Spicy Lasagna Murder: Book 13 in The Darling Deli Series (10 page)

“Well she did just lose her husband under mysterious circumstances,” the other man said. “You can’t really expect too much from her at the moment. I’ll help you hunt her down, though, eh? We’ll see if we can’t get something out of her today.”

The man she didn’t know gestured with his head toward the old farmhouse, and he and Zander began walking in that direction. Moira paused only a moment, then set off to follow them.

Doing her best not to attract attention to herself, Moira eased away from the crowd and walked toward the farmhouse. If anyone asked, she could just tell them that she needed to use the restroom, or that she was looking for Mrs. Samwell, whom she realized she hadn’t seen for a good half an hour.

I should probably just turn around and get back to the table
, she told herself.
When has interfering in something like this ever ended well?
She could go back to the table, continue greeting all of the wonderful people who had come to give their condolences to the families of the two farmers, or she could follow these two suspicious men inside and figure out what they were doing. She glanced down at her broken arm and sighed. Despite what common sense was telling her, she knew what she was going to choose. She would never be able to let a killer go in good conscience, especially not when an innocent woman’s life was at stake.

Right now all I need to do is gather information
, she thought.
If either of them says something that confirms that Zander started the fire, I’ll get out of there and call David—and then the police.

Luckily neither of them men seemed to sense that they were being followed. As she watched them walk staggeringly across the grass, tripping on the odd clump here and there, she realized that they both were slightly drunk. She figured that she was lucky—if they weren’t at the top of their game, that could only be to her benefit, after all.

They reached the farmhouse and walked right through the front door, making no effort at stealth. After a moment she followed them, trusting that they would be too distracted by their search for Mrs. Samwell that they wouldn’t notice her. She was right, or they just didn’t care that they had a shadow. Neither man was in sight when she entered the house, but it only took a moment of searching to find them in the kitchen. She waited in the hallway, ready to dart into the bathroom if someone saw her.

What are they doing?
she wondered.
Are they really going to hunt Mrs. Samwell down like they said?
She wondered at what point she should call the police. Neither man had acted dangerously yet, and she doubted that the snippet of conversation that she had heard would be anywhere near enough information for an arrest. Zander hadn’t actually mentioned starting the fire or killing the two men, after all.

“Man, I can’t believe that he’s gone,” said Zander’s friend. “I thought that old guy would live forever.”

“He probably would have,” Zander said, leaning against the counter and opening a fresh beer. “He was as healthy as a horse.”

Moira frowned. Apparently Zander hadn’t known about Farmer Samwell’s cancer. That could explain why he had decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Do you think you’re going to live in this house once his wife finally signs it over and moves out?” his friend asks. “It’s a bit bigger than yours.”

“Not as nice, though,” the young brewer said. “I don’t want to have to spend even more money to get it up to date. I’ll probably just use it as a guest house, or maybe a bed and breakfast. I think it would be perfect for that. I’ll have to get rid of what’s left of that old barn, though.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard. I can help, if you want. I’ve got those backhoes still sitting at my place. They’ve been completely useless so far.”

“We’ll make a party out of it,” Zander said. “It’ll be fun. Knocking stuff over is always fun.”

The two men toasted and chugged their beers. Moira shifted on her feet, getting impatient. They were taking their sweet time to get to talking about the murder. She still didn’t know for sure if Zander was guilty or not. If he was, then she couldn’t very well just walk away. Mrs. Samwell might be in danger. But if she wasn’t, then she was doing nothing more than wasting time invading an innocent man’s privacy. She felt glued to the spot, unable to make a choice as to whether to confront them or just leave.

Mrs. Franks made that decision for her. She came up behind Moira in the hallway, surprising her.

“Lost, dear?” she asked kindly, seeing the confusion on Moira’s face.

“Um, I was just wondering if it was all right to grab a glass of water,” she said, immediately cursing herself for not mentioning the bathroom. Now she was going to have to go in the kitchen with the two men.

“Of course. Mrs. Samwell told me that guests were welcome to use the lower floor of her house to get out of the heat and refresh themselves. I have to say, you’ve been doing a marvelous job out there. The food is delicious, of course, and your employees have been nothing but polite and helpful.”

“That’s good,” Moira said, giving her a quick smile. “I always love to hear that.”

“Now go get yourself a glass of water, and good for you for not loading up on pop and beer. I
told
Augusta that she should have provided water bottles, but of course she didn’t listen to me.”

Shaking her head and muttering to herself about her stubborn friend, the older woman brushed past Moira and went into the bathroom to wash her hands. Feeling like she should actually go get a glass of water now, since Mrs. Franks would probably notice if she didn’t, the deli owner walked into the kitchen. Zander noticed her immediately.

“Ms. Darling,” he said happily. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Moira, who knew for a fact that they weren’t, felt a frown flash across her face.

“I just came in for a glass of water,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You aren’t interrupting at all,” he assured her. “Do you want a beer?”

He offered her a bottle, but she shook her head, declining. Instead, she reached for one of the glasses on the drying rack and turned the tap on cold.

“I’m on the job,” she reminded him as she filled it up. “Gotta stay sober.”

“You own the business,” he said with a chuckle. “You don’t
have
to do anything. But I respect your dedication.”

He raised the bottle in salute to her, then popped the top with a hiss and guzzled it. Moira sipped her water, wondering how soon she could make her exit without seeming rude.

“Samwell was a good man,” he said after a moment of awkward silence. “I know I must seem like a vulture, being so eager to buy his land so quickly, but I really did like him. He was fair, unlike most people these days. I keep wishing that I had been there the day of the fire. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone into the barn just then, or maybe I would have gone with him and gotten them both out alive.”

“You weren’t there?” Moira asked, fixing her gaze on him intently.

“No,” he said. “I was in Washington State, checking out a buddy’s new brewery. I felt bad telling Samwell I couldn’t make it when he gave me the invitation, especially after he told me it would be the last time he did the corn maze, but I had already bought my plane tickets.”

He continued speaking, but Moira tuned out. If Zander really hadn’t been there, then he obviously wasn’t the hooded figure that witnesses had seen fleeing from the burning barn. If he wasn’t the person she had seen watching her through the flames… then the real killer was still out there.

“Excuse me,” she said, setting her glass of water down. “I should be getting back to the food.”

She gave them both a tight smile goodbye, dumped her glass out, and left the two men to their gossip alone in the kitchen.

She had just stepped into the living room on her way out of the house when she heard faint sobbing. The noise was coming from upstairs, and she would bet that the person crying was Mrs. Samwell. About to continue on her way, a suspicion struck her. With Zander cleared of guilt, at least in her eyes, that meant the real killer was still out there somewhere. If she and David were right and Mrs. Samwell was possibly in danger, then she couldn’t very well leave the woman in distress without checking on her, could she? What if her tears weren’t of grief, but of pain or fear as her husband’s killer prepared to do her in as well?

Gritting her teeth against what she
knew
was a bad idea, the deli owner gripped the banister and made her way quietly up the stairs. She followed the crying to a door partway down the hallway; holding her breath, she peeked inside.

Mrs. Samwell was alone, sitting on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands as she cried. Moira breathed out a silent sigh of relief. The woman was just grieving, that was all. She wasn’t in need of saving, not today, anyway. She shifted her weight, preparing to sneak back downstairs, when the floorboard under her foot creaked. She froze, but it was too late. The crying woman had heard her and suddenly stopped sobbing. The deli owner reluctantly raised her face to see the older woman staring at her from the bed.

“Ms. Darling?” the woman sniffed. “Is that you? You might as well come in.”

Her face red with embarrassment, Moira did as the old woman said.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I heard you crying and I thought… well, I thought you might need help.”

There was no sense in mentioning the killer and frightening the other woman if it wasn’t necessary.

“That’s all right,” Mrs. Samwell said. “I appreciate the sentiment. I just needed to get some stuff off my chest.”

“I understand. I can leave now… give you privacy…” She took a hesitant step back. Her gaze fell on an open suitcase, stuffed full of clothes and… was that cash peeking out the side? It was. Without having to even get a closer look, Moira recognized at least a few stacks of bills poking out from between the clothing, and she would be willing to bet that there was more underneath.

“Are you going on a trip?” she asked, puzzled.

Mrs. Samwell turned to see the suitcase, and her expression changed from one of patient grief to annoyance.

“Yes, dear,” she said, turning back to Moira. “South America, in fact, just as soon as I sell the house. And I don’t plan on coming back.”

Something was beginning to feel off to the deli owner. What was the older woman doing leaving the country with a stack of cash stuffed inside her suitcase?

“That sounds… nice,” she managed. She took a step back toward the door and the old woman, who no longer seemed quite so frail, stood up.

“Why don’t you come in and sit with me, Moira?” she said. “We’ve got so much to talk about.”

“No… I really should be getting back to the food. I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong today of all days.”

“I’m sure your wonderful employees can handle anything that might arise,” Mrs. Samwell said. “Come. Sit.”

Feeling trapped, Moira did what she was told. Her brain was working at a million miles an hour, but she still couldn’t make all of the warning signs fit together seamlessly.

“I, um… nice quilt.” She was casting around for anything to say to steer the conversation away from the woman’s dead husband. As she cast her gaze around the room, her eyes landed on a dark blue hooded sweatshirt. She thought that she could smell the faint odor of smoke, but wasn’t positive that she wasn’t imagining it.

“Thank you,” the woman said reflexively, looking down at the bedspread. “My great-aunt made it before she passed.”

She followed Moira’s gaze to the sweatshirt and sighed.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” she continued. “Having Abram get caught in the blaze was bad enough. I just want the killing to be over.”

She walked over to the head of the bed and reached under her pillow, withdrawing a small, ornate revolver. Moira took a shuddering breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But I really should be going…”

She made to stand up, but the older woman put a firm hand on her shoulder.

“You’re going to have to stay here, Moira,” she said softly. “I want you to understand, if there was another way… if I could guarantee that you wouldn’t tell anyone that I killed my husband until I was out of the country… I’d let you live. I like you. You seem like a genuinely good person, and that’s far too rare these days.”

Moira gulped. It might have been the most complimentary death threat that she had ever received, but that didn’t make it any less scary.

“I don’t understand anything,” she said, playing for time. “I don’t understand why you killed your husband and Mr. Franks, or why you think you have to kill me. Your husband had cancer, for goodness sakes, you must have known. Why kill someone that only had months left to live?”

The old woman blanched, and to the deli owner’s surprise, she thought she saw real tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Luke. If only it weren’t for that infernal cancer, he would still be here today.”

“Was it—was it a mercy killing?” Moira asked, almost hopefully. Murder was never right, but if Mrs. Samwell had truly thought she was doing a good thing, then maybe she could be convinced to put the gun away and let her leave in peace. After all, it was a big leap from killing someone out of mercy to killing an innocent witness.