Murder at the Tremont House (A Blue Plate Cafe Mystery) Page 11

  “Folks,” Rick said in his most authoritarian voice, “we have a lot of ground to cover, and I have to call the country sheriff for the crime scene investigative team. You, young man”—he nodded at Josh—“can you get your parents on the phone, so I can tell them why you’ll be late for supper.”

  Josh nodded, “My mom’s at home. I’ll call her.” He took the cell phone Tom handed him, dialed, and said, “Hi, Mom. I’m with Henry. But there’s someone who wants to talk to you.” He handed the phone to Rick, who simply explained there’d been an accident and he’d need to question the boys. No, they weren’t in trouble. Yes, she could come if she wanted. “We’re at The Tremont House.” Apparently, she wanted, because Rick said she’d be here in a minute.

  “Donna, where are your daughters?”

  Donna looked at him blankly, as though her thought was Daughters? What daughters?

  Tom answered, “Omigosh. I’ve got to go get them. Jess wanted to watch Ava’s basketball practice, and I said I’d pick both of them up…twenty minutes ago.”

  “Can you take them to the café? They don’t need to hear what’s going on here.”

  Tom nodded and left at a run.

  Rick suggested I make coffee and busied himself calling Canton. I tried not to eavesdrop but I overheard bits, including, “I’d say about two days. Yeah, we all thought she was out of town.”

  I nearly dropped the coffee maker. Two days. I saw Sara Jo three nights ago. Would that make me that last person known to have seen her alive? Worse yet, would it make me a suspect? A big wad of dread landed in my stomach, and I thought briefly of Carolyn Grimes and her dread in the bones. Maybe that’s what I felt.

  It took all night or so it seemed for Rick to interview everyone. He began with the boys and didn’t keep them long. I assumed they had seen the car when they headed into the barn and not gone any farther, so they didn’t have much to say. Rick asked about the last time they were in the barn, and they repeated a week or more. Not much help to him in establishing time of death.

  Josh’s mother came and collected both boys, saying if it was all right, she’d keep Henry overnight and get him to school in the morning. Donna just nodded, and when Tom came back to collect the boy, she waved him away.

  Rick spent forever with Donna, which left me pacing the kitchen, searching cupboards for wine, wishing I could at least get to the stack of magazines in the living room but that was where Rick was interviewing Donna. In my haste I’d left my cell phone behind, so I couldn’t call the café to tell Marj I’d be delayed. There I was—me, a cup of coffee, and the pencil and paper Donna left behind.

  I reached for those, deciding that in this circumstance it was okay to peek. Apparently, Donna had honestly been trying to plan to market The Tremont House—she’d made a list of places in Dallas to advertise and a note about calling the East Texas B&B group. Also a note about calling B&Bs in Tyler and Athens, I presume for marketing ideas. Good for her! But then, under that piece of paper, I found a rough—really rough—sketch for a four-bedroom house that would call for demolishing the other outbuildings on the property. Donna never gave up on some of her most unrealistic plans.

  I took a blank piece of paper and tried to do menu planning for the next week, but of course my mind wouldn’t cooperate. I tore up that sheet of paper and began a new one, with what was really on my mind. People who might want to kill Sara Jo Cavanaugh, and I was surprised at the list, though I bet there were others I didn’t know about. Like Tom Bryson—oh, how I hated to put that name on my list, and Donna, and Cary Smith or maybe his father, and the Reverend Baxter, though I doubt ministers do much killing. My list was short, and my own name was on the top of it. There could be people from her background who may have tracked her here but that was unlikely. I was still convinced Sara Jo was from Dallas, but my attempts to find her had been dead ends. Oh, Kate, bad pun!

  Then, unexpectedly, I heard Gram’s voice. “Rough times ahead, child. But you’ll weather the storm.”

  “Thanks, Gram, but I don’t need platitudes. I need some help.”

  “You’ll have to help Carolyn Grimes as well as your sister,” she added with a touch of mystery in her voice. “But I know you can do it.”

  I yelped, literally, so loud I was surprised Rick didn’t come running, but he didn’t. Help Donna? Why? She was infatuated with Sara Jo and then infuriated with her. Would she kill her? Would my sister really kill anyone? And what in heaven’s name did Carolyn Grimes have to do with anything? “Gram, you’re just confusing me,” but of course she faded away with a final, “Seek help from the Lord, child.” Her brief appearance was not a lot of help, but I was glad she was still watching over us.

  “Okay, Gram, I haven’t been going to church. I’ve been making sticky buns and running your café. But I doubt the Lord would look kindly on a desperate conversion or change of heart.”

  Finally, Donna came into the kitchen. “Your turn, sister. Have fun. I’m going home.” Bitterness made her voice harsh. She left without a backward look.

  Before Rick and I could talk, the sheriff’s team arrived, led by a tall man wearing a Stetson, jeans and boots and walking toward the barn with determination, followed by men with equipment, cameras and I didn’t know what all.

  Rick groaned. “Sam Halstead is going to take over the whole damn case, and he doesn’t know the story, the people, nothing. Gotta go protect my territory.” And he was out the door at a lope to catch the sheriff who had never even looked around for him. I wanted to ask who had jurisdiction in this case but never got a chance. From Rick’s comment, Halstead seemed to be in charge now. Rick was gone maybe ten or fifteen minutes, when he came back to say, “Kate, I trust you. I know you’re not going to skip. Go close the café and go home. I’ll come by as soon as I can get away from here.”

  To me that just drew out the suspense, because I was still seeing myself as the number one candidate for suspicion. I arrived at the café just as Marj was turning off the Open sign.

  “Well?” she demanded, arms folded in belligerence.

  I owed her an explanation, so I just told her briefly that Sara Jo’s body had been found, described the circumstances, and swore her to secrecy. By the time we opened in the morning, the whole café crowd would be talking about it, so that promise was useless. I sent her on her way, tallied up the day’s business and entered the results in the computer. It kept my mind off brooding about Sara Jo and trying to figure out who killed her. I was sad at the loss of any life, but a corner of me was relieved she wouldn’t ever write that exposé. Murder though was a hard way to protect the town, if that’s why someone did it.

  When I went home, I poured myself a big glass of wine—over-served you might say. I had no appetite for supper, but Huggles let me know he did, so after some hugging and loving, I fed him and let him out.

  Rick called about ten, said he would be another couple of hours, and could I meet with him at his office at nine in the morning. It was like being called to the principal’s office when you were in elementary school.

  “Sure. Everything all right?”

  “Kate, you know that’s a dumb question right now. No, everything’s wrong.”

  I bit my tongue, said I’d see him in the morning and went to bed where, of course, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned and deliberately avoided looking at the clock. Wynona objected sharply a couple of times to all my movement, and Huggles came to the edge of the bed to stick his nose in at me. By morning, I comforted myself that I’d slept some, but I sure didn’t’ feel like it.

  I stared at myself in the mirror. If I was a makeup maven, I could disguise the shadows under my eyes and the drawn look about my face. But I am just not that clever.

  Chapter Twelve

  News of Sara Jo’s death caused a buzz in business and conversation at the café next morning. Everyone knew the café was the place to go for the latest gossip, news, whatever. This morning they were all talking about Sara Jo. A few almost openly said she had asked for
trouble, while others countered nobody should be murdered, no matter how angry she made townsfolk.

  “Well, if the sheriff is going to question everyone she talked to, it’ll take him days. Hope he turns the case back over to Chief Samuels,” one customer said as he paid for his breakfast.

  I echoed that sentiment silently and tried to stay above the discussion. When someone asked me about it, I simply said the boys had found the car, alarmed my sister, and she’d called the chief who discovered the body.

  Donna called while I was at the cash register. I could hear her voice even before I said hello. Shrill. High. Agitated.

  “Hi, Donna.”

  “Well, I suppose I’m the prime suspect,” she shouted. “Why does this town always pick on me? I liked Sara Jo, I didn’t kill her.”

  Trust Donna to make the tragedy her own, as though she were buying into a crisis to fill the void in her life. “I think I’m the prime suspect,” I said calmly. “I was apparently the last one to see her alive.” After a pause, I added, “Unless you went back to The Tremont House after I left.”

  Indignation. “You know I didn’t. You can ask Tom.”

  “I don’t need to. I need a way to clear my name.”

  “Oh, you won’t be in serious trouble. Rick won’t go after you the way he does me.”

  I read all the insinuations in her voice and decided to ignore them. “It’s not up to him,” I said after a pause. “The county sheriff has jurisdiction. And, Donna, you had soured on Sara Jo after she began to push you about being arrested for Irv’s murder.”

  That mollified her a bit. “I don’t even know who the sheriff is, so surely he doesn’t know me and won’t be going after me.”

  Thanks for the support, Donna. Always think of your own skin first. “He’ll know about the case,” I said, “and he’ll put it all together.” I was through giving Donna an easy out.

  Gram chose the moment I hung up to talk to me. “Be patient, child. She doesn’t have the strength you do.”

  “Gram, why don’t you talk to her, not me?”

  “Because I can help you. She won’t listen to me.”

  Gram faded away, but I thought she’d hit it. Donna was so busy listening to herself she wouldn’t listen to anyone else. As I hung the phone up, I could almost see Gram in the kitchen kneading dough, wearing one of her flowered dresses and a white cotton apron. The vision made me teary for a minute, but I had to get back to business.

  My other phone call of the early morning came from David Clinkscales. “The Wheeler murder was the headline in the Dallas paper this morning. I’d been thinking it was time to get down there, and I just decided on the spur of the moment. I’ll be there for a late lunch.”

  I went weak with relief. David would make it all work out.

  A little before nine, I went to the police office as ordered. Rick was all business, offering me coffee, almost acting as if we’d never met. I declined the coffee, handed him the sticky bun I’d brought, and sat in the worn wooden office chair opposite his desk. He settled in the chair behind his desk, fiddled with some papers, sipped some coffee, and finally looked at me.

  “I’m in an awkward spot,” he said. “Halstead doesn’t want to mess with this case. He asked me who she was, and when I told him the whole story, he had the good sense to know that I knew more about what’s going on in this town than he did. But he made it clear that I am to keep him in the loop. I think you might say I am to report to him.” He rubbed his hands together, a gesture I’d noticed before that showed he was irritated. He’d been the same way at first around David Clinkscales.

  “Well, I’m sure that is awkward.” I wasn’t quite sure what he wanted me to say.

  “That’s not the awkward part,” he said shortly. “Halstead knows what’s going on in this county, and he knows you and I see each other. I think we even ran into him one night at that Italian place in Canton.”

  I remembered the incident vaguely. “I won’t embarrass you, Rick, and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  “That’s not it. Halstead thinks you’re the prime suspect. Kate, you were the last one known to see Sara Jo alive. And everyone knows you didn’t like what you thought she’d do to this town.”

  My heart plummeted. So my fears were grounded. I was the prime suspect in a murder. I thought of Donna, but I didn’t say anything. In fact, I was speechless.

  Rick went on, and now I thought his voice was nervous. “Halstead wants to question you himself. He’ll be here shortly.”

  I suddenly wanted to shout I had a café to run and couldn’t sit around all day waiting for that man, but I sat stock-still.

  Rick now turned gruff. “Kate, just answer Halstead’s questions. We both know you have nothing to hide.”

  “Except an argument with the victim.”

  “Don’t hide that. Tell him the truth.”

  And so I did, recounting every minute of my meeting with Sara Jo three nights earlier—well, four now. Halstead was neither a bully nor a gentle man. He just was what he was, and he asked questions impersonally; then he’d turn around and approach the whole thing from another angle. Did I dislike Sara Jo? Yes, I did. I remembered David Clinkscales fuming about witnesses who tried to explain, so I waited for the next question. Why did I dislike her? Why had I gone to meet her? Why wasn’t my sister at the B&B, to which I replied she was home with her family where she belonged. Did I know anything about Sara Jo before she appeared in Wheeler? No, and I didn’t mention my attempts to find out.

  The only information I volunteered was about the shotgun blasts, but of course Rick had already told him. “Find who shot at us, and you’ll probably have your killer,” I suggested.

  He ignored me for a minute, and then began asking the same questions over again.

  I kept sneaking furtive glances at my watch as the time kept closer to lunch. Finally, I said, “Sheriff, I thought this was an informal session, but you’ve been grilling me. You didn’t tell me my rights, and I don’t think I want to talk any more until my lawyer arrives. He’ll be here this afternoon.”

  “Lawyer? You called in a lawyer?” His voice was cold, his face without expression. “My experience is that innocent people rarely call in a lawyer.”

  “He’s a close friend. I used to work for him, and he’s helped me with several things.” I shouldn’t have answered, but I did.

  “Close friend?” he asked mockingly. “I thought Chief Samuels was your close friend.”

  I had several answers in mind, but this time I kept them to myself and rose to go.

  “I know this sounds like a cliché,” he said, also rising, “but I can find you at the café, can’t I? I have no authority to tell you not to leave town, as they say in the movies, because you’re not under arrest…yet.”

  That implied threat sent a chill down my spine, but I managed to answer, “Most of the time, and they know where I am when I’m not there.”

  His parting shot: “Did they know where you were the night Ms. Cavanaugh was shot?”

  I left without gracing that question with an answer, swept by Rick who looked puzzled, and headed back to the café.

  I was knee-deep in customers at the cash register—murder sure was good for business—when David Clinkscales walked in. I wanted to forget the cash register and run to hug the man. The very sight of him brought huge relief. Somehow, I knew he’d make it all okay. I waved; he waved back and sat at a just-emptied table.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he ordered iced tea and talked to Marj a minute. As soon as she could, Marj came over and said, “Mr. Clinkscales wants to wait and eat lunch with you.”

  “And he wants chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and greens,” I said with the first grin of the day. “I’ll turn the order in and get myself some tuna salad if you’ll take over the register.”

  When I had made up the orders and took them to the table, David rose like a gentleman and waited till I’d set everything down. Then he hugged me, a hug
I wasn’t embarrassed to return right there in the restaurant.

  “I’m so glad you came right away, David. I…I don’t know where to turn, what to think.”

  “I’m sorry you’re in a mess again, Kate. How do you do it?”

  I shook my head. “Wish I knew. Of course I didn’t do it, but I’ll have to find out who did to keep from being arrested. Now there’s a scandal that would rock this town, as if the murder already hasn’t.”

  “I noticed it’s busy for a Thursday noon.”

  “As I keep telling my staff, murder is great for business.”

  “Tell me the whole story. What’s been going on since I saw you in Dallas?”

  So I told him about Sara Jo pushing Donna about Irv Litman, about the people she’d offended, how she focused on high school kids, especially Cary, and finally about our meeting and the shotgun blasts.

  Between mouthfuls, he said just what I’d said to the sheriff. “Find the shooter, and you’ll have your murderer.”

  We soon fell into a discussion of my interview with Sheriff Halstead. I did most of the talking, while David did most of the eating—I wasn’t hungry.

  At one point, he did manage to say, “I call that trying to cowboy it. The sheriff knows better, but I think he underestimates you.”

  I laughed at his use of the term that had puzzled Sara Jo, but then after a minute, my laughter turned sour. I had picked at my tuna salad all I wanted and David pushed away a plate that looked like he had literally licked it clean. “What do you know about this woman, before she came here? Who does she work for?”

  “I tried to do some investigating—in Dallas and on the Internet—but I didn’t get anywhere. She gave me a business card with nothing but her name and a cell phone, and she never would tell me what magazine she worked for. I always had a hunch she was pretending. But she sure interviewed people in town.”

  “Hmmm. I know you’re clever, Kate,”—his hand reached over and covered mine—“but I use some private eyes in Dallas who really know how to investigate. I’ll set one of them on it. I know, I could have offered before, but I never thought it was going to get this serious.”