Risky Biscuits

by Mary Lee Ashford

  “I hope that’s not the case, but until we know, let’s keep this between us, okay?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  I hung up and sat there for a while, head in my hands. I couldn’t imagine what might bring someone to harm their grandmother. I hadn’t met the boy, but from all accounts Alma had loved him, and had done her best to help him.

  I looked up to find Dixie standing in the doorway.

  “Was that Greer?”

  I nodded.

  “And?”

  “Nellie confirmed that she heard someone—a guy—arguing with Alma. And then shortly after that, she saw a young man, she thinks it was Dustin, leave Alma’s.”

  “I guess we need to turn that note over to Terry then,” she confirmed with a tinge of regret.

  “It doesn’t necessarily follow that Dustin was the one who ran over Alma.” I hated to think that a kid could run over his grandmother.

  “It doesn’t,” Dixie agreed. “But it does mean that with the note we found, plus the fact that Nellie saw him, there are unanswered questions. Right?”

  “Right.” I tapped my pen on the desk. “When do you want to tell him?”

  “We have an opportunity right now because the sheriff is sitting out front drinking a cup of our coffee at this very moment.”

  “No kidding?” I must have really been in my own world because I hadn’t heard either of them come in.

  “No kidding.”

  “I can’t believe you two were in a room alone and behaved civilly to each other.”

  “Well, we weren’t alone.” Her mouth twitched. “Disco was there too.”

  “Gosh, and we had nothing to feed him.” Before she could say it, I held up a hand to stop her. “I know, not our job.”

  “Since I didn’t have any treats, he moved on. Terry is still there.”

  “Okay, let’s get this over with.” I gathered the pile of recipes and the note we’d found and followed Dixie to the front.

  Sheriff Griffin sat staring into his coffee but looked up as we joined him. “Good morning, Sugar.”

  “Hi, Terry.” I placed the papers on the counter.

  “Dixie tells me you two may have something you believe might be of interest to me in my investigation into Alma Stoller’s death.” There was a slight emphasis on “my” but when I looked at his face, he showed nothing in his expression.

  “That’s right. We were going through these recipes that Alma’s daughter, Cheri, had given us.” I spread the papers about a bit so he could see.

  “When did you get those?”

  “I don’t know, maybe a couple of days ago.”

  Sheriff Terry rubbed a spot between his brows. “I asked Cheri to let me know if she found anything when she sorted through her mother’s things.”

  “That’s just it.” I pulled out the baggie and handed it to him. “She didn’t find this. It was mixed in with the papers and she probably wouldn’t have seen it. She knew we needed the breakfast club’s recipes in order to move forward with the project.” I didn’t want to out Greer about taking the recipes the first time we were at Alma’s.

  “We found it because we were trying to bring some order to the recipes we got on Saturday and the ones that Alma had already collected for the Crack of Dawn cookbook,” Dixie explained.

  I handed the note to Sheriff Terry. The man had blue-ribbon control. His expression didn’t change; if anything, he became even more motionless as he read through the note.

  Finally, he looked up, his expression grim. “You haven’t told anyone about this?”

  “No, we haven’t,” Dixie responded.

  “But I did ask Greer about Alma’s relationship with her grandson,” I admitted.

  “The kid has been in some trouble.” Sheriff Terry’s jaw tightened.

  “It sounds like they’d always had a good relationship, though,” I said. “Alma helped pay for his voice lessons and all.”

  He looked at me closely. “But there’s more isn’t there?

  I nodded. “Greer also told me that Nellie heard an argument the day before Alma went missing. And then a little bit later she saw someone that could have been Dustin leaving Alma’s.”

  The sheriff folded the note, put it back in the baggie, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’d really like to point out that the right thing—the smart thing—” He stopped here for emphasis just in case his steely glare didn’t make the point.

  I mentally squirmed.

  “The smart thing to do,” he repeated, “would have been to call me the minute you found that note. And the right thing would be to leave the questioning related to Alma and her grandson to those of us who are investigating Alma’s death.” He paused and looked hard at the two of us.

  “I’d like to point that out.” He stood and took a final swig of coffee before setting the cup down with a click. “But that would be a total waste of my breath.”

  Sheriff Terry moved to the front door of the shop. “If you find anything else among Alma’s notes, call me immediately.”

  Dixie and I looked each other. In my defense, he had asked me to help him break through the Silver-Haired Solidarity over who had had words with Alma. I could tell Dixie wanted badly to make that point. We both held our tongues.

  “I’ll talk to you later.” He started to go.

  But as he held the door open to make his exit, Nick Marchant walked through it.

  The sheriff said something under his breath, turned and came back inside, letting the door close behind him.

  He and Nick eyed each other.

  “What are you doing here?” Sheriff Terry finally broke the silence.

  Nick let his silence stand a little while longer as he maintained his Shootout-at-the-O.K.-Corral stance.

  “I don’t know why it would be any of your business, but I’m here to talk to Sugar and Spicy.”

  I don’t know what it was about his delivery of Dixie’s nickname that rubbed me wrong, but it did. Others in town called her “Spicy” and the moniker from her youth seemed to be said with affection. But with Nick, there was some undertone I couldn’t quite identify, but I didn’t like it.

  Now it was the sheriff’s turn to lengthen the silence before he replied. He stared at Nick and waited. Finally, he said, “Marchant, I don’t think I like your attitude.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Nick smirked. “Shoot me?”

  The sheriff said something I couldn’t hear and then turned, yanked open the door, and walked out.

  “Did you hear that?” Nick’s handsome face was incredulous. “He threatened me.”

  “I’m sure you’re safe.” Dixie turned and walked out of the room.

  I heard her get her keys, heard the back door open, and then slam as she left.

  “I don’t think she wants to talk to you.” I said to Nick.

  He stood looking at me. “Is that coffee still warm?”

  “Would you like a cup?” I could’ve kicked myself the minute the offer was out of my mouth. It was that darn southern hospitality gene rearing its head again.

  “Sure.” He smiled and gave me a once-over.

  Great. Now he thought I was interested in him. And not in the are-you-good-enough-to-date-my-friend way.

  “Have you lived in town long?” he asked. His tone made me think he already knew the answer to his question.

  Stretching to reach a mug on the shelf, I answered. “I haven’t lived in St. Ignatius that long.”

  Suddenly, Nick was beside me, his starched white shirt brushing my arm. With his height, he easily reached the cup and handed it to me with a smile.

  What a flirt. A handsome flirt, but seriously?

  I filled it with coffee and set it in front of him, then stepped back to put some distance between us.

  He took a sip and studied me. “You worked as a big shot at a fancy magazine before moving here, I heard.”

  Bingo. He did already know my story.

  “I wouldn’t say I was a big shot,
but, yes, I worked for Mammoth Publishing.”

  He cradled the mug and took another sip. “Nice.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant my publishing gig or the coffee.

  “You’ve not been back to St. Ignatius since you left after college.” I phrased it as a statement rather than a question because I, too, knew the answer. “I heard,” I added for good measure.

  “That’s right.” His dark blue eyes followed me as I found a cup and poured some java for myself.

  “You all—Dixie, Sheriff Terry, and you—have the advantage of having grown up together.” I wondered at the tension between him and the sheriff.

  He leaned a hip against the counter and watched me. “I don’t know that I’d necessarily call it an advantage.”

  “Are you the only one from your crowd who left St. Ignatius for bigger opportunities?” I sipped coffee from my cup.

  “Me. Bigger opportunities were definitely my goal. Terry left to escape his scumbag family.” He pulled a face.

  No love lost there. But then I’d already known that.

  I wondered if it was an old football rivalry. I’d seen that type of competitiveness carry on for decades. When I was at Mammoth, there had been a big competition between those who attended one or the other of the two state universities. Once a year, they played each other and heaven help the losing team who had to survive the ribbing from the fans of the winner. You would’ve thought, whatever it was between Nick and Terry, it would be history by now. But absence had not made the heart grow fonder in this case.

  “Families can be challenging.” Though I’d often wondered if Sheriff Terry had any family in town, I had no intention of following this conversational path. “Your family seems close. You, your brother, and your dad.”

  “As close as heat to fire,” he answered, placing his empty cup on the counter and giving it a spin.

  I’d never heard that expression to explain closeness, but it didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy family feeling. I knew from experience, families could be complicated as well as challenging.

  “Like you, I grew up in a one-parent household,” I shared. “It was just my mother and me. And sometimes, my two aunts.”

  Nick continued to spin the cup on the counter top.

  The talk about single moms made me think of Alma, her daughter, and grandson.

  “Sad about Alma Stoller.” I shook my head.

  Something odd crossed his face, and I wasn’t sure if it was actual pain at the loss of someone he knew or irritation at the turn the conversation had taken. If it were real pain, I felt bad that I’d brought Alma’s death up like that.

  “Were you friends with Cheri, her daughter?’ I asked. “I’m still trying to get straight who was in which class.”

  Again, something crossed his face for a brief moment before he composed himself. Only a momentary glimpse and then his cocktail-party persona was back.

  “You know what they say about small towns: Everyone knows everything about everybody eventually.’”

  I hadn’t heard that particular phrase, but it was true that secrets are harder to keep in a small town. And between Dixie’s reaction and Terry’s and now Nick’s, something was afoot.

  Nick’s phone made a beeping sound. He pulled it out and looked at it, but made no move to answer it.

  “If you need to get that feel free.”

  “Just my brother.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Probably has some task for me.”

  Had that been what the fight was about? Had he and Nate come to blows over who was boss?

  He left the mug on the counter. “Great to chat with you, Sugar. Let’s get together for a drink one of these evenings. I’d welcome some conversation with someone who has traveled farther than the county line.”

  “I’ll let Dixie know that you’ll stop by again or give her a call.” I said evenly.

  I watched him go, thinking there was not a ghost of a chance I would be joining Nick for that drink. Definitely not my type.

  Not that I had a type, but if I did…tall, dark, and fun-to-be-with beat out tall, dark and full-of-himself any day.

  After washing the coffee cups, I went back to sorting the recipes. I spread them out on the counter and tried to think through how to order them and what the story was we wanted to tell with the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club cookbook. Maybe some history on the city park could be added.

  It seemed like quite a while, but was probably no more than half an hour until Dixie was back. She had Moto with her so she must have run home.

  “Sorry to leave you like that,” she said. “I couldn’t take it anymore. All the posturing, like I’m some prize. And it’s very clear, it’s not about me. It’s about them.”

  “Nick stuck around for a while.” I straightened my stacks of recipes. “He got a call from his brother but he didn’t answer it.”

  “Nate’s got to be sick of all the attention Nick’s getting.” Dixie patted Moto’s head.

  “I would think so,” I agreed. “What’s the friction between him and the sheriff?” I asked. “Were they football rivals or something?”

  “It’s all ancient history,” Dixie blew out a breath. “Lots of reasons not to like each other back then, but that was then. You’d think they’d both be grown up enough now to be over it.”

  “You would think,” I agreed.

  My phone rang just then, and I stepped back into the office to take the call. It was Gwen from the ABBA group, and she had talked with her board, who had a few questions. They were easy enough to answer, and it sounded like we had a good chance of taking on their project. After we hung up, I made a few notes and then made a call to Liz, with a question they’d had about redoing their logo.

  Putting the phone down after talking to Liz, I heard the bell ding out front as someone came in, but I knew Dixie was within earshot so I continued jotting down some details.

  But when I heard raised voices, I decided I’d better go check and make sure Dixie was okay.

  “You witch!” was what I heard as I came around the corner, only it might have been a “b” word instead of a “w” word. Cheri Wheeler’s wheat-colored hair was wild, her face was red and contorted, and the woman was hopping mad. She advanced toward Dixie. “You—”

  “Whoa,” I interrupted the tirade. “What’s going on?”

  “Cheri is upset we gave the note we found to the sheriff.” Dixie took the opportunity of a break in the action to take a few steps back and put the counter between her and Cheri.

  “But you know we had to, right?” I could understand being upset, but we really had no choice.

  Wow, Sheriff Terry worked fast. He must have pulled Dustin in for questioning right after he left with the note.

  “That was personal property and you had no right,” Cheri hissed. “I brought those recipes to you trying to be helpful and this how to you repay me? You sic the sheriff on my son?”

  “I’m sure it will all work out.” I tried my quiet voice, which usually calmed upset animals and angry humans. Though come to think of it, my quiet voice hadn’t worked at all on Mrs. Pickett next door.

  “Easy for you to say.” She turned on me and I could see her cheeks were streaked with mascara. “You didn’t just have to see your son at the jail.”

  Cheri was so angry it made me wonder if her son shared this kind of instant rage.

  Then I heard the catch in her voice. And I realized in that instant, the emotional tirade was fueled by fear.

  “Wait.” I hadn’t expected the sheriff to arrest Dustin. Just talk to him about it. “He’s under arrest?”

  “No.” She looked like tears or swear words could start again at any moment. “Not yet anyway. But no thanks to you two!”

  “The sheriff simply brought him in to ask him some questions, right?” Dixie asked.

  “Nothing simple about it.” Wild Woman was back and looked ready to pounce.

  “I’m sure he was able to tell the sheriff where he was and clear up everything.�
� I hoped to heaven he was able to verify where he’d been.

  “Dusty was at home,” she bit out.

  “With you?” Dixie asked.

  “I work nights.” Cheri’s face twisted and she swiped a hand across her forehead. “None of this would have happened if you two hadn’t taken it upon yourselves to give the sheriff a personal note that belonged to my dead mother.”

  When she put it like that, it did make me feel pretty awful. Though I still wasn’t sure that we had any choice.

  “What can we do to help?” Dixie asked.

  “Don’t you use that phony sweet act on me, Dixie Spicer.” Cheri face twisted in anger. “You forget. I know you. I hope the sheriff remembers what a cheat and a liar you are. Always have been.”

  That was it, Dixie had lasted as long as she could.

  “Get out.” She advanced toward Cheri. “I’ve tried to be nice because of all the stress you’re under, but I am not going to let you come in here and pick the scabs off old wounds.”

  “Gladly.” Cheri bit out. Turning, she shoved my neat stack of recipes off the counter and stomped out.

  As the heavy glass door shut, Dixie and I looked at each other. She began picking up the papers Cheri had pushed to the floor. I walked to the back, grabbed a bottle of water and took it out front.

  “I wish I had something stronger,” I said, handing her the water. “But I guess this will have to do.”

  She twisted off the top, took a big swig, and then held the bottle against her face.

  “I would have never expected that from Cheri.” I took the papers from Dixie and started resorting them. “She’d seemed so mild-mannered.”

  Dixie took another gulp of the water. “No matter how mild you are, I imagine all bets are off when your kid is in trouble.”

  “Do you suppose her son has that kind of temper?” I had to ask.

  “I haven’t seen him in years,” she said quietly.

  Neither of us wanted to think about that possibility, but in reality, the message in the note did look bad. But still there were other potential suspects. My money was still on the creepy developer. I hadn’t liked him from the beginning, but I didn’t think Cheri was going to be forthcoming with any information about what kind of deal Alma had made with Ross and Cheeters.