Read Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) Online
Authors: Judy Alter
Tags: #Mystery & Crime
He grinned. “Sure. Come in. Place looks better, doesn’t it?”
“Much. But you don’t have as much stock as you did.”
He shook his head, “Can’t afford to replace it.”
“Doesn’t insurance cover losses like yours?”
He shook his head again. “It helped, but it didn’t cover everything by any stretch.”
Good going, Kate, you really started this conversation off on your left foot—with it in your mouth
. “I guess the bequest Gram gave the city will make small grants available again soon. Maybe that will help.”
“I didn’t know about that.” He kept on potting the basil he was breaking into separate plants. “I’ve been rooting some things in water, and they’ll be ready to plant soon. I’ve already had three or four customers—mostly out of curiosity and sympathy, I think.”
“Gram’s bequest won’t be available until the will is probated,” I said. “Then I expect there’ll be an announcement. But meantime, I didn’t come over here out of sympathy or curiosity—or to pry into your financial affairs. After all,” I added lightly, “you don’t ask me how the café is doing. Which reminds me, I haven’t seen you there since this mess happened.”
“I’ve been eating PBJ sandwiches,” he said wryly.
“Would you like a gourmet meal tonight? I just happen to have scallops with wine and mushrooms in my fridge.”
“Coquille Saint Jacques? What’s the occasion?”
I told him the story, and he laughed heartily. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think your sister is a bit of a ditz, but her loss is apparently my gain. I’ll bring white wine.”
“Got it covered,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was 5:15. “6:30?”
“Yeah, that’s good. I’m ready to quit for the day.”
That gave me enough time to shower, change clothes and set up tray tables on Gram’s back porch. Tray tables may not sounds romantic, but there was a nice breeze out there, and I had gotten some citronella candles, so we should be bug free. And Steve and I seemed most at peace in Gram’s old rockers on that porch.
Steve arrived promptly at 6:30, wearing clean jeans and looking freshly scrubbed. As if he’d read my mind, he came around back and knocked on the kitchen door, just as I was putting out pita breads and hummus that I’d gotten earlier in the week in Canton—not something the local grocery carried, and I swore I’d have to learn to make my own. I poured Sauvignon Blanc for both of us, in those new O glasses I liked so well, and we took the wine and appetizers to the porch.
“Smells fantastic,” he said.
“I cheated. Brought the mashed potatoes and salad from the café—but I made my own dressing. Sorry, but I don’t have the equipment to pipe the potatoes around the edge of the main dish nor do I have a scalloped shell dish to serve it in.”
He clutched his heart and said, “I’ll make do.”
We talked comfortably, but I knew neither of us was talking about the things uppermost in our thoughts. I was focused on Irv
Litman
, and Steve was still overwhelmed by the destruction of his nursery. In essence he had to start his business over again.
“How’s Joanie?”
“Fine. She’s been a brick throughout this whole thing. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“You two seem exceptionally close, even for a brother and sister,” I said, thinking of the distance between Donna and me.
“We are. Mom died when we were fairly young kids—I guess I was seven and Joanie was nine—and Dad never paid much attention to us. By the time we were in high school, we were pretty much alone.”
“You needed someone like Gram,” I said.
He grinned a bit. “Yeah, you were lucky. Johnny was a great woman. I imagine it was wonderful to grow up with her.”
I nodded then jumped up. “The potatoes will scorch. Time to serve dinner.”
The Coquilles Saint Jacques were heavenly, if I do say so, the mashed potatoes always the best, and my homemade dressing for the salad greens was lemony and good. So it was a great meal. We sipped wine and talked little while we ate. Steve helped me clear the plates, and I served cobbler I’d made from some peaches
Marj
had brought to the café.
Sitting back contentedly, he said, “I could marry a woman who can cook like you.”
I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but I said nothing.
Casually, he asked, “You ever been married?”
“No. You?”
“Yeah, once. It didn’t work out. Wasn’t her fault; it was mine, and there were no kids.”
I didn’t know where to go with that, so we sat in silence for a long time. Finally I said, “I see marriages of my friends that I wouldn’t want. It’s made me real cautious.”
“I saw my own marriage that I didn’t want. That made me cautious too,” was the reply. Then, as if psychic, he asked, “You thinking of Donna and Tom?”
I didn’t know if that was too personal or not, but it hit home, and I said, “Yeah, maybe a bit. But there are others.”
He nodded, and we sat in silence for a long time, sipping our last glass of wine. Then, almost abruptly, he said, “I got to be going. Thanks for a wonderful evening and a great dinner, Kate. You’re the best.”
I got up out of my chair, and he put his arms around me, stared at me for a minute, and then tilted his head to meet mine and gave me a long and deep kiss—the kind where tongues explore mouths. Then, suddenly, he was gone, without another word. I stood and stared after him for a long time. While I rinsed dishes, put away leftovers—no scallops, we ate all that—and cleaned up the kitchen, I puzzled over Steve
Millican
. There was no doubt that the kiss had aroused me, but I didn’t know if it was him or the celibate life I thought I was leading. Either way, Steve
Millican
was a puzzle—and thoughts of him kept me awake for a long while that night.
Tom hadn’t come to the café in several days, so I used the pretext of needing birdseed to walk to the hardware one day. Now getting on into June, the days were typical East Texas—hot and muggy—and I was glad the walk was short, though the disappearance of my exercise program gnawed at my conscience. I told myself waiting tables and cooking were exercise, and in a way they were—but I needed to get back to cardio workouts. My bike was in the garage, but it was getting too hot to run or bike, except in the early morning when I was busy making sticky buns. At least I could resume my yoga routine which, if nothing else, should help with peace of mind.
Tom was alone in the store—both of his assistants were out making deliveries, which in this county could mean driving a considerable distance. I hoped he charged a delivery fee.
“Morning. I need bird seed, please. They’re eating it pretty fast, so I think a good-sized bag.” Right then I realized walking was not a good idea—I didn’t want to carry a “good-sized” bag of birdseed back to the café.
Tom lugged a twenty-pound sack from the back of the store, saying “I’ll drop this off at the house. No need for you to hoist it around. Need a garbage can to keep it in?”
I did, and he got that too. As I paid, over his protests that I was family, I couldn’t resist saying tartly, “I hope you don’t give everything to Donna for her remodeling. That could really hurt your bottom line.”
He grinned, but it was a twisted grin. “
Naw
, I let
Litman
pay for that stuff.”
“You haven’t joined me for lunch lately. Business okay?” I tried to be casual, but Tom knew me well enough to know I’m a rotten poker player.
“I been keeping an eye on Donna and
Litman
,” he said sheepishly, “for a couple of reasons. Donna has no idea about finances and budgets, and I guess I’m grateful to
Litman
on that score. But, I don’t know, something about how comfortable they are makes me nervous. Well, damn it, it makes me self-conscious about who I am, how much money I don’t have, all those things. Here I am, the guy who was the high school hero and then never did much else. I’d do anything to make her happy, but no matter what I do, she complains. With
Litman
on the other hand she gushes all the time about how lucky she is to have met him.”
I looked straight at him and asked, “You think they’re having an affair?”
His face reddened, and he said, too quickly, “Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just…oh, okay, yeah I suspect that. She doesn’t have any more interest in me in the bedroom than she does in the kitchen. And it wasn’t always that way.” He paused a minute. “And she doesn’t have any more time for the kids than she does me. I try to do things with them. I can take Henry fishing and coach his softball team, but Jess and Ava really need their mother. Jess likes to cook, and Ava, I’m afraid all she likes to do is watch TV, and I hate that.”
“I’ll have them over to a slumber party—we’ll do girlie stuff like our nails and make chocolate mousse, and then I’ll take them to the café in the morning and let them make sticky buns.”
“Thanks, Kate. They’d love it. And maybe it would give Donna and me some time together.”
“This is a girls’ night. Send Henry to spend the night with a buddy.” I put a hand on his arm. “I don’t know what either you or I can do about Donna except hang in there. Gram used to tell me the good guys always win.”
“I wish I was one of them,” he muttered and turned away.
With that comment puzzling me, I gave him a hug and headed back to the café. Of course Tom was one of the good guys. What did he mean?
Ava and Jess came to stay the following Sunday night. The café was slow on Sundays, and I could leave it with
Marj
and Nora, and we had decided for summer to close on Mondays, so the girls wouldn’t have to get up early. We’d make sticky buns at home.
“I always loved to stay with Gram,” Jess said. “I like the way her house smells. It still smells like she lives here.” I didn’t tell her I squirted a bit of Jean
Naté
around now and then. Ava came more reluctantly, clutching a computer game and asking where the TV was.
“No TV tonight, Ava my dear. We’re going to fix supper and then do girl things, like pedicures and shampoos, and I’ll style your hair.” She perked up at that a bit—Ava had lank, straight hair that was now shaggy and in need of trimming. I’d never studied haircutting, but I had some talent for it—friends used to beg me to save them money and cut their hair, and I pretty much kept my own mop mowed and relatively well shaped.
“Will you cut my hair too?” Jess asked.
Eyeing the mop of curls with some caution, I said probably not but we’d condition it and blow-dry it.
The cheeseburgers for supper were a success. I set the girls to cutting up a salad, with supervision, and taught them to make a simple vinegar and oil vinaigrette with a little bit of seasoning. Jess declared it the best hamburger she’d ever eaten, but Ava reserved her praise.
The pedicures were equally successful—I cut nails, trimmed cuticles, buffed, massaged softening cream into their feet and then wrapped them in steamy towels. We did the shampoos at the kitchen sink, with each girl standing on a small stool—Gram clucked her disapproval at me. Shampoos belonged in the bathroom, not the kitchen, but I promised to scrub the sink afterward. I trimmed Ava’s hair, giving her slight bangs she could push to the side, then dousing her hair with body-giving mousse and after blowing it dry, shaping it with a fat curling iron that I used on special occasions. The result was that her hair framed her face softly instead of hanging limply at the sides. She was thrilled.
“Oh, Aunt Kate, can you do this for me every day?”
“No,” I laughed, “But I can teach you to do it.”
“My turn,” Jess said, and I washed those curls, put a little silk therapy lotion on them to make them easier to brush out. Then I blow dried her hair, using a brush to straighten it as much as possible and used the same fat curling iron, this time to make large puffs instead of wild unruly curls. She was enchanted.
We finished the evening by painting toenails and doing manicures. Then I let the girls watch one short program—of my choice—while I made cocoa. After the program, I packed them off to sleep together in Gram’s bed, got tight goodnight hugs, lots of thanks, and some nice kisses. Then I toddled off to bed myself, too tired to read.
It was well into the wee morning hours and I had been sleeping soundly, when I heard a whispered voice. “Aunt Kate? Aunt Kate? Wake up! We’re scared!”
I nearly bolted out of bed, rushing to find Ava and Jess huddled in the doorway of my room, clutching each other. I knelt and put an arm around each. “What’s the matter, girls? There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Yes, there is,” Ava said firmly. “Someone with a flashlight came down the driveway. Jess heard it—she never has been a good sleeper, according to Mama—and she woke me up. I saw the light but I was afraid to pull the blind aside to look.”
“Let me go look in the back yard,” I said. Darn! I always left a small light on the kitchen, but if I turned off the night light in the bathroom I could sidle my way down the hall to the back bedroom that had once been Donna’s and looked out over the backyard, just on the other side from the driveway. “You girls stay here.”
“No,” the chorused. “We’re staying with you.”
So I peered out the window, moving the blind ever so slightly. The girls clung to my legs. Sure enough, a shadowy figure that I couldn’t make out had a flashlight and was over near the poke
sallet
. The flashlight blinded me to all else, so I couldn’t even tell size or sex. The fact that it was cloudy and there was no moonlight or starlight didn’t help at all.
“Come back to my bedroom, quietly,” I said in the most reassuring tone I could. Once there, I called Rick Samuels, told him what was happening, and suggested he not use his siren.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said ironically, but he was there within five minutes, lights and siren on the car out. Without a flashlight, he crept down the driveway and crisscrossed the driveway—we were watching again from the back bedroom. I listened for signs of a struggle, anything, but heard nothing. Finally, while we held our collective breaths, Rick came to the back door and knocked. I assured the girls it was okay and we all went to let him in.
“You have company, I see,” he said, reaching to ruffle Jess’ hair.
“The girls saw the flashlight first.”
Rick got a little too condescending when he said to Ava, “You sure you weren’t having a dream?”
“I was
not,”
she said firmly. “Jess saw the light first, and Aunt Kate saw it too after we woke her up.”
He looked at me, and I confirmed it. “Whoever it was went over toward the corner where Steve tells me I have poke
sallet
growing.”
He looked utterly bewildered. “Poke
sallet
? Why would anyone come sneaking around in the night to pick a plant? What kind of plant is it anyway?”
“Greens,” I told him. “Like collards or spinach or beet greens. Only it’s poisonous unless you cook it three times.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No, but I don’t expect a city person like you to know that.”
“So I’m back to my original question: what does it have to do with anything?”
I was sure I’d told him this but I doubt he either believed me or took it seriously. So I reminded him that before Gram died, she’d been tasting turnip greens that were off, then she got violently sick and died. Me and my big mouth: I forgot the girls were listening to every word.
“Somebody poisoned Gram?” Ava asked, while Jess burst into tears.
I rushed to comfort them, but I was too late. All my words of reassurance, my comfort that we didn’t really know, fell on deaf ears.
“Is somebody going to poison you or my mom?” wailed Jess. By now, both girls were crying.
“No, sweetheart, nothing is going to happen to your mom or me. Can you go back to bed now? Officer Samuels says it’s safe and whoever was here has gone.”
“But he might come back,” Ava pointed out.
I didn’t think so, but I did the logical things. I made hot cocoa.
Rick said he’d stay until daylight, so I ended up putting him in Donna’s room and spending the rest of the night wedged between the two girls in Gram’s bed. Do you know how hot it can get sleeping between two young bodies in a bed not meant for three? And I lay awake wondering what would happen when they repeated this story at home. Donna and Tom knew about my suspicions but they didn’t know about the poke
sallet
, and they wouldn’t appreciate their children being scared half to death. So much for my delightful evening with the girls.
True to his word, Rick was gone by the time we woke up—nearly eight-thirty after our interrupted sleep. He left a note on the kitchen table, saying, “We’ll talk later. And think about getting an alarm system.”
Good thought. I’d ask Tom about it first thing and about motion detector lights around the house. Funny, I’d never felt threatened in Dallas, a city with a fairly good crime rate, but suddenly I was scared in good old small-town Wheeler.
When she woke up, Ava wailed that her hair didn’t look like it did the night before, and I gave her a quick lesson in fixing it herself then left her to the curling iron. She looked very proud when she came out of the bathroom, and I thought I’d made a friend of the niece who’d always been indifferent toward me. Jess just tumbled her curls with her hand and came into the kitchen demanding to make sticky buns. I think the morning made up for the disaster in the middle of the night—at least in part.
After we had our sticky buns and cleaned up, I returned the girls to Donna, dropping them off at the back door and not going in.
Not much to my surprise, Donna was at my house by lunchtime. But she never mentioned the girls’ fright—did they not tell her? I sensed that maybe because she didn’t listen, the girls didn’t tell her everything. No, she had something else on her mind completely, but it began with food.
“Why’d you close the café on Mondays in the summer? I mean, really, Kate, if there’s ever a season that’s good for business it’s when the tourists are here.”
“I studied the past records—Overton has them—and business booms in the spring and fall but is fairly quiet in the heat of summer. I just thought everybody deserved a day off.”
“Well, I’m starving, and I want a BLT,” she pouted, “but now I can’t get one.”
Even as I kicked myself for being ever the peacemaker, I said, “I have the makings. I can fix one for you.”