by Gayle Leeson
Mr. Lincoln looked around at the handful of diners who were enjoying a late breakfast. Thankfully, the lunch crowd hadn’t begun to arrive.
“I’m wondering if maybe one of those two women—heck, I guess it’s possible even both of them could have—paid you to poison my brother’s food that morning,” he said.
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know it. Did the police test George’s food?”
I heard the back door slam, and Jackie came up beside me with a softball bat in her hands. “I’ve called the police. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here right now.”
“You people are awfully touchy, ain’t you? I just wanted to ask a few questions is all.”
“You’ve already asked your questions and had them answered, Mr. Lincoln,” I said. “Repeatedly. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave and quit bothering my customers.”
He slammed his hands down on the counter, and Jackie raised the bat.
“No need for that. I’m going.” He glared at us both. “But this ain’t over.”
After he’d left, I said softly to Jackie, “Hey, our patrons got breakfast and a show.”
“They’d have gotten an even better show if he’d tried to put his hands on you. I had every intention of going upside his head with this bat.”
I merely shook my head and went to the kitchen to cut up turkey for the chef’s salads the noon crowd seemed to favor.
Luis came into the kitchen with a tray filled with dirty dishes. “I heard what that man asked you about the police testing the food. I’m sorry I cleaned Mr. Lincoln’s plate and cup before the police could test them to make sure everything was okay and to prove that we weren’t responsible for what happened to him.”
“It was no big deal, Luis. I know the medical examiner tested the contents of Mr. Lincoln’s stomach—at least, that’s what they tell us on the TV shows—and if there’d been anything suspicious about our food, the police would’ve let us know about it. And they certainly wouldn’t be eating here, right?”
He smiled. “Right. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”
“Never.”
He took the dishes over to the sink. It was ridiculous for Thomas Lincoln to even think that someone here had put something in Mr. Lincoln’s food. How stupid would we have to be to do that? I realized I might’ve been on his suspect list when he’d first arrived in Winter Garden, but how self-destructive would I have to be to kill someone by poisoning his food in my own café?
I supposed it was remotely possible that someone here could’ve put something in George Lincoln’s food that morning, maybe in an attempt to implicate me in his death or to remove suspicion from him or herself. But who was here who might’ve wanted to do George harm? Who was here period? Let’s see . . . Dilly, who didn’t seem to have anything against anyone; one of Roger’s construction crew whose face I knew but name I didn’t; and Dr. Kent. It was Dr. Kent’s first visit to the café. The thought brought goose bumps to my arms.
I reminded myself to stop being ridiculous and to keep my mind on my work. I still had the splint and bandages to remind me of what could happen when I failed to concentrate on what I was doing. Besides, had anyone tried to slip something into George Lincoln’s food, someone would’ve noticed—either Mr. Lincoln himself or one of us. No, that man was poisoned before he ever stepped foot into the Down South Café. I was sure of it.
• • •
After work, I went to the Chamber of Commerce office to apologize to Joyce.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Judas,” she said, sitting once again at Mr. Lincoln’s desk. Apparently, she’d taken up permanent residence. “Come to town to spend your thirty pieces of silver?”
“I came here to say I’m sorry for what happened at the café this morning. Jackie arrived before I got there, and she took down the poster. She felt I needed to be more bipartisan, I guess.”
“Sure, because you wouldn’t want to offend my opponent. Oh, wait, I don’t have one. What happened to all that cheerleading you did before I committed to running? Were you just blowing smoke? Or have you now decided that I killed my boss in order to get his job and so you’re withdrawing your support?”
“I was trying to be supportive of you—and I still am. As I pointed out this morning, the flyers are there by the register and—”
“Spare me.”
“Look, I told Jackie what happened at the funeral home . . . how you gave me one of your prescription meds and that I had an adverse reaction.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “People share prescription medications all the time. I didn’t even know you had any kind of reaction to it at all, but you’re apparently fine now.”
“Yes, I am. But someone in Jackie’s family has a history of drug abuse, and she takes things like sharing medications very seriously.”
Joyce rolled her eyes. “So are you a drug addict now, and it’s my fault?”
“Of course not. I—”
“Or maybe that confirms her—and your—suspicions that I’m a murderer, right? I’m biding my time waiting for my boss to retire in fifteen years so I can have his job. But one morning he comes in with a splitting headache, and I see my chance.” She warmed to her story and leaned forward in her chair. “I give him one of my antidepressants, knowing fully well that with his heart condition, it’s likely to cause him to have a heart attack.”
“I’ve wasted enough of your time,” I said. “Again, I’m sorry your feelings were hurt at the café this morning.”
She scoffed. “My feelings weren’t hurt. I was glad to find out where I stand with you.”
Knowing there was nothing I could do to make the situation any better, I left. Walking back out to my car, I couldn’t get the image out of my head of how Joyce’s eyes had gleamed as she explained her hypothetical plot to get rid of Mr. Lincoln.
• • •
When I got home, I sank onto the sofa. It had been an exhausting day, both physically and mentally. I was glad when Rory hopped onto my lap to lick my chin.
I hugged the little guy and told him he was the sweetest dog in the world. He kissed my chin some more, making me laugh.
Someone knocked on the door, and I groaned. I didn’t want to have to deal with anything else today. But I put Rory back onto the floor and went to peek out the window to see who was there. It was Dr. Kent.
I opened the door and went out onto the porch to speak with him. “Hi, Dr. Kent. Isn’t it gorgeous today?” I gestured toward the rocking chairs. “What brings you by?”
He took a seat, and so did I.
“I simply came by to thank you for the jam and pie. We close up shop early on Wednesdays—gives everyone a chance to take care of things they might not be able to do on the weekends.”
“That’s nice. Did you share with your staff?” I asked. “Your receptionist was hoping you would.”
He laughed. “Yes, I shared the pie, but I took the jam home.”
“Good.” I smiled, hoping to mask how serious I was about what I was going to say next. “When she wrote your initials on the sticky note, I was curious. She said your first name is Barrowman.”
“That’s right. A family name from way back.”
“And she said that when you were younger, your family called you Barry.”
He was silent.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I asked. “I mean, why tell me anything at all if you weren’t going to be honest with me?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I guess I wanted you to understand why I wanted to help Renee . . . to help your family understand what she’s going through . . . to keep her life from spiraling out of control the way mine once did.”
It was my turn to be silent.
“I lost everything, Amy—my best friend, my hospital pr
ivileges, my medical practice, and eventually, my wife.”
“I thought you were a widower,” I murmured.
“I am. But we’d been divorced for years before she died.”
“And all this is what George Lincoln had been holding over your head.”
Dr. Kent nodded. “George found out I’d been in an accident in which my best friend had died. We were both drinking that night, and I was driving. After the accident, I told the police that my friend—his name was Arnold—had been driving. I mean, he was dead. What harm would it do? I’d managed to crawl out through the broken windshield and pull Arnie out too. I was giving Arnie CPR when police arrived.”
“How’d George find out?”
“I usually go away somewhere the week of the accident. And I drink—I never really did get completely off the wagon. But that week a year ago, there’d been a tornado touch down in Winter Garden.”
“I remember that.”
“There wasn’t much damage, but quite a few people had minor injuries. I didn’t feel it was the best time to close down the office for a week. On the day of the accident, I hired a cab and went to one of those restaurant bars in Bristol. George came in, spotted me at the bar, and struck up a conversation. He said he’d never seen me drink before. I said I usually didn’t. He asked what was the occasion.”
“You told him.”
“Yep, I’m afraid I did,” he said. “He was a patient, I was already more than a little drunk, and I thought George was a friend I could trust.”
“And you’d known him for how long?”
He gave me a wry smile. “I already said I was more than a little drunk.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I never imagined George would use what I’d told him against me.”
“In what way did he use the information? Was he blackmailing you?”
“He didn’t so much blackmail as manipulate,” said Dr. Kent. “I consider blackmailing to be monetary extortion. He made me provide free medical care for himself, his wife, and his secretary.”
“Didn’t your staff question that?”
“Of course they did. I told them it was a personal matter.”
“I should be going.” He stood. “Thank you again for the pie and the jam. They were much appreciated and enjoyed.”
“You’re welcome.”
As Dr. Kent left, I went back into the house. I wondered whether or not he could’ve slipped something in George’s coffee or food that morning. And if so, had his attempts at helping the man been done out of guilt or just for show?
Chapter 26
As soon as I got back into the house, my phone started ringing. It was Mrs. Lincoln telling me that she’d confirmed her bridge club for tomorrow.
“My friends will be meeting me at the Down South Café at one o’clock tomorrow, and I’d adore it if you could whip us up something special—like an afternoon tea spread.”
I had to think about that for a second. An afternoon tea? “You mean, like Mrs. Patmore and Downton Abbey?”
“Precisely! That’ll be just divine! I’m so very excited for this. And charge whatever you’d like. Money is no object with these women, dear. Just do up something fancy and delightful.”
“Fancy and delightful,” I repeated. “I can do that. How many women will there be?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down. There’ll be ten, including me. See you tomorrow!”
“Fancy and delightful.” I kept mumbling those words to myself as I returned my phone to my pocket and went into the fancy room to look in my cookbooks and on the Internet for afternoon tea spreads.
All the articles suggested using a two- to three-tiered cake stand to display a layer of sandwiches, a layer of cakes, and a layer of scones or petit fours. I had a beautiful two-tiered cake stand that had belonged to Nana. I could push two of the larger tables together and put the tiered cake stand in the center of one and use a larger, regular cake plate for the other table.
Based on the food I was seeing served in these afternoon tea spreads, I’d need three types of sandwiches to accommodate everyone. I decided to go with egg salad on small poppy seed rolls; ham and Swiss on rye and cut into triangles; and cucumber cream cheese sandwiches on whole wheat bread and cut into thin rectangles. Because I just knew Mrs. Lincoln would expect Mrs. Patmore to serve cucumber sandwiches at afternoon tea.
I found a recipe for scones that would be nicely complemented by the strawberry jam, hopefully enticing the bridge club ladies to buy a jar of jam on their way out. I added mini cinnamon rolls to the menu. And finally, I decided to buy a ready-made pound cake, cut it into squares, dip the squares in white chocolate, and—after they’d cooled—top them with pink and yellow rosettes.
I didn’t know that I’d want to make afternoon tea a habit, although a monthly tradition might not be a bad idea if it went over well with the bridge ladies. Maybe it could be something different to use to further promote the café once in a while.
I made my list and headed to the store. I hurried through the grocery aisles, looking over my shoulder a time or two because I thought someone might be following me. I knew I was being paranoid. Constantly having murder on the brain was getting to me. I was glad to have this afternoon tea spread to occupy my mind for a while.
When I got home, I made the poppy seed rolls, the mini cinnamon rolls, and the egg salad. All of those would keep well, and I could reheat the rolls prior to the afternoon tea. I’d need to make the scones tomorrow morning, and I’d prepare the other sandwiches tomorrow just before one o’clock.
Last, but not least, I took my pound cake out of the refrigerator, put it on waxed paper, and cut the cake into even squares. I then cut the squares into layers a quarter-inch thick, so I could add a buttercream filling. I spread the filling between the layers and then cut the layers into individual square cakes—about two inches square. I melted my white chocolate. Then I sat a cooling rack atop a baking sheet and poured the chocolate onto the cakes. I put the pan of cakes into the refrigerator to cool because I was afraid I’d turn my back and Princess Eloise would jump onto the counter to sample the cakes. I had cupcake liners to put the cakes in tomorrow morning, and I’d also add my rosettes to the top then.
Satisfied with my work for the evening, I went to take a bath. After that, I got all comfy and cozy in the bed and turned on the television. I seldom watched TV in the bedroom, but I was really tired, and it felt great to be so lazy.
• • •
I was awakened by a noise. The TV was still on, but I didn’t think the noise that had awakened me had come from the program that was now showing. I took the remote control from the nightstand and muted the television.
My heart was pounding as I listened. I didn’t hear the noise again, but my gut instincts were going into overdrive. I’d probably heard Princess Eloise jump down off the counter or Rory coming in from outside or something, but I knew I’d never get any more rest tonight until I’d found out for certain. I needed to go into the kitchen and reassure myself that there was nothing out of the ordinary and no one there.
I got out of bed, slid my feet into my slippers, and tiptoed to the bedroom door. The light from the television threw shadows all around the dark room, but I certainly didn’t see anything there.
As I started to go through the door into the hallway, a hand came around my head and clamped over my mouth.
I drew in my breath to scream—even though I had to know that was futile. I began banging my head backward against my attacker, but my blows landed against a chest that felt like it was made of steel.
“Hush. Calm down.” The voice came in an urgent whisper. “I’m not the one here to hurt you.”
It was that last part that stilled me. The words didn’t necessarily calm me down, but they did make me realize I hadn’t yet grasped the entire situation.
I’m not the one here to hurt
you.
I nodded, trying to convey to the person behind me that I understood.
“If I take my hand away, are you going to scream?” he whispered.
I shook my head.
“Promise?”
Again, I nodded.
He took his hand off my mouth, and I turned to look up into the face of Thomas Lincoln. My jaw dropped, and I really did almost scream again before I could stop myself.
“What are—”
“No time. Get back in that bed and leave everything else to me.”
I hesitated.
“Trust me. I’m here to catch my brother’s killer and prevent your death.”
As Charlotte Brontë might say, Gentle Reader, I have no idea why I chose to trust Thomas Lincoln. But I truly felt I had no other choice. I went back to the bed and turned toward the wall facing away from the door.
I waited for what seemed like forever before hearing another sound. This time, I willed myself to remain still and to keep my breathing normal. I was trusting Thomas Lincoln. After all, had he been there to kill me, he’d have done so when he had me in his grip. He wouldn’t have told me some cockamamie story about preventing my murder.
There was another sound. Fainter still, but I heard it. Whoever was making these sounds was trying awfully hard to be quiet about it. Neither Rory nor especially Princess Eloise would ever be so considerate. This time, I was certain I was hearing someone easing down the hallway to the bedroom.
The person entered my room. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I flipped on the lamp just as Thomas Lincoln tackled my intruder. In fact, Thomas was such a large man that I couldn’t see my attacker until Thomas rolled the man over. It was Dr. Kent.
I gasped, but I wasn’t as surprised as I should’ve been. When he’d confessed to me this afternoon what he’d done—that he’d been guilty of involuntary manslaughter, at the very least—and that George Lincoln not only knew but had been using the information to manipulate him, I knew he’d somehow killed Mr. Lincoln. I couldn’t figure out how he’d done it, and I wanted so badly to believe it wasn’t so. But now here he was pinned to my floor by George Lincoln’s brother.