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) (5 page)
“Yeah, thanks. What will you have?”
“Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans. No salad. Coffee to drink. Black.”
Now there was an original order and directly delivered. I turned in the order, got a coffee cup and the pot, and returned. “Were you called when my grandmother died?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m the chief of police. I have to be called on any suspicious death.”
“Suspicious?”
“Well, it was sudden.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it was. But suspicious?”
“Probably not.” He sipped his coffee and didn’t seem inclined to light chitchat.
I pushed on. “How long have you been in Wheeler?”
“Two months.”
“Like it?”
“Not particularly.”
Boy, this was a guy I didn’t want to get to know well. I’d actually heard about him from Donna. He came from Dallas, and such a demotion seemed likely to indicate that something bad had happened with the Dallas Police Department. His name was Rick Samuels, and he brought no family with him to Wheeler. If my suspicions continued to grow about Gram’s death, I decided he was the last person I’d ask. I brought him his lunch with a muttered, “Enjoy” which had no enthusiasm behind it. He never even said thank you.
The café door opened, and I looked up to see Rob. What in the-you-know-what was he doing here? He slid into a counter seat.
“Hi, can I have a beer.”
“We don’t serve liquor,” I said. “No license. What are you doing here?”
“Came looking for you. Since you wouldn’t return my calls, I called your good friend Cindy, who was only too ready to tell me where you were. And why. Sorry about your grandmother.”
I didn’t know whether to thank him for the regrets or curse out Cindy. Finally I said, “Thanks. What else can I get you?
“DP. And when are you coming home?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not. I’m moving back here to run the café.” For once, I thanked Gram for talking through me.
Just then a customer walked up to the cash register and I excused myself, hearing his screech as I turned away. I glanced back. Sitting two stools away from the very erect Rick Samuels, Rob seemed to slump and looked smaller, indecisive, a lot of things I didn’t like—but he also looked angry.
I chatted with the customer, took his money, and then went to get Rob his DP. When I put it on the counter in front of him, he suddenly grabbed my arm hard and demanded, “You can’t do this. You belong in Dallas with me. Which part is it that you don’t understand?”
I tried to pull away, but he held me in a firm grip. “Rob,” I began pleadingly….
Rick Samuels was on his feet in an instant. “Ma’am, this man bothering you?”
“Well,” I hesitated. “Yes, yes, he is.”
“Move on, buddy,” Samuels said in a no-nonsense voice. “And I don’t particularly want to see you in Wheeler again.”
Rob protested, but when the chief grabbed his elbow and propelled him out the door, he quieted and left, casting an angry glance at me as he left. Later, he would leave a message on my phone that he gathered that was my new lover, but it only made me laugh.
Meantime I thanked the chief, to which he replied tersely, “Just doing my job. Keeping the peace.”
He reminded me of Matt Dillon in
Gunsmoke
,
the long-running TV western series which was well into re-runs by the time I saw it. But Rick Samuels was every bit as taciturn as Matt Dillon.
When he paid his check and was ready to leave, I thanked the police chief again. “That guy was from Dallas,” I said, knowing I was explaining and justifying when I should shut up. “I knew him casually. I live in Dallas—uh, lived in Dallas. Now I’m coming back to Wheeler.”
For just a minute, I thought I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes, and I was sure it was because he knew the relationship was more than casual. “I knew you were in Dallas. Johnny told me. I just don’t….” he began. But he never finished what he was about to say. With a hand to his hat, he said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Kate.
****
We buried Gram on a bright sunny spring morning, East Texas at its best and the kind of day she loved. The casket was suspended over the hole when we got there, with the spray of iris on top of it. Donna and I had ordered iris, because Gram wasn’t a rose kind of person—fussy, she called them—but she loved the iris that bloomed in her yard. The gravesite was next to her husband and my parents, in an area of the old cemetery surrounded by tall, towering trees.
Donna and I held hands while Revered Baxter commended Gram’s soul to the Lord. I was grateful he didn’t say, “Dust thou art, to dust thou
returnest
,” which had always sounded grim to me. The casket was lowered, and we each threw a clump of earth on it, an act that seemed terribly symbolic to me, so much so that Donna and I hugged each other and sobbed. Tom tried his best to reach his arms around both of us in comfort. The few mourners we had invited to the graveside ceremony stood silently, out of respect for our grief I guess. But when I finally raised my head and glanced around, I saw Gus, glowering, and, off in the trees, Chief of Police Rick Samuels, watching intently. I dried my tears and tried to look composed, but I knew my face was blotchy again.
At the church, we were shown into a private room and offered coffee, which I took gratefully. For some unusual reason, I had remembered to bring make-up, so I repaired my face as best I could and felt fairly composed as we entered the sanctuary. Tom had Donna on one arm and me on the other—we had to squeeze through the door directly behind the pulpit, but we entered with heads held high and took our seats in the front pew. The employees of the café sat in the two pews directly behind us. I risked a peek around at the rest of the church and saw that it was crowded. Not only Wheeler residents but people from the area had turned out to honor Gram.
The service was brief, everything I wanted it to be from the hymns to the eulogy, which had the congregation murmuring in laughter at points, and at other moments caused Donna and me to wipe our eyes. But Revered Baxter praised Gram as she deserved and dismissed the congregation with a blessing.
By a little before noon, we were in the fellowship hall, where a great lunch was spread out on tables. Ladies of the church had brought ham, fried chicken, potato salad, Jell-O salads, Bundt cakes, relish trays, whatever one could wish for and all the things we’d had at Donna’s house days earlier. There were sticky buns and cornbread from the café, and pies of several varieties, plus an endless supply of sweetened ice tea. I longed for some non-sweetened but had to remind myself where I was. The café, I resolved, would offer non-sweetened tea. A corner of me was no longer that southern.
Donna and I shook hands and acknowledged condolences until we were blue in the face. So many people wanted to tell us their special memories of Gram that it was heartwarming—and made me miss her all the more. Some of the stories were far-fetched, like the man who said, “I never knew a woman could cuss like that.” Gram never cussed in her life and would have blistered our bottoms if we had. Others were sadly self-pitying: “I can’t believe I won’t have her fried catfish again.” I assured this man that the café would stay open, and he could have catfish. Steve
Millican
came by, all cleaned up from his nursery clothes, held my hand just a second too long, and asked, “You doing okay?” I nodded.
But as the crowd thinned, and the line to greet us was almost done, Mayor Angela Thompson bustled up—there’s no other word for her approach, except maybe businesslike. “I want to talk to you girls as soon as possible,” she said. “I’m going to buy the café.”
Before I could answer, Donna piped up, “Sorry, Ms. Thompson, but it’s not for sale. Kate’s going to run it.”
Surely Gram wasn’t channeling Donna!
My head spun, first toward my sister in disbelief, then back to the mayor, who ungraciously said, “Hmmm. We’ll see how long that lasts. Then I’ll get a better price on it.” And she moved away, without a word of condolence.
Donna whispered, “Have you ever heard of anything so rude at a funeral? I can’t believe her. I hope she gets caught with her hand in the city till or something.”
The thought made me giggle, but I was sure the giggle would have come from nervousness and exhaustion. When the last of the crowd disappeared and we had thanked all the ladies who were collecting their dishes, Tom and Donna invited me to come home with them, but I desperately wanted a nap.
When I got home, Gram appeared—or her voice. “Thanks, Kate. The service was just what I wanted—simple and brief. I’m so glad you talked Donna out of ‘The Church’s One Foundation’—what a dull hymn.”
I giggled this time and then slept soundly until almost five o’clock, when I woke up and wandered around in a fog.
After a few minutes, a knock on the front door brought me more to life. I opened it to find Steve
Millican
.
He took one look at me and asked solicitously, “Did I wake you up?”
“Not quite,” I said. “I took a long nap but was just wandering around, thinking about supper, and trying to get my bearings.”
“You got a beer? Want some company?”
“Yes to both,” I said. “Come on in. We can take our drinks out on the back porch, where Gram has really comfortable rockers.”
And so we did, enjoying an East Texas evening, when it was too early in the season for mosquitoes but not for birds who chirped their evensong. For a long time, we rocked in companionable silence, and I thought how rare that was. Rob would have been talking his head off. But finally Steve asked, “How was the reception? I couldn’t stay long.”
I murmured that it was fine, but then I found myself telling him about Mayor Thompson’s outrageous behavior.
He listened, almost amused, and said, “She thinks she can have anything in this town she wants. I think she’s due for a comeuppance soon.”
What did that mean? Was he talking in general terms or did he have anything specific in mind?
“Kate, I sort of hinted at this before, but do you think there might be something funny about your grandmother’s death?”
I rocked some more and finally answered with a question of my own. “What exactly do you mean?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, but a healthy woman like that, even in her seventies, usually doesn’t just keel over.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it. But the only thing I can think of is someone poisoned her. But why? And who? And how? What kind of poison?”
“There are a lot of poisonous plants, like foxglove, even the poke
sallet
we talked about,” he nodded his head in the direction of Gram’s bed of poke
sallet
, “some slow-acting, some instant. I’d have to do some research.”
I stared at him. He seemed so sincere and so willing to help, but who would poison Gram with plants? Who would know enough to do that? Gram’s only threat seemed to me to be Angela Thompson, and I doubted she knew basil from thyme, let alone poisonous plants.
“I’d be grateful if you did,” I said. Then to change the mood and the subject, I said, “Let me make us some sandwiches. Lunch meat and bread are all I have.”
He agreed but added that it was his turn next. I shrugged.
I actually fixed pretty good sandwiches of roast beef, sharp cheddar, lettuce, tomato and mayo, but when it came to eating, I found I didn’t have much appetite. Steve left rather quickly after we ate. I assured him I could clean up the kitchen by myself and told him I was grateful for the company. He said it was his pleasure.
And I went inside to a sleepless night, tossing and turning and plagued by all kinds of doubts.
I woke up foggy the next morning, not as I too often had from too much wine, trying to be the life of the party, but from worry—and lack of sleep. I’d tossed and turned, thinking indignantly about Donna’s fabricated story of Gram’s death, puzzled by Gus’ ominous warning, wondering about Steve
Millican’s
willingness to research poisonous plants—was he too eager? I stumbled around feeding Wynona and decided I’d go see Doc Mason this morning. Just in time I remembered the reading of the will was today, in Gram’s house, where I would be hostess. I wasn’t sure how many people to expect—lawyer Don Davidson, Tom and Donna, and me. But Don had hinted that other people might be involved. Café employees? I could only guess. But the realization galvanized me out of my funk.
I showered, dressed in presentable slacks, a tank top, and an oversize linen shirt—turquoise, which I always thought complemented anyone’s coloring. Then I called
Marj
and asked her to box a dozen sticky buns for me, promising to come get them soon.
“It’s for the reading, isn’t it?” she asked. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask Gus to bring them to you.”
“Thanks.” It was nine, and I still had to vacuum and dust and get out china, Gram’s beloved Blue Willow. I found some napkins in the buffet and thought what the heck? No paper. I’ll wash them tonight. I ran Gram’s old Hoover, for all the good that did, and vowed to bring my new Oreck with me when I emptied my condo. Dusting was easy—Gram believed in old-fashioned feather dusters, and the place really hadn’t had time to get that dusty. On inspiration, I ran across the street to see if Steve
Millican
had something blooming and pretty for me to put on the living room coffee table, and in no time at all he produced a bunch of daisies, arranging them artfully in the Blue Willow pitcher I’d brought.
“Thanks,” I said as I hurried away. “Can you put it on my bill? I’ll have to settle with you soon, or I’ll be so far behind I won’t catch up.”
“No worries.” He waved.
Gus delivered the sticky buns, his face glum. “You don’t forget?” he asked.
I put my hand on his arm. “No, Gus, I haven’t forgotten, and I think probably you’re right. But it’s going to take me some time to figure it out.”
“Just as long as you don’t give up, Miss Kate. I owe Miss Johnny my life. Without her, I’d have died in a gutter in Dallas. I don’t want to go to my grave thinking I didn’t stand up for her.”
“Oh, Gus, don’t even think about that! We’ll figure out what happened to Gram.” I guess I’d never know how or why Gram found him in the gutter and brought him here, but it sounded just like her. She could spot fakes, but she could also see potential in people.
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned and shuffled back to the café.
By ten-fifteen I had the sticky buns on one of Gram’s platters, with a doily on it of course, the coffee cups, cream and sugar, plus napkins (sticky buns really required wipes but that would have horrified Donna, though I thought it was a pretty funny idea). All I needed was to pour the coffee when everyone arrived.
Donna and Tom were ten minutes early, not a bit to my surprise. Donna walked in saying, “We really should have done this at my house. It’s so much…well, newer…than Gram’s.”
Tom kept quiet, with that long-suffering look on his face, while I replied that I thought it was really appropriate to read Gram’s will in her own living room.
Don Davidson arrived five minutes later, briefcase in hand, cordially greeting all of us.
I poured coffee, passed the platter of buns, asked Don how his day was, Tom how his mom was, making polite chatter, until Donna interrupted impatiently, “Well, shouldn’t we get on with it?”
Hesitantly, Don said, “There are two more persons to arrive: Mayor Angela Thompson, on behalf of the city of Wheeler, and William Overton, your grandmother’s accountant.”
“Mayor Thompson?” Donna exploded. “And what does the city of Wheeler have to do with anything?”
“I think you’ll be surprised,” Don said mildly.
Mr. Overton knocked on the door almost as Don spoke. He nodded politely and took a seat in a corner, refusing all offers of coffee and sticky buns. “I’m fine, thank you,” was all he said, as he folded his hands over his briefcase and prepared to wait.
Mayor Thompson was twenty minutes late—and I must admit it was a long twenty minutes while Don and I tried to make casual conversation, Donna fumed, and Tom sat silently withdrawn. Don asked about my running the café, and I said yes I intended to, and he asked about the abrupt switch from the fast lane in Dallas, and I replied the fast lane had grown old. Donna harrumphed at that.
Angela Thompson finally barged in without apologizing for being late. “I hope you have coffee,” she said, just as I rose to pour her a cup and pass the buns.
Once Don got down to the actual reading of the will, with all its legalese language, I almost tuned out, although it was language I knew well from my career in Dallas. The “I bequeaths” seemed endless—$500 each to
Marj
and Gus, $100 to some of the other café employees, a bit to the church—Donna snorted as each tiny bit of money dribbled away from her.
But then Don read, “To the city of Wheeler, I bequeath $1 million to be used for civic improvement, with the accounting to be overseen by my accountant William Overton and my granddaughters Kate Chambers and Donna Bryson.”
Donna leaped from her chair. “She can’t do that. A million dollars? That’s ridiculous. Gram didn’t have that kind of money.”
I was embarrassed by Donna’s reaction, and I saw Tom put his face in his hands. Don raised a quieting hand. “Donna, I think if you’ll sit down, you’ll find she did. Your grandmother inherited some money, and she was a very wise investor. She also had a large insurance policy, double indemnity in case of accidental death. She was the unknown benefactor who made the revitalization of Wheeler possible.”
“You mean she’d already given the city money?” Donna screeched.
Don replied mildly, “A considerable amount.”
“How much?” Donna demanded, while I sat on my hands to squelch the urge to flat out punch her in the face.
“That’s not a discussion for right now,” Don said dismissively. He went on to read that Donna and I each inherited $1 million, with the caveat that out of my share came half the value of the house and café because she wanted me to have them. Donna this time jumped for joy and said, “I don’t care about the house and café! I can have my B & B!” Tom sat speechless (and probably dismayed), and I was stunned.
Don finished by saying that anything remaining, after funeral expenses,
etc.
was to go to the church.
I was absolutely speechless. But not Donna, who kept crowing, “A million dollars? I can get my B & B. Hallelujah.” She paused and looked at me, then back to Don. “What if she was murdered? Does that count as an accidental death? Would it double the insurance?”
How, I wondered, could she be so callous about Gram’s death? I looked at Tom, but his face was a ghastly shade of greenish-white. William Overton’s expression was unreadable.
Don said evenly, “I can check the policy. But you’d have to prove murder, and I’ve heard no hint of that.”
“I have my suspicions,” Donna said. “She was just too healthy to suddenly have a heart attack. And I’m not sure she was capable of making such decisions as bequeathing money to the city.”
I was doubly aghast, and I heard Gram whisper, “I told you that you were in for a fight.” I could imagine her grinning. “Darn it, Gram. Don’t do this to me!”
Angela Thompson simply looked smug. “This bequest puts us back in line for upgrading the city’s facilities and businesses. I am most grateful.”
Donna could have spit fire at her, and even I was surprised at how momentarily humble she seemed—totally out of character with the woman I’d heard so much about and only met once. “Donna and I will be privileged to help you oversee the use of those funds,” I said softly.
The old, abrasive mayor was back. “Oh, yeah, right.”
I turned to William Overton, still sitting quietly in his corner chair. “Did you know about the size of Gram’s estate and the extent to which she’d been funding Wheeler?” I asked in the gentlest tone I could muster. He looked fragile to me.
“Yes, of course. I helped her plan her bequests.” He kept his hands folded, but I thought the knuckles looked a bit white.
“Why,” Donna whined, “did she give that much money to the city when she could have given it to us?” I don’t think she expected anyone to answer, but William Overton spoke up.
“Your grandmother often said that Wheeler had been good to her, and she wanted to repay that debt. She felt she was providing generously for each of you girls.”
I thought so too, but Donna just flipped her hair and turned away. “Don,” she addressed the lawyer, “when do we get the money?”
“I explained that. Not until it goes to probate, and that could be a couple of months. Meantime, don’t use it as security for any loans or anything.”
Donna literally stamped her foot, and I was embarrassed. She left in a huff, Tom trailing in her wake. Don and Mr. Overton looked uncomfortably at each other and then at me, as though waiting for me to signal what was next.
Lamely, I apologized for Donna. “She’s sometimes unpredictable,” I began.
William Overton interrupted me with a huge sigh. “I know.”
“How can I help either one of you?” I asked.
Looking relieved at a practical suggestion, Don said, “I’ll have to have a report on the books of the café and an appraisal of the property and the house.” He turned to Overton. “Since I’m in town already, could we begin looking at the café records?”
Overton jumped to his feet. “Of course, most of them are right here in my briefcase. I brought them just in case.”
“Why don’t the two of you settle down at Gram’s kitchen table? I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee and send lunch over from the café, if you’ll just tell me what you want.” Then I turned to Mr. Overton, “I won’t take your time today, but I will also want to go over the books. I may start keeping most of the records myself”
Was it my imagination or did he clutch that briefcase just a bit tighter? “Well,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere but at me, “your grandmother thought it best to trust a trained professional.”
“I know,” I said reassuring, “and I trust you, but I think I best be familiar with our financial situation.” Did I really mean to reassure him?
“Of course,” he said, following Don Davidson to the kitchen. William Overton asked for a tuna sandwich on whole wheat—even I have to admit that’s not one of the café’s strengths. Gram bought tubs of tuna from Sam’s Club in Tyler, and I swore as soon as I could, I’d start making it—and chicken salad—from scratch. Don grinned and said, “A chicken fried sandwich, fries, the works.” Both, it seemed, preferred iced tea to more coffee, so I made a pot of tea and went off to pick up their lunches.
As I walked to the café, Gram gave me another bit of advice. “Be careful who you trust, Kate. I have put my faith in the wrong people from time to time—and look where it got me.” I wanted to shout at her, “Gram, are you telling me someone murdered you?” It was the most disquieting message I’d had from Gram so far and yet I didn’t know what to make of it.
The café was fairly quiet, so I called Doc Mason’s office to ask if he could spare me five minutes early in the afternoon. His receptionist/nurse said to come just before one o’clock. So I delivered the lunches, ate half a meatloaf sandwich and told
Marj
I’d be back.
I’d known Doc Mason all my conscious life, though I can’t make that sentimental claim that he brought me into the world. Our parents had been in Dallas, and we were born in a big city hospital. I doubted whether anyone there would remember the Chambers twins, though I longed to ask someone if the difference in our dispositions was apparent immediately. Of course, I wanted to hear that I was a placid, happy baby and Donna was fussy, with colic. Maybe we’re better off not knowing such things.
The nurse showed me right into his office, not an examining room, and Doc rose to give me a hug. “I’m so sorry about Johnny, Kate. But then I told you that at the funeral. She was one of my dearest friends. I’d have courted her, if she’d have let me,” he said with a grin. He was a big man, with shaggy white hair and a white beard that bristled as he hugged me. No sterile white coat for this doctor. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, his usual office attire.
“Thanks, Doc. I…well, this has all been a shock to me, and my head is still reeling.”
He held on to my hand. “From what I hear you’ve made some pretty fast decisions—to stay here and run the Café. You know, my dear, decisions made in haste are often regretted at leisure.”