The Calamity Café (18 page)

G
eorge Lincoln came by the café on his way to work the next morning. I was making coffee and didn't realize he was there until the café became dark, and I looked around to see where the sun had gone. It was being blocked by Mr. Lincoln standing in the doorway.

“May I help you with something this morning?” I asked.

“I was on my way to work and merely stopped by to see how the renovations are coming.” His upper lip curled as he looked around at the café. “You do realize this paint will have to go, don't you?”

“Excuse me?”

He spread his hands as if he were dropping a basketball. “This color scheme doesn't fit in with the historical society's guidelines. I'm afraid you've wasted your time and money on your yellow and blue paint. If you'll come
by the Chamber of Commerce, I'll get you a list of acceptable colors.”

“But my entire color scheme has already been established! Everything we've ordered complements these colors!” It would cost so much time and money to completely repaint the café. Who did George Lincoln think he was coming in here telling me what colors were suitable for the historical society?

I heard Roger's voice from behind George Lincoln. “Coming through with some flooring!”

Mr. Lincoln moved aside and allowed Roger to pass. I noticed a red SUV parked outside and realized it must be Mr. Lincoln's vehicle.

Roger set the box he carried onto the floor. “Did I hear you say something about Amy's color scheme not working?”

“Indeed you did. It won't do at all.”

“Everyone is entitled to his opinion,” Roger said. “I think it'll do nicely.”

“Not according to the historical society guidelines.” Mr. Lincoln raised his chin.

“And when was this café declared a historical site?” Roger asked.

“Well, it hasn't been yet. But only because the meeting isn't being held until next month. It's only a matter of time.” Mr. Lincoln looked from Roger to me. “You could've saved yourself a great deal of trouble had you checked with me prior to choosing your colors. In fact, you could've saved yourself even more trouble had you sold this place to me as I asked you to.”

“I'm not selling the café, Mr. Lincoln,” I said.

“Suit yourself.” He looked around the café again.
“Although if you change your mind, I might still consider taking the place off your hands.” He nodded to both Roger and me, and then he left.

I waited until he'd started the engine on his car before asking Roger if what Mr. Lincoln had said about the color scheme was true.

“I doubt it. But you might want to call Sarah and find out what Billy thinks about it.”

“I will. Thanks.” I put my hand on Roger's arm because he was about to go back and get another box of flooring. “Wait. While it's just the two of us, I wanted to talk with you for a second.”

He squinted at me.

“It's nothing bad, I promise,” I said.

“I know what it is, and I don't want to discuss it with you.”

I changed tactics. “Fine, then. I
won't
tell you that Jackie and I are going to Mountain City after work today to meet with Grady Holman's daughter.”

“What?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I found the woman yesterday when I was poking around on the Internet trying to find out what happened to Grady. Turns out, he died in 1984, but he left behind three children. One of them is Anna Holman Carter, and Jackie and I are meeting her for coffee.”

“Why?”

“Ms. Carter wants to look at photos of the Holmans she's never seen. I'm going to the newspaper office at lunch to see what I can find.”

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “What do you hope to gain from meeting this woman?”

“I'm hoping she can give me a little more insight into the
Holmans, the bank robbery, and the money we found.” I huffed. “You sound like Jackie. And speaking of Jackie, how did your date go?”

“I
knew
that's what you wanted to talk with me about.”

“Of course it is.” I grinned. “So?”

“So you were kidding about meeting this woman?”

“No,” I said. “We're meeting her.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No . . . unless you'd like to go.”

“I'd
like
to work over this evening and get this as much of this floor done as possible,” he said. “But you know absolutely nothing about this woman.”

“I know that she's, like, seventy years old. I think the meeting will be fine.”

“And the date was nice, but don't you
dare
repeat that, Flowerpot,” he said over his shoulder as he strode outside to get another box.

Smiling, I went to the kitchen to check on the biscuits. They weren't quite done, and it was too early to call Sarah. I fried some sausage.

As I was assembling the sausage biscuits, everyone else started coming in to work. Jackie wandered into the kitchen to see how I was doing.

“Need any help?” she asked.

“Nope, I've about got it.”

“Were you and Roger here alone this morning?”

“We usually are. I told him that you and I are going to meet Grady Holman's daughter. Like you, he didn't think that was such a swell idea. But I'm dropping by the newspaper office at lunchtime to see what old photos I can dig up to take to Ms. Carter.”

“That's nice. What else did you guys talk about?”

“George Lincoln's assertion that my color scheme will violate some sort of historical society code. Which reminds me, I need to call Sarah.” I handed her the tray of biscuits. “Would you mind taking these out to the workers?”

Jackie took the tray outside, and I called Sarah.

“Good morning. Hancock Law Offices. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Sarah.” I told her about George Lincoln's visit to the café earlier this morning.

“I think that man is just trying another tactic to get you to sell him the café. Billy is walking in the door now. Let me put you on hold while I get his take on this situation.”

I listened to some instrumental pop music while waiting for Sarah to talk the matter over with Billy.

“Hey,” Sarah said when she came back on the line. “Billy says Lincoln is blowing smoke. The café hasn't been deemed a historic site, and you can do anything you want with it. Even if the
land
is deemed a historic site, that has nothing to do with the café. You aren't in a historic
district
. So you're good. If Lincoln keeps hounding you, we'll file a harassment suit.”

“Works for me. You know, I'm beginning to think George Lincoln might be as big a bully as Lou Lou was. It makes me wonder what else he might've done to get his hands on the café.” I blew out a breath. “Thanks for your help, Sarah.”

“Anytime. How are the renovations coming, besides the inappropriate color scheme, I mean?”

“Things are going great. I can hardly wait for you to see the place.”

“I'll come by soon,” she said. “Got another call. See ya!”

I left the kitchen and joined everyone else in the dining room. They were either sitting on the floor or standing as they ate their biscuits and drank their coffee. I grabbed a cup of coffee and wandered over to Homer.

“I'm having my biscuit early today,” he said.

“Good for you. Change can be a positive thing. Who's your hero today?”

“The great jazz saxophonist John Coltrane. He died young at only forty, you know. But he teaches us that men are here to grow into the best good that they can be,” he said. “That's what I'm trying to do.”

“I think you're doing a wonderful job, Homer.”

Roger gathered us around in a circle and gave us our assignments. The café crew was going to be helping him and one other man put down flooring here in the dining room.

“Johnny and I will help with the harder areas—corners and edges. The rest of it should be simple and straightforward. We'll go over it with you a couple of times before we actually get started. Don't hesitate to let us know if you have questions. Better to ask than for us to have to tear something out and redo it.”

The construction crew would be working on the patio.

I stood, dusted off my shorts, and slipped on my heavy canvas gloves.

*   *   *

K
nowing I wouldn't have time to make lunch for the workers, given my planned trip to the newspaper office, I called the pizza parlor and had them deliver pizza and breadsticks for lunch. It was a good thing I
did. We weren't even halfway finished with the floor by then. The work was harder than it had looked.

I grabbed a breadstick and a bottle of water before heading out to search through the
Winter Garden News
archives.

Ms. Peggy looked up from her perusal of a crossword puzzle when I walked through the door. “Back to run another ad?”

“No, actually I'm here to see if the newspaper would have any old photographs of the Holmans.”

She frowned. “Why in the world would you want those? Honey, let the past be. That café is your place now.”

I smiled. “I know. But Grady Holman's daughter wants to see some of her Winter Garden relatives.”

“Grady Holman's daughter!” Ms. Peggy brought her palm up to rest just below her throat. “I didn't know Grady had any children!”

“He had three—two daughters and a son . . . after he moved to North Carolina.”

“Land's sakes! Grady didn't die way back in the thirties, then?”

“He didn't die until 1984.”

“Well, I'll be,” she mused. “I always thought Bo killed Grady. I'd have gone to my grave thinking it if you hadn't just told me different.”

I quickly explained about doing an online search and finding Grady's obituary as Walter Holman and then locating Anna Carter from that.

Ms. Peggy took a business card out of her desk drawer. “Ask Ms. Carter to call me. I want to do a story on Grady and let people know what became of him.”

“I'll tell her.” I took the card and slipped it into my purse. “About those photos?”

“Your best bet would be to do a search for the grand opening of Lou's Joint. Also look for Lou Lou's engagement and marriage announcement.”

“Lou Lou was married?” I asked.

“Well, sure she was. You know good and well that Pete's her son.”

“I know. But since everybody in the family is named
Holman
, I assumed that Lou Lou had . . . you know . . . given birth out of wedlock.”

“Nope. She was married to Sherman Harding,” she said. “They didn't stay married long, though. And when they got divorced, Lou Lou took back her maiden name and gave the baby her name too, since she was no longer a Harding when Pete was born.”

I went into the archive room and sat down at the computer. Ms. Peggy was right. There were photographs from the grand opening and ribbon-cutting ceremony of Lou's Joint. Lou Lou had looked a lot like her father. There was an older man standing next to Lou. The caption indicated it was Bo Holman, Lou's father. He had bushy white hair and the appearance of a mountain man, but he didn't strike me as a bank robber. I supposed looks could be deceiving.

Bo's obituary was in the
Winter Garden News
, of course, but there wasn't a photograph to accompany it.

The Holman–Harding engagement was announced. I pulled up that article and saw a photo of a younger, thinner, smiling—that was the strangest part, since the woman seldom smiled—Lou Lou and a man who didn't look half bad. In fact, there was something about him
that seemed familiar. The pair actually made a handsome couple.

I looked at the wedding announcement. Lou Lou, again smiling, was in a tea-length white gown with a hat and gloves. Sherman Harding stood beside her in a black suit. They were looking at each other rather than at the photographer. I wondered what could've possibly gone so wrong between them that Lou Lou would even strip their son of Sherman's last name. And Pete had obviously not grown up with Sherman Harding being a part of his life . . . at least, as far as I knew.

I retrieved the photos I'd printed and went back out to the front office.

“Ms. Peggy, what happened between Lou Lou and Sherman Harding? They seemed so happy in their engagement and wedding photos.”

She smiled. “Everybody looks happy in their engagement and wedding photos, don't you reckon?”

“Yeah, I guess they do.”

“It's too bad they can't stay that way. With Lou Lou and Sherman, rumor had it that he never stopped loving his first girlfriend, Becky. Sherman had taken up with Lou Lou while he and Becky were broken up. Becky even left here for a while and went to stay with some relatives up north somewhere.”

“And let me guess,” I said. “Becky came back, and she and Sherman rekindled those old feelings?”

“She came back with a son. He was born just a few months before Pete was.”

“Dang. Sherman must've been a fast worker.”

“I reckon Becky's parents thought people would think the boy was adopted or something if she went away for
a few months, but everybody knew. Everybody always knows,” she said. “But, anyhow, that was the end of his romance with Lou Lou. When he saw his first love with his firstborn child, he left Lou Lou for Becky.” She nodded toward the papers in my hand. “Did you get everything you need?”

“Yes.” I paid her for the copies. “Thanks for everything.”

“Don't forget to ask Grady's daughter—Ms. Carter, did you say?—to call me. I'd bet she has an interesting story to tell.”

W
hen I got back to the café, I went around the side of the building to look at the patio. The builders had made a lot of progress today. They'd put up support beams and should be able to construct the roof next.

“Looking nice, don't you think?” Stan said, coming to stand next to me.

“It sure is.” I studied his profile. There was something so familiar about him . . . something I couldn't quite figure out. “Y'all are doing a fantastic job. Thank you.”

“I just do what I'm told. I'm tickled Roger saw fit to give me this job, even if it
is
only for a few days. I'd like to earn enough money to go home for Independence Day.”

“So you haven't always lived here in Winter Garden, Stan?”

There were very few people who lived here who weren't born here. Some were born here and stayed, some left and later returned, but there weren't many transplants.
Mainly because it was such small town. Folks had either never heard of Winter Garden, or they wanted to live closer to the shopping malls and restaurants.

“No, ma'am. I'm originally from Pulaski.”

“And your parents are still there?” I asked.

“My mom's passed on, but my dad is. I can't imagine him ever leaving . . . though if I do ever make enough money, I'd like to have him come here and live with me.”

“That'd be nice. I think he'd like it here.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

I went back into the café and got to work on the floor.

*   *   *

A
fter we'd finished up for the day, Jackie and I went into the kitchen to pack ourselves some dinner to take with us. I was making ham sandwiches, and she was putting chips into plastic baggies.

Roger walked into the kitchen. “Getting ready for the road trip, I see.”

“Yep,” Jackie said.

He ran his hand lightly down her arm. “Be careful. I think it's weird that this woman wants to meet with strangers to compare notes about her family.”

“
She
probably thinks it's weird that I called her out of the blue about her dead father,” I said.

“You've got a point there,” Roger said. “You're both weirdos.”

“And what am I?” asked Jackie.

“I guess you're the person going with her to make sure she doesn't get killed.”

“As long as I'm not a weirdo.”

“I didn't say that,” he corrected.

I put our sandwiches into baggies and then put the sandwiches, chips, and packages of apple slices into an insulated tote.

“Did you find lots of interesting photos to share with Anna Carter?” Jackie asked.

“Yeah. You'll find them interesting too.”

She and Roger exchanged glances.

“One of you let me know when you get back,” Roger said.

“I will.” Jackie smiled.

Once we were in the car, I said, “I take it you and Roger had a talk.”

“We did. And we're on the same page with wanting to take things slowly but to see if there's more between us than friendship. We're going out again on Saturday night.”

“Oh, good. Glad you're taking it
slowly
.”

“What did you mean about my finding the photos interesting?” She got our sandwiches out of the tote. She took mine from the baggie and handed it to me.

I accepted the sandwich. “After we eat, you can look through them, and you'll know exactly what I mean. They're on the backseat.”

“I can wait.” She dropped her sandwich back into the tote, undid her seat belt, and reached into the backseat for the manila envelope. She refastened the seat belt and slid the photos from the envelope.

I ate while Jackie flipped through the photographs.

“Oh my gosh!”

“I think you just found the most interesting one,” I said.

“Can you believe Lou Lou was ever this thin?”

“I can't believe she ever looked that happy. I imagine she was devastated when Sherman left. You see how happy she looks in those photos.”

“Yeah, but come on, Amy. Who looks sad in engagement and wedding photos?”

“That's what Ms. Peggy said.”

“And she said Lou Lou's husband left her—while she was pregnant—for another woman?” Jackie asked.

“Apparently. And the other woman also had a child by him.”

“Did this Harding guy know Lou Lou was pregnant when he abandoned her?”

“I don't know. Maybe he didn't realize it.”

“I'd hope not. I'd hate to think the man would abandon his child as well as his wife, but this could explain why Lou Lou never wanted to cut those apron strings.”

“Yeah. It looks as if Pete really was all she had.”

Lou Lou had been a miserable person. And she'd held to her son so tightly that, in ways, she'd lost him too. He hadn't even been able to share some of the most important parts of his life with her. I felt that she'd have been happy—or, at least, I wanted to hope she would have been—to have known her grandchild. Maybe she'd have adored the baby and given Pete her blessing to start his trucking career.

*   *   *

T
he coffee shop was in the middle of a strip of store buildings. There was an antiques store on one side and an art gallery on the other. The Hill o' Beans was a tan building with kelly green trim. Inside, floral curtains were pulled back to let the waning sunshine in, and there
were sofas and armchairs in addition to bistro tables and chairs.

A waitress spotted Jackie and me standing just inside the front door, looking clueless. Smiling brightly, she hurried over.

“Hi, there! Is either one of you Amy Flowers?” she asked.

“I am,” I said.

“Ms. Carter is waiting for you right over here.” She led us to a table where Anna Carter sat nursing a cup of coffee.

Ms. Carter stood when Jackie and I reached the table. “Hello. Thank you so much for coming.”

I introduced her to Jackie, and we all sat down around the table. Jackie and I ordered coffee from the waitress, and she scampered off to get it.

“I'm looking forward to seeing what some of Daddy's relatives looked like,” said Ms. Carter. “Did you have a chance to talk with my great-nephew yet? Pete, did you say his name was?”

“I haven't had a chance to speak with Pete yet, but I will.” I took Ms. Peggy's business card from my purse and slid it across the table. “When I went to the newspaper office to get the photos, Ms. Peggy was interested in doing a story on your dad. She thought people—especially the older folks—would enjoy knowing how he spent his life after leaving Winter Garden.”

“Okay. I'll consider giving her a call.” She took a photo album from a tote she had sitting on the floor beside her chair. She opened it. “This is Daddy.”

The sepia photograph had been taken when Grady Holman was in his early twenties. His hair was dark, and
he was smiling impishly at the photographer. He had on overalls and what appeared to be a white shirt. I glanced up at Ms. Carter, but I didn't see much of a resemblance. I passed the photo album on down closer to Jackie.

“He was a cutie pie, wasn't he?” she said to Ms. Carter.

“He certainly was.” She sat a little taller in her seat.

I opened the manila envelope and took out the photo taken at the grand opening of Lou's Joint. “I can see the resemblance between your dad and Bo.” Grady hadn't been as tall or as broad as Bo, nor did he have a beard, but their faces looked similar.

“And Lou took after them too,” said Ms. Carter, her lips slowly curving into a smile. “Daddy was the better-looking of the two brothers, though, don't you think?”

Jackie and I agreed that he was.

Ms. Carter flipped through the photos. “And this was Lou's daughter? Poor thing . . . to be named Lou Lou.”

“I always heard Lou wanted a son,” said Jackie.

“Apparently, he wanted two of them.” Ms. Carter chuckled.

Jackie and I thumbed through the photo album.

“You must take after your mom's side of the family,” I said, noting that the diminutive Ms. Carter looked nothing like the Holmans I knew.

“I do. My brother is tall and muscular.” She grinned. “Mother always said thank goodness we girls took after her people.”

“Did your dad ever talk about his family back in Winter Garden?” Jackie asked.

“He spoke of Bo pretty often. I believe he missed his brother.” She ran a fingertip over the photocopy of Bo's
obituary. “I wonder if he knew Bo had died, or if he just thought his brother had forgotten about him.”

“If Grady was in touch with anybody back home, then he knew what happened,” I said. “You mentioned over the phone that Grady had told you about the bank robbery.”

“He had.” She shook her head. “I always figured it was one of his tall tales. I mean, some of the stories he told about growing up in that little town in Virginia with Bo . . . they couldn't possibly have been true.” She looked again at the photo of Bo and Lou at the café's ribbon-cutting ceremony. “I thought there was maybe a grain of truth to them but that Daddy had exaggerated.”

“So you didn't believe that he and Bo had robbed a bank?” Jackie asked.

“I thought maybe they'd tried . . . or even that they had made a teller slip them a few dollars. But Daddy told me his conscience bothered him too bad to keep it, and he gave the money back.”

“I don't imagine Bo was very happy about that,” I said.

“No, he wasn't. That drove the wedge between them that made Daddy leave Winter Garden and head for North Carolina to look for work,” said Ms. Carter.

*   *   *

W
hen Jackie and I were in the car on our way back home, I mentioned that Ms. Carter had changed her story about the bank robbery.

“Over the phone last night, she told me that Bo had driven Grady over to the bank in North Carolina and that Grady hadn't known they were going to rob the bank until Bo handed him a ski mask and a pistol.”

“And then Grady just went along with it?”

“According to Ms. Carter, he did. She spoke as if Grady would've done anything his big brother wanted him to do.”

“But she also told us that Grady had given the money back,” Jackie said. “If that's the truth, where did the money in the lockbox come from?”

“I mentioned the lockbox to her over the phone too. I said there was money inside, but I didn't tell her how much. Now I wish I hadn't said anything about it.”

“Amy! She might come looking for that money!”

“You saw her. Do you really believe she'd burst through the doors of the café, guns blazing, to demand her daddy's stolen money? Besides, I told her the money was in police custody.”

“I don't think she'd do it herself, but her children might be like Bo, Grady, and Lou. Or, worse yet, Lou Lou!” Jackie said. “If they think there's anything to be gained here, they might come after you.”

“I rather doubt it. I imagine the woman simply wanted to paint her father in the best possible light. Or what if Grady told his daughter the truth, and he really
did
return the money to the bank?” I asked. “Do you think the twenty thousand dollars was Bo's part of the money? Or do you think the money found in the lockbox had nothing to do with the bank after all? Maybe the money belonged to Lou.”

“That's possible.” She frowned. “Now I'm wondering what other skeletons linger in Lou Holman's closet.”

“We know Sherman Harding was one. Wonder whatever became of him.”

“I don't know, but I'm guessing you'll be burning up that laptop of yours tonight to try to find out.”

“You've got that right,” I said.

*   *   *

J
ackie had been right. I wanted to find out more about this man who'd been married to Lou Lou Holman and had then thrown her over for another woman. So I got out my laptop as soon as I got home to see what I could learn.

I had no luck finding Sherman Harding until I downloaded a free trial for a genealogy site and searched for him there. That's where I found Sherman Harding, who had been married to Rebecca Minton Harding. And they had one son—Stanley Wheeler Harding.

Wait . . . what?!

I sat staring at my laptop as my cursor kept blinking on the name “Stanley Wheeler Harding.” Stanley Harding. Stan Harding. Stan
Wheeler
Harding.

Oh my goodness. Was that true? It had to be. It's why Stan's profile had looked so familiar after I'd seen the photo of Sherman Harding. Stan Wheeler was Sherman Harding's son. He was Pete's half brother.

Had Lou Lou known? I thought back to the paper I'd seen in the box from her office. Was that why she'd written Stan's name and drawn the fish beside it? Did she think Stan was fishing for something? Or did she think there was something fishy about Stan?

At least, I now knew why, after seeing the photograph of Sherman Harding, something about Stan struck me as being familiar. And if I saw a resemblance, even though I couldn't quite recall why, surely Lou Lou—having been married to Sherman—could see his likeness in his son. Funny, though, Pete looked nothing like Sherman. He took after the Holman side of the family.

I thought about my conversation with Anna Carter and promising I'd talk with Pete to see if he'd be willing to talk with her. There might be another family member he'd be even more interested in speaking with.

So what was Stan doing in Winter Garden? Why was he here as Stan Wheeler rather than Stan Harding? And how long had he been here? It had obviously been long enough to establish a seedy reputation. Maybe I should talk with Ryan about this. He'd told me to let me know of any leads I came across. This could be considered a lead. I'd give him a call tomorrow.

Something very, very strange was going on with Stan Wheeler.