Read Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) Online
Authors: Judy Alter
Tags: #Mystery & Crime
Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) (12 page)
Donna was visibly upset, and that old Shakespearean phrase went through my mind. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Who would do this to make us look bad?” then she wailed, “I’ll never get those permits now.”
Trust Donna to think of herself first in a crisis. But I did notice the plural pronoun she’d used and smiled at her.
“Do you think,” she whispered, “that the mayor was faking to make the café lose business.”
“Not if she was in the hospital,” I said, still wondering where the men who could help me had gone.
I was wound so tight the rest of the day I kept thinking I might explode, but I managed to keep my cool, partly by slipping home both in mid-afternoon and after the dinner hour started. Then I came back to close for the night.
Once again, I sat on the porch with a glass of wine—and no food in my stomach. Not a good practice I knew. But like last night repeating itself, headlights came up the driveway and Rick’s car turned the corner by the house. “Beer?” I asked.
This time he shook his head. “This is official business. I just didn’t want to do it at the café.”
It? What was it? “How’s the mayor?”
“She’ll live, but she’s still in the hospital and bitchin’ her head off. I know they’ll release her sooner rather than later just to get rid of her. But the sample greens came back, Kate. There was a good bit of digitalis ground up in them. It’s fortunate the mayor’s a healthy woman.”
“Digitalis? Heart medication.” The one I’d wondered about with Gram. “How could it have gotten there?”
“You tell me. Start from the beginning with the greens. Who cooked them?”
I lowered my voice. “Donna.”
“Donna? What was she doing in the kitchen?”
“She came to learn to cook for her B & B, and she volunteered to do the greens because it’s one thing she knows how to do and she knows I can barely look at them after Gram’s death. I watched her—she cleaned them carefully, stemmed them, seasoned them….”
“With what?” he interrupted.
“Salt pork, a bit of sugar, a tiny bit of cayenne.”
“That’s all?”
I nodded, and he asked, “Who fixed the plate or to-go box or whatever?”
“Donna, but Rick, she wouldn’t do anything like that. She’s mad at the mayor about the delay in remodeling permits, but Donna would never hurt anyone.”
“I’d like to believe you, Kate, but I have to consider everyone a suspect. Did the mayor come get her order?”
“No, Tom took it to her. He does that a lot, says he likes to keep on the mayor’s good side. I think he’d like to be the next mayor. That’s what Gram wanted for him.”
Kate, when will you learn to simply answer the question and not throw in too much information?
I had a feeling I’d just gotten suspicion thrown on both Donna and Tom. Rick would think they were in this together. Okay, the thought had flitted through my mind, but it hadn’t stayed long. I knew it wasn’t true.
Rick never sat down all this time. He stood with one foot on the second step, his hand on his knee, staring straight at me. I thought maybe he was watching for a reaction. Back to the all-business shtick.
“I can ask Tom this, but do you know if he handed the box directly to the mayor? Could it have sat untended where someone else could have gotten to it?
I repeated what Tom had told me about William Overton being there, but Rick just shrugged. “We can dismiss that milquetoast.”
I wanted to retort, “But you have to consider all suspects.” On the other hand, I agreed that William Overton lacked the courage or imagination to poison anyone.
Rick asked a few more questions that seemed unrelated, but then as he turned to leave, he said, “Be prepared, Kate. She’s going to want someone’s head for this one, and I suspect you’re first in line.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. “’Night.”
“Yeah, good night.”
Sleep was impossible. I went over and over the previous day’s events in my mind, but I saw no time when anyone could have slipped digitalis into the mayor’s greens. And how was I going to make it known that other people had eaten the greens and were fine—someone was after the mayor. Should be a lot of suspects since she didn’t exactly make friends wherever she went.
The next day was Wednesday. Two momentous things occur on Wednesdays: the
Wheeler Tribune
issues its weekly edition, and William Overton comes to review the books. The newspaper headline screamed what I expected: “Mayor Poisoned by Café Food.” Mayor Thompson must have been well enough to talk to Stanley
Wisenhunt
, the editor, because he quoted her liberally in the article, including such unprofessional remarks as “The Blue Plate Café is a disgrace to Wheeler. It should have been closed a long time ago.” She went on to say that now she would see that we were closed for good and the café re-opened under new management. She didn’t exactly say who the new management would be, but she didn’t have to. I knew too well. I decided it was time to call Don Davidson, and I did so as early as I thought he’d be in his office, walking outside to talk on my cell phone in privacy.
Don wasn’t helpful. “There’s not much we can do until she acts. Yes, she’s slandering you, but I don’t think it would hold up in court. You’ve got insurance….”
“Yes, product liability insurance. With Jim Jackson’s agency who shares your building.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to him. Meantime, just sit tight and maybe start a PR campaign—advertise in the local paper, encourage word-of-mouth praise for the café, do whatever you can.” He hesitated. “Without breaking the law.” Did he mean that as funny?
His call didn’t encourage me a lot, but I thought about a PR campaign. It would be an open declaration of war, but I was up for it. I decided to see if I could get testimonials from people who ate greens last Monday and put them in an ad in the paper—a big, splashy ad. Fortunately, the
Wheeler Tribune
ad rates were a far cry from the Dallas papers or even Tyler.
I thought of Tom and Donna but dismissed them—family and obviously biased. Rick? I doubted he could do that with his official position. Steve
Millican
? Did he eat greens? I couldn’t remember, but if he came in for lunch, I’d ask him. I decided on meatloaf again as the special—two days in a row—hoping the aroma would drift across the street and lure him in. I’d almost given up, but he ambled through the door a little after one.
“Hi,” I greeted him. Wow, original.
“Hi, yourself,” he said, sitting at the counter. “How’s things? I see the mayor is out to close down the café, and the police chief has been calling on you at night.”
I sighed. “About the mayor’s illness. Steve, did you eat greens Monday?”
“Sure did. I thought I told you how good they were.”
“Would you be willing to testify in an ad in the paper—you know, your picture and all?”
He turned beet red, looked down at his flatware and began to fumble with it. “Kate, I’d love to help, but I can’t afford that kind of publicity, not with my picture shown around.”
There it was again, that secret something about him. Made me more curious than ever, but I simply told him I understood (which of course I didn’t) and asked what he wanted for lunch. Meatloaf, of course, in a sandwich. “I smelled it clear across the street.”
Now what? Could I begin casually asking customers? That seemed awkward. I settled for a hand-lettered sign, in my best printing, by the cash register. It said, “If you ate turnip greens here on Monday, July 7, please see Kate.” Everyone, well at least the regulars, knew who Kate was.
To my pleased surprise, a few people stopped as they paid their bills. “I ate those greens,” one man said. “Damn good, if you ask me.” I asked if he’d let me take his picture with my cell phone and quote him in the newspaper. “This is about the mayor, isn’t it? Sure thing. I’ll let you do that. Never did like that woman. Not sure who voted for her.” I took his picture—he smiled self-consciously—and wrote, “Those turnip greens were damn good.” Then I got him to sign a permission. Over the dinner hour, I got two more volunteers—one of them Irv
Litman
—hmmm, what kind of impression would that make? And one a lady from the church who’d lived in Wheeler for years and eaten at the café just as long.
William Overton’s visit was uneventful, or almost so. He showed me columns of figures that showed we were indeed making a profit. “Should I raise salaries?” I asked. “Some of these people have been here a long time, probably without much increase in pay.”
“I’d advise against that,” he said. “We’ll just keep adding to the café’s portfolio.”
Gram had apparently been investing surplus monies in a Vanguard account, and according to Overton it was growing nicely. Having never had a portfolio, I didn’t know much about whether it really was doing well or not. I’d have to ask Don Davidson to check next time he was in town. But then he’d said everything was in order, so maybe I should just trust Overton. Gram apparently did. And I didn’t have the time or energy to check on all that.
“You could take out group health insurance for your employees under one of several small business plans. I suspect it wouldn’t cost you as much and might be of more benefit to them than a raise.”
“Great idea,” I said. “Will you do some research and get back to me?”
“I’d be glad to.” He zipped up his briefcase and now clutched it in his hands, what I considered his most characteristic pose. “I’ll be going now unless there’s anything else.”
“No, nothing else,” I began, and then rushed on, “There is one thing I’m curious about. Why did Gram stop donating to civic improvement in Wheeler?”
He shrugged. “I should think it’s obvious. She and the mayor really disliked each other.”
I had never known Gram to dislike anyone, but it was sure possible with the mayor. “Do you have a written request from Gram to stop the donations?”
Overton stared at his pencil. “No, it’s something we talked about. But I have requests for each individual donation she made. They were sporadic, each earmarked for a different thing, like upgrading city hall or cleaning the front of the bank.”
“And you have those requests on file?”
“In the safety deposit box,” he said, almost primly. “Do you want to see them?”
“No, no. I take your word for it. I’m just glad to know they’re there.”
Muttering his thanks, he left, clutching the briefcase as though a street thug might try to grab it out of his hands.
That night I carefully pasted up an ad with type from my computer. I figured Stanley
Wisenhunt
would welcome it if he didn’t have to do much to it. Next morning after the breakfast rush, I went to the
Tribune
office, two rooms at the back of a real estate office that had begun to flourish lately.
Stanley stared at it a long time then looked at me from under his eyeshade—yes, in this day and age, he still wore one and had rubber bands holding his sleeves tight so they wouldn’t get ink on them. I wondered if he still set display type by hand, though I could see Marcella, his one employee, typing copy into a computer.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked me in a slow, deliberate tone. “Might stir up more trouble.”
“War is war,” I said. What I didn’t tell him, and hadn’t even told Don Davidson, was that the mayor was indeed poisoned and lucky to be alive. That just didn’t mean the digitalis came from the café.
“Well,” he said, “you got till next Monday to change your mind. I’ll send you a bill if you don’t.”
I thanked him and left, not without a bit of misgiving.
From then on, I launched an extra campaign to visit tables, ask people how their food was, tell them how glad we were they came in to eat with us. I encouraged
Marj
to do the same thing, although her manner was a little more straightforward: “Hey, you old goat, how’d you like your dinner?” or, to one man whose wife was sitting right there, “Good as what you get at home or better, ain’t it?” I suggested she tone it down just a bit.
Mayor Thompson was still eerily quiet and not seen around town—I wondered if she was still really sick or hiding out deliberately. But on Thursday, Rick walked into the café about ten, sat at the counter, and thrust some papers in my hand. “You’ve been served. She’s suing.”
I sighed. “I’ve been expecting this. I’ll get these to my lawyer first thing right away. Thanks, I guess.” My smile was wry.
Rick did a complete turnabout on the conversation. “Can I have a sticky bun? I didn’t get breakfast this morning.”
I looked and there were two left. I heated one and brought it to him, then poured him a cup of coffee.
“Good, this will put me on a sugar high till lunch.” He actually smiled. Then, almost bashfully, “Kate, could you get away tonight to go to dinner in Canton? There’s that little Italian place. I even have a bottle of red wine to take with us.”
“Are you allowed to leave town?” I asked.
He sat up straighter. “I’ll have you know I have a deputy now.”
“Who?”
“Tom Bryson, your brother-in-law.”
My jaw dropped.
Why would Tom do that?
Rick must have read my mind. “He’s really going to run for mayor, and he figures this is one way to show his civic interest. No pay. Pure volunteer work.”
And, I thought, gives him something to think about besides Donna and Irv
Litman
. Aloud, I said, “Could we go early so I’d be back to close up and get the charge slips.”
He actually smiled again. “Now who’s tied to their job? Sure we could.”
“Let me talk to
Marj
.”
Marj
said she could pull in an extra waitress and handle the cash register herself. Her opinion was that I should go, and so I told Rick yes. He said he’d pick me up at five so we’d be back in plenty of time.
After he left, I put in a call to Don Davidson, but a recorded message told me he was out of the office. Anxious as I was to deal with this matter, I practically yelled at the recording. In reality I left a polite but urgent message and tucked the papers into a drawer in my desk, one with a lock.
The morning dragged on toward lunchtime. I read the legal papers but couldn’t make much sense of them—hadn’t I worked for a lawyer? What struck me was that she was charging premeditated malice. Wrong, wrong, wrong! She also charged the Blue Plate Café with deliberately poisoning her, as opposed to other customers who had not gotten sick. I figured she’d have to show believable cause on that one. Don Davidson could figure it out. Meantime, impulsively, I called Stan
Wisenhunt
and pulled that ad from next week’s paper. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like such a good idea. Then I called Don Davidson at home, explained I’d be in Canton this evening, and could I drop the papers in his mail chute. He said sure, he’d look at them tomorrow.
At home by four that afternoon. I was in the eternal dilemma of what to wear. No Dallas date outfits, not simple black with pearls. This was country and casual. I finally decided on beige linen slacks and a bright turquoise knit shirt, with flat brown sandals—Rick was tall enough that I could wear heels, but I was out of practice walking in them. And I wanted comfort. So I polished my toenails.
He was at the house at five sharp, and we set off, driving in peaceful silence after exchanging “How was your day?” pleasantries. I liked it that we didn’t have to talk every minute, and I stared out the window at once-familiar landscape, now changed. I spotted the vegetable stand where Gram used to buy some local produce and the dog kennel where I’d begged her to buy me a cocker spaniel. Wise woman she was, she refused.
“See that house over there?” Rick interrupted my reverie, pointing to a substantial two-story house, red brick, with while pillars and a white board fence. I’d always admired the place because it was more neatly kept than some of its neighbors.
“Um-hmm,” I murmured.
“Nicest people you’d ever know. Until she stabbed him one night with a butcher knife. Seems he’d been beating her for years.” He shook his head. “The things you find out about people in my job,” he said.
“Are you giving me a hint?” I asked.
He grinned. “Yeah, I guess I am, Kate. Just don’t be surprised at what turns up in this business about your grandmother and the mayor.”
Was he thinking of Tom and Donna? I sure was, and I hated it. “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Let’s resolve to put it out of our minds tonight—promise not to mention it—and have a pleasant, relaxing supper.”
He looked contrite. “Good idea. I’m sorry I brought it up. I don’t know what I was thinking, except that Mayor Thompson would be furious if she knew I’m taking you to dinner.”
“You don’t work for her, do you?” I asked tartly.
“No, but she thinks I do.”
“Well, maybe you better educate her.” Rick Samuels didn’t seem at all to be one to be intimidated by a—okay forgive the phrase—bitchy woman, and yet sometimes I thought the mayor had him under her thumb. Not as much as she did Tom, but still….
In the end, we followed our resolve and put the whole thing out of our minds. We slipped the papers in Don’s mailbox and went on to the restaurant, which was typically Italian, almost cloying with its attempt at atmosphere—checkered tablecloths, latticework with fake greens on it, candles that had been stuck in old Chianti bottles and allowed to drip wax down the bottles. Lighting was so dim I could barely see the menu, and I laughed aloud when Rick handed me a small pocket flashlight. “Official equipment,” he said.”
I ordered the veal piccata, one of my all-time favorites, while he had lasagna. “I only brought red wine,” he said apologetically. “Is that all right with veal?”
“Of course. That old business of pairings isn’t so strict these days.”
While we lingered over wine and an appetizer of stuffed mushrooms, we talked about Dallas, laughing that we’d been to all the same bars in North Dallas. I found out his wife had left him, actually cheated on him, and he tried to put himself back together in the bar scene. It didn’t work, and he was eventually demoted for being unable to work too many days. That led to his coming, reluctantly, to Wheeler. “It doesn’t seem so bad these days,” he said, “except for your grandmother and the mayor.”
I in turn confessed that I’d been the party girl hiding from herself, avoiding looking at where I was going, what I was doing with my life. “My first thought was to get out of Wheeler,” I said, “and I did it. But I guess I paid a penalty.” I did stress that I’d held a really good job, had a condominium, and lived a good life—okay, except maybe for the bar scene.
He reached across the table and took my hand. “We have a lot in common. Running away from ourselves. How do you feel about it now that you’re back in Wheeler?”
I hesitated, but I didn’t move my hand. “You know, I haven’t had time to think about it, but I guess I’m glad to be here, out of Dallas. I like the café, the way people greet me, and I love cooking. I want to have more time to change the menu. I’ve just been so involved I haven’t had time to do it, but I’ve added my own chicken salad and tuna salad. I’m experimenting with mixed greens salad instead of the iceberg and cabbage we serve.”
His eyes crinkled in a way I’d never seen them do. “Cooking wasn’t exactly what I was asking about. How about social life in Wheeler?”
“There isn’t much—tonight excepted. But I guess I haven’t missed it. I’ve been too tired. Maybe that’s good for me. How about you?”
“Well, let’s say I’m reading a lot more than I used to. But I think I like not running from myself.”
A sudden thought dawned on me. “Did you have children?”
“No,” he said with regret. “I wish I had. You?”
“No.” And then, for some reason we both laughed. It was a strange question to ask on a first date.
The veal piccata was really good, lemony and creamy and wonderful. I could never add it to the Blue Plate menu—folks would think I was taking on airs. Rick praised his lasagna equally, and I did think maybe I should add an occasional Italian dish to the menu, maybe not lasagna but an easier Italian-style casserole or spaghetti with meat sauce.. Meatballs were way too much trouble for mass cooking. I’d have to start experimenting.
“What would you think about spaghetti with meat sauce at the café?” I asked.
He clapped his hand to his forehead. “I take her out to a nice dinner, and all she can think about is her café!”
I laughed. “Not true.” But I was thinking about it and would do some experimenting at home. Then it dawned on me: spaghetti with meat sauce was what Steve
Millican
had intended to fix me. I’d ask him about it.
I had no need to ask Steve. He came for lunch the next day. The special was roast chicken, and he looked so disappointed he ordered a hamburger. I told him I had a new version of potato salad to go with it, and asked if he wanted it.
“Sure, I’ll try it.” When I came back with his Coke, he said, “I see you went out to dinner with the chief of police last night. Go to Canton?”
I stammered. “Yes, as a matter of fact we did. How did you know?”
“I saw him pick you up. I was at the nursery. After all, you went pretty early.”
“I had to get back to close up,” I said. Why was I explaining all this to him?
“Well, I still want to cook you dinner. How about tonight?”
I calculated. It was Friday, a busy evening but not as bad as Saturday.
Marj
could handle it, and I hated to put Steve off, when he was obviously already jealous. I’d come back to close. “I’d like that,” I said. “Let me check it with
Marj
.” I admit a question went through my head about how Rick would react. I told myself I was a free agent, grown girl, and could do what I pleased. I sure wasn’t going to ask Rick’s permission. And I was having dinner two successive nights with two different men. Not quite Dallas but darn good!
Marj
agreed it would be fine, though she raised her eyebrows and I knew she was thinking, “Again?” I came back to the counter to tell Steve I’d look forward to spaghetti and meatballs.
“How’d you know what I was going to fix?”
“That’s what you said when you were going to cook before, before someone trashed your nursery. Besides, I’m thinking of putting that on the menu here, so I’ll need your expertise.”
He laughed. “You can probably do a lot better than I can, but I’ll do my best to be helpful. I’ll be at your house around five-thirty, so you can get back to close.”
Was he being facetious?
Steve arrived promptly at five-thirty, all cleaned up in starched jeans and a denim shirt, carrying bags of groceries which, as he unloaded them, revealed pasta, ground beef, canned tomatoes, canned tomato sauce, Parmesan (I wondered where he’d found the real kind and not the sawdust that came out of a shaker), a bottle of Chianti, some spices, even butter. And, of course, salad goods and French bread, which he’s apparently already sliced and prepared with butter, parsley and garlic (I could smell the garlic across the room).