“We’ll be there.”
I ended the call and turned to find him staring at me as if I’d grown another head. “Did you just call me a kid? And what exactly is your idea of a country hello?”
I ignored the first question. “We’re going to the bar for fried food and really bad, loud music.”
“And beer?” He perked up at that.
I sent him a scathing look. “Just remember you have to be down here ready to work by six tomorrow morning. If you’re hung over, you get the crap jobs all day.”
His face fell, which made me laugh.
The Silver Spur was just what you’d expect a country bar to be: everything was decorated in rough-hewn logs, and the air stung of cigarette smoke even though the clean air laws meant no one had smoked in the building for years—at least, not during open hours. And though I’d heard they cleaned every night, the floor looked like it hadn’t seen a mop inside of this century. In contrast, the kitchen shined—I’d checked before I ever ate there.
An old Garth Brooks tune blared over the speakers as Lenny and I joined Honey and George at the corner booth they’d staked out near the pool tables while we waited for a game to end. George’s dark hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon—which, knowing him, he probably had. Honey’s kinky black locks were done in cornrows and pulled back from her face, which was set off by enormous gold hoop earrings. She’d never really cared what was in style when it came to jewelry; she wore what she liked and made it look fabulous.
“Hey, looks like you beat us,” I said when we reached the table. I made introductions, glad that Lenny’s T-shirt and jeans were infinitely more presentable this time than they’d been that morning, though one of his tats rested low enough on his shoulder to peek out of one sleeve whenever he moved his arm.
We ordered food and a round of drinks—mine was a Coke. While we ate, the music changed from bluegrass to old country western, to the newer pop sounds of Taylor Swift.
“Not too choosy about their tunes here, are they?” Lenny asked when he and George had exhausted conversation about the grocery store.
“Sure they are,” Honey said loudly to be heard over the noise. “As long as it’s got twang, they’re good to go.”
The pool table nearest to us emptied and we grabbed it while we had the chance.
“Anyone care to wager?” Lenny asked.
“No, you shark, we don’t need to lose all our money to you.” I laughed when he scowled at me. “I know too many of your secrets, and you might fool a few people into playing you, but it’s a small town. Word gets around pretty quick.”
Again his expression said he was regretting something, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t about the game. Did he wish he hadn’t come here? Before I could ask him, though, he grabbed a cue. “That’s okay; a friendly game is almost as good as one where I walk away with your money.”
He took it easy on us, giving everyone a chance for at least one turn before clearing the table. We played teams, switching pairs from game to game. His team always won.
As he ran the table for the third time, I caught the conversation from the table beside us. I turned their way when Eric Hogan’s name came up.
“You know that Hogan prob’ly pestered someone ‘til they couldn’t help but kill him to get him to shet up.” It was the contractor from the fitness center, Marty Grizzle. “Man was always buzzin’ around the building site, always pokin’ his nose in where it don’t belong.” He pushed his Stetson further back on his head and lined up the shot.
“He made an awful lot of enemies,” a skinny man in dirty jeans and a holey plaid shirt agreed. I studied him for a long moment out of the corner of my eye, but couldn’t place him. He didn’t come into my shop, that was for sure.
“Man like him’s bound to make enemies.” Marty hit the ball, which only glanced off the number five. He swore and stood out of the way while the other guy stepped in. “Look at that—first he makes my life an ever-livin’ nightmare while I build that fitness center, now he’s costing me shots. A bullet to the head’s too easy a death for him, if you ask me.”
Another man approached the table and the conversation changed gears as his companion started sinking balls in quick succession. I turned back to see Lenny drop the eight ball and looked at the rest of my group. No one else had heard that? I asked my friends, “You guys about done? I thought maybe we could finish off the cheesecake in the display case back at the shop.”
“You know I never turn down cheesecake,” Honey said.
Lenny looked me up and down. “So how are you staying so skinny?”
“I don’t eat that many desserts,” I said, feeling self-conscious. Skinny was an extremely flattering description of my curvy body—and I use the word ‘curvy’ because I refuse to use negative words to describe myself, even if the curves aren’t exactly packed on the way I’d like.
We walked out and reconvened in the pastry shop a few minutes later. I drizzled—okay, more like poured—chocolate sauce over pieces for me and Honey, Lenny picked blueberry topping and George went for the cinnamon twists. Again. Being lactose intolerant was really no fun for the man.
“Okay,” Honey said when we were all seated around the bistro table. “What’s running through your head? There’s more to it than a cheesecake craving.”
“You know me so well.” I loved that about this moment—being with my best friend, to whom I was so much closer than most sisters, and Lenny who had slowly become someone I could depend on, despite his outer façade. If it weren’t for this murder case hanging over my head, I’d be in heaven. I spied Lenny’s blueberry topping, and when Jack’s face came into my mind, I had the thought that maybe there was something—or rather someone—else who might make the moment more perfect. I mentally kicked myself for even thinking about guys.
“So, what is it?” Lenny asked.
“Marty Grizzle, the contractor for the Silver Springs Fitness Center was at the next table. He kept talking about how much he disliked Eric, what a problem he’d been and how he was glad Eric was dead. He even said shooting was too easy a death.” I shivered when I thought of anyone hating another person enough to make that kind of comment.
“Whoa. Sounds like you’ve got yourself a suspect,” Lenny said.
“No kidding. Okay, so I need an excuse to talk to him, to bring up the job he did and see if I can get more information out of him. I’d prefer to do this without risking being killed.” Nearly getting killed last time was not a fun experience, so a little stealth was definitely in order.
“Good plan; you not dying is job security for me,” Lenny agreed.
“Oh, I don’t know. If I died, you might end up with the business,” I teased him. I actually hadn’t even thought about what would happen to the building or my other belongings if I wasn’t around anymore, and made a mental note to look into it.
“No, thank you.” He shook his head. “I just want to bake stuff and play with sugar. I don’t want to be responsible for inventories, taxes and employee withholdings, thank you very much.”
“You have no idea what a nightmare it is,” George said. “Imagine having forty employees.”
“Don’t freak me out like that.” Lenny shivered theatrically. “So you think that this grizzly guy—”
“Grizzle,” I corrected. “Marty Grizzle.”
He shook his head. “Takes all kinds, I guess. Anyway, you think he’s the one who did the hit?”
“Did the hit?” Honey asked, not even trying to hold back a smirk. “How many cop shows have you been watching?”
Lenny grinned. “All of them.” He took another bite of cheesecake and paused as a crafty expression came onto his face. “I think I know what you can do.”
I hummed under my breath as I tagged the box of cupcakes that were going to Rebecca Shelley’s birthday party that afternoon, then turned to greet the next customer when the bell chimed over the door. To my delight, it was Marty Grizzle. “Well, hello!” I
said, leaning against the counter. “You’ve come to pick up your prize.”
“Yeah. My wife is out a’ town runnin’ my boy to a baseball game. She said I best get over here right quick.”
I love seeing a big, tall man who’s totally whooped by his wife. “Well, she was right. I’m really sorry she was out of town today and couldn’t get the cupcakes herself.” That was a total lie, as we’d checked her son’s baseball schedule and waited to call her until we knew she’d be gone. The point was to get her husband in here, after all. “Go ahead and tell me which ones you want. Just the normal-sized ones, of course, but we can mix and match flavors.”
He picked out three flavors his family often bought—his wife was a regular customer of mine so I was familiar with their preferences—and I started to load them into the box. “I bet things have slowed down for you since the fitness center is finished,” I said when he reached for his cell phone.
“Not really. I had another one lined up way before we finished. I had guys startin’ on it a couple of months back.” He pulled a cigarette out of the box in his front pocket and bumped it against his leg nervously. “I’ve got two goin’ now.”
“You sure did a great job on it,” I praised—it was totally true, after all. “I bet it was a big project. Did you have to work very closely with Eric Hogan? He seems very . . . detail oriented.”
Marty swore up a blue streak. “That man never left me alone, checkin’ on the site night and day, pointin’ out every little flaw before I even had a chance to look and correct the men myself. You understand—how would you like it if people came in here and watched you make cakes, then said you was doin’ it all wrong?”
I had to admit that would drive me completely batty. “I get that. After all, sometimes things don’t go exactly the way we plan, but that doesn’t mean the cake isn’t going to turn out right in the end. Having someone poking at little flaws before I have a chance to cover them up, or fix them, if I need to,” I gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s enough to drive a person crazy, that’s what.”
He nodded decisively. “You know it, and there he was poking his nose in every hour, it seemed like. And sayin’ I was cuttin’ corners. I’d never do that. Someone could get hurt.”
“Of course not. But you must be proud of the center. Did you hang around for the whole event?” I passed the box of cupcakes over the counter to him, sliding the gift certificate to him to sign, showing he’d picked up the gourmet treats.
“No, I can’t give the whole afternoon to such foolishness. I have a business to run. ‘Sides, I know the place better’n my own house.”
“I bet you do. Did you head back to the job site after that?” I checked his signature and stashed the gift certificate in a file.
“Yeah, I got a call from one of the guys.” He lifted his hat in front to scratch at his head, then tugged it back down, his unlit cigarette still clutched between his fingers. “If it’s not one emergency, it’s another.”
“Isn’t that the truth? So what are you building now?”
“The new school in Galaxa and an office building across town. You should swing by and check out the school, it’s goin’ to be real fine.”
“Maybe I will.” I made a mental note to do just that—after all, I needed to double-check his alibi.
The local quilt guild was a busy organization with over two dozen members (who apparently all had big appetites) and a slew of others who came by occasionally. Considering how small the town was, I used to think it odd that they had such a large, active group.
That’s because I wasn’t counting on the socialization factor. Women will always need reasons to get together.
Mary Ellen was only in her mid-thirties, and according to Honey, had earned ribbons in five state fairs. In fact, the local guild members regularly cleaned up at the county fair and took several of the ribbons in the state fair. They entered national competitions, and Mary Ellen and another member had even created patterns and posted them online for sale as a digital download.
I set up the refreshments and watched the ladies arrange their machines and spread fabric out over the tables in the library meeting room. Memories of coming to these things with my grandma assaulted me. Grandma never sewed a quilt block in her life, but brought her mending with her to pick at while she gossiped with her friends.
And did they ever gossip. After hearing theories about Eric’s demise from three different groups, some sensible, and some not-so-plausible (did they really think aliens were going to come down and steal a handgun to kill a random human, and not even take the body back for testing?), I realized this was where I was most likely to learn useful information.
“You know that boy of hers is wild. And he has such a temper, it’s no surprise that the sheriff thinks he’s responsible,” one blue-haired old biddy said as she sorted her fat quarters (I have no idea why they call them that, but apparently little chunks of fabric are sold that way).
“Oh, hush, you know he’s gotten a bad rap. That child was raised in such a terrible neighborhood. Not his mom’s fault, with a husband like her first one. The man is anti-government, you know. Always getting into trouble protesting something or other. What kind of role model is that for a kid? And he’s a good child, just misunderstood,” answered a woman who was missing half of her teeth.
“Well, I believe her when she says it’s the cop. I think Gary Roper has been asking for trouble since the day he was born. He had a bad reputation even when he was in school, bullying other kids and using his size to get what he wanted. Did the same thing when he worked at the jail. I heard they forced him to retire early because of all of the complaints.”
Now that was an interesting bit of news, I thought as I stashed the emptied pastry boxes under the table.
Honey walked in with her mother-in-law and looked around, finding me almost immediately. She came right over and looked at the goodies, as if they were the reason for her being there. Which they probably were, since she didn’t sew any more than I did. “Hear anything interesting?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. All just speculation, though. There’s nothing really usable here.” We turned and started making the rounds, greeting everyone and asking about their projects until Mary Ellen called the group to order.
“Welcome to quilt guild, everyone. This month we’re going to learn how to do a new block for our four-seasons quilt design.”
Honey and I took seats on the left side of the room and I half turned toward her so I could see the group better. I wondered if any of these ladies had any useful tidbits about Eric’s enemies, or if I was wasting my time here. I reminded myself that socialization is supposed to be its own reward, but I’d rather be the one at the shop working on decorations instead of Lenny. Still, he needed the practice if he was ever going to get as good as he should, and I needed to give him the chance. Part of the deal with him coming here had been that I would work with him to improve his skills so he could move to a bigger establishment if he wanted to later. He was doing great when I left, but I still wished I could oversee his work. I know, I’m a total control freak. I’m working on it.
I let my mind drift to what was bothering him. Lenny and Kat had been together for years, and I knew he loved her, but though I’d mentioned her a few times that day, he hadn’t said a word about what was going on. Did they have some big fight? Did she kick him out, or did he leave? Was the breakup mutual?
Mary Ellen droned on about the quilt square, giving directions and offering advice—as if half the members hadn’t been winning awards for their creations while she was still wearing diapers.
I looked around the room and saw women taking notes or doodling. Some held furtive conversations, ignoring the directions to which they were supposed to be listening. Finally it broke up and the air filled with the sound of scissors cutting through cotton weave. Soon the hum of sewing machines took over, drowning out everything but the high sounds of women’s voices. When Honey was called to the other side of the room, I stood
and wandered to the refreshment table.
“You know when someone eats their own food that it must be good,” Marge said from behind me as I bit into one of the raisin-filled cookies Mary Ellen had requested.
I covered my mouth to show how big of a bite I’d just taken, and turned to Marge. When I had chewed and swallowed, I said, “Is there any question that they’d be good?”
“Not with you making them.” She selected a cookie for herself. “Learn anything useful?”
“Not yet, but I’m hopeful. Eventually we’ll get a break in this case.”
A tall brunette sauntered over, took a look at the refreshments and lifted her nose in disdain. She didn’t look like she let food with that much sugar pass her lips—unlike mine, her curves were the type that men tended to go for in a big way with a tiny little waist in between. “Aren’t there any sugar-free treats available? Mary Ellen never thinks of people who are on diets.” Her mouth formed a moue of disappointment.
“Sorry. While I am playing with some recipes using natural sugar replacers, I don’t have anything ready for public consumption yet,” I told her.
She looked me over with a critical eye, as if well able to imagine that I wouldn’t make healthy food. This pressed me to explain. “See, I don’t like to use chemical replacers—they don’t bake up right, and I don’t believe in using inferior ingredients in my food.”
“Isn’t that nice?” She looked away, her expression making it clear I was wasting her time.
Marge spoke, “Tess, let me introduce you to Sheralyn Roper, Gary’s wife. Sheralyn, this is Tess. She’s a sugar artist.”
“We all need something that we can do better than others so we can lord it over them, don’t we?” Sheralyn asked.
I really didn’t like this woman. The fact that her husband was the former-cop I was checking out wasn’t a point in her favor.
“My husband is staying busy with his new subdivision plans,” she continued, “and I’m working on a line of designer shoes.” She pointed to her feet. “I made these, for example.”
Pistols & Pies (Sweet Bites Book 2) (Sweet Bites Mysteries) Page 5
