Silence of the Jams

by Gayle Leeson

  “I’ll let you know if I see anybody trying to sneak up on you.” I was almost afraid to ask the inevitable question. “So . . . who’s your hero today?”

  “The French writer Antoine Rivarol, who said that it’s the dim haze of mystery that adds enchantment to pursuit.” He looked first left and right, and then he jerked his head backward in a gesture I understood meant for me to come closer.

  I stepped as close to the counter as I could.

  “I have a list of suspects who might’ve wanted George Lincoln dead,” he whispered.

  “Ah,” I said softly. “We can’t talk about it now. We might be overheard. I’ll have Jackie pour your coffee while I get started making your biscuit.” It didn’t hurt to humor the man. He apparently had a detective streak going with his hero choices.

  He nodded. “I’ll be back at closing time to give you the sensitive information.”

  “Thanks.” I motioned for Jackie, and she nodded.

  I knew Homer would be back at the café at closing time because when Homer told you something, you could take it to the bank. And while I was anxious to hear what he’d uncovered about George Lincoln’s life and who might’ve wanted the man dead, I desperately hoped that poor George had died of natural causes and that he hadn’t been murdered.

  • • •

  Brooke, a regular at the Down South Cafe who worked as a nurse at the Winter Garden elder care facility, dropped by for an early lunch. When she walked through the dining room, I was in the kitchen frosting a chocolate sheet cake I’d taken from the oven just minutes before. It was a fudgy cake that was iced while hot so that the frosting melted into the moist cake. It was really delicious. I went out to the counter and greeted Brooke.

  “Hi.” She plopped onto one of the stools and placed her large purse on the one to her left. She looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I heard about what happened to George Lincoln yesterday. That’s so awful!”

  “It was a real tragedy,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry for his family.”

  “Yeah. You know, something similar happened to one of our residents, and the doctor initially thought she’d been poisoned.” She paused, sniffing the air. “What smells so good?”

  “Fudgy chocolate cake. Would you like a piece for dessert?”

  “Yeah. Actually, I’m not all that hungry. I’ll have a slice of that cake for lunch with a cup of coffee, please.”

  “Okay. Just let me finish icing it.” I hurried into the kitchen, completed frosting the cake, and cut Brooke a large slice. I drizzled some chocolate syrup onto a white dessert plate and put the slice of cake atop the syrup. I then took a paring knife, made a rose shape from a strawberry, and used that to garnish the side of the plate.

  I took the plate and set it and a fork in front of Brooke. I started to get the coffee, but Jackie gave me a nod that the cup she was filling was for our customer.

  “Oh, this looks scrumptious, Amy!” Brooke licked her lips. “But before I dig in, let me finish my story. The resident who died hadn’t had visitors for months. Then this distant relative began coming in to see her two to three times a week. Not long after that, our gal changed her will and left everything to her new best friend.”

  Jackie put Brooke’s coffee in front of her.

  “Thanks, Jackie. I was just telling Amy about this resident we had.” She reiterated the story to Jackie.

  Jackie glanced at me, and I was proud of her for not rolling her eyes. The concept of making a long story short had always eluded Brooke.

  “So, anyway,” Brooke continued, “our resident died soon after changing her will. And she died following a visit from her new BFF, which raised the doctor’s suspicions. But it turned out that the woman had been put on a new medication by another of her doctors. She suffered a severe allergic reaction, and that’s what killed her. I wonder if something like that might have happened to George Lincoln.”

  “I couldn’t say.” Jackie walked off to check on some patrons who’d almost finished their meal.

  Brooke picked up her fork and dug into her cake. She had barely swallowed before saying, “Oh, my gosh! This is amazing!”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  Jackie returned to the counter. “You’d better go plate a few more pieces of cake. My customers at table four want two slices, and table three is eyeing Brooke’s piece pretty hungrily.”

  “I’m on it. Be back in a few, Brooke.”

  She nodded, her mouth too full to speak.

  • • •

  I was locking the door when Homer pulled his old pickup truck into the parking lot. I went back inside and got him a jar of jam.

  “Come on in and sit down,” I told him, locking the door after him and handing him the jam. “I don’t want anyone to think we’re still open.”

  “Good thinking . . . especially since I have a lot of sensitive information to share with you. Oh, and thanks for the jam.”

  “You’re welcome. Want some coffee?”

  “Naw,” he said. “You’ve already got everything cleaned up.”

  “How about a bottle of water?”

  “That I’ll take.”

  I went into the kitchen and got a bottle of water for each of us. When I returned, Homer had placed a small spiral notebook on the table in front of him.

  He accepted the water and then tapped the book. “I believe there are a lot of suspects in George Lincoln’s murder.”

  “If he was murdered,” I said with a shrug. “Everyone seems to think he died of natural causes.”

  “That’s what the killer would want us to think, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I guess it is.” I nodded toward the book. “So, what’ve you got?”

  “According to Mr. Lincoln’s secretary, Joyce—who is quite the chatterbox, by the way—Mr. Lincoln and his wife had recently separated. The secretary hinted that it was because of the couple’s financial problems.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If the Lincolns had financial problems, then why was he constantly trying to buy the café from me?”

  “Maybe he was trying to keep up appearances and kept offering knowing that you’d continue to turn him down.”

  “That’s possible,” I agreed.

  “Or maybe Mr. Lincoln had money but wasn’t giving Mrs. Lincoln what she felt should be her fair share. That could certainly make the lady angry enough to storm out of their home.”

  “So Mrs. Lincoln isn’t currently living at their home?”

  “I don’t think so . . . although she might move back in given the circumstances.”

  “Right.” I uncapped my bottle and took a long drink. “What else did you discover?”

  “I learned that Mr. Lincoln’s father died a few months ago. Mr. Lincoln was put in charge of the estate, and his younger brother wasn’t happy with how Mr. Lincoln was handling things. So there’s suspect number two.”

  “Suspect number one is the wife?” I asked.

  Homer nodded. “Suspect number three is the owner of the bookstore in town, Phil Poston. Phil and I go back a long way. I didn’t tell her that, though. So Joyce said she heard Phil and Mr. Lincoln arguing a couple of days ago. For the record, I think Phil is innocent, but I have to include him and not show partiality.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Wow. Three suspects. Who knew there’d be that many people who’d want to get rid of Mr. Lincoln?”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Homer said, raising an index finger. “We mustn’t forget suspect number four—the secretary. Everything she told me could have been a ruse to misdirect our suspicions. But we’re too smart for that.”

  I merely nodded.

  “As someone privy to all of George Lincoln’s business dealings—and apparently, many of his personal issues as well—Joyce is in the perfect position to be the puppet master of our investigation. So handle
her with caution.”

  “I certainly will,” I said. “Thank you, Homer.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  I realized he was claiming Antoine Rivarol as his hero today, but it appeared to me that he was still very much in Robert Urich as Spenser mode.

  • • •

  When I got home, I hugged Rory hello and then immediately took a shower. The thing about working in a café all day was that when you got home, you smelled like whatever you’d been cooking—good or bad. So I imagined that today I smelled like bacon and chocolate . . . which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I decided I’d rather smell like my honeysuckle body wash.

  After the shower, I went into the fancy room and sat down on the peacock blue chair and stretched my legs out on the ottoman. The fancy room had become my favorite room in the house. The floor lamp was beside my blue chair, so it was a wonderful reading nook. And the fainting couch in the middle of the room made it the perfect place to lie and think or watch videos on my tablet.

  I reached into the magazine basket to the left of my chair and got a recent issue of my favorite cooking magazine. It occurred to me that I should take food to George Lincoln’s wife. True, I didn’t know the family, but the man had died in my café. And he’d eaten there pretty regularly. I should pay my respects.

  I should probably pay my respects to George’s secretary too. According to Homer, she was a fount of information. Plus, I had met her when I’d first applied for membership in the Chamber of Commerce. She’d seemed like a nice enough person. To me anyway. Apparently, she’d struck Homer as a possible murderer. But, of course, I wasn’t the seasoned detective Homer gave the impression of being these days. I briefly wondered who his hero would be tomorrow.

  I thumbed through the magazine and saw a chicken cacciatore recipe that might be good to take to Mrs. Lincoln. If she didn’t want the meal for dinner tonight, she could put it in the freezer. I scanned the ingredient list and saw that I had everything on hand to make the dish.

  I took the magazine with me into the kitchen. As I fried the chicken breasts, I wondered what food to take to Mr. Lincoln’s secretary. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was almost five. I could still take Mrs. Lincoln’s dish to her, but I’d have to wait until Monday to take something to his secretary. At least, I didn’t think the Chamber of Commerce was open on Saturday. I’d check when I got back home to make sure. Either way, I decided to take her a pie from the pastry case after work either tomorrow or Monday afternoon.

  Once I’d finished the chicken cacciatore and transferred it to a foil baking pan with a cardboard cover, I looked online for the Lincolns’ address. It wasn’t hard to find. There was only one George Lincoln living—or rather, there’d been only one—near Winter Garden, Virginia.

  The Lincoln home was a stately two-story house with a circular driveway located just outside the town limits of Winter Garden. There were no vehicles in sight, and I realized I should’ve called before bringing the dish. After all, hadn’t Homer mentioned something about Mrs. Lincoln moving out? Still, I parked near the house, got out, and rang the doorbell just in case.

  The door was answered by a stout woman in a black dress with a white collar and cuffs. She wore black pumps. Her lavender-gray hair appeared to have been shellacked. It would take hurricane-force winds to make it move . . . and it would put up a fight even then.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Amy Flowers. I own the Down South Café.”

  “Where Georgie had his last meal . . . of course.” The woman raised a white lace handkerchief to her nose.

  “Are you Mrs. Lincoln?”

  “I am.” She stepped away from the door. “Please come in.”

  I did as she’d asked and handed her the baking dish. “It’s chicken cacciatore. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be delightful,” said Mrs. Lincoln.

  “If you don’t want it tonight, it should freeze very well.”

  “Well, I haven’t had dinner yet. I’ve been busy making the arrangements today. Of course, nothing will be finalized until the medical examiner releases Georgie.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry. Let’s not talk of that right now.” She looked down at the dish and then back up at me. “Would you please join me for dinner?”

  I felt uncomfortable accepting—after all, this woman was a complete stranger to me—but I felt even more uncomfortable declining. Why was this poor woman all alone the evening immediately following her husband’s death?

  “I’d love to,” I said.

  “Let’s eat in the kitchen.” She smiled slightly. “We don’t want to be formal, do we?”

  “Of course not.”

  She led me to an immaculate all-white kitchen with stainless steel appliances, where she got out plates, silverware, and glasses.

  “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” I said, realizing I hadn’t said so before now.

  “Thank you, dear. And thank you for dinner. This was awfully nice of you. So many people these days don’t hold to the old traditions.”

  I again wondered where her friends and family members were. “Do you and Mr. Lincoln have children?”

  She shook her head. “No, darling, we don’t. It was just the two of us. Both sets of parents are gone now. My sister lives in New Jersey and won’t be here until the arrangements are finalized. Georgie has a brother named Thomas who’ll be here tomorrow. He’ll stay until after the funeral.” She blew out a breath. “At least Thomas will get his way with all his father’s things now.”

  I said nothing to further that conversation and instead asked if it would be okay if I served our food.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I busied myself with putting food on our plates.

  “Should I toss a salad?” she asked. “I’ve realized I’m being a dreadful hostess.”

  “You aren’t a hostess tonight, Mrs. Lincoln. And I’m fine without a salad, but if you’d like one, please go ahead.”

  “No, I don’t really want one either.” She poured herself a glass of red wine. “Is wine okay, dear?”

  “Since I’m driving, I’d prefer water, please.”

  “Oh, sure.” She put ice in my glass and filled it with water. “Sorry for spouting off about Georgie’s brother. Their father died not too long ago, and Georgie was put in charge of the estate. He and his younger brother had butted heads over it more than once. I suppose most families do that when a parent dies.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry. Mr. Lincoln’s brother has now been dealt a double blow.”

  “Right. I suppose he has at that, hasn’t he?” She frowned for a moment and then her expression cleared. “Please tell me about Georgie’s last morning. Was he in a happy mood?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she interrupted.

  “We’d argued the evening before, you see, but I’d hate to think that he’d thought it serious enough to concern himself about it. We had spats now and then, but we always made up quickly.”

  I smiled slightly. It seemed there was something about me that always invited people to confide in me. Maybe they saw me as a bartender . . . but with food. “Well, I can tell you he enjoyed his breakfast. He had eggs, biscuits with strawberry jam, and bacon.”

  “That sounds like Georgie. That quack Dr. Kent was always telling him to watch his cholesterol levels, but Georgie never paid him any mind.”

  “Quack?” George Lincoln had appeared to have had a high opinion of Dr. Kent. But apparently, his wife didn’t share his assessment.

  “Don’t mind me. I guess Dr. Kent is competent enough, but I’ve just never cared for him. Georgie swore by the man, and I went to him once or twice for some minor ailments, but he never struck me as being all that competent. I mean, what esteemed physician works in the bottom portion of his home?”

  “How long has Dr. Kent been here in town?” I asked. “I’ve lived in
Winter Garden all my life, but we never had a physician before. Then I went away to college for a few years, and when I came back, there was the office in the house where Mrs. Crabtree had once lived. Still, I’d never met Dr. Kent until yesterday morning.”

  “He arrived here about four . . . four and a half years ago.” She dug her fork into her chicken cacciatore. “Yes, that sounds about right. If I’m not mistaken, the man moves around quite a bit. Makes you wonder.” She tasted her food. “Oh, darling, this is divine!”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I understand now why Georgie had begun to come dine at your café. He never went there to eat when it was operated by the Holman woman.”

  We spent the rest of the meal engaging in small talk, neither of us wanting to discuss her husband’s death. I felt sad for her because she had no other friends or family with her during this tragic time in her life. I hoped she’d had friends supporting her last night, but I certainly didn’t ask. And even if they’d been there last night, wasn’t there anyone close enough to Mrs. Lincoln to feel that she shouldn’t be alone yet?

  Chapter 5

  First thing Saturday morning, patrons started coming in and buying their baked goods, macaroni salad, potato salad, coleslaw, and chili to take to their personal Independence Day picnics. Few actually had time to eat breakfast. One person who did come for an early breakfast was Roger.

  Roger was just over five feet nine inches tall and was built like a football lineman. He had dark blond hair and brown eyes. He took a seat at the far end of the counter.

  I greeted him with a smile. “Morning, stranger! I haven’t seen you much since you completed the renovations on the café. That’s been what—two weeks ago?”

  “Yeah, I know. I need to stop by more often. Where’s Jackie?”

  “She’s in the back boxing up the last of her strawberry pies. They were really popular, so you’re lucky she put one aside for you.”

  He merely nodded.

  “In fact,” I continued, “the woman buying this last one said she bought one yesterday and it was so delicious that she wanted to stop by and get another before they were all gone.”