Murder at the Tremont House (A Blue Plate Cafe Mystery)

by Alter, Judy

  I told him something formal like I looked forward to working with him, and we hung up. I was humming when I went back to the café. Rick sat at his usual place at the counter, eating roast chicken with grits, the day’s special.

  “You look smug,” he said. His mood seemed lighter than the last time I saw him, and I was glad. He didn’t exactly smile, but the corners of his mouth turned upward a bit in that funny way he had. And he didn’t explain why he had earlier demanded to know where I was. I guess now he knew, it was okay.

  “Oh, I just had a good day.”

  With a more solemn expression, he said, “I’m glad our talk last night didn’t upset you.”

  “Rick, let’s not go there again. It upset you more than me, but we can’t either of us do anything or make any decisions, so let’s just drop it. Any progress on Sara Jo?”

  He shook his head. “Just what we already know. She was shot with a .38, in the side of the head. I have no idea if she saw it coming or was blindsided, but I hope for her sake it was the latter.”

  Well, that sobered me quickly. With my inadequate knowledge of guns, to put it mildly, I asked, “Who has a .38?”

  “Just about everybody in town,” he said dryly. “And by now, whoever it was has cleaned the gun, so there’s no residue, no evidence. We’d have to match bullet markings to the barrel, and I can hardly confiscate every .38 in Wheeler. Might miss it even if I could do that. Might have to confiscate every gun in Dallas.”

  I laughed.

  I stopped laughing a bit later, after Rick had left with a tip of the hat and a slight smile that to me indicated our friendship was back on track—not a relationship but a friendship. But then Donna called.

  “You haven’t bought the supplies for the cooking class tomorrow,” she screeched.

  It took my breath away. I’d completely forgotten the cooking class. “Wait, let me see what we’re fixing. I’ll call you back.” I stalled, studying the menus on my computer. Chicken enchiladas with tomatillos. I made a list—pre-roasted chickens, enchiladas, chicken broth in a box not a can, scallions, cilantro, green chilies in a can, and corn tortillas. We’d have to quadruple the recipe, but I thought it would work. We’d serve it with fresh fruit just now coming into season

  “Don?” I called her back. “Can you make a quick run to Canton for groceries? I have the list all made out. I’ll get the day started here and meet you at the B&B for prep.” Then I hesitated. “Do you think it’s disrespectful, since Sara Jo just died two days ago? Or maybe some of the ladies won’t want to come.”

  “I need to get the B&B back on track as soon as possible to get over this bad publicity, and they’ve paid for their lessons. I’ll go get your groceries, but I wish I didn’t have to do everything.”

  Lord, give me patience. I didn’t point out I was not getting paid for teaching these classes. The profit went right to her. Instead, I ignored the comment and said if she’d come by first thing in the morning, after dropping the kids at school, I’d have the list.”

  “Oh, fine. There goes my morning! Okay, I’ll be there.” Graciousness personified hung up the phone.

  My mind was whirling with preparations as I tried to concentrate on closing the restaurant. I could hear the comments: “Toma—what?” “Don’t just Mexicans eat those?” “I’m not sure my husband will eat this.” I’d be extra tactful, explain about the citrus-like quality of tomatillos and how easy they were to work with and suggest they just present the dish to their husbands without identifying the ingredients. I’d also suggest pinto beans might be a good accompaniment. Everyone in Wheeler knew how to cook those, and no, black-eyed peas wouldn’t substitute.

  That settled in my mind, I crossed the vacant area between the café and the restaurant and went home to greet Huggles and Wynona, who was much less enthusiastic in her greeting than Huggles. I got them fed, poured some wine, and pulled out my computer to see what if anything had happened in the world during the day. Then it was early to bed. As I fell asleep, my last thought was, “I wonder why I didn’t hear from David all day?” It made me sad.

  The cooking class went well the next day, in spite of Donna fluttering around the kitchen saying we’d never be ready by eleven when the ladies came. I looked at the clock—nine thirty. She’d had Tom take the kids to school and made an early speed run to Canton. We had plenty of time. I directed her to set up the chairs for the ladies and went about my business of cutting up fruit and deboning and dicing all those chickens—six. I’d save the tomatillos until the ladies were there, so they’d know how easy the prep was—just boil them in chicken broth.

  Nobody complained about tomatillos though they were puzzled. And they were delighted with the idea of making “flat” enchiladas—layering tortillas instead of dipping them in hot oil and rolling. Healthier for you and easier. By two they had all departed, happy with their “to-go” meals for dinner that night. I’d fed them on quartered tuna sandwiches from the café and offered a choice between iced water, iced tea or a small sip of wine. All except the Reverend Mrs. Baxter chose the wine, not much of a surprise. To these ladies, sipping wine in the middle of the day was sort of daring, and they loved it.

  I cleaned up, packed up the leftover groceries for Donna, who demanded, “What am I going to do with those?”

  “Make more enchiladas?”

  “No, thank you. You take them.”

  I headed home before going to the café so I could stash the food and discovered when I got there David Clinkscales sat on my back porch, in a rocker, iPad in his lap, but his gaze off in the distance.

  He rose immediately, ever the gentleman, and took my bags. “I came for lunch and missed you, but Marj said you’d be home after two. Beautiful day to sit and read.”

  “I’m glad to see you. How about chicken enchiladas for dinner?”

  “Is that a non sequitur?” He was grinning.

  “Nope. I’ve got these leftovers. Interested?”

  “Of course.”

  So I left him on the porch with his iPad, put the food in the fridge, went to the café just to check, and came back to make enchiladas out of the leftovers, which wasn’t hard because they were already half cooked. We had a delightful evening—dinner on the back porch, no talk about Sara Jo and murder, no talk about Donna and Tom. We talked about his cabin and how much he liked it, and my life and how it suited me for the time being, and the wonders of Huggles who came to beg. And sometimes we just sat and stared into the East Texas night, until a slight chill sent us inside. David had one more glass of wine while I cleaned the kitchen and left, saying he’d bring wine and groceries next time and do the cooking. When I asked what he’d cook, he was secretive.

  “My specialty. I leave you to wonder.” Hand on the door, he paused. “You know, Kate, I’m glad you left Dallas. I miss you in my office, but I think it’s been wonderful for you. You look good, more relaxed, healthier. Even though you’re under suspicion for murder.”

  I probably blushed as I pushed a stray lock of hair off my forehead, but I said, “Well, I certainly am working harder than I did in Dallas…and partying less. And probably when I think about it generally enjoying life more. It’s just not real good right now.”

  He put an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s talk about that tomorrow and not ruin tonight. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening more.”

  I shoved my hands in my apron pockets and looked down, afraid to meet his eyes. “We didn’t do anything special.”

  “That’s why it was a special night,” he said lightly and was gone.

  When I told Donna she’d missed it by not taking those leftovers, all she said was, “We had pot roast from the café.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next day was Saturday, and Cary was to come at eleven to begin yard work. As soon as breakfast was over, I rushed to the nursery and told Stu I needed scallions, herbs, and lettuce.

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully, rubbing the slight goatee that grew there. “It’s pretty late
for onions, Kate. Should have planted them in February, March at the latest.”

  “Will they grow?”

  “I suppose. I can give you some of the ones I started earlier. They’re really ready to eat. Let them go much longer and you’ll have onions and not scallions. But I got herbs. You need potting soil?”

  “Yes, please. And fertilizer and that weed stuff for the lawn. I’ve done nothing to it since, uh, Steve left.”

  He nodded and turned away to get the things I needed. I watched him walk away, one of those men who have put on a beer belly but remain otherwise trim. He was balding a bit in the back, which he sometimes covered with a baseball cap, and he generally let himself go in dress—dirty shirt hanging out of his jeans. Of course Steve had a dirty shirt, but somehow it looked different. Stop it, Kate! Steve Millican is out of your life.

  Stu’s efforts to sell me gardening equipment were fruitless. I had all that stuff in Gram’s shed, though it dawned on me I probably needed gasoline for the mower and the weed eater. Stu loaned me a wheelbarrow to take my herbs, onion, grass seed, fertilizer and weed killer across the highway. He warned me it was too late in the season for weed killer but added I might as well go ahead and try it. He cautioned me to wet the lawn thoroughly and keep my dog off it for several hours. I returned the wheelbarrow, got Gram’s gas can and hiked the short distance to the gas station to fill it. On the way back I soon found I didn’t know how heavy a five-gallon can of gas could be. Huffing and puffing, I made it into the back yard where Huggles jumped all over me until I finally collapsed on the ground to play with him.

  By the time Cary and his dad, Roger, arrived I had everything in order and was potting herbs, something I figured I could do without shoving it off on Cary.

  Cary, wearing a T-shirt and jeans that made me realize why Ava had a crush on him, proved to be, as he had a few times in the Blue Plate, shy and polite, saying, “Ma’am” to me and “Sir” to his dad. I wondered if it was too late to teach Henry that. Cary was earnest about learning what to do, but it was clear he didn’t know a thing about yard work.

  Roger Smith knew what his son lacked, and I wondered why he had waited for me to teach the boy. He was a man approaching fifty if not already there, with the look of an office worker—pale complexion, a bit out of shape, a bit balding, and jeans that bagged and sagged in all the wrong places. But he was jovial.

  “Miss Kate? I appreciate your giving Cary a job. He needs to earn some money, and I’m afraid his mom and I have spoiled him, letting him slide on the job side because he’s so involved in athletics and gets good grades. But he knows nothing about yard work.”

  “I can show him the basics,” I said. “I mowed this lawn a lot as a kid.”

  “Good, good. I’m sure he’ll learn quickly. He can walk home when he’s through.” He had an infectious grin but it never reached his eyes, where something worrisome lingered. Something bothered this man, and that bothered me. Was he a killer? Stop it, Kate! You’ll be accusing everyone in town at this rate.

  Roger clapped his son on the shoulder, said, “Do a good job, boy,” and was gone.

  I thought the term “boy” was patronizing, but I just thanked the father, said I was sure we’d get along fine. Actually I was relieved the dad was going. I’d been afraid he’d stay.

  I explained to Cary about going in straight rows, slightly overlapping, back and forth. The mower had no bag—I’d just let the clippings be mulch for the grass as hot weather approached. And approaching it was—in the high eighties this day, with a bright sun. Cary had a gimme cap that kept the sun from his eyes.

  I left him to his work and went inside to study some recent issues of Bon Appétit, not that I was going to start serving gourmet meals but sometimes I got some ideas for the café and even more for my personal cooking. I called it professional reading.

  Gram’s was a good-sized lawn, and it would take a while, but every so often I peeked out the window, and I could always hear the steady hum of the mower. When it finally stopped, I went outside and asked Cary if he’d like lemonade and a break, and he said gratefully he would. I brought icy cold fresh lemonade to the porch, and we sat in chairs.

  Now what, Kate? Here’s your chance. What do you say? As usual, I jumped in with both feet. “I hear Sara Jo Cavanaugh spent a lot of time interviewing you. Did she pick you as the average high school student?”

  He squirmed in his chair and looked away. “That’s what she said. It was embarrassing. The guys all teased me about it. I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead—gosh, it’s awful that someone murdered her—but I’m glad I don’t have to answer any more questions.”

  “May I ask what kind of questions?” There, I was doing just what he didn’t want—asking him more questions.

  He looked alarmed, but this was a boy who was used to responding politely to adults. “All kinds of stuff I thought wasn’t her business—about my folks, my grades, my problems with math”—did he blush just a bit then?—“even whether or not I’m dating.”

  I started to say I hoped not because I had a niece who’d be crushed, but I knew Ava would never speak to me again.

  “I don’t know if you should be flattered or offended,” I said philosophically, “but I do know investigative reporters will get information any way they can. It’s up to you to draw the line.”

  “I tried to be polite,” he said, swigging down the last of his lemonade and saying, “I guess I better get to the front lawn. Then I’ll put out the weed and feed. Dad said not to fertilize and use weed and feed at the same time, so I’ll put the fertilizer on in a week or so. Okay?”

  “Fine. While you do that I’ll put Huggles inside and run check on the café. I won’t be long.”

  I did, but everything was okay, and I was back before Cary finished the front lawn and began spreading the weed and feed. All in all the work took him about three hours, and I paid him generously, asking him if he’d come back the next Saturday. He said he would. By the time he left a bit after two, I was exhausted. I called Marj and said I was taking a nap before I came to relieve her. Huggles was confined to quarters but didn’t seem to mind as long as I was there.

  I hadn’t really found out much about Cary or Sara Jo, and we hadn’t touched on Sally Vaughn, but instinct kept telling me Cary Smith was the key to Sara Jo’s murder. Not that he did it, but just that it was all about him. Rick would snort, but then I wasn’t going to tell him. He’d accuse me of meddling if he heard I hired Cary to mow my lawn.

  ****

  The first phone call came that night, about nine-thirty when I got home from the café and let Huggles out. The voice was muffled, as though someone was holding a cloth over the phone and trying to disguise his or her voice. I honestly couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The words weren’t too chilling, just a garden-variety threat:

  “Stay away from Cary Smith. He knows nothing, and you’ll just upset him.”

  I was puzzled and held the phone in my hand a long time after I heard the click on the other hand. It wasn’t Roger…I was fairly sure of that. One of Cary’s buddies? Sally Vaughn? Who would call me?

  My secrecy was lost on Rick. He knew I’d hired Cary by the time he came in for breakfast on Sunday, splurging as he always did on Sundays on eggs, bacon, and hash browns. “Hear you got a new yard guy.” He sipped his coffee without looking at me.

  “Well, sort of. I don’t think he knows much about yard work, but he did a good job and seems glad he has the opportunity. He’ll get better. I wish Steve Millican were here to give him some tips. My teaching him is sort of like the lame leading the halt.”

  He wasn’t amused. Putting his coffee cup down, he stared me straight in the eye. “Kate, don’t meddle in this investigation. I’ve got Halstead on my neck. I don’t need you to mess it up.”

  I blathered, a sure sign I was caught. “I’m not. I’ve just liked Cary better than most of the boys who come in here, and I thought he might need some work.”

  “Kate, you knew his dad
was upset that Sara Jo questioned him so much. And you even said once you thought Cary was the key to something about Sara Jo.”

  Had I really been that dumb about opening my mouth? I waved a hand, “Oh, that was before she was killed. Ava told me she spent a lot more time with Cary than any of the other kids.”

  He finished his breakfast in silence and stood to leave, putting money on the counter. But as he turned to go, he asked, “Do you really think Cary’s at the center of this?”

  “I do. I just can’t figure out why or how. Ava said he also spends a lot of time with Sally Vaughn, the math teacher. Ava says she’s tutoring him, and he told me he struggles with math, but Sally told me he’s one of her better students.” I shook my head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “And she happened to tell you that why?”

  “I went to see her,” I confessed.

  “Kate, you’re hopeless. If I didn’t trust your instincts, I’d arrest you for obstructing justice instead of murder. As it is, I’ll think about all this. Maybe Cary has a thing for cougars. Stay away from him.”

  “Rick Samuels!” I exploded.

  Now he did that smile thing again. “Just kidding. But stay away from both of them. I think this was a killing with a specific motive—to get rid of one person—but if you keep poking, the murderer could get nervous and you’d be in danger. I’d rather not investigate your death.”

  “Rick, I am in danger…of being arrested for murder. That thought is never far from my mind. First my sister, now me. I don’t know what it is about this town. Maybe I was wrong to come back here.”

  “No, you weren’t. But you are in danger—not just of being arrested. Your life and well-being are in danger. Don’t forget the shotgun blast at the B&B. We still don’t know who did that.”

  “They were after Sara Jo,” I said. “Her death proves that.”

  “Probably, but not necessarily. But I won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way, and I’ll find out who killed Sara Jo before I’ll let Joe Halstead arrest you.” He said it with such passion it took my breath for a moment. And then he left without another word, without looking at me.