Risky Biscuits

by Mary Lee Ashford

  “There wasn’t a note, but I do think it’s possible.”

  “I don’t know…” Nick Marchant didn’t seem to me like someone who felt remorseful. Look at how he’d used Tressa and then moved on to someone else. To me Nick seemed—entitled.

  “How do you know there wasn’t a note?” It had suddenly occurred to me that Dixie knew an awful lot about the situation. “News travels fast, I guess.”

  “Terry called me to let me know about Nick.”

  The coffee had finished, she poured some, and handed me the cup.

  “That was thoughtful of him.” He hadn’t wanted her to hear it from everyone from the surrounding shops, like we’d heard about Alma. As I said before, our Sheriff Terry is a stand-up guy.

  She looked up at me. “It was.”

  “Did you tell him about the inconsistencies in Nick’s story? About when he arrived in town?”

  “I didn’t go into great detail but I did tell him.” She nodded. “He said he’d talk with Tressa.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Tressa.” I set down my cup. Outside of Nick’s father and brother, she was probably the person who would take this news the hardest. “I hope he’s careful when he tells her.”

  “I’m sure he will be.” Dixie held the heels of both hands against her forehead. “It seems so surreal. Nick was here in the shop yesterday. He seemed like himself.”

  “If Nick did run over Alma, whether on purpose or accidentally, I guess we’ll never know now.” I thought about the possibilities. Would there be any way to ever know exactly what had happened between Nick and Alma?

  I also thought about Cheri and hoped someone had told her. Though she’d been clear she didn’t want anything from Dustin’s biological father, and didn’t ever intend to tell him, this news meant there would never be a father-son meeting.

  “What about Cheri?” I asked.

  “I didn’t tell Terry anything about Cheri.” Dixie looked at me. “I was so shocked by the news. Do you think I should have?”

  “I think we should make sure she knows.” I stood. “And maybe we can encourage her to call.”

  I fished my cell phone from my bag and quickly tried her cell number but again she didn’t pick up.

  She probably knew. Though there was no official word yet about Nick Marchant’s death, I was sure everyone in town had heard the news. That St. Ignatius grapevine again.

  Unlike Alma’s death, which had created a steady stream of people hanging out at the shop, the news about Nick seemed to have affected the town differently. News was discussed in whispered groups or not at all.

  We hadn’t seen anyone all day. Not even Disco.

  Agreeing that it was best to keep busy, Dixie and I decided to lay out our photo shoot plans and so we took some blank paper out front and began jotting down our ideas.

  Midmorning, the bell dinged and we both looked up.

  A very official-looking guy stepped through the doorway. Though not in uniform, his posture and his expression said law enforcement of some kind.

  “Gene Minor, DCI.” He handed over a business card.

  I’d have liked to have seen a badge but maybe no one did that anymore.

  “Sugar Calloway,” I replied. “And this is my business partner, Dixie Spicer.”

  He nodded as if he’d already known who we were.

  “I need to ask you some questions about a fight between Nick Marchant and Terrance Griffin you may have witnessed two days ago.” He looked from Dixie to me, his face serious.

  “No ‘may’ about it,” I responded. “We definitely witnessed it. Why do you ask?”

  He ignored my question. “Can you tell me what the fight was about?” He crossed beefy arms across his chest.

  “Parking,” Dixie answered. “Nick had parked his car blocking in a couple of cars.”

  “Nick was in our shop at the time, but we didn’t know about the problem until Terry arrived,” I offered.

  “The people who were blocked in must have called the Jameson County Sheriff’s Office,” Dixie added. “I guess everyone was busy or out, so Terry came and told Nick to move his car.”

  Mr. Gene Minor from the DCI wasn’t writing any of this down so I had to assume that he already knew the story.

  “Then what happened?” he asked.

  “They exchanged words.” I couldn’t remember exactly what was said.

  “Nick said something like, ‘What are you going to do, Meter Maid?’” Dixie added.

  Even Mr. DCI couldn’t help but wince at that. “I understand that Sheriff Griffin may have gotten physical with Mr. Marchant at that point.”

  “He grabbed Nick by the scruff of his shirt collar and walked him to his car.”

  “Could you hear what was said next?” He wanted to know.

  “No, others were probably closer,” I answered. “We didn’t go outside.”

  “Then Mr. Marchant moved his car?”

  “Right.” Dixie nodded.

  “More like peeled out,” I added. “It’s lucky no one was in the street or they would’ve been mowed down.” I mentally winced as soon as I said it. The comparison to what had actually happened to Alma was too strong.

  “Could he have said something like, ‘You’re a dead man?’”

  “Like I said, we didn’t go outside.”

  Mr. DCI thanked us and left.

  Once he was out the door, I looked at Dixie. “Why do you think the DCI is investigating Nick’s death?”

  She looked as sick as I felt. “I don’t know. Whether he shot himself or something else happened, I’d think the County Sheriff’s department would look into it. Even if Terry and Nick had words.”

  The day was endless.

  We’d finished our notes on the cookbook photos before lunch and I was about to suggest we call it day and go home, when the chime out front dinged again.

  My money was on it being Disco. We hadn’t seen him at all and were about due for a visit for some bogus reason so he could see if there were any treats to be had.

  It wasn’t Disco.

  It was Cheri Wheeler.

  I could tell from her face that she knew about Nick. And I couldn’t for the life of me think what to say to her. There didn’t seem to be anything appropriate for this crazy, mixed-up situation.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, finally.

  “I don’t know what I am,” she admitted.

  “Come and sit down.” Dixie scooted a stool forward. “Coffee, tea, water? Something else?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” Cheri said quietly. “I need to ask you about what I’m hearing.”

  “We don’t know very much.” I sat down across from her.

  “Still, more than I do, I’ll bet.” She gave a weak smile.

  “We’ll share what we know.” Dixie also sat.

  “What I’m hearing around town is that Nick Marchant may have committed suicide…” Cheri’s voice disappeared into a whisper.

  “Possible,” Dixie answered.

  “I see.” She sat for a few minutes looking down her hands limp in her lap.

  Finally looking up, she spoke. “After talking with you, Sugar,” she glanced up at me, “I knew I needed to tell Sheriff Terry what I’d told you. As much as I didn’t want to, I knew I had to. If they were to get to the bottom of things with my mom’s death, he had to know.”

  I nodded. That’s what Dixie and I had talked about too.

  Cheri’s information could have led the Sheriff to Nick, and could have explained the notation in Alma’s notebook. At the very least it was a part of finding answers.

  “So I called Terry.” Cheri looked at Dixie and then shifted back to me. “Then I called Nick.”

  As that sunk in, again I was at a loss on what to say.

  I had so many questions, none of them appropriate given what had happened after that call.

  “He didn’t answer,” she went on. “But I left him a message and so my call was the last call on his cell phone before…”

  I strugg
led to say something, anything, of comfort.

  Sometimes there are no words. I got up and wrapped Cheri in a hug. Dixie did the same.

  When we’d all three recovered enough to talk, I grabbed tissues from the office and Dixie made some tea.

  “A DCI agent questioned me,” Cheri blotted her eyes. “Just him. I don’t understand why Terry and the Sheriff’s Department weren’t there.”

  “A Gene Minor?” I asked.

  “I think so.” She reached for another tissue. “I was so upset that I didn’t get his name.”

  “He was here.” Dixie paused to take a gulp of tea. “From what we got, they’re the ones investigating because Terry and Nick had a disagreement. Yesterday…before.” Dixie couldn’t continue.

  “We’re not sure but we wondered if because of the fight, they’re not letting Sheriff Terry handle the case,” I filled in.

  “That’s awful.” Cheri twisted the tissue she held. “Wait. They can’t think—they can’t really think Terry might have had something to do with Nick’s death?”

  “Hard to know for sure what’s going on. The agent didn’t share anything.” I hoped they didn’t really think Terry had anything to do with Nick’s death, but I had the impression that Agent Minor was from the everyone-is-a-suspect school of thinking.

  “I was confused because I’d heard suicide, but the guy, uhm, agent, that talked to me led me to believe that they are looking at it as a possible homicide.” Cheri wiped her cheeks with the tissue she still held.

  The silence was so complete as we sat there that I could hear the tick of the clock back in the kitchen.

  There were no clear answers. No note. No one who could say exactly what had gone on that day in the park when Alma had been run over.

  Two people dead. And perhaps they were the only two who knew for sure exactly what had happened.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A week later, the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club had assembled in the community room at the old fire station again. There was a table set up with muffins and pastries and, most importantly, a very large coffee urn. I approached the table and helped myself to a cup.

  Though I couldn’t hear whole conversations, I caught bits and pieces and the pieces were about either Nick Marchant and his apparent suicide or Sheriff Griffin and the suspicion surrounding him. No one seemed to be aware that Cheri Wheeler had also been questioned.

  Stanley Marchant stood near the front of the room talking to Jimmie LeBlanc.

  I worried about him overhearing the talk I was picking up. Bad enough to lose your son, but to have to hear all the speculation surrounding his death had to be like salt in the wound.

  The snappily dressed Leela, in black-and-white polka dots today, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.

  I scanned the room. No silver-haired senior to give a shrill whistle this time. I wondered where William Harold was today. I really did owe him an apology for siccing those two ladies on him that day I’d been helping Cheri.

  “If everyone could take a seat,” Leela raised her voice to be heard over the din. “We have just a few items to take care of this morning and then everyone can be on their way.”

  A few people sat down. I refilled my coffee and took a seat near the front. I had a handful of folks I needed to catch to sign their release forms, and to verify that I had the name of the recipe and the contributor’s names spelled correctly in the proofs.

  We were close to the finish line on the cookbook. The printing was scheduled. The copy had been reviewed and I only had a couple of details to take care of, and then we could proceed with the photos. Max was coming in later in the week to do the photo shoot.

  With this type of a cookbook you don’t do photos of all the recipes. You simply choose a few to highlight. The choice for photos never has anything to do with the quality of the recipe or choosing the “best” recipes. Hopefully you’ve picked all quality recipes.

  The ones that would be photographed were totally based on which ones would present well, and which ones would best help us tell the story we were trying to tell with the book. We were using some history of the city park. The St. Ignatius Journal had been helpful with providing bits of interest to intermingle with the recipes.

  I hoped to give them an update, get the forms signed, verify the spelling, and then get back to the office. At this point in the editing, we didn’t want to have to make a lot of changes.

  Leela clapped her hands again.

  “I’m going to have Stanley give the final report first,” she said loudly.

  Stanley Marchant joined her at the front of the room.

  The room quieted.

  “Stanley, I think I speak for all of us when I say how sorry we were to hear about your son, Nick. Our sincerest condolences to you and to Nate.” Leela looked across the room toward the back door.

  Nate Marchant stood in the doorway. He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.

  Stanley took a paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it.

  “Our balance is close to the four thousand mark with the proceeds from last week’s all-you-can-eat breakfast.” His voice was firm and carried. “With the donated labor and a couple of corporate donations, we can now move ahead with the rest of the renovations.”

  He refolded the paper, tucked it back into his pocket, and then headed across the room to where Nate stood. Nate followed his father out the back door.

  After Stanley left, the buzz in the room escalated again like an agitated hive of bees.

  “I don’t know that Leela speaks for all of us,” a whispered voice behind me said. “I’m sorry Nick is dead but that boy has been in trouble since the day he was born.”

  “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” another voice spoke up.

  I really wanted to turn around and see who was talking but I didn’t want to give away that I was eavesdropping.

  “I am sorry for their family,” the first whispered, “but I’m sure things will be a whole lot easier for everyone.”

  Leela was clapping again, trying to get everyone’s attention and it wasn’t working. I wished I could do one of those piercing whistles like William Harold had done the other day.

  Finally banging her hand on the podium at the front of the room, she got the room settled enough to move on to the next topic. They had set a date for the rest of the work to be done and planned an event in a few weeks, weather permitting. This would be another all-you-can-eat biscuit breakfast to show off the remodeling. They were hoping to have Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club cookbooks available and I thought we would be able do that. That was if we could make the printing deadline. Dixie and I had everything done and off to Liz for design. The only remaining task was the photo shoot and that would soon be complete.

  We got through the rest of the meeting without Leela losing it, though it looked iffy a couple of times. I managed to catch everyone I needed to.

  Stuffing the papers in my bag, I headed to the Jeep.

  I never could figure out who had been sitting behind me, but their words nagged me. The idea that the sheriff had anything to do with Nick’s death was ridiculous. I felt sure he would be cleared. But whoever had been talking was right; Nick Marchant had created a lot of trouble in St. Ignatius for a number of people, his family included. The family everyone knew about and also Cheri and Dustin, the family no one knew about.

  * * * *

  Back at the shop, I entered from the back but followed the sound of voices to the front. Terry Griffin sat at the counter chatting with Dixie and munching on a chocolate chip cookie. He wore jeans and a checked shirt. The fact that he was not in uniform and given the time of day, I took to mean that nothing had been resolved.

  “How are you doing, Terry?” I asked. “Anything further on the investigation?”

  “The DCI is working on it.” He looked up. Somehow, the sheriff always looked younger in regular street clothes than he did when he was in uniform. “They’re sharing nothing with me. Nothing at all.”
r />   “Just because you and Nick had words?” I asked. “That’s crazy. He acted like a jerk.”

  “Not just that.” He wiped a hand over his face. “There’s more. The night Nick died, I took a call about shots fired in the city park. Everyone was already on a call, so I went.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t heard that part, which was surprising because at the Crack of Dawn meeting and just about everywhere else, people were talking about nothing else but Nick Marchant’s death. “But you didn’t find him.”

  I glanced at Dixie. She’d nearly completely shredded the paper towel in front of her.

  “I checked out the city park but didn’t see anything,” he explained. “I figured it was kids. We’ve had some vandalism at the park.”

  “Seems reasonable.”

  He continued, “After looking around a bit, I went home rather than back to the office.”

  “So no one can account for where you were or when, huh?”

  “Right. But I’m not worried.” He shrugged. “It will all get sorted out, but in the meantime it’s frustrating.”

  “How will it get sorted out?”

  “Even though there was no suicide note, they’ll be able to tell from the angle of the shot whether he shot himself or not.”

  “And they think if it turns out to be a suicide that it’s related to Alma’s death?” I asked. “Or do they think because of his financial problems?” That’s the other theory I’d heard.

  “Like I said, they aren’t sharing with me, but the research I’d done on Nick Marchant showed that there were some major problems with him, his finances, and the firm he worked for in New York.”

  My own research, using the site Gwen from Arbor House had directed me to, hadn’t told me much. Only that Nick was no longer listed as a stockbroker.

  “I understand the Jag was due to be repossessed,” Dixie added.

  “Where did you hear that?” Sheriff Terry raised his brows.

  “Red Hen,” Dixie admitted. “Dot Carson said she overheard a big fight between him and Nate. Nick wasn’t willing to give up the car, Nate didn’t think he needed that type of ride as a small-town banker.”

  “I hadn’t heard that, but it doesn’t surprise me.” The sheriff brushed at the sleeve of his shirt.