Flipped For Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

head. “I had such a good first day, too. Now folks might not want to eat breakfast cooked by a killer. Well, I didn’t murder anybody. And they’re going to figure that out sooner or later.” I stretched my arms to the ceiling, and then let them collapse at my sides. I was out of fuel, as drained as a gas tank running on fumes. I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them when I heard Jim’s chair scrape the floor.
    â€œI’ll let you get your beauty sleep,” he said as he stood.
    â€œHa,” I said, also rising. “All six hours of it.” I walked him to the door. The electricity of the moment in the car had vanished with the pronouncement of murder, and I wondered if it would ever come back.
    With his hand on the door handle, he looked at me with a somber face. “Thanks for coming out with me.”
    â€œI should thank you. I enjoyed getting to know you beyond the world of real estate law, and the dancing . . . well, that was great.”
    A smile spread across his face. “It was, wasn’t it?”
    On an impulse, I stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Let’s do it again sometime.” I stepped back before things got carried away.
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    Despite how tired I was, I took the time to clean out the coffeepot, set up the regular coffee and the decaf for the morning, and make sure all was clean and ready for what I hoped would be another breakfast rush. My brain was rushing along like the Wabash Cannonball and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep yet. Instead, I pulled out butter, milk, cheese, and eggs. I could prep the biscuit dough now to save time in the predawn hours. It would hold fine in the walk-in overnight.
    After I scrubbed my hands and put on an apron, I measured out the flour, half whole wheat and half unbleached white, into the big stainless bowl, mixing in baking powder and salt. The image of Stella Rogers with my biscuit in her mouth rose up as if I was looking at her in full color on the big screen at the Starlite Drive-In in Bloomington. Who would have done a thing like that? Was somebody really trying to frame me? I didn’t hate anybody. Well, besides Will, my ex. But you’d have to hate someone to kill them. Wouldn’t you? Or to even frame them for murder.
    I cut the butter into small cubes and used my big vintage pastry cutter to slice it into the flour, pressing the U-shaped wires down again and again until the flour was the texture of coarse meal. What other reasons would drive a man or a woman to take a life? Rage at losing something valuable, like a spouse or a treasure, I supposed, or at feeling unfairly treated. Fear of being exposed could be another motivation, exposed for having committed a crime or done something shameful.
    Making a little well in the flour, I cracked in the eggs and stirred them up with a fork, then added the milk and the grated cheddar from the industrial-sized bag. Buying already grated cheese might have been cheating, but it saved so much time I’d decided to give it a try. I stirred the dough until it just came together. Who in this small town felt that kind of rage at Stella, or that type of fear?
    I floured the big marble pastry slab I’d installed at hip height—which for me was only thirty inches off the floor—and turned out the dough. I kneaded it only enough to bring it all together, then slid it into a clean plastic bag, sealed it, and set it in the walk-in along with the other perishables. After I cleaned up, still wearing my apron I sank into the chair next to the bourbon. One more little splash wouldn’t hurt, and it might help me sleep.
    My gaze wandered to the framed picture on the front wall. My mom and me, each with an arm slung over the shoulder of the other, laughed into the camera. I lifted the mug toward the image.
    â€œHey, Mommy. How’d I do?” Adele had taken that picture the last time she’d been out to visit before I moved to