William came over to us and stuck a fresh loaf of bread under my nose, the crust golden and making a strange sound. Like it was singing a one-note tune.
“Looks real good.” I clamped down on my praise when I felt Elizabeth’s eyes. Maybe my slip was a good thing, it would force William out. “You better start making up some bread for the fund-raiser.”
William stared at me, no expression on his face. His eyes rolled between me and Elizabeth. “I already have.”
Elizabeth clapped her hands together, clearly delighted, her gaze on William. “I thought I heard you whispering to Chief Conrad.”
William retreated, setting the loaf to cook and returning his attention to the dough he’d been working, pressing his palm into it, folding, turning, then pressing again. Over and over.
“He can talk. He’s just very shy and very reluctant to socialize. But I told him it was time to come out of his shell and that he could trust me and you. All of us.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “I can’t believe it. For years we all thought he was deaf. Even his momma said as much.”
William stopped shaping the dough into a smooth ball. “She said that?”
“She came to town one day, years ago. George and I were just married. She said you’d caught something and it had left you deaf.”
This was news, and judging by the funny look on his face, it was news to William too. Why would his mom say something like that?
Elizabeth kept right on talking. “I wanted to know how you made those cinnamon rolls but hated the idea of having to write everything I asked down—” She let out a little laugh. “Anyway, I’m glad to know you can talk me through the process.”
I left the two of them talking, mostly Elizabeth, to flip the sign for the lunch crowd, then went back to finish the last pan of cobbler. The kitchen work hadn’t been as therapeutic as I’d wanted, probably because it wasn’t my own kitchen. So many thoughts swirled in my brain. Eugene Taser and the hit. William hiding in the Dumpster. Molly. The strange men. Aidan. The necklace. Dr. Cryer’s accusation against Carl. Eugene’s argument with Carl. Flossie. Betsy.
Peaches spilled out of the bowl and onto the batter in a luscious stream of sweet heaven. For all her talk about being thrilled to talk to William, Elizabeth had gone quiet, probably put off by William’s sober, expressionless answers. Old habits die hard, or so they say. Seemed to be true for William though.
I shoved the pan of cobbler into the oven, loving the way it scented the air with peach and cinnamon. Bells on the door clattered a greeting to a customer, and Elizabeth left to seat the person.
With lunch underway, my thoughts turned to dinner. I needed to put in another produce order with Shiny before the end of the week, which meant meal planning would need to be happening real fast. If I rolled out into that dining room, not a strip of paperwork would get done, so I planted my backside in the chair at a small desk in the corner of the kitchen. Above the desk the corkboard held the week’s menu. Tonight’s special would be homemade chicken and noodles.
“I’ll make up the noodles to dry,” William’s voice drifted to me from over my right shoulder. “I’ve got more bread made. It’s resting. You want me to fill out the menu? I can make out the order list.”
“You know how?”
His eyes went to his feet. “Yeah.”
I could have kissed him. “Angels are dancing on your head for sure.” I scraped the chair back and wrapped him in a hug. “Almost made myself sick thinking I’d have to deal with all this.”
He stood straight as a stick during my hug. I let him go, remembering another injured soul I’d met months ago at Bridgeton Towers Assisted Living and Nursing, who’d reacted much the same way to my hug. So many hurting people, so little time. “I’ve got some shopping to do and a hair appointment before I go chase after Hardy and make sure he’s good and riled up. Helps him heal faster than when he’s not lolling in bed.”
This pulled some sunshine out of William. “I don’t think anyone would get much sleep with you around.”
“You sassing me?”
“No, ma’am,” his eyes shifted to the wall behind me. “Of course not.”
I’d spooked him with that. I grasped his chin until his eyes drifted over me, then away again. A child caught in a man’s body. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had a mature mind just poor social skills. “It’s okay if you are, William. I don’t mind it one bit.”
I beat a path to Shiny’s to pick up a few things, intending to do some digging, shopping, and fund-raising. Shiny yelped out a greeting as I pushed my cart into the produce section. He was working on some grapes, weighing them, bagging them, and giving them a neat swing before tying them off.
“Feeling okay after your near miss?” Shiny popped a bag of the grapes into my cart. “They’re on special this week. Ninety-nine cents a pound.”
“Give me two. Hardy eats them like a vacuum.”
“I thought he couldn’t chew.”
“No, but if I freeze them, he can move one around his mouth to the hurting spots and suck them into raisins.”
Shiny chuckled and began transferring his pile of bags to the grape section of produce. “You’re one of a kind, LaTisha.”
“No, my legacy continues through my children. You should hear how Bryton is taking up cooking pizzas for the children in the pedes unit of the hospital near him. Friday night is Bryton’s pizza night. Kids love it.”
“Maybe you should have him come here and manage the restaurant.”
“It’s tempting, but they’re settled in real good right where they’re at.” I eyed the clusters of grapes. They looked real good. “I’m working on another project.”
Shiny didn’t even break rhythm with stacking. “Why do I have a feeling my help is being requested?”
“Because it’s a project to help one of our own.”
Shiny finished stacking his pile and spent some time straightening the bags into neat groups. “You know I’ll help, LaTisha. Whatever cause you embrace is going to be one I’d want to help with.”
My chest swelled. Not literally, thank the good Lord, but figuratively. “I heard rumor that the Buchanans have some heavy medical bills. We’ll be raising money by selling food products. If you can supply some ingredients, that would be your donation.”
Satisfied with his display of grapes, Shiny put a hand to his back and straightened. “Need to get me one of those back braces.”
“Or do yourself a favor and let someone else do the stacking.”
“That’d be giving in, LaTisha. If I stop now, my joints will all freeze up. That’s why we keep going, right?” He traveled back to his table and began weighing and bagging again. “What’s your menu going to be?”
“Haven’t got that far. Something that will go far and be irresistible.”
“How about your chili? Or that pepper relish on subs. If you’d give me some pints, I’d sell them for you.”
My own line of sauces. They’d need a name though. That’s when it happened. Every now and again sheer genius pops into my brain, and this was one of those moments. “Sara’s Sauce,” I murmured.
“Sara’s what?” Shiny paused in his process.
“A thought popped into my head. I could bottle up my pepper relish and dressings and sell them during the fund-raiser. I’ll call them Sara’s Sauce.”
“That would take a lot of work.”
“That’s why I have a town full of generous folk and seven children to call in as reserves.”
He spit out a laugh. “You just gave a speech about them settling in where they are and you’re already planning a way to call them back.”
I guess he stopped laughing long enough to get a glimpse of my face.
He cleared his throat and went back to bagging. “Sounds like a solid plan.”
The prospect of the fund-raiser was exciting me. I pushed my cart through the store in record time, pausing along the aisle of antibacterial gel and, farther up the aisle, Big Sky’s selec
tion of antibacterial wipes. Why would both Eugene and Betsy be so concerned about antibacterial anything? Surely Betsy’s real estate office didn’t harbor that many germs. Maybe Flossie had a cold and Betsy was worried about her passing germs to her and Eugene, since his campaign office was centered there too.
When I finally made it to the checkout, a skinny, pimply teenage boy flashed me a quick thumbs-up and a hearty “Howdy, Mrs. Barnhart.”
“You got the day off from college, Randy? You don’t look sick and there’s no snow on the ground.”
“Not in this heat. We have a break between semesters, so Mr. Portly let me work for him a few days to make some extra money.”
“I figured you’d be interning with Carl.”
He did a typical teenage shrug as he scanned a pack of chicken. “He has Flossie working for him.”
“Flossie doesn’t have formal training. He’s got to see the value in having an intern studying to be a funeral home director. Let me talk to him for you.”
Randy popped the last of my grapes into a bag. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
I knew for certain that Randy Holbraker hadn’t been a stellar student, but the fact that he’d decided to go on to college had been a step in the right direction. Maturity sometimes kicks in late, but at least it kicks.
“What do you think about Aidan getting killed?” Randy asked as I swiped my debit card.
“People shouldn’t shoot other people. Period.”
“My mom thinks him and Flossie had something going.”
Ah. The sweet swell of speculation was hitting its stride. “Why would she think that?”
“She went in to his store to get the band on her watch shortened and he was in the back arguing with someone. She said it sounded like a lady, and she thought it sounded like Flossie.”
Chapter Nineteen
Interesting. Flimsy reasoning, but the idea of a relationship between Flossie and Aidan might bear some looking into. Another question slithered into my head. With Carl seeming so interested in Flossie lately, what would he feel if he knew she was dating another man? The possibility that he did know was very strong. Maybe he was the possessive sort—which would develop quite the motive for him to do away with Aidan.
“We’re going to have a fund-raiser for the Buchanan’s in about a month, to raise money for Sara’s medical expenses. Tell your friends to come over and show their support.”
Randy handed over the last of my bags. “Sure thing. Will it be at the Goose?”
“Yup. You spread the news.”
“Mom will be glad to hear it, she cried buckets every night after Sara died. Said Sara was one of her favorite students.”
“Tell her I’ll be needing some extra hands to help out.”
He dropped the last thing into a bag and handed it over. “She will, I’m sure.”
I gathered my things, told Randy to stay out of trouble, and beat it to Wig-Out, wondering why I hadn’t planned a better time to go grocery shopping.
Through the window as I approached, I could see that Regina already had Betsy in the chair and was working on sectioning her hair in the back.
Betsy fiddled with the collar of the cape Regina had around her neck. I caught her complaint as I butted open the door. “Can’t you loosen this thing? It itches.”
I could see she was in fine form today. There were a lot of things I’d like to have seen around Betsy’s neck, but a cape wasn’t one of them.
I held up my bags and hip-punched the door shut. “Mind if I put these in your backroom, honey?”
Regina tilted her head toward the back. “Go right ahead. Cold things can go in the refrigerator.”
I slipped my best face on. “How are you doing today, Betsy?”
Betsy shifted the plastic cape around her body and smiled like a flashlight had been suddenly stuck up to her ear. “LaTisha! I’m doing wonderful this fine, bright day. How are you?”
My feet froze to the floor. I’d never expected a cheery response after hearing her complaint. My eyes traveled to the window where bright sunlight streamed into the room. “Must be sunstroke.”
Betsy pulled a frown. “What?”
“You never talk so sweet. Was thinking you’d been out in the sun a might too long.”
Regina touched Betsy’s shoulder. “Tilt your head forward, please.” She set a foil thing at the base of Betsy’s head and began painting something on with a paintbrush. Probably some chemical that could be used to make a bomb. Women could fight a war with the stuff they used on their hair.
I went into the back and shoved my grocery bag of perishables into the refrigerator and laid the others on the chair behind Regina’s desk. I returned to the front and rooted around in the magazines, since I knew I’d need a distraction until I could think of a good way to get the conversation rolling. The latest copy of Naturally You! was mixed in with the normal Time, Good Housekeeping, People, and Reader’s Digest.
I’d just settled in to read an article titled Nappturality, when Regina finished the lower part of Betsy’s hair, allowing her client to lift her head. Time to lay the bomb.
“I’m rounding up on that fund-raiser we talked on having for the Buchanan’s, Regina. I’ll need some help making batches of my hot pepper relish and salad dressings to sell. I’m calling them Sara’s Sauce.”
Regina lowered Betsy’s chair some, wielded her comb, then set another piece of foil at the crown of Betsy’s head. She was beginning to look like an armadillo. “That’s a great idea. A batch of your vegetable beef soup would go far. Your spaghetti and meatballs would be a huge hit too.” She paused her combing. “And if you can get William to do up some of his fabulous bread . . . yum! I wonder if he would agree to do a demonstration?”
Betsy remained strangely quiet.
“George came into the restaurant to see Elizabeth this morning. I wish now I would have mentioned it to him, but I figure Elizabeth probably said something already since I told her last night.”
“Do you have a better idea of what you’re going to do? Food is a huge attraction, and if you do it on the weekend and run some advertising in Denver, you’ll draw the people looking for a weekend getaway.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“What do you think Eugene would like to contribute?” I directed this right at Betsy.
Betsy’s expression seemed pained. “Eugene is busy with his campaign. He won’t stand another thing on his plate.”
“Sure he could. His sponsorship would boost his image, and he’s always concerned about that. I know Lester would welcome the chance to contribute some way.”
“Let Lester do it then,” Betsy snapped. “I’ve had enough of the whole mayoral thing. It bores me.”
I’m thinking her community service didn’t help to endear her to politics, but it was her own fault. Sometimes it’s not the crime that bothers people, it’s the getting caught part. I wondered which category Betsy fell into.
“So you’re not standing by your man in this campaign?”
Betsy’s lips disappeared into a firm, straight line. “I’ve got my own business to run. Eugene is free to do as he pleases.”
Regina sent me a look over Betsy’s head. I’m guessing she was thinking the same thing I was. If Betsy was so quick to make that kind of statement, she probably felt like she was also free to do as she pleased. Whether Eugene knew this or not remained to be seen. Their silent, distracted meal last evening took on new meaning.
But I couldn’t jump to conclusions. I needed evidence. “Someone said they thought they saw you in the car with George Buchanan the other night, coming back from Denver.”
Betsy’s eyes fired right up. If I’d been closer, I would have gotten smoked to a pile of bones. “Who would say such a thing? I’m a real estate agent. I have to show properties.”
She was getting real worked up now. Her face turning a hot pink.
Regina kept right on layering foils up the back of Betsy’s head. It didn’t surprise me that Regina co
uld keep working. My guess is she’d worked through every kind of tirade, crying fit, and any other emotional drama a woman produced.
“Besides, it ’s none of your business what I was out doing with George Buchanan. He’s my client and I won’t discuss his business.”
Did I ask her to? “Seems to me I asked a simple question to clear the air, because I sure would hate to see George and Elizabeth have any more trouble heaped on their plates.”
“Their marital problems aren’t my doing.”
My heart broke at hearing that. Betsy, her tongue flapping hard, didn’t realize just what she was giving away while trying valiantly to defend herself. As I studied Betsy’s face, there was a quiet tug on my conscience. I knew that tug. Understood it. I realized that what I was seeing in Betsy Taser’s face seemed a quiet desperation, and God, in His wisdom, was telling me to back off.
Regina had moved to Betsy’s side. Her hands kept moving, but her attention swept to me and she raised her eyebrows.
I lightened up. “We sure would like to include you in the fun, Betsy.” Maybe the gal who seemed to need no one really only needed a chance.
Betsy sniffed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead stirring a pot of sauce over a fire like some Civil War reenactor.”
There she goes, plucking me all over again. I hummed a tune. Amazing . . . Grace . . . how sweet . . . the sound. That’s my version of counting to ten before I said something I knew I’d regret. Plus it reminded me to season my words with kindness, instead of cayenne. “Throw on some old clothes and who cares? You could advertise your business with a donation.”
“That child is dead, LaTisha. She’s not coming back. Ever. What good will a donation do now?”
“It’ll help the Buchanans with the bills, ease their burden.”
“Maybe George doesn’t need help. Maybe he’s like the rest of us and just needs to be left alone.”
This was a Betsy I had never seen before. Instead of smart-mouthed and snippy, she’d morphed into an overwrought emotional creature. Something was up with that, I can tell you. Either Betsy was growing a conscience, or her conscience was being troubled.
Your Goose Is Cooked (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) Page 12