Risky Biscuits Page 4

“Figures.” Dixie glanced at the flyer.

  “Did you want me to sign you up for that?”

  “Do I look like I’ve lost my mind?” Dixie pulled a face. “Don’t answer that.”

  We finished putting things away and I headed to the office to finally get to work on what I had planned for the day.

  A few minutes later, Dixie walked in, purse in hand.

  “I’ve got some errands to run. Should I pick up lunch somewhere while I’m out?”

  “I’m sure not hungry right now. Not after that huge cinnamon roll, but I will be by the time you get back.”

  “Preferences?”

  “Not really. Maybe something light?” I figured I’d probably consumed a full day of calories in that one roll.

  “I’ll surprise you.” She headed out.

  I got busy reviewing my list of potential clients, aka my notes on anyone who’d ever mentioned they might want to do a cookbook. This Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club project was a nice but small project. We’d had some inquiries about other projects, but didn’t have anything firm lined up after it. I had questions for Dixie on a couple of the possibilities. She always had good advice.

  Advice. Shoot. I’d been going to ask Dixie what she knew about Creeping Charlie and if we had any white vinegar. I went to look in the supply closet and found a half bottle on the shelf. I also found a bowl that belonged on the shelf out front.

  It was a vintage mixing bowl that I’d found at an estate sale and bought for Dixie. Her grandmother’s bowl, one she’d used for years, had been smashed when we’d had a break-in earlier in the year. I hadn’t been able to find the exact pattern, but this one was from the same era. I loved estate sales so I’d keep looking. Hers had scattered autumn leaves on it and this one a smattering of daisies. I knew a replacement wouldn’t be the same as the one her grandma had used when they made cookies together, but she’d been so heartbroken over its loss that I had to try.

  I ran my finger across the smooth rim, which was somewhat worn. I’d bet some grandma had made cookies in this one. I’d never had that experience. Daddy’s family was totally unknown to me and my maternal grandmother had passed away before I was born. I’d made cookies with my Aunt Cricket a few times when I was a kid. She was the oldest of the sisters and while I loved her to pieces, I sure wished I’d had the grandma experience.

  Carefully carrying the bowl to the front, I placed it on the wide shelf with the other bowls.

  I looked up as the bell over the door chimed. I didn’t know the handsome guy in navy dress pants and a crisp blue dress shirt who walked through the door. Maybe I was totally wrong about Tina’s beau and this was the elusive Rafe. For her sake I hoped so. Barring that, I hoped the guy had a potential cookbook project up those crisply starched sleeves.

  “Welcome,” I stepped forward. “What can we do for you?”

  “Hello,” he said with a smile and the view got even better. Tall, lean, model good looks. As he came closer I could see that the shirt was custom tailored. You didn’t get that fit off the rack. And I suspected the deep blue shade had been specially selected to match his eyes.

  Tina’s guy or… it hit me just as he introduced himself.

  “Nick Marchant.” He offered his hand.

  I took it.

  Truth is if I’d had that second cup of coffee and hadn’t been in a sugar fog from the giant cinnamon roll, I might have made the connection. But in my caffeine-deprived condition, I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  With everyone in town talking about him, I should have been quicker on the uptake. I’d wondered when our paths would cross. The eye color should have been the giveaway. The brothers shared coloring and height and some facial features.

  However, though Nate was nice-enough looking, somehow the very same features were arranged in such a way that Nick was head-turning handsome. Sharper cheekbones, chiseled jawline. The same recipe, slightly different ingredients, and a strikingly different result.

  “I wondered if Spicy was around.” He held my hand just a little too long.

  Spice was a nickname for Dixie that she said had originated in high school. People around town who had known Dixie a long time occasionally still used it. She claimed it was based on her last name and her red hair. I’d always thought her temperament might have come into play as well. She was outspoken to a fault. It was one of the many things I loved about her.

  “Dixie is out running some errands, but I can let her know you stopped by.”

  With most visitors I’d offer a cup of coffee and a chair to wait, but Dixie had made it clear they’d had some sort of history. Though I would have loved to pump him for information about their past, it felt like that story was hers to share. Or not share. In any case, because of her reaction when Disco had mentioned him, I didn’t think she’d appreciate a surprise visit.

  “Disappointing.” He lifted one broad shoulder in a half-shrug and looked around the shop. “But I’m sure we’ll catch up with each other eventually.”

  “Dixie will be sorry she missed you.” Even as I said it, I thought to myself, I wasn’t totally sure Dixie would be sorry she missed him.

  Just as he turned to leave, I heard the back door open.

  “Sugar, can you get the door for me?” Dixie called.

  Hearing her, he turned.

  Shoot. He’d been almost out the door. Not that Dixie could avoid him forever in a town the size of St. Ignatius, but I knew she’d want it to be on her terms.

  “Sure,” I answered back. I walked quickly to the backroom and held the door for her. Her arms were full of bags of groceries.

  “Dixie, there’s, uhm, someone….” I struggled to get the words out. And then as I saw the tension in her face and felt the prickles on the back of my neck, I knew Nick had followed me.

  “Hello, Spicy.” He stepped around me and gave Dixie a kiss on the cheek.

  A gentleman would have taken the bags from her arms.

  “Hello, Nick.” She eased around him and me. “I need to put these down.”

  “I’m sorry. Can I help?” I reached for a bag.

  “Thanks, Sugar. I’ve got it.”

  When he moved to follow her to the back room, I blocked his way. “Why don’t I get you something to drink? Would you like coffee or tea? Or maybe a soda?”

  Wanting to give Dixie a chance to compose herself, I took his arm and turned him toward the front.

  “Have a seat if you like.” I indicated the stools at the counter. “I’ll start some coffee.”

  “No thanks.” He didn’t sit but did stay put.

  I heard the bell over the door ding and looked up to see Lark Travers from Travers Jewelry next door. Lark had graying hair and wore thick glasses that he often misplaced and then couldn’t find them because without them he couldn’t see to look for them. Sometimes he’d call and Dixie or I would go over to help him locate his glasses. If that’s what he’d come for today, it was going to be easy. The glasses were perched on top of his head.

  “Have you heard?” Lark stepped through the doorway and looked around. “They’ve found Alma Stoller dead?”

  “Oh, no.” Alma dead? I’d bet that had been where the sheriff had been headed earlier when he left us at the Good Life.

  “What’s going on?” Dixie had come out from the back.

  “Alma has been found. She’s dead.” I felt my throat tighten. Though I hadn’t known her that well, she was an important part of Greer’s group of ladies. I’d just seen her a few days ago. She’d seemed fit and feisty, albeit forgetful. What could have happened? Clearly something sudden. Stroke?

  Poor Greer. I hoped there’d been some care taken in informing the ladies at the Good Life. They were like family to one another.

  “Thanks for letting us know, Lark.” I suddenly remembered Nick was there. “I was just making some coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  He nodded to Nick. Obviously, they knew each other.

  Next through the doorway was Tina. “Did you hear? Al
ma Stoller has been found dead in the city park.”

  “I hadn’t heard that part, just that she was deceased.” Lark took a sip of his coffee. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know any more than that,” Tina swept blonde hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Other than I heard it was a car accident.”

  That’s how it works in a small town like St. Ignatius. News spreads like a prairie fire and like a prairie fire sometimes you don’t know what hop or turn it’s going to take.

  Just then I heard my cell phone ring. I’d left it in the office tucked in my bag. I hurried back to grab it. It was Greer.

  “Alma’s dead,” she said without preamble.

  “I just heard. I’m so sorry, Greer. I know this must be hard.”

  “Run over.” Greer spoke clearly but there was a quiver in her voice.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you with the other ladies?”

  “They’re all standing outside chattering like magpies.” She took a deep breath and I heard the catch. “Anyways, I just wanted to make sure you heard. We’re headed over to the community center, maybe someone will know more.”

  “All right, hon.” I was a bit worried about her. Alma was a friend. A close friend. “You call if you need anything.”

  When I headed back out to the main area, I saw that we’d collected a bit of a crowd. In addition to Lark, Nick, and Tina, we now had Disco and Pat, our mail carrier. I made a quick U-turn and started another pot of coffee. Dixie had cut the remaining cinnamon rolls into small bite-sized pieces and put them on one of our serving platters.

  Setting out coffee cups and napkins, I thought about Alma. What could have happened? Had she stepped out in front of someone driving through the park? And, if so, why hadn’t they stopped to see if she was okay? But I was getting ahead of myself—I’m an Olympic jumper where leaping to conclusions is concerned. Maybe someone had stopped. No, wait. If she’d been missing since last night, whoever had hit her must have taken off.

  If our storefront had become the place to congregate on this side of the square, I was sure that across the way, the Red Hen Diner was probably also abuzz with people hearing the news for the first time and wondering what had happened.

  Once I made sure everyone had coffee or water and something to eat, I poured myself a cup of coffee. Heaven forbid anyone not be offered food and drink. My southern etiquette card would be in danger of being revoked.

  The stools were all taken and in fact Dixie had pulled out a couple of folding chairs. I took a breath and leaned against the counter.

  I noticed Nick Marchant standing not far from me. His eyes were on Dixie as she moved from person to person. He noticed me staring and turned on a high-watt smile.

  “Did you know her?” I asked. “Alma Stoller. Did you know her?”

  “Everybody knows everybody around here.”

  That was true, but it didn’t really answer my question. I’d wondered how well. Most of our visitors had an Alma story.

  Before I could press further, Dixie walked up. “I’m going to make some more coffee. We’ve already gone through that second pot.”

  “I can do that.” I headed to the back room for more filters.

  After a while, people slowly trickled away. Some had businesses they needed to get back to and others needed to get on with whatever personal business had been interrupted with the tragic news about Alma.

  Nick Marchant stayed.

  Dixie ignored him, gathering up coffee cups, carrying the trays to the back. I picked up trash and grabbed a sponge to wipe down the counter.

  He didn’t interrupt, nor offer to help.

  I made myself scarce but stayed within sight in case Dixie gave me the high-sign. Not that we had a prearranged signal or anything. But I would know if, for instance, she asked him to leave and he was uncooperative. Which there was absolutely no reason to think he would be. He’d been nothing but charming, right? I just didn’t like the tension between them.

  Dixie finally finished her cleaning and straightening and went to stand next to him. “So, what do you want Nick?”

  “I just wanted to catch up.” He spread his hands in an open gesture. “We could go for a drink this evening. I hear the Trading Post has been all refurbished into a fancy sports bar.”

  “We can do our catching up here.” Dixie crossed her arms.

  I couldn’t hear what Nick said next and I was leaning as far as I could out of the pantry without actually falling out and giving myself away.

  “Married, widowed, not interested.” Dixie responded to what must have been a question about her marital status. “Let’s talk about you, Nick. What are you doing back in town?”

  “Back to visit the old stomping grounds.”

  “That’s great,” Dixie responded. “We’re done. Great chat. See you around, I’m sure.”

  I really wanted to see his face but I couldn’t from where I stood so I grabbed a can off the shelf and stepped out.

  “I wanted to ask you about this—” I began.

  But just then the bell over the door dinged and in walked Sheriff Griffin.

  He stopped, looked at Dixie. His eyes slid to Nick, and then landed on me, holding my can from the pantry. Then, red staining his handsome cheeks, he looked back at Dixie and Nick.

  You know the cartoons where steam comes out of someone’s ears when they’re mad. Yeah, we could’ve roasted ears of Iowa sweet corn, Sheriff Terry was so steamed.

  “Sugar.” The sheriff used his official voice. “I need to talk to you. Privately.” He cast a searing glance at the two across the room.

  “Sure.” I gestured with the can I still held. “Come on back to the office.”

  He followed me and once we were out of earshot said, “What’s he doing here?”

  “He stopped by and then a bunch of people collected as the news about Alma Stoller spread. You know how it is when something happens.” I cleared off a chair so he could sit down.

  “Uh-huh.” He continued to stand.

  “Lark Travers from next door stopped in to tell us about Alma and then as people heard they continued to come.” I didn’t care if he was going to stand; my feet were tired and I was going to sit. I pulled out my desk chair and sat down. “I’m guessing the call you got when you were at the Good Life was about Alma, right?”

  He nodded and finally sat. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How were you involved in looking for Alma? I can see why the women who live there were, but what on earth were you doing?”

  I filled him in on Bunny having been missing a couple of days ago and then it turning out that Alma had forgotten her. And Greer’s concern regarding Alma’s recent forgetfulness.

  “Greer was upset that they’d apparently been told by you or someone at your office that Alma hadn’t been missing long enough for the sheriff’s department to look for her.” I leaned back in my chair.

  “That’s not quite true. My deputy told them she couldn’t be considered officially as a missing person, but that didn’t mean that we weren’t looking for her. I’d called her daughter and we’d looked up the information on her car so we could issue a BOLO.”

  I hate to tell you, but due to a previous situation I knew a BOLO meant “be on the lookout” for someone.

  “The impression that her friends got was that you weren’t going to look for her until more time had passed. The ladies were sincerely worried about her.” I tapped my finger on the edge of the desk. “I hope they’re not going to be in trouble for uhm…being…uhm, in Alma’s place.” Yikes. I’d almost said breaking into Alma’s place.

  “They, and you, certainly didn’t help matters but we’ll deal with that later.” He leaned on the hard wooden chair that sat beside my desk. “Anything I should know before I head over there to talk to the women?”

  “The women who were with Greer were Bunny Hopper and Nellie…Oh, gosh, I don’t think I know Nellie’s last name,
but she lives right next door to Alma. Nellie Kaufmann, that’s it.”

  He jotted down the names.

  “Right now, though, they’re all at the community center.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Greer called me when she heard.”

  “Of course, she did.” He turned to leave.

  “Terry.” I stopped him. “Do you know what happened? Was it a hit-and-run?”

  “I can’t give a whole lot of details right now, Sugar.” He rubbed a knuckle across his chin. “But it doesn’t look like a hit-and-run. It looks like she was run over with her own car.”

  “With her own car?” Holy Moly, how could that even happen? “Still an accident though, right?”

  “We’re treating it as a suspicious death.” As he stepped to the doorway, Dixie walked in.

  “What’s the news?” she asked.

  “Sugar will fill you in.” The sheriff didn’t even hesitate a beat before walking out.

  “Wow.” I sat back down. “He was miffed.”

  “At you?” Dixie picked up the can of soup that sat on my desk like an Andy Warhol–themed paperweight.

  “No, no, sweetie.” I held out my hand for the can. “At you and Still-Hot-Nick.”

  She looked at the can before handing it to me. “You had a burning question for me about cream of chicken soup?”

  “No, I just couldn’t see or hear very well from where I was eavesdropping and so I needed an excuse to come out of hiding.”

  She laughed. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

  “So, spill.” I took the soup can from her. “What was he waiting around until everyone left to talk to you about?”

  “He wanted to go out for drinks and catch up.” She rubbed her hands. “I told him thanks but no thanks. What on earth would I have in common with him? Our lives since high school have been nothing alike.”

  “But he is hot,” I pointed out.

  “I’m sure Nick Marchant simply wants an audience so he can talk about himself. I’ll bet that hasn’t changed.”

  “Still, you’d get to ride in the Jag.” I smiled.

  “Not worth it.” Dixie headed back to the kitchen. “I’m going to get my things and head home. You should too. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”