Free Flipped For Murder by Maddie Day Page A

on his way to the door.
    Somebody was nervous about Stella.

Chapter 9
    Rolling slowly up Van Buren Street, I tried to avoid tourists wandering diagonally across the main drag without looking. Tourists had much to be distracted by: dozens of shops featuring quirky lawn ornaments out front, advertising fudge and salt water taffy, or offering hand crafts from purses to pillows to picnic baskets. I passed the Hobnob Corner Restaurant, which I knew served decent food all day long. The building had formerly housed a general store, and then a pharmacy. I glanced at the delightful Melchior Marionette Theatre, a brightly painted space open to the sidewalk. It advertised free popcorn and delightful entertainment. I’d wandered in one time and read a sign painted on an old board: AN ACT TO PREVENT CERTAIN IMMORAL PRACTICES . It referenced a law enacted by the second session of the state general assembly in 1817. Section 7 prohibited staging puppet shows for money, with every person so offending to be fined three dollars for each offense.
    After I reached the Nashville Inn, I parked my bike and knocked on the service door around the back. The big kitchen exhaust fan thrummed as loudly as usual, so I finally just pulled the screen door open and entered my former workplace. While I loved my new gig, I kind of missed the inn.
    â€œChristina?” I called. I turned from the hall into the kitchen. “Anybody home?” Christina had been my assistant, and she snagged the job of chef when I left.
    Nobody occupied the big industrial kitchen, but lunch prep was clearly under way. Stock simmered on the stove, and squash and carrots in the process of being chopped lay on the wide stainless-steel worktable.
    Christina emerged from the front, a big smile erupting when she saw me. “Robert! You’re back.” She always played with my name.
    â€œI was in town, thought I’d stop by.” We exchanged a hug, and I watched as she washed her hands. “How’s being head honcho treating you?”
    She rolled her eyes and resumed chopping carrots. “You know. It’s crazy. But I love it. How about you? You’re both head honcho and owner now. Is it good? I hear you opened on the weekend.” A straight blond ponytail hung down her back from a white baseball cap with the inn’s logo on the front. Her slender hands were like machines with the knife, the carrots rapidly transformed into tiny cubes. “Sorry I couldn’t make it over. Things were nuts here with the foliage fanatics.”
    â€œNo worries. If you ever get a Monday off, come by and we can hang out.” I plopped onto a metal stool.
    â€œI’ll do that.”
    â€œThe opening weekend was pretty good. Nothing burned up, and it was solid customers the whole time. Which reminds me . . . I have to get to the bank sometime today.”
    â€œMoney to put in the bank’s always a good thing. But what about this murder over in South Lick?”
    I grimaced. “Stella Rogers. She came into my place for breakfast. The bad thing is, she was found with one of my special biscuits stuffed in her mouth. So the police think I might have done it.”
    â€œYou kidding me? One of your signature cheesy biscuits?” She paused and looked up. “But you wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
    â€œOf course not.” I tapped my finger on the counter. “I have a question for you. Do you ever hear anything about Ed Kowalski’s restaurant?”
    â€œOther than that it’s a plain-wrap, low-quality breakfast-and-lunch joint? Not really. Although people seem to love it. I’m only glad we don’t do breakfast, other than the continental spread we put out for paying guests. Why do you ask?”
    â€œI hired a local teenager yesterday to help out. She was working for Ed, but she didn’t seem too happy about him. When I asked Ed how she was as a worker, he put on a big old frown and said she was