Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) (6 page)

I left Wheeler the next Sunday, after the church crowd rush was over, without even telling Donna I was leaving. The next week was a blur, and I had little time to wonder whether Gram had been murdered. She, or her voice, didn’t follow me to Dallas. I went to my office first thing Monday morning to turn in my resignation, offering to work the usual two weeks. David
Clinkscales
, my boss, was understanding but thought I was making a huge career mistake. He declined the two weeks’ notice and freed me on the spot. He also offered a reference if I ever needed it down the road—or another job with his firm. I told him to come to the café some day for lunch, and he said he just might. Then I cleared my belongings out of my office, packing up pictures of Donna’s kids, of Gram, of the café, a special letter opener that someone had given me, a couple of prints that I prized and were mine. With all that jammed into a box, I rode down the elevator for the last time and wondered what in the world I was doing with my life.

Next call: a friend who was in real estate, who advised me this wasn’t a good time to sell, and I should consider leasing for a year. She’d manage the property—for a fee of course. I told her I’d get back to her after I consulted my accountant. She thought she could charge an astounding, “Between $1250 and 1400 a month.” I thought she should be impressed by my casual reference to an accountant.

So with Wynona screeching and howling, I went about the business of packing up what I wanted from the condo—clothes, of course, and dishes that had belonged to my mom, pictures from walls and table tops, a couple of antique rugs. When I surveyed it all, I realized it wasn’t much. It didn’t speak well for the permanence of my life. And, the decision having been made—or made for me—I was anxious to be gone. Rob had called twice, saying he saw my car and knew I was back in town and hoped I’d come to my senses. I ignored his calls and prayed he wouldn’t knock on my door. A man like Rob usually moved on to a more willing chick rather quickly.

Donna called a couple of times, but I saw it was her on caller ID and ignored the calls. Nasty of me, I know, but if anything was up—or wrong—at the café,
Marj
would have called. I figured Donna was calling about how to get Gram’s money more quickly.

I called Cindy and a few other friends to arrange a last-night pizza party at my condo—I was pretty sure Rob wouldn’t show up with all their cars outside. We talked of old times, made promises to get together, they all swore they were coming to Wheeler, and I knew some but not all of them would. They left around midnight on Tuesday, and I prepared to return to Wheeler the next morning. Thus ended my twelve years of being a professional single in Dallas. I was ready to be just plain single.

****

I drove out of Dallas that morning with feelings more mixed than a week and a half earlier, when Donna phoned to say Gram had died. That time I was overcome with shock and grief and disbelief. Now I was much more rational, and I knew I was leaving behind a life that, while it certainly hadn’t been the way I wanted to live forever, had served to keep me from having to look at myself as I passed that milestone birthday and marched into my thirties. I had enjoyed the parties, the evenings in the bar, the attention of men. I had a few good friends but not many, just Cindy and one or two others. And there were men I’d really liked, one I had thought I loved. Now I was going into—what? A life that Gram wanted me to live? A job that she wanted me to do? I loved Gram enough to do whatever she wanted, but I wasn’t at all sure of what the future held. As I passed through the suburbs east of Dallas, though I felt a sense of ease, I could have sworn Gram whispered, “Kate, it was right of me to get you out of Dallas.” She was back, but surely she didn’t die just to get me out of the bar scene in Dallas. That was too much for my mind.

I wanted to shout, “For what? Find out if someone killed you? Run the Café? What exactly do I need to do? Make Donna happy?” The latter seemed impossible.

I chose to go the back roads, which I’d always liked better than the interstate, so I went through Seagoville, with its scary-looking prison, and was approaching Crandall, known for its speed trap, so I stepped on the brakes—and the pedal went all the way to the floor, while the car kept going. My first reaction was pure panic—as my heart pounded and my thoughts raced, I thought surely I was going to die. Something in the back of my mind reminded me that you shouldn’t pull on the emergency brake at high speeds—I was probably going sixty then—because you could make the car flip. “Coast,” I told myself, “coast and breathe.” I almost wished for that Crandall cop who hid out behind billboards to find me today, but no such luck. The road dipped down a slight hill and the car gained speed, but then there was a long uphill stretch approaching Crandall. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, keeping the car on the road. I remember that when we got to the top of the hill, the road was above the town, so if I careened off, I’d go down a steep embankment. Breathe, I told myself again, in through the nose, out through the mouth. By the top of the hill, the car had slowed considerably, down to thirty. I dared not pull on the emergency brake as I looked down on the grain mill below me, but there was that downhill stretch coming and then the car would pick up speed. I knew the road well enough to know that there was a long flat stretch after that—but did I dare wait and see how much speed the car gained? Two cars whizzed past me in the left lane, one driver giving me a puzzled glance and the other not even looking my way.

Just as I reached the crest and started downhill, there were two trees—not huge but maybe substantial, and beyond that a clump of bushes. I steered toward the trees and closing my eyes in fear, pulled on the emergency brake. The car skidded, shuddered, rocked and then edged into the trees sharply enough to break one. But the car had stopped. I sat there shaking with fear, utterly unable to do anything for a long time. Finally, still breathing hard, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and dialed 911.

From the voice that answered, I pictured a gentle, grandmotherly type of woman sitting in her living room, answering calls and dispatching help—probably not at all the way 911 calls were handled even in a small and dying town.

“This isn’t exactly a desperate emergency,” I said, my voice shaky. “But my car lost its brakes on the highway.”

She replied wryly that desperate emergencies in Crandall were rare, and she’d send someone over directly. “This does sound serious though,” she said. “Are you all right,
hon
?”

“I think so,” I said. “Just scared.”

“Someone” turned out to be a sheriff’s deputy, probably in his late fifties, a bit overweight—well more than that. But as nice as he could be.

“Well, Missy, I see you got a problem—and took out one of our trees.” He was trying to be jovial.

I hadn’t tried to stand until then and found my legs shaky. He reached out a hand to steady me and said gently, “Wow, now tell me what happened.”

I described it as best as I could.

“Good thinking on your part, Missy. Lots of people would have pulled on that brake right away and got themselves in real trouble.”

I could barely mumble my thanks.

The deputy introduced himself as Chester, and I in turn introduced myself, after which he took to calling me, “Miss Kate.” No surprise in East Texas.

He got down on his hands and knees and peered under the car, then flipped himself over and pulled himself under the car. When he emerged, dusting himself off, he said, “Yep, hole in the brake line. Looks like it’s been cut to me.”

“Cut?” I echoed like an idiot.

“Yeah, cut. Anybody out to get you? You got enemies?”

Yeah, I guess I could think of a couple of people, but it didn’t seem likely, and I couldn’t see much good in discussing it with Chester. Not even Rob would go that far. “No, not really,” I said.

“Well, I’ll get a tow truck out here directly, and then my wife told me to bring you to the house. It’s ‘bout lunchtime, and she’ll feed you and soothe you. “

And so I found myself in Carolyn Grimes’s living room, facing not the little old lady I had envisioned. Carolyn was quite a bit younger than Chester, but older than me. She wore capris, a cap-sleeve T-shirt, and flip-flops, with carefully painted toenails showing. Obviously, she didn’t shop in Crandall. She reminded me a bit of Donna—she was that attractive—but the difference stopped there. For one thing, I had rescued a howling Wynona from the car and took her with me. She got a warm welcome from Carolyn,

“Chester Grimes,” she said, “you’re a dusty mess. What have you been doing?”

“Crawling under this sweet thing’s car to look. Somebody cut the brake line.”

“No kidding!” She looked at me in horror then rushed to give me a hug. “You’re lucky to be okay, hon. Are you hurt at all?”

“No, just a big shaky still.”

“I can fix that. Chester, you go take a shower and get on a fresh uniform. Then I’ll feed the both of you.”

She literally sat me at the kitchen table—a well-worn, old wooden one, in a homey kitchen that had obviously seen lots of cooking and not much updating. Carolyn swooped a pile of papers off the table, poured me a glass of ice water, and said, “I made tuna salad for Chester’s lunch. Is that okay with you?

It certainly was, and it turned out to be the best tuna sandwich I’d ever eaten—I wanted to ask her how she made her tuna, so I could do it at the café. Carolyn served it with a wonderful, ripe slice of cantaloupe, and for herself and me, cold glasses of chardonnay. “Chester can’t have a beer. He’s on duty,” she said, grinning wickedly at him, as he pretended to backhand her.

“Why are you giving Miss Kate wine when she’s got to drive to Wheeler?”

“’Cause it will take them a while to repair the brake line, and she’s going to take a nap,” Carolyn said smugly.

During lunch I found myself telling them all about Gram’s death and my new life running the café, though I did not mention Donna and all that conflict.

“I loved that woman’s chicken fried,” Chester said. “I’d heard she died—my condolences. But we’ll be back to see you at the Blue Plate.”

I truly felt I’d made new friends. After lunch, Carolyn tucked me and Wynona into a cheery guest room, me protesting all the way that I wouldn’t sleep. I did, soundly, for two hours, until she came to tell me that my car was ready, and Chester had it out in front of the house.

As I got in the car to say my goodbyes, it occurred to me that I’d left my whole life in the car and sent it off to unknown mechanics. Not a thing was missing. Small-town life is sometimes really good.

“Dinner at the Blue Plate is on me,” I said, “any time you come.” I never did ask if he was the one who hid behind billboards to give out speeding tickets.

The drive through Kauffman and Canton seemed to take forever, probably because I was still a bit groggy from my wine-induced nap. It was close to five-thirty when I pulled in behind Gram’s house and began unloading.

Barely five minutes later, Wheeler’s only police car pulled up behind my car. Rick Samuels unwound himself from behind the steering wheel and raised his hat in my direction. “Afternoon,” he said. “Hear you had some trouble in Crandall.”

I was astounded. “How did you know that?”

A tight grin, the best I’d ever seen from him. “Law enforcement officers keep in touch. Grimes emailed me. You made quite a hit with him and his wife.”

“They were good to me,” I said, “and I invited them to the Blue Plate anytime.”

He watched me pick up a load of clothes and asked, “Need some help?”

I grinned. “I can always use help.”

So almost without conversation, he helped me carry things into the house, asked where to put them, and followed orders. There honestly wasn’t that much, and the car was unloaded in fifteen minutes. I was profuse in my thanks—okay, maybe too much so, but it surprised me that this taciturn, emotionless police chief had come by to help.

“Got a minute to talk?” he asked.

“Sure. Want to go to the café to talk over some supper?” I was beginning to get hungry again. How could I after that good lunch?

He seated himself comfortably at the kitchen table. “No. I want to talk in private first. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, sitting down at the table and not even dreaming of offering him some kind of refreshment. What did I have in the fridge anyway?

“I hear you went to talk to Doc Mason about Johnny,” he said slowly, watching me for a reaction.

“I did,” I said honestly. “A couple of things don’t make sense, and I wanted to ask him about them.”

“Like what?”

I didn’t want to say that the versions of Gram’s death told me by Donna and
Marj
were so dramatically different, so I prevaricated a bit. “Well, she was in good health, and it just seemed strange to me she tasted some greens that she said were ‘off’ and bitter and then she got violently sick and died.” There, I’d done it. I’d told him exactly what I didn’t mean to tell him.