Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) (17 page)

I left the girls alone the next morning. They were excited to be allowed to stay on their own, and I made sure Ava knew how to call me. They told me
Huggles
would protect them, and he surely showed every sign of it, but I locked the doors too. And at the café I jumped every time the phone rang, but the girls were fine—in fact, they called once to tell me that, which nearly gave me a heart attack when I heard Ava say, “Aunt Kate?” Jumping to conclusions, I yelled, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” she said sweetly, “I just wanted to tell you we’re okay.” Tom called about ten to say he was held up but was there to get them now and what was my car doing so far back in the driveway.

I told him about Steve and the fence.

“Nice of him,” he said cryptically.

Promptly at ten, Mr. Overton appeared with his worn briefcase. He was wearing the same drab suit with pants shiny from use and the same cracked shoes he always wore. As usual, he asked only for black coffee, as he laid out spreadsheets for his report. The café, he reported, was doing well, paying all its expenses and showing a slight profit, which he put into a savings account. When it became too large, he transferred it into a CD. “Your grandmother,” he once told me pompously, “did not believe in the risk of stock market investments.”

As for Gram’s investments in bonds, they were showing slow but steady growth in spite of the economy. It all looked good on paper.

“Mr. Overton, can you give me the current balance in each of the accounts—the café account, the payroll account, the savings account?”

“Of course.” He took pencil and paper, stared at the ceiling trying to jog his memory, and then jotted down three figures that looked to me like what should be in those accounts. I wondered though that he didn’t have bank statements with him. Still the savings account was growing nicely and should soon be ready for another $50,000 CD. I wondered aloud if I should break Gram’s tradition and invest in the market, now that it seemed to be on the upswing again.

“I wouldn’t,” he advised sternly, gathering up his papers.

“Oh, may I keep the slip with the balances on it?”

He almost grabbed it, but then he forced a smile and said of course.

I stuffed it my pocket. As he stood to leave, I said, “One more thing I’m curious about, Mr. Overton. My grandmother always handled her own finances. I’ve never known her to trust anyone else. May I ask how she became your client?”

He sat back down, clutched the now cold coffee cup, and stared at it. Then he seemed to rally and even smiled a bit at me. “I was new to Wheeler. I’d made a good living in Dallas, but I wanted to get out of the hustle. Still, I didn’t want to quit work. So I thought I’d set up an accounting practice in a small town, and I saw the improvements in Wheeler, thought it looked promising. I hung out my shingle. My first clients were a couple of the new B & Bs, and then a couple of weekend ranchers who wanted to figure out how to deduct agricultural expense—on the up and up of course. I’d never advise a client to skirt the law.” He took a sip of cold coffee and I waited. This was a long speech for William Overton.

“Your grandmother didn’t come to me. I went to her, because I saw she had a thriving business but was busy running the café. Keeping the books, I thought, must be an extra burden. She was very hesitant, but I finally convinced her I could help her, and she agreed to try. She seemed to be pleased, so we’d been working together almost three years.”

He stood to leave, but I stopped him with one more question. “What about Gram’s donations to the city? Why did they stop?”

This time he remained standing. “I repeatedly told Mrs. Chambers they were a bad idea for several reasons—the city would be dependent on her, she had no control over how the money was used, and of course she had you girls to think of. I wasn’t aware of her investments that came out in the reading of the will. At any rate, she finally saw my point of view and discontinued them.” He picked up his briefcase and in an almost haughty tone asked, “Are there any more questions?”

“Not for now,” I said, and thanked him. But after he left, I sat puzzling for a long time. Why had Gram trusted her finances to a stranger? I could see she thought I was too far away, and she told me she did not trust Donna. But still…. And surely she didn’t stop supporting the town because Mr. Overton thought it was a bad idea. It was her disagreement with the mayor. So why was Overton taking credit for everything?

I was still puzzling when Tom came in to say he had delivered the girls home, though he didn’t know if it made a difference to Donna or not. “Sit,” I said, “and let me get you some coffee.”

“Can’t I have a sticky bun too?”

I smiled. “If there are any left.”

When I came back, with coffee and the last bun in the kitchen, I sat down and asked bluntly, “What do you know about William Overton?”

He shrugged. “Not much. I was surprised when Gram took him on. Didn’t seem like her.”

“Does he do your books at the store?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Dad always told me to keep the books myself.”

“Do you know who his other clients are?”

“I think he does the books for the nursery and clothing store, Steve and Joanie
Millican
. And a couple of B & Bs. But I bet Gram was his big client. Why? What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I just thought maybe I should look into who’s taking care of my finances.”

“Well, I said it yesterday. That’s probably a good idea,” Tom said as he licked the last of the sticky bun off his fingers. “You ought to offer wipes with these things.”

I decided to go visit Donna, the non-communicative one. She was still sitting in the same chair, and the kids were watching TV in the game room. Before I could even speak, she greeted me harshly.

“So, you even take my girls away from me when I need them for comfort!”

Dumbfounded, I said, “Donna, they were at loose ends here. You weren’t paying any attention to them. And they wanted to spend the night. They both slept with me, because they wanted comfort. You haven’t given them that.”

She got up from the chair and began to pace. I was almost relieved that she could still walk. “I need comfort,” she said, “not them.”

Oh, Donna, I wanted to cry out, don’t you see? But I knew she didn’t.

“I came to ask you about something else. What do you remember about when Gram hired William Overton?”

Her eyes blazed. “I remember I was mad as hell. I told her I could keep her books, and she said it was better to keep it out of the family. I asked how she knew she could trust this unimpressive man who came out of nowhere. Did she check his references? I don’t think so. She just said it would all be all right.”

I sank down on the couch, amazed at Donna’s intensity.

“I didn’t kill Irv, and I wouldn’t have stolen from Gram. Why does everyone think I’m the bad one?”

Boy, did I have a lot of answers to that, but I decided this was the time to keep quiet. After all, I was trying to prove her innocence but not mollify her nor make her out as a saint.

“I’m going to look into it more,” I said, standing up.

“Do that,” she said bitterly, “and find out what Irv meant when he said it takes one to know one. Meantime, tell Ava I want to see her.”

No please, no would you, just an order. By now, she was back in the chair where she sat looking like a queen, expecting people to wait on her because she’d undergone trauma, which included being out on bail for murder. Sometimes I wanted to give up on Donna, but I knew I couldn’t do that.

“Yeah, I will.” I went through the kitchen to the game room and delivered the message to Ava. This time instead of wanting her mom back, she rolled her eyes and asked, “Now what?”

“Maybe she wants a PBJ,” I said lightly.

As she left the room, I heard Ava mutter, “Whatever.”

This family was in a sad state, and I was the only one to help them. Tom couldn’t do it. I sighed, and once in my car, I asked, “Gram, where are you when I need you?”

“Donna will come around,” came the answer. “But ask the mayor.”

There it was again: ask the mayor. I went home to let
Huggles
out. While I was gone, Steve had gotten to work on the fence. Since he was using pre-slatted pieces of fencing, he was well along.

“It looks great,” I said.

“Does, doesn’t it?” he replied proudly. I thought he looked better than he had the last few days. “
Huggles
should love being able to run. He could jump it if he really tried, but he’s not the kind to make any desperate moves to escape. He knows he’s got a happy home.”

Was there wistfulness in his tone?
Kate, stop reading things into everyone’s tone of voice, for Pete’s sake.

“Well let’s try him out. Hold the gate in place, and I’ll let him out.” While
Huggles
was in the back of the yard, predictably marking the poke
sallet
, I stepped outside the gate and called. He came running, wagging his rear end—where did I read about wiggle-dogs?—but he just whined when he couldn’t get to us and pawed at the fence. I quickly slipped back in and rewarded him with lots of love.

“You can leave him out if you want,” Steve volunteered. “I won’t leave till this gate is securely in place.”

I thanked him, went inside for a water bowl to put on the porch, and a treat to give
Huggles
. “Send me the bill right away,” I said, “but meantime I owe you dinner and a beer.”

“I may collect at the café tonight. Chicken-fried steak sounds good.”

“It’s a deal.” I had honestly meant I’d cook dinner for him at home and wondered why he didn’t pick up on that—or didn’t want to.

He came in about five and said, “
Huggles
is securely fenced in now.”

I went around the counter to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which made him blush. “Still want chicken-fried steak?”

“Yeah. And I’ll take that beer.” He knew we couldn’t serve beer in the café.

“Later,” I said lightly.

I tried to start a conversation but he gave me monosyllabic answers, and I thought about how withdrawn he’d been lately and how glum he’d seemed the other night. When I asked about Joanie, he said, “She ought to go back to Dallas.”

I gave up. When he reached for his wallet, I told him it was on the house, and he said, “Can’t I tip the waitress?” The closest he came to a grin all through his meal.

“No, you most emphatically may not!”

He gave me a cock-eyed grin, turned and left.

Behind me,
Marj
said, “That Steve
Millican
is a strange bird. You stay clear of him, Kate.”

****

Huggles
was outside when I went home and, of course, he was delighted to see me. When I opened the gate, he danced around in joy but made no attempt to slip out. Yep, he was home.

In the early hours of the morning, the dog’s barking pulled me from a much-needed deep sleep, but when I finally came to consciousness, with
Huggles
licking my face and Wynona hissing at him for making such a fuss in the night, I heard sirens close by. I went into the living room, and as I suspected a whole gaggle of law enforcement cars was across the street at the nursery. Peer as I might I couldn’t tell what was going on—but it didn’t look good. I could hardly walk across the street in my T-shirt and underwear, my usual sleeping attire. I could go back and put on shorts and sneakers, but I imagined the disapproval on Rick Samuels’s face if I did that. I finally did put on the shorts and shoes but went only as far as the small front porch where one uncomfortable wrought iron chair offered me a place to perch. I brought
Huggles
with me on a leash but he barked persistently at the commotion. I put him back inside but I could hear him scratching on the door. Gram would have a fit—a dog tearing up the finish on her front door.

I watched figures come and go for maybe thirty minutes, but I honestly couldn’t tell what was happening until Tom walked across the street looking weary. “Steve
Millican
is in jail. We found a stash of cocaine and pot in his potting sheds—no, that’s not a pun. He was dealing.”

I sat still, not really surprised. There had been hints, especially the way he’d talked about his troubles when he came to look about building the fence. What came out of my mouth was almost a non sequitur: “I’m glad he built my fence today,” and then before I knew it big fat tears were rolling down my cheeks. Steve’s last day of freedom, and he’d spent it building my fence. What he’d done was wrong, but I still felt a great sense of pity. When would he get another good chicken-fried steak?