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

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Bake Until Golden: A Novel (The Potluck Catering Club) Page 17

by Linda Evans Shepherd


  And yes, Doreen had loved her daughter. This I knew because I’d seen it in her eyes. The problem with Doreen was that she’d had the misguided belief that by leaving her child behind, she was doing Donna a favor. And after learning some of the details of Doreen’s life after she left Summit View, Doreen may have served Donna well by leaving her out of her misadventures. But that logic did nothing to heal the sting of rejection Donna felt to this day.

  I pulled into the grocery’s lot and slipped my blue Taurus into an empty parking spot. I looked down at Chucky, who cocked one of his fluffy ears at me. “I’m only going to be gone a minute. Do you mind?” I’d asked him, cracking my window to ensure he got fresh air.

  His trusting eyes sparkled.

  “And when I come back, I’ll bring you a treat.”

  Chucky wagged his tail, and I swung open my door and climbed out. I leaned down and scratched behind his ear. “Now be a good little dog, and no barking, okay?”

  Chucky wagged his tail again and I shut the door, glancing at my watch as I hurried inside. I found my necessary ingredients, including a box of bone-shaped dog treats for Chucky, then rushed to Bella’s checkout line.

  Bella was a cashier who had worked at our market forever. She was probably in her late sixties, and her dyed black hair gave her face a pale, harsh look, as did the drawn-on brows that arched beneath her deepening wrinkles. We didn’t know each other well, but we always exchanged pleasantries. I stood behind the patron in front of me and watched as Bella processed the customer’s groceries. Bella reached for a can of frozen orange juice and swiped the bar code as the resulting beep served as an exclamation mark to her story already in progress. “It happened right here in my line,” she said. Beep!

  The woman, a Texas-tourist type, dressed in designer jeans and a high-fashioned tee, responded, “Really?”

  “Sheriff’s wife or no sheriff’s wife, that Evangeline woman slapped Dee Dee then pushed her to the ground.” Beep!

  The woman gasped. “From what I’ve seen on TV, I thought Evangeline was one of those do-gooders. You know, a Christian and all.”

  Bella nodded. “Didn’t see any proof of that, unless she said a blessing over the catfight. As soon as she knocked Dee Dee to the ground, she jumped right on top of her. Her stepdaughter, Donna, and I had to run over and pull her off the poor woman.”

  I cleared my throat. “That makes for an entertaining story, Bella,” I said. “I know you’re exaggerating because that’s not how Evie tells it.”

  Bella, who was reaching for a head of lettuce, stared up at me.

  “Oh, Vonnie, I didn’t see you there. Of course you wouldn’t believe the truth. You’re one of her little followers.” Beep!

  “Excuse me?”

  “Now don’t get huffy, but we all saw how she was on TV. Even the folks at that Showdown TV thingy called her ‘Evil Evie.’ Now we know why.”

  I shook my head. “That was just a joke, a bad joke.”

  “Lots of truth tucked into some jokes you hear,” Bella said as she shrugged and reached for a carton of eggs to scan. She turned back to her customer to finish where she left off. “It was quite the brawl. Gum and candy flew everywhere. Took me a while to clean it up.” Beep!

  “Now come on,” I said. “Evangeline tripped over a fallen bottle of Cold Duck. She didn’t pounce on Doreen. Why don’t you tell that part of the story?”

  Bella put both hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Oh? Were you here?”

  “Well, no, but I can’t believe—”

  “Did you ask Donna?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “It’s the truth, Vonnie, a truth I’m willing to testify to in court.”

  My mouth fell open as the two women stared back at me, but before I could find my voice, my elderly neighbor, Abby Carlson, came bursting through the store’s front door as fast as she could hobble. When she saw me, she practically shrieked, “Vonnie, did you know you left the door of your car open?”

  “What!” Chucky!

  I abandoned my cart and rushed to the parking lot, my heart hammering. Sure enough, the driver’s side door of my car stood open, and my car sat empty. I looked around wildly, calling for my little friend. “Chucky! Here, boy!”

  Other shoppers joined the hunt: looking under cars, down the alley, into nearby backyards, but after two hours, Chucky was nowhere to be found. And the thing was, that little dog was so attached to me that I knew if he could only hear my voice, he’d move heaven and earth to come to me. The only explanation was—he’d vanished.

  Despite my tears, I’d somehow managed to retrieve my groceries, then drive home, all the while hoping my dog had somehow found his way back. He hadn’t. Once in my kitchen, I put the whipped topping in the refrigerator, vowing I’d start the cake later, maybe after David left. I was too emotionally exhausted to do it now.

  My head still spun over my dog’s disappearance. What could have happened? And who had opened my car door?

  I thought about some of my animal rights activist friends. Would someone, someone who didn’t know me or my dog, assume the dog was being abused because I’d left him in the car? Had Chucky been dognapped in an effort to rescue him? Or, maybe this was just some prank pulled by a neighborhood kid who would show up at my front door any minute with my dog in hand . . . or maybe, maybe it was possible that someone meant to steal or even harm my pet?

  I shuddered at the thought before heading toward my coffeepot.

  I opened the lid to my Folgers and breathed in the aroma of fresh ground coffee beans. As I scooped the grounds and dropped them in my coffeemaker, I continued to mull over Chucky’s disappearance.

  I created a plan of action: I’d make posters and put them around town. I’d use the picture Clay had taken the day Chucky had treed a cake-stealing bear in my own backyard.

  I smiled at the memory of my brave little dog rescuing me and the members of my Potluck Club during our picnic.

  I thought back to my plan. Now, if anyone saw the posters and knew of a family who had adopted a stray, then maybe I’d get him back . . . and . . .

  A sudden memory of the open car door drew my thoughts back to the grocery store parking lot. The weird part was that no one had seen anyone around, other than a mom and her three kids entering the store and some guy buying a newspaper from a newspaper stand near the store’s entrance. Neither report sounded suspicious. But one thing I knew, I had not left that car door open, and as Chucky was incapable of opening it himself, someone else had done so.

  My phone rang, and I picked it up. Hearing Donna’s voice was a welcome relief. “Vonnie, I hear you had some trouble at the market.”

  “Yes, Chucky disappeared from my car. I only left him a moment, and when I returned, the car was open and the dog was gone.”

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “You didn’t happen to hear if he was found, did you, dear?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  My tears started to flow again, and I must have sniffed because Donna said, “I’m so sorry, Vonnie. I know how you love that little guy. When I’m out on patrol tomorrow, I’ll keep my eyes open. I bet he turns up.”

  I reached for a tissue and blotted my eyes. “Maybe, but his disappearance seems sort of purposeful, don’t you think? How do these things turn out when they’re on purpose?”

  Donna was silent. “I wish I knew the answer to that and maybe we will soon. But try not to worry. Maybe a nice family found Chucky and they’re spoiling him with affection right now. He could be home sooner than you think.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down for a moment. “Do you really think so?”

  “Why not believe that for now?” Donna said. “There’s more than enough heartache going around these days, and we can’t abandon hope altogether, right?”

  I sighed. “But how are you doing, dear? I’ve been keeping you in my prayers.”

  “I appreciate that, Vonnie, I do. And, well, I’m really still a bit em
otionally numb. It’s going to take a while for me to process all that’s happened.”

  “So, you really think Evie had something to do with your mother’s death?”

  “It’s not like it’s what I hope, but it’s where the evidence continues to lead.”

  I took a sip of coffee and pondered that, then said, “As hot-tempered as Evie can be, if you look at her heart, I don’t think you’ll find a killer. I just don’t believe she’s capable.”

  “If this goes to trial, they’ll probably have her on manslaughter. They’ll say she got into another one of her arguments with my mother and shoves were exchanged, like what happened down at the grocery store. They’ll say she didn’t mean to push my mother down . . . that she didn’t know Mom had hit her head . . .”

  “But Donna, I can’t believe Evie would willfully walk away from the scene of an accident without either a hint of remorse or a call for help. I don’t think she’s capable of that, do you?”

  “It may not matter what I think, it may only matter what Nate Sawyer thinks.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Dad called him in. He’s from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. I’m sure Nate will drop by to see you, to get a reading on your impression of Evie in the hours following Doreen’s death.”

  I held my portable handset and rose and walked back to the coffeepot. “What does Mr. Sawyer think so far?”

  “He’s hard to read, but I think, like me, he suspects Evie.”

  I sucked in my breath. “Oh.”

  “I mean, who else is there to suspect?”

  I topped off my cup then added another dollop of cream. “Have there been any other suspicious people or happenings in town, I mean, besides my losing Chucky?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of, except for the usual: lost wallets, tipsy tourists. Oh, and a stolen bicycle.”

  “What does Clay have to say?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t caught up with him lately.”

  I took a quick sip from my mug. “So, to change the subject, when’s Doreen’s funeral?”

  Donna paused and dropped her voice. “Not sure there’s going to be one. Velvet is insisting Mom wouldn’t want to be buried here. So I guess she’s going to have her cremated as soon as the coroner releases the body. Velvet says she’s going to scatter Doreen’s ashes off the Grand Canyon or some such thing. Apparently I’m not invited.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t have your own memorial.”

  I could hear Donna sigh. “I’d like that,” she said quietly. “I really would.”

  “Maybe Lisa Leann would help you with photos. I’ll ask the girls to bring over any old pictures they have of your mother.”

  As we were saying our good-byes, Donna asked, “So, do you still have a slice of that sunshine cake waiting for me?”

  “I’m making you a fresh one tonight, after David leaves.”

  “David’s coming over?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No. I haven’t talked to him, since . . .” We let the silence build until Donna said, “Hey, I gotta go. I’ll call you later to see how that cake is coming along.”

  I hung up the phone and walked to my kitchen window, looking past its tumbling, stained-glass babies. I took another sip of my coffee as I studied a grove of golden aspens as they zigzagged up the side of the mountain. On a day like today, I was glad that I was surrounded by so much of God’s beautiful creation. I whispered a prayer of gratitude. It was these little reminders of God’s presence that kept me going. It gave me hope. And right now, hope was all I had.

  Lisa Leann

  23

  Poached

  It had been six days since Henry and I had become full-time caregivers to our infant grandson, Kyle, and we were just starting to get the hang of things.

  “It’s all about schedules,” I’d informed Henry as I sat on the couch, my arm resting on the Boppy as I fed Kyle his bedtime bottle of formula. Henry looked up from the book he was reading. “Could be. Things are settling down a bit.”

  “Except that he hasn’t quite given up his 2:00 a.m. feeding,” I teased. “Wanna do the honors tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  I looked down at the precious face before me and watched as Kyle closed his eyelids. He was so sweet, so innocent, and so dependent on me, what with his mom halfway across the world and his dad still in an Egyptian hospital.

  “Heard from Mandy today?” Henry asked from the recliner, peering over his bifocals.

  “Not since she called yesterday.”

  Henry closed his book. “I wonder if I need to go over there and see what I can do to get those two home.”

  “I’ve wondered that too,” I said.

  I felt little Kyle relax into the crook of my arm, and I looked down at his sleeping face. Poor little fellow, he’d been tuckered out from our busy day, the first day I’d actually braved leaving the house with him, if only to stop by my wedding shop office for a couple of hours.

  What an ordeal with the car seat and stroller, not to mention the trial of setting up Kyle’s portable swing and playpen. How did new mothers today deal with all these baby gadgets? Though I had to admit, I’d been experimenting a bit with Kyle’s high-tech equipment. Some of it, like the baby monitor with attached camera, was pretty cool.

  But, by the time I’d gotten all of Kyle’s gear in place and Kyle settled down at my wedding consultant shop that also served as the Potluck Catering Club headquarters, it was time to head for home and start the process of folding down and packing all of Kyle’s baby gizmos—only to set them up again back at the house.

  I rose from the couch, still cradling the baby, and walked to the guest bedroom where I positioned Kyle over my shoulder to give his back a gentle pat, pat, pat. When I heard his tiny but satisfying burp, I carefully placed him in his crib and covered him with his bright orange and blue Broncos baby blanket, a gift from his Grandpa Henry.

  “Don’t know how Ray’s going to take that blanket and all, being that he’s all about the Cowboys,” I had teased when Henry had brought the blanket home from Walmart.

  “Well, Kyle is under my roof now and we’ll worry about that later,” Henry joked. “At least, I hope so.”

  I turned down the light and tiptoed down the hall, retrieving my laptop from my home office. I returned to the living room and settled back on the couch as I accessed our wireless internet.

  “I know Mandy hasn’t been able to find out much about the subway accident, so I’ve been doing a little Googling,” I explained to my husband. I stood up and walked over to his recliner and handed my laptop to him. “What do you make of this?”

  Henry read aloud, “Bomb in Cairo subway injured nineteen, including one American.” He looked up, alarmed. “When did this happen?”

  “The same day as Ray’s accident.”

  “Mandy said he fell in the subway, do you think as a result of this blast?”

  I bit my lip. “I dunno. Though whether he was caught in the blast or was shoved off the platform by a panicked crowd, I dunno.”

  Our eyes met and held. Henry glanced down then continued to read, “An al Qaida–linked group is believed to be responsible for the attack, said the Interior Ministry. The ministry said the suspects were part of a group called the North African Islamic Army. All suspects remain at large.”

  Henry pulled off his reading glasses. “Do you think Mandy knows about this?”

  I nodded slowly. “Could be. It would be just like her to leave out a few of the worrisome details to protect us.”

  Henry stood, still holding the laptop. “Well, who’s going to protect her? That’s what I want to know.”

  I looked at my watch. “Let’s see, it’s 10:00 p.m. here, meaning it’s 6:00 a.m. Cairo time. I’m guessing Mandy will call in soon with her daily report. Maybe we can find out more about what’s going on.”

  Henry nodded and passed my laptop back to me. I carried it to the nearby kitchen table, where I called over my shou
lder, “I’m going to design a poster for our upcoming Founders Day festivities.”

  “How are the plans for that little venture coming along?”

  “Slow, but they’re coming. With the catering group so scattered, I’ve only got Lizzie and Vonnie pitching in right now. In fact, Lizzie emailed me some great photos of Father Dyer and the church.”

  “You got those photos up for viewing?”

  “I’m opening the jpegs now,” I said as Henry leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I caught a whiff of his Old Spice cologne. The picture that began to load on the screen was an old photograph of a clean-shaven, white-haired gentleman.

  “Who’s that?” Henry asked, leaning in for a better look.

  “That, my dear, is Father John Dyer.”

  “He looks a lot like Ralph Waite, you know, the actor who played the dad on The Waltons.”

  I nodded. “That he does.”

  Henry put his hand across my shoulder as he studied the photo. “Dyer was a Methodist circuit preacher, right? So, why did they call him ‘Father’?”

  “Because of his caring and his concern for the miners. Apparently, he knew every mining camp and miner in the region. He’d travel over mountains and through blizzards on homemade skis just to bring them the comfort of the Word.”

  I downloaded the next picture, which showed Grace Church in 1880. Surprisingly, it looked much the same as it did today. Well, except for our new buildings and the stained glass windows depicting Dyer and his skis.

  “Look, there’s a bell tower,” Henry said, sitting down and pointing at the screen. “I wonder what happened to it.”

  “The miners blew it up when Father Dyer helped bring prohibition to town. It was never rebuilt.”

  Henry scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Is that so,” he stated rather than asked. He stood and stretched the kinks out of his back with a contagion of pops. “Got anything to eat?”

  I looked up and gave my husband a smile. “Try the almond bark in the pink tin in the refrigerator.”

 

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