Fruit Baskets and Holiday Caskets

by Gayle Leeson

  “Well, I hate to tell this on myself, but since we’re sharing,” Clark said, shaking his head. “One year, we decided to put our tree in the foyer rather than the living room like we had every other Christmas. That first night, I got up half awake to go downstairs for a glass of water. At the top of the stairs, I saw this huge shadow in the corner of the foyer. I called each of our daughters’ names, but of course, neither answered.”

  Mom chuckled. She and Clark were still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, and she found all his stories funny. But I had to admit, this one was proving to be pretty interesting.

  “I crept closer, smacked the shadow—which, of course, turned out to be the tree—and knocked three of my wife’s favorite crystal ornaments to the floor.” He shrugged. “Broke them all to pieces. The sound brought everybody out of their beds to see what was going on.”

  “And was that what brought about your divorce?” Aunt Bess asked.

  “No.” He grinned. “We were already having problems, but the tree incident didn’t help things by any means.”

  “I’m going out and checking on Roger,” I said.

  Walking outside, I looked up at the roof, shading my eyes with my hand. “What’re you doing up there?”

  “Fixing a roof. What’re you doing down there?”

  “I’ve been listening to Clark tell about the time he assaulted a Christmas tree. Want me to come up and help you?”

  “That’s a terrifying thought.” He took off his gloves and left them on a stack of shingles. “Why don’t I come down?”

  As he climbed down the ladder, I said, “Scott said he’d be glad to help you if you need him. And I could call in Donna or Shelly to cover his shifts.”

  “Nah, I’ve about got it wrapped up,” he said. “Thanks, though. Did I hear you right? Did you say Clark Bennett beat up a Christmas tree?”

  “Only a little. It seems his wife’s crystal ornaments got the worst of it.”

  His frown deepened. “Was that what he was trying to do—knock his wife’s ornaments off the tree?”

  “No. He forgot about the tree, came downstairs in the middle of the night, and it scared him,” I said.

  “Huh. And you’re letting this guy date your mom?”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I think he’s fairly sane for the most part. We all do crazy stuff now and then.”

  “Yeah. I heard there was somebody planning to make a giant cake to haul on top of her car in the Christmas parade.”

  “Really? Who’d tell you something like that? Surely not someone who has refused to help.”

  “Yep.” He put his hands on his hips. “So, what’s up, Flowerpot? I know you didn’t come out here to talk to me about Christmas trees and parade floats.”

  “I wanted to ask you if Sheriff Billings gave you a hard time about Devon,” I said. “I mean, I know the sheriff can be a little intimidating at times, but he’s a good man who’s only trying to get to the truth.”

  “I know. He and Ryan are doing their jobs, that’s all. They’d be remiss if they didn’t question everyone involved with Devon, including Belinda.”

  “Belinda?”

  Roger nodded. “Devon said Belinda had been really short with him lately, suspicious and accusatory.”

  “Did she think he was having an affair?” Her behavior toward Jackie crossed my mind.

  “Not just that. He said she also accused him of hiding money from her—which I suppose he was, but it was only so he could buy her a special gift for Christmas.”

  “The necklace,” I said. “Jackie told me about that. I hope Belinda and Devon didn’t spend their last days arguing.”

  “I hope so too.” His dubious expression told me we both thought the couple had done exactly that.

  “Do you think Belinda could be responsible for Devon’s death?” I asked. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about sabotaging a car, but she might.”

  “All I know for certain is that I didn’t do it.” He jerked his head toward the ladder. “I’d better see how much more I can get done here while I still have plenty of daylight.”

  As I walked to my car, I hoped Roger had told the sheriff and Ryan how strangely Belinda Carpenter had been acting and what Devon had confided to him.

  { }

  Chapter Eleven

  W

  hen I got to my house, I saw that the cake dummies had been delivered and were stacked in boxes on my front porch. I packed the boxes into the car. They filled my entire backseat as well as the passenger seat of my Bug—the trunk was loaded with the fondant, food coloring, molds, and tools I’d bought the night before.

  Eager to have everything in place so I could start decorating tomorrow after lunch, I drove the supplies to the café. I unlocked the door and then carried all my supplies back to the kitchen. I was opening the cake dummies when I heard a car outside.

  Did I remember to lock the door back?

  Hearing the door open, I realized I had not. It made me a little nervous since I was the only one there, but I thought it was most likely someone who saw my car outside and thought the café was open.

  “Amy! Where are you?”

  Dilly? I came from the kitchen to see that my ears hadn’t deceived me. Dilly was standing in the dining room with one hand raised to her lips. “Hi, Dilly.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Are you?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her hand and gave me a sheepish grin. “I stopped because I saw your car, knew the café was closed, and I was concerned about you. You just never can tell these days, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I brought in the supplies I’ll need—at least, I hope I have everything I need—to make the fake cake for the parade float. I’m planning on getting started tomorrow after lunch.”

  “You’re making a float for the Christmas parade?” Dilly asked. “I hadn’t heard a thing about it!”

  “It kind of started out as a joke,” I said, “but then a few of us got excited about the idea, and we decided to do it.”

  “I’d love to help, if there’s anything I can do.”

  I gave her a broad smile. “How are you with clay?”

  Frowning, she asked, “You mean, like modeling clay?”

  I nodded. “If you can use modeling clay, you can use fondant.” I explained that the tiers of the cake were going to represent the different types of foods served at the café. “I’m going to have cookies, pastries, burgers, hot dogs—”

  “Chicken,” she said. “You have to have a chicken leg.”

  “So, you’re in?”

  “I’m in. It sounds like such fun.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll need as many friendly faces around as I can get, especially since Ryan’s mother is coming tomorrow.”

  Dilly screwed up her face. “My friend, Gladys Pridemore, can’t stand Michelle Hall.”

  I didn’t need Dilly to tell me that. I remembered all too well the women’s fracas at the farmers’ market.

  “But don’t you worry,” Dilly continued, “I’m sure you’ll be able to win Michelle over...you know, sooner or later.”

  “I’m not so sure I share your optimism, but I’ll try to hold out hope nonetheless.” Changing the subject, I asked, “Do you know any of the Carpenters who live—or lived—in Winter Garden? I’m asking because Devon was a Carpenter—he only moved back here from Florida when his aunt bequeathed some property to him.”

  “Carpenter...” Dilly mulled the name over.

  “I thought maybe the family didn’t appreciate their mother leaving Devon such a generous gift, but his cousin Chris said he didn’t care. He told me the rest of the family got the good stuff.”

  “There used to be some Carpenters who lived over near Mill Creek,” she said. “They owned all the land in that area and kept to themselves for the most part. Some people used to say some of the boys ran a still in the woods in back of their house, but I don’t know personally whe
ther that was true.” She squinted up at the ceiling. “Every once in a while, we’d hear about one of the boys getting in trouble—they had the reputation of being mean.” She brought her gaze back down to me. “You know, I hadn’t thought about the Carpenters in years. I didn’t even connect Devon to the family—probably because he didn’t grow up around here.”

  SINCE MOM HADN’T ASKED me to check in on Aunt Bess later and hadn’t mentioned that Jackie was coming over, I determined that she must not have a date with Clark tonight. So when I got back home and saw that both Clark’s SUV and Roger’s truck was gone, I drove on up to the big house.

  Mom knew immediately I had something on my mind. She opened the door asking, “Amy, is anything wrong?”

  “No. I just want to speak with you and Aunt Bess alone,” I said. “No date tonight?”

  “Not tonight. Clark is taking one of his daughters to dinner and to do some shopping.”

  “That’s nice.” I arched a brow. “When are you going to take your daughter to dinner and to do some shopping?”

  “Daughter, my foot!” Aunt Bess called from the living room, clearly overhearing our conversation as we walked in her direction. “Take me to dinner and shopping!”

  “Why doesn’t everyone gang up on me at once?” Mom asked. “That’d be terrific.”

  “What’re you doing back up here already?” Aunt Bess pursed her lips. “You and Ryan haven’t had a falling-out, have you?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you and Mom alone, that’s all.”

  “Oh, well.” She nestled into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “You’ve come to the right place for advice. Spill your guts.”

  “I was at the café—” I didn’t want Mom and Aunt Bess to know about the cake until the big reveal. “—putting away some things when Dilly stopped by.”

  Aunt Bess tsked. “What was Dilly doing? Trying to get in your business? She’s nice enough, but she can be as nosy as all get out.”

  “She saw my car and wanted to make sure I was okay,” I said. “She knew the café was supposed to be closed.”

  “Oh...well...that was nice of her.” Aunt Bess nodded. “Then what did you want to talk about?”

  “I’m getting to that,” I said.

  Mom shot me a look of smug satisfaction—a see what I mean expression if I ever saw one.

  Ignoring Mom, I told them about Dilly and me talking about the Carpenters. “She said she heard they used to have a still in the woods behind their house, but she didn’t know if it was true or not.”

  “Goodness, yes, it’s true!” Aunt Bess placed a hand on her chest. “Everybody in town knew that Old Man Haggerty, who used to walk up and down Main Street drunk all the time, got his sour mash from the Carpenters. Like Dilly, though, I didn’t connect Devon to that bunch.”

  “I can only remember one of the Carpenter boys from school,” Mom said. “His name was Albert, but his friends called him Bertie. He was several years older than me, but we rode the school bus together. The way he’d stare at me always frightened me.”

  “I understand.” I told them about how I caught Chris staring at me the night before in the restaurant. “Even when I caught him, he didn’t look away. It sorta creeped me out, even though he’s never been rude to me or anything. He simply had a way of looking at me that—”

  “That felt more as if he was looking through you,” Mom said, finishing my thought.

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe Chris is Bertie’s son,” she said.

  “Should I relay all this information to Ryan?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Aunt Bess said.

  “No,” Mom said.

  They’d spoken simultaneously, and I glanced from one to the other.

  “You might be the very bird to crack this case wide open,” Aunt Bess said.

  “Or you might insult your boyfriend.” Mom gave Aunt Bess a warning look, which Aunt Bess pointedly ignored. “Ryan and Sheriff Billings know their jobs very well. You don’t want either of them to think you believe them to be incompetent.”

  “The police can’t effectively solve crimes if they don’t have all the information.” Aunt Bess patted her hair. “That’s why they rely on sleuths like us—angels, if you will—to provide a helping hand.”

  I gave them a tight smile and kept my mouth shut, not knowing whose advice I should follow.

  That night when Ryan called, I didn’t mention the investigation. I’d debated on whether to take the advice of Mom or of Aunt Bess; and when I heard Ryan’s voice, Mom’s warning won out. I wanted to contribute to solving Devon’s murder and clearing Roger of any wrongdoing. But until I had information that was more than gossip or conjecture, I needed to stay out of Ryan’s way and let him know I trusted him to get the job done.

  { }

  Chapter Twelve

  R

  ory woke me on Sunday morning by dropping his gingerbread man onto my face.

  “Gee, thanks.” I tossed the toy onto the floor, and he hopped off the bed to snatch it up. I considered pulling the covers over my head and trying to go back to sleep, but I knew that was pointless. For one thing, I’d already encouraged Rory’s desire to play. For another, I had a lot to do today.

  As I sat up, Rory brought the gingerbread man back. Once again, I pitched it to the other side of the room and watched him scamper after it. I sure hoped Ryan’s mother never discovered what had become of the Christmas ornament she’d given me. She wasn’t crazy about me as it was. Thinking I’d given her gift to my dog certainly wouldn’t win me any points.

  After feeding the pets, having a light breakfast, and getting myself ready, I went into the fancy room. I opened my laptop and searched for tutorials on using fondant to sculpt objects—foods, in particular. I wasn’t disappointed. There were the most adorable doughnuts, fruits, hotdogs, cheeseburgers, tacos, carrots, corn, pancakes, and even a Thanksgiving turkey! I was delighted. Every item I could think of and type “fondant sculpted ____” into the search bar was there. We should have no trouble making the decorations for the dummy cakes as long as I took my laptop. I texted Scott and asked him if he could bring a laptop too, given that I was afraid we’d need more than one.

  I went up to the big house and put the chicken in the oven. Since it would take well over an hour to roast, I had a few minutes before I needed to start the sides. I went into the living room and sat on the sofa beside Aunt Bess, who was working a crossword puzzle.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  “Upstairs taking a bath. She’s been in there forever. I hope she hasn’t drowned.” She paused. “I should add drowning to my Things That’ll Probably Kill Me board.”

  I rose to go upstairs and check on Mom, but she was walking into the living room.

  “Sit back down,” she said, as she walked over to the armchair. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I’d have hated to have had to add you to my People I’ve Outlived board.” Aunt Bess tapped her pencil against her puzzle book. “What’s a type of bird that begins with an L and ends with a T?”

  “How many letters?” Mom asked.

  She counted. “Eight. There’s an E as the seventh letter.”

  I racked my brain. The only birds beginning with L I could think of were lark and lapwing, and neither of those fit.

  “Lorikeet,” Mom said.

  “Lori who?” Aunt Bess scrunched up her face. “Lori Keet...is she the one who was in that show with the dad and the kids and the uncles and then she got in trouble over her kids’ college?”

  “A lorikeet is a type of parrot.”

  “How do you know that?” Aunt Bess asked her.

  “I saw the birds on a documentary on TV the other night.”

  “When? I don’t remember seeing it.”

  Mom blew out a breath. “You’d already gone to bed.”

  “And you were up with the TV going full blast?” Aunt Bess pressed her lips together and then filled in the word. “I don’t know whether it’s right or not, but
it fits. Lorikeet. I’ve never in my life heard of that.”

  Figuring it would be a good idea to change the subject, I said, “I spoke with Ryan last night, but I decided to wait until I have concrete evidence for him before bringing up the subject of Devon’s murder again.”

  “That’s smart,” Aunt Bess said, not looking up from her book. “Columbo used to always act befuddled until he was ready to spring the solution on the killer and have ‘em arrested.”

  “Amy, why don’t we work on lunch?” Mom stood. “That chicken smells so good, it’s got me ravenous.”

  “I wonder where Jackie is,” I said. “It’s not like her to be this late.”

  “You’re right. I’d better call and check on her.” Aunt Bess got her phone from the end table. “What if we never really knew Roger at all, and now he’s going around killing people? First Devon and now Jackie.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Mom said.

  “I know it’s probably not true.” She called Jackie. “Where are you? Are you killed?”

  Mom rolled her eyes at me as we continued to listen to Aunt Bess’s side of the conversation.

  “Huh. I’m sorry, sweetie. Want me to send you over some chicken soup or something? All right. I love you.” Ending the call, she said, “She’s not dead. She has the flu.”

  “Does she want the chicken soup?” I asked.

  “No...but if we have enough chicken left over, I’d like some.”

  I CALLED JACKIE ON my way to the café. She sounded stuffy and groggy when she answered.

  “Mwha—?”

  “You sound terrible,” I said. “May I bring you anything?”

  “No...it’s...jusa code...hassa...run its course.”

  Code? She means cold. “All right. Get some rest and call me if you need me.” After talking with Jackie, I called Roger but got his voice mail. “Hey, Roger, it’s Amy. I’m worried about Jackie. She told me she has a cold, but Aunt Bess says it’s the flu, and Jackie sounds really bad. I was wondering if you’ve seen her today and if there’s anything I can do to help. Let me know. Thanks.”