Silence of the Jams

by Gayle Leeson

  “Oh, sure. Phil and I go way back. He’s a good man.” Homer squinted. “Why do you ask?”

  I told Homer about Mr. Poston’s reaction to Joyce’s campaign flyers. “He doesn’t appear to like her at all.”

  “Well, they did have a file on him. When I talked with Joyce about Mr. Lincoln’s personal files, he was one of the people she mentioned.”

  “Right. But it was Mr. Lincoln’s file. That has nothing to do with Joyce.”

  Homer raised his brows and spread his hands.

  I wondered what Mrs. Lincoln had thought of her husband’s secretary. I made a mental note to ask her the next time I saw her.

  • • •

  When I arrived at the big house with groceries in tow, I noticed a strange car parked in the drive. Before I could place to whom it belonged, Dr. Kent came outside and took one of the grocery bags from me.

  “Let me help you there, my dear,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I did a quick inventory to guarantee I wouldn’t have to be rude and forgo inviting Dr. Kent to dinner. I had four salmon fillets, and since Jackie was having dinner with Roger, that would work out fine. Had Jackie been dining with Mom and Aunt Bess, I’d have said I had other plans after making them their dinner had Dr. Kent agreed to stay. Manners were everything in Winter Garden. To some of us anyway.

  “I dropped by to make sure your mother was still doing all right,” he said. “It looks as if you’re getting ready to prepare dinner.”

  “I am.” I opened the door for him. “Please join us.”

  “Oh, I’d hate to be an imposition.”

  “It’s no imposition at all. In fact, we’ll be hurt if you don’t.”

  “We sure will,” said Aunt Bess, coming into the kitchen to get a peek at the groceries. “Taylor has been so good to come by regularly and check on Jenna. The least we can do is provide him a delicious home-cooked meal.” She fluttered her lashes in his direction. “Unless, of course, there’s someone you need to get home to.”

  Dr. Kent had already explained that he was a widower. I supposed Aunt Bess was fishing to make sure the man had no girlfriend. She was truly impossible.

  “No, ma’am, I’ve been a bachelor for quite a while now. Too long, as a matter of fact.” I noticed that he looked in the direction of the door as he said that.

  Mom was coming in from the living room.

  Well, this was interesting. Aunt Bess was obviously smitten with the good doctor, and it looked as if he was smitten with Mom. And frankly, I felt that Dr. Kent was too old for Mom but too young for Aunt Bess. Then again, ninety percent of the population was too young for Aunt Bess, so maybe they were an okay match.

  “It’s generally our custom, Dr. Kent, to sit in the kitchen and chat with Amy while she cooks,” Mom said. “So pull up a chair.” She sat at her usual seat at the table.

  Dr. Kent chose the chair closest to Mom, and Aunt Bess pulled her chair around so that she was near the doctor too.

  “So, Dr. Kent, did you give Mom a clean bill of health?” I asked.

  “She’s doing very well,” he said.

  “I have been looking after her every waking moment,” said Aunt Bess.

  “And you are to be commended.”

  She smiled. “Aw, it was nothing. Then again, I shouldn’t say that. Actually, it was exhausting, but any loving relative would have done the same.”

  “What’re we having?” Mom asked.

  I gave them a rundown of the menu. Dr. Kent asked again whether he was imposing, and we all assured him that he wasn’t.

  “You’ve guaranteed that I’m fine and no longer in need of a nursemaid,” Mom said. “For that, Aunt Bess and I are both in your debt.”

  “I only regret that I’ll no longer have an excuse to drop in to see you,” he said.

  “You don’t need an excuse around here,” said Aunt Bess. “You’re welcome anytime.”

  Dr. Kent thanked her and asked me how business was going at the café. “I hope all that unpleasantness with George Lincoln hasn’t hurt your attendance.”

  Unpleasantness. I turned away to pour maple syrup into a glass bowl so Dr. Kent wouldn’t see that I was trying hard not to giggle. Even though I realized he was being mannerly, the fact that a physician would say unpleasantness rather than death somehow struck me funny.

  “It hasn’t seemed to have affected business at all,” I said at last as I measured soy sauce to add to the maple syrup. “I mean, people discuss it . . . and Mr. Lincoln’s brother has been in causing some commotion once or twice, but I don’t believe people are afraid to eat at the Down South Café.”

  “That’s a relief. You say George’s brother has been giving you trouble?”

  I nodded. “He’s determined to find out who’s responsible for George’s death.”

  “Who says anyone is responsible other than George himself?” he asked. “He certainly didn’t look after his health.”

  “True. But his death did strike the police as being suspicious enough to question everyone who was at the café that morning,” I said.

  “I believe some of them have been talked to—I mean, interrogated—twice,” said Aunt Bess.

  “Yes. I’ve spoken with Sheriff Billings myself. And I assured him that George’s behavior was characteristic of someone suffering a heart attack.” He frowned. “If that silly waitress hadn’t jumped to the conclusion that George was trying to say something as he was gurgling, this case would’ve been closed immediately and wouldn’t have caused you any further distress, Amy.”

  “It’s fine. Really.” I added garlic, salt, and pepper to my syrup mixture. “So I hope you like salmon, Dr. Kent.”

  “I certainly do! You know, salmon is rich in vitamins B12 and B6.” And then he was extolling the health benefits of salmon and the subject of George Lincoln was forgotten.

  Chapter 16

  With Rory lying on the sofa beside me, I was watching a sappy love story on television when Ryan called. I muted the TV before answering the phone.

  “Hi,” I said. “How’s everything going?”

  “Fine. I thought you might want to know that our medical examiner has released George Lincoln’s body to a funeral home in Bristol.”

  “Did he mention which funeral home?”

  “Pelham’s.”

  I thought for a second. Pelham’s was on the far end of Bristol, so it was about a forty-minute drive from Winter Garden. “I’ll look on their website for the arrangements since I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “And snoop,” Ryan teased.

  I gave a slight huff of indignation. “Yes, of course I’d like to know who killed George Lincoln, wouldn’t you? The longer his killer is on the loose, the longer the entire town is in danger.”

  He laughed. “I know. And I’m planning on being there too. Want to go together?”

  “Sure.” I was considering all the people who might serve as suspects in George Lincoln’s murder and who could possibly show up at the funeral home. “By the way, do you think I’m a bad judge of character?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know. Do you think you’re a bad judge of character?”

  “I’d never thought so until now.” I sighed. “What’s your impression of Joyce Kaye?”

  “I’ve only spoken with her a time or two—both in conjunction with this case—but she seems nice enough.”

  “She strikes me as a genuinely nice person”—aside from the fact that she was so pushy about her campaign materials—“but Mr. Poston and Homer think she had to have been in cahoots with George Lincoln regarding all those files he had on people.”

  “And that’s changed your opinion of her?” he asked.

  “Not necessarily. Oh, I don’t know. I just have to wonder if I’m being naïve to think that she wasn’t involved with whatever underhanded deals Mr. Lincoln might have had going
on.”

  “Take a breath and think about this for a moment. You worked for Lou Lou Holman, didn’t you?”

  I confirmed that I did.

  “Were you privy to her secret information, combination to her safe, details about what she did outside of work?” Ryan continued.

  “Well, no . . . but Joyce knew about the files.”

  “Knowing about them and being involved with Mr. Lincoln’s activities are two separate things. I’m not saying she wasn’t involved, but I believe you need more information before you’re able to determine that she was.”

  “You’re very logical,” I said. “You know that?”

  “I am with regard to most things.”

  “Really? What aren’t you logical about?”

  “There’s a certain café owner who drives all reasonable thought completely out of my head,” he said.

  After we’d ended the call, I still couldn’t stop smiling . . . even at a sad point in the movie.

  • • •

  The next morning, I put my laptop on the kitchen table and looked up the funeral home’s website while waiting for my toast to pop up. After giving George Lincoln’s obituary, visitors to the site were informed that Mrs. Lincoln would receive family and friends Saturday evening from five to seven o’clock with the funeral immediately following. A graveside service would take place on Sunday afternoon. I ordered flowers before leaving the site.

  I shut off the laptop and retrieved my toast. I put the toast on a saucer and poured a cup of coffee. I felt somber about Mr. Lincoln’s funeral. But I also needed to look at the event as an opportunity to help get him justice. He and I hadn’t been friends, but that didn’t mean his murderer shouldn’t be punished.

  At the funeral home, I could see the personal dynamic between Mrs. Lincoln and others who’d been involved in Mr. Lincoln’s life: his brother, Joyce, shop owners, friends, other family members. Maybe someone would be overcome with guilt and confess to the man’s murder. I highly doubted it, but it would be nice. It seemed that a black cloud had hung over the Down South Café since before I ever bought the place. I was ready for a sunny sky.

  I fed the pets and headed off to work. Not long after I got to the café, Jackie and Shelly arrived. I was doing the breakfast prep, so Jackie said she’d make the coffee while Shelly stocked the napkin dispensers. Shelly began regaling us with the antics that took place on a reality show she’d watched the night before, and we were all laughing when Jackie’s phone rang.

  She was at the counter and had her back to me, but I could tell from the way her shoulders stiffened that it wasn’t good news. She ended the call after speaking quietly and briefly. She placed her phone back into her pocket and dropped her head.

  “What was it, hon?” Shelly asked. “Everything all right?”

  I took off my gloves, walked slowly to where Jackie was standing, and placed a hand on her back.

  She turned toward me once she’d got her mask of stoicism firmly in place. “Renee took off. They’re wondering where they might find her.”

  “Go,” I said softly.

  “Go where? I don’t know where she is.”

  “I know you want to look for her . . . or at least be with Aunt Bess. Shelly and I can handle things for now, and maybe Donna can come in and give us a hand.”

  Jackie still looked hesitant but said, “I guess I should go see if Granny knows about this. If she does, she’s bound to be upset.”

  I nodded. Jackie was being strong and holding back tears. I had to be tough too . . . at least until after she left.

  • • •

  At ten a.m. on the dot, Homer came in for his sausage biscuit.

  “Good morning.” He sat at the counter and waved to me.

  I waved back as Shelly told Homer she’d get him a cup of coffee. After I’d finished cutting a potato into fries, I went out to visit with Homer.

  “Who’s your hero?”

  “John Fowles—he was a novelist.”

  I nodded. “I’ve heard of Fowles. He wrote The French Lieutenant’s Woman, didn’t he?”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “I’ve seen the movie. I thought it was kind of weird.”

  “As good as the movie was, you really need to read the book.”

  “I’ll add it to my list. Now, let me go and get your biscuit.”

  When I returned with his biscuit on a small plate with an orange slice and two cut strawberries for decoration—and for him to eat if he so chose, Homer studied my face.

  “You seem down today,” he said, lowering his voice despite the fact that we had only a few customers in at this time of day and none were paying any attention to us. “Is it because Mr. Lincoln’s body has been released for burial and you’re afraid the police won’t be able to find his killer now?”

  “No, it’s not that. You know my Aunt Renee—Jackie’s mom—admitted herself into rehab yesterday. Today the facility called and said that she’s left.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sipped his coffee. “But, you know, Renee must make this decision on her own. She has to do this for herself.”

  “I realize that. But I had such high hopes.”

  “I still do. I believe she’ll come around,” he said. “She’s probably frightened. Anyone would be.”

  I nodded.

  He patted my hand. “The most important questions in life can never be answered by anyone except oneself.”

  “Fowles?”

  “Of course.”

  I smiled and headed back to the kitchen. Homer was right, naturally. The only one who could give herself over fully to rehab and make the change was Aunt Renee. While our support was important, it was ultimately her battle to face alone. That would be scary. But I wanted so much for her to win that fight and get her family back.

  I was distracted by these thoughts when I went back to cutting potatoes into fries. And the paring knife slipped, and I sliced open my left thumb.

  I cried out, and Shelly came running. By the time she got there, I’d already slipped off my gloves and wrapped my thumb in a clean dishcloth.

  “Oh, honey! What’d you do?”

  “I just got a little cut. Would you get me a bandage, please? They’re in the first-aid kit on top of the refrigerator.”

  Shelly got the first-aid kit. “It looks like it’s bleeding pretty bad. Let me see.”

  She was right. The blood had already soaked through several layers of the dishcloth. When I unwrapped my thumb to take a peek, the sight made me queasy.

  “That’s gonna take more than a bandage.” She drew in her breath. “I’m afraid you need stitches.”

  “Let’s try the bandage first,” I said.

  She took a large bandage from the kit and secured it around my finger. Within seconds, blood had seeped through. I covered it with the dishcloth and applied as much pressure as I could bear.

  “I’m telling you, you need stitches!”

  “You might be right.”

  “What’s going on?” Homer called from behind the counter.

  “Amy cut herself and needs stitches.”

  “Come on, Amy,” he said. “I’ll run you up to Dr. Kent’s office.”

  I started to protest, but I was in pain and I wanted to get this bleeding stopped so I could get back to work. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “You will not,” Shelly said. “I’ll finish cutting up these fries, and Donna and I will manage for the rest of the day. She should be here any minute.”

  “I’ll be back,” I said firmly.

  Shelly took Homer aside and whispered to him. I had no doubt she was telling him not to bring me back to work. But she was making too much of the situation. I’d get my thumb patched up and be fine.

  “I can drive myself,” I told Homer.

  “The heck you can. What if y
ou were to pass out from blood loss or something? I’d never forgive myself.”

  So off we went to Dr. Kent’s office. Since it was less than two miles away, we were there in five minutes. To my throbbing thumb, it felt like an hour.

  Homer insisted that I wait for him to come around, open my door, and slip an arm around me. I was actually glad he did because I was beginning to feel a bit woozy.

  When we got inside the two-story brick house, a receptionist hopped up from behind a sturdy wooden desk. She was young, and I would later learn that she was an intern from a nearby college.

  “Dr. Kent!” she called. “We have an emergency!”

  “Be right there!” His voice came from the rear of the building. “Put the patient in Room Two, please!”

  “Right this way.” The receptionist put a steadying hand on my left shoulder as she led me into the room.

  In passing, I noticed one mortified-looking older man gaping at me. I felt the need to apologize for disrupting his appointment, but I didn’t have time to form the words before I was propelled into the exam room.

  The receptionist asked me what had happened, and I told her.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t. But I do know Dr. Kent. I mean— “

  Before I could explain, Dr. Kent burst into the room. “Why, Amy Flowers! What have you done to yourself?”

  Once again, I relayed the story of my clumsiness.

  He clucked his tongue as he gingerly held out my hand and removed first the dishcloth and then the bandage. “Yikes, you did a number on this thumb. I’ve seen your deftness with a knife. What caused you to slip?”

  “I had a lot on my mind, I guess. Jackie got a call this morning that her mom had left the rehab facility.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “But, you know, I warned you that it was apt to happen.”

  “I know. Do you think she’ll go back?”

  He turned to get some gauze pads and a cleansing solution. “She might. I hope she will. Running hasn’t been very beneficial to her life so far, has it?” He sat on a rolling stool and cleaned my thumb.

  I winced. “Will I need stitches?”