“Sugar, can you grab the other end of this?” Dixie had jumped in to help with the cleanup and was holding one end of a gingham tablecloth.
Setting the papers aside, I caught hold of the other corner and looked around. Nate and Jimmie were nowhere in sight. I folded my section of the tablecloth in half and then we met in the middle. In short order, we had that one done and then started on another. Flattening them in a plastic tub when we were done, we’d soon finished the rest of the tables.
“Hey, Sugar.” Greer waved from across the shelter as she made her way toward me.
“Hi,” I responded. “I meant to get back over to talk to you, but it seemed like you were always busy. How did you do? Good sales today?”
“We did great.” She had the zippered money bag tucked under her arm, and I wondered about the safety of that. “Best turnout we’ve ever had for one of these events.”
“That’s great.” I hoped Dixie was correct and that it was because people wanted to help out on the project in Alma’s memory.
“Say, I wanted to catch you and ask if there was any chance we could get a ride back to the Good Life with you.” She shifted the bag to the other side.
“Absolutely,” I said. “But Dixie and I rode together so I can only fit three more people in my car. Who all needs a ride?”
“Nellie didn’t come. Her arthritis was giving her trouble. It’s only Bunny and me.”
“In that case, no problem.”
“I’ve got to give this money to Nate first, though. I don’t like to have it over the weekend, and Stanley said Nate could lock it up at the bank until Monday when we can put it in the shelter house account.”
Good. I felt much better about that. I hadn’t calculated how much money it was, but it sure didn’t seem like a good idea for Greer to have it at her place.
“There you are.” She’d spotted Bunny, who looked even more bunny-like this morning dressed in a gray sweatshirt and sporting a pink headband to hold back her silver hair. “You wait here with Sugar. I’m going to take this cash to Nate and then Sugar is going to take us home.”
I sent Dixie a text. If she wasn’t ready to go, I could always run the ladies home and then come back for her. She sent back a text that she’d just be a few minutes.
Bunny adjusted her pocketbook and sighed.
“Have you been here long?” I asked.
“Since seven-thirty.” She shifted her pocketbook to the crook of the other arm. “You know Greer, always raring to go. We didn’t need to be here that early, but if Greer has to wait she gets as antsy as a kid in church.”
“I do know that about her.” I smiled. “Did you want to sit in the Jeep?” It suddenly hit me that she might be tired after being at the breakfast for a couple of hours already.
“No, thanks,” she answered. “I’m fine.”
Dixie and Greer appeared just then and Dixie opened the passenger door and helped Bunny climb in. Greer walked around the rear of the Jeep and got in the back seat on the other side.
It was a short trip to drop the ladies off at the Good Life and then I swung by to drop off Dixie and headed home myself.
My shoes were wet from walking around in the damp grass at the shelter, so when I got home I slipped them off and set them on my front porch to dry. Dixie had been smarter with her shoe choices and had worn boots to the breakfast.
Note to self: Function, not fashion, is paramount for eats in the park.
I carried the folder full of recipes inside, excited to get started on them. Once I had these recipes in order, I could merge them with the most recent ones we had from Cheri. On Monday, Dixie and I could work on which ones to use. Each of the contributors had been asked to provide their favorite recipe, but still we needed a variety of dishes in the categories we’d decided on. So, there would have to be some curating.
This was the crux of what we did. Some people thought you could create a cookbook just by throwing together a bunch of recipes, but with each cookbook you were really telling a story. For me, this was the fun part of the process. Dixie and I worked well together in creating a vision and I felt like the Crack of Dawn Cookbook was finally shaping up.
The weekend passed without incident. I got the recipes from the breakfast event sorted out. I also did a few errands, some grocery shopping, and caught up on my reading. No emergencies, no frantic phone calls, no neighborly complaints.
Nice, but I should have known it wasn’t a trend.
* * * *
Monday morning, I was up early, fixed a healthy breakfast, had a nice chat with Ernest over my coffee, and got dressed for the day. I was looking forward to getting to the shop, figuring out where we were, and forging ahead.
Once at the office, I jumped in. With all the papers that we’d collected on Saturday in order and cataloged on a spreadsheet of my own, I moved on to the group of recipes from the folder Cheri had given me. Trying to interpret the handwritten notes proved challenging. Some of them might very well be duplicates of recipes we’d been given at the breakfast, but it was going to take painstaking sorting, touching each one, to know for certain.
“What do you think this means?” I held out a card to Dixie, who had just walked in. “It looks like it says two-thirds cup sour, but that can’t be right.”
“Hmm.” Dixie took the three-by-five file card from me. “I’m not sure. Sour what?”
“And what’s this name?” I could barely make out the person’s name on the faded recipe card.
“That’s June Travers.” Dixie pointed at the writing. “Lark, from next door. June is his mom. Maybe we can find out from him.”
I set the card to the side with a note to talk to Lark and continued flipping through the papers. There were several interesting possibilities and I hoped Dixie would try out some of them. My mouth was watering, my healthy breakfast long forgotten.
A particular brunch casserole from Alma’s own collection sounded appealing. It was named Heart Attack Hot Dish. I was pretty sure it wasn’t destined for a spot in our category of healthy options. I guess all those ladies at the Good Life had survived Alma’s casserole, but it seriously must be a zillion calories.
As I pulled the casserole recipe out of the pile, a light blue piece of paper fell to the floor. I picked it up. It must have been stuck to the recipe card. Having been through enough of the notes, I knew it wasn’t Alma’s handwriting.
It began, “Grams, I know you’re mad at me and that I made some bad choices. I need help this one last time. Don’t cut me off!” It was signed with a big D.
I flipped it over. The words on that side of the note were in Alma’s handwriting. In bold dark print, they said, “No more.”
Good grief.
I handed the note to Dixie. She read it, and her eyes got wide. As far as I knew, there was only one person in the world who could call Alma “Grams” and that was Cheri’s son, Dustin. A disagreement over money perhaps? An argument that turned violent? I hoped not.
“What do we do?” Dixie asked.
“Let me talk to Greer.” I took the note back. “Maybe this is old.”
“In the folder with the recipes for the cookbook?” Dixie raised a brow. “Not likely.”
I knew I was only buying time, but maybe the note didn’t mean what I thought it did—that Alma and her grandson had fought. I’d been around Alma, but knew nothing of him. I didn’t want to think about what it could mean.
We continued sorting recipes, but the mood was much more somber.
The sheriff had said they didn’t have much to go on. My money had been on the developer. Probably because I thought the guy was smarmy. But just because he was obnoxious didn’t mean that he was also a killer.
And by the same token, just because Dustin Wheeler had left an angry note for his grandmother didn’t mean that he’d run over her, I reasoned. Still, it wasn’t a normal exchange for a grandparent and grandchild.
I tried Greer’s number but had to leave a message. When I still hadn’t heard from h
er by the end of the day, I was beginning to get worried. I tried to remember if she’d mentioned an all-day outing. If she didn’t call me back soon, maybe I’d drive over to the Good Life.
Or maybe I’d just be patient and wait for her phone call.
* * * *
I called Greer again as soon as I got home but got her voicemail again. After I changed clothes, I fed Ernest, warmed up some left-over pasta for myself, and paced. Greer might not have any knowledge about Alma’s relationship with her grandson, but they’d been friends a long time. I believed she would know if there had been problems.
It was a warm but mild evening. A good night for a date with Creeping Charlie and his thistles while it was still light out, but I didn’t want to miss Greer’s call. I finished the dishes and paced some more. Moving to the living room, I picked up the book I’d been reading, sat down, and tried to pick up the storyline. It was no use.
Greer would call me back. I knew she would. But I hadn’t said anything in my message about why I was calling. Nor had I said it was urgent. What if she didn’t call me back until morning? Yikes. I would never get to sleep.
I decided I’d dig out some pants with pockets and take my cell phone outside with me. That way I could make progress on my yard and still make sure I didn’t miss Greer’s call.
I went upstairs to hunt down some jeans that weren’t too tight for me to squat in. Dixie’s cooking experiments, and especially those cinnamon rolls, were destined to force me to buy a new wardrobe if I wasn’t careful. I found a pair and pulled them on. They were jeans that had been loose on me in the spring.
No more tasting for me. Or maybe if I would limit my tasting to one bite.
Yeah, like that was going to happen.
As I started back down the stairs, my phone rang. I picked up right away.
“Hello, Greer. I’m so glad you called me back.”
“Hi, Sugar. You sound a little breathless. Were you climbing the stairs?”
No, I was trying to fasten my jeans.
“You see why I felt like I couldn’t do them anymore?” Greer asked.
“No. Well, yes. I was on the stairs,” I admitted.
“Did you need something, dear?” she asked. “I had my phone off because I was over at the community center. It was movie night. I don’t always go but it was Die Hard, and I love that movie. Then, of course, everyone sat around for a while afterward talking. We’re all still in shock about losing Alma.”
“That’s sort of why I’m calling.” I took a deep breath and told her that I needed to ask some questions.
“Oh, my.” There was silence for a few minutes.
“I know you won’t tell anyone else about this, but I need to ask you about Alma’s relationship with her grandson.” Continuing down the stairs, I walked through to the kitchen.
“She has always doted on Dusty, since the child was born. His dad died when he was pretty young so Alma’s daughter raised him as a single mom.”
I could relate to that situation, having been raised by a single mom myself.
“Do you know if Dusty has been in some sort of trouble?” I paced back and forth while I listened, still not sure what I’d hoped to hear.
“A while back he got into his head that he wanted to be a musician. His mother was totally against it. Alma paid for voice lessons for him. Some teacher from one of the colleges.”
“That doesn’t sound like Alma and her grandson had problems.” I stopped pacing and stood, staring out my kitchen window at my backyard. From here the stretch of green looked good. How had Mrs. Pickett even spotted those weeds?
“Recently, since he graduated I think,” Greer continued, “Dusty had gotten wrapped up with a bunch of boys from a band he was in. Those kids were bad news. They were involved in some vandalism. Alma didn’t want to talk about it, but I know she was awful upset over the whole thing.”
“Do you think she and Dustin might have had a big fight over it?”
“Sugar, I don’t think I like where this is going. But, yes, I suppose they could have had a fight about him running with that crowd of kids.”
“Hmmm.” I moved to where I’d set my purse on the counter and pulled the note from my bag. Dixie and I had put it in a plastic bag. We didn’t know if that was the right thing to do or not, but it seemed like we ought to do something to preserve any fingerprints.
“He used to be a regular visitor at his grandma’s but hadn’t been around much lately,” Greer said. “I can ask Nellie if she’s seen him lately since she’s right next door to Alma.”
“Okay.” I tucked the bagged note back in my bag. “If you wouldn’t mind. Can you do that without telling her what this is about?”
“Sure, I can. I’ll ask her at coffee tomorrow morning and call you after.”
I thanked Greer and headed outside to do battle with thistles and Creeping Charlie, and hopefully burn off some worry as well.
Burning off a few calories wouldn’t hurt either.
They were difficult opponents but according to the article I’d read, I needed to give the white vinegar concoction a couple of days to work. I doused each weed and gave the big ones extra drinks just to be safe. Satisfied with my work and no less worried about what Greer might find out from Nellie, I headed inside for a shower.
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Ernest and I were enjoying a leisurely coffee and a toasted bagel. Actually, I was enjoying the bagel and coffee. Ernest had already wiped out a bowl of kitty kibble. He had situated himself on my lap for a cuddle while I watched the morning news and munched on my very tasty breakfast.
Suddenly the front door shuddered with several loud bangs. Ernest and I both jumped as if we’d been shot. My cinnamon raisin bagel went airborne, flying out of my hand. Ernest skittered across the room and under the coffee table, leaving a cloud of fur behind. I hurried to the door to find out who, at this time of the morning, could possibly be making so much noise.
Throwing it open, I nearly passed out at the sight of the knife-wielding apparition who blocked my way. I took a step back and stifled the scream about to burst from my mouth.
When my heart stopped pounding in my ears and my eyes focused, I realized it was Mrs. Pickett.
Her gray hair covered by a flowered scarf, she wore her standard pink chenille bathrobe, and black clunky boots that looked as if they were intended for a snowstorm. She held a wicked-looking blade aloft like some fierce Viking granny.
“You scared me,” I said, sharper than I’d intended.
She eyed me but didn’t move from her Viking pose.
“What are you doing with that knife?” I asked, backing up.
“Pouring stuff on the weeds doesn’t work,” she declared, waving the steel blade in my face.
I backed up a little more. “Uh-huh.”
“You gotta cut them out. Roots and all.” Her bathrobe clad arms sliced back and forth with the blade and then she held it toward me again.
I reached out and gingerly took it between two fingers.
Apparently satisfied with having imparted sufficient weed wisdom, she turned and left.
I stood staring at her pink chenille covered back as she clomped her retreat across my side yard to her house.
Well, for cryin’ in a bucket.
Dixie was right, the woman was crazy. I closed the door and carried the weed knife to the kitchen and put it in the sink.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I coaxed Ernest from under the coffee table and retrieved my bagel from where it had rolled under my chair. It no longer looked appetizing—I didn’t think all those specks were raisins. More like dust bunnies and cat hair. I dropped it in the trash and headed upstairs to get dressed for the day.
I could hardly wait to share this latest episode in the “Won’t You Be My Crazy Neighbor” show with Dixie.
* * * *
I’d just walked in the Sugar and Spice office when Greer called.
“How are you this morning?” I asked, putting my bag
down on the floor and dropping into the chair at my desk.
“Properly caffeinated,” she answered. “How about you?”
“Working on it,” I answered with a smile.
“I had a cup before we got together for coffee. Then once there I kept chatting and Nellie kept pouring. Now I’m extra wired.” She hesitated. “I do have some things to share with you.”
“About Alma and her grandson?” I picked up a pen from the clutter on my desk.
“Yes.” She paused and, in my mind, I could see her taking a sip from her favorite yellow coffee mug, which said “Cup of Happy” on the side. “I wish I had different news to report, but it is what it is. I hope and pray it doesn’t mean anything.”
“I guess there was a problem between him and Alma then?”
“There was. Nellie says she had gone by Alma’s to return a cake plate she had borrowed for a fiftieth anniversary party her family had a couple of weeks ago. And when she went to the door, the window was open and she could hear Alma and someone arguing loudly.”
“Could she see who it was?” I clicked the pen in and out, a nervous habit.
“She couldn’t see who but she felt awkward and so she went back to her place.”
“She can’t actually confirm that it was Dustin?” I bounced the pen on the desk.
“She can’t be sure that’s who it was, but she says she kept glancing out her window so she could take the plate back when whoever it was left.”
“And did she see who was there?” By now I drummed the desktop with my pen, anxious for a direct answer.
“It was probably thirty minutes later when she saw a young man that she’s pretty sure was Dustin, leave Alma’s.”
“Oh, dear.” I let out a sigh.
This didn’t look good.
“I hate to keep things from you, Greer, but I don’t feel like I can share the details until I know more. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
“I understand, sweetie.” I knew it was killing her to not be in the know but she was gracious about it. “I have to assume that you’ve uncovered something that makes you think Dusty must have been somehow involved in what happened to Alma. Is that much right?”
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