Risky Biscuits

by Mary Lee Ashford

  “Oh my stars, is that Dustin with your mom?” I picked up a framed photo of a much younger Alma holding a toddler. The boy’s hair wasn’t as dark as Dustin’s was today but I suspected black dye had created the current look. His deep blue eyes gazed up at his grandma and she smiled down at him. “What a cute kid!”

  “He was.” Cheri leaned in to take a look. “They had a special bond from the beginning.”

  “I’m so sorry for what you and he have been through with your mom’s death and then the investigation.” I carefully wrapped the picture in packing paper and placed it in one of the boxes.

  There was silence and I glanced over at Cheri.

  She had paused, another framed photo cradled in her hands, head turned away. I couldn’t see her face but knew from the set of her shoulders, she was trying to maintain control.

  She turned to me, her eyes full. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Sweetie. I’m so sorry.” I gave her arm a squeeze.

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  I hadn’t thought. Hadn’t intended to make things harder.

  “Let’s sit down a minute.” I lifted the photo she was holding from her hand. “Can I get you a water? Make some tea? Let’s take a breather.”

  “A water would be nice,” she finally got out, and dropped to the edge of the couch. “There’s some in the refrigerator.”

  I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and took it to her. She sat with head in hands.

  “Cheri?”

  “Sorry, I’m overwhelmed by this.” She raised her face and looked around the room. “And everything…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Don’t apologize. This is hard. You raised Dustin as a single mom. Your mom must have played a big part as he was growing up.”

  “She did.” Cheri nodded, and a single tear leaked from the side of one eye and ran down her pale cheek.

  I sat beside her on the couch. “I lost my father when I was young. Like Dustin I didn’t get a chance to know my dad as an adult. I often wish I could have.”

  She took a swig of water, took a deep breath, and then let it out in a whoosh.

  “My former husband was not Dusty’s father.”

  “I didn’t realize that. I assume that Dusty knows.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Cheri shook her head from side to side. “My mom was the only other real family Dusty had besides me.”

  “Do you know what happened to Dusty’s biological father?” I was thinking about the research I’d been considering regarding my own father’s family. “Even if he’s not interested, Dustin’s dad, I mean, there could be grandparents or cousins.”

  Eventually I stopped talking long enough to notice the silence.

  “I know where Dustin’s father is.” She lifted her head and made eye contact for the first time since the conversation had started.

  “Where?” If that were the case, why hadn’t she tapped Deadbeat Dad to help her when Dustin had been in trouble?

  “He’s…” She closed her eyes and then opened them. “Right here in St. Ignatius.

  I went through all the possibilities in a matter of seconds, but hadn’t come to a conclusion when she dropped the bomb.

  “Nick Marchant is Dusty’s father.”

  Holy Smoley! What?

  In all the possibilities I’d come up with, none had included Nick Marchant. And yet, now that I knew it, there was some part of me that connected dots that had been unrelated before.

  Some reference Dixie had made to all the hearts Nick had broken in high school.

  Cheri’s reaction when she’d come into the shop and Nick had been there.

  Those eyes.

  Dustin looked nothing like the Marchant brothers. Except those deep blue eyes.

  “Do the Marchants know?” I asked and then regretted the question the minute it was out of my mouth.

  “They do not. And they will not.” Cheri straightened her spine and looked me in the eye. “My son and I want nothing to do with them.”

  “Did your mom know?” I asked.

  Cheri nodded. “She’d always known.”

  Wow. Just wow. I couldn’t believe all this time and no one but Cheri and her mom had known.

  “I’m not sure why I told you.” Cheri gave a deep sigh. “But, Sugar, I need your promise you will not take that information to the sheriff.”

  “I won’t tell him,” I agreed. “But I think you should.”

  I didn’t get a chance to continue because we were interrupted by a couple of the ladies who stopped by. I let Cheri continue packing while I attempted to move them along. What the poor woman did not need after sharing that revelation was the strain of having to carry on a conversation with two well-meaning but snoopy seniors.

  I stepped outside to talk to them, blocking their ability to come inside. We chatted about the weather, we discussed the dearth of anything good on television, we talked about the best shoe inserts for arch support.

  Eventually, I successfully sent them off in the direction of silver fox William Harold, whom I’d spotted sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches outside the community center.

  Sorry William. Or Harold. Or whatever your name is.

  Throwing a mental apology in his direction, I headed back into Alma’s place, where Cheri had finished the rest of the bookcase. I apologized for leaving her alone for so long.

  “No problem.” She rubbed her temples. “Saving me from having to pretend everything is okay was help enough.”

  “What would you like to tackle next?” I asked. “Dixie should be here in about an hour.”

  “I truly appreciate your help, Sugar, but I’m going to have to call it a day.” Cheri pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve developed a terrible headache and my prescription is at home.”

  “No problem at all.” No surprise the poor woman had a headache. “The call is entirely yours.”

  “I’d set aside some cookbooks for you and Dixie.” She pointed at a stack on the floor. “If you want them that is. I thought they might be something you two would be interested in with you being in the cookbook business.”

  “Thank you so much, Cheri, Dixie will be thrilled.” And she would be. “As you’ve probably figured out, Dixie is the only cook in this venture, but she will love them.”

  “Great, I’m glad they’ll have a use.” Cheri picked up her purse. “I’ll help you carry them to your car, and then I’m going to go home and take my headache meds before this gets any worse.”

  We carried the cookbooks to the Jeep and set them in the back. I offered to drive Cheri home but she assured me she was okay to drive.

  It worried me that she had no one checking in on her. I knew she had Dustin at home, but he was still very much a kid. And besides, he’d been through just as much as she had.

  “You let us know if you need anything,” I told her. “Anything at all.”

  “I will.” She waved as she drove off.

  I called Dixie’s cell to tell her not to come to Alma’s after Moto’s appointment, and told her I’d meet her at the shop. I didn’t share what Cheri had told me. That news flash needed to be delivered in person.

  * * * *

  When I arrived at the office, Nick Marchant was just inside the front door talking to Dixie.

  Shoot. From what I could overhear it seemed like a civil conversation, but I needed him to move on so I could talk to Dixie.

  I carried the first stack of cookbooks to the counter and set them down.

  “Do you need help?” Dixie asked looking up.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ve just got a few more.” I headed back out to my car.

  When I returned, neither had moved. I slid the second, smaller stack on the counter next to the first one.

  “You are going to love some of these.” I straightened the pile. “I don’t think anyone realized how many cookbooks Alma had.”

  “Those are from Alma Stoller’s place?” Nick asked glancing at the collection.r />
  “They are.” I turned to look at him, remembering how he’d reacted when I’d talked about Alma the day we learned she’d been run over. Now I was viewing his reaction with a different lens. “Cheri offered to let us have them.”

  “How’s she doing with getting everything sorted out?” Dixie asked. “You said she doesn’t need us this afternoon.”

  “Pretty well, I guess.” I gave her a look meant to telegraph that she needed to get Nick to leave. I looked at him, looked at her, and jerked my head in the direction of the door.

  It wasn’t working. Dixie looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  “That’ll take her a while with all the junk her mom had,” Nick commented.

  “You’ve got that right.” I zeroed in on his face. Those dark blue eyes. Dustin’s were just the same. How could I have missed it? How could everyone have missed it?

  “I wonder what she plans to do with all the knickknacks and that statue thing,” I added.

  “The gnome?” Nick asked. “He’s creepy.”

  Oh, man. Nick had been to Alma’s. He had lied.

  “Where do you want these?” I asked Dixie, reaching for the cookbooks. “On the lower shelves or the upper shelves?”

  Maybe I could get Nick to say more. No telling what else he’d lied about.

  “Just leave them,” she replied. “I’d like to go through them as I shelve them.”

  “You got it.” I looked through the books. I hadn’t had much of a chance to look at them when Cheri and I loaded them. There was a quite variety of cookbooks. Some older ones that Alma may have had for a while. Several tea room cookbooks. Two that were specific to bed and breakfasts. My mouth watered just skimming through those pages. I set those aside to look at, thinking they might give me some ideas for the ABBA Iowa Cookbook.

  “I’d better get going or Nate will be looking for me.” Nick finally moved toward the door.

  No wait, I have more questions. I’d gone from wishing he’d move along to wanting to keep him talking.

  “Nate was a stick-in-the-mud as a kid and he’s even worse now. The guy simply does not know how to have fun.”

  “That seems a little harsh.” Dixie frowned. “Maybe his fun is simply different than yours.”

  “See, that’s your trouble, Spicy. Always defending people who don’t even care. Such a lover of underdogs. Too bad you can’t focus on a winner.”

  “You’d better go while we’re still on speaking terms, Nick.” Dixie cheeks suddenly tinted with color. “Because right now you’re skating on thin ice.”

  “Still so easy to get under your skin, Spicy.” Nick grinned and reached over to touch the end of Dixie’s nose.

  “Nick.” Her voice held a warning tone. “You need to go. Now.”

  Just then Sheriff Terry walked through the door. From the grim set of his jaw, he was not a happy camper.

  It doesn’t say much about my relationship with our county sheriff that my first thought was to wonder what I might have done now to irritate him.

  But as it turned out he wasn’t upset with me this time. His gaze went directly to Nick.

  “Marchant, you need to move your car.” His tone of voice had no “please” in it.

  The sheriff pointed to the door and jerked a thumb toward the street. “You’ve got people blocked in.”

  “Or what?” Nick peered outside where a small crowd had collected.

  I glanced outside. He had two cars blocked so they couldn’t get out.

  “Don’t mess with me, Nick.” The sheriff gave him a shove toward the door.

  “Do what you have to do, Meter Maid,” Nick sneered.

  That was it. Terry grabbed him by the scruff of his designer shirt and marched him outside to the Jag.

  Dixie and I watched through the window. I don’t know what words were exchanged, but Nick squealed off in the Jag. The crowd on the sidewalk parted like the Red Sea, giving Terry a wide berth as he stomped to his Jameson County Sheriff’s Department car.

  The sheriff drove away with much more control than Nick had, but I’d be willing to bet on the inside he was squealing his tires too. Lucky for Nick Marchant, Sheriff Terry had more discipline than he did.

  Dixie and I looked at each other.

  “Wow,” we said in unison.

  “What was Nick doing here?” I asked. “What did he want?”

  “He never got a chance to say.” Dixie folded her arms. “He’d just come in. Maybe just to harass me. I was working in the back and heard the door.”

  “Did you catch what he said about Alma’s gnome?”

  “Alma’s gnome?” She frowned. “I’m not following.”

  “When I mentioned Alma’s place and about how much stuff Cheri had to sort.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “I forgot you weren’t there, but when we, the Good Life ladies and I, initially searched for Alma at her place there was this crazy gnome. In fact, now that I think about it, I almost smacked the sheriff in the head with the gnome.”

  “I’m not sure what that has to do with Nick.” Dixie picked up one of the cookbooks and flipped it open.

  “When I mentioned it just now, all I said was “that statue,” leaving it vague, and right away he mentioned the gnome,” I explained. “Don’t you see? He lied about having not seen Alma since he’d been back.”

  “Why would he do that?” Dixie picked up another cookbook and opened it.

  “Why indeed.”

  I couldn’t contain myself any longer. We could come back to the significance of the gnome later. I had bigger news.

  “Never mind, I have something else to tell you. Wait until you hear this.” I walked over and flipped the lock on the door.

  Dixie tilted her head and gave me a questioning look.

  “We do not need Disco foraging for food, or Tina raving about Rafe. They can come back later.”

  I took the cookbook she held from her and then, taking her arm, I pointed Dixie toward the kitchen.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been baking today, but it smells incredible.” I inhaled. “I’m hoping it’s something with a tons of sugar, because we’re going to need massive amounts of sugar to fortify us for this conversation.”

  We walked back to the kitchen area. Once there, Dixie opened one of the lower cupboards and pulled out a cake pan.

  I looked at her. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “Made it this morning. I don’t know if it’s better than Robert Redford or not, but I wasn’t about to share it with Nick Marchant.” She reached in a drawer, pulled out a knife, and handed it to me. “You can do the honors.”

  “Sweet.” I grinned at her. I sliced two pieces and transferred them onto the plates Dixie slid toward me.

  I waited until she’d swallowed her first bite, not completely trusting my first aid training if she accidentally inhaled Better Than Robert Redford cake.

  Then I dropped my bombshell.

  “Nick Marchant is Dustin Wheeler’s father.”

  “What?!” Dixie screeched loud enough I was surprised Lark from next door didn’t come running to our aid.

  “Exactly,” I agreed.

  Dixie’d had the reaction I’d would’ve had, wanted to have. But couldn’t because I was trying to maintain some composure in front of Cheri.

  “Did you have any idea about Cheri and Nick?” I asked. “Did they date in high school?”

  “No.” Dixie blew out a breath. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember. She dated Nate for a while, I think, but not Nick.”

  She reached out her fork and took another bite of cake, and then stood looking off into space. I waved a hand in front of her face.

  “Sorry. I’m in shock. I can’t believe no one knew.”

  “According to Cheri, only her mom knew.”

  Dixie shoved a lock of her hair behind one ear and licked the frosting off her fork. “Nick went to college and then moved to New York. Since Cheri moved away right after high school and got married, I
don’t think anyone would have connected the dots.”

  I helped myself to a forkful of cake while I let her process. “I don’t understand why Cheri kept silent all this time about who Dustin’s father really was. It seems like she could have used some help over the years.”

  “I guess. But by the time she moved back to St. Ignatius, all of that was ancient history.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “She has to tell Terry.” Dixie dipped her fork into the cake pan, this time going directly for the frosting.

  “I agree.” I nodded. “She has to.”

  The cake was rich and pulling weeds was not going to work off this much sugar. I didn’t know where Dixie had dug up the recipe, but I’d have to let Greer know we tried it.

  “If Alma knew and told Nick, I can’t imagine that conversation went well,” Dixie mused.

  “Nor if she told Stanley,” I said, thinking about the idea of him not knowing he had a grandson.

  “Do you think she told Stanley?” Dixie paused with a forkful of frosting halfway to her mouth.

  “I think she wanted to take care of her grandson and his talent,” I said. “And she would have done whatever she needed to do in order to do that.”

  “I still can’t believe it.” Dixie looked at me. “Cheri kept this secret all this time.”

  I had a sudden thought. “Maybe that’s what Alma and Stanley had words about. Maybe Stanley was mad that Alma had known all along and hadn’t told him.”

  Dixie’s brows drew together in a frown. “Nick would not make a good father.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.” I walked around the kitchen, the fork still in my hand, in case I needed more cake. “I feel like we’re still missing something.”

  Dixie watched me, her face serious. “How will we convince Cheri to tell Sheriff Terry?”

  “It’s not going to be easy.” I passed the counter and scooped up another bite of cake as I went by. “Maybe we can bribe her with this.”

  “I’m serious, Sugar.”

  “I know.” I stopped, the bite of cake stuck in my throat, and looked at her. “Cheri was adamant she wants nothing to do with the Marchants. But what if this, a secret she’s kept all this time, is the key to her mother’s death?”