Murder at the Tremont House (A Blue Plate Cafe Mystery) (11 page)

“
So how did you get to Dallas?”

“
Bad luck, I guess. I wanted to get out, get away, see the city lights. Came to Dallas, applied for the police academy, went through their training, and the rest is history you know. Sometimes I think I might better go back to Brewster. They’re having big-time problems with illegal immigrants, violence against ranchers. It’s a real hotbed.”

“
As compared to Wheeler,” I supplied.

“
Well, a man would feel needed there. I’m never sure if anyone would even notice if I left Wheeler.”

“
I would.”

He took my hand and said,
“Thanks. I’m grateful.”

I wanted to add,
“But I didn’t mean it that way.”
Why can’t I just fall in love with this man? He’s good-looking, intelligent. He can be kind and caring if you scratch the surface, but it just isn’t happening. Donna would be spinning a passionate romance out of this and here I am, sitting in my rocking chair two feet away from him.
“Tell me about Sara Jo today.”

“
She wanted to know all about rustlers. If I told her about Brewster County, I could have told her some real hair-raising rustler stories. Here, it’s piddly stuff, but I know Greenough is hoppin’ mad. And he wants it in the newspaper, all over, so someone will know he was done wrong. Me, I’d rather catch the guys than have the sympathy of the town.”

Somehow, at that moment, I knew Rick wouldn
’t stay in Wheeler forever. Don’t ask more because I couldn’t tell.

When he rose to leave, I stood up too, and suddenly I was in his arms, sharing a rather passionate kiss that spoke lots about attraction and very
little about the future. For the time being I liked it.

Cha
pter Nine

The next cooking class came the day of my meeting with Sara Jo. Naturally that meeting had been on my mind for two days now—aside
from that kiss from Rick. Bonnie Smith called Donna that morning and said she had to withdraw from the class. She explained her life was just too busy, and she didn’t have time. Carolyn Grimes didn’t come to the lesson, and I was puzzled. I thought surely she’d call if she was going to miss it.

If I thought my sister missed local gossip,
I underestimated her. “What does Bonnie Smith do with that time that she’s so busy? Maybe try to keep Sara Jo from Cary. I hear she’s been interviewing him a lot more than the other kids. Wonder what’s going on? Maybe Bonnie doesn’t want to come to the class because Sara Jo is there.”

Right on, sister.
But I didn’t say that.

We were fixing Beef Wellington that day, and I planned to show them
an easy yet delicious method to make that delicacy—without the liver pâté that, as Rick so aptly pointed out, most men in Wheeler wouldn’t eat. I bought puff pastry and good beef in Canton and told the ladies this dish would require a trip to the larger stores in that city or even in Tyler.

I laid out a sheet of pastry, set the piece of beef in the middle, added salt and pepper and wrapped the dough around it, showing the ladies how to press it tight and pinch off the excess. Then I used that extra dough to makes leaf shapes, flipped the pastry package over and put the leaves on the top.
They were all convinced they could never do it, but when I had Barbara Wallace (the dress shop lady) wrap the next steak, she declared, “Why there’s nothing to this! I can do it!” The other ladies crowded around, and each wanted to try, so they took turns, each wrapping what would be their own dinners. Naturally, some looked better than others. They left the lesson, each carrying two individual Beef Wellingtons and green beans almandine in to-go containers from the café. I pretty much left them on their own for potatoes but tucked directions for twice-baked into each to-go bag.

As soon as I got back to the
café, I called. “Carolyn? I missed you today at cooking class. We made individual Beef Wellingtons. I saved you a copy of the directions. Chester would love it.”

I
heard the lovely sound of Carolyn’s laugh. “Lordy child, Chester has no idea what Beef Wellington is. But, yes, he’d like it. I’m sorry, and I should have called. I have no real excuse. I just didn’t have the energy. Instead of energy, I have a dread in my bones.”

“
Dread in your bones?” I echoed her phrase.

“
Just a feeling something bad is going to happen. It’s probably foolish, and it will go away after a good night’s sleep.”

“
Should I come see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“
Now, you know I’d love that, and I’d make you tuna salad, and give you wine, and make you take a nap. But don’t put yourself out. I’ll be fine.”

“
I’ll be there by eleven in the morning,” I said.

We talked a bit more and hung up, with me repeating I
’d see her tomorrow. Carolyn was special, and if she was worried, I was worried. I’d quiz her about Chester. Maybe she was worried about his health? Certainly not his safety. Being Kaufman County deputy sheriff, stationed in a sleepy town like Crandall, left Chester with little to do except catch speeders as they went by on the highway around town or occasionally rescuing a motorist in trouble, as he had me several months ago when someone cut the brake lines on my car.

Hanging up the phone, I sighed and turned my mind to café business. And, of course, to my meeting that night with Sara Jo. I intended to play hardball with her.

Maybe Carolyn’s dread in the bones described how I felt about Sara Jo.

****

I arrived at the B&B promptly at seven, ringing the front door chimes as a proper guest should. From the cooking classes, I was familiar with the gleaming white and chrome kitchen. Donna had spared no expense—a Subzero refrigerator, an Aga stove, a chrome-topped island with built-in cutting board and granite for rolling out pastry dough. The idea made me giggle—Donna rolling out pie dough? I actually did use the marble for the puff pastry to wrap the beef. But Donna probably never even chopped an onion on that maple cutting board.

I was less familiar with the living areas—a spacious living room and a cozy library
off it. Donna had done a smashing job of decorating. She claimed she did it herself, but I always suspected that before Irv died he had put her in touch with a decorator from Dallas, and Donna later spirited that person, man or woman, in and out of town without letting any of us know—particularly Tom.

Sara Jo answered the door, as though she were welcoming a guest into her own home. I though
t she had really taken over the B&B—kitchen privileges and now she was the hostess. But she welcomed me into a cheery room, bright and seemingly sunny even as dusk approached on this spring night.

Instead of treating the large living room as one room, Donna had chosen to break it into two conversation area
s. Side chairs with bright floral upholstery flanked small settees upholstered in gray and white ticking. Throw pillows in red, blue and yellow brightened the settees and picked up the colors of floral rugs. Donna had painted the walls a soft white with the faintest blue-gray tinge but kept the beautiful dark woodwork of the home.

“
Kitchen or living room?” Sara Jo asked. Her manner was a bit abrupt.

“
Let’s settle in one of those settees,” I suggested.

“
I’ll be right back with wine. Donna told me you prefer white, so I have sauvignon blanc. Okay?”

“
Perfect.”

She came back with a glass of white for me and red for her, and I prayed she wouldn
’t get angry and throw it on Donna’s ticking upholstery.

“
Donna’s gone home for the night. I told her you were coming, and I thought you and I would have a more productive visit if she wasn’t around. I suspect she was a bit miffed.” She curled into one of the floral chairs and tucked her legs under her like a teenager.

My reaction was mixed. I was indeed relieved Donna wasn
’t there, because I would talk more freely and so, probably, would Sara Jo. If she were there, Donna would hover. On the other hand, this was just another instance of Sara Jo taking over, as if it were her B&B. She couldn’t quite direct Donna to leave. Her next words floored me.

“
I told Donna, though, if she’s going to have long-term guests or a full house on weekends, she really ought to be here twenty-four seven. I don’t know where she’d put that husband and those children.”

Boy oh boy, this is not getting off to a good start. I resent her dismissive reference to Tom and the children.

She never missed a beat. “Now, tell me why you’re back here in Wheeler and how you feel about it.”

I sighed. I thought we
’d covered this territory before. I repeated the whole story about Gram’s death and her wish that I’d take over the café and my own dissatisfaction with my life in Dallas. Sara Jo had turned on a tape recorder, after asking if that was all right with me. I agreed. I wasn’t the one with something to hide.

Then she asked about the problem with the then-mayor and William Overton, Gram
’s crooked accountant, and I told her details. She was, I knew, working up to Rick.

“
Wasn’t there another incident? Something to do with a drug dealer.”

“
Yes, but I don’t feel it’s my place to talk about it. The man owned the nursery and was a good friend, and now he’s in prison. His sister sold her place to the Wallaces and went back to Dallas. I’ve lost track of both of them.”

“
Were you romantically involved with this man?”

“
I don’t see how my personal life has anything to do with your exploration of small-town life,” I said, biting my tongue to keep from telling her I thought the question was rude and intrusive. “But, the answer is no.”

“
So now you’re having an affair with the chief of police.” It wasn’t a question, but she went on before I could answer. “I looked into your life in Dallas—not hard when you know where to look. You weren’t without a man in your life for long.”

My tone was icy again.
“People change, and so do circumstances. I am not having an affair with Rick Samuels.”

“
So you say.” Her smile was a bit too smug for me.

“
Let me ask you something,” I countered. “What kind of credentials do you have? You’ve told me you won’t name the magazine you writing this for, and the card you gave me isn’t at all informative about your background. Can you show us a résumé or clips or something to document your journalism career?” I forced myself to stay calm and keep my tone level.

She unwound herself from the chair and began to pace.
“You don’t trust me?”

“
No,” I said shortly. “I really don’t. Sorry, but it’s better to get it out in the open.”

“
Why?” She stopped, a hand on one hip, and stared belligerently at me.

I thought about her approach to Miss Tilly, getting her to
“open up” about her dead lover, but I didn’t say that. “You haven’t interviewed Tom, you haven’t as far as I know contacted Representative Angela Thompson, who knows an awful lot about this town. You’ve insulted Reverend Baxter about his personal life…even his sex life, which should be an out-of-bounds area for a man of the cloth. But you haven’t asked him what it’s like to pastor a congregation in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Are you simply interested in our sex lives?”

Her eyes blazed.
“No, of course not. But often a person’s private life tells you much about the way they live their entire life. If I connect enough of the dots….”

“
Then why spend so much time with Cary Smith, a high school senior. No doubt he has the same kind of sex life boys that age have always had—maybe some fumbling in the back seat of his dad’s car, a lot of fantasy, a lot of talking to the boys. You shouldn’t have to spend as much time with him as you do to find that out. And why him? He’s no different than any of his classmates. Have you talked to them?”

“
How do you know how much time I spend with Cary Smith?” she demanded, her tone harsh, her posture angry.

I kept my cool.
“Word gets around town,” I said. “Cary spends as much time with you as he does with his math tutor.”

“
Now that’s another story, and I’m looking into it.”

It suddenly dawned on me that she thought Cary was having an affair with his math teacher.
Omigosh! Gram, help!

“
It’s not unheard of,” she said harshly, as though she read my thoughts.

“
So you’re going to write another
Peyton Place
and expose Wheeler to the ridicule of Texas, if not the whole country?”

Now she turned lofty.
“The truth is what it is.” She turned away from me and went to refill the wine glass she’d just emptied almost in one gulp.

I had barely sipped my wine, determined to keep my wits about me.
There was something to this story that I was not getting—and instinct told me it had to do with Cary Smith.