Nacho Usual Murder: Hawg Heaven Cozy Mysteries, Book 3 Read online

  Hearing her son’s voice made her puzzled.

  “I must have been seeing things… or maybe it was a dog or something,” she murmured.

  “I’ll be down in a bit,” she called out, not wanting to disturb Ryan with what she thought that she had seen.

  “I know, you said that,” she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

  Frowning slightly, Rossalyn moved back into the bathroom and glanced out the window again. Straining her eyes to distinguish movement in a sea of darkness, she couldn’t quite be sure if she’d seen anything at all. Concluding that the bushes had probably been merely stirring in the wind, she turned from the window, hung her robe on the hook behind the door, and eased into the soothing lavender-scented water. She’d sleep well tonight, despite her paranoid imaginings.

  CHAPTER THREE

  * * *

  When Rossalyn arrived at Hawg Heaven, long before the sunrise, she made certain to check carefully before getting out of the car. While she wasn’t afraid of the strange man who had come in before and after hours, she didn’t want the awkwardness of having to refuse his advances again. Much to her relief, there was no one around, and when she got into the building, she made sure that all outside doors were locked behind her.

  “Morning José, morning Garrett,” she called out, feeling lighter and more cheerful than she had all morning. Apparently the stranger had taken the hint last night. “What are you creating today?”

  “Eggs Benedict with bacon jam for breakfast, and the special today is grilled knockwurst sausages with caramelized onions and homemade blackberry barbeque sauce on a buttery grilled bun,” José announced proudly, spinning his spatula.

  “I think I need to open another business,” Rossalyn shook her head in amusement.

  “What?” José’s mouth fell open in surprise, his ever-present smile fading. “Why?”

  “Because if you keep creating these amazing dishes, this town is going to need a gym,” she teased.

  José nearly wilted with relief. “My mother says that a full stomach is a happy stomach.”

  “She’s a wise woman,” Rossie laughed.

  ***

  In the middle of the breakfast rush, Rossie’s phone emitted a text notification tone, and when she looked at it, she saw that there was a message from Ryan, who never texted during the day.

  I left my report at home, and it’s due today. Can you bring it to me by 10, pls? Ms. Simpson doesn’t accept late work, and I’m freaking out!! Please?

  Rossalyn smiled ruefully. It must be driving her uber-responsible son positively crazy that he’d forgotten his report. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was a quarter ’til ten. If she left right this minute, she should be able to make it. After letting José and Garrett know that she had to leave, she hurried to the SUV and headed for home. Rossie bit her lip in frustration when, about two blocks down Main Street, she was stopped by a train. It was moving slowly, and was long enough that she couldn’t drive a few blocks over to get around it. She put the car into park and tapped her foot impatiently.

  I’m on my way to the house. Got stopped by a train, sorry, she texted.

  Ugh! Seriously? Hurry Mom, please?

  “I’m working on it, Rye,” she muttered, shaking her head at the never-ending line of train cars passing at a snail’s pace in front of her.

  When at last the train moved, and the safety gates rose, she sped the rest of the way to her cozy cottage, arriving at four minutes before ten. She dashed into the kitchen, snatched the report off of the breakfast bar, and charged back to the car. She sped until she reached the school zone speed limit a few blocks from the school, and crept the rest of the way there. Locals knew that police were notorious for stopping speeders in the area, a practice of which Rossalyn normally approved. She parked and practically leaped from the car, reaching the front doors and pushing the buzzer to be admitted. It took a while for the front desk staff to buzz her in, and by the time she reached the office, it was two minutes after ten.

  “Hi!” she greeted the battle-axe at the front desk cheerfully, despite the fact that she was out of breath and a bit panicked. “My son, Ryan Channing, left his report at home, so I need to get this to him,” she waved the carefully stapled paper.

  “You can just give it to me and I’ll send a note to his teacher,” the iron-haired matron said, holding out her hand without a trace of a smile.

  “Oh… umm, no. Actually, he said that he needed to have it before ten o’clock, and since it’s now just after ten, I think that I should get it to him as soon as possible,” Rossalyn pleasantly insisted.

  “If it was supposed to be in by ten, what difference does it make when he gets it? It’s already late,” the secretary raised a disapproving eyebrow.

  Rossie wondered how such a dour person had been selected to work around children, and took a deep breath.

  “Surely two minutes isn’t going to be an issue, I’ll just discuss it with the teacher,” she promised confidently, feeling time ticking away while she argued.

  “We can’t have you interrupting a class,” the woman’s glasses slid to the tip of her nose and she peered at Rossie over the top of them.

  “I won’t interrupt, I promise. If you can just let me know where Ryan is, I’ll take care of everything.”

  Staring at her for a moment, saying nothing, the secretary finally looked on her computer and pressed an intercom button. “Ms. Simpson, will you send Ryan Channing to the office please?” she demanded briskly.

  “Great,” Rossalyn smiled tightly. “When he gets here, he can take me to the classroom with him, so that I can explain. I got stuck behind a train,” she tacked on, feeling like a bug under a microscope.

  “That won’t be necessary. Parental intervention isn’t appropriate when a child brings in late work,” the woman said dismissively.

  “I’m sorry, but I make the decision as to what’s appropriate when it comes to my child and his education,” Rossie bristled, having had enough.

  Before the sourpuss could respond, Ryan came charging into the office.

  “Surely you weren’t running in the halls,” the secretary gave him a death glare.

  “No ma’am,” he replied, then looked at his mother, who handed him his paper. “It’s after ten,” he whispered, clearly stressed.

  “I’m sorry, Rye, I got caught behind a train. I’ll walk to your class with you and talk to the teacher.”

  The secretary started to protest, but Ryan beat her to it.

  “Oh, no way, Mom. I’ve got this,” he shook his head vehemently.

  “But I can just…” she began.

  “No!” Ryan exclaimed in a loud whisper. “It’d be social suicide if you walk in with me, Mom. C’mon. I’d never live it down,” his cheeks reddened.

  “Oh,” Rossalyn’s heart sunk a bit as she recognized the truth in his words, and could tell that it had pained him to say it. “Okay, sure. Let me know how it goes,” she said softly, feeling inexplicably wounded.

  “I will. Thanks, Mom,” Ryan gave her a quick hug and hurried out of the office.

  “Have a good day,” she dimly heard the snippy secretary behind her say.

  “You, too,” was Rossalyn’s toneless reply to the dour woman’s dismissal.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  “What do you mean she wouldn’t accept the paper?” Rossalyn was astonished.

  “I told you, she doesn’t accept late papers, even if it’s only five minutes late,” Ryan sighed. “It’s okay Mom, as long as I do the extra credit and get an A on it, I’ll probably still be able to have a B in the class,” he said glumly.

  “That’s unacceptable. You’ve worked hard to maintain an A in the class this entire semester. Your teacher is being unreasonable about this, and I’m going to have a talk with her,” Rossie’s lips were clamped into a thin line as she worked to control her fury.

  “Do you have to?”

  “Yes, I absolutely have to.”

  �
�Okay… but it won’t do any good.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?” Rossalyn demanded.

  “Because Ms. Simpson has been weird lately. She’s always staring off into space and seems to be in a bad mood. It’s like… she used to enjoy being a teacher, and now she doesn’t anymore,” he shrugged.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but that’s no excuse for being so hardline with her policies. I’m sure she’ll see things differently after we sit down together in a non-confrontational way to discuss this.”

  “So you’re not going to yell at her?”

  “I don’t even yell at you, what on earth makes you think I’d yell at a teacher?” Rossalyn gave her son a puzzled smile.

  “She never used to yell either, but she does now. Can I go watch TV?” he asked, avoiding her eyes.

  “Sure, go ahead,” she murmured, concerned.

  She didn’t have to ask if his homework was done. He always made sure that his tasks were completed before “chilling out,” as he liked to put it. Rossie heard the TV switch on, and headed for her room to make an appointment with Ms. Simpson. While she was on the phone, she heard the doorbell ring. Ryan answered it, and she heard a young man’s voice briefly, then the door closed again. Thinking that Garrett or José might have stopped by, she hurried down the stairs after making the appointment for two o’clock the next day.

  Surprised to see that no one was in her living room with Ryan, she asked who had come to the door.

  “Some guy from a flower shop. There are flowers for you in the kitchen,” her unusually subdued son replied, absorbed in his show.

  Rossalyn stood blinking for a moment, then realized that her mother must’ve sent something. It’d be nice to have a bright, pretty bouquet in the house while they dealt with a bleak winter. Plucking a small parchment-colored envelope from amongst a riot of colorful blooms, she inhaled deeply and took the card from the envelope. Her heart pounded with trepidation as she read the enclosed message.

  Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.

  Flowers are sweet, sugar is too,

  But I don’t want them…

  I’m watching you.

  Suddenly chilled to the bone, Rossalyn wondered what she should do. Clearly the arrangement wasn’t from her mother. Stuffing the card and envelope into the pocket of her jeans, she went back upstairs for privacy, determined to figure where the flowers had come from.

  I’m watching you.

  What did that even mean? The rest of the message sounded like it was meant to be charming, but the last line put a rather sinister tint on things.

  She dialed the number to the florist and asked to speak with a manager. Explaining her situation, she asked if they could help her identify the sender. After several minutes on hold, with Rossie pacing around and around her room, the manager came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. The person paid in cash, so we can’t track them that way. I spoke with the cashier who wrote up the order, and she said that it was placed by a man who looked homeless. The signature at the bottom of the order is just an unreadable scrawl, so that’s not much help either, I’m afraid,” the kindly man finished.

  “How could a homeless man afford flowers? I don’t even know any homeless men…” Rossalyn thought aloud.

  “If we come up with any more information, we’ll give you a call. Is there a number where we can reach you?” he asked, trying to be helpful.

  Rossie gave him the number and hung up in a daze. She was standing in her room, staring at the floor, and trying to sort through her circumstances when the doorbell rang. Heart in her throat, she heard Ryan say that he’d get it.

  “No!” she shouted, racing down the stairs past her son gaping as if she’d gone mad. “I’ve got it,” she smoothed her hair and tried to appear calm and in control.

  Her hand on the knob, she peered through the peephole and was relieved to see the hulking figure of her neighbor, Tom Hundman, on the other side of the door. Tom was a great big bear of a man, with dark shaggy hair and piercing blue eyes. He was a biker and a veteran; despite his gruff demeanor, he’d helped her out of some sticky situations. She still didn’t know whether to fear him or trust him, but the more she saw him, the more she leaned toward the latter. Had Tom sent her flowers? She’d never gotten an interested vibe from him. He was helpful, but in a neighborly sort of way. It would make sense if he said he was watching her, because his house was directly behind hers, across an alley. Maybe he just wasn’t good at expressing himself and had only wanted to brighten her day. Feeling a huge measure of relief, she opened the door. The expression on Tom’s face was less than encouraging. He was a moody bear much of the time, and today didn’t appear to be any different.

  “Hi Tom, what are…” she began, but he cut her off.

  “I need to talk to you,” he insisted, his eyes darting about.

  “Oh,” she was nonplussed. “Well… okay, come on in. I can make coffee, and…”

  “No. It’s a private conversation,” he said in a low voice, glancing over at Ryan who waved at him. Tom raised a hand in greeting, his eyes locked on Rossalyn’s.

  Icy fingers of fear clenched her heart.

  “Well, it’s kind of cold outside,” she protested softly, trying to assess the situation and buy herself some time to react properly. Was he trying to lure her off somewhere? What were his intentions?

  “Then bundle up and meet me at my house,” he ordered, his booted feet clomping down the steps of her porch before she had the chance to demur. “I’ll have the coffee on,” he called out, his tone seeming dark.

  Rossalyn was in a quandary. Tom Hundman had never given her cause to mistrust him before. On the contrary, he’d oddly been one of the most dependable people she’d met since moving to Chatsworth, partially because he was sort of an outcast, as was she. Surely he meant her no harm… but why the cloak and dagger secrecy? And what about the flowers? Sighing, she knew she’d have to go over there in order to get any answers, but she’d darn sure let Ryan know where she was going.

  Rossie left instructions with her son, who refrained from rolling his eyes, that since it was after dark, he wasn’t to open the door, and that she was going to Tom’s house. After promising that he’d text her if he needed anything, Ryan returned to his TV show, and his mother headed to Tom’s. Her teeth chattered on the way over, but she couldn’t decide whether it was from an Illinois winter, or her trepidation about going. She still hadn’t acclimated to the northern chill.

  Rossalyn and Ryan had been living on a military base in North Carolina when they’d heard the news that Will had been killed. Everything was different in Illinois: the pace, the accent, and especially the weather, but they were trying their best to assimilate. The thought had crossed her mind more than once that they’d have had none of these growing pains if her amazing husband were still alive, but she had to push such thoughts away to avoid turning into a puddle of tears who couldn’t think, function, or provide for her son. Will’s motto had always been “Be Brave, Be True, Get It Done;” his widow and son tried their best every day to do exactly that. No matter how weary Rossie might get, she would be brave and true, and get it done, for Ryan and to honor Will.

  Two seconds after she knocked on Tom Hundman’s back door, he opened it and stood aside to let her pass. His home was furnished exactly the way his mother had left it when she passed, right on down to the plastic pathways on the floor and the lace doilies on the arms of the chairs. The kitchen hadn’t been updated since the seventies, but was spotlessly clean, and the chair that Tom indicated she should sit in was vintage avocado-colored Naugahyde, in pristine condition. She sat gingerly, not wanting to mar the mid-century modern treasure. The burly biker set a mug of coffee down in front of her and sat down in the chair opposite hers.

  “You got trouble, I think,” he announced, cutting right to the chase.

  Fear tickled the base of Rossalyn’s spine.

  “What do you mean?” she frowned, wrapping h
er hands around the mug of coffee. She still wore her coat, and the temperature in the room was normal, but she still shivered.

  “Went out to put some meat in my smoker last night. Saw somebody creepin’ around in the bushes, right out there,” he pointed out the window, exactly at the spot where she thought that she’d seen someone.

  “So I wasn’t seeing things,” she murmured.

  At Tom’s questioning look, she explained about what had happened at bath time.

  “Did you happen to see what the person looked like?” Rossie asked hopefully.

  “Nope. Soon as I stepped off my back porch, they took off. My bike was in the garage, so I rode around the neighborhood for a bit, looking, but they were long gone,” the biker grimaced.

  “I wonder if that’s who sent the flowers,” Rossie commented, then told Tom about the delivery, leaving out the part that she had suspected that he had been the sender.

  “Sounds like you need to watch yourself,” he warned.

  “Yes, it does seem that way,” she sighed. “Maybe I should call the police.”

  “Sheriff Willis? That’s a complete waste of time. That useless old boy is all about politics, not about helping folks,” he snorted in disgust.

  “No kidding. I figured that out early on. Whenever there’s a major crime in this backwater town, he looks at you first and me second as suspects,” Rossalyn remarked, with more than a tinge of bitterness.

  She’d had more than one unpleasant encounter with Sheriff Buckley Willis, who mistrusted outsiders, and cozied up to the wealthy and often less-than-ethical members of the good-ole-boy set who seemed to run Chatworth. Willis had one nephew on the run for murder, and another who had committed acts of vandalism at Hawg Heaven when Rossie had told him there were no openings.

  “Morgan Tyler would probably be your best bet,” Tom observed, sounding as though it pained him to say it. “He seems less corrupt than the rest. A boy scout who never quite grew up.”