Honey-Baked Homicide

by Gayle Leeson

  “If there’s anything else you need, please let me know. I’m so sorry for your loss, and if a little food helps bring you some comfort, it’s the least I can do.”

  She finished putting the food into the refrigerator, and I was getting ready to say good-bye when she asked if I’d like to go with her to check on the hives.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Have you ever seen a working beehive?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Come with me.” She went out the back door, and after I’d followed her, she locked it behind us. “I’m afraid not to be cautious.”

  “I don’t blame you there.”

  She stopped by the garden shed and got us both a veiled hat. “We don’t need the full regalia today. I’m only checking to make sure they’re all right and to lock them inside for the night. Daddy had made a note that he was concerned about this particular hive because of the neighbor’s pesticide spraying habits.”

  As we walked up the hill behind her father’s house, she spoke about her life in Cookeville. She told me she was a paralegal and that she liked the firm she was with, but that if she could find a job in this area, she might be willing to stay.

  “Daddy’s house is really nice, and I could maintain his legacy with the hives if I stayed in Winter Garden,” she said. “Of course, Brendan might want to sell the house and split the profits. If that’s the case, we’ll have to sell—I don’t think I could come up with enough money to buy him out.”

  “Wouldn’t you be afraid to live here?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I’m a practical woman. Just because someone held a grudge against my dad doesn’t mean they’d have any reason to harm me.”

  As we approached the hive, I saw that it was larger than I’d expected it to be. And louder.

  “It’s big,” I said.

  She laughed. “Yeah, there are about sixty thousand bees in there.”

  She walked closer to the hive and muttered a curse under her breath. “Can you believe this?”

  I stepped closer and saw what she was talking about—hundreds of dead bees littered the outside of the hive. “Oh, no!”

  “Daddy was right. Somebody around here is using a pesticide detrimental to pollinators. There’s no doubt about that.”

  I told Madelyn what her father had told me about Chad Thomas. “I urged him to call the police, but he said there was nothing they could do.”

  “He’s right. But most people care enough about the bees—and the environment—to do a more considerate job of spraying.” She looked down at the bees and sadly shook her head. “If this is a common occurrence, the hive could really be diminishing.”

  “Your dad told me he was afraid of losing the hive.”

  “I wonder if he talked with this Chad Thomas about his spraying.”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “He talked as if he planned on it, but . . .” But I’d never gotten to talk with him again after that. I didn’t finish the thought, but Madelyn understood.

  She shut up the hive, and we slowly walked back to the house.

  “I wonder if I should say something,” she mused. “Maybe he’d listen to me better than he would have my dad. Daddy could get fighting mad over his bees. I can too, but I’ve learned to control my anger better than he could.”

  I simply shrugged, feeling that I shouldn’t offer an opinion on the matter. “If you want to get the police involved, I’m sure they’d be happy to send someone to talk with Mr. Thomas too.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’ll—” She broke off.

  We could see the house now, and there was a newer model pickup truck parked in the driveway.

  “It’s Brendan.” She smiled. “He’s younger than I am, but he has a good head on his shoulders. I’m really glad he’s here.”

  She and I hurried the rest of the way to the house, where Brendan was sitting on the front porch.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked. “I was trying to call you.”

  “I left my phone inside. Besides, cell service is lousy out here. You know that.” She strode onto the porch and hugged her brother. “Brendan, this is Amy.”

  “Amy who? What’s she doing here?”

  “Amy owns the Down South Café, and she was kind enough to bring us some food,” said Madelyn.

  “Down South Café . . . That’s where Daddy was found?”

  She nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “I think we need to go in and talk all this over,” Brendan said. “Just you and me.”

  “I was just leaving.” I waved to Madelyn. “Thank you for showing me the hive. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

  “Thanks, Amy.”

  I got into Mom’s SUV and tried to avoid looking at the porch as I turned the large vehicle around. Madelyn talked about Brendan as if he was a great guy, but he certainly hadn’t been friendly toward me. Did he think I had something to do with his dad’s death?

  Chapter 6

  When I got to the big house to swap vehicles with Mom, she was sitting on the porch.

  “How’d it go?” she called.

  I walked up onto the porch and sat on the rocker beside her. “Where’s Aunt Bess?”

  “Inside pinning stuff to her Lord, Have Mercy board.” She lowered her voice. “Why? What is it you don’t want her to know?”

  “Nothing really. I’d just rather talk with you alone.” I told her about Madelyn—how nice she was, that we’d visited the hive, and that I was surprised at how many bees there actually were—and then about Madelyn’s brother showing up and practically throwing me out. “Do you think he believes I had something to do with his father’s death?”

  “He might, sweetheart. People have strange reactions sometimes when their loved ones die. You were there for Madelyn. That’s what matters.”

  “Yeah. She talked as if she might be moving to Winter Garden and taking over her dad’s farm.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “Very,” I said. “Especially considering that today was the first time she’d ever set foot on the place.”

  “Hmm . . . and yet she took you straight to the hive?”

  I nodded. “Her dad had a map to all his hives prominently displayed in case something ever happened to him, I guess. Talk about dedication. Anyway, Madelyn went to see about the hives yesterday, but she hadn’t been inside the house until today. She said nothing was decided yet about what she’d do, but she said she wanted her dad’s legacy to live on. But, of course, she has to take her brother’s wishes into consideration.”

  “And dealing with family members over a loved one’s property can be tricky. I hope Madelyn and her brother are able to work everything out amicably.”

  “Me too.” I stood. “I hate to hurry off, but I’ve invited Ryan, Sarah, and John to dinner this evening, and I’ve got to get cooking. That’s another reason I’m glad Aunt Bess is occupied—when she knows I’m making dinner, she expects to be included.”

  Mom laughed. “I know. We’re having chef’s salads and baked potatoes.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Not better than what you’re having, I’m sure.”

  “Fingers crossed,” I said. “I haven’t made chicken scaloppini since I was in culinary school.” I gave her a quick kiss, hopped in the Bug, and drove down the hill to my place.

  I quickly fed the pets, washed up, and got out the ingredients for the tiramisu cake I wanted to serve for dessert. I was really tapping into my Italian roots—even though I was fairly certain I had none. Still, I loved the food.

  The cake’s recipe called for a pint of coffee-flavored ice cream, so I sat that on the counter to be softening while the oven was preheating. I sprayed a Bundt pan with nonstick cooking spray and then put a vanilla cake mix into the bowl on my sta
nd mixer. I added eggs and then had to put the ice cream in the microwave for ten seconds before including it in the mixture. I blended the ingredients on low until they were adequately combined and then beat the batter for another two minutes on medium speed. I then poured the batter into the pan and popped the cake into the oven. I set the oven timer for 35 minutes.

  As most chefs will tell you, the hardest part of making a Caesar salad is getting the dressing right. Unfortunately, that’s something else I hadn’t done since culinary school. But I was confident I could get it right.

  I minced cloves of garlic and anchovy filets and added them to a small bowl of mayonnaise, Parmesan cheese, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, and lemon juice. I seasoned the mixture with salt and pepper and then covered the bowl in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge.

  I cubed a loaf of Italian bread I’d picked up at the grocery store and sautéed the cubes in a pan of olive oil and a little garlic. When they were browned, I put them on a plate and sprinkled them with salt and pepper.

  Along with the lettuce, I put Parmesan and Romano cheeses into a large glass bowl and placed the bowl in the refrigerator to chill. Closer to the time for my guests to arrive, I’d toss the salad with the dressing and croutons.

  Last but not least, I prepared the risotto. Since it baked at the same temperature as the cake, I slid the dish in to bake beside the Bundt pan.

  By the time I had done all this prep work, Rory had eaten his dinner, gone outside to play in the backyard, and had come back in again to see what I was doing. I walked into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and patted the cushion beside me. He dived onto my lap and licked my chin. I laughed and kissed the top of his head.

  “So, have you had a good day today, Rory?”

  His tail wagging furiously, he hopped back down, ran from the living room into the kitchen and back to the sofa as fast as he could go. And then he leapt back onto my lap.

  “That good, huh? I’m glad.”

  • • •

  Ryan arrived as I was stirring the capers and butter into the broth to pour over the chicken breasts. He called to me from the porch, and I invited him to come on in. He brought me a lovely bunch of white flowers—roses, daisies, snapdragons, and dahlias. It wasn’t the first time he’d given me flowers, so he knew where I kept the vases. He filled one with water and placed the flowers in it.

  Then he came over, put his arms around my waist from behind, and kissed my cheek. “How was your day?”

  “Well, I’m not going to race around the house like Rory did, but it was better than yesterday.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “I went over to Stu Landon Carver’s house to take Madelyn some food after work today,” I said. “She’s really sweet, and I like her. She told me she’s thinking about keeping the farm, depending on what her brother wants to do. He didn’t strike me as the nicest person on the planet.”

  “Wait. He’s here?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “He was supposed to check in with Sheriff Billings when he got into town,” Ryan said, stepping away from me and taking out his phone. “What time did he arrive?”

  “I’m not sure. He was there when Madelyn and I walked back to the house after checking on the hive nearby. I guess it was about four o’clock.”

  Ryan called Sheriff Billings and let him know that Brendan Carver was in town. When he ended the call, he looked at me. “Thanks for telling me about Madelyn Carver’s brother. The sheriff is sending someone over to question him now.”

  “Why are the police questioning Brendan?”

  “He’s family. He might know something his sister doesn’t about any enemies his dad might’ve had . . . things like that.”

  “Oh. You don’t consider him a suspect then.”

  He shrugged. “At this point in our investigation, Walter Jackson is our main suspect, but we can’t rule anyone out yet.” He stepped over to the counter and gazed longingly at the freshly iced cake. “This looks good.” He held out an index finger.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  He laughed. “I won’t. Probably. It looks and smells awfully tasty, though. What kind is it?”

  “Tiramisu cake.”

  “That’s new. Or, at least, it’s new to me.”

  “Trust me—you’ll love it.”

  • • •

  He did love the cake, and so did Sarah and John. We lingered over it and espresso after our meal and talked about Sarah’s job—she worked for Billy Hancock, Winter Garden’s only attorney—and John’s classes—he attended the Appalachian School of Law in Grundy, which was only an hour and a half away, so he usually came home on weekends. And, of course, the conversation eventually turned to Stu Landon Carver.

  “That was so terrible,” Sarah said, giving my hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him.”

  “Thank you. It was . . . horrifying.” I shook my head as if doing so would remove the memory. “The truly strange thing is that on Wednesday night, Ryan and I saw a truck that we believed to be Stu’s truck speeding away from town. And then I found him sitting in the truck in my parking lot the next morning. I honestly thought he’d arrived early to bring me more honey and that he’d fallen asleep.”

  “Was Thursday his typical delivery day?” John asked.

  “Actually, no. Wednesday was,” I said. “And this past Wednesday, I received the first order. But the honey sold so well that I went over to the farm to ask Stu if he could spare a few more jars.”

  “So you saw him on Wednesday,” Sarah said. “Did he act upset about anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. A bunch of his honeybees were dead, and he was afraid that if he kept losing bees like that, his hive would collapse. And more bees were dead when Madelyn and I checked on the hive today.”

  “Did Mr. Landon—or, Carver—know what had caused the bees’ death?” John sipped his espresso.

  “He suspected it was careless pesticide spraying by a neighboring farmer, Chad Thomas.”

  Sarah groaned. “That guy is a Class-A jerk. He and his brother came into the office a while back and demanded that Billy represent the brother, Bob, in court the next day. Can you believe that? The hearing was the next day! Billy had no information about the case, and he didn’t appreciate the men’s attitude in the slightest. So he refused to take the case and asked the Thomas brothers to leave.”

  “I bet that went over well.” John rolled his eyes. “Chad was always getting suspended for fighting when he was in high school. He was known for his temper. I think he even went to juvie for fighting once.”

  “Oh, he and his brother both got so belligerent with Billy, that I had to threaten to call the police before they’d leave.” Sarah looked at Ryan. “Have you guys had trouble with them before?”

  Ryan gave her a tight smile. “I’m not privileged to share that information.”

  “I can understand that,” said John, “but if the sheriff hasn’t spoken with Chad Thomas about his whereabouts on Wednesday night, he should.”

  “Point taken.” Ryan pushed away from the table. “How about I clear the table and we play some cards?”

  • • •

  After Sarah and John had soundly thrashed us in Rook and had left us alone with our messy kitchen—at my insistence—I leaned against Ryan’s chest.

  “Let’s go cuddle on the sofa. I’ll clean up the kitchen in the morning.”

  “You have to work in the morning,” he said. “You go cuddle up on the sofa, I’ll clean the kitchen, and meet you there.”

  “No, that’s no fun. I’d feel guilty the entire time.” I began putting dishes in the dishwasher. “Besides, it’ll go quicker with both of us working.”

  “Tonight was fun.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “And the meal went over well.”

  “The meal was fantastic.
”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Take the rest of that cake home with you.”

  “And gain twenty pounds?” he asked. “I’d better not. I need to be able to fit into my uniforms.”

  “All right. Take maybe one piece for breakfast then? I’ll share the rest with Mom and Aunt Bess. Aunt Bess loves her desserts.”

  “Hey, when I’m eighty-two, that might be my only food group.” He laughed.

  Ryan rinsed the dishes and handed them to me to load into the dishwasher. We worked in silence for a minute, and then I said, “I’m sorry we got off on the subject of Stu Landon Carver’s murder. I feel like Sarah and John kinda put you on the spot.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, they both realize I can’t discuss confidential information. They’re in law themselves. Everybody’s just curious. But between you and me, the sheriff has spoken with Chad Thomas.”

  “So he is considered a suspect?”

  Ryan dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “Right now, the department’s main focus is on finding Walter Jackson.”

  • • •

  The next morning, I found myself wishing there was some sort of reward out for information on Mr. Jackson’s whereabouts because he came ambling into the Down South Café as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

  Just like the first time he’d visited the café, he got there early—even before Dilly Boyd. I had just prepared the coffeepots, turned, and he was getting ready to walk through the door. My heart pounded in my ears. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to call Ryan. But I didn’t want to freak out Mr. Jackson and have him bolt.

  Luis was in the kitchen refilling salt shakers, Jackie had the day off, and Shelly wasn’t there yet. Could I call to Luis and get him to phone the police before—

  “Good morning, Mr. Jackson! How nice to see you again!” Had Luis heard that? Was he aware that the police were looking for Mr. Jackson? I thought he was, but maybe not.

  “Hello, Ms. Flowers. Isn’t your sweet smile a blessing today?”