Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) (7 page)
Read Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) Online
Authors: Judy Alter
Tags: #Mystery & Crime
“Greens? I thought she died in a pan of mashed potatoes.” He looked truly puzzled.
“Not according to
Marj
. That was Donna’s story.
Marj
says she got clammy, unsteady on her feet, and, finally, sick—went to the restroom and threw up violently. This was a couple of hours after she kept trying to fix the greens and finally threw them out.” Even recounting it, I hated to think of Gram’s last moments when she’d suffered like that.”
Almost clinically detached, he asked, “So you suspect what?”
I shook my head miserably. “I don’t know, but I was asking Doc about digitalis poisoning—if maybe foxglove could have been mixed in with the turnip greens.” Then of course I had to explain the entire connection between foxglove and digitalis. I didn’t mention the poke
sallet
, but it had loomed more and more in my mind. I’d been so set on getting back to Dallas and closing things down that I hadn’t yet checked for cut plants. I’d do that as soon as he left.
Rick Samuels listened intently. “What do you want me to do? The green are long gone, so I can’t have them checked, but I can order an autopsy.”
I shuddered. “No, Gram’s buried. I want her to rest in peace. I don’t know what I want. I just have to figure it all out in my mind.”
He put back on his stern, I-am-the-police-chief attitude and said, “Kate, there’s just been a serious attempt on your life. Cutting a brake line is not small stuff. It’s meant to kill. You’re very very lucky, but if you don’t stop hinting around at murder, there’ll be more attempts… and I don’t want to see any of them successful.” He paused for a minute, as though he knew he was lecturing, “Remember, I’m the law. Not you. I want you to share anything you find—or dream up—with me before you do anything else. And if you feel the least bit threatened, call me. Here’s my cell phone number—I hear it night and day, never sleep through it.” He handed me a business card.
“
Yessir
.” I managed a sort of salute, and he had the grace to smile. But, in truth, he scared me a bit. True, I’d been scared in Crandall, but I hadn’t thought about why anyone would want to harm me. The idea that it might turn into a pattern frightened me to death.
“I think,” I mumbled, “that it was probably someone from Dallas who cut the brake line.” He knew as well as I did that I meant Rob, but I couldn’t accuse on such flimsy grounds. “I don’t think he means me any real harm.”
Rick just snorted. “No real harm! I doubt that. Can you stay at your sister’s house for a while?”
I shook my head defiantly. That was out of the question, though I wasn’t going to explain why. But his words made me realize I hadn’t taken today’s episode seriously enough. Someone had really tried to kill me. Incredible. I changed the subject. “Let me ask you something,” I said. “The day we met in the café, you were uptight, distant…well, I don’t know how to describe it, but you weren’t friendly.”
He stared at me so long I thought I’d been stupid to bring up the subject. But finally, twisting his hat in his hands again, he spoke. “Uh, you don’t know it, but we sort of ran with the same crowd in North Dallas. I saw you in bars, and I thought….” He seemed obviously unwilling to finish the sentence.
“You thought I was a barfly.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My past was catching up with me, but I wasn’t going to lie about my life, nor was I going to explain that I’d held a responsible job, earned a good salary, bought a condo, and paid my bills on time, all without the help of any man.
He nodded miserably. “I asked a friend about you…because I thought you were attractive … and he told me you were a party girl. I wasn’t interested in that scene…still am not. But I was suspicious when you came here and announced you were going to stay. And then that guy in the café the other day….”
“He was a mistake,” I said crisply, “one of many I made. But I’m not going to apologize for the way I lived. I’m here, it’s a new life, and I’m going to live the way Gram would want me too. I…well, I think she’s watching me.” I didn’t add that I also knew she was channeling me.
“Good,” he said and rose to go, offering me a handshake as a gesture of friendliness.
I shook his hand, but as I did I added, “And I’m going to find out what happened to Gram.”
“I wish you’d let me do that,” he said. “And I hope you’ll tell me any time you feel threatened.” After he left I had the feeling that there was a real back story to Rick Samuels, but it might not be easy to find out. For a small town, Wheeler had an unusual number of puzzling single men—Steve
Millican
, who everyone hinted was hiding something, and Rick Samuels, about whom my instinct told me there was more to know. And I sort of wished he’d at least hugged me.
Not for me to worry about. I had the café, Donna, and Gram’s death to worry about. And now I was left wondering who disliked me enough—or feared me—to sabotage the brakes on my car. Men were low on my list. I went inside and made myself a sandwich of slightly old roast beef and cheese. Thank goodness, I’d brought some beer from Dallas.
****
Life settled into a routine. The café kept me busy from early in the morning—six o’clock, thank you very much—until at least nine in the evening. I’d run home in slow periods to feed Wynona, water my herbs, do the laundry, and sometimes even catch a nap. I got very little reading done—where were those long boring hours I had anticipated. Social life? Who had time to worry about it?
Did I miss Dallas? Maybe, sometimes, just a bit. But somehow thinking of that creep Rob cutting the brake fluid line made it easier to leave Dallas behind in my mind. Of course, I found it most comfortable to believe it was Rob and not consider the possibility that it was someone else.
Being the chief cook for the café wasn’t easy, and though I’d learned my skills from Gram, they were rusty. I found myself making sticky buns first thing in the morning, while Benny, a young Hispanic I’d hired as assistant cook, handled the eggs and bacon and pancake orders. The day’s special was always figured out the night before and hauled out of the freezer—chicken fried steak or fried chicken or pot roast or meatloaf (we usually had that, but I always made them). I had indeed started making the chicken and tuna salads. I did buy pies—Gram had made pies herself, but I just couldn’t do it, and I found a bakery in Tyler that had good pies and delivered. Gram frowned at me. But, hey, I made the potato, tuna and chicken salads myself daily and meatloaf most of the time.
Benny took care of the potatoes, baked, mashed and French fries, and the green salads. And he handled a griddle with skill. I asked where he’d learned and he shrugged and said, “A greasy spoon in Dallas. This is better food.” And why was he in Wheeler? “My sister, she lives in Canton and cleans houses. I help with the three kids. Someday,” he flashed a grin, “I want a family of my own. More Hispanic girls in Canton than Wheeler.”
That’s for sure, I thought. Still even with Benny’s help, it was a lot of cooking.
By evening, most of the food was prepared for supper, and a local housewife named Nora came in to manage the kitchen, but I was on hand as needed. Nora could make the best creamed corn I ever tasted, and she was no slouch with cornbread either. On Saturdays, she turned out fried catfish with batter as light as—well I don’t know what, but it wasn’t that hard old stuff that cracks off when you try to fork into the fish.
During slow spells in the afternoon and evening, I sat at my cramped corner desk, planned menus, ordered food, checked the books. Once a week, on Wednesday mornings, which were usually slow, William Overton came by and we went over the books. One day he said, “Miss Kate, your grandmother would be proud. The café is doing well and making a profit.” Praise from this taciturn man was golden. Somehow I never got around to taking over the bookkeeping, maybe because I had to much to do every day and maybe because I didn’t want to insult this timid man.
And yet I enjoyed being at the café. It wasn’t just Gram’s presence, though I felt that all the time, but I liked waiting on customers, meeting people, both those I knew and newcomers, asking about their families, their ailments, the little things that make conversation. I did not like going over the books with William Overton, but I persisted. He was a patient, well-intentioned man but just dull as doughnuts. He told me he could never convince Gram to computerize the payroll nor the record of goods ordered or shipped, and he convinced me both were necessary. So I found myself checking every delivery of food against the receiving list and entering those figures into the computer. I also entered daily times for all the employees, a pattern that made me realize Sally, one of the newer waitresses, was late a lot and often left early, with this excuse and that. I geared myself up for a talk with her, during which she was sullen but said she’d do better. After two weeks, her record hadn’t improved, and I suggested she look for employment elsewhere, giving her two weeks’ notice.
Overton asked me if I had documented the details, and I referred him to the computer record which earned me the first-ever smile I think I’d seen from him. “The unemployment compensation people can come after you if you can’t show good cause,” he explained.
Then I was faced with finding a new waitress.
Marj
had a niece, newly graduated from high school, who needed a job. “Any experience?” I asked, knowing the answer before I heard it.
“No, but I’ll teach her,” she said. “She’s a fast learner.”
I sighed and said two weeks probation.
Donna meanwhile was talking to contractors and decorators, looking at swatches of paint and fabric, and happy as a clam. She began a marketing plan for her B & B—she’d decided to call it Almost Heaven, which I thought was a really cool name, though I wasn’t about to tell her that. I could see her blasting through all Gram’s money—and losing it.
“Tom will supply all the hardware, lighting fixtures and stuff,” she said enthusiastically, and I wanted to protest that maybe he could supply them at cost but giving them to her would be another bit of bad business. Donna was oblivious.
“I just wish I didn’t have to wait on Gram’s money to get started on remodeling,” she pouted.
Apparently the bank’s generosity—or Tom’s—only went so far.
But then one day, a week or so after I got back from Dallas, mid-morning on a fairly slow weekday, Donna came into the café in a pensive mood. Settling herself at the counter, she asked for iced tea, which I delivered. Then she asked if we could go sit at the table in the far corner.
Puzzled, I got myself some tea and followed her.
She twisted the tea in her hands and looked everywhere but at me.
Finally I asked, “Donna, what’s on your mind?”
“I think you’re right,” she blurted out. “I think Gram was murdered. I want to help you find out who did it. It’s just too awful to think about!”
Whoa, Nellie. This is not what I expected or wanted—Donna as a sidekick, as I tried to figure things out.
No, not a good idea.
“I’ve just been thinking about it, ever since it came up at the reading of the will.”
What came up? Then I got it—double indemnity. If Gram was murdered, her life insurance would double. Donna, as always, had an agenda.
“Well, I don’t know how you can help. The only obvious proof would be if we had Gram’s body exhumed and an autopsy done. I don’t want to do that.”
She had the grace to shudder. “No, I don’t either. But I want to know what you’ve found out so far.”
Tell her about foxglove and poke
sallet
? I don’t think so.
“Nothing,” I said. Then to give her something and add a little drama, I did tell her that someone had cut my brake fluid line on the way back from Dallas.
“Kate, that’s too horrible! I couldn’t bear to lose you just after losing Gram. Promise me you’ll tell me about anything else that happens…or anything else you find out. I want to help.”
After she left, I sat at that table a long time, puzzling over this new development.
During the next couple of weeks, Gram’s death was never far from my mind, but I could not make myself believe that anyone had a reason to want to kill her. Nothing made sense, and I spent sleepless nights, sometimes reverting to my Dallas habit of a bit too much wine to make myself sleep. Then I’d wake at four, groggy, and go over the whole thing again in my mind for the twenty-eleventh time. And I had no one to talk to about it—I couldn’t bring it up with Donna, or wouldn’t, whichever word fits. I knew she wouldn’t harm Gram, but she was too interested in inheritance and the B & B. Tom would listen and be sympathetic but as that book,
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus,
made clear men don’t want to talk about problems. If they can’t solve something, they move on. Being from Venus, I wanted to talk. Rick Samuels had asked, almost ordered me to bring any new ideas to him, but I had none, and he too was from Mars. If he couldn’t solve the problem, he wouldn’t want to talk about it. Besides, I’d barely seen him since that strange conversation at Gram’s house.
Sometimes during those sleepless nights, I actually got out of bed and paced—something I’d never done before. And several nights when I paced, I noticed cars coming and going from Steve’s nursery, as late as three in the morning, the time my thoughts seemed most confused. Those cars puzzled me, but I had way too much else on my mind to worry about them.
Gram, of course, was still with me, and I could talk to her, but her answers were always indirect and though I hated to accuse her of this, they were often platitudes. “God works in strange ways, child.” Or, “Don’t give up on me. I’m counting on you.”
Thanks, Gram.
Maybe it would be better if she gave me specific instructions on how to run the café—how could I tell how much catfish I needed to order for Saturday night? Why didn’t my potato salad turn out like hers? Some days I didn’t have enough and other days I had it left over. I could stretch my conscience and use it two days but no more, so I threw out a lot, a waste that bothered me.
One day I went to the nursery to see if I could get scallions to plant. I thought if I had a big bed of them, I could add them to some dishes for both garnish and flavor, and Gram always said how wonderful they taste fresh out of the ground when they still smell of earth.
Steve greeted me warmly, saying, “I’d give you a hug but as always I’m all sweaty and dirty.” I said I’d settle for a handshake, and he grinned, “
Naw
, you don’t even want that. What can I do for you?”
I started to say, “Come have another beer sometime,” but then I couldn’t talk to Steve either, so I told him I was interested in scallions. When he asked how many, I said, “Lots!” So he said he’d have to come over and dig a bed for them. Did I want lettuce too? Yes, I did. Did I have beer in my fridge? Yes, I did.
“I’ll be over about seven. Can you get away from the café?”
“I’ll see to it. But I won’t do this, unless you let me settle my account.”
“Okay. Joanie handles the books, and she’s in the store today.” He gestured toward the clothing store with his head, and I wandered off.
Joanie proved to be about my age, tall with long blonde hair and thin enough to make the clothes in her shop look good on her. I hadn’t yet gotten over to browse, so now I did. Mostly southwestern styles, more fashionable a decade or so ago than now, but still bright, colorful and attractive. Joanie wore a turquoise patterned squaw skirt, a yellow scoop neck T-shirt that picked up details from the skirt, and smart leather sandals.
“Do you stock your shop from Santa Fe?” I asked.
She laughed. “Can’t afford to. All this comes from market in Dallas. Hi, I’m Joanie
Millican
.”
Even as I introduced myself, I realized she wasn’t married—same last name as Steve and no wedding ring. I told her why I was there, and she pulled the account. I told her she’d have to ask Steve about the onions and lettuce I’d bought today, and while she went off to do that, I browsed among fine leather bags and belts and sandals. There were high-style jeans, some of which would fortunately fit me, and oversize linen shirts in bright colors. I could spend more in Joanie’s store than in Steve’s garden. The bill for my gardening purchases was surprisingly modest, and I knew I would have paid two or three times that in Dallas.
Back at the café I told
Marj
I’d be gone from just before seven until time to close at nine, and she said no problem. So by seven I was sitting on the porch, with cold beer in a cooler at my feet, along with two meatloaf sandwiches. Steve came promptly, pushing a wheelbarrow of potting soil, manure, onion plants and, I presumed, lettuce seed. He was going to do this much more professionally than I would have.
While he dug, rooting out Gram’s precious grass to create a bed in the place he deemed appropriate, I sat on the ground, drank beer, and chatted. He stopped to take an occasional swallow of beer, but pretty much he worked. I admit I watched him work with interest. It was hot and humid, and he pulled off his T-shirt. His back and arms were muscled, and I enjoy the sight of a well-built man as much as the next girl.
No, Kate, don’t let your thoughts go in that direction. You have too much else on your mind now to get involved.
And in the back of my mind, I realized involvement with Steve
Millican
would confirm Rick Samuels’ opinion of me.
When he had the bed laid out, with the sides squared to his satisfaction—he used string between stakes—he edged it with brick he found in Gram’s shed. Steve, I decided, was good at “making do” and not costing me a lot of money.
Steve talked while he planted, and one thing nearly knocked me over. “Remember when you asked about foxglove? I don’t sell much of it, pretty as it is, but you know two people in town bought some. One was your sister, Donna, and the other was the mayor.”
Donna’s husband kept a well-tended flowerbed in front of their house—Donna never raised a finger to help with it—but foxglove? And the mayor? She didn’t strike me as the gardening type.
All I could mutter was “Really?” while my thoughts whirled. Trying to divert attention, I asked, “Should I have some here?”
“
Naw
. It doesn’t suit the nature of your garden.” As if the thought was gone from his mind, he asked, “You sell many salads?”
“We serve a house salad, with iceberg, with every entrée, but I thought the leaf lettuce would be good for those folks who want a real salad—maybe with grilled chicken or salmon.”
“Fancying up the menu, aren’t you?” he laughed.
“So far it seems to be working. I’m making my own chicken and tuna salad. Gram used to buy it from Sam’s Club.”
“I know,” he said, “I’ll have to come try the new version.” Rising from the ground, he said, “There, last one planted. You’ll need to water the lettuce every day. Maybe I should set you up a drip hose system.”
When he explained what that was, I thought it sounded great and asked him to do it. For a flash, I thought how much he enjoyed mucking in a garden, the same way I enjoyed puttering in the kitchen. We were like two people who had found their places in life. That, I told myself sternly, was all we had in common.
Steve and I sat and had a companionable beer and ate our sandwiches after he finished. Light talk, no flirting, nothing serious. He was, I decided, a good friend, though I entertained a question in the back of my mind about why he and Joanie were in Wheeler. Apparently they were doing well enough to stay, and it wasn’t any of my business. He left, and I went back to close the café, tally the day’s charge slips, lock up the cash, and call it a day. Tomorrow morning would come early.
After the breakfast rush was over, I went to see Donna, ostensibly just to say hello, since I hadn’t seen her in almost a week. She greeted me happily, saying she had new plans for the B & B to show me, and proceeded to pour me a cup of coffee and then lay out blueprints, swatches of paint and fabric, and artist’s sketches all over the kitchen island. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she gushed. “I think we’re going to get started on the work soon.”
My antenna went up. “How? We haven’t gotten our inheritance yet.”
She smiled coyly. “I have an investor from Dallas. He’s bought a house and property about five miles out of town, and he was talking to Tom, and Tom mentioned the B & B and he said he was interested in an investment, and….” She ran out of breath.
“Is he going to pay off the lien on Tom’s store?”
She looked at me sharply. “How did you know that? I told you the bank loaned me the money on the strength of my inheritance from Gram.”
I shrugged. “I just guessed. Banks don’t usually loan money on funds that don’t exist yet. Don Davidson told us that, said we shouldn’t use it as collateral.” No need to tell her Tom had told me.
She rushed right on. “Well, Tom was a sweetheart to do that—of course, he’d do anything for me. He wants me to be happy.”
Did it ever occur to Donna to make sure Tom was happy? I didn’t think so.
We chatted more about the B & B, which seemed to be the only subject on her mind. She never once asked about the café nor said any more about the mystery of Gram’s death and suspicion that someone murdered her.
Finally, I had oohed and
aahed
as much as I could, and I said it was time for me to get back to the café. I’d deliberately walked to Donna’s house, so I went out the front door, and she saw me to the door. “Your garden is lovely.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s Tom’s project, you know. I don’t mess with it.”
“What is that plant with the bell-like flowers on it?” I asked innocently.
She thought a minute. “I think he told me it’s called foxglove, though I can’t see why.”
It didn’t seem to mean much to her. She certainly didn’t get edgy or defensive. Once I hugged her and walked away, I dismissed the thought that Donna knew anything about the deadly properties of foxglove. She was too ditsy for that.
****
A few days later, Rick Samuels came into the café about nine-thirty in the morning—too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. He strode right back into the kitchen, and I asked what he needed.
He looked at the floor, then at the ceiling, anywhere but at me. “I’m here to do a health inspection. Mayor’s orders.”
I thought I might choke but my first instinct was to laugh. “Health inspection. Are you trained in that field?”
He stiffened. “We don’t have a health inspector in Wheeler, and the mayor doesn’t want to pay for someone to come from Tyler. I read about it on the web. I’m supposed to look for uncovered foods, rat droppings, check the temperature in the refrigerators and freezers, stuff like that.”
“Have at it,” I said with a grin. “I have to get my pies in the oven.”
He poked around in the kitchen for maybe thirty minutes, muttered his thanks for my cooperation, and headed out the door.
I couldn’t resist. “Find any roaches?” I called.
He ignored me and left.
Marj
came up behind me. “What was that all about?”
“Mayor Thompson is out to get us again,” I said. “It won’t come to anything. She hasn’t a leg to stand on. This kitchen is as clean as it always was when Gram was in charge. Here, help me get the fillings into these pies. I’m running late.”
Two days later my casual dismissal of Rick Samuel’s inspection came home to bite me. Mayor Thompson charged in, waving legal-looking papers and saying she was shutting us down for four serious health code violations: rat droppings, open containers of flour (I was using it, for Pete’s sake), flies (who doesn’t have them in East Texas in the summer?), and inadequate freezer temperatures. Since I checked the freezer and refrigerator temperatures every morning myself, I knew that was flat wrong. And I knew there weren’t rat droppings anywhere in my kitchen.
“I’m closing you down as of now,” she screeched.
Behind me I heard
Marj
gasp. “You don’t have the authority,” I said. “You’re the mayor, not the health inspector, and I have the right to appeal, first to the city council.”
She seemed flabbergasted for a moment and then stormed, “Appeal all you want. It won’t do you any good.”
As she turned to leave, I said, “Leave me those papers. I’ll need them for my lawyer. When’s the next council meeting?”
She stared at me, holding the papers tight to her chest, and stormed out, saying, “You’ll be properly served with official papers.”
“Can she really close us down?”
Marj
asked tremulously.
“Have you seen rat droppings?” I asked with irony in my voice. “She just wants to run me out of business so she can buy the café at a fire-sale price. It won’t work.”
