by Gayle Leeson
“I certainly appreciate the offer, but I enjoy having my own business,” I said.
“How about if I make you a partner then?” His mouth was still full as he spoke, and crumbs tumbled out onto his plate.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Lincoln. May I refill your coffee?”
He nodded, and I topped off his cup.
“You’ll regret not taking my offer one of these days.”
“I might.” I nodded at a patron who’d just walked in. He was an older gentleman with short white hair and hooded brown eyes. “Good morning.”
“Hello.” He patted George Lincoln on the back before sitting down beside him. “How’re you this morning, George?”
“Fine, Doc. How are you?”
“Doing well, thanks.”
I handed the newcomer a menu. “Welcome to the Down South Café. May I get you started with a cup of coffee? We have dark roast, French vanilla, and decaf.”
“French vanilla sounds nice. I’ll try that.”
George screwed up his face. “No fancy stuff for me. I like the plain old dark roast.”
I extended my hand to the man George had called Doc. “I’m Amy Flowers.”
“Amy, I’m Taylor Kent.” The man shook my hand warmly.
“Nice to meet you. I’ll get you that coffee.”
“Dr. Kent is the only physician who resides here in town,” George said. “I’m not saying that’s the only thing he has to recommend him, but it’s handy to know where his office is in a pinch.”
As I turned with the cup of coffee, George was smirking at Dr. Kent. The physician was scowling.
“Where’s your office, Dr. Kent?” I asked.
“I’m up the street from the newspaper office. Come by anytime you’re feeling under the weather.” He smiled as he accepted the coffee.
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Where are you from, Ms. Flowers?”
“I’m from here in Winter Garden, but I went away to school for a few years. It seems a lot changed while I was gone.”
“That tends to happen sometimes.” Dr. Kent sipped his coffee. “This is good. Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything else?” I asked.
“Give me a minute to look over this menu, and I’ll let you know.” He opened the menu. “I never ate here while Lou Lou Holman was at the helm. I didn’t particularly care for her.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to that. I managed, “Well, I hope you’ll find something on our menu to your liking.” I went back into the kitchen.
I was making another batch of pancake batter when I heard a commotion in the dining room. I rushed out in time to see George Lincoln clap a hand to his throat.
“Poi—” George wobbled backward, eyes filled with panic, and then fell off his stool.
“Call 9-1-1!” I shouted as I ran around the counter.
Dr. Kent knelt beside George and took his hand, looking for a pulse. “Breathe, George. Try to breathe.”
I felt George’s forehead. It felt cold, despite the ninety-degree heat outside.
George clutched his chest.
I kept looking at the doctor. “Shouldn’t you be doing CPR or something?”
He shook his head. “It’s too late, dear. He’s dead.”
Chapter 2
Two EMTs arrived and solemnly confirmed that George Lincoln was dead. They loaded his body into the ambulance but wouldn’t do anything else, though, until they’d consulted Sheriff Billings. One of them gave the sheriff a call, and I offered them some coffee. They accepted.
“Is that strawberry pie?” one asked, nodding toward the display case.
“It is,” I said. Before I could offer him a slice, his partner glared at him and he sheepishly lowered his head.
“I might be back to get a piece of that pie after my shift,” he said.
“I hope you will.” I smiled slightly. “It’ll be on the house.” I glanced at the other technician. “For you too.”
“Thank you.” He gave me a curt nod of dismissal, and I hurried off to get their coffee.
Before I could even fill two cups, people were coming up to the register to pay their tabs so they could leave.
Shelly, one of the waitresses who’d worked with Jackie and me when the café was Lou’s Joint and now worked for the Down South Café, sidled up to me. “I’ll serve the paramedics. I just love me some men in uniform.”
Jackie scowled at Shelly’s retreating back. “She loves her some men period,” she murmured.
It was true. Just this side of forty, Shelly flirted shamelessly with nearly every man who came into the café. I watched her take the coffee to the EMTs, bending over their table suggestively. The more authoritative of the two frowned at her and slid his cup away from her long hair hanging over the table.
I turned my attention back to my customers, apologized to each one for their inconvenience this morning, and cut their bills in half. We had all suffered a traumatic event, and most of my customers were leaving without finishing their meals. I only hoped they’d give the café another chance.
Sheriff Billings arrived. Shelly hurried over to him and took his arm.
“Oh, Sheriff! It’s awful! Poor George Lincoln!” she cried.
“Yeah, well . . .” He extricated himself from her grasp. “I need to talk with these men. If you’ll excuse us . . .”
“Shelly, why don’t you take the rest of the morning off?” I suggested. Her shift ended after breakfast anyway.
“No, that’s all right,” Shelly said. “Y’all might need me.”
Jackie scoffed but managed to hold her tongue.
After speaking with the emergency medical technicians, Sheriff Billings examined the body himself.
Dr. Kent rose from his stool. “I was here when it happened, Sheriff. George simply collapsed and fell off his stool. My initial thought is myocardial infarction.”
Sheriff Billings nodded. “More than likely.”
“Actually, I heard him trying to say something just before he went down,” Shelly said, sidling over to the sheriff. “He said poise or something like that.” She looked around at the rest of us. “Didn’t any of y’all hear it?”
“I heard him make a sound, but I didn’t think he was trying to say anything,” Jackie said. “It was more like a—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. More like a gurgle or something.”
I agreed with Jackie.
Sheriff Billings looked from Jackie and me to Shelly. “You say it sounded like poise?”
“That’s exactly what I heard. Poi or poise.”
“Where’s the plate the deceased was eating from?” he asked.
I stepped over to the counter. George Lincoln’s plate was gone. “Um . . . it was right here.” I called for Luis, our busboy, to come out of the kitchen.
“Yes?” His dark eyes widened when he realized everyone was looking at him.
“Where is Mr. Lincoln’s plate?” I asked.
“Already in the dishwasher with all the others, ma’am.” He smiled. “I’m quick, you know.”
I nodded. “Yes. You do a great job.”
“Can I get back to work now?”
I glanced at the sheriff, and he nodded.
“Yes, Luis. Thank you.”
Dr. Kent waved his arm around. “I was sitting directly beside George Lincoln, and he did not say poison as he was collapsing. It’s as Amy and the other waitress said, he was likely choking or gurgling. The autopsy will prove cause of death, won’t it?”
Sheriff Billings nodded. “Yeah. It will.”
“And I can tell you what Mr. Lincoln ate,” I said. “He had two eggs over easy, bacon, and biscuits with strawberry jam.”
“Again, the stomach contents will be analyzed during the autopsy,” Dr. Kent said. “But I imag
ine we’re looking at a heart attack, plain and simple.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.” The sheriff turned to the EMTs. “You may take Mr. Lincoln to the hospital morgue now. Thank you.” He then asked Dr. Kent if the two of them could speak privately, and they went out into the parking lot.
“Wonder what they’re saying?” Shelly asked as she came over and slid onto one of the stools. “Hey, wait. This is not the one George Lincoln was sitting on, is it?”
It wasn’t, but Jackie said, “Yep. That’s the very one.”
Shelly gave a little squeak and hopped up off the stool.
Jackie anchored her fists to her sides. “Why in the world would you tell Sheriff Billings that George Lincoln tried to say poison before he collapsed?”
“I didn’t! I said he said poi or poise because that’s what I thought he said!” Shelly looked at me. I didn’t blame her. An angry Jackie was pretty intimidating. “Honest, I did, Amy! It didn’t dawn on me until I’d said that to the sheriff that maybe Mr. Lincoln was trying to say he’d been poisoned.”
“Why would he say poi or poise?” Jackie asked her. “And do you honestly think there was anything wrong with his food?”
“Of course not! But it could’ve been something he ate before he got here.” Her heavily lined eyes pleaded with me. “Right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, sure. Everything will be okay. We know that if he ingested something toxic, he didn’t do it here.”
“Exactly! That’s what I’m saying!” She dared venture a glance at Jackie.
Jackie shook her head and then went into the kitchen.
Shelly turned to me, her eyes filling with tears.
“It’s okay. It’s been a really rough morning for all of us,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead and take off?”
“I think I will.”
“Are you all right to drive?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I blew out a breath. Given the way Mr. Lincoln had hounded me in the past, I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised if he had tried to yell out poison, thinking that it would ruin me in the restaurant biz and that he could buy the Down South Café out from under me as soon as he recovered. But, of course, he hadn’t recovered.
As Shelly went out, Homer Pickens came in. I smiled. It was good to see some normalcy return to the Down South Café.
Homer came in every morning at ten a.m. for a sausage biscuit and a cup of coffee. And every day, I greeted him with the question, “Who’s your hero today?” You see, Homer’s mom had originally told him that his deceased father was a great baseball player—thus, the name Homer. Get it? Home run—Homer?
Anyway, she’d finally recanted and told Homer that his father had basically been a bum but that Homer didn’t need a dad to inspire him. He could be inspired by someone different each day. He’d taken her advice to heart and had chosen a new hero every day since.
Today, Homer answered my question with “Robert Urich.”
I was surprised. “You mean, the handsome actor who played Spenser for Hire?”
“Yes.” He grinned. “Do you think I favor him?”
I stifled my laughter and nodded. Homer was in his sixties. He chose his heroes—living or dead—from all time periods and professions. And he looked nothing like the actor Robert Urich. Rather, he had steel gray hair, blue eyes, and a slight build.
“Mr. Urich was taken too soon,” he said. “Died of cancer.” He shook his head sadly. “So, why’s the sheriff here talking with Dr. Kent?”
I explained what had taken place this morning.
“You know, Mr. Urich once said that a healthy outside starts from the inside. George Lincoln had a very unhealthy inside, I believe.”
“Yeah, I think so too. Shelly swears up and down that she heard him trying to say something that sounded like poison as he collapsed, though. Do you think that’s possible?”
He shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve had a grudge against Mr. Lincoln?”
“Lots of people, I’d imagine. He wasn’t the friendliest man I ever met. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground for you.” He winked. “I can be like Mr. Urich as Spenser.”
I smiled. “I’ll get that sausage biscuit for you.”
“Way ahead of you,” Jackie said as she came from the kitchen with a sausage biscuit on a small plate. She put the plate in front of Homer. “How’re you doing this morning?”
“Better than George Lincoln. I’m sorry. That sounded really insensitive. And Mr. Urich—my inspiration for the day—would never want me to be insensitive.”
Jackie inclined her head. She was smiling at Homer, and then suddenly, her smile faded. “I’ll get you that coffee.”
I followed Jackie’s gaze but didn’t see anything alarming. At least, I didn’t until Jackie’s mother walked through the door.
Hurrying over to the coffee station, I noticed Jackie’s hand was trembling and that she was spilling more coffee than she was getting in Homer’s cup. “I’ve got this.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
I took Homer his coffee and then went back and cleaned up the counter as Jackie stepped into the dining room and greeted her mother.
“Renee . . . what are you doing here?” she asked sharply.
“Well, sweetie, I thought I’d pop in for the Independence Day Festival. That’s always been fun!” Her smile encompassed the entire café. “Amy, good to see you.”
“You too, Aunt Renee.” Notice how I refrained from actually saying the words it’s good to see you too. I wasn’t sure yet if it was good to see Aunt Renee or not. Probably not. Every time she made one of her sporadic visits, it only seemed to disrupt Jackie’s life. And it upset Aunt Bess too. I knew Aunt Bess would give anything to have her daughter be a constant in both her and Jackie’s lives, but Aunt Renee didn’t seem to want that. In fact, she hadn’t been in Winter Garden since my grandmother’s funeral last year.
Aunt Renee was wearing shorts, a halter top, and platform sandals. Her long, reddish-blond hair had several strands of beaded braids. She’d always tried to dress and act as if she were Jackie’s sister rather than her mother.
“This place looks cute,” said Renee. “Somebody in town told me you bought the place from Lou Lou Holman, Amy.”
“That’s right.”
“So why are you here?” Jackie asked. “Did you come to eat?”
“No. Just wanted to say hi . . . let you know I’m in town.” She smiled. “So, kiddo, how’ve you been? What’s new in your life? Are you seeing anybody?”
“Not really.” Jackie turned and went into the kitchen.
Homer gave me a questioning look, and I shrugged slightly. I knew Homer and I were both wondering the same thing—why would Jackie tell Renee she wasn’t seeing anyone when everyone in town knew she was dating Roger? But then, Jackie had made it crystal clear that she didn’t want to converse with her mother at all.
• • •
It wasn’t until we’d closed up for the day and Jackie and I were tidying up the café that I got to ask her how her mom’s arrival had affected her.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “It was obviously a shock when you saw her.”
“It certainly was.” Jackie sighed and rested her chin against the broom she held. “I wish she hadn’t come.”
“I know. But maybe she’ll decide to stay awhile this time.”
“I doubt it. If she stays with Granny at the big house, that place might hold some allure for her until she realizes that it would come with a price—helping to take care of Granny—and then she’ll be gone again.”
“Why didn’t you tell her about Roger?” I asked.
“He’s mine.” She blinked back tears. “He’s none of her business. She ruins everything she comes into contact with. I
f I’d told her about Roger, she’d have wanted us all to have dinner. And she’d have reminisced about when we were children, and somehow, she’d have found a way to drive a wedge between Roger and me. It’s what she does. She destroys things.”
I didn’t feel like reliving childhood memories would drive a wedge between Jackie and Roger, but I kept my opinion to myself. “I’m going to the big house to pick up the fabric squares Mom and Aunt Bess made for me. Would you like to come with me?”
“No, thanks. I figure Renee will be there by now, and I don’t want to deal with her yet. I’d rather go home and be alone for a little while.”
“All right. Call me if you need anything.”
Jackie left, and I took the caramel apple pie I’d made out of the oven. I placed it on a wire rack and put a clean dishtowel lightly over the pie. I’d put the pie into the display case tomorrow morning.
I turned off the oven and made sure the back door was locked. As I was doing the rest of my closing ritual, Ryan called.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “I heard about what happened to George Lincoln this morning.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. It was a terrible ordeal, and I’m so sorry for George’s family.” I felt like it was a delicate question, but I really needed to know what was going on with the investigation. “One of our waitresses thought she heard George say something that sounded like the word poison before he collapsed. I suppose Sheriff Billings mentioned that?”
“He did. He also said, though, that Dr. Kent didn’t believe Mr. Lincoln had said anything of the sort—that he’d just garbled something out sort of as a cry for help.”
“Sheriff Billings and Dr. Kent had a long talk outside the café.”
“Of course, Mr. Lincoln’s body will be autopsied, but from what I can understand, Dr. Kent is almost positive it will show that George Lincoln died of a heart attack,” said Ryan. “There’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“I’m not worried . . . much. I mean, I’m sorry that it happened, of course, and that it occurred in the café, but I know I didn’t do anything to cause Mr. Lincoln harm. Neither did any of my staff.”