Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) (11 page)

Donna’s next idea was a doozy. She appeared at seven one Thursday morning, while I was kneading dough for buns, and announced she was there to learn to cook. “After all, if I’m going to have a B & B and serve breakfast, I need to know how to do it.”

I used a gloved hand to push back the hair that had escaped my hair net. “Donna, this isn’t a good time. Besides, you’re going to want quiches, and breakfast casseroles, and the kind of thing we don’t make here. We’re just eggs and bacon and pancakes and potatoes…and sticky buns.” I went back to kneading.

“Well, I think I need to know the basics.”

I stared at her. “Well, surely you know how to cook eggs and bacon and pancakes.”

She shrugged. “Well, maybe. The kids don’t like my pancakes. They’d rather go to McDonald’s in Canton, but that’s a bit of a drive for breakfast.”

I looked at Benny. “Okay. Can you teach her about eggs and bacon and sausage and potatoes?”

He gave me a goofy grin, as if to ask who needs teaching about these things, but he said, “No problem.”

“We’ll get to sticky buns later,” I told Donna. “Get yourself a hairnet and apron.” I nodded in the direction of the supplies, and under my breath I added, “You might better get your sticky buns from the café.”

“I’m going to advertise this as a home-cooking B & B, so I want my guests to think I’m at home in the kitchen. I have to start with basics.” Without another word she got a hairnet and apron, washed her hands, and went to stand by Benny.

From time to time I stole a glance, and Donna really seemed to be trying to learn. Benny taught her to flip an egg without breaking it (wrist motion) and how to make neat poached eggs, done just firm enough but not hard. He scolded her for turning hash brown potatoes too soon, explaining you want them brown and crispy, neither burnt nor pale. If I’d talked to her like that, she’d have argued back, but she just nodded to Benny and tried again.

I’d had enough requests for turnip greens that I’d put them on the menu for that day, along with mashed potatoes and chicken-fried steak as the special of the day. I groaned at the idea of cooking those greens because they reminded me of Gram, but I must have groaned aloud because Donna said, “I’ll cook the greens for you. I don’t think I’m up to getting chicken-fried right yet. Turnip greens I can cook in my sleep.” She began washing the greens in cold water and pulling off the tough stems, and I watched as she diced salt pork, browned it in the pot just like Gram had done, then added the greens, water, a pinch of sugar, and a dash of cayenne. Almost looked good enough to make me try them but I didn’t. Donna tasted, added salt, tasted again and seemed satisfied.

I went out to the front to see that everything was in order for the lunch crowd and post the special on the chalkboard. Rick came in as I was doing this and sat in his usual spot.

“Aren’t you a bit early today?” I asked.

“Got to go to Canton this afternoon, so I thought I’d come eat before that. Special looks good. I’ll take it.”

Later, after he finished and was paying his bill, he said, “The greens were great. I haven’t had them that good since your grandmother cooked them.”

I smiled and said I’d tell my new cook.

A little later Mayor Thompson called and asked what the special was. When I told her, she said, “Please make me a to-go box. I’ll ask Tom to pick it up for me.”

I shrugged at the idea of Tom as the mayor’s delivery boy but I guess that was his business and not mine. Sticking my head in the kitchen, I said to Donna, “Your greens are a hit. The police chief sends his compliments.”

Donna was back to her old self. “First nice thing I’ve ever heard about him saying.” Her voice was sharp, and I wondered if she too had had a run-in with him. Maybe it was the remodeling permits. Again, not my business. I stuck the mayor’s order on the spindle and called out, “To go order” before I went back out front. I liked to be in the front during meals, rather than in the kitchen, because it let me greet folks and make them welcome while also making sure everything was going smoothly.

Tom came and picked up the mayor’s order. But it seemed a long time before he came back. When he did, he said, “Receptionist was at lunch, and that accountant creep was in with the mayor. I finally knocked on the door and told her that her lunch was getting cold. That guy Overton popped up like he was on a spring and ran to get it for her. I left.” I could hear the disgust in his voice. “Guess I’ll go sit in a corner, Kate, and have the special if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I said and turned to get him the sweetened ice tea I knew he wanted.

Donna came out of the kitchen, hair net off and apron gone. “I’m through for the day. Think I’ll join Tom and have the special.”

I bit my tongue. I didn’t quite expect help, even the volunteer kind, to keep their own hours. And just a bit of me resented being her waitress. I stuck the order on the spindle and went back to business. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Tom and Donna were arguing. Their heads were close together and they kept their voices low, but I could see tenseness in their bodies. Donna’s expression was harsh, while Tom’s was defensive and somehow humble. I hated to see him humiliate himself. Why didn’t Donna realize what a good man she had?

They were all smiles, fake but smiles, when I carried their lunches to them, but they ate in silence, almost ignoring each other. Now what was that about?

Irv
Litman
came in just as they were finishing their meal. I watched as he asked if he could join them. Within seconds, Tom stood up and said, “Don’t guess I’m hungry anymore. See you guys.” He waved goodbye to me and called, “Greens were sure good today.” I wondered if Donna told him she cooked them.

When I took a menu to Irv, he brushed it aside pleasantly and said, “I’ll have the special please.”

As I went toward the kitchen, I thought to myself “I’ll feed family on the house, but Irv
Litman
has to pay for his lunch.” Of course, I was being nasty. He paid for his and Donna’s and left a generous tip that I put in the community tip jar. I just couldn’t warm to the man, and I beat myself up for it. But then I remembered how happy Donna looked when he ordered his lunch—not at all like a woman whose husband had just stormed out on her.

The rest of the day went smoothly. We were busy in the evening but comfortably so, and I got home about eight-thirty, poured myself a glass of wine, and went out on the back porch. In spite of the muggy heat, it was good to sit outdoors and listen to the cicadas. I began to think about Gram and the good times we’d had and how much I missed her.

My reverie was interrupted by car lights coming down the driveway. Rick Samuels’ patrol car swung around the corner of the house, and he clambered out, so tall that getting out of the car was a process.

“Hi,” I called out. “Want a beer?”

He shook his head. “I can’t figure out if I’m here as an officer of the law or as a friend, so just in case, I better decline.”

“You’re no fun,” I teased.

“No tonight I’m not, Kate. Mayor Thompson is in the hospital in Tyler in serious condition. They’ve pumped her stomach, and they think she’ll make it, but she’s one sick puppy.”

My heart fell to the toes of my feet. “Food poisoning?”

“Yep. She claims it was the turnip greens. They tasted funny.”

“Turnip greens? You ate them, Tom and Donna ate them, and everyone raved about how good they were. Can’t have been. And chicken fried steak? How could someone poison that?” A corner of my mind, that I didn’t even want to recognize, was realizing that Donna had fixed that to-go order. I took a big gulp of wine and asked, “Now what?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got a sample of the greens and sent them off to the state lab. I agree. I ate them and they were great.”

“I’m never cooking turnip greens again,” I vowed. “I’ll put creamed spinach on the menu.”

“You’re closing the proverbial barn door too late. She’s out to get you. Swears this is the straw that broke the camel’s back. She’ll sue.”

“And then she thinks she’ll buy the café at a bargain price,” I said bitterly.

Having delivered his bad news, Rick sank into the other porch rocker. “You know what, I’ll take that beer. I just declared myself off-duty.”

I fetched him a cold Coors and refilled my wine. When I sat back down, I said, “At least you can’t suspect me. I wasn’t here when Gram died. If someone did something to the mayor’s greens, it’s a pattern.”

He gave me that slight half-grin of his. “Are you going into detective work now? I never suspected you.”

“I might have to go into detective work to keep the restaurant’s reputation. I’m sure that woman will spread this all over the entire county.”

“What’s your plan? Or do you have one?”

“I don’t,” I replied. “I’ll wait—well, first to be sure she recovers. Then to see what she does next. If she sues, I have a good lawyer, and the café has product liability insurance. Gram never ever had to use it, but her insurance agent said it was a good thing to have.”

“I don’t want to see the café close,” he said slowly, “and I think it would be a very different place if Mayor Thompson owned it. Does she think you’re making a fortune?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what she thinks. Overton tells me we’re doing well, but there’s no fortune as far as I can see.” I waved my arm. “Look at my luxurious surroundings.”

He actually chuckled, something I don’t think I’d ever heard him do before. “Maybe not luxurious, but pleasant and comfortable. You seem happy and settled.”

I began to rock harder. “As opposed to the girl you saw in bars in Dallas?” I asked sharply.

“Yes,” he said in a soft voice.

We sat in companionable silence until he finished his beer and said he’d best be going. I stood up to say goodnight, and Rick Samuels did the most amazing thing. He kissed me, so gentle that it was almost like brushing his lips against mine. There was no passion, no lust, but there was caring, and I nearly collapsed in a bucket of tears. When he said, “Goodnight,” I managed to answer in a fairly steady voice.

“‘Night. And thanks for coming to warn me.”

I sat on the porch for a long time, drinking yet a third glass of wine and wondering if my head would punish me in the morning. But mostly I reviewed the noon hour at the restaurant. I hadn’t said it to Rick and I wouldn’t unless I had to, but Donna had prepared that order and Tom had delivered it. Was Donna so mad about the withheld permits that she’d poison the mayor? Was Tom so ambitious to be mayor, as Gram had wanted? Were they in cahoots—after seeing them at noon I couldn’t believe that!

I decided not to say anything about the mayor’s illness at the restaurant the next morning—why start a gossipy panic until I knew something for sure? Donna showed up again about eight-thirty—what time did she think breakfast work began at a café? She greeted me cheerfully, put on a hairnet and apron, and took her place with Benny. Was I imagining the desperate look he threw me?

Mayor Angela Thompson remained eerily quiet the next day, and I felt the suspense. I suspect I might have felt better if she’d stormed in and raised a scene. But she didn’t. I didn’t even know if she was still in the hospital or not. Donna was back in the kitchen, which gave me another set of misgivings, but she was cheerfully helping Benny, and he seemed to make some progress with her. I still had not told any of the staff about the mayor’s illness, and I wasn’t going to if I didn’t have to.

Rick didn’t come in for lunch as usual; neither Tom nor Irv showed up. Steve
Millican
came by, sat at the counter, and ordered meatloaf. When I served it, he said casually, “I hear the mayor’s sick and blaming it on your food.”

Oh, great!
“Is the news all over town?”

“Pretty much, but you’ll notice it didn’t stop me from eating here.” He grinned.

“I’m glad to know it,” I said. But there was nothing more to say, and nice as I found Steve, I was remembering Rick’s light kiss of the night before.

Sooner or later, talk of the mayor filled the café, and the staff heard it. Most customers assured me it wouldn’t stop them from eating at the café and one or two went so far as to say something to the effect that it couldn’t happen to a nicer, more deserving person than the mayor.

One man asked, “Kate, got any of those greens left over? I’d eat ‘em.”

It was all I could do to manage a lighthearted retort: “I’m never cooking turnip greens again.” A groan from the customer. “How do you feel about creamed spinach?” I asked. He shook his head and muttered, “Not too good.”