“St. Ignatius already has a bakery,” Dixie noted.
“That’s what I told him.”
“Are you just here because you’re hungry?” She raised a brow. “Because if that’s the case, we may have to start charging you.”
“No, that’s simply my impeccable timing.” He held up a glossy blue folder. “I came by to leave this with you. I’m working with the Jameson County Chamber of Commerce and we’re thinking of doing a promo in the state tourism magazine.”
“We’re not members of the chamber,” Dixie pointed out.
“Exactly.” Nick tapped the folder. “I’ve brought you all the materials you’ll need to fill out to join.”
“Handy.” Dixie frowned. “Leave it with us and we’ll think about it. Sugar is the business brains in this duo so I’m sure she’ll have lots of questions.”
“I’m sure you’ll see the benefits.” He handed me the folder and then turned to Dixie.
“I have more stops to make, but I wouldn’t turn down one of those cookies.”
She reached under the counter for a napkin, used it to pick up two cookies, and handed them to him.
“Thanks, Spicy.” Nick headed for the door. “You two should think about that bakery. More mark up in baked goods than in cookbooks.”
Once the door closed, Dixie put the plate down and pushed it toward me. “Gah! I hate it when someone doesn’t get what we do. I explained it to him the other day, but he obviously wasn’t listening.”
I laughed. “Obviously.”
“I thought I heard Cheri?”
“She was here, but turned around and left.” I reached for a cookie. “I don’t think she was feeling well. She was extremely pale. She said she’d be back.”
“Even though she was horrible to me, I hope she’s okay,” Dixie picked up a cookie herself.
“Should we try her cell?” I asked.
Dixie nodded and I grabbed my cell phone from the office. When I dialed Cheri’s number, she picked up right away.
I explained we were concerned about her and wondered if now was a good time to talk. Cheri said she had gone home but could be back in just a bit.
* * * *
In less than ten minutes, Cheri was back. It looked like she’d freshened up her makeup. She was still pale but not as white as she’d been earlier.
“First off, I want to apologize.” Her hand shook as she impatiently brushed a lock of wheat-colored hair out of her eyes. There were times when I saw a bit of Alma in Cheri. “I am so sorry I behaved like I did.”
“You were worried about Dusty,” Dixie said. “I’m sure given the same circumstances I would have been upset too.”
“Thank you for being so gracious, but there’s no excuse for the things I said and how nasty I was to you.”
“You’re under a lot of stress.” I pulled out one of the stools and eased it toward her. The woman needed to sit down before she fell down.
“Yeah, I am.” She gave a faint smile and sat. “To top things off I need to get everything moved out of my mom’s by the end of the month. I can’t believe how much stuff she had jammed into that little place.”
“That must be tough to go through everything.” Dixie pulled out one of the other stools and sat next to her.
“I don’t have time to sort things right now, I’m just boxing them and moving them to my house. I’ll have to go through them there.”
“Do you have someone to help you?” I asked.
“I’m afraid it’s just Dusty and me. We don’t have any other family around.”
“I’d be happy to help you pack things if you’d like the help,” I said.
“I would too,” Dixie added.
“That’s so sweet of you. I just might take you up on it even if it’s just to run interference. Every time I’m over there, at the Good Life, the ladies want to stop by and talk. I know they mean well but, boy, does it slow me down.” She gave a lopsided grin.
“Just let us know when you’ll be going again and we’re on it.” I couldn’t imagine trying to tackle the task of packing up a lifetime of personal items in such a short time. The one box of my Daddy’s things had just about done me in.
She hesitated. “If you’re serious, I’m headed there tomorrow afternoon and could definitely use the help. Like I said, I’m not sorting anything, just boxing it.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Would two o’clock work?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ve got an appointment at the vet for Moto, my dog,” Dixie explained, “but I could join you later when we’re done.”
“Perfect,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. Earlier with the flowers and now this. I’m sorry I was so rude when Terry questioned Dusty. I apologize again. I was beside myself with worry.”
“It’s too bad no one can confirm he was home. Maybe a neighbor saw him?” A situation like this was when you hoped for a nosey neighbor like Mrs. Pickett. “It would go a long way to clearing him.”
“No,” she sighed. “But we’re dealing with it.”
Dealing with it? What did that mean?
“Well, that’s good,” Dixie finally said into the pause.
Cheri dropped her face into her palms and then lifted her head and looked at us. “He’s been in trouble before and so this makes it look bad.”
That must be the trouble Greer had hinted at and the sheriff had mentioned.
“A few months back Dusty was involved with some kids that were caught vandalizing the school. Seniors like him. He’d been friends with one of the guys since elementary school, they stayed close, used to be in a band together. He says he didn’t do any of the spray painting and I believe him. But he was there and didn’t turn the kids in.”
As I’d suspected, Dustin had been part of the group that had spray-painted school buses, buildings, and some houses, mine included.
“Kids make mistakes.” Dixie shrugged. “You were ahead of us in school, but you surely remember my brother, Hirsh, and the cow in the school auditorium incident?”
“Oh my gosh, I had forgotten about that.” Cheri gave a weak smile.
“It was ‘Bring Your Pet to School Day.’” Dixie grinned. “And my brother, of course, couldn’t be satisfied with taking our family dog.”
She filled me in on Hirsh’s leading of his favorite calf, Milkshake, into the school, and how unamused the school superintendent had been. Her story relieved some of the tension and by the time she was done, Cheri had a little bit of color in her cheeks.
She stood to leave and I hated to do it but I needed to ask about what Bunny had told me.
“Before you go, I need to ask you about something before telling the sheriff about it.” I could sense Cheri tense as I said the words. “Nothing to do with Dustin,” I hastened to add.
“Okay.” She let out a breath.
“Bunny, one of the ladies from the Good Life, mentioned to me that your mom had told her she’d had a disagreement with Stanley Marchant. Do you know what that might have been about?”
Cheri shook her head. “I can’t imagine. Mom and Stanley have been friends for years. We used to live next door.”
“You’re okay with me telling the sheriff?”
“Sure.” She looped her bag over her shoulder. “Go ahead.”
I’d been planning to anyway, but felt better that Cheri knew about it in advance. This way if Sheriff Terry asked her questions, she wouldn’t feel blindsided.
“What about the land the development company wanted to buy from your mom?” I still thought Alma standing in the way of them moving forward could be a motive to get her out of the picture. “Have you heard from them?”
“Greg Cheeters contacted me and according to him, Mom had agreed to sell and they had settled on a price.” Cheri shifted her purse. “I don’t have any reason to hang onto the property so I’m happy enough with that, but I haven’t found paperwork. We may be back at the negotia
tion stage.”
Dixie had bagged a handful of cookies to send home with Cheri and I agreed to meet her at the Good Life the following afternoon at two o’clock to help her with the packing.
As soon as Cheri left, I called the sheriff and told him about the argument between Alma and Stanley that Bunny had told me about. I also asked if he’d found out any more about Mr. Greg Cheeters and shared what Cheri had told us.
Sheriff Terry wasn’t very open to sharing about his investigation, but he did tell me they hadn’t found Alma’s notebook. That notebook was a small thing but it bugged me.
It had to be someplace that everyone had missed.
Dixie had planned to have lunch at her folks. She invited me to go along and though an opportunity to enjoy her mother’s fantastic cooking and a chance to meet the goats in person was tempting, I asked for a rain check.
I thought maybe a visit to the city park might spark some ideas on where to look for the lost notebook.
Chapter Twelve
That missing black book of Alma’s had nagged at my brain. According to Greer, Alma had never been without it. A bit of a list maker myself, I could understand having one place to keep everything. And if, as Greer said, Alma would make a note of any reminder or appointment in the book, it made no sense that it hadn’t been found in her purse or in her car.
When I’d talked to Sheriff Terry about it, he’d confirmed that it hadn’t been found in the area either. He’d checked the crime scene inventory and assured me no notebook had been found in Alma’s purse.
Could the killer have taken it from her? Did the notebook contain some incriminating information?
Alma’s cell phone found had been found. The sheriff said it was not far from her body, as if it had been in her hand when she’d been hit the first time.
Alma’s handbag had been found. It had been in her car, in the passenger seat.
But where was that dang book?
My lunch today consisted of a chicken salad wrap I’d picked up at the local market. I had also grabbed some already cut-up carrot sticks. My nod to healthy eating.
It was a beautiful day and I decided to take my impromptu brown bag with me to the city park and enjoy the warm weather. All too soon summer would be gone and the chance to soak up some sun along with it. Last winter had been mild but the Farmer’s Almanac was saying this year could be a doozy. Enjoying the snow was part of what I loved about the Midwest, so I kind of hoped they were right.
I parked near the shelter house that was the focus of the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club’s project. Then I found a picnic table in the shade and laid out my lunch and the bottle of iced tea I’d brought along.
Across the way a young mom with two kids pushed them in the chain link swings that made up part of the playground area. Their squeals of delight and calls of “again” mixed with the whir from a trimmer, as a guy in a St. Ignatius Parks shirt worked along the nearby fence line. The green of the cut grass smelled like summer. Between two large shady trees a volleyball net had been set up and a group of teens were about to start a game.
I took a bite of my wrap. An idyllic spot.
Except it wasn’t.
In spite of the fact that the park had been returned to its normal routine, a woman had been killed. Near this very spot.
Sure, even though it now appeared that it wasn’t Alma’s grandson, that didn’t alter the fact than someone had done it. Someone had run over poor Alma and then, according to the account from Sheriff Terry, run over her again.
I didn’t know anything about the crime scene. That wasn’t something that the sheriff or anyone connected to the investigation was likely to share.
I polished off my wrap and tucked the bag of carrots in the pocket of my skirt. Walking toward the large basketball-themed can marked Slam Dunk Your Junk to throw away my trash, I thought about Alma. I pictured her arriving in the early hours before the sun was completely up, parking her car, meeting someone.
But who?
I looked around at the area. It didn’t make sense to imagine that it could have been her grandson. Why would she meet Dustin at the park? They could simply meet at her place.
She hadn’t told anyone about the meeting. Not her daughter. Not Greer. Nor any of her other friends.
That made me think she must not have been afraid of whoever it was.
I walked to the other side of the shelter house. She must have parked in the gravel lot and waited. Would she have gotten out of her car?
And why had the killer been in her car? Had he or she come with Alma to the park? That didn’t seem logical either. There must have been some reason to meet here. Some reason to meet where prying eyes from the Good Life wouldn’t see.
She was meeting someone whom she had no reason to think would harm her. But it had to have been someone she didn’t want others to know she was meeting.
I made a loop around the area and then went back to my picnic table and gathered the rest of my stuff. Time to get back to the office and the cookbook. Plus, I wanted to get through the day so I could head home and get back to Daddy’s manuscript pages.
And who knew what my new yard advisor, Mrs. Pickett, had on her list of lawn work that needed my attention. I’d found a flyer stuffed in my mailbox about tasks that needed done before your grass went dormant. According to the flyer, you must rake up the leaves and then aerate and fertilize your lawn. I didn’t know for sure how to do that—I mean, the raking yes. But aerate and fertilize?
Google, here I come. I was sure the flyer had come from Mrs. Pickett and that she knew exactly how those tasks needed to be done.
I was optimistic—Pollyanna-ishly so, according to Dixie—that we’d made progress. Now that she saw I wasn’t a bad person, just a bad yard person, perhaps we could be friends. Or maybe just friendlier.
Back at the shop, Dixie was busy reorganizing her kitchen utensils. She’d brought a new hanging rack from her mom’s and seemed to be having a ball sorting out the various tools and getting them ready for the within-arm’s-reach display.
“What is this?” I picked up a funny-looking implement.
“It’s an herb stripper.” She took it from my fingers. “I picked it up at that fancy kitchen store in Des Moines and wasn’t sure how much I’d use it, but I find I use it a lot.”
“Sounds kinky.” I picked up another item and held it up.
“A spiralizer.” She answered my unasked question. “You use it to make your veggies into pasta-like strands.
“Do I need my veggies to look like pasta?” I asked.
“Probably not. Now shoo. Go do something with your numbers back in your office. Have we heard from the ABBA lady since you answered her questions?”
“I don’t know. I need to check my email.” I put the spiralizer down and headed back to the office. I really did want to check in with Gwen and see if her board had made a decision.
Logging into the Sugar and Spice email account, I checked for a message from Gwen Arbor. Nothing. Deciding that if I hadn’t heard from her by the following day, I’d send her a friendly status-check email, I made a note on the pad of paper by my desk.
I had a few more things to take care of and made short work of them before checking in on Dixie’s progress. She’d sorted out the gadgets and utensils and had set some to the side.
“Those are for you to take home with you.” She held out the group. “I’m positive you don’t have any of the them in your kitchen.”
“I might,” I protested.
“I’m betting not,” she insisted. “Unless your mother has sent you a Williams Sonoma starter kitchen gift set.” She raised her brows in question.
“No.” I took them from her. “I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with them.”
“Keep them around.” Dixie turned back to her sorting. “You never know.”
“You keep holding out hope for me, but it may be that I don’t have any aptitude in the cooking arena.”
“Look what you’re doing with you
r yard.” She pointed out. “You thought you didn’t have any aptitude there either.”
“I still don’t.” I shook my head. “It’s a matter of survival. Mrs. Pickett won’t take no for an answer.”
“Ah, so that’s been the problem with my approach. I needed to be more threatening and crazy.” She gave me a mischievous grin and brandished a whisk in my direction.
* * * *
Once home I went through the usual routine of feeding Ernest and then trying to figure out what to eat. Maybe Dixie was right, maybe I just needed to buck up and learn how to make something more than my top five go-to meals that I always fell back on.
When there was a knock at the door, I already knew before I opened it that it would be Mrs. Pickett. It’s not that I have any clairvoyance of any kind. If I did I’d use it to keep myself out of any number of snafus in my life. It was simply the lady had developed a routine. Not every night, but every few days she appeared. A new complaint or a variation on an old one.
Tonight at least she wasn’t brandishing a knife.
Hey, when you have a neighbor like Mrs. Pickett, you take your small wins.
She was dressed in her usual floral print dress. She must have a closet full of them. This number had pink cabbage roses and was buttoned all the way up her wattle-ish neck to her pointy chin. Her wispy gray hair was pinned back and she stood with her arms crossed.
“I hear you keep the books at that cookbook business.”
It was more of a statement than a question, but I nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“I got a problem with my bank account.”
“You should call the—” I started.
“I don’t want those busybodies in my business.” She stuck her lip out.
Aunt Cricket’s oft-used “pot calling the kettle black” saying popped into my mind, but I held my tongue. “What kind of a problem with your account?”
“I got this bill.” She handed me a piece of paper.
I unfolded the paper. According to it, Mrs. Pickett had been purchasing some high-end fashions and expensive designer shoes. I looked at her flowered dress and down at her garden boots. I was pretty sure she had not made the purchases noted on her bill.
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