buried so I can move on. I have a job waiting for me in the city next week. My cousin is still waiting for me to show up. Camelia would love to have her apartment back. None of this can happen until you let me go, whether we solve it or not.”

  Ray held up his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. I know. I understand that you have been helpful, Margie. I understand that you are our only witness I appreciate you sticking around to help out. But whoever murdered Mr. McCarthy is dangerous.” Ray looked around the diner, once again making sure no one was listening. He leaned closer, his eyes dark. “Mr. McCarthy might have had mob connections.”

  Margie’s stomach flipped over. A chill ran over her spine. “You mean like-”

  Ray nodded before she could finish. “That wasn’t his real name; everything in his wallet was fake. He carried cash, but all of the bills had the same serial numbers on them.”

  “Counterfeit?” Margie asked, her heart beating so fast, she was pretty sure Ray could hear it.

  “Yes, but-”

  “My father works at a bank.” She said, by way of explanation. “It took me a long time to figure out what he meant when he talked about things like that. They once had a very desperate man print himself $200 worth of bills with the same serial number on it. I felt bad for him; to be desperate enough to risk prison for $200, he must have been in dire straights.”

  Ray’s gaze held something new in it when he regarded her; perhaps respect? Margie hoped it was. More than anything, she wanted Ray to see her as an asset to the case rather than a silly girl wanting to throw herself into danger. “Yes, all the bills were counterfeit. Someone had taken one dollar bills, scraped them clean and printed twenty and fifty dollar notes on the blank paper. An operation like that wouldn’t be small time. I checked with some of the big police stations in the city; they’ve found similar bills with similar serial numbers tied to the Italian big men who run the underground up there. Now do you see why I can’t have you snooping around, Margie? It could be incredibly dangerous.”

  Margie stared down at the counter. “I’m sorry to worry you, Ray. I’ll keep my nose out of it, I promise. But if I run into any more clues, accidentally, like I did with the crepe griddle, I will still call you.”

  “I appreciate it. You’re a smart lady, Margie. I’d hate to see you get yourself into trouble sniffing around where you could get hurt.” Ray set a dollar on the counter for the coffees and a tip. “This should be enough for both of us; I need to get back to work.”

  Margie stared at the dollar without seeing it as Ray walked out the soda jerk and back onto the street, heading up Fifth towards the police station. She watched him go, feeling a little guilty for lying to him.

  But she had no intention of giving up on her search.

  Chapter 12

  “Yes, father. I know that my job will start in a week in the city.”

  “Yes, father. This town is cute and pretty, and the people are very kind. I just want to stay a little longer.”

  “No, father, I am not shirking my responsibilities. I’m just earning a little extra cash here before going to the city.”

  “Yes, father.”

  “Of course, father.”

  Margie was sweating again as she hung up from that grueling interrogation with her father. He always asked questions like he knew she was lying, even when she was telling the truth. Lying to him went against the grain so much that Margie was starting to wonder how she had kept it up this long. The price of her leaving Lakeshore was a promise to talk on the phone with him every three days. On occasion, Margie also spoke to her mother, who seemed to have little to say. Her father still had a hard time grasping why she left, and Margie was so tired of explaining it over and over.

  “He sounds wonderful,” Camelia said from the couch, sarcasm thick in her voice. “Does he always talk to you like a drill sergeant?”

  Margie nodded absently, nibbling on her thumbnail. “If we don’t solve this soon, I’m going to end up running out of excuses to tell him.”

  Camelia snorted indelicately. “Why lie to him; what is he going to do? Drive up here and drag you back home? I’m pretty sure that the Bristol PD might see that as kidnapping.”

  Margie just stared at her, unable to formulate a reply. Instead, she set about straightening up the kitchen after their lunch. Soon they would have to get dressed for work and Margie wanted to make sure the dishes she’d used to make her chicken and dumplings didn’t set too long. After an hour or two, the remnants around the outside of the pan would dry, gluing itself to the pan. Only hours of soaking with lemon water would get it off, and Margie wasn’t quite sure that Camelia’s cheap pots and pans would be able to withstand the acidity or the scrubbing.

  Once the dishes were clean, Margie turned and noticed Camelia was still looking at her. “You make the best food,” she said, smiling. She looked half asleep. It was no wonder; she’d eaten three helpings of the stew in record time.

  “I do?” Margie was surprised. No one had ever complimented her cooking before.

  “Yeah, even my mom can’t cook like you do.”

  “Just takes practice, that’s all, just like anything else.”

  Camelia shrugged noncommittally and got up from the sofa to grab her clothing for work. For a few minutes, Margie stared at the now-empty place on the couch, wondering if Camelia had meant what she said. Could her cooking be better than most other people’s? She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t, at least, help with dinner for the family. Had she helped with cooking at home because she was good at it or because Mother was so busy?

  It finally gave her something other than murder to ponder while she got dressed for work.

  Since Mr. Carter, the thoughtful soul that he was, gave Camelia and Margie identical work schedules, Margie didn’t have to memorize her schedule. He knew that Margie was a temporary resident in Camelia’s house and that Margie didn’t have a key of her own. It made it convenient, not to have to worry about how she would get back in after work. So Margie didn’t even have to ask most days; when Camelia to start getting ready for work, she followed suit.

  They walked out, locking the door behind themselves and making for the lobby. The office attendant waved at them on their way out, and they waved back.

  They walked the long way to work, loathe to be stuck inside on such a pretty, spring day.

  “So, who do you think has a record on the staff?”

  “Larry,” Margie said, automatically. “He seems the type to s
tart a bar brawl with someone.”

  “I bet Jacob has a fake ID that gets him into bars; maybe it’s him.”

  Margie pondered for a moment; she could see him being an angry, out of control drinker. He was barely in control of himself when he was sober. “Yes, but he’d be in jail now if it were him; a bar fight, underage drinking, and a false ID? He wouldn’t have gotten out yet if it happened a year ago. He’s only seventeen.”

  Camelia shook her head. “How do you think through things so easily? You seem to view everything from every angle without an effort.”

  Margie blushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for; I was just admiring your skills.” Camelia looked around. They were on Eighth and Broad, nearly at the restaurant. She walked a little slower, and Margie followed suit. “You need to stop apologizing to everyone for who and what you are. Just because you don’t fit into the box, your parents built for you isn’t a bad thing. Just because you aren’t like me or like Cindy or like Ray wants you to be or your father wants you to be, doesn’t mean you don’t have a place in the world or that you should change.”

  Margie felt a little bit of a stirring in her chest at Camelia’s words. Perhaps she was right. Maybe it wasn’t Margie who wasn’t ready for the world. Perhaps it was the world who just wasn’t ready for Margie. “You’re right, Camelia. I’ll work on that.”

  Chapter 13

  They stepped into the restaurant, blinking the bright sunlight away inside the dim interior. They immediately got to work, scrubbing, wrapping silverware in red fabric napkins, polishing crystal, and silver, and waiting for the lunch rush to start.

  Margie studied each of the three male employees currently working. Marc would never hurt a fly; Margie was pretty sure. Pierre seemed like a possible candidate to pick a fight in a bar, but his visa could get revoked from such a mistake; she doubted he would have risked it. And then seventeen-year-old Jacob. He had such a strong temper. Perhaps the judge had let him off easy; perhaps he was from a good family or he knew somebody who knew somebody.

  Margie dragged an empty box from the latest shipment of flour from the back of the kitchen, trying to avoid getting any of the powder on her black skirt. She scooted it delicately out the doorway, trying to get it into the trash container out back. Gruff voices came from the behind the dumpsters. Margie ignored them; it was probably just people talking before coming in to start their shifts.

  But when the voices got progressively louder, Margie had no choice but to listen.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re on about, but I suggest you keep to the plan, no matter how many coppers are around. Tonight.” It was Larry’s voice, one that she would now recognize anywhere. He sounded cold and deeply angry. She didn’t dare breathe or peer around the dumpster, so she listened instead, her heart thundering in her chest. The reek of the dumpster couldn’t even dissuade her from her spying.

  “It’s a shame what happened to that man here a few days ago; it would also be a shame for a repeat showing, now wouldn’t it.” Larry’s voice continued. Margie clasped her hands over her mouth, choking on her desire to cry out. Without making a sound, Margie slipped back into the restaurant, her heart bouncing around irregularly in her chest.

  She ran to the women’s restroom. Inside was a single toilet behind a partition. The vanity sink had pretty gilt mirrors and bright, yellow lighting. Little perfumed soaps adorned the faux-marble countertop, pink on white. Margie pressed her hands to the counter, staring at herself in the mirror. What on earth had she just heard?

  Larry. Had Larry murdered Mr. McCarthy?

  She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure at all what had been going on.

  What had she heard? She couldn’t even call Ray with this information. Could she? Would he be able to sort it out where she couldn’t?

  Once her breathing had calmed, Margie pressed her hands on either side of the sink, staring at her very pale reflection. Had Larry been threatening someone? Or was it just her imagination?

  “It’s a shame what happened to that man here a few days ago; it would also be a shame for a repeat showing, now wouldn’t it.”

  It sounded like a threat. It sounded like Larry was threatening to kill someone. Margie stared at herself, her skin pale and dotted with sweat. The facial expression she wore looked haunted, and she couldn’t seem to wipe it from her face. She wanted to call Ray and tell him what she had heard, but she wasn’t sure. What if he had been joking?

  Margie nodded to herself in the mirror, straightening up her collar and putting on her best smile. It looked fake, but it would have to do. Margie stepped out of the bathroom and felt her chest tighten when she saw Larry. He didn't seem to notice her standing there; which made her breathe easier. She should call Ray, just in case. He can’t be mad; she wasn’t snooping.

  Larry walked into the kitchen and started chatting amiably with Marc. Margie watched him for a second before moving away and around the corner to grab some supplies out of the closet. She grabbed the glass cleaner and some towels to wipe down the windows where someone’s dirty fingerprints smeared the glass. Larry is just an abrasive guy. He probably didn’t mean it how it came out. She didn't even know who was talking to him.

  The lunch rush came and went, people still wanting to gawk at the so-called Murder Booth. Despite the fact that the repairman had come by the night before and patched up the missing fabric and cleaned away all of the mess, even though no one could tell now which booth Mr. McCarthy had died in, people still came to the restaurant. Not as many as before. Margie could pick out the macabre ones; she always caught them peering around for blood stains or other signs.

  Ray would want her to bother him, she thought. Even if this all turns out to be nothing.

  The dinner rush also came and went. Margie avoided Larry by staying busy out front; he was in charge of plating tonight, so she wouldn’t see him unless she went all the way into the kitchen.

  She didn't have proof so she decided she couldn't call Ray.

  Camelia grabbed Margie’s wrist and pulled her to the back of the house right as the dinner crowd started to thin. “You look nervous. Is everything okay?”

  Frowning, Margie straightened herself up. “I’m fine; I’ll tell you about it after work, okay?” She managed a half-hearted smile. Camelia didn’t look convinced, but let it go. Once the dinner guests were gone, the both started to clean up after the crowd, sweeping food out from under the booths and wiping down tables. Once the crowd had died out completely, Margie told Camelia what happened. Her eyes darted across the room to make sure Larry was still back in the kitchen. “Are you going to tell Ray about it?”

  “What can I tell him?” Margie whispered, frowning as she nibbled on her thumbnail. “I heard someone talking to I-don’t-know-who, about a thing I can’t explain?”

  “Fine,” Camelia said, holding out her palm. “Give me Ray’s card and I’ll tell him.”

  “I don’t have his home number; he might not be at the office this late.”

  “No harm in checking.” Camelia swiped the card, which Margie had taken to carrying around in her pocket at all times. She stepped out the front door, looking as though she were going to grab a quick walk and smoke before work began to close up for the evening. Margie glanced behind herself, blanching a little as she noticed Larry, Marc, Lee, and Pierre standing in the doorway. Larry’s eyes followed Camelia as she slipped down the street, walking quickly in the direction of the payphone.

  Margie started scrubbing, fixing her eyes on the work in front of her. She kept at it, nervously checking over her shoulders over and over, for both Camelia and Larry. Mr. Carter turned off the OPEN sign in the window. What was taking Camelia so long to get back?

  Margie grabbed a bucket and a mop, wiping the floor down without really looking at it. She couldn't keep her eyes off of the front window. She shouldn’t have let Camelia go to the payphone alone at night. What was she thinking? She should have insisted on going with her.

  Margie alm
ost fainted from relief when Camelia finally walked back around the corner. She was smiling as she put out a cigarette on the sidewalk with her pretty black heels. Stepping into the door, Camelia rubbed her arms and shivered in the sudden warmth. Margie had to brace herself to keep from hugging Camelia.

  “What took so long?” She whispered urgently.

  “Officer Ray had a few questions,” Camelia said, innocently. “He said he would look into it, but he wasn’t sure if anything would come of it.” She took possession of the mop, finishing up as Margie went to collect their portions of the tips and grab their jackets from the back office.

  Nearly sick with relief, Margie promised herself she would call Ray in the morning; she wanted to make sure Camelia hadn’t made a big deal of what Larry said. The longer she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that Larry was innocent, and she had misunderstood the whole situation.