The Mint Julep Murder

by CC Dragon

  “Have faith. What did I drag you to church for all your life?” she asked.

  I stopped and gathered my thoughts. “Sorry, I have faith in your baking and my drinks, but coffee shops are about franchises now. Huge corporations that put shops on every corner and drive small owners out of business. It happens to some. I believe it won’t happen here, but I need you to know that if it does, we’ll be okay.”

  She wagged a finger. “Set the timer so you don’t burn the pastries.”

  I did as she ordered and went back to the muffins. Southern women communicated through food a lot, and I took the win. She hadn’t flat-out refused.

  * * * *

  The doctor was chatty but patient with Gran. We had instructions for the burn.

  “Any other problems, Bea?” the old, bald family doctor asked.

  “I do. She’s been a bit sleepy lately. I just wondered if any of her meds are causing that?” I asked.

  “Age is causing it.” Gran shook her head.

  The doc chucked. “I’m sure it’s some of both. You can time your meds before bed so they help you sleep instead of fighting them.”

  She flexed her fingers. “My arthritis is flaring up more. That might have something to do with my injury or working more now that Belle stirred things up.”

  “I see.” He felt her joints. “Finger joints are already pretty inflamed, and the wrist might swell and you won’t really notice it as much. Topical treatments work well and I want you using wrist supports at work. An Ace bandage if that’s all you want, but see if it helps. We can also try another medication, but I want to see your hand healed first, since that’s a different sort of pain and you’ll be on pain meds for a few weeks.”

  “No, you know I don’t like those things,” she argued.

  The doc shook his head. “When you’re suffering, you’re not healing. Only take them when you’re in discomfort.”

  “We’ll fill it and when you need it, you’ll have them, Gran,” I said.

  “Can’t I just use the topical stuff when I need it?” she asked.

  “The topical stuff will help with arthritic inflammation, but you can’t put it on an open wound. Take this for now and I’ll see you in a week. We’ll see how you’re doing. Try the topical on your other wrist for now and we can tinker with your arthritis pills later. Okay?” he asked.

  “You just want to see me again,” Gran teased.

  “Get the most out of your Medicare. Any other complaints? Eating well?” he asked.

  She nodded. “With Belle back, I’m eating plenty and resting.”

  “Good. And you, Belle? Anything I can do?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Tell everyone my smoothies are good for their health?”

  He chuckled. “Sneak in some extra veggies with all that fruit and I will. You seem stressed—you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just worried about this murder. The sheriff. People thought I did it and now it’s a long list of suspects. Everyone is walking on eggshells.”

  “Oh, I know. I had the deputies come in and ask about what the sheriff was taking. Asking questions about what might’ve been slipped into something. He’s not allergic to anything and that reaction would’ve been obvious.” The doc shook his head.

  “No tox screen yet?” I asked.

  Gran frowned. “Are you running for sheriff?”

  “No, but if people were trying to blame me and my smoothie for it, I’d like to know what killed him. Having this lingering out there hurts our business. I know it sounds horrible to be so selfish, but we’re working hard and we’re innocent. If there is a murderer in town, I want him behind bars.”

  “No word yet, but that sort of thing takes much longer than it does on TV shows. I know the medical examiner who did the autopsy. I’ll see if he’ll give me the info. Just so we can rest easy? But we’ll have to wait a bit more,” he said.

  Gran beamed with pride, as if her connections had solved the case.

  “Thanks, doc,” I said.

  He handed us the scripts and left the room.

  “I have to come back,” she grumbled.

  “It’s okay. You need to take care of yourself. It’s aging,” I teased.

  * * * *

  A couple of hours later, we were at the lawyers to change things over.

  “You want to sell the business to your granddaughter?” Mr. Blake asked.

  “We’re in business together, really. I have a lease on the space, and I’d still work there some, but it’ll be her business.” Gran waved her hand like she had a magic wand.

  Mr. Blake frowned. “The lease is in the name of the business, so if the business changes hands, it’ll be fine, but we might want to speak to the landlord and assure them it’s just a family thing. How much do you think the business is worth?”

  Gran frowned. “I have the tax reports, but I’m not going to charge her.”

  “Then it’s a gift and you’re paying tax on the gift.” Mr. Blake sighed. “Send me over the last three years of tax statements and financials for the last six months to get an idea of the income.”

  “I’m not charging her,” Gran repeated.

  “Gran, it’s okay. I have some money saved up. I can pay you, we put that money in a joint bank account and use it only in emergencies. That way it’s available to both of us just in case,” I explained.

  “You can do that?” she asked.

  “I write you the check, you can put it into any account that you want. If you want to put it in a joint account, we both have access to, you can. If you want. But then if you need it but you’re in the hospital and can’t get to it, I can. If you want to buy something, you can. That’s not illegal?” I asked Mr. Blake.

  “No, not at all. If you had other family members, I’d suggest letting someone else be the joint account holder, but we all know the situation here. As long as you trust each other, it’s the best way to handle it. Then we have a clear bill of sale for the business—we don’t want to it to get messy.”

  “We’ll stop on the way home and set up a joint bank account so it’s there whenever we need it. It’s not a rush—we’re just gathering info and figuring out how to go about this.” I smiled at Mr. Blake.

  He leaned forward. “Mrs. Baxter, you’re very lucky. I wish everyone looked after their senior family members like your granddaughter is.”

  Gran said, “I know. I want her joint on the house too. And my car.”

  “Gran, you don’t need to,” I said.

  “Mrs. Baxter, your will specifies Belle as your sole heir. Everything in your name will be hers. You don’t need to retitle anything personal. The business, if you want her to control it now—that’s why you need to do this,” he explained.

  “Fine. Then just this,” Gran said.

  “Just email me or drop copies of those forms by so I can get our accountant to look at them. We want a fair price that won’t red-flag anything. The government is nothing but trouble for a small business,” he said.

  Gran smiled politely. “You’ll have it today. Thanks.”

  “Thank you. I think it’s a smart move,” Blake replied.

  He stood and opened the door for us as we left.

  As we left the office, Mrs. Monroe walked out of the insurance agent office next door.

  “Hello, Bonnie, everything okay?” Gran asked.

  Mrs. Monroe nodded stiffly. “Just fine. I had hoped one of the kids could sit with me through all that insurance paperwork. But it’s filed. The funeral bill has to be paid.”

  “It’s all still in your name, right? That way you can pay off everything you need to and have a cushion in the bank. No squabbling with the kids?” I asked. “I’m sorry, that’s prying. I just know how relieved I was that Grandpa left Gran safe without any surprises.”

  I was too young to remember it in real time but, later in life, that bank account from the insurance had saved us many times. Gran finally told me once how Grandpa had always thought Mom would show up one
day out of the blue and realize her mistakes. He’d wanted her home so badly. He’d thought he’d failed her. Gran had worried he’d changed something on a work policy or his pension to go to Mom instead of her. She had no control over his work benefits.

  “You’re sweet, Belle. Yes, it was in my name, so no stress there. But I still have one child in college and that’s not cheap.” Mrs. Monroe took a deep breath and tucked a tissue into her purse.

  “No, it’s not. But there are scholarships and loans. Widows and orphans fund for law enforcement. You have options, if you’re not too proud to reach out,” Gran suggested.

  Bonnie fingered her necklace nervously. “We’ll see how it all shakes out once everything is settled. I might downsize the house, and that would help. The boys are out of it and it’s just me and my little dog.”

  “We have to keep going, and in the South that means eating. Why don’t I treat you two ladies to lunch?” I asked. “Gran is bored with just me all morning. We can run by the bank tomorrow morning.”

  Gran waved at me. “Yes please, Bonnie, come with us. I can’t handle more appointments today. Don’t forget, we’re always around to sit with. Come to the shop after for dessert. Belle’s muffins were perfect today.”

  “Oh yes, how is your wrist doing?” Bonnie asked.

  Gran dove into a recap of her doctor’s appointment. Hopefully it’d take Bonnie’s mind off her troubles. We walked toward the diner a few doors down and I braced myself for a lot of widow talk.

  In order to be a widow, a woman needed one thing I lacked…a husband. I was pretty sure that would come up too. I ordered sweet teas all around and studied the menu.

  I wondered what Gus was up to today and immediately squelched the thought. I had bigger fruit to blend than flirting with deputies. My business and a murder mattered more than having a man on my arm.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gran and I returned from the bank with a new account, plus the new water bottles included for opening a new account, which made her happy. Her entourage were minding the store.

  “Thank you, boys, so much,” Gran said.

  “I’d say breakfast was on the house, but it always is,” I teased.

  Milan stood up and refilled his coffee. “We’re happy to pay if you like.”

  “Belle, really,” Gran scolded.

  “It was a joke.” I felt bad, but they were always there.

  As I put on my apron, I reminded myself of the senior center we’d talked about in Atlanta. Here it was on her terms. No one else made up her social calendar or told her when to do what.

  I only nudged a bit.

  I poured myself some coffee and fired up the blender. It was amazing how people were using smoothies for a quick lunch. I’d never expected it, but I was ready for the rush. I’d added more veggies to the base and disclosed some of the ingredients so people felt healthier about it. The menu was only a one-page flyer, and there was a special treat smoothie every week that had chocolate or caramel in it for those wanting to splurge.

  Lou and Mike walked in, looking a bit confused.

  “Morning, Deputies,” I said.

  “What can we get you?” Gran asked.

  “How’s your hand, Mrs. B?” Lou asked.

  “Fine, Lou.” She patted his arm. “You look like you need some coffee.”

  He nodded.

  “What’s your poison?” I asked out of habit. “Darn. Sorry.”

  Mike laughed. “Actually, I needed that. It’s too soon, but I know you meant well.”

  “It was a throwback to my Starbucks days, really, and I could only say that to my regulars. The menu was so full that it spellbound newbies,” I explained.

  “Give me a large iced dark roast with two shots of mocha,” Mike said.

  “Blond roast but five caramel,” Lou said.

  “Iced or hot, Lou?” I asked.

  “Iced, please.” Lou grabbed a chair.

  “What is it? Did you find the killer?” I asked.

  Mike shook his head and dropped a ten into the tip jar. “Gus is interim sheriff.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure that’s because he doesn’t know people here as well as both of you. It makes him more impartial for the investigation of the old sheriff’s death.” Gran rambled a bit but she knew how to hop on the best version of news.

  The men shook their heads and started chatting amongst themselves.

  “Now Gus will be a prime suspect, but not his own,” Lou said.

  “Gus had no motive,” I said.

  “We all wanted to be the next sheriff, but he was so new. He’d have no loyalty to Ed.” Mike shook his head.

  I sighed. “Not years of loyalty like you guys, but is a hasty promotion worth killing for? With no guarantee it’d be him? I can’t imagine. Just like I’d never hurt anyone because I was pulled over. People are grasping at straws. You and Lou would both be suspects as well, then. You’d be hoping to be the next sheriff. Interim is appointed but elections take time. All of you have time to campaign,” I pointed out.

  “I always thought the sheriff should be appointed by the mayor, not elected by the people. How do we know what we need in a good sheriff?” asked Freddie, the quietest of Gran’s men.

  I hung back as they debated the pros and cons.

  “We should get back,” Lou said.

  “Why? We’ve got every right to take our full break.” Mike sat down.

  “Honey butter scone?” Gran offered.

  Just then a line of people poured in, the pre-lunch rush for those on more flexible schedules. I was getting the feel for this place and it seemed like things might work out…if only we had no more murders!

  * * * *

  Gran and Duke were out like lights, watching a cooking competition show, so I left a note that I was going to Katie’s. I locked all the doors behind me and all the appliances were off. I still felt bad, but Gran had always been a morning person. I just wasn’t ready for bed at nine o’clock.

  I drove, observing the speed limit because now I was paranoid that everyone was judging my driving. They all knew about that late-night traffic stop and that, apparently, I was a lead foot. Silly, but people wouldn’t let stuff go. If I was outright speeding, I’d hear about it for a week.

  The bar was packed, so I parked around back next to Katie’s vehicle. It was usually reserved for staff, but I was close enough.

  I went through the back door and found one of Katie’s half-brothers making out with someone.

  “Sorry. I heard you guys needed a hand at the bar,” I said.

  They didn’t even stop to look up and her brothers were all so big and tall that I couldn’t get a glimpse of the mystery lady. I wound my way through the kitchen and out into the bar area.

  Katie and two other bartenders were working hard.

  “Bar or tables?” I asked.

  Katie looked like she could cry. “You read my mind.”

  “I’ll take some tables. I need to stretch my legs,” one of the bartenders offered.

  I took her post. After tossing on an apron, I washed my hands and got to work.

  “What’s the big rush?” I asked Katie when I needed a bottle near her.

  “Gus is sheriff. The whole town’s talking about it.” Katie winked.

  “I heard this morning. My coffee and smoothie shop appears to be the morning watering hole and you’ve got the evening one,” I said.

  “Well, Gus is supposed be playing tonight with the band. Everyone is freaking out. Good for business. When the hot new sheriff is also a musician, the single girls go a little crazy,” Katie teased.

  “But why are people freaking out?”

  “People want answers for the murder and our new sheriff is goofing off on a guitar,” Lurlene said.

  I smiled at her, despite every instinct in me. “No tox screen back, he can only do so much. Now that he’s interim sheriff, it’s a high-pressure situation?”

  “It’s not for you to decide, now, is it? You’re just glad it’s him so
you’re off the suspect list.” She drummed her fingers on the bar.

  “I was never really on it. Come on, think of all the people who Sheriff Monroe put into prison—those men have motive. He’d pulled over most of us at one time or another for a burned-out taillight or fooling around with a boy in the back of the car.” I shot her a look. “But he got real criminals put in prison for years. Some of them must be out…that’s who my money is on. If I were a betting girl.”

  Lurlene blushed a bit. “At least you’re winning so far, betting on Gus.” She stopped herself. “I’m…I’m thirsty. Can I get a rum and Coke, please?”

  “Sure. I’m not betting on or after Gus. He’s nice and doesn’t have a list of prejudices against me, which is refreshing, but I’m sure you’ll tell him all about it when it suits you. Right now, I’m not focused on landing a husband.” I mixed her drink and set it in front of her. “If you want the pastor, you’re going to have to be a bit more direct but also less clingy.”

  Lurlene furrowed her brow at me as she sipped her drink.

  “Fine.” I moved over to serve a group of men, who all wanted beers on tap. When I looked back, Lurlene’s glass was just ice.

  “Another?” I asked.

  She nodded. “How can I be more and less?”

  “Don’t let your mouth overload your tail. I’m trying to help,” I said.

  “Explain.” She squared her shoulders like we were in debate club.

  I mixed her second drink and set it down. “Less clingy is obvious. You’re doing the easily impressed wilting female thing. I get it, trying to make him feel like a big strong man. The problem is, he’s a pastor.”

  “I’m aware.” She glared at me.

  “Well, a pastor’s wife has to deal with a lot and she can’t be bragging on all that she does. People calling you up at all hours of the night for help. Who does everyone go to in an emergency? The pastor or the mayor. That means you’d have to put people up if there’s a house fire. Cook if someone can’t. Take a casserole to every funeral in town. Help run all those charities and go to all the events. Reach out to people who are unemployed or struggling. I know the events part you’ll like and the charities too, but you need to be sure you want that all for your life. People just expect it of you and it’s a lot of work. Then, if you’re sure, you have to show him you can handle all of those things, even things you might not like, with compassion and a real smile. People can tell when you’re fake. We’ve known you forever,” I warned.