Murder on the Oxtail Express: Snips and Snails Cafe, #2

By Elizabeth Rain

It's Juli's job to make sure the Soup of the Day delivers...a daily dose of magic that is. But when a mysterious burnt offering shows up at the local retirement home, she's positive it has nothing to do with cannelloni beans and ham hocks.

 

As the new owner of Snips and Snails Cafe, and Veil Falls only Soup Witch in training, she starts every day just hoping her latest creation doesn't turn all her customers into newts and frogs.

 

Moonlighting as Veil Falls only Amateur Sleuth helps pay the bills and keeps her in coffee beans.

 

When Mr. Fried and extra crispy shows up in a resident's bed at the scene of a local fire, and they flag her good friend Jacob for the crime, Juli decides to take the case.
...and then they realize the dead man, is the wrong guy.

 

The real resident is missing...and the identity of the victim is a mystery...And someone is willing to do anything to make sure she doesn't solve it...

 

Get Murder on the Oxtail Express and help Juli sift through the ashes to catch a killer...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Rain
• Release date: Jan 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223823636

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

How deep did he bury the bones, Erin? How cold is the grave?

Art Harding shuddered and stared at the past, hanging in pieces from the back wall.

Fifteen years disappeared in a flash of poor decisions and bad luck. The photographs were old, the edges beginning to curl. Distant memories—dusty with time, but sharp with meaning—slammed into him.

He remembered the bike...and the girl. In the picture, Erin smiled knowingly at them as she posed on the back of her brand-new Harley. It was high summer...and mere weeks before she turned 20. Long coltish legs draped the back of the seat, ending in a pair of strappy heels that had served their purpose. He hadn’t been the only man admiring all that tanned skin in those Daisy Dukes.

Art’s eyes panned to another. And just there; Erin by the pool table. She stood, a pool stick in hand, as she sunk the winning ball on a game of eight. She’d been a decent shot. Most of the boys had been better, and still she almost never lost. Art’s throat grew tight, skimming over a scene at the beach. The sunset was a blaze of orange in the background; her smile wide and easy as she hammed it up for the camera. Another picture of Erin with her brother, Jacob, drew his eye. They stood, arm in arm, in front of the Mission Lighthouse in early fall.

His eyes stopped on the photograph that took up center prominence near the middle. Taken at the county fair that year; it was one of the last times he could remember them all being together before Erin disappeared. The same night he’d come to break it off for good with her and discovered the spot of blood on her carpet. Jacob had found him crouched near that bit of evidence and jumped to his own conclusions. It had led to the fight. And him leaving town for good.

He grimaced as a sudden shard of pain lanced through his abdomen. They came more frequently of late. He was running out of time.

He heard the movement behind him, the slide of old boots on dirt. Maybe it was already up.

But Art remained facing the wall of memories. He didn’t need to see the face behind him to imagine the regret and disappointment there. A bloody shrine is what this is. I don’t get it, he observed with bitter betrayal.

I’m sorry you had to see that Art. More than you could know.

Art Harding sighed and turned, staring at the past and present as they collided in a tragic truth. I had it wrong. All these years and I didn’t have a clue what you were really about, did I?

It was supposed to stay that way. Only you had to come snooping, couldn’t leave well enough alone,

Art laughed; the sound hoarse in the dusty air. Story of my life, he agreed. You killed her. As he said it, he knew it was true. All this time and I never suspected. Why? I deserve to know that much at least.

His old friend nodded, and Art noticed the knife for the first time, the thin steel catching a shard of moonlight and bouncing over his face. He’d always admired the intricate designs carved into the hilt on that fancy blade. Art didn’t back away as the other man approached. He was tired of fighting old wars and new battles. And there was no run left in him.

"Because she loved me. And I loved her. It was an accident, what happened. She was just toying with you, like she did all the rest. She belonged to me."

The truth hit him then—when it was too late. Had the ‘crazy’ always been there, hidden where none of them could see it?

Erin loved Erin. She was young and spoiled—and fun. Irresistible to a bunch of hormone ridden biker wannabes like us. She craved the attention and adventure of life on the edge...the danger that she might get caught. But she didn’t love you any more than she loved the rest of us.

"Lies! She was just spending the last coins of her youth...she knew where she belonged..."

Art shook his head. "old fool...she got to you too, didn’t she?"

Stop it! She was sweet and wonderful, saw the light in everything... He moved in close, eyes wild and bloodshot with desperation.

Art whispered, She was just a kid...and we all should have known better.

"We had plans..." came the desperate whisper.

The brief pain made him gasp, as the knife slid in deep. His vision greyed at the edges and he stared one last time into old eyes, steep with regret. Art uttered his last words with a familiar trace of humor. Yeah. And how did all that work out for you? he breathed, sliding sideways as the numbness spread.

The man stared down at the fading light in his old friend’s eyes, hands shaking in earnest. Not worth a damn, and that’s the truth, he answered.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S missing?

I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it in consternation. Jack wasn’t making any sense and the background noise in the cab of his truck, wherever he was, made it difficult for me to hear a thing.

I tried again. I thought you just said there was a body burned up in the fire. Sounds like he’s there to me, I began. My fingers paused over the keyboard of my computer. Bills—it seemed like they never ended. I sat back in my chair and gripped the phone harder.

Jack’s raspy voice eased down the line, impatient and masculine, and I gave a delightful shiver, immediately feeling guilty. He was upset, and I just wanted to hear that sexy voice whispering in my ear.

Pay attention Juli. There is a body in the bed. It’s the wrong one.

I should have resisted. There’s a right body?

Something gruff spilled from the phone and I tried not to snicker. Crazy man had just growled at me.

Would you stop fooling around and be serious for a moment? The body in the bed doesn’t belong to the resident. At least, they don’t think it does. The victim had some biker gang tat. The coroner says, based on the cigarette butts he found by the bed and the stained fingers and teeth, he thinks the victim was a smoker. It may have been what started the fire, even. But Dolores says the resident had no tats and didn’t smoke.

I had a knack for picking out what was important. Who’s Dolores? I asked.

A sigh. Dolores Bryant is the Director of The River’s Retirement Home. She knows who was supposed to be in that bed. This guy isn’t it.

So what you’re saying is that the resident that’s supposed to be in that bed is the wrong one? That a new resident just came in, climbed into his bed, lit a cigarette and what, fell asleep and started a fire? Gotta tell you slim, that sounds pretty far-fetched to me.

I moved the mouse, opened another window, and stared at the gas bill with a frown. Winters were brutal on the heating bill. I cradled the phone under my chin. I was going to have a crick in my neck for sure.

Yeah, I didn’t say it made any sense, but that’s about right, Jack grumbled. Listen, I’m on my way to another call. Some fool started his kitchen on fire, using the stove for heat. I’ll tell you more later after I’m done.

I nodded and then remembered he couldn’t see me. Sure, we can do that. But I was already talking to air. He’d hung up.

My finger hovered over the pay button. I scowled and pushed enter to confirm, then shut the computer down in my little hole in the wall office in the back of the restaurant. At least now I had the money to pay the thing. There had been a time not so long ago when I’d been on the verge of bankruptcy. I got up and snatched my sweater from the back of the chair on my way out to check on things in the rest of the restaurant.

I wandered into the kitchen—my kitchen. Six months ago, I’d been busting my butt for someone else in a little town in lower Michigan, in a pizza parlor flipping pizzas. I grabbed a cup of fresh coffee; my fingers bare and ring free. I’d been married to a skunk of a man then, too, who liked my bank account more than he liked me. Course, he’d had no such illusions for his young bimbo. I grinned to myself. She’d left his sorry butt too, and I had no sympathy.

I sipped my coffee and looked around in satisfaction. We weren’t a large establishment. The little sign over the door from the health department read capacity 50. We were nearly always packed, the locals frequenting the place for the deceptively simple fare, and the Daily Soup, of course. We were famous for that. I gave most of the credit for our success to the odd collection of people I’d hired that helped me run the place. Most days their crazy shenanigans kept me flirting just this side of sane.

And I loved every wild moment.

Losing a dead-end job I hated and surviving a nasty divorce could have destroyed me if I’d let it. Instead, I’d turned it into a new beginning. I’d stopped feeding the wimp; that was me. I’d pulled myself up by the Velcro tabs on my shoes and got busy.

I’d moved north, discovered my roots, and inherited Snips and Snails from my Uncle Jedediah Mason. The letter that had gotten me there had been written by a book and a cat, no less. It had taken a monumental leap of faith to drive fourteen hours north to check out an inheritance from relatives I hadn’t known I had, in a town I had never heard of.

Discovering that the majority of my newfound family shared some form of paranormal ability had almost sent me over the edge.

Grans had been part of the welcoming committee. When your own grandmother tells you you’re a real live witch with powers that have lain dormant for the first forty years of your mostly wasted life; a person could be forgiven for thinking granny has more than a couple screws loose.

But the proof was in the soup. Or rather, more accurately, the book of recipes that made it up. I, Julienne Mason, was a Soup Witch. Who knew that Witches specialized?

Bertie, my cook, looked up at me and sent me a preoccupied smile as her fingers flew over the arrangement of entrees in front of her, all of them plated with something different and divine from her own ever-changing menu.

Hey Juli, could you grab that stack of bowls and take them out front when you go? That soup of yours is a real hit and we’re running low.

No problem. What is that by the way? She was plating a perfectly seared sirloin on a sauce that was sure to do wicked things to my hips if I ate much of it.

Steak Au Poivre, a French dish I’m trying out. It’s delicious. I probably deserve a raise.

Do you? If your boss wasn’t such a witch, she might give you one, I shot her a grin.

There’d been a time when I struggled to boil water. Now, with the help of a few new spells I’d learned, that was changing. As a Soup Witch, I alone could read the book, the Grimoire of powerful spelled Soup Recipes. Only another Soup Witch could read them. Even Grans, as a powerful Kitchen Witch, couldn’t make them out. Which was why I’d needed help from Gran’s sister Tiny.

An apparition wavered in and out of focus in my peripheral vision. I turned to stare at my Great-Aunt as she floated in and out of view, weaving mere inches above the break table and crocheting a red beverage cozy. A little ball of yarn had rolled across the floor, trailing a length of bright string attached to her flying crochet hook. Of course, it was all just as ghostly as she was. As specters went, Tiny was, well, not little. In actual life, she had probably been all of three hundred pounds. In death, she was proof that you really could take it with you. At least she gave that appearance to anyone who could see her. Most couldn’t. Only another high level Magical could make out her ethereal greatness.

In life, Aunt Tiny had been a powerful Soup Witch in her own right. She’d taken to the task of showing me the ropes like fleas on a dog. Hounding me until she was satisfied I wouldn’t poison half the town. The Grimoire was no joke. And it was stingy with its knowledge too, doling out recipes a few at a time that I could read as my skill developed. So far, I was up to thirty-eight.

In the main dining room, Brownie was busy at the bar, hands deftly working on several drinks at once. He laughed as he talked to customers that bellied up to get a better view of the flat screen playing their favorite Monday Night Football game and to watch Brownie’s entertaining skill. He caught my eye and never paused, sending me a wink. I grinned back. Brownie was one of many cousins. In his case, I was keeping the business in the family.

Over the hearth in the fireplace, in a large black cauldron, my daily soup bubbled. I sat the bowls down and took up the ladle and gave it a stir. The smell of simmering winter vegetables and prime cuts of beef in a rich gravy teased my nose. The level in the pot was already going down. My Winter Veggie-precious Cabbage Stew was a hit. I recalled the indications at the bottom of the recipe: Replay up to five long-forgotten precious memories in vivid color from times past. Remember what’s important. Lasts for one month. The dreamy smiles on several of my repeat guests told me it was working.

With one last turn of the heavy spoon, I hung it back up and weaved my way between several tables, stopping to chat pleasantly with several customers. At the bar, I waited until I had Brownie’s attention.

How are we doing? Behind the bar, it was somewhat of a disaster and his fingers were flying as he washed glasses and worked to restore things to rights after the most recent rush.

Going great. The busiest Monday in a while. I think it’s the new hours.

That’s good to know. I worried about closing so early. I wasn’t sure how customers would respond to the change. We’d changed our hours at the beginning of January to keep pace with the earlier sunrise and sunset. So now we were opening at 10:00 a.m., but closing by 6:00, just shortly past dusk. Business was dwindling down to crickets anyhow. We’ll change back again in the spring when it stays light longer.

Brownie took a bill from a customer and cashed him out. Are you getting ready to head out? Bertie and I can close things up. You look beat. You’ve been here longer today than any of us.

I stifled a yawn, my jaw cracking. Sounds good. Jack came by earlier and put chains on the tires of the truck. I haven’t tried them out yet, and it’s been snowing pretty steady since noon, I admitted.

Brownie nodded towards the flat screen behind his head. Yup, they estimate around eleven inches before it’s through. Chains or no, you have a piece to go, and the snowplows have been running all day to keep up. No telling what the roads are like out your way. You better get going.

I saluted him smartly with a grin. On it, captain.

He rolled his eyes and grabbed a rag to wipe the counter. Idiot, he murmured fondly. I turned away to grab my coat and exchange the fuzzy piggy slippers my cousin Charme had gotten me at Christmas for my winter-thick, London Fogs.

Outside, I shivered, looking up at the steady glow of the streetlight. Fat flakes drifted past my nose as snow continued to fall, blanketing everything in white. The winter storm had a way of coating everything in silence and I marveled for just a moment, tongue out to catch a crystal on the tip—just one.

I got into the truck and smiled when it turned over immediately. Hitting the lights, I pulled onto the road, taking a left at the end of the street and drove along Mason Drive, past Spells Bay on my right. The Mission Lighthouse was a distant glimmer at the end of the pier, standing as dark sentinel over the steep waves that crashed along the shore. It was still early in the year and the water was icy and dark, but not yet frozen. That would come later, in the deepest part of winter, when the cold sank in to stay. I’d be tucked in warm and snug when that happened, in my apartment over my garage office at Grans.

I remembered that I had a date with my favorite mountain man in the morning and couldn’t prevent a spreading grin. Life was good.

"THEY CAN’T FIND AUNT Dixie. The Rivers was in an uproar the other day, residents being evacuated and re-homed elsewhere until the smoke clears, so to speak. Everything was mass confusion. And then, what with the body being the wrong body..." Jack’s voice dwindled as he nodded at the young Barista, making her rounds with the coffeepot and refilling ours.

We sat at Java’s and I was trying out her latest creation, a Buttermilk Cranberry Orange scone with citrus icing. It was delectable, and I sighed. I wasn’t getting a second. I wasn’t.

You know that sounds wrong in way too many ways, right? I murmured. And how can you lose another resident? Wasn’t the first one enough? Are we sure Dolores is qualified to handle her job as Director?

Jack scowled and winced as he took a sip of the too-hot coffee. It’s not Dolores that’s the problem. She moved my Aunt to stay with my other Aunt Dottie for a few days. Dixie is actually in great health and could live on her own if she was inclined. But she likes it at The Rivers. The view of the bay, and all the extra-curricular activities that the young activity director Sarah comes up with, keeps them busy and happy. She tells me it’s more like living at a resort than a retirement home. Anyhow, she was at Aunt Dottie’s until two nights ago, when she up and disappeared overnight. Poof, just gone. No one knows where she went. Wherever she disappeared to, she took time to pack half her belongings and take them with. I mean, it’s a mystery. Where does an 82-year-old woman up and disappear to in the middle of the night without help or transportation?

I broke my scone apart and dipped it in my coffee, letting the rich sweetness melt on my tongue. Delish.

Well, I think it’s a good thing at least that she had her wits about her to be prepared. Least she didn’t just wander off probably, not if she had the wherewithal to pack.

Jack nodded, looking wistful. Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself. But she’s pretty old. We need to find her before she gets herself in trouble. I mean on her own like that?

I shrugged. Are we sure she didn’t have help?

From who? It doesn’t make sense.

No, a lot of it didn’t. Still. I hope this isn’t your way of asking me to solve the mystery for you. I mean, I can ask around, I guess, but I’m sure the police are working to handle things.

I knew I was being lame. But I had problems of my own. Jack sent me a troubled look.

I rushed to explain, Sorry, it’s just I am pretty busy right now trying out this new recipe that just appeared in the book. I can’t read it, which is really odd.

I plopped the last bite in my mouth and caught Java’s eye behind the counter. I gave her a thumbs up and an eye roll as I groaned and clutched my stomach theatrically. I swore I gained a full pound every time I ate here.

Jack pulled my attention back as he took care of the bill, making me frown. Dang it, he beat me to it every time. Have you asked Tiny about it?

I stood up and grabbed my coat, nodding. She can’t read it either, which is a first. Makes me wonder if it wasn’t meant for me.

Jack’s phone pinged, and he reached down and thumbed the screen to check his messages, frowning when he read it. Hey, I gotta go. Something has come up at the resort they need my help with. Hopefully, Dixie shows up or we get some clue as to where she’s gone. I’ll try to catch you later, alright?

His eyes caught mine, looking thoughtful. But whatever was on his mind, he kept it to himself when he left. I watched him leave from the doorway, slipping a bit on the icy road, as the Raptor pulled away.

I DIPPED A SPOON IN my Warm Winter Sunshine Stew and tasted it. It was perfect, a warm accompaniment to the Rosemary Focaccia I had taken out of the oven earlier that afternoon. It promised to deliver a good belt of vitamin D, something we were all missing as we hibernated through the cold winter month of January.