Buried in Beignets

by J. R. Ripley

  That’s when I noticed my counter held three empty Karma Koffee cups and a rumpled Karma Koffee brown sack from which spilled several scones. Right there where anybody looking in the window could see them, too.

  Good grief. Now I was advertising the competition. I swept the cups up and tossed them in the trash can beside the register. Next, I balled up the bag of scones and thrust it at Highsmith. ‘Here. Please leave now and take your posse with you. I have a lot to do to get ready for tomorrow.’ I nodded toward the door. ‘The grand opening is tomorrow at seven a.m. So …’ I gestured toward the door again. ‘If you plan on coming, leave your badge at home and bring your wallet.’ I then mentally urged him to leave through said door.

  Highsmith didn’t budge. Well, he budged just a little. He removed his elbows from my counter and relieved me of the Karma Koffee bag. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not.

  ‘We’re not done here.’

  ‘Well, try not to get in the way. I’ve got baking, frying and grinding to do.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again, laying a hand on my arm as I moved toward the fryer. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘Why not? Watching your weight?’ It hadn’t stopped them from eating all those fattening scones bought from my competitor across the street.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, Ms Miller.’

  Was he crazy? ‘Are you crazy? Did you hear me? I’m opening in less than twenty-four hours. I can’t leave now.’

  ‘We’re waiting for county to get here. Table Rock’s a small town. County’s got resources we haven’t.’

  ‘So,’ I said, my face an angry knot, ‘when will they get here?’ I suppose I could afford to lose an hour or two. But this was cutting things close.

  ‘Tomorrow. First thing. I promise.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ I practically leapt out of my flip-flops, which isn’t really all that hard to do, but still. ‘You can’t do that!’ Could they? ‘I’ll call Andy.’ OK, I should have said ‘my attorney.’ That sounds so much better. The word Andy conjured up images of a lanky, pony-tailed, anachronistic hippie.

  ‘Your attorney is fully aware of the situation. We have a warrant.’ Detective Highsmith handed me my purse. ‘I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Try to relax.’

  Relax? Who was this guy kidding?

  ‘I’ll let you know the minute that we can release the café to you.’

  I blubbered, I blustered and I begged. I almost cried. None of it mattered. I’d been bounced from my own shop. Me and my bicycle.

  This couldn’t be happening. But it was. I wondered what the town philosophers would make of that. If I had time to audit a class down at the University of Metaphysical Theology, I no doubt would have gotten my answer. But I didn’t have time for such mind- and soul-searching questions.

  I had a bank loan to repay. I had suppliers I owed money to. Heck, I even owed Mom several thousand dollars. If I couldn’t open Maggie’s Beignet Café …

  I started to pedal as fast as I could.

  In hindsight, I should have been looking where I was going. If I had, I wouldn’t have crashed straight into Johnny Wolfe.

  Fortunately, I was able to get my feet down in time to stop myself from falling over. Unfortunately, that hadn’t helped Johnny Wolfe. He went down like a sack of potatoes. Skinny fries might be more apt a descriptor. The man needed some carbs. A trip to Bell Rock Burgers would do him wonders – get his body-fat index right up there.

  I leapt from my Schwinn, rested it against the side of the window of the nearest shop and rushed to help him up. ‘Are you OK, Mr Wolfe?’ I lifted the back of his neck from the sidewalk. He looked at me, a little crazy-eyed at first, then seemed to gather his senses.

  ‘You!’ he cried. He pulled himself up to his knees. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re going?’

  ‘I know,’ I said, helping him to his feet. ‘I’m sorry. I am so sorry.’ But still, it wasn’t like he’d permanently lost the use of his legs. He was strutting around just fine. And it wasn’t like he was competing at skating any longer. He was way too old for that now. So what was he so upset about?

  Sure, his designer slacks now had openings for the knees. But it was too hot for long pants anyway. The man should have known better. A guy could get heatstroke walking around in one hundred degree weather in black pants. Did he have a death wish?

  And he was alive and breathing. More than alive and breathing. He was alive and cursing. ‘You could have killed me!’ He tugged at the holes in his black jeans. I could see he was not letting go of this. Some people have a hard time letting go of things. Johnny was obviously one of them.

  ‘Don’t be upset,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you a new pair.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back. There was no way I could afford to buy Johnny Wolfe a new pair of jeans. ‘Where’s Clive?’

  Johnny frowned at the handlebar of my bicycle. I hadn’t exactly been gentle in getting off my bike in my haste to assist him. The edge of the handlebar seemed to have wiped out the lower halves of two letters of the storefront’s hand-painted sign, The Hitching Post.

  I cracked a smile, gently edged my Schwinn away from the window and put down the kickstand. I ran a finger along the scuffed-up lettering. ‘A little paint and she’ll be good as new. I can do it myself.’

  He slapped my hand away from the window. ‘I’ll have my own man do it.’

  I nodded. Heck, I was just trying to do the guy a favor. But some people are like that, not good at accepting help. ‘So,’ I began again, ‘where’s Clive? Is he going to be OK?’

  Johnny’s lips seemed to be permanently downturned. ‘Clive is still in the hospital.’

  ‘He is?’ That surprised me. One little faint ought not put a man in the hospital, let alone keep him there. I attributed this to an apparently weak constitution.

  ‘What’s he got? Shock?’ I remembered all those gruesome symptoms the nice lady with the blood pressure cuff had described to me, which only made me start feeling queasy all over again myself.

  Johnny stepped aside to let a couple pushing a baby stroller pass. ‘Clive suffers from low blood pressure. The doctor simply wants to keep an eye on him a little longer. I had to get back here to run the shop.’

  I nodded, looking at the beautiful display in the front window. Two exquisite gowns stood side by side. One was a cream-colored fit and flare, the other a snow-white mermaid gown.

  I’d gone the traditional ball gown route myself. Yeah, I’d thought I was a princess, Cinderella come to life off the silver screen. What can I say? I’d had dreams.

  Now I had new dreams. Bigger dreams, better dreams.

  That wedding dress was now hanging in my bedroom closet. All that beautiful silk organza just hanging there, doing nothing. Maybe I’d turn all that expensive fabric into a pair of curtains for Maggie’s Beignet Café. That just might class the place up a bit. Did organza work for curtains? I’d have to ask Mom.

  He turned and faced the beignet café. ‘I see the police are still in your shop.’

  ‘Yeah. They seem to be searching the place molecule by molecule. Detective Highsmith just told me that some team from the county is coming over tomorrow to dig around some more.’

  ‘What exactly are they looking for? I heard they already found the murder weapon. A rolling pin.’

  I shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Fingerprints, DNA, loose change. Wait,’ I stopped. ‘How do you know about the rolling pin?’ It seemed word travelled fast. Andy was right. Table Rock is a small town. Everybody seemed to know my business almost before I did.

  It was his turn to shrug. ‘Clive must have told me.’ He peered into my eyes, squinting against the sun. ‘So it’s true?’

  I nodded. ‘I don’t know how the rolling pin got there, though. I don’t know how Mr Wilbur got in a box in my storeroom either, for that matter. I only know that I didn’t put him there.’

  Johnny made several tsk-tsking noises. ‘Such a shame. Rick was a
gentle man. He deserved a better end than to be stuffed in a cardboard box.’

  I agreed, and said so. ‘So you knew Rick Wilbur?’ I stood up against the plate glass window, under the awning, enjoying what little shade there was.

  ‘Of course.’ Johnny ran a finger through the air. ‘He is – was – our landlord. Wilbur Realty owns this entire row of storefronts.’

  That made sense.

  ‘I sure hope the police finish up in there soon.’ Johnny pressed his face to the glass of my store.

  ‘Thanks. Me, too.’

  He turned to me. ‘All this unsavory activity will be quite disquieting to my clientele.’

  What a peach of a guy, I thought, as the door to The Hitching Post swung shut behind him.

  A peach of a guy.

  SEVEN

  I decided it was time to check on Clive at the hospital. I dropped my purse in the basket attached to my front handlebars and climbed back aboard my bike. I dropped my foot over the pedal and went nowhere. The gears spun wildly, but the tires stayed where they were. I stayed where I was.

  I felt like somebody was looking at me. You know that prickly feeling you sometimes get? Well, I was getting it now. I glanced between the wedding dresses in The Hitching Post window. There was Johnny Wolfe, arms folded, brow a knot of thunder, glaring at me. He probably thought I was creating an uncomely scene outside his bridal salon.

  I smiled, waved, wiped the sweat under my nose with the back of my finger and hopped off my seat. A quick look down showed me that the chain had jumped the gears. Great. I looked at the chain. I looked at Johnny. No way was I asking him for help.

  Should I ask Detective Highsmith or one of the other boys in blue? I decided no. I’d had enough of him and his posse for one day. Besides, they probably wouldn’t want to be seen assisting a possible murder suspect make her getaway, anyway.

  I decided to push the Schwinn to Laura’s Lightly Used. That was the thrift shop where I’d purchased the Schwinn on moving to town and selling the Plymouth. The store was only a couple of blocks east so it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Laura would know what to do.

  She’d explained to me that she was always having to perform repairs, refurbish and restore the goods she took in for resale in her shop.

  Despite the heat, the front door was open wide with a big fan blowing down from overhead. I stood there a moment, using my bike for support. The strong, cool breeze blew down relentlessly. I closed my eyes. This was heaven.

  ‘Maggie?’

  I opened my eyes. Laura Duval was straightening frocks on a round rack at the far end of the store. I waved and rolled the bike her way.

  ‘It’s good to see you again. Is there something wrong with the Schwinn?’ Laura asked.

  ‘No, not really.’ I patted the saddle. ‘I love this bike. Best forty-five bucks I ever spent.’ And it was. She was a bright pink beauty with white-wall tires and matching pink rims. The price had been a bargain. And I was being ecofriendly, I’d retorted, when Donna snickered at the sight of me the first time I drove up to her house on it. That shut her up.

  It wasn’t that the bike was pink. She just wasn’t used to seeing me ride a bicycle. I’d tried it once as a kid. My father had insisted I learn to ride. Funny, I’d despised it then, but I was loving it now.

  So, I suppose his little girl was finally all grown up. I fought back a tear. If only he was around to see it …

  ‘Popped your chain, huh?’ She bent at the knees and, before I could explain, had the chain back on its track.

  ‘How did you do that?’ I stared at the magically restored chain.

  Laura shrugged and glanced at her fingers. ‘I’d better wipe up.’

  I followed Laura to the counter along the rear of her shop. It was a large place, probably four times the size of my own dinky café. Maybe more. She carried clothes, bikes, kayaks. You name it, Laura’s Lightly Used probably has it in stock. She grabbed a small towel from under the counter and rubbed her fingers clean.

  Laura is a very attractive ash blonde with soft features and inquisitive blue eyes. Today, like the day we’d met, she was sporting a classic A-line bob and wearing a flowery yellow cami top and denim shorts. Her leather sandals looked a thousand times nicer and more comfortable than my own flimsy flip-flops.

  Though I always felt inferior around her, she never made me feel that way. She was as friendly as she was unassuming. I could only blame myself for seeing how much I paled in comparison to her.

  I’d been to the shop on several occasions now. It was hard to beat these prices. Besides the Schwinn, I’d managed to equip my apartment kitchen with stuff I’d found here and even got a few things for the beignet shop.

  Including the marble rolling pin. I turned my head around the store. Come to think of it, I was going to be needing a new one. Even if the police gave me back the original, I wasn’t touching it. They could send it to the bottom of the Grand Canyon for all I cared.

  ‘How’s the store coming along? You’re opening tomorrow, right?’

  My face must have given away my answer faster than my lips could.

  ‘You’re not?’ Laura reached across the counter for my hand. ‘Why not? I don’t understand. I even saw the advertisement in today’s Table Rock Reader.’

  Of course, the ad had been running for a week.

  ‘What’s wrong, Maggie?’

  I don’t know what it was – her compassion, her selflessness, the way this woman who was practically a stranger took my hand and held it to lend me comfort and support. Whatever it was, all or none of the above, it was working some sort of mojo on me. A fat, embarrassing tear splattered against the glass-topped counter. ‘Sorry,’ I choked, rubbing the damp smear with my palm.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Laura grabbed a box of tissues and swung around to my side of the counter. ‘Have a seat.’ She grabbed one of a matching pair of chairs that sat on either side of a small table that held a crystal candy dish and lowered me into it.

  I heaved a sigh, giggled with embarrassment and swiped away the tears. ‘I don’t know,’ I snuffled. ‘There’s been an accident.’ I thrummed the bottom of the seat. The chair looked new, the candy fresh. I popped a lemon drop in my mouth, partly to choke down the tears I feared might flow again.

  Her brow dug furrows. ‘An accident?’

  ‘Well, more of a murder …’

  Laura looked confused.

  What was it about people that they looked so confused so often? Was it something in the water around here? I looked up at Laura with big, moist, red eyes. ‘Oh, and I’m going to need another rolling pin.’

  Laura’s confusion turned to befuddlement. She dropped into the opposite chair. ‘Maybe you should start at the beginning, Maggie,’ she said softly.

  She was right. So I did.

  I told her how I’d arrived at my shop in the morning, how my neighboring shopkeeper had come by to introduce himself and how that had ended up with me finding a dead guy in a box in my storeroom and Clive in the hospital.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, her voice a mere whisper. She ran her hands along her thighs. ‘That’s incredible. How do you suppose Mr Wilbur ended up in your storeroom like that?’

  I could only shrug. ‘That’s just it. I don’t have a clue.’

  We were both silent a moment. Laura offered me a glass of iced tea. I gladly accepted.

  ‘Great. I’ve got a fresh pitcher in the breakroom. It’s in the fridge. I’ll be right back. Don’t leave.’

  I nodded and ruminated on the wonderful day I was having so far. I wondered if the University of Metaphysical Theology might offer a class in omphaloskepsis. That’s the contemplation of one’s navel as part of a mystical exercise. It’s what I was doing at the moment. Hey, I have my Zen moments too.

  I was great at contemplating my navel. Especially after two glasses of cabernet. Then I was really great at contemplating my navel, more so since the divorce. If this beignet business didn’t pan out maybe I could get a job at the university – Adjutant
Professor of Omphaloskepsis.

  It had a nice ring to it, I thought, contemplating my navel.

  Laura returned a couple minutes later with two tall ice-filled glasses of something that tasted like ginger with hints of lemongrass and mint. ‘Not bad,’ I said, taking my first sip and maneuvering my lips around the lemon wedge clutching the rim for dear life. It was no Lipton’s, but it wasn’t terrible.

  I took another sip.

  ‘So the grand opening has been postponed?’

  I nodded morosely. ‘At least for another day. I’m hoping the police let me have the place back after tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’ She set her glass upon a sandstone coaster on the table between us.

  ‘I know that will make Johnny Wolfe happy.’

  ‘Johnny Wolfe? The figure skater?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s not real thrilled with the riot squad squatting outside his hoity-toity bridal shop.’ I polished off my tea. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Not personally. But I’ve seen him on TV. I heard he was living in town.’ She beamed. ‘I haven’t had a reason to visit a bridal salon.’ She held up a ringless finger.

  ‘Join the club,’ I said.

  ‘You know …’ Laura hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to say anything that could get anyone in trouble.’

  I straightened. ‘What? What is it, Laura?’ My heart started racing. ‘If there’s something you know that could help me out of a jam, please, you’ve got to do it! This is my livelihood at stake.’ I clasped her hand. ‘I’ve got my lifesavings tied up in this business.’

  Laura’s lower lip turned down. Finally, she said, ‘Well, it’s just that when you mentioned Johnny Wolfe, I remembered something.’

  I waited. Sheesh, it was like pulling teeth with this girl. My eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.

  ‘I saw Johnny Wolfe arguing with Mr Wilbur.’

  ‘You did?’ This was news indeed. ‘When? Where?’