The Calamity Café (8 page)

I went and got my phone and Ryan Hall's business card from my purse. As I punched in the number, I knew I was probably making a huge mistake. But I didn't know what else to do.

“Ryan Hall.”

“Hi, Deputy Hall. It's Amy Flowers. How are you?”

“I'm fine, Amy. What can I do for you?”

“I've . . . um . . . I've kinda made a suspect list, and I'd like to go over it with you if you have a minute.”

“A suspect list?”

I could hear the amusement in his tone, but I didn't let it deter me.

“Yes, a suspect list. Do you have time to talk with me about it, or not?”

“Sure. Let's have it.”

I gave him every name on the list, starting with me. “As you know, I don't have an alibi for the time of the murder, other than the fact that I was with my friend Sarah only
minutes before I left for Lou's Joint. I haven't had anybody tell me an approximate time of death, but Sarah can verify the time I was with her.”

“All right,” he said. “Next.”

I told him Sarah's theory about Chris Anne, but I didn't tell him it was Sarah's theory. I didn't want him to know I'd been talking about the case with my friends. I didn't think it was breaking any rules to talk with them about Lou Lou's murder, but just in case, I'd rather be safe than sorry.

“Pete also had motive to dispose of his mother,” I continued.

“‘Dispose of'? Interesting word choice.”

“Well, I hate to say Pete had reason to
kill
his mother, but she was terribly hard on him. She wouldn't allow him to have a serious girlfriend, and he desperately wanted her to agree to sell the café so he could pursue other interests.”

“She wouldn't ‘allow' a forty-year-old man to have a serious girlfriend?” he asked.

“Apparently not. And he's already proposed to Chris Anne and asked me to buy the café so he can put the money toward starting a trucking business.” I paused. “You think I'm a fruitcake, don't you?”

“I think you're scared, Amy. And I assure you, we're looking into all the people you've mentioned and then some. We'll find out who's responsible for Lou Lou Holman's death. Just let us do our jobs, all right?”

I didn't say anything. I wanted to trust Deputy Hall. Truly, I did. But this was my life we were talking about. How could I simply take a backseat?

“Please?” he asked. “Trust me.”

“I'm trying
to.”

P
ete called me at just after ten o'clock that night.

“Hey, Amy . . . whatcha doin', gal?” His words were slightly slurred.

“Pete, are you drunk?” He
had
to be drunk. And he was drunk-dialing
me
? What on earth for?

“I . . . I might be . . . the slightest bit . . . uh . . . wasted. Why? Is it . . . is it late?”

“What do you need?” I was not going to deal with him, not in his condition, and not at this time of night. I was trying to cut him some slack because of everything he'd been through, but enough was enough.

“Will you come in . . . in the morning . . . for the grill?”

“You didn't think to call me about this sooner?” I asked.

“I forgot. Sssorry.”

“I'll man the grill tomorrow morning, but I don't have a key. Would you be able to meet me there and let
me in?” This was ridiculous. I thought—again, and like the rest of the town—that Pete should've had the courtesy to close the café for a few days to mourn. He apparently took his “leave no cent unearned” credo from his mother.

“Use the kitchen door,” he said.

“What? Don't you keep it locked?”

“N-no. I mean, yeah. Key's unner the rock by the door.”

“Okay. I'll look for it.” And then I did something I'm not proud of. I tried to take advantage of his drunken state. “So Pete, do you know of anybody who'd want to hurt your mom?”

“Momma . . . poor Momma.” He started blubbering. “Why would
anybody
hurt Momma? She was a saint! A saint, I tell you.” He wheezed and coughed before blubbering again. “Except when she was mean. Sometimes she could be a little mean.”

“I know, Pete. It's all right.”

“It was for my own good. I never learned good judgment. Always hanging around . . . wrong people . . . bad decisions.” He sniffled. “She just tried to take care of me. Momma was a saint. Poor, poor Momma!”

“I know,” I said again. I didn't know what else to say. I wished I'd never mentioned it, but I thought he might tell me something I didn't know . . . something that he didn't
want
me—or anyone else to know. Now I felt pretty bad. At least he probably wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow.

“Wh-when you . . . you buy the Joint, Amy . . . will you put a big p-painting of M-Momma on the wall? Y-you know . . . a memorial?”

Uh, no! I most certainly will not!

“Let's talk about it tomorrow, Pete,” I said. “You get some rest.”

“Nice b-big oil painting. We'll get somebody to do it up real nice. . . .”

“Good night.”

“G'night, Amy.”

As I got ready for bed, I thought about that key outside the kitchen door. I wondered how many other people knew about that key. It could've certainly allowed the killer to enter and leave the café without being spotted from the road.

*   *   *

T
he next morning, I found the key just where Pete had said it would be. The rock wasn't even one of those fake rocks used to hide a spare key. It was merely placed under a rock with a flat bottom. The key had apparently been there for a long time, because there was a perfect indentation of it in the earth beneath it. It crossed my mind that I might ought to call Ryan Hall and have him send Ivy Donaldson out to test the key for fingerprints, but I figured that would be useless. The key would have so many fingerprints—even if they were just those of Lou Lou and Pete—that I thought it would be hard to get a distinct print. Add to that the fact that after picking up the key, my own prints were on it. I put the thought aside, unlocked the door, and returned the key to the indentation beneath the rock.

I went into the dining room and retrieved the coffeepots. I thought about going ahead and unlocking the front door, but I decided against it. The café didn't open
for another thirty minutes, and I wanted to make sure that no one came in while I was doing the necessary prep work.

As I worked in the kitchen, I thought about uniforms. Should I have uniforms for the staff? Or should I allow the staff to wear their regular clothes covered by a
DOWN SOUTH CAFÉ
apron? I'd ask Jackie her opinion.

When I did go back through the dining room to unlock the front door, Dilly was standing there waiting for me.

“Good morning, Dilly. I'm sorry you had to wait.”

“That's all right. Got any biscuits yet?”

“They're in the oven. Oh, and try this Scottish shortbread I made yesterday morning.” I took the cover off the glass cake plate on which I had the cookies.

Dilly took a cookie and then sat at the counter. “I saw Pete Holman and Stan Wheeler going into the pizza parlor last night when I was on my way home from bingo. Why in the world would anybody be having supper that late? It was pert near ten o'clock.”

“I don't know,” I said. “My stomach would think my throat had been cut if I waited that long to eat my dinner.”

“Me too.” She shook her head. “And I imagine my raccoon would think I'd left home. He comes to that door every evening as soon as it starts getting dark. You can count on it.”

“What happens if you don't have a biscuit for him?” I asked.

“He'll settle for a cookie if he has to. He doesn't like it as well, but he'll take it.” She bit into the shortbread. “Oh my goodness! This is good. I bet he'd like this, but he's not getting mine.”

I smiled. “Besides two biscuits, then, what would you like for breakfast this morning?”

“Just a scrambled egg, please.”

“Hash browns?”

“Oh, yes. That'd be nice.”

“Coming right up,” I said as I poured Dilly a cup of coffee.

I thought it was interesting that Pete had been out last night with Stan instead of Chris Anne. Maybe the two men were celebrating Pete's engagement. Or maybe Pete had given in and handed over the deed to Stan's mobile home.

While I was preparing Dilly's breakfast, Preacher Robinson came in. He was the pastor of the Winter Garden First Methodist Church. Mom and I had always attended the Winter Garden First Baptist Church, but I was acquainted with Preacher Robinson because the two churches—especially since they were the only two in town—often came together during revivals and community events like buying for needy families during the holidays.

I was surprised to see Preacher Robinson this morning, though. During my time working at Lou's Joint, I'd never seen him in here before. It crossed my mind that he might be preaching Lou Lou's funeral.

“Good morning, Preacher Robinson,” I said. “How are you this morning?”

“I'm fair to middling.” He nodded to Dilly. “Morning, Missus Boyd.”

“Howdy, Preacher.”

It struck me that Preacher Robinson probably wasn't
as old as his manner would make him appear to be. He was a pencil-thin man of average height, with sparse brown hair and black-rimmed glasses. Even in this heat, he wore a brown three-piece suit with a tan shirt and a yellow-and-brown-striped tie.

He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the dining room, so I invited him to sit anywhere he'd like.

“I'll get you a menu in just a second,” I said.

“That won't be necessary. I hadn't planned on staying to eat. I had some grits before I left the house this morning.”

“Okay.” I didn't have time to wait for him to tell me why he was here if it wasn't to eat, so I went ahead and plated Dilly's food. I brought it out for her and topped off her coffee.

Preacher Robinson peered down over his glasses at the meal. “That does look awfully good, though. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have some scrambled eggs with a side of bacon.” He grinned and patted his flat stomach. “Just this once.”

“Coming right up,” I said. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

As I poured the coffee into a white stoneware mug, I asked, “If you didn't come in for breakfast, Preacher Robinson, then are you here about Lou Lou's funeral? Because Pete isn't here.”

“Aw, shucks. I mean, I'm not here about the funeral—there's no way in heck she'd want
me
to preach it if I was the last pastor on earth anyhow—but I did want to have a word with Pete.”

I glanced at Dilly, wondering if she knew what Lou Lou had against Preacher Robinson. She was so intent
on eating those hash browns that I doubt she'd even heard what he'd said.

“I can have him give you a call,” I said, putting the mug in front of him. The curiosity was killing me. “May I tell him what it's about?”

He sheepishly avoided my eyes and put sugar and creamer into his coffee. As he stirred, he watched the black liquid turn to light brown. “I guess I should've given it a few more days, but our Bible study is coming up, and I'd love to be able to have the meeting here in town for the first time in two years.”

“Where have you been meeting?” I asked.

“A diner over in Meadowview.” He continued to stir. “Ms. Holman and I had a . . . well, a disagreement, you might say . . . back then, and she threw us out. Wouldn't let us come back either.”

What in the world did a preacher and his Bible study group do to offend Lou Lou to the point that she wouldn't accept their business?

He finally looked up at me. “Yes, ma'am, eggs and a side of bacon would really hit the spot.”

The conversation was over. I wasn't going to find out what happened from him. I told him I'd get his breakfast out to him right away.

*   *   *

W
e had a little lull at about a quarter to nine, and I pulled Jackie aside to ask how she felt about uniforms.

“It depends on what they look like. These things Lou Lou made us wear are ugly with a capital
U
.” She spread her hands, indicating the pale orange–and-white-checked
uniforms. “I'd say she got them on sale somewhere because no one else wanted them. What have you got in mind?”

“I was thinking that the staff could either wear casual clothing covered by
DOWN SOUTH CAFÉ
aprons, or we could wear matching T-shirts with our logo.”

Jackie nodded. “I like that idea. Plus, you could sell the T-shirts and aprons to customers for an additional source of income.”

“You really think people would buy them?”

“Sure, they would. Tourists love things like that.”

“I guess we could order some extra,” I said.

“What about pants?”

“I was thinking jeans.”

“Jeans are good,” said Jackie.

“By the way, do you know anything about a disagreement between Preacher Robinson and Lou Lou? It would have happened about two years ago.” I told Jackie about the pastor coming in this morning wanting to reinstate his Bible study sessions at the café.

Brow furrowed, she stared at the wall just above my head. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, I
do
remember that! In fact, it was just after I started working here, and I remember it like it was yesterday! During the Bible study, Preacher Robinson said that in four separate places in the Bible—Genesis, Matthew, Mark, and Ephesians—a man is instructed to leave his father and his mother and cleave unto his wife.”

“And Lou Lou thought he was talking about her and Pete?”

Jackie nodded. “Apparently so, because she stormed out of that kitchen and told him that she and Pete were
none of his congregation's business and that he needed to do his Bible studying elsewhere.”

“Wow. Is it just me, or does it seem kind of extreme that she would make that leap from one passage of the Bible to Pastor Robinson attacking her and her son because Pete still lived at home?”

“Oh, it was extreme, all right. But the thing was, Pete had been dating a woman in the congregation, and I believe her family was putting pressure on her to marry.”

“And she was putting pressure on Pete,” I guessed.

Jackie chuckled. “Poor woman. I don't know if she encouraged the preacher to have that particular study—and to have it here—or not, but that was the end of her dating Pete too.”

“Who was she?” I asked.

“I don't know. She was quite a bit older than us, so neither of us had gone to high school with her. After that, the whole congregation boycotted Lou's Joint, and I think she finally started going to church in Abingdon. Hopefully, she met somebody there.”

“Hopefully, someone not quite as henpecked.” I shook my head. So maybe that explained why Pete had tried to keep his relationship with Chris Anne from his mom.

“Before I forget,” Jackie said, lowering her voice, “I ran into Aaron yesterday evening at the grocery store and
casually
struck up a conversation about Lou Lou's murder. I told him I was at home watching television and had no clue anything had even happened until the next day. He said, ‘Same here.'”

“Which, I guess, technically means he has no verifiable alibi.”

She turned down the corners of her mouth. “Neither do I. Shouldn't you add me to the list?”

I half smiled. “Nah. If either of us had planned to do someone in, she'd have called on the other to help her.”

Jackie laughed. “That's true.”

Homer Pickens came into the café and sat on a stool at the counter. I went over to pour him some coffee.

“Good morning, Homer. Who's your hero today?”

“Liam Neeson.”

I was eager to hear Homer's reasoning behind his choice. “I like his movies,” I said. “If I'm ever kidnapped, I hope he'll come rescue me.”

Homer nodded and smiled wistfully. “He's strong. And I love his voice. It can be gentle or menacing.” Homer tried to affect Mr. Neeson's voice. He failed miserably. “And don't worry, Amy. If you
are
ever kidnapped, I'll find you. Maybe. I'll at least try.”