“Come on,” I motioned to Dixie. “I’m taking you to lunch. You deserve it after what you’ve been through, and I’m hungry because my breakfast was interrupted by a crazed woman with a knife.”
* * * *
“Cluck.” The chicken door chime at the Red Hen announced as we entered.
We’d arrived before the lunch crowd so there were plenty of spots available. We picked a booth against the wall. The clatter of dishes from the kitchen said it must have been a busy breakfast shift.
Toy George hustled from the back with two glasses of water and slapped a couple of menus in front of us. I picked it up to look, though I wasn’t sure why. I’d reached a point where I had the offerings committed to memory. And I’d tried pretty much everything on the menu, except for the liver and onions. Yuck.
So many good things. What to have? What to have? Feeling cheated out of breakfast because my bagel hadn’t been salvageable, I flipped the menu to the back page and perused the breakfast choices, which they served all day.
Toy was back, green-lined tablet and pen in hand. “What’ll you have?”
“I’ll have the Reuben,” Dixie announced.
Toy looked at me, brow raised.
“I’m going to go with the pancakes.” I handed the menu to Toy.
She jotted down our selections, ripped off the sheet, whisked back to the pass-through window of the kitchen, then clipped the paper on the wheel and yelled, “Order.”
In a matter of minutes, she was back with coffee for me and milk for Dixie. She set our beverages down and slid into the booth beside Dixie.
“So, what do you know, ladies?”
“Not much,” Dixie responded. “You’ve probably heard more of the gossip than we have.”
“Maybe.” She untied her Chief Chick apron and slipped it off. “Between the gravy stains and the spilled coffee, this thing is headed for the wash.” She folded the apron into a bundle and tucked it beside her on the seat. “The rumor mill was operating at full power today.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Mostly still about who ran over Alma.” Toy leaned in. “Her memorial service is Wednesday at the Methodist Church. But you probably already knew that.”
We hadn’t known about the services. Greer hadn’t mentioned it and Cheri sure wasn’t going to tell us.
Toy leaned in even closer and whispered, “I guess the sheriff thinks it was her grandson, Dusty.”
So much for keeping that under wraps.
“Hmmm.” Dixie shifted in her seat to face Toy. “If it were true, that would be awful.”
“It could have been an accident,” I offered.
I’d been thinking about the possibility. Like a hit-and-run deal. Cheri was insistent that that her mom and her son had a close relationship. What if he really had run over his grandmother accidentally and was too afraid to be honest about what had occurred?
“He doesn’t have anyone to vouch for him. Says he was at home asleep when it happened, but no one else was there.” Toy shook her head. “Heard they’ve had him in for questioning. Sounds like he’s going to need a good lawyer.”
Wow. That was fast. What was it Nick Marchant had said? Something about everyone knowing everything in a small town.
“What else had the gossip mill going today?” Dixie asked. I was sure she hoped to change the subject.
“Well, of course, Mr. Hold-onto-Your-Knickers, Nick Marchant.” Toy grinned. “But that’s no surprise.”
“He’s sure caused a stir since he’s been back,” I noted. “Was he always the talk of the town? Was that the case before he left?”
“Always.” Dixie took a sip of milk and rolled her eyes. “And that jumped both sides of the train track, too. Debate team winner, track star, student council. Also, speeding tickets, underage drinking, and picking fights.”
“Not a model citizen?” I’d wondered about that.
“No, that was his brother, Nate.” Dixie laughed. “But good behavior doesn’t gain as much attention, and all the girls were drawn to the ‘bad boy.’ And heaven forbid, if a girl liked Nate, Nick would move in right away and capture her attention.”
“He was a stinker, all right,” Toy said. “Handsome, but a stinker.”
“But nothing serious, right?” You could see the remnants of what had been a spoiled high-school charmer in some of grown-up Nick’s behavior.
“No, just dumb high school kid stuff,” Dixie answered. “And then he left and to all accounts has had a successful career in the stock market. It probably takes that kind of ego to play on Wall Street.”
“Is he back to stay or just visiting?” I wondered aloud. He sure hadn’t sounded to me like he wanted to stick around.
“From the sounds of it he’s been going into the bank every day,” Toy commented, and then got up to get drinks and take the order of a couple who had come in.
“Nate’s been the heir apparent for years, so I wonder how that’s going over,” Dixie mused.
I thought about his comment to me when Nate called him. “I’m guessing not very well.”
“You dated Nick for a while didn’t you, Dixie?” Toy was back and sat down again.
“Yes, I did.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Talk about dumb high school stuff. I was flattered that he took an interest in me and broke up with my long-time boyfriend because Nick asked me to the Winter Formal. My folks weren’t happy about it, but I’m afraid I was starstruck.”
“That boyfriend was Terrance Griffin?” I had to ask.
She stopped and looked at me for a few minutes. Her eyes flickered and she looked down. “Yeah, it was Terry.”
I waited.
“Then Nick dumped me right before the dance, and I ended up not going at all.” Dixie shrugged. “Afterwards, I’m not sure what Nick said about me, but Terry believed the rumors. By the end of the whole incident, they were both done with me. And I was done with them.” She sat up straighter. “Water under the bridge.”
“Sounds like since Nick has been back, he’s still a carouser.” Toy winked.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He had a thing for Tressa in high school and seems to think he can pick up where he left off.” Toy slipped her apron back on. “She and her husband have separated.” The bell at the open window to the kitchen dinged and Toy slid out of the booth.
So Tressa had been the redhead I’d seen in the Jag with Nick.
“Interesting.” Dixie pulled a couple of napkins from the dispenser on the table and handed them to me.
“You’ve obviously seen me eat.” I laughed.
“I have.” She grinned. “And you’re in good company.” She plucked a couple for herself.
Toy returned with our plates. I had chosen well; the pancakes were fluffy and golden brown. The syrup was locally produced and had been warmed. I swear, small town diner cuisine is highly underrated.
We dug in and didn’t come up for air until Toy stopped back at the table to offer refills on our drinks. She had the water pitcher in one hand and the coffee carafe in the other. Dixie had barely touched her milk. I had nearly completely downed both my water and my coffee.
Toy deftly refilled both. “Who would have known about all of young Nick’s shenanigans would have been Alma Stoller.”
I halted a forkful of pancake halfway to my mouth. “How so?”
“Alma lived next door to the Marchant family for years and worked for Stanley after his wife died,” Toy explained.
Nick had said nothing about them being neighbors when I’d brought up Alma. Maybe I’d been right. He didn’t want to talk about it. People deal with grief in different ways.
Dixie swallowed the last bite of her Reuben sandwich. “I’d forgotten. She was sort of a part-time housekeeper. Fixed meals, did some housework, right?”
“Yep.” Toy set the coffee carafe down on the table. “If anyone would have been party to his teenaged antics, it would’ve been Alma.”
Thinking about Nick’s reaction led
me to think about Cheri’s meltdown. Suddenly, my pancake felt like a weight in my stomach. I still felt like we’d done the right thing, giving the note to the sheriff. But that poor woman, planning a memorial service for her mother, and dealing with the possibility her own son might have caused her mother’s death.
Chapter Ten
The morning of Alma Stoller’s memorial service dawned with clear skies and so I gave Big Blue a quick wash before getting dressed. Rinsing the Jeep in my driveway, I saw no sign of Mrs. Pickett. Apparently after the advice on weed removal, her work was done. For now.
Heading inside to get dressed, I wondered how Cheri would react when she saw us at the church. Dixie and I had discussed it and we both felt like we should attend, but neither of us wanted to cause a scene of any kind. Hopefully we’d be lost in the crowd of attendees.
I had several nice dresses from my days at the magazine, but I’d worn my favorite one on my sales call to Arbor House. I tried a couple of others but they were a bit snug. I was really going to have to get serious about getting some exercise.
I finally settled on a dark burgundy knit that wasn’t too heavy in case it got warm in the church. Some simple silver jewelry and I was ready to pick up Dixie.
Her house was at the edge of town. Not sure if that’s the east or west edge of town. The house was a clapboard farmhouse and probably had once been surrounded by fields, but as St. Ignatius had grown it was now nested between other, more modern houses.
And before you ask, yes, I can drive to it without the GPS. I know you were thinking I would have to rely on Matilda, but I’ve been to Dixie’s enough I can do fine on my own.
She came out as soon as I pulled in her driveway.
“You must have been watching for me.” I noted.
“I was. Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
She climbed into the Jeep and fastened her seatbelt. Dixie had picked a champagne-colored dress with a deep brown shrug. The neutral colors set off her coloring and especially her fiery red hair.
“Nice colors on you,” I commented.
“Not too bad yourself.” She gestured to my dress.
“I was down to two dresses that fit.” I frowned. “I’ve got to stop tasting everything you make.”
“Don’t blame it on me.” She wagged a finger. “It could be those blueberry muffins from the Red Hen Diner.”
“Maybe.” I smiled. “But they are so good.”
In a matter of minutes, we’d arrived at the church. I didn’t use the GPS but Dixie gave the turn-by-turn instructions that brought us to the brick turn-of-the-century building. I parked in the large parking lot and we made our way to the chapel.
I’d not been in the St. Ignatius Methodist Church before. It was much more traditional than the Lutheran church across town where I’d attended Elsie Farmer’s funeral early in the year. The crowd for Alma’s services was also much smaller.
There was a table at the front of the sanctuary with an urn. Small easels on each side held a collection of photos of Alma. Cheri sat alone in the front pew.
“Not many people,” I whispered to Dixie as we walked down the aisle and slid into a half-full row about midway. There went my idea that we might go unnoticed in the crowd.
“Maybe a product of her age,” Dixie whispered back. “My Grandma Ruby is always worried that she’ll have a low-attendance funeral because none of her friends will still be around to attend.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” I settled into my seat and looked around. “It likely means you’ve lived a long life.”
“That’s what Grandpa always tells her when she says it.” Dixie shook her head. “But she’s a planner. Grandpa would say ‘control freak.’ Grandma has everything written down. Arrangements, songs, who should do her hair.”
“Still, Alma wasn’t that old, was she? Probably way younger than your grandma.” I glanced down at the folder we’d been given with information about the service. There was a nice photo of Alma on the front. “You and Greer mentioned she was older when she had Cheri.”
Dixie fanned herself with her paper and leaned back. “My mom and dad were talking about it the other night and apparently Alma and her husband had been hoping to have kids for a long time and had finally given up when lo and behold, they find out Alma is pregnant.”
“Wow, that would be a shock.” Talk about a menopause baby. Some couples wait until they’re older to have kids, but if you’d been trying and then decided it wasn’t in the cards for you, that would be a game changer.
“That wasn’t the only shock poor Alma got. When Cheri was little, maybe three or four, her dad had a heart attack and died.” Dixie folded her paper over and continued to fan herself.
“My word.” I hadn’t known any of that. Most of the ladies at the Good Life are widows but they don’t talk much about it. “There’s Alma on her own and with a little one to take care of to boot.”
It explained a lot for me. I’d always found Alma to be a little bossy with Greer and the other ladies who were friends. I guess when you’ve been handling things on your own most of your life, you might develop a habit of taking charge.
A few more people filed in and took seats. Cheri sat motionless at the front, shoulders stiff, never turning to look anywhere but straight ahead.
I heard Greer’s group from the Good Life come in. Shifting a little so I could see them, I spotted Greer, Bunny, and Nellie. There were also several other women who looked familiar to me. There were more women than men who lived at the Good Life. Harold, the new guy, trailed behind the group and slid into the pew where Greer and the ladies were seated. He brushed something off the sleeve of his suit, straightened his tie, and winked at me. Caught staring, I turned back around quickly.
The minister entered, stepped to the podium, and placed some papers there. He then sat in a straight wooden chair nearby. A young man strolled down the outside aisle and slipped into the pew beside Cheri. His suit hung on his thin frame as if he had lost weight or had borrowed it from someone a few sizes larger than he was. He must be Dustin, Cheri’s son. Alma’s grandson. His long straight hair brushed his shoulders. Cheri put her arm around him.
I was again struck by her aloneness. With no brothers or sisters or seemingly any other family members, Dustin was it.
I really hoped he wasn’t involved in his grandmother’s death, but it sounded like Sheriff Terry wasn’t ready to rule him out. According to what Cheri had said, he had no alibi. How awful would it be for Cheri if it turned out the last person she had left in the world had done something so terrible?
The minister stepped to the podium again and said, “Let us pray.”
In unison heads bowed. After a short prayer, he shuffled the papers in front of him and then looked up at the seated crowd.
Holding a single sheet of paper in his hand, he began, “Alma Fogle was born in St. Ignatius and lived here all her life. She married Hugh Stoller, her high school sweetheart, and they had one daughter. Alma was preceded in death by her husband, Hugh. She is survived by her daughter, Cheri Wheeler, and her grandson, Dustin Wheeler. She also leaves behind many friends from her time at the Good Life retirement village.”
Simple and to the point. Alma would’ve liked that.
The minister nodded to Cheri and Dustin and sat down. Dustin rose and climbed the steps to the podium. Straightening his shoulders in the ill-fitting jacket, he turned to look at the piano player, who struck a note and then waited.
Dustin swallowed hard, pushed his long black hair off his face, focused deep blue eyes on a point in the back of the church, opened his mouth, and began the most moving rendition of “Amazing Grace” I had ever heard in my entire life.
I was speechless. The enormity of how strongly Alma must have felt about helping Dustin to have voice lessons was suddenly clear to me. Wow. Incredible talent.
When he finished there was absolute silence for several seconds. Tears welled in his eyes, he bowed his head a moment, and then rejoined his mother.
>
In those few minutes as he walked to the pew, I knew two things for sure. One was that, even though at this point Dustin Wheeler was an awkward kid with clothes that didn’t fit and a bad case of acne, when those pimples were a thing of the past and he’d grown into his lanky frame, he would be a striking young man.
The second thing I knew for sure was that there was no way this young man had killed his grandmother.
The minister closed the services with a prayer and people began filing out the back of the sanctuary. Cheri and her son slipped out a side door. The church had arranged for coffee and cookies in the attached community room, but few stayed for the refreshments. Alma’s friends from the Good Life stuck around for a short time. Once they’d gone, there were only a handful of people left.
There were four ladies who lingered and I suddenly realized they were probably the church committee who had provided the refreshments. They were undoubtedly waiting for us to leave so they could clean up.
“Very sorry,” I spoke to the woman closest to me. “You’re probably needing to clear things and get going, aren’t you?”
“No rush,” the woman said, but the other three gave her a look that I was sure was meant to convey that they didn’t have all day. In fact, when I got a good look at the table it appeared they’d already begun packing up some of the cookies.
A man in a dark suit came through from the chapel. “Do you know where Mrs. Stoller’s daughter went?”
“She left,” said one of the women. “Her and her son.”
“I’m supposed to check and see what she wants done with the flowers.” The man, who I assumed was from the funeral home, shook his head.
“Pastor said she told him she didn’t want them,” the woman I’d been talking to offered. One of the others spoke up, “We can take some of them in the sanctuary, but not all.”
“If you like, we could take a couple of the plants to the Good Life where Alma lived,” I offered.
“That’s a great idea.” The man’s voice reflected his relief. “Come with me.”
Dixie and I followed him to the entryway, where he’d assembled the collection of plants and flower arrangements.
Risky Biscuits Page 14
