The Calamity Café Read online

  “No?” he asked. “No chance? I mean, Lou Lou’s cooking was pretty nasty.”

  “That’s why the whole town—and all the towns around here—are going to be thrilled with Amy’s place,” said Jackie. “What did you say you’re calling it again?”

  “The Down South Café,” I said. “But let’s be serious about Lou Lou for a minute. Do you guys know of anybody who disliked her enough to murder her?”

  “I threw my card on the table when you were at the office today,” said Sarah. “My money’s on Chris Anne.”

  “Granny is bound and determined that it was Pete,” Jackie said. “And that kinda makes sense too. I mean, Lou Lou was holding him back . . . didn’t want him to get married or leave the restaurant business. She wanted to keep him under her thumb.”

  “What about you, Roger? Any theories other than that she ate her own food and killed herself?” I asked.

  He chewed his steak as he mulled over his answer. “Maybe it was a Murder on the Orient Express–type deal, and several people took a swing at her. I can imagine some of the waitresses being up for it, and Aaron asked me last week if I was hiring.”

  I nearly choked on my tea. “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth—that I have everybody I need right now but would let him know if anything comes open,” said Roger. “Fact is, I could use him while I build or renovate your café.”

  “You have a point. But I don’t want to lose him. He’s a great dishwasher and busboy.”

  Even before I’d approached Lou Lou about buying the Joint, I’d asked Roger to renovate the café for me or to build a new one if she wouldn’t sell. The summer months were some of the busiest for him, but Roger had carved out that time for me.

  Roger smiled. “Already got him hired, huh?”

  “Well, no . . . but . . . I thought at least some of the staff would stay in place,” I said.

  “I’m only giving you a hard time.”

  “What do you think drove Aaron over the edge?” Sarah asked. “From what I’ve heard, Lou Lou was hateful to all of you.”

  “She was,” I said. “I don’t know what would’ve been the last straw for Aaron.”

  “I do,” said Jackie. “Lou Lou accused him of stealing last week.”

  “When was this?” I asked. “I didn’t hear anything about it.”

  “It was on Monday or Tuesday,” she said. “I thought it was typical Lou Lou being Lou Lou, but it really upset Aaron. If he could’ve afforded to, I believe he’d have quit right there on the spot.”

  “So put him down on that little list you’re making,” Roger said.

  “Aaron? No,” I said. “He’s a good kid. He’s been helping his parents with their bills since his dad got sick. He wouldn’t have killed Lou Lou.”

  “You said we were here to explore all possibilities. He’s a possibility.”

  “Roger’s right,” said Sarah. “We need to list everybody with a motive.”

  “I might as well go ahead and put down half of the population of Winter Garden, then,” I said. “How many people rented from Lou Lou?”

  “She has the one trailer out on Huff’s Pike that she rented to Stan Wheeler,” said Roger. “And I believe she has a duplex out on Route Fifty-eight.”

  “She sold the duplex last year,” said Sarah. “I remember drawing up the paperwork for the closing.”

  “So I guess Stan is her only renter,” I said.

  “Put him on the list,” said Roger. “He’s bad news.”

  “Why? What has he done?”

  “According to one of my suppliers, he’s a drug dealer. Stan apparently dealt to my friend’s sister, and he went looking for Stan. I’d say Stan is lucky my friend didn’t find him that night.”

  “How did I not hear about any of this before now?”

  “You were gone, off at school, for quite a while,” Jackie said. “And then after you came back, you were too busy with work and your nana to get too looped into the gossip.”

  “So read us that list,” said Sarah.

  “Me, Chris Anne, Pete, Aaron, and Stan.”

  Roger leaned across the table toward me. “I think it’s that first one.”

  “I’m the first one,” I protested.

  “I know. Did you kill Lou Lou? I mean, what a shocker it would be if you had. We’d all be like . . .” He clutched at his chest.

  “Roger, will you stop?” Jackie slapped his arm. “She’s worried enough as it is.”

  He blew out a breath. “Good gravy! It was a joke! Would one of you please bring a boyfriend next time?” he teased. “Or, Amy, invite one of the neighbor men. I don’t care if he’s a hundred years old. Just get a little more testosterone at the table.”

  Jackie rolled her eyes. “I am man. See me beat my chest.”

  “Do not make me club you over the head and drag you back to my cave,” he said with a grin.

  She leaned back. “Oh, I would love to see you try.”

  “So what do we do now?” Sarah asked. “How do we find out where these people were, if they have alibis for the time of the murder or whatever? My only dealings with criminals are the ones that have already been caught.”

  “Good point,” I said. “What do we do now?”

  “I’ll take Aaron,” said Jackie. “I was there when Lou Lou accused him of stealing, and I can ask him in a roundabout way what he was doing that night. Plus, he’s not afraid to talk to me. You intimidate him, Amy. You’re too pretty.”

  My jaw dropped. “I most certainly am not!”

  “You are to him.”

  Roger tilted his head. “I can see it. If I hadn’t known you since you had crooked teeth and skinned knees, I’d think you were pretty too.”

  I gave him a slow, exaggerated blink. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  By the time everyone left, we still weren’t quite sure what to do other than Jackie’s plan to talk with Aaron to see what he’d been doing when Lou Lou was murdered. I needed to figure out what to do on my own. Like Roger had said about his business, at the end of the day, this was my own responsibility.

  I went and got my phone and Ryan Hall’s business card from my purse. As I punched in the number, I knew I was probably making a huge mistake. But I didn’t know what else to do.

  “Ryan Hall.”

  “Hi, Deputy Hall. It’s Amy Flowers. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Amy. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve . . . um . . . I’ve kinda made a suspect list, and I’d like to go over it with you if you have a minute.”

  “A suspect list?”

  I could hear the amusement in his tone, but I didn’t let it deter me.

  “Yes, a suspect list. Do you have time to talk with me about it, or not?”

  “Sure. Let’s have it.”

  I gave him every name on the list, starting with me. “As you know, I don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder, other than the fact that I was with my friend Sarah only minutes before I left for Lou’s Joint. I haven’t had anybody tell me an approximate time of death, but Sarah can verify the time I was with her.”

  “All right,” he said. “Next.”

  I told him Sarah’s theory about Chris Anne, but I didn’t tell him it was Sarah’s theory. I didn’t want him to know I’d been talking about the case with my friends. I didn’t think it was breaking any rules to talk with them about Lou Lou’s murder, but just in case, I’d rather be safe than sorry.

  “Pete also had motive to dispose of his mother,” I continued.

  “‘Dispose of’? Interesting word choice.”

  “Well, I hate to say Pete had reason to kill his mother, but she was terribly hard on him. She wouldn’t allow him to have a serious girlfriend, and he desperately wanted her to agree to sell the café so he c
ould pursue other interests.”

  “She wouldn’t ‘allow’ a forty-year-old man to have a serious girlfriend?” he asked.

  “Apparently not. And he’s already proposed to Chris Anne and asked me to buy the café so he can put the money toward starting a trucking business.” I paused. “You think I’m a fruitcake, don’t you?”

  “I think you’re scared, Amy. And I assure you, we’re looking into all the people you’ve mentioned and then some. We’ll find out who’s responsible for Lou Lou Holman’s death. Just let us do our jobs, all right?”

  I didn’t say anything. I wanted to trust Deputy Hall. Truly, I did. But this was my life we were talking about. How could I simply take a backseat?

  “Please?” he asked. “Trust me.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  Chapter 8

  Pete called me at just after ten o’clock that night.

  “Hey, Amy . . . whatcha doin’, gal?” His words were slightly slurred.

  “Pete, are you drunk?” He had to be drunk. And he was drunk-dialing me? What on earth for?

  “I . . . I might be . . . the slightest bit . . . uh . . . wasted. Why? Is it . . . is it late?”

  “What do you need?” I was not going to deal with him, not in his condition, and not at this time of night. I was trying to cut him some slack because of everything he’d been through, but enough was enough.

  “Will you come in . . . in the morning . . . for the grill?”

  “You didn’t think to call me about this sooner?” I asked.

  “I forgot. Sssorry.”

  “I’ll man the grill tomorrow morning, but I don’t have a key. Would you be able to meet me there and let me in?” This was ridiculous. I thought—again, and like the rest of the town—that Pete should’ve had the courtesy to close the café for a few days to mourn. He apparently took his “leave no cent unearned” credo from his mother.

  “Use the kitchen door,” he said.

  “What? Don’t you keep it locked?”

  “N-no. I mean, yeah. Key’s unner the rock by the door.”

  “Okay. I’ll look for it.” And then I did something I’m not proud of. I tried to take advantage of his drunken state. “So Pete, do you know of anybody who’d want to hurt your mom?”

  “Momma . . . poor Momma.” He started blubbering. “Why would anybody hurt Momma? She was a saint! A saint, I tell you.” He wheezed and coughed before blubbering again. “Except when she was mean. Sometimes she could be a little mean.”

  “I know, Pete. It’s all right.”

  “It was for my own good. I never learned good judgment. Always hanging around . . . wrong people . . . bad decisions.” He sniffled. “She just tried to take care of me. Momma was a saint. Poor, poor Momma!”

  “I know,” I said again. I didn’t know what else to say. I wished I’d never mentioned it, but I thought he might tell me something I didn’t know . . . something that he didn’t want me—or anyone else to know. Now I felt pretty bad. At least he probably wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow.

  “Wh-when you . . . you buy the Joint, Amy . . . will you put a big p-painting of M-Momma on the wall? Y-you know . . . a memorial?”

  Uh, no! I most certainly will not!

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Pete,” I said. “You get some rest.”

  “Nice b-big oil painting. We’ll get somebody to do it up real nice. . . .”

  “Good night.”

  “G’night, Amy.”

  As I got ready for bed, I thought about that key outside the kitchen door. I wondered how many other people knew about that key. It could’ve certainly allowed the killer to enter and leave the café without being spotted from the road.

  * * *

  The next morning, I found the key just where Pete had said it would be. The rock wasn’t even one of those fake rocks used to hide a spare key. It was merely placed under a rock with a flat bottom. The key had apparently been there for a long time, because there was a perfect indentation of it in the earth beneath it. It crossed my mind that I might ought to call Ryan Hall and have him send Ivy Donaldson out to test the key for fingerprints, but I figured that would be useless. The key would have so many fingerprints—even if they were just those of Lou Lou and Pete—that I thought it would be hard to get a distinct print. Add to that the fact that after picking up the key, my own prints were on it. I put the thought aside, unlocked the door, and returned the key to the indentation beneath the rock.

  I went into the dining room and retrieved the coffeepots. I thought about going ahead and unlocking the front door, but I decided against it. The café didn’t open for another thirty minutes, and I wanted to make sure that no one came in while I was doing the necessary prep work.

  As I worked in the kitchen, I thought about uniforms. Should I have uniforms for the staff? Or should I allow the staff to wear their regular clothes covered by a DOWN SOUTH CAFÉ apron? I’d ask Jackie her opinion.

  When I did go back through the dining room to unlock the front door, Dilly was standing there waiting for me.

  “Good morning, Dilly. I’m sorry you had to wait.”

  “That’s all right. Got any biscuits yet?”

  “They’re in the oven. Oh, and try this Scottish shortbread I made yesterday morning.” I took the cover off the glass cake plate on which I had the cookies.

  Dilly took a cookie and then sat at the counter. “I saw Pete Holman and Stan Wheeler going into the pizza parlor last night when I was on my way home from bingo. Why in the world would anybody be having supper that late? It was pert near ten o’clock.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “My stomach would think my throat had been cut if I waited that long to eat my dinner.”

  “Me too.” She shook her head. “And I imagine my raccoon would think I’d left home. He comes to that door every evening as soon as it starts getting dark. You can count on it.”

  “What happens if you don’t have a biscuit for him?” I asked.

  “He’ll settle for a cookie if he has to. He doesn’t like it as well, but he’ll take it.” She bit into the shortbread. “Oh my goodness! This is good. I bet he’d like this, but he’s not getting mine.”

  I smiled. “Besides two biscuits, then, what would you like for breakfast this morning?”

  “Just a scrambled egg, please.”

  “Hash browns?”

  “Oh, yes. That’d be nice.”

  “Coming right up,” I said as I poured Dilly a cup of coffee.

  I thought it was interesting that Pete had been out last night with Stan instead of Chris Anne. Maybe the two men were celebrating Pete’s engagement. Or maybe Pete had given in and handed over the deed to Stan’s mobile home.

  While I was preparing Dilly’s breakfast, Preacher Robinson came in. He was the pastor of the Winter Garden First Methodist Church. Mom and I had always attended the Winter Garden First Baptist Church, but I was acquainted with Preacher Robinson because the two churches—especially since they were the only two in town—often came together during revivals and community events like buying for needy families during the holidays.

  I was surprised to see Preacher Robinson this morning, though. During my time working at Lou’s Joint, I’d never seen him in here before. It crossed my mind that he might be preaching Lou Lou’s funeral.

  “Good morning, Preacher Robinson,” I said. “How are you this morning?”

  “I’m fair to middling.” He nodded to Dilly. “Morning, Missus Boyd.”

  “Howdy, Preacher.”

  It struck me that Preacher Robinson probably wasn’t as old as his manner would make him appear to be. He was a pencil-thin man of average height, with sparse brown hair and black-rimmed glasses. Even in this heat, he wore a brown three-piece suit with a tan shirt and a yellow-and-brown-striped tie.

  He was standing awkwardly
in the middle of the dining room, so I invited him to sit anywhere he’d like.

  “I’ll get you a menu in just a second,” I said.

  “That won’t be necessary. I hadn’t planned on staying to eat. I had some grits before I left the house this morning.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t have time to wait for him to tell me why he was here if it wasn’t to eat, so I went ahead and plated Dilly’s food. I brought it out for her and topped off her coffee.

  Preacher Robinson peered down over his glasses at the meal. “That does look awfully good, though. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have some scrambled eggs with a side of bacon.” He grinned and patted his flat stomach. “Just this once.”

  “Coming right up,” I said. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  As I poured the coffee into a white stoneware mug, I asked, “If you didn’t come in for breakfast, Preacher Robinson, then are you here about Lou Lou’s funeral? Because Pete isn’t here.”

  “Aw, shucks. I mean, I’m not here about the funeral—there’s no way in heck she’d want me to preach it if I was the last pastor on earth anyhow—but I did want to have a word with Pete.”

  I glanced at Dilly, wondering if she knew what Lou Lou had against Preacher Robinson. She was so intent on eating those hash browns that I doubt she’d even heard what he’d said.

  “I can have him give you a call,” I said, putting the mug in front of him. The curiosity was killing me. “May I tell him what it’s about?”

  He sheepishly avoided my eyes and put sugar and creamer into his coffee. As he stirred, he watched the black liquid turn to light brown. “I guess I should’ve given it a few more days, but our Bible study is coming up, and I’d love to be able to have the meeting here in town for the first time in two years.”

  “Where have you been meeting?” I asked.

  “A diner over in Meadowview.” He continued to stir. “Ms. Holman and I had a . . . well, a disagreement, you might say . . . back then, and she threw us out. Wouldn’t let us come back either.”

  What in the world did a preacher and his Bible study group do to offend Lou Lou to the point that she wouldn’t accept their business?