I could tell from her tone that Delilah had taken offense about us needing some male reinforcements. “Right. Thanks for the tip, Ford. You’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell us? Oh, did you ever see Zack or Luther messing around in Lela’s potting shed?”
He squinted and thought for a moment. “I believe we got in there and borrowed a rake once or twice.”
Delilah nudged me under the table. “Okay, thanks. We appreciate you talking with us.” She left money for the bill and stood. I slid out of the booth after her. Ford did the same.
Shaking our hands, he said, “It was my pleasure. It’s not often I get to go out to eat with two nice young ladies.”
He shuffled away, and Delilah turned to me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That I’m not looking forward to talking to those skeevy landscaper guys?”
“I figured you’d say that. But yes. I’m thinking we need to find out everything we can about them. But first, fried chicken.”
I clutched my stomach. The pancakes had been so soggy and gross and drenched in fake butter, I could hardly eat them. I couldn’t imagine adding anything from Earl’s menu to my poor stomach without dire consequences. But Earl Settle was famous around town for being a tightwad. He’d probably make us buy a bucketful of chicken for each question of ours he answered.
* * *
—
Earl’s Southern Fried Chicken was less than hopping on a Monday night. But Earl himself, greasy apron and greasier comb-over, was as usual behind the counter shouting orders at his bedraggled staff. I hadn’t been in here in a while, but aside from Earl’s continually bulging beer belly, nothing had changed in years. As the soles of my shoes stuck to the mud-colored tile floor and made ripping noises every time I took a step, I assumed nothing had been cleaned in years, either.
Delilah marched right up to the counter. “Hi, Earl. Can we speak to you for a few minutes about a former employee?”
Earl eyed her. “You from Immigration?”
“Nope. We’re simply looking for any information you might be able to give us about Esther Sinclair. She worked here in 1986.”
His bushy eyebrows shot up. “The dead girl?”
“That’s the one.”
“She was a looker.”
“So we’ve heard. Can we go somewhere so we can talk?”
Earl smirked at her and flicked his eyes at me. “I suppose I could sit down with y’all for a few minutes while you enjoy your dinner.”
I called that one. I said, “I’ll have a number two.”
Delilah said, “Number four for me.”
“With large sides for two dollars more,” he said, more as a statement than a question.
“Sure,” Delilah said.
“Would you like to add a dessert?”
“Not especially.”
“We have a special holiday pie I think y’all would enjoy.”
“Fine. Add the pie. That’s all,” Delilah replied between gritted teeth.
“Your total is $21.79.”
I paid this time, and we went to a table to wait for our number to be called.
I said, “I would have gladly given the man twenty dollars for a few minutes of his time like you did with Ford. He would have come out ahead. Now we’re out twenty dollars and we have a bunch of food to get rid of.”
“Get rid of? Speak for yourself. I don’t know what you have against Earl’s.”
“I have a little experience in proper commercial kitchen upkeep.” I pointed toward the counter, where you could see through to the kitchen. The floor was caked with flour and bits of goo. The exhaust hoods looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. And the counters where they prepared the food were filthy. “I don’t know how they get past their health inspections.”
Delilah whispered, “I heard once that Earl has ties to the Southern mafia.”
“There is no such thing, D.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know…These old money types—you never know what they might be into. Besides, people disappear around here all the time.”
“Sure, when they go traipsing in the swamps like fools, trying to find gators to wrestle like they do on TV. People should know better.”
They called our number, and Delilah hopped up to fetch our food. Meanwhile, Earl lumbered over and eased himself into the chair across from me.
“Evening, little lady. What can old Earl do for you tonight?” I’d never had an actual conversation with Earl. I did not like the way he was leering at me.
Thankfully, Delilah appeared then and placed my tray on the table in front of me. I didn’t know what was more unappealing—Earl or his food.
She didn’t beat around the bush. “A friend of ours is being held for Esther’s murder. We don’t think she did it. We’re trying to get some information about the weeks leading up to Esther’s death—that would be the end of May 1986—to try to find something that can clear our friend’s name.”
Earl nodded. “Fair enough. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though. I ended up having to let her go around that time. Near the end of May, I think.”
“Why did you have to let her go?” I asked.
“Seemed like once May hit she started slacking on the job. Coming in late, taking long breaks, being generally lazy. I had several talks with her about it, but gave her plenty of second chances because she was great with the customers, especially the menfolk. She could sell ice to an Eskimo. But finally I had to give her the old heave-ho. She wasn’t pulling her own weight around here.”
“Did she offer any excuses as to why her work ethic had changed?”
“Not really. I figured she had a bad case of senioritis, with her coming up on graduating. She’s not the first high school employee I’ve had to fire for slacking.”
“Do you remember if anyone ever came in here and gave her trouble while she was working?” Delilah asked, taking a big bite out of a chicken leg. She had to grab for a napkin to catch the grease dripping down her chin. I hoped Earl didn’t notice the disgust I knew was all over my face as I watched my sister consume her meal.
He chuckled. “That was so long ago. My mind ain’t what it used to be. I don’t recall. We’ve had the occasional altercation in here, but I don’t believe there were any in the mid-eighties. This neighborhood was safer back then.” He patted his ample gut. “Plus, I was fit as a fiddle in my younger years. Nobody messed around in here back in the day or they knew they’d have to deal with me. Now I got to carry a piece to get respect.” Out of nowhere, he brandished a small revolver.
I gasped out loud.
Delilah griped, “Would you put that thing away before you shoot someone?”
Frowning, he spat back, “I got a right to my gun, missy.”
“And I have a right to not get my head blown off while I’m eating dinner.” She shoved half a tater wedge in her mouth for emphasis.
After staring her down for a moment, Earl put his gun back in his pocket.
I asked, “How about the people she worked with here? Did she get along with them?”
He grunted, clearly still miffed. “She thought she was too good to slum it with anyone else who worked for me. She mainly kept to herself.”
“And never had any arguments with them?”
“Like I said, it’s been a while.” He eyed my plate, which hadn’t been touched. “You too good to eat my food?”
Busted. I stammered, “I—I— Uh, I’ve been so enthralled with our discussion I didn’t—”
“Sure you were, honey. I think I’m done talking now.” He pushed himself into a standing position and lumbered off.
Delilah turned to me. “You couldn’t eat one bite in front of the man?”
I hissed, “I’m sorry, I can’t eat garbage and then be expected to function the rest
of the day.”
“Speaking of the rest of the day, didn’t you say Tucker was going to help us after he got off work?”
“He said he would.” I dug in my purse for my phone. I had several texts, missed calls, and voicemails, all from Tucker. “Uh-oh. I turned my ringer off when we went in Staples. He probably thinks we’re dead in a ditch somewhere.”
She got out her phone. “Same here. Call that boy and put him out of his misery.”
Chapter 19
As Delilah drove us home, I called Tucker and assured him we weren’t doing anything dangerous, only interviewing some older men who were for the most part happy to be helpful. He insisted he wanted to do something to help tonight. Even though Delilah and I felt like we were talked out for the day, we picked him up and headed toward the river to see if we could find our mother. She hadn’t answered Delilah’s or my calls all day.
Squeezed in next to me in the cab of Delilah’s truck, he asked, “Well, what did you learn?”
I looked over at D, who shrugged. “Where to even start? Um…I guess the consensus is that Esther was acting strangely before graduation. Something in her life had to be more messed up than a misunderstanding between her and Aunt Lela. She dumped her boyfriend, neglected her friends, got fired from her job, snuck around more, and possibly even got herself a new boyfriend.”
“But did you find out anything that could prove Aunt Lela’s innocence?”
Hesitating, I replied, “No, not really.” I could see the disappointment on his face even in the darkened car. “We’ll keep working, though. We have a ton more people we can interview. Everyone we’ve talked to has been able to point us to someone else who might have even more information.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
I knew he wanted his aunt to be freed as soon as possible, but it was painfully obvious that our investigation was going to take a great deal of time and legwork. Especially since we had a business to run. Papa Sal had been lenient about letting us be away from the B&B for hours at a time, but we couldn’t abuse it. He could run the place with one hand tied behind his back, but he tuckered out easily. It wasn’t fair for us to pile work on him if we could help it. Delilah and I would have to start divvying up interviews and going alone.
Delilah said, “Speaking of pointing us to other people, Earl never gave us the names of anyone who worked with Esther. That’s on you, so I’ll let you research it and come up with a list.”
I shook my head. “I suppose you’re right.”
“What happened?” Tucker asked.
“Oh, your girl here is too good to even pretend to eat at Earl’s Southern Fried Chicken. She offended Earl himself, so he bailed on us before we were finished with our conversation.”
Tucker nudged me with his shoulder. “I don’t blame you. Everything there is a gut bomb.”
“See?” I said to my sister. “You’re in the minority here.”
“You two snobs certainly are perfect for each other,” Delilah said teasingly.
I smiled at Tucker, who winked at me. We were pretty perfect together.
Delilah pulled into the vacant parking lot that Mom and Paul normally called home. A couple of their friends’ vehicles were parked there, but there was no sign of Paul’s van. Worry was starting to nag at me. Maybe they’d up and left town. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, but the timing was fishy.
My sister drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I guess we could try that abandoned warehouse east of town. They sometimes park there if they get run off from here.”
I agreed, and we made the short trip there. I could tell Delilah was concerned as well, from the death grip she had on the steering wheel. When we didn’t find them at their backup location, I got out my phone and called Mom. Again, no answer.
Delilah sighed. “She ran. Surprise, surprise. What is she hiding?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know.”
Tucker gripped my hand wordlessly.
After the silence got oppressive, I ventured, “We could call Dad.”
My sister said, “Hard pass.”
“D, we should probably talk to him. He knows everyone involved.”
She put the truck in gear and zoomed out of the parking lot. “If you feel the need to call him, I won’t stop you. I’m going to spend my time talking to people who’ll be more likely to tell me the truth.”
* * *
—
I was dragging the next morning as I fixed breakfast. Yesterday had been a long day that had become pretty emotional there at the end. The three of us had parted ways quietly when we got back home. Tucker asked if he could drive me to my gig tonight. He loved watching my band, Sister Wildfire, perform. I was relieved he offered, because my pretty little aquamarine Vespa wasn’t the greatest option when I had to tote my guitar across town, especially when the forecast called for rain, as it did today. With living in such a warm area and rarely having the time to go much of anywhere, the only transportation I owned was a scooter. I could always borrow Delilah’s truck that she shared with Papa Sal, but it would be much more fun to ride over with my boyfriend.
Again, Mom didn’t show up for breakfast.
Papa Sal asked, “Have you seen your mother lately?”
I said, “I spoke to her Sunday night.” Casting a glance at Delilah, I wondered whether I should share our suspicions that she’d left town.
Delilah said nothing. I guessed that was my answer.
“Not like her to miss a free meal two days in a row.” Papa Sal waved his hand. “Eh. Probably off gallivanting around again. I can’t keep track of that woman.”
Delilah forced a smile. “Typical Mom.”
That much was accurate. Mom came and went on a whim, and always had. Her sudden absence was nothing out of the ordinary. But I couldn’t help thinking that the catalyst for it was anything but ordinary.
Papa Sal eased into a kitchen chair. “What’s on tap for today, girls?”
“I’m volunteering at the soup kitchen at lunchtime if that’s okay.” I raised my eyebrows at my sister. “Hoping to find an opportunity to chat with Coralee Marshall while I’m there.”
“Works for me. I can cover everything here as long as you’re back by check-in.”
“Not a problem. Also Sister Wildfire has a gig tonight.”
Papa Sal smiled. “I’ll catch the next one.”
He always said that. Our indoor performances were way too loud for his poor old ears. He enjoyed our music otherwise; I often heard him humming along while I practiced, and he never missed an outdoor concert where he could sit far enough away to tolerate the sound level.
Delilah made a theatrical show of tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m having tea this afternoon with my new BFF, Portia Sheridan.”
Papa Sal laughed and said with a French accent, “Ooh la la. High society.”
“That’s me. She texted me bright and early this morning. Last night she evidently dreamed up a fantastic idea for a fundraiser and couldn’t wait to meet with me.”
He asked, “How’s Lela doing? Are you two getting any closer to finding anyone who can help her cause?”
I replied, “Tucker visited her yesterday. Actually, I think he’s planning to visit her every day. She’s doing as well as can be expected. And we’ve talked to quite a few people. Some believe she could be guilty, some are sure she’s innocent. Unfortunately, we’ve yet to find anyone who has more than a gut feeling to back up their opinion.”
“Are you being careful?”
Delilah went over and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Of course we are. In fact, the worst person we’ve talked to was Tucker’s former uncle, Beau. He was slimy but harmless.”
“Well, you keep it that way.”
“We will,” I assured him.
Chapter 20
It wa
sn’t raining yet, so I walked the few blocks to the church where the day’s soup kitchen was being held. I enjoyed the work, and it was such a vital program in our community. It was my belief that no one should ever have to go hungry. Food is a basic need, but it’s one that easily can be fulfilled with a modest amount of effort and cost on the part of others.
I checked in with the soup kitchen coordinator and was assigned to peel and slice sweet potatoes for the casserole they would be serving today alongside ham, green beans, fruit salad, and yeast rolls. I got down to business, chatting with the other men and women preparing food at the huge island in the center of the kitchen. As always, Coralee Marshall was there, dressed to the nines, but with her sleeves rolled up and hard at work.
After the prep work was done, we had a bit of a lull while the food was cooking. I took my chance to wander over to speak to Coralee Marshall.
“Hi, Mrs. Marshall. I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s Quinn Bellandini. I’ve seen you around here before, and I helped out with your Christmas toy drive last year. I’m looking forward to helping again this coming weekend. You do such a lovely job with the event.” I held out my hand.
She stopped setting out salt and pepper shakers to shake my hand. “Pleased to see you again, Quinn. I don’t think I’ve ever caught your last name, but I do recognize you from your work here. Are you kin to Dixie?”
“I’m her daughter.”
Giving me a tight smile, she said, “How nice. I haven’t seen Dixie in years.”
“I’m sure she’s changed some since high school.” According to Papa Sal, Mom had been more wild child than flower child in high school.
“We all have.” She moved to the next table and continued her task.
I followed her. “Mrs. Marshall, do you know Lela Heyward?”
She went table to table, setting out the salt and pepper shakers. “I know her, yes.”
Southern Harm Page 11
