The Calamity Café (19 page)

T
he shrill noise woke me, but it was Rory's barking along with it that fully brought me from sleep to wakefulness. I rose up onto my elbow, gently pushed Rory's face out of mine, and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Morning, Flowerpot! Rise and shine!”

It was Roger. I looked at the clock. It was six a.m. “I refuse to rise or shine this early. What's wrong?” I had a sudden fear that the café was on fire.

“Nothing really. I just wondered if you'd give your staff the day off. It's pouring rain, and my guys can't work on the patio today, so I thought we'd work inside.”

“And you don't want us in your way,” I said.

“Precisely. You catch on quickly for a foggy-brained sleepyhead.”

“What would you like me to bring for breakfast?”

“Nothing, thanks. I'll stop and get a box of doughnuts. We wouldn't turn down lunch, though.”

“You got it. Are sandwiches all right?”

“That'll be great,” said Roger. “Thanks.”

“Thank you. Not having to come in so early will be wonderful.”

“Rub it in, why don't you?”

I laughed. “Do I need to tell Jackie, or does she know already?”

“I told her when we spoke last night that if it rained like the forecast was calling for, I was going to ask you to give the café staff the day off. You might want to remind her, though.”

“I will. See you at lunchtime.”

I hung up the phone. Rory had already snuggled back up against me. He was so warm and cozy. And I could hear the rain pounding against the roof. I dropped my head back onto my pillow. My alarm was set for six thirty. I'd snooze until then.

*   *   *

I
t was seven o'clock before I finally dragged my butt out of bed and called the café workers. Like me, they were thrilled not to have to work on such a rainy day. Jackie offered to come by and help with lunch, but I assured her that I had it under control. I'd planned to make sandwiches, potato wedges, and cookies. Easy to make, and easy to transport.

While I was at it, I thought I'd make a small tray of sandwiches to take to Pete and Chris Anne. I wanted to talk with Pete about his father and find out what he knew about Stan.

When I spoke with Homer, I promised to add a sausage biscuit to the lunch and have it for him at the café. He understood that he didn't have to work today, but he said he would drop by anyway to see if Roger needed his help. Homer was such a good guy.

I washed the potatoes, dried them, and cut them into wedges. I preheated the oven while gathering my spices. I put salt, pepper, and garlic powder into a large plastic baggie. I then added the potato wedges. I gave the mixture a good shake, added olive oil, and shook them again.

While the potatoes were baking, I made turkey, ham, tuna, and pimiento cheese sandwiches. I cut them into fourths, so they'd stand up nicely on the trays and the workers could see what kinds of sandwiches there were to choose from. When I took the potatoes from the oven, I sprinkled them with Parmesan cheese. I put the potato wedges in a pan lined with parchment paper to transport them to the café.

Fortunately, I had some frozen biscuits in my freezer, so it was no problem to add Homer's sausage biscuit to the food I was delivering. I also had frozen cookie dough, so while the oven was hot, I was able to make three dozen chocolate chip cookies.

I dropped off the food at the café. Homer was there, helping Roger's crew with something in the kitchen. I gave him his sausage biscuit, and he thanked me.

“Who's your hero today?”

“Jacques Cousteau, Mademoiselle.”

I smiled.
“Fantastique!”

I found Roger, told him I was delivering a sandwich tray to Pete and Chris Anne, and said I'd be back to help afterward.

“You don't have to do that. We've got everything under control. Enjoy today.”

“But Homer is here. I can't
not
be here when Homer is here working. This is my café. I should be here.”

“And, like Homer, you'll be underfoot and kinda in the way,” Roger whispered. “And we'll have to give you something to do so you don't realize that you're underfoot and in the way.”

“Fine, but I'll still come back by here after I go to Pete's house to make sure you don't need my help with anything.”

“All right. Take your time,” he said.

“Gee, you know how to make a girl feel appreciated.”

“You want to feel appreciated? Be here when we dive into those boxes of food.”

I laughed. “See you later.”

I flipped the hood up on my jacket as I sprinted back out to the car. The rain was still coming down hard. I slid behind the wheel, put on my headlights, and drove to Pete's house.

I pulled into the driveway and was glad to see only Pete's brown pickup truck there. It might be easier to talk with him without Chris Anne around. I went to the door and rang the bell.

Pete answered the door and invited me inside.

“Where's Chris Anne?” I asked, carrying the sandwiches through to the kitchen. “I brought you two some lunch.”

“That's thoughtful of you, and I'll try to save her some, but she's out garage-saling. I told her I doubted there'd be many people having sales today since it's raining so hard, but she hopes to find some bargains for the baby.”

“Maybe she'll have good luck,” I said. “I've heard you can find some great baby items at garage and thrift sales.”

“That's what she's counting on.”

“So, Pete, what are you hoping for? A boy or a girl?”

He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I don't reckon it matters. We're just praying the baby'll be healthy.”

“How about your trucking business? Any luck finding a tractor and trailer yet?”

“I believe I've found the semi I want. Right now I'm dickering with the salesman to get him to come down a little on the price.”

“Well, I'm glad you can haggle. I sure don't like to.”

He chuckled. “Live with Momma for forty years. I don't know how
not
to haggle!”

I laughed but saw the opening I'd been waiting for. “What about your dad, Pete? Is he still in your life?”

His smile completely disappeared, and his lips curled in revulsion. “My daddy was never part of my life. He took off on Momma when she was pregnant.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, that's just one of them things.” He jerked his head toward the tray I'd sat on the table. “I appreciate the lunch. I'll save it until Chris Anne gets home. Does it need to go in the fridge?”

“It does,” I said. “Just one other thing, Pete. I know you're considering Stan Wheeler for your partner. How well do you know him?”

“Pretty good, I guess. We've been friends since he moved here”—he squinted up at the ceiling—“a little over a year ago now.”

“I don't know that I'd trust him enough to go into business with him,” I said. “You've got this fresh new start. I don't want anything to jeopardize that for you.”

He laughed. “Listen at you sounding like a baby
sister! I kinda like it. I always wanted a brother or a sister.”

If he only knew. I wanted to tell him about Stan, but I was afraid to. For one thing, I wasn't sure what game Stan had been playing, coming here to Winter Garden under an assumed name . . . or, at least, not his full name. And for another, Pete had been through so much with his mother's death already. I didn't want to be the one to add to his stress.

“I'd better be getting back to the café. If y'all need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you, Amy. We appreciate the kindness.”

I got back into the car, shivering slightly from the onslaught of the cold rain, and backed out of Pete's driveway.

I couldn't imagine Pete would entertain friendly thoughts toward Stan Wheeler if he knew Stan was his half brother. He certainly had no warm, fuzzy feelings toward his father. Did he even know his father's name? I wondered what story Pete had been told . . . and who might know.

I went back to the café. The workers were taking their lunch break. Homer was sitting at the counter, sort of off to himself. I sat down beside him.

“Homer, may I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything. I might not know the answer, but maybe I'll be able to help you find it.”

I told him about my visit to Pete and my mentioning his father. “It's apparent that Pete can't stand his dad. I didn't know the Holmans personally until I came to work here last year. When Nana was living—before she got sick, I mean, and while I was growing up here in Winter
Garden—we didn't eat out much. Nana was an absolutely wonderful cook.” I realized I was getting off track. “Anyway, I'd never heard anything about Pete's father or Lou Lou's situation. It had never really crossed my mind until now.”

“Word around town at the time of Mr. Harding's departure was that he'd either been in an auto accident and had been placed in a rehab facility close to where his parents lived or that he'd returned to his first love,” said Homer. “But, of course, Lou Lou went back to using her maiden name and gave the name to her child as well. That made us all believe that he'd just thrown Lou Lou over, and we correctly assumed that the Holman family didn't want mention made of Mr. Harding anymore.”

“Pete told me his father ran out on his mother when she was pregnant. Why didn't anyone tell him the story about the auto accident?”

“Listen,
chérie
, Lou Holman was as hard as nails, and he laid down the law where his family was concerned. I have no doubt that he got rid of Sherman Harding—paid him to stay away or threatened him or something—and then told Lou Lou what she was to tell her son.”

I glanced around to make sure Stan Wheeler wasn't within earshot, and lowered my voice. “Did you know that Stan is Pete's half brother?”

“I did not. I'm guessing no one else here does either. These people aren't Lou Lou's contemporaries; they're Pete's. Pete's father left Winter Garden before he was born. None of these younger people remember him.”

“No, of course, they wouldn't.” I told Homer about my findings the night before. “But Lou Lou
had
to have guessed who Stan Wheeler was . . . or, at least suspected.
He looks a lot like his father, judging from the photograph that was in the newspaper.”

“I imagine she would have.”

“Then why didn't she turn Stan away?” I asked. “Ask him to leave Winter Garden?”

“Perhaps Stan held the truth over her . . . threatened to tell Pete what he knew if she didn't do as he asked. Or maybe Lou Lou never recovered from her lost love, and she wanted news of Sherman. She might've even entertained thoughts of the two of them reuniting.” He spread his hands. “The only person who could tell us her reasons has been silenced . . . that is, unless Stan knows.”

“Yeah.” I wondered if Sherman Harding might be able to give me some insight into Lou Lou's behavior. “I have to run. I'll check with Roger before I go to see if he needs anything.”

“À bientôt!”

The French thing was odd. It was okay for a day, but I think it would wear thin after a while. Luckily, Homer would have a new hero tomorrow.

*   *   *

A
t home, I discussed the feasibility of calling Sherman Harding with Rory. I tried to include Princess Eloise in the discussion; but she merely gave me a disdainful look, turned her back, and glared out the window at the rain. I didn't know whether to interpret her silence as disapproval or not, so I continued to hash out my reasoning with Rory.

“What harm could it do?” I asked the furry little terrier. “I could tell Mr. Harding that I was going through some archives for a relative of Grady Holman—which
was true—and that I came across a wedding announcement for Lou Lou Holman and Sherman Harding. Then I could ask if
he
is that Sherman Harding and then tell him I thought he might be interested to know that Ms. Holman passed away. And maybe he'll open up and give me a clue as to what his son is doing here in Winter Garden. What do you think?”

Rory barked.

“Okay.” I got the phone. “Let's do this.”

He wagged his tail and looked up at me expectantly.

“Let's see how this goes, and then I'll get you a treat. I might need one myself.”

I used the phone to look up listings for Sherman Harding in Pulaski, Virginia. There was only one number. I called it.

After what seemed like forty rings but was probably more like five, a gruff, wheezy male voice answered. “Hello.”

“Hi. Is this Sherman Harding?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“My name is Amy Flowers. I live in Winter Garden.”

My announcement was met with silence, so I plunged on.

“I was going through some of the
Winter Garden News
archives for a relative of Grady Holman, and I came across a wedding announcement for Sherman Harding and Lou Lou Holman,” I said. “Were you ever married to Lou Lou Holman?”

“For a very short while. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I thought you might want be interested to know that she passed away about a week ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

He didn't seem surprised. He didn't sound particularly sorry either.

“Also, there's a man named Stan here in town, and I wondered if you were any relation.”

“Yes, but I don't see how my relatives are any of your business,” said Mr. Harding. “Anything else you need to know?”

“Well, actually, I wondered if Ms. Holman had been in touch with you before she died.”

“Nope. Hadn't talked with any of the Holmans in years.”

“Were you aware that Ms. Holman had a son named Pete?” I asked.