Like everyone else who came in, we requested to be seated outside. A selection of country crooners played softly from the speakers at each end of the porch.
The hostess brought us to our table, lit our lantern with a match, and ran through the night’s specials. The grouper with lump crab meat on top was sure to be a winner.
After a few minutes of soaking up the atmosphere, we relaxed into our normal rhythms. Kate checked her phone every few minutes while I examined every plate on the tables around us. The frogs croaked blissfully in the distance. They were like a beautiful distracting symphony.
Our server uncorked our wine and poured each of us a glass. After placing our orders, Kate took ahold of her wine glass, offering it at the center of the table towards me. I clinked mine to hers and we said a silent “cheers.”
“Man, this has been a stressful week,” I said to Kate
“Tell me about it.” Kate smiled into her wine. “Story of my life. Do you really think that girl was responsible for your window?”
“It’s all I can come up with.” I shrugged. I reminded her of my run and the truck. And I told her it was the same truck that skidded off into the night.
But I had to get my mind off of the subject. I wanted to put the focus on Kate. Luckily, she never minded the spotlight. “So, what have you been up to? How’s the investigation going? I assume you talked to Javier today about it, then my name happened to come up?”
“It’s going,” she answered after taking a sip of wine. “I’ve been looking into few other restaurants the group had owned. I reached out to former partners, but no one is saying anything. They usually hang up before I even finishing asking a question. It’s frustrating to say the least.”
“I’m sorry it’s not going smoother,” I said. And I meant it. Jessica deserved justice. And I wasn’t convinced she was going to get it, at least not as swiftly as I’d like. Kate’s a great investigator. If her leads weren’t getting her anywhere that wasn’t a good sign this would be resolved quickly.
“Well, I didn’t mean I haven’t found anything.” Kate’s voice turned into her television persona—I could tell she was about to divulge some breaking news. “What if I told you, my hunch on the two partners is about to pay off?”
“You found a paper trail?” I asked.
“Not yet.” She shook her head. “What I found is even better. Taylor Coker has a rap sheet. He pleaded guilty to domestic violence charges a few years ago. His ex-wife and kids live in Savannah.”
The thought of Savannah made my tummy rumble. My stomach was the only part of me that could overshadow the way the news about Taylor had gotten the gears of my mind whirring. I looked longingly for the doors to the inside, hoping the kitchen wasn’t too slammed. Like magic, our server arrived at the door with a tray in hand.
Kate’s phone buzzed on the table beside her napkin. For half a second I thought she was going to let it go. Then she picked it up, her eyes skimming over it lazily.
She put it back on the table, nodding.
“Jessica’s memorial has been scheduled. It’s going to be Friday night at 6:30. Are you going?”
“I have to,” I said. “What about you?”
“I’ll be there for work. We’ll probably do a live report outside beforehand, but I think I’ll go into the memorial as plain old me after that.”
I nodded. Having a real friend there will be nice, I thought. The town’s still after me for the two forks.
For the rest of the meal and the dessert that followed, the mood was mellow, not quite somber but almost. It didn’t stop us from enjoying each other’s company, food—and, of course, the wine.
14
The house wasn’t nearly as uninviting as I remembered. Although the porch light wasn’t left on and I had to scramble around with my keys, using my phone’s flashlight function. Kate had already sped off. There was no ounce of gentleman in her.
I stumbled through the door, turning lights on as I went. I realized a little too late that Kate had given me more than my fair share of that bottle of wine. I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my jeans, and fell into the comfort of my bed.
What felt like a moment later, I awoke with a start. My mouth was dry and scratchy. My head pounding. A cold sweat on my brow. I’d been having a nightmare, heard crashing glass and screeching tires.
It was just a dream, I reassured myself.
The sheet underneath me was damp. I had been sweating much more than a person should at night. My flat sheet and duvet were all tangled up as if I had been having a fight with them in my sleep.
The sun wasn’t up yet. The clock beside my bed glared 5:43 in green glowing digits.
I spent the next half an hour making a concerted effort to drift back off to sleep, but it was no use. I couldn’t—not after that dream.
I drank a huge glass of water by the sink, refilled it, thought about running, but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My body was ill with a wine hangover, the worst kind. And it felt too dangerous. I was much too vulnerable outside these walls.
I opted for a scalding hot shower, then threw on my favorite workout shirt and leggings. I was still a runner at heart.
My midweek blog posts weren’t as popular as the weekend’s, but they still garnered a few bucks. I had to examine the contents of my fridge for inspiration.
It was slim pickings in there. I hadn’t done a real trip to the grocery store in over a week. I had eggs, and I had cheese.
“A simple breakfast omelet it is,” I said to myself.
My favorite frying pan, a nonstick pan that was given to me as part of promotion about a year before, was still beside the sink on the drying rack. I had to tiptoe to reach the mixing bowl on the top shelf of the cabinets. Then I pulled a fork from the silverware drawer at my hip. No whisked eggs in this kitchen.
My camera was on the desk. And good thing I checked for the SD card. The slot was empty, so I slid one inside.
Finding my rhythm in the kitchen is akin to what I imagine Kate feels doing yoga. I was centered. At peace.
With a swift flick of my wrist, I cracked an egg, then three more, using my thumb and ring finger to swiftly pull the shell apart and drop the gooey contents into the bowl.
The eggs got a nice yellow tone when blending them gently with the fork. I paused and put a pat of butter in the pan. The butter started to melt a few seconds later, and I tilted and whirred the pan to ensure the butter coated the entire bottom.
With a final beat of the eggs, it was time to pour. They say a watched pot never boils, but eggs—eggs you have to keep an eye on. I took pictures along the way.
Another mistake is to season them too soon. Salt will gray the eggs.
When they began to look just the right consistency, I sprinkled salt and pepper over them, then added a generous helping of cheese across the middle.
After that, I gently folded it. My lucky spatula made easing it out of the pan a snap. My plate looked yellow. I needed some green. I chopped a few chives. They weren’t the best looking, but they’d do in a pinch. And with a final flourish, I sprinkled my garnish over the omelet, took a few more snaps, and gobbled it up like I hadn’t eaten in days.
Task one was completed. I’d made my dish.
Over the years, I’d developed my own shorthand. I jotted down some notes to recreate the process, added some things I thought I could’ve done better. Then I methodically cleaned up the kitchen and washed all of my dishes.
Then an idea struck me. I checked if there were enough eggs. Like a good blogger, it was time to repeat it all. This time on video.
The sun was starting to rise, and the morning light shone beautifully through my picture window in the kitchen. Thank goodness that wasn’t the one that was broken.
With such a beautiful light it was go time. I got dressed, picking a trusty striped shirt and my favorite pair of dark-washed skinny jeans. I put on a little mascara. It was nothing fancy, but my faithful foodies were accustomed to who I was by now.
>
Then I repeated each step with the camera on its stand tracking me. After completing the whole process again, I stared blankly at the beautiful dish. Then I dumped it into the trashcan. The empty bag made a loud oosh sound like it, too, felt my pain. Life would be so much easier if I had someone to help me eat all of the food.
It was made doubly bad because I usually ate the first try and not the perfected product for the perfect pictures.
It wasn’t even 8 a.m. and I already felt drained. Sitting cross-legged in my chair, I opened the computer to start working on the post. Part of it was methodic. I typed up the recipe and added the pictures, just a short narrative about a simple omelet. Then I put the video on YouTube and linked it to the post.
I published it without even reading it over again. It felt dry, with no emotional attachment to it, and the video was a bit rougher than I liked. But I was in somewhat of a blogging drought. And something was better than nothing.
To boost the post further, I added the pictures to all my social media accounts with links to the blog.
Each one felt like an accomplishment.
A red badge on my notifications panel alerted me to several comments I’d missed from last night. All were from a username I was unfamiliar with. As I clicked and read what was written, that relief I was feeling momentarily turned into a case of the creeps.
Whoever _foodieXgirl_ was she did not like me.
The comment on my fried green tomatoes post was the absolute worst.
You’d be a better cook if you were dead.
What kind of person actually says that to someone? Someone clearly deranged. I was used to unwanted trolls. The concept of people hiding anonymously behind a keyboard was nothing new to me, but this seemed to take the cake.
I clicked to see her profile. And like most trolls, her account had no pictures. There were also no followers. The account only followed one person—me!
Lucky me, I thought. Why would someone create a new account with the sole intention of trolling me?
Even though it was still early in the morning, I scoured the freezer for that pint of Chunky Monkey, cursing myself for having already finished it off. My blood was boiling.
The truck, the rock, and now this. There was an easy explanation to it all.
Eight Comments to Fried Southern Delicacies Part Three - Fried Green Tomatoes
…
_foodieXgirl_
Those tomatoes look as dry as a beach.
_foodieXgirl_
You’d probably need TWO forks to choke those down.
_foodieXgirl_
You’d be a better cook if you were dead.
15
Pulling into the parking lot of First Baptist Church of Lanai, I was filled with a mixture of emotions. First off, I was sad. Jessica’s untimely death was a tragedy. I couldn’t imagine what my early passing would do to my mom, my grandmother, and my friends.
I was also nervous.
Both feelings, I knew, were selfish. But what would people think? Probably that I didn’t belong here—that Jessica and I weren’t really friends. Plus, I’d sullied her and her husband’s names with that two forks review.
Most of all, I was filled with frustration. Why hadn’t the police solved her murder? I’d seen Javier’s detective skills first-hand. But were they enough? Whoever had killed Jessica had covered their tracks well.
The parking lot was full. The citizens of Lanai came to pour their love and support for the family. That alone was enough to choke you up, even without making it inside.
I’d only been to a handful of funerals in my life. The most somber of those was for my granddaddy. Yet, I remembered people smiling there, celebrating his full life—his time in the military, his prowess on the golf course. I knew Jessica’s wouldn’t be marked with that sort of vibe.
Kate’s news van was parked on the curb just behind a police car. She wasn’t broadcasting, yet. The camera was held limply on her partner’s shoulder. She was adjusting the bright light that would shine on her in the live segment.
I waved hello, then headed inside. I’d need to save her a spot next to me on the pew, I reminded myself.
“Allie, Allie, dear,” Mom called from above the chatter in the foyer.
“Hi, Mom.” I gave her a hug.
“Sweetie, you’re just now getting here?” She checked her watch with a look of dismay.
I shrugged guiltily. I’d been ready for over an hour. I just couldn’t make that last step to get into the car.
“And no dress tonight?” Mom scolded. “See all these other girls here? They all put on their Sunday best. Pants and a drab old blouse. Remind me to take you shopping.”
“These happen to be my favorite pants,” I defended myself. It’s not as if they weren’t black. They had a nice permanent crease. “I don’t have a black dress. And I don’t really want one either.”
“You say that now, sweetie, but wait till you start dating again.”
I tugged self-consciously at my sleeves. Leave it to Mom to make me feel inadequate—even at a memorial.
Tonight’s not about me. My internal monologue was still on the defense, despite Mom moving on. She was now shaking hands with more familiar faces entering the building.
Looking around, I hoped to find someone, anyone, to escape more solo conversation with my mom. She was ready to turn back and berate me more. Luckily, I knew practically everyone here. The trick was to find people understanding enough to know those two forks weren’t meant in malice.
I said hello to a few former classmates. We all agreed how sad this was. The phrase, “I just can’t believe Jessica’s gone” was uttered too many times to count.
Every conversation was quick and to the point. There was no depth. Some classmates who had moved out of town were eager to talk about themselves—how they moved to Atlanta or Charlotte and were doing quite well for themselves. Others commented on their college football teams.
But I wasn’t bothered by it. It helped ease my nerves as much as my last session with Dr. Gilmore, my therapist. I’d seen him only the day before, having felt like a panic attack was on the forefront. He had graciously worked me into his schedule, despite it not being my regular monthly appointment. In a way the doctor and I had basically grown up together. I was one of his first patients. I’d been seeing him since high school.
“This is UGA’s year,” my high school classmate Ricky announced. “I’m so tired of hearing about Bama.”
I agreed, mostly because I’d seen those headlines of the Lanai Gazette every Sunday.
After about ten minutes of working the room, Mom and I made our way back to each other.
“There’s Aunt Denise and Melanie.” She pointed across the foyer. “We should go say hello.”
We started toward them. When my aunt saw us, she got Melanie’s attention. Then we greeted each other with hugs. It was nice to be a part of a family that was so fond of hugs.
“Do you remember your junior prom?” Melanie asked with a special gleam in her eye. Mel was more like her brother than she liked to admit. She wasn’t too big a person to taunt me by dragging up the past.
“How could I forget?” I tried to chuckle. But the laugh was real, partly because I was reminiscing on a time when Jessica was alive, but also partly because I needed the laugh. “I could have sworn Jeff was going to ask me,” I told Mel. “But he asked Jessica instead.”
“You were so upset,” Mom added. “I didn’t know if you were ever going to get over it.”
“At the time, I didn’t think so either. I made a breakup playlist—and I hadn’t even been broken up with.”
“Did you ever really talk to her after that?” Melanie asked.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I held a grudge against Jessica for far too long. After all, it was just a little crush.” Even if the mood felt as heavy as ever, it felt good to get that off my chest.
Pulling out my phone, I checked the time. “You ready to go inside?” I asked the fam. “The s
ervice is going to start in a few minutes.”
The sanctuary was bustling, not many open pews. And like a normal church service, there were quite a few saved seats with purses and jackets atop the uncomfortable bench seats.
Mom was right, it seemed everyone looked into their closet and plucked out their favorite little black dress, some of them skimpy and short—most of them skimpy and short.
I adjusted my outfit self-consciously. You would think by thirty I would have plenty of confidence or at least realize when I was defeated by the younger crowd. But I was conflicted, somewhere in the middle.
Uncle Billy and Jack were already inside. They saved seats for my aunt and Melanie. There was maybe enough room for Mom and myself, but not Kate.
“Let’s save a spot for Kate,” I whispered to her. “I know when she wraps up her report she doesn’t want to be forced to sit on the back pew.”
The next few minutes were spent looking for a spot to sit. It wasn’t the very back, but we found seats in the last third of the sanctuary. Mom and I scooted a little farther apart and placed a thick hymnal between us.
Like most funerals, the front two rows were clearly reserved for family. In row three, I noticed a few people of interest to me.
There was Taylor Coker, the wife beater and business partner, Camp Devereaux, and the mystery blonde. It looked like the entire staff of The Southern Depot sat next to or behind them. I recognized the young robotic server and the hostess.
Taylor was chatting with some guy, probably a cook by the looks of him. He had tattoos inching up his neck past his collar.
The cook nodded as if the man was giving him instructions on his next dish.
“Hey, Mom,” I whispered, “do you know who that blonde lady is up there with the staff of the restaurant?”
“Lea?” she asked a little louder than I would have liked. Discretion wasn’t always her strong suit. And, of course, Mom knew. She was good with names. And with as many close-knit groups as she was a member of, book club, MOPS mentors, Junior League, there was no wonder she knew who this girl was.
The Salty Taste of Murder (A Foodie Files Mystery Book 1) Page 7
