Honey-Baked Homicide Page 2

  “It’s not their problem. It’s mine. And I intend to take care of it.”

  • • •

  Instead of going directly home, I drove on up to “the big house,” where Mom and Aunt Bess live. You see, when my grandfather got out of the coal mining business in Pocahontas and built the house for Nana and himself here in Winter Garden—and Mom, because she was a little girl then—he also built a smaller guesthouse on the property. And that’s where I live.

  Nana and Pop lived in the big house until Pop died. Afterward, Aunt Bess moved in with Nana. After Nana died, Mom—who’d been living with me in the smaller house all my life—moved in with Aunt Bess. So, yeah, it’s kind of a convoluted story, but suffice it to say that Mom and Aunt Bess live in a big house on a hill about three hundred yards from my house. As for the distance? My great-grandmother was the main guest in the guesthouse until Mom married my dad and moved into it. By that time, Great-Grams was in a nursing home. Pop didn’t like his mother-in-law very much. Come to think of it, he didn’t like my dad much either. And he happened to be an excellent judge of character—Dad left Mom and me when I was four years old.

  When I got out of the car, I checked again to make sure I still had good air pressure in my tires and that no fluids were leaking.

  Mom stepped out onto the wraparound porch, her short blond hair ruffled by the breeze. “What’re you doing?”

  “Making sure my car isn’t broken. I went over to Landon’s Farm after work, and the road leading to Mr. Landon’s house is horrible.”

  “I went there once,” Aunt Bess said. “It was about fifteen years ago. I don’t remember the road being all that bad then.”

  Aunt Bess had walked out onto the porch beside Mom while I was looking underneath my car. The woman was eighty-two, a little on the plump side—though I’d never tell her that, and addicted to the Internet.

  “Did you bring us some honey?” Mom asked.

  “I did. I’m selling Landon’s Farm honey on consignment now. Today was the first day, and the ten jars he brought are nearly gone. That’s why I went to see him—to ask for more.” I went up onto the porch, and the three of us sat on white rocking chairs. “Of course, Mr. Landon and his pre–Winter Garden life provided a lot of speculation today among me, the staff, and some of the regulars.”

  “Well, you didn’t need to speculate,” said Aunt Bess. “You could’ve come and asked me.”

  “I’m asking you now,” I said. “Enlighten me about Mr. Landon’s past.”

  Aunt Bess stopped rocking and leaned forward in her chair, delighted to have an audience—even if it was only an audience of two . . . or maybe one, since I wasn’t entirely sure Mom was paying attention.

  “I think he was a detective. Ever since Sherlock Holmes, detectives have been drawn to bees.”

  Okay, so I seemed to recall that Sherlock Holmes had been a beekeeper, but I doubted that was evidence for Mr. Landon being a detective. Still, I didn’t voice my thoughts aloud.

  “Even more than that—he’s a secret agent.” Aunt Bess gave an exaggerated nod. “You know, he came to Winter Garden along about the time that Princess Diana died—God rest her soul. I cried when I added her to my Pinterest board People I’ve Outlived.”

  “Aunt Bess, are you saying you think Stu Landon had something to do with the death of Princess Diana?”

  “I believe he failed to keep her safe. So he’s been banished to Winter Garden to serve out his time doing intelligence work here in America . . . like that handsome Colin Firth.”

  “Colin Firth was only a spy in that movie we watched,” I said.

  “You believe whatever you’d like, dear. I myself feel just a smidge safer knowing that Colin Firth is on the job.” She waved her hand. “But back to Stu Landon. The folks who used to live on that land where he has his farm were Carvers. The original Carvers died off or moved away ages ago, except for that one family that lives to the right of Stu’s farm. Then Stu Landon comes along and takes over the land. Tell me that’s not strange.”

  “It’s not, Aunt Bess. I imagine the man bought it.”

  “Again, Amy, you think whatever you want, but I know the Carvers were a tightfisted bunch who’d never let anyone outside of family have their land . . . unless, of course, the British government strong-armed them into selling.”

  “But—” I began, but I noticed Mom give a slight shake of her head. She was right. Disagreeing with Aunt Bess was like trying to teach trigonometry to a pig—frustrating for you and confusing to the pig. “So, Mom, what do you think about Stu Landon?”

  “I think his bees produce some awfully good honey, and I’m glad you brought us some.” She smiled. “I also think it’s great how you support the farmers in our region.”

  “Thanks. But poor Mr. Landon lost hundreds of his bees today. He said one of the neighboring farmers killed them. In fact, this afternoon he talked more than I’ve ever heard him. He was certainly riled up over it.”

  “Now why would anybody want to kill Mr. Landon’s bees?” Aunt Bess wondered aloud. “I reckon they could be allergic. But in my experience, a bee won’t bother you if you don’t bother it.”

  “Mr. Landon thought the bees were killed by negligent pesticide spraying. I told him I thought he should report the incident to the police, but he said he’d handle the matter himself. I hope he doesn’t get into trouble.”

  Chapter 2

  When I got home, my little brown terrier Rory came running to greet me. He didn’t particularly like being outside on these hot days, so he stayed inside enjoying the air-conditioning. He limited his backyard time to right after breakfast and again after dinner. And he had a blast chasing fireflies—or lightning bugs—just after dark.

  I scooped him up into my arms, and he licked my chin. After cuddling him for a minute, I placed him back onto the floor.

  I didn’t see Princess Eloise. She was a white Persian cat that belonged to Mom. Unfortunately for both of them, Aunt Bess was allergic to cats and Mom hadn’t been able to take the princess with her to the big house. But the two of them still saw each other fairly often.

  More than likely, Princess Eloise was perched on a windowsill napping or glaring out at her subjects. Probably napping.

  I slipped off my sneakers and stretched out on the living room sofa. Napping sounded good to me. Apparently, it did to Rory too, because he hopped onto the cushion beside me and yawned.

  “You and I should be going through our recipe books for some honey recipes instead of lying here like two sacks of potatoes.”

  His response was to sigh and roll onto his side.

  “Oh, well, it won’t hurt us to lie here for ten or fifteen minutes, will it?”

  That was pretty much my last conscious thought until Princess Eloise pounced onto my chest and meowed that it was dinnertime. The sudden jolt startled Rory, so he scrambled off the sofa and ran barking into the kitchen.

  I got up and followed him. Princess Eloise sashayed along beside me, tail twitching imperiously. I glanced at the clock and saw that almost an hour had passed since Rory and I had elected to take a nap.

  I fed both pets and was looking in the cabinets to decide what I wanted for dinner when my phone rang. I’d left the phone in the living room on the coffee table, so I hurried to answer it.

  “Hey,” Jackie said. “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “No, I haven’t even decided what to have.”

  “Would you and Ryan like to join Roger and me for barbecue at that new restaurant in Bristol?”

  “I’ll check with Ryan and call you right back.”

  I’d been dating Deputy Ryan Hall since just after the Down South Café opened a little over a month ago. We’d first met when he was investigating the murder of my former employer, Lou Lou Holman. It had been a weird way to get to know someone, but I supposed the end result was the same.

 
I called Ryan, who’d just finished his shift, and he said he’d love to go. I let Jackie know and then went into the bedroom to figure out what to wear.

  • • •

  My heart always did a little flip when I saw Ryan. He was tall, athletically built, and he had dark hair and eyes. And he had a deep, sonorous voice that kinda reminded me of Sam Elliott’s. This evening he wore khaki pants and a navy polo.

  “You look gorgeous,” he told me as I met him on the porch.

  I blushed as I thanked him, glad I’d chosen a floral-print sundress and had taken extra time with my hair and makeup. He looked gorgeous, too, but I didn’t say so. I figured I shouldn’t let him get too sure of himself, right?

  He opened the passenger side door of his red convertible, and I slid onto the seat. I was glad the top was up tonight. I enjoyed having it down on occasion but not when I cared about how my hair would look.

  After Ryan got into the car and we headed for Bristol, I asked him about Stu Landon. “You didn’t get any calls to go out to Landon’s Farm late this afternoon, did you?”

  “No, why?”

  I told him about my visit to the farm and how upset Mr. Landon was about his dead bees. “He seemed certain that a neighboring farmer’s pesticide spraying was to blame. I told him he should call the police.”

  “Even if he had, there’s nothing we could do, sweetheart. The farmer has a right to spray his crops.”

  “That’s basically what Mr. Landon said. But then he told me he’d take care of the matter himself, and I was afraid he was going to confront the farmer,” I said. “I was hoping Mr. Landon hadn’t gone off half-cocked and done something to get himself in trouble.”

  “Well, if he did, I didn’t hear about it.”

  • • •

  Jackie waved to us when we entered the restaurant. She and Roger were an adorable couple. They were roughly the same height—around five foot nine—but Roger was stocky and muscular whereas Jackie was willowy. She had red hair and blue eyes, and Roger had dark blond hair and brown eyes. The two had been friends all their lives, and they’d finally started dating while Roger was renovating the café. In my opinion, it was high time. The couple had been flirting with each other for years but neither had wanted to spoil their friendship. I was glad they’d given their relationship a chance to grow. It was obvious how happy they were together.

  Ryan and I weaved our way through the people and tables to get to Jackie and Roger’s table. He pulled out my chair, and we sat down.

  “Thanks so much for inviting us to join you,” I told Jackie. “At the very moment you called, I was going through the cabinets wondering what I was going to have for dinner.”

  “Well, we hadn’t met up for a meal in a while, and I thought we were due.” She grinned. “Plus, having you here will keep Roger and me from arguing.”

  “No, it won’t.” Roger winked. “So what’s new with you, Flowerpot?”

  He’d given me the nickname when we were kids. He was the only person who’d ever called me that, thank goodness, but I didn’t mind it coming from Roger.

  Before answering, I glanced from one to the other of them. Had they been arguing? Or was Jackie only kidding? It was none of my business, of course, but Jackie was my best friend as well as my cousin—and I loved Roger too. I didn’t want there to be any animosity between them.

  Jackie read my expression. “We’re fine, other than the fact that Roger is as hardheaded as a mule.”

  “You hadn’t figured that out before now?” I asked.

  “Well, yes, I had. But I still thought there was a chance he’d wear the sunscreen bracelet I bought him to remind him to reapply after he’d been in the sun for a while.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded.” He turned to Ryan. “You know how much my crew would make fun of me if I wore a stupid bracelet that went from white to purple when I’d been out in the sun for too long?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ryan chuckled. “The only thing worse would be to have your mommy show up with the sunscreen and your superhero lunchbox.”

  “So caring about your health is childish?” Jackie asked. “Good to know.”

  “It’s not the caring about my health that’s childish. It’s letting everyone else know I do that would cause the backlash.” He gave Ryan a fist-bump. “Now back to my question. What’s new, Flowerpot?”

  “Well, we’re selling honey at the café now. I imagine Jackie told you about that.”

  “She did. And I hear there was a lot of speculation this morning about where poor old Stu Landon had come from.”

  I smiled. “There might’ve been some of that.”

  Roger rolled his eyes.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Stu is a good guy. I did some cabinet work for him a year or two ago. Can’t the poor man simply keep to himself and live on his farm in peace?”

  “Apparently not.” I relayed the tale of the dead bees and the farmer’s thoughtless pesticide spraying habits believed to be the cause of killing the bees.

  “Who was the farmer?” Roger asked. “Did Stu say?”

  “Chad Thomas. Do you know him?”

  Roger nodded. “I know of him, at least. I did some work for Chad’s younger brother Bob a while back, and I found out that both brothers are hotheads. But Chad spent time in juvenile hall for assault and battery several years ago. From what I hear, he was lucky he was sixteen and not tried as an adult. I hope Stu has more sense than to confront the man.”

  “I’ll make sure no calls came in when I go into work tomorrow morning,” said Ryan. “And I’ll look up Chad Thomas’s record too. It never hurts to be fully aware of a situation . . . or even a potential situation.”

  • • •

  The next morning, I was in the café making coffee when a distinguished-looking older gentleman came in. I was the only one there at the time, and normally I’d have locked the doors behind me upon arrival. But I’d been expecting Jackie to be there any minute, so I hadn’t bothered with the lock.

  “Good morning,” I said to the man. “Welcome to the Down South Café. We’re not officially open yet, but I can offer you some coffee as soon as it’s ready.”

  “That’d be nice. Thank you.” He wandered over to the display case and the shelves on the wall behind it. “Ah, you sell Landon’s Farm honey.”

  “Yes, sir, we do. Would you like a jar?”

  “Yeah, I think I might get a jar when I pay my bill. You must know the Landons then.”

  “I know Mr. Landon. He’s the beekeeper.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Stu.” I got out a cup as coffeepot number one finished filling. “Do you know Mr. Landon?”

  “I think I might,” he said. “I believe we used to work together. Could you give me directions to his farm?”

  I was debating about whether or not to give the stranger directions to Landon’s Farm when Jackie hurried breathlessly through the door.

  “Sorry I’m late. What a morning! It was like I was the poster child for Murphy’s Law or something.” She noticed our customer. “Oh, hi. I’m Jackie. Has Amy already taken your order?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Actually, we were talking about Mr. Landon,” I said. “This gentleman thinks they used to work together.”

  “Really?” Jackie stepped around the counter and deposited her purse on the shelf beneath the register. “It must’ve been a long time ago. I’ve never known Mr. Landon to work anywhere other than at his farm. Where do you think you worked with him?”

  “Callicorp International.” He extended his hand. “Walter Jackson.”

  “Jackie Fonseca.” She shook his hand.

  “And I’m Amy Flowers.” I, too, shook Mr. Jackson’s hand. “That coffee is ready. What would you like for breakfast?”

  Mr. Jackson ordered ham and eggs.
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  I filled the cup with coffee and placed it on the counter in front of him, and he sat on one of the stools. Then I went into the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. I could still hear snatches of his conversation with Jackie.

  “So you worked with Mr. Landon at Callicorp in—where—California?” she asked.

  “I’m not even sure this Mr. Landon is the man I knew, but Callicorp is located in Oklahoma . . . although the name does lend itself to California more than Oklahoma, doesn’t it?”

  I heard his spoon clinking against the sides of his cup. I tried not to get distracted, but I was curious as to what this man knew about Stu Landon.

  The door opened, and Jackie greeted Dilly. Dilly mentioned there being a slight chill in the air this morning to let us know that fall was on its way. Then she spoke to Mr. Jackson as she settled onto her favorite seat.

  “I’m not ready for fall,” Jackie told Dilly.

  “You don’t like fall?” she asked.

  “Fall is okay. It’s winter that I’m not crazy about.”

  “It’s been so hot this summer that I’m ready for a bout of cooler weather. How about you, mister?”

  “I appreciate any kind of weather. What if we were cooped up all the time and couldn’t enjoy being outside? I imagine that would be a dreadful existence.”

  “I reckon it would,” Dilly said. “I never looked at it like that. I don’t recollect seeing you in here before.”

  “This is my first visit to the Down South Café.”

  “Are you from around here?”

  “I’m originally from Oklahoma.”

  By that time, I’d plated Mr. Jackson’s meal and took it to him. “Here you are. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  He said there wasn’t, so I moved down the counter to say good morning to Dilly.

  “Hey, Amy.” She jerked her head in the direction of Mr. Jackson. “Did you know this man came plumb from Oklahoma for a bite of breakfast?”

  I smiled at her and then at Mr. Jackson. “I do now.”

  “So what do you reckon he’s doing here?”

  My eyes met Jackie’s and she quickly hid a grin as she resumed stocking the napkin dispensers. Leave it to Dilly to talk about someone as if he wasn’t sitting less than two feet away and couldn’t hear everything she said.