Fruit Baskets and Holiday Caskets Page 2

  Ryan stuck his head into the kitchen. “Hey, babe. Sorry, but I have to run. There’s been an accident.”

  “We know,” I told him. “It’s Devon. He works with Roger. Roger’s there waiting for the EMTs.”

  Ryan nodded. “I’ll call you when I can.”

  Before Ryan could leave, Clark caught up to him. “Let me come with you. I might be able to help.”

  The two men had barely gotten out the door when Aunt Bess ambled into the kitchen on Scott’s arm.

  “They’ll probably be a while, so we might as well eat,” she said. “It’s not that I’m insensitive—that Devon is a nice boy—but we’re hungry, and there’s nothing we can do for him at the moment.” She sighed. “I hope he doesn’t have any broken bones. That would be awful here at the holidays.”

  “She’s right about them being gone for a while,” Mom said. “Amy, would you and Jackie set the table please?”

  “With pleasure,” I said.

  It didn’t feel right sitting there eating dinner while Devon could be severely injured. We were all on pins and needles as we waited word on how he was doing—all except Aunt Bess, that is. To her way of thinking, he was probably fine, this was her celebratory dinner, and she wasn’t going to waste it.

  “Everything is so delicious,” she said. “What’s for dessert?”

  “Lemon meringue pie,” I said.

  “Oh, good. That’ll be nice and light after all the muffins and cookies I’ve had today. Why, not an hour after I posted online that I narrowly escaped death last night—”

  “Aunt Bess!” Mom gaped at her.

  “Well, I did! That roof could’ve fallen right in on top of me, and it’s only by the grace of God that it didn’t.” She looked around the table at the rest of us. “And then, before you know it, people started sending me things. I got a lovely fruit basket from Sheriff Billings, a box of muffins from the fire department, another big assortment of fruit from the Senior Center—they keep wanting me to join up, but I’m not sure I want to spend that much time around all those old people, and I got cookies from the funeral home.” She narrowed her eyes. “Looking back, I think those cookies might’ve been self-serving. They included a business card. Acted like I’d better be getting my affairs in order. Hmph. I said I’d escaped death, not invited it in and told it to have a seat and put its feet up.”

  None of us had a rebuttal to any of that—not even Scott—so we merely ate in silence.

  FINALLY, ROGER CALLED Jackie. He asked her to put him on speaker and said he was bringing Clark back to pick up his car.

  “We’ve kept plates warm for you,” Jackie said.

  “Thanks, but...um...I’m not up to eating,” Roger said. “Devon died on route to the hospital.”

  “Oh, Roger.” Tears pricked my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I don’t know how long Ryan will be.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Mom asked.

  “Not tonight,” Clark said. “I don’t think I’m up for dinner either. I’m sorry.”

  “We understand,” Jackie said. “See you when you get here.” She ended the call.

  I looked over to see Aunt Bess weeping softly and twisting her handkerchief in her hands. “I don’t want to put that sweet boy on my People I’ve Outlived board.”

  Scott hugged her as he fought back tears of his own.

  I TOOK RYAN’S MEAL to the police station. He was sitting at a computer typing up the accident report on Devon. He was the only person in the building, as far as I could tell.

  “I’m sorry for how your evening turned out,” I said from the doorway.

  “Me, too.” He swiveled in his chair and held his arms out to me. “Seeing you makes it better.”

  I went to him and we embraced.

  “You never get used to finding someone like that...not being able to help,” he said.

  “I know.” I didn’t, of course, but I could imagine it would be terrible. What could I say that might help? “Are you hungry? I brought you some food.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re awfully good to me.” He took my hand and led me into the breakroom.

  As I unpacked his food, I tried to come up with an innocuous subject of conversation so that maybe Ryan could eat without dwelling on the tragedy he’d just witnessed. “You know that felt gingerbread man ornament your mom made to go on my Christmas tree?”

  “Yeah.” He grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “I apparently hung the ornament too close to the bottom of the tree because Rory met me at the door with the poor thing in his mouth last night,” I said. “He hadn’t chewed on it, and in fact, he was being quite gentle with it. I hung it back on the tree, but I found it on the floor near his bed this morning.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Let him have it. There aren’t any buttons on it he could swallow or anything.”

  “True. He’s always preferred chew toys in the past. Every other stuffed animal I’ve given him, he’s destroyed in seconds. I don’t know why he’s so enamored of this gingerbread man.”

  “He’s a funny little guy, that’s for sure.”

  “I can hardly wait for you to see him with it. He’s so proud of it,” I said. “But don’t tell your mom.”

  “I’m calling her as soon as you leave.” He arched a brow. “Unless you can change my mind.”

  “If that lemon meringue pie doesn’t change your mind, I don’t know what will.”

  “You’ve got me—” His cell phone rang, and he looked at the screen. “It’s Ivy. I need to take this.”

  He returned to his desk to speak with Ivy privately and, I supposed, to take any necessary notes. In a town as small as Winter Garden, I couldn’t imagine Ivy would be examining evidence on anything other than Devon’s accident this evening. But why? She was a crime scene investigator, not an accident reconstructionist. Or maybe she was. I didn’t know. I’m sure Ivy could do it. Not only was she a car enthusiast and a capable mechanic, I believed that woman could do anything she set her mind to.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked Ryan when he returned to the breakroom.

  He shook his head. “One of the EMTs said that when Devon was going in and out of consciousness, he said he couldn’t stop. He said something along the lines of, ‘The brakes weren’t there.’”

  “And you think maybe faulty brakes caused the accident?” I asked.

  “I know it was the brakes—Ivy just confirmed it.” He ran a hand down his face. “But they didn’t go out for no reason—the brake lines were cut.”

  “Is it possible Devon ran over something and punctured the brake lines that way?” I didn’t want to believe someone set out to sabotage Devon’s vehicle.

  Shaking his head, Ryan said, “Ivy reported there was no corrosion on the lines or any evidence that they were in poor condition. And the cuts were clean. She’s convinced someone wanted Devon’s brakes to fail.”

  “Someone wanted him to wreck and get hurt?” The thought was still absurd to me.

  “He was going across Winter Garden mountain—that curvy road with the rocky cliff walls on one side and the drop-offs on the other. Whoever cut those brake lines most likely knew where Devon would be and that he couldn’t survive a crash on that road.”

  “But—”

  “Devon was murdered.”

  { }

  Chapter Three

  D

  illy and Walter were back at their usual table on Wednesday morning, but they were sad and subdued. I came out of the kitchen to give Dilly a hug.

  “I just can’t believe it,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “Devon was such a sweet man. He didn’t even charge me for coming out yesterday.” Her thin lips spread into a half smile. “He said Roger would have his hide if he charged a sweetheart like me for simply resetting the breaker.”

  “That’s what was wrong with the heat pump.” Walter took off his tan newsboy cap and placed it on the table. “He told us
that from now on when there’s a power outage, we should turn off the heat pump until the power comes back on. That’ll keep the mechanism from suffering any damage from a power surge when electricity is restored.” He sighed. “He was sharp—that one. Knew his onions.”

  “I’d like to take a gift to Devon’s wife,” Dilly said. “Although I didn’t know her, I’d like to take her a decorative stone I found that has a verse by Roy Lessin about the impact of one life on the world.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” I poured coffee into her cup. “Jackie and I are taking some food over to her later. Would you like to go with us?”

  “I would.”

  “Roger is going too,” Jackie said, “and I’m sure he’d be glad if you were there, Walter. He wouldn’t want us to be all hens and only one rooster.”

  “Of course.” Walter bobbed his head. “I’ll be honored to join you.”

  Ryan came into the café, spoke to Dilly, Walter, and me, and then asked, “Jackie, may I have a word with you?” He avoided my eyes. “Privately?”

  What was that about? Did he—like Devon—want to consult my cousin about a Christmas present he was considering buying? I thrilled to the thought before quickly dismissing it. Ryan’s manner wasn’t besotted boyfriend wanting to get advice on a piece of jewelry or a sweater. He was in police officer mode.

  I dragged my eyes away from the patio where the two had gone to talk and turned my attention back to Dilly and Walter. “So, what are you two having for breakfast this morning?”

  Walter ordered eggs Benedict, and Dilly chose biscuits and gravy. I went into the kitchen to get started on the hollandaise sauce.

  When Jackie joined me in the kitchen a couple of minutes later, I asked, “Did Ryan want breakfast?”

  “No.” Mouth set in a firm line, she looked up at the order hanging above the grill and began to make the sausage gravy.

  “What did he want?” I figured if it were—as I’d kinda hoped—a Christmas gift suggestion, she wouldn’t be angry about it, so I didn’t think it would hurt to ask.

  “He was looking for Roger.”

  “Why? Did something happen at the police station?” Maybe the building had suffered some damage during the storm, and it was only being found now. Okay, I knew I was grasping at straws. But I didn’t like the inevitable conclusion I was drawing.

  And then Jackie said it: “Yeah, something happened. Roger became a suspect in Devon’s murder.”

  I’D TRIED TO REASSURE Jackie for the rest of the morning that Ryan didn’t really consider Roger a suspect and that he was only doing his job, but it hadn’t helped much. To be honest, I had to wonder about it myself. Ryan had barely spoken with me this morning, and then he’d taken off as soon as he’d asked Jackie about Roger. I felt uncomfortable with the entire situation, and I wanted to talk with Ryan about it as soon as possible. Or, at least, I thought I did.

  When Homer came in at his usual time, he was greeted by Scott.

  “Guru Guy! What’s the good word today, dude?”

  Smiling, Homer said, “The good word comes from John Muir. He said, ‘Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.’”

  “Whoa.” Scott nodded. “That’s mega deep.”

  “I feel it when I come here to the café.” Homer sat at the counter. “This place and you folks are my daily restorative.”

  “We feel the same way about you, Homer,” I said.

  “Who’s John Muir?” Jackie asked.

  “Dude, John Muir was an awesome writer—he wrote these wilderness discovery books that spoke about the majesty of national parks and how we all need to preserve our environment.”

  “That’s right, Scott!” Homer winked at his friend. “I’m proud of you for knowing that, son.”

  “Me too.” Scott poured Homer a cup of coffee. “That sausage biscuit is on the way, Guru Guy.”

  Homer Pickens came in every morning at around ten-thirty for a sausage biscuit. He was in his late sixties, had grown up without a father, and chose a new hero every day. Even before Scott began working at the café on a regular basis, he’d dubbed Homer Guru Guy. The title fit.

  I noticed a man standing by the door. He was wearing a blue blazer and khaki pants, and he had his hands shoved into his pockets. “Good morning!” I called to him. “Welcome to the Down South Café. I’m Amy. Please have a seat wherever you’d like and let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

  “You’re the proprietor?” the man asked.

  “I am.” I stepped from behind the counter to speak with the newcomer.

  “Amy, I’m Bryson Neal, your new town manager. My family and I moved to Winter Garden when I got the job, and I’m going around and introducing myself to the local merchants.” He grinned. “And trying to drum up participants for the upcoming Christmas parade.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I said. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Please.” Mr. Neal walked over to the counter and sat beside Homer. He introduced himself, and Homer did likewise. “Might you be interested in making a float to advertise this lovely café in the Christmas parade, Amy?”

  “I intended for the café to remain open during the parade,” I said. “That way, patrons could drop in after the parade for hot chocolate, coffee, and cookies.”

  “I’ll stay here and keep the café open, Amy-girl!” Scott said. “That way you can go out and advertise. I think making a float would be fun.”

  Thinking that sometimes Scott was too effusive for his own good, I said, “It would, but I don’t have a farm wagon or anything like that. What could I possibly use for a float?”

  “You have the perfect parade ride—your Bug!” He spread his arms like his suggestion was genius, but I didn’t see how my little yellow Volkswagen Beetle was cool enough to be in a parade. I mean, it wasn’t a Corvette convertible or something.

  “While I find my little car adorable, I don’t think all of Winter Garden will be delighted to stand on the street and watch me drive by in it,” I said. “Although, if I tossed candy out the windows, it might be a draw for the kids.”

  “You’re limiting yourself, girl! My philosophy is go big!” He looked at Homer. “Right, Guru Guy?”

  “Elaborate,” Homer said, refusing to commit himself to Scott’s suggestion of going big until he knew what that meant.

  “Picture this,” Scott said. “We put a huge, decorated cake on the top of the car—a dummy cake on a luggage rack—and we make blue and yellow Down South Café signs for the doors. It’ll be awesome!”

  “It would be!”

  I turned to see Luis, who was bussing a table, lending his support for Scott’s idea with a wide smile on his face.

  “That would be incredible,” Luis said. “And Oscar and I could help run the café during the parade.”

  “It would be something people wouldn’t soon forget,” Mr. Neal added.

  I contemplated decorating and putting a cake atop my Bug, and I couldn’t suppress a giggle. “I’ll see what I can come up with. How soon do you need an answer?”

  “This coming Monday is the deadline for sign-ups.” He looked around the dining room. “I’m counting on you gentlemen to continue helping me win her over. I believe a cake float would be excellent publicity for the café.”

  Decorating the cake and documenting the float’s progress on social media might be fun too. It would add to the excitement of finishing the final product. On the other hand, it would be great to surprise Mom and Aunt Bess. Still, I needed to research how difficult it would be before committing to Mr. Neal that I’d take part in the parade.

  “Mr. Muir said that ‘in every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.’ That’s how it is with me,” Homer said. “I came in here seeking my usual sausage biscuit, and I received—I hope—the opportunity to help my friends make a float for the Christmas parade.”

  “Of course, you can help,
” I said. “If I decide to do it.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Scott giving Homer a thumbs up. I turned to give him what I hoped was a look of warning. It didn’t work.

  Scott laughed and announced, “Dudes, we’re making a float!”

  { }

  Chapter Four

  I

  carried a chicken casserole in a lidded foil pan with a lasagna in another lidded pan on top of that, making my ability to see where I was going practically nil. Jackie couldn’t help because she was carrying a tray of desserts. Thankfully, a man inside Belinda’s home saw us coming and held the door open for us.

  “Wow! You guys went all out!” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say to that given the circumstances under which we were there, so I ignored the comment and asked, “Could you please point us toward the kitchen?”

  “Sure thing.” He took the food from me and led Jackie and me through the living room and into the kitchen where Belinda was standing with her back to the sink conversing with an older woman.

  “Thank you,” I said, as he placed the food on the table.

  Jackie followed suit, and Belinda said, “I see you two have met my charming brother Adam. But don’t get your hopes up, ladies, he’s happily married.”

  I squinted at Jackie in confusion. What a weird thing to say when we’d come here to pay our respects to Devon. Besides, Belinda knew both Jackie and I were already in relationships, didn’t she? Maybe the poor woman had been simply trying to break the ice.

  “Actually, we haven’t met.” I stuck out my hand. “Amy Flowers.”

  “Adam Tate.” He gave me a brief but firm handshake before shaking Jackie’s hand.

  “Jackie Fonseca,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Adam nodded. “Devon was a good man.”

  “Belinda, may I help you do anything?” Jackie asked.

  “No, thanks.” She walked out of the kitchen.

  “Do you live here in Virginia?” I asked Adam.

  “Nope. Florida born and raised. Never saw a reason to leave.”