 
Murder at the Blue Plate Café

### A Blue Plate Café Mystery

### Judy Alter
Murder at the Blue Plate Café

Published by Judy Alter at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher, Alter Ego Publishing.

Copyright © 2013 Judy Alter

All rights reserved.

Editor, Suzanne Barrett

Cover Art Design by Calliope-Designs

Alter Ego Publishing

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

Digital ISBN: 978-0-9960131-6-1
In loving memory of Reva and Charles Ogilvie,

good times at Arc Ridge Ranch,

and good food at The Shed
Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Recipes from The Blue Plate Café Cookbook

About Judy Alter
Chapter One

"Gram's dead."

The voice on the other end of the line was my twin sister, Donna, and her message was short, if not sweet. The phone rang at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning—not a time I was in a mood to be pleasant, let alone cheerful. I'd tried muffling it with a pillow, but the persistent ringing finally moved me to pick up the receiver and mutter, "Yes," in a rather ungracious tone.

I know there are two sides to every story, but Donna and I did not get along, hadn't since high school when she'd been the belle of the ball and I was pretty much a wallflower. To say that I'd blossomed in later years into a kind of yuppie social butterfly in Dallas did nothing to make Donna happier with me. From my point of view, it just made her jealous. As far as I could see, Donna would make the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. Given to easy hysterics, she always found life full of drama, which mostly wore me out. I thought she needed the drama because she'd stayed in Wheeler, Texas, married her high school sweetheart, and raised a family, while I was off in Dallas, frittering away (her words, not mine) my twenties and now thirties in bars and a series of dead-end love affairs. She never mentioned my really good job as a paralegal. I thought, with some conceit I admit, that she was jealous of my life.

This, however, was not funny, like most of her dramas.

I gripped the phone so hard my hand hurt. "Gram is not dead," I said fiercely. "I just saw her...and she was fine." My head was pounding. Why, oh why, had I drunk so much wine in that smoky bar last night?

"That was a month ago," Donna said, her voice rising, "and you haven't seen her since. Not that she wasn't fine. She was until yesterday afternoon. She was at the café cooking mashed potatoes, and I don't know what happened."

I cut her off. "Donna, you're babbling. Just tell me what happened."

"You'd be babbling too if you'd been the one to find our dear grandmother dead, but of course it was me. You were off in Dallas having a good time. I tried to call but you didn't answer."

That stung. I'd been hiding from myself in a bar, playing the happy party girl for all those around me. Truth was, as much as Donna, I didn't know what I wanted out of life—but what I had wasn't it.

"Donna," I said, sitting up and hoping that would ease my headache, "just tell me what happened. And are you sure Gram's dead?" Donna could always exaggerate.

"Of course she's dead. The ambulance came and the new chief of police, and they all said she was gone." A large sniffle on the other end. "It was sudden. She just keeled over—right into the kettle of mashed potatoes, which had to be thrown away of course, and then no one had mashed potatoes with their chicken-fried."

I thought I might scream, except that it would make my head hurt worse. I did not care about people who didn't get their mashed potatoes if anything had happened to my grandmother. I hadn't made the hour-long drive to see her as often as I should. I guess I thought Gram would always be there. And though I loved Gram, visiting with Donna wasn't my choice of a good time.

I was silent, mulling over these thoughts and numbly thinking about life without Gram. She had always been the whole world to me. For as long as I could remember—all thirty-two years of our lives—Gram had owned and operated the Blue Plate Café in Wheeler. When Donna and I were about two, our parents died in a car crash. It was the result of their lifestyle—they partied as much as I did and more—and the crash was because the father I can't remember was drunk. Donna too often made the comparison. Gram never hinted at it, and she looked beyond—or over—the strife between her twin granddaughters. Gram raised us with love, good manners, and lots of food. We spent a lot of time in the café.

Sobbing, Donna said, "Kate, that's the way she would have wanted to go."

"In a kettle of mashed potatoes? I don't think so!" I replied testily.

Suddenly Donna was full of plans. "When can you get here? We have to make funeral arrangements. I want it to be the biggest best funeral Wheeler has ever seen."

I shuddered at the thought. Gram would want a small, simple ceremony, with her favorite hymns. Instead of going to Wheeler burdened by grief, I was going to go prepared to battle with my ditsy twin sister.

Then she added, "And of course, we want to have the reading of the will as soon as possible."

My radar turned on. "What's the rush? We'll be her only heirs, won't we?" It didn't matter to me. I didn't want whatever Gram had. I wanted her back. "I'll be there by supper. I'll come right to your house, but..." I hesitated. "I think I'd like to stay in Gram's house, in my old room."

"Sounds spooky to me," Donna said, "but whatever you want. I'll order something from the café before they close. We can heat it up."

Donna didn't much like to cook, whereas I had dogged Gram's every footstep, following her directions as she taught me to make everything from pot roast and her famous pancakes to apple pie. And to this day, I cooked. I won the hearts of a succession of men with my cooking—only to discover I didn't really want a one of them as a longtime companion. Sometimes I worried about why I was such a slow learner.

It was Saturday, so I emailed my lawyer-boss and explained I'd be gone all next week. He'd understand, and he knew how to email me or call my cell phone if something was desperate. I pulled out my best black dress and a couple of other nice outfits to carry on hangers and then threw jeans and sweaters and T-shirts into a suitcase, hastily added my makeup, toothpaste and all that stuff, wondering what I was forgetting in my hurry. Anticipating some down time at Gram's (well, maybe that was wishful thinking) I tossed in my Kindle with a couple of unread mysteries on it. And of course I took my computer, thinking of what Gram had said about my dependency on electronic gadgets. Then I lured Wynona the cat into the carrier, packed cat food for a seven-day stay, and began loading it all into my five-month-old Lexus, a Christmas treat for myself.

As I drove out of Dallas, beginning to pass farmland and prairie with dense stands of trees here and there, I thought about Gram, how much she'd loved life in Wheeler and her café. Gram was the most self-content person I knew; Donna was probably the least self-content. And me? I sure wasn't any more self-content than Donna—just different.

My cell phone rang, but I took my eyes from the road only long enough to glance at caller ID. It was Rob, the latest man in my life, or at least he wanted to be. Trouble with Rob was he was married with a three-year-old at home, and I was having none of that. Still I had been tempted once, and I was in no mood right then to listen to him beg to see me again. I wished I had never let things get out of bounds one night after some extra wine. A lesson I learned over and over.

Wynona's howling accompanied me most of the trip, but at last I saw a sign that indicated ten miles to the town. Wheeler is one of those towns that cluster along two-lane state highways, with most of the major businesses, if they could be called that, strung out along the highway. Houses extend down side streets for no more than two or three blocks, but the countryside was beginning to develop tourist trade—some antique stores, a few Dallas escapees who built huge, even pretentious, new homes on ranchitos, and several upscale B & Bs. When I passed the large, lushly green cemetery, the first tears stole out of my eyes. I'd been too stunned to cry, but now I thought that Gram would soon be lying in that cemetery, next to the parents and a grandfather I didn't remember.

By the time I neared the café, tears were coming so fast I had a hard time seeing. Gram's wood-frame house was right next door. I'd stop at the house to collect myself. I was early for supper anyway. Donna probably didn't expect me for another hour. As I passed the café, out of habit, I checked the parking lot—full as always, even on a Saturday afternoon. Fried catfish was always the Saturday special, and I bet that's what Donna would order. She'd send her husband to get it, but Tom wouldn't notice my car at Gram's if I pulled around back.

The house was quiet and unlit when I entered through the kitchen door, unlocked as usual. Gram always said, "Land's sake, there's nothin' in here anybody would want, and folks in Wheeler are honest." Fortunately the air conditioners were running—window units in the kitchen and Gram's room. I flipped on the lights—a central ceiling fixture in the middle of the large kitchen and one light over the sink—no recessed or track lighting for Gram. Running my hand over the Formica counter, blue speckled with white, I remembered how proud she had been when she had it installed. The table was a round oak pedestal table, old and worn from many cups of morning coffee. Now it would bring a nice price in an antique store. Gram believed in white kitchens, but she'd made hers cheery with blue gingham curtains and touches of blue here and there—the dishtowel that hung by the sink, new toaster oven I'd found in just the right shade. The Blue Willow china, I knew, was stacked neatly in one cupboard. For a minute, I thought about calling off supper with Donna and staying here, but for once my conscience over-ruled my whim.

My old bedroom still looked the way it had when I graduated from high school—pictures of rock stars I no longer remember on the wall, used schoolbooks in the bookshelf, the plaid comforter on the bed. I released Wynona, fed her, and set up the cat box in the bathroom. I could hear Gram scolding me, "Cats should take care of their business outside. No need for one of those litter boxes full of diseases." The voice was so real to me I jumped and looked around, but I was alone with Wynona.

Retrieving my things from the car, I spread them out in the my bedroom and the bathroom—everything was just as Gram had left it yesterday morning, the bathroom spotless and neat until I scattered my things on the vanity. The room smelled like Gram and her Jean Naté cologne. Back in the bedroom, I threw myself on the bed. Tears had come again, and I bunched the pillows under my head and gave way to sobbing—until my fingers touched something crisp. I sat up and pulled out an envelope with my name on it written in Gram's shaky hand. I blotted my eyes and, afraid, gently opened the envelope. The letter was dated four months ago, not long after I'd been home for Christmas.

Dear Kate,

I don't think this is likely, but if something happens to me, I want to leave this note for you—and you alone.

Everything I have goes to you girls, of course, with a few bequests to others who've been loyal over the years and a larger one to the city of Wheeler. You girls have been the joys of my life, each in your own way. Donna will want to sell the café, but I hope you will keep it. You can find someone to manage it for you while you're in Dallas.

When you read this, don't worry about me. I'll be in a better place, though I always thought Wheeler was about as good as it gets. I love you very much,

Gram

Now I was really bawling, and I had to put the letter down to keep from smearing the ink. When I finally stopped crying and looked in the bathroom mirror at my red, swollen eyes and splotchy face, I knew neither a splash of cold water nor more makeup would fool Donna.

It didn't. She took one look at me and threw her arms around me. "Oh, Kate, Gram always said you were the sentimental one."

"I can't help it," I blubbered. "Her house smells like her...and I keep expecting to see her come in and throw her apron in the laundry."

"You went there? I thought you were coming straight here. You better go get your stuff and stay here tonight." Her tone had just a bit of scold in it.

"I brought my cat, and I know you didn't want her in your house."

"Oh. Well, that's different." Donna didn't tolerate pets, and I felt sorry that her children never had a dog or cat to cuddle and love. Then she changed the subject, telling me she didn't order from the Blue Plate because the ladies of the Methodist church had been bringing food all day. "We have casseroles, a ham, Jell-O salads out the kazoo, and an array of cakes to choose from. Honestly, I'd rather have catfish tonight, but I can't see letting all this food go to waste."

Donna with a practical side? I couldn't believe it. But then, with Donna, you never knew. I longed for a simple tuna salad sandwich, but I appreciated the custom and the kindness behind all the food.

Donna led me into the family room, and I followed, looking at my sister from behind. We were twins, yes, but unfortunately not identical. Donna had lush, thick hair with just enough body that she usually wore it loose, to her shoulders. She was tall and thin and always dressed in an "outfit," even at home. Tonight, it was peach Capri pants and a matching print shell, with a peach scarf holding her hair into a low ponytail. I too, was tall—not quite as tall was she was, but as I'd found out early in high school, 5'8" is tall for a girl. My hair was darker, sort of a mousy brown that I "fixed" with highlights. And I was never the fashion plate Donna was. I wore "business attire" in the office, but at home—and now—I was in jeans and a T-shirt from the Humane Society of Dallas County.

The children came to greet me on her command. Ava, fourteen, and Henry, eleven, were playing a video game that looked pretty violent to me. Did Donna ever look at what her kids were doing? They each gave me an obligatory hug and then returned to their video game. Little Jessica, six, had been reading a book. She took my hand and said softly, "I miss Gram already, don't you?"

I hugged her. "Yes, Jess, I do." And with that she led me into the kitchen where Donna had laid out all the food and some plates. The children came and filled their plates—after a chorus of "What's this?" and "I don't like that. It looks yucky"—and returned to the family room. Just then Donna's husband, Tom, came in the back door.

"Hey, Kate, I'm so sorry about Gram. What a great lady. I never met anyone like her." He enveloped me in a bear hug. Tom had been the hero of the football team our junior year, a year ahead of us in school, and Donna had been proud of snaring him. So proud that little Ava arrived a bit too soon after the wedding, which was held the day after Donna graduated from high school. Gram never said a word about Ava's early arrival, and she adored Donna's children, though I wasn't sure why. Jess was as sweet as she could be, but Ava and Henry were couch potatoes, dull and self-centered. Now, fourteen years later, Tom looked like a grown man, but he had held on to the size and strength of his football days. Well, he did have a bit of a beer belly, but not bad. Sometimes I thought Donna had made the right choice—staying in Wheeler and marrying a really good guy.

"Tom Bryson, are you tracking mud into my kitchen?" Donna demanded. She gave him neither welcoming hug nor kiss but stood, hands on her hips, inspecting the floor where he'd walked.

"I don't think so, hon. I haven't been any place muddy today." He looked sheepish.

When I had freed myself from his hug, I asked, "How're things at the store?" Tom had inherited his father's hardware when his dad died of cancer in his fifties.

"Doing good," he said. "The Canton Home Depot is too far for most folks to go, so our business generally holds up. Fact is, it's gotten better now that we have rich homeowners in the county, as well as tourists. We carry some novelty items, and visitors stroll in pretty often."

"And your mom?"

"Mom's okay. I don't suppose she'll ever get over losing Dad, but she keeps busy with the church, and she still gives piano lessons, not that many kids take them these days." I knew Tom's own children didn't take lessons—there was no piano in the house.

"Speaking of Canton," Donna interrupted, "we'll have to go there to talk to the lawyer and check the safety deposit box. I have a key, and my signature is on file." She hesitated, "It made more sense than putting you on it since I'm closer. I've already called the lawyer's office, and we'll have to go to the funeral home. Reverend Baxter will be here at two-thirty tomorrow afternoon to discuss funeral arrangements. I thought maybe we could have it Wednesday."

Stunned, I was thinking she could have waited to consult me. She sure was in a hurry, which made me worry. Tom said brusquely, "Let's have a peaceful dinner before we go into all that, can we? Kate, Donna, want wine?" He grabbed himself a beer out of the fridge, while I uttered a weak, "White, please."

"I'll have the usual," Donna said. Her usual was white Zinfandel, that sweet awful stuff. Tom knew me well enough that he had chardonnay on hand for me.

We filled our plates with sliced ham, a corn casserole, scalloped potatoes, a spinach casserole, and a red fruit Jell-O salad with dark cherries in it and, as I discovered when I took a bite, some port wine. I passed on the creamy lime green molded salad—lime Jell-O with mayonnaise? But this was the food of my childhood, and I loved it.

"Honestly," Donna said, "you'd think these ladies could find some new dishes. Not that I'm not grateful, but..." Donna shook her head, and I wanted to ask if she'd suddenly become a gourmet cook. In fact, I did ask.

"Are you a cook these days? I remember you never wanted anything to do with it."

She drew herself up haughtily. "If I'm going to run a B & B, I'll have to know how to cook great breakfasts. And maybe eventually dinners."

I nearly choked on my food, and Tom groaned. "Donna, it could be years before it paid off. We've had this conversation before."

"Oh, fiddle," she said turning away. "I'll find a way to make it work."

I was a little slow to pick up on this conversation. "A B & B? In Wheeler?"

"Of course," Donna replied. "There are two successful ones already, and I want to get one up and running before there's too much competition. It looks to me like a good way to make money and meet new people."

Tom watched her warily, the doubt in his mind absolutely clear on his face.

"Don't you agree, Tom?" Donna asked, all innocence.

He sighed. "If it will make you happy, Donna."

I couldn't imagine Tom's backbone had gotten so soft that he was desperate to make Donna happy. And suddenly I saw why she was in such a yank about Gram's will. Surely my sister wouldn't have... No, the thought was beyond belief. Still I was suddenly uncomfortable, and my remaining bites of food stuck in my throat.

"So how's Dallas?" Tom asked heartily in a desperate attempt to change the subject. "Who's the newest man in your life?"

Tom was as good-hearted as he could be but he sometimes blundered in where angels and fools knew better than to tread. Donna was always lecturing me on the need to settle down and marry. My biological time clock, she warned, was ticking. I couldn't see that her life made a particularly positive statement about marriage and motherhood, but then what did I know. Tom loved her, no doubt about it. I just wished she could settle down and be happy with her life or find something she felt was fulfilling—hard to do in Wheeler. Maybe she could write romance novels—she read them all the time. Now I realized she thought a B & B was the way to happiness. And, I thought to myself, financial ruin.

"Dallas is fine," I said neutrally. "No special man." Then, I too changed the subject. "I was just thinking Gram would appreciate this food but have something blunt to say about the cooking. Actually it's all pretty good, but not as good as her food."

Tom sighed. "No one else's cooking can come close to hers. I hope she left some recipes."

"The café must have them," I said thoughtfully. My thoughts leapt ahead to The Blue Plate Café Cookbook. What a neat idea!

Donna forked a bite of ham, chewed slowly, and then said in a deliberate tone, "Well, after we sell the Café we don't have to turn over rights to the recipes."

Gram was right. "Sell the café?" I echoed.

"Well, of course. I want the money for my half. The house too. I have my eye on a big old house I want to renovate for a B & B."

Gram was even smarter than I gave her credit for.

Tom just looked away, after throwing his wife a despairing look. How long, I wondered, would his love put up with her willfulness?

A B & B might give Donna some purpose in life, something she didn't find in her children or her husband, but I was about to draw my line in the sand. "I want to keep the café. I want to run it and live in Gram's house." Where did those words come from? I couldn't believe what I just said. Was Gram channeling me? If so, I wished she'd consulted me first. I lived in Dallas, had a good job, even putting some money in a 401K, and I had a great social life. I did not want to come back to Wheeler, population maybe 1200, without tourists and refugees from Dallas.

She stared at me. Finally, "You can't be serious."

Gram must have taken hold of me again, because I said strongly, "I am very serious." I hadn't given a thought to all that would be involved—selling my condo and much of my furniture, quitting my job, settling for a much lower income and a nonexistent social life. Am I crazy?

"Ladies," Tom said, "it's been an awful day. Can we talk about this later? Kate, let me get you some more wine."

"No thanks," I said. "I agree. It's been a rough day, and I think I better toddle back to Gram's, check on my cat, and curl up."

Tom gave me another bear hug and headed for a third beer. Donna's hug was stiff, but she said, "You come in the morning for breakfast whenever you wake up," she said. "I don't want you sitting around Gram's being sad. And no one will expect us in church in the morning."

"You know," I said slowly, "I think I'll go to the café for breakfast. It would be good for me."

I felt the arms around me stiffen even more, but Donna just said, "Whatever you want. We'll see you at least a little before two-thirty?"

"I'll be here," I said, giving her a light hug. And then I practically ran out the door. What was I doing with my life?
Chapter Two

Back at Gram's, I looked through the kitchen for white wine. Sometimes Gram kept some. But all I found was some sweet cream sherry, which would have made me feel awful the next day. Darn. Wheeler is in a dry county. Why didn't I bring some wine with me and some beer? I couldn't drink all of Tom's supply.

I got Wynona settled and myself ready for bed and then curled up with my Kindle and a novel by Julia Spencer-Fleming that I hadn't yet read. But I was too sleepy to concentrate, and I soon turned off the Kindle and the light and lay curled up listening to the old house creak. Wynona lay cozily at my feet. I thought about Donna, how different we were, our lifelong feud. I guess, underneath, we really loved each other, and I could try to be more understanding, more sympathetic toward her, no matter how scattered she was. But, damn, it was hard. I drifted into a troubled sleep where Gram kept coming in, tucking the covers around me, and saying, "Child, you never ran from a fight. You can do this." What did she mean? I can run the café?

"Gram, talk to me," but she vanished. Surely she could tell me what happened to her—or could she?

My cell phone pulled me from sleep. A glance at the clock told me it was two in the morning. I'd only told my neighbors and best friends where I was going and they wouldn't call in the middle of the night, so who was calling? Rob, of course. "Where are you?" he demanded. "I drove by your condo and its dark, your car's not there. Are you out with some other guy?" I disconnected the call and considered changing my number.

But then, of course, sleep wouldn't return. I tossed, I turned, I thought about the future, which was so confusing I couldn't bear it. I wondered where Donna would get the money for a B & B if we didn't sell. How could I buy her out of her half of the café? Did I really want to do that? And then in my mind I heard Gram say, "Donna will find some other way, trust me." What did she know that I didn't!

Finally toward dawn I slept, troubled by tangled dreams of Donna standing over me, hands on hips, lecturing; of Gram, reaching down from heaven, holding out her arms in comfort; Tom, on his knees, begging for help (what in the world did that mean?); me, in an apron and hairnet, fixing chicken-fried steak while Rob sat at the counter and waited for his dinner (fairly easy to interpret). The dreams must have stopped, because I slept soundly until Wynona yowled me awake at almost nine, demanding to be fed.

By ten, I was in khaki slacks and a brown print shirt that said "Chocolate" across the front in rhinestones, my hair pulled back in a scrunchy, and my makeup carefully applied. I wanted to look good when I walked next door. Wynona, fed, was at the kitchen window, intently watching the birds land at Gram's feeder, and I made a mental note to refill the feeder when I came back.

The café looked as it always had—blue gingham half curtains in the windows, just like Gram's kitchen, blue-and-white plastic tablecloths on square tables, with a couple of longer tables designed to seat six or eight, mismatched wooden chairs that Gram had picked up over the years at farm sales and the like. The annex, as she always called the room added on after the café got so successful that the wait was intolerably long, wasn't nearly as atmospheric—chrome dinette tables, the kind of padded plastic/leatherette chairs you find in cheap dinette sets, and mini-blinds for when the sun was unbearable. The good thing about the annex was that the windows opened on three sides, and on pleasant days there was a lovely breeze.

I got the greeting I expected. Cries of "Kate, darling!" Hugs, tears, questions. "What's going to happen to the café?" "I've worked here twenty-five years—what else could I do?" The two cooks came out of the kitchen, the wait staff crowded around me, and always, someone was touching me—patting my shoulder, rubbing my back, hugging me. In spite of my best efforts, I cried, and then came murmurs of sympathy: "We're all so sad." "We can't believe it." "She was her usual self that day when she opened." Guests stared, but then one by one, men in overalls and women in slacks and oversize flowered blouses came over to tell me how much they'd admired Gram, how wonderful she'd been, how they'd been eating here for years. I couldn't stop the tears, and some of them teared up, too. Others, embarrassed, shuffled away.

Everyone had a story to tell about Gram, or Johnny, as they called her, a shortening of her full name Johnetta Chambers. One was about the time a young man with pierced ears came and sat down—no shirt, no shoes. "Young man," she said, "we won't serve you in here dressed like that." He apparently protested there wasn't a sign and she couldn't throw him out, and according to the storyteller, Gram said, "This is my café and I can do whatever I want." Whereby she grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him out the door. Next day, one of those signs went up on the door: No shirt, no shoes, no service. The man who tried to light a cigarette in spite of all the No Smoking signs got the same treatment.

Marj, who'd been minding the counter and cash register ever since I could remember, told the story of how a couple tried to walk a check. Gram grabbed a baseball bat she kept behind the counter and went after them, returning a few minutes later with cash in hand. "I told them to never come back here again," she said triumphantly.

I was touched that they all had such happy, funny memories of my feisty grandmother, but the one comment that stayed with me came from Gus, the dishwasher who'd only been here a few years. Gus was old, grizzled and, I suspected, alcoholic. He was also one of the few black citizens of Wheeler, and I used to wonder if he wasn't lonely. He seemed to have no life outside the café. But he was faithful about a job that I couldn't imagine doing. He drew me aside in the kitchen to whisper, "It weren't no heart attack. Somebody done something to Johnny." The words would come back to haunt me.

Finally, blessedly, "You want some coffee?" I did, and requested it black. Then a menu was thrust into my hands, but I knew what I wanted—a Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream.

Marj came over to me. "Seriously, hon, you got any idea what's goin' to happen to this place?"

There came those words again, as though I were a puppet and some puppeteer was talking through me. "I'm going to run it," I said. "I'm going to live in Gram's house." Gram, quit taking over my voice and my life! I can't do this!

Marj squealed with delight and reached across the counter to hug me. Then of course she had to spread the word and there was general clapping and cheering from the staff. Boy, Gram had for sure committed me now.

Marj turned serious again. "What about Donna?" Marj looked a little chagrined about her tone of voice which was, at best, skeptical. "We called her immediately, of course, and she came down, but after the sheriff and the coroner and all left, Donna said she guessed you'd be selling the place."

"Marj," I asked, "did Gram just keel over into the mashed potatoes, like Donna told me? Donna said she found her."

Marj's eyes opened wide. "Lord no, honey. I don't know where she got that idea. Donna wasn't even here." She paused, leaning her elbow on the counter and propping her chin in her hand. "Let me think. Donna and Tom came in early and had pot roast dinner—guess the kids were at home eating PBJ sandwiches. Anyway, she did it herself—you know, she always acts like she owns the place." Marj clapped a hand over her mouth, as though she'd said too much.

"So she was gone when Gram...uh, collapsed?"

"Sure was. Let me see...Johnny stirred the potatoes—it made her so mad when they burned on the bottom. That burn taste went through the whole batch and ruined them. But she was also cooking up a mess of greens, turnip greens—we had 'em as a special. You know, folks around here love their turnip greens, and Johnny knew just how to season them with fatback."

"Did she taste either the potatoes or the greens?" I wasn't sure why I was asking or where I was headed, but that inner something prompted my question. Maybe it was Gram again.

"Yes, she did. She didn't think the greens had enough salt and pepper, said something was just off about them. I think she said they were bitter. Kept eating and tasting, and they never did satisfy her. She threw the whole mess out, said she wouldn't serve them to anyone, and we'd have to make do with canned spinach. You know Johnny. She hated using canned things. We even cook our sweet carrots fresh."

I felt like I was listening to the audio version of a suspense story in slow motion. "And? Did she just drop dead? Like Donna said."

Marj lowered her eyes. "No, it wasn't that blessed. It was a bit later that she sort of staggered uncertainly. I had to catch her or I think she'd have fallen. She said she didn't feel good all of a sudden, and she thought she'd go to the restroom. I walked with her 'cause I didn't think she was steady on her feet. And," she hesitated, "I heard the sound of her throwing up. I left and came out to turn up the music, so's the customers wouldn't hear. I wanted to save Johnny's dignity."

Marj put her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. I jumped up and ran around the counter to hug her. "Tell me what happened," I urged gently.

"She was in there so long I went to check on her. I knocked but she didn't answer, and I didn't hear anything by then. Had to get Gus to take the door off its hinges. And there she was, sprawled on the floor, just as dead as she could be."

Marj cried, and my head reeled. Why had Donna told me such a different version? Instinctively I knew that Marj was telling the truth, and I was devastated that Gram had suffered. But Donna's version didn't leave me.

"So Donna didn't find her?"

Marj shook her head. "No, Gus and I did. We got some old blankets around here, 'case a customer gets wet or cold, and I went and got one and covered Johnny. Then I went to call Donna and tell her what happened."

"Marj, did Gram say anything, anything at all, other than that she was sick."

She thought for a moment. "You know, Kate, she did. As we walked to the bathroom, she kind of mumbled, 'Ask the mayor.' I asked what I was supposed to ask, but she was too sick by then."

"Ask the mayor. What should we ask the mayor? I'll have to think about that. Thanks, Marj. You've been a help."

"Well, I wasn't that much help. I should have called Doc Mason right when she got sick, 'stead of after she died."

"I doubt it would have helped. Don't feel guilty."

I sat back down at the counter, while Marj got herself together. The very thought of my waffle made me think I might throw up, and I pushed it away.

Marj asked, "You okay, hon?"

"It's a bit much to take in, and I guess my stomach is rebelling. I...I think I'll go back to the house and think about all this."

"Well, you come back at lunch, and I'll give you chicken fried steak. That'll comfort anybody's stomach."

Right then, chicken fried was the last thing I wanted, but I thanked her and said I'd be back. Once outside in the fresh air, I thought maybe a walk would clear my head. At first I walked briskly, ignoring my surroundings. But before I knew it I found myself at the edge of town, by the cemetery, and I turned back, walking more leisurely.

When I drove in to visit Gram, I generally drove straight to her house and spent my time there or at the café or a bit at Donna's. But I really didn't notice the town. When you walk, it's amazing how much more you see. Tom's hardware store, for instance, boasted a repainted front and a new sign. Peering through the window I could see that the inside had been painted, new shelving put in but the wonderful stamped tin ceiling retained. So maybe that was the boost in business he'd mentioned.

The bank was cleaned up so that the ornate marble work from the early 1900s now shone—it had always been dingy gray, stained with dirt and bird droppings—and the gold lettering on the window, once faded and chipped, had been redone.

City Hall no longer looked like a temporary building that would blow away in a good storm. Someone had bricked over the wood, given it a new roof and a classy but dignified sign. Parking spaces with reserved signs marked the spots for people who had business inside. The building was now landscaped with monkey grass and an occasional yaupon.

I lingered at the window of one of the pottery shops, admiring the earthy-looking pitchers and bowls. There was even a French butter keeper. All the works were done in shades of gray, green, brown, shades that appealed to me. But then Gram whispered to me that they wouldn't go in her blue-and-white kitchen. Did I really hear that?

Across the highway, I walked by a classy women's clothing store. From the window display I gathered the business specialized in western styles that were now a little passé but I still liked—broom skirts, lots of denim, and lots of turquoise. It would be a good browse when it was open. I stumbled onto a nursery next door, apparently connected to the clothing store when it was open. Latticed wood panels screened the business from the highway, and the entrance was on the side next to the clothing store. There was actually a connecting walkway and door to the clothing store, though now the door was closed.

The only business open on Sunday morning, the nursery seemed deserted, and I wandered among the native plants, then spotted rose bushes and other "citified" plants that would appeal to the newcomers to the area. I lingered, staring, and decided I'd have to go look at Gram's yard and then plant some native plants. I knew nothing about gardening and probably had a brown thumb, but Gram had grown the things you'd expect—petunias and pansies, nandina and monkey grass. I'd want native plants (after I learned which ones were which) and maybe some lettuce and green onions. I expected to have a lot of free time once I came back to Wheeler and gave up my social life—was I really accepting that idea?—and gardening would be a good hobby.

Gram said, dryly, "You won't have much time for a hobby, Kate. Get help planting things that will tend to themselves."

Thanks, Gram. Good to know.

"Help you?" A masculine voice came from behind me. I turned to see a man, oh, between thirty-five and forty (I was used to sizing up men), with short blond hair peeking out from a backwards gimme cap, a sweat-stained T-shirt, and jeans with dirt all over them. As he mopped his face with a large handkerchief from his back pocket, he apologized. "Been hauling sacks of dirt. Build up a sweat in a hurry. You interested in native plants?"

Somehow I knew there was a chip on his shoulder, an attitude beneath his genial façade. I shrugged. "Don't know, but I guess I'd like to be. I'm Johnny Chambers' granddaughter."

He actually took off his hat and held it in front of him, revealing a severe hat line in his hair. "I sure am sorry about her. I liked old Johnny, blunt as she could be. My condolences." Then he added, "Her meatloaf was my absolute favorite."

"Thanks. I'm going to keep the café, and you can still get your meatloaf." Gram was speaking again. I felt like Charlie McCarthy, Edgar Bergen's puppet.

"Good," he said. "I just can't believe she died so suddenly. Don't believe in such accidents myself. She was healthy as that proverbial horse. I suppose anyone can go suddenly, but it makes one wonder."

His comment brought up echoes of what Gus had muttered and the strange discrepancies between the stories Donna and Marj told.

"You think there was something funny about her death?" I asked. I'm not sure what I wanted him to tell me, but he backed away, suddenly defensive.

"It ain't for me to say. I shouldn't have spoken out of turn."

I was curious but didn't want to push it, so I changed the subject. "I'm going to be living in her house, and I was just thinking I'd like to spruce up the landscape."

He grinned again, defensiveness gone. "No disrespect meant, but she had what I call 'old lady landscaping.'"

I nodded and then pointed to a flat of plants labeled "coreopsis." "Would these grow over there?"

"Sure. We'd have to figure out sun and shade but a lot of native plants would grow over there, and you could have color most of the year. You cook much?" He headed in a new direction, and I followed, answering, "Yeah, I like to cook."

"Then you ought to start with herbs—you could plant them right now. It's a good time since the chance of frost is past and the evenings are a bit warmer, but most of them will die out over the winter. Sage will last, so will oregano and thyme, but you'll have to replant chives and tarragon and basil, things like that."

To think of having those herbs fresh outside my door gave me a shiver of delight. In Dallas, when I absolutely felt I had to have fresh herbs for a dish, I bought a wilted bunch at the market for an exorbitant price.

"Do you do landscaping?" I asked.

"You asking if I'd help you? Sure I would, for Johnny's sake, if nothing else." But he looked evasive again, as though he didn't want to get too close.

"The dress store...it looks really interesting, and I can't wait to get in there. Your wife own it?" I was long trained in finding out if men were married, even when they didn't wear wedding rings.

"Naw, my sister. We're new to the area, and we each decided to do what we know best, but kind of do it in joint partnership. We, uh, we weren't either one happy where we were before." Then he turned away abruptly, as though he'd said too much. I thought it would be interesting sometime to find out why they were unhappy, but the thought barely crossed my mind.

"I grew up here," I said, "so I gathered you were new. How long have you been here?"

"Three years," he said, mopping his forehead again. "When we came, the city was offering incentives to open up businesses and help to maintain them. That's how we got started."

It really was getting warm, and I felt tiny drops of perspiration on my forehead. "Okay," I said, "I'd like some basil and thyme to start with, and pots to put them in. What's that plant over there?" I had spotted a cluster of tall plants covered with bell-shaped blooms.

"That's foxglove," he said. "It's pretty, but you don't want it if you have animals that are outside. It's poisonous, what they make digitalis from for heart medication. But the plant itself is deadly." He half-smiled. "Like a lot of things in this world—beautiful but deadly."

I thought of the turnip greens Gram had been cooking and shivered. "You mean, if some of that got cooked in a pot of greens, like turnips, it could kill a person?"

He was thoughtful. "I don't know. I suppose it depends on the person's health and the amount of foxglove, but, yeah, theoretically it could."

I made a mental note to ask Doc Mason if he'd tell me about Gram's health. Maybe she wouldn't have written that note unless she knew she had a heart condition. Aloud, I said, "I guess I'll pass on that." Suddenly, I held out my hand. "Sorry, I didn't get your name. I'm Kate Chambers."

"Steve Millican," he responded, wiping his hand on his pants before offering it. "You don't want pots. I bet Johnny's got a bunch of them in that shed out back, but let's take some potting soil."

"You going to leave this untended and come with me?" I asked incredulously.

"Sure, it won't take long, and nobody's going to steal anything. I got the cash locked up and hidden."

So we traipsed across the highway, fished out pots, and planted my new herbs. Steve said they needed full sun or at least almost full so we put them on the wide rail of the back porch, with its eastern exposure. They'd get sun most of the day. "Come summer," he said, "when it's really hot, you want to water them every day. But for now, every two, three days is okay."

I looked around Gram's rather large yard—it was, as he'd said, old lady gardening, with nandina, holly, things planted in straight rows. A stand of knee-high green plants in one corner caught my eye. "What's that?"

He looked. "That's poke sallet. Didn't Johnny ever cook it for you? You got to boil it and drain it three times to get all the toxins out—if you don't do that, it's probably as bad or worse than foxglove. I've never eaten it, but folks tell me when it's cooked right, it's real good. Sort of the same texture as spinach."

"Or turnip greens?" I shivered. "I don't know that I'll try."

"Yeah, I suppose it's like turnip greens. If it gets too big," he said, "we'll cut it down. Gets really bitter when it's much bigger than it is now. But it always comes back."

My mind was off on its track again. I was going to check and see if it looked like any had been cut lately.

"Well, I guess I better get back across the highway. Nice meeting you."

"Wait! I haven't paid you for the plants!"

"Catch me next time," he said. "I'll run a tab," and he was gone, darting across the road.

****

Suddenly I was ravenous, since I really hadn't eaten that waffle. I wanted a meatloaf sandwich with mayonnaise, so back I went to the Blue Plate. Only now I had planting soil under my fingernails and smeared on my clothes, plus my shoes were muddy.

Marj stared at me. "Girl, what have you been doing?"

"Planting herbs at Gram's house," I said.

"Oh, so you met Steve. Nice guy, but watch out. I think there's something in his past he's hiding—or someone."

Oh, good, just what I needed—more to worry about. "Marj, could I have a half a meatloaf sandwich on rye with mayonnaise and a pickle spear."

"Coming right up," she said. "We got turnip greens. Course we threw out that old batch, but I cooked these myself, and they're right good."

"No, thanks," I said. I doubted I'd ever eat turnip greens again, maybe not even spinach.

The sandwich was a delicious reminder of my childhood, the meatloaf seasoned just the way Gram did it, and I enjoyed every bite. But as I sat there, I realized that Marj was getting in the weeds—the Sunday crowd was checking out fast, and she still had the counter customers to serve. "Let me do the cash register," I said.

"Thanks," she muttered, hurrying by with a plate of chicken-fried for a customer who was just short of banging his fork on the counter.

Old skills sometimes come back quickly, and after a few false tries, I was ringing up tickets as efficiently as I ever had. Many folks knew me and stopped to offer their condolences which slowed the line down some, but the after-church crowd must have been feeling sanctimonious. No one complained. The line was steady, and I stayed with it until things slowed down. Sunday dinner was always a big rush at the café—those who weren't churchgoers learned to come at eleven, and by twelve we were swamped.

Finally things slowed down, and Marj came up and hugged me. "Thanks, hon. I'd have been in a pretty pickle without you. It's so good to have you back."

I knew at that moment my fate was sealed: I was coming back to Wheeler to run the café and live in Gram's house. Maybe not forever, but for now. Silently to myself, I said, "Okay, Gram, you win." I added, "But what do I do about Donna?" For once, Gram was silent.

Glancing at my watch, I yelped. It was a tiny bit after two-thirty. I ripped off the apron I'd donned and tore out the door, yelling over my shoulder, "I've got to go. I'm late." As I walked or half-jogged to Gram's to get my car, I saw Gus, standing out back, taking a smoke break. "Miss Kate," he said, "remember what I told you. You be careful."

I just stared at him as he stomped his cigarette and went back inside to face the mountain of dirty dishes. On Sundays, we closed at three, but Gus would stay until the last plate was shining clean.

There was no time to change or clean up, so I jumped in my car and headed for Donna's house.
Chapter Three

Instead of ringing the bell, I let myself in through the kitchen door and tiptoed into the living room. Donna, in a ruffled silk blouse and linen pants, sat on the settee pouring tea for the pastor. Tom lounged in the chair opposite them, still dressed in jeans, which I'm sure chapped Donna. My decision to come in the back door was a good one—she couldn't confront me about my tardiness or my appearance in front of the minister. But she did cast her eyes over me, from top to bottom, and then murmured, "Kate, I'm sure you know Reverend Baxter." Her tone was icy, and the look she gave me was meant to reduce me to tears. It didn't. But even the Reverend seemed to study me for a minute, and I swear I caught a grin hovering on Tom's mouth.

I made up my mind to be my most charming self. "Yes, of course," I said, crossing the room and holding out my hand. "I hope you'll forgive my tardiness and my appearance—I got sidetracked planting some herbs at Gram's place and then I had to help out at the cash register at the café. It's been quite a morning." I slid onto a straight wooden chair, where I figured I ran no danger of dirtying Donna's upholstery, and declined her offer of tea. Who served hot tea in the spring in Texas? "Please don't let me interrupt."

"We were just discussing the music for Gram's service. I've decided on 'Ave Maria' and 'What a Firm Foundation,' Donna said with conviction.

I thought a moment, and then I drew another line in the sand. "'Ave Maria' was one of her favorites, and that would be good..."

"We have an excellent soloist who can sing that beautifully," Reverend Baxter said.

"But I don't think Gram cared a whit about 'How Firm a Foundation.' Her two favorite hymns were 'Amazing Grace' and 'How Great Thou Art.'"

"Fiddle," Donna said, lapsing into a colloquialism that was unusual for her. "They sing 'Amazing Grace' at every funeral. We should choose something different."

I held my ground. "Gram loved it. She'd love it even more if we could find a bagpiper to play it."

Reverend Baxter held up his hand. "If she loved it, then I think we should sing it. As for the bagpiper, we could import one from Dallas but it would be expensive."

Donna beat a hasty retreat. "I'm sure we'll be fine with the congregation singing the hymns. No need for a bagpiper."

Then the minister asked us for our memories of Gram and for things townsfolk had said to us about her. He would, I knew incorporate these into the eulogy. The animosity between Donna and me slid away as we recalled memories of our childhood and recounted tales of Gram. At the end, we both were wiping away tears, though the great wrenching sobs of grief were gone.

The minister confirmed that the service would be at eleven Wednesday and the ladies of the church would provide lunch in the fellowship hall afterward. I knew a few would expect to get their contributions, say buckets of fried chicken, from the café. But the café would be closed out of respect for Gram. Some ladies, who didn't ordinarily do their own cooking, were in for a rude awakening.

After he left, Donna announced, "We're having hot dogs and potato salad for dinner, but please join us," and I agreed willingly, realizing that I had not a thing to eat at Gram's house and the café was closed. Grocery store would have to be first on my list tomorrow. Donna made one or two sly remarks about my tardiness and my appearance, but she wasn't too bad, and we ended up having a nice supper on the patio, reminiscing about Gram. I asked the children to tell me their favorite memories, and they came up with everything from hot sticky buns to the way she smelled when she hugged them. They had good memories, and I was grateful.

After the children had left us alone on the patio, I took a sip of wine for courage and asked Donna about the difference in her story and Marj's. "You told me you saw Gram keel over into a pot of mashed potatoes. Marj said you'd left by the time Gram felt unwell, and that she got violently sick in the restroom and died a pretty gruesome death. What gives, Donna?"

"Oh," she said, waving a dismissive hand in the air, "I wasn't exactly there, but I thought the mashed potato story preserved Gram's dignity a bit. And I should have been there." She wiped a tear from her eye, though I hadn't seen a tear there. "She died among strangers."

"Oh, please, Donna. She died among friends who loved her. It's just too bad you and I weren't with her. But we had no way of knowing."

"I'm sticking to my story about the mashed potatoes," she said firmly.

Sure, it puts you in the middle of the story, I thought bitterly. I wasn't sure she was telling me the whole truth yet. And if my lurking suspicion about foul play meant anything, Donna would lie to investigators and only confuse the issue. I let the subject drop.

When I got ready to leave, Donna said, "Remember, we have a lot to do in Canton tomorrow. Can you leave by ten?"

I'd forgotten the lawyer, the bank, the funeral home. I guess I'd deliberately forgotten, because none of it sounded pleasant to me. "Sure," I said. "Can we stop by a grocery store too? I need to put a few things in Gram's refrigerator."

"Of course," Donna said. Then she hugged me fiercely and said, "I'm so glad you're here."

Wow! What to make of that? Maybe we could be friends after all.

It was past dusk when I left to walk back to Gram's house, and Tom jumped up. "We've lingered too long. Kate, I'll see you home."

I laughed. "Tom, Wheeler is a perfectly safe place. I'll be fine."

"You might stumble in the dark," he protested. "I'll feel better if I see you to Gram's door."

I thanked him without commenting on his suggestion that I might be clumsy. Turned out, Tom wanted to talk. "I'm at my wit's end about Donna. How do I make her happy? She criticizes everything I do, and everything the children do, especially Henry and Jess. Ava seems a bit more interested in the things that interest Donna—clothes, makeup, fashion magazines—and so their relationship is a little better. But neither of them are interested in cooking. I fix most of the meals."

"Was Donna ever interested in cooking?"

He grinned. "She was interested in lots of things when we were first married, and she used to fix some good meals. Not like Gram, but they were good." He chuckled. "Sometimes she'd experiment, and it was awful. I remember a lima bean casserole—but let's not go there. We had fun in those days. Even after Ava came along, things seemed good. She liked the idea of a rose-covered cottage, 'and baby makes three,' just like in the song. But after Henry, she kind of got overwhelmed...and then poor little Jess was a surprise, not a pleasant one for her."

I murmured something soundless. Jess was such a sweet thing who gave love so freely and needed it in return. More coherently, I said, "I don't know what to tell you, Tom."

He went on, needing to get it all out of his mouth. "Last couple of years she keeps talking about moving to Dallas. Hell, I can't move my store to Dallas, and I don't want to. I like it here, and a small store like mine? It'd go bust in six months."

"What do you tell her?"

"I just sort of listen and don't say much. Now she's come up with this B & B idea. I don't make enough to back that kind of a project. I'd be a fool to try, and I have to think of the kids' future security, even if Donna doesn't think about anyone but herself."

He'd hit the nail on the head. Donna didn't think about anyone but Donna. I changed the subject. "Tom, you and Donna weren't at the café when Gram died, were you?"

He shook his head. "No, for a moment there, Donna was telling the truth. We'd left, and they called us. Of course, we hurried right back. But Donna likes the mashed potato version better. She'll stick to it."

We'd reached the back door of Gram's house. "Do you need a flashlight to get home?" I asked.

"No, I'll be fine. On the walk home, that is."

I caught his meaning. "Tom, I'll do what I can, but no promises."

He kissed me gently on the forehead and said, "You're the sweet twin, Kate. If you do nothing else, please help me give my children love."

I promised and said goodnight.
Chapter Four

The next day went by in a flurry of Donna-directed business. Tom did not go with us, and on the twenty-minute drive to Canton, Donna suddenly began to confide. "I'm bored, Kate. Bored with my life. That's why I want to open a B & B."

At a loss for words, I stumbled, my thoughts on Tom's outburst on the way to Gram's last night. "But your husband and children adore you, and you have so much responsibility taking care of them..." My voice sort of trailed off.

"Tom!" She almost spat the name. "I don't know what I ever saw in him. Big overgrown kid, happy to stay in this small town and run his rinky-dink hardware store. I have more ambition."

I was as appalled as she had sometimes been at my Dallas lifestyle. She really didn't love Tom any more, and as far as I could tell, he would do anything to make her happy and to have a wife who cooked, cleaned, loved her children—and maybe loved him.

She shrugged, as if to change the subject. "Don't worry. I'm not about to do anything foolish or sudden. But a B & B is the beginning of my new life plan. I just don't know why it took me so long to get to it."

Try as I might, I couldn't put the conversation out of my mind as we went through the day of business calls. We visited the lawyer—without an appointment, which meant we waited almost forty-five minutes while Donna tapped her nails on the wooden arm of her chair and I contentedly made a grocery list and then pulled out my Kindle and read. The lawyer, Don Davidson, had known Gram all my life—probably his too—and he greeted us cordially with sincere condolences.

Donna dabbed at her eyes—now what was that about?—and said we were here about the will.

"I can schedule the reading for late this week, say Thursday, and then it will have to go to probate. That often takes about a month or more. Meanwhile, don't sell any of your grandmother's things or make commitments. Legal procedures take time." He smiled, as though trying to soften the blow. "I need access to the books for the café, and we'll have to have an appraisal of both the café and the house."

Donna scoffed. "No one will want to buy an old-fashioned café in a dead one-horse town, and the house isn't worth anything. Why can't you just tell us what the will says?" Her tone was demanding. "I'm sure everything goes to the two of us."

I waited for his reply, because I knew Gram had made other bequests. Donna's bold assumption startled me.

"I checked. There are a few other bequests, and I have to notify everyone who might have an interest in the will to be present. Besides, I need to see the books and tax returns for the café."

Donna's mouth tightened. "Gram turned all that over to that new accountant that came to town a couple of years ago—William Overton. He keeps the checkbooks, though Gram signed the checks, and I'm empowered to do it, and he does the payroll and taxes and all that sort of stuff."

I couldn't imagine Gram turning her affairs over to anyone. She had always been so private about them. But before I could say anything, Don Davidson asked, "Is he a CPA?"

"That's what his business card says," Donna said tightly. Clearly she didn't like the situation, and I began to suspect she wanted control of the money herself. That would explain why Gram had hired the CPA, a question that had been puzzling me.

Quietly, Gram confirmed my suspicion. "Donna wanted to go to court and take over the business end of things. Hold firm." Now there was an amazing thought. I wished I could whisper back, "Thanks, Gram."

"I'd like to be empowered to sign checks too," I said, "since I'll be running the café. And I'd like a look at Mr. Overton's books."

Donna threw me a really disgusted look.

"Sounds reasonable," Davidson said, "but you'll have to take that up with him."

Donna changed the subject. "I suppose it will be months before we get any money?" She almost wailed, and then, with less tact than usual for her, said, "I've found a house for a B & B, and I need the money."

I stared at her, sure my mouth was hanging open.

Don simply said, "You'll have to secure any loans some other way. You can't pledge estate money until it's granted."

Donna stood up abruptly. "Fine. What time Thursday?"

"How about if I come to Wheeler? We can do the reading either at your house, Donna, or at Johnny's house. I understand you're staying there, Kate?"

Suddenly I jumped in. "Yes, and I am, and I think it would be appropriate to read it at Gram's house."

"Fine, I'll be there at ten-thirty—would that suit?"

I assured him it would. Donna nodded tensely and then barely took the hand he offered in farewell.

Back in the car, I ventured, "You weren't very polite." I really wanted to tell her she'd been rude, rude, rude.

"I didn't see the need for niceties," she snapped.

Things went a little better at the funeral home. The director, a stereotypically unctuous man with sweaty hands and halitosis, asked if we'd like to view the body. We declined. Then he showed us caskets, and we jointly chose the plainest wooden one there—that, we agreed, was what Gram would want. We provided a list of pallbearers—Tom, of course, and then mostly church members. We had agreed that the burial service would be private, before the eleven o'clock memorial service, so it was set for ten at the town cemetery. We'd include staff of the café and that was all. Gram had no relatives except for Donna, Tom, the grandchildren, and me.

The bank deposit box yielded some stock certificates, CD notes, and other financial data, plus some surprising jewelry—a diamond pendant necklace that I thought was probably quite valuable, unless it was paste, which I doubted, and a ruby ring. There were also adoption certificates, showing that Gram had officially adopted us girls—somehow that was very comforting. And a yellowed clipping about the crash that killed our parents. I didn't want to read that. Donna scooped up everything and dumped it in a book bag she'd brought for the purpose.

"Shouldn't the financial data go to Don Davidson? It's part of the estate. We can't just keep it." I knew Donna wanted the jewelry more than I did, and I'd just let her have that. I wasn't so much the diamonds-and-rubies kind of a girl. Give me silver and turquoise.

She looked as though she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Of course," she said. "We'll run these by his office."

We did that, and then I managed to request again a trip to the local H-E-B, to which Donna acquiesced more easily than I expected. "I need some things too. But are you going to cook for yourself?"

"A little," I said. "I'll eat at the café a lot, because I want to keep my hand in. But I need munchies—and wine—at the house." So I bought vegetables, sliced deli meat, bread, mayonnaise, wine and beer, and a few other things. I needed to take stock of what Gram had in the way of supplies, like toilet paper and paper towels and cleaning things, but I could always come back. There still wasn't really a good supermarket in Wheeler, but there was a mom-and-pop grocery for emergencies.

On the way home, I hesitantly asked the question that had been bothering me. "Donna, do you think Gram really died of a heart attack? She doesn't seem like a likely candidate to me. Did they do an autopsy?"

"An autopsy?" she shrieked. "I wouldn't have allowed it, and they said there was no need. It was clearly death from natural causes. Where are you going with this line of thought?"

"I don't know," I said unhappily. "There's just something in the back of my mind that won't go away. I keep wondering if someone poisoned her."

"Poisoned her? Kate, that's ridiculous." Donna didn't even look at me.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

But as we neared the edge of Wheeler, she suddenly spoke. "You know, Angela Thompson, our mayor, had a real bee in her bonnet about Gram. She wanted the café, used to pull unexpected health inspections, question the financing, all that kind of stuff. Gram had no time for the woman, almost told her to get out and not come back, but I convinced her she couldn't quite do that to the mayor of the town. I don't know what it was really all about, not that I think it's relevant to what you're hinting at."

Mayor Angela Thompson was a woman who'd come to Wheeler after I left and pushed herself into power. I didn't know much about her, but I understood she was aggressive and power-hungry. "She have political ambitions beyond mayor?" I asked.

Donna nodded. "I've heard she'd like to run for state representative and then go from there. She's only a few years older than us, so she has time to build a career."

So do we all.

****

I decided to find about more about Angela Thompson. For some reason, it occurred to me that Steve Millican might be just the right person to ask. But then, a mayor wouldn't take the risk of committing a murder, and that was really what I was wondering about.

In spite of her pronouncement about the filth of the café, Mayor Thompson frequently came in for lunch and often ordered food to go. Marj told me that when she came in she usually had some caustic remark about noting that business was slow—it wasn't—or that the café really needed redecorating. When she said that to me a day later, I smiled and said I liked it the way Gram had left it.

Apparently sometimes when Tom came for lunch, he offered to deliver the mayor's "to go" order. "I like to keep on her good side," he said. I would find it a relief to avoid seeing her. One day as I packed a Styrofoam container with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and turnip greens, Tom commented, "She sure is a southern gal, for all her airs. She likes her greens."

Turnip greens still gave me the willies.

Tom was a fairly frequent lunch customer. He explained that Donna was so busy with floor plans and fabric swatches, that she didn't much like to fix his lunch, and he was tired of leftovers which, he implied, often weren't that good to begin with.

"The kids and I are getting fairly elaborate breakfasts though, 'cause she thinks she has to learn to cook breakfast for the B & B. We've had eggs Benedict—but her Hollandaise curdled the first two times she tried it. The blueberry muffins were good, and the omelets aren't bad, sometimes a bit overcooked. She did something the other day she called a 'cheese strata,' whatever that is, and it was pretty good."

My sister, the cook. "Tell her I can help with the Hollandaise if she wants. I have a foolproof recipe—well, almost." I paused a moment. "So Donna's going ahead with the B & B plans, even though we haven't gotten our inheritance?"

"Yeah. I put the store up as collateral, since the inheritance seems a sure thing. I can afford the interest, and it keeps Donna happy, gives her something to do."

"Have you told your mom?"

He nearly choked on his hamburger steak. "Good golly, no! She'd have a conniption. She'd be telling me the store was Dad's life, his legacy to me." He looked glum when he added, "And she'd be right. I feel awful about it, but I...well I can't live with a bored, unhappy Donna. I still love her like I did in high school. I want our marriage back, so I did something I may live to regret."

I kept quiet about the ominous feeling I had that Tom was heading down a steep and treacherous slope.

Other days we talked inconsequentially of nothing—what his children were doing. He was the soccer coach for both the girls' and boys' teams which included Ava and Henry but left little Jess on the sideline. I promised to go sit with her at some of the games. Tom was also an avid fisherman and fished the nearby lakes for crappie and catfish and an occasional bass or perch. "I'll fix your catfish," I said. "You don't have to catch your own."

"I'll catch it and bring it for you to cook."

"Already cleaned of course or there's no deal."

He high-fived me, grinning.

I went right to work at the café, figuring I should get back in the groove if this was what I was going to do. I worked in the kitchen, plating lunches and dinners, covered the cash register for Marj, and took my turn at waiting on the counter so she could have a lunch break.

The second day I was there, I took over the counter. A man in a police uniform had just come in. Tall, lean, dark-haired with a sort of imperious look about him, he studied the menu and then shoved it aside.

"Decided what you want?" I asked. Then I noticed his badge said, "Wheeler Chief of Police." "So you're the new chief of police," I said, trying to make pleasant conversation. "I'm Johnny Chambers' granddaughter, Kate. Glad to meet you."

He nodded but made no effort to shake hands. "Sorry about your grandmother," he said perfunctorily.

"Yeah, thanks. What will you have?"

"Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans. No salad. Coffee to drink. Black."

Now there was an original order and directly delivered. I turned in the order, got a coffee cup and the pot, and returned. "Were you called when my grandmother died?" I asked.

"Of course," he said. "I'm the chief of police. I have to be called on any suspicious death."

"Suspicious?"

"Well, it was sudden."

"Yes," I agreed, "it was. But suspicious?"

"Probably not." He sipped his coffee and didn't seem inclined to light chitchat.

I pushed on. "How long have you been in Wheeler?"

"Two months."

"Like it?"

"Not particularly."

Boy, this was a guy I didn't want to get to know well. I'd actually heard about him from Donna. He came from Dallas, and such a demotion seemed likely to indicate that something bad had happened with the Dallas Police Department. His name was Rick Samuels, and he brought no family with him to Wheeler. If my suspicions continued to grow about Gram's death, I decided he was the last person I'd ask. I brought him his lunch with a muttered, "Enjoy" which had no enthusiasm behind it. He never even said thank you.

The café door opened, and I looked up to see Rob. What in the-you-know-what was he doing here? He slid into a counter seat.

"Hi, can I have a beer."

"We don't serve liquor," I said. "No license. What are you doing here?"

"Came looking for you. Since you wouldn't return my calls, I called your good friend Cindy, who was only too ready to tell me where you were. And why. Sorry about your grandmother."

I didn't know whether to thank him for the regrets or curse out Cindy. Finally I said, "Thanks. What else can I get you?

"DP. And when are you coming home?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not. I'm moving back here to run the café." For once, I thanked Gram for talking through me.

Just then a customer walked up to the cash register and I excused myself, hearing his screech as I turned away. I glanced back. Sitting two stools away from the very erect Rick Samuels, Rob seemed to slump and looked smaller, indecisive, a lot of things I didn't like—but he also looked angry.

I chatted with the customer, took his money, and then went to get Rob his DP. When I put it on the counter in front of him, he suddenly grabbed my arm hard and demanded, "You can't do this. You belong in Dallas with me. Which part is it that you don't understand?"

I tried to pull away, but he held me in a firm grip. "Rob," I began pleadingly...

Rick Samuels was on his feet in an instant. "Ma'am, this man bothering you?"

"Well," I hesitated. "Yes, yes, he is."

"Move on, buddy," Samuels said in a no-nonsense voice. "And I don't particularly want to see you in Wheeler again."

Rob protested, but when the chief grabbed his elbow and propelled him out the door, he quieted and left, casting an angry glance at me as he left. Later, he would leave a message on my phone that he gathered that was my new lover, but it only made me laugh.

Meantime I thanked the chief, to which he replied tersely, "Just doing my job. Keeping the peace."

He reminded me of Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke, the long-running TV western series which was well into re-runs by the time I saw it. But Rick Samuels was every bit as taciturn as Matt Dillon.

When he paid his check and was ready to leave, I thanked the police chief again. "That guy was from Dallas," I said, knowing I was explaining and justifying when I should shut up. "I knew him casually. I live in Dallas—uh, lived in Dallas. Now I'm coming back to Wheeler."

For just a minute, I thought I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes, and I was sure it was because he knew the relationship was more than casual. "I knew you were in Dallas. Johnny told me. I just don't..." he began. But he never finished what he was about to say. With a hand to his hat, he said, "Nice to meet you, Miss Kate.

****

We buried Gram on a bright sunny spring morning, East Texas at its best and the kind of day she loved. The casket was suspended over the hole when we got there, with the spray of iris on top of it. Donna and I had ordered iris, because Gram wasn't a rose kind of person—fussy, she called them—but she loved the iris that bloomed in her yard. The gravesite was next to her husband and my parents, in an area of the old cemetery surrounded by tall, towering trees.

Donna and I held hands while Revered Baxter commended Gram's soul to the Lord. I was grateful he didn't say, "Dust thou art, to dust thou returnest," which had always sounded grim to me. The casket was lowered, and we each threw a clump of earth on it, an act that seemed terribly symbolic to me, so much so that Donna and I hugged each other and sobbed. Tom tried his best to reach his arms around both of us in comfort. The few mourners we had invited to the graveside ceremony stood silently, out of respect for our grief I guess. But when I finally raised my head and glanced around, I saw Gus, glowering, and, off in the trees, Chief of Police Rick Samuels, watching intently. I dried my tears and tried to look composed, but I knew my face was blotchy again.

At the church, we were shown into a private room and offered coffee, which I took gratefully. For some unusual reason, I had remembered to bring make-up, so I repaired my face as best I could and felt fairly composed as we entered the sanctuary. Tom had Donna on one arm and me on the other—we had to squeeze through the door directly behind the pulpit, but we entered with heads held high and took our seats in the front pew. The employees of the café sat in the two pews directly behind us. I risked a peek around at the rest of the church and saw that it was crowded. Not only Wheeler residents but people from the area had turned out to honor Gram.

The service was brief, everything I wanted it to be from the hymns to the eulogy, which had the congregation murmuring in laughter at points, and at other moments caused Donna and me to wipe our eyes. But Revered Baxter praised Gram as she deserved and dismissed the congregation with a blessing.

By a little before noon, we were in the fellowship hall, where a great lunch was spread out on tables. Ladies of the church had brought ham, fried chicken, potato salad, Jell-O salads, Bundt cakes, relish trays, whatever one could wish for and all the things we'd had at Donna's house days earlier. There were sticky buns and cornbread from the café, and pies of several varieties, plus an endless supply of sweetened ice tea. I longed for some non-sweetened but had to remind myself where I was. The café, I resolved, would offer non-sweetened tea. A corner of me was no longer that southern.

Donna and I shook hands and acknowledged condolences until we were blue in the face. So many people wanted to tell us their special memories of Gram that it was heartwarming—and made me miss her all the more. Some of the stories were far-fetched, like the man who said, "I never knew a woman could cuss like that." Gram never cussed in her life and would have blistered our bottoms if we had. Others were sadly self-pitying: "I can't believe I won't have her fried catfish again." I assured this man that the café would stay open, and he could have catfish. Steve Millican came by, all cleaned up from his nursery clothes, held my hand just a second too long, and asked, "You doing okay?" I nodded.

But as the crowd thinned, and the line to greet us was almost done, Mayor Angela Thompson bustled up—there's no other word for her approach, except maybe businesslike. "I want to talk to you girls as soon as possible," she said. "I'm going to buy the café."

Before I could answer, Donna piped up, "Sorry, Ms. Thompson, but it's not for sale. Kate's going to run it."

Surely Gram wasn't channeling Donna! My head spun, first toward my sister in disbelief, then back to the mayor, who ungraciously said, "Hmmm. We'll see how long that lasts. Then I'll get a better price on it." And she moved away, without a word of condolence.

Donna whispered, "Have you ever heard of anything so rude at a funeral? I can't believe her. I hope she gets caught with her hand in the city till or something."

The thought made me giggle, but I was sure the giggle would have come from nervousness and exhaustion. When the last of the crowd disappeared and we had thanked all the ladies who were collecting their dishes, Tom and Donna invited me to come home with them, but I desperately wanted a nap.

When I got home, Gram appeared—or her voice. "Thanks, Kate. The service was just what I wanted—simple and brief. I'm so glad you talked Donna out of 'The Church's One Foundation'—what a dull hymn."

I giggled this time and then slept soundly until almost five o'clock, when I woke up and wandered around in a fog.

After a few minutes, a knock on the front door brought me more to life. I opened it to find Steve Millican.

He took one look at me and asked solicitously, "Did I wake you up?"

"Not quite," I said. "I took a long nap but was just wandering around, thinking about supper, and trying to get my bearings."

"You got a beer? Want some company?"

"Yes to both," I said. "Come on in. We can take our drinks out on the back porch, where Gram has really comfortable rockers."

And so we did, enjoying an East Texas evening, when it was too early in the season for mosquitoes but not for birds who chirped their evensong. For a long time, we rocked in companionable silence, and I thought how rare that was. Rob would have been talking his head off. But finally Steve asked, "How was the reception? I couldn't stay long."

I murmured that it was fine, but then I found myself telling him about Mayor Thompson's outrageous behavior.

He listened, almost amused, and said, "She thinks she can have anything in this town she wants. I think she's due for a comeuppance soon."

What did that mean? Was he talking in general terms or did he have anything specific in mind?

"Kate, I sort of hinted at this before, but do you think there might be something funny about your grandmother's death?"

I rocked some more and finally answered with a question of my own. "What exactly do you mean?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but a healthy woman like that, even in her seventies, usually doesn't just keel over."

"Yeah, I've thought about it. But the only thing I can think of is someone poisoned her. But why? And who? And how? What kind of poison?"

"There are a lot of poisonous plants, like foxglove, even the poke sallet we talked about," he nodded his head in the direction of Gram's bed of poke sallet, "some slow-acting, some instant. I'd have to do some research."

I stared at him. He seemed so sincere and so willing to help, but who would poison Gram with plants? Who would know enough to do that? Gram's only threat seemed to me to be Angela Thompson, and I doubted she knew basil from thyme, let alone poisonous plants.

"I'd be grateful if you did," I said. Then to change the mood and the subject, I said, "Let me make us some sandwiches. Lunch meat and bread are all I have."

He agreed but added that it was his turn next. I shrugged.

I actually fixed pretty good sandwiches of roast beef, sharp cheddar, lettuce, tomato and mayo, but when it came to eating, I found I didn't have much appetite. Steve left rather quickly after we ate. I assured him I could clean up the kitchen by myself and told him I was grateful for the company. He said it was his pleasure.

And I went inside to a sleepless night, tossing and turning and plagued by all kinds of doubts.
Chapter Five

I woke up foggy the next morning, not as I too often had from too much wine, trying to be the life of the party, but from worry—and lack of sleep. I'd tossed and turned, thinking indignantly about Donna's fabricated story of Gram's death, puzzled by Gus' ominous warning, wondering about Steve Millican's willingness to research poisonous plants—was he too eager? I stumbled around feeding Wynona and decided I'd go see Doc Mason this morning. Just in time I remembered the reading of the will was today, in Gram's house, where I would be hostess. I wasn't sure how many people to expect—lawyer Don Davidson, Tom and Donna, and me. But Don had hinted that other people might be involved. Café employees? I could only guess. But the realization galvanized me out of my funk.

I showered, dressed in presentable slacks, a tank top, and an oversize linen shirt—turquoise, which I always thought complemented anyone's coloring. Then I called Marj and asked her to box a dozen sticky buns for me, promising to come get them soon.

"It's for the reading, isn't it?" she asked. "Don't worry. I'll ask Gus to bring them to you."

"Thanks." It was nine, and I still had to vacuum and dust and get out china, Gram's beloved Blue Willow. I found some napkins in the buffet and thought what the heck? No paper. I'll wash them tonight. I ran Gram's old Hoover, for all the good that did, and vowed to bring my new Oreck with me when I emptied my condo. Dusting was easy—Gram believed in old-fashioned feather dusters, and the place really hadn't had time to get that dusty. On inspiration, I ran across the street to see if Steve Millican had something blooming and pretty for me to put on the living room coffee table, and in no time at all he produced a bunch of daisies, arranging them artfully in the Blue Willow pitcher I'd brought.

"Thanks," I said as I hurried away. "Can you put it on my bill? I'll have to settle with you soon, or I'll be so far behind I won't catch up."

"No worries." He waved.

Gus delivered the sticky buns, his face glum. "You don't forget?" he asked.

I put my hand on his arm. "No, Gus, I haven't forgotten, and I think probably you're right. But it's going to take me some time to figure it out."

"Just as long as you don't give up, Miss Kate. I owe Miss Johnny my life. Without her, I'd have died in a gutter in Dallas. I don't want to go to my grave thinking I didn't stand up for her."

"Oh, Gus, don't even think about that! We'll figure out what happened to Gram." I guess I'd never know how or why Gram found him in the gutter and brought him here, but it sounded just like her. She could spot fakes, but she could also see potential in people.

"Yes, ma'am." He turned and shuffled back to the café.

By ten-fifteen I had the sticky buns on one of Gram's platters, with a doily on it of course, the coffee cups, cream and sugar, plus napkins (sticky buns really required wipes but that would have horrified Donna, though I thought it was a pretty funny idea). All I needed was to pour the coffee when everyone arrived.

Donna and Tom were ten minutes early, not a bit to my surprise. Donna walked in saying, "We really should have done this at my house. It's so much...well, newer...than Gram's."

Tom kept quiet, with that long-suffering look on his face, while I replied that I thought it was really appropriate to read Gram's will in her own living room.

Don Davidson arrived five minutes later, briefcase in hand, cordially greeting all of us.

I poured coffee, passed the platter of buns, asked Don how his day was, Tom how his mom was, making polite chatter, until Donna interrupted impatiently, "Well, shouldn't we get on with it?"

Hesitantly, Don said, "There are two more persons to arrive: Mayor Angela Thompson, on behalf of the city of Wheeler, and William Overton, your grandmother's accountant."

"Mayor Thompson?" Donna exploded. "And what does the city of Wheeler have to do with anything?"

"I think you'll be surprised," Don said mildly.

Mr. Overton knocked on the door almost as Don spoke. He nodded politely and took a seat in a corner, refusing all offers of coffee and sticky buns. "I'm fine, thank you," was all he said, as he folded his hands over his briefcase and prepared to wait.

Mayor Thompson was twenty minutes late—and I must admit it was a long twenty minutes while Don and I tried to make casual conversation, Donna fumed, and Tom sat silently withdrawn. Don asked about my running the café, and I said yes I intended to, and he asked about the abrupt switch from the fast lane in Dallas, and I replied the fast lane had grown old. Donna harrumphed at that.

Angela Thompson finally barged in without apologizing for being late. "I hope you have coffee," she said, just as I rose to pour her a cup and pass the buns.

Once Don got down to the actual reading of the will, with all its legalese language, I almost tuned out, although it was language I knew well from my career in Dallas. The "I bequeaths" seemed endless—$500 each to Marj and Gus, $100 to some of the other café employees, a bit to the church—Donna snorted as each tiny bit of money dribbled away from her.

But then Don read, "To the city of Wheeler, I bequeath $1 million to be used for civic improvement, with the accounting to be overseen by my accountant William Overton and my granddaughters Kate Chambers and Donna Bryson."

Donna leaped from her chair. "She can't do that. A million dollars? That's ridiculous. Gram didn't have that kind of money."

I was embarrassed by Donna's reaction, and I saw Tom put his face in his hands. Don raised a quieting hand. "Donna, I think if you'll sit down, you'll find she did. Your grandmother inherited some money, and she was a very wise investor. She also had a large insurance policy, double indemnity in case of accidental death. She was the unknown benefactor who made the revitalization of Wheeler possible."

"You mean she'd already given the city money?" Donna screeched.

Don replied mildly, "A considerable amount."

"How much?" Donna demanded, while I sat on my hands to squelch the urge to flat out punch her in the face.

"That's not a discussion for right now," Don said dismissively. He went on to read that Donna and I each inherited $1 million, with the caveat that out of my share came half the value of the house and café because she wanted me to have them. Donna this time jumped for joy and said, "I don't care about the house and café! I can have my B & B!" Tom sat speechless (and probably dismayed), and I was stunned.

Don finished by saying that anything remaining, after funeral expenses, etc. was to go to the church.

I was absolutely speechless. But not Donna, who kept crowing, "A million dollars? I can get my B & B. Hallelujah." She paused and looked at me, then back to Don. "What if she was murdered? Does that count as an accidental death? Would it double the insurance?"

How, I wondered, could she be so callous about Gram's death? I looked at Tom, but his face was a ghastly shade of greenish-white. William Overton's expression was unreadable.

Don said evenly, "I can check the policy. But you'd have to prove murder, and I've heard no hint of that."

"I have my suspicions," Donna said. "She was just too healthy to suddenly have a heart attack. And I'm not sure she was capable of making such decisions as bequeathing money to the city."

I was doubly aghast, and I heard Gram whisper, "I told you that you were in for a fight." I could imagine her grinning. "Darn it, Gram. Don't do this to me!"

Angela Thompson simply looked smug. "This bequest puts us back in line for upgrading the city's facilities and businesses. I am most grateful."

Donna could have spit fire at her, and even I was surprised at how momentarily humble she seemed—totally out of character with the woman I'd heard so much about and only met once. "Donna and I will be privileged to help you oversee the use of those funds," I said softly.

The old, abrasive mayor was back. "Oh, yeah, right."

I turned to William Overton, still sitting quietly in his corner chair. "Did you know about the size of Gram's estate and the extent to which she'd been funding Wheeler?" I asked in the gentlest tone I could muster. He looked fragile to me.

"Yes, of course. I helped her plan her bequests." He kept his hands folded, but I thought the knuckles looked a bit white.

"Why," Donna whined, "did she give that much money to the city when she could have given it to us?" I don't think she expected anyone to answer, but William Overton spoke up.

"Your grandmother often said that Wheeler had been good to her, and she wanted to repay that debt. She felt she was providing generously for each of you girls."

I thought so too, but Donna just flipped her hair and turned away. "Don," she addressed the lawyer, "when do we get the money?"

"I explained that. Not until it goes to probate, and that could be a couple of months. Meantime, don't use it as security for any loans or anything."

Donna literally stamped her foot, and I was embarrassed. She left in a huff, Tom trailing in her wake. Don and Mr. Overton looked uncomfortably at each other and then at me, as though waiting for me to signal what was next.

Lamely, I apologized for Donna. "She's sometimes unpredictable," I began.

William Overton interrupted me with a huge sigh. "I know."

"How can I help either one of you?" I asked.

Looking relieved at a practical suggestion, Don said, "I'll have to have a report on the books of the café and an appraisal of the property and the house." He turned to Overton. "Since I'm in town already, could we begin looking at the café records?"

Overton jumped to his feet. "Of course, most of them are right here in my briefcase. I brought them just in case."

"Why don't the two of you settle down at Gram's kitchen table? I'll make a fresh pot of coffee and send lunch over from the café, if you'll just tell me what you want." Then I turned to Mr. Overton, "I won't take your time today, but I will also want to go over the books. I may start keeping most of the records myself"

Was it my imagination or did he clutch that briefcase just a bit tighter? "Well," he said, his eyes darting everywhere but at me, "your grandmother thought it best to trust a trained professional."

"I know," I said reassuring, "and I trust you, but I think I best be familiar with our financial situation." Did I really mean to reassure him?

"Of course," he said, following Don Davidson to the kitchen. William Overton asked for a tuna sandwich on whole wheat—even I have to admit that's not one of the café's strengths. Gram bought tubs of tuna from Sam's Club in Tyler, and I swore as soon as I could, I'd start making it—and chicken salad—from scratch. Don grinned and said, "A chicken fried sandwich, fries, the works." Both, it seemed, preferred iced tea to more coffee, so I made a pot of tea and went off to pick up their lunches.

As I walked to the café, Gram gave me another bit of advice. "Be careful who you trust, Kate. I have put my faith in the wrong people from time to time—and look where it got me." I wanted to shout at her, "Gram, are you telling me someone murdered you?" It was the most disquieting message I'd had from Gram so far and yet I didn't know what to make of it.

The café was fairly quiet, so I called Doc Mason's office to ask if he could spare me five minutes early in the afternoon. His receptionist/nurse said to come just before one o'clock. So I delivered the lunches, ate half a meatloaf sandwich and told Marj I'd be back.

I'd known Doc Mason all my conscious life, though I can't make that sentimental claim that he brought me into the world. Our parents had been in Dallas, and we were born in a big city hospital. I doubted whether anyone there would remember the Chambers twins, though I longed to ask someone if the difference in our dispositions was apparent immediately. Of course, I wanted to hear that I was a placid, happy baby and Donna was fussy, with colic. Maybe we're better off not knowing such things.

The nurse showed me right into his office, not an examining room, and Doc rose to give me a hug. "I'm so sorry about Johnny, Kate. But then I told you that at the funeral. She was one of my dearest friends. I'd have courted her, if she'd have let me," he said with a grin. He was a big man, with shaggy white hair and a white beard that bristled as he hugged me. No sterile white coat for this doctor. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, his usual office attire.

"Thanks, Doc. I...well, this has all been a shock to me, and my head is still reeling."

He held on to my hand. "From what I hear you've made some pretty fast decisions—to stay here and run the Café. You know, my dear, decisions made in haste are often regretted at leisure."

I grinned. I couldn't tell him Gram was channeling me, so I just said, "I can always go back to Dallas."

"You may want to. I doubt the social life here in Wheeler is what you're used to in Dallas. Now, what can I do for you?"

"Doc, how was Gram's health?" I asked it bluntly.

He rolled his eyes. "I knew that was what you wanted." He sat at his desk and began to fiddle idly with a paperweight. "She didn't want you girls to know, but she'd developed some cardiac arrhythmia. I told her it was something we could treat with medication, and so far it seemed successful. I can't believe she died so suddenly."

"What medication?"

"Digitalis. It's standard for that. Why?" He looked at me with questions in his usually twinkling eyes. They weren't twinkling now.

"Doc, if the digitalis didn't work for some reason, if her heart went—how would you say it?—out of rhythm—would she just die right then or would she experience some distress, like dizziness, vomiting, and so on."

He considered the paperweight again." I suspect she'd have gone into cardiac arrest, which means instant death. "

"What if she, say," I phrased my words carefully, "got mixed up and took twice the dose of digitalis she was supposed to."

He considered. "She might have gotten the symptoms of digitalis poisoning—dizziness, vomiting, clamminess. What are you getting at, Kate? I was told she just dropped dead in the mashed potatoes, and the chief told me no autopsy was needed."

"I don't want this to go any farther right now, Doc, but Marj told me a different story. She says Gram got dizzy, felt ill, had to be helped to the restroom. Marj heard her vomiting, and then when she was in there so long they knocked and got no response. Gus took the door off its hinges, and Gram was dead." I swallowed hard. "Gram was cooking up a mess of turnip greens a couple of hours earlier, and she told Marj something about them was off."

His hand dropped the paperweight, and he sat straight up in his chair. "You're thinking foxglove. Who would have done that, Kate?" A shake of the head sent his shaggy hair flying all around. "No, no, that's not possible. The chief would have called for an autopsy, much as I would have hated that."

"Maybe he didn't know," I said. "Donna gave out the story about her dying in the mashed potatoes, and I guess Marj and Gus kept silent." I watched him for a reaction, but I didn't get what I wanted.

"Kate, don't go stirring things up. It won't bring Johnny back and might cause a lot of trouble."

I thought that was a strange thing for him to say, and I knew I wouldn't stop prying. But I thanked him and took my leave. He didn't get up to hug me but just sat there at his desk, once again slumped in his chair, staring at me as I left. I couldn't read his thoughts.

I headed back to Gram's, musing to myself that I'd probably never be able to call it "my" house. It would always be Gram's. When I got there, William Overton and Don Davidson were just wrapping things up. "I think I have everything to prepare the estate for probate," Don said. "William here has done an excellent job—and he kept the secret that your grandmother was funding the refurbishment of Wheeler, on a sort of matching plan with the city and individual business owners."

Overton looked almost prim as he clutched his closed briefcase on his lap, knees together, posture straight. "She asked me not to tell—client privilege, you know—and she particularly didn't want her granddaughters to know." He paused. "I guess I can say this now, though. She stopped giving matching funds for a while, because she crossed paths with the mayor."

Don chuckled, "Johnny was hard to cross paths with, got along with most everyone. But once you got her dander up, watch out!"

Overton continued as though he'd not heard. "I was surprised when she changed her will one last time to include the city. I expect she thought Ms. Thompson would be out of office then." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She wanted Tom to be the mayor."

Now there, I thought, was a good possibility. But if Donna knew that she could have had even more money and almost did, she'd go to Tom's hardware store and get some nails to spit.

I thanked both of them, saw them on their way, and headed back to the café. I was still troubled about my visit with Doc Mason.

When I went home that night, I impulsively opened Gram's medicine chest. There were bottles of aspirin and vitamins but only one prescription drug—digitalis. The date on the bottle indicated that it has just been refilled and could not be refilled again for almost a month. Yet there were only eight pills left in the bottle, and the directions said to take one a day. Puzzled, I put the bottle back. I had a feeling I had just stumbled on something important, but I didn't know what to do with it. Doc Mason sure wouldn't want to hear from me again, and I doubted Rick Samuels would pay much attention. I filed the information away in my brain.
Chapter Six

I left Wheeler the next Sunday, after the church crowd rush was over, without even telling Donna I was leaving. The next week was a blur, and I had little time to wonder whether Gram had been murdered. She, or her voice, didn't follow me to Dallas. I went to my office first thing Monday morning to turn in my resignation, offering to work the usual two weeks. David Clinkscales, my boss, was understanding but thought I was making a huge career mistake. He declined the two weeks' notice and freed me on the spot. He also offered a reference if I ever needed it down the road—or another job with his firm. I told him to come to the café some day for lunch, and he said he just might. Then I cleared my belongings out of my office, packing up pictures of Donna's kids, of Gram, of the café, a special letter opener that someone had given me, a couple of prints that I prized and were mine. With all that jammed into a box, I rode down the elevator for the last time and wondered what in the world I was doing with my life.

Next call: a friend who was in real estate, who advised me this wasn't a good time to sell, and I should consider leasing for a year. She'd manage the property—for a fee of course. I told her I'd get back to her after I consulted my accountant. She thought she could charge an astounding, "Between $1250 and 1400 a month." I thought she should be impressed by my casual reference to an accountant.

So with Wynona screeching and howling, I went about the business of packing up what I wanted from the condo—clothes, of course, and dishes that had belonged to my mom, pictures from walls and table tops, a couple of antique rugs. When I surveyed it all, I realized it wasn't much. It didn't speak well for the permanence of my life. And, the decision having been made—or made for me—I was anxious to be gone. Rob had called twice, saying he saw my car and knew I was back in town and hoped I'd come to my senses. I ignored his calls and prayed he wouldn't knock on my door. A man like Rob usually moved on to a more willing chick rather quickly.

Donna called a couple of times, but I saw it was her on caller ID and ignored the calls. Nasty of me, I know, but if anything was up—or wrong—at the café, Marj would have called. I figured Donna was calling about how to get Gram's money more quickly.

I called Cindy and a few other friends to arrange a last-night pizza party at my condo—I was pretty sure Rob wouldn't show up with all their cars outside. We talked of old times, made promises to get together, they all swore they were coming to Wheeler, and I knew some but not all of them would. They left around midnight on Tuesday, and I prepared to return to Wheeler the next morning. Thus ended my twelve years of being a professional single in Dallas. I was ready to be just plain single.

****

I drove out of Dallas that morning with feelings more mixed than a week and a half earlier, when Donna phoned to say Gram had died. That time I was overcome with shock and grief and disbelief. Now I was much more rational, and I knew I was leaving behind a life that, while it certainly hadn't been the way I wanted to live forever, had served to keep me from having to look at myself as I passed that milestone birthday and marched into my thirties. I had enjoyed the parties, the evenings in the bar, the attention of men. I had a few good friends but not many, just Cindy and one or two others. And there were men I'd really liked, one I had thought I loved. Now I was going into—what? A life that Gram wanted me to live? A job that she wanted me to do? I loved Gram enough to do whatever she wanted, but I wasn't at all sure of what the future held. As I passed through the suburbs east of Dallas, though I felt a sense of ease, I could have sworn Gram whispered, "Kate, it was right of me to get you out of Dallas." She was back, but surely she didn't die just to get me out of the bar scene in Dallas. That was too much for my mind.

I wanted to shout, "For what? Find out if someone killed you? Run the Café? What exactly do I need to do? Make Donna happy?" The latter seemed impossible.

I chose to go the back roads, which I'd always liked better than the interstate, so I went through Seagoville, with its scary-looking prison, and was approaching Crandall, known for its speed trap, so I stepped on the brakes—and the pedal went all the way to the floor, while the car kept going. My first reaction was pure panic—as my heart pounded and my thoughts raced, I thought surely I was going to die. Something in the back of my mind reminded me that you shouldn't pull on the emergency brake at high speeds—I was probably going sixty then—because you could make the car flip. "Coast," I told myself, "coast and breathe." I almost wished for that Crandall cop who hid out behind billboards to find me today, but no such luck. The road dipped down a slight hill and the car gained speed, but then there was a long uphill stretch approaching Crandall. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, keeping the car on the road. I remember that when we got to the top of the hill, the road was above the town, so if I careened off, I'd go down a steep embankment. Breathe, I told myself again, in through the nose, out through the mouth. By the top of the hill, the car had slowed considerably, down to thirty. I dared not pull on the emergency brake as I looked down on the grain mill below me, but there was that downhill stretch coming and then the car would pick up speed. I knew the road well enough to know that there was a long flat stretch after that—but did I dare wait and see how much speed the car gained? Two cars whizzed past me in the left lane, one driver giving me a puzzled glance and the other not even looking my way.

Just as I reached the crest and started downhill, there were two trees—not huge but maybe substantial, and beyond that a clump of bushes. I steered toward the trees and closing my eyes in fear, pulled on the emergency brake. The car skidded, shuddered, rocked and then edged into the trees sharply enough to break one. But the car had stopped. I sat there shaking with fear, utterly unable to do anything for a long time. Finally, still breathing hard, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and dialed 911.

From the voice that answered, I pictured a gentle, grandmotherly type of woman sitting in her living room, answering calls and dispatching help—probably not at all the way 911 calls were handled even in a small and dying town.

"This isn't exactly a desperate emergency," I said, my voice shaky. "But my car lost its brakes on the highway."

She replied wryly that desperate emergencies in Crandall were rare, and she'd send someone over directly. "This does sound serious though," she said. "Are you all right, hon?"

"I think so," I said. "Just scared."

"Someone" turned out to be a sheriff's deputy, probably in his late fifties, a bit overweight—well more than that. But as nice as he could be.

"Well, Missy, I see you got a problem—and took out one of our trees." He was trying to be jovial.

I hadn't tried to stand until then and found my legs shaky. He reached out a hand to steady me and said gently, "Wow, now tell me what happened."

I described it as best as I could.

"Good thinking on your part, Missy. Lots of people would have pulled on that brake right away and got themselves in real trouble."

I could barely mumble my thanks.

The deputy introduced himself as Chester, and I in turn introduced myself, after which he took to calling me, "Miss Kate." No surprise in East Texas.

He got down on his hands and knees and peered under the car, then flipped himself over and pulled himself under the car. When he emerged, dusting himself off, he said, "Yep, hole in the brake line. Looks like it's been cut to me."

"Cut?" I echoed like an idiot.

"Yeah, cut. Anybody out to get you? You got enemies?"

Yeah, I guess I could think of a couple of people, but it didn't seem likely, and I couldn't see much good in discussing it with Chester. Not even Rob would go that far. "No, not really," I said.

"Well, I'll get a tow truck out here directly, and then my wife told me to bring you to the house. It's 'bout lunchtime, and she'll feed you and soothe you. "

And so I found myself in Carolyn Grimes's living room, facing not the little old lady I had envisioned. Carolyn was quite a bit younger than Chester, but older than me. She wore capris, a cap-sleeve T-shirt, and flip-flops, with carefully painted toenails showing. Obviously, she didn't shop in Crandall. She reminded me a bit of Donna—she was that attractive—but the difference stopped there. For one thing, I had rescued a howling Wynona from the car and took her with me. She got a warm welcome from Carolyn,

"Chester Grimes," she said, "you're a dusty mess. What have you been doing?"

"Crawling under this sweet thing's car to look. Somebody cut the brake line."

"No kidding!" She looked at me in horror then rushed to give me a hug. "You're lucky to be okay, hon. Are you hurt at all?"

"No, just a big shaky still."

"I can fix that. Chester, you go take a shower and get on a fresh uniform. Then I'll feed the both of you."

She literally sat me at the kitchen table—a well-worn, old wooden one, in a homey kitchen that had obviously seen lots of cooking and not much updating. Carolyn swooped a pile of papers off the table, poured me a glass of ice water, and said, "I made tuna salad for Chester's lunch. Is that okay with you?

It certainly was, and it turned out to be the best tuna sandwich I'd ever eaten—I wanted to ask her how she made her tuna, so I could do it at the café. Carolyn served it with a wonderful, ripe slice of cantaloupe, and for herself and me, cold glasses of chardonnay. "Chester can't have a beer. He's on duty," she said, grinning wickedly at him, as he pretended to backhand her.

"Why are you giving Miss Kate wine when she's got to drive to Wheeler?"

"'Cause it will take them a while to repair the brake line, and she's going to take a nap," Carolyn said smugly.

During lunch I found myself telling them all about Gram's death and my new life running the café, though I did not mention Donna and all that conflict.

"I loved that woman's chicken fried," Chester said. "I'd heard she died—my condolences. But we'll be back to see you at the Blue Plate."

I truly felt I'd made new friends. After lunch, Carolyn tucked me and Wynona into a cheery guest room, me protesting all the way that I wouldn't sleep. I did, soundly, for two hours, until she came to tell me that my car was ready, and Chester had it out in front of the house.

As I got in the car to say my goodbyes, it occurred to me that I'd left my whole life in the car and sent it off to unknown mechanics. Not a thing was missing. Small-town life is sometimes really good.

"Dinner at the Blue Plate is on me," I said, "any time you come." I never did ask if he was the one who hid behind billboards to give out speeding tickets.

The drive through Kauffman and Canton seemed to take forever, probably because I was still a bit groggy from my wine-induced nap. It was close to five-thirty when I pulled in behind Gram's house and began unloading.

Barely five minutes later, Wheeler's only police car pulled up behind my car. Rick Samuels unwound himself from behind the steering wheel and raised his hat in my direction. "Afternoon," he said. "Hear you had some trouble in Crandall."

I was astounded. "How did you know that?"

A tight grin, the best I'd ever seen from him. "Law enforcement officers keep in touch. Grimes emailed me. You made quite a hit with him and his wife."

"They were good to me," I said, "and I invited them to the Blue Plate anytime."

He watched me pick up a load of clothes and asked, "Need some help?"

I grinned. "I can always use help."

So almost without conversation, he helped me carry things into the house, asked where to put them, and followed orders. There honestly wasn't that much, and the car was unloaded in fifteen minutes. I was profuse in my thanks—okay, maybe too much so, but it surprised me that this taciturn, emotionless police chief had come by to help.

"Got a minute to talk?" he asked.

"Sure. Want to go to the café to talk over some supper?" I was beginning to get hungry again. How could I after that good lunch?

He seated himself comfortably at the kitchen table. "No. I want to talk in private first. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, sitting down at the table and not even dreaming of offering him some kind of refreshment. What did I have in the fridge anyway?

"I hear you went to talk to Doc Mason about Johnny," he said slowly, watching me for a reaction.

"I did," I said honestly. "A couple of things don't make sense, and I wanted to ask him about them."

"Like what?"

I didn't want to say that the versions of Gram's death told me by Donna and Marj were so dramatically different, so I prevaricated a bit. "Well, she was in good health, and it just seemed strange to me she tasted some greens that she said were 'off' and bitter and then she got violently sick and died." There, I'd done it. I'd told him exactly what I didn't mean to tell him.

"Greens? I thought she died in a pan of mashed potatoes." He looked truly puzzled.

"Not according to Marj. That was Donna's story. Marj says she got clammy, unsteady on her feet, and, finally, sick—went to the restroom and threw up violently. This was a couple of hours after she kept trying to fix the greens and finally threw them out." Even recounting it, I hated to think of Gram's last moments when she'd suffered like that."

Almost clinically detached, he asked, "So you suspect what?"

I shook my head miserably. "I don't know, but I was asking Doc about digitalis poisoning—if maybe foxglove could have been mixed in with the turnip greens." Then of course I had to explain the entire connection between foxglove and digitalis. I didn't mention the poke sallet, but it had loomed more and more in my mind. I'd been so set on getting back to Dallas and closing things down that I hadn't yet checked for cut plants. I'd do that as soon as he left.

Rick Samuels listened intently. "What do you want me to do? The green are long gone, so I can't have them checked, but I can order an autopsy."

I shuddered. "No, Gram's buried. I want her to rest in peace. I don't know what I want. I just have to figure it all out in my mind."

He put back on his stern, I-am-the-police-chief attitude and said, "Kate, there's just been a serious attempt on your life. Cutting a brake line is not small stuff. It's meant to kill. You're very very lucky, but if you don't stop hinting around at murder, there'll be more attempts...and I don't want to see any of them successful." He paused for a minute, as though he knew he was lecturing, "Remember, I'm the law. Not you. I want you to share anything you find—or dream up—with me before you do anything else. And if you feel the least bit threatened, call me. Here's my cell phone number—I hear it night and day, never sleep through it." He handed me a business card.

"Yessir." I managed a sort of salute, and he had the grace to smile. But, in truth, he scared me a bit. True, I'd been scared in Crandall, but I hadn't thought about why anyone would want to harm me. The idea that it might turn into a pattern frightened me to death.

"I think," I mumbled, "that it was probably someone from Dallas who cut the brake line." He knew as well as I did that I meant Rob, but I couldn't accuse on such flimsy grounds. "I don't think he means me any real harm."

Rick just snorted. "No real harm! I doubt that. Can you stay at your sister's house for a while?"

I shook my head defiantly. That was out of the question, though I wasn't going to explain why. But his words made me realize I hadn't taken today's episode seriously enough. Someone had really tried to kill me. Incredible. I changed the subject. "Let me ask you something," I said. "The day we met in the café, you were uptight, distant...well, I don't know how to describe it, but you weren't friendly."

He stared at me so long I thought I'd been stupid to bring up the subject. But finally, twisting his hat in his hands again, he spoke. "Uh, you don't know it, but we sort of ran with the same crowd in North Dallas. I saw you in bars, and I thought..." He seemed obviously unwilling to finish the sentence.

"You thought I was a barfly." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. My past was catching up with me, but I wasn't going to lie about my life, nor was I going to explain that I'd held a responsible job, earned a good salary, bought a condo, and paid my bills on time, all without the help of any man.

He nodded miserably. "I asked a friend about you...because I thought you were attractive...and he told me you were a party girl. I wasn't interested in that scene...still am not. But I was suspicious when you came here and announced you were going to stay. And then that guy in the café the other day..."

"He was a mistake," I said crisply, "one of many I made. But I'm not going to apologize for the way I lived. I'm here, it's a new life, and I'm going to live the way Gram would want me too. I...well, I think she's watching me." I didn't add that I also knew she was channeling me.

"Good," he said and rose to go, offering me a handshake as a gesture of friendliness.

I shook his hand, but as I did I added, "And I'm going to find out what happened to Gram."

"I wish you'd let me do that," he said. "And I hope you'll tell me any time you feel threatened." After he left I had the feeling that there was a real back story to Rick Samuels, but it might not be easy to find out. For a small town, Wheeler had an unusual number of puzzling single men—Steve Millican, who everyone hinted was hiding something, and Rick Samuels, about whom my instinct told me there was more to know. And I sort of wished he'd at least hugged me.

Not for me to worry about. I had the café, Donna, and Gram's death to worry about. And now I was left wondering who disliked me enough—or feared me—to sabotage the brakes on my car. Men were low on my list. I went inside and made myself a sandwich of slightly old roast beef and cheese. Thank goodness, I'd brought some beer from Dallas.

****

Life settled into a routine. The café kept me busy from early in the morning—six o'clock, thank you very much—until at least nine in the evening. I'd run home in slow periods to feed Wynona, water my herbs, do the laundry, and sometimes even catch a nap. I got very little reading done—where were those long boring hours I had anticipated. Social life? Who had time to worry about it?

Did I miss Dallas? Maybe, sometimes, just a bit. But somehow thinking of that creep Rob cutting the brake fluid line made it easier to leave Dallas behind in my mind. Of course, I found it most comfortable to believe it was Rob and not consider the possibility that it was someone else.

Being the chief cook for the café wasn't easy, and though I'd learned my skills from Gram, they were rusty. I found myself making sticky buns first thing in the morning, while Benny, a young Hispanic I'd hired as assistant cook, handled the eggs and bacon and pancake orders. The day's special was always figured out the night before and hauled out of the freezer—chicken fried steak or fried chicken or pot roast or meatloaf (we usually had that, but I always made them). I had indeed started making the chicken and tuna salads. I did buy pies—Gram had made pies herself, but I just couldn't do it, and I found a bakery in Tyler that had good pies and delivered. Gram frowned at me. But, hey, I made the potato, tuna and chicken salads myself daily and meatloaf most of the time.

Benny took care of the potatoes, baked, mashed and French fries, and the green salads. And he handled a griddle with skill. I asked where he'd learned and he shrugged and said, "A greasy spoon in Dallas. This is better food." And why was he in Wheeler? "My sister, she lives in Canton and cleans houses. I help with the three kids. Someday," he flashed a grin, "I want a family of my own. More Hispanic girls in Canton than Wheeler."

That's for sure, I thought. Still even with Benny's help, it was a lot of cooking.

By evening, most of the food was prepared for supper, and a local housewife named Nora came in to manage the kitchen, but I was on hand as needed. Nora could make the best creamed corn I ever tasted, and she was no slouch with cornbread either. On Saturdays, she turned out fried catfish with batter as light as—well I don't know what, but it wasn't that hard old stuff that cracks off when you try to fork into the fish.

During slow spells in the afternoon and evening, I sat at my cramped corner desk, planned menus, ordered food, checked the books. Once a week, on Wednesday mornings, which were usually slow, William Overton came by and we went over the books. One day he said, "Miss Kate, your grandmother would be proud. The café is doing well and making a profit." Praise from this taciturn man was golden. Somehow I never got around to taking over the bookkeeping, maybe because I had to much to do every day and maybe because I didn't want to insult this timid man.

And yet I enjoyed being at the café. It wasn't just Gram's presence, though I felt that all the time, but I liked waiting on customers, meeting people, both those I knew and newcomers, asking about their families, their ailments, the little things that make conversation. I did not like going over the books with William Overton, but I persisted. He was a patient, well-intentioned man but just dull as doughnuts. He told me he could never convince Gram to computerize the payroll nor the record of goods ordered or shipped, and he convinced me both were necessary. So I found myself checking every delivery of food against the receiving list and entering those figures into the computer. I also entered daily times for all the employees, a pattern that made me realize Sally, one of the newer waitresses, was late a lot and often left early, with this excuse and that. I geared myself up for a talk with her, during which she was sullen but said she'd do better. After two weeks, her record hadn't improved, and I suggested she look for employment elsewhere, giving her two weeks' notice.

Overton asked me if I had documented the details, and I referred him to the computer record which earned me the first-ever smile I think I'd seen from him. "The unemployment compensation people can come after you if you can't show good cause," he explained.

Then I was faced with finding a new waitress. Marj had a niece, newly graduated from high school, who needed a job. "Any experience?" I asked, knowing the answer before I heard it.

"No, but I'll teach her," she said. "She's a fast learner."

I sighed and said two weeks probation.

Donna meanwhile was talking to contractors and decorators, looking at swatches of paint and fabric, and happy as a clam. She began a marketing plan for her B & B—she'd decided to call it Almost Heaven, which I thought was a really cool name, though I wasn't about to tell her that. I could see her blasting through all Gram's money—and losing it.

"Tom will supply all the hardware, lighting fixtures and stuff," she said enthusiastically, and I wanted to protest that maybe he could supply them at cost but giving them to her would be another bit of bad business. Donna was oblivious.

"I just wish I didn't have to wait on Gram's money to get started on remodeling," she pouted.

Apparently the bank's generosity—or Tom's—only went so far.

But then one day, a week or so after I got back from Dallas, mid-morning on a fairly slow weekday, Donna came into the café in a pensive mood. Settling herself at the counter, she asked for iced tea, which I delivered. Then she asked if we could go sit at the table in the far corner.

Puzzled, I got myself some tea and followed her.

She twisted the tea in her hands and looked everywhere but at me.

Finally I asked, "Donna, what's on your mind?"

"I think you're right," she blurted out. "I think Gram was murdered. I want to help you find out who did it. It's just too awful to think about!"

Whoa, Nellie. This is not what I expected or wanted—Donna as a sidekick, as I tried to figure things out. No, not a good idea.

"I've just been thinking about it, ever since it came up at the reading of the will."

What came up? Then I got it—double indemnity. If Gram was murdered, her life insurance would double. Donna, as always, had an agenda.

"Well, I don't know how you can help. The only obvious proof would be if we had Gram's body exhumed and an autopsy done. I don't want to do that."

She had the grace to shudder. "No, I don't either. But I want to know what you've found out so far."

Tell her about foxglove and poke sallet? I don't think so. "Nothing," I said. Then to give her something and add a little drama, I did tell her that someone had cut my brake fluid line on the way back from Dallas.

"Kate, that's too horrible! I couldn't bear to lose you just after losing Gram. Promise me you'll tell me about anything else that happens...or anything else you find out. I want to help."

After she left, I sat at that table a long time, puzzling over this new development.
Chapter Seven

During the next couple of weeks, Gram's death was never far from my mind, but I could not make myself believe that anyone had a reason to want to kill her. Nothing made sense, and I spent sleepless nights, sometimes reverting to my Dallas habit of a bit too much wine to make myself sleep. Then I'd wake at four, groggy, and go over the whole thing again in my mind for the twenty-eleventh time. And I had no one to talk to about it—I couldn't bring it up with Donna, or wouldn't, whichever word fits. I knew she wouldn't harm Gram, but she was too interested in inheritance and the B & B. Tom would listen and be sympathetic but as that book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, made clear men don't want to talk about problems. If they can't solve something, they move on. Being from Venus, I wanted to talk. Rick Samuels had asked, almost ordered me to bring any new ideas to him, but I had none, and he too was from Mars. If he couldn't solve the problem, he wouldn't want to talk about it. Besides, I'd barely seen him since that strange conversation at Gram's house.

Sometimes during those sleepless nights, I actually got out of bed and paced—something I'd never done before. And several nights when I paced, I noticed cars coming and going from Steve's nursery, as late as three in the morning, the time my thoughts seemed most confused. Those cars puzzled me, but I had way too much else on my mind to worry about them.

Gram, of course, was still with me, and I could talk to her, but her answers were always indirect and though I hated to accuse her of this, they were often platitudes. "God works in strange ways, child." Or, "Don't give up on me. I'm counting on you." Thanks, Gram.

Maybe it would be better if she gave me specific instructions on how to run the café—how could I tell how much catfish I needed to order for Saturday night? Why didn't my potato salad turn out like hers? Some days I didn't have enough and other days I had it left over. I could stretch my conscience and use it two days but no more, so I threw out a lot, a waste that bothered me.

One day I went to the nursery to see if I could get scallions to plant. I thought if I had a big bed of them, I could add them to some dishes for both garnish and flavor, and Gram always said how wonderful they taste fresh out of the ground when they still smell of earth.

Steve greeted me warmly, saying, "I'd give you a hug but as always I'm all sweaty and dirty." I said I'd settle for a handshake, and he grinned, "Naw, you don't even want that. What can I do for you?"

I started to say, "Come have another beer sometime," but then I couldn't talk to Steve either, so I told him I was interested in scallions. When he asked how many, I said, "Lots!" So he said he'd have to come over and dig a bed for them. Did I want lettuce too? Yes, I did. Did I have beer in my fridge? Yes, I did.

"I'll be over about seven. Can you get away from the café?"

"I'll see to it. But I won't do this, unless you let me settle my account."

"Okay. Joanie handles the books, and she's in the store today." He gestured toward the clothing store with his head, and I wandered off.

Joanie proved to be about my age, tall with long blonde hair and thin enough to make the clothes in her shop look good on her. I hadn't yet gotten over to browse, so now I did. Mostly southwestern styles, more fashionable a decade or so ago than now, but still bright, colorful and attractive. Joanie wore a turquoise patterned squaw skirt, a yellow scoop neck T-shirt that picked up details from the skirt, and smart leather sandals.

"Do you stock your shop from Santa Fe?" I asked.

She laughed. "Can't afford to. All this comes from market in Dallas. Hi, I'm Joanie Millican."

Even as I introduced myself, I realized she wasn't married—same last name as Steve and no wedding ring. I told her why I was there, and she pulled the account. I told her she'd have to ask Steve about the onions and lettuce I'd bought today, and while she went off to do that, I browsed among fine leather bags and belts and sandals. There were high-style jeans, some of which would fortunately fit me, and oversize linen shirts in bright colors. I could spend more in Joanie's store than in Steve's garden. The bill for my gardening purchases was surprisingly modest, and I knew I would have paid two or three times that in Dallas.

Back at the café I told Marj I'd be gone from just before seven until time to close at nine, and she said no problem. So by seven I was sitting on the porch, with cold beer in a cooler at my feet, along with two meatloaf sandwiches. Steve came promptly, pushing a wheelbarrow of potting soil, manure, onion plants and, I presumed, lettuce seed. He was going to do this much more professionally than I would have.

While he dug, rooting out Gram's precious grass to create a bed in the place he deemed appropriate, I sat on the ground, drank beer, and chatted. He stopped to take an occasional swallow of beer, but pretty much he worked. I admit I watched him work with interest. It was hot and humid, and he pulled off his T-shirt. His back and arms were muscled, and I enjoy the sight of a well-built man as much as the next girl. No, Kate, don't let your thoughts go in that direction. You have too much else on your mind now to get involved. And in the back of my mind, I realized involvement with Steve Millican would confirm Rick Samuels' opinion of me.

When he had the bed laid out, with the sides squared to his satisfaction—he used string between stakes—he edged it with brick he found in Gram's shed. Steve, I decided, was good at "making do" and not costing me a lot of money.

Steve talked while he planted, and one thing nearly knocked me over. "Remember when you asked about foxglove? I don't sell much of it, pretty as it is, but you know two people in town bought some. One was your sister, Donna, and the other was the mayor."

Donna's husband kept a well-tended flowerbed in front of their house—Donna never raised a finger to help with it—but foxglove? And the mayor? She didn't strike me as the gardening type.

All I could mutter was "Really?" while my thoughts whirled. Trying to divert attention, I asked, "Should I have some here?"

"Naw. It doesn't suit the nature of your garden." As if the thought was gone from his mind, he asked, "You sell many salads?"

"We serve a house salad, with iceberg, with every entrée, but I thought the leaf lettuce would be good for those folks who want a real salad—maybe with grilled chicken or salmon."

"Fancying up the menu, aren't you?" he laughed.

"So far it seems to be working. I'm making my own chicken and tuna salad. Gram used to buy it from Sam's Club."

"I know," he said, "I'll have to come try the new version." Rising from the ground, he said, "There, last one planted. You'll need to water the lettuce every day. Maybe I should set you up a drip hose system."

When he explained what that was, I thought it sounded great and asked him to do it. For a flash, I thought how much he enjoyed mucking in a garden, the same way I enjoyed puttering in the kitchen. We were like two people who had found their places in life. That, I told myself sternly, was all we had in common.

Steve and I sat and had a companionable beer and ate our sandwiches after he finished. Light talk, no flirting, nothing serious. He was, I decided, a good friend, though I entertained a question in the back of my mind about why he and Joanie were in Wheeler. Apparently they were doing well enough to stay, and it wasn't any of my business. He left, and I went back to close the café, tally the day's charge slips, lock up the cash, and call it a day. Tomorrow morning would come early.

After the breakfast rush was over, I went to see Donna, ostensibly just to say hello, since I hadn't seen her in almost a week. She greeted me happily, saying she had new plans for the B & B to show me, and proceeded to pour me a cup of coffee and then lay out blueprints, swatches of paint and fabric, and artist's sketches all over the kitchen island. "Isn't it wonderful?" she gushed. "I think we're going to get started on the work soon."

My antenna went up. "How? We haven't gotten our inheritance yet."

She smiled coyly. "I have an investor from Dallas. He's bought a house and property about five miles out of town, and he was talking to Tom, and Tom mentioned the B & B and he said he was interested in an investment, and..." She ran out of breath.

"Is he going to pay off the lien on Tom's store?"

She looked at me sharply. "How did you know that? I told you the bank loaned me the money on the strength of my inheritance from Gram."

I shrugged. "I just guessed. Banks don't usually loan money on funds that don't exist yet. Don Davidson told us that, said we shouldn't use it as collateral." No need to tell her Tom had told me.

She rushed right on. "Well, Tom was a sweetheart to do that—of course, he'd do anything for me. He wants me to be happy."

Did it ever occur to Donna to make sure Tom was happy? I didn't think so.

We chatted more about the B & B, which seemed to be the only subject on her mind. She never once asked about the café nor said any more about the mystery of Gram's death and suspicion that someone murdered her.

Finally, I had oohed and aahed as much as I could, and I said it was time for me to get back to the café. I'd deliberately walked to Donna's house, so I went out the front door, and she saw me to the door. "Your garden is lovely."

"Oh, thanks. That's Tom's project, you know. I don't mess with it."

"What is that plant with the bell-like flowers on it?" I asked innocently.

She thought a minute. "I think he told me it's called foxglove, though I can't see why."

It didn't seem to mean much to her. She certainly didn't get edgy or defensive. Once I hugged her and walked away, I dismissed the thought that Donna knew anything about the deadly properties of foxglove. She was too ditsy for that.

****

A few days later, Rick Samuels came into the café about nine-thirty in the morning—too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. He strode right back into the kitchen, and I asked what he needed.

He looked at the floor, then at the ceiling, anywhere but at me. "I'm here to do a health inspection. Mayor's orders."

I thought I might choke but my first instinct was to laugh. "Health inspection. Are you trained in that field?"

He stiffened. "We don't have a health inspector in Wheeler, and the mayor doesn't want to pay for someone to come from Tyler. I read about it on the web. I'm supposed to look for uncovered foods, rat droppings, check the temperature in the refrigerators and freezers, stuff like that."

"Have at it," I said with a grin. "I have to get my pies in the oven."

He poked around in the kitchen for maybe thirty minutes, muttered his thanks for my cooperation, and headed out the door.

I couldn't resist. "Find any roaches?" I called.

He ignored me and left.

Marj came up behind me. "What was that all about?"

"Mayor Thompson is out to get us again," I said. "It won't come to anything. She hasn't a leg to stand on. This kitchen is as clean as it always was when Gram was in charge. Here, help me get the fillings into these pies. I'm running late."

Two days later my casual dismissal of Rick Samuel's inspection came home to bite me. Mayor Thompson charged in, waving legal-looking papers and saying she was shutting us down for four serious health code violations: rat droppings, open containers of flour (I was using it, for Pete's sake), flies (who doesn't have them in East Texas in the summer?), and inadequate freezer temperatures. Since I checked the freezer and refrigerator temperatures every morning myself, I knew that was flat wrong. And I knew there weren't rat droppings anywhere in my kitchen.

"I'm closing you down as of now," she screeched.

Behind me I heard Marj gasp. "You don't have the authority," I said. "You're the mayor, not the health inspector, and I have the right to appeal, first to the city council."

She seemed flabbergasted for a moment and then stormed, "Appeal all you want. It won't do you any good."

As she turned to leave, I said, "Leave me those papers. I'll need them for my lawyer. When's the next council meeting?"

She stared at me, holding the papers tight to her chest, and stormed out, saying, "You'll be properly served with official papers."

"Can she really close us down?" Marj asked tremulously.

"Have you seen rat droppings?" I asked with irony in my voice. "She just wants to run me out of business so she can buy the café at a fire-sale price. It won't work."

That day Rick Samuels came in for lunch. Coincidence? I wondered. Or maybe not. He was his usual gruff self—for just a minute the other day I'd penetrated behind that façade, but now it was back. Without greeting anyone, he ordered a meat loaf sandwich and a small salad.

"I'll fix his plate," I said to Marj back in the kitchen, "and take it to him. Watch me," and I winked at her.

I fixed a special salad, adding grated cheese and wishing the greens from my garden were already grown. As it was, I was more generous with the slivered red cabbage we always put in for color and crunch and with the cherry tomatoes—we usually only added one per salad. The ticket said he preferred mayo on his sandwich and wanted it on wheat—conscious of his health, maybe?—so I slathered the bread with mayo, cut it diagonally, the way Gram had taught me rather than straight in half ("The corners fit in your mouth better," she'd said), and sashayed out to the counter to set it down. Marj had served him sweetened ice tea.

"Better check for rat droppings before you eat," I said cheerily.

Sandwich halfway to his mouth, he stopped and looked at me. "What?'

"You heard me. You reported rat droppings to the mayor."

Slowly he put the sandwich down. "I did no such thing. I told her I couldn't find a single violation. This place is as clean, really clean."

Now it was my turn to be amazed, and I know I stood like an idiot with my mouth open. "Say that again?"

"I told her The Blue Plate Café could pass any inspection by a professional from Dallas. It's really clean. Everything checked out."

"Refrigerator and freezer temperatures?"

By now, Marj was leaning over the shoulder-height partition that separated kitchen from serving area.

"Just fine," he said. "Now, can I eat my sandwich?"

"Sure," I said slowly. "What about flies?"

He shrugged. "You got a few. Show me a restaurant in the summer that doesn't, what with people banging in and out of that door." He nodded his head toward the double screen doors onto the porch that doubled as a waiting room.

I leaned on the counter and took a big leap, calling him by his first name. "Rick, Mayor Thompson stormed in this morning and said she was closing us right away, for cooling temperature violations, open containers of flour, rat droppings, and flies. She was waving some papers in her hand, but she wouldn't leave them with me. "

"Why aren't you closed?" He had set the sandwich down again.

"I called her bluff, told her she didn't have that authority as mayor, and I was entitled to an appeal to the city council. Actually, if anybody was going to close us, you're probably the one with the authority. I used to work for a lawyer and I could ask him, though this is pretty far out of his realm."

Rick had begun to eat again with the air of a man who was determined to finish his lunch. I wondered if I should offer him antacid after he ate.

Between bites, he said, "She wouldn't leave the papers, huh? That's because you're right—you called her bluff, and it was indeed a bluff. I wonder if I could arrest her for falsifying information, even verbally."

Suddenly I got the giggles at the idea of the chief of police arresting the mayor. I put a hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter, but tears were running down my cheeks.

"It isn't funny," Rick said. "She falsified what I reported. That reflects on my name and my honor."

I didn't know whether that got things out of proportion or not. I was worried about my café being closed, and he was worried about his honor. It tickled me, and I began to giggle again. Rick tried to look stern, but then I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

"You know, I'm just going to pretend like it never happened, and see what comes next. Let me get you a fresh piece of peach pie, on the house," I said.

"Sure I can't be accused of taking a bribe?" He really did smile then.

"Absolutely not."

I was still grinning when I came back and set the pie in front of Rick. By then, Steve Millican was sitting at the other end of the counter. When I approached to take his order, he asked, "What so funny?"

"Too long a story to tell," I said, as Rick scowled at him.

Rick finished his pie, paid his bill, nodded at me, nodded curtly at Steve, who gave the barest nod in return. I sensed animosity between them and asked about it.

Steve tried to brush it off. "We tangled over something the other day. It doesn't matter. He's the chief of police, not the monitor of morals."

Giggles, once started, are hard to stop, and I could feel another attack, because I could see Rick Samuels assuming the role of moral arbiter, what with his concern about his own honor and over my so-called party-girl reputation. I fled for the kitchen.

Once I finally composed myself—cold water on the face—I asked Steve what I could get him. "Just some tea. I really came to ask if I could fix you dinner tonight."

I hesitated. I liked him, but I didn't know a thing about him. Rick didn't like him (well, that wasn't going to stop me!), and Marj had hinted at something in his reputation. Should I go home with a man I barely knew? Sure, I'd done it in Dallas—but this was Wheeler. It wasn't so much that I thought he'd attack me. It was that gossip would surely follow.

He must have seen my quandary. "I'd like to fix it at your house, if that's okay. Mine's not much for entertaining. I share a pretty tiny place with Joanie, till we save up some money. But I can fix a mean meat sauce for spaghetti."

Relieved, I said "Sure. I'd welcome a night off—and not cooking." Mentally I was figuring out who would cook, handle the cash register, etc. "Could we make it tomorrow night, so I could be sure the café is covered?"

He shrugged. "Sure. I'll be there about seven, and I'll bring everything."

"You're a cook?"

"I try," he said. No more explanation.

Of course it's not unusual these days for a man to cook, but still I found I had questions about him—where he was from, why, really, he and his sister landed in Wheeler, what he did before that. Maybe I'd find out tomorrow night. And what had he tangled with Rick Samuels about?

As I stood at the counter, lost in thought, a loud crash in the kitchen, the sound of breaking pottery, brought me back to the present in a hurry. Gus, with a bewildered look on face, stood looking at a shattered mess of white café pottery. Tom stood behind him.

"Completely my fault," Tom said apologetically. "I just flat bumped into him and jarred the plates out of his hands."

"How'd you get in here?" I asked. "I didn't see you come through the dining room."

"I sneaked in the back," Tom said sheepishly. "Just wanted to see if there was any pie left." His grin made it all seem innocent, but I had ordered the back door to be kept locked. On the other hand, Gus went out it frequently for smokes and I'm sure forgot to lock it half the time.

Gus shook his head in disbelief. "I dropped them. I never done that in all my years washing dishes. It was like someone lifted them out of my hands and threw them on the floor."

"No, Gus," Tom said patiently. "I take full blame. I knocked them out of your hands."

Gram, I asked silently, did you break those plates? If so, why? Are you trying to tell me something? To my surprise, she answered, "Child, you've got to get smarter about what goes on around you. Pay attention." I felt as though I'd been scolded.

I reassured Gus and Tom that accidents happen and went to get the broom. "Some of our plates are pretty old and chipped anyway," I said. "We need to replace them. This is a good reminder."

"I can get them for you wholesale," Tom offered, but I countered that I could get them from a wholesale restaurant supply house and they'd match what we had.

Gus took the broom from me. "I broke them, I sweep it up. You go—tend to your papers."

But Tom had other ideas. "Got time for a glass of tea?"

"Sure," I said. I really did need to check the inventory against orders, but one glass of tea wouldn't take that long. I poured two and asked Tom what kind of pie he wanted. He chose lemon meringue.

"I hear you think Gram was murdered," he said, almost casually.

"I just think it's funny that she died so suddenly. How did you know?"

"Donna told me that you hinted at it in the car one day. Now there's no stopping her. She talks about it all the time. I know you're both wrong."

I thought it was really strange Donna had never mentioned it to me after the one time she wanted to help me investigate. "How do you know?"

He shrugged. "I just do. Nobody would hurt Johnny. If I thought somebody had done that, I'd kill them myself. I'm sure you're barking up the wrong tree, Kate. Gram just died. She was at the age where people have heart attacks. Let go of it."

"I can't." I shook my head.

Gram had a long talk with me that night. Well, really, it was a lecture. My "talks" with Gram were pretty one-sided, and she seemed to fade away when I asked questions. But tonight, as I lay in bed, her words were, "Kate, look for trouble where you least expect it. And don't give up. You're on the right track. But remember to watch your back. You could be in danger." Watch my back? Where had Gram learned that phrase?

Well, that wasn't a new thought, thanks to Rick Samuels, but to hear it coming from Gram was a whole different thing. "Danger? From what? Who?" I almost screamed the words, but as usual Gram had said all she was going to.
Chapter Eight

I lay awake a long time and then drifted off into a fitful sleep. Sometime in the early morning, when it was still dark, I heard a loud commotion—such a mixture of noises that I couldn't sort them out, but it sounded like cars racing through town, and maybe a gunshot—or was it a backfire? And that same sound of breaking crockery that I'd heard in the café that day. By the time I got to the front window and looked out, of course, I could see nothing. I stared a long time, and then I saw red flashing lights. Rick Samuels was driving his car fast into town from the small house he rented on the edge of Wheeler—and he stopped in front of my house. Well, really, across the street, by the nursery. I watched fascinated for a long time. Rick turned off his flashing lights, but all I could see were flashlights and shadowy people moving through the nursery. The temptation to run across the street and find out what happened was strong, but Gram held me back. "Child, keep your place." Besides that, I could imagine Rick Samuels's displeasure at seeing me, in pajamas, at three o'clock in the morning. I went back to bed, sure I wouldn't sleep a bit, but I slept soundly until the alarm went off at six.

Instead of slipping behind the house and into the back door of the café, I deliberately went around the front to look at the nursery. The latticed wood was shattered, and it looked like there were tire tracks right through the middle of the nursery. The windows of Joanie's store had already been covered with sheets of plywood, but the whole place looked like a disaster. I stared for a long time, but there seemed to be no one there, and I had to get those sticky buns started baking.

Marj asked what had happened, and I told her the little I knew. The morning rush and the baking kept me busy until about ten when I untied my apron, tried to dust the floor off my clothes, rinsed my hands, and announced I was headed across the street.

"Tell me what happened," Marj said, eager for gossip.

I found Steve Millican wandering through the remains of his nursery, picking up this shattered piece of pottery and that, retrieving a plant here and there, and then setting it down again. He was apparently bewildered about where to begin. The damage was devastating. Plants on the edges of the nursery seemed untouched, but the center had been decimated.

"Steve?" My greeting was tentative.

"Hi, Kate. I don't think I can cook dinner for you tonight." He looked around ruefully.

"What happened?" I asked, a dumb question if I ever heard one.

"Someone drove a pick-up through here last night. And shot out Joanie's display windows."

"I watched from my house after I heard the noise, but I didn't see the people who did it. And I didn't think I should come barging across the street. But why? Why would anyone do anything so senseless? It's vandalism for no cause."

He shrugged. "Don't know, don't want to talk about it. I'm waiting for the insurance investigator, and then I guess I'll begin to clean up. I honestly can't decide whether to try to salvage this business or move on." Then he got a look of fierce determination on his face and said, "I can't let them beat me again. I didn't think they'd find me."

There was nothing I could say to that, no question I could ask. I almost thought maybe he was in a witness protection program, but that was ridiculous. I cast a glance at Joanie's store, and he read my question.

"Joanie's doing fine here, and she might be better off without me around. She really came to Wheeler only to be supportive of me. She actually owns a dress shop in Dallas, like this one, that's doing pretty well. She could leave, or she could run both stores."

A thousand questions raced through my mind, but I didn't think I could ask any of them. Steve seemed to feel it was his problem and that he was the cause—but why? Marj hinted that there was something in his background that he kept hidden. How was it connected to this?

"Can I help clean up?"

He shook his head. "I don't want to do anything until the insurance guy gets here. And then...well, it's something I have to do. But thanks."

"Have you had breakfast?"

He laughed ruefully. "Food is the last thing on my mind. I may come for a sandwich, depending on when the inspector comes."

"What about Joanie?"

"She's in there, figuring out the damage, but it's not anywhere as severe as this. She'd probably welcome a shoulder to cry on. I...I just haven't been able to give it to her."

So I went to see Joanie, who was sitting behind the cash register, her eyes red from crying. I simply went over and hugged her, and the hug I got in return was almost fierce. Looking about the store, I saw little damage except at the front where the mannequins that had been in the windows lay like dead bodies, making me shiver for a minute as though someone had walked over my grave. Their clothes seemed strangely intact, and the interior of the store looked pretty much okay, until Joanie pointed shotgun pellet holes in the far walls, some clothes that were torn by passing birdshot, and the shattered display case that held costume jewelry.

"The police chief said he'd get ballistics people in here to see what kind of gun was used, but I don't know what good that will do. Everyone in this county and all around has a shotgun in his pickup."

Why would someone with a shotgun shoot up a women's clothing store? "Do you have any idea who did this?"

She shook her head. "Steve probably does, but he won't talk about it. This was his big new life, and now I don't know what he'll do. I'm afraid for him." She began to cry again.

Boy oh boy, there was a story there someone wasn't telling—and I wasn't about to hear.

Back at the café, everyone was talking about the trouble overnight. Marj of course immediately asked me for the inside story, and I simply told her that someone had driven a pickup through the nursery and used a shotgun on the boutique.

"Why?"

"I have no idea," I answered honestly. We got busy with lunches and I put Steve and his problems out of my mind. Rick Samuels came in and sat stoically at the counter as usual. I took his order—he sure was fond of meatloaf. When I put his plate down, I couldn't resist saying, "I saw the excitement last night."

He was instantly alert. "What did you see? Did you see the pickup? Get a license?"

I shook my head. "No, it was long gone by the time I got to the window, but I saw you drive up, and this morning I talked to Steve and saw the destruction. Was it kids bent on meaningless vandalism?"

Rick shook his head. "I don't think so. I think there's more to it. But stay out of it, Kate. I don't want you in danger." He smiled just a bit, that funny thing he did when the corners of his mouth turned up. "Have I said that before?"

Danger? I knew he thought I could be in danger for investigating Gram's murder, but how could I be in danger just trying to help people that I felt sorry for? I huffed away from him, and he ate placidly, as though nothing had happened.

When I ran home late in the afternoon to check on Wynona, Gus was taking a cigarette break. "Miss Kate," he beckoned me toward him, and I went to where he was sitting on an old tree stump. "Don't you mess with that trash across the street. You find out what happened to Miss Johnny. You hear me?"

As I nodded yes, I wondered if Gram was channeling Gus too and thought I'd forgotten. I hadn't and I never would, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what to do next. Why would anyone want Gram dead? The only people who profited were Donna and me, and, now I knew, the town of Wheeler. But since I was in Dallas, that left Donna as a suspect, which was absolutely unthinkable, or someone in town, like the mayor. Donna had taken such an interest in the money and now in the possibility of murder, and the mayor seemed hell-bent on buying the café. Was that her only interest? I brushed those thoughts aside as too ridiculous.

Donna came into the café the next day—a rare occurrence these days. She was followed by a man probably at least fifteen years older than we were. He was shorter than either Donna or me, but trim for his age, and he wore crisply creased jeans and a pale denim shirt—I pegged him as a Dallasite who wanted to look like he lived in the country. His Rolex must have cost more than the café made in a month.

Gushing is the only word I can think of for Donna's behavior. "Kate, this is Irving Litman from Dallas. He's our new neighbor—well, sort of. He's bought some property out in the country, and now he's interested in investing in my B & B. He's going to be my managing partner. Isn't that wonderful?"

While marveling to myself at this strange turn of events, I held out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Kate. The other twin." So this was the partner she had mentioned. My radar went up, and several thoughts were going through my mind, one that it was good Donna had someone else to handle finances, but the other was that I thought Tom was already her partner. And managing? Was Donna turning over money to someone none of us knew a thing about?

His handshake was firm and his smile seemed genuine. "Call me Irv," he said. "I've eyed this place, hear it has the best food in town."

Since we had the only food in town, that was hardly a compliment, but I thanked him. After I showed them to the corner table—something clued me in that they wanted privacy, to talk about the B & B of course, nothing more!—I gave them menus, took their drink order. Irv asked for Pellegrino, and I had to tell him we didn't even have soda water. Coffee, iced tea, water or soft drinks: that was it.

"No problem. I'll take iced tea," he said.

Donna lowered her eyes flirtatiously and said, "Me, too. I do love Pellegrino though."

I wondered if she'd ever tasted it.

They ordered chicken salad plates. Somehow I knew he was the kind who would be watching his waistline and avoid chicken fried steak or meatloaf and mashed potatoes. They had come in late and the restaurant was almost empty when I served them, so I asked if I might join them. They both agreed heartily, and so I sat down.

Donna began to explain at length that Irv was going to help finance renovation of the house she'd bought. "We'll redo the house—it can provide three guest rooms plus I'll have a kitchen and dining room—and then we'll build two small but modern cabins. The house sits on two acres, so there's plenty of room. Irv says it can be done inexpensively, and it will give city folks the real country experience."

Surely it would cost more than the B & B would earn back in the conceivable future, I thought. I had suspected all along that somehow Donna missed out on that lesson about B & Bs being a lot of work for not much profit, but this guy should understand.

Feeling like an inquisitor, I asked as casually as I could, "What business are you in, Irv?"

Donna looked alarmed, but he smiled charmingly and said, "Financial planning. Investments. Entrepreneurial projects. I made a lot of money in Austin before the dot-com crash, and now I make my living investing it. So far, I've had no bad choices. And I handle other people's money for them—I'm good at it. I may have to rein Donna here in a bit"—he patted her arm affectionately, which gave me pause—"but I think the B & B is a good idea."

"Irv knows a contractor in Dallas, and he's brought him out here to bid the job—is that how you say it?" She turned her naïveté on Irv, who replied, "That's it." He smiled benevolently at her.

These two were beginning to give me the creeps. "When do you plan to start work?

"Soon as I get the bid and the necessary permits," Irv said. "I agree with Donna. We've got to beat the competition, bigger, better, and a unique experience."

"I'll supply each cabin with breakfast makings—juice, bread for toast, coffee, etc. Of course, we'll have to stock them with bare bones essentials, but I can get cheap crockery and pans at Wal-Mart."

Before I knew my mouth was open, I said, "I can get those things for you cheaper from a restaurant supply house." Gram, quit volunteering me when all I want is to keep my distance. Gram was a sucker for anything her girls wanted. Yeah, she saw through Donna, but it didn't diminish her love one bit. If Donna wanted something, I should help her get it. "Gram," I said silently, "we're going to have a serious talk tonight."

Donna looked like she'd never heard of such an idea, but Irv clapped his hands together and said, "Splendid. Better quality at a good price. Thank you, Kate. Donna, why don't you draw up a list of what you'll need for the main house and two cabins?" Looking at me, he said, "If it does as well as I think, we'll build more cabins. There's a small lake on my property, and guests can drive out there to fish. We'll have paddleboats."

His use of "we" was beginning to unnerve me. There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask: had they paid off the lien against Tom's store? Had they drawn up some kind of partnership agreement? How was Tom involved in this deal? I reasoned those were impertinent, none of my business, so I asked, as casually as I could, "Do you have a family, Irv?"

He smiled disarmingly. "Ex-wife lives in Dallas with the two kids. They're in high school. In a few years I'll be investing in college, but it'll be worth it. I don't see them too often, but I really love them. And we have a blast when we're together."

Disneyland Dad. I excused myself on the pretext that I had to start preparing for the dinner crowd, and every once in a while I glanced out of the kitchen to see them bent over plans. But once or twice, I saw them staring at each other. I had a really really bad feeling about Donna's new business partner. And I wondered how Tom felt.

When I went back to ask about refreshing their tea, Irv said, "I have a question for you. Donna tells me you think your grandmother was murdered. What makes you think so?"

I considered my answer. "She was in good health, especially for her age, active all day every day, and I just don't think people like that get deathly ill and die within twenty minutes."

Donna looked at me sharply. "Deathly ill? She wasn't sick for a second. That's what comforted me—she didn't suffer. She fell in those damned mashed potatoes."

"Donna, you know Marj's version of the story. Gram said the greens tasted off, and then she got violently ill, went into the restroom, and they had to break down the door to get in. Then she was dead."

"No!" Donna said vehemently. "I won't let that story go public."

I shrugged. "The staff kept it quiet, and Rick Samuels hasn't seen fit to publicize it."

"Surely they would have told me. I'm her granddaughter! They called me immediately." She was angry now, and I didn't remind her that at first she said she'd been in the kitchen when Gram collapsed.

"Tom and I came down here as soon as they told me Gram was dead. But I couldn't bear to stay around to talk to that stick of a chief of police. He came by later that night, but of course we had nothing to tell him."

Irv joined the conversation he'd started. "I didn't mean to open a can of worms, but it's certainly something we must all focus on. I'll do whatever I can to help you girls."

Donna hugged him, and what could I do beside say, "Thank you"?

When they gathered up their plans and papers to leave, Donna hugged me and said, "Aren't you happy for me?" Even as I nodded yes, I thought, it's always all about Donna. She'd already forgotten about the murder aspect, but I saw Irv give me a long look.

Without any reference to the subject, he shook my hand and said, "It's good to meet you. Donna has told me a lot about her sister."

Now there was a line for worry. Why was Donna sticking to the mashed potato story? Sometimes I thought she wouldn't recognize the truth if it came up and slapped her in the face.
Chapter Nine

The next day I left Marj to take care of things and drove first to see the house Donna and Irv would remodel. It was a large, two-story red brick on the far edge of town, still almost in the country with a pasture to the east and a grove of trees across the street. Probably once it had been the substantial home of a prosperous farmer and sat right in the middle of his farm until the town grew toward it. I saw at once that it could be charming. It had a wonderful wrap-around porch, though it was unroofed, and lots and lots of windows. The windows on the front and the front door were arched, with patterned brick around them. I parked in the driveway and walked up to peek in the front windows, at which point I was more impressed. The inside was a mess but the bones of this house were good—wood floors that cried out to be refinished, arched doorways, some French doors. I walked around the outside, admiring the huge old trees. In the back, I could see an abandoned garden—roses, probably—and a fenced off place where a farmer's wife had grown vegetables in the summer. There was a small barn—it could probably be renovated into a garage—and a couple of other outbuildings. But the whole place had an air of neglect as though someone had just turned the key and left—or had they? I went up some fairly rickety back stairs, turned the knob and found myself in a small mud room that led to a good-sized but hopeless kitchen. For anyone to live there today, it would have to be gutted, although I'd save the old gas stove to use as a planter or something out back—it had great charm.

I wandered through the downstairs rooms—spacious, light and airy, with a dirty but lovely chandelier in the middle of the dining room. Rat dropping, dirt, and dust were everywhere, and a couple of broken windows let in the summer heat. It was surprising no local kids had broken in to use it for beer parties or a love nest or who knows what. The whole place gave me the creeps, like I was walking on someone's grave. And I had the eerie sensation that someone was watching me.

Aloud as though to reassure myself I said, "Nonsense, Kate Chambers. You don't believe in ghosts." And then I echoed Gram's words, "I'm the sensible one." On the other hand, if I didn't believe in ghosts, why was I listening to Gram all the time and sometimes talking back to her?

Suddenly I couldn't get out of that house fast enough. I went out the way I had come in and practically ran to my car, which I'd left in the driveway. There was a nondescript gray car parked at the curb—had it been there when I pulled up? I didn't think so. I had my hand on the car door, ready to yank it open, when a voice startled me. "Morning, Miss Kate."

Irv Litman had come silently up behind me, dressed once again in crisp jeans and a work shirt. He didn't look particularly menacing, but I was acutely aware that I was alone with a man I knew zilch about. And I'd left my phone in the car.

"You followed me here!" It was a straightforward accusation.

He threw up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "No harm intended. I just saw you headed toward the big house and followed out of curiosity. What do you think of our property?"

There it was again. The plural possessive pronoun. "I think it has potential," I said. The house could be charming..."

He interrupted to say, "I intend it to be."

Good Lord! Was Gram channeling him too?

Then I knew better. "You could be part of this project, you know," he said, reaching out to touch my arm. "Would you like to see the inside of the house?"

I definitely did not want to go into that house with Irv Litman. I glanced at my watch, and then said, "Good Lord! I didn't realize how late it is. I'd love to see the house, but I have to get back to the café."

He shrugged. "We'll have other opportunities," he said enigmatically.

I turned but he opened the car door like a gentleman before I could reach for it, and then patted my arm again. "I like you, Miss Kate Chambers."

Mumbling thanks, I slammed the door and peeled out of there so fast my tires squealed. I think, when I looked back in the rear view mirror, he was laughing. From that day forward, I would never trust Irv Litman again.

By the time I got to the main highway, I had slowed enough to keep the speed limit, and after I parked behind Gram's house, I sat and thought for a minute. Too much was happening—Donna and Irv and the B & B stuff, the destruction of Steve Millican's nursery. How did Gram's death fit into all this? Or did it?

"Gram," I said aloud, "help me figure this out."

"I think it's pretty obvious," Gram commented, and I could hear a wry tone in her voice. "He's up to no good. You have to warn Donna."

Thanks, Gram. That was really helpful. I thought about calling Rick Samuels to tell him I'd felt in danger, but all I could really complain about was that Irv Litman had made a move on me. Yuck!

The next morning when the café was quiet, I slipped over to Donna's house—the weather was heating up and I confess I drove. Pulled in around back and let myself into the kitchen, only to find Donna knee-deep in sauce pans and containers of salt, flour, sticks of butter, sliced mushrooms, an open bottle of wine—at ten in the morning?—and a general mess, with the sink piled high.

"What in holy Ned are you making?" I asked.

"I think it's called Coquille Saint Jacques."

I worked hard to keep from giggling at her French pronunciation. "Scallops with white wine and mushroom sauce. A real gourmet dish, Don." I hadn't called her that since we were kids. "What's the occasion? Did I miss Tom's birthday? Your anniversary?" That was it—anniversary, and this was June. I wracked my brain to think what day they'd married, but I could barely think of this day's date.

She ran a hand across her sweaty forehead and then wiped it on her apron. "I'm practicing for the B & B, for when I start serving dinners."

"And you plan to serve Coquille St. Jacques? Don, people who come to the cabins are there for a rustic experience—if they want food, they won't want sophisticated French. They'll want down home East Texas cooking like we serve in the café."

She sank down on a stool, silent for a moment, as though thinking. "Kate, I think you're right. And you've just suggested the solution. We can order dinners from the café for the guests."

Hmm. I think my sister just hit on a good idea. "Okay. It's a deal. I'll choose a meal of the day for the B & B." I couldn't resist adding, "When the time comes."

Donna looked around the kitchen. "Now what do I do with this mess?" she wailed. "I am completely bewildered by this recipe."

And that's how I ended up making Coquille Saint Jacques in my sister's kitchen on a Thursday morning. I had to throw out some of her sauce and start over, but a little over an hour later, I had a terrific dish ready to pop in the oven. "Just put it in at 350 for 30 minutes before Tom comes home. He'll walk in to smell a heavenly aroma."

"Are you kidding? He hates seafood. He won't eat it."

Why, I wondered, had I gone to all this trouble? "Mind if I take it home?"

"Please do."

While I had been cooking, I asked Donna casually how she'd met Irv. Her response startled me, though I guess given my reputation, it shouldn't have.

"He came into Tom's store, and I happened to meet him. But we really met a month or so later when I was in a bar in Dallas. I'd spent the day in the city looking at samples and swatches, and I stopped for a glass of wine before the drive home."

Okay, if she'd only had one glass.

"He was alone, asked if he could join me, and we got to talking. He told me about himself, and I told him I was a bored housewife. It just kind of went from there."

I didn't exactly want to ask what went where, so I said, "You mean your business partnership?"

"And friendship," she said. "He's a really good friend."

I wasn't going to explore that. After all, I knew men I considered really good friends. One of them, Steve Millican, would probably get Coquille Saint Jacques for dinner tonight if he wanted it.

But it was clear to me that Donna hadn't just met Irv Litman last week or even last month. "Did you meet him before Gram died?"

My back was to her but all I heard was silence. I turned around to see her biting her lip and nodding her head in the affirmative.

"Did you ever introduce him to Gram?"

Negative shake. "He never came to Wheeler until last week. We always met in Dallas."

I began to get the picture. In crude terms, huckster meets bored housewife, wines and dines her (my mind wouldn't go any farther than that), learns she has inherited a good-sized amount of money, and moves into the picture.

"Has Tom met him?"

"Yeah. He didn't much like him. I'm not sure why."

Hell-O, Donna! Wake up and see the world. I changed the subject. "Uh, I went to look at the house..." I barely began, before she interrupted me.

"I so want to do the B & B..."

I wanted to ask more—what she knew about Irv, how often she saw him, and of course "the question" about an affair, but I was in waters over my head. I packed up the fancy scallops, told her how good it was to visit, and beat it back to the restaurant.

When the afternoon lull came, I sat at my desk and stared into space. So much confusion and now Irv Litman was really muddying the waters. I needed to know more about him. Certainly, I had nothing to take to Rick Samuels. He might agree about my suspicions that Donna was being duped, but there was no broken law involved. Google is often my answer to everything, so not expecting much I searched for Irv Litman, Dallas.

Bingo! The first hit was for Irv Litman, a financial planner in Dallas. Sure enough, the Web site had a picture of "Donna's" Irv looking his most charming. He listed himself as a Certified Financial Planner and a member of the Financial Planning Association. So far, legit. The services he listed included investment management, estate planning, insurance planning, and tax planning. I wished he listed clients, but I suppose that would be unethical. His offices were apparently somewhere in the Highland Park area—not a bad place to be. It occurred to me that Donna had known Irv Litman a lot longer than I thought—and well before the brake line to my car was punctured. There was another place in my mind I just didn't want to go, but I never could believe Rob had done that. Still, I couldn't imagine Irv Litman crawling under a car.

I told Marj I'd be out for a while. I thought between them Benny and Nora had dinner under control. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was four o'clock, and I said, "I may not come back until we close, unless you call and say you need me." I grabbed a baggie full of salad makings and a take-out container of mashed potatoes for two.

Marj shooed me out the door, and I ran home to call Cindy before she left her office and headed for the evening's party. I didn't even feel bad that I was missing whatever party there was—that life seemed remote, far away and long ago.

Cindy must have looked at caller ID, because she answered, "You need something, don't you?"

Incensed, I said I didn't only call her when I needed something, but she pointed out I hadn't called since I'd returned to Wheeler. I pointed out it's a two-way street but then rushed on, "Yeah, I do want something. I want you to check someone out for me."

"Oooh," she squealed. "I always wanted to be a detective. Tell me about it. Is that Rob guy still bothering you?"

"No, let me explain." I think she expected I wanted evidence for someone's divorce, because when I finished she sounded distinctly let down. "A financial planner? You want me to check him out? I haven't even got any finances to plan, except paycheck to paycheck."

"But you have a good imagination, don't you? And you can act. I know you can. Pretend you just inherited a lot of money and you have no idea what to do with it, poor little you. But be sure to ask for references, especially from lawyers and banks."

She agreed to call him the next day, asking, "What's my pay?"

"Free lunch at the Blue Plate Café."

"Oh, swell, where I'll probably run into this Litman guy."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, as Gram used to say."

We hung up, and I swiped a brush at my hair, dabbed on a bit of lipstick, and crossed the highway to the nursery. The lattice front had been replaced, and as I peeked around I saw that order was almost restored, though the stock of plants was down considerably. Steve was working at his potting bench and turned when I called out, "Are you accepting visitors."

He grinned. "Sure. Come in. Place looks better, doesn't it?"

"Much. But you don't have as much stock as you did."

He shook his head, "Can't afford to replace it."

"Doesn't insurance cover losses like yours?"

He shook his head again. "It helped, but it didn't cover everything by any stretch."

Good going, Kate, you really started this conversation off on your left foot—with it in your mouth. "I guess the bequest Gram gave the city will make small grants available again soon. Maybe that will help."

"I didn't know about that." He kept on potting the basil he was breaking into separate plants. "I've been rooting some things in water, and they'll be ready to plant soon. I've already had three or four customers—mostly out of curiosity and sympathy, I think."

"Gram's bequest won't be available until the will is probated," I said. "Then I expect there'll be an announcement. But meantime, I didn't come over here out of sympathy or curiosity—or to pry into your financial affairs. After all," I added lightly, "you don't ask me how the café is doing. Which reminds me, I haven't seen you there since this mess happened."

"I've been eating PBJ sandwiches," he said wryly.

"Would you like a gourmet meal tonight? I just happen to have scallops with wine and mushrooms in my fridge."

"Coquille Saint Jacques? What's the occasion?"

I told him the story, and he laughed heartily. "If you don't mind my saying so, I think your sister is a bit of a ditz, but her loss is apparently my gain. I'll bring white wine."

"Got it covered," I said. I looked at my watch. It was 5:15. "6:30?"

"Yeah, that's good. I'm ready to quit for the day."

That gave me enough time to shower, change clothes and set up tray tables on Gram's back porch. Tray tables may not sounds romantic, but there was a nice breeze out there, and I had gotten some citronella candles, so we should be bug free. And Steve and I seemed most at peace in Gram's old rockers on that porch.

Steve arrived promptly at 6:30, wearing clean jeans and looking freshly scrubbed. As if he'd read my mind, he came around back and knocked on the kitchen door, just as I was putting out pita breads and hummus that I'd gotten earlier in the week in Canton—not something the local grocery carried, and I swore I'd have to learn to make my own. I poured Sauvignon Blanc for both of us, in those new O glasses I liked so well, and we took the wine and appetizers to the porch.

"Smells fantastic," he said.

"I cheated. Brought the mashed potatoes and salad from the café—but I made my own dressing. Sorry, but I don't have the equipment to pipe the potatoes around the edge of the main dish nor do I have a scalloped shell dish to serve it in."

He clutched his heart and said, "I'll make do."

We talked comfortably, but I knew neither of us was talking about the things uppermost in our thoughts. I was focused on Irv Litman, and Steve was still overwhelmed by the destruction of his nursery. In essence he had to start his business over again.

"How's Joanie?"

"Fine. She's been a brick throughout this whole thing. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"You two seem exceptionally close, even for a brother and sister," I said, thinking of the distance between Donna and me.

"We are. Mom died when we were fairly young kids—I guess I was seven and Joanie was nine—and Dad never paid much attention to us. By the time we were in high school, we were pretty much alone."

"You needed someone like Gram," I said.

He grinned a bit. "Yeah, you were lucky. Johnny was a great woman. I imagine it was wonderful to grow up with her."

I nodded then jumped up. "The potatoes will scorch. Time to serve dinner."

The Coquilles Saint Jacques were heavenly, if I do say so, the mashed potatoes always the best, and my homemade dressing for the salad greens was lemony and good. So it was a great meal. We sipped wine and talked little while we ate. Steve helped me clear the plates, and I served cobbler I'd made from some peaches Marj had brought to the café.

Sitting back contentedly, he said, "I could marry a woman who can cook like you."

I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but I said nothing.

Casually, he asked, "You ever been married?"

"No. You?"

"Yeah, once. It didn't work out. Wasn't her fault; it was mine, and there were no kids."

I didn't know where to go with that, so we sat in silence for a long time. Finally I said, "I see marriages of my friends that I wouldn't want. It's made me real cautious."

"I saw my own marriage that I didn't want. That made me cautious too," was the reply. Then, as if psychic, he asked, "You thinking of Donna and Tom?"

I didn't know if that was too personal or not, but it hit home, and I said, "Yeah, maybe a bit. But there are others."

He nodded, and we sat in silence for a long time, sipping our last glass of wine. Then, almost abruptly, he said, "I got to be going. Thanks for a wonderful evening and a great dinner, Kate. You're the best."

I got up out of my chair, and he put his arms around me, stared at me for a minute, and then tilted his head to meet mine and gave me a long and deep kiss—the kind where tongues explore mouths. Then, suddenly, he was gone, without another word. I stood and stared after him for a long time. While I rinsed dishes, put away leftovers—no scallops, we ate all that—and cleaned up the kitchen, I puzzled over Steve Millican. There was no doubt that the kiss had aroused me, but I didn't know if it was him or the celibate life I thought I was leading. Either way, Steve Millican was a puzzle—and thoughts of him kept me awake for a long while that night.
Chapter Ten

Tom hadn't come to the café in several days, so I used the pretext of needing birdseed to walk to the hardware one day. Now getting on into June, the days were typical East Texas—hot and muggy—and I was glad the walk was short, though the disappearance of my exercise program gnawed at my conscience. I told myself waiting tables and cooking were exercise, and in a way they were—but I needed to get back to cardio workouts. My bike was in the garage, but it was getting too hot to run or bike, except in the early morning when I was busy making sticky buns. At least I could resume my yoga routine which, if nothing else, should help with peace of mind.

Tom was alone in the store—both of his assistants were out making deliveries, which in this county could mean driving a considerable distance. I hoped he charged a delivery fee.

"Morning. I need bird seed, please. They're eating it pretty fast, so I think a good-sized bag." Right then I realized walking was not a good idea—I didn't want to carry a "good-sized" bag of birdseed back to the café.

Tom lugged a twenty-pound sack from the back of the store, saying "I'll drop this off at the house. No need for you to hoist it around. Need a garbage can to keep it in?"

I did, and he got that too. As I paid, over his protests that I was family, I couldn't resist saying tartly, "I hope you don't give everything to Donna for her remodeling. That could really hurt your bottom line."

He grinned, but it was a twisted grin. "Naw, I let Litman pay for that stuff."

"You haven't joined me for lunch lately. Business okay?" I tried to be casual, but Tom knew me well enough to know I'm a rotten poker player.

"I been keeping an eye on Donna and Litman," he said sheepishly, "for a couple of reasons. Donna has no idea about finances and budgets, and I guess I'm grateful to Litman on that score. But, I don't know, something about how comfortable they are makes me nervous. Well, damn it, it makes me self-conscious about who I am, how much money I don't have, all those things. Here I am, the guy who was the high school hero and then never did much else. I'd do anything to make her happy, but no matter what I do, she complains. With Litman on the other hand she gushes all the time about how lucky she is to have met him."

I looked straight at him and asked, "You think they're having an affair?"

His face reddened, and he said, too quickly, "Oh, no, nothing like that. It's just...oh, okay, yeah I suspect that. She doesn't have any more interest in me in the bedroom than she does in the kitchen. And it wasn't always that way." He paused a minute. "And she doesn't have any more time for the kids than she does me. I try to do things with them. I can take Henry fishing and coach his softball team, but Jess and Ava really need their mother. Jess likes to cook, and Ava, I'm afraid all she likes to do is watch TV, and I hate that."

"I'll have them over to a slumber party—we'll do girlie stuff like our nails and make chocolate mousse, and then I'll take them to the café in the morning and let them make sticky buns."

"Thanks, Kate. They'd love it. And maybe it would give Donna and me some time together."

"This is a girls' night. Send Henry to spend the night with a buddy." I put a hand on his arm. "I don't know what either you or I can do about Donna except hang in there. Gram used to tell me the good guys always win."

"I wish I was one of them," he muttered and turned away.

With that comment puzzling me, I gave him a hug and headed back to the café. Of course Tom was one of the good guys. What did he mean?

Ava and Jess came to stay the following Sunday night. The café was slow on Sundays, and I could leave it with Marj and Nora, and we had decided for summer to close on Mondays, so the girls wouldn't have to get up early. We'd make sticky buns at home.

"I always loved to stay with Gram," Jess said. "I like the way her house smells. It still smells like she lives here." I didn't tell her I squirted a bit of Jean Naté around now and then. Ava came more reluctantly, clutching a computer game and asking where the TV was.

"No TV tonight, Ava my dear. We're going to fix supper and then do girl things, like pedicures and shampoos, and I'll style your hair." She perked up at that a bit—Ava had lank, straight hair that was now shaggy and in need of trimming. I'd never studied haircutting, but I had some talent for it—friends used to beg me to save them money and cut their hair, and I pretty much kept my own mop mowed and relatively well shaped.

"Will you cut my hair too?" Jess asked.

Eyeing the mop of curls with some caution, I said probably not but we'd condition it and blow-dry it.

The cheeseburgers for supper were a success. I set the girls to cutting up a salad, with supervision, and taught them to make a simple vinegar and oil vinaigrette with a little bit of seasoning. Jess declared it the best hamburger she'd ever eaten, but Ava reserved her praise.

The pedicures were equally successful—I cut nails, trimmed cuticles, buffed, massaged softening cream into their feet and then wrapped them in steamy towels. We did the shampoos at the kitchen sink, with each girl standing on a small stool—Gram clucked her disapproval at me. Shampoos belonged in the bathroom, not the kitchen, but I promised to scrub the sink afterward. I trimmed Ava's hair, giving her slight bangs she could push to the side, then dousing her hair with body-giving mousse and after blowing it dry, shaping it with a fat curling iron that I used on special occasions. The result was that her hair framed her face softly instead of hanging limply at the sides. She was thrilled.

"Oh, Aunt Kate, can you do this for me every day?"

"No," I laughed, "But I can teach you to do it."

"My turn," Jess said, and I washed those curls, put a little silk therapy lotion on them to make them easier to brush out. Then I blow dried her hair, using a brush to straighten it as much as possible and used the same fat curling iron, this time to make large puffs instead of wild unruly curls. She was enchanted.

We finished the evening by painting toenails and doing manicures. Then I let the girls watch one short program—of my choice—while I made cocoa. After the program, I packed them off to sleep together in Gram's bed, got tight goodnight hugs, lots of thanks, and some nice kisses. Then I toddled off to bed myself, too tired to read.

It was well into the wee morning hours and I had been sleeping soundly, when I heard a whispered voice. "Aunt Kate? Aunt Kate? Wake up! We're scared!"

I nearly bolted out of bed, rushing to find Ava and Jess huddled in the doorway of my room, clutching each other. I knelt and put an arm around each. "What's the matter, girls? There's nothing to be scared of."

"Yes, there is," Ava said firmly. "Someone with a flashlight came down the driveway. Jess heard it—she never has been a good sleeper, according to Mama—and she woke me up. I saw the light but I was afraid to pull the blind aside to look."

"Let me go look in the back yard," I said. Darn! I always left a small light on the kitchen, but if I turned off the night light in the bathroom I could sidle my way down the hall to the back bedroom that had once been Donna's and looked out over the backyard, just on the other side from the driveway. "You girls stay here."

"No," the chorused. "We're staying with you."

So I peered out the window, moving the blind ever so slightly. The girls clung to my legs. Sure enough, a shadowy figure that I couldn't make out had a flashlight and was over near the poke sallet. The flashlight blinded me to all else, so I couldn't even tell size or sex. The fact that it was cloudy and there was no moonlight or starlight didn't help at all.

"Come back to my bedroom, quietly," I said in the most reassuring tone I could. Once there, I called Rick Samuels, told him what was happening, and suggested he not use his siren.

"Yes, ma'am," he said ironically, but he was there within five minutes, lights and siren on the car out. Without a flashlight, he crept down the driveway and crisscrossed the driveway—we were watching again from the back bedroom. I listened for signs of a struggle, anything, but heard nothing. Finally, while we held our collective breaths, Rick came to the back door and knocked. I assured the girls it was okay and we all went to let him in.

"You have company, I see," he said, reaching to ruffle Jess' hair.

"The girls saw the flashlight first."

Rick got a little too condescending when he said to Ava, "You sure you weren't having a dream?"

"I was not," she said firmly. "Jess saw the light first, and Aunt Kate saw it too after we woke her up."

He looked at me, and I confirmed it. "Whoever it was went over toward the corner where Steve tells me I have poke sallet growing."

He looked utterly bewildered. "Poke sallet? Why would anyone come sneaking around in the night to pick a plant? What kind of plant is it anyway?"

"Greens," I told him. "Like collards or spinach or beet greens. Only it's poisonous unless you cook it three times."

"You're kidding me!"

"No, but I don't expect a city person like you to know that."

"So I'm back to my original question: what does it have to do with anything?"

I was sure I'd told him this but I doubt he either believed me or took it seriously. So I reminded him that before Gram died, she'd been tasting turnip greens that were off, then she got violently sick and died. Me and my big mouth: I forgot the girls were listening to every word.

"Somebody poisoned Gram?" Ava asked, while Jess burst into tears.

I rushed to comfort them, but I was too late. All my words of reassurance, my comfort that we didn't really know, fell on deaf ears.

"Is somebody going to poison you or my mom?" wailed Jess. By now, both girls were crying.

"No, sweetheart, nothing is going to happen to your mom or me. Can you go back to bed now? Officer Samuels says it's safe and whoever was here has gone."

"But he might come back," Ava pointed out.

I didn't think so, but I did the logical things. I made hot cocoa.

Rick said he'd stay until daylight, so I ended up putting him in Donna's room and spending the rest of the night wedged between the two girls in Gram's bed. Do you know how hot it can get sleeping between two young bodies in a bed not meant for three? And I lay awake wondering what would happen when they repeated this story at home. Donna and Tom knew about my suspicions but they didn't know about the poke sallet, and they wouldn't appreciate their children being scared half to death. So much for my delightful evening with the girls.

True to his word, Rick was gone by the time we woke up—nearly eight-thirty after our interrupted sleep. He left a note on the kitchen table, saying, "We'll talk later. And think about getting an alarm system."

Good thought. I'd ask Tom about it first thing and about motion detector lights around the house. Funny, I'd never felt threatened in Dallas, a city with a fairly good crime rate, but suddenly I was scared in good old small-town Wheeler.

When she woke up, Ava wailed that her hair didn't look like it did the night before, and I gave her a quick lesson in fixing it herself then left her to the curling iron. She looked very proud when she came out of the bathroom, and I thought I'd made a friend of the niece who'd always been indifferent toward me. Jess just tumbled her curls with her hand and came into the kitchen demanding to make sticky buns. I think the morning made up for the disaster in the middle of the night—at least in part.

After we had our sticky buns and cleaned up, I returned the girls to Donna, dropping them off at the back door and not going in.

Not much to my surprise, Donna was at my house by lunchtime. But she never mentioned the girls' fright—did they not tell her? I sensed that maybe because she didn't listen, the girls didn't tell her everything. No, she had something else on her mind completely, but it began with food.

"Why'd you close the café on Mondays in the summer? I mean, really, Kate, if there's ever a season that's good for business it's when the tourists are here."

"I studied the past records—Overton has them—and business booms in the spring and fall but is fairly quiet in the heat of summer. I just thought everybody deserved a day off."

"Well, I'm starving, and I want a BLT," she pouted, "but now I can't get one."

Even as I kicked myself for being ever the peacemaker, I said, "I have the makings. I can fix one for you."

"Really? Would you? I owe you one!" She gave a tight smile and I set about pulling ingredients out of the fridge, putting bacon in the microwave—a trick which amazed my non-cooking twin. "I never knew you could do that."

"Sure about a minute per slice, if you wrap them in paper towels. Then sometimes you have to check them for doneness and do them a bit longer, but they're not near as greasy."

"Oh, well," she said, examining her carefully manicured nails. "I didn't come here to talk about cooking bacon."

I waited, for some reason holding my breath.

"I came to talk about that bitch mayor we have in this city."

I exhaled deeply. "What's she done now?"

"Refused our building permits. Says they aren't up to code. Something to do with fire safety."

"So put in smoke detectors."

"It's not that. It's spite, pure evil spite. She wants us to fail, just like she wants you to fail at the café."

"I can understand why she wants the café to fail. She wants to buy it, though Lord knows how she would run it. But why should she want you to fail?"

"I told you. She's still mad at Gram. I wouldn't be surprised if she were the one who poisoned her."

Would the mayor really creep down my driveway with a flashlight in the middle of the night? That seemed extreme, but since Donna hadn't mentioned last night's episode, I didn't either.

By then I'd toasted rye bread, added lettuce, sliced tomatoes sprinkled with just a bit of pepper (another of Gram's tricks), bacon, and mayonnaise, sliced the sandwiches triangularly like Gram taught me, and served them with iced tea.

"You're a good cook, little sister," Donna said.

"I'm your twin, not your little sister."

"I was born ten minutes before you were," she said smugly.

****

Tuesday morning, after the breakfast rush, I cornered Marj and said I wanted to talk. We took glasses of iced tea—mine blessedly unsweetened—and went to the corner table that I was beginning to think of as the table of assignations.

"Marj, Donna told me she discovered Gram in the kettle of mashed potatoes. Then you told me your story and included that Donna and Tom were here for dinner. But the other day Donna said you all called her when Gram collapsed. I can't get the sequence straight in my head. Can you help?"

Marj looked thoughtful. "It was such an awful evening, I'm not sure any of us remember it real clear. But here's what I think happened. Donna and Tom came in for an early supper and, as they often do, they wandered back into the kitchen to see Johnny. She was stirring mashed potatoes and then occasionally turning to that pot of greens."

I asked, as quietly as I could, "Did she say the greens tasted off before or after they were in the kitchen?"

Marj blinked. "Oh, honey, I don't remember for sure. I just know Johnny worried over that pot of greens. Anyway, Tom and Donna went back to a table, ate their chicken fried, and were gone well before the rush hour started—and well before Johnny got sick. Yes, we did call them."

Tom and Donna in the kitchen? That presented another possibility I didn't want to think about. Boy, this whole thing was loaded with places my mind didn't want to go, and I knew whatever answer I found was going to make me miserable.

"Have I helped?" Marj asked.

"Yeah, I think you have. But I don't know where to go next. Thanks, Marj. I guess I'll go do some bookwork and keep my mind off Gram for a while, if I can."

She put a hand on my arm. "Honey, Johnny is sleeping peaceful. You don't have to solve this. Maybe she did just die."

"No," I said fiercely. "I have to figure out why and how she died."
Chapter Eleven

Donna's next idea was a doozy. She appeared at seven one Thursday morning, while I was kneading dough for buns, and announced she was there to learn to cook. "After all, if I'm going to have a B & B and serve breakfast, I need to know how to do it."

I used a gloved hand to push back the hair that had escaped my hair net. "Donna, this isn't a good time. Besides, you're going to want quiches, and breakfast casseroles, and the kind of thing we don't make here. We're just eggs and bacon and pancakes and potatoes...and sticky buns." I went back to kneading.

"Well, I think I need to know the basics."

I stared at her. "Well, surely you know how to cook eggs and bacon and pancakes."

She shrugged. "Well, maybe. The kids don't like my pancakes. They'd rather go to McDonald's in Canton, but that's a bit of a drive for breakfast."

I looked at Benny. "Okay. Can you teach her about eggs and bacon and sausage and potatoes?"

He gave me a goofy grin, as if to ask who needs teaching about these things, but he said, "No problem."

"We'll get to sticky buns later," I told Donna. "Get yourself a hairnet and apron." I nodded in the direction of the supplies, and under my breath I added, "You might better get your sticky buns from the café."

"I'm going to advertise this as a home-cooking B & B, so I want my guests to think I'm at home in the kitchen. I have to start with basics." Without another word she got a hairnet and apron, washed her hands, and went to stand by Benny.

From time to time I stole a glance, and Donna really seemed to be trying to learn. Benny taught her to flip an egg without breaking it (wrist motion) and how to make neat poached eggs, done just firm enough but not hard. He scolded her for turning hash brown potatoes too soon, explaining you want them brown and crispy, neither burnt nor pale. If I'd talked to her like that, she'd have argued back, but she just nodded to Benny and tried again.

I'd had enough requests for turnip greens that I'd put them on the menu for that day, along with mashed potatoes and chicken-fried steak as the special of the day. I groaned at the idea of cooking those greens because they reminded me of Gram, but I must have groaned aloud because Donna said, "I'll cook the greens for you. I don't think I'm up to getting chicken-fried right yet. Turnip greens I can cook in my sleep." She began washing the greens in cold water and pulling off the tough stems, and I watched as she diced salt pork, browned it in the pot just like Gram had done, then added the greens, water, a pinch of sugar, and a dash of cayenne. Almost looked good enough to make me try them but I didn't. Donna tasted, added salt, tasted again and seemed satisfied.

I went out to the front to see that everything was in order for the lunch crowd and post the special on the chalkboard. Rick came in as I was doing this and sat in his usual spot.

"Aren't you a bit early today?" I asked.

"Got to go to Canton this afternoon, so I thought I'd come eat before that. Special looks good. I'll take it."

Later, after he finished and was paying his bill, he said, "The greens were great. I haven't had them that good since your grandmother cooked them."

I smiled and said I'd tell my new cook.

A little later Mayor Thompson called and asked what the special was. When I told her, she said, "Please make me a to-go box. I'll ask Tom to pick it up for me."

I shrugged at the idea of Tom as the mayor's delivery boy but I guess that was his business and not mine. Sticking my head in the kitchen, I said to Donna, "Your greens are a hit. The police chief sends his compliments."

Donna was back to her old self. "First nice thing I've ever heard about him saying." Her voice was sharp, and I wondered if she too had had a run-in with him. Maybe it was the remodeling permits. Again, not my business. I stuck the mayor's order on the spindle and called out, "To go order" before I went back out front. I liked to be in the front during meals, rather than in the kitchen, because it let me greet folks and make them welcome while also making sure everything was going smoothly.

Tom came and picked up the mayor's order. But it seemed a long time before he came back. When he did, he said, "Receptionist was at lunch, and that accountant creep was in with the mayor. I finally knocked on the door and told her that her lunch was getting cold. That guy Overton popped up like he was on a spring and ran to get it for her. I left." I could hear the disgust in his voice. "Guess I'll go sit in a corner, Kate, and have the special if you don't mind."

"Not at all," I said and turned to get him the sweetened ice tea I knew he wanted.

Donna came out of the kitchen, hair net off and apron gone. "I'm through for the day. Think I'll join Tom and have the special."

I bit my tongue. I didn't quite expect help, even the volunteer kind, to keep their own hours. And just a bit of me resented being her waitress. I stuck the order on the spindle and went back to business. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Tom and Donna were arguing. Their heads were close together and they kept their voices low, but I could see tenseness in their bodies. Donna's expression was harsh, while Tom's was defensive and somehow humble. I hated to see him humiliate himself. Why didn't Donna realize what a good man she had?

They were all smiles, fake but smiles, when I carried their lunches to them, but they ate in silence, almost ignoring each other. Now what was that about?

Irv Litman came in just as they were finishing their meal. I watched as he asked if he could join them. Within seconds, Tom stood up and said, "Don't guess I'm hungry anymore. See you guys." He waved goodbye to me and called, "Greens were sure good today." I wondered if Donna told him she cooked them.

When I took a menu to Irv, he brushed it aside pleasantly and said, "I'll have the special please."

As I went toward the kitchen, I thought to myself "I'll feed family on the house, but Irv Litman has to pay for his lunch." Of course, I was being nasty. He paid for his and Donna's and left a generous tip that I put in the community tip jar. I just couldn't warm to the man, and I beat myself up for it. But then I remembered how happy Donna looked when he ordered his lunch—not at all like a woman whose husband had just stormed out on her.

The rest of the day went smoothly. We were busy in the evening but comfortably so, and I got home about eight-thirty, poured myself a glass of wine, and went out on the back porch. In spite of the muggy heat, it was good to sit outdoors and listen to the cicadas. I began to think about Gram and the good times we'd had and how much I missed her.

My reverie was interrupted by car lights coming down the driveway. Rick Samuels' patrol car swung around the corner of the house, and he clambered out, so tall that getting out of the car was a process.

"Hi," I called out. "Want a beer?"

He shook his head. "I can't figure out if I'm here as an officer of the law or as a friend, so just in case, I better decline."

"You're no fun," I teased.

"No tonight I'm not, Kate. Mayor Thompson is in the hospital in Tyler in serious condition. They've pumped her stomach, and they think she'll make it, but she's one sick puppy."

My heart fell to the toes of my feet. "Food poisoning?"

"Yep. She claims it was the turnip greens. They tasted funny."

"Turnip greens? You ate them, Tom and Donna ate them, and everyone raved about how good they were. Can't have been. And chicken fried steak? How could someone poison that?" A corner of my mind, that I didn't even want to recognize, was realizing that Donna had fixed that to-go order. I took a big gulp of wine and asked, "Now what?"

He shrugged. "I've got a sample of the greens and sent them off to the state lab. I agree. I ate them and they were great."

"I'm never cooking turnip greens again," I vowed. "I'll put creamed spinach on the menu."

"You're closing the proverbial barn door too late. She's out to get you. Swears this is the straw that broke the camel's back. She'll sue."

"And then she thinks she'll buy the café at a bargain price," I said bitterly.

Having delivered his bad news, Rick sank into the other porch rocker. "You know what, I'll take that beer. I just declared myself off-duty."

I fetched him a cold Coors and refilled my wine. When I sat back down, I said, "At least you can't suspect me. I wasn't here when Gram died. If someone did something to the mayor's greens, it's a pattern."

He gave me that slight half-grin of his. "Are you going into detective work now? I never suspected you."

"I might have to go into detective work to keep the restaurant's reputation. I'm sure that woman will spread this all over the entire county."

"What's your plan? Or do you have one?"

"I don't," I replied. "I'll wait—well, first to be sure she recovers. Then to see what she does next. If she sues, I have a good lawyer, and the café has product liability insurance. Gram never ever had to use it, but her insurance agent said it was a good thing to have."

"I don't want to see the café close," he said slowly, "and I think it would be a very different place if Mayor Thompson owned it. Does she think you're making a fortune?"

I shrugged. "I don't know what she thinks. Overton tells me we're doing well, but there's no fortune as far as I can see." I waved my arm. "Look at my luxurious surroundings."

He actually chuckled, something I don't think I'd ever heard him do before. "Maybe not luxurious, but pleasant and comfortable. You seem happy and settled."

I began to rock harder. "As opposed to the girl you saw in bars in Dallas?" I asked sharply.

"Yes," he said in a soft voice.

We sat in companionable silence until he finished his beer and said he'd best be going. I stood up to say goodnight, and Rick Samuels did the most amazing thing. He kissed me, so gentle that it was almost like brushing his lips against mine. There was no passion, no lust, but there was caring, and I nearly collapsed in a bucket of tears. When he said, "Goodnight," I managed to answer in a fairly steady voice.

"'Night. And thanks for coming to warn me."

I sat on the porch for a long time, drinking yet a third glass of wine and wondering if my head would punish me in the morning. But mostly I reviewed the noon hour at the restaurant. I hadn't said it to Rick and I wouldn't unless I had to, but Donna had prepared that order and Tom had delivered it. Was Donna so mad about the withheld permits that she'd poison the mayor? Was Tom so ambitious to be mayor, as Gram had wanted? Were they in cahoots—after seeing them at noon I couldn't believe that!

I decided not to say anything about the mayor's illness at the restaurant the next morning—why start a gossipy panic until I knew something for sure? Donna showed up again about eight-thirty—what time did she think breakfast work began at a café? She greeted me cheerfully, put on a hairnet and apron, and took her place with Benny. Was I imagining the desperate look he threw me?

Mayor Angela Thompson remained eerily quiet the next day, and I felt the suspense. I suspect I might have felt better if she'd stormed in and raised a scene. But she didn't. I didn't even know if she was still in the hospital or not. Donna was back in the kitchen, which gave me another set of misgivings, but she was cheerfully helping Benny, and he seemed to make some progress with her. I still had not told any of the staff about the mayor's illness, and I wasn't going to if I didn't have to.

Rick didn't come in for lunch as usual; neither Tom nor Irv showed up. Steve Millican came by, sat at the counter, and ordered meatloaf. When I served it, he said casually, "I hear the mayor's sick and blaming it on your food."

Oh, great! "Is the news all over town?"

"Pretty much, but you'll notice it didn't stop me from eating here." He grinned.

"I'm glad to know it," I said. But there was nothing more to say, and nice as I found Steve, I was remembering Rick's light kiss of the night before.

Sooner or later, talk of the mayor filled the café, and the staff heard it. Most customers assured me it wouldn't stop them from eating at the café and one or two went so far as to say something to the effect that it couldn't happen to a nicer, more deserving person than the mayor.

One man asked, "Kate, got any of those greens left over? I'd eat 'em."

It was all I could do to manage a lighthearted retort: "I'm never cooking turnip greens again." A groan from the customer. "How do you feel about creamed spinach?" I asked. He shook his head and muttered, "Not too good."

Donna was visibly upset, and that old Shakespearean phrase went through my mind. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Who would do this to make us look bad?" then she wailed, "I'll never get those permits now."

Trust Donna to think of herself first in a crisis. But I did notice the plural pronoun she'd used and smiled at her.

"Do you think," she whispered, "that the mayor was faking to make the café lose business."

"Not if she was in the hospital," I said, still wondering where the men who could help me had gone.

I was wound so tight the rest of the day I kept thinking I might explode, but I managed to keep my cool, partly by slipping home both in mid-afternoon and after the dinner hour started. Then I came back to close for the night.

Once again, I sat on the porch with a glass of wine—and no food in my stomach. Not a good practice I knew. But like last night repeating itself, headlights came up the driveway and Rick's car turned the corner by the house. "Beer?" I asked.

This time he shook his head. "This is official business. I just didn't want to do it at the café."

It? What was it? "How's the mayor?"

"She'll live, but she's still in the hospital and bitchin' her head off. I know they'll release her sooner rather than later just to get rid of her. But the sample greens came back, Kate. There was a good bit of digitalis ground up in them. It's fortunate the mayor's a healthy woman."

"Digitalis? Heart medication." The one I'd wondered about with Gram. "How could it have gotten there?"

"You tell me. Start from the beginning with the greens. Who cooked them?"

I lowered my voice. "Donna."

"Donna? What was she doing in the kitchen?"

"She came to learn to cook for her B & B, and she volunteered to do the greens because it's one thing she knows how to do and she knows I can barely look at them after Gram's death. I watched her—she cleaned them carefully, stemmed them, seasoned them..."

"With what?" he interrupted.

"Salt pork, a bit of sugar, a tiny bit of cayenne."

"That's all?"

I nodded, and he asked, "Who fixed the plate or to-go box or whatever?"

"Donna, but Rick, she wouldn't do anything like that. She's mad at the mayor about the delay in remodeling permits, but Donna would never hurt anyone."

"I'd like to believe you, Kate, but I have to consider everyone a suspect. Did the mayor come get her order?"

"No, Tom took it to her. He does that a lot, says he likes to keep on the mayor's good side. I think he'd like to be the next mayor. That's what Gram wanted for him." Kate, when will you learn to simply answer the question and not throw in too much information? I had a feeling I'd just gotten suspicion thrown on both Donna and Tom. Rick would think they were in this together. Okay, the thought had flitted through my mind, but it hadn't stayed long. I knew it wasn't true.

Rick never sat down all this time. He stood with one foot on the second step, his hand on his knee, staring straight at me. I thought maybe he was watching for a reaction. Back to the all-business shtick.

"I can ask Tom this, but do you know if he handed the box directly to the mayor? Could it have sat untended where someone else could have gotten to it?

I repeated what Tom had told me about William Overton being there, but Rick just shrugged. "We can dismiss that milquetoast."

I wanted to retort, "But you have to consider all suspects." On the other hand, I agreed that William Overton lacked the courage or imagination to poison anyone.

Rick asked a few more questions that seemed unrelated, but then as he turned to leave, he said, "Be prepared, Kate. She's going to want someone's head for this one, and I suspect you're first in line."

"Thanks," I muttered. "'Night."

"Yeah, good night."

Sleep was impossible. I went over and over the previous day's events in my mind, but I saw no time when anyone could have slipped digitalis into the mayor's greens. And how was I going to make it known that other people had eaten the greens and were fine—someone was after the mayor. Should be a lot of suspects since she didn't exactly make friends wherever she went.

The next day was Wednesday. Two momentous things occur on Wednesdays: the Wheeler Tribune issues its weekly edition, and William Overton comes to review the books. The newspaper headline screamed what I expected: "Mayor Poisoned by Café Food." Mayor Thompson must have been well enough to talk to Stanley Wisenhunt, the editor, because he quoted her liberally in the article, including such unprofessional remarks as "The Blue Plate Café is a disgrace to Wheeler. It should have been closed a long time ago." She went on to say that now she would see that we were closed for good and the café re-opened under new management. She didn't exactly say who the new management would be, but she didn't have to. I knew too well. I decided it was time to call Don Davidson, and I did so as early as I thought he'd be in his office, walking outside to talk on my cell phone in privacy.

Don wasn't helpful. "There's not much we can do until she acts. Yes, she's slandering you, but I don't think it would hold up in court. You've got insurance..."

"Yes, product liability insurance. With Jim Jackson's agency who shares your building."

"Of course. I'll talk to him. Meantime, just sit tight and maybe start a PR campaign—advertise in the local paper, encourage word-of-mouth praise for the café, do whatever you can." He hesitated. "Without breaking the law." Did he mean that as funny?

His call didn't encourage me a lot, but I thought about a PR campaign. It would be an open declaration of war, but I was up for it. I decided to see if I could get testimonials from people who ate greens last Monday and put them in an ad in the paper—a big, splashy ad. Fortunately, the Wheeler Tribune ad rates were a far cry from the Dallas papers or even Tyler.

I thought of Tom and Donna but dismissed them—family and obviously biased. Rick? I doubted he could do that with his official position. Steve Millican? Did he eat greens? I couldn't remember, but if he came in for lunch, I'd ask him. I decided on meatloaf again as the special—two days in a row—hoping the aroma would drift across the street and lure him in. I'd almost given up, but he ambled through the door a little after one.

"Hi," I greeted him. Wow, original.

"Hi, yourself," he said, sitting at the counter. "How's things? I see the mayor is out to close down the café, and the police chief has been calling on you at night."

I sighed. "About the mayor's illness. Steve, did you eat greens Monday?"

"Sure did. I thought I told you how good they were."

"Would you be willing to testify in an ad in the paper—you know, your picture and all?"

He turned beet red, looked down at his flatware and began to fumble with it. "Kate, I'd love to help, but I can't afford that kind of publicity, not with my picture shown around."

There it was again, that secret something about him. Made me more curious than ever, but I simply told him I understood (which of course I didn't) and asked what he wanted for lunch. Meatloaf, of course, in a sandwich. "I smelled it clear across the street."

Now what? Could I begin casually asking customers? That seemed awkward. I settled for a hand-lettered sign, in my best printing, by the cash register. It said, "If you ate turnip greens here on Monday, July 7, please see Kate." Everyone, well at least the regulars, knew who Kate was.

To my pleased surprise, a few people stopped as they paid their bills. "I ate those greens," one man said. "Damn good, if you ask me." I asked if he'd let me take his picture with my cell phone and quote him in the newspaper. "This is about the mayor, isn't it? Sure thing. I'll let you do that. Never did like that woman. Not sure who voted for her." I took his picture—he smiled self-consciously—and wrote, "Those turnip greens were damn good." Then I got him to sign a permission. Over the dinner hour, I got two more volunteers—one of them Irv Litman—hmmm, what kind of impression would that make? And one a lady from the church who'd lived in Wheeler for years and eaten at the café just as long.

William Overton's visit was uneventful, or almost so. He showed me columns of figures that showed we were indeed making a profit. "Should I raise salaries?" I asked. "Some of these people have been here a long time, probably without much increase in pay."

"I'd advise against that," he said. "We'll just keep adding to the café's portfolio."

Gram had apparently been investing surplus monies in a Vanguard account, and according to Overton it was growing nicely. Having never had a portfolio, I didn't know much about whether it really was doing well or not. I'd have to ask Don Davidson to check next time he was in town. But then he'd said everything was in order, so maybe I should just trust Overton. Gram apparently did. And I didn't have the time or energy to check on all that.

"You could take out group health insurance for your employees under one of several small business plans. I suspect it wouldn't cost you as much and might be of more benefit to them than a raise."

"Great idea," I said. "Will you do some research and get back to me?"

"I'd be glad to." He zipped up his briefcase and now clutched it in his hands, what I considered his most characteristic pose. "I'll be going now unless there's anything else."

"No, nothing else," I began, and then rushed on, "There is one thing I'm curious about. Why did Gram stop donating to civic improvement in Wheeler?"

He shrugged. "I should think it's obvious. She and the mayor really disliked each other."

I had never known Gram to dislike anyone, but it was sure possible with the mayor. "Do you have a written request from Gram to stop the donations?"

Overton stared at his pencil. "No, it's something we talked about. But I have requests for each individual donation she made. They were sporadic, each earmarked for a different thing, like upgrading city hall or cleaning the front of the bank."

"And you have those requests on file?"

"In the safety deposit box," he said, almost primly. "Do you want to see them?"

"No, no. I take your word for it. I'm just glad to know they're there."

Muttering his thanks, he left, clutching the briefcase as though a street thug might try to grab it out of his hands.
Chapter Twelve

That night I carefully pasted up an ad with type from my computer. I figured Stanley Wisenhunt would welcome it if he didn't have to do much to it. Next morning after the breakfast rush, I went to the Tribune office, two rooms at the back of a real estate office that had begun to flourish lately.

Stanley stared at it a long time then looked at me from under his eyeshade—yes, in this day and age, he still wore one and had rubber bands holding his sleeves tight so they wouldn't get ink on them. I wondered if he still set display type by hand, though I could see Marcella, his one employee, typing copy into a computer.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asked me in a slow, deliberate tone. "Might stir up more trouble."

"War is war," I said. What I didn't tell him, and hadn't even told Don Davidson, was that the mayor was indeed poisoned and lucky to be alive. That just didn't mean the digitalis came from the café.

"Well," he said, "you got till next Monday to change your mind. I'll send you a bill if you don't."

I thanked him and left, not without a bit of misgiving.

From then on, I launched an extra campaign to visit tables, ask people how their food was, tell them how glad we were they came in to eat with us. I encouraged Marj to do the same thing, although her manner was a little more straightforward: "Hey, you old goat, how'd you like your dinner?" or, to one man whose wife was sitting right there, "Good as what you get at home or better, ain't it?" I suggested she tone it down just a bit.

Mayor Thompson was still eerily quiet and not seen around town—I wondered if she was still really sick or hiding out deliberately. But on Thursday, Rick walked into the café about ten, sat at the counter, and thrust some papers in my hand. "You've been served. She's suing."

I sighed. "I've been expecting this. I'll get these to my lawyer first thing right away. Thanks, I guess." My smile was wry.

Rick did a complete turnabout on the conversation. "Can I have a sticky bun? I didn't get breakfast this morning."

I looked and there were two left. I heated one and brought it to him, then poured him a cup of coffee.

"Good, this will put me on a sugar high till lunch." He actually smiled. Then, almost bashfully, "Kate, could you get away tonight to go to dinner in Canton? There's that little Italian place. I even have a bottle of red wine to take with us."

"Are you allowed to leave town?" I asked.

He sat up straighter. "I'll have you know I have a deputy now."

"Who?"

"Tom Bryson, your brother-in-law."

My jaw dropped. Why would Tom do that?

Rick must have read my mind. "He's really going to run for mayor, and he figures this is one way to show his civic interest. No pay. Pure volunteer work."

And, I thought, gives him something to think about besides Donna and Irv Litman. Aloud, I said, "Could we go early so I'd be back to close up and get the charge slips."

He actually smiled again. "Now who's tied to their job? Sure we could."

"Let me talk to Marj."

Marj said she could pull in an extra waitress and handle the cash register herself. Her opinion was that I should go, and so I told Rick yes. He said he'd pick me up at five so we'd be back in plenty of time.

After he left, I put in a call to Don Davidson, but a recorded message told me he was out of the office. Anxious as I was to deal with this matter, I practically yelled at the recording. In reality I left a polite but urgent message and tucked the papers into a drawer in my desk, one with a lock.

The morning dragged on toward lunchtime. I read the legal papers but couldn't make much sense of them—hadn't I worked for a lawyer? What struck me was that she was charging premeditated malice. Wrong, wrong, wrong! She also charged the Blue Plate Café with deliberately poisoning her, as opposed to other customers who had not gotten sick. I figured she'd have to show believable cause on that one. Don Davidson could figure it out. Meantime, impulsively, I called Stan Wisenhunt and pulled that ad from next week's paper. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea. Then I called Don Davidson at home, explained I'd be in Canton this evening, and could I drop the papers in his mail chute. He said sure, he'd look at them tomorrow.

At home by four that afternoon. I was in the eternal dilemma of what to wear. No Dallas date outfits, not simple black with pearls. This was country and casual. I finally decided on beige linen slacks and a bright turquoise knit shirt, with flat brown sandals—Rick was tall enough that I could wear heels, but I was out of practice walking in them. And I wanted comfort. So I polished my toenails.

He was at the house at five sharp, and we set off, driving in peaceful silence after exchanging "How was your day?" pleasantries. I liked it that we didn't have to talk every minute, and I stared out the window at once-familiar landscape, now changed. I spotted the vegetable stand where Gram used to buy some local produce and the dog kennel where I'd begged her to buy me a cocker spaniel. Wise woman she was, she refused.

"See that house over there?" Rick interrupted my reverie, pointing to a substantial two-story house, red brick, with while pillars and a white board fence. I'd always admired the place because it was more neatly kept than some of its neighbors.

"Um-hmm," I murmured.

"Nicest people you'd ever know. Until she stabbed him one night with a butcher knife. Seems he'd been beating her for years." He shook his head. "The things you find out about people in my job," he said.

"Are you giving me a hint?" I asked.

He grinned. "Yeah, I guess I am, Kate. Just don't be surprised at what turns up in this business about your grandmother and the mayor."

Was he thinking of Tom and Donna? I sure was, and I hated it. "I'll tell you what," I said. "Let's resolve to put it out of our minds tonight—promise not to mention it—and have a pleasant, relaxing supper."

He looked contrite. "Good idea. I'm sorry I brought it up. I don't know what I was thinking, except that Mayor Thompson would be furious if she knew I'm taking you to dinner."

"You don't work for her, do you?" I asked tartly.

"No, but she thinks I do."

"Well, maybe you better educate her." Rick Samuels didn't seem at all to be one to be intimidated by a—okay forgive the phrase—bitchy woman, and yet sometimes I thought the mayor had him under her thumb. Not as much as she did Tom, but still...

In the end, we followed our resolve and put the whole thing out of our minds. We slipped the papers in Don's mailbox and went on to the restaurant, which was typically Italian, almost cloying with its attempt at atmosphere—checkered tablecloths, latticework with fake greens on it, candles that had been stuck in old Chianti bottles and allowed to drip wax down the bottles. Lighting was so dim I could barely see the menu, and I laughed aloud when Rick handed me a small pocket flashlight. "Official equipment," he said."

I ordered the veal piccata, one of my all-time favorites, while he had lasagna. "I only brought red wine," he said apologetically. "Is that all right with veal?"

"Of course. That old business of pairings isn't so strict these days."

While we lingered over wine and an appetizer of stuffed mushrooms, we talked about Dallas, laughing that we'd been to all the same bars in North Dallas. I found out his wife had left him, actually cheated on him, and he tried to put himself back together in the bar scene. It didn't work, and he was eventually demoted for being unable to work too many days. That led to his coming, reluctantly, to Wheeler. "It doesn't seem so bad these days," he said, "except for your grandmother and the mayor."

I in turn confessed that I'd been the party girl hiding from herself, avoiding looking at where I was going, what I was doing with my life. "My first thought was to get out of Wheeler," I said, "and I did it. But I guess I paid a penalty." I did stress that I'd held a really good job, had a condominium, and lived a good life—okay, except maybe for the bar scene.

He reached across the table and took my hand. "We have a lot in common. Running away from ourselves. How do you feel about it now that you're back in Wheeler?"

I hesitated, but I didn't move my hand. "You know, I haven't had time to think about it, but I guess I'm glad to be here, out of Dallas. I like the café, the way people greet me, and I love cooking. I want to have more time to change the menu. I've just been so involved I haven't had time to do it, but I've added my own chicken salad and tuna salad. I'm experimenting with mixed greens salad instead of the iceberg and cabbage we serve."

His eyes crinkled in a way I'd never seen them do. "Cooking wasn't exactly what I was asking about. How about social life in Wheeler?"

"There isn't much—tonight excepted. But I guess I haven't missed it. I've been too tired. Maybe that's good for me. How about you?"

"Well, let's say I'm reading a lot more than I used to. But I think I like not running from myself."

A sudden thought dawned on me. "Did you have children?"

"No," he said with regret. "I wish I had. You?"

"No." And then, for some reason we both laughed. It was a strange question to ask on a first date.

The veal piccata was really good, lemony and creamy and wonderful. I could never add it to the Blue Plate menu—folks would think I was taking on airs. Rick praised his lasagna equally, and I did think maybe I should add an occasional Italian dish to the menu, maybe not lasagna but an easier Italian-style casserole or spaghetti with meat sauce.. Meatballs were way too much trouble for mass cooking. I'd have to start experimenting.

"What would you think about spaghetti with meat sauce at the café?" I asked.

He clapped his hand to his forehead. "I take her out to a nice dinner, and all she can think about is her café!"

I laughed. "Not true." But I was thinking about it and would do some experimenting at home. Then it dawned on me: spaghetti with meat sauce was what Steve Millican had intended to fix me. I'd ask him about it.

I had no need to ask Steve. He came for lunch the next day. The special was roast chicken, and he looked so disappointed he ordered a hamburger. I told him I had a new version of potato salad to go with it, and asked if he wanted it.

"Sure, I'll try it." When I came back with his Coke, he said, "I see you went out to dinner with the chief of police last night. Go to Canton?"

I stammered. "Yes, as a matter of fact we did. How did you know?"

"I saw him pick you up. I was at the nursery. After all, you went pretty early."

"I had to get back to close up," I said. Why was I explaining all this to him?

"Well, I still want to cook you dinner. How about tonight?"

I calculated. It was Friday, a busy evening but not as bad as Saturday. Marj could handle it, and I hated to put Steve off, when he was obviously already jealous. I'd come back to close. "I'd like that," I said. "Let me check it with Marj." I admit a question went through my head about how Rick would react. I told myself I was a free agent, grown girl, and could do what I pleased. I sure wasn't going to ask Rick's permission. And I was having dinner two successive nights with two different men. Not quite Dallas but darn good!

Marj agreed it would be fine, though she raised her eyebrows and I knew she was thinking, "Again?" I came back to the counter to tell Steve I'd look forward to spaghetti and meatballs.

"How'd you know what I was going to fix?"

"That's what you said when you were going to cook before, before someone trashed your nursery. Besides, I'm thinking of putting that on the menu here, so I'll need your expertise."

He laughed. "You can probably do a lot better than I can, but I'll do my best to be helpful. I'll be at your house around five-thirty, so you can get back to close."

Was he being facetious?

Steve arrived promptly at five-thirty, all cleaned up in starched jeans and a denim shirt, carrying bags of groceries which, as he unloaded them, revealed pasta, ground beef, canned tomatoes, canned tomato sauce, Parmesan (I wondered where he'd found the real kind and not the sawdust that came out of a shaker), a bottle of Chianti, some spices, even butter. And, of course, salad goods and French bread, which he's apparently already sliced and prepared with butter, parsley and garlic (I could smell the garlic across the room).

"I do have a few basics here, you know," I said indignantly.

"Never know about you single girls. Especially one who works in a café."

As it turned out I learned something really helpful from Steve. One reason I'd been hesitant to add meatballs to the menu was that making those tiny balls of seasoned meat and browning them is time-consuming enough for a dinner for four; in restaurant quantity, it seemed an impossible task. But Steve baked them. Went so much faster and tasted every bit as good. "You can make them, and freeze any leftovers," he said, "as long as you haven't put sauce on them." Even better!

"Want to quit the nursery and come cook for me?" I joked.

He shook his head. "Nope, I've found my place—I hope."

While he worked on his meatballs, I cut up the salad, but he refused to let me dress it. "I make my own," he said. "None of this bottled stuff." And indeed he had a small Mason jar of dressing among his supplies—no wonder it took two full grocery bags for one meal!

He poured Chianti, and I set the kitchen table for two, then perched on a chair while he stirred his sauce, "It's better if it simmers a day, but this will do." He seasoned, and he tasted, and he seasoned again, then he poured in just a bit of the wine.

"How's your sister?" I asked conversationally.

"Hanging in there. She refuses to go back to Dallas, which is what I want her to do."

"Why?"

"I've brought her enough trouble, and she just doesn't need to babysit me anymore. She needs to get on with her life, in Dallas, where she might meet a nice man."

I could testify to the folly of that thinking, but I kept quiet.

He tossed the salad and put it in the small wooden bowls I'd laid out. I had also gotten out my pasta bowls, relic of my days of cooking in Dallas, and Steve ladled fettuccini into them, topped it generously with red sauce and three meatballs each, sprinkled it with Parmesan for which he had one of those graters like they use in restaurants, and served it with a flourish. "Your dinner, madame."

It was delicious, just seasoned enough with Italian flavors but not overwhelming, the sauce rich and thick, the pasta perfectly al dente, the meatballs melt-in-your-mouth, the tart salad just right as a complement to the spaghetti.

"Seriously, I want to know how you do it," I said. "This is wonderful, and I think it would make a great special for the restaurant."

He pretended modesty. "Aw, shucks," but then said seriously, "I can tell you approximately. You'll have to experiment with proportions for quantity cooking. But I'll write it down for you tomorrow."

He even cleared, scraped and washed dishes. "I really do want you to work in the restaurant," I laughed.

"Can we take a last glass of wine out on the porch, now that there's a bit of an evening breeze?" he asked.

"Sure. I'll get some mosquito stuff for us."

"You don't think Samuels will come by, do you?"

"Steve, he doesn't come by every night. He just did that because of the mayor's poisoning. Now I've been served with a suit and taken the papers to my lawyer."

"Okay. There's something I want to talk about."

My heart sank. I didn't want the evening to turn serious, but it did in a way I never anticipated.

Steve said, "I know there are rumors about me around town, and after that night of destruction, I know you wonder. So here it is: I got involved with the wrong crowd in Dallas—lots of alcohol, some drugs. I dabbled in it, didn't do the hard stuff, never sold, but I was mixed up with some bad boys, and they pressured me to take more part in what they were doing, especially dealing. That's why Joanie and I moved out here, took new names, and started over. When the nursery was trashed, I knew they'd found me, so I don't know when or where it will end. But Joanie doesn't need to be involved in it. And neither do you, much as I'd like to pursue that."

I put a hand on his. "Steve, right now I'm not ready for a serious relationship—with you, with Rick Samuels, or with anyone else. I'm feeling my way in a whole new life and leaving behind a life that maybe wasn't quite as fraught with danger as yours but was still nothing I wrote home to Gram about. Let's just be friends and not worry about where it goes." Golly, Kate, you're good.

He nodded. "There's one more thing. Chief Samuels arrested me once in Dallas, so he knows my background. And he's sure I'm bringing trouble to Wheeler. You should have heard him the night of the nursery catastrophe. I don't know how to convince him I'm through with that stuff. I just want to garden."

My nurturing urge made me want to jump in and say, "Let me talk to him." But that was wrong, and I knew it. Steve would have to prove it himself. "Start by talking to him," I said.

"Yeah, sure." He got up, went inside, and began cleaning up.

"You don't have to do that," I said. "I can do it in a snap."

He looked at his watch. "It's about time for you to go close up. I'll clean up and close the back door."

"Thanks," I said, and then because he looked like a little boy who needed a hug, I gave him an affectionate quick hug, which he totally misunderstood. He hugged me, hard, and tried to kiss me, but I pulled away and said, "No, Steve. That wasn't that kind of hug." I fled out the door.

I closed up and was back home about nine-thirty, grateful that the kitchen was sparkling clean, the lights on, the house cool. I'd had enough wine already that evening, but I treated myself to one more small glass while I sat at the kitchen table and tried to puzzle out Steve and Rick. What difference did it make now that I knew about Steve's background? Or maybe it didn't make any. But it mattered to Rick, and somehow I didn't want to anger him. But I sure didn't want to get involved with either of them.

When I went to bed, I noticed that the books on my bedside table were rearranged. Wandering into the living room, I saw that the pictures on the mantel were slightly askew, as though someone had picked them up, examined them, and then put them back. What was Steve Millican looking for? I didn't sleep well that night and reminded myself again about the alarm system.
Chapter Thirteen

I was up early the next morning, a Saturday when lots of people came for breakfast. But about ten I sneaked home for a breather. Tom was in my back yard, cutting poke sallet. "Whatever are you doing?" I called out.

He stood up, looked guilty, and then strode over to me. "I was cutting some of your poke sallet. I figured you wouldn't eat it."

I shook my head. "No, I won't. But will you?"

"Sure. My grandmother taught me to cook it the right way, and every once in a while, I get a real taste for it."

"Tom Bryson, did you sneak over here in the night when I had your girls and cut poke sallet?" I demanded.

He hung his head. "Yeah. I wanted to make sure everything was quiet and okay—you know, it's silly to worry about the girls what with all that's been going on, but I do. I couldn't sleep, and I was thinking about them, and then somehow I thought about this poke sallet. So I kind of made it a two-for-one trip."

"Well, they'd have been safer if you'd called," I said, hands on my hips. "You scared the daylights out of us, and I had to sleep with them the rest of the night. Besides I was suspicious about what was happening to the poke sallet. I thought maybe someone had put it in Gram's greens and then in the mayor's, until the lab report came back."

He looked amazed. "Kate, I would never hurt Gram. Now I sure might be tempted with the mayor, but you know I wouldn't do that. Besides, I thought it was digitalis."

I wondered if that lab report was public. If not, how did Tom know? And where would he get digitalis? Out of Gram's medicine cabinet, that's where. I needed to throw the damn stuff out. I hated even thinking these thoughts about Tom, so my anger sort of deflated, and I said, "I know. I'm just so confused and worried. I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Tom smiled. "Well, I won't drop it. Now I got to get home and boil these greens three times."

"Does Donna eat them?"

"Not on your life, but she's in Dallas this weekend. She took Ava with her—a shopping trip for school. So I'm batching it with two kids."

Hmm. Curious. "Let me know if I can help with the children. I don't really know Henry, but Jess and I are special friends."

"I'll bring them to the café for catfish tonight," he promised, getting out of the chair.

"I have a totally unrelated subject. William Overton is such a strange duck. What do you know about him?"

Tom sat back down. "Not much. He just appeared in town, three, maybe four years ago, and advertised his services as a CPA. Rents that two-room cottage next to old Mrs. Baird's house, and uses one room as a sort of office cum living room. It has a small counter kitchen. But he's got his diploma and CPA certificate framed on the wall. I guess the other room is his bedroom."

"Why ever did he choose Wheeler? Is he another drop-out from Dallas?"

Tom spread his hands. "I honestly don't know, never asked. I assumed Gram grilled him pretty thoroughly before she asked him to keep her books."

"I still can't believe she did that."

He shook his head. "Neither can I, but Kate, Gram was slowing down a bit. She got tired more easily lately."

"She could have called me," I said.

"Be real, Kate. You had your life in Dallas. I don't think she thought for a minute you'd come home to run the restaurant."

It was the sort of slap I deserved, and I didn't tell him that Gram had practically ordered me to come home.

"Got to go check on my chickens. See you tonight." He headed down the driveway, whistling as he went.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table pondering this exchange. I should have asked if Irv Litman was in Wheeler this weekend, but that would have been too obvious. Did Tom know what was going on between Donna and Irv, or at least what I strongly suspected was going on? These questions kept me occupied so long that I was late for the lunch crowd. Just as I pulled a clean apron out of the cupboard and headed for the café, Gram said, "Take care of my grandchildren, Kate. They're going to need you. I am sorry to put such a heavy burden on you." Yeah, I thought, they need someone, and Tom's doing the best he can.

Marj threw me a look, but I got right to work, taking orders and handling the cash register. We were swamped, and Marj was in the weeds.

Tom brought Henry and Jess in that night for catfish, as he promised, and I took time to eat dinner with them. Henry was fairly silent, especially when his father made him put away his cell phone with games on it, but Jess talked my ear off about going into second grade in the fall, missing her mommy and why couldn't she go shopping in Dallas, needing a dog to love, and a thousand other things.

"Maybe I'll get a dog, and you can come take care of it, Jess," I said.

"Kate, that's taking the responsibilities of an aunt a little far," Tom said quietly.

"Well, I'd like a dog. We'll have to go to the Humane Society in Tyler and look at the dogs. Maybe next weekend, Jess, just you and me."

She screamed with delight, startling several patrons, and Henry who had been looking thoroughly bored, said, "I want to go too."

"Jess, shall we let him go with us?"

Always sweet natured, she said, "I guess so," and Tom said he figured he'd better go to keep us all out of trouble.

I assigned Jess the chore of going online and checking out the dogs at the shelter, and I asked Henry if he'd help her with the computer work involved. Both of them were delighted.

Little did we know that by next weekend our lives would be turned upside down.

****

Donna and Ava came home on Monday, and Donna invited me to supper with them—which meant chicken and dumplings from the café. Mondays were usually slow, so I packed up the dinner order and went to their house.

After the pleasantries were over and the wine poured, I asked, "Have a good weekend?"

Before Donna could say anything, Ava said, "We had a wonderful time. Mom and Irv bought me a lot of school clothes." Henry looked disinterested, but Jess's ears perked up at this and she did look a bit envious—"Irv took us to this really fancy place, the Hotel St... She paused and looked at her mother.

Donna avoided my eyes. "Hotel St. Germaine."

"We had a seven-course dinner—I was so stuffed! And the place was fancy, fancy, with drapes hung everywhere and white linen tablecloths, and Mom and Irv drank what he said was a fine wine."

"Sounds wonderful," I said, worried by all the mention of Irv. Ava seemed to have no hesitation about bringing his name into the conversation. "Where did you stay?"

"The Adolphus," Ava said, "and they have the most amazing—what's it called, Mom. Not just tea."

"High tea," Donna supplied.

"Finger sandwiches and all kinds of good treats."

By now Jess was looking at Ava as though she had been to Disney World, and I wondered if I should offer to take the child to Dallas sometime.

Tom came in a few minutes later, and Donna raised her cheek for a peck, but there was no hug, no, "Honey, I missed you" on either side.

Ava kept quiet about her good time, for once showing some good sense that I didn't think she had.

Dinner was a subdued affair, with desultory talk about the café and the hardware store, Henry's upcoming softball season, the beginning of school, and so on. I imagine Donna was bursting to talk about the B & B, but she kept her mouth uncharacteristically quiet—as long as she could.

"I chose appliances for the B & B," she said, addressing Tom. "We went to a wholesale home supply outlet, sort of an upscale Home Depot, and I got some wonderful faucets and things that will fit the era of the house. And I ordered soapstone counters for the kitchen."

"Soapstone?" Tom asked. "It's pretty expensive, and it pits. Maintenance is hard."

Donna pouted. "But it's so lovely to look at and to feel."

Tom shrugged.

And that's sort of the way the evening went. Tom never brought up Irv, never asked if soapstone was his choice, how she got to the wholesale place, none of the obvious questions. And I was betting he'd never see a bill for the stay at the Adolphus.

The tension in the atmosphere increased by the minute. The children drifted away, Ava and Henry to their TV games and Jess to a book. As soon as I gracefully could, I excused myself and went home, wondering what Tom and Donna would find to say to each other, once left alone.

I didn't have long to wonder. Tom was the first breakfast customer in the morning, so early that I had finished the sticky buns but didn't have to worry about customers. He sat at the corner table, ordered eggs, bacon, and a sticky bun, and asked if I would join him. I brought my coffee to the table when I served him.

Tom didn't mince words. "She's having an affair with him, isn't she?"

I scalded my tongue on hot coffee in my haste to swallow. I wasn't going to lie to Tom. "I don't know. She surely hasn't confided in me. But, yes, it looks that way to me."

"Kate, I love that woman. God help me, I wish I knew why, but I do. I'm willing to do anything to keep her. But do you know how long it's been since I've slept with my wife?"

Oh, oh, too much information. I sure wasn't going to take a stab at what I sincerely hoped was a rhetorical question.

"I don't know how I can help you, Tom. Yes, I think she's infatuated with Irv. Do I think she's sleeping with him?" I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. Surely not if she took Ava to Dallas with her."

He didn't look much consoled. "I can't just take him out in the alley and beat the bejesus out of him which is what I would have done in high school if anyone looked at her."

I smiled, "No, you can't. And I don't think it's Irv, as much as it's the money he has, the backing he's giving her for the B & B which is right now her obsession. In fact, I think it's more the B & B than it is Irv. Donna married you right out of high school. She never had a chance to—okay, it's a cliché—but she never had a chance to spread her wings and find herself."

"Suited me just fine," he muttered.

"Well, you're different people. Right now she needs more in her life than her husband and kids. I'm sorry, but that's how I see it."

He shook his head. "That's another thing—the way she takes care of the kids—or should we say, doesn't take care of the kids. Henry's doing okay, 'cause he can do guy things with me. But Ava is kind of lost in her mother's world of, oh, I don't know—clothes and things are important. And Jess..."

"Jess is a lamb," I said. "She needs love, and I'll do all I can."

"They all need love...and so do I," he said bitterly. Without another word he got up and left half his breakfast uneaten. I picked up an untouched piece of bacon and nibbled at it, while I sat there and thought. It didn't get me anywhere. I didn't really think Tom would do anything violent—after all, wasn't he now a deputy policeman? But I ached for him.

Marj finally came over and started clearing the table, jarring me out of my reverie. "You okay?"

"No, but I will be someday." I heard Gram telling me to hang in there, that things would work out, and nobody I loved would be hurt. Gram, I have a hard time believing that right now.

Irv Litman returned to town on Tuesday. The only reason I know that is that he and Tom had lunch in the café. When I looked up and saw them at the "infamous" table, my heart began to race, my thoughts churning. My first thought was that I didn't want a fight in the café, but beyond that I worried about what they were saying. Strangely enough, they seemed to be having an okay discussion—maybe not cordial, but not antagonistic. I saw no clenched fists, no grim facial expressions.

"Marj," I said, nodding my head in their direction, "would you mind taking their orders?" The farther I stayed out of this one, the better.

When they finished their meal, they actually shook hands. Irv grabbed the check and after a minute of what looked like a grab session, Tom tipped his hat to Irv and left.

When Irv checked out, I said in my usual manner, "Everything okay? You enjoy your meal?"

"I did, thank you, Kate. It was a good lunch, and a good conversation. I'm really looking forward to becoming part of life in Wheeler."

I managed to murmur, "Good," as I counted out his change.

Meantime, I was worrying about hearing from Don Davidson. The idea of being sued had really never left my mind all weekend, not even through dinner with Rick and, the next night, dinner with Steve. Rick and I didn't mention it, and I never told Steve or Marj or anyone at the restaurant, but it was there, gnawing at my mind.

I reached for the phone to call Don and then thought better of it. He would have called if he weren't busy. I would wait—as patiently as I could.

Tom sneaked in through the kitchen door late that afternoon, wondering if we had any apple pie. I sliced a piece, topped with ice cream, and sat him on a stool in the kitchen while I breaded steaks to be chicken fried. I couldn't help myself. "Enjoy your lunch?" Kate, keep your nose out of other people's business.

"Yeah, I did. Litman's not a bad guy, and he came right out and brought up the subject of an affair between him and Donna. Said for me not to worry. He has great admiration for Donna and her talent, but he doesn't poach on another man's territory and, besides, he's newly enough divorced he doesn't want another woman in his life. Took a load off my mind."

"Great," I said, suspecting my reaction was half-hearted. Was Irv the smoothest liar in town or was Tom the most gullible man, hearing what he wanted to believe? "I'm fully behind the B & B now," Tom went on, talking around a mouthful of pie. If Henry did that, Tom would scold him. "I'm going to help them every way I can. I'll get materials at cost for them."

We talked a bit longer until Tom dumped his dish and fork in the dirty dish bin and left the same way he came in.

I was contemplating putting a security pad with coded numbers on the back door when Gus said, "Miss Kate, look out!" The terror in his voice alerted me. Some grease had spilled into the stove burner and caught fire. I grabbed the baking soda I always kept handy and poured almost the whole box on the flames, which promptly disappeared.

"You burned your hair," Gus said, "but you were brave. Thank you. I was scared."

I never thought of myself as brave, so his words came as a surprise. I had just reacted automatically, the way Gram had taught me. It took a second for Gus' other words to register: I had burned my hair. Now I could smell the stench, and I rushed to the restroom to check. Sure enough, the hair on the front and sides of my head was sizzled. With my curly hair, it didn't show too much, and the smell would go away rapidly. I wondered what I would have done if I'd really been threatened. We were having too many accidents in the kitchen—the broken dishes, a grease fire. I suspected it was because everyone was on edge.

By Tuesday night, I still hadn't heard from Don Davidson, and I slept fitfully, dreaming of Rick Samuels boarding up the Blue Plate and saying, "Sorry, it belongs to the mayor now." Wynona jumped in alarm when I sat up in bed and screamed—was this what people called night terrors? I resolved to call Don next morning and lay awake tossing and turning the rest of the night. I liked to think I was normally happy and optimistic, blessed with a realistic outlook on life and a sense of humor. But this night I had lost it all—I saw threats in the shadows on the wall from passing car lights and I heard things go bump in the night. Where are you, Gram? Come talk to me. But she was silent.

I called Don's office as soon as the breakfast rush was over. A woman answered. Turned out she was his wife, he'd been in a bad automobile accident on the way home from a long fishing weekend, and was in the hospital. I expressed appropriate sympathy and asked when he'd be back in the office. "They're telling me four months, if he's lucky. Two broken legs, a broken rib, and a slight concussion."

I was horrified for him—and for myself. My reaction must have been evident from my silence. "I'm referring urgent things to other lawyers. I can give you a couple of names in Canton and Tyler, if you want."

I thanked her and wrote down the information like a robot. Then I remembered to ask about Gram's will and probate. That had long since passed from my mind, overshadowed by more serious concerns. But I knew Donna was still concerned—and Tom.

"Wait a second. I can look up the file." I heard computer keys clicking, and then she was back. "Since it's routine, it's been referred to another lawyer. I'm sure you'll hear from her soon. But I don't see anything in Don's record about the lawsuit, probably because he was actively working on it."

I managed to ask her to give him my best wishes for recovery and to let me know when he was handling cases again. I even asked if there was anything I could do for her, but she replied that she was just taking it a day at a time and had the support of family in Canton. We hung up, and I'm sure she checked me off a list as sort of "case solved." Only it wasn't solved.

I ran through the kitchen and out the back door—unlocked as usual—and had myself a good cry, sitting on Gus's stump. I saw him look out the door once and then disappear inside. It was Rick, who came out the back door toward me.

"Kate? Marj told me you were out here. What's happened?"

Feeling like a fool, I wiped at my face with my apron. "I'll put on a clean apron when I go back in," I said.

He laughed, just a bit. "I'm not concerned about the apron. It's you. What's the matter?"

A pity party, that's definitely what I was having, and even his presence didn't make me give it up. "Everything," I said, sobbing again. "Gram's death, the mayor's lawsuit, Donna and the damned B & B, Irv Litman, and now my lawyer's been in an accident and is out of commission for at least four months."

He put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You need another lawyer."

"I know. I just hate to start over with someone I don't know. I'm going to think about it today."

Rick hunkered down next to me. "I'm sort of between a rock and a hard place—she's the mayor, and I have to follow the law, but my sympathies are all with you. I don't know what to do to help you."

"You can't. Just do what you have to do. I'm sorry for being such a dope—I guess I just let it all get to me. I'll be okay in a few minutes." I tried to smile. "Want a sticky bun?"

"No," he laughed. "I just had breakfast, but I'll take a cup of coffee after you run home and fix your face."

"I look that bad, huh?"

Solemnly, "Yeah, you do. Don't go back in the café looking like that. I'll come back later for that coffee."

I started toward my house, and as I turned I saw Steve Millican turning and going back into his nursery. I guessed he'd been watching.

When I got in the house, the first thing I did was to call David Clinkscales, the lawyer for whom I'd worked in Dallas.
Chapter Fourteen

A secretary I didn't know answered, but David was on the line almost immediately. "You calling to tell me you've given up small-town life and want y our job back? It's yours." His voice, so familiar and competent yet friendly, was reassuring.

"Nope, don't want my job back. I'm happy here except I'm embroiled in all kinds of messes, one of them requiring a lawyer. Gram's lawyer—Don Davidson, know him?—was in a bad accident and can't work for—"

David cut me off. "Davidson in an accident? How bad? He's quite a bit older than I am, but I know him through legal society meetings and the like. I'll want to do something appropriate—what, flowers?"

"Probably not," I replied. "How about something to save his wife from cooking? A fruit basket? Some ready-prepared things from Harry and David, even a catering service if there's a good one in Canton."

"And how am I supposed to know that if you're not here to find out for me?"

I laughed. "Okay, I'll find out, if you'll let me send you some papers. I'm being sued—long story short the mayor, who was a thorn in Gram's side and now is doing her best to do that to me, is suing. Claims she was poisoned by turnip greens. She actually did spend several days in the hospital, but I've collected testimonials from people who ate greens here the same day, and they're all fine. Several said they were the best greens they'd had since Gram died."

"Okay, I need to see the papers."

"I'll have Davidson's office send them by courier this afternoon, if I can get a courier service out of Canton."

"Kate, I've wanted to get away for a while, and my wife's out of town for the weekend. You did invite me to the café anytime, didn't you? You hold on to those papers and I'll be down by lunchtime Friday. Make me a B & B reservation, and I'll take out my fee in Blue Plate meals. Sound like a deal?"

"Sounds like a great deal, David. And thank you. I'll have a place for you to stay, one where you can read and work and be comfortable, and I'll feed you so well you'll gain too much weight." A corner of my mind was glad Donna's B & B was still just a dream.

He laughed. "See you Friday for a late lunch, probably about one. Can you join me by then?"

"I'll look forward to it." There was one of the nicest guys in the whole world. Too bad he was happily married.

I found David a guest cabin on a ranch, small but all the amenities. WiFi, TV, breakfast goods he probably wouldn't eat, and solitude, which I instinctively gathered he wanted.

True to his word, David walked in just before one o'clock. I deliberately did not put him at that jinxed corner table but instead at one close to the cash register. He studied the menu and ordered chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and black-eyed peas. I resisted the urge to tell him there was nothing green on his plate.

I took a tuna salad plate and joined him. Looking at my food, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing. As we ate, I fleshed out the story for him—my suspicions about Gram's death, Donna and the B & B and the money, the mayor's determination to have the café, Donna's infatuation with Irv Litman, even the strange Mr. Overton.

Occasionally he interrupted with, "Damn! All this since you came home?" and I nodded.

Finally, he cleaned his plate, sopping up the last of the cream gravy with a biscuit, leaned back and said, "I haven't eaten like this since I was a kid. Give me those papers, but I'll have to have a nap first. My brain's numb."

I gave him the sheaf of papers I'd retrieved from Don Davidson's office, which prompted him to say he'd talked to Don's wife and got pretty much the same report I did. Then he was off, saying, "I'll be back for supper. But after that lunch, I may eat your tuna salad plate."

As he left, Marj stared after him. "First real man we've had in here since this whole mess began. I hope he can help us."

"Me, too," I said, and sent a small prayer heavenward.

****

David actually came back about four, and we made our way over to Gram's house for a glass of wine. He remembered my taste from office parties and brought with him some really fine chardonnay. We sat on the porch, talking about this, that—and the lawsuit, of course. He didn't think it would go far in court, and he thought he could probably negotiate with the mayor's lawyer. I had no idea who that would be.

"Let's put it out of our minds for the evening," he said. "This is what I came for—peace and quiet, birds, a breeze, the smell of grass, even the damn mosquitoes. You know, if you put ceiling fans out here, they'd drive the mosquitoes away."

"Good idea. I'll get Tom to order some."

"I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Nice to be away from everything. No one can call. If they have to reach me instantly, they can't. And it's okay. I don't practice that kind of law."

"Your wife can call," I reminded him. "Where did she go?" I didn't know Jennifer Clinkscales well at all, in fact had only met her at those office Christmas parties, but she struck me as pretty high on herself.

"To some Hill Country tourist ranch with a couple of girlfriends—I used the term lightly. I expect they've got an eye out for cowboys." He said it without bitterness, and I was left without anything to say. The silence grew longer, but it was comfortable.

Then, out of the blue, he said, "I miss East Texas, sometimes desperately. I think about coming back here to practice, maybe with Davidson or someone like him. I wouldn't make Dallas money but who cares?" A pause, and then he added, "Besides Jenn." This time his tone was bitter.

For some reason, this seemed to be a good time to tell him about the planned trip to Canton to the humane society tomorrow. When he heard, he asked, "Would your brother-in-law mind if I go too? Could we drive the back roads?"

I laughed. "Sure, if you and Tom can find your way. I can't even get to Van from Wheeler without getting lost on those roads. I'll call Tom in the morning. He's got a Suburban so we'd all fit." I was about to suggest we order supper from the Café and bring it back here when my cell phone rang.

Donna. And the trouble she brought was worse, much worse than David's bitter comment about his wife. Donna yelled into the phone, "Where are you? I need you!" Her tone was frantic.

"Donna, I'm at Gram's. What's wrong? Are the kids okay?"

"Oh, Kate, I'm so glad I found you. I don't know what to do. My car's in the shop and I don't know where Tom is and I can't find Irv. He doesn't answer his phone, and I haven't heard from him all day. I'm frantic. And Jess wants to call and tell you she found the right one, whatever the hell that means. I told her not now."

I knew what Jess meant, but other than that I wasn't sure what was at stake here. Apparently the kids were all right which was my first concern. So I said tentatively, "You want me to find Tom?"

"No," she wailed, "I want you to find Irv. I'm scared something has happened to him."

"Well, can't we find Tom first and let him look for Irv?"

"No! Kate, as your sister, I'm asking you to do this for me."

I wanted to ask why she thought something might have happened to Irv, but as I was mulling this question over, she said, "Go check the B & B and then check the place he's staying. Drive all over town, look for his car. I promise I'll be everlastingly grateful."

I doubted that, but I agreed. Irv, I thought, might well have decided to go to Dallas without telling her—no big deal. But I'm conscientious.

I went back to David. "I have to go look for...ah...my sister's business partner. It seems she can't find him, and she's worried."

"Where's her husband?"

"She can't find him either, but she's not so worried about that." I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Okay, let's go. Got a flashlight?"

"It's still light," I protested.

"Dark will creep in, as they say, before you know it. Come on, I've got one in my car."

A man who was always prepared. I liked David better and better, but I told myself sternly not to go there.

Gram chose just then to say, "You'll find him at the B & B, Kate. And it's a good thing Mr. Clinkscales is with you."

I had the sense not to answer her this time. David already thought he'd landed in the midst of a crazy family—no sense convincing him further. I directed David to the B & B, and we drove in silence until he said, "You don't really think anything's wrong, do you?"

I shrugged. I hadn't until Gram talked to me. Now I was apprehensive, almost wondering if I should have called Rick before setting out. But then, he would have scoffed too if I told him about Gram.

Gram was right. Irv Litman's car was in the driveway of the B & B. No other vehicle in sight, no lights on in the house, and, as David predicted, it was now dusk, "coming dark" as they say in East Texas.

He parked on the street. "Let's go look," he said.

"Maybe we should just ring the doorbell."

"Good, straightforward thinking." We climbed the steps, and he jabbed at the bell. Those melodic chimes Donna so prized sounded throughout the house, but they were not followed by footsteps or a cheery voice welcoming us. Total silence.

"You have a key? Or maybe the back door is open." He swung his flashlight toward the back of the house.

The back door was indeed open, so I stepped cautiously into the mudroom and called out, "Irv? It's Kate. Irv, are you here?"

More silence, by now eerie.

David pushed in front of me and walked quietly through the kitchen. Then he stopped, considered, and grabbed some workman's hammer from the kitchen counter. Armed with hammer and flashlight he proceeded into the dining room. I didn't know whether to laugh or scream at the sight he made—warrior saving a damsel in distress.

We found Irv in the living room, lying face down on the floor in a pool of his own blood. David threw his arms out to stop me, the way mothers instinctively do to children in cars, and said, "Don't go near anything."

For a moment I was too horrified to do anything but stare. I'd never seen a dead body, and certainly never expected to see a murder victim. How long, I wondered, had he lain there? Could he have lived if someone had come sooner? Could he maybe be alive? I voiced that last question aloud.

David shook his head in the negative.

"Shouldn't we check for a pulse?"

"It's too late, Kate." He put his arm around me and tried to turn me back toward the kitchen, but I was stubborn.

"I want to see how sticky the blood is, so we'll know how long he's been here."

"Not your job, Kate, and you know it. God, it's good you have a lawyer with you. Stay clear and call the police. Does this town have a police force?"

"A chief," I said, punching my instant-dial code for Rick. I told him where we were and what we'd found, and he ordered, "Stay there. Don't touch anything. Don't call anyone else."

"What about Donna?"

"Don't call anyone else. Got it?"

Between David and Rick giving me orders, I got it.

So David and I went out the back door and around the house to sit on the front steps. It was only minutes before we heard Rick's siren, but in those minutes I worried about Tom. Where was he? Had his lunchtime talk with Irv been less pleasant than he'd led me to imagine? I could not, simply could not imagine Tom killing anyone.

Rick jumped out of the car, just as Tom opened the passenger side. I ran to Tom, hugging him, and murmuring, "Thank God you're with Rick."

He gave me a puzzled look. "Where else would I be? I was doing a drive-along to get the hang of things."

Double thank heaven he didn't guess what my hidden suspicion was.

Rick was staring at David, so I introduced them. Our chief of police was back to his usual distant and formal self. "Where's this Litman fellow?"

"In the living room. Back door's open."

"Wait here. Come on, Bryson."

They left and we sat back down. Small talk was hard to make, and we ended up in silence until David said, "So much for the peaceful, pastoral life."

Nerves made me giggle. And then I thought if Tom didn't kill Irv, who did? I was back to that dreaded thought: was Donna a killer? Was her call to me all an alibi set-up? Was my own sister that greedy? And why kill Irv? Had he told her he wouldn't have an affair with her? Rejected women can lose all control—but that wouldn't link her to Gram's death or the mayor's poisoning.

David announced he wanted another drink, something stronger than wine this time.

"I have bourbon at the house," I said, and then I remembered to call Marj and ask her to close. I gave no reason, per Rick's demands, but just said I wouldn't be back after all. She took it completely the wrong way, giggled, and said, "Have fun, sweetie. You deserve it."

Yeah, I thought, fun. I promised David that drink as soon as we were allowed to leave. And I'd have to cobble together something for us to eat, since the café was closing.

Finally, Rick and Tom came out. "Shot in the back with what looks like a .38 Special. Lots of times, that's a lady's gun."

We both stole a look at Tom, but he was stoic and finally said, "Only a coward shoots someone in the back."

"Too true," Rick said. "I've already got a list of people to talk to, but let's begin with you two. How did you happen to come here? What's the whole story?"

I gave him every bit of detail until I thought he'd yawn—how David had come out from Dallas to help me and eat some good café food, how Donna had called and been frantic because she couldn't find Irv and her car was in the shop so she couldn't go looking and she begged me to look for him, starting with the B & B, and how David kindly offered to go with me.

At that point, I let David take over the story of sneaking into the house, finding Irv, calling Rick. Every once in a while he'd look at me for confirmation, and I'd nod my head.

"And how are you involved in this, sir?" Rick asked, distantly polite.

I think David caught the drift, though it passed right over Tom's head. "I'm Kate's former employer and now, it looks like I'm her lawyer—on a variety of fronts. But I'm not a criminal defense lawyer. I just came down to help her with the suit from the mayor."

Rick's look softened a little. "Well, thank you for that. At this point, I don't think Kate needs a lawyer. She'd have slight reason to kill Irv Litman, and with you as her alibi there's no problem."

I was a bit indignant that Rick thought even for an instant that I needed a lawyer, but I kept my mouth firmly shut.

"I'm puzzled," Tom said. "As far as I know, Donna's car is not in the garage."

Rick wanted to get on with business. "Okay, you two can go. Bryson, I'm going to have to talk to your wife and probably get a search warrant for the house and car—depends on what Doc Mason says, but I think I know what he'll say. Obviously you can't be part of that. Why don't we go back, get your car, and let you do some patrol. I'll wait here for Doc Mason." Then he stopped and seemed to rethink things. "Bryson, first you'll have to go home to tell your wife. Stay with her as long as she needs you."

I swear Tom breathed a sigh of relief. Inside, he must have been twisted in knots, hoping Donna wasn't involved

Rick turned to me. "Kate, can you and Mr. Clinkscales take him to his car, so I can stay with the body and talk to Doc Mason?"

"Sure."

And so we parted, David and I drove Tom to get his car, and I asked if he wanted us to follow him home to be sure the children were okay.

Almost pitifully he asked, "Do you want to come in and talk to Donna too?"

I shook my head. "Now's not the time. I'll see her tomorrow. And, Tom, I'm sorry you have to do this."

He nodded glumly and finally said, "I hope the kids are in bed, but I think that's too much to hope for. I'll tell Jess the trip to the humane society is off for tomorrow."

"Oh, no!" I cried. "She's found the perfect dog that she wants. David and I will take her—and Henry.

"I wanted to go with my children to look at dogs," he said like a disappointed child himself.

"I was going to call you, Tom. We can all go. David just wants to drive the back roads of East Texas and apparently Jess found a puppy online that she wants. But I'd have called. Honest."

"Well, with what's happened tonight I don't think there's any way I can go, so I'll be grateful if you'd take the kids, even Ava if she'll go." Then he asked again, "Sure you won't come in? I need help here."

I knew he dreaded the coming confrontation, but there was no way that I was getting involved in the scene that was going to follow when Donna heard of Irv's death—hysterics were probably the least of it. I predicted a disabling migraine, and suddenly I ached for Jess. I should take her home with me. Resolutely, I said, "I'm sure" to Tom and then, to David, "Let's go back to the back porch."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

I improvised a marinara sauce out of canned tomatoes, a bit of tomato puree, wine, fresh herbs—thank you, Steve Millican—and garlic and shallots and then tossed it over penne with fresh grated Parmesan. If someone ever asked me what things were always in my refrigerator, Parmesan would be one of them. No salad makings, so I fixed a quick antipasto tray of meat, cheese, olives, gherkins and some marinated artichokes I had impulsively picked up at the H-E-B in Canton. We took our dinner to the porch, with tray tables—Gram's left from our childhood and the few occasions we were allowed dinner in front of the TV. David forgot the bourbon and opened another bottle of chardonnay.

"What kind of a guy was he, Kate?"

"Hmmm. Hard. I don't really know. I wrote him off as Dallas slick, and Tom thought he was having an affair with Donna, but Litman bought him lunch one day recently and said he never poached on another man's territory. His relationship with Donna was strictly business. I suspect she wanted more out of it. Donna is, well, ambitious and, I hate to say it, greedy. She wants more out of life than being the wife of a small-town hardware store owner and the mother of his children. She wants the life I had in Dallas." There, it was out!

He looked long and hard at me. "I didn't know anything about your life outside the office."

"That's just as well," I said, and we sat in silence some more.

Then David muttered, "I guess none of us are what we appear to others in the workaday world."

I wasn't going to push that one.

Just then, a flashlight showed coming up the drive. I braced for Rick, but it was Steve Millican. He halted at the porch steps. "Oh, I see you have company."

Pretty obvious, Steve. "Steve, this is my former boss from Dallas, David Clinkscales. David, Steve Millican. He owns the wonderful nursery across the street, and he's really helped me with Gram's garden. He's also responsible for the herbs in your marinara sauce."

David stood, and the two shook hands. "I'm impressed by the sauce, don't know if it's your herbs or Kate's cooking, but I'll have to wander by and take something home to the wife. She's a gardener."

"I hope you'll do that," Steve said with grave courtesy. "I guess this isn't a good time to ask if I can join you. You two talking business?"

"Yes," I said, maybe too quickly. "About the mayor's lawsuit."

He looked David straight in the eye. "I hope you can help Kate. She doesn't deserve to lose the business, and the mayor sure doesn't deserve to get it through a lawsuit."

"I don't think that will happen," David said. "You can quote me. Call me the hotshot lawyer from Dallas. That'll scare them."

"David!"

He looked at me. "Psychological tricks of the trade, Kate."

Steve said goodnight, and when he and his flashlight were well out of sight and earshot, David chuckled. "Looks to me like life in small-town Texas is much more exciting than Dallas. At least for you. You've got, far as I can tell, two suitors, you're being sued, you're now involved in a murder investigation. What's next, Kate? Arson?"

I shuddered. "I hope not. But I don't really have two suitors. Neither one is serious." I blushed as I said it and was glad for the darkness. "Rick doesn't like Steve, from way back in Dallas, so I know he'll question him about the murder. And poor Steve didn't do it. I think he's trying to leave his past behind him."

"Like you?"

"His past was, I gather, a lot worse." I didn't feel like going into the details.
Chapter Fifteen

I had just finished the prep for breakfast the next morning, when Rick came in. I waved a coffee cup at him, but he shook his head and, coming closer, asked, "Talk to you outside?"

Not what I was ready for at seven in the morning, but I dutifully followed him to the porch of the restaurant. He gestured and I sat on a bench, feeling like a schoolchild being told what to do.

"I wanted to warn you first. I'm going to ask for a search warrant for your sister's house and property. Doc Mason confirmed that it was a .38 bullet in the back, so he was shot without confronting his murderer. Bad way for anyone to die. Doc says he'd guess he'd only been dead about four hours at the most—autopsy will have to confirm that."

I shuddered. "So Donna's your prime suspect?"

He looked genuinely sad. "I'm afraid so. I'm going to talk to Steve Millican, just because of his background and acquaintances, but I don't think he's involved. I'd suspect Tom, but he was with me. So who does that leave with any reason to kill Litman?"

"But how does that fit with Gram's death and the mayor's poisoning?"

He sat down next to me, elbows on his knees, hands clenched in front of him. "It doesn't, unless your sister is someone you really really don't know. I think those may be just coincidences."

My voice came out like steel. "I don't believe in coincidences like that, and I won't accept that. It's all related. In a small town like this, it has to be?"

Rick sighed. "Did you ever watch 'Murder She Wrote'? How did so many murders happen in that small town? I know you believe all these things are related, and I've done my best to get to the bottom of it, but I just haven't found anything in those two cases that indicates foul play."

"Should I hire a private detective?" I was now as distant as he could be.

"You can, of course. Why don't you talk to that David Clinkscales?"

I listened for sarcasm, but I didn't detect any. "I guess I will." Then I, well I guess I remembered my manners. "Thank you for talking to me first. Let me know what's happening, please. And if you find anything, please let me know."

"Kate," he was almost pleading now, "please don't do anything by yourself. There's definitely something wrong here, and I don't want you hurt." He put his hand over mine and then removed it quickly as the first breakfast customers came up the stairs. "Gotta go." A moment later he was up and striding off the porch.

"Come back for breakfast," I called, and he turned and waved.

I messed up one order after another, until Benny said, "Why don't you let me deliver orders. It's slow, so I can do it and cook." He had no idea of course what had happened, but I knew the buzz would start soon. "You handle the cash register," Benny said.

I wasn't much better at that, miscounting change, overcharging another man who instead of angry was solicitous. "You okay this morning, Kate? That isn't like you." This was after he protested his bill.

The woman behind him said, "She's not okay. Haven't you heard? That Irv Litman guy from Dallas, her sister's friend, was found dead last night."

His jaw dropped, and I thought, "Here we go." I knew full well the emphasis the woman had put on the word "friend." The Wheeler gossip mill was gearing up.

A bit later, Gram said, "Hang in there, Kate. You're the only one who can make this right. Don't abandon me now."

I wanted to shout, "Don't you abandon me!" but I just bit my lip.

David came in about ten, casually dressed and looking well rested. I wanted to kick him, because I obviously hadn't slept well, and it showed.

"You okay this morning?" he asked as he sat in that damn infamous corner table. Why couldn't he have picked someplace else?

"No, I'm not. You want coffee?"

"Whoa!" He put his hands out. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm here to help."

I collapsed, sinking into a chair at his table. "I know. I'm upset. I'm confused. I..."

He got up and went to get himself a cup of coffee. When he sat down, he asked, "You heard from your sister or her husband?"

I shook my head. "Gossips all over town, though. Irv's death is no secret. Rick was here. He's going to search Donna's house."

"Well, that's where we should start. Can I have some breakfast first? Eggs, bacon, hash browns, and wheat toast, please." Then, looking at me, "Have you eaten?"

I shook my head.

"Double that order."

I picked at my food, but I did eat some. David wolfed his down like he hadn't eaten in three days. When he finished, he said, "Let's go. Ditch your apron."

"Saturday's a busy day," I protested.

"How many sisters you got? Besides, we're going to the shelter to look at that dog."

I told Benny I was leaving. There was one other waitress there, young and inexperienced, but I hoped she could handle things.

Donna was neither hysterical with grief nor down with a migraine. She was fighting furious. "This town killed him," she yelled. "Like he was nothing, and he was a good man. I'm gonna find out who did this! And now that blasted Rick Samuels tells me he's got to search my house. Why my house? Why would I kill the man I loved?"

I cringed and saw, with great regret, that Ava, Henry, and Jess were all peering around the door into the kitchen. David stood quiet and still, so I asked, "Um, where's Tom?"

"Gone to his precious hardware store, where else?" She threw a coffee cup at a cabinet where it shattered, leaving a trail of old, dark coffee and a bit of grounds.

"Mrs. Bryson...er, Donna...may I call you Donna?" David spoke softly, his voice calm.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "And why are you here with my sister? We don't need strangers right now." She spat out the words.

"Donna, this is David Clinkscales, the lawyer I worked with in Dallas. He came down this weekend to help me with the mayor's suit against the café."

"A lawyer? You think I need one?" That same harsh tone. No wonder Tom had gone to the hardware store. He probably figured all that would happen here is he'd get yelled at. And he was sure right.

David's voice continued to be calm. "Yes, you probably do. But not me. I'm not a criminal defense lawyer."

Those words—"criminal defense"—seemed to make an impact, and she stared at him wide-eyed.

"But I have a bit of advice."

"Yeah? So let's hear it!" Again that awful, angry tone.

"Calm down. For one thing, your children are listening, and this is hardly fair to them. For another, anger gets you in deeper. If you're angry when Rick Samuels gets here with his search warrant, you'll just antagonize him and make an enemy. And believe me, you want the chief of police on your side. You've just lost a business partner"—David emphasized those words, glossing over her earlier declaration of love—"and you're understandably upset. But reason helps, not anger."

She looked ready to throw another coffee cup, this time at him. But suddenly she wilted. "I'm scared," she said, "and I can't turn to Tom. This is the time I'd turn to Irv, and he's not here." Tears welled up in her eyes, and David, bless him, went and put an arm around her shoulders. "I know, but you really should rely on Tom. Don't alienate him too. If you were in love with Irv Litman, don't mention that. You have a fine husband."

I didn't wait for her reaction. I went to comfort the children, who were full of questions about whether Mom was going to be arrested, what happened to Irv, would she have left them and their father. I shook my head and told them no one knew the answer to those questions.

"What about that puppy, Aunt Kate. It's a Labradoodle, and it's already housebroken. It's so adorable. Want to see?"

I followed her to the computer, where she competently hit this key and then that and pretty soon had the picture of a curly-haired, impish-faced dog on the screen. "Isn't he cute?"

Henry piped up. "After she found that, I did some research on Labradoodles. They're a cross between a Labrador retriever and a poodle, bred for the poodle's lack of shedding and the Labrador's gentle disposition. Poodles are one of the smartest breeds, but Labradors are really good learners—they use them for guide dogs and service dogs. Mom will never let us have a dog."

Jess was generous. "It's our dog but Aunt Kate will keep it at her house."

Ava looked bored.

"Aunt Kate, I'm afraid someone else will take it if we don't go today."

I've always said actions in haste are soon regretted, but Jess made sense. And I wanted to get out of Wheeler. I certainly didn't want to be around when Rick searched the Bryson house. "Let me make some phone calls," I said. I called Marj, who was about to go to work, and Tom, who reluctantly gave his blessing, and then I said to David, "Let's take these kids to Tyler."

"You're on," he said.

As we left, Donna's parting shot was, "Don't you dare bring a dog into this house."

I smiled, gave her a hug, and said, "Calm, remember?"

Ava, not much interested in a dog and probably much more interested in the drama in her home, elected to stay with her mom.

"I think I'll call and ask Tom to be here when Samuels does his search," Donna said quietly. A totally different woman from when we'd arrived. The only niggling thought I had was that if she was capable of such extreme mood switches, was she capable of enough anger to murder? I put that thought out of my mind.

We called ahead to the café and ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes to go. And then we were off to Tyler.

"Don't anyone drip grease or ketchup or spill Coke in David's rental car," I warned severely.

"Yes, mother," was David's retort.

It was hot in Texas by now, with little breeze, but it was cloudy so the sun wasn't quite as unbearable as it could have been. We drove with the windows down, air streaming into the car. The kids loved it, and me? You can't make my hair more of a mess than it already is. David drove, quietly eying the countryside.

He sighed. "I sometimes really do think I want to chuck it all and come back here."

"Your wife?" I asked.

Another sigh. "She'd hate it. And I don't know that we could stand that much togetherness."

There didn't seem to be a reply to that. It sure didn't sound like a happy marriage. Reason number 67 to stay single.

The animal shelter was institutional dingy, with few windows. Even the reception area was lined with cages holding cats and kittens. Jess spotted one calico kitten and pulled me over to it. "Does she look sweet? I think we should save her."

I pulled her away firmly. "No cats. I have one. Remember? Go tell the lady what dog we came to see."

She proudly described the dog to the attendant, who said, "You must mean Huggles. He's outside with the larger dogs."

My heart sank just a bit, but we wandered out, passing roofed cages of large dogs of all breeds. Some barked at us joyfully, others menacingly, and a few hung back whether in shyness or dejection I couldn't tell.

Huggles was one of the joyful ones, his tail wagging furiously. His curly coat was a rich golden color, and I wondered if there was some chocolate lab in there as well as golden.

"Isn't he adorable?" Jess asked, reaching her fingers through the cage to pet him. He licked her hand in ecstasy. "Can we go in the cage?"

"We'll have to ask."

David went back to the office and returned with a leash-bearing attendant in tow. "Let me bring him out for you. He's a good dog, good disposition, already neutered. Make a fine pet. Is it for your children?"

She had assumed we were a family. I shot David an amused look, but he looked rather pleased about the whole thing. "He's for me," I said.

"And me," chimed Jess, while Henry echoed, "Me, too."

When the attendant let herself into the kennel, Huggles began to jump on her, paws on her shoulders, then twisting this way and that. It probably took her three or four minutes to slip the leash over his head, and I said, "I'm having second thoughts."

"I'm telling him he's not making a good impression," she said.

When we got Huggles out, he calmed down and behaved well on a leash. When I asked about his background, I was told that he was a family dog, used to children, but his family had moved to a condo in Dallas. He was four years old. Poor guy, another one whose world had shifted. I stroked the soft curls on his head, and he rewarded me with an enthusiastic lick.

"What do you think, Jess?"

"He's ours," Jess said, and Henry echoed, "Yeah. He's a cool dog."

We were filling out paperwork when my cell phone rang. I excused myself and went outside to take the call. "Rick arrested Donna," Tom said. Even on a cell phone, his voice was taut with controlled emotion. "He found a .38 in our trash. Booked her for suspicion of murder."

"So where is she?"

"On her way to the county jail. So am I. I've got Ava with me. She's upset, and I didn't want to leave her alone. Can I talk to your pal David?"

"Sure." I went inside, handed the phone to David and pointed to the door, mouthing, "Not good."

By the time David had finished, we had wrapped up and were ready to leave with Huggles, who was bouncing with energy; in fact, his unadulterated energy was beginning to worry me. I saw a fence and a doghouse in my future—immediately if not sooner. Maybe Steve Millican could build them. Meantime I had no idea what to do with the dog if I had to go to Canton to the jail.

"Kids," David said, "can you walk Huggles over to that patch of grass and see if he'll pee. I sure don't want him to have an accident in my car. Worse than spilled Coke."

A squabble ensued over who was going to hold the leash, with Henry insisting he was stronger. "Jess, he's right. We don't quite know what Huggles will do yet. You can hold the leash in the car."

She pouted but went along. When they were out of earshot, David said, "I told him to arrange bail. They'll surely let him bring her home. She's booked on suspicion of murder—they have no proof, and a DA will have to prove his case. But that's jumping the gun. Oops, unfortunate choice of words there."

"Is she okay?"

He shrugged.

We piled Huggles and the kids in the car, but first I had Henry gather up all the wrappings of our lunch, so they wouldn't tempt the poor dog. As we pulled away from the shelter, I began to think of such practicalities as leashes and dog food. "David, let's stop at a grocery before we leave Tyler."

"Groceries? Now?"

"Dog food. I'm not feeding him scraps from the café."

"Good point."

The drive home wasn't nearly as pleasant as the earlier drive had been. Huggles was restless in the car, though Jess held tight to his leash and petted him. We finally made it back to Wheeler. I called Tom, told him we were at my house. I'd go pick up some dinner from the café, and if he wanted, the children could spend the night. Neither Henry nor Jess had mentioned their mom, and I hoped I wouldn't be the one to have to tell them.

I left David with Huggles and the children while I went to the Café, trying to decide what to get for supper. Not hamburgers again. Catfish and more fries, maybe with salads, if the kids would eat them. The place was jam-packed, and I no more than got in the back door than Marj rushed up to me and said, "I'm so upset about Donna, Kate. What can we do?" The rumor mill was in full force.

"Feed us," I said. "I need catfish, fries and salad for two adults and two kids." While she put in the order, I went to check the house. Every table was full and we were on a wait. Two waitresses appeared to be in the weeds, so I started bussing tables. Too many people said, "Heard the news. Sorry, Kate," or variations thereof.

It began to sink into my mind that I'd been off on a dog lark while my twin sister was arrested for murder. What was I thinking? Why didn't I stand by her? Of course, she didn't do it, and I had to prove now who did. That was my job.

"I wondered when you'd figure this out, Kate. Yes, you have to stand by your sister." Gram's voice.

I was tempted to mutter that I knew that but Donna never yelled at Gram like she did me. Instead, I took my armful of dishes to the kitchen, dumped them in front of Gus with a barely whispered "Thanks" and asked Marj if she could handle things.

"I'll have to. You go on. You got more important business."

Huggles was the first to greet me, smelling food. I stuck the catfish and fries in a low oven and got out the dog dish and food I'd bought.

"He's got house manners," David said. "He lies quietly and lets the kids pet and love him. It's sort of like he knows he's home. The cat was leery at first but she finally settled for ignoring him."

Relief. Okay, next feed the kids and pour white wine for the adults. That accomplished, I turned on the TV for Jess and Henry, asked them to stay there and take care of Huggles, and motioned toward the back yard. David and I went out on the porch.

"When will she be back?"

"Worst case, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"I don't know if they have a twenty-four hour bail service in Canton or not. And this is Saturday night. Could well be morning before she's out on bail."

"David, Tom didn't do it, Donna didn't do it. I have to find out who did."

He took a deep breath. "Are you absolutely positive Donna didn't do it?"

This time, my questions were gone. I didn't hesitate. "I know she didn't. She wouldn't. She couldn't."

"She sure showed anger when we were there today."

"Anger's not murder. I have to find out who killed Irv Litman. Gram is counting on me." Oops, that slipped out before I thought. "I mean, she would be if she were here."

That earned me an odd look. "Can we eat? I'm starving."

"Of course, but will you go with the kids to walk Huggles in the back yard? Make sure they can control him?" I switched on the floodlights, and the yard was bathed with light. "I'll get to work on a fence tomorrow." Why had I complicated my life at this particular moment?

Huggles was good as gold, did his business and bounded up on the porch like, "I'm ready to go in now."

Tom came in before we had finished eating, with a red-faced, puffy-eyed Ava trailing behind him. She was distinctly uninterested in Huggles, but clung to her father. "Donna will be home in the morning. I've come to collect the other kids. We'll have to have a family conference."

"Do you want me to order you supper?"

He shook his head. "I'll fix something at the house, scramble some eggs or some such. I doubt Ava will eat." He hugged her. "And truth is I'm not very hungry myself. We'll talk tomorrow, Kate. And David, thanks for your advice and help. I'll call that defense lawyer first thing Monday, and meantime I told Donna to say she won't talk without her lawyer present."

David rose and shook his hand. "Good. I wish you both well. Let me know if I can help."

They left, and David followed soon. "I'm bushed. I never guessed life in a small town could be so complicated. Wasn't like this when I was a kid."

"You weren't a lawyer then, either. I'm sorry I dragged you into my family mess."

"No, I'm glad to help. I just don't want you to get in over your head. I'll go back to Dallas tomorrow morning and write the good mayor of Wheeler a letter, but you keep me posted on what's happening with Donna. Okay?"

I nodded. No words seemed to come to me, but I was surprised at how dismayed I felt that he was leaving. He's married, I told myself. He'd been good company on a really bad weekend, but he was off limits.

"I'll be back, Kate. In spite of all that happened last night and today, I had a good time—well, maybe that's not the right thing to say, but I did. I may come back so often you'll kick me out."

"Never. Come and bring your wife next time. Maybe she'd like it here." Even as I spoke I knew it was the wrong thing to say.

"Kate, I've been trying to tell you all weekend, but you don't seem to take the hint. My wife doesn't like anything but herself. And that particularly means me. I don't think we'll be together long." He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, said, "I'll be in touch," and was gone.

I rubbed the spot on my forehead. Then I sat down on the floor, my arms around Huggles, and had a good cry. Huggles cuddled into my arms, licked my face, and tried to be as comforting as he could. Now I knew why I'd complicated my life with a dog. I was crying for Donna and her family, for Irv who didn't deserve to die, but also for myself. When I was in Dallas, I would have been thrilled to have three men in my life. Now I had three—Steve Millican, Rick Samuels, and David Clinkscales. One with a darkly shady background, one so cold and distant I wondered if he'd ever warm up, and one married. Good going, Kate! Instead of being thrilled, I wanted them all to go away and let me concentrate on proving Donna's innocence.

Wynona slept at my feet that night and Huggles, besides my bed. I found them both a comfort and woke once during the night to reassure myself that Huggles was really there and a part of my family.
Chapter Sixteen

The next morning I set up for breakfast almost mechanically, figuring work would keep my mind off things I didn't want to think about. The staff kind of skirted around me. But Gus caught my eye at one point and gave me a thumbs up, which I guess meant he thought things would turn out okay, and I was doing all right. I hope so, because I returned the sign. Benny was extraordinarily polite to me, as though I was fragile and might break at any time. Maybe he was right.

Steve Millican came in early, about eight, looking some the worse for wear. "Coffee, black and strong."

"You want eggs with that?"

He shuddered. "Not yet."

"Late night, I gather." I hadn't missed his red-rimmed eyes, but he didn't acknowledge what I said.

I brought the coffee with a cup for myself and sat down next to him. I didn't mention that I'd frequently seen cars coming and going from the nursery late at night, although last night I'd been too preoccupied. I started the conversation with, "I bought a dog."

That perked him up a bit. "What kind?"

"A Labradoodle from the humane society in Tyler. Well, I really bought it for my niece and nephew, but it lives with me. Name's Huggles."

"Huggles. What kind of a name for a dog is that?" He now had a slight smile.

"Wait till you see him. You'll see."

"I can hardly wait. I love dogs. You gonna keep him in the house all the time while you work?"

"No. I locked him in the kitchen this morning. I know he's got house manners, but I'm not sure about him yet. I gave him water and toys, and I fed him and took him out before I came over here. He's fine off the leash if I'm outside with him. The minute I call his name, he comes running. But I wouldn't dare leave him out without a fence."

"And you want me to build a fence." It wasn't a question.

"Psychic, that's what you are. Can you? I thought he'd have the porch for shelter, and I'd put a dog bed out there for him, in addition to one inside."

He thought a minute. "Your yard is already fenced on three sides. All we'd have to do is put something across the driveway, from the house to the side fence. And a gate."

"Could I have a gate I could drive through?"

"Unless you make it electronic, you won't do that. And what if Huggles ran out while you were driving in? I suggest a wooden fence, maybe picket, with a gate you can walk through. I can make a stepping stone path for you easily. And you can carry groceries that far, Kate, or learn to use your front door."

"Deal. When do you want to come over and look?"

"Maybe this evening?"

"Great. I'm not sure what the day will bring, but let's tentatively count on it. You heard the news, I guess?" If he hadn't, he'd been living in a cave.

"What news? I've been sort of out of it. New shipment at the nursery and stuff."

So I filled him in, and he listened open-mouthed. "No shit? This all really happened? Sounds to me like you're making up a mystery as you go along."

"I only wish. I wish I could wake up and it would be all gone. But it's true, too true."

"Holy shit," he repeated. "I guess I'm ready for those eggs now. Your troubles are a lot worse than mine. I'm sorry about it all, Kate."

"Thanks. How do you want your eggs?"

****

About one o'clock that afternoon, Tom brought all three children to the café while he went to Canton to get Donna. "I don't think they should see her in jail," he said. "They've got books, electronic games, lots of stuff to keep them busy."

"When it slows down, we'll visit Huggles. Call me when you get to the house, and I'll bring the children. I need to see Donna."

Ava, Henry, and Jess settled at the corner table. Ava was deep in a book (I later found it was Alice in Wonderland), Henry had his hand-held computer game thing, and Jess was coloring in a book. I brought them Cokes and ice cream, and they thanked me politely. By two, the café was fairly quiet. Since we'd close at three, I figured I could leave and come back and do the books later.

We went to visit Huggles, who was ecstatic. The kids took him out in the yard with some toys they could throw. I sat in the rocking chair, ready to call him if he headed toward the driveway. He did once, and when I said, "Huggles, come!" he came happily toward me, with a look on his face that said, "Did you want me, Mother?" The kids threw balls and rubber chew toys endlessly. Even Ava joined in. Huggles would be exhausted and sleep well that night.

I vacillated about Huggles, one minute thinking how selfish it was of me to get a dog in the midst of all this trauma and the next thinking what a wonderful distraction he was for the children—and for me.

Tom called about three-thirty to say they were home, and Donna wanted to see the children. We put Huggles inside, at which he howled his displeasure, and we piled into my car.

Donna was apparently beyond anger. She was subdued, sitting in a chair staring, answering mechanically with one-syllable answers, mostly "Yes" and "No." When the children asked her questions about jail, she hugged them and said, "Not now." They finally wandered away, all except Jess who stayed close to her mom—and to me.

"Donna?"

"I have to report to Canton once a week, to the bail bond office, and there's a whole list of things I can't do, too much for anyone to remember. Tom will have to do the school chauffeuring, the games and other activities, the grocery shopping, and so forth. I'm not setting foot out of this house. People will be staring at me, pointing. 'There she is. The murderer.' I won't have it!"

"Calm down, sweetheart. I'll take care of all of it," Tom said.

"And I'll help. However I can. It's too late for us to order from the café, but can I fix you something for supper? Tom, do you have catfish in the freezer?"

"Thanks, Kate," Tom said, "but I stopped in Canton at the store. Got some steaks. I figure we deserve them."

"You sure do." I hugged each of them, went to say goodbye to the children, and left. This was the time for the Brysons to be a family. I only hoped Donna would do her part. I wondered how much of her attitude was shock at being arrested and how much was grief over Irv's death.

Back home I was at loose ends. As I wandered about the house, wondering what to do, Huggles followed my every step, while Wynona slept contently on the bed.

Maybe I should start cleaning out some of Gram's stuff, something I'd been reluctant to do. I'd start with her medicine chest and that damn digitalis. But when I opened the medicine chest, there was no digitalis. I knew I saw a bottle of pills that last time I looked, even though it didn't have nearly as many pills as it should have. Now the whole bottle was gone. Clearly, someone had been in my house and in my medicine chest. If I could pinpoint who, I might know who poisoned the mayor. I threw out toothbrushes, half-used tubes of toothpaste, her cosmetics, none of which were anything I'd use. But I kept her eau de cologne, the Jean Nate she'd worn forever. The very smell of it brought her back to me, and I said, "Oh, Gram, I miss you."

No answer. Wasn't she listening?

Then I wandered to her closet and pulled out her modest wardrobe—mostly flowered cotton dresses that she wore under her aprons and sturdy athletic shoes that kept her on her feet in the café. All of these would go to some homeless shelter. There were a few sweaters I thought I might wear, but most everything else I put in the bags for charity. Except underwear. Who wants used underwear? And hose? Gram was devoted to those awful knee-high hose.

By the time I was done with Gram's room, I had accumulated five bags for charity and two for trash. Not bad. There wasn't much else I was ready to tackle right away, though I realized sometime I would have to look into the old roll-top desk she kept in the third bedroom. I'd looked through it quickly once for financial records, hadn't found any, and put off the rest until another day.

I was tired, hungry, and worried about Donna. I thought of them eating steaks as I reheated a slice of frozen pizza and poured a glass of red wine. Huggles was still at my feet every minute.

"Come on, boy. Let's eat on the porch. In fact, I'll feed you on the porch, and we can eat together." I did not want a dog who begged while I ate. So far Huggles seemed agreeable to this plan, so outside we went.

It was hot. No two ways about it. East Texas summer hot with no breeze. I wished for the fans David had suggested, but still sat enjoying the silence, trying to quiet my worries.

"Kate? You in the mood for company?" Steve Millican's voice sounded around the corner, and Huggles bounded to greet him. Instantly, Steve was down on one knee, tousling the dog's head, sparring with him, and loving him. Huggles was enchanted. What was that old saw about judging a man by the way he reacted to dogs?

"Come on up," I said. "I've got more pizza I can heat, and I've got beer and wine."

"I'll settle for a beer," he said. "Great dog."

I thanked him and went for the beer. When I came back, he was prowling the yard. Fortunately, it was still light enough for him to see. When he came back, he said, "No escape holes in the fence. All you need is that fence across the drive. Let me ask you, do you want privacy or openness?"

"Openness. But not a hurricane fence."

"Lord, no. I can get some nice slatted wood fence at Home Depot in Canton. Trust me?"

"Yeah, I do. Please do it as soon as you can, and send me a bill. I think I still have a balance at the nursery."

"I'll check. You realize that Huggles might put a crimp in your gardening. You can pot garden your herbs, but the ones you really care about should be on shelves on the porch. Want me to build some?"

I knew what he meant. Huggles, who now lay at our feet, might mark his territory on my plants. "Good idea. Who cares if he gets the poke sallet? Tom will just have to wash it more carefully."

"How are they? Your sister and her husband? Is she going down for this?"

Going down. The language that told me he knew the world of police and criminals all too well. "She didn't do it," I said fiercely, "and you can start spreading the word on Wheeler's grapevine."

"Hey," his hands rose defensively, "I'm not much plugged into that grapevine. As you found out this morning."

"I not only have to find out who did this so I can clear Donna, but I have to stop the gossip. At the moment, it seems slightly overwhelming, and I'm blue."

Steve held his beer and stared off into space. "I'm sure it does. But, you know what, Kate? I think you'll do it. I wish you could also make things right for me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just thinking of moving on. It's time to go, but I'm worried about Joanie.'

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Naw, it's just a thought. Thanks for the beer." He crumpled his can, set it down, and was gone, leaving me rocking and guessing. The cars that pulled up at the nursery in the night must be part of it, but that wasn't my problem to solve. Donna was.

****

Donna didn't help herself much in the next few days. She didn't leave the house, and when I went to see her, she was withdrawn and distant, as she'd been the day she came home. Tom said she spent hours sitting in one chair in the living room. The kids tiptoed around her, made themselves PBJ sandwiches and brought some to her, a gift of love she ignored, though she did drink white zin, probably too much.

I tried to get her to talk, tell me about Irv Litman. Maybe I could glean some gem if I just knew more about him. "Did he have any enemies? Here? In Dallas?"

She shook her head, then slowly, "Well, his ex-wife wasn't too fond of him, but I doubt she'd come to Wheeler and kill him. His kids are devastated. I talked to them. The ex is pulling together the memorial service." Bitterness crept into her voice. "I can't go because I can't leave the county. I don't suppose I'd be welcome anyway. Even the kids think it's my fault. If he hadn't been in Wheeler, he wouldn't have been killed."

"Not true. If someone wanted him dead, they could track him here. Did he have any other family?"

"No."

"Was he on good terms with people here in Wheeler?"

"Except you. He and Tom eventually became friends. I suppose Angela Thompson didn't like him. She held up that building permit. But she doesn't like anyone, especially if they have any tie to the café."

Gram's words came back to me. "Ask the mayor."

"Did he even know the mayor?"

"I suppose if they saw each other. Mostly he knew her on paper."

"Anyone else?"

She thought for a minute. "He didn't like William Overton. I should be handling Gram's books, not that worm of a man. Irv didn't trust him. Said something funny to me, 'It takes one to know one.'"

Oh, great. Now I had two puzzling comments to think about. I stepped over the boundary with my next question, but, hey, she's my sister. "Donna, were you sleeping with him?"

Her chin went up in the air, her eyes went out the window, and she didn't speak. I had my answer; although Irv had sworn to Tom he wouldn't poach on another man's territory. It was a question I just had to ask.

Still not looking at me, she said, "Isn't it time for you to go back to the café?"

"Yeah, I guess it is." I went into the game room to talk to the children, but only Ava and Jess were there.

"Henry went to work with Daddy," Jess said, wrapping her little arms around me. "Can't Ava and I go to work with you?"

I thought about it. No reason they couldn't. I was Jess's age when I began following Gram around the kitchen. I know food inspectors say kids in the kitchen are a bad sign, but my kitchen is clean. They could serve salads, etc. "Sure. Let me tell your mom."

Donna just nodded. She was still staring out the window.

"I'll feed them," I said, "and call Tom to tell him where they are."

As we walked to my car, Ava hugged me and said, with a whine, "I want my mom back."

I thought I'd cry.

With thoroughly scrubbed hands, Jess proved to be very good at rolling silverware into napkins. Ava, unexpectedly, took an interest in my cooking and reminded me of myself all those years ago. I rolled out pie dough and let her take a turn rolling it into large rounds. When I crimped the edges and poked holes in the top crust of an apple pie, she wanted to know why I did that. She shied away from raw meat but happily dished up salads and put dressing into small cups to go on the side of the salads. And without spilling she served several salads, carefully taking one in each hand. No arm carrying for her. I had twisted and turned and adjusted an apron until she could wear it, but I was always afraid she'd trip. She stuffed the pockets with silverware, so after she delivered the salads, she had to bend over to get to the pockets, because they were so low on her. At one point she flounced over to Gus and announced, "Can't you hurry? I need more silverware."

Gus smiled indulgently and said, "I'm hurrying, Miss Ava."

Steve Millican came in for an early supper and was sitting at the counter next to Jess. "Want some help, Jess? I used to be pretty good at that."

Jess was delighted to have someone to talk to and chattered away. I hoped she didn't mention her mom.

Steve told me the fence would go up the next day. "I got everything I need, including a gate and stepping stones for the path. You'll be in business tomorrow night, but be sure to leave your car far enough out in the driveway. If I build it in, you won't get it out without smashing the fence."

Jess laughed as though she liked the idea.

Tom and Henry came in right at six, when they closed the store. They all had dinner, and I visited when I could. The girls ordered BLTs, but Henry decided on the chopped sirloin deluxe, with grilled onions and melted cheese. And he ate every bite of it.

At some point, I told Tom I had a plumbing problem in the kitchen and asked if he could come look at it. Muttering that he wasn't a plumber, he got up and left the children happily eating. Instead of the kitchen, I drew him around the corner to the relative privacy of my office nook. He looked puzzled.

"Donna said a strange thing to me this afternoon." I wasn't about to tell him about the sleeping-with question. "She said Irv Litman didn't like William Overton. Said to her, 'It takes one to know one.' What does that mean?"

"I'm not psychic, Kate, far from it. But isn't there an old saying about it takes a liar to know another liar on sight? Maybe you should look into your accounts more carefully. When does Overton next come for a weekly accounting?"

"A couple of days."

"Dig a little," he said. "The girls want to spend the night with you. Is that okay?"

"Sure, if they'll hang around till I close and get up early to start breakfast."

"You know, Ava's old enough, you can leave them there alone, especially with Huggles. She can call you if anything's wrong. I'll come take them home sometime in the morning."

A plan that made me nervous but I agreed to try it.

That night both girls slept pressed close against me, which with Wynona made the bed a bit crowded. But they needed the comfort, even more than I needed the sleep. Huggles contentedly lay on the floor beside the bed and kept guard over all of us.
Chapter Seventeen

I left the girls alone the next morning. They were excited to be allowed to stay on their own, and I made sure Ava knew how to call me. They told me Huggles would protect them, and he surely showed every sign of it, but I locked the doors too. And at the café I jumped every time the phone rang, but the girls were fine—in fact, they called once to tell me that, which nearly gave me a heart attack when I heard Ava say, "Aunt Kate?" Jumping to conclusions, I yelled, "What's wrong?" "Nothing," she said sweetly, "I just wanted to tell you we're okay." Tom called about ten to say he was held up but was there to get them now and what was my car doing so far back in the driveway.

I told him about Steve and the fence.

"Nice of him," he said cryptically.

Promptly at ten, Mr. Overton appeared with his worn briefcase. He was wearing the same drab suit with pants shiny from use and the same cracked shoes he always wore. As usual, he asked only for black coffee, as he laid out spreadsheets for his report. The café, he reported, was doing well, paying all its expenses and showing a slight profit, which he put into a savings account. When it became too large, he transferred it into a CD. "Your grandmother," he once told me pompously, "did not believe in the risk of stock market investments."

As for Gram's investments in bonds, they were showing slow but steady growth in spite of the economy. It all looked good on paper.

"Mr. Overton, can you give me the current balance in each of the accounts—the café account, the payroll account, the savings account?"

"Of course." He took pencil and paper, stared at the ceiling trying to jog his memory, and then jotted down three figures that looked to me like what should be in those accounts. I wondered though that he didn't have bank statements with him. Still the savings account was growing nicely and should soon be ready for another $50,000 CD. I wondered aloud if I should break Gram's tradition and invest in the market, now that it seemed to be on the upswing again.

"I wouldn't," he advised sternly, gathering up his papers.

"Oh, may I keep the slip with the balances on it?"

He almost grabbed it, but then he forced a smile and said of course.

I stuffed it my pocket. As he stood to leave, I said, "One more thing I'm curious about, Mr. Overton. My grandmother always handled her own finances. I've never known her to trust anyone else. May I ask how she became your client?"

He sat back down, clutched the now cold coffee cup, and stared at it. Then he seemed to rally and even smiled a bit at me. "I was new to Wheeler. I'd made a good living in Dallas, but I wanted to get out of the hustle. Still, I didn't want to quit work. So I thought I'd set up an accounting practice in a small town, and I saw the improvements in Wheeler, thought it looked promising. I hung out my shingle. My first clients were a couple of the new B & Bs, and then a couple of weekend ranchers who wanted to figure out how to deduct agricultural expense—on the up and up of course. I'd never advise a client to skirt the law." He took a sip of cold coffee and I waited. This was a long speech for William Overton.

"Your grandmother didn't come to me. I went to her, because I saw she had a thriving business but was busy running the café. Keeping the books, I thought, must be an extra burden. She was very hesitant, but I finally convinced her I could help her, and she agreed to try. She seemed to be pleased, so we'd been working together almost three years."

He stood to leave, but I stopped him with one more question. "What about Gram's donations to the city? Why did they stop?"

This time he remained standing. "I repeatedly told Mrs. Chambers they were a bad idea for several reasons—the city would be dependent on her, she had no control over how the money was used, and of course she had you girls to think of. I wasn't aware of her investments that came out in the reading of the will. At any rate, she finally saw my point of view and discontinued them." He picked up his briefcase and in an almost haughty tone asked, "Are there any more questions?"

"Not for now," I said, and thanked him. But after he left, I sat puzzling for a long time. Why had Gram trusted her finances to a stranger? I could see she thought I was too far away, and she told me she did not trust Donna. But still... And surely she didn't stop supporting the town because Mr. Overton thought it was a bad idea. It was her disagreement with the mayor. So why was Overton taking credit for everything?

I was still puzzling when Tom came in to say he had delivered the girls home, though he didn't know if it made a difference to Donna or not. "Sit," I said, "and let me get you some coffee."

"Can't I have a sticky bun too?"

I smiled. "If there are any left."

When I came back, with coffee and the last bun in the kitchen, I sat down and asked bluntly, "What do you know about William Overton?"

He shrugged. "Not much. I was surprised when Gram took him on. Didn't seem like her."

"Does he do your books at the store?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Dad always told me to keep the books myself."

"Do you know who his other clients are?"

"I think he does the books for the nursery and clothing store, Steve and Joanie Millican. And a couple of B & Bs. But I bet Gram was his big client. Why? What's this all about?"

"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I just thought maybe I should look into who's taking care of my finances."

"Well, I said it yesterday. That's probably a good idea," Tom said as he licked the last of the sticky bun off his fingers. "You ought to offer wipes with these things."

I decided to go visit Donna, the non-communicative one. She was still sitting in the same chair, and the kids were watching TV in the game room. Before I could even speak, she greeted me harshly.

"So, you even take my girls away from me when I need them for comfort!"

Dumbfounded, I said, "Donna, they were at loose ends here. You weren't paying any attention to them. And they wanted to spend the night. They both slept with me, because they wanted comfort. You haven't given them that."

She got up from the chair and began to pace. I was almost relieved that she could still walk. "I need comfort," she said, "not them."

Oh, Donna, I wanted to cry out, don't you see? But I knew she didn't.

"I came to ask you about something else. What do you remember about when Gram hired William Overton?"

Her eyes blazed. "I remember I was mad as hell. I told her I could keep her books, and she said it was better to keep it out of the family. I asked how she knew she could trust this unimpressive man who came out of nowhere. Did she check his references? I don't think so. She just said it would all be all right."

I sank down on the couch, amazed at Donna's intensity.

"I didn't kill Irv, and I wouldn't have stolen from Gram. Why does everyone think I'm the bad one?"

Boy, did I have a lot of answers to that, but I decided this was the time to keep quiet. After all, I was trying to prove her innocence but not mollify her nor make her out as a saint.

"I'm going to look into it more," I said, standing up.

"Do that," she said bitterly, "and find out what Irv meant when he said it takes one to know one. Meantime, tell Ava I want to see her."

No please, no would you, just an order. By now, she was back in the chair where she sat looking like a queen, expecting people to wait on her because she'd undergone trauma, which included being out on bail for murder. Sometimes I wanted to give up on Donna, but I knew I couldn't do that.

"Yeah, I will." I went through the kitchen to the game room and delivered the message to Ava. This time instead of wanting her mom back, she rolled her eyes and asked, "Now what?"

"Maybe she wants a PBJ," I said lightly.

As she left the room, I heard Ava mutter, "Whatever."

This family was in a sad state, and I was the only one to help them. Tom couldn't do it. I sighed, and once in my car, I asked, "Gram, where are you when I need you?"

"Donna will come around," came the answer. "But ask the mayor."

There it was again: ask the mayor. I went home to let Huggles out. While I was gone, Steve had gotten to work on the fence. Since he was using pre-slatted pieces of fencing, he was well along.

"It looks great," I said.

"Does, doesn't it?" he replied proudly. I thought he looked better than he had the last few days. "Huggles should love being able to run. He could jump it if he really tried, but he's not the kind to make any desperate moves to escape. He knows he's got a happy home."

Was there wistfulness in his tone? Kate, stop reading things into everyone's tone of voice, for Pete's sake.

"Well let's try him out. Hold the gate in place, and I'll let him out." While Huggles was in the back of the yard, predictably marking the poke sallet, I stepped outside the gate and called. He came running, wagging his rear end—where did I read about wiggle-dogs?—but he just whined when he couldn't get to us and pawed at the fence. I quickly slipped back in and rewarded him with lots of love.

"You can leave him out if you want," Steve volunteered. "I won't leave till this gate is securely in place."

I thanked him, went inside for a water bowl to put on the porch, and a treat to give Huggles. "Send me the bill right away," I said, "but meantime I owe you dinner and a beer."

"I may collect at the café tonight. Chicken-fried steak sounds good."

"It's a deal." I had honestly meant I'd cook dinner for him at home and wondered why he didn't pick up on that—or didn't want to.

He came in about five and said, "Huggles is securely fenced in now."

I went around the counter to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which made him blush. "Still want chicken-fried steak?"

"Yeah. And I'll take that beer." He knew we couldn't serve beer in the café.

"Later," I said lightly.

I tried to start a conversation but he gave me monosyllabic answers, and I thought about how withdrawn he'd been lately and how glum he'd seemed the other night. When I asked about Joanie, he said, "She ought to go back to Dallas."

I gave up. When he reached for his wallet, I told him it was on the house, and he said, "Can't I tip the waitress?" The closest he came to a grin all through his meal.

"No, you most emphatically may not!"

He gave me a cock-eyed grin, turned and left.

Behind me, Marj said, "That Steve Millican is a strange bird. You stay clear of him, Kate."

****

Huggles was outside when I went home and, of course, he was delighted to see me. When I opened the gate, he danced around in joy but made no attempt to slip out. Yep, he was home.

In the early hours of the morning, the dog's barking pulled me from a much-needed deep sleep, but when I finally came to consciousness, with Huggles licking my face and Wynona hissing at him for making such a fuss in the night, I heard sirens close by. I went into the living room, and as I suspected a whole gaggle of law enforcement cars was across the street at the nursery. Peer as I might I couldn't tell what was going on—but it didn't look good. I could hardly walk across the street in my T-shirt and underwear, my usual sleeping attire. I could go back and put on shorts and sneakers, but I imagined the disapproval on Rick Samuels's face if I did that. I finally did put on the shorts and shoes but went only as far as the small front porch where one uncomfortable wrought iron chair offered me a place to perch. I brought Huggles with me on a leash but he barked persistently at the commotion. I put him back inside but I could hear him scratching on the door. Gram would have a fit—a dog tearing up the finish on her front door.

I watched figures come and go for maybe thirty minutes, but I honestly couldn't tell what was happening until Tom walked across the street looking weary. "Steve Millican is in jail. We found a stash of cocaine and pot in his potting sheds—no, that's not a pun. He was dealing."

I sat still, not really surprised. There had been hints, especially the way he'd talked about his troubles when he came to look about building the fence. What came out of my mouth was almost a non sequitur: "I'm glad he built my fence today," and then before I knew it big fat tears were rolling down my cheeks. Steve's last day of freedom, and he'd spent it building my fence. What he'd done was wrong, but I still felt a great sense of pity. When would he get another good chicken-fried steak?

"Kate, you okay?"

I shook myself out of my stupor. "Yeah, that was the wrong response. It's just that he spent the day building a fence across my drive, so it seems unreal that he's in jail. Is Steve okay? Can he make bail?"

Tom shook his head. "I doubt it. He's got priors."

"Joanie?"

"We left her at the apartment, with a female deputy sheriff to make sure she's okay. She was pretty hysterical."

I didn't blame her, but then I remembered I kept my cool when Donna was arrested. But I had never felt obliged to look out for Donna, and Joanie had mothered Steve.

"I know this is hard, Kate. He was, ah, sweet on you, and I don't know how you felt about him..." His voice trailed off.

I stared into space, processing things in my mind, so long that Tom said gently, "Kate?"

"Tom, he killed Gram. And probably poisoned the mayor. Because they knew he was dealing."

"Kate, don't start..."

"Don't tell me that, Tom Bryson. I'm trying to defend your wife, my sister, and I think I just found the clue."

His reached down and hugged me, kissing the top of my head, as a father would a child. "Donna isn't accused of either of those things. She's accused of killing Irv Litman. And I can't see how you'd link his death to Steve Millican."

Damn! A real roadblock. "Irv was his supplier?" I offered hopefully.

"'Night, Kate. Try to get some sleep."

Of course, that was impossible.
Chapter Eighteen

Next morning as I went toward the back door of the café, I glanced toward the nursery. It wasn't boarded up, but the shades were all drawn on the clothing store and a huge sign, so big I could read it from across the highway, read, "For Sale." Even though I was late, I ran across the road to the store and knocked on the door. No answer. Either Joanie was in there and not answering or she'd already left for Dallas, and how would I find her then? I needed to talk to her about Steve...and maybe send Steve my best wishes. Was that appropriate? I had no idea.

I made my way back to the café and began working on the sticky buns for the morning. The staff once again walked around me like I was fragile, just as they had after Donna's arrest, and beyond muttered greetings, no one said a word to me until I exploded at Benny. "What do you think is wrong with me? Why isn't anyone talking to me?" Then I felt like a kid who'd just thrown a temper tantrum.

Benny looked the other way then suddenly turned to face me. "What do you expect, Kate? We know Steve was a special friend of yours"—I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me short—"and we were trying to show some respect for your feelings."

Shamed, that's how I felt. But I managed a lighter answer. "Thanks. I liked Steve, but I don't want you to misunderstand the nature of our friendship. It was not what you think. I'm sad, but I'm not devastated. And somehow I'm not even surprised. Now can we all get back to work?"

"You better hurry with those buns. You're late," Benny said and threw a wadded paper napkin at me. I lobbed it back at him, and we were back to our usual routine.

Rick came in—not unexpectedly—and his attitude was the same: wary. "I know you liked Steve," he began, but I cut him off.

"Will everybody stop acting like I'm in mourning? I liked him but I also knew there was something wrong somewhere, and I'm not surprised. I think Gram knew too."

Startled, he asked why.

"Something he said once about her getting on his case. Go sit at that corner table, and I'll bring your eggs. I want to talk to you."

"I don't think I want to hear it," but he went. "Don't forget the sticky bun."

"Yessir," I said smartly.

I returned with bacon, eggs, and a sticky bun, then went back for the coffee pot and a cup for me. When I was settled and Rick was happily eating his breakfast, which I'm sure he'd much rather have had in peace and quiet, I said, "I think Steve killed Gram and poisoned the mayor."

He didn't choke or anything dramatic. He just went on chewing and left me hanging, waiting for his answer. Finally, "Doubt it."

"Why? If she knew he was dealing...and it's the mayor's responsibility to know what's going on in her town, so she would have known too."

"And how do you tie Irv Litman into this? Kate, you're a loose cannon, looking here, then there, for a suspect, any suspect. Would you leave my job to me?"

I wanted to say, "It's my sister I'm worried about," but I just picked up my coffee cup and retreated to the kitchen. You might say I took my huff and departed in it. Marj wasn't in yet, so I asked one of the other waitresses to cover the front for me and busied myself making tuna and chicken salads. Yes, I was avoiding Rick Samuels. Probably because I knew he was right.

I admit it. I was a grouch all day, sad, sorry for Steve and sorry for myself, snapping at the work staff, barely civil to a citizen I knew well who had left his wallet at home and didn't discover that until after he ate—any other time I would have cheerily put an IOU in the cash drawer and told him to see me next time he came in. And when Donna called to say the girls wanted to spend the night again, my caustic reply was, "I hate to take them away from you." Then of course I called, apologized, and promised to get them for supper.

When I got there, she asked, "So who bit you today?"

I told her about Steve's arrest and then it was her turn to be caustic: "You seem more upset about his arrest for dealing than mine for murder, sister dear."

I stared at her and decided instantaneously it was time for a talk. "Want a glass of wine?" I asked.

"Yeah, I do." She started to get up, but I said, "No, I'll get it."

I poured white zin for her, chardonnay for me, and told the girls I'd be with them shortly. Then I stormed into the living room and nearly threw that glass all over Donna. "Donna Bryson, would you think about someone other than yourself for a minute? I've been busting my butt to prove your innocence, even trying to persuade Rick Samuels that Steve was involved. I've been comforting your children and feeding them, and do I get any thanks? No, you order me around, fill yourself with self-pity, and don't think of how this affects all the rest of us. Sure, you've been accused of murder, and that's about as bad as it gets, but you're not the only one who needs comfort—your kids, your husband, your sister. We all do. We need reassurance. And we need you to help us prove your innocence instead of just sitting there in a trance." I paused for breath, and she said,

"How can I when I can't leave the house?"

"You can make lists—possible suspects, suspicious things, write down anything you think of, no matter how crazy it seems. Think of everything you and Irv did together, every business connection, people he introduced you too."

"Well..."

"And then get up out of that chair and start taking care of your family. Cook for them, read to the children, make love to your husband"—she winced at that and I knew I'd hit a nerve. "Clean your house, clean closets, do anything but sit there."

"Well..."

"And as for Steve Millican, he spent yesterday building me a fence for the dog. It turned out to be his last free day, yet that was something he did willingly because we were friends. We weren't related, just friends." I wanted to ask what she'd done for me lately.

"He didn't know it was his last day of freedom," she protested weakly.

"He knew things were closing in on him, I guarantee you that. But he still had time to worry about his sister and build me a fence and be pleasant." I marched into the den and asked Ava, "Do you have some blank notebook paper and a pen your mom could use." She supplied them promptly, and I handed them to Donna wordlessly. Then I gathered up the girls and said I'd see her in the morning. I had no idea if I'd gotten through to her or just made her mad.

I was still fuming, but at least now I had a target—Donna. "Aunt Kate, are you okay?" Ava's voice came from the back seat.

"Yeah, sweetie, I am. It's just been an upsetting few days." She of course had no idea about Steve, and I planned to keep it that way.

A big sigh. "Yeah, I know," she said. "Me, too."

"Me third," Jess said in a tight little voice that brought those darn tears to my eyes.

Later, after I'd read to the girls, tucked them in, and wished them, "sweet dreams," I decided it was time to do a load of aprons before I ran out of clean ones. Automatically emptying pockets, I came across the crumpled sheet of paper that Mr. Overton had given me with the bank balances on it. I smoothed the scrap of paper out and stared at it, wondering why it bothered me.

When the phone rang, I dropped everything and ran to get it before it wakened the girls. David wanted to know how things were going. I tried to give him a run-down on Steve Millican's arrest, to which he said, "I feel sorry for the sister," and I replied that I felt sorry for Steve. "You bleeding heart," he accused. About my dressing-down of Donna, he asked if it did any good and I told him I couldn't tell yet, maybe I'd learn something when I took the girls home mid-morning tomorrow.

"What about your meeting with Mr. Overton?"

"I guess it was okay. Everything seems to be in order. I asked him the bank balances, and he wrote them on a slip of paper for me."

"Did he have bank books or something with him as verification?"

That's what was hitting me in the head! He'd pulled those figures out of thin air. I had no idea how accurate they were—or weren't.

When I confessed that, David said, "Kate, get to the bank first thing tomorrow morning. Verify the balances—and ask if Overton has an account there. They won't tell you the balance, but I'd love to know that he's not squirreling some of your money away in his account."

My heart jumped into my mouth and then settled back down. "You think it's a possibility?"

"I do." Then with a chuckle he added, "I bet Gram does too."

Dumbfounded I was silent so long, he said, "Kate, you still there?"

"Um—hmm. Just thinking over that comment about Gram. Actually, she keeps telling me to talk to the mayor."

He didn't comment on my implication that Gram had been talking to me. Either she'd been talking to him too or he decided there were too many more important things to worry about. "Looks like you have a busy morning. If things lead where I think they will, call Rick Samuels right away. He can watch Overton and maybe put a freeze on his bank account. I'll check tomorrow night."

I hung up the phone and stood like a statue, my hand still on it. Mr. Overton was stealing from me! It seemed crystal clear. Would he have the nerve to kill Gram? And what about the mayor—things began to come back to me. He'd been waiting to see the mayor when Tom delivered the lunch that made her sick—could he have put something in it? And the missing digitalis? Maybe he used the restroom, or pretended to, that day I left him with Don Davidson. Or he could have come back any time. Like Gram, I left the back door unlocked.

But what about Irv Litman? Irv wasn't poisoned, and surely Mr. Overton had no reason to kill him. My mind was working overtime now, and I heard loud and clear Irv's words to Donna, "It takes one to know one." I had just found Gram's killer and freed Donna—or had I? One thing was sure: I wasn't going to Rick Samuels with this information. He'd just laugh at my latest witch-hunt.

"Go through my roll-top desk, Kate." It was Gram's voice. I wanted to protest that it was late and I had a lot to do tomorrow, but if she was listening, she knew that. I went to the desk, went through drawers, pulled everything out until I had papers scattered everywhere on the floor and the daybed in that room. Nothing. I stared at the empty desk and began poking and prying back into corners, pulling on the fronts of those little drawers above the writing area. There was a space with no drawer but it was much shallower than the others—I pulled out the drawer below and felt above it with my fingers. Something gave way, and I could push the bottom of that space back. A small notebook fell out. Gram had hidden something in a false bottom. Who knew she was that clever?

Above me, I heard a great, "Harrumph!" and then a chuckle.

Gram had been keeping a journal for about a year. Page after page recorded incidents that angered her or aroused her suspicions—some with Donna, many with the mayor, and some with Mr. Overton. In a few instances, I read with chagrin, she was at least mildly angry with me or disappointed in me. Silently, I apologized, but I heard nothing from her.

The journal stopped two days before Gram died, but the last entry was the telling one. She wrote,

I am quite sure William Overton is adjusting my bookkeeping in his favor, but I'm not sure what to do about it. I can't go to Rick Samuels without proof, and I hate confrontation, so I must think this through. I never should have let Mayor Thompson talk me into using his services, but she seemed to think it would make such a difference to Wheeler to have a CPA. And I certainly can't go to her now about it, what with the way things are between us.

There it was, in Gram's own writing. The smoking gun or whatever they call it in detective fiction. I shoved the small notebook into my purse with Mr. Overton's scrap of paper, vowing not to let it out of my sight. Then I put the desk to rights—well, not really. I just fixed the hidden drawer so it was hidden again and then shoved papers every which-way into the desk, swearing I'd go through them once this was all solved. Huggles got one brief potty trip to the yard, and it was well after midnight before I went to bed—to toss and turn with a thousand scenarios that tomorrow might bring playing out in my mind.

Next morning, I kissed the girls and suggested to a sleepy Ava that she call me when they woke up. She nodded, reached for a hug, and was back asleep before I was out the door. They called about nine, just when I was getting ready to head for the bank.

"Can you girls come over to the café by yourselves? Ava, you know how to lock the door." I was never again leaving my back door unlocked, no matter what Gram said about people in Wheeler.

She assured me she did, and she would.

Gus, who had overheard me, said, "I go meet them, Miss Kate. What with all that's goin' on, I don't want them walking alone."

I almost asked incredulously what he thought could possibly happen to them between the house and the café, but I appreciated the sweetness in his concern and just gave him a hug of thanks. I waited until they got there and were settled with their breakfasts ordered—a chocolate milk shake for Jess and eggs, bacon, and potatoes for Ava. Any other time I might have suggested she go on the slimmer side, but I was distracted.

The bank teller was Marie, a girl I'd gone to high school with. "Hi, Kate. What's going on? We don't see much of you these days—just that Overton man." Her voice held no warmth for "that Overton man" or was I seeing signs everywhere now?

"Just want to double check the balance on my accounts. I have the numbers right here." I slid the piece of paper under the grate in front of her window.

"Just take me a minute," she said. She hit her computer, wrote down figures, and finally handed me the slip of paper with balances by the account numbers. Once glance told me they were off, way off. "Thanks, Marie, just what I needed," I muttered. Sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs in the bank lobby, I studied the figures more carefully. We were short about $50,000 in all three accounts, and I'd need to put money into the payroll account almost immediately. For a minute, I thought I was going to be sick right there in the bank, in front of God and everyone. Overton had stolen from Gram and now he was stealing from me. How could I have dismissed him as a milquetoast? I literally hit myself in the head, and I was really tempted to sit there and bawl at the injustice of it all! But I slowly pulled myself together and went back to Marie's window.

"I forgot, Marie. Does William Overton keep an account here?" Was my voice unsteady or was that just the way it sounded to me?

More clicks on the computer. "Yes, he does. Of course I can't give you any more information."

"Of course."

"Everything all right, Kate? Anything I can do?" She cracked her gum but her look held real concern, and I decided every emotion I was feeling was plastered all over my face.

"No, no thanks."

I made my way almost blindly to the mayor's office, only to be greeted from her inner office with, "What do you want?"

"To talk to you...about Gram and Mr. Overton."

"I don't have much time, so make it brief."

"Mayor Thompson, why did you stop using Gram's money for town beautification?" There, a blunt question, out in the open. I felt in control once more.

"I didn't stop until the donations stopped," the mayor replied. "I don't know why your grandmother was angry or stopped the donations."

"When did they stop?" This was crucial.

She furrowed her brow, then walked across the room to a file cabinet, pulled out one file, and came back to study it. "They stopped three years ago this summer."

Next crucial question: "When did Mr. Overton come to town?"

She got out another file—efficient, if unpleasant, I thought. After studying it, she said, "He'd just been here a few months when your grandmother stopped the donations."

"And did you ask her to use his services?"

The stunned expression on her face said more clearly than words that she was beginning to understand what I was after. "Are you saying...?"

I nodded. "I'm afraid I am. And I'm afraid he's getting ready to leave town with our money. He's let my payroll account, which always has a good cushion, get dangerously low."

She let out a low whistle, the kind men give when they're surprised. It startled me so I jumped. "So your grandmother was mad at me because she thought I was using her donations for something else, and I was, uh, peeved with her because she suddenly stopped giving without telling me in advance or explaining. I thought she just didn't like me."

That's a possibility, too, I thought, but we won't go there now. "I'm sorry Gram died with that misunderstanding in her heart." Then I added, "I think William Overton killed Gram and made you sick—you're young and healthy and the dosage of digitalis he used only made you sick, but it was enough to kill a woman Gram's age with a history of heart trouble."

"Oh my god, in my town. No!" She put her face in her hands. "I'm calling Rick Samuels."

"Please don't. Rick thinks I'm on a witch-hunt, and I'll have to prove this to him. I'm going to see Mr. Overton." I wasn't going to let Rick Samuels dismiss me again. I knew I was right. My surprise and devastation had turned into real determination.

"I don't think that's safe!"

"He can't force digitalis down me. Besides, I bet he's run out of his supply." I didn't mention that I thought, with less reason, he had shot Irv Litman. But the police had that gun, so at least I was safe there. Surely I could overwhelm and even overpower William Overton if I needed to.
Chapter Nineteen

I was running on anger as I turned into the side street where William Overton had his office/home combination. It was a modest house, like a guesthouse. I'd never been there but Tom told me he kept his office in the living room and lived in the bedroom.

Without knocking, I burst through the door. Overton was sitting hunched at his desk. The walls behind him were covered with diplomas, CPA certificates, and the like. I spotted a framed document certifying him as an Eagle Scout in the Boy Scouts of America. Eagle Scouts don't cheat, I thought wryly.

"Miss Kate? Ah...this is a surprise. What can I do for you?" He half stood, and his face turned even paler than it usually was. His eyes looked anywhere but directly at me.

I marched straight to his desk, ignoring the folding chairs he set out for clients—really classy office this. "You can explain the difference between the balances you wrote on a piece of paper for me and what the bank shows as my balance, especially in the payroll account. And you can tell me what happened to the money Gram thought she was donating to the city."

He steepled his fingers in front of his face and stared up at me, obviously thinking. He'd look at me for a minute and then down at his fingers. It was as though I could see his mind whirling, trying to come up with what to say. He stammered a few times and then fell silent again.

I refused to retreat one inch. Finally, he said, "I...I told you your grandmother decided to stop the donations." He took a deep breath and rushed on, like a swimmer plunging into deep water. "And as for the discrepancy, I did give you those figures from memory. Foolish of me. I should have waited to check the books." He made a nervous gesture toward an open ledger on his desk.

"Check the books!" I exploded. "You know I'd never let the payroll account get that low. You should have caught that."

"Uh, won't you sit down, Miss Kate?" Now he was stalling, his mind obviously seeking a solution to this problem—me—that had barged into his office.

I was heady with strength. There was nothing this weasel could do to me, and I had him dead to rights. "No, I won't. I know the accounts are short, and an audit will show the withdrawals I don't know about. At the same time, an investigation will demonstrate that Gram continued to designate money for the city after you stopped paying the donations. You're going to jail for embezzlement and murder. You killed my grandmother!" I was practically shrieking by now.

He rose slowly. "Now, now, let's not be hysterical." Suddenly his hesitation and confusion seemed gone, and I wondered what scheme he'd thought up.

"You killed Gram. She'd given you a chance to get established in a new town, and you killed her!"

A pained look crossed his face. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, and his hand came out pointing a gun at me. Too late I realized that I should have tackled him or something before he had this chance. Now I sat transfixed, more amazed than afraid, though fear would come in a minute. I'm no expert on guns—all I knew was it was small and steel and cold looking. In the next moment I was paralyzed with fear, but then Gram talked to me, "Child, you can't let him get away with this. You must save yourself." I think I said aloud, "Okay, Gram, I'm not going to let this weasel of a man kill me, and I by gosh won't going to let him get away with our money."

Overton jumped at my words and then smiled maliciously. "Your grandmother can't help you now, Kate. I'm sorry about this." He didn't sound one bit sorry. "I knew all along you would be trouble. That's why I had someone cut your brake lines in Dallas."

"You what?" I was astounded. I knew in the back of my mind that Rob had not done that, but I never ever thought Overton was that scheming and vicious, maybe desperate. "You had someone cut the lines?"

Holding the gun, he said, "I could've handled Donna. She's a dimwit. But you were bound to catch on. When you survived, I made plans to take what I could and leave."

So many things began to make sense to me that I was astounded at how dense I'd been, how many little things I'd overlooked. Overton had been overly solicitous when news got out about my brake failure. I should have picked up on that. It dawned on me I wasn't dealing with a milquetoast at all but with a cold, calculating mind, if not a very firm personality. Maybe I could capitalize on his...what? Insecurity? Uncertainty?

"Put that away," I said. Fake it, Kate. Don't let him think you're afraid! "You don't have the nerve to use it." My tone was deliberately as scornful as I could make it.

"Don't be too sure." He was calm and cool now, sure he had the situation in control. "I used a similar one on Irv Litman. It was, ah, very effective."

Edging toward the door, I asked, "Why would you kill Irv?" I was stalling, looking around for something, anything that I could throw at him, but his bare office, with no decorations, offered little help unless I could hoist one of the chairs, and I doubted that. I was getting closer to the door though.

"Ah, Mr. Litman and I were...acquainted in Dallas. He knew, uh, that I had lost my CPA license for embezzling." His eyes left me for a nanosecond to linger on the framed certificate. "It's no longer valid," he said, "but I couldn't have Irv around to tell people that."

By now I was really close to the door, getting ready to bolt.

"Stop," he commanded, raising the gun just a bit. I noticed, I guess with encouragement, that his hand shook. Then again, maybe that was bad. "We're leaving together. Walk out the door in a normal fashion and get in my car in the driveway."

Any woman who's had an ounce of self-preservation training knows you never, ever, get in the car. It's like signing a death warrant. I was betting he wouldn't shoot me on the streets of Wheeler. Now I was the one whose brain was whirling, but I pretended to comply, stepping out on the porch just ahead of him. Then in one sudden but oh so calculated movement I stumbled on purpose, grabbed a pot of petunias and heaved it in his face. Only later would I laugh at the irony of that bare bones office having petunias on the porch—wilting ones at that.

Without looking back, I took off running down the street, zigzagging—hadn't I heard a moving target is harder to hit? All the time I was waving my arms and yelling like a crazy person. My back prickled, and I expected a bullet to come zinging my way any minute. My heart was pounding, my lungs protesting with every step. I had to stop yelling to catch my breath. Behind me I heard, "Stop, you bitch, or I'll shoot." It didn't sound to me like he'd moved, and I didn't hear footsteps, but maybe my hearing was distorted by the blood pounding in my ears.

Sidewalks in Wheeler are old and uneven, and I tripped, scraping my knees and the palms of my hands. For a second I was tempted to lie flat to the ground and see what happened, but I didn't dare. But I managed a peek over my shoulder. Overton was standing there, the gun pointing limply in my direction but more toward the ground. He had a puzzled expression on his face. I didn't move.

Sirens screamed, a car screeched to a halt, and I heard a familiar voice.

"Drop the gun, Overton," Rick Samuels ordered. Rick had assumed that stance you see on detective shows, feet apart, hands holding the gun in front of him. I had no doubt he could hit his target with ease. Overton's attention had completely shifted from me, and I used the moment to struggle to my feet.

Overton mumbled something and then suddenly put the gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. There was the gunshot I'd dreaded, but the victim was not me, not Rick. William Overton lay still on the ground—half of his head was gone. The only thing that kept me from retching was the distance I had run—I couldn't see closely and didn't intend to move any closer. I was frozen. But my heart began to slow its frantic pace, my stomach stopped lurching, and my breath came more evenly instead of in ragged gasps. Rick stood over the body. He didn't even bother to try for a pulse.

More sirens, and then Rick came slowly toward me. "Kate?" If I expected comfort and sympathy, I didn't get it. "What in God's name made you take a risk like that? Why didn't you call me?"

I drew myself together. "You'd have said I was on a witch hunt."

"Your hands are bleeding," Rick said sensibly. "And is that blood on your pants?"

"Probably. I fell." I looked down. Not only was there blood but one good pair of chinos was ruined, torn at the knee. When I began to walk, I limped a bit, and I wasn't going to tell Rick, but my hands did sting.

"You'll have to come to the station and make a statement, but go home and clean up first. I'll meet you there. Or do you want me to drive you home?"

I wanted to have a stiff upper lip and say I'd walk, but both my hands and my knee really hurt. "Yes, please."

"Come get in the patrol car. I'll just be a moment." He got me seated in the car, gave me a long look I couldn't interpret, and turned back to Overton's office, where the ambulance drivers were loading Overton into a body bag. One of them looked the other way and looked to me like he might wretch.

****

Gram used to put iodine on our cuts and scraped knees when we were little. I remembered that I'd left the bottle in the medicine cupboard when I'd cleaned out all Gram's things. I washed my hands and knees first with soap and water—that alone stung enough. Then the iodine, which stung like fire. I put a band-aid over the worst cut on my knee so it wouldn't ruin another pair of pants, and looked at the chinos I'd been wearing. They were beyond repair. I relegated them to housecleaning cloths.

Then I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, staring out into the yard, occasionally reaching down to pat Huggles, who sensed my distress and was ready to jump into my lap to comfort me if I'd let him. It began to hit me that I'd nearly been killed—again. It still didn't seem real. And I'd seen a man die, a man I'd just talked to, a man I'd met with every week for months. The fact that he was going to kill me faded into the distance. I'd had too much death lately—Gram, Irv, and now Overton. Finally, I dragged myself into action.

Dressed in clean clothes, I stopped by the café, intending to tell the staff that I'd be delayed and they'd have to handle the noon customers themselves. I planned to say there'd been a bit of trouble in town. I needn't have worried.

"So Overton shot himself," Marj said. "It's all over town. I knew I didn't trust him. I told your grandma she was making a big mistake." Then she stopped to look at me. "You okay, hon? You look a might pale."

"No, I'm fine. Just a bit upset. Try to keep a lid on the gossip, Marj. I'll be back when I can."

Rick was in his office and ushered me right in. At his request, I reviewed the entire morning, a review that took longer than I expected.

"So you did it! You found out who killed your grandmother and poisoned the mayor. I should be huffing and puffing because you stole my responsibilities, but my hat's off to you, Kate." If I'd wanted a warm fuzzy hug, I wasn't going to get it. He had his official hat on now.

"I had some information I didn't share with you," I said reluctantly. "Gram's financial records. There's a lot of money missing. I'm hoping you can freeze Overton's account, though now that he's dead I don't know who would try to touch it."

"You never know. I'll get the JP to act on it. I'll have to do a search for nearest of kin."

I nodded. "The problem is, Rick, I didn't clear Donna. I made it worse for her."

He was honest enough not to deny it. "We've got no proof that he killed Litman, no link to them. Donna's still our best suspect."

"I know he killed him, and I know why. But you have only my word against whatever, now that he's not here to testify in his own defense. He told me, just before he tried to usher me into his car that he killed Irv because Irv knew him from Dallas, knew he'd been caught embezzling and had his CPA license revoked, something I'm pretty sure Gram didn't know. That explains what Donna said to me about Irv telling her it takes one to know one."

Rick rubbed his chin, looked thoughtful, and said nothing—for so long I began to fidget. Finally, "We'll have to see where Donna's lawyer can take this. If I'd known you were going to do this, I could have put a wire on you. But of course if I'd known, I wouldn't have let you do it."

Rick had actually, with my prior knowledge and consent, taped our conversation, so all of this was part of the record. He switched the recorder off and said, "Kate, go home. Get some rest."

"No," I said stubbornly. "I've got to go see Donna, and then I've got to go to the café. I haven't been there at all today."

"Did it ever occur to you that the café will survive if you miss a day?"

I shook my head and stood up. My knee was stiffening again, and I hated to limp in front of him, but I couldn't help it.

"Did you drive?"

"Yes."

****

Donna was aghast. "You killed the one man who could have proved me innocent? How could you?"

So tired I could barely answer her, I managed in a low voice, "I didn't kill him. He killed himself."

"You drove him to it!"

"Donna, he was going to kill me, and he killed our grandmother. Does that matter to you?"

She turned in her chair and softened just a bit. "Well, yes, of course. I'd rather have him dead than you. And I miss Gram, but we can't change that now."

A bit callous, I thought. "I got a verbal confession. He said he killed Irv, just as you said, because Irv knew that he was a cheat and a thief. 'It takes one to know one.' Irv was telling you he too was a cheat and a thief." I put my head in my hands. "How did we get mixed up in all this?"

She stood and began pacing. "I'll tell you how. It's all because Angela Thompson brought that accountant to Wheeler. If that hadn't happened, Irv and I would have our B & B." She slammed a fist into one of the sofa cushions.

Oh, Donna, I thought, you really don't get it, do you? My stern lecture to her apparently hadn't made much difference. I stood up to go back to the café and found that my legs were shaky. Holding on to the back of a chair for a minute until I regained my equilibrium, I said, "Did you give the children lunch?"

"They made it themselves," she said sullenly. "I'm fixing meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner. Does that satisfy your need to know I'm mothering?"

I didn't say anything to her, just made my way to the back door. Jess stopped me in the kitchen, gave me a hug, and said, "I hate to see you and Mommy argue."

"Me too," I muttered. "It will be all right, Jess."

I didn't go to the café. I went home. The clock told me it was two-thirty in the afternoon. I felt like it was two-thirty in the morning. I called Marj, who assured me everything was okay. I let Huggles out long enough to do his business, then brought him in, fell into bed, and slept until seven the next morning when Huggles' frantic licking told me he had to go outside—now! The world didn't look a lot better to me.

****

Neither Wheeler nor I recovered quickly from the trauma of the murders and Overton's death. I went slowly back to the café, spending a few hours each day and depending on Marj to hold it together. But after a week, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself and was in full swing at the café. Nobody said anything, except Gus, who squeezed my arm and said, "Thank you, Miss Kate. I can rest easy now." The others walked around me on eggshells for a few days and then, finally, we were back to normal. I took charge, even making a few additions to the menu—salmon cakes on Tuesdays and Frito pie on Friday. Gram always made salmon cakes for us when we were girls, and I never understood why they were missing from the menu. Sure, they're work, but not that much. The Frito pie was my own idea, after a late-night craving for chili and Fritos. Both were a hit.

Rick Samuels assumed an almost fatherly attitude toward me, which irritated me more than just a bit. He was no longer the cold stranger, but he acted like I had to be protected from my own lack of good sense. Oh, he was all over town, praising me for figuring out William Overton's key role in the debacle, but other than that he treated me like the bar girls he remembered, only one with higher standards. He came to the café usually twice a day, but he didn't come to my back porch and we didn't go to dinner. I couldn't tell if I was relieved or disappointed, but I think it was the latter.

Rick did tell me that Steve Millican would definitely serve jail time but probably not a lot. The courts were realizing these days that a lot of offenses were much more dangerous to society than dealing pot and cocaine, though it depended on what judge he got. And apparently Steve's defense was that he'd left that life behind until his old colleagues threatened Joanie if he didn't help them. If that was true, it explained Steve's mood those last days. Rick predicted a few years sentence at the most, with early probation for good behavior. I was sure Steve would behave, and I was glad the days were over when people spent their lives in jail over a bit of pot. Rick promised to keep me informed, but he said bluntly that one of the conditions of Steve's probation would be that he not return to Wheeler. Protection for the city, according to Rick.

Of Joanie Millican, Rick knew nothing. I ached for her and wanted to hug her. I never did go to Dallas much, but I kept telling myself I'd search for her boutique. Then again, she might have moved to California or Florida for all I knew, and I didn't blame her.

David Clinkscales's wife left him, as he predicted, and I only wished he had been the one to leave. Not my business though. He came to Wheeler two or three times that fall and finally rented a small cottage on a nearby lake, so he could have the East Texas peace and quiet—and mosquitoes—that he longed for. We were good friends and enjoyed each other's company, but there was no romance lurking in the background. And David never made a move on me, for which I was grateful.

About Donna and Tom, I still can't say. They tried to rebuild their marriage. Well, let me say Tom tried, and Donna pretty much resisted. I think Tom stayed because he loved his kids, but it wouldn't have surprised me at all if Donna one day got up and left it all behind to move to Dallas. I thought she'd leave Tom without a thought and the children with maybe two minutes of regret. And I knew she wouldn't find what she was looking for in Dallas. Hadn't I been there, tried that?

Tom once said something to me about how much the kids adored me—I did try to spend as much time as possible with them—and maybe he married the wrong Chambers girl. I put the kibosh on that quickly. No, I wasn't in the mood for romance. I was savoring my quiet life with the café (well, most days that was never totally quiet), Huggles, Wynona, and the children. Yeah, sometimes I watched for Steve's flashlight or Rick's headlights in my driveway, but I was pretty much all right.

It probably took the town longer. Indignation about William Overton was rife. I heard it in the café for weeks, and I swear if he were alive, there might have been a lynching party. They were mad for Johnny and for the town. I of course came in for a hero's applause, which I tried to play down. But East Texas folk don't forget their loyalties easily. They did however allow as how my food was every bit as good as Johnny's, and some said a bit better. Was that the salmon cakes?

The town was also slow to forgive Mayor Angela Johnson. They read all about Overton's embezzlement of funds meant for the city in the weekly Wheeler Tribune, but they didn't forgive the mayor. Perhaps if she had been more pleasant in daily life, they would have. She may have sensed general sentiment, but she stopped hibernating in her office and actually came in for lunch fairly often. I sat and chatted with her three or four times. She wasn't a bad person, but she had an abrasive attitude that she couldn't seem to shake. On the other hand, she held some strong beliefs about what government should do and should not in general and about our corner of the world, and I tended to agree with her.

Mayor Johnson saw the handwriting on the wall, plain as it was. She announced she would not run for mayor again but would file and campaign for representative in the state legislature. Wheeler folk seemed more ready to support her in this role, maybe because she'd be in Austin and not Wheeler, but they supported her. And Tom announced for mayor. I knew Gram was smiling.

Gram was mostly silent these days, after initially thanking me for what she knew all along was true. But one night, as I sat on her back porch, she said, "Child, don't get too complacent. Wheeler isn't the calm, quiet backwater you think it is, and you're probably going to have to rescue your sister again." Oh, Gram, you mean Donna hasn't learned anything from all this? I don't think I can do it again. She's the same Donna she was in high school.

"Hush, child. That's what sisters do for each other. They support...and rescue if they have to."

Okay, Gram, but I'm not going to Dallas after her. And she never ever thinks about rescuing me.

"You don't need rescue, Kate. You're strong. You make me proud."

Thanks a lot, Gram!

THE END
Recipes from The Blue Plate Café Cookbook

### Gram's Meatloaf

1½ lbs. ground chuck

1 medium onion, chopped

½ green pepper, chopped fine (Kate omits this as a personal preference, but you don't taste it when you eat the meatloaf.)

1 egg, slightly beaten

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp. pepper

18 saltine crackers, crushed

3 8-oz. cans tomato sauce, divided use

Mix well, reserving one can tomato sauce, and put into loaf pan. Top with third small can of tomato sauce. Bake at 350° for one hour. Check and possibly cook for another 15 to 30 minutes.

### Kate's Chicken Salad

Kate is a purist about chicken salad. She doesn't believe in adding pickle relish, grapes (too much like bistro food!), or nuts. This makes great sandwiches.

4 whole chicken breasts, poached and diced

Juice of 2 large lemons

8 scallions, diced

2 ribs celery, diced

Salt and pepper

Mayonnaise to bind (do not use that low-fat stuff) or equal parts of mayonnaise and sour cream

Optional: stir in some blue cheese

Flake chicken in food processor or dice, according to your preference—Kate flakes it; add diced scallions, lemon juice, salt and pepper, and mix. Add mayonnaise a bit at a time, blending thoroughly. It should hold the chicken together but not make the mixture soupy. The pure chicken flavor should dominate. Serves about 12. Can easily be reduced for home use; just start with one whole chicken breast or even a half.

### Gram's Good Beans

One large can Ranch Style beans

One 32 oz. can diced tomatoes

½ bell pepper, seeded and finely diced

One medium onion, finely diced

Simmer in Crock-Pot at least three hours. Serves 8-10. Double as needed.

### Gram's Sheet Cake

2 sticks butter or margarine

4 Tbsp. cocoa

1 c. water.

Bring these ingredients to a boil and add:

2 c. sugar

2 c. flour

Mix and add:

2 eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

½ c. buttermilk

1 tsp. baking soda

Mix and bake in a greased rimmed cookie sheet at 400° for 20 minutes.

Separately combine in saucepan:

1 stick butter

4 Tbsp. cocoa

6 Tbsp. milk

Bring to a boil and add:

1 lb. powdered sugar

1 c. chopped nuts

1 tsp. vanilla

Spread over hot cake.

Gram's cooking hints: Cooking a pot of pinto beans? Add four or five beef bouillon cubes per pound of beans. Making salmon cakes? Use finely ground cracker crumbs to bind, never mashed potatoes.
About Judy Alter

An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O'Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. With Murder at the Blue Plate Café, she moves from inner city Fort Worth to small-town East Texas to create a new set of characters in a setting modeled after a restaurant that was for years one of her family's favorites. This is the first in a series that includes Murder at Tremont House and Murder at Peacock Mansion.

Before turning her attention to mystery, Judy wrote fiction and nonfiction, mostly about women of the American West, for adults and young-adult readers. Her work has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame at the Fort Worth Public Library and the Western Writers of America Hall of Fame.

Follow Judy at www.judyalter.com or her blog at www.judys-stew.blogspot.com.

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