I tapped on the door at Greer’s and could hear her holler for me to come in.
She was in the kitchen working at the counter.
“What are you making?” It looked like all the ingredients for a pie. I hoped Greer wasn’t one of the women offering pie to poor diabetic William, who couldn’t have it.
“We’re having dessert after our Roomba class tonight, so I’m making a cherry cobbler.” She stirred the dry ingredients together and then added the milk.
I didn’t know what a Roomba class entailed. I thought a Roomba was one of those robots that vacuumed your floors. But I was impressed with the dessert Greer was making. The cobbler looked like something I could make, unlike the recipes Dixie was always giving me that required way more time and patience than I had.
“It looks good.”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I want to get this in the oven.” Greer continued stirring. “It takes nearly an hour to bake.”
“No problem at all.” I sat down at the nearby dining table. “Is there anything you need help with?”
“Not at the moment.” She pulled a cake pan sizzling with melted butter from the oven, poured the batter on top, and then heaped it with cherry pie filling from an opened can. “Sounded like you were on a mission when you called.”
With Greer it was always best to get right to the point. “I’d heard that someone had words with Alma before her death, and I wondered if you knew who that was.”
“The sheriff sent you, huh?” She slid the cake pan into the oven and turned to look at me, her face pink from the heat.
“Yes.” I rubbed my temples.
“The new guy, William, was the tattletale, right?
I didn’t say anything.
Greer put the mixing bowl in the sink, wiped her hands on a dish towel embroidered with owls, and came to sit down across from me.
“The sheriff doesn’t really think any of you here at the Good Life would have deliberately hurt Alma, but in his words they’ve ‘got to follow every lead’ because they don’t have much to go on.”
She sighed. “Well, if he has to know, it was me.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. “What do you mean?”
She looked out the window, seemed lost in thought for a moment, and then looked back at me. “What I mean is, it was me that had words with Alma.”
I waited, knowing it had to be difficult for her to talk about it.
“If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t have been so rough on her, but I was upset that she’d forgotten Bunny the other day.”
“Oh.” I waited for her to go on.
“I got pretty mad at her and she got mad back and then lit out of here like a house a-fire.” She blew out a breath and looked down at her hands. “It’s not like we haven’t fought before. We have, and then we both regret it, and then we’re friends again.”
“But this time you didn’t get the chance to do that.”
“No.” She looked up at me. “We didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry, Greer.” I got up and gave her a hug. “Alma knew it was only out of concern for Bunny that you were upset with her.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay with me letting the sheriff know it was you?”
“Sure.” She walked to the kitchen, picked up a dishrag, and wiped down the counter.
“What time is your class?” I asked.
“Not until six-thirty.” She rinsed out the mixing bowl and stacked it and the utensils in a dish drainer that sat by the sink. “Do you know if they found Alma’s little notebook from her purse?”
“I don’t know, but I could ask Sheriff Terry about it.”
“She kept everything in that book. That’s why I was so baffled by her forgetting Bunny.” Greer eyes were watery. “I mean there it was in black and white.”
“I ran into Cheri when I first arrived,” I said, trying to give Greer time to compose herself. “She found some additional recipes as she’s been clearing out Alma’s place. She gave them to me.” I patted my bag.
“I had asked her about the notebook, but she hadn’t seen it so far.” Greer frowned. “If Alma had her pocketbook with her, and I’m sure she did, her notebook would’ve been in there.”
“I guess that’s evidence now.” I hesitated, hating to leave with Greer upset. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m fine.”
Giving Greer another hug, I headed back to my car.
So tough to have harsh words be the final words you exchanged with a friend.
* * * *
After feeding Ernest and myself, I changed into a T-shirt, shorts, and some old tennis shoes. I decided it was time to tackle the thistles and Creeping Charlie that Mrs. Pickett was so worried about. The article I’d read had said to mix white vinegar with liquid dish soap and salt. I looked up the measurements to make sure I remembered them correctly and then after mixing them together in a big bucket, I poured the liquid into a spray bottle as suggested.
I wasn’t a huge fan of commercial weed killer, and so an organic solution appealed to me. However, by the time I got the solution dumped into the spray bottle my tennies were squishy and I smelled like a salad. But determined to persevere in my war on weeds, I took the now-full spray bottle and worked my way around the yard. I also pulled a bunch of dandelions and other weeds while I was at it and shoved them in a bag.
The sun was beginning to send out streaks across the western sky and I knew I didn’t have a lot of daylight left. Exhausted from the yard work, I packed it in for the night. I went in to shower and get ready for bed. An exciting life, I know, but one that suited me perfectly.
Brushing my teeth, I thought about poor Cheri trying to go through her mother’s things. It would be hard enough in any circumstances, but with a murder investigation going on it had to be beyond stressful. I hoped she had family members or friends who were willing to help.
Thinking about family members and boxes of stuff reminded me of the package I was expecting. I speculated on when the package of Daddy’s things might arrive. My mother’s assistant would have contacted Barry, the agent, right away. Maybe in the next few days.
I fell asleep thinking for the first time in a while that maybe it was time to tackle finding out whether it was possible to track down Daddy’s birth family. It seemed odd that he’d never had an interest in finding them. Or maybe he had. When you’re a kid, you are sort of oblivious to the things adults are going through. Maybe the box of Daddy’s things would give me some direction.
* * * *
The next morning, after dragging my bag of dead weeds to the curb for pickup, I waved good-bye to Ernest, who promised to keep an eye on things at the house.
I’m absolutely certain that’s what his green-eyed stare meant.
One of the big advantages of working for yourself, as opposed to the corporate offices I’d worked in over the past several years, was the lack of a dress code. Most days I was able to make my wardrobe choices based on comfort rather than having what I wore dictated by the business environment. Usually that meant a skirt or pants and a T-shirt or casual top.
Today, however, knowing I had an afternoon appointment with a potential client, I’d wanted to make sure I looked professional. After reviewing my choices, I finally pulled out a suit I’d always liked. A straight gray shift with a short black jacket, it was businesslike but not overly dressy.
I had no idea what to expect at the American B&B Association Iowa offices. I’d done a bit of research on them but there wasn’t much online about the Iowa chapter. They used the acronym ABBA-IA, which always made me want to belt out “Dancing Queen.”
There are an amazing number of great bed-and-breakfasts around the state and Dixie’s aunt, Bertie, had alerted us to the fact that the association had been discussing putting together a cookbook highlighting each of their member B&Bs. When I’d called the executive director, she hadn’t seemed interested at first. They
had thought they’d do the work and publish it themselves. I explained how we could save them a little money and a lot of headaches if they did it through Sugar and Spice Publishing. Not convinced initially, but finally agreeing to see me, she’d given me a date. I’d take along some examples of work we’d done and planned to put together a comparison sheet so she could see costs differences.
When I pulled into the parking lot at the back of Sugar and Spice, it was deserted. We shared parking with Travers Jewelry, Tressa’s Tresses, and the real estate office where Tina Martin worked. But none of them opened until nine o’clock. I was a bit earlier than usual.
Yeah, because you were hot not to get accosted by your neighbor.
I confess I did hurry just a bit, hoping Mrs. Pickett was not yet up.
Reaching in my bag for the keys to the shop, I realized I didn’t have them. I always put them in the exact same pocket but I’d been in such a rush yesterday to talk to Greer I must have left without them.
I checked the back door, then did a quick check of the nearby flower pot to make sure Dixie had not fallen back on her old habits of leaving an extra key hidden—and by hidden, I mean in plain sight—among the summer petunias.
I could run back home and get my keys. Or I could wait around until Dixie got there. She was an early riser, had probably already been up for hours and finished a bunch of chores, and so it shouldn’t be long.
Wait. Or I could walk over to the Red Hen Diner and pick up a blueberry muffin for breakfast. I’d only had coffee at home, and the more I thought about a blueberry muffin, the more I knew I had to have one.
“Cluck,” the door announced as I entered. I wondered at the purpose of a door chime you couldn’t hear over the conversations and clatter of dishes.
The place was packed with people and I glanced around to see who I knew. Knowing people when I went into a store or restaurant was on my list of things I love about living in a small town.
I noted Jimmie LeBlanc and Grace Nelson. Dot Carson, the postmistress, was waiting at the counter to pay, a to-go container in her hand. Old Wally Nelson was shouting something about the weather to Toy, not because the weather was exciting but because shouting was the only volume Old Wally had.
Toy looked up and made eye contact with me, excused herself from Wally, and walked in my direction.
“I think my eardrums are about done for.” She tapped the side of her head. “You looking for a blueberry muffin, Sugar?”
Yes, I was that predictable.
“I am.” I nodded. “You’re busy today.” I glanced around the room, and as I did, I caught sight of Nate and Nick Marchant, who sat at a table near the front. Their heads were close together but if their body language could speak, it would say they were not feeling the brotherly love.
I suppose it could be a heated discussion about sports or politics, but I also thought having your long-lost brother show up unexpectedly would take some adjustment. Though by all accounts Nate, along with the rest of St. Ignatius, had welcomed Nick back with open arms. At least according to the gossip, which was right at least half of the time.
Nick looked up and caught my stare and flashed a GQ-worthy smile in my direction. Nate turned to see who Nick had spotted and gave a small wave before turning back to say something to his brother. Heads back down, they continued their discussion.
I turned back to Toy, but she had disappeared. Looking around, I spotted her at the cash register waving a white bag. I could almost smell the blueberries from here.
Reaching in my bag for my wallet, I pulled out some cash and headed to the counter to pay. Handing the money to Toy, I leaned in.
“Not much family bonding going on this morning.” I said quietly, tilting my head toward the Marchant brothers. “Too early and not enough coffee?”
“Plenty of coffee, but you know what they say about too many cooks in the kitchen.”
“Cooks?” I searched my brain for an Aunt Cricket saying, sure there had to be one about cooks in the kitchen. Apparently, I was the one who hadn’t had enough caffeine.
“As in too many cooks trying to run the bank.” Toy dropped her voice so it didn’t carry across the room.
“Ah, right.” It finally came to me. Too many cooks spoil the broth.
“Poor Nate had been doing just fine since his dad retired, but now his brother is back and has his own ideas about things,” she said under her breath.
“What kinds of things?” I asked.
“I guess promotions, more marketing, get your car loan here.”
“Those don’t seem like bad things but change can be difficult.” Most of the time I had wished for siblings but maybe it was because I didn’t have a brother or sister that the idea seemed so attractive.
Toy handed me the bag, which seemed heavier than usual.
“I put an extra blueberry muffin in there for you. It was lopsided and I can’t put it out for sale.”
“Thanks, Toy, that’s really sweet of you.”
“It would’ve just gone to waste.” She dismissed my thanks.
“Now, it will probably go directly to my waist.” I laughed. “You know I can’t resist your muffins.”
“Like you need to worry.” Toy rolled her eyes. “What have you heard about Alma’s accident?”
“Only that they’re continuing to investigate.” I answered. I hoped they figured out what had happened soon. “You?”
“Nothing.” She adjusted her apron. “Nothing at all.”
I headed to the door with one last wave.
“Cluck.” The door chime announced my exit.
I turned on the sidewalk and headed back to the Sugar and Spice Publishing office. Stores were beginning to open. As I walked past Disco’s shop I peered in the window. It didn’t look like any lights were on.
Tina Martin passed by at a race walk pace. She didn’t speak but waved her fingers in the air as she went past. The other day she’d shown us a small MP3 player that she said Rafe had sent her for the morning walks. I could see it clipped to her arm as she passed me.
Though I had my doubts, I really hoped the boyfriend was real, because if Tina was making him up, that was a whole other destination on the crazy train. I hated to think that was the case, but there were just so many red flags.
Back at the office, the door was unlocked so Dixie must have arrived. I started the coffee and had already placed my muffin on one of the pretty china plates she kept in the cupboard. She had picked up an assortment at an estate sale and we used them from time to time as props.
Props.
That’s what it was. It seemed to me as if all the gifts Tina shared that her guy, Rafe, had given her, seemed like props. Like she was setting the stage to convince us how perfect this guy was. I wasn’t convinced he was perfect. Heck, I wasn’t even convinced he was real.
Coffee done, I poured myself a cup and sat down at the counter to enjoy the sweet and tangy taste of perfection. Coffee and muffin. It doesn’t get much better.
I heard the back door open and called out, “Dixie, is that you?”
“Were you expecting someone else?” she asked from the hallway.
“No, just you.” I took a big sip of my coffee. “I have an extra muffin. Would you like to have it?”
“Sure, why not? Let me stash my bag in the back and wash my hands. I’ve been out at my folks. They have some new residents, and I’ve got pictures to show you.”
I got down another plate and shifted the muffin to it. Sliding the lopsided one on my plate, I set aside the other for Dixie. The imperfection didn’t bother me, and it would Ms. Blue-Ribbon-Baker.
She returned to the front, poured herself a glass of milk and joined me at the counter.
“Please tell me your folks haven’t taken on more pot-bellied pigs.”
“Not pigs this time.” She laughed. “Although you have to admit the pigs were darn cute.”
Last spring Dixie’s parents had temporarily had two pot-bellied pigs, and I had to admit Dixie was right.
They were darn cute. They were also very smart and Dixie’s mom had leash-trained the two and named them Kevin Bacon and Alexander Hamilton. Kevin had learned how to open the refrigerator and that had become a problem. Her parents had been just fostering the two and eventually they’d gone to permanent homes.
“These characters are way cuter than the pigs.”
“I don’t know, Kevin and Alex were pretty cute.”
“Take a look at this.” She swiped to a photo on her phone and then passed it to me.
It was a video, and Dixie was right, these characters were cute. They had three baby goats, and the baby goats were adorable.
“What does Moto think of them?” I asked. Moto was easygoing but it looked like the goats were rambunctious.
“He thinks they’re fun to play with.”
“Do goats eat weeds?”
“Goats eat everything.” She closed the video and rested a hand on her hip. “When I was younger we had a goat for a while and he actually ate my homework. Are you thinking about getting a goat? I know someone who would make you a good deal.”
I told her about my evening doing yard work with my homemade weed killer.
“We’ll see how this works.” I took a thoughtful sip of my coffee. “But if it’s not successful, maybe it’s time for a goat.”
“Can you imagine the fit Mrs. Pickett would have?”
“A goat in my yard might be her breaking point.” I pictured Mrs. Pickett’s meltdown in my head.
Dixie took a bite of the muffin. “Oh my, this is good. I can see why you like them so much.” She tore off a bite-sized piece and put it on her tongue. “Toy must use fresh blueberries. I wonder who she gets them from.”
She suddenly stopped with a bite halfway to her mouth and eyed me, top to bottom. “Well, look at you.”
“See, if you drank coffee you would have been awake and alert sooner. And you don’t have to look so shocked. It’s not like I’m normally a total slouch. Or, wait, maybe I am.”
“Of course, you’re not,” She finished off her last bite of muffin. “You’re usually a lot more casual is all. You carry off the sophisticated look really well. I’d hate you for being so cute if I didn’t love you so much.”
Risky Biscuits Page 8
