The Calamity Café (4 page)

Instead of answering, the deputy took a sip of tea.

“Please be up-front with me. I'm being straight with you.”

“I know you are,” he said. “I guess we'd call you a person of interest because you found Ms. Holman”—he looked around to make sure none of the guests were coming around from the backyard—“and because you'd had a conflict with her. Of course, Sheriff Billings and I have been asking around, and a lot of people had some sort of conflict with Ms. Holman. She didn't appear to have been a very nice person.”

I blew out a breath as I tried to decide what to say and what to hold back. I didn't want to come across as being mean, but I didn't want to paint an inaccurate picture of Lou Lou either.

“She was as tight as the skin on a sausage,” I said. “She made us waitresses give her half our tips even though she paid the bare minimum she could get away with, so I doubt any of us would write to Santa on her behalf. She was nice enough when it came to the customers the biggest part of the time, but they could hear her yelling at us over every little thing, and I imagine most of them knew she was just flattering them to keep them coming around.”

“You said you didn't work yesterday.”

“Right. I only went in to give my notice and to talk with Lou Lou about buying the café.”

“Did you notice anyone out of the ordinary—anyone who looked suspicious—while you were there?” he asked.

“No.”

“Was Ms. Holman having any work done to the café that you know of?”

I shook my head. “Like I told you, she was stingy. Something would have to literally be falling down before she'd spend money to have it fixed.”

“Did you happen to meet any cars coming from the café as you were driving toward it last night?”

“There was very little traffic. Come to think of it, I only met one car that I can recall. It was an SUV of some kind . . . red, I believe. I just remember it because one of the headlights was out.”

He nodded and took another drink. “I'll make a note of that.”

“What exactly happened to Lou Lou?” I asked. “I mean, I didn't look. I tried to get her to sit up, but I didn't lift up her head or anything. I saw the blood, and when I couldn't get a response, I called the sheriff's department.”

“It was probably a good thing you didn't look. She'd been hit in the forehead with a blunt object.”

“You mean, like a baseball bat or a golf club?”

“Likely something smaller—maybe a hammer or a crowbar.”

I shuddered. “That's awful!” A hammer or a crowbar? I involuntarily shuddered at the thought of either of those weapons cracking open Lou Lou's skull. And why would someone bring something like that into her office anyway unless they were intending to harm her? “Is there anything I could've done for her?”

“No. Ivy said Ms. Holman likely died almost immediately upon suffering the blow.”

I closed my eyes. “Oh my goodness. She must've been hit so hard.” Then I thought about Lou Lou's son and my eyes flew open. “What about Pete? Does he know? I mean, you didn't let him go into the café last night, but did he see her like that, Deputy Hall?”

“Please call me Ryan. And, yeah, I'm afraid he did. The sheriff showed him the photo, remember?”

“That's right. And Pete had nearly fainted even before that.”

“Yeah, he was in pretty bad shape last night.”

“I should check on him . . . take him some food.”

“That'd be nice.” Ryan stood. “I have to get going. Thank you for your time.”

“You're welcome.”

I returned the glasses to the kitchen and put them in the dishwater.

“So he was here about the case?” Jackie asked.

“Yeah.” I glanced out the window and saw that our little group was starting to disperse. “I'll tell you everything once they're
gone.”

A
fter everybody had gone and Jackie and I had cleaned up the kitchen, we went into the living room for a well-deserved break.

“I'm tired,” I said. “But it's a good tired. We did a nice thing today.”

“Yeah, we did. I'm proud of us . . . of you, in particular, because I wouldn't have dreamed of inviting those people to lunch . . . except maybe the cutie-pie policeman.”

“I just felt bad for them, Jack. Unless they wanted to travel at least ten miles—and none of them did—they didn't have another restaurant to go to. I mean, lunch at the Joint is their thing. None of them work—at least, not full-time—and seeing one another at Lou's Joint is pretty much the extent of their social calendar.” I blew out a breath. “How sad is that? I mean, people like Homer and Dilly are why I want to open my own café—to give the customers, as well as the staff, a better alternative to Lou's Joint.”

“And you will.”

Princess Eloise sauntered across the back of the sofa. Jackie reached up to stroke her long white fur. The cat gave her a reproachful glare and jumped down onto the floor.

“I don't think she likes me very much,” Jackie remarked.

“She doesn't like anyone except Mom. She puts up with me, and to a lesser degree, Rory.”

At the mention of his name, Rory popped his head up and wagged his tail. When he saw that no one was eating or offering him a treat, he plopped his head back down onto his paws.

I rested my head against the back of the armchair. “Deputy Hall said that Ivy Donaldson reported Lou Lou was killed with a blunt object.”

“That's terrible. And you went in and saw her like that? No wonder you couldn't sleep last night.”

“I didn't really see much.”

“Thank goodness for that . . . given the circumstances, I mean.”

“Pete saw her that way, though. The sheriff asked Ivy Donaldson to take a photo of Lou Lou and show it to Pete so Pete could confirm it was her. It was some sort of technicality, I guess, because we all knew it was Lou Lou.”

“How awful.”

“I know, right? I wish there'd been some other way. I thought I'd take some food over to Pete's in a little while . . . see if there's anything I can do to help.”

“I'll go with you. What're you planning to take?”

“I thought I'd go with a chicken casserole and a pound cake.”

“We'd better get started, then, hadn't we?”

*   *   *

J
ackie and I were on our way over to the Holman house when my phone rang. Since I was driving, Jackie fished the phone out of my purse and handed it to me. I answered and was surprised that it was Pete.

“Pete, hi. Jackie and I are on our way to your house with some food. Is there anything you need for us to stop and get you?”

“Uh, no. Thanks, though. I appreciate the offer . . . and the food, of course. But I was calling to ask a favor. Would you care to go over to the funeral home with me to help pick out Momma's casket and make the other arrangements?”

“Yeah . . . sure.” Why in the world would Pete ask
me
to help with his mother's funeral arrangements? Surely, there were better choices . . . his girlfriend, for one. Still, the man was grieving. I couldn't refuse. “We can do that. See you in a few.” I ended the call and told Jackie what Pete wanted.

She groaned. “Do I have to go?”

“
You
don't. We could make the excuse that someone should stay there at the house in case anyone stops by.”

“Are you sure? I hate to leave you stuck like that.”

“It's fine. I know how you despise funeral homes.”

When we got to the Holmans' small brick home, there were three vehicles besides Pete's truck in the driveway. I parked on the side of the road so I wouldn't block or get blocked in. I carried the casserole, and Jackie carried the cake. The Holmans' neighbor, Shirley Green, saw us coming and opened the door for us.

Ms. Green was a plump rosy-cheeked little woman
whose short gray curls clung to her head like a knit cap. Today she wore a pink floral housedress and a white apron. She lived for occasions like this, where she could insert herself into the situation and mother everyone involved.

“Aren't you girls precious? Come on in, and I'll show you to the kitchen.” She lowered her voice. “Poor little old Pete. I don't know what'll become of him now that his momma is gone.”

The kitchen reeked of cigarette smoke and a garbage can that needed to be emptied. The round wooden table was full of covered dishes and plates wrapped in aluminum foil that people had brought.

“Has Pete got any other family?” Jackie asked, as she added the cake to the foods on the table.

“Not from around here. And if he has any, they're distant relations at best.” Ms. Green clucked her tongue. “Of course, I'll help take care of him as best I can.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that the man was forty years old, for pity's sake. Instead, I put the casserole into the refrigerator and saw that it was almost as full as the table. At least Pete wouldn't starve for a good long while.

“Your momma and Bess came by a little while ago, Amy. They brought a lemon pie. It's there in the fridge.” She turned to Jackie. “That granny of yours has some wild ideas about her computer stuff. She was telling us about some kinda
boards
she has on her computer?”

Jackie nodded. “She loves pinning things on her social media boards.”

Ms. Green continued to look confused. “I don't know anything about computers.”

We were saved from commenting further when Pete came into the kitchen.

Jackie gave him a brief hug. “I'm really sorry about your momma.”

“Thanks. Amy. As soon as I can get Chris Anne to move her car, we can go.”

“Go?” Ms. Green asked. “Go where?”

“To pick out Momma's casket. Amy's gonna help me.”

“We can take my car,” I offered.

He looked relieved. “I appreciate that. Ms. Green, we shouldn't be too long.”

“I'll hold down the fort.” She smiled and patted his shoulder.

“And I'll help her,” Jackie said.

As Pete and I walked out to my car, I wondered why he hadn't solicited Chris Anne for this job, since she was his girlfriend.

“I'm grateful to you for doing this,” he said as I pulled away from the curb. “Momma always appreciated your opinions.”

That was hogwash, and we both knew it. But I kept that to myself. No need to speak ill of the dead.

“Chris Anne said she felt like she didn't know Momma well enough to help with the arrangements,” he continued. “But I wanted a woman's opinion. I've never been good at picking out things.”

Is
anyone
good at choosing a casket?
“I understand,” I mumbled.

“I guess I could've asked Ms. Green, but Momma always thought she was kind of a busybody.”

So Pete's choices had come down to a busybody and an
upstart, as far as his mother was concerned. I suppose upstarts inched out busybodies in Pete's social hierarchy.

“I still want to go after my dream of driving a truck,” he continued. “Me and Chris Anne thought maybe we could get married and buy a truck and go into business for ourselves. A lot of couples do that.”

“I seem to have heard that somewhere.”

“Chris Anne can learn to drive a truck in no time flat and get her commercial driver's license. I already know how to drive a big rig. All I have to do is take the test and get certified.”

“That's great,” I said. “I hope it works out for you.”

“Me too.” He paused. “So, naturally, I'll be selling Lou's Joint . . . and . . . uh . . . I was wondering if you're still interested in buying.”

Was Pete really this crass?
Hey, Amy, let's go pick out my mother's casket and talk business at the same time.
Or were his supposed shock and grief over his mother's death for the benefit of the police? Or maybe he was simply awkward . . . or, as we used to say, “backward” socially.

“I am, Pete. But we can talk more about that in a few days when everything is settled.”

“You mean, like the will? I talked to Billy Hancock, and Momma didn't leave no will.”

“Actually, I meant we should give it a few days so you can recover from the blow of losing your mother so suddenly and be absolutely sure about what you want to do.”

“Oh, I am sure,” Pete said. “But I reckon you've got a point. We ought to get the funeral out of the way and everything before we talk business.”

“Right.” He'd certainly seemed to have recovered from
his shock and grief much more quickly than I'd expected. Or maybe he was using the business of selling the café and buying a truck as a way to get his mind off his mother's death.

“By the way, Sheriff Billings called, and we're clear to open the Joint back starting tomorrow morning. Would you care to man the grill for the first shift?”

“Of course. In fact, I can work both shifts. No one expects you to come back to work before you're ready, Pete.”

“I'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow. Between you and me, I wouldn't step foot in Momma's office again for love or money.” He shuddered. “You shouldn't need anything from in there to run the café, though.”

“What about money for the cash register?” I asked. “Didn't Lou Lou keep that money in the safe in her office?”

“Yeah. I'll swing by the bank and get you enough to make change.”

We arrived at the funeral home, which was a gray stone Colonial home built more than a hundred years ago. As such, it was reputed to be haunted, which is one reason the place freaked out Jackie. Every building a century old (some even less) in Winter Garden was said to be haunted.

When we stepped inside, the thought crossed my mind that maybe Lou Lou's ghost had joined the ranks of the funeral home's restless spirits. I shuddered.
Somebody just walked over my grave.

*   *   *

U
pon returning to Pete's house, Jackie was as glad to see me as I was to see her.

“Get me out of here,” she whispered.

“Why don't we go by your place and grab a few things and you can stay over?” I asked on the way to the car. “I'd rather not be by myself tonight.”

“Works for me. I'd rather not be alone either with thoughts of Lou Lou's death and the funeral home and Ms. Green's talk about killers so fresh in my mind. I believe that woman quoted statistics on everyone from Jack the Ripper to Ted Bundy.”

Jackie lived in an apartment a few miles outside of Winter Garden. She liked to keep things simple—the bare minimum of furniture, no knickknacks, and no pets. Her living room consisted of two mismatched chairs, a coffee table, and a television. In the bedroom, she had a bed and a dresser. The kitchen contained a bistro set, a refrigerator, a coffeemaker, a stove, one frying pan, one saucepan, two sets of dinnerware, and utensils. I figured the only reason Jackie had more than two sets of flatware was because one typically had to buy an eight-, sixteen-, or twenty-four-piece set.

It wasn't just that Jackie preferred to live a simple life. She led a guarded life. Her dad had died in a car accident when Jackie was eight. Then her mother had taken off when Jackie was sixteen years old, leaving Aunt Bess to raise Jackie. Even though her mom, Renee, came around every once in a while, there was no regularity to her visits—one day she was in Winter Garden again, the next day she wasn't. So Jackie was particular about who she chose to trust. Me, Mom, Aunt Bess, Sarah, and Roger were about it.

She went into the bedroom, threw some things into a duffel, and we were off again.

“Was it scary?” she asked as we drove back toward Winter Garden.

“Your apartment? Heck, yeah. Way too uncluttered.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I'd say the whole funeral home experience was creepy rather than scary.”

“I have to wonder why Pete asked you to go help him with the arrangements instead of taking Chris Anne. It might sound callous to say so, but now that Lou Lou is gone, they don't have to be secretive about their relationship anymore, right?”

“I got the impression she didn't want to do it. Pete said I knew his mother better than Chris Anne did and that he needed a woman's opinion,” I said. “Plus, he took advantage of the opportunity to ask if I was still interested in buying the café.”

“Dang,” she said. “Let your mom get cold first, Pete. What'd you say? I mean, is he even sure he
can
sell the Joint this soon?”

“I told him that we should give it a few days . . . get the funeral behind him, let him adjust to the shock of losing his mother and all. He did ask me to man the grill tomorrow morning. That reminds me, did you bring your uniform?”

“No. I'll go get it before work. I figured Lou's Joint would be closed for a few days, didn't you?”

“Frankly, yes. But I'd rather go to the café tomorrow than have it come back to me.”

“You've got a point there.”

*   *   *

J
ackie and I hadn't been at my house long when my mom and Aunt Bess came by. Mom was of average height and thin. She wore her highlighted dark blond hair in a pixie cut that set off her lovely green eyes. Aunt Bess
was on the plump side—but I'd never tell her so for a million dollars. I figured she was eighty-two, and she'd earned it. Plus, she looked great. She had a headful of curly white hair, silver-framed oval glasses, and a surprisingly smooth face. She never went out when she wasn't dressed to the nines, including jewelry and makeup.

Jackie and I hugged them both hello.

“Aunt Bess, you're looking as pretty as a pat of butter melting on a short stack,” I said.