Silence of the Jams

by Gayle Leeson

  “I’ll take the sandwich out, and then I’ll be back to finish this discussion.”

  I couldn’t say I was thrilled about that as I slowly stirred my peanut butter pie ingredients. Still, by the time Jackie had returned, I’d had time to form a better argument . . . I hoped.

  “It’s not that I’m concerned about whether or not Aunt Renee—or even Aunt Bess, for that matter—had a good time on their shopping trip,” I said. “I just want so much for the family to be made whole again. And I believe—pray—that Aunt Renee’s getting the rehab information from Dr. Kent’s office is a step in the right direction.”

  “You could be right, but I’m not getting my hopes up. I’ve been let down by that woman too many times to let my guard down now.”

  “There’s something else I need to tell you. Dr. Kent warned that even if Aunt Renee goes into rehab, it might not take the first time around.” I removed the saucepan from the heat and added butter and vanilla to the mixture. “He said it could take two or three times.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes as long as she’s trying,” said Jackie. “But I seriously doubt that’ll ever happen.”

  Chapter 13

  I went straight from work to the bookshop. I’d remembered seeing Mr. Poston’s name among the files at the police station, and I wondered if he knew that Mr. Lincoln had a file on him. After all, he’d had a file on me, and I hadn’t known until Joyce Kaye told me so.

  The bookstore had a large sign above the green door that said READ. People in Winter Garden had often speculated whether Mr. Poston had bought the sign because it had been cheaper than one that would’ve said POSTON’S NEW AND USED BOOKS. Either way, the sign served its purpose.

  I walked into the shop and was greeted by Mr. Poston himself, a short, stout man with a slight paunch. He sat in a worn goose handle chair behind a desk where he read from a book review magazine.

  “How are you today, Mr. Poston?” I asked.

  “I’m good, Amy. How are you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  I glanced around the shop and noticed that another woman was browsing in the used book stacks. “Just checking for new treasures.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

  He went back to perusing his magazine, and I wandered over to the new releases. As I browsed the mystery section, I heard the other customer checking out. When she left, I went back to the front desk.

  “Mr. Poston, I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Mr. Lincoln.”

  He rubbed his closely clipped gray beard. “I have.”

  I lowered my voice. “And you know it happened in my café?”

  “Yeah. I was sorry to hear that.”

  Whether he meant that he was sorry about Mr. Lincoln’s death or about the fact that it had happened in my café, I wasn’t certain until he spoke again.

  “You’ve had enough trouble getting your little business off the ground as it is. I mean, it was hard enough getting new customers to come and eat at a place that used to belong to Lou Lou Holman, much less getting them to come after she’d been found murdered in her office. And now this.”

  “Right. And some people . . .” I didn’t mention the police. Besides, in Winter Garden, speculation was always running rampant. “. . . believe Mr. Lincoln was murdered too.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m guessing his ornery ways just finally caught up with him, and he died of a heart attack or some such.”

  “So you don’t know anyone who might have had it in for Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.

  “Now, I didn’t say that. I’d reckon two-thirds of the town had something against George Lincoln. But I don’t know of anybody who was foolish enough to kill the man. As for me, I sure wouldn’t want to spend out the rest of my days in prison because I despised George Lincoln.”

  I nodded slowly. “I see your point. So, I was wondering, do you have any books that might help me . . . you know, with the café’s image?”

  “We could go over to the occult section to see if there’s any books there about lifting curses and things like that.” He’d spoken in a serious tone and had watched my eyes widen before cackling with delight. “I’m just kidding you, young’un! You’ll want something about marketing and promotion. Let’s take a look in the business section.”

  I left with a book about promoting your small business and a fairly confident feeling that Mr. Poston had nothing to do with Mr. Lincoln’s death. I hadn’t had the heart to ask him if he knew about Mr. Lincoln’s personal files. No sense worrying him if, like me, he was clueless about the man having a file on him. Besides, Mr. Poston said it himself, he hated Mr. Lincoln but not enough to risk spending his life in prison for killing the man.

  On the other hand, a little voice niggled in my brain, He’s there with all of those murder mysteries and forensic books. He might’ve figured out a way to murder Mr. Lincoln and make it look as if he’d had nothing to do with it.

  • • •

  I dressed casually for my date with Ryan. I wore boot-cut jeans, a short-sleeved pink tee, and wedge sandals. And I put a pink hair tie in my purse just in case he had the top down on his car.

  I was kinda glad that Ryan didn’t have the top down when he arrived to pick me up. He looked terrific, by the way. As handsome as he always looked in his deputy uniform, he was even more gorgeous in jeans and a blue T-shirt.

  On our way out of Winter Garden, we passed by George Lincoln’s house. Ryan put on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road.

  “Did you see that?” he asked.

  “See what?”

  “That light that just went by the window.”

  I frowned. “It was probably the sun, don’t you think? I mean, it’s shining in that direction, and the sun is always blinding just before it sets.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I need to check it out.” He turned the car around and drove back to the Lincolns’ driveway. He put the car in park, cut the engine, and we watched the front windows.

  There was definitely a flash of light that went by the windows from inside the house.

  “I saw it that time,” I said.

  “So did I.” He took out his cell phone and called Sheriff Billings to ask if Mrs. Lincoln had been located yet.

  I could only hear Ryan’s side of the conversation, but I gathered the sheriff said that she had not. Ryan told him he was pretty sure there was someone inside the Lincoln home looking around with a flashlight.

  Ryan ended the call and looked at me. “The sheriff is on his way. He wants us to stay here until he arrives.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m sorry our dates keep getting messed up by my work,” he said.

  I smiled. “Or by my crazy family. And this isn’t messed up. I think it’s exciting.”

  Sheriff Billings arrived in his squad car without the lights and sirens. He pulled in beside us, got out of the car, and came to talk with Ryan.

  Ryan opened the door and got out. “We haven’t seen anything since that initial flash of light. I’m guessing whoever is in there saw us sitting out here and they’re lying low.”

  “Well, let’s go check it out.” Sheriff Billings nodded at me. “Ms. Flowers, please stay put.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Both Ryan and the sheriff looked stunned at my response.

  “If the person in that house killed George Lincoln, I’ll be a sitting duck if he or she runs outside,” I continued. “I’d be perfect hostage material.”

  “She has a point,” said Ryan.

  “Fine. Come along then, but stay a safe distance behind us.”

  The sheriff strode to the front door and knocked. “Winter Garden Sheriff’s Department! Open up, please!”

  Ryan indicated
to Sheriff Billings that he was going to go around and cover the back door.

  I looked from one to the other until Sheriff Billings put his hands on my forearms, looked me in the eye, and mouthed, Stay put.

  I didn’t want to stay with Sheriff Billings. I wanted to go with Ryan. Sheriff Billings didn’t seem to be terribly fond of me. He might let me get roughed up by the Lincolns’ intruder. I knew Ryan wouldn’t let that happen. But I stayed where I was.

  After what seemed like an interminable amount of time—but in reality couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes—Sheriff Billings shouted that he was going to knock the door in if it wasn’t opened immediately.

  My heart leapt into my throat when the door slowly creaked open.

  “Now step out here where I can see you!”

  Thomas Lincoln stepped out from behind the door. “My sister-in-law would have all our hides if I allowed you to ruin her front door.” He frowned at me. “So you’re on the police force too?”

  “No,” said Ryan as he stepped back up onto the front porch. “She’s with me.”

  I eased closer to Ryan and away from Thomas Lincoln’s glare.

  “Well, good for you, Deputy.”

  “So what’re you doing here?” Sheriff Billings asked.

  “Just visiting my brother’s house, seeing if his wife was at home.”

  “And since she wasn’t, you decided to break in and have a look around?” Ryan asked.

  “I didn’t break in.” He fished in his pocket and produced a key. “My brother gave me a key years ago when he and the missus went on vacation and he needed me to take care of a few things around the place.”

  “Then why were you using a flashlight to look around?”

  “The power is out.” He flipped the light switch on and off to prove his point. “I had the flashlight so I could find the breaker box.” His insolent gaze slid languorously from Ryan to Sheriff Billings. “You might as well know I’m going to find out who killed my brother.”

  “You need to leave the police work to the professionals,” Sheriff Billings warned. “You also need to leave this house if your sister-in-law isn’t home.”

  “Maybe she’s hiding out because she’s the one who killed my brother. You ever think of that?” When he didn’t get an answer, he pressed on. “She and my brother had been having problems for years, mainly over money. I blame her for George’s selfishness over our father’s estate.”

  “Be that as it may, the homeowner isn’t here, and you need to leave, Mr. Lincoln.” Sheriff Billings looked pointedly toward the driveway and the street in front of the home. “Where’d you park?”

  “Don’t you worry about it.” Mr. Lincoln pulled up the door, brushed past the sheriff, and stormed off the porch.

  We watched him stride off down the road.

  “There’s not a car parked near here,” Ryan said. “Not on this side of the road at least.”

  “I’m guessing he parked a street over.” Sheriff Billings shook his head. “When you talk like you have such innocent motives for being at someone’s home, why would you feel the need to hide your vehicle?”

  I pointed to the empty socket in the porch light. “Plus, it’s easy to say the power is out if you know the light you’re using to prove your point won’t come on.”

  • • •

  Good observation about the porch light,” Ryan said once we were back on the road toward the restaurant. “I think the sheriff was impressed. Neither of us noticed that.”

  I smiled. “Well, you aren’t as short as I am.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to dispel his parlor trick when he told us the power was out?”

  My smile faded. “Because there’s something about Thomas Lincoln that scares me.”

  “I can’t say that I blame you. He is an odd character.”

  “I really don’t understand that man. He talks about his brother as if he couldn’t stand him, and yet he’s determined to find Mr. Lincoln’s killer and avenge his death.”

  “He either loved his brother more than he tries to let on, avenging his brother’s death taps into some Lincoln family code of honor, or . . .”

  “Or?” I prompted.

  “Or he killed his brother, and he’s staying close to either cover his tracks or try to find out what we know.”

  “Which do you think it is?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure.” He squinted into the darkness. “Based on the behavior I’ve seen him demonstrate on the two occasions I’ve met the man, I’d be inclined to think that if he was going to kill George, he’d do so violently and in the heat of the moment.”

  “You mean, like shoot him?”

  “Or something physical, yeah. The man strikes me as very hands on. I get the feeling that murdering a man in a way that would bring about a delayed reaction—one he wasn’t there to witness—wouldn’t appeal to Thomas Lincoln.”

  “I see your point,” I said. “But he is now the sole heir to his father’s estate.”

  Ryan took my hand. “Let’s forget about the Lincolns for the rest of the night and enjoy our evening. What do you say?”

  I squeezed his fingers. “Sounds good to me.”

  Chapter 14

  I was awakened Thursday morning by the telephone ringing. I was frightened and disoriented when I answered the call.

  “What is it?” I asked as I scrambled to sit up in bed. “Mom?”

  “It’s Jackie. Everything’s okay. Calm down. I thought you’d be up already.”

  At that moment, my alarm went off.

  “Hold on.” I shut off the alarm. “What’s going on? Is Mom all right?”

  “She’s fine. Everyone is fine. I’m just calling to tell you that I’m going to be late and that I’ve asked Shelly to cover for me,” she said. “Renee has asked me to take her to the rehab center.”

  “Jackie, that’s great! I mean, she’s not only going, she’s including you in her progress. She’s reaching out to you for support.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see. I think this is a great first step, but I’ve known Renee long enough to realize that I need to give her plenty of time to see whether or not this transformation is actually going to take place.”

  “But she’s trying. That means a lot.”

  “It does,” she agreed. “Still I know better than to get my hopes up too high just yet.”

  Rory hopped up onto the bed as I ended the call. I cuddled him close and kissed the top of his head. “Hopefully, things are looking up for this family, Rory-bear!”

  • • •

  I still had a spring in my step when I went into work. Aunt Renee was going to rehab. It was a gorgeous sunny day, but it wasn’t as hot as it had been the rest of the week. And Ryan had said that he might come in for lunch today.

  I unlocked the door and went through to the back to hang up my purse before making coffee and starting kitchen prep. Luis, the busboy and dishwasher, was the next to arrive.

  “Good morning, Amy.”

  “Hey, Luis. How are you today?”

  “I’m good. I can help you with the coffee, if you’d like.”

  “I’d love that. Thanks.” I handed him the pot for the decaf.

  “Why would anyone want decaf coffee?” he asked. “Doesn’t that defeat the point of coffee?”

  I laughed. “I guess. Unless you’re cold and want a hot beverage to warm you up.”

  “Well, I don’t think that’s going to be the case around here anytime soon. Besides, I prefer hot chocolate in cold weather.”

  “Me too.”

  “By the way, I was at the library yesterday evening and Joyce Kaye was in there putting a poster up on the community board asking people to vote for her for Chamber of Commerce president,” he said. “She recognized me from working here at the café, and she asked me to tell you she�
�d be in to see you today. I’m guessing she wants to put up a poster here too.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I told her I’d support her in her campaign.” I frowned. “I didn’t realize she’d start on it so quickly, though. But it’s good that she’s going for it. Is there anybody running against her?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Shelly came in then. “Hi, hon. Jackie won’t be in until lunchtime, so I’m here to fill in for her.”

  I thanked her, not mentioning that Jackie had already called and had given me the details. I figured my cousin hadn’t mentioned to Shelly that she was going to take Aunt Renee to rehab. That’s something she might not want to make common knowledge.

  Luis got his pot of decaf percolating and went to wipe off the tables and chairs. Shelly gathered salt and pepper shakers to refill. And I went to wash and peel potatoes for hash browns and fries.

  I had to hand it to Luis—he’d been right about Joyce wanting to put up a campaign poster in the Down South Café. She’d brought it in first thing, even before patrons started arriving. She’d also brought flyers.

  I took off the plastic gloves I’d been wearing and came out into the dining room to greet her.

  “Hi, Joyce. What’ve you got there?”

  “My nephew is a graphic designer, and he helped me come up with these posters and flyers.” She spread them out on the counter. “What do you think?”

  Both the posters and flyers featured a smiling Joyce and the slogan, Vote for Joyce Kaye for a brighter DAY!

  “Clever,” I said. I actually thought it was a little cheesy, but I also guessed the nephew was working for free so Joyce couldn’t be too particular with the results. And the photo was nice.

  The flyer pointed out how much harder Joyce would work for the community than her predecessor had done. Did she truly need to run a smear campaign against a dead man? Especially when she had no opposition?

  “So may I leave some flyers here in the café and put a poster up on the door?” she asked.