by Gayle Leeson
On my way to the grocery store, I’d drive by Mrs. Lincoln’s house. If there weren’t a bunch of cars in the driveway, I’d stop and visit with Mrs. Lincoln for a moment. But if there appeared to be several people there, I’d simply run my errand and talk with her some other time.
I made a list of the ingredients I would need to make a double batch of the baked beef and cheese pasta dish. Then I grabbed my keys and was off.
It was stiflingly hot in the Bug. I pulled my hair into a ponytail—I didn’t have on a pretty dress, so maybe Aunt Bess wouldn’t be too incensed—and put all the windows down. When I drove by the Lincoln home, there were no cars in the drive. Maybe Mrs. Lincoln wasn’t home yet. Either way, I thought it couldn’t hurt to go up and knock on the door. I took my hair down and fluffed it a bit, just in case.
Mrs. Lincoln answered the door almost immediately. “Amy, how lovely of you to stop by.”
“I don’t want to intrude, but I felt the need to apologize for leaving so abruptly yesterday evening.”
“You aren’t intruding, and you have nothing to apologize for. Please come in.” She moved back.
I stepped inside and then followed her to the living room. She indicated I should take a seat on the sofa, so I did. She sat on the armchair.
“Would you like some coffee or tea?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Are you? I was truly concerned about you last night.”
“I’m as right as rain today, I assure you. Ryan took me to the doctor’s office last night, and Dr. Kent said I’d be fine. I’m sure I overreacted. It just scared me when I realized I hadn’t taken an aspirin but a prescription medication.”
“I’ve a good mind to call Joyce Kaye and tell her what I think of her pulling such a devious trick on you.”
“Oh, please don’t,” I said. “I believe Joyce was only trying to be helpful. She probably didn’t realize how dangerous it could have been.”
Mrs. Lincoln scoffed. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, dear.”
“You don’t seem to care much for Joyce.”
“I don’t like the woman at all. She was far too involved in Chamber business for my taste. She didn’t simply do her job and mind her own business like secretaries are supposed to do. She questioned everything Georgie did. She asked him how to do things. And now she’s running for his job before he’s even cold in the ground!”
“Gee, I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“If you ask me,” Mrs. Lincoln continued, “Joyce Kaye was gunning for my Georgie’s job all along.”
“Do you think it was Joyce who was trying to get hold of those personal files?”
“No. That wasn’t Joyce. I imagine whoever that person was simply didn’t want people knowing whatever was in the file Georgie had on him or her.” She leaned forward. “Between you and me, I believe Joyce had her own copies of the files all along. Everybody thought that poor Joyce had to work for that corrupt George Lincoln, when the truth of the matter was that the two of them worked together to get what they wanted in that office.”
At my shocked expression, Mrs. Lincoln quickly amended herself.
“Not that I think my Georgie was corrupt, mind you. And I don’t think there was anything other than business going on between him and Joyce Kaye. But Joyce knew everything that went on.” Her face suddenly relaxed as if a thought had just occurred to her. “I can’t say for sure, Amy, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that Joyce killed my husband.”
“Oh, Mrs. Lincoln, I think my coming here has upset you. And that was certainly not my intention.”
“You didn’t upset me at all, dear. It was nice to be able to vent to someone.” She smiled slightly. “And, you know, you really do gain clarity when you talk things out, don’t you?”
• • •
I was feeling a little shaken when I left Mrs. Lincoln’s house. Maybe she felt better and had conviction that Joyce had killed her husband, but I wondered if I might’ve inadvertently added fuel to the flame where Mrs. Lincoln’s dislike of Joyce was concerned. Would Mrs. Lincoln now try to convince the police of Joyce’s guilt?
But then, if Joyce wasn’t guilty, she should be fine. Right? A niggling voice in the back of my mind quoted some made-up statistic about every other person on death row being innocent.
I was on my way to the grocery store when I noticed that the light was on in the bookstore. Mr. Poston was never open on Sunday. I pulled into a parking spot on the street in front of the building, got out, and went to knock on the door.
Mr. Poston came to the door, unlocked it, and opened it slightly. “Whatcha need, Amy?”
“Is everything all right? I was just passing by and saw your light, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m doing inventory.” He opened the door wide, looked to make sure there was no one else on the street, and then gestured me inside. “Come on in and tell me what you’re really doing here.”
“I really did want to make sure you were okay.”
“But . . .” He prompted.
“Um . . . well. I’m just kinda torn about something.”
“Talk while we walk, cupcake.”
I explained to Mr. Poston about stopping by Mrs. Lincoln’s house. Then I had to back up and tell him about Joyce giving me one of her prescription pills.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re smarter than that.”
“When she handed it to me, I thought it was an aspirin.”
“You’re still smarter than that. But keep going with your story. I’m burning daylight here.”
“Well, now Mrs. Lincoln is convinced that Joyce was neck deep in anything going on in the Chamber of Commerce office,” I said. “I mean, she tried to backtrack and say that she doesn’t believe her husband was doing anything wrong, but that if he was, Joyce was certainly involved.”
“You didn’t set that ship to sail,” said Mr. Poston. “She’s always thought Joyce was involved in everything going on in that office. And I’m inclined to agree.”
“But now that I told her about Joyce giving me one of her prescription medications without telling me it wasn’t aspirin, Mrs. Lincoln also thinks that Joyce murdered her husband. What if the police start investigating Joyce because of this?”
“Then that might be a very good thing.”
“Joyce has always struck me as a nice person. What am I missing?” I asked.
“That’s an easy one. You haven’t stood in the way of something she wants yet. She once wanted to run for a position on the school board, and I expressed interest in it too. She”—he waved his hands—“jokingly told me that she loved to read and that it would be too bad if I no longer had a store here.”
“Do you honestly think she intended to do something to damage your store’s reputation?”
“No. I honestly think she was more inclined to set the place on fire. I wasn’t afraid of her, by any means, but it wasn’t worth the hassle to me. I dropped out of the race.”
“I take it she didn’t win anyway?”
“Nope . . . beaten by a former teacher that everybody loved.”
“That’s good. So Joyce has always had political aspirations,” I mused. “Maybe Mrs. Lincoln wasn’t wrong about her after all.”
“And maybe you’ll want to reconsider that poster taped to your door.”
• • •
I was finally on my way home from the grocery store run when Ryan called and asked me if I’d like to go with him to get a milkshake. I told him I’d love to, and he said he’d pick me up at my house. Fortunately, I got there before he did, and I’d nearly gotten all the groceries put away before he arrived.
“So are you cooking up something special in the café tomorrow?” he asked, looking around the kitchen at the bags I
was in the process of emptying.
“I am—baked beef and cheese pasta. I’m doing a test run with free samples tomorrow, and if it’s a hit, I’ll make it the special of the day on Tuesday.”
“It sounds great to me. I hope it gets a spot on Tuesday’s menu.”
I smiled. “I’ll save you some from tomorrow’s batch so that you’re covered either way.”
“How’s the thumb feeling?” he asked.
“It feels a lot better today. That migraine pill must’ve done me more good than I realized.” At his disapproving look, I laughed and told him I was only kidding. “I haven’t had to take anything stronger than my usual over-the-counter remedy today.”
“I’m glad. Those prescription painkillers really knocked you for a loop.”
“I know. I don’t have to take any kind of medication very often, and I guess my system just can’t accommodate it,” I said.
I finished putting away the groceries, locked up the house, and Ryan and I went to the ice cream parlor in Meadowview. He had the top down on the car, and it was a beautiful balmy night.
When Ryan pulled into the parking lot, I saw a truck that looked like the one Roger drove.
“I think Jackie and Roger might be here,” I said. I hoped he’d want to join them. He’d only met them socially a few times, and the Independence Day dance didn’t present any of our family in the best light.
We went inside, and sure enough, Jackie and Roger were sitting at a table enjoying sundaes. They waved us over.
“Hi,” Jackie said. “Great minds think alike.”
“Apparently,” I said.
“Care to join us?” Roger asked.
I looked at Ryan.
“Sure,” he said. “Let me go order our milkshakes, and I’ll be right back.”
Ryan went up to the counter, and I sat down across from Jackie. When Ryan returned with his chocolate and my strawberry milkshake, Jackie and I entertained him and Roger with talk about Aunt Bess’s Pinterest boards for a few minutes.
“She made me feel kinda bad when I pulled my hair into a ponytail earlier today,” I said.
Jackie laughed. “Bless your heart.”
“The more you’re around her, the more you’ll see that Aunt Bess is one of a kind,” Roger told Ryan.
“I don’t doubt that.” He glanced at me. “Her niece is one of a kind herself.”
“Oh, no. Here we go.” Roger groaned, and I blushed.
Wanting to get the spotlight off Ryan and me, I told them all about talking with both Mrs. Lincoln and Mr. Poston this afternoon.
“Mrs. Lincoln is convinced that Joyce has criminal tendencies and that she probably murdered George, and Mr. Poston seems to agree—at least, about the criminal tendencies part,” I said. “I’m wondering if I should withdraw my support for Joyce’s campaign?”
“Had that been my café, I wouldn’t have let her put up that tacky poster to begin with,” Jackie said. “But that’s just me.”
“I know, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s been nothing but nice to me.”
“Except for last night when she slipped you a prescription medication she took from an aspirin bottle,” Ryan added.
Jackie flattened her palms on the table. “What? She did what?”
“Well, she didn’t exactly slip me the medication.” I shot a sharp glance at Ryan. “I took it willingly. I just thought it was an aspirin. If anything, it was my fault for not making sure I knew what I was ingesting.”
“No,” Jackie said. “That woman should have said, ‘Here. Take this medicine the doctor gave me for pain’ or whatever. But she didn’t. That’s on her.”
People at other tables were casting wary glances in our direction.
“Jackie, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Roger put his arm around her. “You heard her. She’s good.”
“I know, but the fact that people are so cavalier about drugs makes me crazy.” Jackie lowered her voice. “Even if Joyce really thought she was helping Amy, she had no knowledge of Amy’s medical history. She didn’t know what that drug could do to her.”
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds while Ryan and I sipped our shakes and Roger dug back into his sundae. Finally, Ryan said, “So, we take down the poster?”
“Definitely,” Jackie said with a hint of a smile. “I’m taking it down myself first thing tomorrow morning. And if Joyce asks, you can honestly say that you don’t know what I did with it.”
Chapter 22
By the time I arrived at the café Monday morning, Jackie had already got there and taken down Joyce’s poster. I walked through to the kitchen and hung my purse on a hook. Jackie was dicing potatoes into shoestrings for hash browns.
“Aren’t you the early bird this morning?” I asked with a grin.
She shrugged. “No biggie. I wanted to get started on these hash browns. I thought you might not be quite ready to wield a paring knife again.”
“Not to mention the fact that you wanted to rip that poster off the door.”
“Well, there is that too.” She smirked. “You can do whatever you want with the flyers, but that tacky poster is history.”
“I only hope Joyce doesn’t think I took it down because I was angry about the medicine incident.”
“If she wants to know who took it down, I’ll tell her I did. Besides, you have every right to be angry with her.”
“You didn’t mention anything about the prescription medicine to Mom or Aunt Bess, did you?” I asked.
“No. I stayed at my place last night, so I didn’t see either of them after lunch. I wouldn’t have mentioned it anyway. They’ve had enough on their minds with Renee.”
“I know. And I realize that’s why you got so upset about it.”
“Darn right it is. That attitude of ‘Oh, what can it hurt?’ is how my mom wound up with drug and alcohol addictions.” She blew out a breath. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so preachy—and I know you take matters like that seriously. It just made me go ballistic to think that Joyce would give you something without knowing how it might affect you.”
“Do you think Joyce is a bad person or that she was simply trying to help me feel better?”
“I’m not saying she’s the evil queen or anything. But I do think she behaved carelessly.”
I didn’t say anything, but I was still pondering the question of whether or not Mrs. Lincoln truly believed Joyce murdered George and trying to decide if I thought Joyce was capable of such an act myself.
“Hey,” Jackie said.
I looked back up into her eyes. “Hmm?”
“I seriously doubt Joyce killed her boss.”
“Yeah. Me too. I think.” I drew my brows together. “But if she didn’t, who do you think did?”
Before Jackie could answer me, Shelly arrived.
“Morning, gals! Did y’all see Once Upon a Time last night? It was a repeat, but it was a good one!”
As Shelly gave us details about the show—which Jackie and I had both seen in its original run—Jackie continued making hash browns and I made coffee.
• • •
Donna came in to relieve Shelly at noon, and the samples of the baked beef and cheese pasta went over even better than I’d anticipated. Before closing up for the day, I wrote it up as the special of the day on our whiteboard. The special of today had been chicken and dumplings. That dish was always a big hit.
Since the Down South Café patrons had enjoyed the baked beef and cheese pasta samples—I’d barely managed to save Ryan the serving I’d promised him—I was headed back to the grocery store for more ingredients. But since I’d had Joyce Kaye on my mind all day, I intended to stop at the Chamber of Commerce before going to the store.
The police department was housed in the same building as the Chamber of Commerce, so I
took Ryan his dish before going to talk with Joyce. I expected Sheriff Billings to be cool to me, since he usually was, but today his eyes brightened and he came out from behind his desk when I walked in.
“Well, good afternoon, Amy! What’ve you brought for us today?”
Uh-oh. Since I’d brought dinner for the entire crew a few days ago, he thought I was bringing them something else. But surely, he could see that I only carried the one small dish.
My wide eyes sought out Ryan. I finally spotted him coming toward me from my right.
“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “Amy has brought us a new dish she’s sampling for the Down South Café.”
I nodded woodenly.
Ryan took my elbow. “Let’s take this into the break room and let the chef heat it up for us, and we’ll give her our opinion.”
“It sure does smell good,” said Sheriff Billings, following Ryan and me into the break room.
“It actually went over very well at the café today,” I said. “This was all I could manage to save. So it’s going to be the special of the day tomorrow.”
I put the dish into the microwave and heated it up. When I turned back around, two other employees had joined us and were holding paper plates. I gave each person a spoonful of the baked pasta, and waited for their verdicts.
An older man declared it to be a “wee bit on the spicy side” but said he still liked it. Ryan said it was every bit as good as he’d thought it would be when I’d first told him about it. And Sheriff Billings said it was delicious.
“Amy, could I call in a lunch order and have somebody pick it up tomorrow?” he asked. “We can’t always get away from the station, but this beats my bologna sandwich all to pieces.”
“I’ll be happy to prepare an order for you. Just give us a call or send a text or e-mail.”
“I still prefer the good, old-fashioned landline myself.” He stepped back over to the bowl. “Hall, let’s you and me have another helping.”
“I’ll let you get back to work,” I said. “Thank you for being my taste-testers.”
“Anytime,” said Ryan.
Sheriff Billings—his mouth too full to speak—simply nodded.
