“If they don’t think Nick committed suicide, there must be other theories besides the local sheriff had an argument with him and killed him, right?”
Dixie winced and Terry gave me a tone-it-down look.
“Sorry to be so blunt,” I apologized. “But it’s plain crazy to think you had anything to do with it.”
“I appreciate your support, Sugar.” Terry smiled for the first time since he’d arrived. “But it really will get sorted out. I have complete trust in the DCI. These people are professionals.”
“What about Bud Hostetter?” Dixie asked.
“Tressa’s husband?” I asked. I hadn’t considered that angle but it seemed like a reasonable one.
“I heard he’d threatened Nick.” Dixie plated up some chocolate chip cookies while she talked. “Told him he’d better stay away from Tressa, or else.”
“Let me guess. Red Hen, again?” The sheriff reached for another cookie.
“And then there’s Cheri Wheeler, right?” I had to add.
“Yeah,” Terry rubbed his chin. “I feel bad about that one. Like she needed to be put through anything more? Man, talk about going through a rough time.”
The bell over the door dinged, and Tina Martin popped in.
The sheriff stood. “I need to get going.”
“Keep us posted,” Dixie handed him a couple of cookies for the road.
“I’ll do that.” He headed for the door. “Thanks for the cookies. And the support,” he added.
“Tina.” He nodded as he passed her.
“Sheriff.” She smiled at him. Tina’s signature color of the day was red. Her nails were red, her lips were red, and her black jacket was piped in red trim.
“Oh, gosh.” Tina’s crimson lips formed a circle. “I hope I didn’t interrupt. Are you helping the sheriff with the investigation?”
“We’re not,” Dixie and I answered in unison.
“Not at all,” I added.
“Uh, huh,” Tina shook a bright red finger in our direction. “You two…”
I got the sense any further protests would be futile. Telegraphing Dixie a let-it-go look, I asked Tina what we could do for her.
“Right.” She seemed to remember why she was there. “I know you said you couldn’t make the Looking Pretty party at the salon, but I wanted you to have this.”
She handed us each a gift bag with some samples and a small travel mirror with the words “You’re Looking Pretty” on it.
“Thank you, Tina.” I took the bag from her, feeling awful that I’d made up an excuse for the reason Dixie and I couldn’t make the party.
And feeling even worse because it was an excuse that right now I couldn’t even remember. Yikes! See, this is why I always try to stick to the truth.
“You are very welcome,” Tina beamed. “Rafe is going to be coming through in a couple of weeks and I can’t wait to introduce him to you two. I’ve told him all about you.”
“That would be great.” I made eye contact with Dixie. “We’d love to meet him. When did you say he’d be coming?”
“I’m not sure of when,” Tina hesitated. She turned to go and then turned back. “I heard the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club has set a date for a breakfast and unveiling of the shelter house remodeling. Maybe Rafe can come to that. I’ll email him.”
“Can’t wait.” I gave her a smile that I’m sure was just as lame as whatever made-up excuse I’d used to get us out of the Looking Pretty cosmetics party.
I waited until I was sure Tina was gone and then turned to Dixie.
“What are the odds that ‘Rafe’ will have a sudden business trip, just like the last time he was supposed to be coming through, and won’t be able to make the Crack of Dawn shelter house unveiling?”
“Such a grump.” Dixie tossed a chocolate chip cookie in my direction. “Must be a low blood sugar problem.”
Chapter Seventeen
The cookbook revisions were complete and photo shoot day had arrived. The sun was shining, which would help with the natural light. And the baking had already begun.
Sheriff Terry walked through the door while we were clearing the space to make room for Max’s photo equipment. The sheriff was still not in uniform so I took that to mean he continued to be on leave from the Jameson County Sheriff’s Department.
Terry took the wooden chair Dixie was dragging and moved it across the room for her. Then he circled back and reached for the top of the sign I was attempting to tape to the window.
The last time Max had done a photo shoot for us, we’d collected a crowd outside. People peering in wasn’t a problem in itself; I could understand their curiosity. Nevertheless, in trying to see what was going on, they’d blocked Max’s light for the photos.
This time I’d thought I’d get ahead of the curious and put up a couple of signs.
Terry took the tape from me, finished taping the top of the paper, and then went to help Dixie with a table she had carried from the back.
I heard someone come in the back and figured it was Max.
“We’re out front,” I called.
“Hello.” It wasn’t Max but Cheri Wheeler who peered at us from the hallway.
“Sorry, Cheri.” I waved a hand. “I thought you were Max here to set up for the photos.”
“I don’t want to interrupt.” She came through to where we were working. “It’s clear that you’re very busy. But I came across this apron of my mom’s. I thought it would be really nice if maybe you could use it in one of the photos. It was one she wore all the time, was actually in her car…” She closed her eyes. “So, I just got it back.”
Cheri handed me the apron. It was an old-fashioned red-and-white gingham with a pocket on the front and long ties in the back to keep it in place.
I looked it over. “It’s in perfect shape, hon, and might be a great addition.”
The apron actually did fit the feel I’d been going for with the cookbook. Favorite breakfasts, family recipes passed down. It could work.
“If you can’t use it, that’s okay, but I thought I’d take a chance and bring it by just in case.”
“We always defer to our photographer on props,” I told her. “And he often has his own ideas, so I can’t promise anything, but I’ll give it to Max and we’ll see what he thinks. Okay?”
I really hoped Max could make it work.
“That would be great.” She smiled. “Now, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“See you later, Terry. Dixie.” Cheri waved and headed out the back.
I carefully placed the apron on the table where we’d arranged some of the potential props. There was a vintage white pitcher, an antique biscuit cutter that I’d picked up at a yard sale, a few assorted plates, and some colorful napkins. We had an ornate silver ladle from Dixie’s Aunt Bertie and Nate Marchant had dropped off a Wedgewood platter that Stanley had mentioned when we’d talked with the group about including some family items in the photos. We’d been clear with them, as well, no promises, but those types of details would make the cookbook much more personal and unique.
Like I’d told Cheri, Max usually had his own ideas and they were always great ones, so we’d see which of the items he might want to use.
“Hello.” A voice called from the back and this time it was Max.
He carried several bags of equipment and had a tripod tucked under his arm.
“Do you need help?” Terry asked.
“No, I think I’ve got it.” Max carefully set the bags on the floor and shook hands with Terry. “Good to see you.”
He scanned the room. “I see you’re all ready for me. That’s great because I have the high school baseball team right after this and I’ll be cutting it close. Where are we on the food?”
“Shoot. I’ve got biscuits baking and I got distracted.” Dixie spun around and scurried toward the kitchen. “Let me go check on them.”
Max gave Sheriff Terry a look.
“I’m going.” He held up a hand.
Dixie wo
uld deny it but though Sheriff Terry had been a lot of help, he was also a distraction. Even if he wasn’t worried about being a suspect if the DCI couldn’t confirm that Nick’s death had been suicide, Dixie was worried for him.
I hoped the DCI wrapped up their investigation soon. It sounded like they were waiting on some evidence to be processed. So, hopefully some answers soon.
Then Sheriff Terry could get back to his life. The Marchants, Nate and his dad, could deal with their grief and have some closure. And maybe at some point, Cheri could also have some answers about Alma and she and Dustin could move forward.
And my favorite town could get back to normal.
Nick had brought some excitement to St. Ignatius, but ultimately, he’d also brought tragedy.
Staring at the room without really seeing it, I’d drifted off into thinking about Alma and her murder and everything else that followed. It was natural, I guess, given what a big part of this project she’d been.
“Everything okay?” Max asked, his expression concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I gave myself a mental shake. “Sorry.”
Enough with worry. It would all be sorted out and worrying would not make that happen one bit quicker.
Worry casts a big shadow.
Another of Aunt Cricket’s bits of wisdom.
“Let’s get this party started.” I smiled at Max. I had emailed him the list of the dishes we wanted to feature. Showing him the table where we’d put the potential props, I explained about the apron Cheri had dropped off.
“We might be able to work it in.” He began setting up, moving quickly, putting everything in place so he could begin.
I absolutely loved to watch this process. Dixie was in her element and Max was in his. In their own ways they were each virtuosos. Or was that virtuosi? Either way they were both highly skilled and I found that fascinating. I’d seen Dixie tweak a recipe until she got a dish just right, tirelessly trying different ingredients.
Max was much the same with his photography. He was never satisfied with a shot that was only “okay.” He’d tirelessly keep making changes, trying different light, varying the props, until he got the effect he wanted.
With the biscuits, he wanted them fresh from the oven, butter welled in the thumbprint top and dripping down their sides.
The cinnamon rolls he tried still in the baking pan, then on a plate with a fork, and finally on a cutting board, oozing with glaze and festooned with a little sprig of cinnamon sticks tied together with a bit of string. Perfect.
Alma’s casserole was a feast, cut into squares and ready to serve, her red-and-white checked apron off to the side as if the cook had just taken it off. Even though there was not a single person in the photo, you could sense the family, just out of the shot, ready to dig in.
I didn’t know how he managed it but Max captured each dish in a unique way. No people in the photo, but still you felt the people.
It was an exhausting process and I began to wonder if the time I’d planned for the photos was enough. But Dixie kept baking, I kept shifting food and props, and Max kept shooting.
Two hours later, we were done. It was a wrap.
Max hurriedly packed up and took off to take pictures of the St. Ignatius baseball team. He’d taken his time with our photo shoot, but that had eaten into his schedule, and threatened to make him late for the baseball team commitment.
Dixie had washed up dishes and pans as she went so most of that was done. She was headed to her brother’s house for a birthday party for his son, Theo, who was turning six.
Everyone had someplace to be, except for me, so I offered to clean up and put things away. I couldn’t wait to see the photos. I knew we were going to love them. If the process was similar to the other projects Max had done for us, he might have them ready to look at in the next couple of days.
It seemed like everything had been sorted out, at least as far as the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club Cookbook project anyway.
As far as everything else, there was still a lot of sorting out to be done.
If Nick really had killed Alma, and by all accounts that was still a possibility, then he must have decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done. I still couldn’t put it together in my head, because based on the stories from Dixie, Tressa, Cheri, and others, Nick Marchant had taken advantage of people all his life. The man seemingly had no conscience.
But like Dixie said, this was a new low even for him. And so perhaps he had felt sorry for what he’d done. Or, more likely in my book anyway, he’d known that his daddy couldn’t pull his fat out of the fire on this one and that he was probably going to prison.
I took down the signs and tossed them in the trash.
I guess everything would be sorted out in the end and everyone would be okay. Except for poor Alma Stoller that is. I imagined her confronting Nick and insisting it was time for him to do the right thing. I folded Alma’s apron over my arm and carried it into the office, feeling sad for Cheri and Dustin.
I was glad Max had been able to work Alma’s apron into the photo of her breakfast casserole. Cheri would be pleased. Maybe we could frame a copy of that particular photo for her. This time I knew better; I’d ask for Max’s help in choosing a size and a frame.
I felt sad for Nate and his dad, too. Even if it were true that Nick had been the black sheep of the Marchant family. “A problem since the day he was born,” according to the anonymous guy at the breakfast club meeting. Still, Nick had been Nate’s brother and Stanley’s son and I’m sure they loved him.
I looked for something to put Alma’s apron in to return it to Cheri and found a nice box that some of our sample paper had come in. Folding it into a square, I felt a rustle of paper. Probably a recipe. Cheri said her mom was always tucking recipes into her purse or her pockets.
I unfolded the apron and checked the front pockets, which were trimmed in red piping. Nothing. Running my hand down the length of the apron, I heard it again. Moving some books and files, I cleared a space and flattened the apron on my desk. I looked over the front and then flipped it over and did the same.
Ah-ha. There was a small inside pocket at the waistband. With a pinch I pulled a folded paper from the hidden pocket. Must be a super-secret recipe. I smiled as I unfolded it, wondering what secret ingredient this one had.
Holy cow.
It wasn’t a recipe, it was a check. A blank check written to Alma and signed by Stanley Marchant.
Dumbfounded, I stood looking at it. Why would Stanley write Alma a blank check?
I’d been thinking about her confronting Nick, but maybe she really had told Stanley about Dustin. Had Stanley agreed to help with Dustin’s schooling? If that were the case, good for him. I supposed there could be many reasons for not filling in an amount. But Mr. Down-to-the-Last-Detail Stanley Marchant was not the type of guy who left commitments open-ended.
And Mr. Color-Coded Spreadsheet sure-as-shooting wouldn’t be happy with a blank check floating around. A signed blank check.
Whatever it was for, he’d given Alma this check, and if it had to do with Dustin, he’d want to write a new one to Cheri. Maybe he and Alma had come to some sort of agreement and she hadn’t had time to cash it before she’d been killed. But why hadn’t he contacted Cheri? Something about it bugged me.
None of my business. All that was for them to sort out.
I laid it on top of the Wedgewood platter I needed to return to Nate and Stanley Marchant. I’d planned to drop the platter off on my way home. I’d just drop the check off as well.
Heading back to the kitchen to finish up the dishes, I washed and dried the few pieces Dixie hadn’t gotten to and then put the remaining food away.
Luckily Dixie had taken quite a few of the biscuits with her to her brother’s house. We’d sent some with Max as well. And I’d reserved two (okay, three) to take home with me. That would be my dinner.
Dixie had supplied me with her Grandma Ruby’s sausage gravy recipe to make and put over m
y biscuits.
Instead, I fully intended to warm the biscuits up in the microwave and eat them with the honey I’d picked up at last Saturday’s farmer’s market. I’d say don’t tell Dixie, but I think she probably already knew when she gave me the recipe. But I promised myself I’d eventually try the gravy recipe.
I checked the front door to make sure it was locked and carefully carried the Wedgewood platter to my car. I had put Alma’s apron in the box I’d found and I brought it along as well. After I stopped at the Marchant house, I could swing Cheri’s house and drop off the apron. I was excited to let her know we’d used it.
This time I had no trouble finding the Marchant house. It helped to know what you were looking for. I noted that Nate’s car wasn’t in the driveway and wondered if the Jag still sat in his parking spot in the garage or if he’d reclaimed the space.
It hit me again how mind-boggling it was what had happened in the past few weeks.
I rang the doorbell, but this time I didn’t worry when it took so long for Stanley to open the door. I knew to wait. And when he opened the door, I didn’t expect to be invited in. I was surprised when he motioned for me to come inside with the platter.
“Thank you for bringing it by. That platter has been in the family for years. My late wife often used it.” Stanley said. “Nate can put it away when he gets home.”
“I also wanted to give you this.” I shifted the Wedgewood platter and pulled the blank check out of my pocket. “I found it in an apron we used for the cookbook photo shoot.” I explained about Cheri bringing her mom’s apron, how we’d used it, and then how I’d come across the check.
“Anyway, sorry to be so long-winded,” I finished. “But I thought you’d want it back.”
Just as I reached out to hand Stanley the check, it hit me.
I suddenly knew what had been bugging me. I looked down at the check in my hand.
Made out to Alma Stoller.
Signed by Stanley Marchant.
No “B.”
I looked up at Stanley. At that moment, I sincerely wished I’d cleaned up at the shop and gone on home. Minded my own business.
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