I followed her out to check on the number of baked goods and to help estimate what would be needed for the rest of the day.
A few small groups clustered about our black wrought iron tables. One was the usual group of knitters, undeterred by the impending holiday. I picked up the coffeepot and walked over to freshen their cups. “Good morning, ladies.” I poured the coffee. “What are your holiday plans? Do you have family coming?”
Francy glanced up from the pale blue baby blanket she was knitting. “Dinner is at my house this year,” she said. “I’m making the turkey, and everyone else is bringing sides and desserts.”
“You’re lucky to have family in the area,” Julie said with a sigh as she worked on a deep-green-and-white blanket. “My family is all in Wisconsin, and no one could make it down this year.”
“You should go up,” Mary said as she put down her pale pink angora blanket and picked up her coffee cup to sip.
“I would if I had the money, but things are tight this year, what with Sean having to take off work for six weeks after his neck surgery,” Julie said.
“How’s Sean doing?” I asked. He’d had cervical spine surgery, and I’d taken a plate of gluten-free cookies to her home.
“He’s good, back at work.” She didn’t miss a stitch as she spoke. “He said the pain went away the moment he woke up from surgery.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” I said and straightened. “I went to Lois Striker’s funeral service this morning.”
“Oh, dear, poor Lois.” Francy shook her head. “I’m surprised anyone went. She had a tendency to lord it over people.”
“Lois wasn’t nearly as bad as Aimee Everett,” Julie said. “I went to a Chamber of Commerce coffee once to promote my Mary Kay business, and Hutch’s wife acted as if she were the mayor’s wife or something. Her nose was all up in the air, and she practically sneered at my shoes. When I found out she was a regular at the coffees, I quit the Chamber and never looked back.”
“It didn’t hurt you any,” Mary said. “You still have your pink Cadillac parked in your driveway. Which reminds me, I need to order some of your mascara. I’m out.”
I decided I’d learned all I could learn from that group and moved on to the next. This table was a couple of ranchers who came in weekly and spent an hour or two playing checkers and enjoying the bottomless cups of coffee I offered.
“Hi guys,” I said. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” Mr. Andrews scooted his cup my way. He jumped three pieces and took them off the board.
“Drat,” Mr. Brooks muttered. “You can fill mine, too, while you’re at it, young lady.”
These two old guys had lived in Oiltop their entire lives. Surely they would know Lois, and might even be aware of her secrets. “Did either of you know Lois Striker very well?”
“No one like us knew Lois,” Mr. Brooks said as he studied the board. “That woman was after the rich and famous.”
“You know, for as hard as she worked to catch Homer Everett’s attention, she sure ended up alone and broke, didn’t she?” Mr. Andrews said.
“I thought she had a live-in nurse. If so, she must have had money. Live-in nurses are not cheap,” I pointed out.
“I can’t say as to where she got her money.” Mr. Brooks jumped his checker over two pieces. “But she and Everett were in cahoots over something. If she ever needed anything she got it. His wife didn’t complain either.”
“Makes me wonder if they were a threesome,” Mr. Andrews said with a cackle. “Although no one would believe it to look at her.”
“Right.” I walked away. So Grandma Ruth wasn’t the only one who hated Lois. Maybe she wasn’t killed because she was going to spill her secrets. Maybe she was killed because she had said the wrong thing to the wrong person one time too many. It was something to consider.
But who was it that greased up Homer Everett’s statue and almost killed my grandmother?
“Hey, Meghan, have you ever known kids to grease Homer Everett’s statue?”
“What? No, they might egg it. Heck, they’ve tried to tar and feather it. But why would they grease it?” She shrugged her shoulders. Today she wore a black peasant blouse under a black corset, with black pants and her customary thick-soled combat boots.
“Maybe it’s the Everetts that greased it,” Mr. Andrews said.
I spun on my heel. “Why?”
“To keep the blasted thing clean,” he stated. “Didn’t you hear the girl? The kids are always trying to deface the thing. I heard the Everetts were trying out this new silicone solution that would protect the bronze from damage and yet be invisible to the eye.”
“Didn’t they hire Charlie Handon to treat the statue with that stuff?” Mr. Brooks asked. He looked at me, his hazel eyes serious. “He said it was slick as snot, pardon my language.”
“They need to put a warning on it, then.” I frowned.
“There is,” Mr. Andrews said. “Got a sign right beside the statue that says, ‘Danger: Do not climb. Violators will be ticketed.’ I ought to know; I made the sign. Right nice. Poured brass. One of my best, if I say so myself.”
The bakery door opened with a jangle of bells. “Hi, Toni, how’s your grandma doing?” Brad pulled his sunglasses off his nose, revealing electric-blue eyes full of worry.
“She’s doing better.” I put the coffeepot back on the heater. “Bill is taking her home this afternoon.”
“What happened to Ruth?” Mr. Andrews said.
“She fell and broke her arm and her leg,” I said. “She bumped her head as well, so they kept her overnight at the hospital to keep an eye on her concussion.”
“Ouch,” Mr. Brooks said. “How’d she fall that bad?”
I shrugged, not wanting to admit she was climbing on Homer Everett. “You know how easy it is to fall at her age.”
“Don’t we know it.” Mr. Andrews went back to his checkers game.
“That’s what got my wife, Eliza,” Mr. Brooks said. “She fell in the bathroom and did all kinds of damage. You tell your grandma we’re pulling for her.”
“I will, thanks.” I walked behind the counter. “What can I get you, Brad?”
“How about a couple of those bear claws and some coffee?”
I plated two gluten-free bear claws and he poured his own coffee. “Why don’t you come on back?”
He followed me into the kitchen, where Meghan was boxing up the cooled pies. “Hey, Meghan.”
“Hi, Mr. Ridgeway.” She batted her eyes at him. I didn’t blame her. The man was gorgeous. Every female from one to ninety flirted with him. It was something to consider when I started dating again. I had a bit of a jealous nature. I’d have to be able to handle the fact that he could have anyone he wanted.
“Will Grandma Ruth be able to ride on your float?” Brad asked as he sat down at the small table in the back room and sipped his black coffee.
I put the bear claws down in front of him and poured my own coffee. I added plenty of cream to mine. I love the taste of coffee, but I like it to have more body to it. Cream adds that. “The doctor said she could, if she felt up to it. I’m going to add a seat belt to her chair. I don’t want her falling out and hurting herself even worse.”
“Smart.” He nodded and bit into a pastry. “How much sleep did you get? I heard through the grapevine you were at the hospital until after midnight.”
“I’m running on about two hours.” I raised my coffee cup and gave him a wry smile. “I think I’ve had three pots of coffee so far this morning.”
“Tell me you won’t be working all night tonight.” His concern was touching, really.
“I won’t be working,” I reassured him. “The bakery closes at seven and we’re closed for Thanksgiving.”
“And the deliveries?” He pointed at the stack of boxes Meghan had made.
“I’m doi
ng those, Mr. Ridgeway.” She turned to us. “I won’t let her drive on two hours of sleep. It’s bad enough she’s baking.”
“Good girl,” he said.
I, being exhausted and decidedly not in control of my emotions, stuck my tongue out at her. Meghan laughed.
“I hope you’ll let me drive you home tonight,” he said. “The last thing I need is a phone call telling me you’ve been in an accident.”
“I’m fine, really. I don’t live that far. This is Oiltop. Nothing is very far.”
“As your lawyer, I have to take you. If anything happened I might be liable because I knew you were impaired.” He said it with a straight face and sipped his coffee.
“What a bunch of hokum,” I muttered.
“I heard you went to Lois Striker’s memorial service.” He smoothly changed the subject.
“Yes. I was surprised by how few people came.”
“Lois might have been an influential pillar of the community, but she wasn’t well-liked.”
“I’m learning that.” I lifted my mug and a thought occurred to me. “Did you know that Hutch Everett’s middle name is Champ?”
“I might have seen it somewhere. Why?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a man would name his son after another man he’s suspected of murdering?”
Brad frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I think it puts a great big monkey wrench in Grandma’s theory that Homer killed Champ.”
“True.” Brad finished off his pastry. “So if Homer didn’t kill Champ, who did?”
“Maybe Lois did,” I said, thinking out loud. “I mean, maybe Champ was going to tell everyone about her affair with Homer.” I shrugged. “It’s motive.”
“And what, Homer hid the gun for his lover? I don’t think so. Wasn’t it Lois who signed off on the permit?”
“They say good friends hide the body,” I stated.
“That only works if you think lovers can be good friends.” Brad’s eyes twinkled.
“Or that good friends can be lovers,” I said. “Doesn’t usually work that way.”
“Hmm, sex messes everything up,” he said. “Maybe that’s why Lois gave Homer her son. Maybe Homer blackmailed her into it.”
“Now that is an interesting thought,” I said. “There’s one way to find out.”
“How?”
“If I tell you, you’ll try to talk me out of it.”
“Then it’s my duty as your lawyer to inform you that if you are thinking of doing something unlawful, I have to advise against it. I may in fact have to tell the police that you did it.”
“I’m not thinking of doing anything unlawful,” I said. “Just . . . wait. What happened to lawyer/client confidentiality?”
“You mean doctor/patient privilege?”
“No, the one with your lawyer.” I stood. “There has to be some sort of rule that you can’t tell on me or crooks would never tell their lawyers anything.”
“You got me there.” He stood and put his coffee cup in the sink. “Thanks for the snack. I’ll be here at seven to pick you up. Don’t do anything today. You’re tired and you may do something you’ll regret later.”
Darn it. He was right. I watched his Armani-covered backside walk away and tried not to sigh. I knew then what I needed to do. I needed to speak to Hutch Everett and ask him if he knew who killed Champ. It was a long shot, but if Lois had shared her deed with anyone, it would have been her son—not my grandmother.
I looked at the ingredients I’d gotten out for the cupcakes. Maybe I needed to make a delivery to the Everett household. When someone died you brought the family food. Right?
CHAPTER 26
I didn’t drive to the big square limestone home of Hutch Everett. I walked. It was only about a mile, and I needed the brisk walk to help keep me awake. Okay, that was a stretch, but almost everyone would believe me.
I carried a box of fresh-baked gluten-free cupcakes. I’d picked apple cinnamon with maple frosting and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. If nothing else, Harold would eat them. From what I heard, that boy would eat about anything, especially if it had frosting.
The Everett house was an imposing foursquare with thick columns in the front and a wide porch. I remember as a kid being fascinated with the old-fashioned carport attached to the side of the house. The drive swept elegantly up to the house, where the sturdy limestone columns held a thick roof that shielded the driver from the weather. I could imagine a butler jumping out of the side to open the car door for the ladies, then taking the car back to the garage while the man and woman of the house went inside.
Today the house windows were dark. The porch steps were painted light gray. I straightened my dress and rang the doorbell. The porch held dark rattan furnishings with blue-and-white striped cushions. I counted to twenty and pushed the doorbell a second time.
This time the front door opened. An older woman in a gray dress wearing an apron answered. I assumed she was the Everetts’ housekeeper. I didn’t think people had household help anymore, but if anyone did, it would be the Everetts. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Toni Holmes. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Everett at Lois Striker’s memorial service this morning. I wanted to bring them some food and express my condolences for the loss of their friend.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” the woman said with a sour look on her face. “The Everetts didn’t have anything to do with that Striker woman. I would know. I’ve worked here for over forty years.”
“Oh.”
She started to close the door, but I stopped her before she could finish by putting my hand in the doorjamb. “Wait.”
“What?”
“I brought cupcakes. The least you could do is take them. I’m sure Mr. Everett wouldn’t mind. They’re apple and carrot cake.” I held up the pink-and-white striped bakery box.
“Who is it, Carla?” Hutch Everett’s voice sounded behind her.
“It’s a Ms. Holmes,” the older woman stated, not taking her eyes off me, as if I might steal something from the front porch. “She’s under the mistaken impression you are grieving over Lois Striker’s death.”
“I brought cupcakes.” I raised the box when he came up behind her.
“Thank you,” he said. “Carla, let the woman in.”
I pushed the box into Carla’s hands and stepped into the cool, rich foyer of the house. She took the cupcakes and muttered as she moved through the formal dining area toward what I assumed was the kitchen.
“Why don’t we talk in the living room.” He waved toward the formal parlor across from the dining area. The house was built with four classic rooms and stairs to the side. There were a formal living room, a dining room, a family room, and a kitchen. Each room had thick walls, wood floors, and sumptuous rugs. The walls were painted in soft pastels to show off the thick dark woodwork that ran through each room.
“Thank you so much for seeing me.” I sat down on the edge of a pale cream couch with soft floral pillows. “I wanted to express my condolences for the loss of your friend.”
“Lois was more than a friend, but I suppose you already figured that out.” He went to a small bar and picked up a short, squat crystal glass. He opened a silver ice bucket and used tongs to put ice cubes in his glass. “Drink?” He held up the glass as he asked.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m working on too little sleep to indulge.”
“Ah, yes, I heard about your grandmother Ruth’s accident. Is she okay?”
“She has a concussion and a couple of broken bones, but she’ll get to come home today.”
He took a sip of the amber liquid in his glass and studied me. “That is regrettable.”
“She should have known better.” I paused. “There’s a rumor you all coat the bronze in silicone to keep it clean. Is that true?”
“Hmmm, as far as I know, no. We don’t overly concern ourselves with the cleanliness of the statue—except to spiff it up for Homer Everett Day.” He walked over and sat down in the striped, winged-back chair in front of me. “How about we talk about why you’re really here?”
I tried hard to keep my expression neutral and waited for him to tell me what he meant. It was hard. I hate awkward silences. I really wanted to jump in and ask him about his birth parents. But instead I simply waited for him to expound.
He took another sip of his drink, drawing out the silence. “You want to know about my birth parents.”
“Yes.” I kept my answer simple.
“Lois Striker was my birth mother. I always knew. It was—how to say this—delicate. But my father believed in absolute honesty in the family. Lois wanted for nothing. It was the agreement . . . and no, I don’t feel as if I’ve been sold. You see, single motherhood was unthinkable when I was born. Lois and my father were in love, but he died before they could marry. So Homer stepped in. You see, he felt responsible. He’d introduced them.”
“Wait—Homer wasn’t you birth father?”
“Oh, god, no, I thought you knew. Champ Rogers was my father, and Homer’s best friend.”
I sat back and tried to digest this new piece of information. It did make sense. Why else would Homer’s wife allow him to adopt Hutch?
“Can I ask you another impertinent question?”
His lids half lowered and held a glimmer of danger. “I suppose you will whether I let you or not.”
“I’m sorry; it’s important. Do you know who killed Champ? Er . . . your father?”
“No,” he said. “Proof that money doesn’t buy everything. I’ve had a reward out for years on any information that would lead to Champ’s killer.”
“Did you know that my grandmother thinks the gun is hidden in a false wall in the judge’s chambers?”
“No.” He swirled his drink and tossed back a swallow. “I’ll have to look into that. Is that all, Ms. Holmes?”
Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) Page 20