by Gayle Leeson
“You must’ve driven all night to get here,” I said.
“Actually, I was already here.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “I came up to Winter Garden to have an early Christmas celebration with Belinda and Devon. I wanted to stay with them for a few days before going back and spending the holiday with the rest of our family.”
“Devon didn’t mention that,” Roger said, stepping into the kitchen in time to overhear Adam’s words. “Had I known, I’d have given him a few days off.” He sighed. “I wish I had.”
“No need for shouldas and wouldas, my friend,” Adam said. “If regrets were dollars, we’d all be millionaires. Am I right?” He held out his hand. “You must be Roger.”
“I am.”
“Adam is Belinda’s brother,” Jackie said, as Roger shook Adam’s hand.
“Nice to meet you—sorry for the circumstances. Devon was a great guy.”
Adam bobbed his head in agreement. “He sure was.”
“You said you were here for a few days,” I said to Adam. “Is your wife in the living room?”
“Uh...no. She’s not with me. She’s...um...she wasn’t feeling well when I left Florida.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Will she be here for the funeral?” I asked.
“No. I don’t want her travelling alone...in her condition.” He smiled. “She’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations.”
Jackie and Roger echoed my sentiments.
Adam invited us to come into the living room, so we followed him. I was happy to see that Dilly and Walter had arrived. Dilly was presenting Belinda with the garden stone she’d brought, and Belinda was clasping it to her chest.
“Thank you,” Belinda said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Your husband was a dear, sweet man,” Dilly said. “I wish I could’ve known him longer.”
I gazed around the room and wondered who else here knew that Devon had been murdered. Had the police even released that information to Belinda yet? If Adam knew, that might be another reason why he wouldn’t want his pregnant wife here.
I looked at Adam, who was scanning the faces of everyone in the room. He met my eyes and smiled. Were we doing the same thing? Surely not. I couldn’t imagine we shared the same reason for scrutinizing expressions. Or did we?
AS WE LEFT THE HOUSE, Jackie looked over her shoulder. Convinced only I could hear her, she said, “I don’t know why Belinda was so standoffish to me.”
I patted her back. “People deal with grief in different ways. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“I can’t help it. I’d have thought maybe she was angry with Roger because he’d sent Devon out to look at a job or something, but she was fine with him.”
Jackie was right. Belinda had been warm and kind to everyone who’d come to pay their respects at the home, except for Jackie. Every time Jackie had attempted to speak with Belinda, the woman had cut her off and either walked away or spoken with someone else.
Recalling the remark Belinda had made about her brother, Adam, I asked, “Do you think she’s jealous of you? Maybe Devon had given her a reason to think he admired you or something.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She scoffed. “Roger admires a lot of women—you, for example—and I’m not jealous.”
“True, but not all women are as secure and self-assured as you are.” I grinned. “And, yeah, I am pretty wonderful. Have I ever told you how lucky you are to have me as a cousin?”
She stopped and gave me a glare that made me laugh out loud. Out of a sense of propriety, I stifled it quickly.
“By the way, you never did answer that question I asked you a few weeks ago,” I said, recalling a conversation in which I’d offered for her to become my business partner.
“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she joked. “But I’m keeping Roger on the side.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah—the partnership. I don’t know, Amy, the café is your thing. It was something you’d dreamed of for ages. I love working there with you, but I’m thinking of enrolling in some online classes and following a dream of my own.”
“I think that’s wonderful. I don’t want to lose you—and I know the Down South Café patrons don’t either—but we all want whatever will make you happy.”
Smiling, she said, “Thanks.”
“Any idea what type of classes you want to take?”
“I have until the spring to decide. Roger is trying to get me interested in architecture, but I’m leaning more toward accounting.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
“Ha, you just want cut-rate bookkeeping services.”
I inclined my head. “That too.”
AFTER I GOT HOME AND fed Rory and Princess Eloise, I went into the fancy room, and pulled out the few books I had on cake design. When Mom had lived here, the fancy room had been her bedroom. Roger had helped me renovate it into the cozy, totally girly room it was now.
Thumbing through the books, I knew I needed to have an enormous cake to go on top of the Bug, but I didn’t want to give parade-goers the idea that I was in the business of making wedding cakes. That honor went to Daphne Martin—now Jacobs—in Brea Ridge. So, what could I make that was as big as a wedding cake but made to show patrons what they could expect if they visited the café? I grabbed a notebook and pen and turned to the books for inspiration.
The first thing I’d need was a sturdy cake board. Award-winning cake artist Rosemary Galpin of Luling, Texas, suggested using a half-inch thick plywood cake board pre-drilled for screws to attach to the carrier and a pipe flange in the center of the board to give added support. Reading the rest of the instructions on creating a cake board sturdy enough to carry my giant cake in the parade, I knew I’d need a professional. Dave Tucker was a wonderful woodworker—he’d participated in the farmers’ market in the fall—and I was certain he could help me out. But I didn’t have his number. I’d have to call his granddaughter, Amanda, who owned the fashion boutique Designs on You in Abingdon. I made a note to that effect in the margin of my notebook.
Rosemary also suggested six tiers of cake dummies, with the base being a sixteen-inch round and decreasing in two-inch increments up to a six-inch topper. I got out my laptop and searched for cake dummies. They were less expensive than I’d expected. I ordered the suggested six tiers and requested express shipping.
I’d searched through so many cakes that I was beginning to get a headache when I found the perfect inspiration—a coffee cup sitting upon a tier that appeared to be a chocolate cake atop a tier that resembled a table. I smiled and started to sketch. The bottom would be a round table, complete with a blue tablecloth with yellow stripes. Maybe I could add some flowers or flower petals strewn about.
The next tier would be all about breakfast. There would be eggs, pancakes, toast, bacon, muffins, and scones. Then would come lunch—chicken legs, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, salads, and sandwiches. The fourth tier would feature slices of pie and cake, cookies, brownies, and desserts such as ice cream and parfaits. Like the cake which inspired me, I decided to make the fifth tier a cake—but not a chocolate cake, a Christmas cake. And the final cake would be a cup of coffee.
My drawing abilities left a lot to be desired, but I was excited about the cake. This was going to be so much fun! Also, a ton of work. But fun! I hoped.
I called Bryson Neal and told him that Down South Café would have a float in the parade.
{ }
Chapter Five
S
cott, Jackie, and Luis already knew by the time Homer arrived on Thursday morning that I’d agreed to make a float for the Winter Garden Christmas Parade. I’d instructed them—Scott, mainly—to let me be the one to tell Homer. Luckily, the café wasn’t terribly busy when he arrived, and I had a few minutes to visit with him.
“Good morning, Homer,” I said. “Who’s your hero today?”
He told me it was the novelist Richard Bach. “Did you know it was Mr. Bach who said, ‘What
the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly’?”
“I didn’t know that.” I smiled. “But I’ve always loved that quote.”
“Me too.” He glanced at his watch.
Knowing he was getting antsy about sticking to his strict self-imposed schedule, I said, “Jackie is at the grill frying your sausage patty. I have news about the float.”
Eyes widening, he grinned. “We’re gonna do it. We’re making a float.”
“That’s right.” I got out my cake sketch and explained how I wanted to construct it. “I’ve already ordered the cake dummies, and they should be here by Saturday.”
Homer pointed to my note in the margin. “Pardon me if I’m out of line, but I notice here you’ve made a note to call Amanda Tucker to get her grandfather’s phone number. Have you done that yet?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had time.”
“I have Dave’s number at home,” he said. “I’ll call you back with it later this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Homer. I appreciate that.”
“May I ask why you’re calling Dave?”
I explained about the cake board.
Homer nodded. “Yeah, if anybody can help with that, it’s Dave. But, you know, I’ll be happy to help to...you know...in whatever way I can.”
“Well, if those cake dummies come in on Saturday like they’re supposed to, I’m thinking of getting started on the float Sunday after lunch.” I frowned. “I’ve never undertaken something this huge before, and I’m afraid I’ll fall flat on my face. I need plenty of time to factor my mistakes into getting the project done on time.”
“Mr. Bach once said there are no mistakes. ‘The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they’re necessary to reach the places we’ve chosen to go.’ You’ll be fine.”
I nodded slightly. Sorry, Homer, but I prefer not to think about bringing unpleasant events upon myself at the moment. “I’ll go see how Jackie is doing with that biscuit.”
Roger came in with two of his crew, and the men ordered brunch. By then, I was back at the grill, and Jackie took their orders. When she brought the tickets to the window, she mentioned that one of the young men with Roger was Aaron, who used to bus tables for us. I went to the window and waved.
“Hey, Amy!” He gave me a wide grin. “Merry Christmas!”
“Don’t crowd the season. We still have nearly three weeks. But Merry Christmas to you too.”
Homer decided this would be a perfect time to interject a Richard Bach quote. “I’ve heard ‘every gift from a friend is a wish for your happiness.’ Isn’t that nice?”
“It is,” Roger said. “I like that, Homer. How’re you doing, buddy?”
Leaving the men to their chat, I focused on preparing their pancakes and cheeseburgers. People had varying tastes when the clock neared eleven. Some still wanted breakfast while others were ready for lunch.
I’d just plated their meals when I heard Scott say, “Hey, dude! You here to eat, or are you just visiting the boss?”
Guessing Scott was addressing Ryan, I put the plates on a tray and took them out to Roger and his crew myself. I was right—Ryan was standing there next to Roger’s table looking handsome as always in his uniform.
Giving my sweetheart a broad smile, I said, “Hi, there! Our special today is barbecue chicken if you’re interested.”
“I’d love to stay, but I’m here in an official capacity,” he said. “Roger, I’ll see you in about half an hour then?”
Roger nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Ryan kissed my cheek and told me he’d see me later.
“What was that about?” Jackie asked.
I had an idea, of course, but I thought it best to let Roger answer.
“Ryan stopped by because he saw my truck here,” Roger said. “He wants me to come to the police station after I eat.”
“Why?” Jackie looked from Roger to me and then back to Roger.
I hadn’t felt at liberty to tell anyone else that Devon’s wreck hadn’t been an accident since Ryan had gotten the information while I was at the station, and I’d felt he had told me in confidence. I’d never do anything to compromise an investigation, and I knew my friends wouldn’t want that either.
Roger gave Jackie a little shrug and put butter and syrup on his pancakes. “Guys, go on over to the Flowers house and continue working on the roof after we eat. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I don’t understand,” Jackie said. “What’s this about?”
“I’m guessing it has something to do with Devon,” Roger said.
A couple I’d never seen before walked into the café. I welcomed them, told them about our special of the day, and then went back to the kitchen.
Jackie followed me. “What’s going on?”
“You know as much as I do.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t know for certain that Ryan wanted to speak with Roger about Devon’s accident. Maybe someone filed a complaint against one of Roger’s workers for harassment or shoddy workmanship or something. Unlikely, but possible.
“I don’t believe that,” Jackie said. “You know something.”
“I know whatever is going on, Ryan asked Roger to come to the station on official business under orders of Sheriff Billings. It’s nothing personal.”
“Really? It feels personal to me.” She glanced toward the dining room. “That could explain why Belinda was being hateful to me last night. She knew she was getting ready to file a wrongful death suit or something against Roger since Devon was on the clock at the time of the crash, and she felt guilty about it because she knows it wasn’t Roger’s fault.”
“Jackie, if Belinda wanted to file a wrongful death suit, she’d have to go to an attorney, not the police. And even if she did—which I doubt—the ball wouldn’t be rolling this quickly.”
Blowing out a breath, she said, “I know. You’re right. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“Everything will be fine. We all know—Ryan included—that Roger would never do anything to hurt anyone.”
“Wait. You think someone messed with Devon’s truck?” She took hold of my arm. “Do the police think someone caused the crash that killed him?”
Scott came up to the window. “Two chef salads, one without cucumber and onions.”
“Thanks.” Waiting until Scott walked away, I added, “I’m speculating—the same as you. All I meant was that if anybody is suspected of any kind of foul play, we know Roger is innocent. Okay?”
She nodded, turned, and left the kitchen.
Homer stood and called into the kitchen, “See you later, Amy! Remember, ‘the simplest things are often the truest.’ Have a wonderful day!”
“Take care, Homer!” I smiled as I heard the rest of the dining room—with the exception of the newcomers—bidding farewell to one of our favorite regulars. Although I didn’t let on, I was as nervous as Jackie was about Roger’s meeting at the police station.
{ }
Chapter Six
A
fter work, I took dinner to Mom and Aunt Bess. Before going inside, I tried to check the progress on the roof. I thought it looked fine, but I couldn’t tell how much still needed to be done. Roger’s crew had called it a day. I wondered how his interview at the police station had gone.
Mom saw me coming and held open the kitchen door for me. “Something sure does smell good.”
“Barbecue chicken.” I carried the pan into the house and placed it on the counter. After turning the oven on, I sat down at the table. “Where’s Aunt Bess?”
“In the living room.” Mom sat across from me. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing, but Ryan came in today and asked Roger to come to the police station for an interview,” I said.
“An interview?” Aunt Bess asked from the doorway. “Is Roger joining the police force? He’d better not before he gets our roof fixe
d!” She came on into the kitchen and joined us at the table.
“It wasn’t that kind of an interview.” I got up from the table and poured myself a glass of water. “The police said Devon’s accident was caused because someone cut his brake lines.”
Aunt Bess gasped. “Devon was murdered? And they think Roger did it?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe that for an instant. Roger’s a good boy—I’ve known him practically all his life.”
“I agree,” Mom said. “Maybe they merely wanted to ask Roger some questions about who might’ve had it in for Devon.”
After asking if anyone else wanted a glass of water—no one did—I sat back down. “I can’t imagine Ryan believes Roger cut Devon’s brake lines either. He’s simply doing his job. But Jackie certainly is upset about it.”
Aunt Bess flicked her wrist. “She’ll be all right. She knows that we have to treat everybody as a suspect until we discover who all had the means, motive, and opportunity to do the deed.” She nodded so emphatically it set her tight curls to jiggling. “Then we can narrow down our suspect pool and fish out the true culprit.”
I glanced over to see Mom pinching the bridge of her nose, and I almost laughed out loud. So what if Aunt Bess wanted to count herself among the great detectives? I thought it was fun. But, then again, I didn’t have to live with her.
“Didn’t that boy come here from somewhere else?” Aunt Bess asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He came here from Florida. I think he used to run a fishing boat charter.”
“How’d he wind up here in Winter Garden?” Mom asked.
“I recall Roger saying Devon inherited a piece of property when his aunt died and that he had fond memories of coming to Winter Garden to visit her and her family during the summers.” I shrugged slightly. “I guess he thought it would be a good place to live.”
“But why give up his business in Florida unless it was in the dumps?” Aunt Bess asked.
Admitting she had an excellent point, I said, “Maybe it wasn’t his business. Some people can be terrible to work for.” I knew that from experience. The woman who’d owned the café before me had been an atrocious boss. “It could be Devon was looking for a way out, and his aunt’s leaving him some property was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.”
