A Game of Cones Page 3

  “And how do you know that?” Maisie asked.

  “Same way you know he got shot,” he said. “Someone told me.”

  I wondered how many people he’d talked to already. I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was 5:40 a.m. He’d have had to awaken practically everybody. Besides the staff over at the bakery, no one else was at their shop this early.

  “We haven’t heard anything,” I said and pointed toward the kitchen. “We’ve been here making ice cream. We don’t know a thing.”

  “I see your mother back there,” he said. “Ailbhe, isn’t it?” Like he’d forget after he tried to take my father away from her and send him to death row.

  I turned, glanced at her. “She doesn’t know anything either,” I said. “She wasn’t there.”

  He pulled out a small spiral notebook from his pants pocket. First time I’d seen him with one. Last investigation he interrogated me about, he never made one note. Flipping through a few pages, he said, “No, doesn’t seem she was.” He flipped the notebook closed. “At least not from what I know so far.”

  I gave him an “I told you so” look.

  “What did the three of you do after you left the meeting?” he asked.

  “We went home,” we said in unison. It couldn’t have sounded more rehearsed.

  That seemed to amuse him. “All to the same home?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Different ones.”

  “Our own homes,” Riya added.

  Maisie was still being defiant and didn’t offer anything more.

  “I see,” he said, nodding slowly.

  I shrugged. “Okay. If there isn’t anything else, we’ve got to get back and finish up. Otherwise, I won’t have any ice cream to sell today.”

  “Nope. Nothing else.” He tilted his head to the side. “But if you find out anything, Bronwyn, you’ll let me know?”

  “I’m sure there won’t be anything that I’ll find out.”

  “You might,” he said. “Maisie, same goes for you. And . . .” He looked at Riya. “Have we met before?”

  “This is Riya Amacarelli,” I said. “Doctor Amacarelli.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “She’s a medical doctor.” I liked giving the impression there was a modicum of decorum to Riya when I spoke of her. If I let her actions speak for her, most times people wouldn’t think she had any polish or urbanity about her.

  “Who moonlights at an ice cream shop?” He pointed at her apron.

  “On occasion,” I said, not letting his skepticism detour me.

  “And is she the same Riya Amacarelli who threw a shoe at Zeke Reynolds last night?”

  The three of us looked at each other, then at the detective. Okay, so he did stump me with that response. After stumbling over how to answer, I asked, “How do you know that?”

  He patted his pants pocket where he’d stuck the notebook. “I have my ways.”

  Seems he’d heard a lot about last night.

  “It was nothing,” I said.

  “It slipped,” Riya said.

  “She has trouble controlling her temper,” Maisie said. We offered all of our answers in tandem.

  “And,” Detective Beverly said, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob, “that might just be the reason we’ve got another murder on our hands. Someone having a problem controlling their temper.”

  chapter

  THREE

  He’s cute,” Riya said after Detective Beverly left. We walked single file back into the kitchen area. “Is he single?”

  “What did he want?” my mother asked as we went back to our stations. She narrowed her eyes, acting as if the detective was up to something himself instead of investigating someone else who was.

  “He wants us to solve the murder,” Maisie said, her eyes wide and twinkly.

  “No. He does not want us to solve the murder,” I said. “And, Riya, keep those crazy thoughts to yourself.”

  “What?” Riya said and chuckled. “You don’t think that detective is cute?”

  “I can tell you what I think about him,” my mother said, assaulting the mint leaves as she spoke. “He’s a thickheaded, dim-witted, no-good son-of-a—”

  “Mommy!” I cut her off.

  “Gun,” she said. “I was going to say son-of-a-gun.”

  “I think he does,” Maisie said, nodding her head, still having the conversation I thought sure I had put an end to. “I think he wants us to help solve this murder like we did last time.”

  “I know he doesn’t want that,” I said, my voice a little more haughty than it should be. But I wanted to nip her little idea in the bud. Heck, our last investigation had nearly gotten me killed.

  “Who doesn’t want what?” PopPop asked. He’d swung open the back door, letting a whoosh of the morning sunlight and warm breeze into our frozen kitchen tundra. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his khaki-colored pants.

  PopPop had a penchant for plaid shirts, no matter the season, he wore one with long sleeves. Except for when he went to church, which, since my grandmother died, hadn’t been as often—there he always wore white.

  Tall, he was where my father got his height. Both showed no signs of going bald, keeping their hair cut low. The only difference, my grandfather’s was nearly all white.

  “I wasn’t the only one upset with that man,” Maisie said, the tension in her voice matching mine. “And Detective Beverly seems to know that. That’s why he needs us. We’ve got inside ears.”

  “Who needs you?” PopPop was standing there with a confused look on his face, wondering why we were all up in arms.

  “That detective!” My mother pointed her knife at PopPop, not answering his question. She was having a completely different conversation. “That’s who!” she said and slammed the knife down on the tabletop, making the small bits of mint bounce around.

  I went over and moved the knife away from her.

  “What are inside ears?” Riya asked, giving Maisie a confused look.

  “Okay. So now, what detective?” PopPop asked.

  “Liam Beverly.” I offered the answer to PopPop. There were three conversations going, all directed at me.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “He wanted info on Zeke Reynolds,” Riya added. “The guy at the SOOCFA meeting last night.” She drew in a long breath and shut her eyes. “And I don’t care what you say, Win, that detective is so good-looking.”

  “Zeke Reynolds,” PopPop muttered and shook his head. “The Devil himself. Wouldn’t mind if someone ran him over with a bus.”

  “Someone shot him dead instead,” my mother said.

  PopPop looked at my mother. “What you say, Ailbhe? He’s dead?”

  “Yep,” my mother said. “So you won’t be needing that bus.”

  “Who shot him?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” I said.

  “But Detective Beverly asked us to find out,” Maisie said. Again.

  And that was the way the rest of the morning went. Maisie insisting that we start up another sleuthing investigation. Riya wanting to know if I had Detective Beverly’s personal phone number and my mother taking her anger out on having to see him again on every item—food or otherwise—in the kitchen.

  * * *

  CREWSE CREAMERY WAS one of the few shops that sat in the block right before the town’s center where the falls cut through the town. Most of the other shops sat around the village triangle. I was curious, though, although I’d never mention it to Maisie, just how Detective Beverly got so much information about us so early in the morning.

  I had just reopened the ice cream shop after going through an extensive renovation when I’d met Liam Beverly, the village’s only homicide detective. I was unsure, though, how he’d gotten that job. We’d never had a murder, at least one that I could remember. And while I had warmed up to him,
I would really rather not have to run into him again so soon. Or at all.

  I sat in the window seat at the front of the store with Felice. My mother and Maisie were in the back. It was almost noon, we’d only opened at eleven and we’d already had fifteen or more customers. Business usually picked up after lunch, so I knew we’d be swamped. But there was a lull now, and I was taking a breather.

  Looking out the window of the shop at the cloudless sky, I could feel the warmth of the late August day. The weather had changed so much since I had spent most of my time outdoors growing up in our suburb. Now we were having ninety-degree weather in September and snowstorms in October. But if the world’s climate was taking a nosedive and murder was a common occurrence in Chagrin Falls, it was still the only place I wanted to be.

  I had left a good job in New York at one of the largest ad agencies—Hawken Spencer—because I missed home. I missed my family. Not because I couldn’t take it or wasn’t up to it. It was just time to come home.

  I had spent most of my childhood hanging on to my Grandma Kay’s apron strings. Running a family-owned business had made us a close-knit family and my Grandma Kay had been the glue. She was short and scrappy, willing to stand up to anyone and anything for what she loved or believed in, and she had a heart of gold. Anyone who knew her loved and respected her. And as a family we wanted to hold on to the traditions and beliefs she’d instilled in us. And one day, it had just happened. Sitting at my desk, basking in a big account I’d just landed, I realized that my achievements just didn’t seem the same without my family being a part of them. I knew then that even the lure of the big city, and using my overpriced MBA to secure a good lifestyle, wasn’t going to be able to keep me away from what I knew to be the foundation of who I was.

  In the last years of her life, Grandma Kay suffered from Alzheimer’s. She’d wander off and forget what the keys she’d picked up and held in her hand were for. But she never forgot us—my three older brothers, James Jr., Lew and Bobby, or me.

  I had gotten sick. Turned out to be something minor. But with three brothers in the medical field, and my dad a well-recognized orthopedic surgeon at the renowned Lakeside Memorial Clinic, to get well I knew there was no place like home.

  My Grandma Kay wasn’t around anymore, but I missed being around the things that mattered to her. The things that she taught me. And I was happy to run the ice cream shop she and my grandfather had started because it meant I was helping to keep her memory alive.

  I was going to make sure we never forgot about her either. She would live on through the ice cream business she helped start.

  I heard the bell ring over the door and whispered to Felice that I had to go. “We have a customer,” I told her.

  “Erreow.”

  I guess she knew that already.

  “Welcome to Crewse Creamery,” I said, standing up and placing the cat on the window seat.

  “Good morning.”

  “Oh, Amelia,” I said, surprised to see her. Her bookstore was just down the street, but I couldn’t remember her stopping by our family’s shop since we’d reopened. Now, after taking notice of her last night, I was seeing her again. “How are you?”

  She ran a hand through her ear-length dark blond hair. She had a small stack of colored paper in her hand—it looked to resemble the stack she had the night before. “I’m good,” she said. “How is business?”

  “Business is great,” I said, which prompted her to look around the store. I guess she noticed there was no one there but the cat and me. “Just taking a short breather before the afternoon rush,” I added.

  I went around the counter and washed my hands in the sink.

  “These look good,” she said. “And different.” She’d walked up to the display case and was perusing what was inside.

  I grabbed a paper towel and dried my hands. “Which one would you like to try?” I asked.

  “How about the tea and shortbread?” she said and smiled. “That seems appropriate for brunch, if it is ice cream I’m going to have.”

  I scooped her up a sample spoonful and handed it across the counter.

  She took it with a slight smile and I wondered was there another reason, other than trying to pick a flavor of ice cream good for a morning snack, that she was there.

  “Mm-mm, that’s good,” she said. “You can taste the butter in the shortbread and the savory brewed taste of tea.” She had a look of approbation on her face. “But it’s smooth and creamy”—her eyes widened—“and delicious! I like it.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I said, smiling proudly.

  “Can I get it to go?” she asked. “In a cup maybe?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You want a pint?”

  “No,” she said. “A cup is fine.”

  “Okay,” I said and went about scooping it up for her.

  “I was wondering, Win . . .” she said hesitantly.

  “Yes?” I put the top on her cup and handed it over the display case.

  “I have some flyers here.” She held up her hand. The one holding the stack of colored papers.

  “Flyers?”

  “For the sidewalk fire sale the shops are having.”

  “Oh?” I said. I hadn’t heard anything about any such event. I walked over to the cash register, alerting her that there was a charge for the ice cream. She followed.

  “Yeah. I was going to pass them out last night. But . . .” She sighed. “It just didn’t seem like the right time.”

  “Has there been a fire?” I was being sarcastic. I wasn’t sure what she was up to.

  “No.” She chuckled. She set the flyers down on the counter and dug into her purse for money. “How much do I owe you?”

  I told her, she paid me and then she continued with what I now assumed was the reason she came in. “Some of the stores are getting rid of some inventory and we are having a, I don’t know”—she swayed her head back and forth and shrugged—“a collective sales event.” She picked up one of the flyers and handed it to me. “I was wondering if I could hang this in your window?”

  I let my eyes run over the flyer. The bookstore, the art gallery, the souvenir shop and the Blue Moon clothing boutique were all listed as participants. I wondered why I hadn’t heard about it before now. It did seem like something that would have been mentioned at the SOOCFA meeting. Didn’t they want other shop owners to participate?

  “You’re cutting it close,” I said. “This is in three days.”

  “Yeah, just something we decided to put together last minute.” She pushed up her glasses. Perched on her nose, it was easy to see that they were bifocals.

  I glanced back down at the flyer I was still holding in my hand and wondered if that was true. They were going to have food, stay open past their regular business hours and hold a silent raffle. Very coordinated.

  I passed the flyer back to her. “Sure,” I said, smiling. “You can hang it in our window.” I was thinking maybe I’d get in on it without letting them know by offering coupons for future visits or reduced prices during the time they were having the sale. “You need some tape?”

  “No,” she said. “I brought my own.” She patted her purse.

  I handed her the receipt, told her to have a nice day and watched as she posted her flyer in my store window, but before she left I couldn’t help but comment on the goings-on of the previous night.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your friend,” I said.

  “My friend?” She turned and looked at me, a question on her face.

  “Last night. You know, Zeke Reynolds. I was sorry to hear about that.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Thanks. But he wasn’t really a friend. He’d been in Chagrin Falls maybe a week. I only talked to him maybe a few times.”

  “I saw you come in with him . . .”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

&nbs
p; “Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.” I offered a polite smile. “It’s just bad to hear news like that.”

  She nodded and finished taping up the advertisement. After she left, I walked over to the flyer. I couldn’t see the writing on it from the inside—she’d posted it so the writing faced the street—but I knew what it said.

  “Strange,” I said and looked over at Felice. “I thought the idea of a shop owners’ association was to share information like this.”

  “Brreeow.” Felice evidently agreed, but it wasn’t anything that kept her interest. She initiated her usual cleaning ritual after her nap—she licked her paw and swiped it across her face.

  “You don’t think it’s strange that only four shops are involved?” I asked the cat.

  “Brreow.” She swished her tail to the other side and held up her head. It was the pose she held when she wasn’t sleeping, which she did most of the time. The one that made most customers think she was a doll. She yawned, noting, I guess, she was done with that boring conversation.

  “Well, I think it’s weird,” I said. “And interesting.”

  chapter

  FOUR

  Ooooh! It’s freezing down here.” I knew the voice I heard behind me. “I’m so glad you have on a sweater.”

  It was Rivkah Solomon, Maisie’s grandmother, our upstairs tenant and owner of Felice the Cat. At seeing her, Felice glided off the window seat and scampered over to Rivkah.

  “There’s my baby,” Rivkah said. “Come to Mama. It’s a good thing you have fur,” she said, scratching behind Felice’s ear and kissing her on her wet nose. “Otherwise you’d be one of the frozen treats Win sells down here.”

  Rivkah was the only grandmother-like person I still had after mine died. I, like Maisie, called her Savta, the Yiddish word for grandmother.

  She was also the owner of the Village Dragon Chinese Restaurant, the only one of its kind in Chagrin Falls.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, looking up at the clock on the wall. “You’re not at the restaurant?”