Fireside Homicide Cozy Mystery Bundle Page 5

  I filled his cup, very aware of his flirty eyes watching me move around the diner as I took the order and then placed Tucker’s food in front of him.

  “Doll-face?” he whispered.

  Cheeks reddening, not wanting to explain, I just shrugged and hurried off to check to make sure no one needed anything. Eva, Anna and Tiffany were putting their coats on and heading for the register. I was glad to see them go. Many of the regulars had not made it out that morning so things were quieter than usual. I made a mental note to check on Mrs. Blake later in the day, to make sure she was okay.

  Poppy helped me carry two trays laden with food for the road crew.

  “Miss Gladys has outdone herself this morning,” Charlie remarked. “Tell her I said so.”

  “I heard you, you old coot,” Gladys shouted from the little cubby where she placed the finished orders. Then she waved a spatula at him for good measure.

  Everyone in the diner laughed aloud.

  We were still giggling when Joe said, “So, I heard they’re bringing in the state police to investigate the shooting.”

  Mayor Gillespie visibly winced.

  I nodded and pointed toward Tucker.

  “Tucker Ashe,” Tucker said, meeting Joe halfway with a handshake. “Detective for the Virginia State Police.”

  “Joe Wheeler. I own the Sugar Hill Herald,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Tucker said and shot a quick glance at me.

  “And I see you’ve found the best place in town to eat,” Joe said, reaching for my hand. He caught it and intertwined his fingers with mine giving me a hot look. “Sweetest lady I’ve ever met.”

  “Yes, she is. Starla and I grew up together,” Tucker explained.

  “Oh, so you’re a home town boy.”

  “That I am.”

  “I would have thought they would have brought someone more experienced in to handle this case,” Joe said. “I mean a sniper type shooting could mean the whole town is in danger.”

  Was that a challenge?

  Tucker didn’t seem to think so. His big, country boy grin just grew even wider. “Well, I’m gonna do the best I can to get to the bottom of this but I doubt it was a sniper,” he said.

  “How so?” Joe asked, appearing to be genuinely interested.

  “A sniper would have used a different kind of weapon and Miss Starla and Miss Poppy probably wouldn’t be here this morning.”

  Was that slow southern drawl just a little more pronounced in that last statement? I could imagine Tucker using that to his advantage.

  “So you’re thinking it was an accident?”

  “No accident, but it was personal,” Tucker said with a grin. “I’ll know more after I talk to the coroner this morning and look over his report.”

  “Well, keep me in the loop. I want to make sure to cover everything,” Joe said.

  “Oh, Lord!” Mayor Gillespie was suddenly on his feet dodging the hot coffee that spilled from the cup he had turned over. I grabbed dry towels and scooped up most of it up while getting his almost empty plate out of the way.

  “Are you okay?” Poppy asked mopping up what coffee had spilled on the floor.

  “Yes, sorry about that,” the mayor stammered. “Just slipped out of my hand.”

  “Here’s a fresh cup,” I offered, watching Poppy check out the mayor’s red and blue striped tie and pristine white shirt.

  “That’s okay,” he said, waving us off. “I need to get to the office anyway.”

  Poppy took his receipt and his money and waved as he went out the door.

  “You be careful,” I said and followed him to the door.

  He left with barely just a nod. I stood at the door and watched him pick his way down the icy sidewalk, moving slower than usual. Our mayor had a lot on his plate all of a sudden and I felt kind of sorry for him.

  The skies overhead were a watery looking gray with no sunshine in sight and I hugged myself. Hopefully, the weather would break before the Winter Festival. We were all used to the snow and cold in winter but it would be nice to at least have sunshine for the celebration.

  “Dinner and dancing as soon as this storm passes,” Joe said, his hot breath on my ear. “I promise.”

  I smiled at our reflection in the glass door and leaned back against him. He slid one hand around my waist and pulled me a little closer.

  “All the storms,” I said, my mind still on the mayor and Mr. Nettle.

  Joe chuckled, kissed my ear and pushed the door open. “I’ll check in with you later today,” he promised and then he was gone.

  “Cozy,” Tucker teased when I returned to the counter.

  “You didn’t expect me to sit around here waiting on you, did you?” I asked and began clearing the dirty dishes off the counter.

  “No, ma’am. But a northerner? What would your mama say?”

  Poppy burst into laughter. She had said the exact same thing to me the day before.

  Tucker began laughing as well.

  “She would say mind your own business, Tucker Ashe,” I said, joining in their laughter.

  He and Poppy talked for a few moments while I filled the road crew’s thermoses and waved them out the door.

  “I’ll be back for lunch,” Tucker said, following them outside.

  As it turned out, he was back much sooner than that and it wasn’t a social visit.

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy and I decided against going to the bank that morning. There really wasn’t much to deposit and, to tell the truth, we were both still a little shook up from finding Mr. Nettle the day before. And that wind howling around the diner wasn’t helping much either.

  “I wonder if Helen Taylor’s friend ever caught up with her?” I mused, while looking through my collection of cupcake recipes, hoping to stumble across something special to make for the Winter Festival.

  “I don’t know,” Poppy muttered.

  “Did you think the mayor seemed odd this morning?” I asked.

  “Maybe a little. He’s got a lot on his mind right now,” Poppy said, coming to the same conclusion I had earlier.

  I caught a whiff of Gladys’s chicken noddle soup, closed my eyes and moaned softly. “She makes the best soup in the world,” I said.

  “You got that right,” Poppy said.

  “Oh, yeah, I haven’t had the chance to tell you. The Lord sisters and Tiffany are taking cake decorating lessons from Sylvia Shatner.”

  “In Harrisonburg?” Poppy said, her eyes growing big and round, her pencil in mid-air. “Sylvia’s Sweets?”

  I nodded. “They pretty much told me I didn’t stand a chance of winning.”

  “Ha!” Poppy snorted. “They should know better than to throw down a challenge like that.”

  “I don’t know, Poppy. I’m not a baker and I really don’t want to invest a lot of money in cake decorating equipment just for this contest,” I countered.

  “We’ll come up with something. I’ll help you figure it out,” Poppy promised.

  There was a quick tap on the door and then it opened and Barbara Ellen poked her head inside.

  “You okay?” I asked, thinking she needed help out in the diner.

  She shook her head and grinned. “Little Tucker Ashe is here looking for you.”

  I smiled. “Little Tucker?”

  “That’s what I always called him.” Barbara giggled like a school girl. “He’s not so little any more,” she added, fanning herself with both hands.

  Both Poppy and I laughed and I stood up. “I’ll be right out...”

  Barbara shook her head, hands fisted on her hips. “He says he needs to speak to you in private.”

  “Well, then tell hot stuff, he can come on back here.”

  Barbara giggled again and left.

  A minute or so later there was another tap on the door and Tucker entered our little office, making it seem even smaller.

  “You’re a little early for lunch,” I said.

  There were no other chairs in the room
other than the two Poppy and I used but Tucker seemed a little too agitated to sit down. And he didn’t remove his hat so I knew this was all business.

  “Is this about Mr. Nettle?” I asked, already knowing that it was.

  He nodded.

  “What?” Poppy whispered.

  “Along with the autopsy report, I received all of Mr. Nettle’s personal belongings, clothing, contents of his pockets, you know,” he began.

  “For evidence,” I said and both Poppy and I nodded.

  “He died from a gunshot wound to the head. Small caliber, probably twenty-two from about 50 yards away. We found prints in the snow where the shooter knelt. It looked like he had been waiting a long time.”

  “Twenty-two doesn’t make much noise,” Poppy said, almost to herself.

  “And that’s why you didn’t hear anything.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “What else?” I knew there had to be a what else.

  “We found this in his pocket,” Tucker said quietly and held up a Ziploc bag.

  Poppy and I stared at it as if it was a snake. Neither of us moved to touch it. Inside was a piece of paper with a raggedly torn edge. Scrawled across it was the word ‘Helen’ and ‘park’ and a time.

  “The time was right around the time we think he was murdered,” Tucker said, putting the note back in his jacket pocket.

  “So, you think Mr. Nettle was meeting someone in the park. And that someone got him killed or killed him?” I asked.

  Tucker nodded. “I came to you because I’ve been gone for a while. You guys know just about everyone in town and can probably tell me quicker than any data base I could get Tommy to search for me.”

  “There’s Helen Taylor. She comes to mind first because she was in the diner yesterday morning waiting for a friend,” I said.

  “Who was her friend?” Tucker asked, his notebook appearing in his big hand again.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. They never showed.”

  “Okay. Who else?” Tucker asked, writing in his little note pad.

  Poppy and I looked at each other and then Poppy said, “Helen Means. She’s about the same age as Helen Taylor, lives with her son and his family over on West Beverly Street.”

  “In one of those big Victorians,” Tucker said and wrote that down.

  I spent the next few minutes, mentally going through everyone in town trying to place the name Helen with everyone.

  “Could be someone’s daughter,” Tucker said softly. “Could be someone who maybe just visits from time to time.”

  “Maybe Mr. Nettle knew of someone that was moving back to town or something. Maybe he was going to see her for...”

  “In the middle of a snow storm? And if she was as old as he was... That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Can I see that note again?” I asked.

  Tucker placed it on the desk between us and I stared at it, hoping it would give up some kind of secret.

  “Are we sure Mr. Nettle wrote this?” I asked.

  Tucker looked a bit surprised. “Good point.”

  Suddenly, I remembered the mail Mr. Nettle had dropped off that morning. Junk mail was still coming to my old address and he usually wrote himself a note on the envelope before bringing it to me at the diner.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping up and heading out to the diner.

  There was the stack of flyers and junk mail right where I’d placed it on the shelf below the register.

  “Everything okay?” Barbara Ellen asked.

  “Yes, it’s all good. I just need to grab this mail,” I assured her.

  On the way back to the office, I found what I was looking for. There was Mr. Nettle’s handwriting, looking a little bit shaky, written in large looping letters as if he had difficulty with his vision. I pulled it out and placed it on the desk beside the note in the clear bag.

  “Look at this.”

  Poppy and Tucker looked closely.

  “That’s his handwriting alright,” Tucker said. “No mistaking that.”

  “Okay, so we know he wrote the note,” I said.

  “Helen Rogers,” Poppy said suddenly.

  “Yeah, that preacher’s wife. Kind of quiet. She’s been in the diner a couple of times with her lady friends from the church,” I said, glad that Poppy thought of her.

  “She looks to be older, too,” Poppy added.

  “They live here in town?” Tucker asked.

  “Over on Sears Hill near the water tower,” I said, nodding in agreement with Poppy’s guess of her age.

  “So, that’s three women in town named Helen,” Tucker said, noting the name in his book. “Any others you can think of?”

  Again, we thought about it. Poppy chewed on her lower lip. In the end we came up with nothing new.

  “So, we’ve got three women named Helen here in town. That’s a start,” Tucker said, stuffing the note back in his pocket.

  “Prints?” I asked, pointing to the pocket.

  Tucker shook his head. “Just his own.”

  “Hope those names helped,” Poppy said, when Tucker turned toward the door.

  “Like I said, it’s a start. If you think of more, just give me a call,” he said, pulled out a business card and jotted his cell number on the back.

  “We will,” I said and then I remembered Mr. Nettle’s son. “Have you spoken to Adam?”

  “Yeah, he’s on his way. Should be here sometime this afternoon,” Tucker said, shaking his head. “You know, I didn’t picture coming back to my home town being anything like this.”

  “Once this is all over, we’ll give you a big welcome home party right here at the diner,” Poppy promised.

  Tucker laughed and touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. “Hey, Starla, would you like to go with me to the Winter Festival?”

  I was surprised at the invitation but shouldn’t have been. When we were younger, we always went to the festival together, joining in the sledding competition and drinking way too much hot chocolate. Tucker’s mom usually entered one baking contest or another and almost always had the best bread.

  “Remember the exploding snowmen?” I asked, laughing.

  One year they had an exploding snowman contest, that turned out to be quite a spectacle.

  Tucker began laughing as well. “Lord, I hadn’t thought of that in years.”

  We were quiet for a moment, lost in pleasant memories.

  “We’ll see,” I finally said. “I’m entering the baking contest this year.”

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot about your newspaper guy. What’s his name?”

  “Joe. Joe Wheeler,” I said, thinking there was no way Joe would enjoy the festival like Tucker and I.

  “Well, let me know.”

  “I will. Thanks. And tell Adam to come by for supper this evening. On the house,” I added. He may not have visited his dad often but he’d still suffered a loss and my heart went out to him.

  “Is that chicken noodle soup I smell?” Tucker asked.

  “It is. Want some to go?” Poppy asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tucker drawled.

  While she filled a large to go cup with the soup, I grabbed a spoon and some crackers and we placed all of them in a small white paper bag. Poppy shook her head when he reached for his wallet.

  “Much obliged,” he said and left the diner.

  I watched him walk down the street, holding onto his hat and bending forward into the wind. When I turned around, Poppy was rummaging around on the shelves below the register.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a phone book to see if there’s a Helen we missed,” Poppy said.

  “Poppy, when was the last time you saw or used a phone book?” I asked.

  Barbara Ellen simply stood there beside Gladys, shaking her head.

  “It’s been a while but I know I saw one in here,” Poppy said, continuing to search.

  I laughed and gave Barbara Ellen a quick hug. “Well, I’m going upstairs and take a nap.
Call me if you need me.”

  “Will do,” Barbara Ellen said.

  During the past spring and fall, I’d spent my free afternoons people watching from the perch of my bedroom window. At that time, our Chief of Police, Roby Whitt, ran on a regular basis and seeing him run down the street was a sight to behold. If he hadn’t been a thief and a murderer he would be out running today. In fact, as I sipped coffee and gazed out the window, I realized hardly anyone was moving about.

  Poppy’s light footsteps on the stairs preceded her tap on my door.

  “Come on in,” I called out, not moving from my window seat.

  Poppy flopped down on my bed with the yellow phone book in her hand. It was maybe a quarter inch thick, the cover tattered and torn.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I asked.

  “I told you - looking for people named Helen we might have missed,” she answered.

  “Poppy how old is that phone book?”

  She closed it, marking her place with her thumb and looked at the cover. “Ten years.”

  “I tell you what. Why don’t we brainstorm cupcake decorating ideas and techniques? I think it would be more productive,” I suggested.

  Poppy sighed and tossed the phone book aside. “You’re right.”

  We ended up at my small kitchen table, with a legal pad between us. I flipped through my recipes handed down from my grandmother, some of them barely visible on the little cards, spotted with remnants of water or a doughy fingerprint. She’d written them in pencil in her almost childish looking handwriting.

  “I’m thinking something chocolate,” Poppy said, sketching out a design on the paper.

  “What about a chocolate peppermint?” I asked, thinking it would be easy to just add peppermint oil to a chocolate cupcake recipe.

  “Good idea. Maybe swirl a pale green and white frosting on top,” she suggested.

  “I don’t think that’s going to top the competition,” I said. “They’re going to do something really fancy, I’ll bet.”

  “Maybe yours will be all in the arrangement, the presentation,” Poppy mused.

  “Maybe I can get some of that glitter sugar.”