Honey-Baked Homicide Read online

  Great. I’m conniving to call the police on the man, and he’s telling me my smile is a blessing. But he might’ve killed Stu Landon Carver!

  “Thank you. What can I get for you?”

  “I’d like coffee and—” He wrinkled his brow. “I’m not certain. What do you suggest?”

  “I’ll get you a menu.” I shoved a menu across the counter toward the man. “While you’re looking it over, I’ll run into the kitchen and check on the . . . stuff in there.”

  I hurried over to Luis and whispered, “Call the police. Tell them Mr. Jackson is here having breakfast.”

  Luis got out his phone.

  “No,” I hissed. “Do it outside. I don’t want him to hear you.”

  Luis nodded and then went out the back door. All this cloak and dagger stuff was not his forte . . . nor was it mine, if you want the truth.

  I stirred in an empty saucepan with a wooden spoon so Mr. Jackson would think I was actually doing something productive in the kitchen. Although if he believed I was making that kind of noise preparing breakfast for someone who wasn’t even at the café yet, he might have left by the time I returned to the dining room.

  With that thought in mind, I returned to the dining room. And I pasted on another of those blessing smiles.

  “Hi, again,” I said. “So what did you decide on?”

  “I believe I’ll have the buckwheat pancakes.”

  “Excellent choice. I’ll get started on them right away.” Still smiling, I went back into the kitchen. The man must think that making buckwheat pancakes was my favorite thing in the world. Actually, it was pretty fun, but I didn’t usually grin like a nitwit while I was stirring them up and pouring the batter on the griddle.

  Luis came back inside as I was whisking together buttermilk, butter, and eggs.

  “It’s done,” he whispered, like he was my wise guy and I was his mafia boss.

  Would that make me the godmother?

  “Thanks. Go talk with him while I’m mixing up these pancakes so he doesn’t leave.” Make him an offer he can’t refuse.

  “Why would he leave?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want the police to come and have their elusive suspect be gone again.”

  Luis nodded. “What should I talk about?”

  “The weather,” I suggested.

  Luis walked into the dining room. “How about this weather, huh?”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful here.”

  “Yep. We’ve sure been having a lot of sun. Of course, it’s summer. We usually have a lot of sun in the summer. But sometimes it rains, you know. Which is good. We need the rain for the crops and to keep the lakes from drying up and stuff like that. What’s the weather like where you’re from?”

  “Um, we have sun in the summer too, son,” said Mr. Jackson. “Am I keeping you from something?”

  “No, no, no. I was just refilling the salt shakers before, but I’m done now. That’s not a bad job, but it’s a little tedious. You’re afraid you’ll spill it, and you don’t want to waste any—but I usually don’t have any spills. I use a little funnel.”

  “Funnels are good.”

  “Yep, they sure are. They keep you from making messes.”

  “Right.” By this time, Mr. Jackson had apparently concluded that Luis was a tad on the nitwit side himself—that the Down South Café was a virtual madhouse. How could the man possibly know Luis was simply terrified that he was talking to a murder suspect and was trying to keep him from escaping the police? The next thing Jackson said was, “I imagine Ms. Flowers is a special employer, isn’t she? She treats you well, makes sure no one is harsh with you . . . Am I right?”

  “Yeah, Amy’s great.”

  Oh, no. Poor Luis.

  I finished mixing the pancake batter, and poured out three pancakes onto the griddle. I then stepped into the dining room to assure Mr. Jackson that his pancakes would be ready momentarily.

  Before I could speak, Mr. Jackson said, “I normally wouldn’t do this, but there’s something about you, young man.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit.

  Luis held up his hands. “Please, no!”

  Mr. Jackson took out his wallet and looked from Luis to me in utter confusion.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Luis, you may return to the kitchen now. Mr. Jackson, your pancakes will be ready in just a couple of minutes.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry I frightened the boy.”

  “He’s . . . um . . . he’s a little high-strung.” I scurried back to the kitchen to find Luis flipping the pancakes.

  “He thinks I’m nuts,” Luis muttered. “But I thought he was on to us and that he had a gun.”

  “I understand. Thank you for not letting those burn.”

  “You’re welcome. I can also tie my own shoes, by the way.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I believe he thinks I’m something of a babbling idiot myself.” I plated the pancakes, put an orange slice garnish on the side, and took the plate out to Mr. Jackson. When asked what type of syrup he’d like, he went with blueberry.

  “Excellent choice,” I said. I got him the syrup, topped off his coffee cup, and then rushed back to the kitchen and allowed him to eat in peace. I was as nervous as Luis, but I had a hard time picturing this sweet little old man as a murderer.

  On the other hand, I imagined Robert Durst came across as a sweet little old man to some people.

  It wasn’t until Mr. Jackson was almost finished with his breakfast that Sheriff Billings strolled into the café.

  “Good morning, Amy,” he said. “I’d like a coffee, please.” He took the seat beside Mr. Jackson. “Hello.”

  “How are you?” Mr. Jackson asked.

  “I’m fine. As a matter of fact, I’m better now. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “You have? Whatever for?”

  “For questioning in the murder of Stuart Landon Carver.”

  Mr. Jackson paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Stu has been murdered? That’s terrible.” He carefully lowered the fork back onto his plate, his appetite apparently gone. “But it does explain why I couldn’t find him.”

  “I’d like for you to come down to the station and have a chat with me,” said Sheriff Billings.

  “Of course. Just please allow me to pay my bill.”

  “Take your time.”

  I placed Sheriff Billings’s coffee in front of him and slid the sugar and creamer over to him.

  “Thank you, Amy.”

  Mr. Jackson picked at his pancakes a bit more, but he didn’t eat. I thought it likely he was contemplating his trip to the police station to answer questions about the search for Stuart Landon Carver that had led him from Oklahoma to Cookeville, Tennessee to Winter Garden, Virginia. Meanwhile, Sheriff Billings drank his coffee like a man who was definitely not about to ask his questions in front of me or anyone else.

  Chapter 7

  Dilly came into the café just as the sheriff and Mr. Jackson left. She watched Mr. Jackson get into the police car with Sheriff Billings, and then she turned to me.

  “Hey! Isn’t that the man who was in here the other day—the day before Stu Landon turned up dead?”

  “Yes, that’s Walter Jackson,” I said.

  “What’s Billings talking to him for? He didn’t do anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, for one thing, he has nice eyes,” said Dilly. “Killers don’t have nice eyes. Plus, they don’t come back to the scene of the crime. If he’d murdered Stu Landon right out there in the parking lot, he’d have kept going. He wouldn’t have come back here nosing around.”

  “In the movies, the bad guys always return to the scene of the crime,” L
uis pointed out.

  “Honey, this ain’t the movies.” Dilly patted his arm. “And Walter Jackson didn’t strike me as being that stupid when I met him the other day.”

  Dilly had made an excellent observation, but there remained too many unanswered questions.

  “But, Dilly, Mr. Jackson was in here looking for Mr. Landon the day before Mr. Landon was killed,” I said, dropping the Carver in order to refer to the man as Dilly was . . . as we’d all originally known him. “Plus, he specifically asked where Mr. Landon lived. That certainly makes him look guilty.”

  “Maybe, but he’d have to be a dummy to come in here and say he was looking for a man he aimed to kill.” She glanced toward the window.

  We both watched as Madelyn and her brother, Brendan, got out of Madelyn’s car and headed for the door.

  “Now there’s one that bears watching,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Whoever that boy is.” She squinted toward the window again before looking back at me. “That one has killer eyes. Madelyn Carver—she’s the one I saw talking with the sheriff the other day—she has nice eyes. But that boy with her sure doesn’t.”

  The door opened, and I turned my sunniest smile on Madelyn and old Killer-Eyes Brendan. “Good morning!”

  “Hi, Amy,” Madelyn said, coming over to the counter and sitting with one empty seat between her and Dilly. “Brendan and I wanted to come by and thank you for the food you brought yesterday. It was delicious. Wasn’t it, Brendan?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was flat. “So where was dear old dad found?” He turned to look out the window. “Oh . . . I suppose it was out there where the police tape is at. How can you stand to come here, Maddy?”

  “It’s the only place in town. And Amy has been kind to us.” Her cheeks reddened. “And we wanted to get some breakfast. We have a full day ahead of us planning Daddy’s funeral and everything.”

  “Your daddy’s funeral,” Brendan muttered. “I’m missing a fishing trip with my dad because of this mess Stuart got himself into.”

  Madelyn looked down at the table. “He was your father too.”

  “Stuart was never much of a father to me—or to you either, for that matter. I don’t know why you stayed loyal to him. Douglas has been the only dad I’ve ever really known—the only one who counted. And he’s been good to you too.”

  “May I go ahead and get you both some coffee?” I asked brightly.

  “Please,” Madelyn said, nodding but not raising her eyes to look at me.

  Dilly certainly did, though. She rolled her eyes and jerked her head toward Brendan in a not-so-subtle way of telling me I told you so. Of course, Brendan acting like a jerk didn’t make him a killer. I had to agree with Dilly on one count, though—his eyes did look a little soulless. Or maybe I just thought so because I’d never seen them when they weren’t glaring at me.

  “Have you gone out there and looked at the crime scene yet?” Brendan asked his sister.

  “No. And I’m not going to.”

  “Why not? I might, since we’re already here and everything. And since you’ve buddied up with some stranger on whose property your dead dad was found.”

  “Brendan, stop it. You’re being cruel.”

  “Aw, I’m just messing with you. Chill out.”

  I got Madelyn and Brendan their coffee, took Dilly’s order, and was relieved to see Shelly hurrying through the front door.

  “Morning!” she trilled. “I’ll be with y’all in just a minute.”

  “Thanks, Shelly,” I said. “I’ll get started on Dilly’s order while you take care of Madelyn and Brendan.”

  “All right.”

  I gratefully escaped to the kitchen. There was too much drama in the dining room for me this morning.

  Dilly wanted eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy—which was a lot of food for her. I figured she was either really hungry or she wanted to linger over her breakfast so she could eavesdrop on the Carvers.

  I was frying Dilly’s bacon when Shelly brought Madelyn’s order into the kitchen. “She said she’d like to have two eggs over easy and two slices of whole wheat toast.”

  “Got it. And what for him?”

  She flipped her palms. “He said he’s fine with the coffee. She tried to get him to eat something, but he won’t.”

  “Fine. Thanks, Shelly. I’ll get Madelyn’s breakfast out to her as soon as I can.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Luis overheard our exchange. “No matter what that man thinks, everyone around here knows you had nothing to do with Stuart Landon’s death.”

  “I appreciate that, Luis.” Why would he say that? Were people talking? It wasn’t as if Brendan had come right out and accused me of anything.

  “Maybe you should tell the Carvers about Mr. Jackson coming in this morning,” he suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “That’s the sheriff’s job. I don’t want to get any more in the middle of this situation than I already am. Brendan seems to think I’m already poking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “I understand.” He took a box full of ketchup bottles into the dining room to see if there were any empties that needed to be swapped out.

  We weren’t terribly busy yet for a Saturday morning. People generally liked to sleep in on Saturdays. Still, I remained in the kitchen until Madelyn and Brendan Carver had left. Something about Brendan really unsettled me.

  • • •

  I continued to be out of sorts all morning, and that’s how Homer found me.

  “Why so glum this morning?” he asked. “You aren’t letting the day run you instead of the other way around, are you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Did that come from today’s hero?”

  He nodded. “Jim Rohn. He said that either you run the day or the day runs you. And it looks like your day is about to get the best of you, and you haven’t even made it to lunchtime yet.”

  I got Homer a cup of coffee and then returned to the counter. Then I told him about taking food to Madelyn the day before, her brother showing up and practically asking me to leave, and then about their visit this morning.

  “I don’t understand why he’s acting so belligerent toward me,” I said. “Of course, I realize this is the place where his father was . . .” I glanced around the café. “You know . . . But I had nothing to do with that.”

  “His attitude probably has nothing at all to do with you, Amy. He could still be going through the stages of grief—one of those is anger, as I’m sure you’re aware—or he might have unresolved issues with his dad.”

  “Well, I did hear him tell Madelyn that Stuart hadn’t been much of a father to him and that Douglas—I’m guessing that’s the stepfather—was the only real dad he’d ever known.”

  “I can understand that,” said Homer. “I resented my dad until my mother explained to me how blessed I was to have her and my grandparents. But that old grudge would still rear its ugly head once in a while—especially when I saw other kids spending time with their dads.”

  “I’m sorry you had such a rough time.”

  “You’re missing my point. I was able to move on. I adopted the hero-a-day thing, accepted the blessings that I did have rather than dwell on the ones I lacked, and I built a good life for myself.” He spooned sugar and cream into his coffee. “It sounds like Madelyn was able to forgive her father for moving here and leaving her behind, but Brendan wasn’t. Stu abandoned him, and he abandoned Stu.”

  “Yeah. Well . . . I’ll get your sausage biscuit.”

  “Take your time,” he said.

  I knew better. I’d already cut into his schedule by talking about the Carvers.

  • • •

  Ryan called as Shelly, Luis, and I were doing our final cleanup work of
the day. They were both wiping down the tables while I cleaned the windows and the front of the display case.

  “I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you but a second,” Ryan said. “I’d like to make you dinner tonight.”

  That was a change. I was always the one who made dinner. I’d only been to Ryan’s apartment once.

  “So, what do you say?” he asked.

  “Um . . . yeah! Yes, I’d like that.”

  He chuckled. “I really caught you off guard, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did. Is there anything you need me to bring?”

  “Actually, I’m running low on butter. Would you mind stopping by the grocery store on your way and getting some?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  When I ended the call and put the phone back into my jeans pocket, I noticed that both Luis and Shelly were grinning at me.

  “What?”

  “He’s invited you to his place for dinner?” Shelly asked.

  “Yeah. So?”

  Luis nodded at Shelly. “This is getting serious.”

  “Oh, guys, it is not.” I could feel my face flushing and quickly resumed cleaning the display case.

  I didn’t know how serious it made our relationship, but this was something new for Ryan and me. I was nervous, excited, and I wondered what he was making for dinner. Also, I couldn’t stop smiling.

  In fact, I was still smiling when I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store late that afternoon. I’d dressed casually—a jean skirt, a peasant blouse, and sandals—and I realized I was going to get to Ryan’s place a little early. I decided to take my time with that butter. I didn’t want to seem too eager to get there.

  I wandered around the store, checking out the produce, seeing what cuts of meat they had available, on the lookout for any new products the store might have in stock that I might want to use at the café. I was surprised to see that this particular store carried basmati rice, and I was trying to decide if there were any dishes I could sample to my patrons that called for it when I heard a man’s voice behind me.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  I turned and felt as if I were looking at a solid wall of cotton. My eyes traveled up to the man’s stubbly face and dark eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.”