Flipped For Murder

Book 1: Country Store Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; General Fiction

Synopsis

Nursing a broken heart, Robbie Jordan is trading in her life on the West Coast for the rolling hills of southern Indiana. After paying a visit to her Aunt Adele, she fell in love with the tiny town of South Lick. And when she spots a For Sale sign on a rundown country store, she decides to snap it up and put her skills as a cook and a carpenter to use. Everyone in town shows up for the grand re-opening of Pans 'n Pancakes, but when the mayor's disagreeable assistant is found dead, Robbie realizes that not all press is good press. With all eyes on her, she'll have to summon her puzzle-solving skills to clear her name, unscramble the town's darkest secrets, and track down a cold-blooded killer-before she's the next to die.

Release date: November 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

My heart beat something fierce as the bell on the door jangled. It was make-or-break time. I’d been preparing for this day for weeks. I thought I was ready, but if I slipped up, I’d be in major hot water. Or financial ruin, as the case may be.

My first customer at Pans ‘N Pancakes turned out to be Corrine Beedle, the new mayor of South Lick, Indiana, all five foot eleven and layered flaming hair of her. She sailed through the door like she owned the store. My country store and restaurant, that is. I’d seen her around town during the last month since she’d won the September election, but we hadn’t actually met, and paying attention to a local race had been below the bottom of my infinitely long to-do list.

Her unpleasant assistant, whom I had met many times, followed, looking slightly disgusted with the world as usual. Stella Rogers’s puffy upper eyelids and upturned nose gave her an unfortunate resemblance to the porcine genus.

“Welcome to Pans ‘N Pancakes.” Striding toward them, smoothing my blue-and-white striped apron, I hoped my smile wasn’t slipping from nervousness. I pulled out a chair at a table for two. “Thank you for coming to our grand opening.”

“Co-rrine Beedle.” The mayor, emphasizing the “Co” as much as the “reen,” gave me a direct look and a wide smile as she pumped my hand. “Mayor of South Lick.”

I extricated my hand while I still had feeling in it. “Robbie Jordan. Owner, proprietor, and head cook. Well, the only cook, normally.” I gestured to the eight-burner industrial stove and griddle behind the counter, where my aunt Adele was aproned up and tending a dozen sizzling sausages.

“Glad to have a woman business owner in town,” the mayor said, beaming.

“I’m happy to be here. And it’s very nice to meet you, Madam Mayor.”

“Oh, hogwash.” She slid into the seat, her bony knee slipping out of the slit in the skirt of her red suit as she crossed one leg over the other. Her black-and-white heels looked about four inches high and a red-shellacked big toenail peeked out of the cutout in each shoe. “Just call me Corrine, honey.”

I’d lived in the hill country of southern Indiana for more than three years now, and I still wasn’t used to nearly every female older than my twenty-seven years calling me “honey.”

“Got it, Corrine.” I glanced at her aide, whose position as mayor’s assistant seemed to be permanent. Corrine must have inherited Stella, because I’d had to work with her over the past six months when I was applying for my building permit and other permissions so I could fix up the 150-year-old store. I greeted her, too.

“Congratulations on finally getting open, Robbie. It’s very quaint.” Stella did not look like she meant any of it—except the dig about how long it had taken me to renovate the place.

Sure, it was quaint. I’d been aiming for an amalgam of what I hoped was everybody’s dream, because it sure was mine: a warm, welcoming country store, a cozy breakfast-and-lunch place, and a treasure trove of antique cookware. The last was my particular passion, the vintage cookware lining the walls and several rows of shelves. I’d even hired a guy to restore the potbellied stove, fantasizing that a core group of locals might make this their meeting place, drinking coffee, exchanging yarns, offering advice. I’d worked my fingers off, and my butt, too, to get the place ready for today. My mom hadn’t taught me fine cabinetry for nothing. I’d sawed and sanded, measured and nailed, painted and polished, until I could turn the sign on my dream to OPEN.

My friend Phil—short for Philostrate—sauntered up, also clad in a store apron, and laid two menus on Corrine and Stella’s table. A bright blue shirt set off his deep brown skin and startling blue eyes. He’d volunteered to help today, which I’d gratefully accepted. I’d hired a waitperson, but she’d quit on me last week before we even opened, so Phil was saving my bacon today, quite literally.

“My name’s Phil and I’ll be your server this morning,” he announced with a flash of a smile. “Coffee?”

“Good to see you again, Phil. I’d love some.” Corrine smiled right back.

“Hot tea for me,” Stella said with a sniff.

Phil winked at her and whipped a camera out of his apron pocket. Who winks at Stella? I’d have to ask him how he knew her.

“Picture of the new proprietor with the new mayor?” he asked.

“Of course.” Corrine stood again and put her arm around my shoulders.

I stood up as tall as I could and the top of my head still didn’t even reach the mayor’s chin. I slapped a confident smile on my face before he shot us.

“One more in case you blinked,” he said, so we held our pose a little longer.

“You can start one of those series of framed pictures on the wall, Robbie. You with all the celebrities who are sure to pass through,” Corrine said.

“Great idea,” Phil said, heading back toward the kitchen area.

Adele waved at me. “Ready for bacon,” she called.

“Enjoy your meal, ladies. Excuse me.” I hurried to my refurbished walk-in cooler and brought two pounds of bacon to the stove. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, of course. Don’t you be worrying, Roberta. Everything’s running like a well-oiled tractor.” My mom’s eldest sister, the only person I allowed to call me by my legal name, wore a blue baseball cap with the store’s logo over her short gray pageboy. The logo, which the ever-talented Phil had designed, showed a cast-iron griddle held by a grinning stack of pancakes.

Of course I was worried. I had a lot riding on this venture, which was the result of both saving my chef’s salary for three years and inheriting the proceeds from Mom’s business after her sudden death last winter at her shop in California. To soothe my nerves, I inhaled the tantalizing aromas of warm maple syrup, savory sausages, cheesy biscuits, and my two kinds of gravy: meat, and vegetarian, made with a secret ingredient.

The cowbell on the door rang again, a bell I’d hung from a little cast-iron hand and muscled forearm. I turned to see a crowd of older women bustle in. Four of them wore hair either snow white or salt-and-pepper, with the rest dyed shades of brownish red. Instead of turning into the restaurant area to their left, they beelined it for the cookware section. They exclaimed and pointed and nudged each other. As two men came in and seated themselves for breakfast, I smiled and moved toward the ladies.

“Good morning. I’m Robbie Jordan, and this is my store. You’ve found us on our grand-opening day. It looks like you’re interested in cookware.”

“Oh, yes,” one of the white-haired women said, nodding. “We’re an antiquing club from Indy, but what we really like is cookware.”

“Then we have something in common,” I said. “Browse as much as you’d like.”

“I’m Vera, Vera Skinner,” the woman said. The skin of her lined face looked as soft as brown sugar and her light brown eyes smiled at me. She wore a green-and-blue embroidered jacket with little inset mirrors, which looked like it came straight out of India or Morocco or somewhere. Not that I’d been anywhere near that part of the world myself, but a girl could dream.

“Happy to meet you, Vera. Everything except the top row on the wall is for sale. And we serve a delicious breakfast, too, if you’re hungry.”

“We came for cookware and breakfast after we saw the notice in the paper. Plus looking at the leaves, of course.”

“They’re pretty spectacular this fall, aren’t they?”

Vera agreed as she extended her hand. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Robbie. Hmm. Jordan. I used to know a . . .” Her eyes strayed beyond me. “Bless my soul. Is that Adele? Yoo-hoo, Addie!” she called, waving.

Addie? I’d never heard my aunt called anything but Adele, Ms. Jordan, Madam Mayor, or Chief. She’d held a couple of influential positions in town, including head of the on-call firefighters.

Adele stuck both hands on her hips and let out a cry that sounded something like, “Sue-EE.”

Vera snorted and headed toward Adele. “We called pigs together as girls,” she added over her shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in a couple-three decades.”

Adele had never mentioned Vera, but I liked what I saw of her. So many older women to learn from, so little time.

I left the ladies to shop and headed toward the door to resume my meet and greet. The place hummed. A middle-aged man with a pained expression on his face and an unsuccessful comb-over pushed through the doorway, followed by a ruddy-complexioned guy of about the same age. The first one looked vaguely familiar.

“Don, just relax.” The second man reached for his friend’s arm. “She was elected fair and square. You gotta let it go.”

The other man shrugged off the arm. “It wasn’t neither fair or square.”

I opened my mouth to greet them when the one called Don got his eyeballs on Corrine and about blew a gasket. He turned on his heel.

“I don’t have to sit here and look at that bi . . . that woman lording it over this town like she was some kind of queen bee,” he sputtered.

“Yes, you do. Peace among us, that’s what the Bible says.” The ruddy-faced man nudged Don back toward an open table.

“She cheated me of the election, and you know it. And that Stella helped her.” He spit out Stella’s name like it was an insult.

That’s where I recognized Don from. I’d seen his face on campaign signs around town, although his thin dark hair had been better arranged in the pictures. I cleared my throat. Ruddy Face whipped his head over to look at me so fast I thought it would go sailing across the room. He cast me the narrow-eyed gaze a tennis champ gives while waiting for a serve from a worthy opponent. Then he plastered on a crooked-tooth smile.

“Ah, Ms. Jordan, the younger. Ed Kowalski, of Kowalski’s Country Store.” He tipped his Colts cap, but didn’t proffer a hand.

“Welcome to Pans ‘N Pancakes, Ed.” I smiled at the man I now realized was my biggest competitor. I knew Kowalski’s did a busy breakfast-and-lunch trade. But it was five miles away in the county seat of Nashville—Nashville, Indiana, that is—and I knew my store and restaurant projected a far different image than his. “And this is?” I gestured at his companion, who still scowled in Corrine’s general direction.

The man tore his gaze away from Corrine and Stella. “Don O’Neill. The once and almost mayor of this fair town.” Looking at me, his brown eyes were kind, but they held a worried look around their edges. He surveyed the store and looked back at me with new interest. “Looks nice in here. You did a good job.”

“Thank you. Nice to meet you, Don.”

“I saw all the work going on. Should have stopped in. Who was your carpenter?” he asked.

“Me.” I gave a little laugh. “My mom taught me all I know.”

“Jordan.” Don peered at me, and it turned into a long stare. “Hold on. Are you saying you’re Jeanine’s girl?”

“I am, her one and only.” I didn’t add, “And she was my only parent.”

“Boy, howdy.” He kept gazing at me with an odd look on his face. “You don’t look much like her, except for how short you are.”

I shrugged. “Genes are a funny thing, aren’t they?”

“Jeannie and I used to . . . Well, we were friends. How is she, anyway?” Don cocked his head.

I swallowed. No way to sugarcoat it. “My mom passed away last January.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. I truly am.” He reached out and patted my arm. “I run Shamrock Hardware here in town. You need anything, you ask for me personally.”

“Thanks. I’ve shopped there a number of times. The store is well stocked.” I led them to an empty table and waited until they sat. “Now, what can I get you gentlemen for breakfast today?” I poised my pen above the Pans ‘N Pancakes order pad I held in my other hand.

After I took their order—a stack of whole wheat banana walnut pancakes for Don; biscuits, gravy, and two eggs over easy for Ed—I wove through busy tables to the grill area, passing Corrine’s table. Chin in the air, she gave a parade princess wave in Don’s direction. I could almost smell the smoke coming out of his ears.

By ten-thirty the breakfast rush was easing up. Only two older gentlemen remained, nursing their coffees and playing chess on the board I’d painted on one of the square tables. It was exactly the kind of scene I’d hoped would take place in my little establishment.

Adele and I pulled up chairs at a table near the grill area and nibbled at a few odds and ends of cooked ham, a misshapen biscuit, a couple of twice-warmed pancakes. Phil belted out a gospel tune from the sink, where he cleaned up pots and pans. I needed to get lunch prep going soon, but it was good to get off my feet for a few minutes.

“Stella was as unpleasant as always,” I said, “but she did buy a sack of biscuits to take home.” I leaned back and resecured my ponytail with a hair tie in the store blue. Owning a mass of curly hair was a pain sometimes, but I loved the feeling of it loose on my bare shoulders at night, so I kept it long.

“No telling with her. She might even have a heart under all that armor.”

“Thanks for all your help, Adele. I’ll owe you for all eternity.”

She lifted her right eyebrow. “Don’t be silly. You know I want this place to be a big success. Anything I can do.”

My owning the store was Adele’s doing. My mom’s elder sister and only sibling knew about my passion for all manner of old cooking implements and had brought me to look at the store’s vintage cookware collection to help ease the pain of my mom’s death. When we discovered the place was for sale—lock, stock, and barrel—I took the plunge, with her blessing.

The bell on the door rang as Buck Bird, second in command in our local police force, ambled in, followed by Jim Shermer, my real estate lawyer. A cute one, too.

“Jim, Officer Bird. Join us?” I waved at them.

Buck Bird slid into the chair opposite us and laid his uniform hat in his lap. The guy had the skinniest, longest fingers I’d ever seen. They matched the rest of him, from his elongated face to feet that just kept on giving. His sandy hair stuck up like he’d just gotten out of bed before he used those serpentine fingers to snake it back into place. Jim was of a more normal height. His dark red hair curled around his ears and set off brilliant green eyes that could pass as jewels. His Saturday attire of a crisp white shirt tucked into faded jeans made him look as good to eat as one of my pancakes. He sat between Buck and me and I could smell his clean rainwater scent waft through the lingering aroma of bacon and flapjacks.

“Sure smells good in here,” Buck drawled in the local way, sounding like his tongue was glued to the bottom of his mouth. “How’d the grand op’nin’ go?”

“It’s still going. All day long, in fact. We had a busy breakfast rush and are hoping for the same at lunchtime. What can we get you?” I figured he had a serious hollow leg, being so skinny and all.

“Oh, it don’t matter. One of everything?” He raised his eyebrows in a hopeful look.

“You got it. How about you, Jim?”

“I’ll take a couple biscuits with the miso gravy, and hot herbal tea, please.”

“Side of bacon with that?” I snickered at his alarmed look and headed for the grill. Jim was a vegetarian and had convinced me to offer a nonmeat gravy for the likes of him. Plus the herbal tea, which mostly tasted like warmed-up grass, in my opinion.

I brought their orders back a few minutes later, unloading a stack of cakes, with biscuits, ham, and an apple muffin on the side for Buck, plus Jim’s order.

“Her Honor, the mayor, was in earlier, and then Don O’Neill. He seemed to think he should have been elected instead of her. What’s up with that?” I leaned against the edge of the next table and folded my arms.

Adele and Buck exchanged a look. “It was all fair and square,” Adele said. “I worked as a poll watcher. Corrine won by only three votes. Don demanded a recount and that resulted in her getting two more votes. A close result, but a real one.”

“They have some kind of past. Not quite sure what went on, but . . .” Buck shrugged and forked up a huge mouthful of pancakes. A slice of banana dropped off into the golden brown pool of syrup on his plate.

“He was mayor for three terms before. Town elected him right after I decided not to run again. He kinda figures the position belongs to him.” Adele stood. “I’ve got to go let the sheep out, Roberta. Left the house too early this morning. But I’ll come back in an hour to help with lunch. You’re doing great so far.” She patted me on the shoulder, tossed her apron on the chair, and aimed her no-nonsense stride for the door.

“I’ll say you’re doing great.” Jim wiped his plate with a last piece of biscuit and popped it in his mouth. When a spot of gravy marred the pristine white of his shirt, he swiped at it with his blue cloth napkin.

“Was Stella here with Mayor Corrine?” Buck asked.

“She was. Why would she be working on a Saturday?” I cocked my head.

“Could be Corrine said this was an official event. Could be Stella wanted to come along. Stella pretty much gets what she wants.”

“Not here, she didn’t.” I slid into Adele’s seat.

“What do you mean?” Buck asked.

“She tried to stymie Robbie at every turn in the permitting process,” Jim chimed in. “I heard she wanted her son to take over the store. We really had to fight her just to follow legal procedure.”

Buck pursed his lips and nodded like he was filing the information for future use.

“Stella was part of the reason I didn’t go ahead with developing the upstairs at the same time as this space.” I frowned. “I want to create bed-and-breakfast rooms up there, but Stella made it so hard just to get the permits for the restaurant that I gave up. For now, anyway.”

Jim finished his tea. “Best breakfast I’ve eaten in years. You’re going to draw all Ed’s customers away.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t mean to do that. Although when he was in earlier, he gave me some kind of look, like we were in a high-stakes tennis match or something. Maybe losing business is what he’s afraid of.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. He’s been the only country store in Brown County for twenty-odd years, and only a few other places serve breakfast in Nashville,” Buck said.

“I wonder how I never met him before today, since I worked in Nashville for three years. I guess because I didn’t eat at his restaurant,” I said.

“I bet he buys his hash browns frozen, and his meat patties, too.” Jim sat back in his chair.

“I sure don’t. But that reminds me I need to get started on making up my own patties for lunch. Don’t worry,” I said, glancing at Jim, “veggie burgers are on the menu.”

Buck opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. “And beef and turkey burgers from Kiss My Grass Farm, Buck, so you’ll have something to eat, too.” Jim wasn’t the only one who had cleaned his plate, but Buck still sported a somehow hungry look as he smiled at me. “Plus organic hot dogs, house-made sauerkraut and coleslaw, and fresh hand-cut fries, of course. Phil signed on as cookie and brownie chef, and you’ll definitely want to sample those.”

“Good to know. Good to know,” Buck said. “Guess I’ll be back in a couple hours for lunch, then.”

I dug both their checks out of my pocket and handed them over.

As Buck unfolded himself from his chair, Jim looked up at me with somewhat more color than usual in his freckled cheeks. “If you’re not too tired, can I take you out for dinner tonight? To celebrate all this?”

Whoa. A date? With Jim? I hadn’t dated in nearly four years, since my rotten now-ex-husband had thrown me over for a curvy air force fighter pilot. I looked into those green eyes, whose gorgeous color was not dimmed by the black-rimmed glasses he wore. Could be interesting.

Buck cleared his throat and steered the brim of his hat through his fingers. “Sorry to interrupt your social arrangements. Just wanted to say thanks, and let you know I’m glad you’re here in town, Robbie. This place will be good for all of us.” He plopped several bills on the table and his hat on his head before he ambled back to the door.

I called a rather stunned “thanks” after him as I nodded at Jim. “Dinner sounds fun. Do I need to dress up?”

He laughed, a husky sound that came from his throat, the sexiest noise I’d heard in a long time. “You might want to ditch the apron. But no, we’ll head out to the roadhouse. Pretty informal. They have line dancing if you like that kind of thing, too.”

A dancing date. I never got enough dancing. This evening was sounding better and better.

I surveyed the platter the waiter set in front of me at the Hickory Hoosier roadhouse. “This is enormous.” A dozen ribs oozing with sauce vied for space with corn bread, baked beans, and a little dish of coleslaw. “I’ll never be able to finish it.” I picked up a rib with both hands and nibbled off a few bites of the most tender meat I’d ever eaten, leaning over my plate in hopes I could keep the reddish brown sauce off my white top.

Jim laughed. “And I’m not helping you, either.” He gestured to his own large serving of fish and chips. He raised his pint glass of beer. “Here’s to a successful country store.”

“Absolutely. Thanks.” I hastily wiped my hands on the stack of paper napkins the waiter had kindly left and picked up my own glass of Cutters Half Court IPA. After we clinked drinks, I took a sip.

“This is good,” I said, licking the foam off my lip. “Great hops. What did you get?”

“The Lost River summer ale. Glad they still have it halfway into October.”

I drank again, and then dove back into the ribs. Maybe the chef would share his recipe? Unlikely. I rolled the sauce around on my tongue, tasting a hint of maple, maybe a bit of hot pe. . .