By Cook or by Crook (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) (15 page)

“You’re speculating with no evidence at all.” The chief jotted something on a pad. “I heard from Nadia’s coworker, Kimberly. You did right telling her to call me, but what her information has to do with the murder, I don’t know.”

“That wasn’t the only time Nadia borrowed a car and disguised herself. She also switched cars with Chatty, covered her hair, and wore big sunglasses. She might have been trying to elude Bigby . . . or someone else stalking her.” Val threw in the last phrase so the chief couldn’t accuse her of waging a campaign against Bigby.

“Wearing sunglasses and even a wig isn’t proof she was stalked. Why wouldn’t she have contacted us if someone was harassing her?” The chief shifted papers on his desk. “Anything else, Val?”

“Maverick’s alibi?”

“Solid. We’ve got him on surveillance cameras in New Jersey and a paper trail. There’s no way he could have driven back here and killed Nadia.”

Why would he conceal his whereabouts from his wife? Maybe a hotel surveillance camera caught him checking in with another woman. Val knew the chief wouldn’t give her any details about Maverick’s alibi. She might as well move on to the next question. “What about Nadia’s ex? Does he have an alibi?”

“An acceptable alibi and no motive.”

Another potential suspect off the list.

The phone on the desk rang. The chief answered it, grunted a few times, and said, “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Thanks for listening to me, Chief. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Stay out of police business, Val, or I’ll report you to your granddaddy.” He picked up the phone.

She left the police station and climbed into her car, going from freezer to oven without defrosting. She couldn’t shake the chill from what she’d just heard. Finding out that both Maverick and Nadia’s ex had alibis disheartened her. What if Bigby too came up with an alibi? She needed a backup suspect, someone who had the knowledge to duplicate the shaved racket, easy access to Nadia’s house, and a motive.

One person nearly fit that profile. Irene Pritchard saw the burned racket and could have crept through the bushes to Nadia’s house without anyone noticing her. Why would she kill Nadia? She didn’t seem to resent her son’s affection for the next-door neighbor, but Nadia may have meddled too much, pushing Jeremy into a job and supporting his move away from his parents. Recently, they’d kept him from doing something Nadia urged on him. A signal that she’d gone too far? What if Irene found out she’d lost the chance to manage the Cool Down Café because of Nadia? A minor matter in itself, but possibly the tipping point.

Val would need more than guesswork about a motive to convince the chief to investigate Irene. Two other people had seen the prototype of the weapon—Luke and Chatty. Neither had an apparent motive. Val felt queasy about poking into their private lives in search of a motive, but she’d do it if necessary to help Monique. By the time this murder investigation ended, she might not have any friends left in Bayport. That would making leaving here easier.

She pulled out on the road and tested her brakes. They felt even spongier than before. She should have taken her car to the garage sooner, but she’d had no free time ever since finding Nadia’s body. She hoped the brakes would last until she reached the garage in Treadwell.

Traffic picked up as she approached the strip mall with the largest supermarket in the area. She approached the four-way stop near the Midway Shopping Plaza and braked. Nothing happened.

She pumped the brakes. No response. She pressed the pedal to the floor. Still nothing. She barreled toward the intersection.

The road was clear ahead of her, but cars were approaching the intersection from the side roads. They would arrive first and have the right of way.

She sounded the horn. A Jeep that had nosed into the intersection from the right stopped abruptly. Holding her breath, Val flew past the stop sign and veered around the Jeep—into the path of a tractor trailer.

The truck’s air brakes whined. Its grille loomed larger and larger as the rig bore down on her.

Chapter 16

Val swerved back into her lane, just missing the tractor trailer.

She saw a crossroads with a stoplight up ahead. The light turned from green to yellow. Better to speed through the yellow light than coast to the intersection after it turned red. She hit the accelerator and leaned on the horn to make her intentions clear.

She sailed through the intersection without hitting anything.

Her luck couldn’t last. She flipped on the emergency lights and jerked on the parking brake. The car shuddered but didn’t stop.

She turned the wheel gently. The right tires slid off the pavement and onto the rough shoulder. The car bumped along, one set of tires on the road, the other off. As it slowed, Val eased the left tires onto the shoulder. Friction did its work, and the car finally crawled to a halt.

She released her breath and put her head down on the steering wheel. Sweat covered her whole body. She felt clammy and quivery.

Tap, tap, tap. The noise came from the side window. Val lifted her head.

A man sporting a motorcycle helmet, a muscle shirt, and a lot of tattooed skin stared at her. “Need any help?”

Val cracked the door open. “My brakes just went out. If you’re heading into Treadwell, would you stop at the first garage and ask them to send a tow truck? I’d call but I don’t have their number stored in my phone.”

“My phone will find nearby garages.” He whipped out a smart phone, pressed some buttons, and called a number. He handed her the phone.

The garage’s tow truck was on its way by the time the motorcyclist roared off.

Val rode in the truck’s cab to the garage and told the burly middle-aged driver what had happened on the road.

“Your brakes been giving you trouble?” he asked.

“Not ’til today.” Could someone have messed with her brakes? She felt a pang and wrapped her arms around her middle.

“It’s a really old model. You have to expect problems.”

A college graduation gift from her parents, the car had given her little trouble for a decade. She’d like to think its age explained her brake trouble, less frightening than the other explanation.

A mechanic at the garage said no one there would have time to diagnose her car problem today. If she wanted to wait until closing time, he’d give her a lift. She told him she’d try to find someone to pick her up.

She was about to call Granddad and remembered he was driving Ned to Baltimore for an Orioles game.

She tried Monique. No answer. Maybe she was still meeting with the lawyer in Annapolis. Val left a brief message. “My car was towed to a garage in Treadwell. I was hoping you could pick me up. If I don’t call you back, assume I’ve gotten a ride from someone else.”

Val left the same message for Althea and Bethany. She reached Chatty, who was giving facials to the guests at a waterfront estate and wouldn’t finish for at least an hour.

Val searched her handbag for the scrap of paper Gunnar had given her with his cell phone number. When he answered, she told him where she was and asked him to pick her up without giving any explanation beyond “car trouble.”

She paced outside the garage, too keyed up to sit in the garage’s air-conditioned waiting area. Loud noises came from the bay where two mechanics worked on cars—banging, shouting, drilling. She scarcely noticed. Her memory replayed the scene on the road in slow motion. Vehicles coming at her from all sides, a truck aiming straight for her. And yet, she hadn’t lost her nerve. She’d maneuvered around every obstacle and avoided an accident. How cool was that?

Her instincts had saved her. They must have worked the night of the crash in January. Ever since then, with Chef Henri claiming she’d smashed his car deliberately, she’d felt guilty until proven innocent. She couldn’t prove anything, even to herself, unless her memory of what happened that night returned. But she must have done everything possible to avoid a crash just as she had this afternoon. For a change she felt innocent until proven guilty. Who knew that bad brakes could have a silver lining?

Gunnar pulled into the service station and lowered the window of his Miata. “Hop in.” When she did, he said, “What happened to your car?”

“A problem with my brakes.” She fastened her seat belt. “They stopped working when I was rocketing toward a stop sign by the supermarket.”

He jerked in the driver’s seat like a puppet with suddenly taut strings. “They didn’t work at all? Did you have an accident?”

“I was lucky not to.” As she described riding brakeless through two intersections and easing the car off the road, his expression changed from concern to respect.

He steered onto the road to Bayport. “You did everything right. You’re one hell of a driver.”

Really? Her cheeks grew warm. “Chalk it up to survival instinct.”

“Everyone wants to survive. Not everyone can control a car like that.”

“Thank you. I needed that.” She’d remember it the next time her brakes gave out or someone ran her off the road.

Two near accidents in one week. Fear gnawed at her insides. One person could have engineered both mishaps. She already suspected Darwin of following her from his sports shop and running her off the road Tuesday night. According to Chatty, he knew all about cars. He could have messed with her brakes. The noises she’d heard late last night, the soft sound from the driveway and the clatters from the backyard, suggested someone near her car, tripping in his haste to leave.

Gunnar approached the intersection Val had zoomed through without brakes. She crossed her arms to hold in a shiver.

“You look pale.” Gunnar slowed down. “I can pull over if you want some fresh air.”

“Can we stop by the supermarket instead?” Focusing on food would banish her willies faster than anything else. “We’re having a potluck after Nadia’s memorial service tomorrow. I need to pick up ingredients for a salad.”

She was delighted to find four ripe avocados instead of the hard-as-rock ones the store normally carried. She also bought grape tomatoes, lemons, and two jars of hearts of palm. She added shredded coconut to her basket. If she had time, she’d make a batch of Mrs. Z’s macaroons.

Val carried her purchases back to the Miata, where Gunnar was waiting for her, a cell phone at his ear.

He clicked his phone off and backed out of his parking space. “When you get home, we should check where you usually park to see if there’s brake fluid on the ground.”

“Good idea.” The street near the diner and the police visitor spot where she’d parked might also have a pool of fluid. She pulled out her cell phone to cut off further talk about her brakes. “Excuse me while I call the college gal who’s supposed to manage the café this weekend. I’d like to catch her before she heads out for Friday night fun. She may have questions for me.”

By the time Val ended her call, Gunnar was turning into her street. He parked in front of the house. “I don’t see your grandfather’s Buick.”

“He went to an Orioles game and is spending the night in Baltimore.”

Gunnar’s brows rose a fraction. He checked the driveway and found a spot where some fluid had leaked, a few drops not a puddle. She surveyed the ground there and behind the house, hoping to find something left behind by the person who’d tampered with her car. No luck.

“Are you still up for dinner at the crab house?” Gunnar asked.

“Looking forward to it. I have to shower first. Come back for me in about an hour.”

“See you then.” He watched her go inside.

When she came downstairs after showering, he was on the front porch and his car exactly where he’d parked it earlier. He hadn’t left. The sky, though, had changed dramatically.

She pointed to the gray clouds rolling in. “I was going to suggest we walk, but we’d better drive to the restaurant instead. It looks like rain.”

Though they arrived before seven, a line had already formed at the crab house. Most people opted to sit indoors, probably fearing rain. After a short wait, Val and Gunnar snagged a table on the outside deck. The large umbrella over it would keep them dry enough if it started raining. The deck’s piers allowed boaters to tie up and eat at the restaurant, but with a storm brewing, no boats bobbed in the water. The odor of fuel competed with the aroma of seafood and suggested some boats had recently left.

Gunnar fingered the brown wrapping paper covering the wood picnic table. “This is the tablecloth?”

“Some crab houses cover the tables with newspaper. This is way more elegant.” She pointed to a roll of paper towels in the center of the table. “Our dinner napkins. And don’t expect forks. Have you eaten crabs before?”

He looked toward the next table where a man hammered a crab leg with a wood mallet and a woman pried meat from a claw with a knife. “Crab cakes, not ones like that.”

“You had the lazy man’s version. With these, you have to dig out the meat yourself. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

He flashed a smile. “I heard your subtext. Only a wimp would refuse the challenge of excavating a crab shell.”

“I’ll order a dozen.” The painstaking task of digging out the crabmeat should give her time to ask him about himself. Maybe tonight she’d even crack Gunnar’s shell.

The waiter brought them a pitcher of beer and dumped a steaming mound of orange, pepper-encrusted crabs on their table.

Val demonstrated how to remove the apron flap on the underside of the crab. “You flip this piece off like a pop top. Then lift off the shell.” She tossed the shell and transparent membrane into a discard pile.

He grabbed a crab and copied her technique. He studied the crab’s innards. “These long spongy things must be gills.”

“Also known as dead man’s fingers. They’re a throwaway.” She plucked the gills from the crab. “These wormy-looking things are intestines. Toss them out too.”

“So far, we’ve thrown away everything we’ve touched. What’s this greenish-yellow gunk?”

“You probably don’t want to know, but it’s edible. Some people use it as sauce for the crabmeat.”

“I’ll take mine plain. Sauces are overrated anyway.” He wiped the thick paste from his fingers on the paper tablecloth.

For the next fifteen minutes, they concentrated on eating enough crab to take the edge off their hunger. The water lapping against the piers served as soothing mood music.

He refilled their beers and reached for his third crab. “About your brakes. I—”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I just want to relax now.” And ignore the anxiety nibbling at her. She gazed at the water. “Bayport was the closest thing to a permanent home I ever had. With my father in the Navy, we moved every few years, but I always spent my summers here. What brought you to the Eastern Shore?”

“I like being near the water. If I go into business for myself, I might as well do it somewhere I like.”

If he went into business for himself? Was he having second thoughts about quitting his job? “There are a lot of new businesses here, mostly restaurants, antique stores, and B&Bs.”

“Yup, and not many accountants in the town. Small businesses need accountants.”

Val wiped her hands on a paper towel. “So you found a niche you want to fill here.”

“And then I found other reasons to stay.” He broke a claw in two, exposed a chunk of meat, and held it out to her.

She leaned toward him and nibbled on it while he held the shell. The lower half of her body tingled. Could he read her thoughts? She felt a blush creep up her face, grabbed her mallet, and pounded on a crab shell. “When I moved in with Granddad, I hoped Bayport would act like a mind-enhancing drug to tell me what should come next in my life. It’s been more like an anesthetic.”

“Whatever works.” Gunnar tapped a claw with his mallet. “Why did you leave New York?”

“My life there revolved around my fiancé, Tony, and my job. That changed in one weekend last winter. A lawyer from Tony’s firm threw a party. While we were there, a woman Tony worked with sat on the sofa next to him. Their thighs touched, and they looked at each other in a smug, secretive way.” Val held up a crab claw and studied it from all angles. “I had an aha moment. All those late nights he said he was doing legal work, he was actually doing his paralegal.”

“On the plus side, you found out before you married him.”

“At the time, it was hard to notice the plus. Tony asked me not to make a stink and jeopardize his chance at becoming a partner.” She’d never been as furious as when she realized his career mattered more to him than their engagement, but she didn’t make a scene. “I spent that night on a friend’s sofa. I didn’t sleep, of course. The next day I had to help Chef Henri Lafarge with a cooking demo and book signing party on Long Island.”

Thunder rumbled. Gunnar looked up at the dark sky. “The party didn’t go well?”

“The proverbial train wreck, which ended with a real car wreck. Before the cooking demo, I broke two of the prep bowls from the chef’s matching set of eighteen. When I suggested he get by with sixteen bowls by combining some ingredients in one bowl, he exploded, screaming that I knew nothing about cooking.”

“Nice guy. I hope no one bought his cookbook.”

“Sales were low, which he blamed on me. It started sleeting during the party. The people hosting it suggested we stay overnight, but Henri insisted on driving back to the city, though he’d had too much to drink. I called his editor, who convinced Henri to let me drive instead. There I was in a vintage Mustang on an icy road with Henri berating me about my driving.” Val gazed into her cup, swirling around what was left of the beer. “If I hadn’t been upset about Tony and Henri, I might have seen the patch of ice in time and not lost control of the car.”

“What happened?”

“We spun around, a car sideswiped us on the passenger side, and we hit a tree, or so I’m told. I don’t remember because I had a concussion. Apparently, Henri whammed into me when the car hit us. I was wearing a seat belt, but he’d unbuckled his along the way. He ended up in the hospital with assorted broken bones. I still feel bad about that.”