Four Leaf Cleaver

Book 11: Country Store Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

The eleventh installment in Maddie Day's deliciously popular Country Store cozy mysteries . . . It's Saint Patrick's Day in South Lick, Indiana, but a holiday cooking competition at Robbie Jordan's country store and restaurant Pans 'N Pancakes is put on the back-burner when a killer strikes.



There's no mistaking Saint Patrick's Day at Pans 'N Pancakes. Robbie may only be Irish by marriage to Abe O'Neill, but the shelves of vintage cookware in her southern Indiana store are draped with glittery shamrocks and Kelly-green garlands and her restaurant is serving shepherd's pie and Guinness Beer brownies. The big event, however, is a televised cooking competition to be filmed on site.



Unfortunately, someone's luck has run out. Before the cameras start rolling, tough-as-nails producer Tara O'Hara Moore is found upstairs in her B&B room, bludgeoned apparently by the heavy hilt of a cleaver left by her side. Now, not only does Robbie have a store full of festive decorations, she's got a store full of suspects . . .

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

I didn’t have a drop of Irish blood in me, not with parental surnames of Jordan and Fracasso. But I—Robbie Jordan, owner and chief chef at country store restaurant Pans ’N Pancakes—could go full-Irish with the best of them.

Tomorrow was St. Patrick’s Day. My team and I had decorated the southern Indiana store with glitter-crusted shamrocks and kelly-green garlands. We’d been serving scones and soda bread all week, plus a popular beef-and-mushroom shepherd’s pie for a lunch special and Guinness Beer brownies.

The holiday’s big event would happen tomorrow, Monday, when we were always closed to the public. Instead, a roaming cooking competition would take over the space. “Holiday Hot-Off” televised their contests from a different location for every holiday. The name was a bit odd, but when they’d asked to present this contest in my store and told me what they would pay, I’d agreed without giving it too much thought. What little restaurant in a sleepy town doesn’t want national attention?

“We’ll set up there.” Tara Moore pointed a long mauve fingernail at the side wall Sunday afternoon at four. She held a clipboard in her other hand. “Jaden, how many contestants do we have?” she asked her already-harried assistant, whom she had introduced to me as Jaden Routh.

“Eight, Miss Moore.” The kid, who I doubted was older than my assistant’s twenty-one, frowned at his phone with a nose a bit off center.

“And they all know the rules?” Tara was one of those perfectly styled and made-up women with an edge of the imperious about her. Her true height couldn’t have been much more than my five foot three, but her black heels and attitude made her seem a lot taller. Her hair was a short honey-colored do with streaks of blond.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

They might’ve known the rules, but I didn’t. “What are the guidelines for the entrants?”

As if bored with the details, Tara moved away from us toward the wall. Two-tops and four-tops were lined up in front of it in our usual arrangement for dining.

“All dishes have to include Hoosier Brewing Company’s Irish stout, no dish can have over fifteen ingredients, and they have to be ready to serve in an hour.” Jaden, speaking fast, gave a quick nervous glance at Tara, his almond-shaped eyes darting as a wild animal’s do when sensing danger.

“And they cook here on the spot?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“The contestants won’t be baking, I assume.” They couldn’t all use my oven, could they?

“No baking in a standard oven. If you’ll excuse me.” He hurried over to where Tara stood with arms crossed.

A woman in jeans, sweater, and sneakers, all black, had come in with them. She began unpacking a series of black bags. As we hadn’t been introduced, I moseyed over. She squatted, snapping three legs of a tripod into place.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Robbie Jordan. This is my place.”

She stood and extended a fist. “Vin Pollard, cameraperson.” She didn’t quite tower over me, but she had to be at least five nine or ten and looked to be maybe ten or fifteen years older than my thirty.

“Nice to meet you, Vin.” I bumped my fist with her larger one. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“It’s short for Vincenta.” She pronounced it “vinCENta” instead of using a “ch” sound in the middle as Italians did. She tucked a strand of chestnut-colored hair back into its messy bun. “I’m the youngest of six sisters and my parents, really, really wanted a boy.”

“I’m named Roberta for my father.” My Italian father.

“You’ve got some good visuals here,” Vin said. “Nice and rustic.”

I winced a little. Maybe if you were from Hollywood or New York, or even Chicago, my store seemed rustic. True, the stamped tin ceiling was a hundred and fifty years old, and antique cookware of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves. The wooden pickle barrel was authentic, as was the hand-cranked wooden phone box on the wall, which I had repurposed into a working land line. But I’d given the space a fresh coat of paint after I’d renovated the building, and I thought it was airy and clean looking. Right now, it also still smelled great from a day of cooking and serving bacon, biscuits, and burgers.

“She likes to go for atmosphere.” Vin cocked her chin at Tara.

Right now, Tara seemed to be berating young Jaden. She turned and shot a look at us.

“Is she the producer or the star?” I asked in a soft voice.

“Both, if you can believe it. This show is her baby in all ways, and she’s total tiger mom about it.”

Tara strode toward us. “Are you setting up or what?” She made an impatient rolling gesture with her hand. “We have to do sound and video checks before we leave here tonight.”

Vin stuck her hands in her pockets and straightened her spine. “And we will. You do your work, I’ll do mine.”

Tara blinked but turned away.

Danna Beedle, one of my co-chefs, approached. Her workday was over, but she’d told me how curious she was about the show. I’d said it was fine to hang around and watch.

“Hey, boss.” She smiled at Vin. “Hi, I’m Danna. I work with this lady.”

“Danna, Vin Pollard,” I said. “Vin, my talented co-chef, Danna Beedle.”

They did the fist bump thing, too.

“Need any help?” Danna asked Vin.

“No, I’ve got it. But thanks.” Vin hauled a heavy coil of extension cord out of a bag. “Actually, where’s the nearest outlet behind me?”

While Danna showed her, I headed over to Vin’s bossy boss. She now had fists on hips, scowling at the tables.

“Where are the eight-foot tables?” she demanded of me.

What? “You can push together any of the tables in here. We have only one that seats eight. That one there.” I gestured toward the eight-top, which was more like six-feet-by-three. I’d examined the show agreement carefully before signing it, and knew I had no commitment to provide any equipment beyond my space and power outlets.

Tara flicked her hand at Jaden. “Rent them. Go.”

He gave me a panicked look as he scurried away. I didn’t envy him. I had no idea if he could find rental tables on a Sunday afternoon for tomorrow. I imagined this wasn’t the first last-minute demand he’d been given, and he was still employed. He had to be a resourceful kind of guy.

Tara squatted, elegant cream-colored slacks and three-inch heels notwithstanding. She squinted at the closest outlet and then down to the next one, spaced six feet apart per regulations. Rewiring and bringing the place up to code when I’d renovated had involved a chunk of money, but I’d needed to do it and was glad I had.

“Power looks good.” She straightened to standing with nary a grunt, despite looking close to fifty. “Can the circuit handle five or more electric cookers?”

“Should be able to. Does each person bring their own skillet or whatever?”

“Yes. Could be a portable oven, though.”

I wrinkled my nose. Could that circuit handle an electricity hog like an oven? Power going out during the show would be a disaster.

“We don’t get notes about their equipment ahead of time.” Her expression softened as she gave a low laugh. “I’ll add it to my to-do list. I’m still working out some of the kinks since I took over.”

“Has this show been running for a long time?” I asked. “I’m afraid I don’t watch much television.”

“This is the ninth year. I stepped into my brother’s shoes after he died.” She sounded wistful. “You haven’t heard of Rowan O’Hara?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s been gone for two years, and this is my show now.” She squared her shoulders and gazed around the restaurant. “You did a nice job decorating in here.”

“Thanks. We had fun with it.”

“I’ll tell you, the St. Patrick’s Day contests are my favorites.”

The cow bell on the door jangled. A handsome man strolled in. Silver threaded through his dark hair, and his posture gave the impression of a person accustomed to being looked at.

Tara stared. “What the heck is he doing here?”

I stared, too. That dude, with a half smile playing on his expressive mouth, looked a lot like a younger version of one of my older-man screen crushes. What would Liam Neeson be doing in South Lick? I stole a glance at Tara, whose softness had reverted to a glare.

A man with a mass of dark curly hair over a dark beard followed the newcomer in. “Tara, sweetheart!” The curly-haired one, wearing a black hoodie labeled HBC, strode toward her, arms extended.

Tara seemed to shrink into herself. Not a hugger, apparently. The movie star, or whoever he was, hung back near the door, hands in pants pockets.

“Hello, Nicky,” she said to the would-be embracer.

“Are you all ready?” He beamed. “The company is beyond excited about tomorrow.”

Since it was my store, I once again inserted myself.

“Welcome. I’m Robbie Jordan, proprietor,” I said to him.

“Robbie, so good to know you. So good!” He grabbed my hand and pumped it, even though I hadn’t extended it to him. “Nicky Lozano, with Hoosier Brewing. I know your place isn’t a bar, but I hope we can work out some mutually agreeable relationship in the future.”

I smiled at his enthusiasm. “I have hosted Beer and Bible nights before. We’ll talk later. What’s your position at the brewery?”

“Outreach, publicity, marketing, you name it. I don’t brew anymore, but I could in a pinch.” He nudged Tara’s arm with his elbow. “So, Ms. Moore, are we under control?”

She cleared her throat. “We’re kind of under control. Jaden is off hunting down tables. Too late, but we’ll manage if he can’t find any.” She lowered her voice. “Did you come in with him?” She blinked in the direction of my crush.

“Liam?” He laughed. “Never seen the dude before, although he sort of resembles an actor I’ve seen. We met on the porch on our way in.”

Liam. The guy even had the same first name.

Tara let out a deep sigh, nearly a groan. “He must be one of the contestants. Wouldn’t you know? Just my bad luck.”

She and Mr. Movie Star seemed to have some history. Maybe I would find out what it was. Maybe I wouldn’t. As long as a murder didn’t result, I didn’t care. It did seem odd that she didn’t know who the cooks would be. Maybe Jaden handled all that.

“What time does everything get started tomorrow?” I asked.

Tara turned away and inspected a nail instead of answering.

Nicky shrugged and flashed me another big smile. “Young Routh said final set up starts at nine. Are you going to fix us a big breakfast first, Robbie?”

“No.” I smiled back, shaking my head. “It’s our day off. I’m strictly an observer on Mondays. But there’s an artisanal bakery in town. They serve coffee, too.”

“I was just kidding you. Hey, Vin,” he called across the space. “What time does the actual filming start?”

Why wasn’t Tara answering him? She couldn’t be bothered? Or didn’t want to interact with Nicky, maybe. She made her way, heels clicking, to the table where she had set a large and expensive-looking handbag in a creamy beige leather.

“Noon,” Vin yelled back.

“I hear you’re our host,” a deep voice said at my side. “I’m Liam Walsh, one of the contestants.”

He had approached without my realizing it. Even his voice was dreamy, with an Irish lilt. The side of his mouth lifted in a quirky smile. A dark scarf was tied European style around his neck.

“Welcome. I’m Robbie Jordan, and yes, I own Pans ’N Pancakes.” I extended my hand.

“Liam Walsh.” He held my hand in both of his for a moment. “You have a delightful store here. I’m surprised the contest rules didn’t include using one of your many pieces of vintage cookware.” He gestured at the shelves in the retail area.

“That’s okay,” I said. “It would have been a bother, and anyway, they’re for sale.”

“I’ll have to do a bit of shopping before I leave tomorrow. After I win the competition, that is.” Liam lifted a single eyebrow.

“What will you be making?” Nicky cocked his head. His interest sounded genuine.

I was curious, too.

“Nice try.” Liam’s genial expression slid away as he gazed at Tara with flared nostrils. “I’ve had recipes stolen before. I won’t reveal my secrets to anyone. Tomorrow’s judges will count my ingredients, and then taste my winning concoction, of course. What goes into my dish is the most I will reveal.”

“Where do you live, Liam?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. “I have one more open B&B room upstairs if you traveled a long distance.”

“Chicago. But I’m staying with my sister in Bloomington. Are some of the show people renting from you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Tara and Jaden.” Tara had told me she lived in Indianapolis but didn’t want to make the drive back and forth. I hadn’t noted where Jaden lived, but he’d had to list it on his room registration.

Liam made a sniff of disdain. I ignored it. His gaze shifted to where Vin was working, and a little smile played on his lips. When he caught me watching him, he wiped off the smile, lifting his chin.

“How about you, Nicky?” I asked. “Do you live around here?”

“Close. I’m in Nashville, where HBC’s world headquarters is located.”

“That’s an easy drive from here,” I said. The artsy county seat was a mere five miles away.

Liam glanced at his watch. “I should be getting back to the Hoosier state’s lovely university town. I just dropped by to see the lay of the land. Who will be tomorrow’s judges, by the way?”

“Our always-hungry police lieutenant, Buck Bird,” I began. “Our esteemed mayor, Corrine Beedle—who is also my assistant’s mom.” I pointed at Danna, who was now helping Vin lay tape over cables on the floor, so people didn’t trip on them. “The third judge is our best local chef, Christina James. If you get a chance to eat dinner at Hoosier Hollow here in South Lick, you should. She’s great.”

“Sounds good,” Liam said.

“Agree.” Nicky bobbed his head. His eyes lit up. “Maybe tomorrow night we can all celebrate together.”

“Maybe.” Liam again glanced at Tara. His eyes were not so bright.

When the cow bell hanging on the door jangled, I turned in that direction. Here was an even better sight than the handsome competitor standing next to me.

“Abe,” I called, lifting my hand to greet my darling—and age-appropriately handsome—husband.

He sauntered toward us, yanking his watch cap off his head. After he planted a kiss on my cheek, smelling as always of rainwater shampoo and love, he extended a hand to Liam.

“Abe O’Neill, lucky husband to this lovely lady.”

“Abe, this is Liam Walsh, one of the competitors tomorrow, and Nicky Lozano, the beer company rep.”

The men greeted each other and shook hands in turn.

“I believe you’ll be one of my fellow contestants tomorrow, Abe,” Liam said. “Jaden Routh sent around a list of the names.”

I frowned at Abe. I hadn’t heard a word about him entering.

“He did, and I am.” Abe looked sheepish as he slung his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I don’t have classes tomorrow, and I thought it’d be fun.” Abe had gone back to school to earn a certificate in wildlife education, something he had a passion for. “Sorry, hon, I wanted to surprise you.”

“You sure did.” It was fine with me, but I was truly surprised. “Let me guess. You’re going to make something Grandpa O’Neill taught you.”

“Naturally.” To Liam he added, “He was born in County Cork. He taught my dad to cook, and me, too, before he died.”

“I’m getting hungry already,” Nicky said. “Hey, Tara, how do I sign on to be a judge? I want to taste what these gentlemen cook tomorrow.” He headed over to where she sat absorbed in her phone.

“I’ll see you folks soon.” Liam slid a tweed Irish cap onto his head and disappeared out the door.

Abe stood staring at Tara. “Is that Tara O’Hara?”

“Maybe. Her name is Tara Moore, but she said she took over the show from her brother, Rowan O’Hara. Moore could be her married name.”

“I didn’t know she was part of this cook-off.”

“From what I can tell, it’s her baby. The video person told me Tara is the star and producer. You know her, obviously.”

“Let’s just say I used to.” He folded his arms.

“You’ll tell me later?”

“I promise.”

I watched as Nicky and Tara appeared to argue. I couldn’t hear what they said, but it didn’t take a genius to read that body language.

Abe and I slept in until the unheard-of hour of seven the next morning. We’d picked up takeout from Paco’s Tacos for last night’s dinner, since the crew hadn’t cleared out until nearly seven. I’d had a long day and Abe had his big cooking challenge coming up later today. Neither of us had felt like cooking, and Abe’s teenaged son Sean had been at his girlfriend’s for dinner.

“It’s a good thing Jaden found those rental tables,” I now said, taking the last sip of my coffee at a few minutes before eight. Jaden had asked for a key to the store, a request I’d declined. I always locked the interior door between the B&B rooms and the store at the end of the day, but the rooms had an outdoor stairway and a set of fire stairs, too. I just didn’t want to relinquish my key to him. “He said they would deliver them at eight thirty. I’d better get over to the store.”

“I’m going to hop in the shower. I’ll see you there, sugar.”

I raised my face for a kiss. “You’re going to win. I can feel it.”

“From your lips to the judges’ mouths.”

I gave my curious, fun, long-haired tuxedo cat one more scratch and made sure his dry food and water were fresh and topped up. In a normal week, Monday was the day I stayed home to play with Birdy. Not today.

Ten minutes later I stood on the wide, covered front porch of my country store. It was my dream come true and livelihood all wrapped into one profitable and enjoyable package. The skies were dripping a cold drizzle, but it didn’t matter. We’d be cozy inside.

I unlocked the door and headed in, flipping on lights as I went. The heat was on a timer, so it was already reasonably warm in here. I decided to be hospitable and put on a pot of coffee for the crew. I also trotted up the inside staircase and unlocked the door to the B&B area.

The gang had accomplished a lot yesterday. Cameras, lights, and a sound system were all set up with well-secured cables. A banner proclaiming “Holiday Hot-Off, St. Patrick’s Day Edition” hung on the wall behind where the cook-off tables would be. I wasn’t sure where Tara would be presenting from, but a wir. . .