I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot in visitor parking without any problems. I’d called to let Greer know I planned to stop by and she’d said to come on ahead as she was free for about an hour. I smiled at her and her schedule. I swear the little lady was involved in most activities the senior center offered. Bingo, bridge, yoga, a trip to the casino, whatever. She was game.
The complex was made up of individual one-level apartments, some one-bedroom and some two, but all nicely appointed. They were brick but the entire front of each unit was a patio complete with flower boxes and planters. Most residents had also added outdoor furniture and decorations which gave each apartment a more personal feel.
Greer had decorated her patio with a profusion of colorful flowers and plants as well as bright white patio furniture with yellow and white striped cushions. She sat perched in one of the patio chairs waiting for me. As I approached she slipped off her reading glasses, put down the book she’d been reading, and smiled.
“A good book?” I asked.
“An okay book, a little too tame for my taste.” She held up the hardback so I could see the cover, a bright beach scene with pastel umbrellas. “Women’s fiction it’s called. Don’t know how that’s any different than men’s fiction, but I’d prefer a good thriller. This is the one we’re reading for book club. The group voted.”
“Maybe next time they’ll pick a thriller.” I pulled the towel wrapped frog statue from my bag and handed it to her. “Is this the guy you were thinking of?”
Greer pulled back the swaddling. “That’s him, alright.” She placed him on the table and gazed at the whimsical frog figure. “I hope he’s collectible like the one on TV.”
“I hope so, too.” I smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Do you have time to come in for a minute? I’ve made cookies and coffee.” Greer pushed herself up to stand and I moved forward to take hold of her hands to help. “I’m fine.” She waved me away. “You take care of bringing in Mr. Froggie.”
I picked up the frog figurine and tucked the towel around it. Opening the door to her apartment, I waited for Greer and then followed her inside. Each time I visited I was struck by how homey she’d managed to make her space. The antique furniture she’d brought from the house was mixed with new complementary pieces and the result was very comfortable and relaxed. The earth-toned colors were warm and inviting and like Greer herself, put together well but not fancy.
“I understand you found Elsie Farmer dead in her backyard this morning.” She took Mr. Froggie from me and placed him on her dining room table.
As always, you could count on Greer to get straight to the point. No grass growing under this lady’s feet.
I filled her in on going to meet with Elsie and finding her in her backyard. She questioned me on details as she laid out cookies and poured coffee.
The plate she handed me already had one of her Garbage Cookies on it.
“Who do they think offed the Wicked Witch of the West?” she asked.
I nearly choked on my cookie.
“I’m sorry.” Greer took a bite of her own cookie. “I believe in telling it like it is. I’m too old to pretend in the name of making nice. She was mean to people and full of herself and there’s many a person in town who would’ve poured water on her if it’d made her melt away.”
“That’s different from actually killing someone, though.” I recovered my composure and took a careful bite. Wonderful cookies. Raisins, chocolate chips, walnuts. Oh, my.
“Maybe.” She blotted her lips with a napkin. “You never know what pushes someone over the edge though. Makes them snap.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
I described the heated words at the committee meeting, and she leaned back in her chair.
“Those two have been going at it for as long as I’ve known them.” She dunked her cookie in her coffee and took a bite.
“That’s what Dixie said.” I nodded. “I understand there was some big disagreement over sales of walnuts for their church.”
“That’s the most recent but it was just one of many disagreements over the years.” Greer shook her head. “Before that it was some jam or jelly competition. Like I said, always something with those two. Been that way since forever.”
“What a shame.” I thought about how much time and energy the two had spent on such unimportant things. They could take a clue from Greer who never seemed to let anything get under her skin.
“Enough of that,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
We had a nice chat about nothing in particular and I felt the tensions of the day fall from me. Greer had that effect. I kissed her cheek when I left and promised to come by again soon to talk. Maybe I’d take her out to lunch next time.
A quick stop at the grocery store for a few things (cat treats included) didn’t take long. I’ll admit I hurried through, not really making eye contact, and not inviting conversation. Rude, I know. Still, a couple of people stopped me to comment, and the lady at the checkout wanted to know if I knew any more than what she’d heard at the car wash. Mostly though I was able to get through quickly. I think I may have lucked out with the time of day, because the grocery store wasn’t all that busy.
Soon I was back home, my groceries put away, and ready to tackle Jimmie LeBlanc’s tome of town history. I brewed a strong tea, gave Ernest a few treats, and settled in.
Hours later I surfaced, realizing I was hungry. I had in mind a fresh salad with some greens I’d picked up at last week’s farmer’s market and chicken I’d bought at the store today. Not very imaginative, I know. But like I’ve said before, Dixie’s the cook in our cookbook business. And thank goodness for that.
By the time I’d cooked, eaten, and cleaned up I was beat and ready to call it a night. My head hit the pillow and I didn’t awaken until a furry paw tapped me on the nose just a few seconds before my alarm went off.
Who needs an alarm when you have such a reliable feline alert system?
* * * *
After all of the curiosity yesterday around Elsie’s death with folks coming in the office and the people who stopped me at the grocery store, I should have been prepared, but I guess I’d thought interest would wane. Or at least the intensity of it.
But when I swung by the Red Hen Diner on my way to the office, I couldn’t take two steps without someone stopping me. The diner is across the town square from Sugar and Spice, so it offered a similar yet different view of the courthouse and green space. On this side, there was a charming white gazebo to provide some shade for residents taking a little break. The courthouse was already busy, many of the shops were just opening their doors, and the parking spots in front of the diner were filled with cars and trucks. For such a small restaurant it did a good steady business.
There was a cluck as I entered, the Red Hen Diner’s take on a door chime. The atmosphere was nothing like the day the Founders’ Day Committee had met in the backroom. There was a subdued vibe as if everyone had been affected by yesterday’s tragedy and I’m sure they had been. In a small town like St. Ignatius everybody knows everybody in one way or another.
As the cluck announced my entrance and I stepped through the doorway, all eyes turned toward me.
Oh, man. I immediately wished I’d just gone on to the office. Dixie always had coffee brewing and sometimes, like Disco, I enjoyed the results of her beta testing of various recipes. But right now, she was working her way through the side dish submissions, so I hadn’t thought there was any chance there’d be breakfast-appropriate type food for tasting. Besides, I loved the diner’s blueberry muffins.
“Hi, Sugar.” Toy George, the proprietor, wiped her hands on her red and white chicken-themed apron and bustled to the counter.
Toy was toy-sized at least in height and rounded in a Mrs. Claus sort of way. She always wore an apron and a smile.
“Good
morning. I’d like a—”
She’d already reached for a to-go bag and dropped in a blueberry muffin. Now, I’d like to tell ya’ll I’m not that predictable but the truth of the matter is, I am. I mean, why would I vary my order when the blueberry muffins are to die for?
“Sad about Elsie, huh?” Toy folded the top of the bag and handed it to me. “Heard you found her.”
Suddenly the ambient noise in the restaurant dropped to nothing. Well, almost nothing. Old Wally Nelson kept talking because he was hard of hearing and didn’t realize everyone else in the place had gone silent. I’d been told he was called Old Wally not just because he’s old, but mostly so folks don’t confuse him with his son. Any guesses at the son’s name? Yep, Young Wally.
In any case, except for Wally, all eyes were on me. Great. Just call me the Dead Body Finder.
“Yes, I did.” I had apparently in one day’s time morphed from “Oh, you’re the new one in town.” To “Oh, you’re the one that found Elsie Farmer dead.” I wondered how long the new label would last.
The silence continued. I could hear the clatter and snick of dishes in the kitchen but the restaurant area had gone still.
I reached in my purse to pay Toy. “She didn’t come to the door. I knocked, but no one answered. And so I went around back and I saw her car was there and then I saw her and…” I suddenly realized I was babbling. “Here you go.” I handed over some wadded-up bills and jammed the muffin in my bag. “Just keep the change. I’ve got to go, I’m really late,” I called over my shoulder as I pushed open the door nearly knocking over the poor guy who was trying to enter.
“Cluck,” the door announced. “Cluck.”
“Oh, I am so sorry.” I grabbed the man’s arm to right myself. It was a nice solid arm. I glanced up at the jaw and followed the line of it up and to bright intelligent blue eyes. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” He grabbed the doorjamb to steady himself. His rough voice matched his scruffy chin.
“Fine. I’m fine,” I answered. “Just late.” I fumbled for my keys and left him standing there as I rushed out.
“Don’t look back, don’t look back,” I told myself. “That would be so uncool.”
Of course, I looked back.
Blue Eyes stood in the doorway watching me.
Possibly not a St. Ignatius resident. I’d not met everyone in town, but almost and I was sure I’d have remembered meeting him. I tossed my things on the passenger seat of the Jeep and climbed in.
When I looked back this time, he was gone.
* * * *
The Sugar and Spice Publishing office was truly just minutes away across the square. When I entered from the back, I called out so Dixie would know I’d arrived. She was in the middle of testing three side dishes. I’d been right, none of them would have had the right breakfast type of flavor.
“What’s cooking, girlfriend?” I reached into the cupboard where we kept a collection of coffee mugs, chose the Wonder Woman one, and poured myself a cuppa.
Dixie’s little dog, Moto, was with her today. He stirred from his bed and sauntered over. Moto was a mixed breed from the local rescue, but I was pretty sure one of his parents was a cairn terrier. The feisty little guy knew I was a soft touch. I reached in my bag and slipped him the dog treat I’d tucked in earlier. (Don’t tell Ernest.)
“We have Emmy Lou’s Parmesan Peas, Edna Utterhofen’s Sweet and Sour Cabbage, and Betty Bailey’s Broccoli Gratin.” Dixie set the final dish on the counter with a flourish and turned to begin the clean-up process.
“Here, let me help.” I shoved a bite of muffin in my mouth and took a gulp of coffee.
“No, no, just sit down and finish your breakfast.” Dixie waved me away.
Moto took his treat and headed back to his bed. I slid onto one of the strategically placed stools and reached for a napkin. The trip in my bag had destroyed the muffin’s look but the taste was mouth-watering. The blueberries tart, the texture of the cake light but firm, and the smell…I inhaled. The smell made you feel all warm and cozy.
“Are you gonna eat that or just sit there smelling it?” Dixie piled bowls in the sink and began running water to rinse them.
“You’ve got me analyzing everything I eat.” I lifted the muffin in salute. “Never again will I simply scarf down food without thinking about it.”
“Good.” She nodded. “As soon as you’re done with that, you can taste our first round of side dishes.”
“Great. Before this cookbook is done I’m going to be as big as a barn.”
“As if.” Dixie turned back to the sink. “I eat so much as a cupcake and I might as well slap that puppy on my thighs. Not you. You got curves in all the right places and you never seem to gain an ounce. It’s not fair. I’d hate you if you weren’t so darn nice.”
“Right.” I made a face at her.
I worked hard to keep from packing on the pounds and was mostly successful in my efforts. I also worked hard at being nice, sometimes not so successfully.
“You’re the nice one.” I pointed my cup at her. “You just don’t want anyone to find out.”
“See what I mean? You see the good in everyone. Even when it’s not there.” She handed me a spoon and pushed the casserole dishes towards me. “Taste.”
“Okay, boss.” I tried each of the dishes. The peas, not my favorite, but good. I’m just not a huge fan of peas. The sweet and sour cabbage was tasty and unusual. A nice change but it would definitely need to be served with something that would balance the flavor. The broccoli gratin was my favorite. A different take on a standard, but a great combination.
“Well?” Dixie handed me a note card.
“They’re all good.” I made a couple of notes. “What’s the seasoning in the broccoli thing?”
“It’s not seasoning, it’s the Gruyère cheese you’re tasting. Nice, huh?”
“Ahh, that’s it.” I slid off the stool and carried my spoons to the sink. “Have you decided which side dishes we’re going to picture?”
“I have a couple of ideas for you and I think I found us a photographer.” She picked up a sticky note from the counter and handed it to me.
“Max Windsor,” I read. “Where’d you find him?”
“Hirsh gave me his info. He does mostly nature shots, but he’s been doing other things too. My brother said this guy did the high school track team for the newspaper and apparently got some great shots.”
“But does your brother know whether he can do food? Not much need for action shots here.” I posed in a running stance.
“We can find out. He’s going to stop by sometime today.”
“If not, I can find out if any of the staff photographers from my former employer are doing freelance work.”
Dixie finished her clean-up and left with Moto to run an errand. I washed my hands and got busy with my layout work. The editing I’d done yesterday at home would help me better plan the copy placement or, in this case, recipe placement. I liked the overall look and feel. I’d planned to meet with our graphics person, Liz, later in the week. We’d already discussed the project and what we were going for. She’d tell me if I was on the right track or not. Liz was a straight-shooter and I loved her for it.
The bell on the door jingled. Much better than the “cluck” at The Red Hen Diner, but I was beginning to hate the sound.
“Hello,” a vaguely familiar male voice called. “Is anyone here?”
“Be right there.” I carefully put my piles of recipes aside. The categories were shaping up nicely.
I stretched my legs and made my way around the piles of files and out to the front.
The guy from the diner.
“Hi, what can we do for you?” I stepped around the front counter. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt this morning. I didn’t mean to run you over.”
“No problem. Are you Dixie o
r Rosetta?” He walked toward me and I noted a slight limp I hadn’t noticed when I ran into him at the Red Hen.
“Well, I’m not Dixie, but I don’t answer to Rosetta either. My friends call me Sugar.”
“I’m not sure if I count as a friend. Yet.” He grinned. “I’m Max Windsor. Dixie Spicer left me a message about a cookbook you’re working on. Her brother said you needed some photos taken.”
“Oh, right.” His eyes were unusual. A vivid Paul Newman–ish blue. A piercing blue. Striking, with his dark lashes and slight stubble. His dark hair was a bit on the shaggy side and, on closer inspection, shot through with streaks of silver, though he didn’t appear to be that much older than me.
Max Windsor looked around the room and then his gaze landed back on me, and I realized I’d been staring.
“If you’d like to come on back, I can show you what we had in mind.” I motioned toward the back, suddenly aware I probably looked a mess. I’d twisted my hair into a sort of bun to get it out of my way while I worked with the layouts. I’d worn black jeans because I didn’t have any appointments, and I’d thrown on a faded gray Lake Okoboji sweatshirt that had seen better days. My mama would be appalled. She’d raised me better.
He followed me to the backroom, and I tried to pull the elastic hair band out without drawing attention. “Have you ever done any food photography?”
“Not really.” He shook his head. “A few ads for local businesses. I’m mostly a nature photographer, but since I moved here, I’ve done a variety of things from high school football games to senior pictures. No weddings, though.”
He seemed adamant about the weddings and I wondered if it was fear of Bridezillas or if he had something against matrimony.
“No weddings or even wedding food involved here.” I dropped my hand from the elastic band which had only ended up more tangled, and reached for the layout mock up I’d been using to plan the categories. “We’re looking at photos for each section, a few others scattered throughout, and then a cover shot.”
“Will you make the dishes to be photographed or will the individuals who submitted the recipes make them?” He perused the papers.
Game of Scones Page 4
