“We weren’t exactly minding our own business,” Dixie pointed out. “Wonder how long we’ll have to wait now. I should have brought more snacks.”
“If we get hungry, I can run over to the gas station.” I was sorry I hadn’t paced myself with the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
“I’d bet they aren’t open much longer.” She pointed toward the station. Dixie was probably right. Even in St. Ignatius the local gas station was only open until ten o’clock. Though the town did have a convenience store that stayed open all night.
“What the heck?” I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The door had opened and Kenny was leaving. He stood in the doorway for a couple of minutes, straightened his clothes, and then pulled the door shut. The light still shone through the curtains. I couldn’t see anyone else. And then Kenny walked to his car, got in, and drove away.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Well we know he came here to see someone.”
“Yeah, but that was awfully quick.” I tried to be a grownup and not snicker when I said it.
“I couldn’t see anyone else. Could you?”
“No, I couldn’t see at all.” I thought for a minute. “I guess we could ask at the office who’s registered in that room.”
“I’m afraid they probably aren’t going to tell us,” Dixie lamented. “Like the sheriff said, we’re not cops.”
“We could pretend to be. Or we could pretend to be lost. Or we could go to the room and rattle the doorknob, you know, like we’ve got the wrong room. Or…”
“Or we could go to the door and knock and see who answers.”
Way less imaginative than my scenarios, but probably more honest and straightforward. And productive.
“Okay, let’s go.” I had my car door open already.
We crunched across the lot. Again, the gravel was extremely loud in the quiet of the place. The lot was well lit, and June bugs buzzed around the tall lights. There was no light on outside the room, but we could see from a gap in the curtain that there was a light on inside.
“What if the killer is Kenny, and he came to meet his lover, and now he’s killed her too.” I stopped in my tracks. “Finding one dead body was enough for me.”
“If she’s dead she won’t be answering the door,” Dixie pointed out. “If no one comes to the door, we’ll go to the office and ask them to do a welfare check.”
Good point.
We approached the door. Dixie took a deep breath and knocked.
No answer.
I was already imagining the dead body inside. In my mind, she still wore the dress with the bright red cherries. I’m sure the woman I’d seen with Kenny had changed clothes since that day at the church, but that’s how I always imagined her because I didn’t have anything else to go on. Now, I could picture her draped across the bed, clutching her throat from the poison she’d just ingested.
Dixie knocked again, this time a little louder.
The door suddenly popped open and a beefy arm blocked the entry. My eyes landed on the tattoo on his forearm, a knife stabbing a heart, and then traveled up to the scowl. I tried to speak but choked on my words.
“What do you want?” Tattoo Guy was in his thirties with short hair. Very short, think crew cut buzz with a couple of weeks of growth on it.
“We were looking for Kenny Farmer.” I finally found my voice. “He was just here.”
“No, he wasn’t.” His voice was sharp.
“Yes, he was.” Dixie drew herself up to full height. “We saw him.”
“You need your eyes checked, lady.” He moved to close the door. “I think I’d know if he was here.”
“Wait—” I started to say, but he’d already snapped the door shut.
Not what we’d expected. This was not some affair, Kenny was into something much worse.
Dixie and I walked back to the Jeep and quickly got in.
“Maybe Kenny used an alias or something.” Dixie locked her door and looked at me.
“Wow. I don’t know what to think.” I also hit the lock and then started the Jeep.
“Do you think it’s drugs?”
I hate to stereotype, but that’s what had come to mind. Especially since the guy was so furtive, not opening the door, and denying that Kenny had been there.
I pulled out onto the highway. It was a quiet ride back and we were both lost in our own thoughts about what we’d seen. Soon we were back in St. Ignatius.
I pulled up in front of Dixie’s place. “Do you think we should let the sheriff know?”
She didn’t hesitate at all. “We don’t breathe a word of this to the Sheriff.”
* * * *
When I got up the next morning, I started the coffee then opened the pantry and got out cat food for my furry companion.
“Ernest,” I told him, “For being two smart cookies, Dixie and I were really stupid last night.”
“Meow,” he agreed.
“You don’t have to be so quick to chime in.” I filled his bowl and sat down at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to brew and thinking through all the bad choices.
Watching Kenny’s house had simply been an effort to figure out who he was involved with. If we could figure who she was, and confirm that Kenny had a motive perhaps the Sheriff would follow that line of investigation.
However, bad choice number one, staking out Kenny’s house. And bad choice two, following Kenny when he left town.
And then, here comes the big one, we could have called it a night, rather than knocking on the door of the room at the motel. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad choice at the time. The truth was we had just expected a disheveled female to answer the door. Not dangerous. Instead a large scary-looking man had answered. Dangerous.
“Dangerous,” I told Ernest. He looked up from his dish and I’m pretty sure rolled those gorgeous green eyes.
Once at the office, I got to work. I had made good progress but the clock was ticking to get this project completed and ready to go to print. I called Harriet Hucklebee and asked if we could meet for coffee to go over some things later that morning.
First, I had some details about the project I needed to discuss with her. Second, maybe I could figure out why she’d gotten the impression there was a problem with the Farmer family and the cookbook. It would be good to know if there was still an issue looming that might derail the whole thing. Third, I thought she probably knew more than she was saying about Kenny and Elsie. She wasn’t a gossip (I liked that about her) but she might be more comfortable sharing something with me, rather than the sheriff, if it had to do with Kenny and his catting around. (Apologies to Ernest for the term.)
I had the sections separated. The recipes were labeled for each section and I’d planned a few backups in case there were any problems and we needed to make changes.
From the paper samples I’d picked up the other day from the post office, we had picked one in particular that we thought would work the best. It was clean and simple but sturdy enough for a cookbook that would become a keepsake. At least that was the hope.
Mid-morning at the Red Hen Diner was not as busy as breakfast or lunch time but a smattering of people sat at the tables and booths. Harriet was already there and sipping a black coffee while she looked at her phone messages.
She looked up as I approached the table and put her phone away. “Hello, Sugar.”
I placed my bag on the extra chair and sat down. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Not at all.” She adjusted the scarf at her neck. “What do we need to cover?”
I’d hoped for a little chit-chat so I could work in a few of my questions but the lady was all business. Toy George showed up at the table with cup and coffee pot in hand. I looked up and nodded and she poured.
“I have a sample of the paper I’m
proposing and a list of items we’re still waiting on.” I pulled a sample from my bag and reached in again for the list.
“I know nothing about paper so I’m sure you’re right on that.” She took the sample but then immediately handed it back.
“On the items we still need.” I plucked a pen from the outside pocket. “Here’s the table of contents. I’ll adjust the page numbers when we have everything. And I’m working with Max Windsor on the photos.”
“Ah, the handsome and mysterious Max.” Harriet raised a brow. “I didn’t know he did food.”
“I don’t know that he has before, but the work I’ve seen leads me to believe he’s up to it.” I didn’t know why I was defending Max. “And his pricing was good.” I didn’t need to go into all the reasons he was such a good pick, that’s what we were being paid to figure out.
“What else?” she asked.
“It had been suggested that we do some sort of a tribute to Elsie Farmer.” I threw it out there.
She looked up from her papers. “Who suggested that?”
I had, but only to get Kenny talking. But now I felt like we needed to follow through. Even if he was a murderer. “I don’t remember who first suggested it.” I didn’t look at her.
“The committee will have to give the okay to do that.” She pushed up her glasses. “I’m not sure what they’ll think. Elsie wasn’t a popular person. But she and the Farmer family were big contributors to this project.”
Here was my opening. “You said the other day at Elsie’s funeral that the Farmer family were opposed to going forward with the cookbook given Elsie’s death. But when we talked to Kenny a couple of nights ago about it, he was fine with it. He suggested talking with his sister. Do you know? Did she have a problem?”
“I said they were concerned.” She folded her papers. “That’s what had been expressed to me by several people.”
“You’re friends with Kenny’s sister and her husband?”
“Not close friends.” She tucked the papers in her bag. “We play cards together with them and some other couples once a month.”
“Was everything okay between Kenny and Elsie?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with the cookbook, but yes, they seemed okay. No different than they’d been.”
No different than they’d been was not necessarily the same as everything was okay.
“The sponsors.” I snapped my fingers. I’d almost forgotten. “Do you have that list? I need a complete list of all of the sponsors so I can get that formatted and ready to go into the cookbook. Are there logos we should be including?”
“You’ll have to check with the secretary. She had collected all of those. I’m sure she has it handled.”
“Minnie,” I said. “Her name is Minnie.”
“That’s right.” She gave me a funny look.
“Great.” I made a note. That would give me a chance to talk with her and see what she knew about Kenny and his secret lover. The assistant always knows what’s really going on.
I took my time walking back to the office. It seemed the problem Harriet had thought there might be with continuing the cookbook project might be with Karla Farmer and not Kenny as we had supposed.
Dixie was hard at work when I arrived at the office and I filled her in on my conversation with Harriet.
“I think we should just outright ask her.” She sorted through cans and jars. “What have we got to lose?”
“Do you know her?” I wondered how difficult it would be to set up a time to talk to her.
“Not really. I think she has a daughter a few years younger than me, so I used to see her at basketball games.”
“You played basketball?”
“I did.” She pushed a curl off her forehead. “And I was good.”
“I’ll bet.” I could picture that. The lady was competitive in most everything she did. Perhaps that was the secret to what had gotten her and the sheriff crosswise.
“So should we call the office and see if we can get in tomorrow to see her?”
“Great plan.” She nodded agreement.
I called the number Dixie gave me and was surprised when the woman on the other end said Karla Farmer would see us first thing in the morning tomorrow. First thing for me meant eight or nine o’clock.
It turns out to Karla Farmer that meant seven a.m. Ugh.
* * * *
The Farmer family’s business office was located at the edge of town on the highway we’d taken the night we followed Kenny. It’s a plain metal building on the outside. A pole building, Dixie said it was called. It was tan and sort of blended into the corn field behind it, but the roof was a forest green. I noted the parking spots up front for the owners. There were signs that said, Farmer #1, Farmer #2, and Farmer #3. I wondered if there was an order implied or if the siblings handled it with a first to arrive system. In any case, I didn’t see Kenny Farmer’s Cadillac in any of the spaces. We parked in the visitor-designated area and headed to the building.
As we walked in there was a reception desk which was manned, or rather womanned, by a young woman in a chambray shirt that said, “Farmer Industries” on it in bright blue thread.
“Hi, Phil.” Dixie apparently knew the young woman. “We have an appointment with Karla Farmer.”
“Have a seat over there.” The girl pointed to a row of chairs. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
The interior of the place looked like any office. Tough slate-colored carpet, desks and cubicles. There were three doorways across the end to my left. (Don’t ask me north, south, east, west. Remember that little directional challenge I have?) We were close enough that I could read the nameplates. Keith Farmer, Karla Farmer, and Kenny Farmer. The signs didn’t give titles, but all of the doors were open except for Kenny’s.
“She’s ready for you.” The young woman who’d greeted us motioned for us to follow her.
Minnie Silberhorn rushed in just as we were being ushered into Karla Farmer’s office. She carried a stack of file folders.
“Hello, Minnie.”
She looked up and then gave a faint, “Hello.”
I would try to catch her after we’d met with Kenny’s sister and ask about the sponsors’ list. It would save me trying to get in touch with her.
Karla Farmer stood as we stepped through the doorway.
“Good morning.” She had a firm handshake. “I assume you’re here about the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day celebration. I’ve already agreed to take care of the crowning of the queen and the flat bed for the stage. If you’re selling advertising, Kenny handles that.”
“Thanks for seeing us.” I was in my element here. She was like many of the execs I’d dealt with in the corporate world. And their biggest interest was always time and money. And if you wanted their money, you’d better not waste their time.
“We know you’re busy and we won’t take much of your time.” I got right to the point. “We’re here about the cookbook.”
“Cookbook?”
Yes, there’s a committee putting together recipes from people in the community and compiling them into a Founders’ Day cookbook. Your sister-in-law, Elsie, was on the committee.”
I stumbled a bit as I noticed the change in her expression. Clearly not a fan, but whether of Elsie or the cookbook I wasn’t sure.
“Harriet Hucklebee had indicated to us that the Farmer family might not support the project moving forward. When we spoke with Kenny, he said we should talk to you.”
“I don’t have any problem with the cookbook. Are we a sponsor?”
“Just initially,” Dixie answered.
“The project is self-supporting. The sale of the cookbooks will cover the costs of producing them,” I explained.
“Well, then.” She stood. “Thanks for checking with me, but I don’t see why we’d have any issue with
it.”
“We won’t take any more of your time.”
Dixie and I excused ourselves and headed out of Karla Farmer’s office and toward the door.
“Wait.” I stopped and turned back to the receptionist. “Is Minnie still here?”
“No, she’s gone out on some errand for Kenny,” the young woman replied. “Can I give her a message?”
“That would be great.” And would save me a phone call. “Would you ask her to email the cookbook sponsor list? She has my email.”
The receptionist made a note and promised to deliver it to Minnie when she returned. I thanked her and Dixie and I headed outside.
Once we were back in the Jeep, we looked at each other.
“So, I’m lost.” I said. “You?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea what Harriet Hucklebee was talking about.”
“Back to the office?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, let’s get back to work.”
We headed back to the office and picked up where we’d left off the day before. Still unclear on why Harriet had thought the Farmers had a problem going forward with the cookbook.
Chapter Fourteen
As I walked by Flashback, Disco’s shop, I could see through the window and into the store. If Disco wasn’t busy maybe I’d stop by and ask him about being at the retirement village where Greer lived the other day. It wasn’t really any of my business, but I was puzzled by it and frankly feeling a little bad that I knew so little about him.
I stood and looked in the window. Disco stood behind the counter, his bright pink satin shirt a flash of color amidst the crowded racks of who knew what. There was a guy at the counter talking to him. I sure didn’t want to jinx any potential sales. I could come back.
Wait a minute. I stopped in my tracks. It wasn’t just any guy—it was the guy we’d seen the night we followed Kenny to the Weary Wanderer motel. What was he talking to Disco about?
I rushed back to the shop and yelled for Dixie. “Come quick.”
“What is it?” She brushed flour-dusted hands on her apron.
Game of Scones Page 13
