Risky Biscuits

by Mary Lee Ashford

  “You’re probably right.” I opened the drawer where I kept my handbag. “I’m trying to decide whether to go by and check on Greer. I’m sure this has been an awful shock. Those four ladies went everywhere together.”

  “I’m sure she’d welcome the company.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to come along.”

  “Sure, I could do that,” she responded. “Let me run home and let Moto out and then I’ll meet you at your house. It won’t take me more than fifteen minutes.”

  Moto was Dixie’s adorable and smart-as-a-whip dog. A part Cairn Terrier rescue, he sometimes came to the shop with her, but hadn’t in a while. I wondered what Moto would make of Nick Marchant. I’ve found dogs are often a better judge of character than we humans are.

  I kind of hoped Dixie would give Nick a chance. She hadn’t dated at all since losing her husband and it might do her good.

  * * * *

  True to her word, in just under fifteen minutes Dixie was at my door. I’d taken advantage of the time to feed Ernest and freshen up a bit. I’d given Greer a call and asked if it was okay to stop by and, as Dixie had thought, she said she’d be happy for the company.

  “Shall I drive?” I asked.

  “That would be great.” Dixie stood just inside the door. “The cab of my pickup is full of some more things my mother thought needed to be shifted from her house to mine.”

  “Anything fun?” I asked.

  “Mostly old high school yearbooks, stuffed animals I should have tossed years ago, and things like that.”

  “Yearbooks, huh?” I raised a brow. “I’d like to see those. More than that I’d like to hear stories.”

  “One of these summer evenings we’ll get together and I’ll tell you stories,” she promised. “And then you’ll realize just how boring my life was.”

  “I’m game whenever you are. Just name the night.”

  Dixie had parked in the street and so we didn’t have to move her truck to get out. As we climbed into the Jeep, I noticed Mrs. Pickett near the fence between our properties. She had a hoe and was hacking at something.

  I nudged Dixie and pointed. “What do you think she’s doing?”

  “I’d say killing a snake but if that were the case, he’d be snake puree by now.” She leaned forward in her seat and peered out the window. “I guess she could be digging up weeds. There are some stubborn ones you have to dig up to get rid of completely.”

  I slapped my forehead. “White vinegar.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to get more white vinegar. It’s supposed to work on thistles. Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.” We needed to get out of my driveway before we were spotted by Mrs. Pickett.

  The Good Life retirement center was on the eastern edge of town. But even so, it wouldn’t take all that long to get there. On the way I filled Dixie in on my errant Creeping Charlie and my multiplying thistles that were a plague on humankind. Or at least on the neighborhood according to Mrs. Pickett.

  “I swear she acted as if I had willfully caused my weeds to spread over into her yard.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Dixie shifted in her seat.

  “I know I should have taken care of them earlier in the summer, but sometimes I don’t know which things are weeds and which ones are not. And it’s not my property. Yet.”

  “Any more from Greer on her interest in selling?” she asked.

  “None.” I sighed. “She told me she would let me know before she listed it.”

  “If something happened to her, her son wouldn’t be so kind though. You’d be out on your ear and he’d take the highest bidder.”

  “Don’t say that. I can’t even think about something happening to Greer.”

  We drove in silence for a few minutes. I guess something had happened to Alma, though, hadn’t it?

  I parked in the visitor area and we walked to Greer’s unit. She answered the door almost before we knocked so I figured she might have been watching for us.

  “Look at this.” She clapped her hands. “I have not one but two beauties visiting me this afternoon.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay?” I asked. “We just wanted to look in on you. I know that Alma’s death had to be very upsetting.”

  “You got that right.” Greer led the way inside. “I keep thinking it can’t be true. That she’ll show up and say, ‘Fooled you!’ and we’ll laugh. She’s been a good friend to me since I moved here. Always busy, doing something, giving rides, organizing things. Like working on the breakfast club cookbook project.”

  “Did the sheriff come and talk to you?”

  “Not yet.” She shook her head. “He called and we arranged a time for tomorrow. I told him I could have Bunny and Nellie here and he could talk to us all at once, but he said he wanted to talk to us separately. Seems like a waste to me, but it’s his time.”

  “He told me it wasn’t a hit-and-run.” I didn’t want Greer to be shocked when the sheriff mentioned it. “That Alma was run over with her own car.”

  “She’s been so forgetful lately she probably left it running or something.” Greer let out a long slow breath.

  I hesitated about what I should say. “I don’t know if that’s what they think happened.”

  “It would have to be in gear for that to happen wouldn’t it?” Dixie settled into one of Greer’s easy chairs.

  “I guess so, or she could have left it in neutral and it could have rolled.” I’d thought about it and hadn’t come up with a reasonable scenario.

  “Freda Watson’s son works for the Parks Department and he said that they had the area around her car marked off and there were a bunch of people out there measuring. So, they can probably tell what happened from that.” Greer looked down. “Poor Alma.”

  There was a quiet knock at Greer’s door and she popped up to answer it, grabbing a tissue on her way. The visitor was a woman with a kind face and hair the color of wheat. Her navy pants and matching jacket reminded me of my corporate days.

  “Cheri, how are you?” Greer gave the woman a hug and then waved her in. “I know you know Dixie, but you probably haven’t met Sugar, her partner in the cookbook business.”

  I stood to shake her hand. “I’m Sugar Calloway,” I introduced myself.

  “And I’m Cheri Wheeler,” she replied in kind. “I’m Alma’s daughter.”

  “Oh, gosh. My condolences. We were so sorry to hear about your mother.”

  “Thank you.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Do you mind if I come in? Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all.” Greer responded.

  “We had just stopped by to check on Greer and see how she was doing,” I explained.

  “How sweet of you.” Cheri stepped inside. “Do you live close by?”

  “Not really,” Dixie answered. “I live on the other side of town.”

  Dixie still lived in the house she’d shared with her husband. Her family had been nagging her to move to something smaller ever since he died, but she had resisted. She loved her big country kitchen and I also believed that the idea of moving made his passing so final.

  “I’m actually renting Greer’s house,” I explained. “So, I live fairly close.”

  She looked to be closer to my age than what I would have imagined given that Alma was probably closer to Greer’s. I’m not usually someone who gets hung up on numbers, but something about the age difference wasn’t right. I tried not to stare at her but kept trying to do the math in my head to make sense of the age disparity.

  Terry,” she said, and then paused. “Sorry. I still can’t get used to the idea that Terrance Griffin is the Jameson County sheriff. Anyway, Terry called me about Mom and he said you and a couple of the other ladies had been looking for her the morning after she disappeared. As it turns out she may have already been gone at that point, but I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated your concern for her.”

  “It was nothing.” Greer waved her hand. “It’s just what we do for each
other. I’d want someone to look for me if I disappeared.”

  “Did Terry know any more about what happened?” Dixie asked.

  “He said they’d know more after the forensic people, who came out from the state crime lab with all their equipment, get back to him. Measuring equipment,” she clarified.

  “I guess we’ll know more then.” Greer made eye contact with me. Cheri confirmed what Greer had heard from Freda Watson.

  “I guess you two are in charge of the cookbook project Mom was so excited about?” Cheri shifted her gaze to me. “I hadn’t realized that.”

  “We are.” I paused. “In fact, we were talking with Greer about the recipes that had been given to your mom for the cookbook.”

  “The truth is, Cheri, when we were over there looking to see if we could figure out where your mom had gone, I took this folder of recipes,” Greer admitted, reaching for the folder.

  “Are you comfortable with us keeping it?” I asked. “It does appear that these were the ones intended for the cookbook. At least at first look anyway.”

  I took the folder from Greer and handed it to Cheri. She flipped through it.

  “No problem.” She handed the folder back to me. “I’m sure she had notes and things about the project as well. Like I said, she was very excited about it. But I have to tell you that I probably won’t get to her place for a few days. I’ll set aside anything I come across that has to do with the retirees’ cookbook project.”

  “Thank you so much.” I was relieved. I’d been worried about how we were going to take possession of the files about the project. “You can call us and I can come and get them from you anytime.”

  Once Cheri Wheeler left, we flipped through the folder. The recipes were kind of disorganized. Like they’d fallen out of the folder and been picked up and just shoved back in.

  “We’d better get going.” Dixie stood and stretched.

  “Thanks for coming by.” Greer stood also.

  “Not so fast.” I stopped Greer and Dixie. “Either that woman has found the fountain of youth and I need the name of her face cream, or there’s something a bit off in the ages here. How old is she?

  “I’m not sure. I think Cheri was a few classes ahead of me. Maybe in my brother’s class. She might have been a senior when I was a freshman.”

  “So only slightly older than you.” I’d been right, there was something off. “How can she be Alma’s daughter?”

  “Alma had Cheri when she was in her mid-forties, I think,” Greer explained. “Not like me; I had Spencer when I was young and foolish. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him.”

  “Greer, you don’t mean that.”

  “I sure as heck do.” She shook her head. “I love him but he’s a poop sometimes.”

  Greer’s son had been a bit of a problem for me a few months earlier, but I didn’t hold it against him. Spiff lived in the Twin Cities, not all that far away, and rarely visited his mother. That, I did hold against him.

  Glad to solve the age puzzle that had occupied my brain, I gave Greer a hug and made her promise to call me if there was anything she needed or even if she just wanted to talk.

  As we crossed the courtyard to where we’d parked, I noticed Sheriff Terry talking to a tall older man with a full head of white hair who stood near one of the wrought-iron benches that dotted the complex.

  I nudged Dixie. “Do you know the guy the sheriff is talking with?”

  “I don’t, but believe it or not, I don’t actually know every single person in town.”

  “No…I’m pretty sure you do.”

  Sheriff Terry had his notebook out so it was clear the talk was more than a casual conversation. I’d already begun to move in the direction of where the two stood, when Dixie grabbed my arm.

  “I don’t think Terry will appreciate us interrupting when he’s questioning someone.”

  “We don’t know he’s actually ‘questioning’ the guy,” I argued.

  “Yes, we do,” she said quietly. “Besides, we’ve already been spotted. And given the look.”

  Dixie was right. The tall, dark, and handsome sheriff had spotted us and was giving us a “don’t even think about it” look. It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d sent us a text.

  “Shoot, what do we do now?” I really wanted to know why he was questioning the guy. Maybe it had nothing to do with Alma’s death. But maybe it did.

  “It’s really none of our business who the sheriff is or is not questioning.” She took my arm and turned me toward the parking lot.

  Just then we passed Pat, the mail carrier, on the sidewalk.

  “Hello, ladies,” she said. “Why is Sheriff Griffin questioning William?”

  Dixie gave me a look. “Is that who he’s questioning?”

  “We didn’t know who the man was.” I didn’t think I’d seen the guy before.

  “Yup, William Harold.” She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “He’s fairly new here. Widower. Just moved in about a month ago. Has all the ladies in a tizzy.”

  “Why is that?” Dixie asked.

  “Not many single men around here.” She grinned. “I’d bet he had ten pies the first week he was here. Not sure what he did with them. He’s diabetic.”

  “I guess pies were not a great choice for him then.” Dixie took my arm and tugged me toward the car.

  Back at my place, I pulled into the drive and waved to Dixie as she headed toward her pickup. I glanced toward Mrs. Pickett’s house but whatever she’d been doing in the yard she must have either finished or given up on.

  As I stepped forward to unlock my front door, I tripped over something on the porch. Glancing down I could see there was a bag propped against the door. Easing open the top, I could see it was a bag of weeds.

  A gift from my neighbor. What was up with the woman? Surely she knew it wasn’t my fault that weeds spread into her yard. I set them to the side and went in shaking my head at her logic. Or lack of it.

  I fed Ernest and then looked for something for myself. I didn’t want to go back out to the grocery store but frankly there were not a lot of options. I knew I needed to plan better but that was one of the problems with living alone.

  Finally settling on a grilled cheese sandwich, I grabbed the fixings from the cupboard. Not a stand-out in the healthy dinner effort, I know, but I just wanted it over with.

  I sat down with the book I’d been reading but I soon nodded off in the middle of a chapter. The ringing of my phone woke me up.

  It was Greer.

  “The breakfast club is getting together tomorrow to talk about the park shelter project,” she said without preamble. “You should probably be there.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” I noted the place and time.

  “Also, I heard Alma’s death is now a murder investigation.”

  “Who did you hear that from?” It seemed too soon to know from what the sheriff had said.

  “According to Freda’s son, the crime scene folks say someone else had been driving her car when she was run over. Someone taller than Alma.”

  Holy cow. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that anyone could deliberately run down an elderly woman and leave her for dead. Let alone that woman being Alma Stoller, who was a much-loved, long-time member of the community.

  Sheriff Terry and his crew had their work cut out for them with this one.

  Chapter Four

  The Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club had assembled in the community room at the old firehouse and seemed a little adrift on what they were supposed to be doing. Folding chairs had been set up, and I’d slipped in the back and found a seat near Greer and the Good Life crowd. I had a moment’s pause wondering how they’d gotten there as Alma had always been the only driver in the group. It wasn’t far to the firehouse but probably too far for the ladies to walk.

  Though it wasn’t a large crowd, the acoustics were lousy and the chatter was loud.

  “Complete disaster.” Greer indicated the room with a wave of
her hand.

  Looking around, I had to agree. People milled about, chatting, wandering into the attached kitchen for more coffee. I’d been to only one of their meetings before this one and Alma had been very much in charge of things.

  Just like last time, I knew most of the people, but there were a few I didn’t know. I noticed Jimmie LeBlanc, a couple of rows in front of where we sat. He was a retired history teacher turned local history fanatic. I thanked my lucky stars there was no history section planned for this cookbook. I loved including local color but Jimmie LeBlanc did not believe in brevity and he didn’t always understand that we needed room for actual recipes.

  “Who’s the man with Mr. LeBlanc?” I asked.

  “Stanley Marchant,” she responded. “Used to be the bank president, but his son Nate took over about a year ago.”

  “Right. I know Nate.” I didn’t remember ever having met his father. “Met his brother Nick for the first time yesterday.”

  “Yep, all the talk right now.” Greer nodded. “They’re twins. Nothing alike, the two of them, though.”

  “I knew they were brothers but hadn’t realized they were twins. Nick hasn’t been around since I’ve been in St. Ignatius.”

  “Probably not.” Greer agreed. “He’s been busy making his fortune off in New York. Hometown hero, local boy made good. Maybe we can get him to give some money to the shelter house project.”

  “Looks like Leela is trying to get people’s attention,” Bunny leaned over and said to Greer.

  A short, round woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood at the front of the room, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  “I guess she thinks she’s in charge now, with Alma gone.” Greer’s nose crinkled.

  “Who is she?” The woman must have been at the previous meeting, but I didn’t think I’d met her.

  “Leela Harper,” Greer replied.

  Leela clapped her hands and tried to get the group to quiet down but they kept talking. I wanted to ask Greer more questions about Nick, but I didn’t want to add to the din. No one seemed to be paying attention to the poor woman’s attempts to create order.

  Just then there was a shrill whistle and everyone stopped talking.