Risky Biscuits

by Mary Lee Ashford

  I’d finally landed on the idea that he must have just decided we needed to cool things a bit. We’d been doing lots of things together over the summer. Things like dinner or a movie. And when we didn’t have something planned, we’d still talked on the phone.

  People around town had begun to treat us like a couple. Including Max when they invited me to a function. I had to assume they’d done the same with him.

  Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he wasn’t ready for whatever that meant. Heck, I wasn’t sure that I was. I liked Max as a friend. Whether it became anything more was not anything I wanted to rush. I told myself I was probably just making a mountain out of a molehill, but the dropped contact had brought to life all sorts of insecurities in me.

  Still, personal relationships aside, I needed to find out if Max was interested in doing the cookbook. He was a talented photographer and we’d worked with him on a previous project. But he was also in demand and might not be available.

  If not, I needed to get started right away on finding someone else. I had contacts from my days of working at the magazine, but I knew others would be more expensive. The sooner I knew what the situation was, the sooner I could plan the cost into the budget.

  I took a deep breath and made the call.

  Max picked up on the first ring. I tried not to sound awkward about the fact that we hadn’t talked in a while.

  “Hey, Max.” Deciding to go with all-business, I launched immediately into the reason for my call.

  He listened and then asked a few questions about the number of recipes we’d need pictures for and what we had planned for the other interior pages and the cover.

  “It sounds like something I can fit into my schedule without too much trouble.” I could picture him on the other end of the line, jotting down notes as he spoke.

  “We’re looking at a pretty short timeline so I wanted to make sure. With Alma Stoller’s death I’ve got some work to do to figure out where she was with gathering all the recipes for us,” I explained.

  “I’d heard about her accident.”

  “They’re calling it a suspicious death at this point.”

  “Really?” He paused. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “By the way, when I dropped off Greer today after the breakfast group meeting there was a guy at Alma’s, looking for her. Actually, he was looking in her windows. Dixie mentioned that development group he works for was trying to acquire some land near you. Maybe actually from you.” I let my voice rise a bit, hoping he’d want to fill in some info.

  “They are. Still working on it, I think. I had agreed to sell them a portion of my property. And the Potters had also agreed. They’re adjacent to me on the east. But as far as I knew, Alma was still a holdout.”

  “That’s interesting.” Now it was me jotting down notes.

  “I can see those wheels turning.” He chuckled. “Do you think her accident had something to do with the land deal?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems to be quite a coincidence that she was the holdout keeping them from moving forward on their big development.”

  “Hmmm. What does the sheriff say about your theory?” I could hear the amusement in Max’s deep voice.

  “I haven’t told him about it.” Max knew me well. “But I will. No holding back any info from Sheriff Terry.” I smiled to myself. “Well, I’d better get busy here. I’ve kept you longer than I intended so I’ll let you go.”

  This was the place where he was supposed to say it had been too long. Or maybe that he’d missed talking to me. Or maybe we should get together for coffee.

  “Great to hear from you,” he said. “I’ll put the Crack of Dawn cookbook on my schedule.”

  “Thanks, Max,” I said “That will be great.”

  I put down the phone and sat for a few minutes trying to decide if everything was okay between us or not. He’d sounded fine. Didn’t seem distant but also didn’t make any effort about getting together. I was at a loss. Standing, I headed back out front to let Dixie know we had our photographer booked.

  As I walked down the hallway, the bell out front chimed, announcing a visitor.

  “Hi, guys.” Disco strolled through the door. Today’s look was jeans with an orange and purple paisley vest over a ruffled shirt. Not that I have anything against paisley, mind you. Or a nice retro look. But this was one of those looks most of us had hoped wouldn’t make a comeback.

  “Hi, Disco. How are you?” I asked. “How’s business?”

  “Good,” he answered. “Kind of slow today.”

  I was convinced most of his days were slow, but he seemed to be making enough to stay in business. A few months ago, we’d worried that he might actually be sleeping at the store, but Tina had confirmed that she’d helped find him an inexpensive rental. Still, I was guessing there wasn’t a ton of markup in the memorabilia he stocked. I should stop by and see if there wasn’t some item I could purchase. Maybe a gift. Maybe some random item I could use in staging the pictures for the cookbook.

  Yeah, right. Like what? Psychedelic biscuits? Okay, maybe not staging for the cookbook, but surely I could find some trinket to purchase.

  Dixie slid off the stool where she’d been working. “Be right back.”

  She returned a few minutes later with a dish of chocolate chip cookies. She’d been holding out on me.

  “Where did those come from?”

  “It’s a new recipe I’m trying. The recipe made more than I thought it would.” She shrugged. “I would have offered some to you, but you’ve been complaining about all the calories.”

  She held the plate out to Disco.

  He took two.

  “Let me know what you think.” She placed the plate on the counter.

  The door dinged again and this time it was Sheriff Terry. Sharply dressed in official attire, he nodded at Disco, said hello to Dixie and me, and eyed the plate of cookies.

  Disco reached out a ruffle-clad arm and pulled the plate out of the sheriff’s reach.

  Sheriff Terry was undeterred. He reached a light-gray uniform-clad arm over Disco and snagged a cookie. The sheriff couldn’t resist chocolate chip cookies. Especially Dixie’s.

  “Anything new on Alma?” I couldn’t resist questions.

  “No, not really.”

  “I’m assuming you know about the real estate deal?”

  Sheriff Terry stopped with a cookie halfway to his mouth. “No one mentioned a real estate deal.”

  Dixie sat back down at the counter and propped her chin on her hands.

  I recounted the earlier event with Greer and the ladies when we had spotted the guy peering into Alma’s windows.

  “And then when I talked to Max a little bit ago, he mentioned that as far as he knew Alma was the only holdout and that if she didn’t agree to sell, everyone was out. Cheeters only wanted to buy the land if they could get the whole batch.”

  “Cheaters.” Disco snickered.

  “Cheaters?” Sheriff Terry asked. “That’s the name of the real estate company?”

  “Ross and Cheeters, spelled C-H-E-E-T-E-R-S. I looked it up,” I explained. That’s the development company. I can’t think the name gives people a lot of confidence.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “So why are you here?” Dixie asked. “I don’t imagine you just stopped by for a cookie.”

  “Well, these would be worth the trip but, no, that’s not why I stopped in.” He eyed the cookie plate, which Disco continued to guard with a fringed arm.

  We waited.

  The sheriff looked pointedly at Disco.

  If he was attempting to telegraph that Disco should move along, it wasn’t working. I knew from experience that subtlety didn’t work with our fringed friend.

  “Would you like me to grab a bag for those?” Dixie asked Disco. “You could take them with you.”

  “Sure,” he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.

  She walked back to the storeroom and returned with a quart-sized plastic
bag, dumped the plate of cookies into it, and handed it to Disco.

  “Thanks. See you later.” He was out the door in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

  “I guess we’re both out of luck.” I turned to the sheriff. “At least you got one cookie. I didn’t even get a taste.”

  “Way to go.” He frowned at Dixie.

  “So why are you here if not for cookies?” I asked.

  “Sugar, you seem to know the ladies at the Good Life pretty well, and you interact with them on a regular basis.”

  “That’s me.” I rolled my eyes. “I have quite the exciting social life.” That came out a little sharper than I intended, and Dixie gave me a funny look.

  “I wondered if you’d noticed whether anyone had a problem with Alma recently.” He brushed cookie crumbs from his uniform. “Of course, when I ask, they all say they loved Alma and she was the best. Everyone loved her, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “She was well liked.”

  “I understand, but it’s never the case that ‘everyone’ loves a person. When people live in close proximity like a neighborhood, an apartment complex, or a retirement village, even the nicest person gets on somebody’s nerves.”

  “Like Sugar’s neighbor.” Dixie got up and started a pot of coffee. “We all know Sugar is the nicest person ever, but Mrs. Pickett can’t stand her.”

  “Kind of strong, don’t you think?” I gave Dixie a look.

  “You said she hates you.” Dixie put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, there is that.” I shrugged. “But I still think I can win her over.”

  “Back to the Good Life crowd,” the sheriff prompted. “Anyone you can think of who might have had a problem with Alma?”

  I thought back over the times I’d observed the residents who lived there. Mostly Greer, Nellie, and Bunny hung out with Alma. Occasionally, Freda of the flying wig. I didn’t know her as well. And there were many other people. I guessed there were probably ten to twelve of the resident buildings, and those were mostly fourplexes. Some couples, but the vast majority were single men or women. Mostly women.

  I tried to do the math in my head. “I would guess there are at least fifty people who live there and I only know a handful. Do you think someone from the Good Life had something to do with Alma’s death?”

  The sheriff sighed and leaned against the counter. “We’re not sure, but we don’t have a lot to go on. This is only one of many areas we’re looking into.”

  “Are you still treating Alma’s death as suspicious?” Dixie handed him a fresh cup of coffee.

  “We’re not sharing this publicly.” He paused and took a sip. “But the info from the forensic team tells us it wasn’t a hit-and-run. More likely intentional. She was run over more than once.”

  I winced. “How awful. The poor woman.”

  “That would lead me to believe that whoever did this had a problem with Alma Stoller.”

  “You think?” Dixie raised a brow.

  “Was that why you were questioning Harold, the new guy?” I asked. “Did he have a problem with Alma?”

  “William,” the sheriff corrected. “William Harold.”

  “Right. That’s what I meant, William.” I’d known the two-first-names thing was bound to trip me up at some point.

  “He’s the one who suggested that someone got into a fight with Alma. He heard an exchange of words.” Sheriff Terry drained his cup and set it on the counter. “But he doesn’t know everyone yet. All he could give me was a description, and not a very good one.”

  “Let me guess.” Dixie tapped a finger on her lips. “An older woman with gray hair?”

  “Pretty much.” He bobbed his head. “Not thin. Not fat. Medium height. Slightly stooped.”

  “Good grief.” I couldn’t believe Mr. New Two-First-Names couldn’t be more specific. “That’s at least eighty percent of the residents of the Good Life.”

  “Right.” The sheriff tapped his fingers on the counter. “I’ve tried talking to them, but ‘everyone loved Alma’ is all I get.”

  “The Senior Squad closed their ranks.”

  “They’re stonewalling me.” He shook his head. “Except for William, who is too new to have become one of them.”

  “I’m not aware of any problems that any of the ladies had with Alma. I mean she was kind of bossy with the others, but nothing major.” I truly couldn’t come up with a soul. “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “If you hear anything, would you let me know?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I know you have my number, but in case you’ve lost it, here’s my cell.” He handed me a card.

  After the sheriff left, Dixie got up from her stool. “What do you think about someone from the Good Life being involved.?”

  “It’s hard to believe that anyone would mow down Alma, and then run her over again, and leave her for dead.” It really disturbed me. “I can’t think any of the people at the Good Life are capable of that.”

  “Besides which, most of them don’t drive,” Dixie noted.

  “That’s right. There’s only a handful who do. How would someone even have gotten to the park?”

  “Maybe they went there with her.” Dixie began cleaning up, wiping down the counter as we talked.

  “You’re brilliant. That has to be it.”

  “That is, if it was someone from the Good Life,” she added.

  “Okay, not so brilliant.” I frowned because I truly didn’t think anyone from the Good Life would murder Alma. “What if it was an accident and one of them is afraid to come forward?”

  “Maybe,” Dixie shrugged. “Terry seemed pretty convinced it was intentional. She was run over twice.”

  “I’m going to stop by and talk with Greer on my way home. I’ll bet she knows who it is they’re covering for.”

  “The sheriff did ask you to check things out.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “Sort of,” she added.

  “He did and I’m going to take full advantage of that fact.” I smiled back. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  * * * *

  I pulled into the parking lot and looked around at the Good Life with new eyes. The complex wasn’t an assisted living arrangement. Everyone who lived there was independent and able-bodied. Most, like Greer, had made the choice to move to the Good Life because they didn’t want to deal with home maintenance or have the chore of taking care of a yard anymore.

  The majority were female, widows mostly, but there were a few men. Looking around at the grounds and the one-story fourplex units, I totaled up the potential residents. My earlier guess had been pretty accurate. Ten buildings, so forty-plus people.

  I’d brought a bag of sweet corn for Greer. What Dixie had brought from her folks to share was far more than I’d use. As I grabbed my bag and the corn and headed toward Greer’s unit, I noticed Cheri Wheeler walking toward the parking lot, juggling two cardboard boxes.

  I slipped my bag over my shoulder. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  “Thanks.” She let me take the top box. “I thought I could get them both because neither was very heavy but they were bulkier than I realized.”

  “No problem.” I shifted the box to one hip. “Where’s your car?”

  “It’s the white minivan just across the parking lot.” Cheri pointed.

  I walked with her to the van and then waited while she opened the back. It was already packed with other boxes. I hoped these two would fit.

  “How are you coming with going through your mom’s things?” I asked. “It must seem overwhelming.”

  “You’ve got that right.” She rearranged the boxes to make room for more. “My mom claimed to have downsized when she moved here from our house. But I’m afraid mostly what she did was jam as much as possible into this small two-bedroom unit.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t be afraid to give me a call. I moved a lot growing up so I’ve got some well-honed packing skills and would be happy to help.”


  “Thanks so much for the offer. I may take you up on that.” She was able to make room, took the last box from me, and slid it in. “There we go.”

  “Well, let me know. I’m headed to Greer’s.”

  “You know,” Cheri closed the back door, “I found another folder with recipes. They aren’t my mom’s; I’d recognize her handwriting. I wondered if they might be part of the cookbook project. If you want to walk back with me, I’ll give them to you.”

  “That would be great.” I hoped the folder contained the cookbook recipes. “I’ve been going through what we’ve got, and I know we are still missing a bunch.”

  We walked along the sidewalk toward Alma’s place. There were people outside on their patios and others out for a stroll. The peacefulness of the setting made it seem highly improbable to me that anyone who knew Alma had run her over. But like the sheriff said, they needed to follow any lead they had.

  Cheri opened the door, and I stepped inside. The place looked so different from the day Greer, Nellie, Bunny, and I had been looking for Alma. The furniture had been moved around and the curtains pulled back to let in as much light as possible.

  “Here you go.” Cheri handed me a bright yellow file folder. “I’ll let you know if I find anything else related to the cookbook project.”

  “Thanks.” I tucked the folder into my bag. “And seriously, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  “Thanks.” Cheri cleared her throat. “My son is coming later to help me with some of the bigger boxes. I’m afraid a lot of it I’m just boxing up and taking to my place to sort out.”

  “Well, here’s my number.” I reached in my bag and handed her one of my business cards. “Don’t be afraid to call.”

  Heading to Greer’s next, I noticed Silver Fox William, the new guy, out for a walk. A group of three ladies flanked him, chattering as they went. I’d bet he hadn’t been prepared for being the object of so much attention when he’d moved to the Good Life. When the girl gang was the Silver Ladies rather than the Pink Ladies, a single guy with his own teeth could be in serious trouble. This gang had experience.