Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) (3 page)

Across the highway, I walked by a classy women’s clothing store. From the window display I gathered the business specialized in western styles that were now a little passé but I still liked—broom skirts, lots of denim, and lots of turquoise. It would be a good browse when it was open. I stumbled onto a nursery next door, apparently connected to the clothing store when it was open. Latticed wood panels screened the business from the highway, and the entrance was on the side next to the clothing store. There was actually a connecting walkway and door to the clothing store, though now the door was closed.

The only business open on Sunday morning, the nursery seemed deserted, and I wandered among the native plants, then spotted rose bushes and other “citified” plants that would appeal to the newcomers to the area. I lingered, staring, and decided I’d have to go look at Gram’s yard and then plant some native plants. I knew nothing about gardening and probably had a brown thumb, but Gram had grown the things you’d expect—petunias and pansies,
nandina
and monkey grass. I’d want native plants (after I learned which ones were which) and maybe some lettuce and green onions. I expected to have a lot of free time once I came back to Wheeler and gave up my social life—
was I really accepting that idea?—
and gardening would be a good hobby.

Gram said, dryly, “You won’t have much time for a hobby, Kate. Get help planting things that will tend to themselves.”

Thanks, Gram. Good to know.

“Help you?” A masculine voice came from behind me. I turned to see a man, oh, between thirty-five and forty (I was used to sizing up men), with short blond hair peeking out from a backwards gimme cap, a sweat-stained T-shirt, and jeans with dirt all over them. As he mopped his face with a large handkerchief from his back pocket, he apologized. “Been hauling sacks of dirt. Build up a sweat in a hurry. You interested in native plants?”

Somehow I knew there was a chip on his shoulder, an attitude beneath his genial façade. I shrugged. “Don’t know, but I guess I’d like to be. I’m Johnny Chambers’ granddaughter.”

He actually took off his hat and held it in front of him, revealing a severe hat line in his hair. “I sure am sorry about her. I liked old Johnny, blunt as she could be. My condolences.” Then he added, “Her meatloaf was my absolute favorite.”

“Thanks. I’m going to keep the café, and you can still get your meatloaf.”
Gram was speaking again. I felt like Charlie McCarthy, Edgar Bergen’s puppet.

“Good,” he said. “I just can’t believe she died so suddenly. Don’t believe in such accidents myself. She was healthy as that proverbial horse. I suppose anyone can go suddenly, but it makes one wonder.”

His comment brought up echoes of what Gus had muttered and the strange discrepancies between the stories Donna and
Marj
told.

“You think there was something funny about her death?” I asked. I’m not sure what I wanted him to tell me, but he backed away, suddenly defensive.

“It ain’t for me to say. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”

I was curious but didn’t want to push it, so I changed the subject. “I’m going to be living in her house, and I was just thinking I’d like to spruce up the landscape.”

He grinned again, defensiveness gone. “No disrespect meant, but she had what I call ‘old lady landscaping.’”

I nodded and then pointed to a flat of plants labeled “coreopsis.” “Would these grow over there?”

“Sure. We’d have to figure out sun and shade but a lot of native plants would grow over there, and you could have color most of the year. You cook much?” He headed in a new direction, and I followed, answering, “Yeah, I like to cook.”

“Then you ought to start with herbs—you could plant them right now. It’s a good time since the chance of frost is past and the evenings are a bit warmer, but most of them will die out over the winter. Sage will last, so will oregano and thyme, but you’ll have to replant chives and tarragon and basil, things like that.”

To think of having those herbs fresh outside my door gave me a shiver of delight. In Dallas, when I absolutely felt I had to have fresh herbs for a dish, I bought a wilted bunch at the market for an exorbitant price.

“Do you do landscaping?” I asked.

“You asking if I’d help you? Sure I would, for Johnny’s sake, if nothing else.” But he looked evasive again, as though he didn’t want to get too close.

“The dress store…it looks really interesting, and I can’t wait to get in there. Your wife own it?” I was long trained in finding out if men were married, even when they didn’t wear wedding rings.

“
Naw
, my sister. We’re new to the area, and we each decided to do what we know best, but kind of do it in joint partnership. We, uh, we weren’t either one happy where we were before.” Then he turned away abruptly, as though he’d said too much. I thought it would be interesting sometime to find out why they were unhappy, but the thought barely crossed my mind.

“I grew up here,” I said, “so I gathered you were new. How long have you been here?”

“Three years,” he said, mopping his forehead again. “When we came, the city was offering incentives to open up businesses and help to maintain them. That’s how we got started.”

It really was getting warm, and I felt tiny drops of perspiration on my forehead. “Okay,” I said, “I’d like some basil and thyme to start with, and pots to put them in. What’s that plant over there?” I had spotted a cluster of tall plants covered with bell-shaped blooms.

“That’s foxglove,” he said. “It’s pretty, but you don’t want it if you have animals that are outside. It’s poisonous, what they make digitalis from for heart medication. But the plant itself is deadly.” He half-smiled. “Like a lot of things in this world—beautiful but deadly.”

I thought of the turnip greens Gram had been cooking and shivered. “You mean, if some of that got cooked in a pot of greens, like turnips, it could kill a person?”

He was thoughtful. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends on the person’s health and the amount of foxglove, but, yeah, theoretically it could.”

I made a mental note to ask Doc Mason if he’d tell me about Gram’s health. Maybe she wouldn’t have written that note unless she knew she had a heart condition. Aloud, I said, “I guess I’ll pass on that.” Suddenly, I held out my hand. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name. I’m Kate Chambers.”

“Steve
Millican
,” he responded, wiping his hand on his pants before offering it. “You don’t want pots. I bet Johnny’s got a bunch of them in that shed out back, but let’s take some potting soil.”

“You going to leave this untended and come with me?” I asked incredulously.

“Sure, it won’t take long, and nobody’s going to steal anything. I got the cash locked up and hidden.”

So we traipsed across the highway, fished out pots, and planted my new herbs. Steve said they needed full sun or at least almost full so we put them on the wide rail of the back porch, with its eastern exposure. They’d get sun most of the day. “Come summer,” he said, “when it’s really hot, you want to water them every day. But for now, every two, three days is okay.”

I looked around Gram’s rather large yard—it was, as he’d said, old lady gardening, with
nandina
, holly, things planted in straight rows. A stand of knee-high green plants in one corner caught my eye. “What’s that?”

He looked. “That’s poke
sallet
. Didn’t Johnny ever cook it for you? You got to boil it and drain it three times to get all the toxins out—if you don’t do that, it’s probably as bad or worse than foxglove. I’ve never eaten it, but folks tell me when it’s cooked right, it’s real good. Sort of the same texture as spinach.”

“Or turnip greens?” I shivered. “I don’t know that I’ll try.”

“Yeah, I suppose it’s like turnip greens. If it gets too big,” he said, “we’ll cut it down. Gets really bitter when it’s much bigger than it is now. But it always comes back.”

My mind was off on its track again. I was going to check and see if it looked like any had been cut lately.

“Well, I guess I better get back across the highway. Nice meeting you.”

“Wait! I haven’t paid you for the plants!”

“Catch me next time,” he said. “I’ll run a tab,” and he was gone, darting across the road.

****

Suddenly I was ravenous, since I really hadn’t eaten that waffle. I wanted a meatloaf sandwich with mayonnaise, so back I went to the Blue Plate. Only now I had planting soil under my fingernails and smeared on my clothes, plus my shoes were muddy.

Marj
stared at me. “Girl, what have you been doing?”

“Planting herbs at Gram’s house,” I said.

“Oh, so you met Steve. Nice guy, but watch out. I think there’s something in his past he’s hiding—or someone.”

Oh, good, just what I needed—more to worry about. “
Marj
, could I have a half a meatloaf sandwich on rye with mayonnaise and a pickle spear.”

“Coming right up,” she said. “We got turnip greens. Course we threw out that old batch, but I cooked these myself, and they’re right good.”

“No, thanks,” I said. I doubted I’d ever eat turnip greens again, maybe not even spinach.

The sandwich was a delicious reminder of my childhood, the meatloaf seasoned just the way Gram did it, and I enjoyed every bite. But as I sat there, I realized that
Marj
was getting in the weeds—the Sunday crowd was checking out fast, and she still had the counter customers to serve. “Let me do the cash register,” I said.

“Thanks,” she muttered, hurrying by with a plate of chicken-fried for a customer who was just short of banging his fork on the counter.

Old skills sometimes come back quickly, and after a few false tries, I was ringing up tickets as efficiently as I ever had. Many folks knew me and stopped to offer their condolences which slowed the line down some, but the after-church crowd must have been feeling sanctimonious. No one complained. The line was steady, and I stayed with it until things slowed down. Sunday dinner was always a big rush at the café—those who weren’t churchgoers learned to come at eleven, and by twelve we were swamped.

Finally things slowed down, and
Marj
came up and hugged me. “Thanks, hon. I’d have been in a pretty pickle without you. It’s so good to have you back.”

I knew at that moment my fate was sealed: I was coming back to Wheeler to run the café and live in Gram’s house. Maybe not forever, but for now. Silently to myself, I said, “Okay, Gram, you win.” I added, “But what do I do about Donna?” For once, Gram was silent.

Glancing at my watch, I yelped. It was a tiny bit after two-thirty. I ripped off the apron I’d donned and tore out the door, yelling over my shoulder, “I’ve got to go. I’m late.” As I walked or half-jogged to Gram’s to get my car, I saw Gus, standing out back, taking a smoke break. “Miss Kate,” he said, “remember what I told you. You be careful.”

I just stared at him as he stomped his cigarette and went back inside to face the mountain of dirty dishes. On Sundays, we closed at three, but Gus would stay until the last plate was shining clean.

There was no time to change or clean up, so I jumped in my car and headed for Donna’s house.