Crops and Robbers (12 page)

Unfortunately, we didn’t get far into the conversation when Ian suddenly said, “Here she comes. And it looks like she sees us this time.”

“What are you doing here?” Betsy said quietly as she stopped
at the table. She glanced back and forth between me and Ian.

“Having dinner,” I said.

“Why here? Why tonight?”

“I guess I wanted to see what kind of place stayed open the night after their owner was killed.” A pang of regret bit at my stomach. That sounded nasty and no matter the confrontation that morning, I had no right to be nasty.

Betsy’s face fell. “You don’t know anything about this business. And, this is none of
your
business.”

“Really? You accused me of killing Joan. You made it my business,” I said, the pang of regret dissipating.

“I see I was wrong. It was your mother instead.”

It was rare that I wanted to hit someone, but I had an unladylike urge to throw my fist at her face.

“Okay, I think we should be going. Come on, Becca.” Ian’s voice was calm but tight. Of the two of us, I’d be more likely to cause a scene, but he wasn’t happy about the direction this seemed to be headed.

But then, much to my surprise, Betsy changed. Her face softened and she took a deep breath as she held her hands out in a truce. She looked at Ian and offered him a quick smile.

“Whoa, I’m so sorry,” she said.

Ian and I were silent.

“This has been rough,” she continued. “Originally, I stopped by Bailey’s this morning to tell the manager that I’d be handling things with the restaurant association, but when she wasn’t in her office, something came over me and I lashed out—at you, unfairly, and I apologize. And I know your mother’s been arrested but not convicted. I’m so sorry.”

At least that answered why she was at Bailey’s.

“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too cautious or rude, considering she was apologizing. “I get it.” I looked at Ian, who looked just as dubious as I felt.

“I see you’re done with your dinner. Would the two of you come back to my office for a minute? We can talk better there, and I can give you the information I meant to give the market manager, who I believe is your sister?” I nodded. “I’ll have some dessert brought back, on the house.”

“Sure,” I said too eagerly.

Ian’s eyebrows rose.

“This way.” Betsy turned and made her way to the door again.

Ian stood and extended a hand to help me out of the booth.

“Thanks.” I took his hand. “See, I won’t have to sneak anywhere.”

“Let’s be cautious,” he muttered in my ear.

“Always.”

There was a hallway behind the door. It wasn’t long or well lit. There were two more doors on one side of the hall and two on the other. The first one on the right was the only one open; a flood of light pushing through it beckoned us in.

“Come on in. Sit down,” Betsy said from behind her desk. The office was very bright, especially compared to the hallway and even the restaurant. Betsy’s desk was covered in stacks of paper, but the rest of the office, the file drawers, and a credenza were neat and clean except for a varied collection of ceramic cat figurines.

Ian and I both took chairs opposite Betsy. Neither of us knew what to say, so we remained silent as she looked through one of the stacks of paper and muttered to herself.

“Here we go,” she said as she pulled out a single piece of paper as well as a stack that was about a quarter of an inch thick. “Here’s a list of those who attended yesterday and who was interested in what. And this”—she waved the stack—“is a full listing of the association members. Their phone numbers are there, too. I would recommend that you have someone call them all. I know there’s interest even from those who couldn’t attend, but restaurant owners sometimes need a little push to place an order with someone new. Besides, before we can supply any trucks for deliveries, we need a minimum amount—it’s there at the bottom of that page—or it won’t be worth our whiles. They know this. They know they need to place an order, but like I said, sometimes they need a little push.”

I glanced quickly over the single sheet and then thumbed through the stack. The restaurant owners were listed alphabetically with their names, addresses, and phone numbers. I also noticed something else. Written in pencil next to each listing was one of three words: yes, no, or maybe.

“What’re the yes, no, maybe comments?” I asked.

Betsy’s eyes widened and for an instant she looked surprised.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Here, I gave you the wrong copy. Trade me.” She reached for a different stack and held it forward.

We traded, and my new stack didn’t have the penciled comments.

I couldn’t have memorized the handwritten notes even on the first page of the stack in the short amount of time it had been in my hands.

“What were the yes, no, and maybe’s?” I asked again.

“I, uh, oh, some sort of notes Joan made. I’m not sure.”

Ian and I shared a silent glance.

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll make sure Allison gets this,” I said as my eyes angled to the marked list now sitting safely on Betsy’s desk.

“Terrific. Thank you. And, I’d like to address your question about why the restaurant is open this evening.” She cleared her throat. “It was my call. Business is business. Maybe it was disrespectful, I don’t know. But we have customers who rely on us to be open, so here we are. It’s what Joan would have wanted.”

“I see,” I said. “What about her son. Nobel? Is he here?”

“No. And, I suppose that with the possible exceptions of her own or Nobel’s death, Joan would have been here, too.”

“Was she pretty involved in the day-to-day operations?”

Betsy shrugged. “No, not involved as much as keenly curious. When she was here, she was usually in her own office, not out with the customers. But she had a sharp eye for everything. She’d spy a dirty spot on the floor from across the room. She watched the numbers, too, like a hawk. She evaluated the cooks constantly. She critiqued the waitstaff constantly. She was good, very good, at her business. It’ll be difficult to fill her shoes.”

“You’ll do just fine,” I said. “It will be you, right? You’ll be filling her shoes? Or will it be Nobel?”

Betsy sighed. “Nobel’s a cook. He’s a recipe guy. I doubt he’ll want to be in the middle of the restaurant operations. I’m sure it’ll be me, but I know what you’re thinking—could I have possibly killed Joan to gain control of the restaurant? Trust me, what I will do after her death won’t be much different than what I did when she was alive. Nobel’s the owner, but I will run the operations. He won’t pay attention to the details like his mother did, so I suppose my job will expand, but I certainly won’t become more powerful or much richer.”

“I understand,” I said as if I really did. In fact, there were lots of things I didn’t understand—like, why was she making such an effort to explain herself to us?

The cell phone on her desk vibrated. She glanced at it and said, “Excuse me. It’s the kitchen. They need to see me. I’ll be right back. I’ll bring back the dessert I mentioned.” She stood and hurried out of the office.

I turned and craned my neck to watch her leave. I waited until I heard the outer hallway door open and close again, and then I smiled at Ian.

“We’re going to steal the other list, aren’t we?” he asked.

“No, we’re . . . no you’re going to find a way to make a copy of it. I’m going to see if I can find Joan’s office.”

“It might not mean anything, Becca.”

“It might, though.”

I was out of the chair and peering out the door before Ian could protest. Being the good sport that he was, he stood and grabbed the other list. There was no copy machine, but an all-in-one fax-copier-printer sat on the back credenza.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“What?”

“It’s got to warm up.”

“Okay, I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Just put the copies in my bag. Whoever gets done first needs to watch for Betsy’s return.”

“Go,” he said, shooing me out.

Ian might not have liked my snooping ways, but he knew this investigation was more important than most. He’d do whatever he could to help. I was invigorated by his team-player mentality.

The door across the hall was locked, which almost stopped me from trying the other two—almost, but not quite. One was locked, but the last one wasn’t.

I opened that door and then reached in, my hand groping the wall for a switch that was lower than expected. I flipped it up.

I wasn’t sure whether or not this was Joan’s office. The couch against the wall and the desk chair were light-colored matching leather, both of them poofy with enough stuffing to remind me of the Three Bears’ “too soft.”

The color of wood on the desk matched the leather. With all the light neutral tones, the only thing that stood out was a red glass apple paperweight that was on top of one of the tall stacks of papers on the desk. I’d thought Betsy’s desk was covered in paper; that was nothing compared to this one.

There were no personal items, like ceramic cats, photographs, or stationery, to be seen. The room felt only slightly more feminine than masculine.

I really didn’t know what to look for, but if this was Joan’s office, I wanted to learn something about her, something that told me some secret. Someone wanted her dead. Why? I suspected it wasn’t for insulting my preserves, so there had to be something else.

The papers were spreadsheets and numbers and charts. Ian would know, at a glance, what they were about. He was the numbers person, but to me it seemed foreign and overwhelming. I hurried to the other side of the desk and opened the two side file drawers. I flipped my fingers over the tabs but didn’t see anything that made me think secrets were buried inside. I pulled open the wide short drawer in the front. There were three sharpened pencils and a small leather-bound notebook, the color of which matched the desk and the furniture. I hurriedly thumbed through the notebook, but there was only writing on one page—the first one. And all it said was, “Jake: No; Manny: Yes.” I’d check if they matched the comments on the big list.

“Becca, come on. She’ll be back any minute,” Ian said from the door. “I got the copy made. Let’s get back to her office.”

Though it wasn’t a difficult amount of information to memorize, I tore the first page out of the notebook and put it in my pocket as we scurried back to Betsy’s office. I also wanted to compare the handwriting to that on the bigger list. Just as we sat down, the outer door squeaked open. I did what I could to calm my heavy breathing, but if Betsy was paying the least bit of attention, she’d notice.

“Hello,” a different voice announced from the doorway.

We turned to see the young man who had seated us, with two large pieces of cake—cake with red preserves in between the layers.

“Betsy said she’d be right back, but she wanted you to enjoy our most popular dessert. Strawberry White Chocolate Cake.” He placed the pieces of cake on the desk in front of us and then excused himself.

I relaxed and let my breathing fall into a normal rhythm.

Ian smiled and lifted the fork on his plate.

“Cheers,” he said.

We wouldn’t dare talk about our exploits until we were out of the restaurant.

For a moment I thought I wouldn’t eat the cake. It was
the
cake after all; the one Joan had talked about needing a new filling for, the one that had, in a way, ruined my day before her murder had really ruined it. But then I realized the only person my stubbornness was hurting was me. Why would I ever turn down a piece of Strawberry White Chocolate Cake?

It was phenomenal. Rich, moist, delicious, with a frosting like I’d never tasted—it seemed to be a cross between white chocolate and whipped cream. The strawberry preserves were really good, too. I didn’t understand why Joan had wanted to try something different, and I really didn’t understand why mine hadn’t been up to par, but that was just my hurt feelings talking.

I didn’t dwell on it long but instead ate the cake and focused on enjoying it.

Betsy never rejoined us in the office, so we finished our desserts and carried the plates out to the dining room. Betsy was at the front podium and sent someone to meet us halfway and take the plates. We wove our way toward her.

“I’m so sorry. It became one thing after another and I couldn’t get back to you. I hope you enjoyed the cake,” she said.

We said that we did and thanked her.

She was intense. She was probably one of the most valuable assets to the restaurant. If nothing else, I thought Joan would have been pleased to know that things would be well taken care of.

“So we’re good?” Betsy asked.

“Sure.” I hadn’t meant to sound so unconvincing, but it was the best I could do.

Before we left, there was one more thing I needed to address. Something had been at the back of my mind since Sam found the piece of glass behind the barn.