by Judy Kentrus
“Walk straight back and you’ll find a pink 26-inch bicycle.”
“Pink?” he confirmed, raising his brow.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, so don’t complain. It’s in good condition, and the tires are new.” Jess headed back to her patrol car, glad he couldn’t see the petty grin on her face. “Pedal your ass around town, Mr. Adams!”
Linc smiled at her sarcasm. He had an uphill battle if he wanted to get into Jessie Taylor’s good graces. He found a light switch on the side panel and a single bulb lighted the interior. Sure enough, braced against the rear wall was a girl’s pink bicycle. He paused and cocked his head to the side. No, it couldn’t be. He bent to one knee and ran a finger down the metal rod that supported the handlebars. His hand shook when he felt three letters. JEA, Jennie Elizabeth Adams. He’d carved them himself.
Linc carefully walked the bike through the gauntlet of junk and lowered the kickstand. Happiness and grief dueled within his body. How did Jessie get his sister’s bike? Why hadn’t she told him? He also realized he’d need more than two wheels to get around. It was time to call the cavalry, and he reached for his cell phone.
“Are you alone?”
“Scott and I are in my conference room, working on the revised blueprints for the resort my father plans to build in Laurel Heights.”
“Put me on speaker phone, so you both can hear what I have to say.”
“Are you okay?” Scott asked.
“To be honest, I haven’t found my balance.” He sighed deeply. “I’m being bombarded by emotions that are pulling me in different directions.” Linc fingered the black pearl in his ear before informing his best friends of his new residency requirements. “I will be calling Laurel Heights home for the next year.”
“That’s ridiculous! What the hell happened when we left you at the mercy of the judge?” Scott demanded.
“Buford made me his heir, along with the municipality of Laurel Heights. If I don’t reside here for one year, Buford’s three-hundred million dollar estate goes to charity. The town is hurting, and I can’t let the people suffer.” Two “ah shits” filled Linc’s ear before he proceeded to tell them about the proposed drilling for natural gas, the threats against Margaret Taylor, and having to live in the apartment over the garage for the next ninety days, as her handyman.”
“My father has five wells, and they’re generating a great deal of revenue. He’s re-investing a portion of the money into the resort. Scott and I have tossed our hat into the ring. If you want in, let him know.”
“The judge told me about your father’s plans this morning. Let me think about it.”
“How are you going to handle the threats against the judge?” Scott asked.
“She doesn’t want her daughter or the police involved in any way. I don’t agree, but I’ll have Reggie, my head computer tech, back track the emails.”
“Tell us what you need,” Russell said.
“My pick-up truck. The plates are registered to me personally. I need my personal laptop, iPad, and clothes, nothing fancy. Ask Alexis if she could have a couple of her people clean the apartment. It hasn’t been used in a while. I’ll text you the address.”
“We’ll take care of having the Stingray picked up when they drop off your truck. As soon as my father’s house is de-winterized and cleaned, we’ll come out for a guy weekend to do some fishing. Technically, you won’t be leaving town, just meeting friends.”
“Do you two have any advice on how to get Jessie Taylor not to hate my guts?”
“I’d tell you to eat humble pie, but it’s disgusting,” Russell said with a hearty laugh. “Stay out of trouble! We’ll be in touch.”
At the mention of food, Linc’s stomach rumbled, and he glanced at the time on his phone. The Spoonful would be closing in fifteen minutes. He took in the rich fabric of his dress slacks and silk-blend shirt. “At least I’ll be showing up in style.”
Sallie Mae Whipper glanced at the large round wall clock in the spotless kitchen of the Spoonful Café, wondering what was keeping that rascal Lincoln Adams. She’d expected him to show up long ago. She adjusted the bib on her linen butcher’s apron that covered her hound’s tooth-checkered trousers and white shirt. The familiar rapid knock on the back door made her heart flutter.
“Land sakes, Lincoln Adams,” she greeted him with a teeth grinning smile. “It’s about time you showed your handsome face. Come here and give me some sugar.” She drew his head down and kissed both cheeks. “Heard you put on quite a show. Just what this town needs, a little shaking up, bunch of old farts.”
Linc wrapped her full-bodied figure close and squeezed tight before resting his temple on her black, tightly knit curls laced with snow white swirls. Her Hershey colored skin was still soft and smelled like lemons and honey. Sallie Mae saw inside the troubled boy and knew when he was hurting. She’d wiped his tears and helped him recognize the goodness in his heart, as well as recognize his self-worth.
He dropped his arms and stepped back. “Thanks for the pie and the note.”
“The trial has everyone fired up. Since you’re still walking around, Judge Taylor didn’t throw you in jail.”
“She might as well have. For the next ninety days, I’ll be living in the apartment above her garage as her handyman.”
“At least you’re free to move about and I can feed you.”
“There is that,” he smiled and gave her another quick hug.
Sallie wrapped an arm around Lincoln’s slim waist and turned to look at her younger brother, cleaning the surface of the large, flat grill. “Northrup, get your skinny ass over here and say hello to my boy.”
The older gentleman offered an almost toothless smile and wiped his hands on a clean, dry cloth before holding out his hand. “Welcome back, Lincoln. She’s been pacing the kitchen like an expectant grandmother.”
Linc remembered Northrup Whipper as the owner of the local lumberyard and hardware store. Where Sallie Mae was round and full-figured, Northrup was tall and reed thin. His tightly cropped hair was a ginger brown with a sprinkling of silver gray. He was in his early sixties and lived very comfortably from the successful business started by his great, great grandfather. The lumberyard’s spur of tracks was connected to the main line by the old train depot. His ancestor had built a special freight car with a false bottom that was part of the Underground Railway to transport slaves seeking freedom.
Linc shook his hand. “Glad to see you, sir. I don’t remember you being a short-order cook.”
“I’m only helping out. Sallie Mae’s third husband took his last breath last year. My three children run the business for me. I hope you’re going to stick around for a spell. A while back, Buford gave me quite a sum to refurbish the old Baldwin and the freight car with the false bottom. Sunday afternoons, weather permitting, we pull a couple of passenger cars and run excursions into Stevensville. Occasionally, we have a moonlight trip for adults. The train depot is currently being renovated, and we plan to attract specialty shops.”
“North, stop the sales pitch and heat up some of the chicken ‘n’ dumplings and a side of mashed sweets and apples we had for a lunch special.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Linc said, following Sallie Mae into the quiet café.
“Nonsense, sit. She poured him a tall glass of iced, sweet tea.
The colors of red and white were blended in the crescent booths and square tables. Round stools with red padded seats and shiny silver rims fronted a long counter. The color scheme was cut by the black and white checkerboard floor tiles. The skinny blinds covering the front wall of short windows had been lowered to indicate the Spoonful was closed for the day. They would open at six the next morning. In addition to the café, there was a small formal dining room. Members of the town council could be found there at least twice a week. It was believed more political decisions were made while eating their lunch than at official meetings.
North placed a platter of hot food it in front of Linc
. “I added some of Mae’s special corn pudding. Enjoy. I better get back to the kitchen before my sister fires me,” he laughed.
“Don’t know what I’d do without him,” Sallie laughed, setting a slice of cherry cheesecake in front of Linc. “Dessert. You never said you would be coming to town in your last email.”
“I’d explain if I could. No one is to know about my company.”
“Do I look like I just fell off a turnip truck?” Sallie hesitated before asking. “Do you plan to go over to the house? It’s part of your inheritance.”
Linc cocked a brow. “You know what’s in the old coot’s Will?”
Sallie covered the hand of the man she knew as a troubled boy and loved with all her heart. Despite having three husbands, she never had any children. Linc was hers. “I know you hated him, but he wasn’t a complete, heartless soul. You knew I cooked for him for a number of years when I was young. I wanted to open The Spoonful. Your grandfather loaned me seventy-five thousand dollars. I paid him back the full amount. Buford bequeathed me a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, stating he wanted to show his appreciation for looking after his scallywag of a grandson.”
Linc hesitated taking his next bite. “Judge Taylor never mentioned anything to me about that.”
“It’s all in the Will. You should check out the house.” It’s full of secrets, Sallie silently added.
“I don’t want it!” Linc was tempted to slam his fisted hand on the red laminated tabletop. “He never let me forget I was worthless and no good. My mother was white trash and wasn’t worthy of my father! He even questioned the legality of their marriage! Since I looked more like her, Buford hated my guts.”
Sallie felt his pain and decided to back off. “What do you think of Jessie Taylor? She’s turned into one fine woman. Guess you already know that, seeing as how you kissed her. The so-called ‘assault’ was the hot topic of the lunch hour.”
“The Spoonful is still the same powder keg for gossip. I’m not one of Sergeant Taylor’s favorite people.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t remember her. She chased after you and Treig every chance she got. What are you going to do to make amends?”
“Send flowers?”
“Forget that. She’s addicted to See’s Peanut Brittle Bars and has them shipped in from California.” Sallie stood up and stacked Linc’s empty dishes. “I’ve enjoyed our visit, but I’ve got to prep some of my food for tomorrow’s menu. North only fills the short orders.” She put a hand to the small of her thick waist and arched her back. “Getting tired. As the song says, The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be.”
Linc recalled what Northrup had said about filling in because Sallie was short a cook. “I’ve a friend who could help out in the kitchen. Sam studied at the Culinary Institute in New York. The only thing I ask is that you don’t tell anyone I know Sam.”
Sally raised a brow. “Should I add this to your list of secrets?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Good enough. I don’t want noth’n fancy. My customers like home cooking, cast-iron baked cornbread, buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy, chicken fried steak and hush puppies.”
“Absolutely. Let me make a phone call. Sam could probably start the day after tomorrow.” Linc gave Sallie’s soft hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you for being here for me.”
“Ah, go on,” she laughed. How she’d missed her boy.
Linc returned home and punched in a familiar number and left a voice message. “Sam, this is Linc. Call me ASAP. I have an assignment. Report to The Spoonful Café in Laurel Heights, at 6:00 Wednesday morning. See the owner, Sallie Mae Whipper. You are their new short-order cook. Rent a room at the Last Chance Motel, just outside of town. Use your Harley for transportation. The cafe is a hotbed for gossip. You will be my eyes and ears. We’ll communicate by text and email only. I’ll explain further when you return my call.”
He was just about to put his phone in his pocket, but got a text message. “Mary Maids will be there tomorrow AM along with everything you asked for, and then some. Good luck, Russell.
Linc frowned. What did Russell mean by “and then some?”
Chapter 5
Jessie called herself every kind of fool for watching out the window over the kitchen sink for any movement in the apartment. The lights were on, but all appeared quiet. After leaving her welcome wagon package, she’d gone back to work to review paperwork, anything to keep her mind off of Lincoln Adams. Her fellow police officers gave her tight-lipped smiles and a wide berth. She was still pissed he’d gotten off so easily. Why had he decided to show up in Laurel Heights after all these years? She cautioned herself not to panic.
Edith should be coming home from her piano lesson at any moment. Their neighbor, Mrs. Schmidt, gave lessons from her home, so all Edie had to do was walk across the street. It would be just the two of them for dinner. The judge had left a message on Jess’s voice mail. “The town council called an emergency meeting at Mayor Humperdinck’s house.”
“Likely story.” Jess strained the angel hair pasta they were having for dinner. Buford’s grandson would be the topic of conversation. She glanced down when Abbie Lincoln brushed the side of her jeans. “I’ll bet you checked out the handsome devil, you Jezebel. What happened that he has to wear that patch?”
The tabby looked at her as if to say, “Like I would be able to answer your question. Ask him yourself.” She flicked her saucy tail and sauntered off in the direction of the cat door. She had a meet with Xavier Cugat, the sexy black cat who lived next door.
“Mom, I’m home! There are lights on in the apartment above the garage!” Bubbling excitement filled the nine-year old’s voice when she came rushing into the kitchen after hanging up her jacket on one of the wall hooks just inside the back hallway. “Buford’s rich grandson was speeding down Cool Spring Mountain and played chicken with a freight train and got spooked by some deer. He was S-faced drunk and went into a ditch and wrecked his superior Stingray. He has two wives and Grandma slapped his hands.”
Jessie leaned against the counter and crossed her arms across her waist, shaking her head at her tomboy daughter. When Edie had left for school, her long black hair had been woven into two neat braids. Now, they were drooping pigtails. The laces on her high-tops were open and her jeans had a tear in the knee. Jessie wondered what had happened to her daughter’s shirt. It wasn’t the same one she’d had on that morning. “Where did you hear this?”
“Everyone was talking about it at soccer practice. The car is real expensive and is at Paul’s garage. The kids asked me if you decked him when he kissed you.” The nine-year-old crinkled her dark brows. “Why did he kiss you if he is married?”
The school grapevine was worse than the gossip mongers at The Spoonful. “First of all, don’t use that word. It isn’t nice. I arrested him for speeding and no, Grandma did not slap his hands. He’s not married, and I didn’t deck him.” She wasn’t about to discuss the details of the kiss and changed the subject. She pinched the long sleeve of the psychedelic tie-dye shirt that was swirls of grape purple, neon chartreuse, and stop-sign red. “This isn’t your shirt.” Jessie was tempted to rub her eyes for fear of being blinded by the loud horrible colors.
“Remember when we had to bring in a shirt to tie-dye for art class? The teacher passed them out today and I put mine in my backpack. At lunch, Amelia spilled chocolate milk on her sweater and she started to cry. The lunch monitor let us go to my locker and then the girls’ room so we could change clothes.” Edie spread her arms wide and happily spun around. “Isn’t it great?”
Jessie raised her eyes to the ceiling and drew from her endless store of loving mommy compliments.“I can honestly say I’ve never seen a shirt quite like it.”
“Oh, Mommy, I knew you would love it! Mine was the most colorful one in the class!”
“I have to tell you something. Lincoln Adams, Buford’s grandson, will be living in the apartment for a while. Grandma asked him to stay and cle
an out the garage.”
Edie’s golden brown eyes widened and she gripped her mother’s arm. “He can’t do that! Those things belonged to Grandpa. He always said, “Some people’s junk is another person’s treasures.”
Her daughter had loved spending time with her late grandfather, enchanted by the outrageous tales he wove about where he’d acquired his “treasure.” A stroke had taken his life four years ago, and she missed him so much. “You’re right. I’ll make sure Mr. Adams understands he can’t throw anything away. He’ll just re-organize.” As far as Jessie was concerned, there were only a few things of value in that garage, and one of them was Jennie Adam’s bike. Lincoln Adams had no knowledge of the friendship she shared with his late sister while living in New York. The rest, well, that was something she would keep to herself.
They sat at the fifties-style, enamel-topped table. The sturdy metal chairs with yellow vinyl seats complemented the sunny yellow and white ruffled valances on the windows. Jessie’s father had built the knotty-pine cabinets with gingerbread trim and had laid the marble Formica countertops himself.
Edie looked out the window that offered a perfect view of the garage and aimed a fork of twirled pasta at her mother. “Isn’t it funny that his first name is the same as my cat’s?”
The flicking noodles and sauce shouted impending disaster, and Jessie grabbed her daughter’s wrist and lowered her arm. “You remember I named her after my friend’s favorite Jazz singer, Abbie Lincoln.” Jessie didn’t add that the friend was Lincoln’s sister.
Edie took a drink of strawberry milk. “Mommy, I wonder if Mr. Adams has something to eat. He could be starving to death and you might not find his body until tomorrow morning. By then rigor morris would have set in and he’d be stiff. You always taught me to be kind and think of others in need. We should bring him something to eat and drink so he doesn’t hydrate.”