“That’s so thoughtful.” I pointed at the instructions for reheating she’d taped to the top of the casserole.
“I just know lots of times people think they can microwave everything.” She shifted the glass dish to the other hip.
The voices inside came closer. Dixie and I looked at each other. Perhaps Kenny had other visitors. I hoped it was the lady from the Sunday School assignation. I hadn’t seen her face, but I thought I’d recognize the bright cherry-dotted sun dress.
I glanced at the cars on the street. My Jeep right in front, a brown-ish Corolla, down from that a rusty gray Ford van that may have once been blue, and behind that a shiny silver Lexus. The person—guy I thought—in the Lexus ducked down suddenly as I surveyed the street. The person in the van also slipped out of sight, and then popped back up, and pulled the person in the passenger seat down with him. This time I really couldn’t tell if the driver was a male or female. It looked like that game. What was it called? The one where the animal keeps popping up in different places.
“Whack-a-mole,” I said aloud.
“What?” Dixie face said she thought I’d really lost it this time.
Just then the door was pulled open. “Can I help you?” Minnie from the committee stood looking at us expectantly. She glanced at the casserole that Dixie clutched.
“We—” I began.
“Take a number.” Minnie handed us a sticky note with a number written on it.
“What?” Dixie and I said at once.
“Take a number.” She extended the sticky note. “So I can log your food in.”
Ahh, I got it now. Minnie had a system. Of course, she did. How could I have forgotten that the secretary of the Founders’ Day Cookbook Committee was also Kenny Farmer’s administrative assistant?
I took the sticky note. It had the number twenty-one on it. Do you suppose Kenny had twenty dishes that had come through the door before ours?
“Hello, Minnie.” I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I had before and forget the poor girl’s name. “We just stopped by with this casserole for Kenny. Is he here?”
“He is.” She didn’t move from the doorway. “Put your address on this card along with your number. That way it will make it easier for Mr. Farmer to send thank-you notes and return dishes.”
“Okay.” I fumbled with my purse. “Do you have a pen?”
Dixie took advantage of Minnie’s distraction in helping me and barged through the doorway. “I’ll just take this through and set it in the kitchen for you,” she said over her shoulder as she headed into the house and down the hallway to the kitchen.
“But, but…” Minnie was flustered. Kenny may have asked that she make sure he not be overrun with well-meaning visitors in addition to helping him keep track of the casseroles, pies, and other assorted dishes.
But Dixie was not going to be deterred. I could see her disappearing down the hallway and toward the back of the house.
Minnie looked over my shoulder and I turned to see a tall slim woman with short gray hair holding a plate of cookies.
“I’m so sorry.” I smiled at the woman and then at Minnie. “I’ll just go see if I can help.”
“Take a number,” I heard Minnie say.
I couldn’t fault her, it was a great system. And would make sure that thank-yous were sent and dishes returned to their proper owners. I headed down the hallway before Minnie could stop me.
Kenny Farmer was perched on a stool at the gray marble counter still in his suit from the funeral though he’d removed his tie. Whatever cologne or after shave he wore, a pungent green, he’d overdone. It reminded me less of a pine forest and more of one of those things you hang in your car.
Kenny had a plate full of food and was putting it away like he hadn’t eaten in days. I guess grief had not affected his appetite.
“This is good.” He shoveled another fork-full of some green marshmallow salad into his mouth. “Don’t know what it is, but it’s good.”
“Watergate Salad,” Dixie explained. “I’m not sure why it’s called that, but it’s pistachio pudding, crushed pineapple and Cool Whip. It’s just a matter of stirring all the ingredients together.”
Yes, she is a recipe snob, but I figure when you’ve won as many blue ribbons as her, you can flap your apron at those (like me) who don’t go to the trouble to actually make something from scratch.
“I’m going to go ahead and put this in the freezer for you.” Dixie held up the covered pan. “The instructions for heating it up are taped to the top.”
“Thanks, Dixie. I’m sure if you cooked it’s got to be good. Who are you?” Kenny suddenly zeroed in on me. “Do I know you?”
“This is my partner, Sugar Calloway,” Dixie explained. “We’re working on the Founders’ Day Cookbook.”
“You’re the one that found Elsie.” Kenny’s eyebrows shot up.
“I am so sorry for your loss.” I should have realized that he would recognize the name and have questions.
“The police are saying that it might not have been accidental. That someone might have meant to poison Elsie.” Kenny took another big bite.
“My aunt…” Dixie’s face got pink.
“Ah, hon.” Kenny waved his fork. “Surely nobody really thinks that your Aunt Bertie would have poisoned my wife.”
“Well, it seems our sheriff does.”
“I’ve known Bertie all of our lives. She and Elsie fought like two wildcats. But it was just sport to them two.” He started to take a drink from his coffee cup and then realized it was empty.
“Hon, could you refill me?” He handed me the cup.
Dixie looked away. But I knew she rolled her eyes even though her back was to me.
“Sure.” I stepped across the big country kitchen to the coffee pot that sat on the counter. I felt it. It was still hot, so I filled it to the brim and returned it to Mr. Too-Good-To-Get-His-Own-Coffee Farmer. Maybe I was being too hard on him, he had been through a lot. But there was just something about his attitude that said this was his modus operandi.
“If not Bertie Sparks, then who?” I asked. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm your wife?”
“Can’t say that I can.” He took a slurp of the liquid. “Now, don’t get me wrong. My Elsie could be irritating to people. But that was part of her charm. She was no nonsense. Got things done.”
Believe me I knew all about no-nonsense-get-things-done women. That was my mother and my two aunts. Run a business? Run a political campaign? Run a charity dinner? They were your go-to women. But Elsie Farmer lacked the finesse the Sugarbaker sisters had. Still, maybe the way she’d done it had been just what was needed. Maybe I was expecting a gloss of southern charm over the get-it-done attitude and it wasn’t always called for.
“The police do seem to be focused on Dixie’s aunt,” I commented. “But if not her, then someone else,” I hesitated, “must be responsible.” I really wanted to say, “must have wanted her out of the way.” But that was probably going a little too far.
“Looks like you’ve had a lot of people stopping by with food,” Dixie noted, surveying the dishes on the counter.
“That’s true,” Kenny agreed. “Thank the good Lord for Minnie who came by from the office to help keep it in order. This way I’ll be able to give proper thanks.”
I’d be willing to bet that the ever-efficient Minnie would be the one writing out the proper thanks.
“So nice of people to think of you, and these dishes all look great. I hope some of them are included in the Founders’ Day Cookbook.” I thought I’d see if I could segue into the reason we’d really come.
“Hmmm,” Kenny agreed. Or at least I thought that was agreement. He’d moved on to a slice of cherry pie and had his mouth full.
“Harriet Hucklebee says your family doesn’t want the cookbook project to go forward,
” Dixie blurted out, “given the tragic circumstances.” She turned and looked at him.
“Can’t see why.” Kenny was quickly plowing through the pie. Clearly a stress eater. I could relate, although he didn’t show any signs of outward stress. “The cookbook didn’t have anything to do with Elsie dying.”
“It started the whole thing,” Minnie interrupted from the doorway.
“It did?” Kenny’s eyebrow shot up. “How’s that?”
“The fight over which scone recipe would be included in the cookbook was what caused the big fight between her and Bertie,” Minnie explained.
“Oh, that’s right.” Kenny took his last bite of pie and licked the fork.
“Thanks for reminding us,” I muttered under my breath.
“Except that my Aunt Bertie did not kill Elsie,” Dixie huffed. “And so it had nothing to do with the scones. It must be about something else and it must be someone else. And that someone is still out there.”
“Oh.” Minnie’s eyes got wide and she went pale. Okay, paler.
I appreciated Dixie standing up for her aunt and all, but I don’t think it had occurred to Minnie that there was a killer on the loose. Now, she’d frightened the woman who was probably already scared of her own shadow.
“We were thinking maybe a tribute page in the cookbook,” I suggested. “You know, to highlight her community involvement and her support of the Founders’ Day celebration.”
Dixie frowned at me. We hadn’t talked about it. For one big reason. Mostly because I’d thought it up just now. I could make it work. I’d have to take out something, but I could fit it in. Probably I’d have to eliminate one of those interesting historical tidbits that Jimmie LeBlanc had written. But if it helped the project to move forward, well, the homestead of the author of frontiersman pulp fiction might have to go.
“That’d be nice.” Kenny stood and took his plate to the sink. I was surprised he didn’t hand it to me. “I don’t know what Harriet was talking about. She plays bridge with my sister so it was probably just some off-hand comment that Karla made.”
Great. Now I’d given away a page in the cookbook to help with a problem that didn’t exist. A page for a tribute to a woman that no one really seemed to care a lick about. My mouth gets away from me sometimes.
The doorbell rang and Minnie headed to the front to answer it, sticky notes and file cards in hand.
We took our leave before Kenny needed more coffee.
After saying good-bye to Minnie, who stood at the door, file cards in hand, waiting for the next wave of people, Dixie and I walked to my car. I looked up and down the street where I’d noticed the cars earlier. The gray van was still there, as was the Corolla, the Lexus was gone. It had probably been my imagination that there were people in the cars. Or if they were, they probably had good reason. I have to admit to being a bit on edge with the current situation. I, like Dixie, was sure her aunt had not killed Elsie. Like I’d said to Kenny Farmer, if not Bertie then who?
I dropped Dixie off at her house and headed home. We made plans to contact Harriet Hucklebee the next day and see if we could clear up any concerns about the cookbook project.
Turning the Jeep onto my street, I drove slowly praying Mrs. Pickett was not outside waiting for me. I couldn’t think what transgression I might have committed this time, but I was sure in her mind there was something. Leaves, flyers, something.
As I approached the front step, I noted someone had shoved several of the pizza flyers into my mailbox. I thought I’d gotten them all, but I must have missed a few. One guess on who had returned them to my porch rather than just putting the dang things in the trash.
I pulled them out, shoved the wad of papers in my bag, and put my key in the lock.
“Meow,” I heard from behind me.
I turned. Ernest sat on the small bench by the door. He stretched his legs until he was upright and meowed again.
“Oh, no.” I dropped my bag and scooped him up. “How did you get out?”
He must have slipped out as I’d left that morning. I didn’t see how; I was always so careful. If I’d realized he was out I would have herded him back inside. I’d had a cat when I was a young girl who escaped so many times, my Aunt Celia said we should have named him Houdini.
“You sneaky thing.” I rubbed his head. I would have to watch it even more carefully from now on. “Why would you sneak out like that? When you have such a grand life here?”
Still holding him, I turned the key and went in. I’d been remiss about getting him a collar and an identification tag because he never went outside. Tomorrow I would take care of it.
I searched the refrigerator for leftovers wishing for some of that casserole Dixie had made for Kenny. My nose remembered the smell of the ham and potatoes and I thought I’d detected a rich cheddar cheese. Maybe tomorrow I’d ask her for the recipe, but tonight it was warmed-up soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for me.
I sorted through my mail, while waiting to flip the grilled cheese. Bills and advertisements mostly. There was an envelope addressed to Greer with a Minneapolis postmark. Greer had forwarded her mail to the Good Life, and usually our delivery person was good about catching anything that had been missed in the sorting process, but this one had slipped through. I’d take it to her tomorrow.
I went to put it on the table by the door so I wouldn’t forget to take it to her.
Wait a minute. Where were the strawberry cruets I had placed on the table? They were cute little white cruets with red stoppers and bunches of strawberries on the side. I could swear I’d put them there to remind myself. Obviously, I hadn’t. I must have set them aside when I’d unwrapped the scary glass clown, but I was sure I’d come downstairs with them. I guess I’d been more rattled than I realized.
It looked like another trip to the attic for me.
Once I finished up my meal prep, I sat down to eat. As I did, my mind wandered to the time at Kenny’s.
Small towns celebrate and comfort with food. It’s a middle America tradition to bring food when someone has died. Kenny was smart to take advantage of Minnie’s organizational skills to help him sort out all the different dishes. The man would not need to cook for at least a month.
He had seemed dismissive of the idea that Dixie’s Aunt Bertie had anything to do with Elsie’s death. I was sure he was right. But, the receipt that Dixie had taken from the B & B was for a large amount of rat poison. Why would Bertie need that much? And why wouldn’t she have bought it locally? I remembered a lecture she’d issued at one of the committee meetings about using local merchants whenever we could. If she’d bought it for a good reason, and I had to assume she had, then could someone else have used it to kill Elsie?
The sheriff had said the scones had rat poison in them but he hadn’t said how much. Come to think of it he hadn’t actually said that was what killed Elsie. We couldn’t know all the details, and the way Dixie treated the sheriff any details probably weren’t going to be shared. So maybe we needed to concentrate on who rather than how.
Who were the other potential suspects? According to the group watching the video at the funeral, there was a long list of people Elsie had offended. I wondered if she really was as bad as they’d described. Even if those stories were true and she hadn’t been well-liked, it was a big leap to kill her. There had to be more to the story. Something bigger than meanness.
I gathered up my dishes and took them to the sink. I missed having a dishwasher but living alone there were so few dishes, I couldn’t complain about washing them by hand. I washed and dried the wine glasses Dixie and I had used and admired the sparkle of the crystal. They were quality glasses and a nice gift from my mother. No one could ever accuse Cate Sugarbaker of not having good taste. The Southern Living home, the designer suits, the best of everything. Her one fail at the high-class life was me. She blamed it (my low-class taste that is) on my late fat
her.
The truth was lately I often used paper plates. I hoped my mama didn’t hear about that transgression. An unlikely occurrence, as she’d made it clear she was never going to set foot in Iowa. As much as I loved her, that was okay with me.
Once I’d gotten ready for bed, I curled up with my book and Ernest to read for a while. But even the latest Lisa Jackson suspense, which according to Greer was a page turner, couldn’t hold my attention. Finally, I pulled out a notebook and pen and jotted down a few thoughts in order to clear my head.
Tomorrow maybe one of those ideas would spark something.
* * * *
The next morning I overslept. Not surprising given the restless night I’d had.
“Where was my faithful cat alarm?” I scolded Ernest. “First you run outside without me knowing. And then you let me down, ignoring your wake-up call duties.”
Ernest tipped his head and meowed. Tail in the air he padded down the hall and to the bathroom to wait on me. He likes to have his morning water from a running faucet and I confess I frequently gave in to his demands.
I hurriedly got ready for the day, threw on leggings, a bright multi-colored dress, and tied my hair back with a scarf. Not fancy, but it would do.
The great thing about living in a small town, one of the great things anyway, is no morning rush hour. Now, even when I’d been living in Des Moines, the rush hour there is more like a twenty-minute rush. Not an hour. Not like what I’d been used to growing up in the Atlanta area. But now I was really spoiled.
I hadn’t taken the time to make coffee. I figured I could do that at the office. I gathered my papers and dropped them into my tote bag. After reading more on the history of St. Ignatius, I truly thought there might be a complete book in Jimmie LeBlanc’s tome. I didn’t have any experience with history books, but I could reach out to a few former colleagues from the magazine who might. Maybe I could steer him in the right direction.
“See you tonight,” I said to Ernest as I closed the door. I know it’s silly to say good-bye to a feline like they know what you’re saying, but I’d forgotten to a couple of mornings ago and he had definitely pouted when I got home.
Game of Scones Page 11