Apples and Alibis

by Gayle Leeson

  Scott glanced at HJ, and HJ jabbed his thumb in the direction of the patio.

  For the second time today—or, actually, anytime—I saw Scott looking uncomfortable. He brought the Martins’ order to the window, handed it to me, and then moved quickly back into the dining room. I peeped out the window to see if Scott was going out on the patio to meet with HJ. He was.

  The two were standing in such a way that I could see them both from the side. HJ handed an envelope to Scott, and Scott shoved it into his back pocket. As Scott returned to the dining room, he said something to HJ. I couldn’t hear what he’d said over the din.

  I quickly hurried back to the grill and started preparing Mrs. Martin’s French toast and Mr. Martin’s Spanish omelet. They had an international theme going this morning, and I wondered if it had been deliberate. They could be a quirky little couple.

  Jackie bounded through the kitchen door, and I gave a squeak of surprise.

  “Was that the sound of your nosy conscience?” she asked.

  “Don’t go there. Not today. I know things today that I didn’t yesterday, and I’d appreciate a little leeway.”

  “Fine.” Jackie lowered her voice to the point that I had to put my head right next to hers to hear her. “Since you were so interested in Scott’s interaction with HJ, I thought you might want to know that when Scott came in from the patio, he said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. Now...what’s the new info?”

  “I can’t talk about it here. We’ll discuss it after work when it’s just the two of us.”

  Jackie opened her mouth to respond, but Luis came into the kitchen.

  “What was that about Aunt Bess?” I asked her.

  “Oh...yeah...I keep telling Granny to stay off the dating boards, but every time they have a free weekend, there she goes.”

  “I know,” I said. “Aunt Bess is going to be the death of all of us.”

  Even though that wasn’t our actual topic of conversation, I imagined truer words were never spoken.

  THAT AFTERNOON, JACKIE and I decided to follow Scott to see if we could find out what he was taking care of for HJ. Since he was familiar with my yellow Bug and probably would recognize Jackie’s car as well, Jackie had Roger bring his truck to the Down South Café parking lot prior to closing. Roger then came around to the back door where he and Jackie swapped keys.

  After work, Jackie drove Roger’s pickup truck, and we tailed Scott. In the movies and on television, when detectives were following a suspect through traffic, the cops could remain inconspicuous by keeping one or two vehicles between their car and the suspect. In Winter Garden, Virginia, where you and your suspect were in the only two automobiles on a rural road, it was a smidgeon more difficult to pretend you merely happened to be going in the same direction.

  In fact, despite our being in Roger’s truck, Scott peered into his rearview mirror and waved. Jackie and I waved back. What else could we do?

  We tailed Scott to the interstate ramp heading south toward Bristol.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked Jackie.

  “I have no idea, but wherever it is, you’d better be thinking up a good reason for us to be there too.”

  By the time Scott got off the interstate, there were a couple of vehicles between us. Not that it mattered—our cover was already blown.

  We followed him to a Halloween specialty store. After he parked, he stood by his car and waited for us to find a space. Jackie pulled into a space in a deserted area of the lot since she wasn’t accustomed to driving Roger’s truck.

  Scott met us halfway. “Hey! What’re you guys doing here?”

  “I’m hoping to find some Halloween decorations for the café,” I said. “What about you? Replacing the werewolf costume?”

  “No, I’m replacing the animatronic spider HJ broke...hopefully, before Harry finds out about it.” Scott led the way to the Halloween shop’s door. “Harry would be livid if he knew. He thinks HJ is irresponsible already.”

  “Why’s that?” Jackie asked.

  “Because after his divorce, HJ had to move back in with his parents,” Scott said. “But, dudes, I get that—the job market is fierce. And I didn’t know HJ before I moved to Winter Garden, but I’m catching a vibe that his parents blame him for the divorce.”

  “I’m a firm believer that there are always two sides to every story,” I said.

  Scott waffled his hand. “Not always...but usually.” He held the door for Jackie and me to enter the shop ahead of him.

  “Let me know if y’all need any help finding anything,” a teenaged girl greeted us.

  “No, no, no.” Her manager stepped out from behind a curtain that hid a storage area. “Like this, Amber.” The thin, abnormally pale—or wearing white makeup—man in the black cape stepped to the front of the counter. “Good eeeevening.”

  Scott nodded. “How you doing, Drac Dude?”

  The manager ignored Scott’s question and instructed Amber, “Now, you try it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Gewd eeevening.”

  “Awesome.” Scott laughed and high-fived the girl while Jackie and I slipped away.

  Most of the bigger merchandise was displayed in the open warehouse, which had wide aisles displaying costumes and smaller props. An Edwardian butler caught my eye, and I wandered over to him.

  When I was close enough, the animatronic butler’s eyes moved from side to side, and he said, “Welcome! Won’t you stay for dinner?”

  “That thing is creepy as all get out,” Jackie said.

  “Aw, come on,” I said. “I kinda like him.”

  “May I take your head? I mean...hat...of course,” the creepy butler said.

  “Oh, man! Kids would love this guy,” Scott said.

  “No, they wouldn’t. They’d hate him.” Jackie shuddered. “I hate him.”

  I glanced at the price tag. “Yikes. I hate the price. Sorry, Jeeves, you won’t be coming back to the Down South Café with us.”

  “Have a seat and let me poison you a drink.” The doll’s eyes shifted back and forth as it gave a guttural cackle.

  “You two can stay here with lunatic Lurch if you want to,” Jackie said. “I’m going to look for something I don’t want to smash with a bat.”

  “I think she might actually do it,” Scott said quietly.

  “Yeah...I’m pretty sure she would.” I smiled. “It’s a good thing I can’t afford him. I had no idea these props were so expensive.”

  “Oh, for real. The spider I have to get is nowhere near as pricey as this guy, but it’s still over a hundred bucks.” He patted the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans. “HJ gave me a hundred and fifty, and that’ll be cutting it close.”

  I walked over to where Jackie was looking at superheroine costumes while Scott went to buy a giant jumping spider from either Amber or her manager.

  “These costumes bring back so many memories,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder.

  “Doesn’t it though?” She smiled. “Who could forget that year I dressed up as Batgirl, you were Wonder Woman, Roger was Superman, and Sarah was Cat Woman?”

  “Or the time we trick-or-treated as the Power Rangers?”

  Jackie laughed and began singing the show’s theme song.

  “I loved that show,” Scott said, as he walked toward us. “Are you talking about costumes you wore as kids?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tell us one of your favorites.”

  “The only time my sister and I coordinated our costumes was when she dressed up as Daphne from Scooby Doo.” He grinned. “I was Shaggy. Come to think of it, those characters still suit us.”

  AFTER LEAVING THE HALLOWEEN shop, Jackie called Roger, and I called Ryan and arranged to meet for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Abingdon. We asked Ryan to pick up Roger so that we’d have only two vehicles at the restaurant. If Ryan wondered why Jackie and I were tooling around in Roger’s pickup truck, he didn’t as
k. And I thought it best to wait until we were at the restaurant to volunteer any information.

  Jackie and I were the first to arrive. We got a table and ordered soft drinks.

  “What’s your opinion of Scott?” I asked Jackie after the waitress had left to get our drinks.

  “I’d like him fine if he wasn’t suspected of arson and murder.”

  “Do you really think he’s capable of either of those things?” In my mind, I couldn’t imagine Scott doing either, but I’d been wrong about people before.

  “I’d hate to think so,” Jackie said, but who knows?”

  “Too bad we can’t ask Gladys Pridemore,” I murmured.

  “If we could ask her, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I know. I just meant that she was apparently looking through those binoculars all the time. Who knows what secrets she could tell?”

  Jackie said, “Too bad she didn’t take photographs.”

  “Wait...what if she did?”

  Before Jackie could answer, the server brought our drinks. Roger and Ryan arrived, and Jackie waved them over.

  “What have you two been up to?” Ryan asked, sliding into the booth next to me. “Roger told me that all he knew was that you were on a top-secret surveillance mission.”

  “Some detectives we turned out to be,” Jackie said. “The person we were surveilling waited for us in the parking lot and then held the door open and ushered us into his destination.”

  Roger laughed. “And what was his destination?”

  “The Halloween specialty store,” I said. “I got a few decorations for the café, so Jackie and I had a perfectly logical reason for being there...in your truck.”

  “You bought a truckload of decorations?” Ryan asked.

  “Not quite,” I said.

  “Had she got the creepy butler she wanted, he’d have ridden shotgun, and you’d have had to come to Bristol and pick me up,” Jackie told Roger. “And you would have had to give me a job on your construction crew.”

  “Hold up.” Ryan waved his hands. “I can’t imagine your being afraid of a mechanical doll.”

  Jackie lifted her chin. “I am not afraid of them. I just despise them. Ever since these two made me watch that stupid evil red-haired killer doll when we were kids, I’ve hated talking dolls.”

  “We didn’t make you,” I protested.

  “Nope.” Roger grinned. “But I did double dog dare you.”

  We had so much fun at dinner that it completely slipped my mind to ask Ryan if the forensic team had recovered a cell phone or camera at Gladys Pridemore’s house. My question about whether or not Ms. Pridemore had a penchant for photography would be answered soon enough anyway.

  { }

  Chapter Seventeen

  A

  t about half-past nine o’clock on Wednesday morning, Malcolm Pridemore came into the café. He looked around the dining room.

  “That unpleasant little man who was rude the first day I patronized your establishment isn’t here, is he?”

  I hid a smile as I recalled that Homer was “rude” to Mr. Pridemore because Mr. Pridemore had been rude to us. “No, sir. He won’t be in for another hour or so.”

  “Good.” Mr. Pridemore sniffed. “Normally, I could tolerate his drivel well enough, but today I have a headache.”

  I noticed the man did look a tad pale. “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe some coffee will help.”

  “I do hope so, Ms. Flowers. I spent most of yesterday going through one solitary room—the dining room—sorting Gladys’ things. You can’t imagine the sheer tediousness of that task.”

  “No, I can’t.” I poured Mr. Pridemore’s coffee. “I certainly don’t envy you.”

  “I brought a box of cookbooks that were at the bottom of the china cabinet. I thought you might like to put them to good use.”

  “How considerate.” I raised my hand to my throat. “Thank you.”

  “You’d like them then?” he asked.

  At my nod, he looked around the dining room until he spotted Luis and Scott clearing off some tables. “Perhaps one of these strong young men would carry the box in from the passenger side of my car? It’s the black sedan parked in the handicapped space.”

  “I’ll do it,” Scott said.

  “I appreciate that.” Mr. Pridemore used his key fob to unlock the car.

  “I’m not surprised Ms. Pridemore had so many cookbooks,” I said, “given her allergy and everything.”

  “Her allergy?” he asked.

  “Yes. The potato allergy.”

  He raised his bushy eyebrows. “You know, I’d forgotten all about that. Our families didn’t dine together often.”

  Scott brought the box inside and placed it on the counter beside the register. I went over to get a closer look at its contents. I certainly didn’t need more cookbooks, but I couldn’t resist them. Besides, I’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “May I take your order, Mr. Pridemore?” Jackie asked. “With Amy having her head in those books, who knows how long it’ll be before she comes up for air.”

  Mr. Pridemore ordered in his usual persnickety way. I wasn’t even paying attention.

  “These look fantastic,” I said, as I lifted each book out of the box and gave it a cursory examination. There was a cookbook by Dorie Greenspan, one by Julia Child, a vegetarian cookbook...this box truly was a find.

  Mr. Pridemore tasted his coffee. “And I believe you’ll agree they’re a bargain at only thirty dollars for the lot.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  Jackie snorted and had to rush into the kitchen to cover her laughter. Luis’s back was turned, but I could see his shoulders shaking. I was willing to give the man thirty dollars for the books...and I wanted to cover my embarrassment in thinking Mr. Pridemore was gifting me the books. After all, he was correct that they were well worth that amount.

  Scott had other ideas. He decided to negotiate. “Amy will give you fifteen for the entire box, or she can go through and pick which ones she wants. You can give her the individual prices of the books she chooses, and you can take the others back with you.”

  “No, indeed. I’ll not take any detritus back into that house,” Malcolm Pridemore said. “Fifteen dollars plus twenty percent off my meal.”

  “It’s a deal,” I said quickly.

  As soon as Malcolm Pridemore left the café, Scott pulled me aside. “I’m sorry I overstepped about the books, but that old dude ticks me off. Guess what I saw in his car?”

  “What?” In my imagination, it could be anything from a severed head to a bright pink tutu...though I’d have been more shocked to learn that it was a tutu. A tutu would likely mean that Mr. Pridemore had a granddaughter, and I had a tough time imagining Mr. Pridemore as a doting grandpa. Did the fact that I could more easily imagine Mr. Pridemore as a murderer say more about him or about me?

  “A bunch of expensive stuff,” Scott said. “There was a sterling silver tea set—the real thing because it needed to be polished, a camera, figurines, dishes...”

  “Maybe he’s having to sell some things to pay off the estate’s debts,” I said. “Or maybe she left those things to him in her will.” My brain caught up to the items Scott had mentioned. “Did you say he had a camera?”

  He nodded.

  “What kind of camera?” I asked.

  “It looked like one of those that spits out the picture as soon as you take it and then develops right in front of you,” he said.

  “That’s weird.”

  “Dude...right?” He crossed his arms. “We need to let somebody know Malcolm Pridemore is making off with all that stuff.”

  “I’ll talk to Ryan about it,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Scott saw that Homer was walking toward the door, so he uncrossed his arms and hurried over to open the door. “Hi, Guru Guy. We’re glad to see your friendly face.”

  “I appreciate that,” Homer said. “Like the author Robert Louis Stevenson,
I believe a man is successful if he has lived well, laughed often, and loved much.”

  “Well, some people enjoy going around like an old grump,” Scott said.

  “Good morning, Homer.” I brought him a cup of coffee. “I’ll get started on your sausage biscuit.”

  “Thank you.” Homer turned back to Scott. “Mr. Stevenson also said, ‘Everybody, soon or late, sits down to a banquet of consequences.’ Which means we all sometimes have to eat a little crow.” He chuckled. “I added that last bit myself.”

  I WAS RELIEVED TO GET home on Wednesday afternoon. It had seemed like an extra long day. After I fed the pets, I soaked in a warm Epsom salt bath. When I got out of the tub, I put on white satin pajamas. I didn’t care that it was not even six o’clock yet. I had no intention of leaving the house again until morning.

  I ate an egg salad sandwich and then pulled the box of Gladys Pridemore’s cookbooks over to the sofa. Princess Eloise had taken up residence on the windowsill, and Rory was playing in the backyard. It was a peaceful evening.

  The first cookbook I plucked from the box was filled with delicious sounding French recipes: Croque monsieur, chicken Provençal, steak au poivre, coq au vin. I recalled Mom telling me once that coq au vin must’ve been the ultimate sophisticated dish to 1960s television writers because it was served on episodes of both Bewitched and The Dick Van Dyke Show. I wasn’t sure the Down South Café patrons were ready for coq-au-vin-level elegance, so I put the French cookbook aside for the time being.

  The second book on the stack was titled Recipe for a Cooked Goose Plus Other Dishes for Life. The image on the front cover was that of a cartoon goose with black Xs for eyes. I thought that was a terribly unappetizing graphic to put on a cookbook.

  But when I opened the book, I realized that it wasn’t a cookbook at all. The recipes were actually verses or compositions for living. There was a section called For A Happy Family and included a recipe for a happy home. The recipe called for cups of love, kindness, laughter, and forgiveness.

  It was in the Recipes for Disaster section that I found the titular dish.

  Cooked Goose