by Gayle Trent
“I . . . yes . . .I did.” I kept my voice low, hoping she’d take the hint. She didn’t.
“Heard she was poisoned.”
“I don’t know how I can make this any clearer. The woman didn’t even see the cake I—”
“Oh, no, I don’t think it was you. I just wonder who the police think did the old gal in. Has anybody brought my name into this?”
I frowned.
“I’m China York.” She stuck out her hand.
I shook her hand, noticing she had a strong grip for a seemingly ancient woman. She also had calluses, which told me she was still a hard worker.
“Me and old Yodel had quite a round at church a few years back. I thought it’d be only fair for me to know if I’m a suspect.”
“I’m . . . I’m not privy to the police investigation,” I said, wondering if I should refer her to Joanne, “but I don’t see why you’d be a suspect, Ms. York. An argument at church is hardly a motive for murder.”
“Right.” She grinned. “I’ve got an alibi in case I get hauled in for questioning.”
“That’s always good to have . . . I guess.”
“You bet. Well, good luck with your business. Things’ll likely pick back up once Yodel’s in the ground.”
I stood slack-jawed as Ms. York spun around and walked out of the aisle.
I went to the office and collected my check and cake plate. Mr. Franklin had put the cake plate in a Save-A-Buck bag, presumably so no one would see me leaving with it. Heaven forbid, anyone should think the Save-A-Buck had sold possibly tainted cakes. This, despite the fact that Save-A-Buck had merely taken my name off the cakes and sold them anyway. Had Mr. Franklin been truly concerned, he’d have taken my cakes and dumped them in the garbage. He knew the cakes were good; but I’d been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion, and he and his store could not openly associate with me until that conviction was overturned. From a business standpoint, I could understand this logic. From a personal standpoint, this was merely another stab in an already gaping wound.
I was weary and bone tired when I got home. I wanted to take a bath, have a cup of hot tea, get into my favorite pajamas….
That’s where my thoughts . . . and plans . . . were interrupted by the inevitable knock on the door. Could I get away with not answering it? Probably not. My car was in the driveway, my lights were on; and with one recent murder, someone would probably call the police if I ignored the knock.
I went to the front door and took a look out of the peep hole. Myra. I stifled a groan.
Maybe she won’t stay long . . . and maybe there really is a Big Foot who fathers alien children.
I opened the door.
Before I could greet her, Myra said, “Honey, you look awful.” She placed her hand on my forehead. “You’re not hot. Do you feel sick? Is it maybe something you ate yesterday?”
I smiled and led her into the living room.
“I’m awfully tired is all,” I said, dropping onto the couch.
Myra sat in the pink and white gingham chair, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her. “I only dropped in to tell you how good your cakes were. Everybody loved them, and Carl, Jr. took what was left of the spice cake home with him.”
“Good. And thanks for sharing that with me. It seems the rest of the town thinks I’m the Confectionary Killer.”
“I hate that, sweetie. That’s probably why you feel bad. Nerves. But, this will blow over. You’ll see.”
“So I’ve been told. According to China York, ‘things’ll pick back up once Yodel’s in the ground.’”
“China’s never been one to mince her words. Don’t be offended. It’s her way.”
“Is she always so cold?”
Myra pursed her lips. “Don’t know that I’d call her cold.” She cocked her head. “Hard-nosed. Is that the word I’m looking for? And she sure ain’t two-faced. She didn’t like Yodel when Yodel was living; she ain’t gonna pretend to like her now that she’s dead.”
“She asked me if she was a suspect. Why would she think I’d know?”
“Because you found the body. It’s only natural you’d be kept in the loop unless the police thought you killed Yodel . . . which they don’t.”
“Why in the world would I be kept in the loop? I’m not next-of-kin…I’m not involved in the investigation…I’m not a suspect, as far as I know. Although, I believe Joanne Hayden wants everyone to think I am.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I believe she’s trying to ruin my business.”
“Joanne can be pretty vocal,” Myra said, “but I don’t know why she’d try to ruin your business. What could she possibly have against you?”
“I don’t know. What do you know about her?”
She shrugged. “She and Bill got married right out of high school . . . which wasn’t all that long ago. They have a daughter in elementary school.”
“Before that.” I leaned forward. “Who are her parents?”
“Jonah and Peggy March. Why? Would they have it in for you for some reason?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I’m merely being paranoid. Perhaps Joanne is concerned about the health and well-being of the community and thinks a cake decorator would make everybody get fat.” I sighed. “Do her parents live around here?”
“Her mother does. Her daddy’s dead.” Myra clicked her tongue. “Killed himself a couple years after his daddy Vern died.”
I nearly fell off the couch. “What?”
“Uh-huh. Poor Jonah had kind of a rough life from what I hear, and he was always on the gloomy side. Depressed, I reckon you could say. Some people say he was downright odd. Anyway, Vern died in a car wreck, and I guess Jonah lived with that for as long as he could. Eventually, he shot himself.”
“Man. No wonder she doesn’t like me. She must hate our entire family.”
“Who? Joanne? Why?”
I looked at Myra, realized I’d said too much and quickly tried to claw my way back up out of the pit I’d tumbled into.
“B-because of Vern,” I said. “My Uncle Hal . . . argued with Vern, and then Vern left town. If he hadn’t moved away, he might not have had the accident.”
“Now, honey, you don’t know that. I firmly believe that when your number’s up, your number’s up. He was destined to die when he died. Take my Great Aunt Mamie. She smoked a pipe for as long as anybody in the family could remember. Everybody thought she’d die from lung cancer or something; but not long after her one hundredth birthday, she died in a horrible motorcycle accident.”
“Your one-hundred-year-old Great Aunt Mamie drove a motorcycle?”
“Oh, no, honey—that’d be nuts. She hitched a ride on the back of one when she was on her way to the store to get some tobacco.” Myra examined her thumbnail before resuming her narrative. “We’d all been telling her for years not to smoke, but nobody ever thought to warn her not to hitchhike. You couldn’t tell that old lady a blessed thing anyway, though. She thought she knew it all, and she was gonna do whatever suited her. Still, when her number was up, it was up. It just so happens it was Great Aunt Mamie’s destiny to ride out of this world on the back of a hog.”
“I guess.” I needed a minute to collect my scattered thoughts. “Would you like something to drink? Tea, maybe?”
“No, thanks. I don’t care for anything. You said Vern and your uncle argued about something. What was it?”
“Uh . . . ” I forced out a laugh. “You tell me. It was about thirty years ago.”
“I’ve only lived here for twenty-three.” She chewed her bottom lip a moment. “I’ll tell you who would’ve known—Yodel. That woman made it her business to know everything about everything.”
“Too bad I can’t ask her.”
“Yeah. But there’s bound to be someone else who knows. I’ll ask around.”
“No! I mean, it’s not all that important. Like I said, it was a long time ago, and I’m probably being paranoid. I’ve had a rough week.”
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“You sure have, sweetie. I’ll go now and let you get some rest. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will, Myra. Thanks.”
After Myra left, I abandoned my notion of relaxing in a warm bath. Instead, I found myself drawn to the computer.
My website had no new visitors, forum posts or requests for information. I hadn’t really expected any, given the holiday weekend; still, a nagging voice in my head wondered if the lack of interest in my site was actually due to the holiday or my now-murderous reputation.
I surfed the genealogy sites, hoping to find something . . . anything . . . about Vern or Jonah March. I found both men’s Social Security death record. The records were basic and unhelpful: name, Social Security number, last known residence, date of birth, date of death. There was no cause of death listed, no spouse or family members named. The record pretty much stated, “this person existed and then died.”
I searched for over an hour. There were no records I could find to access for free, and/or without submission of various forms, to give me information on Vern March’s marriage or on Jonah March’s birth. Despite my search, I failed to see what difference this knowledge would make anyway. How could Vern’s wife affect Joanne’s feelings toward me and my family? Unless, of course, Joanne’s grandmother was Yodel Watson, and Joanne honestly thought I’d poisoned the woman.
No, it had to be that Joanne despised us because Uncle Hal ran her grandfather out of town, taking him away from his family.
I rested my head on the back of my chair and tried to recall whether Vern had ever mentioned a son. I realized I was a kid myself when Vern was spending so much time at our house. A stupid, blind, naïve, trusting kid. But I’d have remembered if Vern had told us he had a son. Of course, family was obviously not at the top of either of their priority lists, unless it was starting a new one together.
I closed my eyes, and suddenly it was like a mini-movie . . . or maybe a movie trailer. I saw Uncle Hal telling me, “I can be pretty persuasive.” The trailer switched to the next scene: I was at the newspaper archives reading about Vern March’s accident. The car veered off the road and hit a tree. Authorities cite mechanical error. A hole in the line caused the car’s brake fluid to deplete, leaving the vehicle without brakes.
Hole in the brake line.
Pretty persuasive.
Then I had an image of Jack Nicholson telling me I couldn’t handle the truth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At two a.m. I woke with a stiff neck and went to bed with my clothes still on. I tried to make up for that the next morning by soaking in the tub, but my water got cold long before I’d worked out the kinks in my aching muscles. I could use a hot stone massage, and I promised myself I’d have one as soon as this mess was behind me.
While I was in the tub, I had the oven preheating and a batch of yeast dough rising. Now the dough was ready to be kneaded. I’d decided to take cinnamon rolls to Annabelle and her family before the funeral. Besides, it was nice to be able to take some of my frustrations out on the dough.
As I pounded and squeezed, I remembered the dream I’d had last night. Did I really believe Uncle Hal to be capable of murder? Beating a man and running him out of town, I could imagine him doing. But murder? No. He wouldn’t. Would he?
I put the dough back into the bowl, covered it with plastic wrap and ate my breakfast while the dough rested.
I hoped Ben would be at the funeral. I supposed I could call and ask him if he was going, but I was afraid doing that would make me appear desperate. I mean, who tries to get a date for a funeral? Not that I was seeking a “date,” but it would be nice if there was someone there—other than Annabelle—who didn’t think my cake had poisoned Mrs. Watson.
I rinsed out my cereal bowl and put it in the dishwasher. Then I took the dough from the bowl and rolled it into a rectangle. I brushed the dough with butter and liberally sprinkled a cinnamon/brown sugar mixture on top of that. I rolled the dough up and scored the dough in one and a half increments with a knife. I used unwaxed, unflavored dental floss to cut the dough, since floss cuts the dough more neatly than the knife would. I then put the rolls into a greased pan with their sides touching.
Maybe Ben had telepathy, because after I’d put the rolls into the oven and gone to the bedroom to get dressed, he called me.
“Hey,” he said. “How was your Thanksgiving?”
“It was great. I even brought Leslie and Lucas home with me to spend the night. We had a blast. How about you?”
“It was good. Doesn’t sound as much fun as yours, though. Sally and I went to Mom and Dad’s. They sold their house and bought a condo in Jonesborough a few years ago. Anyway, we got back home last night.”
Last night. They’d stayed over. Together. Must be serious. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure your mom enjoyed having you there.”
“Oh, yeah. Plus she and Dad have Sally spoiled rotten.”
“I’m sorry to rush off the phone,” I said, “but I’m getting ready to go to Mrs. Watson’s funeral.”
“That’s actually why I called. I’m going and thought if you were, I’d come by and pick you up.”
“Are you sure? I need to drop off some cinnamon rolls to Annabelle first.”
“No problem. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
As soon as he got there, I saw he was alone. Okay, as soon as he got there, I also saw that he looked terrific in his dark brown suit. It was sort of a mahogany color, I guess you could say, and it somehow brought out the blue in his eyes.
“Where’s Sally?”
“Home.”
“She didn’t want to come?”
“Uh . . . she probably did, but it’s hardly appropriate.” He was looking at me as if trying to decide whether I was under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or both. “I did tell you Sally’s my dog, didn’t I? She’s well behaved, but she wouldn’t be welcome at the funeral home.”
“Right.” I could feel myself blushing from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. “I’ll put these cinnamon rolls in a tin and we can be on our way.”
All the way to Annabelle’s—or rather, Yodel Watson’s—house, Ben looked as if he was trying to keep from bursting out laughing. I know this from the few glances I sneaked in his direction. Otherwise I looked out the passenger side window as if the answers to every mystery in the universe would be revealed to me if I stared hard enough. Yep. Grassy knoll, right there.
We arrived at Mrs. Watson’s house to find Annabelle and her family were the only people there. Mrs. Watson’s siblings, sister-in-law and friends had agreed to meet at the funeral home and then come back to the house after the service.
Ben and I met Annabelle’s husband and daughters. While Ben and Mr. Fontaine made small talk in the living room, Annabelle and I stepped into the kitchen. She thanked me for the rolls and placed them on the table.
“How are you?” I asked. “Was it good for you to go through your mother’s things alone?”
“It was.” She smiled. “You know, especially when you grow up and move away, the distance between you and your mother often seems more than physical. At times, she was like a stranger to me.”
“I know the feeling.”
“But I found so many things . . . trinkets, cards, notes, photos . . . that reiterated to me that I was never far from her heart.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “It meant so much.”
“I’m sure it did.” I wondered what I’d find if I went through my mother’s things. Would I find precious little things that would warm my heart, or would I find love letters from Vern? Or someone else?
Annabelle checked her watch. “I need to be going.”
“I thought I’d attend the service, if that’s okay.”
“Of course, it is. Thank you.”
*
Ben and I arrived just after the Fontaine family. There were still several minutes before the funeral was scheduled to begin, and everyone was milling around, offering condolences and sharing storie
s. Ben excused himself to go and talk with someone.
I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs sitting in a pew near the front. Both looked somber and unapproachable. Candy was sitting in the pew behind them; and given Myra’s tale about Mrs. Dobbs’ feelings toward her husband’s employee, I thought that might explain the bad vibes emanating from the couple. Candy saw me and waved happily. I waved back, and she motioned for me to come sit with her. I held up my index finger to signal “in a minute,” and she nodded. I wasn’t at all inclined to find myself in the middle of a Dobbs’ family feud.
Thankfully, Myra came up beside me. Her black dress, complete with black hat and veil, was very, well, Dynasty. For some reason, an image of Great Aunt Mamie on “the hog” came to mind. Her funeral must have been quite an event.
“Hi, honey. You feeling better today?”
“Some.” I looked around the crowded church. “I am second-guessing my decision to come, though. I wanted to support Annabelle, but I don’t have a clue as to who most of these people are.”
“See that big man with the thin white comb-over? That’s Yodel’s brother Tar. He’s talking with Joanne Hayden, and that’s Tar’s wife talking with Bill.”
Joanne wasn’t how I’d pictured her. Of course, I’d pictured her pretty much as a stick figure with a head that was mostly mouth. She was short and trim and had long, dark blonde spiral curls. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see whether or not she had an outrageously large mouth; but I doubted she did.
Myra scanned the crowd. “Melody’s dead, but that’s Harmony—Yodel’s middle sister—over there in the loud floral dress talking to the preacher.” She clucked her tongue. “Harmony should’ve known better than to wear a print like that to a funeral . . . especially her sister’s funeral. I know styles are limited for women her size, but I also know they have some beautiful clothes nowadays for extra plus-sized ladies.”
I hadn’t taken my eyes off Tar and Joanne. It was time to introduce myself.
“Excuse me, Myra.”
I made my way over to Tar and Joanne. Neither of them noticed me.
“I haven’t laid eyes on your grandmother,” Tar said, “in . . . law, I reckon, forty years or better. How is Gloria?”