Dogwood Days (9 page)

The Burkey kids had never been able to misbehave at school. Their mama was always right down the hall, helping in one classroom or another. He’d heard horror stories from them back in the day. Their youngest kids were twins, and Mandy and Matt had hung out with him and Clover a few times over the years. Sounded like their mom was continuing the tradition with the grandkids. Poor things.

“Good to hear. Tell her hello for me, would you?”

“I will. She’ll be pleased to hear it. I’ll send her over with that strawberry shortcake of hers. You know how much you love it.”

It was true. The woman made a mean shortcake.

“That’d be amazing, Mr. Burkey. Thank you.”

Jefferson was going to have to become a marathon runner if he didn’t want to gain a couple hundred pounds during his stay in Holly Creek. With another grumble he grabbed one of the little rolls of chocolate chip cookie dough and made his way to the counter. Mr. Burkey gave it a curious glance but rang it up and waved Jefferson out the door. He walked back to Uncle Sherman’s, keeping an eye out for the sheriff’s cruiser. He hadn’t seen either the car or the man since the disastrous breakfast three days ago.

It wasn’t that Jefferson missed Zane, exactly. He didn’t. He didn’t know the man well enough to miss him. It was just that he’d left so awkwardly, and that comment had rung in Jefferson’s head for days.

He saw Zane. Of course, he did. The man was pretty damn big, for starters. Hard to miss. And for another thing, Jefferson had seen him every day since he’d arrived. So what on earth had he meant by that? The whole thing was just weird and one more example of the contagious nature of Holly Creek.

Gracie yoo-hooed at him from the diner, so Jefferson detoured over to say hello.

“Oh, Jefferson Lee. Thank you so much for putting that picture of our Dylan’s birdhouse on the blog. And what a lovely post you did! Why, did you see how many hits it’s gotten? The girls were throwing the word
viral
around. My Bethany assures me that’s a good thing, though, I swan, I thought it meant something was horribly wrong. What a strange word to mean something is good, don’t you think?”

“It is, Ms. Gracie. I hadn’t heard the post had done so well. I’ll have to check with Uncle Sherman.”

She beamed. “Well, it was a beautiful birdhouse, if I do say so. My Dylan is so talented. He wants to go into construction, you know, like his daddy.”

“From the looks of that birdhouse, he’d be well suited for it.”

Gracie patted his cheek. “You need something to eat?”

“Oh, no. Thank you, though. We have so many casseroles. Everyone has been really generous. Uncle Sherman is so lucky to have everyone looking out for him. And I’m not going to complain.” He gave her a saucy wink and patted his stomach. That got him another broad grin.

“We take care of our own. Well, I’ll let you get on about your business. I’m sure you have a lot to blog about!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He did, in fact, have a lot to blog about. The Holly Berry meeting was this afternoon, and he’d promised Mary Caroline at dinner the other night that he’d be there as town blogger. Clover had seen right through his request to attend and asked him when he’d started bodyguard services. He’d simply snorted and reminded her that she was meaner than him, so he wouldn’t be much protection.

The woman had preened. Heaven help him.

He had enough time to get back to Uncle Sherman’s, warm up today’s mystery casserole for lunch, bake some cookies, locate the missing sheriff, and apologize by bringing said cookies as a gift, then get to the Holly Berry meeting. He wondered if anyone would notice if he slipped one of Uncle Sherman’s painkillers for himself. Probably so. Hell, Zane would have an actual reason to arrest him then. Exactly what he needed.

With another grumbling sigh, Jefferson trudged up the front porch steps and sought out Uncle Sherman in his study-turned-bedroom. He found his Uncle propped at an unnatural angle, with the hospital bed table he’d had to rent the day before covered with the accoutrements of the blog. Sissy had claimed a spot near the foot of the bed, where a throw that looked extremely expensive had been folded. The cat’s bedding was nicer than his.

Uncle Sherman was blinking at the laptop and shaking his head.

“What’s wrong?” Jefferson asked, once Sissy had grown bored of their staring match. She won, of course.

“Why I never,” Uncle Sherman sputtered.

“You never what?”

“I’ve never had this many hits on a post before, Jefferson Lee. Why, your birdhouse picture and article has taken off.”

“Yeah? Ms. Gracie mentioned something about that earlier.”

“Almost fifty thousand hits, Jefferson Lee. And it’s only been a few days. The picture has been repinned so many times. I think we need to talk to Mr. Cornwall about doing a tutorial on those birdhouses for the blog. It would make a nice leisure piece, don’t you think?”

“Uh, sure. If you say so.”

“I do. Tutorials are always a big hit with the blogger moms. We’ve never really done one before, though, so it’ll be a bit of an experiment. Oh, my brain is just bursting with ideas.”

“That’s great, Uncle Sherman.”

“You’ll be attending the Holly Berry meeting this afternoon, yes?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. Good. We also have an aldermen meeting to get to later this week. Oh, and I want to take a walk along the Dogwood Parade route.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

Uncle Sherman glared.

“Don’t give me that look, young man,” Jefferson said. “Doctor’s orders. You’re to stay off that leg.”

Uncle Sherman grunted. “Jefferson Lee, I need to convince the aldermen that the route alteration the mayor is suggesting isn’t the right course of action.”

“Like you haven’t walked that route a million times before. Last I checked, it hasn’t changed in the last, oh, hundred years or so.”

“You’re being quite cantankerous today,” Uncle Sherman said.

Jefferson shrugged. “I get it honest.”

They both smirked, and Uncle Sherman turned back to the computer. “Our advertising revenue is up as well. Quite a bit, actually.”

“I didn’t know we had advertising revenue.”

“Did you think I ran the blog out of the kindness of my heart? It’s like you’ve never met me, Jefferson Lee.”

The man had a point.

“Huh. Never thought about it, I suppose.”

“Since I semiretired from the mercantile, I wanted to add another source of income. I knew building the blog would take some time, but for now it’s been simply paying for itself, which was enough for me. If this continues, we may be looking at making a profit.”

“Oh, you think we could get a golf cart? I was thinking the other day—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even—”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ha. If we had a golf cart, I could ride you along the parade route like you want. But okay. Call me ridiculous. Whatever makes you happy.”

“If I wanted to ride, I’d have you drive me in one of our cars. However, a ride along the route….”

“Uh-oh. You’ve got your thinking face on.”

“I need to make a call.”

“Of course you do.”

Uncle Sherman picked up the phone and dialed. Jefferson wandered into the kitchen to put the cookie dough away and decide which casserole he wanted to warm up for their lunch.

“Clover, good morning. It’s Uncle Sherman.”

Oh, he was using his syrup voice. That could only mean he wanted something.

“Yes, yes. I’m well. You’re such a dear. Clover, I have a favor to ask. When your Grandma Crofton stayed with you, I recall you getting a wheelchair for her to use so you could take her on afternoon walks. Do you happen to still have it, by chance?”

Did he really just ask for a wheelchair? The world was coming to an end. The apocalypse had to be happening. Jefferson wondered if Uncle Sherman had a stash of those weird military meals hiding somewhere in the basement. They’d probably need them once their casserole stock ran out.

“Oh, excellent. Might I borrow it for a while during my recovery? I find myself going a bit stir crazy locked up here in the house as I am, and I know Jefferson Lee wouldn’t mind pushing me through town. He’s quite taken with all of these pies and casseroles, you know. He’ll need his exercise.”

Jefferson put the cupcake he’d just picked up back on the tray on the counter. What? He was a stress eater. No one should judge him for that. His jeans
were
a tiny bit snug, though.

“Thank you so much, Clover. I’ll see you in a few, then.”

Jefferson scowled and pulled a chicken casserole from the fridge. He made a couple of bowls and stuck them in the microwave before returning to the study.

“So I’m getting fat, huh?”

Uncle Sherman smiled smugly. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Jefferson Lee. It’s rude.”

“You shouldn’t tell Clover Crofton I’m getting fat. That’s ruder. More rude. Whatever.”

“Ha. I can see that your education did wonders for your language skills.”

“Alas, I’m too tired to push you around town in a wheelchair. What, with all this extra weight I’m carrying. However would I manage?”

Uncle Sherman snorted.

“You shouldn’t snort like that. It makes you sound like you’re having a seizure.”

His uncle repeated the sound.

“Why do I call you my favorite? I need to rethink my relationship with Uncle William.”

Uncle Sherman burst out laughing. “You do that. And the moment you have a conversation with my brother in which he keeps up with your oh-so-clever wit, you let me know. I’ll happily relinquish my title as favorite on that day.”

Dammit. The man was always right.

“I’m warming up some of that chicken casserole stuff that Ms. Beulah brought over.”

“That’s a good choice, although I’m becoming rather sick of casseroles.”

“You think?”

“We’ll need to return some of the casserole dishes on our walk this afternoon.”

“Oh joy. Remember that I have the Holly Berry meeting to go to.” They’d never make the meeting if Uncle Sherman had to socialize with all the ladies who’d delivered casseroles to their door.

“You may have a point. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” Jefferson parroted.

The microwave beeped, signaling that their lunch was ready. Jefferson moved the tray table from across the bed and helped Uncle Sherman get situated with his crutches.

“You know what I’d love?” Uncle Sherman asked.

“Something that isn’t in a casserole?”

“Steak. Or even a nice grilled chicken. Anything else.”

“You do realize that my grilling skills leave a lot to be desired. That whole living in an apartment thing has given me limited practice time.”

“No better time to learn.”

“You may have a point.”

“I’m happy to supervise,” Uncle Sherman said as he took his seat at the table.

Jefferson helped him get his broken leg propped up on another chair before turning to retrieve their bowls from the microwave. He sat them both on the table, then remembered his apology cookie mission. He grabbed the cookie dough from the fridge and read the package instructions. After turning the oven on to preheat, he put the dough back in the fridge and took his seat at the table beside his uncle.

“You baking?” Uncle Sherman asked with a raised brow.

“No comment.”

Jefferson had managed one bite of his casserole when someone knocked on the door. He groaned and pushed back from the table. As he’d expected, Clover stood on the front porch. A wheelchair sat at the base of the steps.

“Of course, you had to have a wheelchair handy.”

She grinned. “What’s for lunch?”

“Ms. Beulah’s chicken casserole.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

Jefferson whimpered.

“Oh, don’t be pathetic. Here.” She held out a plastic bag he’d not noticed before, and he took it carefully. It might bite. You never knew where Clover was concerned.

“What is it?”

“Plastic containers.”

Jefferson gave her a curious look.

“God, Jefferson Lee. You can put leftover casseroles in these containers and put them in the freezer. If you don’t, you’ll be eating casseroles for the next three weeks straight.”

“Oh, you really are a goddess.”

“And you really are an idiot.”

“Clover, is that you I hear?” Uncle Sherman called from the dining room.

“Hey, Uncle Sherman.” Clover pushed past Jefferson and made her way to the dining room. She sat down in Jefferson’s abandoned seat and picked up his fork. She took a bite of chicken casserole and sent him a wicked grin.

“Sure, have my bowl. Have my seat. Wanna have my uncle too? He has to be walked daily apparently.”

“Oh shush, Jefferson Lee. Your whining is quite pathetic.”

Uncle Sherman cackled and continued eating his own lunch.

“I’m beginning to feel very unloved around here.”

“Aww, poor baby.” Clover took another bite of casserole.

Giving up, Jefferson dug around in the cabinets looking for a cookie sheet. He sat it on the stove, then took the package of dough out of the fridge again. Easy enough. Slice and bake. He could manage that.

“Please tell me you aren’t making cookies from that?” Clover asked.

“I’m not making cookies from that,” Jefferson lied.

Jefferson sliced the dough and added the cookies to the sheet. Very well done, if he did say so himself. He turned back to the table and saw Uncle Sherman making a shushing gesture to Clover. He glared at them both, then put the cookies in the oven and set the timer.

He plopped down at the table, let out a long sigh, then realized he’d never made his uncle a drink. Dammit.

After pouring them all glasses of ice water, he returned to the table.

“Out of tea?” Clover asked with a smirk.

“Nope. Got tons and tons of tea.”

“Uh-huh. You’re a very bad liar.”

He really was. The pitcher the sheriff had made the other day was long gone. Uncle Sherman hadn’t complained and hadn’t offered to make any, so Jefferson hadn’t bothered trying.

“I’ll make you some if you tell me why you’re making that ridiculous excuse for cookies.”

Jefferson shrugged.

“Oh.” She beamed. “You’re making them
for
someone. Who?”