The Biscuit Witch

by Deborah Smith

  “I’m nervous,” I said.

  “Me too, a bit. It’s like getting a call from the President.”

  The phone line crackled. “Hi y’all!” Delta shouted. “What’s cooking?”

  I put a hand over my heart. Suddenly, I had tears in my eyes. “I am. Cooking, that is. I just made five pans of biscuits in your kitchen. I’m humble in your shadow, Cousin.”

  “Oh, piss-shaw. We’re both biscuit witches, honey, just like your mama and Mary Eve Nettie. And like your grandma, Emma.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Was Emma known as Rose Dooley?”

  “Yes, baby, she changed her name when she left Asheville and went into hiding at Free Wheeler.”

  “Who was she hiding from?”

  “Augustus Damn Wakefield, that’s who. Rich old horndog. Wanted her biscuits for his private kitchen, if you know what I mean.”

  Doug and I traded a shocked look. It was bad enough about Jay’s family connection to Mama losing the diner, but now this, too?

  “Not that he needed a wife,” Delta went on. “He had two of those already. One in Asheville, for show, and another one locked up in a sanatorium up in Virginia. People said the only reason that one went crazy was from being married off to Augustus.”

  “So my grandmother hid her identity to escape from him and went to work as a cook in Free Wheeler for Arlo Claptraddle—Sam Osserman?”

  “Yep. Sam was Jewish, from a fine old family down in Georgia. He wasn’t cut out for ordinary ideas. Kind of a dreamer. Married who they told him to marry, but there wasn’t anything but politeness between him and his wife. When he got an inheritance, he disappeared into the mountains, re-invented himself with a funny name, and built his bicycle world. Your grandma came along, and it was love at first sight.” She chuckled. “I’m guessing you and Doug believe in that, don’t you?”

  I nodded as Doug bent over the phone. “Tagger saw her first. I stole her from him.”

  Delta laughed.

  I asked quietly, “What happened to Emma and Sam? All my brother and sister and I know is that our grandmother died after Mama was born. We never knew who our grandfather was. But the man Gabby and Gus called “Old Mr. Sam” was our neighbor. He tried to take care of us. Do you know who our grandfather was?”

  “Honey, can’t you see the jelly on the crust?”

  “You’re saying for certain that it was Sam—Arlo Claptraddle?”

  “I sure am. Sam was your grandpa.”

  I sat there in silence, dazed.

  We heard noises in the background. An instantly recognizable female voice said, “Time to wax your eyebrows, Cuz.”

  Delta said to Cathy Deen Mitternich, “Can’t my eyebrows have a day off, for once?”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But beauty is also in the eyebrow of the beholdee.”

  Cathy Deen Mitternich’s voice. The actress. Delta’s cousin. Thus, my cousin. In a world of six degrees of separation, I was this close to a Hollywood celebrity armed with hot wax and a pair of tweezers.

  “Look, I’ve gotta go,” Delta said to us. “I’ll fill you in on the rest later. For now, just chew on this chunk of taffy: Augustus Wakefield ruined Sam out of jealousy and revenge because of Emma. He bought the bank that held a big loan Sam took out during the lean years of World War Two. When Sam missed a payment, Augustus foreclosed. Took Free Wheeler as the collateral.”

  Doug and I were stunned. He said slowly, “I always thought Arlo just fell on hard times. But he didn’t fall. He was pushed.”

  “That’s right, Doc. A Wakefield family tradition.”

  I caught my breath. “You mean . . . Jay’s father cancelled Mama’s lease because she was Emma’s daughter? Because of an old feud that happened decades earlier between his father and Grandma Emma?”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Why did he give Mama and Daddy that lease in the first place?”

  “Control, baby. Wakefields are all about control. They get people under their thumbs and then pull the rugs out from under them when they’re at their weakest point.”

  Doug said, “I just can’t believe Jay’s cut from that same cloth.”

  “I hope you’re right. Hold onto your rugs, you two. There’s more. Sam went berserk. Showed up at the Wakefield offices in Asheville and tried to beat Augustus to death with a tire iron. Got off to a good start before the police jumped him. Augustus lost the sight in one eye and limped for the rest of his sorry life. Sam served five years in prison.”

  I sagged. I felt Doug’s gentle hand on mine and looked at him tearfully. “How did Emma die?” I asked Delta.

  “She was pregnant with your mama when Sam went to prison. Mary Eve brought her to Wild Woman Ridge and tried to soothe her, but she was just heartbroken. She lost her mind a little bit. Mary Eve would find her at Free Wheeler, walking the empty streets, talking to people as if they were still there, talking to Sam as if he were right beside her, and sleeping in the boarded-up house. It was too hard for her. She died of an infection a few days after your mama was born.”

  Tears slid down my face. Doug wound his fingers through mine and tugged. I nodded at him. I’m okay. You’re here. I’m not alone the way she was. The way Mama was, too. I’ve got you.

  “Delta, why didn’t you tell us that once we were grown?” I asked hoarsely.

  “Because I figured the story would keep you away forever or else send you down a path of revenge. I kept looking for ways to lure the three of you home, first. Figured once I got even one of you locked safe in the bosom of the family, you could handle the rest.”

  I chuckled despite my tears. “So I’m the first catch?”

  “Yep. You fell right into my plan. Doug, too.”

  He rubbed the sadness from his own eyes and said in a grand voice, “Have you got any plans for world peace? Solving the troubles in the Middle East? And perhaps some way to keep the Koreans from coming up with another Gangnam Style?”

  “Sure. All it takes is sharing food and respect. It’s that simple. What was that last one? The Koreans are ganging up on Gomer Pyle? Since when? Dear Lard, look at the time. Okay, okay, I’m going. Get that stuff away from me! I don’t want any more mousse in my hair. Not even one tiny little mouse-dab of mousse.”

  To us: “Here’s what y’all need to know in a nutshell. Tom’s been helping me do a little investigating of that bank Augustus bought. Tom’s from Chicago originally, and those Yankees in Chicago have a lot friends in the mob. Plus his brother is a big time finance wizard. Anyhow . . . that bank is long gone; old Augustus sold it after he used it for his evil purposes, and it got merged in with other banks, so poof! Gone. But Tom’s brother poked around and found some old records that survived, and, for my part, I put out the word to a few oldtimers in Asheville, and so . . . here’s what we think we know.”

  She took a loud gulp of air. “Sam never missed that loan payment. Augustus hid it and lied about that. Augustus cheated him. Stole Free Wheeler from him. Had no right to claim it.” She cranked up her volume for a dramatic finish. “Free Wheeler still belongs to Sam! And that means to his kin! His only heirs! And that means you, Tal. You and Gabby and Gus.”

  Open-mouthed, Doug and I looked from the phone to each other, then back at the phone. He leaned into its air space. “Jay Wakefield’s a lot of things, but I don’t believe he’s a thief. If there’s proof he doesn’t own the property, he’ll honor that.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I like Jay, but he’s a Wakefield. That’s all I’m saying. They eat their biscuits cold. Somebody’s got to get him to admit that his granddaddy was a cheat and a liar. Tough job.” She paused. “I think Gabby’s perfect for it.”

  I was reduced to sputtering, “What, wait, wha, huh?” while the smell of trouble rose in my mind along with the thought of Gabby squaring off against Jay Wakef
ield. Trouble smells like burnt toast. I could make a lot of crispy croutons with this much scorched bread. “Gabby’s not the diplomat of the family,” I finally managed. “Not the negotiator, and definitely not the peacemaker. She says it’s an accident that John Michael Michael got stabbed with a pickle fork, but he’d come straight from a movie set, and he was wearing some kind of full armor for the role, so I don’t see how he could have sat down on the fork so that it just happened to stab him in the crack between the hip piece and the thigh section.”

  “Good aim?” Doug inserted drily.

  “She did what?” Delta asked loudly. “She stabbed him in his crack? By lolly, I am pretty damn impressed!”

  I groaned. “Have you got any advice for her? When I tell her what you’ve just told us, she may sharpen her pickle forks and head for Asheville.”

  “Good! I hope so. Just remind her of this old saw: You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar. Change flies to Wakefields.”

  Once again, voices erupted in the background. Delta yelled, “You get that face-scrubbing goop away from me. Sea salt and essence of what? If I want to rub my skin with salt, I’ll go stand in a smokehouse and pretend I’m a side of bacon.” To me she said, “Welcome home, Tal. Now get Gabby and Gus here, too. Y’all gotta take back what’s yours. Bye, y’all!”

  Click

  She responded with relish

  I TYPED ON Doug’s computer:

  Dear Gabby,

  Stop avoiding the phone. I know you really did stab JMM in the butt with that fork. I saw the report on E7. It’s okay. Let me know the court date, and I’ll be there. I just want to be sure that you’re as calm as you say you are about the Wakefield situation and that you’ll let me and Doug try to handle it. I keep getting the vinegar aroma, worse than before. Doug and I will meet with Jay in person the day after Christmas, we promise! Please call or text. Keep saying to yourself, HONEY, NOT VINEGAR. Please?

  Love you,

  Tal

  Reading over my shoulder, Doug grunted. “I swear I’m startin’ to smell pickles, myself.”

  And they heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight

  THE BISCUIT WITCH, the Pickle Queen, and the Kitchen Charmer. We’re the soul-food-surviving, finger-lickin’-good-at-heart, handmade-from-scratch children of the best cook in Asheville, North Carolina and the bravest busboy/ex-army/police officer who ever strapped on an apron in devotion to his wife and kids. We are the MacBrides. Our family tree sprouts buttered blossoms with sweet-pickled berries. Our roots are sunk deep in the Eternal Kitchen of the Lard. We are Southern by birth, foodies at heart, and world travelers by necessity. Mama nicknamed us the Witch, the Queen, and the Charmer with uncanny accuracy. She saw our hidden ingredients.

  Whatever happened next, whatever the true story of Free Wheeler and its ties to our family, I was home and happy.

  And that’s a start.

  A poem for the season

  The goat and our daughter were snug in their bed

  With visions of crayons alight in their heads

  The biscuits were cooling, and plenty to spare

  So Doug and I snuggled, with n’ary a care

  He in his sweatpants, so threadbare, appealing!

  Me in a nightgown, some cleavage revealing,

  The fireplace crackled, the tree was a-twinkle

  The pigs were outside, enjoying a tinkle

  When what to my wondering eyes should appear

  But a sweet diamond ring, suspended in beer.

  Out of the suds it flew with a splash.

  I could tell from the carats, he’d invested some cash

  Doug’s eyes, how they crinkled, his proposal, so caring

  Would I be his wife, for a life we’d be sharing?

  Of course I said yes, and we turned out the light

  Happy baking to all, and to all, a good night.

  And on that starry Christmas Eve, Santa came to say . . .

  I AM IN ASHEVILLE.

  ALL OUT OF HONEY.

  MAY NEED BAIL.

  GABBY

  The End (of Part One)

  (Please continue reading for more about Deborah Smith)

  About Deborah Smith

  Deborah Smith is the author of more than thirty-five novels in romance and women’s fiction, including the New York Times bestseller, A PLACE TO CALL HOME, and the Wall Street Journal bestseller, THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ. She is also a founding partner and editorial director of Bell Bridge Books, a Memphis-based publishing company known for quality fiction and non-fiction by new and established authors. THE BISCUIT WITCH is the first of THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ NOVELLAS, spin-offs set in the Appalachian world of THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ .

  THE BISCUIT WITCH is part one of THE MACBRIDES. Coming soon: THE PICKLE QUEEN, followed by THE KITCHEN CHARMER. All three novellas will eventually be collected in a single novel. Visit Deb at www.deborah-smith.com.