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I
turned back to Ryan after making a quick call to Jackie. “She’s fine. She couldn’t really talk because she and Roger were walking into the cinema when her phone rang.”
“But she’s all right,” he said. “That’s the main thing.”
“It is. I’ll tell her about Ms. Pridemore’s death tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry you and Jackie walked into that situation.” Ryan ran a hand gently down my jawline. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I took his hand and led him over to the sofa. “I’d never met Gladys Pridemore before today. Unlike the other...deaths...I’ve encountered since opening the Down South Café, it was merely a strange coincidence that Ms. Pridemore collapsed on the one occasion that Jackie and I visited her house. Right?”
Ryan didn’t answer. He merely put his arm around me and hugged me close to his side.
“I only wish we’d arrived soon enough to make a difference,” I said. “And I’m sorry I missed dinner.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No, but I’m not hungry.” I’d felt a bit queasy since finding Ms. Pridemore, but I didn’t tell Ryan that. Since the sheriff had been here inquiring about my health when Ryan had arrived, I didn’t want to concern him.
“I’d be happy to go get you something or make you something.” He grinned.
We both knew he wasn’t terribly accomplished in the kitchen, but he could whip up something easy in a pinch.
“Did your mom do well at the farmers’ market today?”
“She did. In fact, she sold so much that she insisted on paying for dinner.” He chuckled. “Of course, she was disappointed that she didn’t get to spend any time with you today, but she’s looking forward to your having dinner with me, her, and Dad next Saturday.”
“I’m looking forward to that too. I’m sorry I didn’t get to visit the vendors today. Hopefully, I’ll be able to do a little shopping next week. I seriously underestimated how much extra business the farmers’ market would bring to the café.”
“That’s great,” Ryan said. “It’s just the butter on the bread.”
ON SUNDAY MORNING, I got up, fed the pets, and made myself some coffee and toast. I was glad it was still early enough that I could lounge in my sleep shirt and robe for a little while. I topped off my coffee and headed into the fancy room where I stretched out on the fainting couch and turned on my tablet.
After checking my mail and social media, I opened the Pinterest app to check out Aunt Bess’s boards. Aunt Bess and her Pinterest boards were always interesting and often a surefire way to wake you up on a lazy morning. Her boards consisted of People I’ve Outlived, Things I’d Love to Eat but Won’t Fix, Lord Have Mercy, and Crime Scenes. Crime Scenes was her newest board and my least favorite. It currently contained two blurry-but-not-out-of-focus-enough photographs: an interior shot of the Down South Café and an exterior shot of the Down South Café. The latter looked like just a parking lot—because that’s what it was—but I knew where that parking lot was located. And, yes, my little business had seen its share of misfortune. In my defense, the first...um...misfortune...happened before I bought the place.
I didn’t open Aunt Bess’s Crime Scenes board. Instead, I went straight to my guilty pleasure, Lord Have Mercy. These photographs depict things—in Aunt Bess’s opinion—in need of grace. A lot of grace.
One photograph was of a girl with “halo eyebrows” and a link to the weirdest brow trends of the year. Aunt Bess had captioned the photo, “Lord, have mercy. Look how much prettier these little girls would be if they left their eyebrows in the right place.”
Another photo depicted a person with bread tied to his head. Aunt Bess’s thoughts: “Lord, have mercy. What a waste of good bread. Does he know how many bologna sandwiches that would’ve made? Probably doesn’t even care.”
I was still smiling when I went to take my shower. Less than half an hour later, I was dressed in jeans and a baseball-style shirt, had on minimal makeup, and was walking to the big house carrying a bag of groceries.
Mom met me at the door and took the groceries from me. You’d have thought they weighed fifty pounds and that I’d had to walk ten miles. It was sweet though. I kissed her cheek.
“I had no idea Big Harry Ostermann was back in Winter Garden,” Mom said.
“What?” Aunt Bess bustled into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Tell me about this big hairy ostrich man! I’d pay fifty cents to see that...a dollar if he’d let me take a picture I could put on my Lord Have Mercy board.”
“He’s not—” Mom began as she placed the grocery bag on the counter, but Aunt Bess didn’t let her finish. She was too wound up.
“When I was a little girl, some of Mother’s people took me to the circus one time. I remember there was something called a freak show—you know, one of those sideshow attractions. I thought it was scary, and I cried—Mother’s people had to take me home.” She squinted up at the ceiling behind her silver-framed glasses. “Of course, now I imagine those were only people in costumes. But a hairy ostrich man? That really would be something to see.”
Mom blew out a breath. “Harry. Oster. Mann. Not ostrich man. He’s someone I went to high school with. He played football, and everyone called him Big Harry.”
“Huh.” I took tomatoes from the grocery bag. “I got the impression that the Ostermanns weren’t from around here.”
“The family moved away at the beginning of Harry’s senior year,” Mom said. “So that was nearly thirty years ago.”
“Why don’t I know these people?” Aunt Bess asked.
“Probably because the family hasn’t lived here in thirty years.” Mom made a face to clearly convey to me that Aunt Bess was getting on her last nerve this morning. As if there had been any doubt.
“No, that’s not it.” Aunt Bess shook her head. “I have a mind like a steel trap. I remember everything.”
“But, Aunt Bess, you weren’t living in Winter Garden thirty years ago,” I reminded her.
She snapped her fingers. “That’s right. I wasn’t.”
“The Ostermanns have been living on Gladys Pridemore’s farm outside of town.” I took down the cutting board and removed a knife from the block.
“Now, I know Gladys. I was never very fond of her. We went to school together, and she thought she was better than everybody else.” She harrumphed. “Wore these fancy little dresses to school...patent leather shoes. I’d like to see her try to outshine me these days.”
I washed the tomatoes and began dicing them.
“Was she there yesterday?” Aunt Bess asked. “At the farmers’ market?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you think she’ll be there next Saturday? If you do, I’ll get all duded up. Let her know she’s not the only one—”
“Aunt Bess, Gladys Pridemore is dead.”
“Oh...” Her face fell. I wasn’t sure whether her regret stemmed from the fact that Ms. Pridemore had died or from the fact that Aunt Bess would now never have the chance to get duded up and show off to Ms. Pridemore at the farmers’ market.
“Well, I hate that,” Aunt Bess continued. “I hope she went peacefully. You know, she always looked so cute when she came to school... When her obituary comes out, I’ll add her to my People I’ve Outlived board.”
Mom’s jaw dropped. “Aunt Bess!”
“What? It’s an honor.” She looked from Mom to me and nodded. “It’s an honor.”
“Of course, it is,” I said.
“Who died?” Jackie asked as she came into the kitchen. “I heard Granny say she was adding someone to her People I’ve Outlived board.”
“Gladys Pridemore,” Mom answered.
Jackie took hold of the back of Aunt Bess’s chair as if to steady herself. “Wh-what? I...I thought she was going to b-be all right.”
I shook my head slightly.
“W-was there something else...something we could’ve done?” Jackie asked.
“No.” I felt like going over and hugging her, but Jackie didn’t usually appreciate displays of affection when she was feeling weak or vulnerable.
Aunt Bess patted Jackie’s hand, and I was glad.
“That’s why you called me last night to see if I was okay.” Jackie stepped around the table to sink into one of the empty chairs. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Somebody needs to tell us what’s going on here,” Mom said.
“And be quick about it.” Aunt Bess was always ready with her two cents.
THERE WAS ENOUGH FOOD left that I had plenty of spaghetti and meatballs to take to Ryan and anyone else who might be working at the police station today. Sheriff Billings was there, and he was delighted with the food. He directed me into the conference room that served as a lunchroom on occasion.
“Does Mrs. Billings have you on a diet or something?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine why—the man was so skinny that when he turned sideways, he practically disappeared—but maybe he had high cholesterol or something.
“Nope. She’s left me.”
I stiffened as I wished the floor would open up and swallow me.
Sheriff Billings laughed at my obvious discomfort. “It’s only for a couple of weeks. Her sister broke her arm and needed Molly’s help until she gets used to the cast.”
I slumped in relief. “Thank goodness. You had me going there for a minute.”
“Well, you kinda had it coming—suggesting I needed to be on a diet.” He took the pot from me and placed it on the table.
“I did not make any suggestions whatsoever. I thought maybe you had high cholesterol or...or something. I didn’t want to get us both in trouble,” I said. “But now that I know the situation, I heartily invite you to come by the café at closing time each day, and I’ll make sure you have food for dinner as well as for lunch.”
“I appreciate that more than you know. I never have been very handy in the kitchen.” He nodded at something behind me. “Here comes your young man now.”
“Hi.” He gave me a warm smile but didn’t touch me in front of his superior officer. I was appreciative of his consideration. “What smells so good?”
Sheriff Billings took the lid off the pot. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“I have a loaf of bread in the car,” I said. “I’ll run back out and get it.”
“Nonsense.” Sheriff Billings held up his right hand. “Toss me your car keys.”
I fished them out of my purse and handed them to him. I wasn’t about to throw them and risk breaking something in a police station.
“Sir, before you go, I just got off the phone with the coroner. He’s doing the autopsy on Gladys Pridemore tomorrow morning.”
Once Sheriff Billings was out of the office, Ryan pulled me to him for a quick kiss. With a grin, he said, “Now I’d better get some plates before the sheriff comes back and starts eating out of the pot.”
While Ryan was in the breakroom, I felt the sides of the slow cooker to make sure the food was still warm. It was, but I plugged the device in and turned it on low.
“Hello.”
At the sound of the man’s voice, I stepped out of the conference room. Ryan emerged from the breakroom with paper plates, cups, plastic cutlery, and napkins.
“Be right with you,” Ryan told the man. He stepped into the conference room to put the stuff onto the table. He hurried back out and apologized to the pleasant-looking—I might’ve even thought handsome was he not old enough to be my father—man standing just inside the door. “How may I help you, sir?”
The man walked forward and handed Ryan what appeared to be a receipt or a citation. “I received this parking ticket and wondered if I could pay it here.”
“No, sir, but you can pay the ticket online. Let me grab you an instruction sheet.”
“Actually, that information—or at least the web address—is on the back of the ticket,” the man said. “I simply thought I’d save myself some aggravation. Technology and I don’t always get along.”
“I’m back!” Sheriff Billings walked through the door with the loaf of bread hoisted in front of him like a scepter. Upon seeing the newest visitor—the one who had not brought the bread—he sheepishly lowered his prize.
I rushed over and took it from him, and he gave me a tight smile.
“Thank you, Amy.” He stuck out his hand. “Sheriff Ted Billings. How may I help you?”
“I was just explaining to your deputy and your—” The man faltered. He obviously couldn’t determine what function I served at the police station.
“Caterer,” I supplied.
His eyebrows rose slightly at that, but I didn’t feel inclined to elaborate. I was still ruminating on how nice looking he was and trying to figure out his status: Was he new in Winter Garden, or was he passing through? Was he single or married? Would he and Mom hit it off?
While all these thoughts were tumbling around in my head, the man was relating his parking ticket narrative to Sheriff Billings. I zoned back in around the time he said he’d moved to Winter Garden last week and would soon be taking over the town’s medical practice as soon as he’d made some renovations to the clinic.
“I understand the town has been lacking medical care since Dr. Kent’s departure earlier this year.”
“It certainly has,” Sheriff Billings said. “And why don’t I dismiss that parking ticket for you? A ticket is a lousy way to welcome our new doctor to the neighborhood.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Would you like some dinner?” Sheriff Billings nodded in my direction. “Amy owns the Down South Café, and she sure knows her way around a kitchen.”
“No, thank you. I need to run. But—Amy, is it?”
“Yes. Amy Flowers.” I shook his hand.
“Well, Amy, my name is Clark Bennett, and I’m sure you’ll be seeing me in your café soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
When Dr. Bennett left, Sheriff Billings put his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked back on his heels. “Uh-oh! Looks like you might have some competition, Hall!”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said. “But that man might be perfect for Mom...if we can keep him away from Aunt Bess long enough to get to know Mom.”
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