COZY MYSTERY: French Cuisine Murder: A Margie Lauderdale Cozy Mystery (Book 1) Read online

  Never before in her life had she ever been so completely and utterly mistaken.

  Chapter 14

  They stopped at a small bakery on the way in to work the next day, grabbing a couple of sandwiches and coffees for lunch. The cafe had a payphone, so Margie dialed Ray’s number. He wasn’t in the office. She shrugged. He must be out, flat footing around Bristol, digging for clues. That’s what police did, wasn’t it?

  Margie and Camelia grabbed up their lunches. They nibbled on their sandwiches as they rounded the corner. The front of the restaurant was quiet; they must have been early. Camelia brought their jackets back to the back office, and Margie stepped into the kitchen, ready to gear up for the day. What she saw stopped her in her tracks.

  Everyone was huddled together in the back, whispering urgently to one another.

  Margie found Pierre first. “What happened?”

  “The police arrested Larry last night,” he answered, his thick accent making the words sound exotic. “‘E was apparently dealing drugs!” Pierre said, his face contorted with something she couldn’t name. His accent was very thick; she could barely understand him. “What ‘as ‘appened to this place?”

  Margie felt like she was hit with a board. He was doing something illegal, but it had nothing to do with murder. A sense of relief tingled down her spine; at least, she hadn’t wasted Ray’s time on nothing. At the same time, Margie felt sick to her stomach; Larry wasn’t the murder.

  Or was he?

  Margie grabbed a few of cleaning rags unsure of how to handle the news. “If I keep my hands busy, I won’t have time to think about it,” she said, out loud to no one in particular.

  But Pierre nodded, as though she’d been speaking to him. “You are correct. We should keep busy.”

  They both went to work without a word.

  After a few moments, Margie noticed that Camelia wasn’t helping her. Margie glanced out the door, glancing both ways down the front of the building. To the left, down just a few feet from the entrance, stood Officer Ray Brighton and Camelia. Margie pushed her way out of the door, trying to catch their attention. Camelia glanced at her, held up a single finger, then resumed her conversation with Ray.

  Margie frowned. “Guess I’ll clean and get the place set up alone then.” When she turned around, Pierre was right behind her. She squealed in terror, her heart nearly popping out of her chest.

  Pierre blinked at her, frozen in place by her startled reaction. He was holding a rag and some cleaner. His gloves were nowhere in sight. “Forgive me; I just thought I would ‘elp you with the windows, ma’am.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be right behind me.” Margie pressed her hand over her sternum, trying to hold her chest together, so her thundering heart didn’t escape. “Thank you.”

  Pierre half-smiled at her, taking the glass cleaner and towels outside to start on the windows outside. Margie walked back into the kitchen, ready to start rolling the napkins. They were already finished, laid out on the server’s cart and ready to be set out.

  Marc and Lee both laughed at her expression. “It was all Pierre,” Lee said, smiling. He had big white teeth and dark skin. He was thick with corded muscle. Lee grated on her nerves sometimes, but he seemed like an honest man. He sat pretty low on her list of murder suspects, but he was still on it. “He gets nervous when things go wrong.”

  “He did some of my work too, flitting around here, trying to clean like a madman.” Marc laughed. She nodded; he’d been the one frantically cleaning the bar over and over again and bringing everyone water the night of the murder. Pierre was such a nervous man, and that irritated her deeply.

  “You can help me with the fish; you know how to debone salmon, Margie?”

  “Have you any pliers?” Margie said, rolling up her sleeves and walking over to the sink to wash her hands.

  They worked in silence, listening as Lee sang some hymn as he worked. He had a lovely voice; Margie thought he would be nice in a church choir somewhere. She would have been more interested in the church had there been such a singer in hers.

  The night was a slow one. Perhaps the rumors of drugs have gone around, and people are avoiding us now. There’s too much illegal activity here, and people are afraid to get caught up in it.

  Margie sighed. Once the extra work dried up, she would be out of a job. She’d come to like working at the restaurant. She liked learning about cooking; she didn’t even really mind the cleaning. Camelia and Margie started home together after a shift cut short; there had been so few people in, that they both got out three hours early with almost no tip money to their names.

  “I guess the good times are over.” Camelia sighed, looking through her purse. “We won’t have so many trips to the diner, then. But we can learn to make coffee at home, huh?” She was still smiling. Camelia was completely unshaken by the day’s events.

  “What were you and Ray talking about so long?” Margie handed Camelia her umbrella and pulled her coat on before taking it back. The weather had looked so gloomy and gray all day; Margie was sure it would rain. The wind pulled at her hair, tossing strands into her mouth. It felt like the storm was just around the corner, so she kept her umbrella close.

  “Larry. I wanted to make sure that bastard wasn’t coming back.”

  “Did he kill Mr. McCarthy?”

  Camelia looked down at her shoes. “No. He didn’t. Has an alibi apparently.”

  Margie laughed. “Well, aren’t you just an expert at getting information out of police officers about active cases.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He was telling me so you would continue to be on your guard, especially since Ray is pretty sure he had a partner in the store here.” She pressed her hand to her forehead like she was swooning. “He so worries about you, Margie.”

  Margie pushed at Camelia’s shoulder, laughing. They continued down Fifth toward the diner for one last hurrah; Margie was in desperate need of some waffles and Camelia agreed. They turned left on Canary. Looking around, Margie noticed one of the street lamps were out. The road looked a little darker and a lot scarier with a missing light bulb; she was still a little on edge. You’re just paranoid, Margie. It’s the same road you’ve walked down a million times. It was completely dark, but there were still people out and about. Not many, but enough that one slightly darker street was not a cause for concern.

  Until someone reached out, grabbing Camelia’s arms and throwing her to the ground.

  Margie screamed as Camelia thrashed around, kicking out with the heels of her shoes. The man grabbed at her hair, something shining in his left hand.

  A knife.

  Without a thought, Margie lifted the umbrella up above her head and brought it down hard on his shoulder with a crunching noise. The attacker cried out, but it was Margie’s umbrella that had broken. He dropped the knife and staggered back.

  The masked man held his left shoulder and backed away before tearing off down the street. Margie stood guard over Camelia with a broken umbrella and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  After an eternity, flashing lights splashed the darkened street. Someone must have called the police after hearing Margie scream. She’d nearly lost her voice. It broke as she tried to call out to the policemen. Camelia was down. She was hurt. Call an ambulance. But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out but a defeated croaking.

  Ray was there, seemingly out of thin air.

  “Margie!”

  She turned to him in slow motion, afraid to look down at the prone woman beneath her feet. “He came out of nowhere,” she croaked; her voice barely audible.

  “Call an ambulance now!” Ray screamed at the other policeman, wrapping his hands around Margie’s arms. “Margie, are you okay? Have you been hurt?”

  “I’m-” she took mental stock of herself; other than feeling like she was going to faint from fear, she was pretty sure she was okay. “I don’t think he got me. But Ray, he hurt Camelia-”

  “I know.”
Ray pushed her back. Margie’s feet tangled around Camelia’s prone, unmoving body and she nearly tripped as Ray tried to pull her away. “You need to let the experts deal with her, Margie. You gotta move.”

  “Gotta move,” she repeated, feeling icy cold.

  “Can someone get me a blanket? She’s going into shock!”

  What all Margie knew was that ground looked like a good place to be. She sat down, pressing her forehead against her knees, blocking the blinking lights of the police cars and the prone body of Camelia from view.

  Chapter 15

  “How is she?”

  The hospital wouldn’t let Margie in to see her friend, but they let her hang out on the sofas in the waiting rooms until visiting hours. Margie always hated the antiseptic smell of the pastel hospital rooms. Hospitals everywhere were all the same, full of muddy pink chairs and dirty powder blue walls. The nurses were kind but unhelpful, unable to release any data on how Camelia was doing. So Margie sat there, drinking the battery acid they had the nerve to call coffee and wondering what was going to happen next.

  Ray sat down, looking grim. “She’s fine. Hit her head on the pavement and is a little scratched up, but she’s fine. Thanks to you.” Ray sat down across from Margie in the hospital chair; concern etched in every curve of his face. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his five o'clock shadow had become stubble. He looked grave like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  Margie breathed a sigh of relief. “Who was that guy?”

  Ray shook his head. “You don’t know?”

  “Of course not.”

  Sighing Ray stood up and got himself a cup of swill as well, making a face as he drank it down in one gulp. “We’re looking into it.”

  “He had a knife; he dropped it.”

  “I know, Margie. We bagged and tagged it.”

  “He was left-handed.”

  Ray’s eyebrows lifted, staring at her as she took another sip of coffee. The scene played over and over and over again in Margie’s head; she couldn’t seem to be able to keep it from replaying. Every detail seemed to jump out at her, from his height (his chin had been level with her eyes) to the way his mask was skewed on his face (as though he had pulled in on in haste).

  “Only 15% of the population is left-handed.” Margie finished. She set down her coffee and tangled her fingers together in her lap, trying to hide their shaking. “They taught us that in biology in high school. I know it’s weird that I remember it.”

  “Margie,” Ray put one of his hands over hers. He seemed to be trying to read her mind through her eyes. “You should leave. Go to the city. Get out of here and find your cousin. Bristol isn’t a dangerous place, but you seem just to have gotten tangled up with all the wrong sorts of people. It would be better if you were away from here.”

  “But I-”

  “I mean it.”

  “I can’t. I can’t leave Camelia alone here. She’s hurt, and probably scared out of her wits.” Margie took a deep breath to steady herself. “She is my only friend, Ray. Whoever it was that attacked us wasn’t after me. You need to protect her. I need to take care of her. I can’t leave.”

  Ray sighed, rubbing his face with both of his hands. “We’ll be giving her 24-hour police detail. Around the apartment.”

  “Then they can protect me too. I’ll be just as safe as she is,” Margie snapped. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to snap, Ray.” Margie’s lip quivered. “Today has been so horrible, I-”

  “It’s fine, Margie. I’ve seen lots of people in the same situation. People all react differently to stress. It’s fine.” He stood up and sighed, turning away from her. He was most of the way down the hall when Margie’s mouth ran away with her thoughts.

  “The man that attacked Camelia was the man that killed Mr. McCarthy?

  Ray froze midstep. He stood silent and still for a long time before resuming his slow walk from the building without answering. His silence was answer enough.

  Margie watched him, her heart aching a little. She knew what it was like to care about someone and see them put themselves in danger. No matter how she had felt about marrying Keith, she cared for him. Watching him pack his things and leave for the war-

  She knew how he felt. She could feel that same pain in her heart for Camelia. She wanted to protect her friend, but she didn’t know how. A nurse came by a few minutes later, letting Margie know that it was finally visiting hours. She rushed to Camelia’s bedside.

  The hospital smell was more concentrated here. A steady beeping tapped out the rhythm of Camelia’s heart. Wires crisscrossed around and over the sterile white sheets. Camelia looked almost as white as the bedding, her skin pale and dappled with sweat. She was awake, her eyes half hooded from weariness, but she was alive. She was breathing.

  “Wow,” Camelia said, looking her over. “You look worse than I do.”

  Margie laughed, the relief thick in her chest that it hurt. “You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror recently, Cammy.” Taking Camelia’s left hand, careful of the bandages, Margie gently chafed her skin. “I was real worried about you; that’s all.”

  “Takes more than that to get rid of me,” Camelia said, her voice full of gravel. “What exactly happened? I don’t remember much. We turned the corner on Canary, and the light was out. Then what?”

  So Margie told her every detail she could remember, from the man’s slightly skewed mask to his left-handedness to his damaged shoulder. The feel of the broken umbrella in her hands. How she screamed until her voice was gone and how Ray asked her to skip town. She told her about the hospital’s coffee being swill and how the diners was much better.

  She told her about how frightened she had been.

  “Ray’s going to have some police officers watch us until they figure out what happened. They are looking at the evidence left behind and seeing if they can figure out who attacked us. There’s two outside now, and they’ll follow us home whenever they release you.”

  “Not us. Me. He was after me specifically.” Camelia stared at her, the emerald of her eyes darkening.

  “We don’t know that.”

  Camelia winced as she shifted. Her body looked so tiny and vulnerable in the hospital gown. She pressed her left hand to her forehead, rubbing her eyes. “So what do we know?” She asked, smiling.

  Margie laughed again. “We know that Ray isn’t the murderer and that you need to rest up and get better. I’ll stick around ‘til they kick me out of here.”

  Camelia smiled, her eyelids drooping. “They got me on something that makes me very sleepy.” She yawned and was asleep before Margie could even come up with a response. Walking quietly, Margie sat down in the chair next to Camelia’s bed. The chair had cushions, but was not particularly comfortable. Her relief at seeing Camelia, bruised but alive, loosened up the tightness in her shoulders. She thought to sit for a just a few moments and then find something to read, but she ended up drifting off to sleep instead, the comforting sounds of the bedside heart monitor beeping in time with her heartbeat.

  Chapter 16

  They released Camelia the next day. It surprised Margie to see how bright eyed she looked after just a day of rest in the hospital. She knew deep down that Camelia was not seriously injured; they had only kept her long enough to ensure her skull and brain were okay after falling. The nurses insisted that Camelia shouldn’t walk the half-mile to the apartment, despite her protests, so Margie called a cab. She was secretly glad; she’d been wondering how to convince her friend it was too far for her to walk on her first day out of the hospital.

  When the cab arrived, both girls got in, ready to go home. Margie watched in the rearview mirror the unmarked police car pull out behind them, following the cab until they reached the house. The two officers were strangers, but Ray had assured her that they were competent and would do all they could to keep them safe.

  Both girls immediately opened all of the windows so the officers would have no trouble hearing either of them scream.

  Margie se
t about making dinner; she found some chicken and a collection of still good carrots and broccoli in the fridge. She laid everything out on a baking sheet, tossed them with olive oil and seasonings and baked the whole thing. It was one of the simplest dinners she could think of; she was pretty sure Camelia would be happy to eat anything that wasn’t hospital food.

  “Thank you for staying with me at the hospital,” Camelia said, still drying her hair from her shower as Margie pushed the chicken into the oven to cook.

  “Not a problem. Did you leave any hot water in the building for me?”

  Camelia laughed. “Might be a few drops left.”

  Sighing, Margie resigned herself to an icy shower when the phone rang. She picked it up on the to the bathroom. “Hello?”