“Thank you.” She nodded to a tall silver-haired man who leaned against the cement block wall near the exit.
It was William Harold, the man with two first names, whom the sheriff had been questioning. He gave a slow smile and a slight nod. I guessed he’d been the source of the whistle. He definitely was the source of a few sighs from the older women in the room.
Leela smiled at William. She had a vivid pink scarf wrapped around her shoulders and matching pink earrings bobbed as she looked from one side of the room to the other.
“I know we’re all discombobulated by Alma’s death and she has…” she paused and looked down for a moment, “…had always helped keep us organized. We’ll miss her and her little book of notes. But we all know she’d want us to continue on with this project.”
There were nods of agreement all around the room. I wasn’t sure they knew how to continue on.
The retirees who were part of the breakfast club weren’t like most of the clients we dealt with. They weren’t formally organized with a chair and specific committees. They’d met for breakfast on the first Tuesday of the month and had decided to take on renovation of the St. Ignatius City Park shelter house. Their monthly all-you-can-eat breakfasts had gotten them part way to their renovation budget and they were continuing those along with the cookbook project.
“Stanley, do you have a report on what our balance is?”
Stanley Marchant stood, cleared his throat, and pulled a paper from his breast pocket. “We’ve got $2,468 in the bank. That’s with the last breakfast and a couple of direct hundred-dollar donations to the project.” He sat down.
Wow. I’d say they’d done pretty well.
“Bertie, when’s our next breakfast?” Leela’s gaze landed on Bertie Sparks, Dixie’s aunt, whom I hadn’t spotted up to now.
“We’re set for next Saturday morning. The shelter is reserved and we’re good to go, unless Alma’s services are on Saturday, then we’re going to want to postpone. Anyone know what the plans are?” she asked.
A lady in the front row spoke up. “I heard from Opal, who works with Cheri, Alma’s daughter, that they haven’t released Alma’s body yet, and she isn’t going to make plans until they do.”
“That’s what I heard, too,” Greer whispered to me.
“Well, we’ll plan on Saturday unless we hear something different then. There’s a sign-up sheet being passed around.”
“Let’s hear an update on the renovation estimate. William, I understand you’re helping us with that.” She looked to the whistler, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the exit. “Anything new there?”
He stepped forward and lifted a hand to shove his silver locks out of his eyes.
“I talked with the stone company, and it looks like we can get a good price on the limestone benches you wanted. We can always start with two or three and then add additional benches as we’re able to afford them.” He took a breath and smiled at the room. “Much of the carpentry work is being donated by the local Carpenters Union, which means our cost there is just materials. There’s a lot of wood rot and we’ll have to replace a few timbers, but most of the façade is fine so we’ll be able to refinish that wood.”
“I guess he used have a construction company before he retired,” Greer whispered.
“Okay, then.” Leela nodded. “Alma had been working on the cookbook. Had anyone else been working with her on that?”
There was silence for a couple of beats. I waited to see if anyone from the group had been working with Alma. It didn’t appear that was the case, so I stood.
“Hi, I think you all know me, but for those of you who don’t, I’m Sugar from Sugar and Spice Publishing, and we’d been working with Alma on the recipes. I’d given her a rough idea of costs and can give you a better estimate once I have all your recipes and know how many pages we’re talking about.”
“Thank you very much, Sugar.” Leela peered at me over the top of her reading glasses. “If you all can get your recipes to Sugar as soon as possible that would be great. How do want us to do that?”
“You can drop them off at the office or email them to us.” I gave our business email. It didn’t look like anyone was rushing to write it down so I expected we’d get a lot of in-person recipes, which was okay because we also had a release form for them to sign.
“I gave mine to Alma last week,” a guy in overalls and a ball cap behind me said.
I’d been afraid we were going to run into that problem.
“I’ll see if I can get the files from Alma’s daughter, but to be safe you probably should resubmit.” I turned and smiled at the guy.
Oh, dear. On closer inspection, I realized that was not a guy but rather a very muscular woman in overalls. “If you’d like to give me your name, I can see if we already have it.”
“It’s the Cat Shed Biscuit recipe.” She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face. “If you don’t have it, call me. Jeri Beetles.”
“Okay, if we don’t have any other business, I think that’s it.” Leela dismissed the group. “Hope to see you all on Saturday at breakfast.”
The crowd began to disperse. I stood and reached for my bag. “Do you need a ride back to your place?” I asked Greer.
“Thanks for asking. You are such a sweetheart.” She brightened. “They brought us in the Good Life van, but they were taking a bunch over to the library so we were going to have to wait on them. If you’re okay with taking us home, I’ll cancel them coming back for us.”
“It’s no problem at all.”
As we walked to the parking lot we passed Stanley Marchant, who was moving slowly down the walkway. Greer stopped beside him.
“Stanley, have you met my friend Sugar?” she asked.
“I don’t believe we’ve met formally, but I know who you are.” He stopped on the sidewalk. “You are in business with Dixie Spicer, right?”
“That’s right.” I held out my hand. “Rosetta Sugarbaker Calloway, but everyone calls me Sugar.”
“Nice to meet you.” He griped my hand firmly. “Stanley B. Marchant.” Very formal, no nicknames for him. I guessed I wouldn’t be calling him Stan.
* * * *
It was a beautiful morning and the Good Life entrance was ablaze with colorful bright red and white petunias. I pulled into the visitors’ area, parked, and helped the ladies out. While Bunny hurried off on her own, Nellie asked if we could walk her the short distance to her unit.
She and Greer chatted about plans for Alma’s funeral. It seemed Alma had only one daughter and the burden would be on her to make plans and sort everything out. As an only child myself, I could only imagine the stress.
As we approached Nellie’s unit, we noticed a man peering in the windows at Alma’s place.
“Hey, you. What are you doing there?” Greer yelled.
The man turned but didn’t answer. He was youngish, at least in comparison to the average age of the residents at the Good Life, and was dressed in a gray suit with a bright pink shirt and a gray and pink checkered tie.
A relative? Someone from out of town?
“Do you know where Mrs. Stoller is?” he asked.
I crossed relative off my list. A salesman, maybe?
“I do know where she is, but clearly you don’t,” Greer challenged. “Who are you?”
He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Greg Cheeters, from Ross & Cheeters Development Corporation.”
Hmmm. If I were in business I’d think of a different corporate name, but maybe that was just me.
None of us took his proffered hand and he eventually dropped it to his side.
“I was to meet Alma Stoller here at eleven o’clock and she doesn’t seem to be home.”
“That’s because she’s dead,” Nellie spoke up.
“She’s what?” He blanched, seemingly taken aback by the news.
“Are you hard of hearing?” Greer hadn’t softened her stance. “She died two days ago.”
“My condolences.�
� He straightened his tie. “Are you family?”
“No, we’re neighbors,” Greer answered. “What was your business with Alma?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” He began to move away. “That is, since you’re not family.”
* * * *
Back at the Sugar and Spice office, Dixie sat on a low stool pulling things out of the bottom cupboard. Cutting boards, muffin pans, cookie sheets.
When Dixie has had a stressful day, she cleans or cooks. If only that were true for me.
People getting on her last nerve? She bakes brownies.
When I’m stressed I eat brownies. And any other chocolate I can find.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“You owe me.” I pulled up a chair and sat, wondering what we were going to do about the missing recipes. “Things were pretty disorganized. A lady, Leela Harper, Greer said her name was, tried to take charge. At first no one was listening, but eventually she reined in the chaos. Bottom line, it seems no one had copies of the recipes except for Alma. I gave them our email, but no one wrote it down. So, I’m pretty sure we’ll have people stopping by to drop off recipes in person.”
“I guess that’s okay but we aren’t always here.” She shook a box of rice and then peered in the package. “Maybe we should let them drop them in the mail slot.”
“I’m afraid that might create a problem with mixing recipes and contact information.”
“You’re probably right. We can check with Cheri and see if she’s found any more files at her mom’s.” Dixie set the box of rice aside. “It seems a bit too soon though, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I agreed.
We were in a pickle. I certainly did not want to bug a woman who’d just lost her mother, but we were already a week behind according to the schedule we’d laid out. I’m big on schedules.
Dixie looked at me and shrugged. “How many are we missing?”
“It’s hard to say. Alma hadn’t given me the full list of contributors. If I had that list, I’d know which ones we don’t have.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I meant to ask you about this woman who was there.” I leaned back in the chair. “Her name was… just a minute and I’ll remember it…” I pictured her talking to me, her overalls, her ball cap. “Beetles, Jeri Beetles. That was it.”
“Jeri and her husband farm near my folks. Not much of a fashion statement, but, man, that woman can cook.” Dixie smiled. “What recipe was she sharing? Did she say?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that too. I think she said, ‘Cat Shed Biscuits,’ but that can’t be right. I mean, are they furry-looking or what?”
“Cat’s Head Biscuits, you goof.” Dixie tried to hold back a laugh but couldn’t contain it.
“That’s a little better than Cat Shed Biscuits, but I still think it’s a weird name.”
“Good grief, Sugar, you’ve never heard of Cat’s Head Biscuits?”
“Cat’s Head? I can’t say that I have.” I made a face at her. “Nor does that make any more sense.”
“They’re called that because they’re drop biscuits that are as big as a cat’s head. I thought they were a southern thing.”
“Probably are, but apparently one that I missed. Remember my crazy mixed-up childhood.”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting that you’re City Southern.”
We heard a ding and I walked out front to see that it was Pat with a stack of mail for us.
“Hi, Pat.”
“Hello, Sugar.” She handed me a bunch of envelopes and a slip indicating we had a package at the post office. Then she was back out the door. No dawdling for her today.
I looked at the slip. More samples from our printer. Those were always bulky and heavy. I’d have to stop by the post office and pick up the package.
Speaking of which, I wondered how soon my package from Daddy’s agent would arrive. I had no clue what might be coming, but I was curious to find out. Daddy had done well with a couple of major books but then had also had a flop or two. From bestseller to hardly selling any copies at all.
When I was old enough, much to my mother’s chagrin, I’d read everything he’d written. The books were mostly coming-of-age-type stories with a protagonist who triumphed in spite of his terrible childhood. I wondered if my dad’s life had been like that.
The few background facts I’d gleaned from my aunts (Mama didn’t talk about him) were that he was an adopted only child of an Iowa couple who moved to Atlanta. He and Mama had met in college at Emory University. His adoptive parents had passed away shortly after my parents were married. Living in Iowa now, I hoped one day to do some investigation into his Midwest roots, but I had very little to go on. Again, according to Cate, there was no one left. He’d been the last in the line.
I filled Dixie in on my conversation with my mother and the boxes that were coming.
Flipping through the mail, I noted an envelope for Jameson County Realty and laid it aside. It had been stuck between a couple of pieces of junk mail.
“Anything of interest?” Dixie asked.
“Most of it is junk.” I tossed several envelopes and advertisements into the recycling. “One invitation, two bills, a cooking magazine, and one letter that doesn’t belong to us.” I dropped the stack on the desk.
“Let me have the magazine.” Dixie held out her hand.
Pulling out the magazine, I handed it to her. “I’m going to run this over to Jameson County Realty.” I held up the letter that had been mixed in with our mail. “I need a walk anyway. Then when I get back, I’m going to give Max a call about the photography on the Crack of Dawn cookbook.”
“Still haven’t heard from him?” She raised a brow.
“Not in a couple of weeks.” I didn’t make eye contact. “I’m sure he’s busy.”
“You could call him,” Dixie pointed out.
“I intend to. Just as soon as I get back from delivering this.” I waved the envelope.
“I think you’re just looking for an opportunity to question Tina about her mystery man.” Dixie smiled.
“Maybe.” I grinned.
* * * *
When I walked into Jameson County Realty, Tina was the only one in the office, and she was on the phone. She poked her head up over the partition wall of her cubicle and then, seeing it was me, motioned for me to join her.
I headed to where she stood and slid into a faux leather side chair. The wall was covered with eight-by-ten photos of houses, businesses, and farms for sale. Not wanting to eavesdrop on her call (unless it was her boyfriend and unfortunately it sounded more like a client), I got up and walked to the nearest wall to look over the listings.
It didn’t take Tina long on the phone. When she finished up, I handed her the envelope.
“This was mixed in with our mail. I think it got stuck to one of the other envelopes in our stack.”
She turned it over and looked at it. “Thanks Sugar. I’ll give it to Ethan.”
“How are things going in the real estate biz?” I pointed to the posted listings. “Busy?”
“Always busy this time of year.” She nodded. “If people are making a move, especially families, they want to do it before school starts. I have two couples that I’m showing houses to this afternoon.”
“That’s great.” I was happy for her. She’d had a tough time earlier this year.
“Do you know anything about this development firm that’s buying property north of town?” I asked. “I ran into a guy from the company earlier when I dropped Greer and her friends at the Good Life.”
“I haven’t personally talked to anyone from Ross and Cheeters Development but Ethan has.” She brushed a strand of platinum hair off her forehead. “What did you want to know?”
“Sounded like this guy had business with Alma. I was curious what type of a development project they have planned.”
“I don’t think it’s big. They’d have to connect to city utilities to attract any c
ity folks.”
“Meaning?”
“You know, water and gas, that kind of stuff.” Tina waved a manicured hand. “Most of the farms have rural water, used to have wells, and use propane for heat. But for city folks you’re going to need regular gas and water hookups.”
“Do you know who owns all that land they were interested in?”
“I thought they had closed on all the land acquisition.” She shrugged. “The Garman farm, the former Weaver place, now owned by your guy, Max. A section of the Beers family land and then a few acres that belonged to Alma Stoller.”
“Hmmm.” I ignored the “your guy, Max” comment.
“Do you want me to ask Ethan about it?” She pulled forward a notepad. “I don’t know what he’ll know since we’re not directly involved, but I think Ethan may golf with one of the investors.”
“I’m curious if they’ve actually completed everything.” I’d noticed a crystal frame on Tina’s desk. “Is that your new friend?”
“It is.” She handed me the photo, grinning widely. “It’s not a very good picture though.”
It was a lousy picture. I take that back. It was a wonderful photo of a lake. The man not so much. In the photo he was waving from a dock. The far end of a dock. He was totally out of focus. You could tell that it was a guy but that was the extent of it.
“What a beautiful lake.” I handed the picture back to her. “Where was it taken?”
“It’s at his lake house.” She sighed. “I can’t wait to see it.”
I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one. I hate to be such a Debbie Downer, it’s not usually my style. But I have to tell you I’m pretty sure that was a photo she’d found online, printed off, and framed.
Thanking Tina for the info, I headed back to the shop to fill Dixie in on Boyfriend-Gate and make my call to Max about the photos.
Chapter Five
I sat at my desk and prepared to make my call to Max Windsor. Dixie had nailed it. Max and I hadn’t talked in a couple of weeks. Radio silence after several months of what I had thought were good times together.
All the possible reasons had run through my brain. He’d been sick, he’d been out of town. Maybe he’d had out-of-town company. But the truth was that if any of those had been true, I’d have heard. Remember that news in town spreading like prairie fire I talked about?
Risky Biscuits Page 6
