Honey-Baked Homicide Page 5

  “Have you found him?”

  Ryan inclined his head. “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you. However, if Mr. Jackson should happen to come into the café again, please call me immediately and don’t approach him on your own.”

  So, no, the police had not yet located Walter Jackson.

  “Why didn’t Madelyn Carver stay at her father’s house?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for her to stay there than at a hotel twenty minutes away from Winter Garden?”

  “It might once the house is reopened . . . if she feels safe enough to stay there, that is. Officers are still going over it to see if they can find anything that will help lead to—and ultimately convict—Mr. Landon’s killer. Excuse me, Mr. Carver’s killer. I can’t get used to calling him that.”

  “Neither can I. He’ll always be Stu Landon to me.” I sipped my tea. “It’s hard to believe we knew so little about him. Don’t you agree?”

  “Actually, as a police officer, I learned very quickly that the face people show the public is seldom the face they wear in private.”

  “That’s sad. I am who I am all the time. I’d like to think the majority of other people are as well.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. “I guess I just let my job make me cynical sometimes.”

  “What’s in Cookeville?” I asked. “I mean, why was Madelyn Carver there rather than here in Winter Garden?”

  Ryan weighed his answer carefully, deciding what he could reveal to me that wasn’t a part of Mr. Landon Carver’s murder investigation. “From what we were told, the Carvers moved from Oklahoma to Cookeville when Madelyn was a toddler. Sometime after that, Stuart Landon Carver moved to Winter Garden and took up residence on his family’s old farm. But he visited the family in Cookeville several times a year.”

  “Did they ever come here?”

  “Ms. Carver didn’t say.”

  “They couldn’t have,” I said. “If they had, someone would’ve seen them and would have blabbed all over town that Stu had a family.” I gasped. “I realize Stu moved here because he was in hiding. But why leave his family behind? Did he leave them in Cookeville and change his name in order to protect his family from the person or persons who were after him?”

  “I have no idea, sweetheart.”

  “But if Mr. Landon Carver moved away from Cookeville while Mr. Jackson was still incarcerated, then Mr. Jackson wasn’t the person—or, at least, not the only person—Mr. Landon was concerned about.”

  Ryan smiled. “We need to put you on the force, you know that?”

  “No, you don’t. You’re way ahead of me, I’m sure. That’s why officers are searching Mr. Landon Carver’s house.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Where will he be buried?” I asked. “Cookeville, or here in Winter Garden?”

  “I don’t think Ms. Carver has made the arrangements yet. Besides, there will be an autopsy, so it will be a few days before the body is released to the family anyway.”

  “Of course.” I frowned. “Did Ms. Carver say anything about her mother?”

  “Not to me, she didn’t.”

  I went back to eating my pasta, but I wondered what had happened to Mrs. Stuart Landon Carver. Was she still living? Had she and Stu divorced when he moved to Winter Garden from Cookeville? It would make sense that they had—how could they maintain a relationship while living so far apart? And why had Stu never brought his children to Winter Garden? The man had been mysterious in life. He was no less an enigma in death.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as I pulled into the parking lot of the Down South Café on Friday morning, a small silver sedan veered off the road and parked beside me. It frightened me at first, and then I realized that the driver of the car was Madelyn Carver.

  I got out of my car and waited on her. She stepped out of her vehicle and slid her palms down the sides of her jeans. We introduced ourselves, though I already knew who she was—she was Stu Landon Carver’s daughter.

  “I’m sorry just to drop in on you like this,” she said. “I mean, I know the café isn’t even open yet, but I’ll be happy to wait until it is. I’d like to get some coffee before I go to Dad’s house. He never drank the stuff when he was visiting us, so I doubt he has any.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. Come on inside. I should be able to get a cup of coffee ready in no time. Do you prefer regular, French vanilla, or decaf?”

  “Regular, please.” She walked with me to the door. I unlocked it, flipped on the lights, and we walked inside.

  “This is such a beautiful little café.” Madelyn stood in the center of the dining room, taking everything in. “I really like it. It’s welcoming.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did my daddy come here a lot?” She ambled slowly over to the display case and gazed at the shelf that held her father’s honey.

  “Sometimes. I’d recently begun selling jars of his honey on consignment. In fact, I have some money for you . . . proceeds from the honey that has been sold already,” I said. “And you’re welcome to take the remaining jars with you.”

  “I’d rather leave them here, if you don’t mind. Just keep to the arrangement you had with him for now.”

  “All right.” I dropped my purse behind the counter and then began readying the coffeepots. “Are you thinking of staying here in Winter Garden then?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s really too soon to think about that. But someone needs to tend the hives.” With a sigh, Madelyn dropped onto a stool. “Daddy had a map to all of them on his refrigerator . . . left in case something happened to him, I suppose. One of the police officers gave it to me, and I checked on the hives yesterday evening before going to Abingdon.”

  “So you know all about beekeeping too?”

  She nodded. “Daddy passed on his love of bees and beekeeping to both me and my brother, Brendan. In fact, we have hives of our own in Cookeville.”

  “Is that where you grew up—Cookeville?”

  “Yeah. My parents and my grandmother left Oklahoma when Mom was pregnant with me. They bought a house in Cookeville, and that’s the only home I’ve ever known. I think Mom still misses Oklahoma, though.”

  “You’ve never considered going back there?” I asked.

  “No. Granny—my Mom’s mother—came with us, and we had no other family out there. I guess there was really no reason for us to return.” She smiled slightly. “The police wouldn’t let me go into Daddy’s house yesterday. It’ll be cool to see how he lived here on his own.”

  “You’ve never visited your dad here in Winter Garden?”

  “Nope. Hard to believe, huh?” She spread her hands. “See, Daddy got it in his head after I was born that the people who’d been running Callicorp were going to come after him. That’s why he dropped his surname and moved here to his parents’ farm. It was supposed to be just for a little while . . . just until he knew we were all safe. But it became a full-time situation when I was around five or six years old.”

  “That must’ve been hard.”

  “We adjusted. And by we, I mean Brendan and me. Mom never did. Even though Daddy came to visit as often as he could, Mom couldn’t handle the long-distance relationship and finally divorced him. She remarried about eight years ago.”

  The coffee finished brewing, and I got Madelyn a cup. “Do you like your stepdad?”

  “He’s all right.” She dumped a packet of creamer into her coffee. “Brendan is closer to him than I am.” She glanced up at me. “He thought Daddy was either some kind of paranoid conspiracy nut or that he used Callicorp as an excuse to live here in Winter Garden on his own without the responsibility of caring for his family on a day-to-day basis.” She stirred in a packet of sugar. “I guess he feels pretty stupid now.”

  “Di
d the police talk with you about Walter Jackson, the man who came here looking for your dad?”

  “They did. He’s the same man who came to Cookeville looking for him. It scared me half to death. I called Daddy over and over, but cell service at the farm is practically nonexistent and Daddy seldom checked his landline because we’d always call and leave him messages on his cell knowing that he’d get back with us when he got the messages.”

  “But he never returned your calls?” I asked.

  “Not this time. That’s when I got scared, hopped into the car, and headed up here.” She closed her eyes. “And I was too late. I should’ve left sooner . . . or called to have the police check on him, or—or something.”

  “I’m sure you did everything you could do. Besides, if Mr. Jackson struck you as being as harmless as he struck us . . .” I let the thought simply hang there.

  “No. I knew he wasn’t harmless. Daddy had been warning us about this moment all our lives.”

  “I can’t imagine you told Mr. Jackson where your father was living,” I said.

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “So you couldn’t know the man would find him so quickly. You thought you had plenty of time.” I patted her hand as her eyes filled with tears.

  “I suppose. I just wish I’d have called the police and had them go out to the farm and talk with Daddy in person . . . to tell him what was going on. There’s no way Mr. Jackson was working alone. That man was far too frail to get the jump on someone as strong as my dad.”

  “I have to agree with you there. Mr. Jackson was the first suspect to spring to my mind, but—like you—I decided he was too old and feeble to hurt your dad. Have the police been able to locate Mr. Jackson yet?”

  She shook her head. “They hadn’t found him as of last night. Hopefully, that’ll change soon.”

  “I hope so too. I can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for you. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Madelyn Carver was finishing her coffee, Jackie breezed in.

  “Good morning.” Her smile encompassed both me and our guest. “I think I could’ve slept until noon if my alarm hadn’t blasted in my ear.”

  “Then I’m glad it blasted you,” I said. “I need you here.”

  “Spoilsport.” She stepped around the counter, got an apron, and tied it around her waist. “I see Amy has already got you started with some coffee. Would you care for some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you,” said Madelyn.

  “You sure? We make some awfully good pancakes around here.”

  “I have to pass. I have a lot to do today. And Brendan should be here soon.” She stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Amy. What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house.”

  “Thank you.”

  Madelyn left, and Jackie raised her brows at me.

  “Before you even ask, no, I didn’t arrange a meeting with her. She was apparently passing by on her way to her dad’s farm when she saw me pull in. She wanted some coffee, so I invited her inside.”

  “And?”

  I quickly clued Jackie in to what I’d learned.

  “So you think Madelyn might be staying here in Winter Garden permanently?” Jackie asked.

  “It’s too soon to say. I think at this point she’s merely curious about the life her dad led here.”

  “That’s really weird, don’t you think? I mean, why wouldn’t he bring his entire family with him if he thought they were in danger in Cookeville?” She shook her head. “I’m thinking the stepfather might be right—that whole someone’s out to get me thing might’ve just been a way for Stu Landon to escape his responsibilities.”

  “I’m not so sure, now that his past has caught up with him,” I pointed out.

  “You mean Walter Jackson?” She scoffed. “That poor old guy wasn’t in any shape to cut another man’s throat. I just don’t think he had it in him.”

  “Then who do you think killed Stu?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was just a random thing. You said you and Ryan saw his truck speeding down the road the night before. It could be that someone carjacked Mr. Landon, made him drive them somewhere, and then killed him when they got back here so he wouldn’t call the police on them.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” I said. “But if it really was a random killing, we’d all better be looking over our shoulders when we get here in the mornings.”

  “It’s not the mornings that scare me.” She gave a little shudder. “It’s the nights.”

  • • •

  During the lull between breakfast and lunch, I began preparing Parmesan-crusted pork chops. They were the special of the day. I hadn’t tried them out on the Down South Café patrons beforehand, but I figured they’d go over well with many of our customers.

  I’d mixed the Parmesan, bread crumbs, garlic powder, and other seasonings together in a shallow bowl and was lightly dredging the pork chops through a plate containing olive oil and then coating them with the Parmesan mixture when Homer came in and took his usual spot at the counter.

  “That looks good,” he said. “I might have to come back for lunch today.”

  “That’d be great.” I smiled. “Who’s your hero today?”

  “Jason Silva, who reminds us that ‘there’s always going to be the circumstances you can’t plan for.’ Like yesterday. Silva says there’s always the unexpected relevance and the serendipity.”

  My smile faded as I searched the recesses of my mind for the name Jason Silva and came up blank. “Who’s Jason Silva?”

  “He’s the host of that show Brain Games. Ever watch it? It’s fascinating.”

  I chuckled. Here I was expecting a philosopher, and I got a television show host. “I haven’t seen it, Homer, but I’ll watch for it.”

  “Do that. You’d enjoy it.”

  Jackie got Homer some coffee. “I’ve seen it. It’s cool. It gives the viewer insight into how the human brain works.”

  I put the coated pork chops into my prepared baking pans and popped them into the preheated oven. Then I removed my gloves, washed my hands, put on another pair of gloves, took a sausage patty from the refrigerator, and put it on the grill.

  Luis brushed past me with a dishpan to bus the table of the diners who’d just left.

  “How are you both—you and Amy, I mean?” Homer asked Luis. “I know you witnessed a terrible thing yesterday.”

  “I can only speak for myself, Mr. Pickens, but I’m as well as can be expected. I had a hard time sleeping last night, but my dog Hada came and got in bed with me. I fell asleep after that.”

  “You just needed the comfort of having her there with you,” Homer said. “Dogs know when you need them.”

  “Yes, sir, they do.”

  I felt a stab of guilt. I’d asked Luis how he was when he came in this morning. He’d said he was fine but was otherwise noncommittal. I felt I should’ve said something more to draw him out the way Homer had been able to.

  “Doesn’t Mr. Silva have some wisdom befitting a situation like this to impart?” I asked Homer.

  He frowned slightly. “No, dear. He’s a television host, not a psychologist.”

  • • •

  Before leaving the café that afternoon, I took a small box and filled it with desserts, side items, and some leftover Parmesan-crusted pork chops. I didn’t know how diligent Stu had been in his grocery shopping, and I thought I’d take the box of food by his house for Madelyn . . . and for her brother, when he arrived.

  But I wasn’t about to take my car over there again. So I went up to the big house and swapped vehicles with Mom. I told her—out of Aunt Bess’s earshot—that I’d tell her everything when I got back.

  Leaving my Bug there for Mom in case she needed to go anywhere, I got into Mom�
��s SUV, waved good-bye, and headed for Landon’s Farm.

  When I pulled into the driveway, I didn’t see Madelyn’s car. I was afraid she wasn’t there and wished I’d called first. I was sitting there wondering what to do when I saw the curtains move. Maybe Madelyn was inside after all. It wouldn’t hurt to go up and knock on the door.

  I got out of the SUV and went to the door. Before I could ring the bell, Madelyn flung the door open.

  “Amy! I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “I apologize for not calling first,” I said. “I just wanted to drop some food off for you. I left it in the car—I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  “My car is in the garage. I didn’t want to advertise that I was here alone.”

  I went back to the car, got the box of food, and brought it to Madelyn.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first since you weren’t driving your yellow Beetle.”

  “I swapped cars with my mother because the road up here is so rough.”

  “It sure is,” said Madelyn. “I wonder why Daddy never bothered to pave it.”

  “I’d say paving that road would be a hard and expensive task to undertake. Plus, he had that pickup truck. I guess the ruts didn’t bother him.”

  “Guess not. Come on inside.”

  I followed Madelyn into the house. I tried to be nonchalant, but it was interesting to see inside the home of a man who’d been so reclusive that not even his children visited him there.

  The living room contained a brown leather sofa with a matching recliner. There was a television sitting on a small entertainment center in the corner of the room, and newspapers and magazines were scattered about near the recliner—which had apparently been Mr. Landon’s favorite seat. There was a table between the sofa and the chair. It held the television remote, a couple of hardcover novels, and a telephone.

  I was surprised—though I probably shouldn’t have been—to see that there was no dining table. Instead, there was a single stool sitting at an island in the middle of the room.

  Madelyn sat the box on the island and began unpacking it. “Oh, wow. All this food looks delicious. And Brendan will be thrilled with these pies. He has a big-time sweet tooth.”