Murder at the Tremont House (A Blue Plate Cafe Mystery) (17 page)

“I wouldn’t know about that. You’d have to ask Cary. He’s one of my better students.”

I tucked that comment away in my mind. According to Ava, Cary was having trouble with math; yet his teacher called him one of her best students.
“Does he have any trouble with math? I understand you tutor him quite a bit.”

She whirled to face me, and I saw defense written all over her face.
“He’s advanced for where we are in the curriculum. I’m helping him move ahead. Cary Smith is an exceptional young man.”

“
I’ve no doubt,” I said. “The few times he’s been in the café he’s been polite and pleasant. Sort of a model young man. Did he ever talk to you about Ms. Cavanaugh, why she spent so much time with him?”

She ti
lted that blond spiky-haired head to one side and said, “I didn’t know she spent more time with him than any other student. You’ll have to ask him.” Her hand was clutching the dry eraser so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She was lying with every fiber of her body. She knew what was going on between Sara Jo and Cary, and it scared her to death.

“
Okay,” I said lightly. “How long have you been in Wheeler? I haven’t seen you in the café. Most everybody comes in sooner or later.”

She put the eraser on her desk and stared at me as though even that innocuous question was a challenge.
“I put in long hours what with teaching, tutoring, and coaching, and I don’t live in Wheeler. I live closer to Tyler, so I don’t eat in town. I’m a vegetarian and do most of my own cooking.”

I
whipped out a business card, wrote “Comp meal” on it, and handing it to her, said, “Come see us sometime. Our vegetables are wonderful, and I make a mean chef’s salad to order.” With that, I walked out of her classroom, without looking back. Sally Vaughn should never play poker. Her body language had told me a lot more than she knew.

This was neither the time nor the place to track down Cary Smith, but I had a plan, one I wouldn
’t tell Rick.

That evening, while the dinner shift was under control, I went back to Gram
’s house, looked up the number, and called the Smith residence. It sounded like Cary answered, a male voice that wasn’t fully deep yet.

“
Cary?”

“
Yes?”

“
It’s Kate Chambers from the Blue Plate Café. You have a minute?”

“
Sure, Miss Kate. What can I do for you?”

I gulped hard once and plunged in.
“Yard work. My niece, Ava Bryson, told me she heard you were looking for odd jobs.” I began to prattle despite my best intentions. “Ever since Steve Millican, uh, left town I haven’t had anyone to tend my flower beds and mow.”

“
He was the guy at the nursery, wasn’t he? Bad story. Gee, Miss Kate, I don’t know much about yard work, but I suppose my dad would get me started.”

“
I can show you some of what needs to be done,” I said, “but I’m not really good at it either. Why don’t you talk to your dad and see when’s a good time. I have a power mower and everything you’d need. I’ll pay fifteen dollars an hour.”

“
You will?” His voice squeaked with incredulity, and I wished I knew him better so I could picture him on the other end of the line.

“
Yes, I will. Get back to me as soon as you can. Either at the café or here at home.” I gave him Gram’s number.

“
Gosh, thanks, Miss Kate. I really appreciate you calling me.”

I told him something formal like I looked forward to working with him, and we hung up.
I was humming when I went back to the café. Rick sat at his usual place at the counter, eating roast chicken with grits, the day’s special.

“
You look smug,” he said. His mood seemed lighter than the last time I saw him, and I was glad. He didn’t exactly smile, but the corners of his mouth turned upward a bit in that funny way he had. And he didn’t explain why he had earlier demanded to know where I was. I guess now he knew, it was okay.

“
Oh, I just had a good day.”

With a more solemn expression, he said,
“I’m glad our talk last night didn’t upset you.”

“
Rick, let’s not go there again. It upset you more than me, but we can’t either of us do anything or make any decisions, so let’s just drop it. Any progress on Sara Jo?”

He shook his head.
“Just what we already know. She was shot with a .38, in the side of the head. I have no idea if she saw it coming or was blindsided, but I hope for her sake it was the latter.”

Well, that sobered me
quickly. With my inadequate knowledge of guns, to put it mildly, I asked, “Who has a .38?”

“
Just about everybody in town,” he said dryly. “And by now, whoever it was has cleaned the gun, so there’s no residue, no evidence. We’d have to match bullet markings to the barrel, and I can hardly confiscate every .38 in Wheeler. Might miss it even if I could do that. Might have to confiscate every gun in Dallas.”

I laughed.

I stopped laughing a bit later, after Rick had left with a tip of the hat and a slight smile that to me indicated our friendship was back on track—not a relationship but a friendship. But then Donna called.

“
You haven’t bought the supplies for the cooking class tomorrow,” she screeched.

It took my breath away. I
’d completely forgotten the cooking class. “Wait, let me see what we’re fixing. I’ll call you back.” I stalled, studying the menus on my computer. Chicken enchiladas with tomatillos. I made a list—pre-roasted chickens, enchiladas, chicken broth in a box not a can, scallions, cilantro, green chilies in a can, and corn tortillas. We’d have to quadruple the recipe, but I thought it would work. We’d serve it with fresh fruit just now coming into season

“
Don?” I called her back. “Can you make a quick run to Canton for groceries? I have the list all made out. I’ll get the day started here and meet you at the B&B for prep.” Then I hesitated. “Do you think it’s disrespectful, since Sara Jo just died two days ago? Or maybe some of the ladies won’t want to come.”

“
I need to get the B&B back on track as soon as possible to get over this bad publicity, and they’ve paid for their lessons. I’ll go get your groceries, but I wish I didn’t have to do everything.”

Lord, give me patience.
I didn’t point out I was not getting paid for teaching these classes. The profit went right to her. Instead, I ignored the comment and said if she’d come by first thing in the morning, after dropping the kids at school, I’d have the list.”

“
Oh, fine. There goes my morning! Okay, I’ll be there.” Graciousness personified hung up the phone.

My mind was whirling with preparations as I tried to concentrate on closing the restaurant. I could hear the comments:
“Toma—what?” “Don’t just Mexicans eat those?” “I’m not sure my husband will eat this.” I’d be extra tactful, explain about the citrus-like quality of tomatillos and how easy they were to work with and suggest they just present the dish to their husbands without identifying the ingredients. I’d also suggest pinto beans might be a good accompaniment. Everyone in Wheeler knew how to cook those, and no, black-eyed peas wouldn’t substitute.

That settled in my mind, I crossed the vacant area between the café and the restaurant and went home to greet Huggles and Wynona, who was much less enthusiastic in her greeting than Huggles. I got them
fed, poured some wine, and pulled out my computer to see what if anything had happened in the world during the day. Then it was early to bed. As I fell asleep, my last thought was, “I wonder why I didn’t hear from David all day?” It made me sad.

The cooking class went well the next day, in spite of Donna fluttering around the kitchen saying we
’d never be ready by eleven when the ladies came. I looked at the clock—nine thirty. She’d had Tom take the kids to school and made an early speed run to Canton. We had plenty of time. I directed her to set up the chairs for the ladies and went about my business of cutting up fruit and deboning and dicing all those chickens—six. I’d save the tomatillos until the ladies were there, so they’d know how easy the prep was—just boil them in chicken broth.

Nobody complained about tomatillos though they were puzzled. And they were delighted with the idea of making
“flat” enchiladas—layering tortillas instead of dipping them in hot oil and rolling. Healthier for you and easier. By two they had all departed, happy with their “to-go” meals for dinner that night. I’d fed them on quartered tuna sandwiches from the café and offered a choice between iced water, iced tea or a small sip of wine. All except the Reverend Mrs. Baxter chose the wine, not much of a surprise. To these ladies, sipping wine in the middle of the day was sort of daring, and they loved it.

I cleaned up, packed up the leftover groceries for Donna, who
demanded, “What am I going to do with those?”

“
Make more enchiladas?”

“
No, thank you. You take them.”

I headed home before going to the café so I could stash the food and
discovered when I got there David Clinkscales sat on my back porch, in a rocker, iPad in his lap, but his gaze off in the distance.

He rose immediately, ever the gentleman, and took my bags.
“I came for lunch and missed you, but Marj said you’d be home after two. Beautiful day to sit and read.”

“
I’m glad to see you. How about chicken enchiladas for dinner?”

“
Is that a non sequitur?” He was grinning.

“
Nope. I’ve got these leftovers. Interested?”

“
Of course.”

So I left him on the porch with his iPad, put the food in the fridge, went to the café just to check, and came back to make enchiladas out of the leftovers, which wasn
’t hard because they were already half cooked. We had a delightful evening—dinner on the back porch, no talk about Sara Jo and murder, no talk about Donna and Tom. We talked about his cabin and how much he liked it, and my life and how it suited me for the time being, and the wonders of Huggles who came to beg. And sometimes we just sat and stared into the East Texas night, until a slight chill sent us inside. David had one more glass of wine while I cleaned the kitchen and left, saying he’d bring wine and groceries next time and do the cooking. When I asked what he’d cook, he was secretive.

“
My specialty. I leave you to wonder.” Hand on the door, he paused. “You know, Kate, I’m glad you left Dallas. I miss you in my office, but I think it’s been wonderful for you. You look good, more relaxed, healthier. Even though you’re under suspicion for murder.”

I probably blushed as I pushed a stray lock of hair off my forehead, but I said,
“Well, I certainly am working harder than I did in Dallas…and partying less. And probably when I think about it generally enjoying life more. It’s just not real good right now.”

He put an arm around my shoulders.
“Let’s talk about that tomorrow and not ruin tonight. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening more.”

I shoved my hands in my apron pockets and looked down, afraid to meet his eyes.
“We didn’t do anything special.”

“
That’s why it was a special night,” he said lightly and was gone.

When
I told Donna she’d missed it by not taking those leftovers, all she said was, “We had pot roast from the café.”

Chapter
Fourteen

The next day was Saturday, and Cary was to come at eleven to begin yard work. As soon as breakfast was over, I rushed to the nursery and told Stu I needed scallions, herbs, and lettuce.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully, rubbing the slight goatee that grew there. “It’s pretty late for onions, Kate. Should have planted them in February, March at the latest.”

“
Will they grow?”

“
I suppose. I can give you some of the ones I started earlier. They’re really ready to eat. Let them go much longer and you’ll have onions and not scallions. But I got herbs. You need potting soil?”

“
Yes, please. And fertilizer and that weed stuff for the lawn. I’ve done nothing to it since, uh, Steve left.”

He nodded and turned away to get the things I needed. I watched him walk away, one of those men who have put on a beer belly but remain otherwise trim. He was balding a bit in the back, which he sometimes covered with a baseball cap, and he generally let himself go in dress—dirty shirt hanging out of his jeans. Of course
Steve had a dirty shirt, but somehow it looked different.
Stop it, Kate! Steve Millican is out of your life.

Stu
’s efforts to sell me gardening equipment were fruitless. I had all that stuff in Gram’s shed, though it dawned on me I probably needed gasoline for the mower and the weed eater. Stu loaned me a wheelbarrow to take my herbs, onion, grass seed, fertilizer and weed killer across the highway. He warned me it was too late in the season for weed killer but added I might as well go ahead and try it. He cautioned me to wet the lawn thoroughly and keep my dog off it for several hours. I returned the wheelbarrow, got Gram’s gas can and hiked the short distance to the gas station to fill it. On the way back I soon found I didn’t know how heavy a five-gallon can of gas could be. Huffing and puffing, I made it into the back yard where Huggles jumped all over me until I finally collapsed on the ground to play with him.