Silence of the Jams

by Gayle Leeson

  “Um . . . yeah. I’ll put them here behind the counter until I get a break, and then I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s okay. I can put the poster up now.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a roll of transparent tape. “And where would you like the flyers?”

  “I’ll put them here by the register.” Whoa. Pushy. I didn’t really want the poster right there on the front door. I thought it was tacky. But I didn’t want to argue with her, so I simply took the flyers she handed me and placed them to the right of the cash register. “By the way, has Thomas Lincoln been back to the Chamber office?”

  “No, why?”

  “He’s been in here twice. He has a lot of questions about his brother’s death.”

  She tsked. “Well, that’s just rude, coming in here and asking you a bunch of questions while you’re trying to run a business.”

  I nodded. “He demanded that I tell him why Pete Holman wouldn’t sell the café to his brother. He also believes that Mrs. Lincoln is responsible for George’s selfish behavior and said that the couple had been having marital problems over money.” Okay, so he’d said that last part last night at Mrs. Lincoln’s house, not here at the café. But I wanted to see what Joyce thought of his accusations, and I couldn’t very well tell her what had happened last night.

  “That’s terrible. I hope he didn’t run off any of your diners.”

  “No. In fact, they seemed to enjoy the show.”

  “Well, I think he’s crazy if he thinks Mrs. Lincoln was behind the couple’s financial difficulties. I lay that squarely on George Lincoln’s shoulders. He was the selfish one, and if Thomas thinks otherwise, then he’s either kidding himself or he didn’t know his brother as well as he thought he did.”

  “I hope Thomas Lincoln finds another place to eat from now on. He makes me nervous. Just be careful. I wouldn’t put it past him to visit you at the Chamber of Commerce office again to see if there’s anything more you can tell him about his brother’s death.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “He’d better not threaten me. I’m not as defenseless as I look.” She shook off the scowl and smiled. “Thanks again for your support. I’d better get to work.”

  Not long after Joyce had left, Dilly came in and sat at the counter. I heard Shelly greet her and take her breakfast order. As usual, Dilly ordered an extra biscuit for her pal, the raccoon.

  Dilly, a regular who was one of our first customers on most mornings, lived near a densely wooded area. For quite some time now, there had been a raccoon coming down out of the woods to Dilly’s back porch and begging for a biscuit every evening shortly after sundown. Dilly said that he’d accept a shortbread cookie on occasion, but he preferred his biscuits.

  As Shelly got Dilly her coffee, I went out to speak with the older patron. She likely had known everyone who’d ever lived in Winter Garden, and I wanted to get her opinion about the Lincolns.

  “Good morning, Dilly!”

  “Hi, there! I forgot to tell Shelly, but I want some strawberry jam on my biscuit—the one that’s for me, I mean.”

  “I’ll be sure to give you some on the side so you can use as much as you’d like.” I lowered my voice. “May I ask you a quick question? What’s your opinion of George Lincoln and his wife? Would you characterize either of them as being selfish?”

  “Oh, goodness yes, dear. The Lincolns are the most selfish people I’ve ever known. Now Mrs. Lincoln wasn’t from here originally, so I don’t know anything about her family, but I know that George’s family were all money hungry.”

  “Really? Thomas too?”

  “All of them. My mother used to kid that we oughtn’t pass the collection plate to the Lincolns in church because they’d take out rather than put in.” She chuckled. “Now, I don’t know whether that was true or not, but that’s the kind of reputation the Lincolns had. Of course, that was George and Thomas’s grandparents, but I figure those two apples didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Well, it appears Mr. Lincoln did well for himself. He has an awfully nice house.”

  Dilly nodded. “I understand that his daddy built that for him.”

  “So George and Thomas’s father was rich then?”

  “Richer than I’ll ever be,” she said.

  As I returned to the kitchen to prepare Dilly’s breakfast, I thought about what she’d said. If the Lincoln patriarch left a sizable estate, no wonder Thomas and George had been fighting over it. Was the estate large enough that Thomas would kill to keep it all for himself?

  • • •

  When Homer came in, he immediately asked, “Have you gone into politics?”

  I smiled. “Hardly. But Joyce brought the poster and some flyers in and asked if I’d display them. I said I would. I believe she’s running uncontested, but I’m not sure. Have you heard?”

  “I have no idea. How much does the job pay? I might throw my hat into the ring.”

  “I don’t know how much being the president of the Chamber of Commerce pays,” I said. “But if you run, I’ll be fair and put your poster up right beside Joyce’s.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not inclined to run for office.”

  “Who’s your hero today?”

  “Benjamin Disraeli. Now there’s a politician for you—he served as British prime minister twice, was the first Earl of Beaconfield. He would’ve sure given Joyce Kaye a run for her money.”

  “I imagine you’re right about that.” I must’ve been frowning because Homer asked why I was making such a face. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about some things Joyce and Dilly said when they were in earlier this morning. Not at the same time—I mean, they didn’t come in together or anything.” I backed up and explained to Homer that when Joyce had come in with her campaign materials, she’d said that George Lincoln was responsible for his and Mrs. Lincoln’s financial problems. But when I’d asked Dilly about the Lincolns, she’d said that George and Thomas’s father had left a sizable estate.

  “As one of the only two heirs to a sizable estate, why would George Lincoln have financial problems?” I asked.

  Homer shrugged. “Maybe he’d run up so much debt that not even his dad’s money could pay it all off. Or maybe Mr. Lincoln had squandered his money before he died and the estate had been greatly reduced. After I have my sausage biscuit, I’ll go over to the newspaper office and talk with Ms. Peggy. She knows everything about everything.”

  “That’s true.” I smiled. “But you don’t have to do that.”

  “It could be enlightening. And as Disraeli once said, justice is truth in action,” he said. “Perhaps if we can learn the truth about the estate or about whatever else it could be that George Lincoln was hiding, we can find justice for his murder.”

  I went to fry the sausage patty for Homer’s biscuit and heard Jackie come in. She thanked Shelly for coming in for her and then came into the kitchen to tell me that she’d got her mother settled into the rehab facility on the outskirts of Winter Garden.

  “It’s a nice place,” Jackie said. “It doesn’t look like a . . . you know . . . like a clinic or anything. It looks more like a home.”

  “That’s good. Are you allowed to visit?”

  “Not until after she’s evaluated. Plus, Granny and I will have to attend a family workshop prior to visiting, and they encourage the visits during the latter part of treatment.”

  “Could Mom and I attend the family workshop too?” I asked.

  “Really? You’d want to do that?”

  “Of course! I mean, I would, and I’m fairly sure Mom will want to too.”

  She smiled. “I really think Mom is trying to get on the right path, and I believe this place can help her do it.”

  Mom. Not Renee.

  “And do you think your mom will stay in Winter Garden after she completes rehab?”

  “I don’t k
now. I’m taking the entire situation in baby steps—not even one day at a time, but an hour at a time.”

  I finished up Homer’s sausage biscuit and put it on a plate, and Jackie took it out to him. I got out the ingredients for the meat loaf I was making as the special of the day. As I mixed together the ingredients, I reflected on how happy Jackie had sounded. I desperately hoped that Aunt Renee wouldn’t let her down.

  • • •

  Ryan did come in for lunch. I asked Jackie to cover the grill for me for a few minutes so I could talk with him. We sat at a table near the window. The other patrons we had at the time were on the patio.

  “I’m glad you made it,” I said.

  “You know how I love your meat loaf.”

  I smiled. “I have good news.” I told him about Aunt Renee going to rehab. “She even asked Jackie to drive her. I feel like that’s a good first step for both of them.”

  “I agree,” he said. “Just be careful not to get your hopes up too high.”

  “True.” I nodded, forcing a more serious expression onto my face.

  “Too late.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  He leaned closer and whispered, “Mrs. Lincoln is back home.”

  “Really? Did she give a reason for her lie about going to her sister’s house? And did she tell you where she’s been?”

  “Neither. Since she hasn’t done anything wrong and hasn’t asked for police protection, we have no right to ask her where she’s been.”

  “I just find the whole thing odd,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  “Definitely. But the sheriff had called and left a message on her phone telling her that he is releasing George’s body tomorrow, so maybe Mrs. Lincoln came home to finalize the funeral arrangements.”

  “So you think she might be planning to leave again afterwards?”

  Jackie brought Ryan’s meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and biscuits over to the table. “Need a refill on your soda?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  When Jackie went back to the kitchen, Ryan answered my question. “We’re not sure what she’s planning on doing. But unofficially, we’re keeping an eye on her.” He eyed the display case. “What kinds of pie do you have today?”

  “Lemon meringue, coconut cream, peanut butter, and apple. We also have a caramel cake.”

  “I believe I’ll go for that peanut butter pie, please,” he said.

  I smiled and pushed back my chair. “Coming right up.”

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Poston, the bookseller, came into the café for apple pie and vanilla ice cream at around two o’clock that afternoon. He sat down at the counter and gave Jackie a disapproving shake of his head.

  “I can’t believe y’all allowed Joyce Kaye to put one of her stupid campaign posters on your door,” he said.

  “Why?” I came out of the kitchen to see why Joyce’s poster had Mr. Poston so worked up.

  “Because in my opinion, she’s every bit as bad as George Lincoln. I certainly didn’t let her put any of her propaganda up in my shop.”

  “Would you like coffee with your pie, Mr. Poston?” Jackie asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “What makes you think that Joyce is as bad as Mr. Lincoln was?” I asked.

  “She knew everything that went on in that office, Amy. If she wasn’t a party to every underhanded thing George Lincoln did, then why didn’t she leave?”

  Jackie put the coffee in front of him. “Jobs are pretty hard to come by around here.”

  “Sure,” he said, stirring cream and sugar into his coffee. “But she could’ve looked outside Winter Garden to find a job. Most of the people who live here work somewhere else.”

  “That’s true. Maybe she was simply biding her time until she could run against him,” I said.

  “She didn’t have to be an employee of the Chamber to run against Lincoln in an election,” said Mr. Poston. “Besides, she’d worked there for—what—five years? Why didn’t she run against him in all that time?”

  Neither Jackie nor I had an answer for that.

  “I don’t trust Joyce Kaye as far as I could throw her,” he continued.

  “Why don’t you run against her?” Jackie asked. “I think you’d be a fine candidate for Chamber of Commerce president.”

  “I don’t have the time or the inclination to run the Chamber of Commerce.” He blew out a breath. “But if Joyce Kaye is the only alternative, I’ll see if I can’t find someone willing to run against her.”

  • • •

  After work, I drove straight up to the big house to check on Mom. She was doing well, although I could tell that being in Aunt Bess’s care was beginning to wear on her nerves.

  “Aunt Bess, now that I’m here, why don’t you take a little break?” I smiled. “I’m sure you could use one.”

  “Well, as much as it pains me to admit it, your mother isn’t the easiest patient to care for.”

  I saw Mom’s lips tighten.

  “Mom, let’s go outside and get some fresh air and sunshine.”

  Mom stood and accompanied me to the door.

  “Don’t stay out there too long, Jenna!” Aunt Bess called. “And, Amy, watch her for any signs that she’s getting dizzy.”

  We stepped out onto the porch, and I grinned at Mom. “I think she’s enjoying playing mother hen.”

  “Too much. I’ve tried to tell her I’m fine, but she refuses to believe me.” She walked over to one of the wicker rockers that was farthest from the living room. “I don’t know why she’s making such a fuss.”

  I sat on the chair beside the one Mom had chosen. “Maybe she feels guilty because she left you lying on the guest room floor unconscious.”

  “She didn’t know she was leaving me in that condition.”

  “No, but she does now.” I playfully nudged her shoulder. “Just give it a day or so. Before you know it, Aunt Bess will be back to her cantankerous self, and you’ll miss the attention.”

  “I highly doubt that, but I really have no choice but to let the nursemaid role play itself out.” She began to slowly rock in the chair as a wind chime tinkled on the other side of the porch. “Jackie drove Renee to the rehab center this morning . . . but, of course, you probably already know that.”

  “I do. Jackie was really excited that Aunt Renee agreed to go. She even slipped and called Aunt Renee Mom.”

  Mom’s head whipped toward me. “She did?”

  I nodded. “I hope Aunt Renee will truly get her act together this time.”

  “So do I. She’s hurt Aunt Bess and Jackie enough. More than enough.”

  She’s hurt you more than enough too. I didn’t say the words aloud, but Mom knew me so well that she likely realized I was thinking them.

  • • •

  I’d left Mom and Aunt Bess with the promise that I’d be there to cook dinner later. Neither Mom nor I wanted Aunt Bess anywhere near the stove. I went home and checked my refrigerator, freezer, and pantry.

  I had some salmon fillets that I could defrost in the microwave, and there was a maple salmon recipe I’d been wanting to try. I pulled the recipe up on my phone to make sure I had all the ingredients. I didn’t. I needed soy sauce and garlic.

  Since I had to go to the grocery store anyway, I decided to get some baby carrots and rice to go along with the main dish. And for dessert, a chocolate and vanilla trifle.

  I was making out my grocery list when my doorbell rang. Rory sailed through the doggy door that led from the backyard and raced through the house, barking all the way. I peeped out the side window and saw that my visitor was Homer. I opened the door and invited him inside.

  “Hi, there,” I said. “Come on in.”

  As he stepped into the living room, I asked if he’d like something to drink.

 
“No, thanks. I only stopped by to tell you what Ms. Peggy said about the Lincolns.”

  I sat on the sofa, and he perched on the armchair across from me. After greeting Rory, Homer explained that Ms. Peggy confirmed what Dilly had said about the Lincoln family always having money and being materialistic.

  “But Ms. Peggy says all that living high on the hog came to a screeching halt nigh on seven years ago,” Homer said.

  I leaned forward. “What happened then?”

  “Mrs. Lincoln—George’s mother—got ill. She was sick for a really long time, and her health care ultimately wiped out nearly all of that Lincoln money.”

  “But didn’t the family have insurance?” I asked.

  “For a lot of it. But according to Ms. Peggy, Mrs. Lincoln was bedfast for several months, and the family hired two full-time nurses to stay with her. That was something their policy apparently didn’t cover.”

  “I wouldn’t think a family as proud as the Lincolns would want word getting around about their financial situation,” I mused. “How did Ms. Peggy know what was going on?”

  “The Lincolns began taking out classified ads selling off some of their furniture. Ms. Peggy said she didn’t think much about it until the family sold an antique Chippendale cabinet that she knew full well had been one of Mrs. Lincoln’s favorite pieces.”

  “How sad.”

  Homer nodded. “Ms. Peggy said that’s when she realized not only how sick Mrs. Lincoln must be but what dire straits the family had to be in to sell off that cherished antique cabinet.”

  I frowned. “Did Ms. Peggy say anything about the family rebounding and gaining back their fortune? Like maybe an upswing in the stock market or something of that nature?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I can’t help but wonder why the Lincoln brothers had been fighting over the estate if there wasn’t that much to haggle over.”

  “People can be pretty self-centered,” he said. “Maybe there are other valuable antiques that weren’t sold off.”

  “Maybe.” I leaned back against the sofa cushions. “By the way, you know Mr. Poston, the bookseller, don’t you?”