Honey-Baked Homicide Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  The Calamity Café

  “[A] delightful cozy mystery . . . that will leave you wanting more . . . You’ll be drooling over the delicious Southern dishes Amy is serving up.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Leeson’s first in a new series gives readers everything they could ask for in a pleasing summer read. Likable and relatable characters are in abundance, as is a fascinating mystery that needs to be solved. But the best part of the book is the addition of several good old Southern recipes in the back.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A good mix of suspense, laughter, and a touch of romance make this a pleasurable start to what looks like will be an amusing new series.”

  —Mason Canyon

  “We are treated to a murder mystery and some romantic overtones . . . If you’re looking for a fun summer read, this would be a wonderful choice.”

  —Book Babble

  “Gayle Leeson has hit a home run with The Calamity Café.”

  —Open Book Society

  “A cleverly constructed plot, well-written characters, and a setting that feels like the town next door all blend together to form the perfect recipe for a new series!”

  —ReadingIsMySuperpower.org

  Titles by Gayle Leeson

  THE CALAMITY CAFÉ

  SILENCE OF THE JAMS

  HONEY-BAKED HOMICIDE

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Gayle Trent

  Excerpt from The Quick and the Thread copyright © 2010 by Gayle Trent

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9781101990834

  First Edition: December 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  To Tim, Lianna, and Nicholas

  Contents

  Praise for The Calamity Café

  Titles by Gayle Leeson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Recipes from the Down South Café

  Excerpt from The Quick and the Thread

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I was working on breakfast prep when my cousin Jackie popped her head into the kitchen and said, “Amy, Stu Landon is here.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I removed my plastic gloves and then went outside to greet the beekeeper.

  Mr. Landon and I had just entered into an arrangement wherein I’d sell his honey on consignment to my patrons. I own and operate the Down South Café, one of Winter Garden, Virginia’s only two restaurants.

  It was a gorgeous August morning, and Mr. Landon, a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair, was shading his eyes with his hand when I stepped out into the sunlight.

  “Did you want me to bring the honey in through the back of the café or the front?”

  “Just bring it into the dining room and put it on the counter, please,” I said. “I’ve already cleared some shelf space on the back wall, and I plan to keep a jar by the register so people will be sure to notice it.”

  Mr. Landon opened the passenger side door of his olive green antique Chevy pickup truck and got out a small plastic crate containing half-pint jars of honey. I held open the door to the café for him and then followed him inside.

  He placed the crate on the counter in front of the cash register. “This all right?”

  “Perfect.” I plucked one of the jars out of the crate. Landon’s Bee Farm, Pure All Natural Honey. “I want to buy a couple of jars from you straight out to serve to my diners and one to take home to my mom and Aunt Bess.”

  I went around the counter, opened the register, and paid Mr. Landon for three jars of honey. I put a note in the register reflecting the transaction and then gave the consignment agreement I’d prepared the night before to Mr. Landon. I still had seven jars left to sell to Down South Café customers.

  “Thank you, Ms. Flowers. I’ll come around next week to bring you ten more jars.” He took a dilapidated cap from the back pocket of his overalls, shook it out, and placed it on his head before leaving.

  I turned to my cousin Jackie with a smile. “That one is a man of few words.”

  “Granny says he used to be some sort of secret agent.”

  Jackie’s granny was my great-aunt Elizabeth, known to Mom and me as Aunt Bess. And since Aunt Bess is blessed with a vivid imagination, I wouldn’t normally have given her theory on Mr. Landon more than a passing thought. But unlike most of the residents of Winter Garden, Mr. Landon didn’t have much of a history here. He’d simply shown up one day about twenty years ago and taken up residence on the old Carver farm. He’d renovated the farm, started growing his own vegetables, and set up beehives. Since he kept to himself and wasn’t very talkative, that’s about all folks knew about him. Other than the fact that his honey was really tasty and that Mr. Landon swore that the stuff was good for everything from curing allergies to treating wounds. I didn’t know how valid his claims were, but I did know that the honey tasted awfully good on a warm biscuit.

  “Why in the world would Aunt Bess think Stu Landon was a secret agent?” I asked Jackie. “And what could the man have possibly been investigating in Winter Garden?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with Granny, but I believe she’s under the impression that Winter Garden was merely his base of operations.”

  Dilly Boyd, one of our favorite café regulars, came through the door. She was a tiny lady with cottony hair and mischievous blue eyes. She wore a wide-brimmed sun hat that she swept off her head as she joined us at the counter.

  “What have you got there?” She peered into the crate. “Ooh, Landon’s honey. I’d like a jar, please.”

  “All right. I’ll keep it here by the register for y
ou and you can pick it up on your way out.”

  “Okay. When did you start selling Landon’s honey?”

  “Just this morning. It’s our first batch, so to speak,” I said with a smile. “I’m hoping to get even more of our local farmers to offer some of their crops on consignment.”

  “Maybe you should host a farmer’s market here on Saturday mornings,” Dilly said. “That’d be fun.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Dilly. I’ll look into it.”

  “Before we get completely off track, though,” said Jackie, “what do you know about Stu Landon, Dilly?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We were just saying that we’ve known Mr. Landon all our lives, but we don’t know much about him,” I said.

  “Well, he came here . . . oh, I reckon it was nearly twenty years ago now . . . from somewhere out West. Moved here alone and didn’t go out of his way to socialize, other than with the Carvers, who live to the right of his place. That stands to reason, though, since he bought a farm from some of the Carvers. Some folks think they might be kin.” She drew her thin, pale eyebrows together. “I always figured somebody had broken Stu’s heart and that he came here to hide himself away. Some of us tried to fix him up with daughters or nieces or widows, but he wouldn’t have any part of that nonsense, so we finally left him alone.” She wandered over to her favorite seat at the counter.

  “Scrambled eggs and biscuits?” I asked.

  She nodded. “And some hash browns would be nice too.”

  “Coming right up.” I went into the kitchen. “Jackie, would you mind shelving the honey, please? And leave a jar for Mom and Aunt Bess under the counter.”

  “No problem,” she said. “Dilly, how’s that raccoon of yours doing?”

  Dilly didn’t actually own a raccoon, but one came to visit her and get a biscuit every evening.

  “He’s as right as rain and as punctual as a clockmaker,” she said. “He comes to my back door at sundown every single day.”

  “Wonder if he’d like some honey on his biscuit?” I called from the kitchen.

  “I don’t know whether he would or not. But if he thinks I’m wasting my good honey on him, the little beggar’s mistaken.”

  • • •

  We had a little lull in business just before ten that morning, and I was able to grab a cup of coffee and look around the café for a couple of minutes. I always try to remember to acknowledge my blessings every day, and the Down South Café was certainly a big one.

  When I’d bought the café from Pete Holman, it had been a dive. I don’t know how else to put it. The place was dingy—the floor was linoleum that should have been replaced twenty years prior, the fixtures were old and tarnished, and most of the stools and dining room chairs had tears. Thanks to my childhood friend—and Jackie’s boyfriend—Roger, who had his own construction company, the floors were now gleaming and scuff-resistant bamboo, the walls were a cheerful yellow with blue trim, and we had new gray stools and dining room furniture, new light fixtures, and a patio for patrons to enjoy when the weather cooperated. We also had a refrigerated display case for pies, cakes, cookies, potato salad—whatever we thought our diners might want to take home with them. And we had a bakers’ rack with shelves of jams, Down South Café T-shirts and aprons (blue with yellow lettering), and now Mr. Landon’s honey.

  Homer Pickens came in at ten o’clock, punctual as ever. He was always at the café at ten and always ordered a sausage biscuit. An eccentric, Homer chose a new hero every day.

  “Morning, Homer!” I called from the kitchen. I’d finished my coffee and was preparing vegetables for the coming lunch rush.

  “Hi, Amy. How are you this morning?”

  “I’m good.” I covered the bowl of lettuce I’d been shredding and went to speak with Homer properly. “Mr. Landon brought some honey this morning. We’re selling it on consignment in addition to serving it to customers and using it in recipes. Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not a big fan of honey. I liked it when I was a little boy, but then one of my friends told me honey was bee puke. I never touched the stuff again after that.”

  “Some friend.” I glanced around to make sure none of the other diners had heard his remark. If anyone had, it hadn’t seemed to put them off their breakfast. “So who’s your hero today?”

  “Joseph Joubert, the essayist. Joubert once said, ‘When you go in search of honey, you must expect to be stung by bees.’ Appropriate for this morning, huh?”

  “It sure is.” I often wondered if Homer had a photographic memory. He was always at the ready with a quote from one of his heroes, and it often applied to the subject at hand. He’d grown up poor and had dropped out of school in the tenth grade to go to work. I wondered how far he might’ve gone had he been given the opportunity.

  “What do you know about Mr. Landon?” I asked. “We were talking about him this morning, and we realized we don’t know much about him except that he’s a loner with a mysterious past.”

  “If being a loner makes a man mysterious, then I must be an enigma myself.” He took a sip of the coffee Jackie put in front of him. “After Mother died, I was completely alone. It had always been just the two of us. Of course, I dated now and then, but I never let myself get involved in a serious relationship.”

  “Why’s that?” That behavior didn’t sound like the warm, generous Homer I knew.

  “I never wanted to marry and have children. What if I’d turned out to be like my father? He just ran out on us. I wouldn’t have wanted that for any woman or child.”

  I was trying to think of something encouraging to say when Homer reminded me that he was awfully set in his ways. I took that as my cue to stop yammering and get him that sausage biscuit.

  • • •

  By the time I closed the café that afternoon, I had only three jars of Mr. Landon’s honey left, besides the one I’d bought for Mom and Aunt Bess. I decided to go by the farm to see if I could get more. The honey had sold better than Mr. Landon and I had anticipated.

  Landon’s Bee Farm was only about a twenty-minute drive from Winter Garden. It wasn’t as hot as it had been—especially for August—so I drove with the windows down instead of using the air-conditioning. It dawned on me that if my yellow Beetle had more black on it, I’d resemble a giant bumblebee as I buzzed down the country road to see the beekeeper.

  To get to the farm, I had to turn off the main road and climb a steep, deeply rutted dirt road. That’s when I put up the windows and turned on the air. I didn’t want a face full of dust.

  No wonder Mr. Landon didn’t get many visitors—this road was a nightmare. I drove as slowly as I could without losing the momentum to get up the hill, and I just hoped I didn’t damage my car in the process.

  When I finally parked near Mr. Landon’s small brick house, I stooped down to make sure there were no fluids leaking from the undercarriage of the car. Fortunately, there weren’t, but I made a mental note to check again—and to check my tires—before I left. I wondered how Mr. Landon’s antique pickup truck survived the trek every day, but then I realized it was much higher off the ground than my little Bug.

  I smoothed my hair back from my face and stepped onto the porch. I rang the bell, but Mr. Landon didn’t answer the door. I went to see if he might be in the backyard.

  Mr. Landon was striding toward the house with his veiled bee hat in his hand. He was still about a hundred yards away from me, but I could see that he was angry. I was beginning to regret dropping in unannounced; and if the man hadn’t already seen me, I’d have been sorely tempted to leave.

  When he was close enough, I called out, “Hi, Mr. Landon. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time!” That seemed like a stupid thing to say since he was obviously upset, but I hoped that when I told him how well his honey was selling at the café, it might lift his spirits.r />
  “What can I do for you, Ms. Flowers?” He went into a shed still a few yards away from where I was standing.

  I eased forward but steered clear of the shed. I didn’t want to crowd his space more than I already was. “I just came to let you know that we almost sold out of your honey today. I wondered if you might be able to spare a few more jars before next week.”

  Mr. Landon emerged from the shed without the veiled hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a blue bandanna. “I’ll need to put it into jars and drop it off tomorrow morning. Will ten more work?”

  “Yes, that’ll be great. Thank you.”

  We stood in awkward silence for a moment, and I was getting ready to say good-bye when Mr. Landon spoke.

  “I was hoping to have quite a bit more honey by fall, but I won’t if Chad Thomas has his way about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just came from checking the hives,” he said. “And you know what I found? Hundreds of dead bees.”

  I gasped. “That’s terrible! And you believe this Mr. Thomas killed them?”

  “I know he did. He wantonly sprays his crops whenever he takes a notion without regard for the safety of my bees.” He shook his head. “Most of the farmers around here understand our mutual need to protect pollinators. They know I close the bees up at night and keep them there until noon. If I left them inside any later than that, the sun would cook them.”

  “How awful.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, Ms. Flowers, because I take care of my bees. And most of my neighbors spray when the bees are closed inside their hives. But Chad—” He gave a low growl of disgust. “He’s a different story. He sprays whenever he feels like it, and today one of my hives suffered for his flagrant disregard.”

  “Isn’t there some sort of law in place to protect the bees? Aren’t they an endangered species?”

  “Not currently. But you can bet I’ll be talking with Chad Thomas about what he’s done.”

  “Maybe you should let the police handle it,” I said.