Murder at the Tremont House (A Blue Plate Cafe Mystery) (3 page)

She blew me an air kiss.
“You’re such a great sister. Thanks.” Then she went to help herself to a cup of coffee and settled down at the counter. “We had the best time staying up talking last night. I didn’t get home until midnight. Tom and the kids were asleep. But I have so much to tell her about Wheeler and what it’s like to live here, what it was like to grow up here. I mean for a person with ambitions, like me.”

I wanted to ask if she
’d told her about Irv Litman, but I held back. Sooner or later, she would tell that tale and probably others. She needed no prompting from me.

*
***

Rick picked me up just a little after five-thirty, which made us early for our six-thirty dinner reservations. The drive was leisurely and love
ly—at almost six o’clock on a March evening, it’s nearing twilight, and this night the land seemed bathed in a red glow from a brilliant sunset. I turned to look behind us a couple of times and finally recited, “Red at night, sailors delight.”

“
What does that mean?”

“
It’s an old verse Gram taught us. ‘Red at night, sailors delight; red in the morning, sailors take warning.’ Just watch—you can often predict the weather by looking at the sunrise and sunset.”

“
Old wives’ tale,” he scoffed but it was good-natured. “Since we each usually see both the sunrise and the sunset, though, we can test it out.”

“
Want to bet?” I challenged.

“
With you? No way.”

We took a meandering farm road for a ways and then picked up the state highway directly into Tyler. Rick knew right where we were going, and with all the sophistication of a Dallas dweller rather than a small town police chief, he handed the keys to the valet, put his hand in the small of my back and we entered the restaurant—nearly half an hour early. W
e were seated immediately.

“
Let’s splurge,” Rick said, studying the menu. Finally, he decided on a goat cheese puff pastry, filled with spinach and onions, as an appetizer, while I chose the hearts of palm salad. It came with steamed asparagus, dressed in vinaigrette and was wonderful. For an entree I had Dover sole with a lemon caper sauce and Rick chose steak au poivre. He offered me a bite but he liked his steak too well done for my taste buds, and he turned down my offer of a bite of sole, saying he wasn’t much of a fish person. Something inside me said, “Well, darn!”
How can I cook for a man who doesn’t eat fish, when I adore all seafood?

Conversation at dinner was light and a little bit flirty. He asked if I was going to solve any more crimes, and I asked if he was going to tell me how to cook.

“Nope. And I don’t think I’ll have to inspect your kitchen ever again, thank heaven. This mayor won’t do that.”

Mayor Angela Thompson in her determination to close me down had made Rick inspect the kitchen for food safety violations. Besides a list he got off the
computer, he had no idea what he was doing. But he gamely checked freezer temperatures and flour and looked in corners for rat droppings. Rick turned in a clean report but the mayor fabricated a lot of violations. It was our biggest fight. I was glad that she had moved on. She was now our representative to the Texas legislature where I thought she could do a lot less damage. And Tom was elected mayor, something Gram always wished for.

“
Had to fire my deputy,” Rick said.

“
Wasn’t he doing his duty?”

He shook his head solemnly.
“Nope. And I thought it looked kind of funny to have the mayor of the town as my deputy. I report to him, but he was reporting to me. We agreed mutually he has enough to do between running the town and running his hardware store.”

And raising his children.
“You find a new deputy?”

“
The new guy that bought the nursery is interested—name’s Stu Wallace. But I don’t know that someone new to town would be a good choice.”

I bit my tongue because I wanted to ask about Steve Millican, who owned the nursery and who had be
en my friend. Rick arrested him, and he was now in jail—I didn’t know where or for how long but a corner of my heart ached for him. I guess Rick read my mind.

“
You ever hear where Joanie Millican ended up?”

Steve
’s sister had run the dress shop adjacent to the nursery.

“
No, I’ve asked a friend in Dallas to look for southwestern boutiques, but she hasn’t found Joanie. I worry about them both.”

“
I know you do,” he reached over and put his hand over mine, “and I’m as sorry as I can be about the whole sad business. But I had no choice.”

I nodded and changed the subject. I wished the whole thing hadn
’t come up because it brought bad memories. “I’ll have to tell Donna about this restaurant. She wants to learn to cook gourmet meals for her guests. Of course, I think she’s had a total of six so far—couples that is.”

In a rare moment of spontaneity
, Rick laughed aloud. “I can’t imagine Donna cooking Dover sole or steak au poivre. Remind me not to take you there for dinner.”

“
You may not have a choice,” I responded, a tart edge coming into my voice. She was my sister and I’d support her. Well, as much as I could. “She seems to have forgiven you for charging her with murder.”

His mouth twitched.
“Yep. She speaks to me on the street now. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends…and that’s too bad. I consider Tom my best friend in Wheeler.”

“
What about friends in Dallas?” I poked. I wanted to know more about this puzzle of a man who attracted me and yet made me cautious.

“
I’m still in touch with one or two.” He shrugged. “Not much desire to go visit.”

Visiting Dallas. When he said it, the idea suddenly had a lot of appeal. I needed to get away from
Wheeler, with its tangled web of memories and now its nosy reporter. We were away from the town tonight, for a pleasant dinner, and yet we were still talking about Wheeler and its past mysteries and murders. I wanted to leave it all behind. Not permanently, mind you, but for a few days.

On the way home, Rick brought up the topic I
’d been hoping he’d avoid. “Sara Jo’s been asking around already. She worries me, Kate.”

Was he just now realizing that he should
worry? “Me, too, But why you?”

“
When I came here, I learned real quickly that small-town people don’t open up to strangers. They don’t like strangers prowling in their business. They didn’t like a cop from the city telling them how fast they could drive, where they could carry a gun, stuff like that. She’s going to dig deeper than I ever did, and I’m sure there are hidden skeletons in closets. I’m afraid she’ll dig some up and there’ll be real trouble.”

“
Real trouble?”

“
Yeah. Real serious trouble. I’m very afraid for her.”

Afraid for her? I want to yell at you that I
’m afraid for my hometown.
Rick had put my fears into words, and they only made me more anxious to get away.

When we got to my house, Rick stopped for coffee while I had a last glass of wine. He was the law enforcement officer, not me. We sat at the kitchen table, not talking much—I suppose Sara Jo was on our minds. But his hands played with one of mine, an intimate gesture that was new from him, and when he left, he gave me a deep, lingering kiss. No doubt about it—I felt a familiar urge rise in me.

Rick muttered good night and pushed away. He was out the door before I could say, “Thanks. I enjoyed dinner.”

Cha
pter Three

It was
the next Tuesday when I heard the first of many complaints from the people of Wheeler. And of all people, it came from Miss Tilly, an older lady who took in sewing, altered clothes, and even made some stylish wedding gowns. Gram had gently referred to Miss Tilly as a “maiden lady.” She came in to get meat loaf for her supper, because, as she explained, “You just don’t make meat loaf when you live alone. Besides, yours is so good.”

I thanked her and went to package her order. When I came back, as she fumbled for her money, she let loose.
“Have you met that woman?”

I didn
’t really have to ask what woman, but I said, “You mean the reporter who’s here in town?”

“
Of course that’s who I mean. She had the nerve to ask me today what it is like to be a single woman in a town like Wheeler. I wanted to ask her right back what it was like to be a single woman reporter, but my mother taught me manners. Then she wanted to know about my
experience
with men—didn’t she put that delicately? I didn’t ask her that back, because I was afraid I’d be embarrassed by what she said.”

Everyone in town knew but never mentioned the fact that Miss Tilly had been engaged to a pilot whose plane was shot down in Vietnam. His body was never found, and we assumed grief kept her from marrying anyone else. We surely never would have asked if they
’d been intimate or anything like that—good gravy!

Miss Tilly stomped off, but I heard her say,
“That woman will come to a bad end, mark my words.”

I thought of Rick
’s prophecy.

Later that
morning I went to the hardware store to buy energy-efficient light bulbs for Gram’s house, a chore I’d just never gotten around to until one light bulb in my room went out. I was chatting with Tom when Mrs. Reverend Baxter came in—she never wanted one to forget for a moment she was married to the minister at the Methodist church. She too was indignant.

“
I’d like to tell you I need some bullets,” she said to Tom, “to shoot that reporter, but I don’t have a gun. She’s a nervy woman, and I don’t think this town will put up with it long.”

Although it was not at all his fault, Tom apologized.
“I’m sorry if she offended you, Mrs. Baxter.”

You could almost hear her snort.
“Offended me! She asked all kinds of questions about what it’s like to be a minister’s wife, and I didn’t mind any of that. I take my duties seriously and try to do all I can for the congregation. But when she asked about single women, particularly widows, throwing themselves at Mr. Baxter—can you imagine that? Throwing themselves. No one in our town would do that.”

I heard Gram snort this time, but I managed to keep a straight face.

“I’m sure Mr. Baxter is the soul of discretion,” Tom said soothingly.

I was glad Donna wasn
’t there, because she’d probably have had a thing or two to say about Mrs. Baxter’s naiveté. I managed to murmur, “I’m sorry she upset you, Mrs. Baxter.” Then I took my light bulbs and left.

On the way back to the café, the thought came to me again that I needed to get out of Wheeler, just for a few days. Instead of going to the café, I detoured to Gram
’s house, put the light bulbs out to be placed later, and called Cindy, my best friend in Dallas, at her office. When she said hello, I asked, “Is this a busy week for you? I want to come stay for a couple of days.”

Cindy, predictably, squealed with delight and asked if I
’d come tonight. I told her no, but I’d come the next day—Tuesday—and stay till Friday morning. She began rattling off plans—a get-together with the girls, happy hour on Thursday night—everyone’s night to party and celebrate the coming weekend. And my mind was thinking, “I’ll call David Clinkscales and maybe he’ll buy me lunch.” I promised to call when I was on the road and then went to the café to make plans.

David Clinkscales was the lawyer I
’d worked for in Dallas. He’d given me good advice when the mayor tried to shut down the café and again a referral when Donna was accused of murder. He’d come to Wheeler a few times and we’d gone to dinner. I now considered him a friend, but I got hints he wanted more. I wasn’t ready to think about that. But I’d be glad to see him.

I called Tom and asked if he and the kids could take care of Huggles, and he asked,
“Will we have to spend the night? Might as well for all the attention we get at home.”

I ignored the bitter part of his question
. “No, but Huggles would love it if the kids would play with him. He could stay outside in the afternoon, unless it was raining. I’ll take Wynona with me in her cat carrier just because she’s such a spoiled pain.”

Tom of course agreed to help. Then I talked to Marj, who agreed to do double duty in exchange for vacation time the next week. I checked the supplies and placed a few orders, alerting Marj as to what to expect when, and I checked the wait staff schedule to make sure we were covered. Marj would be the main
“go-to” person, but Tom would be backup and would, in an extreme situation, even wait tables—he’s a good guy. I didn’t want to ask Donna. Somehow I didn’t think it would be good for business to have her at the cash register or waiting tables, let alone in the kitchen.

Donna call
ed the minute Tom told her I was leaving town, however briefly. “I knew this town would get to you sooner or later,” she said.