Honey-Baked Homicide Read online

  He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe she is. Just because she isn’t here in person doesn’t mean she’s not supporting her children.”

  “True. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize for thinking out loud. Besides, maybe the mother isn’t being supportive at all,” he said. “I’m just glad Madelyn made a friend in Winter Garden when she needed one so badly.”

  • • •

  When I got home, I took a desperately needed snuggle break with Rory. Then I turned on the television. As a talk show droned in the living room, I took the little dog into the bedroom.

  “So what am I going to wear for my date this evening?” I asked, placing him on the bed before opening my closet door.

  He pranced on his front feet and let out a high-pitched woof.

  “Really? A dress?”

  Rory barked again.

  “Which one?”

  He leapt off the bed and ran out of the room. Within seconds, he was back. I seriously doubted any dress in my closet would make me feel like doing sprints. I decided on the denim shirtdress with the brown basket-weave belt and a pair of tan espadrilles. Not sprinting material, but comfy enough that I could jog if I had to. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be necessary.

  By the time Ryan arrived, I’d fed the pets, taken a bath, and made myself presentable. Maybe even more than presentable. According to Deputy Hall, I looked “incredible.” And he was an officer of the law, sworn to uphold truth, justice, and the American way. Right? Or was that just Superman? Either way, I was taking the man at his word . . . mainly because I wanted to.

  I was having the fleeting thought that I would likely wind up as wild as Aunt Bess in sixty years when Ryan asked me something. I completely missed his question to me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked if you’d like me to turn the TV off,” he said.

  “Uh . . . no. No, thank you. I’m leaving it on for . . . Rory.”

  He arched a brow.

  That was the other thing about dating a police officer. That upholding the truth thing must come with a built-in lie detector test.

  “You’ve never left the TV on for Rory before. Spill it.”

  “I just . . . I’d rather not leave the house . . . you know . . . obviously empty this evening.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “What exactly did Joey Carver say to you today?”

  “It wasn’t Joey . . . at least, not directly.” I told Ryan what Madelyn said and what Homer had found out from Phil Poston. “If Joey thought it was a prank to slash Madelyn’s bicycle tires when she threatened to tell her dad about his bad behavior, then he might think the same scare tactics will work on me.”

  “For one thing, when Madelyn’s tires were slashed, she should’ve gone straight to her father and had him deal with Joey. Why didn’t she?”

  I merely shrugged.

  “And for another,” he continued, “that young man needs to realize that he’s not hiding behind pranks anymore. There are serious consequences to his bad behavior. I tried to impress that notion upon him last night, but I apparently didn’t get through to him after all.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, Amy, it’s not. You’re afraid to go to dinner without leaving your TV on because you want this guy to think someone is home. That’s the opposite of okay.”

  “Well, he hasn’t threatened me. I’m just letting my imagination get the best of me. Maybe Homer said it best earlier today.” I rolled my eyes heavenward trying to recall what he’d said. “Your mind is a sacred enclosure . . . something, something . . . Basically, no one can scare you without your permission.”

  “Then why have you not only given Joey Carver permission to scare you, you’ve all but sent him an engraved invitation?”

  I blew out a breath. “You’re right. I know that. It’s just that he and Brendan are—as Madelyn put it—running wild together. I get the impression that Brendan blames me for Stu’s death since he was found in the parking lot of the Down South Café. And I doubt either Brendan or Joey would swerve to miss me if I happened to be standing in the middle of the road. Add to that the fact that it was probably Joey we saw racing out of town on the night Stu was killed, and I have to wonder if he had anything to do with Stu’s death.”

  “Why? That’s quite a leap in logic to make.”

  “Brendan has made it clear that he didn’t particularly like Stu. He preferred his stepfather. Joey has a serious case of hero worship for Brendan; so if Brendan didn’t like Stu, Joey probably didn’t either. What if Joey had something to do with Stu’s death?”

  “What’s his motive?” Ryan asked. “What would he gain from Stu Carver’s death?”

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “You’re right—I’m jumping to conclusions. If conclusion jumping were an Olympic event, I’d be a gold medalist.”

  He kissed my forehead. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re just on edge. After everything you’ve been through this past week, you have every right to be.”

  I placed my head against his shoulder and let him hold me for a moment. Then I pulled back and said, “I’m really hungry. Let’s go eat.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  I turned and started to shut off the television.

  “Why don’t you leave that on for now? It’ll keep Rory company.”

  I smiled. It was nice to be understood.

  Chapter 11

  I woke up Wednesday morning before the alarm clock sounded. I lay there in bed for a minute listening to the unintelligible sounds coming from the television still playing in the living room and wondering what having the set on all night would do to my electric bill.

  For some reason, I was also thinking about figs. I had no idea why figs were on my mind, but they were. Glancing at the clock, I saw that I had time to linger over a cup of coffee with my recipe books and see what I could find that called for the fruit.

  After turning on the coffeepot, I went into the living room and turned off the TV. I hoped it hadn’t allowed any poltergeists into the house. Funny—I hadn’t seen that movie in years, and yet the thought of that little girl sitting in front of the television with nothing on the screen except “snow” had popped into my head. These days, every channel played twenty-four hours a day. So maybe the poltergeist doors were all closed. Not that I believed in poltergeists, but this morning I wasn’t taking any chances.

  I stepped into the fancy room and picked out a few cookbooks that might contain some interesting fig recipes. Then I went back into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table.

  Rory came running in from the backyard. I patted his head and got him a dog treat. He lay down at my feet and I went back to thumbing through cookbooks.

  I stumbled upon a recipe that my patrons might actually enjoy—baked fig crostini—but the recipe listed fresh figs, and they were almost impossible to find around here. In Richmond, I believed there was a Mediterranean grocer who sold fresh figs in August, but Richmond was five hours away. I’d have to keep looking for something a little more practical.

  I actually got so engrossed in my cookbooks that I was nearly late for work. I glanced at the clock, did a double-take, and nearly turned my chair over getting up. I ran into the bedroom with Rory at my heels.

  “I shouldn’t have been lollygagging,” I told him.

  He hopped around me in little circles, eager to play whatever game it was we were playing.

  I threw on my clothes, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair up into a ponytail, and put on some lipstick. I grabbed my purse and hurried out the front door.

  I didn’t even think about having the television on all night—or why. I was just eager to get into the car and get going.

  And then I saw the truck slowly driving by my house. Joey Carver’s truck. After he passed the house, he braked and backed up.

 
; “Good morning!”

  I saw that it wasn’t Joey driving the truck, but Brendan.

  “Hi, Brendan.” I still kept my distance. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Nope. Joey and I just thought we’d stop and say hi . . . see how you’re doing.”

  Joey leaned forward from the passenger seat and waved to me.

  I slowly raised my hand in greeting. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I’m going to be late for work if I don’t.”

  “So what?” Brendan asked. “You own the place, don’t you?”

  “Yes, which is all the more reason to get there on time. If I’m not there to unlock the door, no one can work.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Had you, Joey?”

  Either Joey didn’t answer or I couldn’t hear his response.

  Eager to end the conversation and get away from these two, I said, “Come on by the café later for coffee and doughnuts. Bye!”

  I quickly unlocked the door, got inside, and unobtrusively locked myself in. Then I started the car. Thankfully, Brendan drove on off.

  As relieved as I was that my tires weren’t slashed and that the young men didn’t make any veiled threats today, they’d rattled me. Why had they been driving by my house so early in the morning? How did they even know where I lived? Or had it been a coincidence that they were driving by and spotted me? They could’ve seen my car, I supposed—there weren’t that many yellow Beetles in Winter Garden. In fact, mine might’ve been the only one.

  Either way, I was fine. My car was fine. I was now on my way to the café—which I was pretty sure would also be fine. I refused to let these boys scare me. I was determined to take Homer’s advice to heart about your mind being a sacred place that no harm could enter without permission. I guess it was originally that other guy’s advice—the author whose name I couldn’t remember—but the sentiment was the same. I marveled again at how Homer could remember quotes from all those different people and yet I couldn’t even recall who his hero had been yesterday. I chose to chalk it up to stress. And then I decided not to have any more stress today because my mind was a sacred place and all that jazz.

  When I pulled into the Down South Café parking lot, I saw Ryan standing there beside his police car. He was leaning against the driver’s side door with his arms folded across his chest. And he was smiling. I don’t know when I’d ever been happier to see anyone.

  I put the car in park, got out, and sprinted over to hug him.

  He laughed and so did I.

  “What’s that all about?” he asked. “If I’d known you’d be this glad to see me, I’d drop by the café every morning.”

  “Come on in, and I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

  “Seriously, is everything all right?”

  I smiled up at him. “Everything is great.” I saw no need to tell him about my other early morning visitors.

  We went inside, and as I was getting the coffee ready, I asked Ryan how things had gone with Mr. Jackson. “I kinda forgot about him with everything else that’s been going on around here. Was he arrested?”

  Ryan shook his head. “There wasn’t any evidence to hold him, and he denied all charges. Sheriff Billings let him go but asked him to keep us apprised of any plans to leave town.”

  “Do you think he left for Oklahoma—or wherever he planned to go next—as soon as he was released?”

  “I don’t think so. He told the sheriff he was staying at the Fairbanks Hotel in Abingdon and would be there until after Stuart’s funeral.”

  “That’s odd, don’t you think?” The coffee finished dripping into the pots, and I got us both a cup. “If he was guilty of murder, he’d have gotten out of town as quickly as he could. Don’t you agree?”

  He shrugged, spooning creamer and sugar into his coffee. “Maybe he thinks he’ll look less guilty if he stays.”

  “He will, in my opinion.”

  Ryan smiled. “The jury is still out, Ms. Flowers. Please don’t exonerate or convict the suspect until we’ve gathered the sufficient evidence.”

  “Yes, Deputy. Any word on how soon the funeral might be?”

  “The regional medical examiner should be sending the body back tomorrow or the next day. We requested that Mr. Landon’s—or rather, Carver’s—body be given priority not only due to the fact that the victim was murdered but also because his family is from out of town. We don’t want to create an unnecessary burden on the Carvers.”

  It was sweet how Ryan slid into and out of official police mode so easily.

  “Madelyn has already made all the arrangements, hasn’t she?” I asked.

  He nodded. “The funeral director said they’d finalize everything as soon as the body is returned from the ME.”

  Determined to shake off our depressing conversation, I asked, “What else can I get you for breakfast?”

  “I’d love a couple of eggs and some whole wheat toast.”

  “Coming right up,” I said with a smile.

  As I went into the kitchen, Jackie and Luis came in. They were chatting with Ryan as I prepared Ryan’s food, and my mind wandered back to Walter Jackson. I really wanted to talk with Mr. Jackson—get his side of the story.

  Why had he come to Winter Garden to find Stuart Landon Carver? Had he wanted revenge? And even if he had, I found it hard to believe that he’d actually killed Stu, especially in the brutal way Stu had been murdered. It seemed to me that it would’ve taken a younger, stronger person to wrestle Stu, cut his throat, and place him into the truck.

  I hadn’t taken time to examine the truck, but I hadn’t seen a lot of blood there. I could be mistaken, of course, but I got the feeling that the murder might’ve happened somewhere else and that Stu had been put into the truck afterward.

  Mr. Jackson simply didn’t strike me as being that strong. It was possible he’d drugged Stu before cutting his throat, but it still didn’t explain how he’d lifted him into the truck . . . unless he’d had help. I made up my mind then—although I most definitely intended to keep my plans to myself—to go talk with Mr. Jackson that afternoon. I knew there was a slim chance Mr. Jackson was a murderer, but I figured he wouldn’t do anything in the lobby of his hotel . . . in broad daylight . . . with (hopefully) lots of witnesses around.

  • • •

  The rest of the morning was uneventful but pleasant. Dilly reported that her raccoon friend seemed to be doing better—he was still favoring the injured paw yesterday evening, but not as much as he had been the day before. Homer’s hero was a skydiver named Don Kellner. And there was no sign of the Carver cousins.

  Lunchtime was a little more interesting.

  Calvin Dougherty came in—black leather portfolio in hand—and gave me a smile and a wave. He sat at a corner table, and Jackie went over to take his order.

  She came back, leaned through the window separating the kitchen from the dining room, and said, “Get this. The Ives Oil and Gas Company fellow just ordered two cheeseburgers, two orders of fries, and four soft drinks.”

  “He’s obviously expecting someone to join him.”

  “Yeah, but not only that. He doesn’t want them to be disturbed. He ordered two meals and four drinks, so I don’t have to keep refilling their glasses.”

  I peeped around Jackie to where Mr. Dougherty was sitting. He’d opened up the portfolio and was writing something.

  “I’ll get right on those cheeseburgers,” I said.

  “I’m eager to see who joins him.”

  I nodded as I took two beef patties out of the refrigerator and put them on the grill. I, too, was wondering about who Mr. Dougherty was meeting. I mean, I acknowledged that it was none of our business. But the fact that he was meeting with someone and wanted a smidgeon of privacy made me think he might’ve discovered a natural gas reserve on someone’s property. That could be exciting . . . maybe .
. . or bad . . . for Winter Garden, depending on how you looked at it. Some people wanted Winter Garden to grow and become a boomtown. Others liked our sleepy little town just the way it was. I’d have to say I was in the latter camp.

  Chad Thomas came in, wiped his palms down the sides of his pants as he quickly scanned the dining room, and then strode over to Mr. Dougherty’s table. Mr. Dougherty stood and shook Mr. Thomas’s hand, and then the two sat and immediately put their heads together to quietly talk.

  Jackie came into the kitchen. “So now I guess we know who that other burger is for. Wonder what they’re talking about?”

  “Maybe Mr. Dougherty found something promising about Mr. Thomas’s property while performing his tests.”

  “I don’t know. I think the oil and gas guy might be trying to pull one over on some of Winter Garden’s more gullible residents.” She turned and surveyed the pair’s animated discussion before whirling back around to me. “Maybe he’s trying to convince people to pay for some bogus but expensive tests with the hope that he’ll find gas beneath their property and get rich.”

  “What makes you say so? He didn’t try to swindle Mom and Aunt Bess. Or Homer either, for that matter.”

  “Yeah, Amy, but they’re too smart to fall for anybody’s hogwash. Besides, their main goal isn’t to strike it rich.”

  “Is that Chad Thomas’s main goal?” I asked.

  “I believe it very well could be. And it could be a goal for the majority of people in this town. I mean, who doesn’t want to be filthy, stinking rich?”

  I flipped the burgers. Before I could answer Jackie, two customers came in and she ducked out of the kitchen to hand the women menus. As I continued grilling the burgers, I thought about what she’d asked. Sure, I’d like to have a bit more money . . . maybe upgrade my wardrobe . . . but I didn’t care anything about being “filthy, stinking rich.”

  Since opening the Down South Café, I’d become much more aware of money. I now had payroll, supplies, utilities, taxes, and additional insurance to think of. So, yes, more money in the bank to provide a cushion for those things would be terrific, but I wasn’t ready to fall for anyone’s get-rich-quick scheme. And I doubted many other Winter Garden residents were either.