Honey-Baked Homicide Read online

  “He’s an English musician. One of his quotes that resonated with me was this: ‘I know people who grow old and bitter. I want to keep making a fresh start.’ I like it. I feel that I kinda make a fresh start every morning when I choose my hero of the day.”

  “That’s a good philosophy,” I said.

  “And I believe Winter Garden is ready for a fresh start too. All the excitement, disappointment, and general upheaval brought on by the arrival of Ives Oil and Gas can go back to normal now that Mr. Dougherty has left us.” He sipped his coffee. “Don’t you agree?”

  I nodded.

  “We wake up to a clean slate every morning—a new beginning,” Homer continued.

  “It’s not always that easy, Homer,” said Jackie. “There are some things you simply can’t forget about or leave behind.”

  I knew she was talking about her mother, who’d recently gone into a rehab facility. Aunt Renee had left Jackie with Aunt Bess when Jackie was only sixteen. She’d faded in and out of both their lives since then, and Jackie had a lot of resentment over it. During her last visit to Winter Garden, Jackie had talked her into entering rehab.

  “True,” said Homer, “but perhaps you can change your outlook. Something that seems like a negative could become a positive. Right?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Jackie picked up a coffeepot and went to check on some of her other customers.

  “Let me get that sausage biscuit for you,” I told Homer.

  As I went into the kitchen, I thought about what he’d said about Winter Garden basically getting back to normal now that Ives Oil and Gas had stopped their prospecting endeavors. But I didn’t see how our town could regain any sense of normalcy if Stu Landon Carver’s killer was never caught. And that’s how it was really beginning to look to me.

  Sure, the knife might hold some evidence. But if any DNA or fingerprints had been found in or on the truck, there hadn’t been anything conclusive enough to arrest a suspect. If the killer had been careful enough to keep from leaving any evidence in a truck, didn’t it stand to reason that there wouldn’t be any found on the murder weapon?

  I wished the quiet, peaceful life would return to Winter Garden. I just didn’t see how it could with all of us looking over our shoulder for a killer.

  • • •

  It wasn’t too long after Homer left that Madelyn Carver shuffled into the café and slumped onto the nearest stool.

  “Coffee and one of those chocolate doughnuts with the white frosting, please,” she said.

  “Are you okay?” Given her demeanor, that was probably the stupidest question I could ask, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  “My nerves are shot. I called an attorney friend this morning to see if our family has any legal recourse against Ives Oil and Gas for discontinuing the testing. He told us that we don’t.”

  I poured her coffee and then returned the carafe to its base.

  “First off,” she continued, “Ives never declared definitively that there is a natural gas reserve located beneath my father’s property. They only found promising circumstances for there to be, and further testing was needed to determine whether or not the land was worth mining.” She sighed. “Even if we were sure there is natural gas on our property, there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t mine it ourselves, of course. And we can’t bring another gas company in to mine it for us because of the lawmakers’ block.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, putting her doughnut on a plate and giving her a fork, knife, and napkin.

  “The worst part is that I absolutely can’t get that through Brendan’s head—or Joey’s either, for that matter. They’re angry and feel that they’re entitled to . . .” She shook her head. “Something. I’m not quite sure what. Money, I’m sure. Yes, wouldn’t it have been fabulous if Ives had found a huge natural gas reserve under dear old daddy’s property, and his children would have wound up millionaires? But life seldom works that way, does it?”

  “I’m afraid not.” At this point, I could do little but nod and murmur my agreement while she continued to rant.

  Madelyn used the knife and fork to daintily take a bite of her doughnut. Given her state of mind, I half expected her to just pick it up and shove it into her mouth. That’s probably what I’d have done.

  “I didn’t even know Brendan had left college and had been hiding out here with Joey for a month until you told me,” she said. “That’s ridiculous. Douglas has always babied Brendan and let him slide about things he’d have never let me get away with. I don’t know whether it was because I was the oldest or because I was a girl, but I had a narrow line to toe.”

  I watched her take another bite of her food. I really needed to get into the kitchen and finish lunch prep, but I couldn’t simply walk away. It was obvious she needed to talk.

  I got the coffeepot and topped off her barely touched coffee.

  “But letting Brendan completely slack off like this and bum around with Joey? What is Douglas thinking? This is Brendan’s future we’re talking about! We can’t just stand by and watch him blow it.”

  “Playing devil’s advocate here, what can you really do?” I asked. “I’m guessing Douglas is trying not to alienate Brendan while hoping he comes to his senses. Brendan’s decisions are his to make at this point—you can’t force him to return to school. Even if you do, he won’t succeed unless his heart is in it.”

  “I know.” She blinked back tears. “Mom had such a hard time raising us on her own . . . until she found Douglas, I mean. I tried to help. I always felt like a second mother to Brendan.”

  “Oh, Madelyn, that must’ve been so hard for you. You’re only a year or two older than Brendan, aren’t you?”

  “I’m three years older. I carried a lot of resentment around for Stu until I realized he was merely living his life the best way he knew how.” She gave a mirthless chuckle. “I think I came to that epiphany in some college psych class. Anyway, despite my enlightened view of my father, I still sometimes became so angry at the way he treated us and our mother—Mom, especially, because he took her from the only home she’d ever known and then abandoned her. No wonder Brendan hated him. Sometimes, I did too.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t see how you could. You look like you’ve never seen any heartache in your life.”

  “I have. We all have. In fact, my dad left when I was only four years old. He didn’t wander in and out of our lives like Stu did yours—he just left. We don’t even know where he’s at.”

  “Did your mom remarry?”

  “Nope, she never did. She dated now and then—still does—but it’s never anything serious. I don’t know if that’s because she still pines for my dad or because she simply refuses to have her heart broken again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “In fact, I think his making a clean break made it easier for us than it was for you and your family. Every time Stu came back into your lives and then left again, the wound was reopened.”

  “Yeah.” She looked at the display case. “Could I get a half dozen of these doughnuts to go, please? Not all for me—I thought Brendan and Joey might like some.”

  “Of course.” I put the doughnuts into a bakery bag.

  • • •

  The lunch rush was just picking up when Jackie came back to the kitchen and told me a woman was asking for me. I had her watch the grill—and the stove and the oven—while I went to see what the woman wanted.

  I stepped over to the far end of the counter where the woman was perched on a stool waiting. She was wearing a navy blue baseball cap and black sunglasses, and I didn’t recognize her at first.

  That’s when she told me, “Hey, Amy. It’s me, Fern.”

  “Hi, Fern.”

  “I need my meal to go. And could you please not mention to Chad if you see him tha
t I came in here? He’s declared the Down South Café off-limits since y’all got him in trouble with the police.”

  I felt like my eyebrows shot up so high, they were nearly on top of my head. “We did not get him into trouble. His temper got him into trouble.”

  “Still, ain’t there some way you could drop the charges or something?”

  “I didn’t file charges. Deputy Hall was here and arrested your husband after breaking up the fight. Why was Chad so angry with Mr. Dougherty in the first place—he wanted to develop the reserves as much as the property owners did?”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Fern. “It might’ve been a feather in Mr. Dougherty’s cap to find gas for the company or whatever, but that money sure could’ve changed the lives of a lot of Winter Garden residents, especially Chad. Heck, it could’ve helped you too, Amy—it would’ve brought more people to the area.”

  “I’m not sure that’s always a good thing.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . I came for a fried chicken breast, some cole slaw, and some potato salad. How long would it take for you to get that together for me?” She looked all around the dining room, and I realized she was looking out all the windows. “I hope Chad doesn’t drive by and see my car here. I just wanted a good lunch today, and I didn’t feel like making it myself.”

  “I understand.”

  “And how about a biscuit? Can I get a biscuit with my meal?”

  “Of course. I’ll have it out here to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks.” She continued watching the windows.

  • • •

  After work, I went by the grocery store. I’d come across a recipe for chicken curry that I wanted to let patrons sample. I wasn’t sure there were many residents of Winter Garden who were up for Indian cuisine—the dish might not go over any better than the sushi did—but I wanted to give it a shot. I needed some cumin, ginger, and cardamom.

  I was in the spice aisle when I spotted a familiar-looking figure from the corner of my eye. I turned my head to get a better look and realized Walter Jackson was walking by.

  “Mr. Jackson?” I hurried after the man. What was he doing here? I thought he’d left Winter Garden.

  He was headed for the door.

  I quickened my steps. “Mr. Jackson!”

  He went on out the door and into the parking lot.

  I abandoned my spices on a nearby shelf so I could run outside and talk with him. But even though I stood at the door and looked out over the parking lot at least twice, I couldn’t see where Mr. Jackson had gone.

  I went back into the store, retrieved my spices, and took them up to the checkout line. As I was paying for my items, I was still looking through the glass storefront to see if I could spot Mr. Jackson.

  “Is everything all right?” the cashier asked.

  “Yeah. It’s fine. I thought I saw someone I knew.”

  “That happens to me all the time.”

  I nodded, took my groceries, and headed for the car. Once inside, I called Ryan.

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  “Hey there. Guess who I just now saw at the grocery store?”

  “Elvis? An alien? Brad Pitt?”

  “Okay, please stop guessing,” I said. “It was Walter Jackson. I thought he left Winter Garden.”

  “He did. Or at least he told us he was on his way out of town yesterday morning. We assumed he left. What reason could he possibly have for hanging around?”

  “I don’t know. But it was him. I called out to him and tried to get him to stop, but he left the store and I lost sight of him.”

  “Are you sure it was Walter Jackson?” Ryan asked. “It could’ve simply been someone who resembled him. The website NOLO has an entire page dedicated to eyewitness identification, and there are a lot of factors to take into consideration.”

  I interrupted so he’d get out of super-cop mode. “Okay, sure, it could’ve been someone who merely looked like Walter Jackson. Like you said, what possible reason could Mr. Jackson have for remaining in Winter Garden?”

  “Other than the fabulous food at the Down South Café.”

  Now he was just trying to humor me. “There’s something else I want to talk with you about. Consider this a concerned citizen simply pointing out suspicious behavior.”

  “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “I’m afraid Chad Thomas is abusive toward his wife.” I told him about seeing Fern with the bruise on her face—and I added that Mom suggested that Fern really could have had an accident so I tried to let it go. And then I told him about her wearing the ball cap and sunglasses and watching over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being caught at the café today. “She never took those glasses off, Ryan, and she appeared to be terrified that he’d catch her.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised—given what I’ve seen of Chad Thomas lately—to learn that he is abusing his wife. That said, he could be beating her every day of the week and twice on Sunday and there’s nothing we could do about it until she presses charges against him. And even if she did, she might drop them later.”

  “Because she’s that afraid of him?” I asked.

  “That, or because he’s convinced her he’s changed and it’ll never happen again. We see it all the time. She has to let us help her before we can.”

  I must’ve been quiet just a second too long.

  “Amy, don’t go putting your nose into a situation you know nothing about,” he warned. “If Fern Thomas wants help, she’ll ask for it. And then you can direct her to the authorities. But stay out of that couple’s business. I don’t want you to wind up getting hurt.”

  Chapter 22

  Homer came in on Wednesday morning whistling a little tune. He plopped down on his stool and announced, “There is a value in taking a stand whether or not anybody may be noticing it and whether or not it is a risky thing to do. That’s a quote from my hero of the day, businesswoman and philanthropist Teresa Heinz Kerry.”

  “So you’re all about risk taking today, huh?” I smiled. “I’m glad. I’m making chicken curry for people to sample today and I hope you’ll try it.”

  “I’m not sure how well that dish would go with a sausage biscuit.”

  “That’s all right. It isn’t ready yet.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, then, if it’s done before I leave, then I’ll give it a try. If not . . . maybe next time.”

  I waved and called good-bye to a patron who was leaving. Then I turned back to Homer. “Speaking of risk taking, what if you thought someone was being abused? Would you stay out of it? Or would you take a risk of making someone angry or of possibly getting yourself in trouble?”

  “Would this trouble be danger?”

  I nodded.

  “You’d better be more specific.”

  I explained to Homer that I suspected Fern Thomas was being abused by her husband. I told him what had prompted my suspicions and that I’d spoken about them to Ryan. “Ryan says that even if Fern is being abused, there’s nothing the police can do about it unless she presses charges against Chad. I’m really concerned about Fern, and I’d like to help her.”

  “You do realize that she might not want or need your help, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. But surely you can understand my concern.”

  He mulled this over and sipped his coffee. “Maybe you could, in a roundabout way, ask Fern if she’s being abused and urge her to seek help if she is.”

  “I suppose I could call Fern and invite her to my house for some tea or lemonade,” I said. “I could say I’d like to get to know her better.”

  “Good idea.” He looked at his watch.

  “I’m on it.” I went into the kitchen and started making his sausage biscuit.

  • • •

  Homer left before the chicken curry was finished, but other pat
rons coming in for lunch tried it. Most seemed to enjoy it.

  “That Indian dish seems to be going over fairly well,” Jackie said as she brought an order up to the window. “Are you going to offer it as a special next week?”

  “I’m considering it. I’ll see how well it goes. Are people talking like they’d order it if I did have it as the special of the day?”

  “I’ll ask. I’ve just been asking if they’d like a sample. The ones who’ve accepted samples have appeared to like it.”

  “Wait,” I said as she started to dart back into the dining room. “Could you come in here for a second?”

  Jackie came into the kitchen and I confided to her that I planned to call Fern after work. “I’m going to offer her a friendly ear. If she confirms my suspicions that Chad is abusing her, I’ll encourage her to seek help.”

  “Be awfully careful in how you approach Fern. Remember, she loves Chad—or at least, she did once.”

  “Of course I’ll be sensitive. I’m not going to come right out and ask the woman if her husband beats her.”

  “I know. Just be . . . delicate.”

  • • •

  During a lull in the afternoon, I looked up Fern’s phone number using the white pages on my phone. I made the call.

  “Hi, Fern. It’s Amy Flowers from the Down South Café.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I called to ask if you’d like to come over to my house for tea and lemon bars this afternoon at around four thirty.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you and I could chat and get to know each other better.”

  “Well . . . I guess I could come by for a few minutes. What’s your address?”

  I gave Fern my address and then got back to work.

  After work, I went home and prepared for my meeting with Fern. I thought I should do a little research first to see how I might approach the topic. As Jackie pointed out, I needed to be delicate.

  I did an Internet search and found a website detailing how one should talk with someone suspected of suffering abuse. I clicked on the link and went onto the site. The first thing I noticed was that there was a bar along the top of the page that said, Safety Alert! To Exit Site, Click Here! I clicked the bar to see what would happen and was taken to the Google homepage. I thought that was really clever. If a person was browsing this site and his or her abuser walked in, a quick click could take them to an innocuous site.