by Gayle Leeson
In an effort to defuse the tension building at the table, I asked Ryan if he’d had a better day today. I explained to everyone else, “Yesterday, he had to go undercover as a pizza delivery guy.”
“I don’t know that I’d consider that a bad day,” Roger said, looking relieved at the opportunity to change the subject. “I love a good pizza.”
“Me too,” said Sarah. “Did you get to partake of any of your props?”
“I’m afraid not,” Ryan said. “I only got to carry an empty box into a house and carry some files back out in it.”
“I’m guessing it was Mrs. Lincoln’s house,” said Sarah. “Everybody in town is speculating about her behavior lately. Billy is convinced that she’s responsible for her husband’s death.” Sarah worked for Billy Hancock, Winter Garden’s top attorney. Of course, he was Winter Garden’s only attorney, but he had a good professional reputation. “Mr. Lincoln made several visits to Billy’s office over the past couple of weeks. I can’t divulge anything about his visits, but he joked with me one day in the waiting area about filing divorce proceedings.” She flipped her palms. “Like I said, he was kidding, but maybe there was more to it beneath the surface.”
“That reminds me, I ran into Mr. Lincoln’s secretary, Joyce, at the grocery store this afternoon.” I told them that Mr. Lincoln’s brother was in town and that Joyce seemed kinda disturbed at the thought of his wanting to go into George’s office. “She acted like she was terrified that he’d take something belonging to the Chamber.”
“Goodness knows, you can’t trust anybody these days,” said Jackie. “Not even your own mother.”
The awkwardness settled over the table again. We all stopped talking and took a renewed interest in the food on our plates. I think we were all relieved when the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted our meal.
“I’ll get it.” Mom hopped up from the table and practically ran to answer it.
We ate in silence while she was away from the table. We barely even glanced at one another. Maybe this dinner hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Mom returned to the dining room and stood behind her chair until we all looked up at her. “That was Aunt Bess.” She held up her hand for our silence as Jackie and I began to speak at once. “She’s fine. I offered to go to Sevierville to get her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She told me she’s working on Renee—whatever that means—and said she’ll be in touch again as soon as she could.”
“Are they on their way back?” I asked.
“I don’t care what Granny wants,” Jackie said. “Where are they staying? I’ll go down there tonight.”
“She didn’t tell me where they’re staying.” Mom pulled out her chair and sat down. “She had no idea that I’d tripped and been injured last night.”
“But now she does know, and she still didn’t want one of us to come get her?” Jackie asked.
Mom shook her head. “I know Aunt Bess, and she’s up to something. She said they’ll be home tomorrow morning.” She lifted one shoulder. “Now, would someone please pass me that strawberry shortcake?”
• • •
On my way to work the next morning, I replayed the events of last night. After our guests had left, I’d tried to talk Mom into going home with me. She’d declined, saying she wanted to be at the big house in case Aunt Bess called again. Before I could suggest going home to get my things and staying with Mom, Jackie had volunteered to stay with her. I thanked her and told her I’d call Donna and ask if she could come in again this morning so that Jackie wouldn’t have to work the breakfast shift.
I unlocked the door to the Down South Cafe, prepped the coffeepots, and went into the kitchen to prepare for the day. I heard the door open, and I guessed one of the waitresses had arrived. When no one called hello or popped into the kitchen, I stepped into the dining room to investigate.
I was surprised to see Homer sitting at the counter.
“Good morning, Amy.”
“Homer, is everything okay?”
He nodded. “Just in a vigilant mood this morning, I guess. Have been since last night.”
“May I get you some coffee?”
“Please. No sausage biscuit, though. It’s not ten thirty.”
I got Homer a cup of coffee with cream and one sugar. “Who’s your hero today?”
“Enrique Pen˜a Nieto, the Mexican president. He said, ‘Behind every crime is a story of sadness.’ Do you believe that’s true?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it, but yeah, I guess it is,” I said.
“It’s a deep concept, and I’ve been giving it a lot of thought since I woke up.”
I wondered what time Homer got up if he’d already begun pondering the mysteries of the universe, but I didn’t interrupt him.
“It’s easy to see the sadness behind what happened between your mom and your aunt,” he continued. “Renee feels like an outcast. Maybe she even thinks Jenna has everything she’s missing out on. And your mom doesn’t want to see two people she loves get hurt by someone else all of you care about. The situation is even sadder because I have to believe that with a little communication and understanding—along with a come-to-Jesus moment on Renee’s part—your family could begin to be whole again.”
“We could at least start to mend.”
“But the sadness behind George Lincoln’s death is harder to determine.” Homer sipped his coffee. “Had Mr. Lincoln hurt his killer in some way, and was his death an act of retaliation? Or was Mr. Lincoln the sad one? Maybe he’d become unwanted.”
“Gee, that is sad. By his wife, you mean?”
He shrugged. “By his wife. By the Chamber. But it’s obvious someone didn’t want him around anymore.”
Donna came in then, and we both greeted her.
“Homer, honey, what’re you doing here so early?” she asked. “Why, the café isn’t even open for another few minutes yet.”
“I just didn’t want to be alone any longer this morning,” he said. “Is it all right if I hang around here for a little while?”
“It’s more than all right,” I told him. “And, you know, the world wouldn’t come to an end if you had your sausage biscuit early. You could even have another one at ten thirty.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll think about it.”
I went back to the kitchen to make biscuits while Homer decided whether or not he wanted his breakfast yet. I thought again of Nieto’s quote about all crime being born of sadness. I suppose I’d always imagined that most crime was a product of rage or need. People killed or fought because they were angry, right? They stole because they were desperate. But the idea of crime coming from a place of sadness made sense too.
So whose sadness was behind George Lincoln’s murder? Was his wife lonely and tired of George spending too much time at work or on his personal files? Was he blackmailing someone with one of those files—someone whose life would be ruined by the information George had? Was George’s brother jealous of him and the relationship he’d had with their father?
Odd that I was thinking about George’s brother at the moment he wandered into the Down South Café looking for me.
“Where’s Amy Flowers?”
“Who wants to know?” That was Homer’s voice.
I slipped off my plastic gloves and hurried from the kitchen. “I’m here. I’m Amy.”
He was a bear of a man . . . tall and barrel-chested. He held out a hand. “I’m Thomas Lincoln. I understand this is where my brother was eating—” He looked around the dining room, which had begun to fill.
“Yes, Mr. Lincoln.” I shook his hand. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get you some coffee.”
“That’d be nice. Thanks.” He took a seat at the far end of the counter.
“Donna, would you please keep an eye on the biscuits that are in the oven?” I asked.
“Sure, hon.”
Amid the questioning glances and whispered comments of my other customers, I took Mr. Lincoln his coffee. He was taller but didn’t have as wide a girth as his brother. He was also several years younger than George had been. I imagined he was taking George’s death hard.
Speaking softly, I said, “I realize you lost your father not too long ago. Losing your brother on top of that must be devastating.”
“Didn’t lose either one of them, ma’am,” he said, drawing the cup of black coffee toward his chest. “I know where they are . . . or, at least, where I’m told they are.”
“You mean heaven.”
He barked out a laugh. “Little one, if you believe my brother is in heaven, then you didn’t know him very well.”
My eyes widened. “Um . . . I . . . um . . .”
“George is in the morgue. Ain’t he?”
I simply nodded.
He laughed again. “You’re as cute as a button and appear to be as innocent as a newborn lamb. I came in here thinking you might’ve done ol’ George in.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you could hurt a fly. ’Course, I could be wrong. Got a menu?”
“Uh . . . y-yes, sir.” I got the man a menu and went back to the kitchen. I figured that if he wanted to talk with me anymore, he’d let me know. “Order whatever you’d like. It’s on the house.”
• • •
Ryan came for lunch that afternoon. Donna took his order and he’d asked for a cheeseburger, fries, and a pretty chef. That made me smile.
I traded places with Donna long enough to go out and say hello.
“You won’t be so happy to see me when you find out why I’m here,” he said.
“It isn’t for the cheeseburger and fries?”
“Well, that’s part of it, but I might have to reschedule our movie plans.”
Ryan and I had planned on going to Bristol for dinner and to see a movie this evening.
“That’s all right,” I said. “We can always do it tomorrow, if that’s better.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Mrs. Lincoln is missing.”
I gasped. “You don’t think the, uh”—I looked around to make sure we weren’t drawing any unwanted attention—“killer got to her, do you?”
“We don’t think so, but we have no idea where she’s got to. Sheriff Billings dropped her off at the airport in Blountville on Sunday afternoon. She was supposed to get on a plane to her sister’s house. The sheriff called Mrs. Lincoln’s sister this morning to make sure she arrived safely. That’s when he found out that she didn’t. And calls to Mrs. Lincoln’s phone aren’t being answered.”
“Do you think she missed her flight somehow?”
“Either she missed it or chose not to get on it,” Ryan said. “The latter is my bet. She took off for somewhere else.”
“What’s with everybody just ditching their family and taking off lately?”
“I don’t know. My guess is that Mrs. Lincoln is scared, and she didn’t want anyone to know where she was at. She probably figured that anyone looking for her would automatically check her sister’s place if she wasn’t at home.”
“True. And she could’ve been afraid she’d bring the killer to her sister’s doorstep. But she should’ve let her sister know something,” I said.
“Well, according to Sheriff Billings, Mrs. Lincoln’s sister wasn’t very distraught. He thought they might’ve communicated but that Mrs. Lincoln warned her not to divulge any information.”
Chapter 11
After closing the café for the day, I went to see Joyce at the Chamber of Commerce. Given what had happened to Mrs. Lincoln on Sunday, I was afraid that the secretary might be the killer’s—or the blackmailer’s—next target.
I found her sitting at her desk, thumbing through a magazine. She guiltily started and tried to hide the book as I walked into the office.
“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m all for reading when the workload slows up.”
She blushed. “Well, I hate wasting time, but there’s not really much to do until a new president is elected.”
I sat on a chair near her desk. “Have you decided whether or not you’re going to run for the office?”
“Not yet. I hadn’t even considered it until you mentioned it the other day.” She glanced down at her hands. “But you’re right, you know. I’ve kept this office running for the past two years. Why not get the title and the pay for it instead of working for someone else?”
“There you go!” I smiled. “Maybe you can have your campaign rally at the Down South Café.”
“That sounds great. So, what brings you by today, Amy? I know you’re not here just to see if I decided to try for the Chamber president position.”
“Actually, I wanted to swing by and make sure you’re all right. After that crazy business that happened with Mrs. Lincoln over the weekend, I got to thinking that the person who wanted the files might try to frighten you too.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That was awfully thoughtful of you. I don’t mind telling you that’s crossed my mind a few times too.”
“Did you ever see the files?”
Joyce glanced away. “N-not really, no. I mean, I . . . I knew some of what was in them because of things Mr. Lincoln would say. And I . . . I heard arguments between Mr. Lincoln and some of the people he’d—you know—threaten with information from his files.”
I could easily see how uncomfortable it made Joyce to talk about the files. And though I didn’t believe that she hadn’t at least given some of them a cursory glance, I saw no reason to pursue the matter. Instead, I changed the subject.
“Mr. Lincoln’s brother came into the café for breakfast this morning. I can see why you were concerned about his being here in the office. He certainly is intimidating.”
“Yes, he is. What did he say to you?”
“Actually, he told me he thought I might have done in his brother but hopefully he changed his mind after talking with me.”
Joyce nodded. “I get the impression that Thomas Lincoln didn’t care very much for his brother but that he follows a strict code of honor.”
• • •
I went straight from the Chamber of Commerce to the big house to check on Mom. When I stepped into the living room, I was alarmed to see that both Jackie and Dr. Kent were there.
“Oh, my goodness! What’s happened? Mom, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Mom said.
“Sorry for giving you a scare, my dear,” said Dr. Kent. “After speaking with you yesterday at the café, I simply wanted to pop in and check on your mother myself. I’m happy to report that she’s doing extremely well.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Thank you.”
“I was getting a little concerned about you,” Mom chided. “I was expecting you right after you got off work.”
“I went over to the Chamber of Commerce to see Joyce Kaye.” I didn’t want to go into specifics. “I know it’s been hard for her since Mr. Lincoln died, and I thought I’d check and see how she’s doing.”
“That was nice,” said Mom.
“And how is Joyce?” asked Dr. Kent.
“She seems well. She’s thinking about running for the position of president.”
He smiled broadly. “She’d make a wonderful president.”
Jackie suddenly bolted for the front door.
“Jackie?” I asked.
“It’s Granny!” She ran out onto the porch and was down the steps before Aunt Renee could even get the car parked.
I was afraid Jackie would start right in on her mother, but she didn’t. Instead, she ran and embraced Aunt Bess.
“Granny, I’m so glad you’re home! And that you’re okay!”
Dr. Kent cleared his throat. “I think this might be my cu
e to leave.”
“Don’t go just yet,” Mom said. “You might be the calming influence we need to avoid an argument.”
The poor man was clearly uncomfortable being there in the midst of our family drama, but he merely nodded his head and remained seated.
Aunt Bess came through the door loaded down with shopping bags. I hurried to help her with them. Jackie had one in each hand too.
“Wow, did you buy one of everything in Sevierville?” I asked.
“Yep, and two of a few things.” Her gaze landed on Dr. Kent. “Well, well, well . . . who do we have here?”
He stood. “I’m Dr. Taylor Kent, madam. I stopped by to check on your niece.”
“Whoo! A good-looking doctor who makes house calls! Are you married?”
Although we were pretty much used to her antics, Mom and I exchanged the is-there-a-hole-we-can-crawl-into glance.
“Actually, I’m a widower,” said Dr. Kent.
“A widower. So am I.” She smiled. “Well, I’m Bess. But you can call me whatever you’d like . . . just as long as you call me!”
Mom closed her eyes and groaned.
“Honey, is your head still hurting?” Aunt Bess asked. “Girls, let’s get these things up to my room so we can get back down here and check on Jenna.” She looked over her shoulder at Dr. Kent. “Don’t you go away now!”
As we mounted the stairs, I heard Mom softly telling Dr. Kent that Aunt Bess was a tad outrageous.
“It’s refreshing to see a woman of her age still in possession of such a fun sense of humor.”
Little did he know, Aunt Bess wasn’t kidding.
I left Jackie with Aunt Bess, and I hurried back down the stairs in time to see Aunt Renee sit on the sofa beside Mom. My bulldog protective instincts kicked in, and I nearly jumped over the banister to get there before Aunt Renee could say anything hateful to Mom.
But she surprised me. Rather than spewing accusations and blame, Aunt Renee was apologizing. She even took Mom’s hand. “Jenna, I’m so sorry about what happened here the other night. I never would have left you had I known you were hurt.”