Peppermint Breath & an Untimely Death

by Willow Monroe

  “She would say mind your own business, Tucker Ashe,” I said, joining in their laughter.

  He and Poppy talked for a few moments while I filled the road crew’s thermoses and waved them out the door.

  “I’ll be back for lunch,” Tucker said, following them outside.

  As it turned out, he was back much sooner than that and it wasn’t a social visit.

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy and I decided against going to the bank that morning. There really wasn’t much to deposit and, to tell the truth, we were both still a little shook up from finding Mr. Nettle the day before. And that wind howling around the diner wasn’t helping much either.

  “I wonder if Helen Taylor’s friend ever caught up with her?” I mused, while looking through my collection of cupcake recipes, hoping to stumble across something special to make for the Winter Festival.

  “I don’t know,” Poppy muttered.

  “Did you think the mayor seemed odd this morning?” I asked.

  “Maybe a little. He’s got a lot on his mind right now,” Poppy said, coming to the same conclusion I had earlier.

  I caught a whiff of Gladys’s chicken noddle soup, closed my eyes and moaned softly. “She makes the best soup in the world,” I said.

  “You got that right,” Poppy said.

  “Oh, yeah, I haven’t had the chance to tell you. The Lord sisters and Tiffany are taking cake decorating lessons from Sylvia Shatner.”

  “In Harrisonburg?” Poppy said, her eyes growing big and round, her pencil in mid-air. “Sylvia’s Sweets?”

  I nodded. “They pretty much told me I didn’t stand a chance of winning.”

  “Ha!” Poppy snorted. “They should know better than to throw down a challenge like that.”

  “I don’t know, Poppy. I’m not a baker and I really don’t want to invest a lot of money in cake decorating equipment just for this contest,” I countered.

  “We’ll come up with something. I’ll help you figure it out,” Poppy promised.

  There was a quick tap on the door and then it opened and Barbara Ellen poked her head inside.

  “You okay?” I asked, thinking she needed help out in the diner.

  She shook her head and grinned. “Little Tucker Ashe is here looking for you.”

  I smiled. “Little Tucker?”

  “That’s what I always called him.” Barbara giggled like a school girl. “He’s not so little any more,” she added, fanning herself with both hands.

  Both Poppy and I laughed and I stood up. “I’ll be right out...”

  Barbara shook her head, hands fisted on her hips. “He says he needs to speak to you in private.”

  “Well, then tell hot stuff, he can come on back here.”

  Barbara giggled again and left.

  A minute or so later there was another tap on the door and Tucker entered our little office, making it seem even smaller.

  “You’re a little early for lunch,” I said.

  There were no other chairs in the room other than the two Poppy and I used but Tucker seemed a little too agitated to sit down. And he didn’t remove his hat so I knew this was all business.

  “Is this about Mr. Nettle?” I asked, already knowing that it was.

  He nodded.

  “What?” Poppy whispered.

  “Along with the autopsy report, I received all of Mr. Nettle’s personal belongings, clothing, contents of his pockets, you know,” he began.

  “For evidence,” I said and both Poppy and I nodded.

  “He died from a gunshot wound to the head. Small caliber, probably twenty-two from about 50 yards away. We found prints in the snow where the shooter knelt. It looked like he had been waiting a long time.”

  “Twenty-two doesn’t make much noise,” Poppy said, almost to herself.

  “And that’s why you didn’t hear anything.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “What else?” I knew there had to be a what else.

  “We found this in his pocket,” Tucker said quietly and held up a Ziploc bag.

  Poppy and I stared at it as if it was a snake. Neither of us moved to touch it. Inside was a piece of paper with a raggedly torn edge. Scrawled across it was the word ‘Helen’ and ‘park’ and a time.

  “The time was right around the time we think he was murdered,” Tucker said, putting the note back in his jacket pocket.

  “So, you think Mr. Nettle was meeting someone in the park. And that someone got him killed or killed him?” I asked.

  Tucker nodded. “I came to you because I’ve been gone for a while. You guys know just about everyone in town and can probably tell me quicker than any data base I could get Tommy to search for me.”

  “There’s Helen Taylor. She comes to mind first because she was in the diner yesterday morning waiting for a friend,” I said.

  “Who was her friend?” Tucker asked, his notebook appearing in his big hand again.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. They never showed.”

  “Okay. Who else?” Tucker asked, writing in his little note pad.

  Poppy and I looked at each other and then Poppy said, “Helen Means. She’s about the same age as Helen Taylor, lives with her son and his family over on West Beverly Street.”

  “In one of those big Victorians,” Tucker said and wrote that down.

  I spent the next few minutes, mentally going through everyone in town trying to place the name Helen with everyone.

  “Could be someone’s daughter,” Tucker said softly. “Could be someone who maybe just visits from time to time.”

  “Maybe Mr. Nettle knew of someone that was moving back to town or something. Maybe he was going to see her for...”

  “In the middle of a snow storm? And if she was as old as he was... That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Can I see that note again?” I asked.

  Tucker placed it on the desk between us and I stared at it, hoping it would give up some kind of secret.

  “Are we sure Mr. Nettle wrote this?” I asked.

  Tucker looked a bit surprised. “Good point.”

  Suddenly, I remembered the mail Mr. Nettle had dropped off that morning. Junk mail was still coming to my old address and he usually wrote himself a note on the envelope before bringing it to me at the diner.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping up and heading out to the diner.

  There was the stack of flyers and junk mail right where I’d placed it on the shelf below the register.

  “Everything okay?” Barbara Ellen asked.

  “Yes, it’s all good. I just need to grab this mail,” I assured her.

  On the way back to the office, I found what I was looking for. There was Mr. Nettle’s handwriting, looking a little bit shaky, written in large looping letters as if he had difficulty with his vision. I pulled it out and placed it on the desk beside the note in the clear bag.

  “Look at this.”

  Poppy and Tucker looked closely.

  “That’s his handwriting alright,” Tucker said. “No mistaking that.”

  “Okay, so we know he wrote the note,” I said.

  “Helen Rogers,” Poppy said suddenly.

  “Yeah, that preacher’s wife. Kind of quiet. She’s been in the diner a couple of times with her lady friends from the church,” I said, glad that Poppy thought of her.

  “She looks to be older, too,” Poppy added.

  “They live here in town?” Tucker asked.

  “Over on Sears Hill near the water tower,” I said, nodding in agreement with Poppy’s guess of her age.

  “So, that’s three women in town named Helen,” Tucker said, noting the name in his book. “Any others you can think of?”

  Again, we thought about it. Poppy chewed on her lower lip. In the end we came up with nothing new.

  “So, we’ve got three women named Helen here in town. That’s a start,” Tucker said, stuffing the note back in his pocket.

  “Prints?” I asked, pointing to the pocket.

&
nbsp; Tucker shook his head. “Just his own.”

  “Hope those names helped,” Poppy said, when Tucker turned toward the door.

  “Like I said, it’s a start. If you think of more, just give me a call,” he said, pulled out a business card and jotted his cell number on the back.

  “We will,” I said and then I remembered Mr. Nettle’s son. “Have you spoken to Adam?”

  “Yeah, he’s on his way. Should be here sometime this afternoon,” Tucker said, shaking his head. “You know, I didn’t picture coming back to my home town being anything like this.”

  “Once this is all over, we’ll give you a big welcome home party right here at the diner,” Poppy promised.

  Tucker laughed and touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. “Hey, Starla, would you like to go with me to the Winter Festival?”

  I was surprised at the invitation but shouldn’t have been. When we were younger, we always went to the festival together, joining in the sledding competition and drinking way too much hot chocolate. Tucker’s mom usually entered one baking contest or another and almost always had the best bread.

  “Remember the exploding snowmen?” I asked, laughing.

  One year they had an exploding snowman contest, that turned out to be quite a spectacle.

  Tucker began laughing as well. “Lord, I hadn’t thought of that in years.”

  We were quiet for a moment, lost in pleasant memories.

  “We’ll see,” I finally said. “I’m entering the baking contest this year.”

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot about your newspaper guy. What’s his name?”

  “Joe. Joe Wheeler,” I said, thinking there was no way Joe would enjoy the festival like Tucker and I.

  “Well, let me know.”

  “I will. Thanks. And tell Adam to come by for supper this evening. On the house,” I added. He may not have visited his dad often but he’d still suffered a loss and my heart went out to him.

  “Is that chicken noodle soup I smell?” Tucker asked.

  “It is. Want some to go?” Poppy asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tucker drawled.

  While she filled a large to go cup with the soup, I grabbed a spoon and some crackers and we placed all of them in a small white paper bag. Poppy shook her head when he reached for his wallet.

  “Much obliged,” he said and left the diner.

  I watched him walk down the street, holding onto his hat and bending forward into the wind. When I turned around, Poppy was rummaging around on the shelves below the register.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a phone book to see if there’s a Helen we missed,” Poppy said.

  “Poppy, when was the last time you saw or used a phone book?” I asked.

  Barbara Ellen simply stood there beside Gladys, shaking her head.

  “It’s been a while but I know I saw one in here,” Poppy said, continuing to search.

  I laughed and gave Barbara Ellen a quick hug. “Well, I’m going upstairs and take a nap. Call me if you need me.”

  “Will do,” Barbara Ellen said.

  During the past spring and fall, I’d spent my free afternoons people watching from the perch of my bedroom window. At that time, our Chief of Police, Roby Whitt, ran on a regular basis and seeing him run down the street was a sight to behold. If he hadn’t been a thief and a murderer he would be out running today. In fact, as I sipped coffee and gazed out the window, I realized hardly anyone was moving about.

  Poppy’s light footsteps on the stairs preceded her tap on my door.

  “Come on in,” I called out, not moving from my window seat.

  Poppy flopped down on my bed with the yellow phone book in her hand. It was maybe a quarter inch thick, the cover tattered and torn.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I asked.

  “I told you - looking for people named Helen we might have missed,” she answered.

  “Poppy how old is that phone book?”

  She closed it, marking her place with her thumb and looked at the cover. “Ten years.”

  “I tell you what. Why don’t we brainstorm cupcake decorating ideas and techniques? I think it would be more productive,” I suggested.

  Poppy sighed and tossed the phone book aside. “You’re right.”

  We ended up at my small kitchen table, with a legal pad between us. I flipped through my recipes handed down from my grandmother, some of them barely visible on the little cards, spotted with remnants of water or a doughy fingerprint. She’d written them in pencil in her almost childish looking handwriting.

  “I’m thinking something chocolate,” Poppy said, sketching out a design on the paper.

  “What about a chocolate peppermint?” I asked, thinking it would be easy to just add peppermint oil to a chocolate cupcake recipe.

  “Good idea. Maybe swirl a pale green and white frosting on top,” she suggested.

  “I don’t think that’s going to top the competition,” I said. “They’re going to do something really fancy, I’ll bet.”

  “Maybe yours will be all in the arrangement, the presentation,” Poppy mused.

  “Maybe I can get some of that glitter sugar.”

  “Or those little edible pearls,” Poppy said. “Or snowflakes.”

  Poppy’s cell chimed and from the smile on her face, I knew it was Tom. She spoke with him for a moment and then stood up. “Tom is knocking off for the day. He’s coming to get me so we can work on wedding plans.”

  “Have fun.” I smiled. It was great to see my best friend so happy, so excited for her future with the love of her life.

  “You know, we’re going to have to get you hitched as well,” Poppy said when I followed her to the door.

  “Don’t see that happening any time soon,” I told her.

  “Maybe Joe?”

  I shook my head. “He’s cute and smart...

  “And a good kisser,” Poppy put in.

  “And a good kisser,” I agreed. “We have fun together but I’m pretty sure he’s not The One.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now, go meet Tom and have a fun evening.”

  “Promise me you’ll close up a little bit early if there are no customers,” Poppy said as she started down the steps.

  “I promise,” I called out.

  Chapter Eight

  Too restless to sit still, I helped Barbara Ellen clean up after the small lunch crowd and sent her home.

  “Business has been really slow,” she said, putting on her coat and hat.

  “It’s just this storm,” I reassured her. “Things will pick back up when the weather breaks. And the Winter Festival always brings traffic into town.”

  She looked a little less worried while pulling on her gloves. “Hey, are you entering the Winter Festival baking contest?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve just about decided what to enter and will probably test the product on customers next week,” I told her.

  I don’t know how long I’d been sitting behind the counter reading when the bells over the door tinkled. Looking up, the first thing I noticed was that it was almost dark outside. The second thing I noticed was Mr. Nettle standing in front of me.

  Gasping, I jumped to my feet. Then I realized it was his son, Adam. Same white hair, same build, just a somewhat younger version of Mr. Nettle. If Mr. Nettle had been dressed like a high profile lawyer in Atlanta.

  “Whew, you scared the life out of me,” I said, placing my e-reader on the shelf under the counter. “For a minute I thought it was your dad standing there.”

  “Sorry, to frighten you,” he said, taking off his hat and gloves. “Tucker said you were holding supper for me.”

  “I was hoping you’d come by for supper. I wanted a chance to tell you how sorry I am about the loss of your dad,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  There was no missing the glittering pinkie ring on his finger. Those had to be real diamonds, and his watch looked very expensive even
to my untrained eye. And when he shrugged off his long, wool coat, there was no mistaking the perfect tailoring of his dark suit.

  “Have a seat,” I said, showing him to a booth.

  “I’ve been over at dad’s house sorting through his papers. It feels good just to get out for a bit,” he said, settling into the red leather seat.

  “How about some hot coffee and some chicken noodle soup to get you started,” I suggested.

  “That sounds fine. I don’t have much of an appetite anyway,” he said, with a cold little smile.

  In the kitchen, I began heating up the soup Gladys had made earlier in the day and then returned to his table with a thick mug of freshly made coffee.

  Adam was looking out the window into the darkness. He thanked me, cradled the cup in both hands, and forced another one of those cold little smiles.

  “You want biscuits or cornbread with your soup?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “How about grilled cheese? I haven’t had that in years.”

  “Okay, it’ll be ready in a jiffy,” I said and scurried off to the kitchen.

  “Take your time,” he said and pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket.

  I had the distinct impression that Adam wanted to be alone for a little while so I took my time, preparing the grilled cheese sandwich and ladling hot soup into a big bowl. When I returned to his table, he was talking on his cell.

  “Yes, it looks like everything is in order,” I heard him say in his somewhat cultured voice. No southern drawl, even though he lived in Atlanta. And then, “I’ll call you tomorrow and I should be home the day after that. Yes, dear, I love you, too.”

  I tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard that last part but surely, he wasn’t going to be able to have his father’s services that quickly. Had the body even been released from the coroner’s office?

  “This looks delightful, Starla,” he said and picked up a spoon when I placed his food in front of him.

  “Oh, you’ll probably eat fancier food in Atlanta, but nothing cooked with the love Gladys puts into her soup,” I said, trying not to boast but, well, the truth is the truth.

  He took a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich, closed his eyes and moaned. “Heavenly.”

  “Just like your mama used to make,” I said with a laugh and sat down across from him.