Silence of the Jams 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

  “I absolutely loved The Calamity Café!!! This book was a well-written mystery, with charming characters and down-home recipes that will make your mouth water.”

  —Moonlight Rendezvous

  “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

  Titles by Gayle Leeson

  THE CALAMITY CAFÉ

  SILENCE OF THE JAMS

  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: 9781101990810

  First Edition: April 2017

  Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher

  Book design by Kelly Lipovich

  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 have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.

  Version_1

  For 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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Recipes from the Down South Café

  Excerpt from The Quick and the Thread

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Mom, my cousin Jackie, and I were practically elbow to elbow in the kitchen of my little house. We stood at the table capping strawberries and putting them into a huge bowl. One of the regulars at the Down South Café, the restaurant I’d recently opened in my small hometown, had brought me the bushel of berries this morning. Once they were capped, I planned to make the juicy berries into delicious homemade jam using an old family recipe.

  “I’m glad I remembered that Nana had a canner,” I said to Mom. “And I’m even happier that you were able to find her recipe for strawberry jam.”

  “So am I, Amy. But why you’d want to take on this task on a Wednesday afternoon is beyond me.”

  I didn’t reply to that. Mom knew as well as anyone that the Down South Café was open every day except Sunday for breakfast and lunch. Sunday was my only day off—and even on that day, Jackie and I made lunch for Mom and Aunt Bess so it wasn’t a completely free day.

  “Are you planning on making jam out of the entire bushel?” Jackie asked.

  “I thought I might make a few strawberry pies.” I dropped my capped berry into the bowl in the center of the table and discarded the cap into the plastic garbage bag at my side. “But I figured I could make a little extra income by selling the jam to patrons.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” Besides being my cousin, Jackie was my best friend. She was a year older than I, and we’d grown up together here in Winter Garden. Now she waitressed at the Down South Café. “The pies and cakes you put in the cooler each day have been selling like crazy, and I’m sure the jam will go over well too.”

  “I think you’re working too hard. Your grandmother didn’t leave the money for you to open that café just so you could work yourself into an early grave.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. Mom was right. Nana had left me an inheritance, but she hadn’t specified what I was to do with it. She’d probably figured I’d open a café, though. She knew it was my dream—I’d been talking with her about it for years.

  “I’m not working myself into an early grave, Mom. During the slower times at the café, I bake the cakes and pies. And sometimes cookies.”

  “I just wish I could help out more.”

  “You’ve got your hands full taking care of Granny,” said Jackie.

  Jackie’s grandmother was Aunt Bess, my late Nana’s sister. So, technically, she was my great-aunt, but I had always called her Aunt Bess.

  “She is something of a sight.” Mom glanced out the kitchen door so she could see the house on the hill—the “big house,” as we called it, since the smaller house I lived in had originally been built on the property for guests.

  Mom had moved in with Aunt Bess last year after Nana had died, and she didn’t like to leave her alone for very long at a time. Aunt Bess had moved into the house with Nana after Pop had died many years earlier because Nana simply felt that the house had been too empty without him. Plus, Aunt Bess was widowed too, so they’d been good company for each other.

  “She was posting to her Pinterest board, Lord, Have Mercy, when I left,” Mom said. “I told her to call me if she needed me.”

  Aunt Bess loved the Internet, especially social media. There had been an awards show on television last night, so she probably had plenty of fodder for her Lord, Have Mercy board. On that board, Aunt Bess pinned things that were, in her opinion, in need of grace: weird photos of celebrities, crime stories, strange phenomena, and multiple body piercings. I’d have to take a look at it later to see what she’d found of interest from last night’s event.

  Mom finished the batch of strawberries she’d been capping and walked over to the
sink to wash her hands. “I guess I’d better get back up there. How are you planning on presenting this jam for sale at the café?”

  “I thought I’d cut a square of fabric for each of the pint jar lids and then put a Down South Café label in the middle of each lid.”

  She nodded. “Sounds good. I’ll take the pinking shears and cut you some fabric squares while Aunt Bess and I are watching television this evening. She might want to cut a few too. How many do you think we’ll need?”

  “I’m thinking about fifty. I won’t be selling all of the jam. I’ll keep some for us to have here at home, and I’ll serve some up to patrons at the café.” I smiled. “How else will they know how good it is and want to buy a jar?”

  “And don’t forget to save some berries for the pies,” Jackie reminded me.

  “I won’t.” A thought occurred to me. “As a matter of fact, if you’d like to, you can take enough berries home to make a few pies this evening while I’m canning. And I’ll give you all the proceeds from your pies.”

  “Done.” She grinned. “Can I save one pie for Roger?”

  “Of course.” Jackie was dating our childhood friend Roger. Theirs was still a relatively new relationship, despite the fact that they’d known each other practically all their lives. They’d only started dating while Roger, a contractor, was renovating the café.

  “Would you like for me to make one for your friend Ryan?” she asked.

  I blushed. “No.”

  “Ryan? Oh, you mean Deputy Hall?” Mom asked. “I remember him. He’s really handsome. Are you two seeing each other now?”

  “No, Mom, we aren’t. Not really anyway. He’s just been coming into the café now and then, that’s all.”

  “Hey, I know you’re just now getting acquainted with the guy since Lou Lou Holman’s murder investigation is over, but you light up the entire dining room whenever he comes in.” Jackie popped her freshly capped berry into the bowl.

  “Maybe you just have that I’m in love, and I want everybody else to be feeling,” I said.

  “No, I don’t. Roger and I are taking things slowly. We don’t want to rush into a relationship, find that it doesn’t work, and then not be able to salvage our friendship.”

  Mom and I shared a glance. We both knew that the rush-into-a-relationship boat had long since sailed for Jackie and Roger.

  “Well, I’d better get up the hill before Aunt Bess burns the house down. Or invites someone from the Internet over for tea.” Mom gave each of us a hug and left.

  • • •

  I was a little droopy-eyed on my way to work the next morning since I’d been up until nearly one a.m. canning strawberry jam. Maybe Mom had been right—though I wasn’t about to admit that to her—about the project having been too ambitious for a Wednesday evening. But I wanted to have the jam on the shelf at the café when patrons started coming in before and during the Independence Day Festival, which kicked off in full force on Friday and continued throughout the weekend.

  The festival was a big deal for Winter Garden, second only to the Christmas festival. Our tiny Virginia town could only afford to do two big celebrations, so they did them every half year.

  People unfamiliar with the name might think that Winter Garden was a ritzy town. It just sounded upper class—Winter Garden, Virginia. It wasn’t. Winter Garden was a teensy rural area with lots of farmland and few places of business. Some people left here because the town was so far away from “civilization,” but I loved it. The people were folksy and warm. Winter Garden itself was charming and welcoming. I’d always known I’d settle down here and, hopefully, build a café here one day.

  The house Mom now shared with Aunt Bess was the biggest one in Winter Garden. My grandfather had built it for Nana when they’d moved here from Pocahontas, Virginia. He’d had the foresight to build a guesthouse on the property because Mom was in her teens then and he’d thought she might want to live there someday. She had. Actually, she and my dad had. They’d had me, Dad had gone away when I was two years old, and I now occupied the house with my two pets—a little brown wire-haired terrier named Rory and a white Persian cat named Princess Eloise. Princess Eloise was actually Mom’s cat, but Aunt Bess was allergic to cats, so Mom had been unable to take her to the big house.

  As I drove to work, I wondered how Jackie had fared with her pies. It wasn’t a question of my cousin’s baking ability—I knew she could do that well, especially since I’d taught her a special technique to use with piecrusts. Rather, it was the fact that Jackie had next to nothing in her kitchen in the way of baking pans or any other kinds of tools or utensils. I’d sent her home yesterday with the strawberries she’d need, a half-dozen foil pie pans, my spare set of mixing spoons and cups, and a mixing bowl. I hoped I hadn’t left out anything essential because if I had, I was almost positive Jackie didn’t have one of her own.

  Jackie enjoyed living sparsely. Unlike my house, Jackie’s apartment wasn’t crammed with books, dishes, furniture, knickknacks, or even pets. It wasn’t just that she wanted to keep her life uncluttered with all but the barest of essentials. She’d led a guarded life ever since her mom took off and left her with Aunt Bess when Jackie was sixteen. Her mom, Renee, would show up in Winter Garden every once in a while, but her visits were short and sporadic. The only people Jackie truly trusted anymore were me, Mom, Aunt Bess, of course, Roger, and our friend Sarah.

  I parked my yellow VW Bug in the space farthest from the café and walked to the door. As I unlocked the door, I heard a woodpecker knocking on the telephone pole across the street.

  “Better watch out there, Woody!” I called. “You don’t want to get into the electric lines!”

  He went back to hammering, heedless of my warning.

  I locked the door behind me so I could do all my kitchen prep before the patrons began coming in. I had overslept this morning and didn’t have but half an hour to prepare before the café opened. Still, the cheery yellow walls with royal blue trim, the neat bistro tables, and the gleaming counter with the gray-topped stools made me smile.

  I started by making coffee—two pots of regular dark roast, one pot of French vanilla, and one pot of decaf. By the time Jackie arrived, I had biscuits in the oven, sausage and bacon ready to go on the grill, and had just finished mixing up a batch of buttermilk pancake batter.

  I saw Jackie pull in, and I quickly unlocked the door and then helped her get her pies inside.

  “These look great!”

  She huffed. “Well, you don’t have to sound so surprised, do you?”

  “I’m not. I was just thinking this morning as I drove to work that I hoped I’d given you everything you needed to bake with. You did save a pie for Roger, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” She smiled. “He’s coming over after work today.”

  “Are you making him dinner?”

  “No, actually, he’s picking up a pizza on the way, but I told him I’d take care of dessert.”

  “Did you tell him you’d made him a strawberry pie?” I asked. “I remember they’re his favorite.”

  She shook her head. “It’s a surprise. I thought we could serve one at the café today at lunchtime, if anyone wants a piece, and we can sell the other four.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “Did you bring the jam today?”

  “I brought a few pints for us to use here in the café. After work, I’ll get the fabric squares from Mom and decorate the lids before I bring the jars in to sell.”

  My cup of French vanilla coffee did its job, and I was wide awake and enjoying the morning before George Lincoln came in. George was the director of the Chamber of Commerce, and he’d been trying to buy the Down South Café ever since I’d bought it.

  In fact, he’d tried to acquire it from Lou Lou Holman when it was still Lou’s Joint, and he resented the fact that I’d beaten him to the punch. That
hadn’t been my intention, however. I mean, of course I wanted the café, but I’d encouraged the owner to take the best possible offer. Pete—who’d become the owner after his mother had died—had refused to sell to George because he knew George planned to demolish the café and build a bed-and-breakfast in its place because it was discovered that the land had some sort of historical significance. Pete didn’t want the café torn down. He wanted his grandfather’s legacy—the café—to survive in some form. By selling to me, he’d guaranteed that. I’d remodeled, of course, but the core building was still intact.

  This morning, George ambled into the café and plopped his bulky form down on a stool at the counter. “What’s good today?” he asked Jackie.

  “Everything,” she said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He perused the menu, but periodically peered over the top looking for me.

  I decided to bite the bullet and go ahead and talk with him. He wouldn’t leave until I’d turned down his latest offer. “Good morning, Mr. Lincoln. We have some freshly made strawberry jam if you’re interested in having some with your biscuits or toast.”

  “All right. That sounds good.” He looked back at the menu before saying, “I’ll have two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and biscuits with jam.”

  Well, that had gone easier than expected. He hadn’t even asked me about selling today. He usually came in and commented that there was a sparse crowd or that the food industry was in a downturn or something else just as negative before offering to take the place off my hands.

  My relief was short-lived, as I should’ve suspected it would be.

  Since we weren’t terribly busy at the moment and Jackie and Shelly were both with other customers, I delivered Mr. Lincoln’s plate of food rather than have one of the waitresses come and get it. He spread the jam on his biscuit, licked some off his thumb, and declared it to be “exemplary.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. I made it just last night.”

  “You know, if you’d agree to sell me this place, I’d be happy to let you run the breakfast part of the B and B.” He ate about half the biscuit in one bite.