Trouble's Brewing

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  I set my mug of coffee on my bedroom dresser as I slipped into my favorite jeans and white T-shirt, complete with the word Dangerous emblazoned in red. Then, with coffee mug in hand, I sat down at my desk and logged onto the World Wide Web for a quick email check.

  I scanned through the usual mortgage and “find anyone” ads along with my membership-only news digest from the Deputy Daily for “the country’s finest deputy sheriffs.”

  An email from MedicDH, a one David Harris, popped out at me. It was about time he emailed me after what I’d been through helping him locate his birth mother.

  Hi, Donna,

  My mother, Vonnie … Wow. That sounds so weird I have to say it again. My mother, Vonnie, was such a pleasure to finally meet. I’d always figured my birth mom to have been both unwed and desperate. But the truth is fascinating. To think what she must have gone through when my father was killed in Vietnam, not to mention how she must have felt when she was told I had died at birth. Now that my adopted mom has passed, it’s time to get to know Vonnie. I’ve decided to move to Summit View. I’m going to get my paramedic’s license from the State of Colorado. Who do you know at the Colorado Health Department I can call to see what’s involved?

  I stared at the screen, narrowed my eyes, and blinked. Give me an everlasting break! Harris in Summit View? I didn’t like the sound of this. Did he have a clue as to the havoc he had created when Fred Westbrook found out his wife of thirty-five years had been married before? And if Clay Whitefield pegged Vonnie as Harris’s long-lost mother, even God himself couldn’t keep it from becoming front-page news.

  I clicked off the screen without hitting “reply” or checking the rest of my mail. This was one email I needed to think about. I didn’t think I could ever willingly share Vonnie with a long-lost son. After my mom had walked out on Dad and me, Vonnie was the only mother I had.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and laced my tennies.

  Beside Hurricane Harris, I had an even more threatening sitution to contain. It seemed my fellow Potlucker and formidable opponent, Miss Evangeline Benson—Evil Evie, as I liked to call her—was making sudden progress on her lifelong goal of marrying my father.

  That wrinkly old spinster had been on a slow boil ever since my dad married my mom instead of her.

  Humph. Something told me I shouldn’t waste time in putting that relationship to an end. It was the only way to save my father from certain doom.

  I looked in the mirror and finger-combed my crop of short blond hair. It was growing out, long enough now to ripple into soft curls. From the looks of the new growth, I’d have to duck into the barbershop for a trim. If one more fat tourist called me “cutie,” it could mean life in prison for either one or both of us.

  I grabbed the truck keys off the kitchen table and opened my front door. The sleepy town of Summit View was like a cat curled in its favorite window. Which of its nine lives will spring up today? I wondered, then inhaled the morning air. Pines and coffee. That’s a good combination. I hopped into my Bronco for a quick drive to the café, pulling up into one of the prime parking spots right in front next to Clay Whitefield’s old blue and white jeep.

  The café itself was in a remodeled white clapboard one-room schoolhouse that had been standing on Main Street for more than a century. The old schoolhouse bell hung from a small rooftop loft crowned with a green-shingled steeple. The bell regularly chimed during all scheduled parades, which duly marched down Main Street every Saint Paddy’s Day, Veterans Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, and Halloween.

  This morning the bell hung silent while the sun shone on the gold letters that spelled “Higher Grounds Café” on a large plate glass window. The sun’s glare made it hard to see which of the gang had arrived before me, though I could guess. I pushed open the glass door, and a tiny bell above jingled my entrance.

  Just as I’d thought. Wade Gage was hunkered on a stool at the counter, and Sally Madison was refilling his cup. Wade had probably just risen from a late night at the Gold Rush Tavern, where he was prone to put away a few brews. He was getting his usual late-morning start with a cup of black joe. Of course, the local handymen set their own hours, making sure work didn’t interfere with their hangovers or ski season.

  Wade looked up, his dirty denim baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Despite his haggard appearance, he was still a hottie, with his tall, muscled frame and sun-bleached hair, though I’d never let him know I still thought so. He gave me one of his haunted looks. “Morning, Deputy.”

  “Morning, Wade.”

  Dee Dee McGurk, the old barmaid from Gold Rush Tavern, sat alone at a corner table facing the door. She smoked a cigarette as she sipped her coffee and ate her usual toast and scrambled eggs. Her tired blue eyes snapped to mine.

  “Donna,” she said with a slight nod. I nodded back, for an instant trying to imagine her former beauty lost decades ago to … what? Deep sadness? Hard living? Bad choices? All of the above?

  No one around here seemed to know, because Dee Dee is a newcomer to town. She’d lived next to Sal in the trailer park behind the café for the past six months and pretty much kept to herself.

  A cheerful voice interrupted my musings. “How’s it going, Deputy Donna?” Dora Watkins, the owner and operator of the Sew and Stitch, had called out as she reached for her purse. “I’d love to pull up a chair for a visit, but we’re having a floss sale down at the shop this morning so I’ve got to scoot.”

  I nodded, relieved. Dora would have only tried to reminisce over Jan’s funeral—the beloved wife of our pastor had just died—and I wasn’t in the mood.

  As she paid her bill, I saw Clay Whitefield in his usual spot in front of the window, ready to catch any hint of a news story that might roll through town. He was studying the Boulder Daily Camera with his ever-present reporter’s pad plopped next to what was left of a biscuit and sausage special.

  He looked up from his reading as I slid into the chair across from him. “Donna, my favorite informant.”

  “Is that all I am to you?”

  He glowered beneath his Rockies baseball cap. “Don’t play coy with me, Deputy. You owe me some information. Our game of cloak-and-dagger, fun as it was, is over.” He tapped his pen on the table and studied me before leaning back in his chair with folded arms. “So, care to tell me who David Harris’s mother is?”

  His Irish Indian heritage shone through a splash of orange freckles flung across his olive cheeks and nose. He pushed his baseball cap a bit higher with the edge of his pen, revealing auburn hair. The humor in his brown eyes beckoned me to confess the juicy secret he knew I kept. Somehow I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Poor man. Didn’t he know I’d never reveal what I knew?

  “Dream on,” I said, signaling Sally for a cup of coffee by pointing at Clay’s cup.

  Clay looked a bit too smug as he reached for his reporter’s pad. “If I know you, I’d say it’s got to be one of your Potluck friends. Someone like, say, Lizzie? Perhaps her gig as the high school librarian is simply a cover for her shady past.”

  I could only shake my head.

  Clay wrote the name “Lizzie Prattle” on his notepad then scratched it out. “That’s two off my list of suspects.”

  “Two?”

  “Well, it can’t be you, now can it? You’re only old enough to be his sibling. Hey, is that it? You’re Harris’s evil twin sister?”

  “Ha-ha. Clay, promise me you’ll never try to write fiction.”

  Clay wrote my name under Lizzie’s and scratched through it. “This investigation is progressing nicely. I have only a few more suspects.”

  Sal arrived with my coffee. Her graying blond hair was pulled back into a hairnet. The apron of her crisp red uniform was tied tight around her too-thin waist, revealing the fact that she spent too much time on her feet. “Pancakes?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Don’t forget the syrup.”

  Sally laughed. “And risk jail time?”

  “Aw, Sal, Donna’s not as bad as that
,” Clay said.

  Sally jerked her head toward the kitchen. “That’s not what my cook says. He’s still steamed about that ticket she gave him last month—it cost him a big fine,” she called as she whirled herself back into the kitchen.

  Clay looked amused then asked, “How could you ticket poor Larry? You went to high school with him.”

  “And that makes him family? Larry, like everyone else around here, lied to me. He deserved it.”

  “So it’s truth you want. Maybe you’ll enjoy knowing that I’ve already figured out this little secret of yours.”

  I flinched, and my voice rose a bit louder than I intended. “Look, Clay. I’m not going to help you.”

  “Okay, suit yourself, but I already know Harris’s mother is Evie.”

  When I barked a laugh, he wrote down Evangeline Benson’s name then scratched it out too.

  I held up my hands. “Okay, enough’s enough. I came for the town scoop. I didn’t come to play gossip. Now, you tell me, who’s doing what to whom?”

  “I’m the one desperate for news. Not much happening around here except for Jan Moore’s funeral last week.”

  I reached for my napkin and tried to center it in my lap, carefully smoothing out its creases. I didn’t want to engage in this conversation so I kept my eyes on the napkin. “She was a fine lady,” I said quietly.

  Clay studied me. “That’s why I’ve never suspected her to be Harris’s mother,” he said finally. “She was too much of an angel to have had such a secret.” Clay wrote down Jan’s name then scratched it out.

  “Clay!”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. But, say, I am writing a story about Jan. Would you mind telling me your fondest memory of her?”

  “Well, off the record.”

  He poised his pen above the pad. “Go on.”

  “I mean it, Clay. Drop that pen.”

  Clay put the pen behind his ear then leaned back.

  I said, “Okay, it’s just that I don’t want anyone to think I’m a softie.”

  “You?” Clay smirked. “Just tell me what happened.”

  I took a sip of coffee, then said, “Once, when I’d stopped her for tearing down the mountain at eighty-five miles an hour, she pleaded, ‘Guilty as charged, Donna. Give me a ticket.’ I was so taken by her honesty that I told her, ‘Never mind, Jan. Seeing that it’s you and knowing you’re probably on some heavenly mission, I’ll give you a little grace. But watch your speed, will ya? I’d hate to see you run that Taurus off a cliff.’”

  I paused a moment, caught in memory. “Jan looked so cute—those big brown eyes framed by her brown curls. Remember? I even remember what she was wearing that day: a denim skirt with a red-scooped tee. She may have had the look of Texas about her, but I never held it against her …

  “She said, ‘Donna, what a dear you are. And yes, I am on a mission. Jeanie Thompson just got word that her mother’s had a heart attack. Jeanie needs me to watch her kids so she can run to the hospital. I’m afraid she’s a bit hysterical, and I’d hoped to spend some time in prayer with her before she faced the doctors.’”

  I looked up at Clay, who nodded his approval. “That was Jan,” he said, “always on a mission from God.”

  “That’s what’s so hard to understand,” I admitted. “If she served a loving God, why would he allow this sudden cancer to take her away from us?”

  “Questions are my department.” Clay tapped the paper. “If God ever grants me an interview, I’ll ask him.”

  “Mmm.” I tapped page one too and crooked my head. “Clay’s interview with God explains all mysteries.”

  Clay leaned back in his chair. “It would make a great front page. Speaking of mysteries, I was at the funeral luncheon following the service. The potluck was hosted by your little club, right? Did you contribute?”

  “Only the meatballs.”

  “No kidding? I’d like to have that recipe.”

  I shrugged. “Just a little recipe I picked up off the Internet—RecipeCoach.com. Check it out. Nah. I’ll print you a copy. In truth, I avoid the kitchen at all costs.”

  “Like you try to avoid Lisa Leann Lambert?” Clay was writing her name in that notebook of his, only to scratch it off as he said, “Who, by the way, is off my list simply because she’s new to town.”

  “That makes her the perfect suspect.”

  “But she’s not one you’d try to protect. I heard what she said to you.”

  “Pastor Kevin’s wife hadn’t been in the grave more than half an hour when she’d started up.” I exaggerated her Texas drawl. “‘Darlin’, you know, marrying off Pastor Kevin could be the biggest social event of the year. Donna, you’re single, aren’t you? I think you’d make a lovely bride. The age difference between you and Pastor Kevin isn’t so much. You’re early thirties, right? And Pastor Kevin is probably late fifties. My, that could work.’”

  Clay chuckled. “So, Donna, are you going to take her up on her offer?”

  “Yeah, right. If I hadn’t choked on my Kool-Aid, the deacons would have thrown me out of the church for swearing. Good thing Lizzie came to my aid. She said, ‘Lisa Leann, this is Jan’s funeral. Have you no respect?’” I laughed, then caught Clay writing another name on his list. I tried to look. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m officially scratching Lisa Leann’s name. Which brings us to my two main suspects: Goldie Dippel and Vonnie Westbrook.”

  I felt the color rise in my cheeks as I stood to my feet, almost knocking my pancakes out of Sal’s hands.

  I turned to her. “Uh, Sally, I’ve gotta run. Could you box those up for me?”

  Clay pulled his pudgy frame from his chair. “Well, Donna, looks like I’m getting warm. I’d even say that I’m getting pretty hot.”

  I turned and looked him up and down. “Hot? Who? You and Sponge Bob Square Pants? You wouldn’t be hot even if you were covered in Larry’s five-alarm chili.”

  3

  Half Reporter, Half Detective, 100 Percent Curious

  Clay watched Donna walk out of the café, then stared back down to his notepad. Man, she’s good, he thought, then smiled at the two remaining names.

  Goldie Dippel and Vonnie Westbrook.

  Goldie was a transplant, having moved from some sleepy little town in Georgia right after she married Coach Jack Dippel; she was one of his favorite people, the kind of woman who would never do anyone any harm, in spite of the fact she was married to the world’s biggest jerk.

  However, he mused, she and Coach had recently separated. Could it be over the Harris man? Could his unexpected arrival in Summit View have been the catalyst that caused the breakup? Or had Mrs. Dippel finally had her fill of Coach’s roaming ways?

  This, of course, brought him to Vonnie Westbrook. Vonnie had lived her whole life in Summit View, as far as he knew. He’d already gone down to the local high school, checked out an old yearbook, and discovered that her goal in life was to be a nurse. From all indications, she’d gone to college, returned home with her degree, married Fred Westbrook, and worked for Doc Billings until retirement.

  A thought struck him. She’d attended college back in the sixties, and he’d heard some wild stories about that free love era.

  Clay looked back up to the door where Donna had exited, thinking for a moment about who his favorite deputy would be more likely to protect. Surely, Vonnie. The woman was like a mother to Donna …

  Clay shook his head. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Vonnie Westbrook—no matter what era she’d grown up in—carrying a stop the war sign in an antiwar march or dancing around half dressed at a rock fest like Woodstock.

  The slow steps of Dee Dee McGurk leaving the café interrupted his imaginings. She sniffed, and he looked up at her weathered and deeply tanned face. Was she crying, he wondered, or did she have a cold?

  Considering the change in weather of late, probably a cold, he concluded, then watched her walk out of the same door Donna had gone through moments before.

  Donn
a … all thoughts seemed to come back to her. He felt himself blush, and he swore under his breath. How could a little thing like her have such an effect on a man?

  No sooner had he asked himself that question than Wade Gage walked up to his table. “You’re so gone over her,” he said.

  “Who? Dee Dee?”

  Wade chuckled. “Yeah. Dee Dee.” He shook his head as he took two steps toward the door. “See everyone later,” he called out.

  Clay could still smell the lingering stench of beer from the night before on his old friend. He narrowed his eyes. Wade Gage had been Donna’s sweetheart back in high school. He knew what it felt like to make her laugh or blush, to hold her and kiss her …

  Clay slammed his notebook shut. Enough of this, he thought. He had better things to do than wonder about Wade Gage and Donna Vesey. He had some investigations to continue and articles to write. The ladies of the Potluck were sure to serve up something …

  4

  Marriage Waffles

  The phone at my desk rang, and I scurried from the American History Reference section of the high school library where I’ve worked longer than I care to admit to the small glass-encased office at the back of the room. “Library. Mrs. Prattle,” I answered, a tad breathless.

  “Yes, I’d like to place an order please.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking down at the phone. The call had come in from an outside line. “You must have the wrong number.”

  “No, I think I have the correct number,” the male voice said, a hint of humor in his tone.

  I pulled my reading glasses from my face and laid them gently on my desk. This was just what I needed today, and I mean that with all the sarcasm I can muster. “Okay,” I said, deciding to play along. After all, years of dealing with high schoolers had taught me to be just as obnoxious as they were when pushed. “Since I’m quite certain you are one of our students who has decided to give me a difficult time, I’ll take a stab at this. What would you like to order? Prince Albert in a can? A pizza? What?”