Lance rocked slowly in his chair. “True. I lived in Texas. But the sheriff kept meticulous notes on everything.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Sheriff Vargas I know. If you’ve got good records, it’s because of his office manager.”
Lance watched a car go by before he answered. “Doesn’t matter who recorded the information. The upshot is that both men have a criminal history.”
The following silence was freighted with meaning. I leapt from each cookie crumb of information he’d shared with mounting concern. Speeding tickets and school pranks weren’t stepping-stones to murder. “Neither of them ever touched their mom with intent to harm. Chili wouldn’t do that. He held his mother in high esteem. He would do anything for her.”
The deputy sat there, poker-faced and still, waiting for me to spill my guts. I no longer believed information sharing helped Chili, not if Lance twisted the facts to frame my friend. I let the silence build between us.
“What’s the deal with Estelle’s ashes?” he asked, his dark eyes laser sharp. “I saw you carrying the urn to your van.”
Did he think I took them without permission? I wasn’t liking this roundabout interrogation. “The request surprised me, but Pastor Debra insisted.” Wait a minute. He was supposed to be information sharing with me. I could fish for information, same as he was doing. “Those two men who claim to be Estelle’s relatives, you decided to research them?”
“Checking into them now. I’ll let you know if anything turns up. Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d give those gentlemen a wide berth.”
“Not a problem for me, unless they attend the Beville’s golden wedding anniversary next week. Gloria Beville’s daughter asked me to recreate their original wedding cake for the centerpiece of their Lowcountry Boil.”
“Doug coming home to help you with that one?”
I wish my brother was done with his training. “Not yet. He’s pretty much stuck there for the whole term until he passes all the certification testing. But I did the Chamber dinner by myself. I can do this one too.”
Lance’s face took on a calculating expression. “You have all the equipment you need?”
Where was he going with this? Did he think I didn’t know my profession? “I’ve catered this meal plenty of times. All the prep work is done ahead of time. Then it’s a matter of sequentially adding the food to the pot and monitoring the cook time.”
“That’s on Thursday, right?”
“Yeah. Were you invited?”
“Yes. I plan to attend, so I can lend you a hand.”
My first impulse was to argue with him. I didn’t want to spend time with him socially, but an extra set of hands would be nice. “Well, okay.”
“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”
I scowled at him. “Extra help is often more trouble than it’s worth. Say, Garnet mentioned Chili kept his charter bookings on his phone calendar. Any chance of loaning me his phone to notify his clients?”
“Not a chance,” Lance said, “because I don’t have it. His phone is missing.”
“Didn’t know that.” I paused to regroup. “Did you track it?”
“I know how to do my job, River, but to answer your question, yes. His phone is out of service. I can’t track it.”
Sobering news. No Chili and no phone. Things didn’t look good for my friend.
Later that afternoon, Dasia and Jerry Allen dropped by. I’d never seen Dasia’s face so animated. It looked like she was fixing to bust from good news. Her jet black hair appeared blue in this light.
“Hey, y’all. Come on in.” I waved the tall couple inside. “Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks, though we have a business proposition for you,” Jerry said, waving his briefcase. “Is this a good time?”
I motioned them past the living room and into the kitchen. “Sure. Let’s sit at the table if we’re talking business.”
They followed but stopped short of the table. “What?” I asked.
Dasia pointed to the urn. “You’ve got Estelle?”
Heat flushed my face as I hurried forward to move Estelle to the pantry. She just fit on the lower shelf. I slid into my seat. “Long story. What can I do for you?”
“Jer and I’ve been talking about the future,” Dasia said, sitting beside Jerry. “We do okay with Neptune’s Harvest, but we want to expand.”
“Okay,” I said, testing the waters.
“We have connections to nearly every commercial fisherman in the state. Further, we know which people are reliable, and which ones should be avoided, for a variety of reasons. We’ve fool-proofed our supplier list.”
My face felt tight like a mask. Why were they talking to me about their business dealings?
“We’re having a baby,” Dasia burst in. “We’re planning ahead, wanting to be financially secure. College may not be in our kid’s future. Heck, neither of us went to college, but we want to be set so that college could be an option. Bottom line, we need to make more money.”
“Don’t we all.” I laced my fingers atop the table.
“We got to talking these last few weeks,” Jerry said, “and it would be better financially if our income didn’t vary so much. We’re sure you’re in the same boat.”
I nodded. “My income varies from week-to-week. I pay my bills and save any extra toward the next money pit disaster.”
“What if we had a fool-proof idea for making consistent income?” Dasia’s eyes gleamed. “Would you want in?”
“I’m a one-woman show, but I’m happy to listen to your idea.”
“You’re the best cook in the county, hands down,” Jerry said.
“We want you to come into business with us,” Dasia blurted.
“In addition to our reputable supplier base, we have contacts up and down the Eastern Seaboard, a network of retail outfits like us,” Jerry said. “Don’t you see? It’s perfect!”
Nothing was perfect or even clear. They had seafood. They thought I was a good cook. “I don’t understand.”
Jerry and Dasia looked at each other and then said together, “River Cakes!”
I had no idea what River Cakes were, but they scared the pants off me.
Chapter Sixteen
Dasia clasped her hands together, her face luminous. “It’s perfect. We can’t charge supermarket prices for River Cakes, but with limited and consistent distribution to other wholesale outlets like ours, a boutique food product like this would flourish.”
It was all I could do not to rub my temples. The Allens thought they had a winning idea to make us all rich, but I was still in the dark about the details. “You’re excited about River Cakes, which I assume you want me to make. What are they?”
“Your crab cakes! Everyone knows they’re the best in the world. People will shell out big bucks for your crab cakes.”
I shook my head. “My crab cakes are too expensive for most consumers. People will pass them up for the heavily breaded and affordable ones in any supermarket’s frozen food section. Besides, I don’t mind cleaning a dozen crabs for a specialty seafood dinner every now and then, but this sounds like I’d be picking crabs every day. No way.”
Dasia jumped up and planted her hands on the kitchen table. “What if you didn’t have to pick the crabs? We’re considering hiring pickers several days a week. We could make an exclusive deal with you for the meat. It would be win-win for both of us.”
The idea sparked in my mind, and then the potential for failure snuffed it out. “You’re saying I’d have sufficient picked crab to make into crab cakes. That product would be perishable. If the crab cakes didn’t sell before their expiration date, I’d be stuck with an expensive picked crab bill, my ingredients, and the loss of my time for a day. No thanks. It isn’t a good deal for me.”
“I see where you are coming from,” Jerry said, his face lit with ent
husiasm, “but hear us out. We could offer small batches on a trial basis in our shop. You know, I’ll bet a good local market would be Creekside Grill. They’d pick them up for one of their weekly lunch specials.”
People had been after me for years to mass produce this or that. I’d investigated the process and it was so much more work, plus cooking for larger scale operations was often hired out or done in large scale batches. Cooking was the part of my profession I loved. I didn’t want to lose that connection and become a number cruncher. I loved the status quo.
However, Jerry and Dasia were so enthused about this. Was I even giving the proposal a chance? What if the financial risk could be minimized?
“I appreciate your faith in me and my crab cakes,” I stated calmly. “This idea is intriguing, but bringing a consistent product to market, creating attractive packaging, licensing, and more, well, the process takes my breath away. How could I get it all done and keep Holloway Catering afloat? I’m a one-woman show.”
“And we’re a two-person show,” Jerry persisted as he tugged Dasia into her seat. “We can do this by providing the picked crab and serving as your wholesale vendor. Will you at least consider this idea? We could start small, with pickers working one day a week, and you whipping out a dozen River Cakes for weekend sales.”
He sounded confident. I had to be the voice of reason. “Why would islanders buy expensive crab cakes when they can create their own? After all, that’s the beauty of living here. You can spend the day catching crabs and then have a crab boil. There’s no cost involved.”
“Many people don’t have time to crab,” he countered. “Others don’t want that crab boil smell in their yard or don’t want to pick the meat. And even if they picked the meat for crab cakes, they’d lose. Their crab cakes can’t hold a candle to yours. Think about summer tourists. They can’t get enough fresh local seafood and they’re willing to pay for it. Residents will jump at the chance to purchase your fresh crab cakes for special company. Everyone will pay a higher price for a premium product.”
“I hear what you’re saying.” This new idea was more my speed. “The smaller-scale idea for River Cakes appeals to me, but it ties me up one day a week for crab cake production. Let’s talk specifics. What would you charge me for ten pounds of picked meat?”
He named a figure and it didn’t suck. For a specialty item, people expected more than a quarter pound of meat, so three crab cakes to a pound. Mental alarms blared. The margin was bad. “I’m hanging up on the accounting angle. I could bring the product to market, and even if they sell out, still be in the red.”
“That’s where our partnership pays off. River Cakes would bring people to our store. Once we see heavier foot traffic and collateral sales, we can absorb more of the picker labor cost, giving you a price break. Both of us would have close margins initially. That’s a risk everyone takes in business.”
We talked about possibilities until my head buzzed. “Let me think it over for a few days. I need to factor in the price of bulk spices, which may lower my production costs.”
They left and I surveyed my house. It was serviceable, nothing fancy, and I liked it that way. Going into the River Cakes business was risky. My products would be available commercially, but would that hurt my catering business in unexpected ways? Would my customers stockpile crab cakes in their freezers and cease booking me for their special events?
To offset that eventuality, I might need to charge as much for the crab cakes as I would for catering a crab cake dinner so that there would be a tangible value added for my catering service. Only, who would pay that much for a crab cake?
If I got into financial trouble, I might not be able to pay my taxes. I could lose my home.
Aye yai yai. So much for a relaxing afternoon at home. I set aside my book and reached for the calculator.
That evening, Pete sounded tired on the phone. “You all right out there?” I asked, sitting up in bed.
“I’m surviving,” he said. “How’re things at your end?”
After spending hours thinking about River Cakes, I needed to focus on another reality, the one where Pete and I spent a few days together. “I’ve got a catering job this week, but I could hop a plane after that, if you want company.”
“It isn’t safe out here for you.”
“For you either.”
“I’ve reached out to three potential buyers for my shares of North Merrick. They’ve been impressed with the company’s performance this year. I could have a deal in hand very soon.”
“Will a buyout satisfy the terms of your original deal with Dalbert North?”
“If I make sure his employees are protected, Dal will give his blessing. He’s happy not to be involved in the day-to-day operation of his firm. He doesn’t want to be CEO again. Enough about me. What’s happening at home?”
Every time he used the word home, I glowed inside. He would come home soon. I clung to that thought as I gave him a rundown of the funeral and the subsequent business offer to make River Cakes. “It’s never a dull moment here.”
“Wish I was there. It won’t be much longer until I can shed this company like a bad sunburn.”
“I’m sorry North Merrick didn’t work out.”
“Life is like that. Opportunities arise and you don’t know if they’re golden unless you try them. North Merrick isn’t the right fit for me. It’s been a struggle since day one, and it nearly ended us. Hang in there, River.”
“We’re in this together, but the separation is hard on me. I miss you. I want you here so we can share each sunrise together.”
“I want that too. It’ll happen, babe.”
“I’m counting on it.” My grip tightened on the phone. “I need your advice on a business matter. I’m on the fence about the specialty product called River Cakes that I would make in batches. I ran the figures several times and it could work. Of course, the more volume, the better the price point, but I’m struggling with direction. Is this something I should do? Would trying this limit us or add stress to our relationship?”
“I can’t help you with direction. That’s your decision. I’m happy to review your figures if you like. Have you researched start-up grants? Someone at the Chamber may have a direct line to seed money for a new start up.”
“Didn’t think of that. Thanks for the tip.”
“About the other…”
“What other?” I asked.
“The Bolz situation. As far as I’m concerned, the farther you distance yourself from Estelle Bolz and her missing son, the better.”
I thought about Estelle’s ashes, no longer stuck in my pantry. “I’m committed to learning the truth. Something doesn’t sit right with all of this. Nothing hangs together in regard to motive or opportunity. If the truth is out there, it darn sure found a good hiding place.”
“Some truths are like that,” Pete said.
Chapter Seventeen
The next few days passed in a blur as I prepped for the Gloria and Harold Beville golden wedding anniversary party on Thursday. Major the cat was noticeably absent, but I hoped he’d return.
On the day of the occasion, I arrived an hour early at the location, Marsh Hammocks. After setting up my steamer pot outside, I wheeled out the tubs of shucked corn, red potatoes, chopped sausage, peeled onions, carrots, and thirty pounds of shrimp. On the next hand truck load, I carted tubs of spices, four pounds of softened butter, a half-gallon of cocktail sauce, a dozen salt and pepper shakers, two deep tubs of coleslaw, and four pans of cornbread. The last load included my dispensers of sweet and unsweet tea, along with a water dispenser topped off with citrus slices.
My friend Patsy Wilson set up a wine bar on the opposite side of the swimming pool. We exchanged nods as we each prepared for the guests.
Red and white checkered tablecloths draped a dozen tables for eight under a pavilion. Each table held a pillar candle
surrounded by seashells and sand dollars. Ceiling fans whirled overhead. Festive lights ringed the eaves and circled the palms and oaks. Stacks of dinnerware and the buffet serving tables were already set up inside the pool house where I’d be serving. I stashed my cornbread in the oven to keep warm. Coleslaw went in the fridge, condiments on the buffet table. Everything else I hauled to the prep station beside the cooker. I immediately fired the burner to heat the cook-pot water.
I wrestled with the big concave slab of oak to get it strapped to my hand truck, then I wheeled it down the ramp and wrangled it on the table. This specialty serving piece was the perfect accompaniment for a Lowcountry Boil. I’d oiled the wood grain to a sheen, and the bright colors of each ingredient would add to the eye-pleasing entrée.
Lastly, I unloaded the wedding cake to a free-standing table in the pool house. The cake tiers were perfect as were the original ceramic bride and groom figures from the cake of fifty years ago. I hoped the Bevilles loved it.
I’d just dumped in a handful of Lowcountry Boil seasoning mix into the heating water when Deputy Lance Hamlyn caught my eye. He wasn’t wearing his work clothes, but with a red polo shirt and dark jeans on, he looked like he could spring into law enforcement mode in an instant.
“You got here early,” Lance said, stopping close to me. As usual, his hands were in his pockets.
My eyes watered at what must be a double dose of his aftershave. The man could do with some moderation. Retreating a step, I reached for a long-handled spoon to stir my simmering pot. “Had a lot to unload.”
He frowned. “You should’ve texted me your arrival time. I expected to do the heavy lifting.”
“I got this,” I said resolutely. His disapproving tone rubbed me the wrong way. In truth, he was starting to irritate me any way I looked at it. I could barely leave my house without him turning up. I didn’t need a keeper.
“What’s left to do?” Lance asked.
“The cooking.”
“I can help with that. We dump everything in the pot, right?”
SEAS THE DAY Page 9
