Game of Scones
Page 5
“I won’t be making anything. Dixie’s the one with the cooking talent. She’ll make the food and stage it.”
“Sounds straightforward enough. I hoped taking the photos didn’t involve going from house to house.” He smiled and handed the pages back to me.
“Because it’s for the town’s Founders’ Day I’d like to include some of these historical photos.” I opened the file where I’d placed the early St. Ignatius pictures the committee had provided.
Max stepped closer to pick up one of the photos. “Some of these are great.” He picked up the stack and flipped through the photos slowly, stopping to look more closely at some of them.
“I particularly liked that one.” I reached over to point out a photo of a limestone home and as my arm brushed his I was suddenly very aware of his nearness.
“Me, too.” He pulled it from the stack. “You’ve got a good eye.”
I stood quietly as he held a few closer to the window light. I love it when someone is really into what they do. He had much the same look Dixie got when she was working on a difficult recipe.
“I’m not sure what to do with them.” I noted. “Some are in fairly good shape and not bad quality for that era picture, but they may publish poorly in comparison to your high-resolution photos of the food.”
“I could probably help you with sharpening up the images when you’re ready for that.” He closed the file and placed it back on the work desk.
“Hello…” The back door rattled as Dixie breezed in. “Don’t forget that photographer guy is coming by.”
Max and I looked at each other and smiled. I could hear Dixie sliding grocery bags on the counter.
“He’s already here.”
“What?” She poked her head through the doorway. “Oh, he’s already here.”
“You must be Dixie.” Max stepped forward and held out his hand. “I can’t believe we’ve not met before. Hirsh says you know everyone in town.”
“Apparently not. I don’t know you.” She took his hand and then slid onto one of the stools. “Have you two reached an agreement?”
“I shared with Max our ideas for the layout and also showed him the old historical pictures. He may be able to help us out with those.”
“Whatever you think.” She waved her hand. “I’m the cook. Sugar is the brains of this operation.”
“Stop it.” I turned and gave her a hard look. Dixie was forever putting herself down and it needed to stop. “This whole venture was your idea.”
“Well, in any case, it’s Sugar you need to negotiate with as far as prices.” She got up and headed back to the storage area bags in hand. “I’ve got to get some of these things refrigerated.”
I shook my head. “She never stops moving.”
“I’ll get a quote to you.” Max moved to go. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“What about your time frame?” I was a bit taken aback at his lack of interest in the payment. “We’ve got a pretty tight schedule. Are you available to do this with your other work?”
I was concerned about conflicts. The last thing we needed was to have a problem getting everything together and to the printer on time.
“I can work it in.” He handed me a business card. “Call me if you have questions.”
And he was gone.
Dixie came from the back munching on a carrot stick. “What’s up, Doc?” She looked around. “Your photographer gone already?”
I ignored the “your” comment. “Yeah, he’s going to bring a quote sheet to us. We’ll see what it says. We’re not committed to anything. I’d like to see his work and his prices first.”
“From what I understand he does a fabulous job and is pretty reasonable.” Dixie popped the rest of the carrot into her mouth. “I’ll bet he’s less expensive than any of those fancy food photographers you know.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” She was probably right. The photographers I’d worked with at Mammoth were very much in demand and could easily name their price.
“Looked like you two were pretty cozy.” She smiled. “He’s single, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.” But I wasn’t unhappy to hear it. “We talked pictures of food, not dating eligibility.” I went back to sorting the recipes into categories.
“Just saying.” Dixie tapped me on the shoulder as she went by. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to date once in a while.”
“Look who’s talking.” I jabbed back and then immediately regretted it when a shadow passed over her face. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. My mouth gets away from me sometimes.” I crossed the room and gave her a hug. “I know you’re not ready.”
“Don’t be silly.” She hugged me back. “I’m not upset. I’ll probably date someday. Though who I’d find to date in this place I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should hook up with Max Windsor.”
“Not my type.”
“Not mine either,” I pronounced.
“Liar,” she shot back.
The rest of the day went by quickly and when we locked up and headed home at the end of the day, I felt as if we’d accomplished a lot.
Categories sorted. Check.
Photographer interviewed. Check.
Dixie had beta tested two more recipes and I’d made good progress on the tome of historical information from Jimmie LeBlanc. As I’d suspected it was valuable background, but to cut it down and decide which pieces to use would be a major undertaking.
I’d packed it in my bag to take home. If we were going to stay on track and keep to our deadlines, I had to make some decisions quickly. It looked like my evening was planned.
* * * *
The next morning, Dixie was already at the office and busy cooking by the time I arrived. I’d skipped my trip to the Red Hen Diner knowing the questions about Elsie would start as soon as I stepped through the front door. I’d instead opted for a bowl of cold cereal and a glass of orange juice at home.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee hit me as soon as I walked in, and I made a bee-line for the coffee pot.
“What’s cooking?” I asked as I filled my cup.
“Homemade biscuits,” she answered over her shoulder.
“Man, I wish I’d waited.” I pulled up a stool and settled in for a chat before starting on the next phase of recipe organizing. “You need to test those, right?”
There was a tap on the glass of the front door of the shop.
“I hadn’t unlocked the door yet.” Dixie turned, her hands covered in flour.
Dixie and I looked at each other. “Disco?” we said in unison.
“Do you think he’s looking for breakfast now too?” I put my cup on the counter and went to answer the door.
It wasn’t Disco. The sheriff was back. I opened the door and let him in.
“Come on back.” I motioned for him to follow me to the kitchen. “Dixie’s elbow deep in a new test recipe, and I’m sure she’ll also want to hear whatever you have to say.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” he muttered.
“What are you doing here?” Dixie turned as we entered the kitchen area, wiping her hands on a towel.
The girl seemed bound and determined to be rude to the guy, and I didn’t understand it. So far, I thought he’d been kind and as upfront as he could be. But something about him seemed to rub her wrong.
“Do you have news on what happened with Elsie Farmer?” I asked. “Was it a heart attack? Or what?”
“We still don’t have autopsy results.” He rubbed his eyes. The poor man didn’t look like he’d slept since we last saw him. “Those take a while, but we do have something else.”
“What?” I didn’t like the look on his face which I didn’t think could be any more serious.
Sheriff Griffin shifted from one foot to the other. Dixie and I waited.
&n
bsp; “Well, go on,” she finally snapped.
“The thing is,” he rubbed his jaw, “Doc Chestnut didn’t think it looked like Elsie Farmer had a heart attack, and so we not only requested the state crime lab do a tox screen, we also gathered up things, uhm food, from her house to check for poisoning just in case.” He paused. “We were able to get those lab results a bit faster. And, we found something.”
“What?”
“The pastry she had in her hand was from a basket of the same in her kitchen. They probably killed her,” the sheriff blurted out.
“She made poison scones?” I couldn’t see Elsie as a suicide but it sounded like that was what he was saying had happened.
“No.” The sheriff shook his head. “There was a note with the basket indicating the pastries were a gift.”
“A gift?” Dixie asked. “Elsie Farmer was mean and full of herself. Who would send her a gift?”
“The note said, ‘Mine have a special ingredient you’ll never guess,’ and it was signed, ‘Your friend, B.’” He took a deep breath. “Dix, I just wanted you to know that we’re on our way to pick up your Aunt Bertie.”
Dixie made a sound that reminded me of an angry grizzly bear I’d seen on Animal Planet the other night. She dropped her towel and charged at the sheriff, but he was already headed for the door.
“I thought you’d want to know!” he said over his shoulder as he exited.
“You can’t do that! My aunt is not a killer.” Dixie yelled at the door as it closed behind him.
“Oh, honey, of course she’s not.” I crossed the room to give her a hug and to pick up the towel she’d dropped. “I’m sure the sheriff will get this sorted out in no time.”
Dixie took a deep breath and sat down. “I know he will. It’s just the idea that anyone would think Aunt Bertie…” her voice trailed off.
“There must be some explanation for it.” I handed her the towel and patted her hand. “I’m sure Bertie will clear things up with Sheriff Griffin.”
Dixie rolled her eyes.
“What is it with you two anyway?” I asked. “What’s up with the antagonistic attitude? That’s not like you. He seems like a genuinely nice man.”
“Not everyone is what they seem, Sugar.”
“I know they’re not.” I was admittedly a take-people-at-face-value person, but I wasn’t so trusting that I didn’t realize some people had a private persona that was drastically different from the public one.
“And some people are exactly what they seem.” Dixie stood. “Like my Aunt Bertie. She may be outspoken and pig-headed, but she’s also kind and honest. And—” her voice caught. “Not a murderer.”
Chapter Six
St. Ignatius didn’t need a newspaper, TV or radio, or telephones for that matter. Word of mouth was faster than any other form of communication and it worked quite well.
It was only a matter of minutes before the bell over the door jingled, and the first to hear the news arrived.
I have no idea how they’d heard, but they’d heard and shared. And for the second time in a matter of days the offices of Sugar and Spice Publishing became the meeting place for those seeking the latest news about Elsie Farmer. I looked around at the faces I’d come to know in my short time in town.
Krissie, owner of the bakery down the street, Lark Travers from Travers Jewelry next door, Sherona, who had the hair and nail salon at the end of the block, and, of course, Disco, who’d also come to see why everyone was there and if there was food involved.
Dixie continued to defend her aunt and those who’d collected in our place of business were in full support. I had no idea what to do to help my friend and business partner, or what to say to the people who stopped by, but it was clear no one thought Bertie Sparks had it in her to harm anyone. Not even her arch-rival, Elsie Farmer.
I decided in lieu of joining the chatter, I’d make refreshments. I made coffee and tea and then dug up some paper cups from the storage room. I also discovered a stash of cookies in one of the cupboards. They were store-bought which seemed somehow wrong, but really who was going to notice at a time like this? I put them out on a fancy decorative dish I’d found and washed.
Just as I was making a second round filling up coffee cups, the bell jingled again and I glanced up to see Max Windsor walk in. He stopped, just inside the door, a confused look on his handsome face.
His gaze met mine and he nodded. I nodded back and crossed the room.
“I stopped by with a price sheet and some ideas for you.” He indicated a folder he held. “I didn’t realize you were having a party. I can come back.”
“No, no, it’s not a party.” I shook my head. “Dixie’s Aunt Bertie is being questioned about Elsie Farmer’s death.”
He looked even more confused.
“As people heard about it, folks came by to ask Dixie if it was true.” I pointed around the room. “You know how it is in a small town.”
As I said the words, it suddenly occurred to me Max Windsor was the only person I’d come in contact with in the past two days who hadn’t asked me about finding Elsie Farmer.
Lack of curiosity? That didn’t seem to fit him. Or respect for privacy? Maybe. If so, I liked that about him.
“Let’s step in the back room and you can show me your stuff.” I stopped. My cheeks burned as I realized the words could be taken in an entirely different way.
He didn’t seem to notice my embarrassment, or perhaps he was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of my slip of the tongue.
He handed me the folder he’d brought with him and moved to follow me.
Suddenly the bell jingled and the door opened again, but this visitor drew everyone’s attention. The handsome Sheriff Griffin was back and, if possible, he looked even more harried than when he’d left to pick up Dixie’s Aunt Bertie. Just as Max had, the sheriff stopped just inside the door, probably taken aback by the change since he’d been here no more than twenty to thirty minutes ago.
“What is it, Terry?” Dixie stepped forward from where she’d been talking to Grace from Graceland Winery. Dixie’s cheeks were bright, and I don’t think Grace had been slipping her any samples. Her eyes flashed with bring-it-on boldness but I could see the hint of fear beneath the bravado. “Well, let’s have it.” She squared her shoulders.
Sheriff Griffin swallowed. “I went to pick up your aunt for questioning, and…” He paused.
“And what?” Dixie demanded.
“And, she’s not there,” the sheriff finished.
“What?” That was Dixie but there was a collective gasp from the crowded room.
“No one has seen her since early this morning,” the sheriff continued. “Have you heard from her?” He addressed his question to Dixie but then looked around at the rest and raised his voice. “If anyone has talked to her today, I need to know.”
What? Was Dixie’s Aunt Bertie on the lam?
Or worse yet, had something awful happened to her?
I looked down and realized I was clutching Max Windsor’s forearm.
“Sorry.” I released Max’s arm.
The sheriff made his way through the crowd toward Dixie, who looked like she’d been hit by a Mac truck.
I looked up at Max. I imagined I looked like I’d been smacked by the same truck.
What now?
Chapter Seven
The crowd was silent for a full beat before the chatter restarted and everyone started talking at once. The sheriff, like Max, seemed to be confused by the number of people in the office.
The chimes on the door dinged and I looked up to see Nate Berg, the St. Ignatius Journal cub reporter, burst in. The newspaper only has two reporters and usually Roxanne Price, the publisher, didn’t let newbie Nate cover anything more than weddings, funerals, and grand openings. Maybe Glenn Page, the news hound, was out on another story.
“What can you tell me, Sheriff?” I could hear him ask.
Nate’s dishevelment was a stark contrast to Sheriff Griffin’s sharply pressed uniform.
“Not much, Nate.” He put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and turned him. “I’ll let you know when we have a statement.”
“But something’s going on here.” Nate looked around at the people who stood chatting and sipping coffee. “I was just at the Red Hen and Toy George said everyone was over here.”
“Like I said, I’ll let you know.”
I scanned the room myself and suddenly realized I couldn’t see Dixie anymore. I caught a glimpse of bright blue slipping into the backroom and followed.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” I asked as I caught up with her as she snagged her purse and fished in it for her car keys.
“I’ve got to find my Aunt Bertie so she can clear herself. That inept excuse for a sheriff probably didn’t even try.” Dixie’s blue eyes flashed anger.
“Not without me you’re not.” I grabbed my bag and followed her out the door.
“I’ll drive.” Dixie flung her bag into the pickup, and I jumped in the passenger side.
I was very aware we were leaving our business full of people and unattended. Which I never would have done back home, but in small town Iowa I was pretty sure someone would keep an eye on things. And after all, the sheriff was present.
Dixie peeled out of the parking lot and then hopped over a block and headed south toward her aunt’s bed and breakfast, which was only five blocks away. Parking in front of the stately gray Victorian, she was out almost before the truck was in park. The lawn was perfectly manicured and baskets of pink pansies made the entrance both elegant and welcoming. Dixie stomped up the front stairs, crossed the wide veranda and flung open the door.