I’d just gotten into the story and Ernest had settled into his place on my lap, when there was a knock at my front door.
“Sorry, Ernest.” I moved him to the ottoman and stood, leaving my finger between the pages to mark my place as I carried the book with me.
I opened the door, but when I saw who it was I had to fight the urge to close it again. Mrs. Pickett stood on the threshold, arms crossed. Her gray hair was tucked into a scarf, her floral cotton dress was covered by a clashing flowered apron, and her expression said I was in trouble for something.
Oh no, what now?
“I have thistles,” she pronounced.
Why, yes ma’am, you do.
I didn’t say that, but I wanted to. But knowing she wouldn’t get my reference, or probably worse, would get it, I figured either way I’d be two steps back from any progress we’d made toward friendliness. Not that we’d really made any.
“And…?” I waited for her to explain.
“And they came from the thistles you have in your yard.” Her mouth turned down in a frown. “You gotta get them under control or they’ll take over.”
“But—”
“You also have Creeping Charlie.”
“Who?”
It was too late. She turned on her heel and left.
I closed the door. Well for cryin’ in a bucket, I didn’t put those thistles in her yard. I had seen them in mine and thought I probably should do something about them, but I wasn’t sure what to do, so I’d just mowed right over them. And I had no idea who or what Creeping Charlie was.
Remember. Apartment or condo dweller all my life.
I put my book aside and went to Google thistles and Creeping Charlie. Or maybe I’d start with a search for tips on how to get along with your neighbor.
* * * *
The next morning, I waved good-bye to Ernest, who had already selected his sunny spot for the day. He raised his head in acknowledgment, but apparently lacked the energy to comment.
I climbed into the Jeep armed with a large cup of coffee and a printout of different ways to get rid of weeds in your yard. The Internet had advised a white vinegar solution could do the trick. If that didn’t work the plan was cutting the stem at the ground. I was rooting for the vinegar.
It was a short trip to the office. I parked in the back and went in. Dixie was already there with a good start on what smelled like cinnamon rolls.
“Good morning,” I called, stashing my bag in the office. “This place smells like heaven.”
“It’s my Granny Ruby’s recipe.” She wiped her forehead with her wrist.
“Don’t worry about taste testers for this one.” I grinned. “I’ve got you covered.”
“I hadn’t thought I needed testers for these, I’ve made them so many times.” She set the bowl with the dough aside and grabbed an oven mitt to check the batch that was already in the oven. “But I’m experimenting with the glaze, so it’s good to know that I have a volunteer.”
“I meant to ask you yesterday about Better Than Sex Cake, but then Disco showed up and you got all riled up over that Nick guy.”
“The what? Wait—” she interrupted herself. “I did not—”
I heard my cell phone ring from the other room. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
Hurrying to the office so that the call didn’t go to voicemail, I grabbed it from the front pocket of my purse. “Hello?”
“Sugar, it’s Greer. I’m sorry to bother you again, but we’ve got another problem.”
“What’s wrong?” I straightened papers on my desk and laid the printout about weeds on my chair so I wouldn’t lose track of it.
“Alma is missing.”
I was feeling a sense of déjà vu all over again with Bunny missing and now Alma.
“How long has she been missing?” I asked.
“Since last night.” I could hear the worry in her voice.
Shoot. That was concerning. Though it wasn’t long, the four women kept pretty close tabs on one another, and if she’d gone somewhere overnight, she surely would have mentioned it.
“You’ve called her phone?” I assumed they had, but I had to ask.
“Sure have. And knocked on her door real loud. Then we called the county sheriff’s office, but they said she’s not officially missing until she’s been gone for forty-eight hours.”
“I’ll be right there,” I was already gathering up my keys and bag. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to find Alma walking along the street like I had Bunny, but maybe I could do something to help look for her.
I stepped into the kitchen area and explained the situation to Dixie.
“Do not give those cinnamon rolls to anyone else. If Disco comes by, he may have one and only one.”
Then I headed to the Good Life retirement center for the second time in two days.
Chapter Three
I felt a little funny about breaking into Alma’s place.
Okay, we weren’t really breaking in because Nellie knew where Alma kept her key. But still I wasn’t sure I should have allowed myself to be led astray by a group of silver-haired hooligans.
We’d discussed where Alma could be and decided—well, actually the hooligans had decided—that we should check her home first and make sure she wasn’t ill and not answering the door.
“Just open the door and put the key back where you found it,” Nellie whispered, turning up the collar on her tan trench coat and looking around.
“Why are you whispering?” Greer said in her normal voice.
Nellie held a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
“Well, for Pete’s sakes.” Greer shook her head and turned back to the front door.
It opened with a loud squeak and Greer handed the key to Nellie, who slipped it back into the pot of bright red geraniums beside the patio.
Greer stepped through the doorway. Bunny and Nellie crowded in behind her. I waited until they were inside before I followed. Alma’s place was the same all-on-one-level floor plan as Greer’s. Living room, a kitchen/dining room combo, and then bathroom and bedrooms down the hall.
Her taste in decorating, however, was far from Greer’s simple and homey style. Where the furnishings at Greer’s place fit the rooms, Alma’s space was bursting at the seams. Sort of like I felt after too many of the Red Hen Diner’s famous biscuits and gravy. I imagined she must have taken pieces of furniture from her former home and stuffed in as many of them as she could. A large walnut armoire stood just inside the door. At its base was a grinning gnome holding out a “Welcome” sign. The sofa, a deep green velvet, was sandwiched between a huge bookshelf and a curio packed with ruby-colored glass pieces.
“What are we looking for?” Nellie whispered.
“Stop that.” Greer pointed a finger at Nellie. “Right. Now.”
Nellie shrugged, picked up a pair of binoculars from the bookshelf, and peered into them.
“We’re looking for anything that might tell us where Alma has gone,” I responded.
Nellie turned the binoculars toward the front window like she might find Alma there.
Bunny stepped through the doorway into the kitchen and began opening and closing cupboards.
Yeah. Not sure what clues she expected to find in there.
“Do you know if she kept an appointment book or a calendar?” I opened one of the doors of the armoire. There were files and papers packed into the compartments, but I didn’t see anything that looked like an appointment book. “Maybe we could figure out where she was before she went missing.”
“She always wrote things in her book, but she kept it in her purse,” Greer commented as she stood in the midst of the clutter and continued looking around the room. “I’m going to check her bedroom.”
As Greer headed determinedly down the hall, I had an awful thought. Though the ladies had said Alma’s car was missing too, what if it had been stolen? What if someone had broken in, killed her, and taken her car?
I know. Morbid though
ts. But having once (okay, twice) had a terrible experience with finding a dead body, I didn’t want Greer to find her friend’s perhaps lifeless body.
I started down the hallway after Greer.
Just as I reached the end of the corridor a siren-like sound bounced off the walls. Thinking at first it was the smoke alarm, I started for the kitchen, but quickly realized it wasn’t an alarm, but a scream.
Good grief, Alma was dead.
“Greer?”
“What?” She poked her head around the corner and I suddenly realized it hadn’t been Greer screaming. “For crying out loud, Nellie. What are you shrieking about?”
We both hurried back to the living room. Bunny leaned against the door jam, her hands over her ears, her eyes closed.
Nellie pointed at the front window and kept the scream going. The woman had amazing lung capacity for an eighty-year-old.
Finally, she stopping screaming and took a breath. “There. Is. Somebody. Out there.” Her hand shook as she pointed again. “Look!”
Greer and I stepped toward the window to look, but a squeak stopped us.
The doorknob turned.
Squeak.
I picked up the item nearest me, which happened to be the welcome gnome. Ready to protect the ladies from whoever might come through the door, I held the heavy statue aloft.
The door flew open and just as I started to bring Gnome Guy down on the noggin of our intruder, I realized it was actually the noggin of Sheriff Terry Griffin.
“Is everything okay—” The sheriff stopped midsentence.
I stopped midstrike.
He looked at me, looked at the gnome, and then took in the rest of the scene. Bunny with her hands over her ears and eyes scrunched shut. Nellie gasping for air after that prolonged scream. Greer, arm extended, hand wrapped tightly around a can of what looked to be mace.
The sheriff is a handsome guy. All-American, boy-next-door, sort of good looks. Right now, however, his brown eyes were serious. He shook his head.
“What in the Sam Hill do you ladies think you’re doing?”
“We’re looking for Alma.” Greer looked like she still might spray him with the mace if he made a wrong move. “You folks said you couldn’t look for her because she couldn’t be declared missing unless she’d been missing for forty-eight hours.”
“That’s true.” Sheriff Griffin moved out of Greer’s direct line of fire. “But we also said we’d keep an eye out for her.” He glanced around the room.
“Well, she’s not here.” Greer noted.
“We thought there might be something to indicate where she’d gone.” I reached over, took the mace from Greer, and slipped it into my pocket. Better safe than sorry. “Maybe an appointment book or a note.”
Bunny suddenly opened her eyes, spotted the sheriff, and gasped. Dropping her hands from her ears, she slid down the wall. “Are we under arrest?”
The sheriff turned stern. “No, but you really shouldn’t just break into someone’s house.”
“We didn’t.” Nellie had finally regained her speech. “I had a key.”
“Okay, I won’t arrest you this time.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But how about we leave the investigating to the professionals?”
“What have you found out so far?” Greer was not to be deterred.
“We’ve checked with her daughter and—” The sheriff’s phone rang, interrupting him. “Sheriff Griffin,” he answered.
Suddenly his expression turned even more serious.
“Excuse me.” He opened the door and stepped outside.
Obviously, he was hoping for some privacy.
Obviously, we followed.
The sheriff’s long legs took him away from the building faster than any of us could keep up. He stopped at the end of the sidewalk, but we reached him too late to hear anything more than, “Okay, I’ll be right there.” The sheriff turned on his heel and headed directly toward his car.
“Wait a minute.” Greer started after him, but he was moving fast. He got in and sped away. I helped the ladies lock up at Alma’s and headed back to the shop.
Famished after their excitement, the Golden Girls were headed to Greer’s for coffee cake. Also famished, I remembered those cinnamon rolls Dixie had been baking.
* * * *
I filled Dixie in on what had transpired at the Good Life while she washed up.
Her last batch of rolls were still warm and I loaded one onto a plate and prepared to dig in.
“Leave it to you, Sugar.” She set aside a large mixing bowl. “To get yourself into trouble with a rowdy crowd of little old ladies.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that.” I licked frosting off my thumb, and then searched for a napkin. “Those ladies, and especially Greer, would be insulted. Not about the rowdy part, about the little old lady part,” I clarified. “Actually, we were doing pretty well until your sheriff arrived.”
“Not my sheriff.” Dixie whipped around to give me a glare.
“So you say.” I shrugged.
Dixie rinsed a group of utensils and picked up a dish towel to dry them. I finished off my cinnamon roll, washed my hands, and grabbed a towel to help. Picking up the colorful mixing bowls, I carried them out front to put them away on the shelves where she kept them.
As I slid the last one into place, I heard a tap at the door. We usually unlock it when we’re in the office. Dixie must have forgotten. Or was avoiding visitors. I wondered if this was about Nick Marchant. She truly had seemed agitated about talking to him.
Sugar and Spice Cookbooks isn’t exactly a walk-in business so our visitors are often other merchants around the town square. Or even more frequently, Disco, looking for samples, aka free food. Today’s visitor was Tina Martin, one of the local realtors who had an office down a few doors.
“Hey, Sugar,” she greeted me when I flipped the lock on the heavy glass door. “What’s cookin’?” She slapped her bright pink spandex-clad knee at her own play on words. “Get it? What’s cookin’?”
I chuckled politely. “What brings you out today, Tina?”
“I just finished my morning power walk and thought I’d stop by and say hello.” She ran perfectly manicured bright pink nails through her perfectly highlighted blonde hair.
The color of the day was definitely pink. I’m sure it wasn’t just pink, though. It was probably Passion Pink, or Pink Lemonade, or some fancy name like that. You see, in additional to being a realtor and fitness enthusiast, Tina was also a Looking Pretty cosmetic consultant. One of those in-home party deals. Dixie and I had fallen for it only once.
Okay, I’ll admit, it was me that had caved. Dixie was more seasoned and had avoided hosting a Looking Pretty party. So far anyway. Tina was nothing if not persistent.
Dixie stepped out from the back, carrying the plate with the remaining cinnamon rolls. “Hi, Tina.”
“I just asked Sugar what’s cookin’ with you two,” Tina guffawed and slapped her leg again.
Okay, mildly funny the first time but now it was getting old.
“Hmmm.” Dixie’s expression said she wasn’t all that amused and she was hearing it for the first time. “I guess if you’re out power-walking for fitness, you probably don’t want to take a cinnamon roll back to the office.”
“Is that the luscious smell I’m smelling?” Tina lifted her nose and sniffed. “I could be convinced.”
“I’ll get a bag for you.” I hated to see any of the cinnamon rolls leave the premises but it was probably for the best. Though I tried hard to stay in shape, I’d neglected my morning run for too many days.
I quickly found our box of plastic bags and carried a couple of them out front. Maybe Tina would take two rolls and save me from myself.
The real estate maven, aka fitness enthusiast, aka makeup lady was bent over tightening the laces on her—you guessed it—pink running shoes.
“Tina was just telling me about how things are going with her new guy.” Dixie looked at me over Tina’
s head. Her expression said, “All right, here’s your chance.”
Dixie and I had just had a conversation about Tina’s new boyfriend and whether or not he really existed. Tina’d had extreme bad luck in the relationship department and I was on the side of she’d totally made up this new guy.
He came on the scene out of nowhere, no one in town had seen him (she claimed he was Canadian), and he seemed too perfect (constant flowers and other little gifts). Dixie said I was too suspicious of people because I read too many mysteries. She feared I was on my way to becoming a cynic.
Life will do that to you, but I didn’t think I’d reached that stage. It was just that something about the whole thing seemed fishy.
“How are things with…what’s his name again?” I asked.
“Rafe,” Tina responded with a smile.
And that name. Rafe? Really?
“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks for this.” She held up the bagged cinnamon roll and hurried out.
I followed Dixie to the back, where she continued her clean-up. She pulled open a drawer and tucked away her freshly washed measuring cups.
“What do you think now?” I asked.
“I had thought you were exaggerating, but now I’m kind of thinking you could be right. He does sound too good to be true. But why would Tina make up a fake boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. Maybe her previous luck with a married man and a murder investigation made it hard to get a date.”
“Could be,” Dixie agreed. “Did she ever say why she stopped by?”
“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten to mention it to Dixie. “She slipped me this.” I pulled a folded-up piece of paper from my pocket. “She’s doing a Looking Pretty makeup thing with her doing makeup and Tressa doing hair. She thought we might like to come.”
Risky Biscuits Page 3
