Honey-Baked Homicide Read online

  “He’s here for breakfast,” I said. “You just said so yourself.”

  “I meant here in Winter Garden,” she said.

  “I’m in town searching for an old friend,” said Mr. Jackson. “I think he might be Stu Landon, the beekeeper. I hoped to visit him yesterday, but he didn’t answer when I phoned. I plan to try again this morning.”

  “It is a good idea to call first,” Dilly told him. “He has hives not only at his farm outside Winter Garden but at different locations around the county.”

  Hmm, I hadn’t known that.

  “Thanks.” Mr. Jackson went back to eating his breakfast.

  Dilly looked at me. “I’m in the mood for pancakes this morning, Amy.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Mr. Jackson hadn’t asked for directions to the farm again, and I was glad. If this man was Mr. Landon’s old friend, he could call and Mr. Landon could give him directions to the farm himself. I didn’t want to be the person responsible for sending someone who might be a stranger to Mr. Landon out to his farm. As private as Mr. Landon was, I didn’t think he would appreciate that.

  • • •

  Between the breakfast and lunch rush, I made sushi for the patrons to sample. That went over faster than a Southern belle with a too-tight corset onto a fainting couch. No one wanted to try a free mini sushi roll. They all thought I was offering them raw fish. I tried to explain that there were different types of sushi besides nigiri—the raw kind—and that the sushi I’d made for them to sample contained canned—not raw—tuna. Still, no dice. I couldn’t even get Ryan to try a sushi roll when he came in for lunch.

  “I . . . uh . . . I’m not a big fan of tuna,” he said.

  “Just try one bite.”

  “I’d really rather not.” He picked up a menu. Even though he came here for lunch nearly every day, he actually picked up a menu. I knew it was to place a small, laminated wall between us—or, at least, between him and my mini sushi rolls.

  Although I typically served the well-loved comfort foods I knew my patrons enjoyed, I often liked to try to get them to sample something a little healthier or more exotic. I’d test out a new recipe one day, and if the customers enjoyed it, I’d make it the next day’s special.

  “I guess I’ll serve chicken salad for the special tomorrow,” I said.

  “Great. I love your chicken salad.” Then he put aside the menu and ordered a bacon burger with a salad instead of fries. He smiled. “I thought I’d eat healthy today.”

  I turned to go into the kitchen to prepare his food, but he grabbed my hand.

  “I almost forgot to tell you,” he said. “I scored tickets to the Barter Theater for this evening. Would you like to go?”

  “Sure. I love the Barter.”

  “I know it’s last minute, but another deputy had the tickets. Something came up with him this morning, and he offered the tickets to me.”

  “I’m glad. Not that he can’t go, but that he offered you the tickets. What’s playing?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, that’s one of my favorites.” I laughed and went into the kitchen. Before putting Ryan’s burger on the grill, I put the container of mini sushi rolls into the refrigerator. They were a lost cause here if not even Ryan would sample them. Maybe Mom and Aunt Bess would like them. They were more intrepid than most and were willing to try most things I took to them.

  • • •

  The Barter Theater was located in Abingdon and had been in business since the 1920s. It was founded during the Great Depression in order to allow starving actors to be fed by local farmers, who bartered their crops and livestock for admission to the shows. Some of the illustrious Barter alumni included Gregory Peck, Ernest Borgnine, Patricia Neal, Kevin Spacey, and Frances Fisher. That evening, the production was Big Fish, the story of a man reconnecting with his dying father who the son thinks is a liar. Ryan and I had a wonderful time.

  We were on our way back home when we saw an old pickup truck speeding in the direction of Landon’s Farm. In fact, it appeared to be Mr. Landon’s truck, but neither Ryan nor I could see well enough in the dark to determine if it was.

  Ryan drove until there was a wide enough space on the shoulder of the road to pull over. Then he took out his cell phone and called the police station.

  “Hi, it’s Ryan. I’m out on Route 11 just outside of Winter Garden. What appeared to be an antique Chevy truck just passed me going in the opposite direction. The vehicle is speeding, and I’d like for you to alert the officer on call—maybe contact the county dispatch as well.”

  He ended the call and placed the phone back in the car’s center console.

  “I’d hate for Mr. Landon to get a speeding ticket,” I said.

  “We’re not sure that was Mr. Landon . . . or even if that was his truck. If it was, whoever was driving it took the expression drive it like you stole it to heart and deserves a ticket.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that—that it could be his truck but not him driving. Maybe someone did steal Mr. Landon’s truck. How awful.”

  Ryan picked up my hand and kissed it. “We don’t know anything for sure right now. Given what we know about Mr. Landon, I doubt that was him or his truck.”

  “But we don’t know for sure. There could be something wrong. Let’s turn around and drive out to Mr. Landon’s place to see if we can help.”

  “We can’t. I’m off duty, and we’ve already sent help his way. If anything’s wrong, the police will get Mr. Landon the help he needs.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. I can’t imagine Mr. Landon ever speeding down the road like that.”

  “Would it make you feel better to call the man?”

  “No. He might think I was crazy to call him at this time of night to ask him if he was speeding down the road. And like you said, it probably wasn’t him . . . or his truck.”

  Chapter 3

  When I arrived at the café the next morning, I was surprised to see Stu Landon’s truck haphazardly parked at the far right corner of the lot. I took my usual spot in the parking space farthest away from the front door to the left of the building. Gathering my keys and purse and stepping out of the car, I could see Mr. Landon sitting in the driver’s seat of his truck. I gave him a smile and a wave, wishing he’d have let me know he’d planned on being here this early so I wouldn’t have kept him waiting.

  He didn’t wave back, and I wondered if he was angry. Or maybe he hadn’t seen me. Then again, he could simply be preoccupied.

  I unlocked the door, put my purse under the counter, and waited for Mr. Landon to bring in the honey I’d requested yesterday. When he hadn’t come inside after a couple of minutes, I went to check on him. Maybe he really hadn’t seen me arrive . . . or noticed my car in the parking lot. Unlikely, but I guess it was possible.

  I walked over to Mr. Landon’s truck. No wonder he hadn’t seen me. His straw hat had slid down over his eyes. Had he been waiting on me for so long he’d fallen asleep?

  I rapped my knuckles lightly on the window. “Mr. Landon?”

  When he didn’t respond, I knocked a little harder. Still, no response. I was getting concerned. What if Mr. Landon had suffered a stroke or something?

  I heard a car pull into the lot. I glanced over my shoulder and was glad to see Luis parking beside my Beetle. Luis was our busboy and dishwasher. He could help me get Mr. Landon out of the truck and inside the café if need be.

  After knocking on the window again and still getting no response from Mr. Landon, I carefully opened the door of the truck. Mr. Landon began sliding out onto the pavement. Was that blood on his shirt?

  “Luis! Can you help me?”

  I heard Luis’s feet pounding the pavement as he ran to us. “What’s going on?” He gasped. “Amy, he’s bleeding.”

  �
��I see that. And right now, he’s falling out of the truck. Could you help me get him?”

  “I don’t think we should. Let’s put him back inside the truck and call for help.” He stepped between the door and Mr. Landon and gently pushed the man toward the passenger side of the truck.

  Mr. Landon fell over and I could see that his throat had been cut. I was barely aware that I was screaming until I felt Luis’s hands on my shoulders.

  “I don’t think there’s anything we can do for him,” he said. “Let’s get you inside.”

  “No. No, we have to stay with him. We have to wait here until help comes.”

  I heard Luis talking, but it wasn’t to me. He’d called 9-1-1.

  “Thank you,” I said as he returned his phone to his pocket.

  “You shouldn’t be looking at this.” He gently turned me away from Mr. Landon’s truck. “The man is dead.”

  We walked a few feet away from the truck.

  “You’re shaking,” he said. “You need to sit down.”

  He needed to sit as badly as I did. Still, I wasn’t about to leave Mr. Landon until after the paramedics arrived.

  “I’m fine,” I told him, knowing fully well that neither of us was fine.

  I was relieved when I heard sirens approaching. Poor Mr. Landon was almost out of my incapable care.

  Ryan and Sheriff Billings were the first to arrive. The sheriff quickly confirmed that Mr. Landon was dead and said that he appeared to have been in that condition for the past several hours.

  “I’ll get Ivy over here,” he said to Ryan. “You secure the scene.”

  As the sheriff walked away to call his crime scene technician, Ryan hugged me. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded and then shook my head. “I will be. I’ll be okay.”

  “Do you need me to take you home? I’m sure—”

  “I can’t go home. I have to stay here.”

  “Amy, you’re too upset to work.”

  “I need to. It’ll help me to keep busy. Besides, someone might’ve seen something that will give us some insight as to what happened to Mr. Landon.”

  He sighed. “I’ll check with Sheriff Billings and see if he needs for the café to be closed. But I still don’t think you should be here.”

  “Today is Thursday. For some reason, it’s our slowest day of the week. I think I’ll be all right.”

  As Ryan went to speak with the sheriff, Luis said, “Jackie, Shelly, and I can handle the café if you need to go on home.”

  “No, Luis. But you can go if you’d like. You experienced the same thing I did.” I realized I was being insensitive. “Maybe we should close the café today.”

  He shook his head. “You were right in what you said before—we might learn something today that will help the police figure out who did this.”

  Before Ryan returned, Jackie arrived. She quickly parked her car, got out, and ran to Luis and me.

  “Are you guys all right?” She threw her arms around me. “When I saw the commotion, it scared me half to death. What happened?”

  Luis explained the situation so I didn’t have to. By the time he’d finished and had also gotten a hug from Jackie, Ryan had returned.

  “Sheriff Billings says the café can remain open today. However, we’ll need to cordon off a large part of the parking lot surrounding Stu Landon’s truck.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He nodded at Jackie and told her good morning.

  “If it’s all right with you and the sheriff, I’ll go on inside and get some coffee made,” she said. “I feel we could all use a cup.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.” Ryan gently lifted my chin. “You don’t need to pretend you’re made of steel, you know.” He glanced at Luis. “And neither do you. You should both go home and get some rest.”

  “I’d rather be here where I can hopefully do something productive,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Luis.

  “Okay.” Ryan squeezed my trembling hands. “Just no knife wielding for a while. At least, not until your hands stop shaking. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  • • •

  By the time Homer arrived at ten o’clock, the paramedics had removed Mr. Landon’s body. Ivy Donaldson was still examining every square inch of the truck, while the sheriff, Ryan, and two other officers were combing the parking lot and surrounding area.

  Homer sat at the counter. “It appears something terrible happened out there.”

  I nodded. “It’s Mr. Landon—he’s dead.”

  “That’s awful. Was it an accident?”

  “I don’t think so.” I spoke quietly, even though everyone in the café had been whispering about the incident all morning. “So, tell me, who’s your hero today?”

  “The author Nathaniel Hawthorne. One of my favorites of his quotes is, ‘Time flies over us but leaves its shadow behind.’”

  I tried to smile. “Wonder what Mr. Hawthorne might have to say to us this morning?”

  Homer considered my question for a few seconds. “I believe I know exactly what he’d say. ‘We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.’ Is that a beautiful thought?”

  “It is, Homer. Thank you for sharing it with me.” I was able to muster up a smile after that. “I’ll have your sausage biscuit right out.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I delivered Homer’s biscuit and Jackie refilled his coffee cup, a young woman came into the café. She didn’t appear to be much older than Jackie or me, but I didn’t recognize her as someone we’d gone to school with.

  “Hi, and welcome to the Down South Café. I’m Amy. Would—”

  “What’s going on outside?” The woman’s wide brown eyes darted from me to Jackie to the windows and back. “Why are the police here?”

  I didn’t want to scare this woman any more than she already was. “We found a man unconscious in our parking lot this morning.”

  “Unconscious? Had he been here all night?”

  I told her I didn’t know.

  “Who was he? Tell me his name.”

  “I’d rather you ask the police your questions.” I didn’t know this woman, and I had no idea if she’d merely stopped here out of curiosity or whether there was some other reason she was demanding information.

  Before the woman could respond, Dilly burst into the café.

  “Morning, everybody.” She nodded to me, Jackie, and Homer. “I tossed and turned all night last night, so I slept in this morning. And it looks like I missed something exciting too! Why are the police going over Stu Landon’s truck?”

  The woman whirled to face Dilly. “Did you say Stu Landon?”

  Dilly nodded. “He’s the beekeeper, you know. So what’s going on?”

  “I knew that was Daddy’s truck!” She brushed past Dilly and ran out to the parking lot.

  “Did she say Daddy?” Dilly asked, before she quickly followed the woman outside.

  That same question had just gone through my head, and I was pretty certain that was what the woman had said.

  “‘No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true,’” Homer quoted.

  “Sure enough,” Jackie said with a nod.

  I was glad she’d understood what Homer was talking about. I guessed he meant that Stu Landon had obviously been hiding something—a daughter—but that only meant to me that he was private, not that he’d necessarily been hiding her.

  Sheriff Billings brought the young woman back into the café. “Amy, could you please get some coffee for Ms. Carver and me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like a cup too,” Dilly said. She’d been part of the procession bac
k into the café and now took a seat one table over from Sheriff Billings and Ms. Carver.

  “Ms. Boyd, would you please move to the counter or to a table a little farther away?” the sheriff asked. “I need to speak with Ms. Carver privately.”

  “Well! If you’re going to be that way about it, I don’t want to sit near you anyway.” The tiny woman got up and stuck her nose in the air. “As if I don’t have anything better to do than to eavesdrop on people.” She plopped down at the counter where she usually sat.

  I served her coffee and patted her hand reassuringly before visiting the sheriff’s table. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “We’re fine for now, Amy,” said Sheriff Billings.

  “Thank you,” Ms. Carver added.

  “It’s so late in the morning, I can’t decide whether I want breakfast or lunch,” Dilly said. “I think I’ll combine the two. Would you please get me a cheeseburger and a side of hash browns instead of fries?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to make me a biscuit for the raccoon!”

  As I went into the kitchen, Jackie strolled over to Dilly to chat for a minute. She undoubtedly wanted to make her feel better after the affront by the sheriff.

  “Not now,” Dilly hissed, shooing Jackie away.

  Jackie shrugged and went to check on Homer.

  It wasn’t until after the sheriff and Ms. Carver left that Dilly let us in on why she hadn’t wanted to talk with Jackie—she’d turned her hearing aids up so she could eavesdrop on Sheriff Billings and Ms. Carver.

  “Dilly!”

  “Hush,” she scolded me. “At least, lower your voice until I get my hearing aids turned back down.” She managed to lower the volume on the devices. “Now do y’all want to know what was said or not?”

  At that time, Dilly was the only customer left in the café. Luis was in the back, and Shelly—our other regular waitress for the day—hadn’t come in yet. Jackie and I shared a look.