Risky Biscuits

by Mary Lee Ashford

  “Did you call your credit card company?” I asked.

  “Don’t have their number.”

  I looked over the statement but didn’t see a number on it to call. Weren’t they required to list a number in case of disputes? The paper was slightly mangled and looked like the printing on the bottom had been cut off so maybe there had originally been a phone number.

  “I don’t see it on here, but it should be on the back of your credit card.” I explained. “Do you keep your card in your wallet?

  “No. I heard that’s not safe. I keep it in a secret place.”

  Okay, then.

  “On the back it will have a phone number and if you call that number, they should be able to help you,” I explained. “The credit card company can put a hold on your account and most likely will reverse these charges.”

  “Oh.” She plucked the paper from my hand and off she went.

  I stood in the doorway for a little while thinking about how angry it made me that scammers took advantage of little old ladies. Even if they were grumpy little old ladies who couldn’t be bothered to say “thank you.”

  Back in the kitchen, I spread out the utensils Dixie had given me and looked at them. Could I do better? Maybe try a recipe or two that stretched my skills? Probably.

  But not tonight. Tonight, I didn’t want to spend the time on anything complicated. I wanted spend the least amount of time on food and get back to those manuscript pages.

  I decided a salad sounded good.

  As I stood at the sink rinsing lettuce and cutting up veggies for my salad, I could see some movement outside my kitchen window. Leaning closer to the glass, I could see over the fence to Mrs. Pickett’s yard.

  Good grief, what was the woman doing now? I watched as she went to her shed in the back and got out a small ladder, which she propped against the tall oak. She climbed it one booted foot at a time. Though it wasn’t a long way up, I held my breath hoping, she wouldn’t fall. Finally she came back down the ladder with a small box, which she carried to the house.

  I had no way of knowing for sure, but I’d be willing to bet that Mrs. Pickett’s credit card was in that box.

  In a box, in a tree, in your backyard. So much safer than in your wallet, right?

  Chock another one up to—the woman was crazy.

  Assembling my salad, I jotted down a variety of things I needed to pick up at the store. Ernest commented a couple of times and eventually convinced me I needed to add kitty treats to the list.

  After I’d eaten and washed the few dishes I’d used, I sat down on the couch with a glass of milk and the cookies Dixie’d sent home with me. Pulling out the Fictional Memoir pages, I read a few more. The story started with the narrator, Gage, as a teen and as I read I wondered if Daddy had gotten into all the scrapes described in the pages. Soaping the windows of cars on Halloween, TPing trees during his high school’s homecoming week, skipping school and then forging his mother’s name on the sick day excuse, and sneaking out after his parents were in bed. The escapades were detailed so well, I had to believe at the very least he had some firsthand knowledge.

  My eyes were getting heavy and so I put the pages aside and went upstairs to get ready for bed. Ernest followed on my heels and waited while I went through my evening routine, his green eyes following my every move.

  Maybe it was the fresh air or just plain exhaustion, but in a matter of minutes I was out.

  At three o’clock in the morning I woke with a jolt, startling Ernest, who had been asleep against my legs. I sat up in bed.

  Ernest meowed and gave me a green-eyed glare that said, “Couldn’t this wait until morning?”

  “Secret place,” I said to him, gathering his furry body to my chest in apology. “Mrs. Pickett keeps her credit cards in a secret place. If Alma thought she was in danger, she might have put her black book in a secret place!”

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, I was back at the city park. The park was deserted. No one was in sight, not even a park worker.

  I parked in the gravel lot like I had the day before and walked toward the shelter house. There seemed to be only two trees of a height where it would be possible for Alma to reach without a ladder.

  I approached the first and looked around. Feeling a little silly, I reached my hand up into the vee where the branches met, just above my head.

  Nothing. Alma hadn’t been tall but slightly taller than me.

  Walking quickly to the second tree, I tried again. I didn’t know what kind of tree this one was but there was again a limb that branched out, providing the perfect ledge for hiding something as small as Alma’s notebook.

  But again, nothing.

  Shoot. At three a.m. it had seemed reasonable to me that if Alma felt threatened or became concerned about her meeting at the park that she might stash her notebook somewhere nearby.

  My hands were filthy from the tree moss and scratched from the branches. I walked back to the shelter house and sat down at one of the picnic tables.

  How could it be that the notebook had vanished? I considered the possibility that whoever had run over Alma had taken it. If that were the case, by this point they would surely have destroyed it.

  I kicked at the table leg, trying to get some of the wet grass off my shoes. Once again, I should have remembered that early morning in the park you need to have the proper footwear. Maybe I could get some of those fancy garden boots like Mrs. Pickett.

  Disappointed with my search for the notebook, I decided this definitely called for coffee and a blueberry muffin at the Red Hen Diner. I’d been so excited about the idea of Alma hiding the notebook that I’d left home without any breakfast. Or more importantly, without any coffee. And, hey, all I’d had last night was a salad, right? Well, except for those cookies.

  One last kick to dislodge some of the grass and I turned to head back to my car. That’s when I heard the plop.

  My heart skipped a beat. I ducked under the picnic table and there on the concrete floor lay a black notebook.

  Shivers skittered up my spine.

  I grabbed it and raised up quickly, banging my head. Spooked by the fact that I’d been right and that Alma had hidden her notebook, I dashed to my car. Once in the car, I locked the doors. I looked around, not sure who or what I thought was after me.

  There was still no one in the park, but creeped out by the whole thing, I sincerely wished I’d called the sheriff before venturing off on my quest.

  I put Big Blue in gear and drove directly to the shop. Parking in the back, I took the notebook inside and lay it on the counter. Then I started some coffee and called Sheriff Terry and left a message.

  I really wanted that blueberry muffin as well. Remember what I said earlier about stress eating? But I didn’t want to leave Alma’s notebook behind and I knew once Terry arrived, he would take it with him.

  So I settled for my own coffee and once it had brewed, I took a satisfying gulp.

  I also really wanted to look in the notebook, but I knew the Sheriff’s Department would want to check for fingerprints, though I’d bet they would find only Alma’s. I looked around for ideas. On TV they always have those nifty gloves to keep from contaminating evidence. We didn’t stock any of those.

  Rummaging in the cupboards, all I could find was Dixie’s red silicone oven mitts.

  I put them on and carefully opened the notebook. The notations seemed to be in mostly chronological order, although there were all kinds of side notes. Like my own notes to myself, many of them were so cryptic that probably only Alma knew what they referenced. I flipped to pages that were around the time Alma had disappeared.

  Greer had been right, on the day she’d forgotten Bunny at the post office there had been a specific note about it. And about the pinochle game.

  On the day Alma had been killed there was only one entry and it said, “Marchant.”

  Well, that sure fell in line with Bunny’s comment about Alma being upset over a meeting she’d had wit
h Stanley.

  But why? I closed my eyes and thought.

  “Hello.” I heard from the back. “From the looks of all this grass on the floor, you must have been doing some early yard work this morning.”

  Dixie came through and then stopped as she looked at my face and the oven mitts on my hands. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  I explained about my three a.m. epiphany, and going back to the park and finding Alma’s notebook.

  “Oh my gosh, Sugar, you shouldn’t have gone by yourself,” she scolded. “I would have gone with you.”

  “I know you would have, but I wasn’t sure I was right.” I rested my chin on my oven mitt–clad knuckles. “It made so much sense at three o’clock in the morning and then it seemed silly and then this.” I gestured toward the book.

  “I know you’ve already looked, so spill the info, cookie.” Dixie sat down. “Was there an appointment on the day Alma was killed?”

  I nodded. “Just one and it says, ‘Marchant.’”

  “Nothing else?” She looked at me. “Do you really think Alma’s killer could be Stanley? What would be his motive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a tap on the front window and we both jumped.

  It was the sheriff.

  I had come from the back and hadn’t unlocked anything because I was so preoccupied with the notebook. Dixie went to the front door and unlocked it.

  The sheriff stepped through the doorway with a small smile as he walked past Dixie, and I was struck as I always was by the subtle chemistry between the two of them. Not always big sparks, but they were always there under the surface. They were such a perfect match and it seemed like everyone could see it except them.

  My friend was all fire and spice. Fiercely loyal, crazy smart, and with a heart as big as an Iowa corn field. The sheriff, from what I knew of him anyway, was strong, steady, and not easily swayed. I guess that translated to two people who were as stubborn as the day is long.

  It had been a crazy summer with all the fuss about the town golden boy being back, Alma’s murder, and now this possible connection to the Marchant family. As they walked back toward me, I said a little prayer that somewhere in all the excitement they’d see each other more clearly.

  Sheriff Terry stopped when he spotted me.

  I stood at the counter, arms aloft, red oven mitts on my hands, and, I’m sure, excitement on my face.

  “What’ve you got?” he asked. “It wasn’t clear from your message.”

  I nodded at the black book that lay on the wooden surface. “Alma Stoller’s notebook that has been missing.”

  He looked at the notebook and eyed me a couple of beats before reaching for it. “Where’d you get it?”

  “At the city park. It was stashed under one of the picnic tables.” I slipped off the oven mitts and rubbed my head where I’d bumped it scrambling from under that table.

  Dixie and I stood quietly while Terry pulled some of those gloves like they have on TV out of his pocket. He slowly flipped through the pages. I could tell when he came to the entry on the day Alma died.

  “This doesn’t help us.” He looked up.

  “Why not?” I asked. “The only entry on that day is ‘Marchant.’”

  “I see that.” He closed the book. “That notation could mean that Alma wanted to remember to stop at the bank that day.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “But it also could be she planned to meet Stanley.”

  “Here’s the problem with that.” A muscle in Sheriff Terry’s jaw twitched. “I followed up on Stanley’s whereabouts. After you told me about there allegedly being an argument between Alma and Stanley.”

  His serious brown eyes looked from me to Dixie and back to me.

  He leaned a hand on the counter, “Stanley wasn’t even in town when Alma was killed.”

  I stared at him. How could that be? “Where was he?”

  “I won’t go into details, but he was at an appointment.”

  “What type of appointment?” Dixie asked.

  I thought about the cane Stanley had when I’d gone to pick up the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club spreadsheet from him. “A medical appointment,” I guessed.

  The sheriff stopped midresponse and stared at me.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’ve confirmed where he was. End of story.”

  “Nate was with him at this appointment?” I asked.

  Sheriff Terry nodded.

  “Is that who verified where he was?” Just my amateur opinion, but I didn’t think your son saying you weren’t in town counted as an airtight alibi.

  “No,” the sheriff said evenly. “An independent source.”

  The doctor’s office must have been able to confirm that they’d seen Stanley and it must have been an overnight trip. My guess was University of Iowa Hospitals or Mayo Clinic. One of those two meant Stanley had a serious health issue. I was surprised no one had known, but I could see Mr. Stanley B. Marchant wanting to keep his medical problems to himself.

  “So where does that leave us?” I asked. “Alma’s note says ‘Marchant’ but Stanley’s whereabouts checked out, Nate was with his dad, and Nick wasn’t even in town yet.”

  “Exactly.” The sheriff rolled his shoulders and reached a hand up to rub his neck. “Has to be a stop at the bank.”

  “But it doesn’t say “Marchants” like I’d write if I made a note to myself about going to the bank,” I argued.

  “Agreed.” He rubbed his eyes. “But some of those notes are pretty cryptic.

  He had a point. I’d just been so sure that the notebook held the key. I slumped onto a stool.

  The sheriff picked the notebook up from the counter and placed it in a paper bag he’d also produced from his pockets. “I’ll take this with me.”

  We had to be missing something. Something important. I wasn’t giving up on the book. If there wasn’t a clue in the notebook, why had Alma hidden it?

  If the notation was a simple reminder to stop at the bank, the notebook would have been in Alma’s purse where Greer said she always kept it.

  I didn’t know what the Marchant family had to do with Alma’s death, but I knew there had to be some reason Alma had made that note.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next afternoon, I arrived at the Good Life a bit early and stopped in to say hello to Greer. I explained about Cheri needing to get everything packed and moved before the end of the month.

  “Well, aren’t you sweet to offer to help.” Greer finished up her lunch dishes while we talked. She was getting ready to go to the grocery store via the retirement center’s van.

  “I could have picked up some things for you.” I felt bad I hadn’t thought to offer. It’d been a big adjustment for her to have to schedule transportation when she had been used to counting on Alma for shopping and other errands.

  “Thanks, Sugar, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t always know what I want to get.” She shoved a handful of coupons in her purse and set it by the door. “I’m not organized like Alma was and like you are.”

  Though I appreciated the compliment, I sure didn’t feel organized lately. Between the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club recipes that were all over the place and my forays into weed control, my confidence level was on the low side.

  I filled her in on everything that had happened the past few days, including me finding Alma’s notebook in the city park and turning it over to the sheriff’s department.

  “After Bunny told you about Alma and Stanley having words on the day of Alma’s services, I talked to a few people who know him better than I do.” Greer reached in her pantry and pulled out an assortment of cloth shopping bags.

  “Did they have any ideas on what the two might have disagreed about?” I asked. “Cheri said they’d always been friendly as far as she knew.”

  “No one had heard of a fuss between them, but several people mentioned Stanley hadn’t been himself lately.” She fol
ded the shopping bags and put them beside her purse. “Not that Mr. Stanley B. is a ray of sunshine on a good day, but I guess he’s been extra cranky.”

  Stanley not being himself would fit with him having some sort of health problem like the sheriff had mentioned. Or rather like I had guessed and the sheriff didn’t deny. I hadn’t mentioned the medical appointment to Greer, just that Stanley had an alibi.

  “Nate was asking around the other day at the breakfast if anyone could recommend someone to do yard work.” Greer picked up her cell phone and dropped it into the outside pocket of her purse. “He didn’t say why, but Freda Watson told me the reason he was looking for someone was because Stanley was rude to the kid that had been mowing their yard and the boy quit.” She glanced at her watch.

  I glanced at mine, too. “I won’t keep you.” It was time for me to get to Alma’s place anyway. “But thanks for the info. I’ll pass it on to Sheriff Terry. It sounds like Stanley may have something going on.”

  “Sounds like Stanley needs to take a chill pill.” Greer picked up her purse and her shopping bags. “I think it’s worth checking out. I mean, who knows what’s going on with him.” She gave a sigh. “Wait while I lock up and I’ll walk with you.”

  I walked with Greer to where the Good Life van was parked near the community center. Several other ladies had assembled on the curb and the driver was helping those who needed assistance to climb in. After giving Greer a hug and making her promise she’d call me if she needed groceries or had errands in the future, I walked the short distance to Alma’s.

  Tapping on the front door, I found Cheri already hard at work. Boxes that had been previously packed were stacked by the door. She had made a lot of progress, but she was right, she had a long way to go if she was to clear the place by the end of the month.

  She had some empty boxes ready to go and I started with the large curio cabinet. It had quite a few breakables and those items would need to be well wrapped. I grabbed some of the packing paper and began working my way through the shelves.

  We made short work of it, sealed that box, and labeled it. Next, we moved to the bookcase beside it.