The Calamity Café (10 page)

“Oh, now, Preacher Robinson, you didn't say anything that everybody in town didn't already know.”

“I imagine not, but as the shepherd of a flock, I'm held to a higher standard, you know.” He gently took my arm. “Please don't mention that I spoke out of turn.”

“I won't.”

“It's a bad habit I'm trying to break.”

He looked so concerned that I had to wonder what other gossip had set his corrupt tongue to wagging.

*   *   *

M
y next stop was the hardware store. I went directly to the paint section and took swatches of yellow and blue. Who knew there were so many variations?
Did I want the interior of Down South Café to be
Sunny Day
,
Hay Bale
,
Daffodil
,
Custard
,
Lemonade
, or
Golden Delight
? And did I want the trim to be
Waterfall
,
Frost
,
Seascape
, or
Riviera
? Hopefully, Roger could help me decide. Yes, he was a construction worker, but I'd have sworn he was also part architect and part interior designer.

I was looking down at the paint swatches and wasn't watching where I was going when I ran headlong into Stan Wheeler. He took me by my upper arms to steady me.

“Hey, there. Somebody's got her head in the clouds.”

“I'm so sorry, Stan! I was looking at these paint swatches.”

“Oh yeah. Pete mentioned that you were buying the Joint.” He snatched the swatches out of my hand. “I like that
Daffodil
and
Waterfall
myself. Of course, I ain't no artist or anything.”

“Neither am I . . . but those two do look good together.” He seemed in an unusually talkative mood, so I decided to see if I could get some information out of him. “Speaking of buying property, did Pete sell you the mobile home?”

“Uh, we're working on that.” He handed back the swatches. “It's gonna take a lot of work to get it fixed back up.”

“I heard you talking about the roof at the café the other day,” I said.

“Yeah, it needs to be entirely reshingled. Darn thing leaks like a sieve. And not only that, the toilet in the half bath needs to be replaced.”

“Owning property can be a money pit, can't it?”

He smiled. “Don't tell me you're having second thoughts already?”

“No. I guess it's too late for that now. At least, while you're renting, the repairs are the Holmans' problem, right?”

“You'd think,” he said. “But you probably know how tight Ms. Holman was. She kept promising to send somebody out to patch the roof and to see what was wrong with the toilet, but she never did. I'd been fussing about both for going on three months.”

“I do know how she could be,” I said. “I'd have hoped she'd have taken better care of her tenants than she did her staff, but apparently she didn't.”

“And Pete wouldn't admit it, but she wasn't even that good to him,” said Stan. “I'm sorry the woman's dead, but I'm glad Pete has the chance to make a fresh start. I believe he'll do well in the trucking business.”

“I hope so. Just don't you two go out partying too much.”

He gave a little laugh. “You know about that?”

“Let's just say Pete kinda drunk-dialed me to ask me to work the next morning.”

“Oh yeah. Well, Pete just needed to cut loose a little bit . . . let go of some of his grief.”

“I understand,” I said. “It's good he's got you and Chris Anne to help him through this.”

“He's got you people at the Joint too. I mean, I know you wouldn't exactly say you were friends with Lou Lou, but most of you seem to like Pete.”

“We do. Pete's a decent guy.” I lowered my voice. “You don't know of anyone who might've wanted Lou Lou dead, do you?”

“Only everybody that ever met her. Am I right?” He
laughed again. “You know I'm joshing you. Why would you ask a thing like that?”

“Well, since I found Lou Lou, the police think I look pretty guilty.”

“Aw, shucks. That's crazy. Her being hit in the head like that? Killed with one blow? A little thing like you couldn't have done that, and the police know it. I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you. You just concentrate on making the place nice and pretty for your customers.”

“Thanks, Stan.” I apologized again for nearly mowing him down and said I'd better get on with my rounds.

“That's all right. Just be careful.”

The pneumatic doors opened when I approached, and I went from the lovely coolness of the hardware store into the oppressive heat. I was surprised that Stan had been so nice today. Of course, maybe he'd always been in a bad mood when he came into the Joint because of his disagreements with Lou Lou. Or maybe he was high or something today. Roger had said he thought Stan was a drug dealer. But I'd never seen him doing anything that struck me as shady. Was I naïve, or did I just want to think the best of people?

I got into my car and started the engine. Before backing out of the parking lot, I called Roger.

“Hi, Amy,” he answered.

“Hi. Could I see you sometime today? I'm meeting with Pete at Billy's office later to sign the paperwork, and then I'll own the café.”

“Congratulations, Flowerpot!”

“Thanks!”

“What time do you want to meet?”

“How about this—we'll meet at the café at around five thirty so you can get an idea of what kinds of renovations need to be done. And then I'll buy you dinner somewhere, and we can discuss everything.”

“That works. I'll see you at
your
café at half past five.”

R
oger was already at the café when I got there. I parked my car, got out, and hurried over to him. He was standing under the front door awning in the shade. Grinning, I held up the café keys and shook them.

“I wish you'd show just a little enthusiasm about this place,” he said.

I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. “Eeeee! The café is officially mine!”

He chuckled. “Congratulations. Now, let's get in there and see what we can do to make it
look
like it's yours.”

“All right.”

My hand trembled so badly as I tried to put the key in the lock that Roger had to unlock the door himself.

“Calm down, Flowerpot.” Roger held the door so I could be the first to step inside.

“We have a lot to do,” I said as I looked around.

“I know.”

“First things first.” I took the paint swatches from my purse.

“Well, that's important, but the
first
thing is to clean out Lou Lou's office. I suggest you get a professional cleaning team to do that. Then once the office has been scrubbed and everything in it removed, we can redo it and you'll never . . .” His voice trailed off.

I smiled slightly. “Oh, I'll still know.”

“And you're sure you'll be able to handle that?”

“Maybe you could somehow tear out the office and make it more of a storage room or something.” I sighed. “I certainly can't see myself sitting in there working on the books. I'd rather do that from home anyway.”

“We'll think of something. Did you talk with Pete about the things in his mother's office?”

“Not really . . . but I will. I know he took some ledgers and things that were in there, money from the safe, some documents. But he might want to keep her desk and the rest of the furniture.”

“I have a cleaning team I use out of Bristol. They're really good, and they're reasonably priced. Would you mind if I went ahead and called them in?”

“Not at all. Would you like some coffee or water or something while we talk?” I asked.

“A bottle of water would be great.”

I got each of us a bottle of water and sat down at the counter beside Roger. He had taken out a yellow legal pad and was making notes. I looked around the dining room. The walls needed repainting. These ugly chipped tables and chairs would have to go. The counter and stools needed to be replaced. We needed new light fixtures. I
wanted a display case for baked goods and specialty items. And, of course, the floor would have to be redone. If I just reopened this place rather than making the café my own, I'd have to call it “Calamity Café.”

“Let's see those paint swatches,” he said.

I put the swatches on the counter. Roger held different combinations side by side until he finally chose
Lemonade
and
Riviera
. “It's a paler yellow and a bolder blue. What do you think?”

“I defer to your expertise, and I think it'll look great.”

“And a soft gray or muted orange for the counters and tables.”

I didn't have any swatches for either color. “Which do you think would be best?”

“Personally, I'd go with the gray.”

“Gray, it is.”

He took out a measuring tape. “I'll need your help with this.”

Together we measured the entire café with the exception of Lou Lou's office. Neither of us wanted to go in there until it had been cleaned, and Roger told me he'd be thinking of ways to renovate the café so that it wasn't necessary for anyone to use the office.

“So how do we do this?” I asked. “Do I put you on retainer?”

He smiled. “I'll open an account for you at the home store for all your supplies and everything, and they'll bill you for the materials. I have a contractor discount, so you'll get that too.”

“I don't want you to be cheated out of part of your profit,” I said.

“I won't be. I never make anyone pay extra for materials. As for the labor, how about I bill you weekly?”

“Sounds good.”

“Have you made out a budget yet?” he asked.

“For the renovations? No. I thought you'd help me with that.”

“I will. I'm talking about a budget for the café—payroll, supplies, electricity.”

“I've got that all worked out.”

“Great. I'll get you the renovation budget,” said Roger. “I know your nana left you a nice chunk of change, but you won't have it for long unless you take care of it.”

“I know, Roger.” Once a guy adopts you as his baby sister, you're always his baby sister.

“I know you know, but I figured it would bear repeating. The first thing I'm going to do is change these locks. I took the liberty of stopping by earlier and seeing what kind of locks are used on the front and back doors, and I picked new ones up at the hardware store.”

“Wow, thanks.” He was a pretty good big brother.

“You don't want Pete or any of his buddies coming back in here when you're not around, now that you own the place,” he said. “And I was
real
uncomfortable with that key under the rock at the back door. Who knows how many people knew about that.”

“I wonder if that's how the killer got in on Monday night.”

“I wouldn't be surprised . . . unless both doors were usually unlocked while Lou Lou was here. Regardless, it's likely that a lot of people know about that key.” He
shook his head. “That was stupid on the Holmans' part. Why would they put a key right by the door like that?”

“I guess they trusted that the people who knew about the key wouldn't barge in without good reason.”

“Well, some folks think hitting a woman over the head and robbing her café would be a sufficient reason.”

“Yeah, but Lou Lou and Pete
obviously
trusted the people who knew about the key. I never knew about it until the night Pete drunk-dialed me and asked me to come in to work the next morning.”

“I don't know about Lou Lou, but Pete doesn't always exercise the best judgment when it comes to people,” Roger said. “Take his girlfriend, for example. She did a stint in jail for drugs.”

“Chris Anne did? Are you kidding me?”

He gave an exaggerated blink. “Have you
met
Chris Anne?”

“Well, yeah. . . .” I thought about it for a moment. “I guess you're right. Pete doesn't hang out with the most reputable people.”

“Face it. Pete isn't all that reputable either,” he said. “You just told me he drunk-dialed you, and I've seen him a few times when I was sure his condition wasn't entirely due to alcohol consumption. And if you're hanging around with drug addicts . . .”

“I know . . . but he never missed work or anything, not that I knew of anyway.”

He shrugged. “It just pays to be careful, Flowerpot. You can't be a hundred percent sure of who you're dealing with around here. Don't forget what happened to Lou Lou.”

“How could I forget?”

*   *   *

T
he next morning, I opened the café early. The night before I'd printed up flyers saying that the café was under new management and would be closed while renovations were under way. I said we would close right after breakfast today so patrons could attend the funeral of Ms. Holman. I had the flyers on the counter, and I taped one to the front door.

Homer came in at his usual time, and I had his sausage biscuit just about ready when he came through the door.

“Am I that predictable?” he asked, as I sat the sausage biscuit in front of him.

“You're that steady.” I smiled as I poured his coffee. “So, who's your hero?”

“Yesterday it was Dwight Eisenhower. Today it's Thomas Jefferson.”

“You must be feeling presidential.”

“Maybe. I've been thinking quite a bit about you and your predicaments.”

“Predicaments?”

“Sure. Everybody knows you walked in and found Lou Lou dead, and I can see by this here paper that you've bought the café. Well, good for you. Jefferson once said, ‘Do you want to know who you are? Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.' Do you see where I'm going with that advice?”

“Not exactly.”

“You run your business the way it ought to be run and make it a source of pride and happiness to you,” he said. “Before long, people will forget about Lou Lou
and everything bad that's happened . . . and so will you.”

“It going to be pretty hard to forget, Homer. For me and for everybody else too.”

He wagged a finger at me. “You can't stop a woman with the right mental attitude from achieving her goal. And you can't help one with the wrong attitude.”

“Jefferson?”

“Paraphrased. I know it'll be hard to forget about Lou Lou and what happened here that night, but you have to do your best to put it behind you and move ahead. If you need to, talk with a therapist or something. There's no shame in that.”

“I appreciate the advice,” I said. “But I think I'll be okay.”

“All right. I'm here if you need a friend.”

“Thank you, Homer.”

I fielded lots of questions throughout the morning about what I was naming the café, whether or not the staff would be kept on, and when the café would reopen. The last one was the only one I couldn't answer for sure. My answer was that I would try to have the café open—all shiny and new—in a month. I knew it was a stretch, but Roger seemed to think we could pull it off if we all worked together.

As soon as the stragglers from the breakfast crowd left, I locked up the café and went home to get ready for Lou Lou's funeral. I took a quick bath and then stood in front of my closet looking for something to wear that would be decent but that I wouldn't burn up in. I wound up choosing a black pencil skirt and a sleeveless black top. I went with black espadrilles because I knew they'd be easier to walk in than heels.

Stepping into the funeral home, I was more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Of course, I'd realized even before Homer mentioned it this morning that everyone knew I was the one who'd found Lou Lou. But there was nothing like somebody saying it out loud to truly drive the point home. Did anyone think I'd actually
killed
her?

Was it my imagination, or did people actually stop talking when they saw me approaching? Were their eyes shooting accusations my way?

I ducked out of the crowded lobby and into the bathroom. I wet a paper towel and cooled the back of my neck with it. I had to get a grip.

I tossed the paper towel into the wastebasket and freshened up my lipstick.

The door burst open and Chris Anne rushed in, threw open a stall, and then threw up her lunch.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

Of course, she couldn't speak right then. She was still crouched over the toilet. I felt like an idiot. When she finally emerged from the stall, she was so weak and pale that I rushed to put my arm around her and lead her to a chair that was just inside the door. I got her a damp paper towel and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Do you have a mint or something?”

I did have a peppermint, and Chris Anne took it gratefully.

“Is it your nerves?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It's my baby.”

I felt my eyes nearly pop out of my head.

“Don't say anything to anybody, please,” she said. “I haven't even told Pete yet. I thought it'd be something good to tell him later today.”

“I won't say a word. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I've suspected for a couple of weeks—even took a pregnancy test I got at the dollar store. But I wanted to be sure before saying anything. I knew Pete's momma would hit the ceiling.”

“I don't know. She might've been glad.”

“Are you serious? Pete was afraid to tell her anything about us. He'd have had to break the news about being in a relationship with me combined with the fact that I'm pregnant. That's why I didn't tell him until it was official. I went to the doctor yesterday.”

“Well, I'm happy for you . . . and for Pete.”

An odd expression must've crossed my face because Chris Anne said, “Don't worry. I'm not naming my baby ‘Lou Lou.'”

I laughed. “Tell Pete that was a one-of-a-kind name for a one-of-a-kind lady. I think he'll understand.”

“I sure hope so. Either way . . .”

“Are you feeling better?” I asked. “We should probably go into the chapel.”

She nodded. “I think I can do it now. Would you please walk with me? Help hold me up?”

“Of course I will.” I was as glad of the support as she was. It was easier for me not having to walk into the chapel alone too.

Either the stares were less accusing than they had been, or I wasn't as paranoid as I had been before. Chris Anne and I walked down the aisle. My plan was to hand her over to Pete and then find my mom, Aunt Bess, and Jackie,
and sit with them. But Chris Anne wouldn't let me go. She had an ally, and she was sticking with me for as long as possible.

The funeral service was long and obviously conducted by a preacher who didn't know Lou Lou Holman in the least. I don't know who he was, but he wasn't one of Winter Garden's pastors. I'm not saying it wasn't a nice service—the choir sang, and the preacher extolled Lou Lou's virtues—but it was generic. It was as if the preacher had been given a fill-in-the-blank form prior to preparing for the funeral.

Name of deceased: Lou Lou Holman

Occupation: Business owner

Mother of one

And then he simply recited from the list.

“Lou Lou Holman was a beloved business owner, a pillar of the community, and a respected member of the Winter Garden Chamber of Commerce. She was devoted to her only son . . .”