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

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  “Good thing we’re mother and daughter.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. Then: “Wouldn’t you like it better if I called you back when I’m done? We can chat while I make a pot of coffee.”

  Olivia sighed. “Okay. Do that. Promise?”

  “I promise, my child.”

  Minutes later, I called her back. I’d washed my face, brushed my teeth and hair, and had put on some clothes presentable for Vernon’s visit. As I scooped my favorite coffee into the gold mesh coffeepot filter, I returned Olivia’s call.

  “So what are you doing today?” she asked once the preliminaries were over.

  I started to tell her that Vernon was due over in a matter of twenty minutes but decided against it. She’d only tell me she was worried that he might want to get me involved somehow in the legal mess Evangeline was obviously in. She’d say that I had enough on my plate right now—what with Jack’s death and all that went along with burying a spouse—and that I needed to stay focused on my own life. My own problems.

  She had no idea . . .

  So I decided against telling her the whole truth. I told a half-truth, instead. “I’m going to see Chris today,” I said.

  “What for? Do you need me to go with you?”

  I pushed the start button on the coffeemaker and then went to the cabinet to get my favorite coffee cup, a black one that—when filled with any hot liquid—displayed the faces of my grandchildren. “Not unless you think it necessary to discuss my hours for the coming weeks.”

  “Oh, Mom!” she said. “Why do you feel you have to go back to work so soon?”

  I closed the cabinet door. “Olivia, I can only hope that you don’t have to experience this for yourself anytime soon, but one day you may find out that it is too easy to get mired down in grief. I’m ready to go back to work. Maybe not full-time, but I’m ready.”

  “It’s not even been two weeks,” she said through a sigh.

  I knew how long it had been. I’d somehow managed to get through every painful minute of every single day.

  My coffeepot sputtered. “Olivia, I appreciate you, my darling child. But you must stop babying me.”

  “I don’t baby you . . .”

  “Yes, you do. You either baby me or lecture me. I’m your mother, not your child.”

  “I know that, Mom, I just . . . I just worry. Dad always took care of certain things and . . .”

  He certainly had done that. “I know, sweetheart. But the sooner I get on with my life, the better I’ll be. He’s not here but I am, and I want to keep on. Trust me. If I get overwhelmed, you’ll be the first one I call.”

  There was a long pause before I heard her say, “Promise?”

  “I called you back from earlier, didn’t I? Just like I said I would?”

  There was nothing she could say to that one. “Yeeeeees.”

  I poured a cup of coffee just as I saw Vernon’s car rounding the corner from through the open kitchen window. “Honey, I’m going to drink my coffee now. Call me later?”

  She said she would do better than that. She was coming by, she said, with a new potato recipe she’d made the night before. “It was delicious,” she said, “so I saved some for you.”

  We said our good-byes. I pulled another cup from the cabinet for Vernon, just in time to hear the doorbell ring. A minute or so later and Vernon and I were sitting at my kitchen table, sipping on coffee and making pleasant conversation.

  How was I holding up?

  I was holding up fine. How about you?

  He was holding up as best as could be expected considering that the mother of his only child was dead—murdered—and his wife was the only suspect.

  That, he said, was why he wanted to come by and talk to me.

  “I understand from Lizzie that she and Evie came by to see you one day last week.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Do you remember what day?”

  I didn’t have to think hard to give the answer. It was the same day I discovered that Jack had a son with Amy Morrow Jenkins. The day I’d known it for sure. “Wednesday,” I answered.

  “The day after . . .”

  “After?”

  Vernon shook his head. “Do you remember anything Evangeline might have said about my ex-wife?”

  This time I did have to think. I’d been so wrapped up in my own grief and thoughts when Lizzie and Evie were here, I’d hardly paid attention to what they were saying. “Well . . .” I began, then took another sip of coffee to buy time. “Let me think . . .”

  “Goldie, don’t make anything up. I have to know exactly what was said.”

  I stood, walked over to the coffeepot, and poured myself another cup. “I remember,” I said, turning back to Vernon, who had pushed back a little from the table. Try, hard as he might, to look at ease, he only looked tense. Worried. “I remember that she looked nice.”

  “In what way?”

  “She was wearing pink. It looked nice. Her coloring was good.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She said she went to see Doreen the day before.” I returned to my seat at the table. “Just like that. Nothing major. Just that she went to talk to her about her drinking.”

  “So she told the two of you she’d done this.”

  “Yes.”

  Vernon slipped closer to the table again, close enough for me to think that I’d never realized just how blue his eyes were, how the crow’s feet crinkled whether he was smiling or not. “How did she seem about the visit?”

  “She seemed . . . she seemed compassionate toward Doreen. Worried about her drinking, but she certainly didn’t seem like a woman who’d just killed somebody,” I said. “Not even by accident.”

  Vernon looked at the half-empty cup before him. He cupped his hands around it, then looked back up at me. “Would you be willing to testify to that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Vernon took a last swallow of coffee, then stood. “I’d best get to the office. We have an agent from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation helping with this case and . . .” He sighed. “I’m worried that if he can place Evie in that trailer under any circumstance, we’ll have a real problem on our hands.”

  I stood too. “Let me walk you to the door,” I said.

  Together we moved out of the kitchen and into the living room, toward the front door. As I opened it, Vernon said, “If you can think of anything else . . .”

  “I’ll call you,” I said.

  Vernon stepped back into the bright sunshine of the day. He looked up. “Temperature is dropping,” he said. “Won’t be long before we’ll be covered in snow.”

  I nodded. We’d already had a few flurries. “Won’t be long.”

  He started toward his car. I watched him, my heart breaking for him. His shoulders were slumped, his walk heavy. “Vernon?” I called out.

  He turned toward me. “Yeah?”

  “Will it help if I tell you that she said she didn’t get to go inside the trailer?”

  “Did she say why not?”

  “She said Doreen wouldn’t let her.”

  Vernon nodded. “Thank you, Goldie.”

  “Sure thing.”

  ———

  I had an appointment with Chris Lowe at 1:00 that afternoon. I arrived a few minutes early.

  Chris’s office is above the Hallmark greeting card shop. You have to go through the shop, to a back door, and up a narrow flight of stairs to get to it. Today, I found Britney Peterson standing behind the cash register, back turned to the store, arranging a helium balloon display.

  “Hello, Britney,” I said as I passed toward the back of the store.

  She turned. “Hello, Mrs. Dippel. How are you?”

  By now she was resting her forearms against the counter, so I stopped to talk. “I’m okay,” I said.

  “When do you come back to work?”

  “Soon,” I answered. “I’ll talk to Mr. Lowe about that in just a few minutes.”

  She nodded. “He just
got back from lunch. He’s with someone, though.”

  “Oh?” I looked down at my watch. Surely not a client. I’d made the appointment for 1:00—before the 2:00 onslaught of appointments—just so we’d have plenty of time to talk.

  “But I don’t think it was a client,” she said, as though reading my thoughts.

  I looked up. “Oh.”

  “A friend,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said again, beginning to sound like a parrot. “So, Britney, have you and Clay set a date yet?”

  She smiled broadly. “Not exactly, though we are actually pinning down some dates.”

  I returned the smile, remembering briefly what it felt like to be young, in love, and anxious for my wedding day. Remembering the day Jack and I had set our date. The bridal teas. The showers. The rehearsal dinner. And the feeling that the hour I’d be alone and intimate with Jack would never come.

  I sighed. “What a precious time.”

  Understanding registered on her face. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dippel. About Mr. Dippel.”

  “Thank you, Britney.” I pointed to the back door. “I’ll get going,” I said. “Don’t want to be late.”

  I took the stairs one at a time. I was in no hurry for what I was about to do . . . what I was truly about to do. When I reached the reception area of the office—my office—I found it empty. Chris’s wife had been filling in for me while I was away, but she was nowhere to be found. Perhaps, I guessed, she was still at lunch.

  From the back of the office I heard voices—two, both male. I knew instinctively that it was Chris and his . . . friend, as Britney had said. I wondered who it was and whether or not I should interrupt. I looked down at my watch. It was 1:00 on the button.

  I coughed, hoping the noise would alert Chris that I had arrived. Sure enough, I heard his private office door open. He called out, “Goldie?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Come on back,” he said.

  I walked the length of the hall leading to his office. Chris stood in the open doorway with a sincere look on his face. When I reached him, he hugged me, whispered, “How are you?” to which I merely nodded.

  It was the proverbial question. How was I? How do you think I am? My husband is dead. Jack’s son—the one I didn’t know he had—had made himself an odd part of my life. My daughter doesn’t know . . .

  “Goldie.” My name was spoken from the other side of the door. I turned slightly and peered in.

  Heaven help me. It was Van Lauer.

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see me here,” he said. He smiled, handsome as ever.

  I stayed close to Chris but shook my head. “No,” I said. “But I saw that you had come by the funeral home.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say. Had Jack not wooed me back into his arms, into our marriage, I might very well be married to this unimaginably good-looking man standing before me. No, there were no words to say.

  I did what I’d learned lately to do best. Nod.

  An awkward moment passed between us until he finally said, “Well. I suppose I’d best let the two of you talk.” He shook Chris’s hand, then as he passed me, reached out to lay his hand against my upper arm. He squeezed gently and I shuddered. “You’re in my prayers,” he said.

  Again, I nodded.

  And then he was gone.

  ———

  Chris sat on the other side of his desk, staring at the paper I’d handed to him no more than fifteen seconds before. “Good heavens,” he said. Then he looked up at me. “Are you sure this is legitimate?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “A legitimate piece of paper declaring the birth of my husband’s illegitimate son. Yes, I’m sure. It has the seal. It makes sense. Sadly.”

  “And you say Andrew has been coming to see you?”

  “Just a couple of times. But he calls more often to see how I’m doing.” I shook my head as I crossed my legs. “I know what he says. He says it is a part of his job. But I don’t think so. He knows who Jack was to him. He knows and . . . I just don’t know what he wants. Jack’s will hasn’t been probated yet, of course. I’m the only beneficiary, but I’m worried that Andrew might want to try to legally take something . . . something that would ultimately belong to Olivia.”

  Chris grimaced. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Chris. If I’m wrong—if he doesn’t know the truth—then I’ve just informed him of his paternity. But if I’m right and I wait . . . it could hurt Olivia.”

  “Or you. By law, he could ask for a blood heir’s portion.”

  “He’d have to prove it, though, right? I mean, really prove it?”

  “That wouldn’t be too difficult,” Chris said, leaning back in his chair. “But it might end up being gruesome if he asks to exhume the body.”

  I covered my face with my hands. “Oh, Chris!”

  “Then again, seeing as how Jack was at Morrow’s, Andrew might have taken the samples he needed then.” He grimaced. “Not so sure that’s legal, but we aren’t talking about that, are we?”

  “No.” I dropped my hands, horrified. “I don’t know which is worse!”

  Chris didn’t answer at first, then said, “Tell me what you’d like me to do.”

  “What would you do, were you me?” I asked.

  He looked down at the paper again. He picked it up, held it between his thumb and index finger, then dropped it on top of all the other papers and files scattered across his desk. “I don’t know, Goldie. Give me a night to think on it, okay?”

  I nodded as I pressed my lips together, fighting back tears. “There’s one other thing,” I said.

  Chris leaned over, rested his arms on top of the pile of papers, then laced his fingers. “What’s that?”

  “I want to come back to work.”

  “When?”

  “Monday.”

  Vonnie

  22

  Hot Dog

  “Now, Chucky, do you see all the trouble you caused?” I asked as I looked down at my naughty boy. He was busy watching the passing cars but turned and rolled his big brown eyes at me.

  I glanced back at the street and slowed for a red light. “How many times have I told you, do not eat other people’s food—especially cake reserved for Donna—especially after all she’s done for you? Do you realize you’d still be a stray if it weren’t for her?”

  Chucky responded by licking his lips as if the memory of gobbling Donna’s slice of sunshine cake still tasted sweet.

  By the time Donna had fled my front porch and David and his—ahem—friend, had stepped into my home, Chucky was already covered in frosting and stained with blueberry-colored spots, as was my new carpet. David shook his head at the sight. “Chucky-boy, you’re in big trouble, dog.”

  “Same as you, apparently,” Bobbie had said, her arm hooked through the crook of David’s as if she’d just won him as a prize.

  Now, as I drove home with a freshly fluffed dog, I mentally compared Bobbie to Donna. Bobbie was everything Donna was not. She was sophisticated, polished, and put together with the perfection of a store mannequin. She sat too straight, her hair was too perfect, and her smile too white. These were things I don’t normally hold against a person, but I made an exception in this case because of my relationship with Donna. My Donna was a real what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. She was a natural, unenhanced beauty, though she tried to disguise her looks with too-short hair and a khaki green uniform and a badge. I didn’t think she’d been too successful at keeping her beauty a secret, since all the single fellows in town had been smitten with her at one time or another. Not that she seemed to care.

  How could this Bobbie hold a candle to my Donna?

  “Be careful what you say about this woman,” Fred had warned me after Bobbie and David had left to continue their journey to Aspen, another three hours away. “She could end up being our daughter-in-law, you know.”

  I’d gathe
red and stacked the leftover dessert plates and took them over to the sink. “I’ll forget you said that and try to think positive,” I’d said.

  I was still trying to think positive now as I waited at the light. I ran my hand down the back of Chucky’s head, wondering how my groomer had managed to transform the former mop with blueberry smudges into this angelic version of himself. “Are you sure you’re the same dog I dropped off at Helen’s?”

  Chucky’s tail thumped against the seat as if to say, “Yes, and I’m adorable.”

  I laughed, and when the light turned green I eased my foot from the brake to the gas pedal. I eyed the Gold Rush Grocery coming up on my left, wondering how long it might take to run in to get fresh blueberries and whipped topping plus a couple of things for dinner tonight. Five minutes, tops, I told myself. Chucky will be okay here in the car for five minutes.

  I know you’re not supposed to leave your dog in the car, but it was a wonderfully crisp autumn day, so what would be the harm? Besides, this was an emergency. David was coming over for supper, and I needed to pick up chicken breasts so I could make a batch of my pineapple ginger chicken. A good dinner was essential if my plan to get David to tell all would work. I had a few questions I wanted to ask him about Bobbie. For instance: What are you thinking?

  I also needed to re-create the original cake I’d made for Donna. I felt like a traitor serving my surprise visitors the remainder of her cake, which had been stored safely in the fridge during the gobbling incident. But when Fred came home a few minutes after David arrived, it was he who opened the refrigerator door and proclaimed we would all sit down and have some of “Vonnie’s nice cake.”

  I’d blinked back my tears, pasted on a wooden smile, and sliced Donna’s cake, feeling as guilty as if I’d sliced her heart instead.

  My plan was to whip up a new cake as soon as I got home, then drop it by Donna’s house later this afternoon. I needed to see how she was doing and to find out what funeral arrangements were in the works for her mother. It was my hope, really, that the cake would serve as a reminder that her mom had really loved her. Lord knows she had precious few reminders of that little fact.