Deep Fried Death

Book 12: Country Store Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

The latest installment in Maddie Day's deliciously popular Country Store cozy mysteries is sure to appeal to fans of Jenn McKinlay, Ellery Adams, Leslies Meier, and Joanne Fluke.


Many residents of South Lick, Indiana, claim the Outhouse Race, in which competitors push old-timey outhouse replicas on wheels at the annual Abe Martin Festival on Memorial Day, is the best thing since indoor plumbing. Just because country store and restaurant owner Robbie Jordan has too much to do managing her new deep fryer as well as an old lover reappearing, she's not going to miss out on the fun. Plus, it's good for business.



But when a dead body and a cast-iron skillet tumble out of the Pans 'N Pancakes outhouse entry on the race route, it seems someone is trying to frame Robbie—in a most unconventional way. Now she'll need to be privy to the townsfolks' secrets as she races to flush out a killer . . .

Release date: December 26, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Whoever thought a parking lot full of brightly painted outhouses was a good idea had too much time on their hands. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty.

“What did we get ourselves into?” I asked my co-chef Danna Beedle from the back seat of the pickup truck we’d borrowed as Turner Rao, my other full-time employee, drove the truck into the lot at the top of the hill.

“Hey, you’re the one who filled out the application form,” she said.

“It’s good publicity for Pans ’N Pancakes,” Turner added. “Now let’s get this baby unloaded so we can all enjoy our Friday evening.”

The baby he referred to was our themed rustic outhouse, which of course wasn’t a real outhouse at all. Kitted out with two small window boxes planted with real geraniums, the outhouse rested on a four-wheel base. It had a Dutch door in the front and a wide handle on the back for pushing or pulling it. Inside was a bench seat and a steering lever. The top Dutch door had the classic crescent moon cut out of it, and my country store restaurant’s logo of a grinning stack of pancakes holding a skillet was painted on the back.

This parking lot was on the highest hill in Nashville, the county seat for Brown County, Indiana. All the outhouses would race down the hill tomorrow morning, powered only by gravity, as part of the Abe Martin Festival. I didn’t care if we won, but, as Turner pointed out, it was good publicity.

After we successfully slid the outhouse down the portable ramps Turner’s dad had included in the truck loan, I glanced around for direction. Camilla Kalb stood not far away. She owned Cammie’s Kitchen here in Nashville, a popular home-style eatery. Her entry resembled the restaurant, painted red and white with lace curtains at the fake windows. A cast-iron skillet hung from a hook on one side and a muffin tin on the other.

“I’ll be right back,” I told my team and headed her way.

“Hey, Camilla,” I said. “Do you know who’s in charge?”

She greeted me. “Zeke Martin is, Robbie, but he’s being his usual pedantic self.” She gestured across the lot. A man held a clipboard and was talking to a woman quite a bit shorter than he.

“Thanks. I’ll check with him.” I’d heard of Zeke, but I hadn’t realized he was the one organizing the race.

“Good luck.” She raised a penciled-on eyebrow.

I made my way past the Nashville Library outhouse, the walls of which held real books on shelves. I passed the Step Up Thrift store outhouse and the South Lick Bikes entry, which had bike wheels in many sizes fixed to the sides. The Nashville Fire Department’s was painted bright red.

I slowed, blinking, at the sight of the person standing next to the entry for Hickory Fine Art Gallery. What was Jim Shermer doing here?

“Jim?” I asked the man who had thrown over our budding romance a few years ago for a former lover, whom he was now married to. I no longer cared, being happily married, myself.

He turned, then took a step back. “Robbie Jordan.” His gaze shifted anywhere but at my face, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his khakis as if to hide an onset of nerves. Jim’s eyes were as green as ever, but the dark red hair, now tied back in a thin ponytail, had mostly disappeared from his brow.

“I thought you were living in Indianapolis,” I said.

“We, ah, moved back to Brown County.”

“It looks like you work at an art gallery.” I didn’t get to Nashville that often. Even if I’d been browsing the shops, acquiring fine art wasn’t something I made a practice of.

“I actually own it.” He gestured at the outhouse walls, which were adorned with folk art in the style of Grandma Moses.

I blinked again. He owned the gallery?

He flipped his hands open. “It’s more interesting than real estate law.”

“I suppose. Is Octavia still with the state police?” I’d met the detective after the body of a murdered woman had been deposited in my restaurant. It was during that case that she and Jim had reconnected in the fullest sense of the word.

“She is.”

He glanced at my Pans ’N Pancakes t-shirt, my daily uniform, albeit one that fit more snugly by the day. It was a bit early for much of a baby bump, but I could already feel my pregnant body growing fuller.

A commotion drew my attention away. The woman Zeke had been speaking to threw a hand in the air and turned her back. Now that I was closer, I could see it was Evermina Martin, the proprietor of the new Miss South Lick Diner, a breakfast and lunch restaurant in direct competition with my own, or at least that was how she’d positioned it. I’d heard she was also Zeke’s ex-wife.

“Uh-oh,” Jim murmured.

 

CHAPTER 2

Zeke Martin blustered his way toward us. In his forties, he looked trim in a blue polo shirt and linen Bermuda shorts. Unlike Jim’s, his hairline was intact, his dark hair neatly styled. His features were anything but neatly arranged. He’d pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. The pale skin of his neck was mottled with red.

He opened his mouth. I didn’t need anger in my life, not today, not ever.

I preempted him. “I’m Robbie Jordan. Where do you want the Pans ’N Pancakes entry?” I pointed behind me, vaguely in the direction of our outhouse.

He tapped his pen on the clipboard. “You were supposed to have it here at four o’clock.”

“I run a business.” I kept my cool. “We loaded up after we closed and cleaned the restaurant. We made it over here as soon as we could.”

“It’s only four thirty, Zeke,” Jim said.

“As long as your outhouse is in the lot, you can leave it anywhere.” He checked off my entry on his list. “We’ll line everybody up in the morning. But don’t be here any later than eight. Race gets going at nine sharp.”

“Do you have overnight security?” I asked.

Zeke performed a classic eye-and-head roll. “You think somebody’s going to steal a makeshift outhouse on wheels?”

“It’s a valid question. The business owners and organizations put a lot of work into these things.” Jim gave me a tentative smile. “People might have plans for them afterward. Plus, there’s a big prize at stake.”

Yeah, the big pot of fame and fortune, which was no more than an aluminum Abe Martin outhouse trophy and a picture in the Brown County Democrat. I smiled back.

“The lot’s entrance and exit will be roped off after everybody clears out. I’ll see you both in the morning.” Zeke strode away.

“Much ado about nothing, I’d say.” Jim shook his head.

“Everybody has to have their fiefdom.” I watched as Zeke gave the next entrants his officious treatment.

A movement near the Miss South Lick Diner outhouse nearby caught my attention. A woman I’d never seen before squatted and peered at the wheel. Her sleeveless top showed off tanned and toned biceps. She looked about my age and had dark hair that fell in that way that expertly cut and styled locks do. Maybe she was a friend of Evermina’s.

I turned back to Jim. “If running a fun festival makes Zeke feel powerful, so be it. Do you know what he does for a living?”

“He’s a commercial illustrator, but he fancies himself a fine artist. Judging from the work he’s tried to convince me to sell, he either doesn’t work very hard at it or doesn’t have a lick of talent.” He glanced behind me.

“Hey, Jimmy,” a woman’s voice said.

I turned, but not before I saw Jim cringe.

“Can you give me a hand, hon?” Evermina stroked the corner of her green outhouse with one hand as she set her other hand on a cocked hip. The name of her diner was lettered on the side of the outhouse. A sign mounted on the roof read, Best Eats in South Lick. The other woman had disappeared. “Hi there, Robbie. Do you know Jimmy?”

“I do,” I said.

Her snug V-neck top was the same color as the outhouse. Evermina’s tight jeans looked hot and uncomfortable to me, but they definitely showed off her curves. Her bouffant blond hair and heavily made-up eyes seemed out of the previous century and made her look as much of a caricature as the folksy comic strip guy the festival celebrated.

“Good luck tomorrow to you both,” I said. “See you later, Jim.”

He gave me a desperate look, which I ignored. Jim was an adult. He could handle Evermina’s come-hither look—or he couldn’t. It wasn’t my problem. I didn’t need to spend any more time with either of them.

I made my way back to my staff. Pans ’N Pancakes offered good eats in South Lick. We were a popular restaurant, and I was confident we could withstand competition from a new diner. As long as I got tomorrow’s breakfast prep done.

 

CHAPTER 3

They weren’t kidding when they called it “morning” sickness. I usually felt fine later in the day. But beginning at about four AM, I was just plain nauseous.

I’d gone early to the restaurant Saturday morning to get the first batches of biscuits cut and into the oven. I mixed up the pancake batter and started the first pots of coffee. Too bad the smell of the brewing java, an aroma I loved and usually inhaled on purpose, made me feel even sicker. Still, I had a business to run.

It was a stretch for Turner, Danna, and me to all be out on a weekend morning when Pans ’N Pancakes invariably had a line of hungry customers out the door. My fourth employee, Len Perlman, had arrived on time at six thirty, though, and Danna’s mom, Mayor Corrine Beedle, had offered to help out until we returned after the race. She’d shown up at the appointed time, too.

Now, climbing out of my car in Nashville at seven forty-five, I made sure to tuck a packet of saltines into my turquoise cross bag. I left my bike on the rack in the back for now. Before the race kicked off, I planned to ride down to the finish line to snap photos.

Evermina must not have had a backup crew in place. When I’d driven by the Miss South Lick Diner on my way out of town, the windows had been dark and the parking spaces in front of the retro metallic storefront were empty of cars.

I nibbled on a cracker as I found my way to our entry. Danna, who usually dressed in colorful vintage flair, today sported a store t-shirt and denim cutoffs. She’d braided her red-gold dreadlocks into two fat plaits tied with red ribbons matching her high-top tennies. All she needed was a set of fake freckles to complete the Sadie Hawkins look. She was today’s star of the show, though. She’d volunteered to be our outhouse driver, riding inside and steering it to a win.

Turner held a takeout cup of coffee in one hand and thumbed his phone with the other. He also wore a Pans ’N Pancakes shirt, but with black sports pants and running shoes. His role in the race was pushing the outhouse off to a good start. He’d also volunteered to run alongside in case a problem arose.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “You look great, Danna.” Danna peered at me. “Are you feeling okay, Robbie? You aren’t usually so pale.”

“Mornings are tough.” I held up the cracker.

“Have saltines, will travel.”

“Good,” she said.

A man with a big camera approached. “Photo for the Democrat, please.”

“Danna, you get in the middle,” I said. “We’ll flank you.”

She stuck a corncob pipe in her mouth and pulled a spatula out of her back pocket, holding it up and grinning. I set a hand on her shoulder and mustered a smile, while on her other side Turner pointed to the logo on his shirt.

The reporter snapped a couple of shots. “Thanks. Pans ’N Pancakes is in South Lick, I gather?”

“Yes. I’m the owner.” I spelled all our names and told him of my staff’s roles today.

He thanked us and hurried over to the next entrant.

“It’s strange, Robbie,” Turner said. “There’s no sign of Zeke Martin. Everybody’s milling around without direction.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Yesterday he was adamant about being here promptly at eight for a race that doesn’t begin for another hour.”

It was true. I scanned the lot and didn’t spy Zeke anywhere. Wendy Corbett stood next to her Nashville Treasures outhouse, which was painted to resemble her folksy gift shop here in town. A tall woman nearing fifty, she cast her gaze right and left, ...