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

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  Lizzie turned to look at Lisa Leann. “I wouldn’t even want to think about that, Lisa Leann, but how’s Mandy’s husband?”

  Lisa Leann nodded in appreciation. “Thank you for asking, Liz. Ray is holding his own. That much we know. Honestly, we don’t know a lot, other than he fell and he’s not looking too well. Mandy calls to update us, of course. But she knows very little herself.”

  “So no word as to when they’ll be coming back?” I asked.

  Lisa Leann answered only by shaking her head.

  For a while we all just stared at each other, intermittently sipping our coffee, until I laughed lightly and said, “Well, aren’t we a sorry lot, and us not even thinking to pray? Lizzie’s got her mother’s Alzheimer’s to worry about, Lisa Leann’s got a baby in the house, Goldie’s in mourning.” I turned to her. “You holding up all right?”

  She nodded, not that I believed her.

  “And I’m being investigated for murder.” Then I looked at Vonnie. “Vonnie, what do you have?” I said, trying to lighten the mood before our meeting came to an official start.

  “Me?” Vonnie looked startled. Then she shifted in her seat and said, “Well, actually, girls, I do have something we could pray about . . .” She stalled before elaborating. “It’s Donna,” she said finally. “I’m very—and I do mean very—worried about my girl.”

  Lizzie

  20

  Chilling Spy

  After the meeting at the boutique, I crossed the street and went into Higher Grounds, where I placed a takeout order for Waikiki meatballs, garden salad for two, and dinner rolls. I gave my order to Sally—longtime owner of the café—said I’d be back in a few minutes, and then left for the newspaper office a block away.

  I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned my face toward the afternoon sun as it dipped ever closer to the peaks of the mountains surrounding Summit View. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Not one. The backdrop of the scene before me was jewel-tone blue.

  I took a step and shivered, then shoved my hands into the pockets of my lightweight all-weather coat. A few minutes later I stood in front of the Gold Rush News, where I pulled seventy-five cents from the change purse of my wallet. I slipped the coins into the newspaper stand outside the front door, listened for the release of the door, and then extracted a newspaper.

  The Gold Rush News was a weekly paper that did all right for itself. It didn’t hold to the national and international news like the Denver Post did—unless, of course, it was relevant to the citizens of Summit View—but rather stayed true to what was important for the locals.

  The front door of the building opened as the door of the stand clanked shut, startling me. “Oh!”

  “Mrs. Prattle, how are you?”

  “Why, Clay Whitefield. My goodness, how good to see you.”

  The young newspaper reporter gave me a brief hug. Clay was a contemporary of Donna’s. At one time, he’d had quite the crush on her. That is until my son-in-law and his family came into town. Adam’s sister Britney had caught Clay’s attention—or maybe it was the other way around—and they were now engaged.

  “It’s good to see you too,” he said.

  “Just getting off?”

  “I am,” he said, checking his watch. “In fact, a little earlier than usual.”

  I tri-folded the newspaper and then crossed my arms for comfort’s sake. “Tell me how you’ve been.”

  Clay, an unusual blend of Native American and Irish, blushed pink. “I’ve been good. I think Britney and I are ready to set a date.”

  “Really? When do you think?”

  “Well, right now everything is all about the Founders Day festival, so we thought maybe three months after that.”

  “That’s close,” I said. “Will three months give you enough time to plan for the nuptials?”

  Clay’s Gold Rush jacket was draped over one arm. He slipped it off and then shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Small,” he answered. “I told Britney we had to keep it small. I’m not a man for big weddings.”

  “And how does Britney feel about that?”

  Another blush. “She feels the same.”

  “But it will be a church wedding,” I said for clarification. “And you’ll let us cater it . . .”

  “Absolutely,” he said with a smile. He took a deep breath and then exhaled. “How’s Donna holding up?” He looked to his feet and then back up.

  “In all honesty, I don’t know for sure. We just had a meeting at the boutique. She wasn’t there, of course, but Vonnie said she was having a pretty rough time with all this.”

  Clay looked over my shoulder to Main Street and the sidewalks and buildings on the other side, then returned his eyes to mine. “Working that crime scene was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.” He shook his head. “I’ve never actually worked the homicide of a loved one’s family member.”

  I blinked. “Have you ever even worked a homicide?”

  “Not in Summit View,” he said. He looked past me again, briefly. “No, not in Summit View.”

  For a moment I thought our conversation had run its course. Then he said, “I understand the only suspect in the case is Evangeline.”

  I flinched. “Are you asking me as a reporter or as someone who is genuinely concerned?”

  He laughed, keeping his eyes locked with mine. “Not as a reporter,” he said. “But if it makes you feel any better, you can say, ‘Off the record.’”

  “All right, then,” I said. “Off the record, I only know she’s been questioned, but on the record I can tell you she didn’t do it.”

  Again Clay looked past my shoulder. This time, I glanced behind me too, then back to him. “What do you keep looking at?”

  “Not a what. A who.”

  “A who?” I started to look again, but Clay stopped me.

  “No, don’t look now.”

  I looked back to Clay, who was looking straight at me. Casually, he pulled his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and slipped them on, pushing them firmly up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. I watched as his eyes glanced over my shoulder again, then he shook his head.

  “He’s walked away.”

  “Who has?” This time I turned to face the other side of the street. Now I stood shoulder to shoulder with the young reporter. “Who’d you see?”

  “Some man. He was standing against the wall next to the Second Chance Consignment Shop. Looked pretty innocent until I noticed he was keeping his focus on you.”

  “On me?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t feel a hole being bore right through you.”

  I shook my head. “What did he look like?”

  “Not like anyone I know. Skinny. Wore his pants too big. If it weren’t for the belt, they’d have fallen to his ankles.”

  I chuckled at the thought.

  “Baseball cap. Pulled low enough I couldn’t make out his face. But I know nearly everyone in town and can always make out a tourist. This man was neither citizen nor visitor.”

  I turned slightly to look at Clay. “Well, if he was neither one, what was he?”

  “I don’t know. But he sure was interested in you.”

  ———

  I walked back to the café, picked up my takeout order, and went back across the street to where my car was parked in front of the boutique. A few seconds later, my car was headed toward home, filled with the delicious aromas of food baked and prepared by Sally’s number-one short-order cook, Larry.

  What that young man lacked in social skills he more than made up for in his ability to maneuver himself around a kitchen.

  Samuel was home when I arrived. Still in his suit and tie, so to speak, so I knew he’d not been home long. We greeted each other in the kitchen with a kiss, and then he said, “Not sure what smells better, you or the supper you’re carrying in the bag.”

  “Ha.” I handed him the takeout and then went to the kitchen table to drop my purse and remove my coat. That done, I pulled the paper from where
I’d slipped it into the coat’s pocket earlier, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. “We had a meeting today—the girls and I—concerning the Founders Day celebration.”

  “The bank is all atwitter about it too.”

  I looked at him with a smile. “Atwitter? What kind of thing is that for a grown man to say?”

  He chuckled. “My secretary used it today, and I thought it was kind of funny. Thought I’d try it out on you.”

  I placed a hand on my hip and watched my husband as he removed two plates from the overhead cabinet and placed them on the counter. “And just how did she use it, pray tell?”

  This time he shrugged before answering. “She said, ‘My goodness, what with the murder and the Founders Day celebration, this bank is all atwitter.’”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “What does the bank have to do with the murder?”

  “Everyone—and I do mean everyone—is talking, Liz.”

  “About?”

  “Evangeline, mostly. About the long-standing feud between her and Doreen. Of course there are a hundred and one different theories as to what happened at the trailer.”

  “Samuel, Evie did not kill Doreen. Surely you know that.”

  “Of course I know it.” He heaped our dinner out of the takeout containers and onto the plates. “At least I don’t think she would hurt Doreen on purpose.”

  “Samuel!”

  Samuel jumped at my exclamation. “Don’t get mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m stunned! You of all people should know that Evie couldn’t do anything like this.”

  He looked at me hard. “That’s why I said not on purpose. But things happen in the heat of passion . . . or when emotions run high. What if she accidently pushed her? You and I both know Evangeline Vesey can get pretty fired up sometimes.”

  That much was true. It hadn’t been that long ago she and Donna had practically gone to fisticuffs in the middle of Main Street. Evie had told me all about it and, of course, I’d heard Donna’s version of the story.

  “One of the tellers,” Samuel went on, “said she heard Evie and Velvet arguing on the street the other day, and another said she was in the grocery store when Evie practically bowled Doreen over with her shopping cart.”

  “That’s not true. She did not bowl her over with a shopping cart.” At least I didn’t think she did. Not the way Evie had told Goldie and me at breakfast the other day.

  I snapped my fingers. “Breakfast at Goldie’s!” I said.

  Samuel walked our plates over to the table at the same time as I walked to the cabinet to get tea glasses and then to the fridge to get our drinks. “What about breakfast at Goldie’s?”

  “When Evie and I had breakfast at Goldie’s,” I answered, “it was the day after Doreen was killed. Evie talked about having had a visit with Doreen, but there was not a tremble in her voice, no indication at all that anything had gone wrong. In fact, she said that Doreen wouldn’t let her in the trailer.”

  I brought the tea and glasses to the table, poured one into the other, and then sat down.

  Samuel joined me. “And that proves?”

  “Samuel, the last thing Evie is, is a cold-blooded killer. If she’d hit Doreen or pushed her or whatever, and Doreen had fallen, she would have called 911. She’d never leave someone there to die. And if she did—which she wouldn’t—but if she did, she’d certainly not be calm about it the following day.”

  “That much is true.”

  I waggled a finger at my husband. “I should call Vernon. Tell him this.”

  Samuel reached for my hand, held it, and brought it down to the table. “After we eat.”

  I smiled. “And after I read the paper.” Then with a wink I added, “It’s your turn to do the dishes, remember?”

  ———

  While Samuel rinsed and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, I stretched out on the sofa with the newspaper and a hot cup of mint tea. The front page was divided between the story surrounding the murder of Doreen and the upcoming Founders Day celebration. I ignored the first (vowing to call Vernon as soon as I’d finished reading) and concentrated on the second.

  The Founders Day celebration was set for the third weekend in October. Friday night would feature a concert performed by our high school band and chorus. Working at the high school, I’d heard all about that. The school was, as Samuel’s secretary would say, all atwitter with preparation. Saturday morning the city would block off Main Street at both ends and open it to pedestrian traffic only. Local businesses and individuals would pitch tent-booths to sell their goods. Anyone working in a booth was required to dress as if it were 150 years ago.

  I smiled. How fun!

  Pastor Kevin Moore, one article reported, would make an appearance at some point, dressed like the church’s founder, Father John Dyer, snowshoes and all. I called out to Samuel and asked if he knew about that little element of the celebration.

  He stuck his head out of the kitchen and said, “I do. He and I had a talk today about it as a matter of fact.”

  “Hurry up and finish in there so you can tell me about it,” I said.

  He nodded and then disappeared.

  I went back to reading.

  There would be fireworks on Saturday night as well as a catered—ta da!—sit-down dinner in Grace Church’s fellowship hall. Tickets had to be purchased no later than the 6th of October so that the internationally famous Potluck Catering Club—ta da again!—would have a head count.

  Dinner would be followed by fireworks over Lake Dillon.

  I opened the paper to page 7, where images of old photographs from different eras were displayed. As I read the captions under each of them, Samuel walked in, plopped into his recliner, and said, “Your slave is finished with his chores, madam.”

  I dropped the paper and gave him my best “look.”

  “What?” he laughed.

  “It’s not like you had to scrub the pots and pans, Samuel Prattle.”

  This time he gave me the “look.”

  “What?” I mimicked.

  “It’s not like you slaved over a hot stove.”

  “Touché, Mr. Prattle. Now tell me what Kevin said.”

  Samuel stretched. “Nothing, really. Only that he was going to be Father Dyer, that you girls were catering the meal, and that he hoped no one ventured around the church.”

  “What did he mean by that?” I folded the paper and placed it next to me on the sofa.

  “Well, the sanctuary is going to be an absolute mess by that time—what with all the reconstruction going on—and, you know, this was Father Dyer’s church. Folks are going to want to see what the sanctuary looks like. Especially with those stained-glass windows we have depicting Father Dyer.”

  “Hmmm . . . you’re right there. What suggestions did you have for Pastor Kevin?”

  Samuel crossed his ankles. “My thoughts were to have posters of the windows as displays in the fellowship hall and plaques with some of the history between them, you know, telling the story of Father Dyer, the church . . . that kind of thing.”

  I thought that through. “That’s a good idea, Samuel. I’ll share that with Lisa Leann. Maybe . . .”—I pondered before finishing—“maybe we can have some of the gold rush legends posted too. We’ve been talking about that lately, and I’ve heard that some of the history classes at the high school are researching them. Maybe we can get some of these stories from the kids.”

  Samuel pointed at me like I was a genius. “Good idea,” he said.

  I raised my brow and then winked. “You might even say that the school has been all atwitter with gold rush history and legend.”

  Samuel laid his head back and closed his eyes. “I’ll never live that one down, will I?”

  I stood to go to our bedroom, where I would call Vernon with what I remembered about the morning Evie and I had breakfast at Goldie’s. Along the way I tweaked my husband’s ear. “Not if I can help it,” I said.

  Goldie


  21

  Tasting the Truth

  I received a phone call from Vernon Vesey early Friday morning, asking if he could come by.

  “I have some questions I’d like to ask you,” he said.

  I looked over at the clock. It was a few minutes after 9:00 and I was still shamelessly in bed. These days, I didn’t sleep well at night, and often slept late into the morning. Had the phone not rung, I might still be in dreamland. “How about 10:00?” I asked.

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  I disconnected the call, groaned, and then sat up, pushing myself back against the pillows and the headboard of the bed. After a moment or two of deep breathing—a small effort to get my bearings together—I reached for my Upper Room daily devotional, which I kept on the bedside table.

  The day’s inspirational Scripture was from 1 Peter: “Cast all your anxiety on [God],” it read, “because he cares for you.”

  The prayer focus was for those in stressful situations.

  I laughed, but not out of humor. It was like Evie had said yesterday; we were quite an interesting lot, we Potluck girls. And it had felt good to pray together as we had. Still, I felt a heavy burden weighing on my shoulders. Today I would do something I’d never thought I’d have to do.

  Today I would . . .

  The phone rang again and I jumped.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Olivia. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just calling to check on you.”

  Of course she was. How long, I wondered, would she feel the need to do this? I swung my legs over the side of the bed, slipped my feet into my bedroom slippers, and then trudged into the master bath. “To be honest with you, I’m just now getting up and I’m taking you into the bathroom with me.”