Death on a Platter (24 page)

“The one on Manchester?” Josie asked.

“That’s the one. I’ll meet you there, then follow you back to Phelan Street to make sure you get home safe.”

“Deal,” Josie said.

Twenty minutes later, Josie parked under the Uncle Bill’s sign. Ted’s orange Mustang pulled in right beside her. They walked into the restaurant bathed in the rosy glow of the sign’s pink neon, and were greeted by the perfume of sugary grease. Josie and Ted settled in a booth. The menu had everything from burgers to bagels, but they ordered breakfast.

Uncle Bill’s had all the virtues of a Midwest grease spot. It was fast, cheap, and cheerful. The booths were big enough so they could sit side by side. The waitress kept them well coffeed. Josie felt herself reviving after her first cup. By the time the waitress brought their food—a steaming stack of pancakes for Josie and steak and eggs for Ted—Josie was talking faster than the cook was slamming out food.

“Thanks for telling me to be careful talking to that detective,” Josie said. “I told him the truth and nothing but the truth. Otherwise, I’d be sitting in jail right now.”

The dignified woman in the booth alongside them was clearly eavesdropping, but she didn’t raise an eyebrow when Josie mentioned jail or detectives. Hangovers, breakups, and breakdowns were standard topics after midnight.

“I was surprised the detective let you go so soon,” Ted said.

“Soon? I thought that Mullanphy and I were going to grow old together,” Josie said.

Ted took her hand. “Seriously, Josie, how are you? That had to be horrible, finding Gemma dead.”

“It was,” Josie said. “I don’t think it’s quite hit me yet. Thank you for being there.”

“You don’t have to be alone anymore, Josie. I’m here to help you. I love you.” Ted took her hand in his. “I want to ask you something.”

He’s going to propose, Josie thought. At long last. She was sure Uncle Bill’s had seen its share of late-night engagements, too.

“Yes?” she said softly. Her voice was barely audible over the canned music.

“I want to go to Tower Grove Park for a walk while the weather’s still good. Before it gets too cold.”

“Oh, sure,” Josie said. “That would be nice.” She took back her hand and hid her disappointment with another forkful of pancakes.

“Is something wrong?” Ted asked, cutting his steak into more pieces.

Of course something’s wrong, Josie thought. Why do men ask that question when they know darn well something is wrong?

She followed the time-honored path of millions of women and avoided telling him the real reason. “I’m worried about my mother,” Josie said. “She’s been donating some six hundred dollars a month to charities. Mom is so hard up for money she’s hunting for change in the couch cushions to buy dinner. Most of her pension goes to these bogus organizations. I wouldn’t mind if they were real charities, Ted, but they’re fakes. I did some research and found out all three are frauds.”

“Did you tell her that?” he asked.

“I did and she got mad at me. She said that Mrs. Mueller and Mrs. Gruenloh, a church lady, both sent money to these charities and they wouldn’t make mistakes. She said I was wrong.”

“Nothing you can do about that,” Ted said. He recaptured her hand and kissed it.

“Well, I did something,” Josie said. “Winter’s coming and Mom won’t be able to pay the heating bill. She refuses to raise my rent. She’ll spend all winter freezing and living on eggs if I don’t stop this.”

“So how did you convince her?”

“I sent her a letter asking her not to donate to those charities. It’s not from me. It’s from someone I know she’ll obey.”

“Who?” Ted said. “I can’t imagine Jane acknowledging any higher power. It’s not her parish priest, is it?”

“No,” Josie said, and whispered her solution in his ear.

Ted laughed, and said, “Clever. She can’t say no to her uncle, can she? Did your plan work?”

“I don’t know yet,” Josie said. “Depending on the post office, she should have the letter in a day or so. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I can’t wait to find out,” Ted said. “What are you going to do about your other Jane problem—finding Clay’s killer? You can’t rile up that detective by poking around in his case.”

“I won’t do anything obvious,” Josie said. “My theory that the fatal castor beans came from the maracas in Gemma’s store was stupid.”

“No, it was a reasonable deduction,” Ted said.

“I was wrong,” Josie said. “Detective Mullanphy sneered at me and said he’d tracked down the maracas from Gemma’s store and they had seashells inside. I felt like a fool.”

Ted put his arm around her and kissed her. “Any good detective would have reached the same conclusion.”

“Any professional detective would have done what Mullanphy did—checked the maracas. I’m back to my original theory that the killer got the beans out of the poison ivy patch next to the restaurant.”

“So what’s the next step?” Ted asked. “And what can I do?”

“I thought I’d make one more trip back to Tillie’s, where the trouble started. If I don’t see anything useful, I’m going to pack it in. Mom will just have to live with that decision, unless she wants to see me in jail.”

Ted’s cell phone beeped and he checked the display. “It’s Chris,” he said. “I’ll take the call outside.”

“Take it right here in the booth,” Josie said. She signaled the waitress for the check.

Ted pressed the CALL button on his phone. “Hi, partner,” he said. “How’s the patient? Good. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He pressed END and told Josie, “Hans is resting comfortably. Chris thinks the surgery will be a success. I’ll stay with him tonight after I follow you home.”

They finished their last gulps of coffee, left enough for the check and a generous tip, and strolled outside to their cars under the Uncle Bill’s sign. Ted held her again, and Josie wished they were going home together.

“Josie,” he said, “when you go to Tillie’s restaurant tomorrow, promise you’ll call me if you see anything even slightly off. I’ve already proved I’ll be there if you need me.”

He kissed her good night in the pink neon glow.

Who killed Gemma Lynn Rae?

It was going on one o’clock when Josie fell into bed. She woke up three hours later. It wasn’t the heavy pancake supper. Or Ted’s proposal that remained tantalizingly out of reach. Josie had to listen to a one-woman debate in her head. She tried desperately to sort through Clay and Gemma’s murders.

She was mortified that Detective Brian Mullanphy already knew about the maracas. She’d burned with shame when he’d mocked her amateur investigation. Worse, the man was right. So was Ted. Josie had underestimated Mullanphy.

But she was convinced that Tillie did not murder Clay Oreck.

Josie had only her mystery-shopper instincts, honed at the suburban malls. Those were good. She made a living as a mystery shopper—not much of one, but she could pay her bills—if she lived in her mom-subsidized apartment with her free maternal babysitter upstairs. That’s why she had to solve those murders, no matter what the odds. For her mother, who held the Marcus family together. For Tillie, Jane’s childhood friend, who would die in jail if Josie didn’t save her.

Josie gave up on sleep. She slipped out to the kitchen, made herself a pot of strong coffee, and padded back to bed. Then she arranged her pillows into a comfortable nest, settled back, and tried to reason through the problem.

Detective Mullanphy thought Gemma had surprised a burglar.

Josie didn’t. Anyone in the neighborhood would know Gemma’s junk shop wasn’t worth burglarizing. Anyone from outside River Bluff would have a hard time finding the place. Josie had heard that meth heads and psychos would kill for a handful of change. Gemma’s street was deserted. But it wasn’t infested with criminal crazies and wacked-out wanderers.

Josie believed Gemma Lynn’s murder was connected to Clay’s death. It was more proof of Tillie’s innocence. Josie had seen Gemma’s body. Her head had been bashed in with real rage. Gemma didn’t die because a surprised intruder had hit her on the head. Gemma’s killer had tried to obliterate her.

Why? Gemma had frightened someone—or angered him—and he’d tried to wipe her out.

Gemma had sat next to Clay while he ate his last meal. She’d watched him collapse and claw his throat. What if Gemma saw something during that mind-searing moment? Something she didn’t realize was important until recently?

Gemma sat in her dreary store and brooded on her lover’s murder. What if she realized who’d killed Clay? Josie thought. She died with that knowledge. How am I going to discover it?

Follow the money
, Josie thought. That’s what investigators—real investigators, not amateurs like me—say. Where was the money and who needed it?

Lorena. Tillie’s daughter wanted her mother to sell the restaurant for a million dollars, so the two women could retire. What if Lorena had killed Clay to force her mother to sell?

Then Lorena’s plan had failed. Now Desmond was blackmailing Tillie to sell at a bargain, while Lorena had to single-handedly fight to keep the hated restaurant open. Why would she do that? In the hopes that Tillie’s Off the Hill would recover and Desmond would once more buy the place for a million dollars?

Lorena couldn’t be so deluded that she believed Desmond still loved her. She wasn’t that crazy, was she? Or had she helped her lover kill Clay? Were they in it together?

It was worth a trip to the restaurant to find out, Josie thought.

Desmond. He was the only other source of money. Everything came back to him. Desmond was at Tillie’s the day Clay died. He could have poisoned Clay. Desmond hung around with the casino crowd, so he’d know about sleight of hand. He worked for ruthless men who were pressuring him to put together a major land deal. Desmond was desperate to buy Tillie’s property.

So desperate he killed a barfly and romanced the restaurant owner’s aging daughter. Did Gemma see him slip the poison into Clay’s food? Where was Desmond when Clay was served that platter of ravioli with the hy-perheated sauce? Josie couldn’t remember.

But Gemma might.

She’d spent a lot of time thinking about his death and her lost chance to marry. Did Gemma finally understand what she’d seen that afternoon? Did she try to blackmail Desmond?

Killing Gemma wouldn’t be much of a risk, Josie decided. She lived alone on a deserted street. She didn’t have a weapon. She’d be easy to overpower in a one-on-one fight.

And that’s exactly what had happened.

Josie took another sip of her coffee. It was cold. She’d reached the dregs. Time for a fresh pot. As she stood up and stretched, her alarm went off.

Seven o’clock. The restaurant opened at eleven o’clock. Josie was determined to go back to where the trouble started, to Tillie’s Off the Hill.

Josie hustled her grumpy daughter off to school. She was relieved when a sullen Amelia slammed the car door again and stalked into the Barrington School.

On the ride back to Phelan Street, she worried about her sulky daughter. I can’t just dismiss her behavior as teenage rudeness, she thought. I need to pay more attention to Amelia. I need to either solve this case or give it up.

Today is my last day. I’m making that clear to Mom. It’s time I stood up to her. I’ll see her as soon as I get home. I’m not going to wimp out. I’ll march right upstairs and tell her. I’m her daughter, not a doormat.

Josie didn’t have to gather the courage to face her mother.

Jane was waiting on the front porch when she came home. Stuart Little wagged his tail in a friendly greeting. He wanted to play. Jane frowned and stuck out her chin like a bulldog, a sign she was ready to bite. Josie straightened her shoulders and prepared for battle.

“Josie, I want to talk to you,” Jane said. “Tillie’s deadline is closing in. What are you doing about it?”

“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about,” Josie said. “Come on in.”

She threw open her front door and walked in first. I can handle this better on my own territory, she told herself.

Jane followed, unhooking the dog’s leash. Harry was sitting on the couch back. He pounced on Stuart like a lion leaping off a ledge. The dog gave a yip and the two of them went tearing through the house.

“Stuart, come back here!” Jane called.

Josie captured Harry and corralled him in Amelia’s bathroom. Jane caught Stuart by the collar and dragged him into the kitchen, lecturing him all the way. “Bad dog!” Jane said.

Stuart whimpered and slid under the kitchen table.

“Coffee, Mom?” Josie said.

“No, thank you,” Jane said primly. She sat at the table and folded her hands.

“Water for Stuart?”

“Josie, are you going to talk or not?”

Josie poured herself the tarry sludge left over from her breakfast coffee and gulped it. The bitter brew tasted worse than it looked, but she wanted that concentrated caffeine. She sat across from her mother, looked her in the eye, and said slowly, “I am doing everything I can to help Tillie. I spent last evening with the River Bluff police. A homicide detective nearly threw me in jail for interfering with a police investigation. What more do you want?”

“I have faith in you, Josie. I know you can find that man’s killer.”

“How, Mom? I’m not a professional investigator. I’m not even a private eye. I’m blundering around where I don’t belong.”

“But you’ve done it before,” Jane said.

“And nearly got myself killed,” Josie said. “I have my child to worry about, even if you don’t care about
your
daughter.”

Jane’s face crumpled. Her stubborn look dissolved in tears. “I do love you, Josie,” Jane said, sniffling. “And I admire everything you’ve done. Maybe I expect too much from you, but I thought you could do this.”

Josie felt her steely resolve bend like a worn paper clip. Stay strong, she told herself, unless you want Amelia to be an orphan.