“I’ll take these back inside.” He separated a group. “They’ll stay nice for the church’s services next Sunday. And if you ladies wouldn’t mind taking those.” He pointed to a couple of other arrangements. “And perhaps that one as well.” He indicated a potted green plant.
“I’ll pull the car up,” I told Dixie.
The lot was nearly empty. Most of the attendees had been Alma’s friends from the retirement center and they had all come in the van. There were only a handful of cars left and I was betting four of them belonged to the four church ladies inside.
I parked Big Blue in front and the man from the funeral home helped load the flowers into the Jeep.
As we pulled out, I shared my thoughts with Dixie on Dustin and my certainty that he could not have been responsible for his grandmother’s death.
“I agree.” Dixie clicked her seatbelt. “That young man loved his grandma.”
“I can handle the flower delivery if you don’t want to go. Would you like me to take you home first?”
“No, I’m happy to go along.” She straightened in her seat. “I can help you carry in the flowers. Besides, maybe we’ll find out something more that might help in the investigation. Terry’s investigation,” she corrected.
Next stop, the Good Life. Greer and the others had already arrived and, having dressed in their Sunday best for the services, they’d decided to congregate in the community center.
Ah, here was the assembly that hadn’t been happening at the church. At the church, everyone had gone through the motions out of respect for Cheri and her efforts to honor her mom. But here was the true tribute to Alma’s life.
Some folding tables had been set up and several people had brought snacks to share. It wasn’t fancy but it was impromptu and perfect.
Greer sat at a table with a couple of ladies I seen around but didn’t know that well. They were passing around photos from Dilly Dally Dayz, a local festival featuring homemade ice cream, and others from the St. Ignatius Centennial earlier in the year. Alma, ever the organizer, had been a big part of both events, taking charge of the Good Life booth at Dilly Dally Dayz and a float in the parade for the centennial.
I sat down in a chair next to Bunny, who was sitting quietly off to the side.
“It must be hard on you and the others. I know you miss Alma,” I said quietly. “She was such a big part of your lives and this event.”
“At our age, we know we’re going to lose friends.” Bunny shrugged. “But we don’t think we’re going to lose them like this.”
“I’m sure they’ll figure it all out soon.”
“Alma was good to drive us. It’s not like St. Ignatius has a taxi service and so she took the lot of us where we needed to go. To the grocery store or post office.” She stopped and stared across the room.
“Are you thinking about the day she forgot you at the post office?” I touched her arm lightly.
“I am.” She nodded. “Understandable though. She told me later that she was all upset and discombobulated, because she’d had a big fight with Stanley.”
“Stanley Marchant?”
“Yes. Stanley B. Marchant, he insists on the B.” Bunny smiled slightly. “Alma apologized for forgetting me. She felt real bad.”
“Sounds like she might have had a lot on her mind.”
“That’s exactly what Alma said.” Bunny nodded. “She said she ‘had a lot on her mind.’”
“I wonder what kind of things.”
Had Alma been distracted by something to do with the land deal? Had she and Stanley had a falling out about something?
“She didn’t say,” Bunny continued. “Just said she was hoppin’ mad at Stanley. Don’t know why.”
Interesting. I wondered what the two might have to disagree about and if anyone had asked where Stanley had been when Alma was killed. He seemed an unlikely suspect, but like the sheriff had said, they needed to follow any clue at this point.
After chatting with the ladies for a while, Dixie and I said our good-byes. On the way to the car, I told her about my talk with Bunny.
“What do you suppose they argued about?” She climbed into the Jeep.
“You don’t suppose it was something to do with the cookbook, do you?” I’d been wracking my brain.
“Maybe something to do with the Crack of Dawn breakfasts.” Dixie mused. “Stanley is very particular about details. All those years in banking.”
I dropped Dixie off at her place, still thinking about the possibilities.
When I arrived home, there was a note stuck to my mailbox that a delivery needing a signature had been attempted.
Finally, my package from Daddy’s agent.
It was too late to pick it up because the post office was already closed for the day, but I was sure it was the box of my father’s things. I hadn’t wanted my package to go missing like Disco’s brains, or Tressa’s hair products, and so I’d thought the signature required was a good idea, but I was disappointed in the delay.
Taking the note inside with me, along with my mail, I said hello to Ernest, who promptly filed a complaint about his empty food dish. He followed me to the kitchen and waited somewhat patiently while I refilled his food and water.
I opened the fridge and checked out my choices for dinner. Not impressed with any of them, I went upstairs to change clothes.
Once changed, I looked again. Same options.
What, did I think the dinner fairy had made a delivery while I was upstairs?
My choices were a microwave dinner, salad, eggs, or PB and J. That bagel yesterday had been the last in the package.
The truth was what I really wanted was comfort food. The absolute truth was I wanted comfort food, but I wished someone else would make it.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Ernest tipped his ears and gave me a look, so I must have repeated the idiom out loud. When those sayings popped into my head, it was always Aunt Cricket’s voice I heard. In this case, my auntie was absolutely right: wishing was not going to make it so.
And, if she were here—which thank goodness she wasn’t or I’d be getting a whole bunch of bless-your-hearts mixed in with a dollop of get-over-yourself—she’d be right about that too. Who was I to feel sorry for myself? Think of poor Cheri Wheeler and all she was going through.
I pulled out the eggs, cracked them in a bowl, and added some cheese. I may not be a blue-ribbon baker, but even I could whip up an omelet in a pinch.
After I ate, I cleaned up the kitchen, picked up the living room, and then pulled out a notepad. When we were working on a cookbook project, it helped me to get my thoughts down on paper. Maybe it would work the same way, in trying to think through who might have wanted to get rid of Alma.
After that beautiful tribute to his grandmother, I knew it had not been Dustin. But if it wasn’t Dustin who ran over Alma, who was it?
I started jotting down what we knew and what we didn’t know.
Where there were gaps in what we knew, there had to be secrets.
And if we could learn those secrets, we’d have our answers.
* * * *
The next morning, I called Dixie to let her know I planned to stop at the post office for my package before I headed to the office.
I reviewed my notes from the night before, hoping they made as much sense in the light of day as they had when I’d been sipping tea and taking names.
The notes still made sense but, as when I’d pondered the situation last night, there were definitely gaps. It seemed like some of the missing pieces were rooted in the history everyone shared. I could hardly wait to share my thoughts with Dixie; although as I’d written everything out, it occurred to me that some of the gaps were areas where it was possible that she was one of the people with answers.
When I arrived at the post office, Dot Carson, the post mistress, was helping someone else. I waited for my turn at the window.
The customer turned and I realized it was Tina, who I could
barely see over the top of the large box she had her arms wrapped around. She was dressed for the office and today’s color was peach. She coordinated from her peach lips all the way down to her peach-toned toes. She teetered a bit on the heels of her strappy peach sandals that were a perfect match for her dress. I didn’t know how she did it.
I stepped aside so she could pass. “Do you need help?”
“Thanks, Sugar.” Tina shifted the box to get a better grip. “I’ve got it.”
“A package from your friend?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her peach lips drew up in a big smile. “I’m excited to find out what it is!”
I snuck a peek at the package, but the return address was just that, an address. Nothing that said it was actually from anybody called Rafe.
I held the door for Tina, and then returned to the counter and presented my delivery-attempted note to Dot. She took it and disappeared into the back.
Returning with a box that was taped every which way, Dot hefted it on the counter. “Somebody from New York City sent you something.” She looked at me expectantly.
“They did.” I knew I’d probably create more interest about what was in the box by not explaining, but I didn’t feel ready to share. Especially when I didn’t even know what the package contained.
“Sign here.” She reluctantly pushed a piece of paper toward me.
I signed where she’d indicated and reached to take the box.
“It’s heavy,” she said. “You should’ve brought help. You still seeing that Max Windsor?”
I didn’t have a good answer to give her.
“I think I can get it,” I said, lifting the package and avoiding her question. “I’ve been working out.”
She was right that the box was kind of heavy, but I managed to get it to the Jeep and onto the passenger seat.
Now I had a dilemma. I wanted to open it right away, of course. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to cart it to the office and then have to cart it back home.
Deciding that going directly home with it made way more sense, I called Dixie and let her know my delay was going to be longer, and turned Big Blue toward my neighborhood.
Once I got the box inside, I set it in the middle of my living room floor. Ernest was very suspicious of a container that, at least according to his sniffs, did not smell like it belonged in our house.
Retrieving Mrs. Pickett’s garden knife from the kitchen, I carefully cut the tape and lifted out the crumpled packing paper from the top.
The first thing I unwrapped was a small framed photograph. Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I ran my fingers over the tarnished silver edge.
It was Daddy and me at an ice cream shop.
Looking at the photo, I remembered the place. I could smell the rich hot fudge that dripped from the spoon in the picture and feel the tickle of Daddy’s short, soft beard as he held me close. I’d been maybe seven or eight years old, I wasn’t sure which, and missing both front teeth. We were both smiling. I wondered who had taken the photo. I had no recollection of anyone else being there.
I set the photo aside.
Underneath the next layer in the box were a couple of reference volumes that looked interesting. Below the books was a sheaf of printed pages. It looked like a manuscript. Maybe something Daddy had been working on?
I took a deep breath and carefully pried the pages from the bottom of the box. They were held together with a giant rubber band. When I attempted to slip the band off, it snapped, probably so old it had lost its elasticity.
I lifted the first page and looked at the title. A Fictional Memoir, it said. I was familiar with the concept, but knowing Daddy and the books he’d written, it was hard to know if that’s truly what it was. Was it actually his fictionalized life story, or that of one of his characters? I couldn’t resist a skim of the first few pages. The story began:
My parents loved me, but not too much.
That’s who they were. How they approached work, play, and the world in general. Life was solid, pleasant, adequate. No need for extremes.
The problem with that was that from the beginning I was wired differently. They believed their mission in life was to set me on an even keel, and I was born wanting to ride the waves.
Whether fact or fiction—or, as the title would suggest, a mixture of both—I could hardly wait to read more. But I made myself set the pages aside. Tonight, I promised myself.
I carried the silver-framed photo to the fireplace mantel and set it beside the picture of the Sugarbaker sisters—my mom and my aunts. Gathering up the packing paper, I reached for the box and discovered Ernest had taken up residence.
“That’s not for you to play in.” I told him sternly.
He flashed emerald green eyes, clearly understanding what I said, but disagreeing.
“Okay, I’ll leave it there for now.” I patted his head and gave a quick scratch under his chin. “It’s clear who’s in charge of this house and it’s not me.”
Giving the Cat Boss one last pet, I reluctantly got my bag and headed for the front door. It would be hard to concentrate today, knowing those pages waited for me.
Chapter Eleven
When I arrived at the shop, the odors of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the air. Dixie was in the kitchen working on a batch of molasses cookies. She was trying something different with the recipe, she said. I knew Dixie could have tried out her experiment at home in the comfort of her own kitchen, but I think she liked the company. And, as you know, I am always willing to be a taste tester. Though Dixie insisted these cookies would have to cool before testing, I wasn’t sure I could wait much longer. I’d been in such a rush to get to the post office that my breakfast had consisted of coffee in a to-go mug, and now I was famished.
I filled Dixie in on the contents of my package from Daddy’s agent.
“I can’t believe you didn’t bring the photo so I could see it.” She tipped her head to look at me. “I’ll bet you were cute as a button.”
“A toothless button.” I rolled my eyes.
“It must have brought back good memories.” Dixie continued working while we talked.
“It did.” I smiled. I didn’t have many photos of Daddy, and before this, hadn’t had any of the two of us together.
“I almost forgot.” Dixie slapped her forehead. “You are not going to believe this, but Cheri Wheeler called a few minutes ago to thank us for attending her mother’s service and for helping with the flowers.”
Dixie utilized a metal scoop to make sure her cookies were of uniform size. I was fascinated with how quickly she worked.
“Wow, that’s a turnaround after blasting us the other day.”
“She also asked if we would be here the rest of the morning because she wanted to stop by.” Dixie looked at her watch. “I told her we would be.”
“I guess if there’s going to be a knock-down-drag-out fight, it’s better for it to be on our home turf.”
Dixie raised her brows.
“I didn’t mean to sound as if I’m expecting a Jets versus Sharks brawl, but Cheri was beyond angry when she was here.” I didn’t quite trust the quick change in attitude.
“I don’t think she wants to pick up where she left off.” Dixie seemed a little more comfortable with the turnaround than I was. “She seemed much calmer and with what’s she’s been through, I think Terry questioning her son was just too much.”
“That would push most any mom over the edge,” I agreed.
“I need to get this first batch out of the oven.” She grabbed her silicone oven mitt and reached to pull out the cookie sheet.
“You’re probably right, if she’s a bit unstable, who could blame her.” I leaned over the cookies and inhaled.
“Five minutes and then you can try one.” Dixie waved me away as she put the next batch in. “I didn’t know you liked molasses cookies.”
“I didn’t either.” I sniffed again. “I like cookies. Can’t think of a type of cookie I don’t like, but these smell extra
lovely.”
We heard the ding of the bell out front.
“That’s probably Cheri.” Dixie had begun transferring the cookies to a cooling rack.
“If you want to let her know it will be a couple of minutes, I’ll finish setting these off to cool and then join you.”
“Sure, go ahead, throw me to the she-wolf.” I slipped a cookie off the cooling rack and headed to the front. “You keep your ears open in case I need help.”
It wasn’t Cheri. It was Nick Marchant.
His stopping by was becoming a regular thing, just like Disco. I wondered if he also was after food or if he simply liked stirring things up. My bet was on stirring the pot. Now that I knew he was seeing Tressa, I had a different feeling about him stopping by so often.
“Hey, Nick.” I greeted him. “What brings you to cookbook world today?”
He was dressed as if he’d been at work. High-end suit and designer tie, though the tie was loosened. Dark hair artfully tousled. Given the time of day, he probably should still be at the bank.
“Good morning to you, sunshine.” He smiled at me cheerfully, but didn’t answer my question.
“Good morning. Back again?”
“I can smell that Spicy has already been baking this morning. She always was a great cook. You ladies could make a fortune if you wanted to open a bakery.”
“We’re busy with the cookbook business.” I crossed my arms. “St. Ignatius already has a bakery.”
“Well if you change your mind, I’m sure the bank could help with a small business loan.”
“Not—”
Before I could finish my sentence, the door dinged again and Cheri Wheeler stepped in. Poor thing. Her face was ashen and she looked even more exhausted than she had at her mother’s services.
Just inside the door, she stopped and looked at Nick and then looked at me.
“I’ll come back.” she said and was back out the door faster than you could say whiplash.
“Was that Cheri?” Dixie had come out of the backroom, her cheeks pink from the heat of the oven, a plate of cookies in her hand.
“Spicy,” Nick greeted her with a smile. “I was telling Sugar here, you two should open a bakery.”
Risky Biscuits Page 15
