Fruit Baskets and Holiday Caskets

by Gayle Leeson

“But what does that tell us?” He dug back into the queso.

  “Not much on its own, but Belinda also told me Adam is hoping to get Chris to become a partner in the charter business. I suggest we find out if Adam was a partner in Devon’s venture from the start or if Adam started his own business after Devon left town.”

  After an extensive online search, we discovered that Cyrus Carpenter was an officer in the charter company helmed by Devon Murphy and Richard D’Angelo.

  “Adam merely picked up the slack caused by Devon’s departure,” Ryan said. “The Carpenters have been involved in this smuggling business all along.”

  “It makes me wonder if Devon planned to go back to Florida and resume operations when the heat died down. Could that be why Adam was asking everybody if Devon had mentioned anything about Florida to them?”

  He gently closed my laptop. “I believe the main thing I need to do is to determine who among the Winter Garden Carpenters is involved in this smuggling operation and to what extent. But that can wait. We shouldn’t waste the rest of tonight on an investigation we can’t pursue until tomorrow.”

  { }

  Chapter Sixteen

  B

  ryson Neal came into the café to have breakfast on Tuesday morning. After placing his order for eggs over easy, bacon, rye toast, and grits, he asked Scott, “How’s the float coming along?”

  “Dude, it’s amazing! A bunch of us worked on it Sunday afternoon and—”

  I stuck my head through the window into the dining room and cut Scott off. “And we’re planning to have someone walk on either side of the car and hand out mini, individually-wrapped cookies.” I didn’t want Scott giving too much away about our cake. That way, if things didn’t go according to plan and I had to make some last-minute changes, no one except my volunteers would be the wiser.

  “I think handing out cookies is a swell idea,” Bryson said. “It’ll give parade-goers a reason to hurry on into the café and get more cookies.”

  Laughing, I said, “That’s the general idea.”

  “I’m glad things are going so well,” he said.

  Scott poured Bryson some coffee. “Like me, you don’t seem to have quite the drawl that many people around here have. I moved to Winter Garden from New Mexico to be closer to my mom and sister.”

  “That’s cool.” Bryson shook a couple of sugar packets before emptying them into his coffee. “I was an Army brat—grew up everywhere and nowhere, if you know what I mean.”

  Homer walked in and overheard what Bryson had said. “My hero of the day also moved around a lot as a child because his father was in the Canadian Armed Forces.” He smiled and took a seat beside Bryson. “That hero is Michael J. Fox, and I’m Homer Pickens.”

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Pickens. I’m Bryson Neal, the town manager. I’m from Northern Virginia initially, but my wife and I fell in love with this area on vacation and decided to relocate. I was able to land my job before we sold the house up north, but sadly, my wife hasn’t found work she enjoys yet.”

  “Mr. Fox once said there’s always failure, loss, and disappointment,” Homer said. “‘But the secret is learning from the loss and realizing that none of those holes are vacuums.’ I’m sure your wife will have more luck finding a job after the holidays.”

  “I think so too, Mr. Pickens,” Bryson said. “I’ve told her to relax and enjoy the holidays.”

  “Homer, I’ll have your sausage biscuit ready in a minute; and Mr. Neal, your breakfast is coming up,” I said, heading back to the grill.

  Scott had delivered Bryson Neal’s breakfast to him, and he was eating while listening to Homer extol the wisdom of Michael J. Fox when I brought out Homer’s sausage biscuit.

  “Another clever remark Mr. Fox once made was: ‘I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence I can reach for; perfection is God’s business.’ Don’t you think that’s a good one?”

  “Brilliant, Guru Guy!” Scott gave Homer a thumbs-up.

  Belinda Carpenter walked into the café and gazed around the dining room before fixing her eyes on Bryson. Her hand flew to her throat.

  “Belinda, good morning,” I said. “It’s nice to see you. May I get you a menu?”

  She nodded. “Y-yes, please.”

  “Mrs. Carpenter, how are you holding up?” Bryson asked.

  “F-fine, thank you.” Belinda slid into a seat at a table to the right of the counter. As it was a slow time of day, there weren’t many other patrons there.

  I took Belinda a menu and offered her some coffee.

  “Some of that French vanilla would be wonderful,” she said.

  “Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do going forward?” Bryson left the now that Devon is gone part of his question implied.

  “I...um...I’m considering moving back h-home...to Florida.” With a trembling hand, Belinda brushed her hair back from her face.

  “Belinda, are you all right?” I poured the French vanilla coffee into her cup.

  “Oh, yes. I-I’m fine. Just all the stress I’ve been under.” She tried to smile.

  “Do you think some pancakes might help?” I asked. “Or an omelet maybe?”

  She pointed at the menu. “One of those cinnamon rolls would hit the spot.”

  “You’ve got it.” As I hurried back toward the kitchen, I heard Homer share a bit of encouragement with Belinda.

  “Mrs. Carpenter,” he said, “the talented actor Michael J. Fox once said, ‘I truly believe that we have infinite levels of power that we don’t even know are available to us.’ I hope you’re able to draw on your powers and find some strength and comfort today.”

  “You and me both,” Belinda said. “You and me both.”

  WHEN MICHELLE ARRIVED at the end of the workday—or what, for the time being anyhow, had become the middle of my workday—I was standing at the counter spreading shortening onto the largest cake dummy.

  She crinkled her brow as she strode over to inspect my work. “What are you doing?”

  “Preparing the cake dummy for the fondant. I’m hoping to get the first two tiers covered and stacked today while you work on the cookies.” I didn’t bat an eye, even though I knew Michelle wouldn’t be happy with my plan.

  Last night as I’d lain in bed exhausted but unable to sleep, I’d had an epiphany—this was my café, my kitchen, and my float. I’d committed to creating a giant cake, not to making three-hundred-seventy-five cookies. Since the cookies were Michelle’s idea, I felt she should be the one primarily responsible for them. If she didn’t understand that, she could give up on the project, and I could have my volunteers hand out regular candy like everyone else. Granted, the cookie idea had been inspired, but it was an expensive and time-consuming giveaway.

  “This is going to be the table tier,” I said. “How do you think I should do the tablecloth?”

  Tilting her head this way and that, she said, “I think it would be pretty if you could scallop the tablecloth to show the texture of the table underneath.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. I bought a wood grain fondant texture mat to use for the table, so I definitely want to show that off.” I picked up the mat to show Michelle.

  She grinned. “This is fun. I’ll get started on the cookies. You make the table and then we’ll worry about the tablecloth.”

  “Deal.” She was taking my independent streak much better than I’d thought she would. “When the cookies are cool enough to bag, I’ll take a break and help. I made some labels listing ingredients and allergy warnings before work this morning, and we can add those to the bags too.”

  “What a super idea. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself.” She went on into the kitchen and got to work.

  Who was this woman? And what had she done with the Michelle Hall who didn’t like me and didn’t seem to want me dating her son?

  Setting those questions aside for the moment, I put on gloves and put some gel color onto a ball of white fondant. For a couple of minutes, I comp
letely lost myself in tinting the fondant. Squeezing and kneading a ball of fondant was pretty therapeutic. Maybe Belinda Carpenter should give it a try. She certainly had been wound as tight as a watch this morning. I understood her pain, but this was more of a fear. Was she afraid the person who’d killed her husband would come after her? She had to be!

  “Michelle, I could use some advice,” I called into the kitchen.

  “Sure. Is it about the cake?”

  “No. It’s about your son.”

  She stopped dropping cookie dough onto the cookie sheet and returned to the counter. “What about him?”

  I wanted to ask her whether she thought I should tell him about Belinda’s behavior and how I thought Belinda was frightened of Devon’s killer. But I chickened out. Instead, I asked, “Could you please give me an idea on what to get Ryan for Christmas? I haven’t got a clue.”

  “Let me think about it while I’m finishing this first batch of cookies, and we’ll talk it over while we bag them up.”

  As I rolled out my tan fondant into a thirty-two-inch circle, I wondered what Michelle would advise me with regard to Ryan’s present. I really didn’t know what to get him, but I’d take any suggestions his mother made with a grain of salt. I imagined her telling me to get him gym socks or a pair of gloves. Yeah, romantic stuff there, Mrs. Hall.

  It struck me that gloves might actually be a great gift for Ryan. He was out in all kinds of weather. But, again, not terribly romantic.

  I was finishing up texturizing the fondant when Michelle came out of the kitchen again.

  “It smells great in there,” I said.

  “Smells good in here too. Wonder how many parade-goers will want a piece of that fake cake?”

  “I can almost guarantee my Aunt Bess will. And she won’t believe me when I tell her it’s not real.”

  She laughed. “Ryan says she’s a sight.”

  “She certainly is.”

  Michelle waited while I positioned the fondant onto the cake and cut off the excess.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Looks like a tabletop to me.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Do you have time to help bag some cookies? If not, I can handle it.”

  “No. I could use a break from the fondant for a few minutes.” I followed her into the kitchen and put on a fresh pair of gloves.

  “Ryan has been wanting to learn guitar,” she said, as she unpacked the cellophane bags, ties, and labels from her tote. “Has he spoken to you about it?”

  “No.” He hadn’t. Of course, I was now wondering why he hadn’t. Did he genuinely want to learn guitar, or had he said something in passing to his mother like, I’d like to learn to play guitar one of these days without knowing how seriously she’d take the comment? Or maybe he wanted to learn to play guitar and then surprise me with how well he could play.

  “David and I are planning to buy him a guitar for Christmas.” She, too, put on a fresh pair of gloves. “You could maybe get him some personalized picks and a gift certificate for some lessons.”

  “That sounds better than what I was considering,” I said. “I was leaning toward some nice leather gloves.”

  She scoffed. “Darling, leave the gloves to his grandmother. You’re his girlfriend, for goodness’ sake!”

  { }

  Chapter Seventeen

  A

  fter finishing up at the café, I took the ingredients for chicken Alfredo over to Jackie’s apartment. The dish was one of her favorites.

  She looked better when she opened the door to her apartment. Rather than the robe she’d been wearing yesterday, she wore a pair of navy lounge pants and a white, waffle-knit sweater.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, as I walked through to the kitchen with the bag of groceries.

  “Much better. I don’t know that I’m up to working a full day yet, but—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “The doctor said you should take the week off, and you’re going to do it.”

  She waved the doctor’s orders away with a flip of her hand. “What does he know? I’ll go crazy if I have to stay in here watching television for another day.”

  “Then don’t watch TV. Look into those online classes you mentioned.” I retrieved a pot from Jackie’s cabinet and filled it with water.

  “I guess I could do that,” she said.

  “Where’s Roger?” I asked. “Will he be here soon?”

  “Nope. He’s at his parents’ house helping his dad install a new water heater. He’s eating there this evening and said he’ll call me when he gets home.”

  “Up for a little company then?” Even though it had only been a couple of days, I’d missed talking with her.

  “Definitely. I spoke with Granny earlier, and she told me she and Aunt Jenna were going shopping.”

  I nodded. “Those two seemed to be looking forward to their outing—I hope they’ll be as happy when they get back home.”

  “Me too,” she said, with a chuckle. “But they’re having dinner, and Granny said they might see a movie while they’re out, so they should be fairly content.”

  Holding up my crossed fingers, I reiterated that I hoped so.

  Jackie sat down at the table. “So, how are things going at the café? Does everyone miss me?”

  “You know they do.” I got out a skillet for the chicken. “Belinda Carpenter came in today, and she acted so weird.”

  “That woman hasn’t acted in a way I’d describe as normal through this entire ordeal.” She frowned. “What did she do this time?”

  “Mr. Neal and Homer were trying to talk with her, and she was stammering and trembling.” The water came to a boil, and I dumped in the pasta. “I realize everyone grieves differently, but Belinda didn’t appear to be sad—she seemed frightened.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. Maybe she’s afraid the police suspect her of Devon’s murder. Or she could think she’ll be next.”

  “That makes sense.” I put olive oil in the skillet and added the chicken. “If Belinda didn’t kill her husband, then she probably at least believes she knows why he was killed. She might even know who did it.”

  She shuddered. “That whole situation gives me the creeps. Leave the investigating to the cops, Amy.”

  “I will. But it wouldn’t hurt to tell Ryan what I’m seeing in Belinda’s behavior.”

  Obviously ready to change the subject, Jackie asked, “How are things going with Ryan’s mom? Did she show up for cookie duty again today?”

  “She did.” I stirred the pasta and turned down the heat before turning toward Jackie. “In fact, I turned the cookie-making over to her while I worked on the cake.”

  Her mouth formed an O before she laughed. “And how did that go over?”

  “Better than I’d anticipated,” I said. “I was able to get the two bottom tiers completed, and I helped Michelle bag up the cookies. She even gave me an idea for what to get Ryan for Christmas.”

  “And what did she suggest?”

  Smiling, I turned back to flip over the chicken strips. “I was skeptical too at first. But she mentioned that she and David are getting Ryan a guitar because he told them he’d been wanting to learn to play. She mentioned that I could get him a gift certificate for lessons.”

  “Uh-huh. Has Ryan ever shown any interest in learning guitar to you?”

  “No...and I considered that.”

  “I’m not saying Michelle would deliberately set you up,” Jackie said. “But you know me—I’m not the most trusting person in the world. If I were you, I’d do a little digging before getting Ryan something he might not want.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll feel him out about it after I talk with him about Belinda Carpenter.”

  I DROPPED BY THE POLICE station on my way home from Jackie’s apartment. Sheriff Billings was there, and he came out to stand by Ryan’s desk when he saw me enter the building.

  “Hey there, Amy!” he called.

  Ryan spun his chair around to give
me a wink. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Have you fellows had dinner?” I asked.

  “We have, but what have you got?” Sheriff Billings asked.

  I laughed. “Nothing, but I’ll be happy to go get you something if you’re hungry.”

  “Aw, we’re not—at least, I’m not.” The sheriff patted his flat stomach.

  “But we’d have been willing to make a little room if you had brought something,” Ryan said, with a grin.

  Although initially I’d have rather not spoken with Sheriff Billings present, I decided to go ahead and tell them both about Belinda Carpenter—better to talk it out now than to have the sheriff thinking Ryan had been discussing the investigation with me inappropriately.

  “Belinda Carpenter was in the café today,” I said. “You know, she acts more like a woman afraid than a woman grieving the loss of her husband.”

  “Amy—” Sheriff Billings began.

  “I’m well aware neither of you are at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations,” I interrupted. “And I’m not here to talk about Devon’s murder case. I only want to report an observation about Belinda’s behavior. Isn’t it a reasonable assumption to say you see suspects when they’re on their guard?”

  The sheriff gave me a brief nod. “Fair enough.”

  “Belinda has been into the café on two occasions recently, and her conduct has gone from bad to worse.” I explained about the time she left in tears. “That, I could understand. After all, she is—I hope—grieving the loss of her husband. But when she came in today, she was frightened. Her hands were trembling, she was stammering, and she was telling Bryson Neal, of all people, that she was considering leaving Winter Garden and returning to Florida.”

  “Bryson Neal,” Ryan said. “He’s the new town manager, isn’t he?”

  “Right. He’s the one who came by and asked me to make a float for the Christmas parade,” I said. “He came in today to have brunch and to check on our progress.”

  Frowning, Ryan asked, “Wonder if he checks up on all his float builders?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe he was hungry, and the float was all he knew to talk about with me and my staff.”