Bake Until Golden: A Novel (The Potluck Catering Club)

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Bake Until Golden: A Novel (The Potluck Catering Club) Page 14

by Linda Evans Shepherd


  Bobbie was all glam. She had pouty lips—in an extra large—and a low-draping blouse that shimmered silver in the moonlight just beneath what had to be artificial cleavage. Her silky red hair fell artfully around her shoulders and glided almost to her waist. Her blue eyes looked knowing, haughty even. She extended her hand as if she were a queen meeting the peasants. “You must be David’s mother.” She laughed. “Your Colorado mother is a bit different from Miss Harmony Harris, wouldn’t you say, David?”

  David nodded. “Thank goodness, though I mean no disrespect to Harmony.” He stepped around the car and gave me a hug. “We thought we’d drop by on our way to Aspen.”

  “I see that,” I whispered.

  “Where’s Fred?” David asked, looking expectantly at the front door.

  “He’s at the church; maybe you should drop by the church, with your, ah . . .”

  “Friend,” David said.

  Bobbie walked over to him and kissed his cheek. “Now, come on, David. You and I both know we’ve been more than friends.” She flashed her eyes at me. “We were engaged once, you know.”

  I nodded. “I’ve heard.”

  The couple walked forward, as if they wanted to maneuver around me and head into the house. I blocked their steps by positioning my portly body on the front step of the porch. I stammered, “Well, it was nice to meet you, Bobbie, but you must be going, I’m sure. It’s hours to Aspen from here.”

  David laughed. “Not so fast. I thought I’d treat Bobbie to a slice of whatever you’ve got baking.”

  “Oh, that’s not such a good idea, not tonight.”

  David put his foot on the first step, and I moved backward and up one step.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  Bobbie laughed. “Oh, please, Mrs. Westbrook. I’d love to taste your baking. It must be good if it had the power to take my David away from me.”

  I stood immovable as I looked down on the couple. “I thought you two broke up.”

  Bobbie laughed loudly. “We did. But that didn’t work for me. So, I decided to mix business with pleasure. I’m here to take David home.”

  I clenched the rail. “What do you mean?”

  “Since I had to come out to Colorado anyway, I thought I’d try to reclaim what’s already mine.”

  Before I could gauge David’s reaction to those words, I heard the door creak open behind me. I turned to see Donna step out onto the porch. Even in the moonlight, I could see her face blanch.

  “What’s going on out here?” she asked.

  I turned back and looked at David, who had frozen in place. “Donna!” was all he said.

  “So, who’s this?” Bobbie said with a frozen smile. Then her eyes lit with recognition. “Well, if it isn’t that law enforcement officer from that party reality show you were on, David.”

  Donna folded her arms. “Okay, it’s clear you know who I am. But what I want to know is, who are you?”

  Bobbie laughed and looked around at the faces that glowed in the moonlight. “Well, I’m Bobbie. Bobbie Ann, you know . . . David’s ex.”

  Donna narrowed her eyes. “Ex what?”

  Bobbie narrowed her eyes too. “Honey, this man and I were almost husband and wife.” Bobbie turned to David. “Babe, didn’t you tell her about us?”

  David stared at Donna. ”I started to but then we got interrupted by the call to the trailer park and . . . ”

  Bobbie Ann stared from David to Donna. “Is there something going on between the two of you?”

  Donna put her hands on her hips. “Not anymore, there’s not.” With that, she stomped down the steps, pushing past David and Bobbie, reclaimed her Bronco from the side of the house, and swerved around the Mazda still parked in the driveway as she roared into the night.

  Oh dear.

  Evangeline

  19

  Grilled Over a Hot Flame

  I sat in the family room of my old home, the home I’d been reared in by my mother and father, pushed against the back of an old comfy chair, my hands clutched. My husband—and, coincidentally, the sheriff of Summit County—sat on the ottoman before me, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging limp between them.

  “What are you saying, Vernon?” I asked him.

  “I’m saying, Evie-girl, that it doesn’t look good.”

  I swallowed hard then closed my eyes. When I opened them, I scanned the room around us, the muted shades of the walls, carpet, and furnishings against the vibrant colors outside the window: the newly turned leaves, the azure of the sky, the white fluffiness of the clouds. I blinked against an odd thought: would I soon not be witness to such beauty but instead be inside a six-by-eight-foot jail cell?

  “Tell me again,” Vernon said, his voice gentle, “what you and Doreen talked about when you went over there.”

  “I’ve already told you, Vernon. At least six times, I’ve told you.”

  “I know, honey. But tell me again. Maybe there’s something you’ve left out. Something you aren’t aware of.”

  I chewed on the inside of my mouth for a moment before taking another deep breath and exhaling. “Like I said before,” I began through clenched teeth, “I got there a little after lunch—”

  “And you went there because . . .”

  “Because I wanted to talk to her about her drinking. I wanted her to think about getting some help.”

  I saw a pained expression cross his face then leave. “Okay. Go on.”

  “She didn’t want me to come in. Inside the trailer, I mean.”

  “When you got there, did you see anything unusual?”

  I paused, trying to remember exactly what I had seen, if anything. Then: “Nothing unusual.” Another pause. “Oh . . . Doreen was watching television.”

  “How do you know? Could you see her through the window?”

  “No. I could hear the voices. Probably a daytime soap from the sound of things.”

  Vernon patted my knee. “See, you’re remembering things. Good.” He removed his hand from my knee. “What do you mean, ‘by the sound of things’?”

  “You know. The way they talk in those things.”

  “No, I don’t know, Evie. I’ve never in my life watched a soap opera.”

  “Well, then I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Try.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could speak another word, the doorbell rang. I started to rise, but Vernon held up a hand. “I’ll get it,” he said.

  He stood and then walked out of the room. I remained where I sat, lips pressed together, a light quiver starting from deep inside. I looked down at my hands, then flexed them, stretching the fingers as far as they would go. They trembled, faintly at first, then more noticeably. I fisted them and then shoved them under my thighs.

  Vernon returned then, followed by a tall young man with decidedly dark brows arching over light green eyes. He bore the scent of expensive cologne and he wore a suit, both sure indications of who he was. Who he had to be.

  Vernon had told me the night before that an agent from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation had come into town to help with Doreen’s homicide.

  Doreen’s homicide . . .

  “Mrs. Vesey,” the tall man said with a smile. “I’m CBI Special Agent Nate Sawyer. I understand your husband has been talking to you about what happened the day you saw the victim.”

  His words were almost too kind. I didn’t like this. Not one bit.

  “Yes,” I said. There was, after all, no reason to deny it.

  Nate turned his torso from left to right, then stopped as he glanced at the sofa on the other side of the room. “May I?” he asked.

  Vernon jumped a bit. “Oh, sure, sure. Have a seat, Nate. Can I get you anything? Evie made a wonderful cinnamon-buttermilk coffee cake this morning. I can warm up a slice for you.”

  I glared at Vernon. How dare he offer this Judas a piece of my coffee cake?

  Fortunately—for Vernon—Mr. Sawyer declined the offer. Vernon, who caught my glar
e and then blushed, shoved the ottoman with his foot, away from where I was sitting.

  When both men had made themselves comfortable—Nate unbuttoning his jacket and bringing an ankle up to rest over the knee of the other leg—Vernon said, “Evangeline was just telling me that when she arrived at the trailer Doreen was watching a soap opera.”

  Nate looked from Vernon to me. “Which soap opera was that, Mrs. Vesey?”

  “Which soap opera? I have no idea.”

  “Then how do you know it was a soap opera she was watching?”

  I bristled. “Excuse me, but do I need an attorney?”

  “You’re welcome to call one if you think it necessary.” He smiled. “I’m not here to read you your rights, you know. I’m just asking for some information.”

  I looked at Vernon, who said, “My wife is not being formally charged with anything, then.”

  “No, sir. But, again, if she feels or you feel she needs an attorney . . .”

  To which I said, “I do not need an attorney, young man, because I haven’t done anything wrong. Now, to answer your question: I don’t exactly know which soap opera she was watching. I said I heard the television through the door. The voices were muted and the tone was like what you hear when you watch a soap opera.”

  Nate nodded, cleared his throat, then pulled out a small notepad from inside his jacket. “Do you mind if I take some notes?”

  “Not at all,” Vernon answered for me.

  I frowned at him.

  “Mrs. Vesey, was there anything—anything at all—in those voices that might indicate what was said.”

  “I don’t understand what difference that would make,” I said.

  Nate straightened his leg then pushed back against the sofa to readjust his position. “Well, what if you didn’t hear the television? What if you heard voices? What if someone was on the other side of the door with the vic?”

  “Can you not call her that?” I asked. “Her name was Doreen.”

  “All right, then.”

  “And quite frankly, I wasn’t listening long enough to determine if there was anyone inside with Doreen or not.”

  “Were there any other cars parked at or near the trailer?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Okay.” He made a few notes on the paper of the pad and then said, “Go ahead.”

  I paused to think some more. “Well, when she came to the door she didn’t want to see me—”

  “Why’s that?” More note jotting.

  I shrugged. “Well, you’d have to know the history.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. The pen stopped scrolling across the paper.

  “We have a history.”

  “I’ve explained that,” Vernon interjected.

  “But I went to talk to Doreen about her drinking. To beg her to get help.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual, Mrs. Vesey? I mean . . . what with your . . . history?”

  Vernon cleared his throat. “Nate, you have to understand my wife. As a Christian she practices forgiveness. She prays. She asks God to love others—even those she has a history with—through her.”

  I looked from Vernon to Nate, whose brows had knit together. “I was right,” the young agent said. “That is a little unusual.”

  I watched as he flipped the pages of his notepad backward, read a few lines, then flipped forward again.

  “You know a Mr. Wade Gage?” he asked me.

  “I do. And yes, I know he saw Doreen and me talking.”

  “According to him, you were fighting.”

  I gasped. “We most assuredly were not fighting,” I insisted. “We might have been speaking directly with each other, but we were not fighting.”

  The dark brows rose as the green eyes moved to Vernon. “That’s some temper your wife has, Sheriff.”

  “Evangeline,” Vernon warned. “Calm down.” Then he looked at Nate. “And let me make this clear: I’m not here in any legal capacity. I’m only here as Evangeline’s husband. Refer to me from now on by my name, not my title.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” he said.

  At this I stood. “Vernon, I don’t know how you can ask me to calm down.” I pointed to Nate. “That man is here for one reason and one reason only. To arrest me! To arrest me for a crime I did not commit.”

  Vernon and Nate stood with me.

  “Evie . . .”

  “Mrs. Vesey, as I said earlier—”

  I turned full on to the CBI agent. “Mr. Sawyer, let me make this clear to you. I never stepped inside that trailer. If anyone tells you I did, they are lying. Doreen came outside. We talked. She walked me to my car. We talked some more. She expressed sorrow at some of the decisions she’s made in her life. She even told me she would think about getting help. Then she went back inside and I drove away. But I never once stepped inside that trailer. Not that afternoon, anyway. I’ve been inside it, of course, but not that day.” I took a breath. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Sawyer. Not by a long shot. I’ve been around long enough to put two and two together and come up with four. Unless you can prove that I was inside that trailer, all you have is the testimony of a bunch of busybodies. Mr. Gage included.”

  Nate Sawyer didn’t even blink. He just took a breath, blew it out, and smiled. Then, with a flip of the notepad, bringing the cover back over the pages, he said, “Like I said, Mr. Vesey, she’s got some temper.” Another smile. “And you are right, Mrs. Vesey. Right now, we can’t put you inside the trailer. Mr. Gage says he saw the two of you outside, which is where you told me you were.” He straightened his shoulders. “But here’s the deal. Someone killed that woman. We have no report of serial killers in the area, we don’t know of anyone else having an issue with the vic—ah, Ms. McGurk. And, we have a hysterical daughter screaming that she’s pretty sure you did it.”

  I felt the blood rush from my head. “Donna?” I whispered. “Donna said that?”

  Thankfully, he shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not your stepdaughter. The other one.”

  “Velvet,” I spewed. “But what about all the men . . .”

  Vernon placed his hands on my shoulders. “Careful, Evie. Don’t say anything you might regret later.”

  I looked over my shoulder to the concerned face of my husband. Then I nodded. He was right, of course. The last thing I wanted to do right now was to bring up the unpleasantness of the past and hurt Donna with it. Besides, what I knew about Doreen’s past was only what she’d told me.

  I couldn’t prove a thing.

  ———

  A meeting of the catering club had been scheduled for the previous day, but what with Doreen’s murder we’d postponed it until the following afternoon. Once Nate Sawyer had exited by the same door he’d entered—in other words, gotten out of my house—I began to ready myself for going to the boutique.

  Vernon, of course, tried to stop me. “I’d stay in if I were you,” he cautioned.

  “Well, you are not me,” I said. I stood in the master bath, staring into the mirror, brushing my hair in harsh strokes. “I’m not going to pretend I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.” Then I slowly placed the brush on the vanity. “You do know that, don’t you, Vernon?”

  Vernon, God love him, managed to register both shock and anguish. “Evie-girl,” he said, then opened his arms. I stepped into them, reaching my arms up under his and then clutched at his broad shoulders.

  It was then that the tears came. Great sobs of tears formed out of fear and heartache. “Oh, Vernon,” I sobbed. “As angry and as hurt as I’ve been with Doreen, I never wanted her dead. You know that, right?”

  “Of course,” he said, then shushed me.

  “Vernon,” I said when I’d finally caught my breath. “I haven’t seen Donna since she took my statement . . .”

  “Donna is exhausted. She was already working long hours.”

  “And now her mother is dead.” The tears started up again.

  Vernon, wisely, said nothing in return. He just patted my bac
k. Patted and patted, allowing me to draw strength from him.

  ———

  Donna didn’t come to the meeting set for 3:00 at the boutique. Vonnie initially excused her, saying, “The poor dear was at my house yesterday and fell asleep before she could even eat the sunshine cake I’d baked for her.”

  “Sunshine cake,” Lisa Leann quipped. “That’s one I’ve never heard of.”

  Vonnie blushed like a schoolgirl caught in a lie, then said, “It was one Doreen used to make for her.”

  We were sitting in the front foyer of Lisa Leann’s wedding boutique, which is not only where we gather for our meetings but also—in the cook’s kitchen in the back—where we prepare many of our dishes for catered events.

  “Doreen’s mother used to bake them,” I noted. “I remember my mother making them after her recipe.” I looked over at Lizzie, who’d come from her work at the high school and was still wearing the teacher ID badge around her neck. “Remember, Liz? Remember eating them after school with a tall glass of milk back when it was the real McCoy and not that watered down stuff we’ve talked ourselves into drinking so we can stay healthy.”

  Lizzie was sitting near the window, a cup of vanilla bean coffee in hand, legs crossed daintily, one foot pumping as if to its own tune. “I remember it well,” she said. Then she looked at Vonnie. “We girls used to gather over there, didn’t we, Von? You and Evangeline and Doreen and me.”

  Lisa Leann, who was sitting near Lizzie, yawned. If I thought I looked haggard, I had nothing on her at this moment. I’ve never seen the woman but what she wasn’t dressed to the nines. But today, and even though she wasn’t dressed shabby by any stretch of the word, she just looked . . . worn out. “I’m sorry,” she said, yawn over. “I’m just not getting a whole lot of sleep these nights.”

  “Why not?” Goldie, who sat next to me on the settee, asked. She took a hearty sip of the coffee Lisa Leann had served us earlier. “I know why I’m not sleeping, but what’s got you up at night, Lisa Leann?”

  Lisa Leann yawned again, I suppose in reaction to the question. Then I yawned, followed by Goldie. Vonnie and Lizzie both laughed, and we all followed suit. “Oh. My. Goodness,” Lisa Leann said. Her eyes shimmered with tears brought about by the yawn. “I am so sorry.” Then she swallowed before saying, “Mandy had to leave for Egypt, for those of you who don’t know. Her husband has been in a serious accident while there, and our precious—albeit unsleeping—grandson has not wanted to settle down without his mama and daddy.” She brought her hands to her face, pressed her fingertips against her cheekbones. “I’ll tell you, ladies, it’s been a long time since I pulled an all-nighter with a fussy baby.”

 

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