Death at the Day Lily Cafe (17 page)

I hugged her back and took in the sweet herbal scent of her hair. “I'm pretty lucky, too.”

She ended the hug. “So, what about this weekend?”

“What about it?”

“Didn't Dad tell you? He's forcing me to go to Chevy Chase. He's threatening to cut off my college tuition if I don't.”

“
What?
”

“Oh yeah. He is. Isn't that a lovely thing for a father to do?” Her voice was brimming with sarcasm. “But I don't want to go. I need to be here with Custer to support him.” She flipped the remote end over end on her thigh. She eyed me warily. “Maybe you could talk to Dad?”

I sat back and stared at the blank television screen. “He already believes I'm keeping you here intentionally. I don't think he would listen to me.”

“But I
can't
go. I can't abandon Custer.”

I bit my lower lip. “Annie, I'm not sure you realize how important it is at this point in your life to figure things out with your dad. I don't mean to sound condescending. I think I'm actually speaking from experience.”

“What do you mean? Your parents never got divorced.”

“No, but my relationship with your grandfather was awkward. And after I moved out of the house, we didn't really have anything to talk about anymore. Your grandmother managed our relationship. So I moved to Maryland and rarely visited. Except once you were born, things changed. I wanted you to know him, so I started going back to Virginia. He adored you. Your grandmother used to complain that he hogged you. Do you remember?”

“Not really.”

“Anyway, I regret not knowing him better. And when I finally realized there was a rift between us it was too late. He died in his sleep. And that was it. I know he may have not known what to do with me, but he was a good man. A principled man. I could have learned more from him if I had listened better.”

“I can see what you're saying.” Annie crossed her arms. “I don't feel like I even know Dad anymore. But maybe…” She gazed out the window.

I waited a moment. We were both thinkers, and we took our time understanding our emotions. “Maybe what?” I said after a bit.

She looked back at me and took a deep breath. “I think I'm still angry with him for having an affair. Does that sound plausible?”

“Oh yeah.” I nodded my head. “Bull's-eye.”

Annie let out a laugh. “That's not going to go away so easy.”

“You just took the first step.”

“That's true. Forward progress, right? That's what Dad used to say when he was trying to teach me to play golf. When I duffed the ball he would say,
At least you're closer to the pin.
”

“Really? I never knew that.” Nice one, Ed, I thought. “So what are you going to do?”

“I haven't quite figured it out. But I have an idea.”

I reached out and hugged her. “I love you, pumpkin.”

*   *   *

Annie and I agreed popcorn was in order. I pulled out my old dented saucepan that I kept just for that purpose and went to work. Once the kernels had all exploded, I tossed it with butter and sprinkled it with a generous dusting of salt.

As we parked ourselves in front of the television to watch a movie, a roll of thunder vibrated the house. “Want to open the French doors?” I said.

“Okay. But can we close them if the storm gets too close?”

“Absolutely.” A gust of wind blew through the room as I pulled open the doors, billowing the drapes and ruffling the newspaper. “Maybe a good storm will cool things off.”

I sat back down, and Annie passed me the popcorn. She had chosen
Zombieland
for us to watch on demand. During the first ten minutes she cautioned me to cover my eyes, and I willingly complied. I could hear a lot of disgusting noises, but when the introduction was finished she said it was okay to watch. “It will still be a little gross,” she said, “but it's worth it.” She popped a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “Besides, you've got to expand your repertoire. You don't even know what a zombie is.”

Although Annie spent much of the movie texting with Custer, it was therapeutic for me to have her by my side for a couple of hours. And I found myself laughing pretty hard at the movie, which Annie appreciated. It felt good to laugh. I was sure helping Doris was the right thing to do, but investigating a murder can put a damper on your mood. So I focused on the now: my Annie, a good laugh, and a delicious dose of butter and salt.

After she went up to bed, phone in hand, I opened my laptop and logged on to Facebook. The night sky had been performing quite a production, with continuous flashes of lightning that illuminated the towering thunderclouds, an occasional bolt zigzagging to earth.

I decided it was time to amp up the sleuthing on Facebook. I found Jamie Fiddler on Lori's Family and Relationships page. I clicked on his picture, and his timeline appeared on the screen. His posts were private, but I could see he had 467 friends. In his profile picture he was wearing aviator sunglasses, shirtless, with his hands stretched out and a sparkling ocean behind him. He was single, and his interests included
Call of Duty,
hunting, women, and zombies. Well, that was something we had in common. Trust my Annie to keep me current. I sent him a friend request, unsure if he would accept it.

I hadn't spent much time on Facebook, with everything else going on in my life. But I'd met a lot of people lately. Who knew what I might find out? So I sent friend requests to Kevin, Jake, Jackson, and Gretchen. I liked the pages of the Cardigan Tavern, the Yellow Labrador Winery, and Gretchen's place, the Inn at Sommerville Farm. The photo gallery of the inn was stunning. If Glenn didn't take Gretchen up on her offer for tea, I certainly would.

I jumped when a loud crack sounded from just across the river. A long, low, roll of thunder followed. Instantly, the trees began swaying in the wind, their leaves rustling violently. The metallic scent of air thick with rain met my nose.

I noticed a Facebook message from Annie at the bottom of the screen.

can i sleep w/ you tonite?; /

Yes! Be right up!!!

 

T
WENTY
-
NINE

The next morning I busied myself in the kitchen experimenting with a Thousand Island dressing for my version of the New Orleans muffuletta sandwich. The oversized rolls baking in the oven filled my work space with a mouthwatering aroma. Just before I set them to bake I had formed them into oversized mounds and embellished the tops with melted butter and sea salt. Once I had perfected the recipe, I would e-mail the instructions to a bakery in town. We had an arrangement: I came up with the recipes and they prepared the bread and muffins for the week. This sandwich would include deli meats, olive tapenade, sliced Gruyere cheese, lettuce, fresh tomato, and my homemade dressing. So far my version wasn't spicy enough. I wanted it to have a nice, subtle kick. I was mincing a serrano pepper when my phone pinged. I looked over to see a text message from Doris.

*   *   *

I glanced over at Doris while the dogs encircled the car. “I should have brought you a scarf.” I reached out and tried to flatten her curls with my palm.

“What do I care if my hair is a mess? Besides, I had fun.” She got out of the car, clutched her purse, and headed for the house. “You know, Miss Rosalie, you could put a little more pressure on that gas pedal, if you ask me. You drive like you're my age.”

Lori stood in the foyer and immediately ushered us into the kitchen. There were no cookies or steaming teapots on the table, only a few piles of mail and a littering of toast crumbs. “I just got off the phone with my lawyer. The sheriff has the murder weapon now, and I don't have an alibi. He says now all he needs is a motive and then he's gonna charge me with first-degree murder.” Her eyes were wide. “First-degree murder, Doris. I could get the death penalty.”

“At least you're not jumping to conclusions.” Doris leveled her eyes with Lori's. “What happened with the investigator?”

“Nothing.” Lori looked away. “I'm just upset, is all.”

“Did he say he's looking for the money?” I said.

Lori's shoulder fell. “He thinks I know something.”

“Everyone thinks you know something about that blasted money.” Doris plopped down onto a chair. “You got any coffee or something, Lori?” She eyed the state of Lori's kitchen. “This place is a mess.”

“I ran out of coffee. I don't like to go to the store.” She twisted her fingers together. “Everyone stares at me.”

“Well then,” Doris said impatiently. “Clear your name and you can go to the moon to grocery shop if you want.”

“Lori,” I said, “is there any chance CJ stole that money?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? Do I look like I'm spending a bunch of money?”

“What about Jamie?” I said.

“What about Jamie?” Doris repeated, sitting straighter.

“Well…” I hesitated. “If CJ took the money, maybe Jamie knew about it.”

“Now listen here, Miss Rosalie,” Doris said, “I appreciate you trying to help, but if you go—”

“The investigator asked me the same question,” Lori said, interrupting her.

Doris fell back into her chair. “Leave Jamie out of this.”

“Doris, remember what I told you? We have to know the whole story in order to clear both of their names.” I turned to face Lori. “Would CJ have confided in Jamie if he stole that money?”

“Why is everyone so certain CJ took the money?” Lori's voice was shrill.

We all turned to look toward the foyer when we heard the front door open.

“Hello?” Lori called.

Butch Wells ducked into the kitchen, an impish grin on his face. “Hey, Lori,” he said, his eyes taking in the scene.

“Hey, Butch,” Lori said. She smiled, then quickly checked our reaction.

“What do
you
want?” Doris asked.

“Just paying a call, is all.” Butch smoothed his hand over his slicked-back hair. “And look who's here. It's Rosalie. Are you following me around, darlin'?”

My stomach tensed at the sight of him. He towered over us, his sheer presence emitting an ominous charge in the room. I slapped my hands on the table and pushed myself up to a stand. “Doris and I were just leaving.”

“So soon?” His eyes danced with mischief as he set a bottle of Maker's Mark whiskey on the counter. “I was just about to break out the good stuff.”

“Don't you have a job, Butch?” Doris said. “You know, like most people?”

“Sure I do. But I only work between vacations.” He grinned. “Now, Lori, you going to have a drink with a thirsty man? I haven't seen you at the tavern, so I thought I'd bring the tavern to you.”

“I'm tired, Butch. It's been a bad day.”

He stood behind Lori's chair and massaged her shoulders. “That's why I'm here. You were my best friend's wife. You think I'd abandon you in your time of grief?”

Doris scowled at him. “You abandon everyone eventually.” Her eyes darted over to me and back to her sister. “Good lord, Lori. Don't you see? You spending time with him? It's all the sheriff needs.”

“What are you talking about now?” Lori said.

“Motive! Isn't that what he's wants?” She pointed at Butch. “And there he is, right in your kitchen.”

Lori looked up at Butch. “But we're not doing anything.”

Doris rolled her eyes and started toward the door. “How are we supposed to help you when you won't help yourself?” She yanked the door open and stepped outside.

Lori's eyes pleaded with me.

Butch stopped the massage but his hands remained on Lori possessively. “Ain't you going with her?”

 

T
HIRTY

Earlier in the week I had extended invitations to Janice, Glenn, Crystal, and Kevin to a wine tasting with Alessandra, an Italian-born woman who had married an Eastern Shore farmer named Bradley Cummings. Over many years they had worked together to convert his acreage into what was now the Yellow Labrador Winery.

On Wednesday evening, Alessa, as she preferred to be called, arrived at the café toting a case of wine while in three-inch pumps. I hurried to the door to let her in. She stepped inside as if she were in sneakers. Her perfume was divine. Her auburn hair had been piled onto her head in a haphazard yet elegant way and large gold hoops dangled from her ears. She set the wine on the bar and removed her Prada sunglasses, revealing eyes rich with liner and mascara. “Hello, Rosalie,” she said, shaking my hand. “It's so wonderful to meet you in person.” The trace of an Italian accent made her everyday words sound exotic and more compelling.

She set the box on the bar and dusted her hands together. I peered inside. “I'm so excited, Alessa.”

“As am I. Now why don't you put the sparkling wine in the fridge to chill. It's already cold, but sparklings should be icy. Oh, and here, take a rosé and a chard.” She lifted two more bottles from the carton.