Spinning in Her Grave by Molly MacRae

Author:Molly MacRae [MacRae, Molly]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781101634905
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-03-03T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

“What’s going on, Mel?”

I stood outside the café’s back door, nose almost pressed to the window. Sally Ann had been right. Mel did look as though she’d spent the night there. She’d taken off her apron at some point, but her chef’s pants, usually crisp and clean, were as tired as her eyes. At least her spiked hair looked alert. Maybe it was keeping her awake. I knew she could hear my question through the door, because I heard her loud and clear.

“Not buying, Red. Don’t care what you’re selling.”

At least she’d come to the door when I knocked. Sally Ann said she hadn’t even waved.

“Do I look like a door-to-door yarn peddler to you? Come on, what do you think I’m trying to sell?”

“Thoughts and prayers. Visions of a better place. As far as I’m concerned, all of that happy-happy mumbo jumbo is like alien abductions, Red. Not happening.”

“I’m not peddling that, either.”

“Then what do you want?”

I felt silly, but I looked left and right to make sure no one was lurking in the service alley to hear me. I gestured for her to come closer and put my mouth to the crack between the door and the frame. “Answers, Mel. We think there’s more to Reva Louise’s death than a trigger-happy reenactor. We’re short on physical evidence, but the scenario we’re putting together is the more compelling for its lack.” I pulled back from the crack to gauge her response. She raised an eyebrow. I leaned toward the crack again and almost stumbled inside when she swung the door open.

“It wasn’t locked,” she said with a shrug.

“Sally Ann said—”

“I unlocked it after she left. I’m still not open, though. If you don’t believe me, you can read the sign on the front door. It’s still locked.”

“A lot of good that does back here. Aren’t you worried about people coming in thinking you are open?”

“It’s mostly locals and I’ve been running them off all morning. Except Carl.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. Carl, an eightysomething widower who used his morning walk to the café to jump-start his days, sat at his usual table in the back corner, nursing a cup of coffee. He lifted two fingers from the cup in greeting. “Carl needs me,” Mel said. “The rest can wait until I open up again. Make up your mind, Red. In or out. You’re as bad as a cat and I don’t need the flies.”

I went in. She closed the door and I followed her to the kitchen. The scent of onion lingered in the air from her chopping extravaganza of the day before. The onions were nowhere in sight and the place was spotless.

“Hold up,” Mel said to me. She stuck her head back out the kitchen door. “Keep the riffraff out, will you, Carl? And help yourself if you want more coffee.”

“Why don’t you just lock the door again?” I asked.

“Nah. It’ll give Carl purpose if he can run off a tourist or two.

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