Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) (3 page)

Between her father's troubles and looking after her mother, Pattie hadn't had much time for a man in her life. She dated a few guys off and on, but none of them worked out. Pattie hadn't ever been a part of the popular crowd in school, probably because her mother was that nice lady in a hairnet scooping mashed potatoes in the cafeteria. She had been taller than most of the girls growing up. My friendship with Pattie started after high school as we both struggled with the men in our lives. I really liked her. And even though we were only acquaintances in school, she had always been nice to me. Pattie was one of those people that no matter what life threw at her, she would face it and move on.

Pattie flashed her friendly smile my way as she bagged up a bear claw. In spite of the crowd drooling at her counter, she still knew I was here. I so hoped she would have some time to help me with my crocodile cake. I looked at the line. There were only two people in front of me now.

I realized I was standing behind our town librarian, Martha Hoffman. Martha was in her forties and was wearing a navy blue blazer that covered her ample behind over a navy floral skirt and flat, efficient shoes. Next to her was Vanessa Markham, the other blogger from the paper. She was beautiful in a way that was a bit different from the standard appearances of the women in Pecan Bayou. Her blonde hair had multiple golden tones streaked into it, and today over her slim frame she wore an outfit consisting of a tan cotton blouse, tan pants and tan three-inch heels. She accented the tan combination with a large gold chain necklace, gold earrings and sunglasses that I could pretty well bet hadn't been bought at the corner drug store.

She was stunning, at least when it came to appearances. Rocky had me proofread her column one time. She had written that the new Gucci bag was ideal and that wearing it to any occasion would make you ideal for any occasion. Until then I had no idea Rocky had been cleaning up her weekly contribution to the paper.

"Her writing style is the worst product of the public school system I have ever seen," Rocky said to me that day. "But the content she turns out is right on target for women's fashion. This is the kind of stuff I could never write." The final product was very popular among the Pecan Bayou readers. Having our very own fashion guru was pretty big-city for our little town.

Vanessa Markham was pointing to a tray of loaded German chocolate cupcakes that Pattie quickly scooped into a pink-striped box and topped them with wax paper. The librarian pointed to a tray of Napoleons for her box.

Martha held her rounded hands together in front of her. "So, Pattie, I know I can count on you to come to my Authors Night. You're such a genius with baking. I know I can't go but a few days without coming back here for more of your delicious goodies. Your new cookbook will be a great addition to our evening. Please consider being a part of it. Vanessa here is going to talk about her incredible chick-lit book. Her book got picked up by the Houston Stars publishing company, and distribution is about to expand outside of Texas."

Vanessa Markham broke off a piece of Napoleon that Martha offered her, using her red-lacquered fingernail to slide it between her lips. "Yes, I'm very excited. Of course my pen name is Vanessa Scarlett. Doesn't that sound so much more exciting than Markham? Well, that and Peter is already an established writer, so I went with Scarlett."

Pattie smiled softly. "I'm so flattered you would even ask me. We just printed out our cookbook to sell here at the store. I'm not exactly published, you know."

Martha Hoffman held her pink-striped box to the blazer covering her ample bosom. "Yes, we know, but you have to admit you have something here." She waved her hand across the packed display case of baked goods.

"Well, thank you," said Pattie. She glanced over in my direction, and then what came close to an evil smile came across her face. "But as long as you are scouting out authors, we have another standing right here with us."

"Who's that?" Martha said, pushing her glasses up with her free hand and glancing around the bakery.

"Why, Betsy here. Her book has actually been published by a real publisher."

"Betsy?" Both women turned around and focused their eyes on me. I waved meekly, still holding on to my sticky cookbook.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Betsy Livingston."

"Hello," said the little librarian. "You've written a book?"

"It was published a couple of years ago. It's a helpful hints book. I write the Happy Hinter column in the newspaper."

Vanessa Markham uttered a gasp in recognition of me. "Oh yes! We haven't formally met. You're the other blogger at the paper."

"Right." I nodded.

"And what's your book called?" Martha asked, shaking her head as if I was just another child trying to check out books without a library card.

"
The Happy Hinter
, same name as the column," I answered, almost apologizing for the lack of creativity in titling my book.

"I don't recall us having anything by that name at the library," Martha Hoffman stated, as if I was probably mistaken about being published because it didn't exist on her shelves.

"Probably not. It was published by a small press. I've only sold about 500 copies so far. Really, I'm sure your evening is already full, so you don't need to add me to your author list."

Pattie scowled. "Betsy, you have a great book, and if I deserve to be there, then so do you. Isn't that so, Martha?"

Martha bit her lower lip as if she had just been outmaneuvered in a chess game.

"Yes, I suppose we could add her to the end of the program. I'm sure your presentation would be fairly short, Miss Linson."

"It's Livingston," I corrected her.

"Martha, that's the deal then. I don't speak unless Betsy gets to speak, too."

Martha looked at her watch. "I have to get back. Well, I guess I'll get two for one today," she said, trying to sound cheerful about her new speaker but not really making it work. The two ladies both rushed a goodbye and headed out the door.

"First thing," I said to Pattie. "I need a box of donuts for the Pecan Bayou Police Department."

"Always glad to serve our men in blue," Pattie said, unfolding another pink-striped box. "Getting out of a parking ticket?"

"With my dad on the force, any parking ticket I get will be paid on time, in full and with a great deal of harassment from Lieutenant Judd Kelsey, super cop."

Pattie laughed. "I thought my old man was bad with all his troubles."

I knew her dad had been in and out of rehab several times in the last twenty years. My dad had probably been the one to arrest him on some of his many charges.

"It's still good, though. You know, that you can talk to him. You and your dad have something special."

"Yeah, well, that's what I'm on my way to do today. That guy I've been seeing from Dallas wants me to spend a weekend with him ... alone."

A look of acknowledgment came into Pattie's eyes. "Oh, I get it. What do you have to ask your dad for? Last time I checked you were a grown woman – with a child, no less."

"I'm not asking him for permission," I said. "I'm asking him what he thinks about it."

"Wow, you and your dad really are cool," Pattie said. "You want my opinion?"

"Sure." I said.

"I think you should go for it. You know, you're only young once, and guys like that don't come along every day. He's single, he's handsome, he isn't a drunk or a druggie, he's employed. Sounds perfect to me – better yet, give him my number."

I laughed. "Go for it, huh? I'm thinking about it. Oh, and about the author's night at the library – you didn't have to do that, but thanks."

"Yes I did." She shrugged and started closing the glass bakery case where she had just removed the donuts. "They weren't recognizing you for your work. It's as simple as that."

"Well, then, it was very kind of you to stand up for me."

"Look, Betsy, you and I are both self-made women. Your husband took a walk, but that never stopped you. I guess I admire that about you. Sometimes you have to make your own happy ending." The bell behind me jingled, and a crowd of ladies dressed in blue scrubs came in.

"You're getting busy, and I completely forgot my second reason for being here." I opened the cookbook, which was now permanently glued by icing to the crocodile page. "I can't get him to stick together. How do I fix it?"

"Um," she said, looking at the picture of the cake, "use icing between each piece to use as a glue, and don't overcook the cakes. If they get all crumbly he'll start to look like he's shedding. Keep it moist, not dry."

"Thanks again, I'll try that." I backed up as the women in blue approached the counter, their eyes focused on their next high-calorie snack. Pattie brushed some flour off of her apron and greeted them. As she started filling their orders she looked over at me and winked. I guess she was making her own happy ending, too.

CHAPTER FOUR

I stopped over at the Pecan Bayou police station with my box of iced donuts for my dad and George Beckman, the other working officer on our little police force. Dad was tapping away on his computer, while George was putting on his jacket getting ready to go out on patrol. The day dispatcher, Mrs. Thatcher, who still sported a beehive hairdo a la 1963, was filing papers while the squawk of the radio went on behind her. She adjusted her plastic eyeglass frames and focused on the black screen.

"Donuts from PattieCake's!" I announced.

It was like bringing out a cheesecake at the diet center. They all turned toward my pink-striped box, grins lighting up their little law enforcement faces.

"This is mighty nice of you darlin'," my dad said as he picked out a shiny chocolate donut. My dad was the highest-ranking officer on the police force except for the chief of police, Arvin Wilson. Dad handled patrols, court appearances, traffic violations, drugs, domestic disturbances and an occasional murder. The one case he had never solved was the disappearance of my own husband, Barry. He told me he felt he had let me and Zach down. When I discovered the murdered body of my husband's ex-partner last Halloween, I had the opportunity to learn what he was like when he was on a case. He could be grumpy and demanding, but he was smart and sought the truth no matter what.

When I was twelve years old, I decided to try smoking out behind the garage. My dad knew what I had been doing immediately even though I sprayed room freshener everywhere except down my own throat.

"Betsy," he had said. "You haven't been smokin' now, have you?"

"Of course not," I'd answered, wondering if I was blasting him with smoker's breath. I tried to sound wounded that he would ever suspect me of doing such a terrible thing.

"Good to know. By the way, there are some ashes on your shirt."

I brushed off my breast pocket as if there were a swarm of cockroaches on it.

"Gotcha."

My dad reached in for a second donut, barely avoiding George Beckman's big square hand. "You can only take two in the squad car, George," said Mrs. Thatcher. "I don't want to be cleaning up sticky stuff off the equipment again."

George was a large man at over six-foot-three, and he had a cap of blonde hair that was thinning on the top. He wore the Pecan Bayou Police uniform of navy blue, and just the appearance of him in any crowd situation could quiet down some pretty rowdy folks. That is, until he opened his mouth and began speaking. For some reason, George was blessed with a high voice that sometimes made me think of him as a mix between Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob. His lovely voice could be heard in the Episcopal church choir every Sunday morning as he sang in beautiful Irish tenor tones. He squeaked out a resigned "Yes ma'am."

My dad and I walked over to his office. "Can we talk?" I walked in behind him and shut his office door.

"Uh oh, this is never good," he said as he sat in his soft black leather office chair, still balancing the donut between his fingers.

"Fitzpatrick called me yesterday."

"He's done that before, right?"

"Yes, but he has invited me to come to Dallas for the weekend."

"And you've done that before, right?"

"Yes I have, but this time he wants to see me without the boys being around."

He nodded in recognition. "Did you want me to take Zach for the weekend?"

I breathed in deeply and let out a sigh. "I don't know, Dad. I wish I did."

He popped the remainder of the donut in his mouth. "I see. Let me ask you – do you want to go to Dallas?"

"Yes," I answered, blushing. "And no. You know, Dad, this is the first ... time since Barry I've even considered ..."

"I get it, you don't need to go any further with that," he stopped me. "This is something you need to think about, Betsy, but whatever you decide, it's going to be okay."

"I know. Fitzpatrick is a nice guy and all, I'm just not sure I'm ready."

"Would you like to know what I would do if it were me?"

I nodded.

"Go to Dallas. For the last eight years I've watched you work hard, raise my grandson, and even though Barry did what he did, you kept on goin'. I think you deserve to have a little fun in your life. Now mind you, I wouldn't be saying this if I hadn't already done an extensive background check on him."