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

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Bake Until Golden: A Novel (The Potluck Catering Club) Page 19

by Linda Evans Shepherd

I continued to hug my arms. “But she’s out of your life, right? All I ever knew about your ex-fiancée was that she left you to get engaged to your best friend.”

  David shook his head and stepped nearer. “Well, they were engaged. But I guess they broke up.”

  I stepped back. “So she’s on the prowl. Did the two of you hook up when you went to Aspen in the middle of the night? Alone? I mean, you could have invited your girlfriend along to chaperone.”

  David raised a brow at my question but never broke eye contact. “No, we did not hook up. The reason I didn’t invite you is because I knew Bobbie would mistreat you. She’s not always so nice.”

  I had to laugh at that one. As I walked past him, I turned around. “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  He turned to face me. “Of course I do, it’s just that I didn’t want to put you through that, especially after your mother was murdered. We haven’t even had a chance to grieve together.”

  I turned and walked back to the parking lot as he followed me. “You’re still a mystery to me, David. Sometimes I wonder if I even know you, not to mention your people.”

  David caught up with me at my Bronco. “Donna, you do know my people. Vonnie, Fred, and you, you’re the only people I have.”

  I put my hand on the door handle of my truck and stared at David’s reflection in my window. Without turning, I said, “I don’t know if I’m buying that. You’ve lived your entire life without us. Without me.”

  “That life is in the past. I’m not living there, Donna. I’m trying to live with you.”

  I turned and swung open the door of my Bronco and climbed in as he said, “Wait, that didn’t come out right. What I meant is—”

  “Later,” I said, shutting my door as I gave him a salute-like wave. I cracked my window. “I’ve got some things I have to check.”

  As I pulled out of the parking lot, my heart spun with questions about David, my mother’s death, and the events of last night. I soon pulled my truck into Lisa Leann’s driveway, walked up her front steps, and gave a little knock on the door. Lisa Leann never missed church, but under the circumstances, I suspected I’d find her home.

  I wasn’t surprised when she opened the door. “Donna, come in. Henry ran down to the church, but Kyle and I are here.”

  “How is the baby?” I asked.

  Lisa Leann put her finger to her lips as she dropped her voice. “He’s taking his morning nap.” She gestured at the sofa for me to sit. “Have you had breakfast? Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m fine. Heard Ray is still in the hospital. When will he and Mandy come home?”

  Lisa Leann shrugged. “We’re not sure yet.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  Lisa Leann approached me, then leaned down and gave me a hug. “Me too, and I’m very sorry about your mother.”

  When she pulled away, I stared down at my hands. “Yeah, it’s tough. In fact, I’m wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions about my mom.”

  She sat next to me on the couch. “Don’t know if I can help, but sure.”

  “Did you ever see her around town or ever really talk to her?”

  “Not really.” Lisa Leann slid one leg beneath her and turned to face me. “I saw her a time or two, like when she surprised you by singing at our Christmas tea, but I can’t say that I ever had a real conversation with her.”

  I studied her for a moment. “I thought as much. But let me ask you this. Did the two of you have any friends in common?”

  “Other than you and the potluckers? I don’t think so.”

  “What about people here at the condo, would anyone here know both you and Doreen?”

  Lisa Leann blinked. “I guess it’s possible. I’m not privy to know who hangs out at the Gold Rush Tavern. But no one’s ever mentioned her to me.”

  “Okay. Just exploring a theory.”

  “Wish I could be of more help.”

  I waved it off. “Back to business. I read the reports about the break-in at the shop. I understand Henry doesn’t think anything was taken. But have you been down there and looked yourself?”

  “Didn’t need to.” Lisa retrieved her laptop from her kitchen table. “Clay shot these photos for me and emailed them to me just this morning. Nothing’s disturbed. See?”

  I frowned and leaned in for a closer look as I flipped through the photos, one at a time, on the screen. “That’s strange. Nothing looks out of place.”

  “No, except . . .”

  “What?”

  She pointed to a picture of a maroon-colored Persian carpet that was spread in front of the fireplace. “See, it’s mussed. How could that have happened?”

  “You don’t think Clay or Henry or Jerry could have tripped over it?”

  Lisa Leann walked over and looked at the baby monitor, which showed an image of her sleeping grandson, before turning back to me. “No, I don’t think so. Henry said it was like that when they arrived.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Well, you’ve had the baby over at the shop, right? Maybe it happened then?”

  “The one time we went, Kyle and I hung out in my upstairs office.”

  “Ah. Okay. Well, I can’t think of why any prowler would only move the edge of a carpet. Can you?”

  “Not really.” Lisa Leann stood, then fished a key out of her purse. “But would you mind dropping by to check it out?” She scribbled a code on a piece of paper. “Here’s the alarm’s key code. You’ve used it before, right?”

  “I have. But before I go, tell me about the prowler you had here at the house.”

  “Soon as Henry and Clay left, some bicyclist, I couldn’t make out who he was, parked his bike at the front gate, then walked over to my condo.”

  “Did he knock or call out to you?”

  “No. He tried to open the door. I saw the doorknob turn.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Thanked God I’d locked the door, then I scared him off with my comments about my gun.”

  That caught my attention. “You’ve got a gun here in the condo?”

  “Well, darlin’, I’m from Texas; what do you think? I didn’t use it, I didn’t even get it out, but the mention of it did the trick.”

  “I see. Do you mind if I go outside and look around?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Moments later, I stood at the gate, looking up at Lisa Leann’s condo while she stood at the second story window waving down at me. If that’s where she was last night, when the cyclist came along, then there was no question that he saw her. And if the cyclist was the same person who broke into her wedding shop, then her husband would have passed him on the road. The cyclist very well could have known she was there alone.

  I walked back toward the condo steps, watching the ground for anything of interest. I stepped over toward the shrubs near the first floor garage window. I tried it and found it locked shut. I kicked back at the flowers and shrubs. I stared down at a large boot print, which I photographed with the camera in my phone.

  “What’s this?” Could this print belong to the mysterious cyclist or perhaps someone in groundskeeping? But since when did the cyclists around here wear boots instead of bike cleats?

  I started back toward my Bronco, but not before giving Lisa Leann a wave. I could see that she was now cradling her grandson in her arms. I held up the key and gestured that I was heading toward her shop. She nodded, then opened her front door. “Call me if you find anything,” she called down.

  “Will do.”

  Within minutes, I was at the backdoor of Lisa Leann’s wedding boutique. I used the key, then stepped inside and quickly punched in the code on the alarm pad.

  I shut the door and looked around. The old Victorian cottage was eerily quiet. “Hello?” I called into the silence.

  I began by walking through Lisa Leann’s state-of-the-art kitchen, then pushed through the double doors and into her front parlor. I looked at the oak floors, the mahogany woodwork, a
nd the antique fireplace. This home was every bit as old as the church.

  I walked toward the fireplace and stared down at the maroon rug, still mussed as Lisa Leann had said. I leaned down and straightened it out.

  Odd that the carpet, a valuable piece, was only mussed and not stolen. I lifted the corner of the rug and pulled it back. The oak floorboards beneath it looked polished and sturdy. But the end of one of the boards was littered with soft scratches, like pry marks. I pulled on my latex gloves and touched the scratches with my fingers.

  Then it hit me. Was the board loose? I pushed down on the board with three fingers and tried to wiggle it back and forth.

  Yes, it had some play, but could I pull it out?

  I went back into the kitchen and retrieved a hard plastic spatula, which I inserted between the boards before applying pressure like a lever. Slowly . . . carefully . . . the board lifted, and a small dark space appeared beneath the floor.

  This was somebody’s hiding place. I fished my flashlight off my belt, switched it on, and peered inside. Empty. Whoever had been here had to know just what they were looking for, but had they found it? Maybe not, especially if they’d bothered to drop by Lisa Leann’s condo last night. What if the perp thought Lisa Leann had what they were looking for?

  Whatever was hidden in this secret compartment could have easily been here since before the Lamberts bought this place, or even for the last one hundred plus years for that matter.

  I’d have to go down to the county clerk tomorrow to check the history of who had owned this old house before the Lamberts. Maybe an owner’s name or two would finally shed some light on what was really going on.

  Evangeline

  25

  Jail Dressing

  On Tuesday, I was looking over my mother’s old recipe for scalloped asparagus casserole when Vernon came home with the news.

  “A grand jury is being presented with the evidence of the case, Evie. They’re looking to arrest you.”

  He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing his civvies and looking about as bedraggled as an old dog left out in the rain one too many nights.

  I leaned against the kitchen countertop and sighed. “So that’s why you took off so early this morning.” I could barely hear my voice for the pounding of my heart in my ears.

  He nodded, then pointed to the kitchen table and chairs, suggesting that we sit.

  I didn’t argue. I sat at one end of the table while he sat at another. Even if we stretched, we couldn’t touch. Right now, I thought that was best. If his pinky so much as touched mine, I would dissolve into a torrent of tears and quivers.

  “I got a call early this morning,” he started. “From Nate Sawyer. You remember . . .”

  How could I forget? “Yes.” The room started spinning. I squeezed my eyes shut, then reopened them. “And?”

  “He let me know that the evidence would be presented to the grand jury as soon as one could be assembled. Probably this afternoon at 2:00.”

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly 1:45. “Fifteen minutes.” I swallowed hard. “Vernon,” I said, looking up at my husband. “I did not kill Doreen.”

  “I know that.”

  “I never even went into her trailer.”

  “I know that too.” He ran his thick fingers through the thinning silvery-gray hair at the crown of his head. “I told him what Lizzie and Goldie had said regarding your comments about Doreen the day following the murder. I told him that they said you gave no indication that you entered that trailer or that anything happened other than a discussion about Doreen’s drinking.”

  “And? Didn’t he believe it?” I placed my hand on the table and splayed my fingers before looking back at my husband. “What possible motive does he think I had?”

  Vernon shook his head. “He’s not telling me much,” he said. “What with you being my wife . . .”

  “What will they do, this grand jury?”

  “The state is presenting the evidence. Donna is testifying, as are Nate and Jerry. Clay photographed the scene; he’s been called. Velvet and Wade, of course. A few people from the grocery store and those who heard you and Velvet arguing.”

  I crooked my arm on the table and laid my head into it. “Oh, Vernon. I’m too old for this . . . this nonsense.”

  Vernon stood. I peered at him from the corner of my eye, watched him walk to the refrigerator, open it, and bring out a pitcher of iced tea. “Want something to drink?” he asked.

  I sat up straight. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “You may think this is nonsense, Evie, but Nate Sawyer is dead serious.” He placed the pitcher on the counter and then reached for a couple of glasses in the cabinet.

  “But they have no evidence, Vernon. Not really.”

  “That’s for the grand jury to decide.”

  “Aren’t I going to be called to testify? Shouldn’t I be?” I watched as tea sloshed from the pitcher to the glasses.

  “Nate thinks he can get a warrant for your arrest whether you testify or not.”

  “A warrant for my . . .” I slammed my fist on the table. Vernon jumped, then calmly picked up the glasses and brought one to me.

  “Prepare yourself, Evie-girl. I think they have enough evidence. I’ve seen grand juries bring charges with less. Besides, we don’t know what evidence Nate has dug up.”

  My throat went dry. I tried to quench it with a swallow of tea, but it did little good. “Oh, God,” I said, looking toward the ceiling and beyond that to heaven, “please don’t let me be arrested. You know I didn’t do this . . .” I looked down to the tea glass in my hand, then took another swallow. Then another followed by another until the glass was empty. Then I stood.

  Vernon, who had returned to his seat at the other end of the table, asked, “Where are you going?”

  I raised my chin. “I’m going to prepare my scalloped asparagus casserole,” I said as though nothing was wrong. As though nothing in the world that might have an effect on me was going on. As though my own stepdaughter—whom I loved dearly—was not, at this very minute, giving some cockamamie testimony sure to have me arrested before the sun went down.

  “Need any help?” Vernon asked.

  “No,” I answered. “I’m perfectly capable of cooking on my

  own.”

  ———

  I was arrested a few hours later.

  When the knock came at the door, I was standing in front of our bedroom dresser, leaning over it and staring at my reflection in the mirror. I had taken a long, hot bath. I’d slathered myself in body lotion—Jergens, to be exact—and I’d slipped into a pair of black slacks, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a gray jacket. I accessorized with pink pearl earrings and a single-strand pink pearl necklace.

  Lisa Leann says that pink brings out my natural beauty.

  If I was going to be arrested, then by George I was going to look nice when they handcuffed me and marched me into the courthouse. No doubt with the press close at hand, ready to report that one of the stars of The Great Party Showdown was being arrested for the murder of her husband’s ex-wife.

  I heard the muffled voices of my husband and Nate Sawyer. I walked to the bedroom door, cracked it, and listened.

  “I’ll get her,” Vernon was saying.

  Then, to my horror, I heard Donna’s voice. “Dad. Let me. Let me go talk to her first.”

  Vernon paused before saying, “All right, then.”

  I opened the door fully and then went back to the dresser, where my bamboo-handled purse sat waiting. I reached into it, pulled out a tube of lip gloss, and proceeded to smear the goo across my lips just as Donna entered the room.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  I continued with the application. “If I’m going to jail, then I’m at least going to look nice.”

  I heard the door click as Donna closed it behind her. “Listen, Evie. We need to talk.”

  I turned to her. She was dressed strangely similar to me. Black pants, white long-sleeved button-d
own shirt. The only difference was that she wore her black sheriff’s jacket and no accessories. “I think we’ve said all there is to say,” I replied.

  Donna shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She jerked her head toward the front of the house. “You know we have a warrant, I suppose.”

  “I do.”

  “You know we went before the grand jury.”

  “Yes.”

  She crossed her arms. “Look, Evie. For what it’s worth, there’s something pretty weird going on around here . . . around town, I mean.”

  “Like?”

  “Like holes being dug behind the church. The boutique being broken into. Lisa Leann’s house nearly being invaded.”

  “Your father told me.” I blinked a few times, then said, “You think all that is tied to Doreen somehow?” My voice was whisper soft, and I leaned against the dresser for support.

  “I don’t know what I think anymore. I tried to talk to Nate about it all this morning, but I think he’s set on this arrest, and it really doesn’t matter what I say or think. And to be honest, I no longer know what I think . . .”

  Well, that was something, wasn’t it? “But why?” I asked. “Why is he so interested in arresting me?”

  “Because, Evangeline. You’re the sheriff’s wife. You’re the one-time star of The Great Party Showdown. You’re Evil-Evie.”

  I bristled at the words. “I most assuredly am not . . .” I waved my hands in the air as though erasing the words Donna had just said. “Donna—I. Did. Not. Kill. Doreen.”

  “Somebody did.”

  “Not me.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sighed. “And you’re all we’ve got.”

  “That and an arrest warrant.”

  “I’m afraid so.” She paused. “I just wanted to tell you . . . before I walk you in there and . . . well, I just wanted to tell you that I have a few hunches. I don’t know what they’re going to lead to, but I promise you I’ll do my best.”

  I walked over to my stepdaughter and cupped my hand on her shoulder. “I appreciate that, Donna. Knowing you thought . . . well, I just couldn’t bear you thinking I’d done this.”

 

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